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91-100 Killmaster collection of detective stories

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  Carter Nick
  
  91-100 Killmaster collection of detective stories
  
  
  
  91-100 Killmaster collection of detective stories about Nick Carter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  91. Conspiracy No. 3 http://flibusta.is/b/699347/read
  
  The N3 Conspiracy
  
  92. Beirut Airport http://flibusta.is/b/612227/read
  
  Beirut Incident
  
  93. Death of the Falcon http://flibusta.is/b/607566/read
  
  Death of the Falcon
  
  94. The Aztec Avenger http://flibusta.is/b/631177/read
  
  The Aztec Avenger
  
  95. The Jerusalem Case http://flibusta.is/b/611066/read
  
  The Jerusalem File
  
  96. Doctor Death http://flibusta.is/b/607569/read
  
  Army Death
  
  98. Six bloody summer days http://flibusta.is/b/609150/read
  
  Six Bloody Summer Days
  
  99. Document Z http://flibusta.is/b/677844/read
  
  The Document Z
  
  100. Kathmandu Contract http://flibusta.is/b/701133/read
  
  The Katmandu Contract
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  
  Plot N3
  
  
  translated by Lev Shklovsky in memory of his lost son Anton
  
  
  Original name: The N3 Conspiracy
  
  
  
  
  The first chapter
  
  
  He was a young man with bright eyes and big plans for his desolate country and himself, but the United States needed an old king to overthrow, so ego killed her.
  
  
  What was my job: Nick Carter, Killmaster for my country, for AH, David Hawke, and a high salary. Its agent, N3 in the AH, is the most secretive organization in Washington and possibly in the world.
  
  
  The rebel was an idealist, proud and strong man, but he was no match for me. He didn't stand a chance. She was shot by ego in the remote wasteland of ego country, where the ego will never be found and the ego's body will turn into bones eaten by vultures.
  
  
  He let this overly ambitious pretender rot in the sun and returned to the city to present his report through channels few people knew and clean his lugger for Wilhelmina.
  
  
  If you live like me, you take good care of your weapons. These are the best friends you have. Damn it, these are the only "friends" you can trust. My 9mm Luger is a Wilhelmina. I also have a stiletto named Hugo and Pierre under my sleeve — which is a miniature gas bomb that I can hide anywhere.
  
  
  She was also booked on a plane to Lisbon. This time, my cover was Jack Finley, an arms dealer who had just completed another " order." Now he was returning to his well-earned rest. Only where he was going wasn't exactly peaceful.
  
  
  As Agent No. 3 in the AH, he was an emergency admiral. So I could go to any US embassy or military base, say a code word, and then demand any transport, up to and including an aircraft carrier. This time it went on personal matters. "Hawk, my boss, doesn't agree that ego agents have personal affairs. Especially if he knows about it, and he knows almost everything.
  
  
  It changed planes and names three times in Lisbon, Frankfurt and Oslo. It was a detour from London, but I didn't need any pursuers or watchdogs on this trip. He stayed in his seat for the entire flight, hiding behind a stack of magazines. He didn't even go to the salon for his usual amount of booze or return the red-haired girl's smile. Hawke has eyes everywhere. I usually enjoy it; as for my skin, I really appreciate it. And when I need a Hawk, he's usually around.
  
  
  When we landed, London was closed as usual. It's an ego cliche, actually, like most cliches, but now the fog was clearer. We are moving forward. Heathrow Airport is in a hall far out of town, and I couldn't use one of our comfortable cars, so I took a taxi. It was dark when the taxi driver dropped me off in the Chelsea slum near a run-down hotel. She was booked under a different fourth name. I checked the cluttered, dusty room for the full name, microphones, Ivan and Glazkov. But it was clean. But clean or not, I wasn't going to spend much time in nen. To be precise: in two hours. A second longer for us, a second shorter for us. So I moved on to my two-hour practice.
  
  
  A special agent, especially a counteragent and a Killmaster, lives such a routine. He has to live like this, otherwise he won't live long. Ingrained habits, like second nature, have become as much a part of him as breathing is for anyone else. It clears your mind to see, think, and respond to any sudden actions, changes, or dangers. This automatic procedure is designed to ensure that the agent is ready for use every second with 100% efficiency.
  
  
  I had two hours. After checking the room, I took its miniature alarm system and attached ego to the day. If you touch it, the sound will be too quiet for anyone to hear it, but it will wake me up. She was completely undressed and bench press. The body should breathe, the nerves should relax. I let my mind go blank, and my hundred and eighty pounds of muscle and bone relaxed. After a minute, he fell asleep.
  
  
  An hour and fifty minutes later, she woke up again. He lit it, poured himself a flask, and laid it on the ramshackle bed.
  
  
  He dressed, removed the door alarm, checked the stiletto in his hand, stuck the gas bomb in the holster on his upper thigh, loaded the Wilhelmina ,and slipped around the room. I left her a suitcase. Hawk has developed equipment that allows emus to check if ego agents are at their posts. But if this time he advertises such a beacon in my suitcase, his hotel needs him to trust that I'm still safe in this lousy hotel.
  
  
  The lobby still had World War II-era trays pointing guests to bomb shelters. The clerk behind the counter was busy arranging mail in the wall compartments, and the Negro was dozing on a ragged couch. Clera was wiry and had his back to me. The Negro was wearing an old coat, narrow for the ego of broad shoulders, and new polished shoes. He opened one eye to look at me. He looked me over carefully, then closed his eyes again and shifted to lie down more comfortably. Clera didn't look at me. He didn't even turn to look at me.
  
  
  Outside it, I turned back and looked into the lobby around the night shadows of the Chelsea-erased. The Negro was looking at me openly, a wiry clerk, as if he hadn't even noticed me in the lobby. But I saw her, ego evil eyes. It didn't escape my attention that he was looking at me in the mirror behind the counter.
  
  
  So I ignored the clerk. Her, looked at the niggaz irina. Clare was trying to hide the fact that he was looking at me, and I noticed her immediately, and even the cheapest spy company wouldn't use such a useless person who could identify her with a single glance. However, when there was danger, it came from negra. He looked at me, studied me, and then turned away. Open, honest, not suspicious. But Emu's coat wasn't quite right and his shoes were new, as if he'd come from somewhere where emu didn't need the coat.
  
  
  Her ego found her out in five minutes. If he noticed me and became interested, he was too good to show it, I understand that I will take precautions. He didn't get up from the couch, and when she was hailed by a taxi, he didn't seem to be following me.
  
  
  I might be wrong, but I also learned to follow my first hunches about people and write ih down in my subconscious before I forgot.
  
  
  The taxi dropped me off on a busy Soho street, surrounded by neon signs, tourists, nightclubs, and prostitutes. Due to the energy and financial crisis, there were fewer tourists than in previous years, and even the lights in Piccadilly Circus seemed dimmer. I didn't care. At that moment, I wasn't so interested in the state of the world. I walked two blocks and turned into an alley, where the fog met me.
  
  
  He unbuttoned his jacket over his luger and walked slowly through the fog. Two blocks away from the streetlights, the fog seemed to be moving in festoons. My shaggy sounds were clear, and he listened for the echoes of others audible. Ih wasn't there. She had one. A house saw her, half a block away.
  
  
  It was an old house in this foggy street. It has been a long time since the ferret farmers of this island emigrated to the land where it is now being sheltered. Four floors, surrounded by red brick. There was an entrance in the basement, a staircase led to the top of the second floor, and there was a narrow alley at the side. I slipped into that alley and skirted the back of it.
  
  
  The old house had a single saint: a back room on the third floor. He looked up at the tall rectangle of dim light. Music and laughter drifted through the fog in this fun neighborhood of Soho. In the room with me, there was no need for us, no trouble for us.
  
  
  It would be easy to pick the lock on the back day, but on the day can be connected to alarm systems. He took out a thin nylon cord around his pocket, slung it over the protruding iron bar, and pulled himself up to the darkened second-floor window. I put the suction cup to the glass and cut out all the glass. Then he lowered himself and carefully placed the glass on the floor. Pulling herself back up to the window, she stepped inside and found herself in a dark, empty bedroom with a narrow hallway beyond. The shadows smelled damp and old, like a building abandoned a hundred years ago. It was dark, cold, and quiet. It's too quiet. Rats move into abandoned houses in London. But there was no sound of small furry paws scratching anywhere. Someone else lived in that house, someone who was there now. He smiled at her.
  
  
  Her, went up the stairs to the third floor. The door to the only lighted room was closed. The handle spun under my hand. I listened to her. Nothing moved.
  
  
  With one silent movement, he opened the door; then closed it behind him and stood in the shadows, watching the woman sitting alone in the dimly lit room.
  
  
  She was sitting with her back to me, studying some papers on the table in front of her. The desk lamp was the only source of light. There was a large double bed, a desk chair, two chairs, a burning gas stove, nothing else. Just a woman, slender neck, dark hair, slim figure in a tight black dress that exposed all her curves. Its made a step in the day towards her.
  
  
  She turned suddenly, her black eyes hidden behind colored glasses.
  
  
  She said. "So you're here?"
  
  
  I saw her smile, and at the same time I heard a muffled explosion. A cloud of smoke swirled in the small space between us, a cloud that almost immediately hid her.
  
  
  I pressed her hand to my chest, and my stiletto popped out from under my sleeve and into my hand. Through the smoke, he saw her roll to the floor, and the dim saint went out.
  
  
  In the sudden darkness, with thick smoke all around me, I couldn't see her anymore. He sat down on the floor, thinking about the two colored glasses: probably infrared glasses. And somewhere in that room was an infrared light source. She could see me.
  
  
  Now the hunter was the prey, locked in a small room that she knew better than I did. I stifled a curse and waited tensely until I heard a sound or movement. I didn't hear her. He swore again. When it moved, it was the movement of a cat.
  
  
  A thin string wrapped around the back of my throat. I heard the hiss of her breath against my neck. She was sure Nah had it in his hands this time. She was fast, but hers was faster. I felt the rope the moment she wrapped it around my throat, and when she pulled it tight, my finger was already inside.
  
  
  Her other hand reached out and grabbed it. Then he turned and we were on the floor. She struggled and writhed in the darkness, every muscle in her slender, taut body pressing hard against me. Strong muscles in a trained body, but I had a big alenka. He reached for the desk lamp and switched it on. The smoke dissolved. Helpless under my grip, she lay on the floor, shackled by my weight, her eyes flashing at me. The colored dots disappeared. He found her with his stiletto and pressed his ego against her slender neck.
  
  
  She threw her head back and laughed.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  "Bastard," she said.
  
  
  She jumped up and sank her teeth into my neck. The stiletto dropped her, pulled her head back by her long black hair, and kissed her hard. She bit my lip, but her mouth tightened. She went limp, her lips slowly opening, soft and wet, and he felt her legs open for my hand. Her tongue moved searchingly through my mouth, deeper and deeper, as my hand lifted her dress up her taut thigh. There was nothing underneath that dress. As soft, moist, and open as her mouth.
  
  
  My other hand found her breast. They stood tall as we struggled in the dark. They were soft and smooth now, like the swell of her life as her silky hair brushed against hers...
  
  
  He could almost feel me breaking free, growing up, and finding it hard to push in the nah. She felt it, too. She pulled her lips away and started kissing my neck, then my chest, where my shirt had disappeared during the struggle, and then back up to my face. Small, hungry kisses like sharp knives. My cleft palate and loin throbbed to the rhythm of thick blood, and he was ready to explode.
  
  
  "Nick," she moaned.
  
  
  Ee grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her away. Her eyes were tightly closed. Her face was flushed with passion, her lips still kissing in blind desire.
  
  
  I asked her. "A cigarette?"
  
  
  My voice is absurdly hoarse. Climbing the steep, furious rock of explosive desire, he forced himself to step back. I could feel my body trembling, fully prepared to plunge into the agonizing slide of pleasure that would send us high, suspended, ready for the next, hot, sharp turn. He pushed her away, gritting his teeth at the gorgeous pain. For a moment, I wasn't sure if she could handle it. Now he didn't know if she could make it and stop. But hey succeeded. With a long, shaky sigh, ee succeeded, her eyes closed and her hands clenched into trembling fists.
  
  
  Then she opened her eyes and looked at me with a smile. "Give me the damn cigarette," she said. "Oh, take the tailor, Nick Carter. You're wonderful. I was a full day late. I hate you.'
  
  
  Her rolled away from nah and handed hey a cigarette. Grinning at her naked body because the black dress was torn in our passion, she lit up our cigarettes.
  
  
  She got up and lay down on the bed. Her sel is next to her, warmed by the heat. He began to gently and slowly caress her thighs. Not many people can handle it, but we could. We've done this many times before.
  
  
  "I'm a whole day late," she said, smoking. 'Why?'
  
  
  "You'd better not ask, Deirdre," I said.
  
  
  Deirdre Cabot, and she knew better. My fellow agent AX. N15, rank "Kill when necessary", best counteragent with the status of an independent operational command. She was good, and she just proved it again.
  
  
  — You almost got me this time, " I said with a smirk.
  
  
  "Almost," she said grimly. Her free hand was undoing the last buttons on my shirt. — I think I can handle you, Nick. If it were what is n/. It doesn't play. Very much what is p/.
  
  
  "Maybe," I said. "But it must be life and death."
  
  
  "At least to impress you," she said. Her hand unzipped my pants and stroked me. — But I couldn't hurt you, could I?" Hers can't hurt all of this. God, you're just right for me.
  
  
  I've known and loved her for a long time. Offense and defense, every time we met, were part of our journey, a hot game between pros; and maybe she could handle me if it was a life-or-death match. Only then will I fight to the death, and that's not what we want each other to do. There are many ways to stay sane in this email business, and for both of us over the years, one such way was through our secret meetings. At the worst of times, the spirit of all these men and women was always holy at the end of the tunnel. She's for me, and her for nah.
  
  
  "We're a good couple," I said. "Both physically and emotionally. No illusions, eh? Not even that it's going to last forever.
  
  
  My pants were off now. She leaned down to kiss my mouth at the bottom.
  
  
  "One day I'll be waiting for her, and you won't come," she said. "A room in Budapest, in New York, and I'll be alone. No, I couldn't stand it, Nick. Can you handle it?"'
  
  
  "No, I can't stand that either," I said, running my hand down her thigh to where it was wet and exposed. — But you raised that corkscrew, and so did hers. We have a job to do.
  
  
  Oh la la, yes, " she said. She put out her cigarette and started caressing my body with both hands. "Hawk will find out one day. Vote on how it ends.
  
  
  Hawk would have screamed, turned purple, if word got out. Two ego agents. He would have been paralyzed by it. Two egoistic agents are in love with each other. The danger of this would make the ego mad, the danger to AH, not to us. We were expendable, even N3, but AH was sacred, vital, and above everything else in this world. Thus, our meeting was kept in the deepest secrecy, and we used all our wits and experience to communicate with each other as gently as if we were working on a case. This time, she created a contact. Hers came, and she was ready.
  
  
  Hawk doesn't know yet, " she whispered.
  
  
  She lay perfectly still on the floor of the big bed in the warm secret room, her black eyes open and staring into my face. Dark hair framed her small oval face and broad shoulders; her full breasts now hung down to the sides, and her nipples were large and dark. Almost sighing, she whispered corkscrew. 'Now?'
  
  
  We looked at each other's bodies as if it were the first time.
  
  
  Her muscular thighs and slender thighs were free of fat, nothing in the hollow of life above the towering hill of Venus. Standing six feet tall, she had the mistletoe-like body of an athlete and appeared tall and slender. She was waiting for me.
  
  
  "Now," I said.
  
  
  It was a woman. Not a girl. A thirty-two-year-old woman and older than most of her age. A soldier from the age of seventeen. She served as part of the Israeli commandos, killing Arabs at night. A strong woman with scars in evidence of resilience: burns from torture on her back, a scar drawn from a whip over her left breast, a curly question mark over her wedge-shaped hair, where an Arab doctor carved out nah future children and studied her hatred.
  
  
  "Now," she said.
  
  
  Simply and sincerely, without shyness, pretensions or false machismo. We've known each other too long and too well for all these games that new lovers play. A little bit. Like husband and wife. She wants hers to be in her, his hotel to be in hers .
  
  
  The black eyes opened and focused on my face, deep and hot, looking out from somewhere deep inside. She spread her legs and raised her ih high. Sincerely and strongly, effortlessly. Its just looked hey in the eye and entered nah.
  
  
  We didn't touch each other anywhere but there. Deep and slow glide in the warm and fluid welcome of her body. Slowly, smiling, we looked into each other's eyes. Shuddering, she moved, and her ross inside nah, until her eyes closed and my fingers dug deep into the bed.
  
  
  She pulled her amazing legs back and lifted her knees until they were touching her breasts and her heels were touching the round flesh of her buttocks. She wrapped her arms around my neck and tensed. She was picked up by ee like a small closed ball. He lifted her off the bed and held her entire body in his hands, her thighs on my chest, her buttocks against my shoulder, and pushed her deeper, letting low moans escape her lips.
  
  
  We moved in an equal accelerating rhythm, like two parts of one being. Fierce and gentle, trapped in pain and then in peace as a thick, hot gust as deep and all-consuming as the ocean washed over us, burying us in silent darkness.
  
  
  The oven was hot. The secret room was quiet. The wind was blowing somewhere, and it seemed as if the wind was brushing against houses. Somewhere there was music and laughter. Farther. She was holding a cigarette in one hand. With the other, she was mindlessly caressing my cock. "How much time do we have?"
  
  
  "I'll see you tomorrow," I said. 'Do you agree?'
  
  
  'See you tomorrow.'
  
  
  It's all. No more questions. Outside of this secret room, outside of these brief moments, we had work to do. Asking questions and answering them would mean participation, and participation can mean danger and life-changing things. The slightest change would mean that the Hawk knew about it, or would find out sooner or later . The strict principle that we don't participate in the work of the other, the other, was the only defense against Hawke's endless eyes and ears. This is also the training of many difficult years: do not trust anyone, even the one you love.
  
  
  "Long enough," Deirdre said, patting me.
  
  
  "Tonight and tomorrow. .. '
  
  
  "Twice tonight," I said. The ambitious prince has kept me occupied for too long, too far away from willing women.
  
  
  She was laughing. — Every year you become more demanding. What can a woman really handle?
  
  
  "Everything I have," I said, grinning. — And you know how good that is.
  
  
  "Not so modest, Nick Carter," Deirdre said. 'You . .. '
  
  
  I'll never know what she's going to say to you. She stopped in mid-sentence when she felt my shoulder getting hot and burning. It was a silent and secret sign, but she noticed my slight tremor.
  
  
  The tiny heat signal that had settled under my skin could only be activated in Paris, which meant that the signal was coming from a local source. Only Hawke knew about it, and it's used as an emergency contact when all other means of communication are out of order, and when Hawke doesn't know where or what situation I'm in. A signal designed to keep the ego out of the way, but Deirdre Cabot knew what she was doing. It's as fast as hers, and she felt the sudden contact.
  
  
  'Nickname?'
  
  
  "I'm sorry," I said. "We'll just get lost tomorrow and tonight."
  
  
  I got out of bed and grabbed my pants. I lay still on the bed, and she just stared at me.
  
  
  "Not today," Deirdre said. 'Again. Now.'
  
  
  The heat signal was an extreme command, used only in emergencies when mistletoe speed was crucial. But Deirdre wanted me again, and there might not be a next time in our line of work. And hers, too, and so on, even if I had to die for it.
  
  
  Ee took her or she took me. Hard and rough. Together, as always.
  
  
  When we were both dressed, I saw her mature, full body melt into small panties, dark stockings, and then a tight black dress. I felt a lump in my stomach, a crunch in my back, but I got her dressed; and as we checked our weapons, we talked about nothing. She kissed me playfully as he placed her blade against the inside of her thigh. She was much better with this knife than hers. She tied her little Beretta under the cup of her bra. He replaced his stiletto and checked the luger.
  
  
  We left the secret room as it was and went out through another window. I covered for her as she walked back to the alley. She covered for me as hers slid down the alley, and around the darkness she stepped out onto a deserted street. She walked past me as usual and went outside.
  
  
  We were saved by an automatic procedure, and again this reflex routine.
  
  
  A dark doorway across the street caught sight of her. A shadow, a shade darker than night, a faint movement picked up by my personal radar, honed by years of constant surveillance.
  
  
  Her, screamed. 'Get down!'
  
  
  Two shots rang out around the darkness.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  Muffled gunshots. Ih spat out into the night as soon as she saw the dark shadow, and screamed: "Get down!"
  
  
  Two shots, and a second later, a scream like an instant echo. Deirdre was lying on the floor. She collapsed on the hard stone of a London street as soon as she heard the gunshots and my scream. But what came first: my scream or the gunshots?
  
  
  She lay motionless on the floor.
  
  
  Wilhelmina was holding it. He fired into the porch at the same time as he pulled Wilhelmina out and took aim. Three shots before the shadow can shoot again, before Deirdre gets up, if she can move again.
  
  
  A long, strangled cry was my reward.
  
  
  Waiting for her. No more shots were fired. No one came out, around the fog to investigate. I saw the blood on Deirdre's right arm, but hey, it won't help if I step forward and get killed. A minute is a long time for a man with a gun, especially if he is wounded.
  
  
  Suddenly Deirdre rolled across the street, stood up, and disappeared into the shadows.
  
  
  My scream must have been a hair's breadth before the shots were fired. Trained all her life against enemies, she fell flat on the street in a split second. Gawking at the invisible shooter must have grazed her arm as she fell. I was grateful for every moment of danger, which turned us into automatic super-efficient weapons.
  
  
  The dark doorway remained silent, unmoving. Her, stepped forward.
  
  
  I tiptoed toward the dark porch, steering the luger with both hands. Deirdre is a step behind me with her Beretta.
  
  
  The Negro was lying on his back. Even at night, I could see the two dark spots on his chest. Hers was hit in the bull's-eye by two of the three bullets. It should have been three.
  
  
  "You weren't worried about me," Deirdre said. — I won't tell Hawk.
  
  
  "I would never have survived," I said. 'Are you all right?'
  
  
  She smiled, but was a little paler than a few minutes ago. A gawk pierced the fleshy upper part of her arm.
  
  
  "I'm fine," she said.
  
  
  He nodded to her. I didn't look at her hand. She was a professional, she took care of herself. I had more important things to think about. What was this dead nigger hunting for? And why? 'Do you know ego? Deirdre asked her.
  
  
  "No, — she said.
  
  
  It wasn't the same nigger she'd seen in the lobby of the cheap Chelsea Hotel. Skinny and younger, almost a boy. But the two niggers next to me in London on the same night were a fucking coincidence. Especially if the first one was probably in a hurry from somewhere, in a colorful raincoat over dirty trousers, in a cheap wool shirt and in some homemade sandals. And all this in the London winter.
  
  
  The ego gun picked her up from the sidewalk. An old Belgian-made Browning automatic with a brand-new muffler. He didn't look like the kind of person who could afford to buy a new muffler. He had a few pounds in his pocket, and some silver, a circle-shaped key from the unmarked hotel, and a spare magazine for the Browning. Around his neck was a thin gold chain with a small amulet-an amulet. The sleeping lion.
  
  
  "Chucky's mark," Deirdre said. "He was following me."
  
  
  — But you don't know ego?"
  
  
  "No, but he's probably Sulu, or maybe Zvazi. They've gotten a little closer lately.
  
  
  "Wait," I said. Then something clicked in my photographic memory: "The first Zulu King, founder of the Zulu Empire in the 1920s and 1930s." The largest and strongest Negro army in history. It was defeated by the British in 1879, after they first seriously defeated Roenecken. The Zulus are now part of South Africa. The Swazis have a more or less independent country there. What else, Deirdre?"
  
  
  "What else is needed for people in slavery?" "No," she said. "We need hope, a legend: Expectations, a sleeping lion that will return one day."
  
  
  "It's a myth," I said. "Myths don't send Negroes around the Zululand jungle in London. The sleeping lion is a symbol of some underground organization. Why do they want you dead?
  
  
  "You can guess, Nick," Deirdre said.
  
  
  "Your assignment?"
  
  
  She nodded, stared at the dead man and the outdoor pool for a moment, and then tucked the beretta under her chest. She sat in the darkness of the foggy street, slowly rubbing her arm. Then she took a deep breath and smiled at me. then fate will come next time, " she said. — We can't stay here.
  
  
  "Be careful," I told her.
  
  
  I followed her through the dark streets until we emerged into the bustle of Piccadilly Circus. She waved her hand and disappeared into the crowd of pleasure seekers. A passing taxi stopped her. He didn't go back to that hotel. If the big black guy in the lobby had been in the same group as the shooter, she probably would have been brought in by ih k Deirdre. I didn't see how certain I was that I wasn't being followed, which must mean they had the people, skills, and equipment to spot me on the road without me noticing. If they were so well organized, she didn't dare go back to the hotel.
  
  
  I couldn't risk one around AH homes in London or contact one around our local contacts. I had to use a pay phone and call the communications center.
  
  
  "Wilson Research Service, can we help you?"
  
  
  "Can you trace the history of the axe for me?"
  
  
  "Just a moment, please."
  
  
  The word "axe", AH, was the main contact word, the first step, but the word can appear randomly.
  
  
  A calm male voice: "I'm sure we have everything you want in our files, sir . What kind of battle axe are you interested in?
  
  
  "A lefty from the north, around the middle period of the sagas." It was a confirmation code that proved that her agent was AX and told the emu which agent: N3. But I may be an impostor.
  
  
  "Oh, yes," said a calm voice. "Which king is the first?"
  
  
  "Half black," I said.
  
  
  Only the real N3 knew this last code. The ego could be forced out through me by torture, but I had to take risks in every trade. If the most excellent fraudster tried to get in touch on the phone, the worst thing was that he might lose the London communication center. Then the contact codes had to be changed.
  
  
  There was a series of clicks when I was connected to the network and AH. Then a cold, stern voice said, " You're in London, N3. Why?'
  
  
  Flat nasal voice: Sam Hawke. I was angry, but the anger was replaced almost instantly by a sharp, dry haste that made it clear to me that Hawke wanted something serious, important, and difficult.
  
  
  'Forget it. You can explain this later. Your call was detected. A car will pick you up in six minutes. Please come immediately.
  
  
  This work should have been important. Hawk used my number N3 and answered the call on the payphone himself, without intermediaries or scramblers on my part.
  
  
  I asked her. — Where to?"
  
  
  He had already hung up. Hawke doesn't speak on the open line for a long time. He sits, short and thin, in his modest Washington office, capable of operating a space station in one word. But I don't know the five people outside, and the secret service knows the ego or knows it exists.
  
  
  He walked out of the phone booth, squinting to see if there was anything unusual on the street. There was nothing in the fog and bright lights of Soho. He looked at his watch. Two more minutes. It was five seconds earlier: a small gray car with a quiet driver. Her husband came in.
  
  
  An hour later, he was standing on the deserted runway of an old, overgrown RAF base. There was no car, and he was alone at a Royal Air Force base he didn't know. Maybe Honington, given the plain around it, or maybe Thetford.
  
  
  The approaching plane heard her before it saw her. I wasn't expecting a plane in a deserted field at night. But it descended, guided only by its own landing lights. Ranger in the city of Ruff . Hawke has contacts everywhere.
  
  
  "Sorry," I said to her pilot.
  
  
  He had a broad mustache, but he was gray-haired, and his eyes were more intelligent than most Air Force boys. A person who can sometimes ask some questions himself. This time, it just signaled me to land and taxied out before it could properly and truly sel.
  
  
  "They needed someone who could land here without ground lines or lights," he said. "There aren't many of us left."
  
  
  He turned to look at me. "You must at least stop World War III."
  
  
  "At least," I said.
  
  
  He smiled faintly and pushed the throttle back to its original position. Her, felt like a man running blindly towards a stone wall to moan. But the old RAF man knew his field. He did it easily, and then flew west. He didn't say another word to us, and he fell asleep.
  
  
  It was already light when I was woken up by someone's hands. We landed at a small airfield surrounded by tall bare trees and snow-covered fields. There were tall buildings in the distance, and the landscape looked familiar.
  
  
  The car gliding in my direction looked even more familiar: a black Cadillac with a Maryland license plate. He had returned to America and was not far from Washington. It will be very difficult and very important work.
  
  
  Hawke doesn't often bring me home so suddenly, and he's never in Washington when he can fix everything. Her number one Killmaster, well paid and necessary, but no one likes to admit that I exist, especially oni in Washington. Usually, when he wants to talk to me, Hawk gets to me in some corner of the world. He contacts me there or comes to see me, but he tries not to risk anyone connecting me with AH or even Washington.
  
  
  So they pulled the curtains on the Cadillac as we drove around the airport and headed for Potomac. This was normal as far as her mind was concerned. I don't like Washington or any other capital. Politicians and statesmen live in national capitals, and after a while, all politicians and statesmen want to play king. Most people around them are starting to think that they are kings. They cut off the heads of all those who disagree with them, because they know what is best and what needs to be done for the good of ordinary people.
  
  
  But I wasn't interested in politics, and I wondered again why Hawke had allowed me to come to Washington. He would only do it if necessary, if he couldn't meet me somewhere far away. This job had to be so important, so high-priority, that even the Hawk didn't have absolute power in it. Whatever it was, he had to be in direct contact with the senior lords to answer any corkscrew questions she might ask.
  
  
  This work will start from the top.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  I was pushed out of the Cadillac into an alley and let into a large, nameless gray building. The elevator took us at least three floors below the first floor. They would put me in a small open van that was parked on the tracks. And Odin in that car of hers disappeared down a narrow tunnel.
  
  
  No one spoke to me, and it was clear that I wasn't supposed to know where I was going. But he wouldn't survive as a Killmaster for so long without taking every possible precaution. No one suspected it, not even Hawk, as far as I knew, but she had explored this tunnel long ago when I was first brought here. I knew where I was and where I was going. He was driving along the world's most secret miniature railway, heading for a series of bomb shelters under a huge white house on a wide avenue.
  
  
  The cart stopped at a dimly lit narrow platform. There was a quiet gray door in front of me. I tried the door, but it wasn't locked. He entered a gray room with a steel table, three chairs, two sofas, and no visible exit. Hawke sat behind a steel desk: David Hawke, New York State, " AH, my boss. And that's all I knew about nen. In this respect, hers knew more about nen than most. Whether he had a past, a home, a family, or at least enjoyed something other than work, he didn't know.
  
  
  "Tell me about London," he barked at me, his ego-flat, nasal voice as deadly and sinister as a cobra.
  
  
  It's a small man with a laugh like the thunder of guns when he laughs and a sardonic grin when he chuckles. Right now, he hasn't done either of those things to us. He looked at me blankly. Nen was wearing the same tweed jacket and gray slacks as always. He has an ih full closet, all the same .
  
  
  We were alone in the gray room, but that wasn't really the case in Della Street. The red phone sat on a steel table a few inches away.
  
  
  "And after I completed my 'order' in the desert, "I said," I was afraid that I would be noticed. So I used the fourth route to London, just to be safe."
  
  
  As excuses, it hardly made sense, and I waited for it to explode. This didn't happen. Instead, he fiddled with the red phone, and his ego eyes told me that he wasn't really thinking about what I was doing in London. His mind was on the job he was going to give me, and the gleam in his eyes told me it was a big job. Hawk lives by his work. I've never seen him rest, never heard him rest. The only thing that really turns on the ego is that the ego office is AH, worthy of its time and its "child".
  
  
  "All right," he said. "Send the report later."
  
  
  Her, breathed a sigh of relief. This time, it may be on the edge. Sooner or later, he'd find out that Deirdre Cabot had been in London, and he'd link it all up. It was the ego of the beginning that was second nature. But now he lit one around his dirty cigars and fiddled with the red phone again.
  
  
  "Sit down, Nick," he said.
  
  
  When her sel, her realized that this time was something completely different. He was impatient. Yes, his eyes glittered with defiance. But at the same time, he was preoccupied, almost angry, and didn't think anything of me. There was something about this new "order" that Emu didn't like. Her lit one around a gold-tipped cigarette holder and sell.
  
  
  "You've never been to Mozambique," Hawk said. — You're going there in two hours.
  
  
  "I need to brush up on my Portuguese and English," I said. "Maybe Swaziland, and maybe even South Africa," Hawke continued absently, as if he hadn't heard my comment. He looked up and chewed on the butt of his cheap cigar. "A delicate situation."
  
  
  — We'll get something else someday, " I chuckled.
  
  
  "Not so funny," the old man snapped at me. "I haven't forgotten London yet."
  
  
  Her kept grinning, and her kids."
  
  
  Hawk doesn't like being cheated. She was going to have a stroke. He didn't show up. Soon, her smile stopped. It was a bad sign that he didn't answer. Hawke had a problem, and it had something to do with himself. It was time to be serious.
  
  
  "What should I do in Mozambique?"
  
  
  Hawk is chewing on a cigar and playing with a red telephone wire. "Lisbon and Cape Town suspect a major uprising in Zulu areas along the border."
  
  
  My spine began to itch. Zulu! He thought of the dead gunslinger in London, and of Markus. Could the shooter have been following me instead of Deirdre? Even before she knew there was a Zulu-related job. †
  
  
  "South Korea is very adept at preventing uprisings," I said. "And there aren't many Mozambican rebels yet."
  
  
  "Because Cape Town has always managed to keep the black majority isolated and under control," Hawke said. It's because the Negroes in Mozambique have never had our money, our support, our experienced leaders. Now, it seems that Mozambique has a new leadership, and perhaps Cape Town has made a mistake in its policy of" homelands"," bantustans " or other fancy names for concentration camps. The Zulu homeland is located along or near the borders of Mozambique and Swaziland."
  
  
  Hawke was silent, sucking on his cigar. "What really alarmed nu is that they think the Swazis are involved. This makes the international situation potentially explosive, which is exactly what freedom fighters want. It also gives them a safe haven for training, mobilization, and shelter that Negroes have never had there."
  
  
  "Swaziland?" I said, shaking my head. "Since independence, Swaziland has depended on the interests of foreign affairs, especially those of South Africa and Portugal. Old King Sobhuza won't have any problems with them.
  
  
  "Maybe he can't control his people, Nick," Hawk said grimly. "He has some very hot-tempered young fighters in Swaziland. Even the organized opposition. But remember that, after all, he is a Bantu chief. Now the emu needs Lisbon and Cape Town, but it won't object to independent Mozambique and Zululand joining Swaziland. This would put the ego in a stronger position against South Africa and maybe even isolate South Africa in the end. There is a Panbantub movement that we are well aware of. And the Swazis and Zulus still lick each other, because in South Africa there are Swazis. They had stood shoulder to shoulder for two hundred years. They were still at war with each other for a long time, but now they are no longer at war with each other."
  
  
  Hawke's cigar went out. He paused to light it again. He sipped until the cigar burned again and thick smoke covered the room.
  
  
  "The Zulu, Swazi, Shangan and Suka Ndebele have finally formed an organization: The Sleeping Lion," Hawk said, looking at me. "Chucky's sign. They have a motto: United Assegai. This word means spear among the Zulus, Siswati, and Ndebele, and indicates ih's common origin and interests. And now they have a common plan: an uprising so great that even if it fails, it will cause them such a bloodbath that the UN and the great powers must step in. They think they can secure the independence of Mozambique and Zululand."
  
  
  It was a logical plan. Its forests, thickets, fields, mountains, and jungles are already dripping with Bantu blood, and the UN and the great powers have taken sides. South Korea Africa and Portugal, then amazed would be frank in the soul. But it was also a plan that required a hell of a lot of leadership to keep all these Bantu people together. Men would die side by side in large numbers, but alone it's hard to feel like you're dying for a cause. It will also require skills and money, organizations, and a sufficient army to ensure that freedom fighters are not immediately suppressed.
  
  
  I asked her. — What will I do there?"
  
  
  Hawk didn't answer immediately. He took a nervous drag on his cigar. Whatever the ego bothers us, it licks everything, comes to the surface.
  
  
  "Despondent, powerless people can't work out such a plan alone, N3," the old man said slowly. "One of the key factors is a large new white mercenary unit operating in Mozambique. We don't know who the ego captain is. But whoever it is, it's good. He also has the added advantage of being a contact person with a high position in the Government of Mozambique."
  
  
  He began to understand the situation.
  
  
  'How high?'
  
  
  "Very high," Hawk said. "Directly under the command of the colonial governor. Freedom fighters know everything the Mozambican Government is planning, even before it implements its plans. The mercenaries beat the colonial troops again and again."
  
  
  — Do they know who it is?"
  
  
  "They narrowed the number of options down to three," Hawke said. "And no more than three." He was smoking. "Find out, and kill the owl they have this man."
  
  
  Good. This wasn't a new situation, and it was also my job. I've done this before, for many governments that Washington likes to be friends with.
  
  
  I asked her: "Why are they using us?. Why don't they do it themselves."
  
  
  "Because they think they can't tell which of the three is which," Hawke said. "And what we can do."
  
  
  There was something about the way he spoke that made me look at him. Ego's cigar went out again, and the way he chewed it without looking at me made me realize that we were getting to where Ego was concerned. There was a problem, and she wanted to know what it was.
  
  
  "Why do they think we can do it better than they can?"
  
  
  Hawk crushed his cigar in the ashtray and stared at the rest of it furiously. "Because they know we worked with the rebels."
  
  
  Just like that. She let emu go ahead and exposed it all clearly. But its totally seen it. Washington played both sides, waiting to see who would win. And whoever wins, Washington will be the birthday boy . Only now has the moment of truth suddenly arrived. The wing screws were tightened, and Washington had to choose.
  
  
  "We sent weapons and money to Mozambique's freedom fighters and the Sleeping Lion Zulu group. Under the table, of course, with the help of a cover. But we did it. We helped Sibhuza and Swazi. Now Cape Town and Portugal have informed us that they are aware of this and are hiring us."
  
  
  Everyone knew her now. 'So it was AH who was helping the rebels undercover?
  
  
  Hawk nodded. "Washington now needs Lisbon and Cape Town more than the rebels."
  
  
  "And the rebels are gone," I added.
  
  
  Hawk nodded again. He wasn't looking at me, and I knew what was bothering him in the end, the essence of this whole dirty operation.
  
  
  "We can do the job," I said, " and kill this rebel. Because we worked with the rebels. We have a contact and they trust us. Lisbon and Cape Town will take advantage of our help to the rebels, allowing us to destroy ih. Yummy stuff.'
  
  
  Hawk stared at me.
  
  
  "The rebels are out and ah, kids," I said. "If we kill this CEO, the freedom fighters will know who, how, and why."
  
  
  Hawk swore. 'Damn it. Flush five years of work down the toilet and tell them to go to hell! Criminal waste. It will take us years to start with this and build something new. This is stupid and inefficient.
  
  
  I asked her. "But we're doing this?"
  
  
  'Doing this?' Hawk blinked. "We have our orders."
  
  
  — No loyalty to the rebels we encouraged?"
  
  
  "We only have one loyalty, first and last," Hawk snapped at me.
  
  
  Our personal interest, I thought wryly, is what it all revolves around. "Can we save our agent there?"
  
  
  Hawke shrugged and smiled faintly. "That's up to you, N3."
  
  
  There was something about the way he said it. Hers, looked at his lean, sardonic face, but his ego-sharp old eyes were the epitome of innocence. Her didn't feel comfortable.
  
  
  I asked her. "How do I do this? When will I start it?"
  
  
  "Your plane leaves in an hour and a half," Hawk said dryly, now that he had some practical work to do. "We have to deliver a certain amount of money to the rebels. The transfer will take place where the Ingwavuma River crosses the border of Swaziland with Zululand. It is agreed that the money will be collected by a secret clerk of the rebels. If it appears, you will kill it.
  
  
  "Is there a particular method that you prefer?" he asked her.
  
  
  'Anything. This time, no subtleties are required. Once that's done, all hell breaks loose, " the old man said shortly. — You're working with our local agent, the rebels there. It will guide you to the outlet location.
  
  
  Her! In fact, Delle already knew her, which explained why it was strange when Hawk told me that saving our agent depended on me. So the old fox knew. He knew George to me and Deirdre Cabot, and probably knew about it for years. She wasn't particularly surprised, he hadn't lost much, supposedly. He grinned at her. Hawke isn't here.
  
  
  "You will work, N3, not play. Is that clear?"
  
  
  "How long have you known about N15 and equip me?"
  
  
  Ego's lips curved into a funny, mocking grin. — From the beginning, of course.
  
  
  — Why didn't you stop us?"
  
  
  "You needed a distraction, and you were very careful," the old man laughed. "As long as you thought you were joking with me, you would continue to maintain proper secrecy and pose no danger." He leaned back and lit another cigar. "As long as you worked hard enough to trick me, no one else will notice you."
  
  
  So he made us think he didn't know, and all the time he was practically looking over our shoulders. He cursed inwardly. The emus would probably have had a lot of fun with her . Ego's sardonic smile widened.
  
  
  "Looks like a woman, doesn't it?"
  
  
  It's as brilliant as it is effective, and most of the time I'm happy with it. Her, I want him to stay behind me. But even Hawk doesn't always know everything, and he was very concerned when he told Em about the shooter in London. He leaned forward sharply.
  
  
  "Chucky's sign? Then it means they're watching N15, and the rebels are suspicious of us."
  
  
  Someone in the Mozambican government might have blabbed." Hawk thought about it. "Unless this Sulu guy was a double agent." And the Portuguese are trying to make sure that we go both ways.
  
  
  "Maybe," I said. "Maybe they don't trust N15, fearing that it has become too loyal to the rebels."
  
  
  "Go there and be careful," Hawk snapped. "If you think they'll see through the N15 game, don't use ee. Except maybe as a decoy.
  
  
  Its got up. Hawk reached for the red phone to announce our meeting. He stopped and looked at me. We have to get this officer to cool down, one way or another. Do you understand?'
  
  
  Understood her. If Deirdre gets suspicious, maybe I should use that fact and throw her to the lions. Only mistletoe work mattered, and it had to be done by all available means. My own children were not allowed to play any role.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  The tall blonde and I hit it off on a Boeing 747 around London to Cape Town when it became known that both puffiness was in Mbabane. Her name was Esther Maschler. She worked for a Belgian mining company, and she had enough knowledge to prove it, so I had no reason to doubt her. But he kept his eyes open, partly because Nah had one of the most full and high breasts he'd ever seen her. She wanted to know what they looked like without those clothes.
  
  
  "I think we'll both see how it goes," she told me between Cape Town and Lorengo Marquez. "You're a charming person, Freddie."
  
  
  At the time, he was Fred Morse, an international mining equipment dealer, athlete, and avid gambler. It was as good a cover as any for anyone going to Swaziland. The Royal Zwazi Hotel is one of the newest places for international gatherings.
  
  
  "Hema's voice is her tryin' to be, " said her hey. She seemed very innocent, at least politically.
  
  
  At Lorengo Marques, on the coast of Mozambique, we boarded a light plane, which was picked up in Mbabane. The capital of Swaziland is a "megacity" of about 18,000 people, where most Europeans who live on land come to visit their huge farms and mining enterprises. I'd never seen her, ego had never seen her before, and for a moment I forgot about the blonde as we described the landing kicker.
  
  
  It was late winter in Europe, so it was early autumn here, and micrometropolis glistened in the cool, clear air of the plateau. It reminded me of a bustling city in the foothills of the Colorado Mountains. A green, undulating expanse stretched in all directions around five banners of mostly white houses, many with red roofs. There were eight or nine six - or seven-story skyscrapers and clusters of white houses and low-rise apartments perched on the slopes among dark green trees. Set in a shallow, tree-lined open space, the small town was divided by a busy four-lane main street that usually led to a circular park on one side and a dirt highway on the other. It was as if it had been abandoned in the middle of nowhere, so that all the streets opened onto dirt roads that meandered through the vast expanses of the plateau.
  
  
  Hester Maschler picked him up again on the ground, and we went through customs together. A couple always looks more innocent than a single man. The Swazi customs were easy, so I had nothing to worry about. Mbabane officials didn't even open the door around my two suitcases. Not that they found anything. My personal tools are well hidden in a tight lead compartment on the side of my suitcase if I'm flying on a commercial flight, and all heavy items will be delivered with pre-arranged delivery.
  
  
  A smiling driver was waiting with the car that "Fred Morse" had ordered around London. He was young and pleasant, but not submissive. A free man in a free country. He looked approvingly but politely at Esther Maschler's fantastic breasts as he helped her into the car. She thanked ego with a smile, and me with a slow touch on her chest and thigh as she entered. Hers, hoping Nah had no other plans than a slow, long night with a fellow passenger away from home.
  
  
  The Royal Zwazi Hotel is in a hall about twelve kilometers from Mbabane, and we had to cross the bustling city. Cars filled the capital with its only traffic light, the only one in the whole country, and the sidewalks on this sunny evening were filled with passers-by and shoppers. There were Europeans of all nationalities, tough South Africans, cheeky Portuguese from Mozambique, and hundreds of Swazis in a motley mix of lion and leopard skins. Bright cloth skirts with Western-style jackets, nylon socks and beaded headbands, western-style hats and red turaco feathers denoting a high position.
  
  
  Here in Mbabane, the wealthy, pro-Western, and politically influential Swazis were busy with the task of fighting a century and a half of European rule. In the bushes and fields, ordinary people still lived as they always did, but there was a difference, especially with the Negroes in neighboring Mozambique and South Africa. They were still poor and illiterate, by European standards, but not as poor as they used to be, and not as illiterate; they also didn't care much about European standards. Ih the king had guided them for more than fifty years, and they knew the Western world and Western customs. They understood how to work with Europeans and how to use ih. But they no longer leaned in and believed that Europe had something better to offer than their own way of life. They loved their way of life and walked with pride. He remembered Hawke's words: King Sobhuza was a Bantu, and he wouldn't mind using the Bantu as neighbors.
  
  
  We were driving through a field that glittered green and rippled on a cool autumn evening. Blonde Esther Maschler leaned against me, and her hand slid into her dress, coaxing her elegant breasts. She didn't defend herself. It was going to be an interesting night, but my mind remained alert, scanning the landscape around me and the road behind me. I didn't see anything suspicious about her.
  
  
  Nestled on a mountainside in the shaded Ezoelwini Valley, the Royal Zwazi Hotel is surrounded by hot springs, a pool and eighteen-lane golf courses, sparkling like a luxury cruise ship on the ocean. I paid the driver, made an appointment, and made an appointment with Esther Maschler to meet me at the salon in an hour. In his room, he dusted her off after a long trip, put on a tuxedo, and called the front desk for any errands. At the moment, there was no ih. I liked. If he gets in touch, I'll kill him, but I didn't hurry.
  
  
  He went downstairs to the bar and games rooms. Under the elegant tasseled chandeliers, nothing seemed more remote than the plateaus outside and the circular huts of the Swazis. Slot machines rang, and at the roulette tables, representatives of the international elite threw colored chips into the game. She was found by a slender Esther Maschler waiting at the stands, accompanied by a goatee Swazi prince.
  
  
  The Prince did not take my arrival very kindly. He was carrying a stack of chips, big enough to strangle a crocodile or impress a blonde, but he was keeping up appearances. He was gone, but not too far, just a few stools away at the other end of the bar. He was watching him.
  
  
  "Hunger or thirst?" Hester asked her.
  
  
  "I'm thirsty," she said.
  
  
  Our drinks were served quickly, and she looked over my shoulder at the roulette tables.
  
  
  She asked. "Any luck, Freddie?"
  
  
  'Sometimes.'
  
  
  "We'll see," she said.
  
  
  White and black were mixed up at the roulette tables, and croupiers in tuxedos were moving quickly across the green canvas. The fast-paced Portuguese of Mozambique played gracefully, the prim English accepted victory and defeat without flinching, and the stocky African played calmly, with a grim face. They represented the entire spectrum of players, from avid gamblers who bet hundreds on a single number, to impatient tourists who gamble a few rands, a Swazi coin, on red or black.
  
  
  I always play the same way: twenty-five on red or black, pair or empire, until I feel the chair and wheel. That's enough to make it worth it, but without risking everything I have. So I wait until I feel a certain direction: I look for a sign, a tempo, what players call the" mood " of the wheel. All wheels have a certain mood in the evening. They are made around wood, metal, and plastics that change depending on the temperature, humidity, lubricants, and handling style of a particular stickman.
  
  
  So I watched and waited, restraining myself. Esther was fanatical and emotional, loyal and withdrawn. I loved it. She held out a few chips for some numbers, played the same number for a while, and then randomly changed the numbers. She's lost a lot. He noticed that the prince with the goatee had come up to the table and was looking at nah. When he caught her eye, he started playing big, audaciously, winning a lot and losing a lot. He laughed loudly to attract attention on purpose. And always with an eye on Hester Maschler.
  
  
  She didn't seem to notice.
  
  
  Her, saw the burly suit of civil disobedience fight the black prince. Then I sensed a certain direction of the wheel: it favored black and odd. Its increased bids. An hour later, she won a thousand dollars. Now it looked promising. Hers, was ready to move to a higher paying room, but I didn't have a chance. Hester put her last two chips on 27, lost, and looked at me.
  
  
  "That's all for today," she said. "I want to have a drink in my room with you, Freddie."
  
  
  Gambling is good, but sex is better. Not for me, anyway, especially when a woman is as attractive as Esther Maschler. Even I don't get many direct invitations, if that's what mistletoe means. I'll never forget who I am - if I did, it would kill me quickly-and as we were walking to her room, I noticed that the Swazi Prince had just lost his supplies and also got up from his chair. The burly suit of civil disobedience was gone a few minutes ago. He took Esther's beautiful, plump hand as we went upstairs. The Swazi Prince passed openly in front of us and also went upstairs.
  
  
  Esther's room was small and on the top floor. Maybe she was just a not - so-rich, fun-loving girl. When we reached the elephant, the Swazi Prince was gone. I didn't feel any eyes watching us when we entered. She hung the chain on the door and smiled at me.
  
  
  "Make me a double scotch on the rocks," she said.
  
  
  I just made her mine. She didn't change her clothes and sat at the far end of the room, watching her make her drink. He chatted about Swaziland, mining and gambling. She didn't say anything, and I could see her throats slowly growing larger. She seemed to build a rhythm, a rising rhythm, like a woman's thighs when you get inside her. I realized that this is her way, a part of everything. She brought the ego to a climax, and when she took one last sip around her glass, his was ready.
  
  
  She got up from her seat and was already waiting for her. We met in the middle of the room. She held me so tightly that it felt like she was trying to push me through her. She writhed in my arms, her high, soft breasts flattening. Her eyes were closed. When I stepped back, she didn't follow me. She just sat there. Her eyes are closed, her body heaving, her arms hanging at her sides, in a daze of passionate concentration.
  
  
  Her boyfriend came up to her again, unzipped her dress and pulled it down. Her undid her bra, let her big tits fall out freely, and pulled down her panties. Then he took off her ballet slippers and picked her up. Ee target leaned back as her, carried her to the bed. I turned her off with the saint, climbed out of my pants and bench press next to her. She wrapped herself around me like a large dragon. As we embraced, she dug her nails into my back. He grabbed her by the wrists to hold her down, and spread her arms as far apart as he had spread her legs.
  
  
  When it was over, she started kissing me all over the place. Hard, hungry kisses. With her eyes closed, she snuggled up to me, as if she could actually see me, just in her mind. He reached for his jacket and cigarettes.
  
  
  At this moment, light sounds could be heard outside in the corridor.
  
  
  Her pants grabbed her. Esther, sitting on the bed in the darkened hotel room, didn't seem to hear ih. She lay on the floor with her eyes closed, her hands clenched into fists, her knees drawn up to her chest, concentrating only on herself. Left her there, slid to the door and pushed her.
  
  
  In the hallway, the stocky civil disobedience suit that had been at the roulette table earlier turned around as hers peeked out. He had a silenced automatic pistol in his hand. A dark-skinned man was lying on the floor in the hallway.
  
  
  The civil disobedience suit leapt over the prone figure and disappeared down the fire escape. He wasted no time in firing at me, then quickly slipped through the fire door and disappeared. Her and ran outside.
  
  
  The fire door was already locked, locked on the other side.
  
  
  Hers, bent over the fallen man. It was the goatee-bearded Swazi Prince who had tried so hard to impress Esther at the gambling table. He was shot four times, twice in the chest and twice in the head. He was very much dead.
  
  
  I saw the thin chain around his neck, where the elegant shirt was torn. At the end of the necklace was a small golden figure of a sleeping lion. The Waiting Sign Again.
  
  
  A door opened in the hallway. He quickly stood up and looked down the quiet hallway. There was no way to leave with the fire door closed, except to walk all the way down the corridor to the elevators and the main staircase. Other doors opened. Voices told me that people were coming.
  
  
  If I'd been found with a dead body. †
  
  
  The fire door opened behind me.
  
  
  "Take the tailor, hurry up."
  
  
  A female voice that I recognize from her face.
  
  
  He jumped out the fire door as the voices in the hallway grew louder . Someone shouted after me.
  
  
  "Stop it!"
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  
  
  
  Deirdre closed the door, pushing me forward.
  
  
  'Down! Quickly!'
  
  
  He took the fire escape down three steps at a time. Deirdre followed me. She was wearing well-fitting coveralls that clung to her slender body like a glove, except for the large bulge on her left arm where she'd been shot two days earlier in the dark streets of London. She was holding a Beretta in her hand. Two floors below, she led me through a fire door and into a lower hallway. It was abandoned.
  
  
  "Left," Deirdre hissed.
  
  
  In the corridor to the left, the door of a room opened. A tall, lean Black man in a jungle-colored hazmat suit pointed at us. Deirdre led me to a room, then to an open window. A rope hung from Gable's back. Deirdre led the way, smooth and fast as a cat. He followed her and landed next to her near the land Rover, which was hidden in the dense undergrowth. The tall Negro was the last to descend. He yanked the rope through the overhead bindings, quickly reeled it in, and tossed it into the Land Rover. Upstairs, I could hear her screams and all sorts of noises around the hotel, which were getting louder and louder.
  
  
  "Hurry up," Deirdre snapped at us.
  
  
  We jumped into the Rover. The tall black man took the steering wheel, backed up for a moment, and then shot forward. As we rushed forward, I saw a man in the bushes, in the shadow of the hotel. It was a burly suit of civil disobedience. Ego's silenced automatic pistol lay beside him, and his throat had been cut. I looked at Deirdre, but her eyes didn't tell me anything, and I didn't ask her anything. I didn't know what questions could be dangerous.
  
  
  The Land Rover shot out of the trees and onto a dark dirt road heading south, the road glowing white and red in the night. Nam Deirdre and Nam the tall Negro didn't say a word to us as the road twisted and the Land Rover rumbled on, turning on only its tail lights to catch a glimpse of the road. We passed small corrals of round Swazi huts and a few European buildings high up on the hillsides. In some around these outlying homes, holy lights burned and dogs barked as we passed mimmo.
  
  
  After a while, we passed a village with many huts and a European-style building. A herd of cattle roared in a large circular space. Voices challenged us, and he saw fierce eyes and flashes of spears: Assegais. The Negro didn't slow down, and the assegais and fierce eyes disappeared behind us. From the size of the village, its herd of cattle, and its only European home, I knew that we had passed Lobamba, the spiritual capital of Swaziland, the place where the Queen Mother lived: Ndlovoekazi, the elephant.
  
  
  After Lobamba, we drove for some time through irrigated land. Then we turned onto a sandy side path and stopped in a dark village ten minutes later. No dogs barked, and the huts seemed deserted. Deirdre got out around the car and entered one around the Zvazi round huts. Once inside, she lowered the leather over the entrance, lit a kerosene lamp, and leaned against one of the walls to examine me.
  
  
  She asked. — Did you have some fun, Nick?"
  
  
  Her, grinned, " Jealous?"
  
  
  — You could have ruined the whole mission.
  
  
  Angry, she collapsed into a canvas chair. Outside, she heard the Land Rover drive away, the sound of its engine fading in the distance. The hut was very quiet, with only a dim glow of holy smoke.
  
  
  "No, I couldn't have done it," I said. "I drank with her, played cards with her, fucked her, but I didn't trust her."
  
  
  She sniffed disdainfully, and allowed ay to simmer a little. The small cabin had no windows, and in addition to a canvas chair and a lantern, there were two sleeping bags, a gas stove, a backpack with food, two M-16 rifles, a powerful radio, and a diplomatic bag for Zulu money.
  
  
  "Do you really need to fuck every woman you meet?" Deirdre finally said.
  
  
  "I wish I could," I said.
  
  
  In that black jumpsuit, she was slim and lithe as a panther. A beautiful and real woman. Maybe she wouldn't be among all the attractive women if a normal life was possible for us. But as it was now.
  
  
  She saw me looking at nah and studied my expression. Then she smiled. A faint smile, as if she, too, was wondering what would have happened if our lives had been different.
  
  
  "Maybe I was jealous of him," she sighed. 'Was it good?'
  
  
  "Fiercely."
  
  
  "This could be fun."
  
  
  "Yes," I said. "This time, we didn't get our start on the second day."
  
  
  "No, — she said.
  
  
  It's all. She took a cigarette from her breast pocket, lit it, and leaned back in the canvas chair. He lit one of them around the gold-tipped cigarettes and sat Odin around the sleeping bags. Her hotel, spend the second day with her. Esther Maschler was fast and explosive, but she left me only partially satisfied: a sweet candy can only temporarily satisfy your hunger. Deirdre was somehow different, a man remembers her for a long time. But from the intent look on her face, he could tell it was time to get busy. She looked worried.
  
  
  I asked her. — What exactly happened?" "Is there something wrong with the 'order' we're currently working on?"
  
  
  "No, but if they had caught you there, they would have held you back, and there wouldn't have been time to rebuild," Deirdre said. She leaned back in her canvas chair as if exhausted. — This Swazi prince was a secret member of the Car Manufacturers of India, a militant leader here who wants to unite all the Bantu. The Civil Disobedience suit was a member of the Cape Town Secret Police. Somehow, he saw right through the prince.
  
  
  "Your prince knew that," I said. "He was trying to trick the opponent by pretending to be a spoiled gambler cheating on a blonde tourist."
  
  
  "He knew what that civil disobedience suit was," Deirdre said, " but he didn't know that it was the math class that was ordered to kill him, Nick. We found out, but it was too late. All Damboelamanzi could do was kill this South African.
  
  
  I asked her. "We?"
  
  
  You already know that her local contact person is working with the Zulus. After two years, Nick, you're getting closer to people.
  
  
  — Then why did they try to kill you in London?"
  
  
  She shook her head. "They didn't, Nick. This shooter was a double agent, which probably proves to Hawke that Lisbon and Cape Town knew we were helping the rebels.
  
  
  "There were two of them," I said, and then I told him about the other nigger I'd seen in the lobby of the cheap Chelsea Hotel.
  
  
  She listened carefully to my description. Then she got up and went to the radio. She was using some code words in a language I didn't know. Sulu probably. Her ego had learned enough to know that it was a Bantu language.
  
  
  "What's the matter, Deirdre?"
  
  
  — I'm reporting a second person. The rebels need to be warned about the second double agent.
  
  
  Her, looked at nah. — Don't get too identified with them, Deirdre. You will not be able to stay after this "order". We're going to blow up your relationship with them.
  
  
  She finished her broadcast, turned off the radio, and went back to the canvas chair. She lit another cigarette and leaned her head against the moan of the hut.
  
  
  "Maybe I can save her something, Nick." He worked with them here for two years, supplying ih around Washington and paying for it. We can't just drop everything and turn our backs on them."
  
  
  "Alas, we can," I said. "That's the way things are."
  
  
  She closed her eyes and took a deep drag on her cigarette. "Maybe I can tell them that you were bribed and that you were a traitor." You can also put a bullet in me to make it look good."
  
  
  She knew what she was doing better.
  
  
  I told her. "They won't trust AH anymore, no one around AH, even when they think I've been bribed." "No, it's time to run, dear. Now you must use what you have gained the trust of these rebels to destroy ih. This is our order.
  
  
  She knew her job well, the job we'd signed up for: doing what AH and Washington wanted us to do. But she didn't open her eyes. She sat smoking in silence in the dimly lit little Swazi hut.
  
  
  "Nice work, isn't it, Nick?" - "Beautiful world".
  
  
  "It's the same world as always. No worse, and probably even better, than a hundred years ago, " I said sincerely. "Someone has to do our job. We do it because we enjoy it, because we're good at it, because it's fun, and because we can make more money and live a better life than most. Let's not kid ourselves, N15.
  
  
  She shook her head as if to deny everything, but there was a glint in her eyes when she finally opened ih. He could see her nostrils flaring almost like the hunting tigress she was on Della Street. We both needed thrills and danger. It was part of us.
  
  
  She said. "What Washington wants, Washington gets." — I'll be well paid for now, won't I?" Or maybe we did it for nothing? I wonder if Hawke knows about this.
  
  
  "He knows," I said dryly.
  
  
  Deirdre glanced at her watch. — If we'd been spotted, someone would have been here by now." I think we're safe, Nick. We'd better go to bed now, because we're leaving early in the morning.
  
  
  'Sleep? I said with a smirk. "I still want thoth to start the second day."
  
  
  "Even then, he's blonde?"
  
  
  "Let me forget her."
  
  
  "We're going to bed," she said, getting up. "Separate sleeping bags today. I'll think about you tomorrow.
  
  
  A woman sometimes has to say no. To all women. They should feel that they have the right to say no, and a reasonable person knows that. The right to say "no" is the most fundamental freedom. This is the difference between a free man and a slave. The problem is that one man doesn't want a woman's ego to always say no.
  
  
  We climbed into our sleeping bags, and Deirdre was the first to fall asleep. She was even less nervous than hers. Twice I was woken up by the sounds of animals near an abandoned village, but they didn't suit Lizette.
  
  
  At dawn, we got down to business. Breakfast was prepared for her, and Deirdre packed up and contacted the rebels for final orders. The money was to be handed over to an unidentified Mozambican official two days later at dawn somewhere near the Fugwavuma River on the Zulu side of the border. We both knew the real plan, other than that I was going to kill that official, but that didn't concern anyone but me.
  
  
  — Do you know ego, Deirdre?"
  
  
  "No one knows the ego except for a few top jungle leaders."
  
  
  Not that it mattered, I'd kill her ego if we had one. Then we waited for lunch, packed and ready, in the empty village of the tall driver, Dambulamanzi. It was a clear, cool, sunny day on the Highveld. Around us lay the irrigated fields of the Mulkerns Valley, and in the distance rose the rocky mountains of Swaziland's western border. We had all the necessary documents. Fred Morse had permission to visit Nsoko and stay with an old friend, Deirdre Cabot, who runs a small ranch near Nsoko.
  
  
  Dambulamanzi finally appeared in a cloud of red dust. After loading the Jeep, we headed east on the road towards the commercial town of Manzini. Although smaller than Mbabane, Manzini is busier and is located in the long fertile belt that crosses Swaziland from north to south. We did not even stop, but continued to drive through the fertile land. Farms and citrus groves were scattered around us. European farms and Swazi farms side by side on their own land.
  
  
  At Sipofaneni, the road continued along the Big Usutu River, and we drove to Big Bend through low, barren brush and dry land where Skinny Scott was grazing. The driver seemed to be glaring at the herds.
  
  
  I asked her. — You don't like Scott?"
  
  
  The tall Zulu kept his eyes on the road. "We love our pet Scott too much, but he'll ruin us if we're not careful. For the Zulus, domestic scott means money, status, marriage; it is the soul of each individual and the entire tribe. When the South Africans kicked us out of our farms and sent us to the bantustan they created for us, they gave us rations that one person couldn't live on. My people don't want to live in townships because they don't want to give up their Scott. So they roam Zululand with their cattle, part of the great migration of blacks without any purpose.
  
  
  "Damboelamanzi," I said, " wasn't that the name of the general who was defeated at Roark Drift, the day after your great victory in the Zulu War?"
  
  
  "My ancestor, a cousin of our last true king, Setewayo," the tall Zulu said, still not looking at me. "In open combat, we destroyed about 1,200 around them, but lost 4,000 of our own. And in Roark's Drift, we were stopped by 4,000 people and stopped by 100 people. They had guns and cover. We had spears and our bare chests. They had discipline, we just had the courage." He looked at me now, his dark eyes filled with pain and bitterness. "But on the dell itself, they had an education, and the kind of education that makes a European soldier stand and die in vain. The European soldier fights and dies for nothing but duty and pride. This is something we have yet to learn."
  
  
  "Chucky's sign?"
  
  
  Dambulamanzi rode in silence for a while. "He founded the Zulu nation, drove out all other tribes, and made all Natal and beyond its borders. Ego soldiers were invincible in Africa because they did not fight for personal gain. Our kings and generals then forgot about it, and we became slaves. He sleeps, but one day he will wake up."
  
  
  He didn't say anything else. I tried to learn more from him about the rebels who bore the Mark of Death, and learn something about the military genius, or perhaps the madman, who had turned the weak Natal tribal federation into a black nation. But he rode on without answering, and his face was expressionless. There was something about him that made me feel uneasy and worried. There was an antagonism that he couldn't hide. Was this harm directed at all whites, which I couldn't blame the ego for, or especially at me? I was still thinking about it when we got to Nsoko.
  
  
  "We'll stay here," Deirdre said.
  
  
  When Dambulamanzi left to speak to his men on the other side of the border for the last time, Deirdre hired two porters to carry him, and he packed up his equipment. In addition to my standard luger, stiletto, and gas bomb, I had an M-16, two frag grenades, an emergency supply in case I had to run the hard way, a thin nylon rope, and a special miniature transmitter hidden in my backpack.
  
  
  I also had my old special Springfield, with an optical scope and an infrared sniper scope for night work. It was taken apart by ego — my own special design-and hidden in various parts of my backpack. Its still not figured out how to kill this unknown official. Ultimately, it will depend on the situation when I see her ego. There was also the possibility that I might be working remotely and could not allow this to happen. Maybe I could send ego to a government patrol. In fact, it wasn't as if there was much chance that they would fall for it, as partisans usually know in their own country when a patrol is nearby.
  
  
  Dambulamanzi is back. "Our people are reporting additional patrols in the area. There is a lot of activity. I don't like it.
  
  
  I asked her. "Do you think they suspect contact?"
  
  
  Perhaps, " the Zulu admitted.
  
  
  Then we must leave immediately, Deirdre decided. "We have to be careful, and it will take longer."
  
  
  Dambulamanzi took a quick bite and left. It was late in the evening and we wanted to travel as many miles as possible before nightfall, a night journey slow and dangerous for a group of five in enemy territory. We traveled light: guns, some water, ammunition, and Deirdre's walkie-talkie. The Swazis were carrying everything except my backpack and weapons. An hour later, after the exit, we crossed the border into Zululand.
  
  
  Once in South Africa, we were illegal immigrants, criminals left to our own devices. We could be shot on sight, and there's nothing Hawk can do. He wouldn't be able to identify us, or bury us if necessary.
  
  
  Her silent shell is behind Deirdre, pondering how to kill this rebel official. If ego could have killed her before we got to the rendezvous point, or let him take the money and ambush emu later, maybe AH could have protected him. But if ego had killed her earlier, I would have had to kill Dambulamanzi, too. And it is unlikely that he will reveal his identity until he receives his money. To kill the ego after he took the money was a risk of slipping, a risk of blackening the ego, and my first task was to kill the ego.
  
  
  No, the only sure way to kill the ego is to do so at the moment when the money is handed over to the emu, and then believe that surprise and confusion will help us escape. He loved life like no one else.
  
  
  The sun set low in the sudden African twilight, and we looked for a place to camp. He thought of her, of his vacation, and of Deirdre. Her hotel spend the second night with her. There was a faint smile on her face, as if she was also thinking about it.
  
  
  Dry, worn streambeds, dongas, lay in patches on the overgrown plain. Deirdre pointed to the left, at a quarter that was deeper than the others and well hidden by thorn bushes. Long before history began, when we walked in shelters and lived in caves, man lived in fear and was afraid of danger. And since the time of the cavemen, there has been a moment of special danger: the moment when a person sees their cave openly in front of them. He relaxes for a moment and lets down his guard too soon. It happens even to me.
  
  
  They went out around the bushes. About twenty in white boots and a worn uniform. Two Swazis tried to escape and were shot dead. He reached for his luger.
  
  
  "Nick," Deirdre called.
  
  
  Dambulamanzi paralyzed my arm with a blow from the butt of his rifle and held me at gunpoint. Ego's face was expressionless. Hands grabbed our weapons. A short, bony man with sparse blond hair stepped forward and pointed north with a pistol.
  
  
  "Laufen! Hurry up!'
  
  
  My first thought was that it was a South African patrol and that Dambulamanzi was the double agent who had turned us in. My second thought was more reasoned: these men walked too quietly, too carefully, and too diligently: like soldiers not at home, but in enemy territory. The weapons were a mixture of British, American and Russian production. Ih the leader was a German. I saw her among the Swedes, the French, and others who looked like South Americans.
  
  
  He remembered what Hawke had said about a new force in Mozambique: mercenaries.
  
  
  Two hours later, I was sure of it. Among the trees along the wide shallow river, a tent camp was located, hidden in the darkness. Silent guards watched as Deirdre and I were led to a large tent and pushed inside.
  
  
  A tall, thin, cadaverous man smiled at us from behind his field chair.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  
  
  
  "I'm Colonel Carlos Listera of the United Front for the Liberation of Mozambique," the tall, thin man said. "You are spies and agents of the enemy. You will be shot.
  
  
  He spoke English, which meant he knew more about us than I would have liked. But his accent was Spanish. Castilian, to be precise. A real Spaniard. The ego uniform was around for a different time. He wore a soft beret and loose shirt, baggy trousers and low boots, and the insignia of a colonel of the Republican troops during the Spanish Civil War. Still, he couldn't be that old, no more than fifty-five. On his desk was a small diplomatic briefcase with money in it. He stepped forward angrily.
  
  
  "You stupid idiot," I snapped at him. "We are not enemies. This money is for your organization, the Zulu rebel movement. Dambulamanzi is lying to you.
  
  
  A bony German and a short dark man jumped up to stop me. Colonel Lister waved them away, almost angrily, as if his ego was annoyed at having to shoot us. "Dambulamanzi is the leader of the Zulu underground movement," he said. — He worked closely with Miss Cabot, and he knows that he's not lying. We know why you came here this time.
  
  
  Deirdre swore. "Take the tailor, Colonel, this is going too far. I've been shot in London, I've been trained in Mbabane, and now this. The entire Wait Label is riddled with double agents. Now it's like Dambulamanzi...'
  
  
  A short, wiry man who had jumped up to stop me suddenly swore in Spanish. Ego's dark face was contorted with anger. Before anyone could react, he pulled out a long knife, grabbed Deirdre's long dark hair, and raised the knife. "A whore. A Yankee whore!
  
  
  "Emilio!" Colonel Lister's voice is as absurd as a whip. Ego's eyes were hard and cold. "Let her go."
  
  
  The little man hesitated. He kept his hand on Deirdre's hair and pulled her head back, exposing her neck to the knife. Colonel Lister Stahl's voice is softer. He spoke Spanish.
  
  
  "That's enough, Emilio," the Colonel said. "We are not bandits. This will be done according to the rules. Now go chill out.
  
  
  The dark man, Emilio, released Deirdre, turned, and disappeared around the tent. Colonel Lister watched the ego disappear, shook his head and sighed, not looking at us, at Deirdre, at us, at me.
  
  
  "Emilio is a Chilean. Third in the team. A good soldier. He lives here temporarily to return to Chile and fight for the liberation of his people from the military and American capitalists. In the meantime, he is fighting here, but Americans are simply not the ego that the people love."
  
  
  I told her. 'How would you manage without AH, Colonel?' 'But AH American. You are fighting with American dollars, with American help.
  
  
  "Because it's in Washington's best interests," Listera snapped at me. He shook his head again. Deep-set eyes glowed on his skeletal head. "I think you think we're all idiots." You and your leader, whoever it is. He's sitting at some big table in Washington, scheming and pulling strings, and he thinks no one else has any sense.
  
  
  He looked at me. AH offers the Zulus a payment, a special payment? It can only be obtained by our secret leader in the government of Mozambique. Strange, isn't it? didn't you think we'd ask ourselves why? He laughed thinly and bitterly. "After five hours, then suggestions, we knew what you were up to. The dying colonial governments have few secrets left. Everything can be bought. When a federal official talks to you, there will always be someone else who will talk to us and pay the same price. Corruption. If you work with corrupt governments, you can be betrayed."
  
  
  He looked at me, but I didn't say anything. He suddenly turned his back on us in his chair.
  
  
  "Yes." — No, " he said. "Grab ih."
  
  
  A bony German and another man grabbed me. The other two grabbed Deirdre. Her reaction was instinctive: years of training and survival instincts had kicked in. A sharp judo kick from her elbow caused one of the men around her to double over. The other one she cut off with the palm of her hand. It threw a bony German halfway across the tent and knocked the second man off his feet. They stood up and charged at us again. She was hit by one again, just like Deirdre.
  
  
  The Colonel squinted at us, almost appreciating our skill. More mercenaries rushed into the tent and pinned Deirdre to the ground. Her struggled a little longer. Suddenly the stick caught me in the windpipe, and my hands quickly pressed against the stick; He would have strangled himself if he tried to fight any further.
  
  
  "Fight, a man named AH. - Colonel Lister said, " and you'll suffocate." Garotta, our old Spanish method of execution, is very effective. Die as you like, but believe me, it's better to be shot."
  
  
  He stopped fighting. The Colonel smiled at Lister. He nodded and motioned for his men to lead us away.
  
  
  When we turned around, Dambulamanzi entered the tent. He looked at me, then walked over to the colonel and whispered something in Emu's ear. The Colonel looked at me, then at Dambulamanzi. The tall black man nodded.
  
  
  "Untie nu," said the Colonel. "Take the woman outside."
  
  
  He looked at Dambulamanzi, but niggera's face was as expressionless as ever. He followed Deirdre as she was led out.
  
  
  "Sit down," he said.
  
  
  "If you go to her -" I began.
  
  
  "Sit down," the colonel snapped at me.
  
  
  Her crouched down. He rocked slowly in his chair, his deep-set eyes never leaving mine for a moment.
  
  
  "So," he said at last. "You're Nick Carter. The famous Nick Carter. I've heard a lot about you.
  
  
  He didn't say anything.
  
  
  'Perhaps ...' he paused thoughtfully. "I wonder, Carter, how much is your life worth to you? Maybe an agreement?
  
  
  "What's the deal?"
  
  
  Listera rocked back and forth in his field chair, thinking. — My father told me about you. Yes, Nick Carter poe AH, Killmaster. Everyone is afraid and knows the horror of everything that happens inside and happens, right?
  
  
  He said to her, " Your father? Do I know her ego?
  
  
  Its stalling for time. There is always a chance if you already have it, even the smallest hope.
  
  
  "Yes," said the colonel, " my father." An accident in Cuba a few years ago. During that rocket attack.
  
  
  "General Lister?" Is that your father?"'
  
  
  That explained the ego's Spanish Civil War uniform. Lister's famous Republican general, the ego of Odin's father, is around the few leaders who found their calling in that bloody conflict, fought well, and emerged with honor and reputation even after defeats. It wasn't ego's real name. He was a simple Spanish youth who was called "General Lister". After the war, he went to the Soviet Union to continue the world struggle. This was a man who had come to Cuba more than once to train Castro's soldiers to help the revolution there, and who had run into me one night and lost.
  
  
  -"I remember the general," I said. "I also remember a young man in Cuba at that time. Was that you?'
  
  
  'Its been there.'
  
  
  "Now you're here-a new war?"
  
  
  The Colonel shrugged. "I have fought in many wars, in many places. My father fought for the liberation of Spain, he fought in Cuba, all over the outdoor pool, and her ego is still there. My men are of all nationalities: German, French, Chilean, Brazilian, Swedish, Portuguese. We will liberate this part of the world, and then I will move on."
  
  
  "Another place, another war," I said. "Do you like fighting, Colonel?" Do you like war, do you like killing?
  
  
  "I like to fight, yes. But I'm fighting for freedom."
  
  
  "For freedom here or the Soviet Union?"
  
  
  He looked at me. 'Come with me.'
  
  
  I followed him around the tent. The night was dark, under the trees along the wide river, but the moon had already risen, and as soon as my eyes adjusted, I saw that there were many activities in the camp. The mercenaries sat in small groups to clean their weapons, or they sat in small circles listening to what seemed like a lesson. Others worked with small groups of Negroes. "Zulu rebels," Lister said. "We work on both sides of the border, and when Zulus, Swazis, or other black people have to flee the white government, we help them, hide them, and protect them on their way to safety. We help train ih, encourage ih."
  
  
  Most of the Negroes were young, and many were women. They looked half-starved and scared, their eyes rolling in the night. The Swedes ' ih was torn and they were shaking. The mercenaries gave them their education, clothing, and talked to them.
  
  
  "Without us, they wouldn't have had our chances, our hopes," Lister's colonel said beside me. "Does it matter if we work for someone else? Your AH works both ways, but which side do you sympathize with the most, Carter?
  
  
  "He's the party that pays me," I said.
  
  
  "A hired master assassin? Nothing more?'
  
  
  "I'll get paid well for this."
  
  
  His time squad. We were outside. Hers was no longer bound. A busy camp, dark, with dense undergrowth and deep dongs, and a river on all sides. She was waiting for an opportunity, but I was also thinking of Deirdre.
  
  
  "Maybe," Lister said, hiding his eyes in the dark,"you'll get paid."
  
  
  'How?'
  
  
  "You are N3. You know everything there is to know about A, ' Lister said. "How it works, names of agents, name of the person's executive secretary. I want to know all this.
  
  
  "It'll give you trouble," I said.
  
  
  "It's an army for me and a fortune for you."
  
  
  — Do you have a fortune, Lister?" I doubt it. I don't think you can afford my annual salary.
  
  
  "I know where to get the money, Carter," he snapped. Ego's eyes glowed in the night. — You'd be free, rich, and I might even let you finish your assignment. I can arrange that for her. You can kill your target, return home with the task completed."
  
  
  "So you'd let me kill your leader and then expect me to trust you," I said. "You're a hot and naive boy."
  
  
  "I'm more important than some black leader."
  
  
  And for AI. They won't suspect me until the people around ME start dying like rats. No, there will be no deals, Lister.
  
  
  "I can guarantee your safety."
  
  
  "If I switch sides with her." "That won't do."
  
  
  "You're no match for me, Carter. You're almost dead.
  
  
  "We're all going to die."
  
  
  The colonel turned and gave the order. People led by a German who seemed to be the second-in-command appeared out of nowhere. All this time they were close to us in the dark. I wasn't surprised. I was captured and taken to the far corner of the camp, to a wide shallow river. The Colonel was gone. Something moved in the river. "Look," said the skinny German.
  
  
  He reached into a large bucket and pulled out a huge piece of meat. Grinning wolfishly at me, he tossed the meat into the river. A strong vortex rose up in the dark room, and a chilling roar could be heard. He saw wide mouths, long snouts, and heavy tails that churned the water to foam: crocodiles. The river was full of them. They were fighting over a piece of meat.
  
  
  So you weren't thinking of leaving, were you? the bony asshole said. "Not alone," I said. "Hema have you been? The Gestapo? In SS? A security guard in Dachau?
  
  
  The German flushed. — You thought I was alone around these pigs?" Her soldier, do you hear, American? Sergeant Helmut Kurz, 1st Panzer-Grenadier Division. A soldier, not a dirty jackal.
  
  
  "Who are you now?"
  
  
  The German raised his arm to lunge at me, but stopped abruptly. He smiled. He turned and saw Colonel Lister in a wide circle of light on the riverbank. Six battery-powered lanterns were arranged in a circle to illuminate the place. In the center of Mir's circle, three mercenaries held Deirdre. Dambulamanzi stood behind Nah, holding a broad-bladed assegai that glittered in his hand.
  
  
  "Nick," Deirdre called. "Don't give up."
  
  
  The mercenaries gathered around Nah, casting shadows on her. The Colonel walked up to me until he was standing directly in front of me. He looked me straight in the eye and nodded. Behind him, Dambulamanzi was aiming for Deirdre's shoulder. She screamed as the assegai hit ee.
  
  
  "We're all going to die," Colonel Lister said without turning around. He just looked at me. — You can save her. First her, and then myself.
  
  
  "Nick," Deirdre called, her voice muffled but clear. "Don't trust emu."
  
  
  "I have an even better method for you," Lister said.
  
  
  "Go to hell, Lister," I said.
  
  
  "Major Kurtz," Lister snapped.
  
  
  The German major approached the circle of light. Colonel Lister's eyes were fixed on me. Over Ego's shoulder, he saw Kurtz pointing at the mercenaries holding Deirdre. They forced her to her knees, arms outstretched, head tilted forward. Mercenaries and a few Zulus were milling around the circle of peace. Major Kurtz moved the ih out of the way so that Deirdre could see it clearly.
  
  
  "One more time, Carter," Colonel Lister said. "A fair deal."
  
  
  "No, — I said, but my voice was muffled.
  
  
  Will he...? No, he can't...
  
  
  Lister didn't even turn to look at the circle of the world, where Deirdre was kneeling in her sleek black jumpsuit, her hair loose and soft. The Colonel turned his head. Dambulamanzi picked up his assegaai and quickly lowered it again.
  
  
  Her blood seemed to spew a stream down her headless torso. The target dropped and rolled back. A low murmur filled the camp.
  
  
  He jumped up and hit Colonel Lister squarely in the face. He fell, and hands grabbed me.
  
  
  The colonel jumped up and slapped me across the face with his hand. "Look," he shouted.'
  
  
  They held me by the arms, neck, and head, forcing me to continue looking through the darkness into the real world. The slender body in the black coverall was still cramped. Her target was facing up, and it was as if she was looking at me. Dark with blood, her target seemed to stare at me in the glow of the world, her long hair touching the ground, her dark eyes frozen in death.
  
  
  Lister nodded again.
  
  
  I watched them pick up the body and throw it in the river.
  
  
  The water swirled as the crocodiles charged from all directions. the narrow jaws opened wide to snap .
  
  
  She began to tremble violently. All over the river, monstrous reptiles came for flesh and blood.
  
  
  This was my chance. †
  
  
  I fell like a rock, breaking free around the arms that held me. The moment hers hit the ground, his allowed himself to roll onto the riverbank. There I stood up again. One mercenary was standing in front of me. Her ego kicked him in the crotch and poked the emu in the eye with its thumb. He screamed. Her ego grabbed the gun, turned, and shot three of them as they charged at me.
  
  
  Lister was screaming. 'Stop the ego. Ah, here . .. '
  
  
  He grabbed another one and shot the emu in the head at close range. Her ego took a gun and a knife. It was Lister who shot her. He came down like a drunk and cursed.
  
  
  It was dark. Half of them were blinded by the ring of streetlamps. They were still walking over each other, afraid to shoot for fear of hitting the other or the colonel.
  
  
  Half-crazed, he was shot, and three others were stabbed. He grabbed one by the throat and jumped into the wide, shallow river. It was a small chance, but still a chance. The crocodiles were still moving towards their feast with Deirdre's body. Her death might have saved me.
  
  
  Her, descended into the moonlit darkness. Moonlight Sergei himself was playing with the shadows in the river. Logs and bushes floated to the surface, and I heard crocodiles approaching me. I would have thrown them another party.
  
  
  I stabbed the mercenary I was holding, cut the emu's throat to keep the blood flowing, and swam in shallow water while my lungs held out. Surfaced under a moving screen: crocodile!
  
  
  Her ego stabbed him with a knife, cut him several times, and then disappeared again. Bullets flew around me. Something scratched my shoulder, and a dying crocodile scratched my leg.
  
  
  Hers was swimming on, but now hers was bleeding out. Crocodiles. .. The huge log floated past me like an ocean liner. He reached for it, missed, and grabbed it again.
  
  
  Clenching his teeth, he pulled himself up on top of him. Hers lay flat, gasping for breath, when it exclusive distributor in Russia took me across the river.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  
  
  I woke her up. Nothing moved.
  
  
  I was lying face down, and nothing moved, as the sound of the river was all around me. Her head lifted slowly, very slowly. I was stuck on a sandbank, with water on all sides and dense trees on the bank further away. Two Dandies were lying on the shallows, looking at me. The bleeding stopped, and the water of the river washed my wounds for the night.
  
  
  A gray morning spread over the river and the distant savannahs. A black pool, twice as wide as I was, jutted out far into the water. In the end, it saved me from the crocodiles. It's the fast current, the darkness, and Deirdre's dead and bloody body in a river full of crocodiles. She gave me my only chance: the river. With her blood, her bones, and her life.
  
  
  Blind rage washed over me as I lay in the shallow river. Deirdre. Now there will be no beginning of the second night. No, there will be no more tomorrow for us.
  
  
  The great Nick Carter, the Killmaster. And I had to watch her die horribly, a death that wasn't so pointless. He was forced to use her death to save himself. I let the rage run through me, a blind, searing rage that was almost overwhelming me. The rage when a person in my job always loses it, even though there are times when it doesn't matter. I've hated her before in my life, but I've never hated Colonel Lister as much as I do now. Blind, bitter hatred.
  
  
  On a cold autumn morning, he shivered in the heavy trunk of a tree. Helpless as a child. The sun would soon be up, and there was no way he could know how far he had traveled from Colonel Lister's camp. They might see me again at any time
  
  
  He raised himself on the trunk and began to study the banks of the wide river. I didn't see or hear anything. But that doesn't mean ih wasn't there, maybe they were looking at me while her ih wanted to. They were also professionals and understood their work. Skilled and ruthless assassins for hire. What's her name?"
  
  
  No, anger almost blinded me again. No, not like hers. They were murderers who loved to kill, with blood... . †
  
  
  Her whole body shuddered, fighting anger. Anger would only make me vulnerable. It's time to think about what the situation is like. The river was quiet and deserted, and the banks seemed clear.
  
  
  The knife that had taken her from the mercenary he'd fed her to the crocodiles stuck in a log. He must have done it before he passed out, and the thought of this mercenary made me chuckle like a wolf. I just hoped he wasn't dead when the crocs grabbed him.
  
  
  My shoulder was only scratched, and the wounds on my leg from Dandy's teeth weren't too serious. The gun stuck in my belt caught her eye. He must have done it automatically.
  
  
  It was a 9mm Luger. Of course, they took all my weapons and my backpack with everything I had in nen. But they missed the four flat holes on the inside of my belt. Luger ammunition. So I had a weapon: a sword, and a luger with four magazines.
  
  
  It was pretty good, better than he could have hoped for. Looking anxiously at the crocodiles, he slid off the log and tried to move his ego. Without my weight, it slid across the shallows. Ego was able to free her by throwing her back down the slope of a sandbank and then swimming away.
  
  
  The rising sun studied her. The left bank will take me back to the border of Swaziland. Her brain lowered her back into the water. Without taking her eyes off the crocodiles, she once again bench-pressed on a log and swam across the stream to the tall grassy bank and tall trees.
  
  
  He crouched in the shade of the trees and watched the log float slowly with the current and disappear where the sun rose over the edge of the world. He continued to stare until it was gone. That log saved my life.
  
  
  As it drifted away, he took a deep breath and began to think about what to do next. There were no hints around me, no circles of trees, and in the savanna I had a gun and a knife. The mercenaries were nowhere to be seen, and the rising sun showed me the way back to Swaziland, and the way to escape. She had a Killmaster, N3 on AH, with a task. I had my own responsibilities.
  
  
  To hell with ih, these responsibilities!
  
  
  To hell with AH, and this assignment. And so on until the very end with Swaziland and the breakthrough.
  
  
  The rising sun also told me where he came from, where the camp was. And his hotel and kill the mercenaries . His hotel and kill Colonel Carlos Lister.
  
  
  He turned his back on Swaziland and headed north, upstream, to where Deirdre Cabot had died. I went to Colonel Carlos Lister to kill him, to kill Major Helmut Kurtz and anyone else who could get hold of her.
  
  
  And kill the Dambulamanzi, especially the Dambulamanzi.
  
  
  Its shell is quiet and careful, following the rivers, but always staying out of sight. The sun was steadily rising, and the rising heat was making it harder to walk. He followed the river for some distance without hesitation, its course indelibly marked by the winding line of trees along its banks in this arid land. But the savanna was harsh, broken and pitted with endless depressions, and I had to hide in dense thickets to stay out of sight. Since my flask had also been removed, I didn't have a drop of water with me, and my throat and lips were sore. But as soon as it got dark, I left her, followed the water along the rivers, and moved north for the rest of the day.
  
  
  I haven't seen her, our lives, our animals, our people, just a few abandoned pens in the undergrowth. It was Zululenda, poor and deliberately abandoned for more than a century by the white government of South Africa. Now it will be returned to people with no hope of getting a job there. She was hated by Cape Town and wanted a decent life for the Zulus. But it was politics, the future. But all he cared about, all he wanted now, was to avenge Deirdre.
  
  
  As poor as it was, there had to be something in the barren land: small herds of cattle. There was nothing like what the land of the locust had eaten. On the dell itself, it was human locusts on both sides. The people who lived here fled from the oppressors and so-called saviors.
  
  
  By nightfall, Licks had found the parking lot on the riverbank, near the tree line where Deirdre had died.
  
  
  It was empty, with no tents or soldiers. I searched the area and found nothing. That is, nothing that can be found. It was found by something that the hotel can't find. Deep inside me all this time, there was a faint doubt, a faint hope that Deirdre wasn't dead, that my eyes had somehow deceived me, that I hadn't seen what I was seeing. That hope died when her father looked at the pool of dried black blood on the sand by the riverbank. She was dead. She's dead, Carter. Still, I had a job to do. Drink it down the rivers, rummaged through ih trash rooms until I found a bottle, filled it with water and left. Hers was nothing like the ferret that left Nsobo twenty-four hours ago, but I wasn't hungry. They were at least half a day ahead of me. They didn't try too hard to cover their tracks. This meant that they relied on their speed to stay away from the enemy. It won't take much to overtake ih walking.
  
  
  She could have been contacted by Hawk, asked for a helicopter ride. Emergency measures are available wherever I am. But Hawk wouldn't give me permission to do what I was planning yet. Revenge is useless, inefficient, unproductive. Also, it turns purple after each vendetta. So I have to go. After Shell, it is open to the north, in Mozambique.
  
  
  All night her shell, through the jungle. Driven by hatred, he ran too fast, fell into an undetected hollow, and tore his clothes on the thorn bushes. Like a man possessed, he couldn't slow down, and by morning he knew I was catching up with ih.
  
  
  She was found by the ih camp, and the ashes from the ih whining fires were still warm. They'd left some food, but even though she wasn't ale-past thirty-six, hers wasn't hungry even now. Anger filled me completely. He forced himself to eat something. Despite my anger, I knew I had to eat something to keep my strength up. He forced himself to lie down in a hidden place and fall asleep for no more than an hour. Then he set off again. Licks to the night of her stahl stumble on villages and people. I had to slow down a little. I had no way of knowing if these people were friends or enemies. Some around the distant voices in the night spoke Portuguese. Hers was in Mozambique. After the mercenaries, he turned sharply to the east.
  
  
  The rest of the day passed in a haze. While hers was moving, the entire hotel area, as well as the one hers was driving through, turned into a jungle. The path was blocked by water and mangrove swamps. He kept walking, the mercenaries ' footprints getting clearer. I knew that I was approaching the shore and that I needed to eat and rest. It's all about math, and it takes all the ego's powers to kill.
  
  
  Twice it slipped into the village, stole some edu and shells, further. I can rest later.
  
  
  It wasn't quite dark when ih found her. A large local village, protected on three sides by mangrove swamps, on the banks of a deep, slow stream that flowed along a high promontory towards the Indian Ocean. But I didn't see any natives in the village. No aboriginal males, anyway. I could see her in the shadows of the dense mangroves, a few local women washing clothes, preparing an education, and following the green-clad mercenaries to their huts. IH headquarters found her. Now he could get some rest.
  
  
  Grimly, he returned her to the swamp, built a small platform around leaves and branches in the mangroves, and did a bench press. After a few seconds, he fell asleep. Ih found it.
  
  
  I woke up in total darkness and felt someone walking very close to me. Hers lay motionless on its makeshift platform. Something moved beneath me. Without looking, she could guess what it was. An experienced, skilful commander would put sentries in key positions; a ring of constant adjacent sentries, patrols that went further away, and between this ring and the patrols wandered sentries who never passed the same place twice at the same time.
  
  
  Without making a sound to us, he parted the branches beneath me and looked down. In the dark, a single sentry stood for every tribe in the world. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and stopped to rest.
  
  
  Knife in hand, her husband collapsed on top of him.
  
  
  He was the first. Her cut emu's throat and allowed emu to pour ego's last blood in the swamp. He continued on through the dark swamp towards the village.
  
  
  A tall Swede was burrowing for a machine gun on a dry hill in the swamp. Her throat was also cut by an emu.
  
  
  The short, thin Frenchman heard her approach, and barely had time to mutter an expletive in his native tongue when her ego stabbed him three times in the chest.
  
  
  As they died one by one, I could feel the anger growing stronger in my chest. He had to control himself, control himself, and remember that the first thing he had to do was kill Colonel Lister, a German sergeant Major, now Major Kurz, and Dambulamanzi. Now hers was at ih headquarters.
  
  
  He was walking through the outer perimeter fence to the edge of the huts when he saw the patrol leave. Six men, led by Major Kurtz himself, and with him Dambulamanzi.
  
  
  Anger flowed through me like molten lava. Both together! He went back the way he had come, and as the patrol passed mimmo me through the muddy swamp, he joined them.
  
  
  They went northwest. Three kilometers from the village, they came out through the swamps into a series of low, rocky hills. They entered a narrow ravine. He was close behind them.
  
  
  Just below the ridge, the ravine split, and the patrol split into two groups. Both Kurtz and Dambulamanzi remained with the group that had turned left.
  
  
  What I felt then was almost a rush of joy. She was caught by ihk. But somewhere deep inside, my experience surfaced and told me to be careful. Don't get carried away. .. Be alert. †
  
  
  He let them go on, following them up the ridge, and then went back down into another ravine. The descent was overgrown with bushes and trees, and during the night ih lost sight of her. But I followed the sounds down into the ravine, and then up again in a long circle. And suddenly I had the feeling that they had gone too far ahead. I walked faster, and lick came up. Her hotel ih cut back a little, saw the ravine skirting a low hill, and her exited through the trenches and climbed to the top of the hill.
  
  
  When he reached the top, he noticed that the hill was covered with bushes. He got up and looked around.
  
  
  The faces around me were like a swarm of bees, the hands that held me and covered my mouth were all black. As the club smashed into my head, I remembered Hawk saying that my anger would destroy me.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  
  
  
  Her mind drifted in the fog. The pain shot through my head, disappeared, and shot through me again... †
  
  
  I felt like I was bouncing in the air. There were wheels, the wheels turning with a mad creak. Black faces swarmed around me. Black hands covered my mouth. Something touched me. Bit. Hawk slipped one around his tweed jackets, damned tweed jackets, and shook his head. The cold nasal voice is absurdly irritated.
  
  
  "Evil destroys the spy. Anger destroys the agent."
  
  
  Once I thought I woke up, and a black face stared back at me from under the low, pale, loose ceiling. My hand felt the blood freeze in it. What kind of ceiling is pale and loose?
  
  
  It swayed in an endless rhythm: up and down... up and down ... hands... voice... I'm falling... down... and down... and down. .. Deirdre was smiling at me... she screamed... †
  
  
  He was sitting on a throne. A high-backed throne, like a halo around the ego of a glittering head. Golden goal. Sharp beak... the hawk. .. Hawkman, where are you...?.. the hawkman ...hawk. †
  
  
  "Tell me about Hawke, Carter. What about Hawk? Who is he? Someone you work with? Tell me." .. '
  
  
  Hawk-man, hawk-man. Long curved goshawk beak.
  
  
  My hoarse voice is absurdly slow. "You're a hawk. Crooked beak.
  
  
  "Ah, Semite, right? Are you against the Semites ? Does this Hawk hate these Semites too ?
  
  
  Inside her, he struggled. "You, you, hawk. Hawk.
  
  
  There was no one there. Hers was on a narrow bed under a corrugated canvas ceiling. A tent? So they put me back in Lister's tent. They had hers again, hers was. †
  
  
  Evil Hawk said, " Your tantrums will ruin you, N3."
  
  
  The haze disappeared. He lay there, looking up. Not Holst's, pure. Its blinked. She would have liked a green uniform. We didn't have one there. I wasn't in the tent. A cheerful, sunny room with white walls, draped windows, intricate mosaics, and precious silk fabrics hanging from the ceiling. Room for 1001 nights. Persia. .. In Baghdad. †
  
  
  "Baghdad". a soft voice said. "Oh, Carter, I wish you were right. Going back to Baghdad is a dream."
  
  
  He was sitting on the same throne he'd seen her in, in his hallucination. A large man in flowing white robes with gold trim . It was so small that ego's feet didn't touch the ground. Soft, precious, Swedish, gold rings with precious stones on each hand and a caftan around white gold, fastened with thick gold cords. An Arab prince, and the sun was shining brightly outside the dazzling room .
  
  
  The sun! And the throne was a high-backed wicker chair with a large circle that formed a halo around the dark ego of a hawk-nosed face and black eyes. And a thick black beard. Shining sunny brylev. The chair and the room are neither illusions nor hallucinations.
  
  
  "Where the hell is it, tailor?" 'Who are you?'
  
  
  My brain was racing, not waiting for an answer. No matter where she came from, it wasn't in the mercenary village in the swamp, but given the sun outside, she was unconscious or semi-conscious for a long time. That explained the floating sensation, the wheels, the swaying ceiling: a truck with a canvas hood. I'd gone far beyond the mercenary camp, and the knife in my hand was a hypodermic: a sedative to keep me unconscious.
  
  
  I asked her. "How long have you been here?" 'Where? Who are you?'
  
  
  "Tut, tut," the little man chided me gently. — So many questions so quickly?" Let me answer that. In order then. You're in my house. It was replaced by Abdallah Faisal Wahbi al-Husaineh, Prince of Jaffa and Homs. I prefer to be called wahbi. You've been here for about twelve hours. You're here because I was afraid you'd be in more danger wandering around in the jungle .
  
  
  "They are the people who attacked me, these negroes, are they your people?"
  
  
  "My people, yes.
  
  
  "Our Zulu rebels, our mercenaries?"
  
  
  'No. If they were, its doubtful that you would still be alive."
  
  
  — What were they doing there?"
  
  
  "Let's just say I like to keep an eye on Colonel Lister."
  
  
  — So we're still in Mozambique?"
  
  
  Prince Wahbi shook his head. "I have enemies, Carter. I prefer not to disclose my location.
  
  
  "Why are you worried about me?"
  
  
  Wahbi raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to put a gift horse in your mouth? Carter? Be grateful. The good colonel would have hanged you by your testicles long ago .
  
  
  He looked at him thoughtfully. "Prince of Jaffa and Homs?" No, its vaguely heard of you. Al-Husayn is Hashemite, and Homs and Jaffa are now part of Saudi Arabia and Israel, not friends of the Hashemites."
  
  
  "An exiled prince, Carter," the little man said, his face darkening. "An outcast, and my cousin reigns supreme in Jordan. But Allah recognizes my possessions."
  
  
  "How do you know who her name is; my name is?"
  
  
  "I know a lot, Carter. I know, for instance, why Colonel Lister wants you dead, and I know the fate of your friend — a terrible one. Prince Wahbi flinched for a moment. — But you're safe here.
  
  
  "I have to go to work," I said. "I have to report back."
  
  
  "Of course, agreements are being made. But first you must eat and rest. Restore your strength.
  
  
  He smiled and stood up. He nodded to her. He was right. He's gone. He was right, but Emu didn't trust her at all.
  
  
  He closed his eyes on the couch, as if exhausted. If he was up to something with me, he would have someone watching me from somewhere. So I closed my eyes, but I didn't fall asleep. I checked it in my ego file: Prince Wahbi, nephew of the first Hashemite Faisal, who fought against the Turks in the First World War. A renegade cousin who helped the Turks. Then this old drunkard who gambled all over Europe went broke and disappeared. So this" prince " Wahbi was an ego son, and he didn't look broke at all .
  
  
  Should I "sleep" for two hours? Then he stirred, yawned, and lit a cigarette from an onyx box on the table. When the cigarette was half burned out, the door opened and four black men in stark white clothes came in with trays of food. There was a small gift, bread, roast lamb, juices, milk, wine, and bowls full of steaming vegetables and rice. The Negroes put it all on a chair, two decaying chairs, spread a dazzling white cloth on them, and bowed again. Her village for a hearty meal.
  
  
  If he had been right in suspecting Prince Wahbi, there would have been something about Ed.
  
  
  It was true. Her ego smelled it. A drug knew her, a kind of tranquilizer that would break my will. This meant that Wahbi had to ask a few questions, and there was only one way to find out why. It just had to be "eaten". †
  
  
  There was no time to find out where I was being followed. I explored the room, then called the attendant. One of the Negroes came in. He pointed to a barred window in a small alcove.
  
  
  "Put a chair in there. I like to watch the street while its em."
  
  
  The clerk had apparently been ordered to treat me well. He called two more servants. They set up a chair in an alcove, set up my chair next to it, and bowed again. Her sell as if her couldn't wait to eat a plentiful edu.
  
  
  Facing the window in the narrow alcove, no one could see anything but my back, where I could be watched.
  
  
  I started eating it. He leaned in, enjoying himself, dropping each fork in his napkin into his lap. I chewed it, drank it, and enjoyed it. He got up from time to time, as if enjoying the view, and then managed to put the uneaten edu in the milk jug. Once or twice, she half-turned around and actually ate a piece, not very much.
  
  
  When the trays were almost empty, he leaned back as if full and lit the cigar he'd brought with the food. Ego was also drugged, and her husband pretended that I was actually smoking ego. With a cigar in his hand, he returned to the sofa, staggering a little. Her sel started nodding. Then he dropped the cigar on his limp hand and dropped his head on his chest.
  
  
  After a while, the door opened and three men entered. Two muscular niggers, bare-chested in loincloths, and a hawk-nosed Arab in dark belted robes . Negroes carried guns and leaned against the wall and left moaning. The Arab wore a jeweled dagger on his belt and a tape recorder in his hand. He came up to me quickly.
  
  
  He drew a dagger and stabbed me in the neck. He stirred and groaned. Her, felt like an arab sel and turned on the tape recorder.
  
  
  "Welcome, N3. I'm waiting for your report.
  
  
  He moaned and struggled. - no... only at headquarters. .. '
  
  
  "This is headquarters, Carter, don't you see? We're in Washington. No time to waste. It's his, Hawk.
  
  
  He nodded to her. "A hawk, yes. "We should report this to the boss ... '
  
  
  "Boss, N3? Where is he? What name does he use these days?
  
  
  "Ego house, Texas," I muttered. "You know him, Hawk. The Manxman. John Manxman. Yes? I have some news. The Portuguese government is ready. .. '
  
  
  He lowered his head and lowered his voice to an inaudible mumble. Cursing, arab stood up and then leaned over me, wrapping his clothes around me . My left hand gripped ego's windpipe and squeezed it as hard as I could, while my right hand gripped ego's blade. Her ego stabbed him with a knife, holding the ego, body. He didn't give us the sound. He expected the Negroes to be extremely disciplined. It was imitated by an Arab.
  
  
  Stop!'
  
  
  They both jumped at me like deer, both at the same time. He hurled the dead Arab at one around them, then stabbed the other in the throat. She was stabbed to death by the second man before he could get rid of the Arab, then ran across the hall to the room.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  
  
  
  The corridor was deserted. Waiting for her, dagger at the ready. The immediate danger comes from whoever was watching the room. Nothing happened.
  
  
  The Arab who killed her must have been watching the room. It gave me what I needed: time. He went back inside, took the rifle from one of the dead Negroes and all the ammunition he could find on both of them, and went out into the corridor. There she was silently guided to the light at the end.
  
  
  He looked down at the whitewashed courtyard, glistening in the late afternoon sun, and saw the dense jungle over the walls. I saw its blue ocean in the distance. Prince Wahbi's house was built like a desert fortress, all white walls, white towers and minarets, with a green Islamic flag flying over the main gate. But the dense jungle was not part of Arabia or North Africa, and the flag on the central tower was Portuguese. Hers was still in Mozambique.
  
  
  Veiled women in the rough garb of servants moved about the courtyard, and armed Arabs patrolled the transepts of the walls. It seems that Prince Wahbi also had his own personal army. Beyond the inner wall, in a garden with trees and fountains, more veiled women were walking and lounging. These women were dressed in silk: a harem. He continued his way through bright white corridors shaded for coolness by bars and decorated with beautiful mosaics in a strict Islamic style that does not allow the image of a human figure. The corridors were lush and quiet; the prince's private quarters. No one met her until they found the back stairs at the bottom.
  
  
  He met a security guard who was sitting at the top of a stone staircase. He dozed off and left her ego unconscious and tied her to the same burnous in a side room. But the second guard at the back door was more alert. He was still snarling when Ego Nogi hit her with the butt of his rifle. Ego tied her up and explored the courtyard behind.
  
  
  The walls were too high to climb, but the small back gate was only closed from the inside with a heavy bolt. He returned, took a burnoose from the last guard, put on an ih, and walked slowly across the courtyard in the setting sun. No one even got in my way, and in twenty seconds I was in the jungle.
  
  
  He headed east. There will be villages along the coast, and it's time to contact Hawk and get back to work. After the capture of Prince Wahbi by the Negroes and the murder of three mercenaries, my anger subsided. I hadn't forgotten our Colonel Lister, nam Dambulamanzi, but now it was cold rage; cool and unhurried, enjoying the elaborate plans I had for them.
  
  
  Her almost stumbled upon a jungle settlement. A large walled village, almost hidden from view by dense trees. The walls were made of clay and unpainted; common paths led to the gate. Her carapace, he thought in amazement, until he could see inside through the barred main gate.
  
  
  Through the main gate, she saw a semicircular area of packed clay with several groups of huts around it, each group separated from the other on either side. And there were ten huts in each group; the fences between them were high. Locked gate outliers made up each group of huts from locations like a series of mini-villages around a semi-circular center or like corrals for horses and cattle around a rodeo arena.
  
  
  He was just about to lick it when he heard the sound of voices and the sound of feet moving along one of the wide paths leading to the walled village. He disappeared into the evening shadows of the jungle, burrowing into the wet undergrowth, watching the trail.
  
  
  They quickly approached. Three armed Arabs in yamal, bandoliers belted on their belts, kept a watchful eye on the jungle surrounding ih. They were followed by horses and donkeys loaded with goods, led by negroes also armed with bandoliers. The caravan headed straight for the main gate, which swung open to let ih in. But I never looked at the gate.
  
  
  After the horses and donkeys had passed mimmo, she was seen by four other Arabs carrying about ten Negroes. They were completely naked, eight women and two men. The two men were tall and muscular, with fiery eyes, their hands tied behind their backs, and chains on their feet. Three more Arabs formed the rear, and the entire column disappeared into the village. The gate closed again.
  
  
  In the darkening evening, he hid in the jungle, letting everything he had just seen pass through him. It was like something I'd seen before, a kind of memory I couldn't believe. I had to know her for sure, because if the small voice inside me was right, Hawk had to know. This was something Washington didn't need to be warned about, and beware of.
  
  
  He stayed in the jungle until dark, and then set off. Sounds filled the night from beneath the earthen walls: merriment, drunken laughter, the screams of women, the screams of men. The guard at the gate, arab, was laughing as he watched what was happening inside the village. Perhaps all the guards were just paying attention to what was going on inside the settlement. This was my chance.
  
  
  One had thick branches hanging from the wall around the big jungle trees. He clambered up the tree trunks and slid down the thick branch.
  
  
  The scene within these walls was one fantastic nightmare. Negroes and Arabs swarmed the ground in a cacophony of noise and laughter. The Negroes did not drink from their wine jugs, and the contents were spilled on the ground, and so were a few Arabs; but for most of the Arab soldiers, the excitement was different. They opened all the gates of the small groups of huts and went in and out through the fences of the groups of huts. Some of the men had whips, some had clubs, some carried baskets of food and bottles of some kind of butter.
  
  
  There were black women in locked rooms. Young black women nude, ih skin glistens in the bright light of the lights. Several blacks, young and strong, were also in closed quarters, each of them tied to poles with shackles and chains. From time to time, one of the Arabs would whip a young nigger on his lap.
  
  
  There were also dark, slender women, but that's not all. Some of the women were fed, forced to eat, like prize animals being prepared for the market. Some women were washed with an oily liquid and rubbed until their dark skin shone in the light. Most were groped, petted, dragged into huts, and many were laid on the ground even without the shelter of a hut.
  
  
  All of them, men and women alike, were herded into a large open space and displayed in front of rich, drunken men like wares in a bazaar.
  
  
  It was also a market, a slave market.
  
  
  What I saw was a deliberate, calculated transformation of people into enslaved slaves. There were no customers, at least not now. But everything was being prepared for the moment when the buyers would come. Slave market - but now with modern improvements, with the experience and practice of Dachau, Buchenwald, tiger cages of Saigon, and the Gulag archipelago.
  
  
  How do you make slaves, especially female slaves, so that they are more likely to be sold to any random buyer? How to create around a free person someone who no longer remembers that freedom once existed, who can accept slavery as a blessing, and not cause trouble to their oppressors.
  
  
  A sudden silence descended on the village like a huge gong. Noise, chaos, and then silence. There wasn't a single movement, and all eyes were on the main entrance. Waiting for her.
  
  
  Prince Wahbi passed through the gate. A small, heavy man entered the courtyard in his gold and white robes, and around him were armed Arabs. The negresses were herded back into their locked rooms, and the gates were closed and locked. Suddenly sobered, Arab and black soldiers lined up in two rows with a passageway between them and waited for Wahbi to pass through.
  
  
  Instead, the prince turned abruptly, strode away, and went frankly under the branch on which he was lying, and looked up.
  
  
  "You should have run when you could, Carter," said the little Arab. "I'm sorry."
  
  
  Behind the wall, below and behind me, ten ego men stood with their guns pointed at me. Dropping the stolen rifle, he climbed over a branch and jumped to the ground. Arab soldiers grabbed my arms and led me back through the dark jungle to the Wahbi fortress.
  
  
  They pushed me into the same room and sat me down on the same sofa. It was still wet with the blood of the Arab she'd killed, but the bodies had disappeared around the room. Prince Wahbi shook his head sadly at the bloodstain.
  
  
  "Odin's around my best lieutenants," he said with a shrug. — Still, he wouldn't have killed you for it. He was punished for negligence, the danger of soldiering."
  
  
  I asked her. — Why do you want me killed?"
  
  
  "Now you know what I didn't want you to know. A mistake, Carter. He took a long Russian cigarette and offered it to me. I took it from him. It ignited an ego for me. — And her, I fear, since you must die anyway, that my people expect a hard death for you, and even demand it in revenge." I'm sorry, but a leader has to serve his people, and hers is almost uncivilized.
  
  
  "But you're civilized?"
  
  
  "I hope so, Carter," he said. — I will delay your death as little as possible, while satisfying my people's need for retribution. Agree?'
  
  
  "A man who lives off slavery. You're a slave trader, " he told her scornfully. "The foundation of your wealth, isn't it? You're selling black slaves, Wahbi.
  
  
  Prince Wahbi sighed. 'Unfortunately. I'm afraid that every year the demand for good men decreases. Very sorry. These days, my clients usually make money from oil and investments. And they need so little hard work.
  
  
  — Are things going well with women?"
  
  
  "Excellent in some areas and very profitable, as you can imagine. Of course, my clients tend to live in remote areas, far from the modern world, where they do things with an iron fist. The world of Islam is mostly made up of individual rulers. The Qur'an does not prohibit slavery and concubines, and what is better than a concubine than a slave? Properly trained, she is grateful for any kind treatment, generosity, her favours, and is grateful that the demands placed on her are so simple and comradely. Especially a simple black girl from a poor jungle village where all she could expect was marriage and slavery at the age of twelve.
  
  
  "So you kidnap ih, torture and sell it to rich perverts and crazy despots."
  
  
  "I' teach ih ' to be ready," Wahbi snapped. "And I don't usually kidnap her." Most poor villages have a surplus of women, and village elders, even fathers, are willing to sell these women. A practice that is not entirely unknown in countries that are now considered civilized."
  
  
  — How can you do this with impunity?" You wouldn't have been able to do this without the tacit support of the Portuguese. Perhaps more than silent.
  
  
  "Where there's a will, there's a way, Carter. Call it free enterprise. If poor villages receive money and have fewer mouths to feed, they place a much smaller burden on the colonial government. Well-paid leaders want things to stay the way they are, and don't wait for things to go wrong. That's what every clerk thinks. And colonial officials always want money. That's why most people go to the colonies when they would rather stay at home. I try a story that deals with very little changed.
  
  
  — So you're bribing the Mozambican government?"
  
  
  'No. I don't work with governments. I work with people. Governments are not bribed."
  
  
  — But that gives you a stake in how things are going, doesn't it?" You might not have fared so well in a rebel government. Rebel leaders tend to be pretty damn idealistic and very narrow-minded.
  
  
  'Perhaps. The Prince shrugged. "But politics bores me. I don't need it. Both goals and principles are meaningless, and I have little interest in them. I'll get through this very happily, Carter. But you, alas, are not.
  
  
  He stood there for a while, looking at me as if he still didn't want to kill me. He shook his head.
  
  
  "Too bad," he said. "You could give me such an advantage. There's so much you can tell me. But I won't offend you by suggesting a possible agreement. We are both adults and we know that we will never trust each other. No, you have to disappear. I am so sorry.
  
  
  "Me, too," I said dryly.
  
  
  "Oh, if only you'd run away without discovering my case. But you have your own needs, and I have mine. My people are insisting on a public execution tomorrow morning. But I can at least offer you some hospitality tonight.
  
  
  The little man turned with a smile and walked away in a swirl of flowing robes . The door closed, and she was alone. But not for long.
  
  
  The hanging tapestry moved to moan's side, and a slender black girl appeared in the room. Maybe fifteen years old. She entered through a tapestry-covered door. She was naked. She sat proudly, her dark brown body glistening like silk. Her heavy breasts were light brown and too big for a girl's slender body; her nipples were almost pink. Her heavy hair was wrapped tightly around her head, and her pubic hair formed a small wedge above the bulge of Venus's mound. Nah's mouth was small and dark red, and her eyes were slightly slanted and angry.
  
  
  "Hi," I told her calmly.
  
  
  She walked mimmo me down the undulating, flowing hallway and onto the couch. She closed her eyes and spread her legs. "No, thank you," I said. "Tell the prince to thank the ego."
  
  
  She opened her eyes, and her face changed: hot, passionate, and sensual. She got up, walked over to me, wrapped her arms around my neck, and hid in my body. She spoke in a whisper.
  
  
  "They want to know what you know. "I should give you a sedative when we make love." It should tire you out, make you talk. They're watching. We have to make love.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  
  
  
  He might have known her. The prince wasn't one to give up easily. He wants from me what he wants from Colonel Lister: all I have left. Know all about AH. This knowledge is worth a fortune if the ego is used or sold at the right time. He knew that the ego around me could not be beaten out by torture, and that I would be suspicious of any suggestion of escape or clemency. He hoped that, lulled by the obvious need to kill me, the ruse would work.
  
  
  If I refuse the girl, Wahbi will have a different plan. Maybe in the end, if he had no other choice, he would still torment me. Maybe he'll kill me right away. I had no other choice. The girl clung to me. She pressed her lips hungrily to mine, her body close to mine, as if she was afraid not to do what they said. Have you ever loved on command, know that you are being watched? With a woman you knew didn't want more than you did? Not even a woman, but a girl. It's not easy, but I had no choice.
  
  
  He picked her up from the floor and carried her, stiff and naked, to the couch. He put her there, forcing his mind and body to focus on her body, her lips, and her warm skin. I banished all thoughts around my head, even death, and tried to think only of this girl and her inviting body in front of me.
  
  
  It was only a girl, but in the jungle, girls quickly become women. In poor, semi-civilized villages, a girl is taught to be a woman from the cradle; and she did everything in her power to help me. She succeeded; Her hands were found where I needed them, groping and massaging, burying her nails deep into my erogenous zones. All the while, she whispered softly, moaning, her tongue plunging deep into my ears and into the hollows of my neck and throat. Suddenly I realized that whatever she was, she wasn't just a vein in the jungle. She wasn't by some semi-civilized village.
  
  
  She encouraged me, whispered reassuringly to me in English. Pure English without a chip. She knew where to touch me, and I felt my passion build. I managed to get out through my pants and shirt. We lay naked against each other, and we didn't play nah anymore. Not for me, but suddenly not for nah. He could feel the longing vibrating deep inside her.
  
  
  Her buttocks were like a boy's, and her legs were thin and narrow like a young deer's. Firm, small buttocks that he could hold with one hand. Ih grabbed her and moved her up and down against him with one hand, holding those big, swaying breasts together with the other. Her forgotten eyes that stared . Her name is Prince Wahbi. I forgot where I was or what I was doing with this girl, what I was supposed to think, my death or possible escape.
  
  
  I saw her again, small and tight and tight, like a boy, but not like a boy, as she spread her legs and wrapped them around me. It entered nah as quickly and easily as the knife that had plunged into an Arab on the same baha'i just a few hours earlier. The couch is still wet with his blood, now mixed with her body fluids.
  
  
  I bumped into her and she screamed, " Ah, ah. .. God. .. Oh!
  
  
  The girl's eyes widened until they seemed to fill her very small face. They were looking at me from all the depths, which seemed very far away now. They were in a different world and time. This time, wide-open, deep eyes from the side; during this time, full of deep, intense desire.
  
  
  'Oi . .. '
  
  
  Her, felt my gaze looking at nah all over the same depths, over the same prehistoric era, around the very swamp around which we all came out, and which we still remember in moments of fear and hatred. Hers seemed to grow inside me, bigger than I could have imagined, bigger than I could have imagined, and my teeth sank into my own lip. They bite. .. and then it ended in a long, breathy free fall, and he was on top of her, holding those small, firm buttocks in his hand. He felt the salt of his own blood on his lips.
  
  
  An endless minute of silence, another's gaze locked on another's with deep, incredulous eyes. Something real happened. I saw it in her eyes, felt it in mine. We weren't in that colorful room for a while. We were in a different place , invisible, just the two of us at the moment of opening. The moment when the sky and the entire hotel as well came into motion.
  
  
  Her soft whisper in my ear: "They will come now when I give you the signal that I have given you a chance."
  
  
  He kissed her ear. "Imagine me forcing you to make love to me again."
  
  
  Softly: "Can you do that?"
  
  
  — No, but try to keep me inside you. I'll pretend it. Where does this one inject?
  
  
  "In my hair."
  
  
  The only place she could hide it. Her plan had to be carefully formulated. I pretended to continue making love. She held me inside her as tightly as she could, wrapping her legs around me and holding my hips in her small hands. He bit her on the ear. "Who's watching?"
  
  
  She buried her face in my neck. "Only Prince Wahbi. He. .. impotent. He likes to watch, and em needs to be alone to enjoy it."
  
  
  He might have known her. Voyeur. Probably a sadist, too.
  
  
  "Oh, he's the door through which I entered, two men," she whispered, pressing her lips to my throat. "They can't see anything."
  
  
  We were sweating profusely as we curled up on this baharev. He pressed his face between her firm, large breasts. "What happens when I calm down from the injection?"
  
  
  "Then I signal her, and Wahbi comes in. Then he hides behind the couch. To her, I tell you that my name is Deirdre, and I ask you questions about something about the organization and ah, about your leader and meet your operations.
  
  
  Hers was drenched in sweat as he had to try his best to stay inside her and pretend that the passion wasn't gone yet. 'Good. Now we pretend to come again, you pretend to give me a shot, and I'll take care of the rest."
  
  
  She nodded. 'Her too. She looked at me with blinking eyes. Then she tilted her head back and stared at me with wide-open eyes that suddenly seemed to sink deep into nah. Her mouth opened, her eyes closed. .. '
  
  
  He could feel her soft, exciting movements, like liquid fire. I felt myself filling it up again, and suddenly again we didn't have to pretend. I felt like a huge force, probing her with my eyes, her tense face, and we no longer pretended, did not play. I no longer had to make an effort to stay in it. I wouldn't be able to get out on the nah even if I wanted to, if she gave me a chance. Her didn't want to leave her, her in a hotel, so it would never end. I wasn't worried about Wahbi, about running away, or about the ili plan... Don't stop, don't stop. † No ... no...
  
  
  Her slowly returned by a very distant place. She struggled to control her mind. She's Her . .. I felt the light touch of the syringe on my thigh. Its stirred, looked hey, in the eye. Hiding the injections in my hand at the side of me, I pretended that I was given an injection, and rolled off the nah. Her sel shook her head, then back-pressed, smiling. He pretended to take a deep breath from the effects of passion and the drug. She signaled. He listened and heard the faint sound of movement behind the wall. I had about five seconds.
  
  
  He leaped to his feet, crossed the luxurious room, and pressed himself against Moan where the door opened. He opened it. Prince Wahbi entered, took three steps to the bench, and stopped. He stared at the spot where one of the negresses was lying, and she looked at him with proud eyes.
  
  
  Hers was standing a few paces behind him, covering ego's surprised mouth and injecting ego with its own drug. For a split second, he was paralyzed by the impact. Then he began to struggle. Her dropped squirts and held ego, one hand still covering her mouth. The girl jumped up and dived into the ground to keep her feet on the ego. Ego held her in his arms for five whole minutes, sweating and struggling in the silence of the room. Slowly, ego's eyes went blank. The ego, the body relaxed, and began to smile. We took purple ego from here to the couch and put her there. He looked at us with calm, quiet eyes, gave us a friendly nod, then blinked as if trying to remember something. He nodded to the girl.
  
  
  "If I tell you, you'll make the ego call people to use the secret door."
  
  
  She looked at me. "They may be suspicious. You only have an ego knife. I'll keep my ego at bay until you run away.
  
  
  "When he wakes up, he'll skin you alive," I said. "Maybe even worse. We'll run away together.
  
  
  She looked at the stunned, smiling prince. "I'm not afraid of death. Leave ego the sword, and I'll kill ego first.
  
  
  "No, do as I say. We need these two sentries. They may come in and find the ego too early. We'll leave together.'
  
  
  He stood behind a tall cabinet next to the carpet in front of a hidden door and nodded to the girl. She spoke softly and sharply to Wahbi. He nodded, " I don't want to fight back.
  
  
  'Ahmed. Haroun. Come here.'
  
  
  The tapestry was pushed aside, and two Arabs burst in through a hidden door. Wahbi is well ih prepared. They came too early, on ego command. One was stabbed by Wahbi before he took three steps, and the other was grabbed before he half turned. He quickly removed the weapon and threw the burnous at the girl. "Go up and get your gun and dagger!"
  
  
  She wrapped herself in a burnoose, and did it so that the cut and small bloodstain on them were not visible. Fortunately, arab was short. Nah had a rifle and a dagger, and she was ready.
  
  
  He walked over to Wahbi and set ego on his feet. "You are taking us to your slave settlement."
  
  
  The Prince smiled and quietly left through the rooms ahead of us.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  
  
  
  The first sentry raised his rifle when he saw me. He was at the top of the stairs. He lowered his rifle again when Prince Wahbi noticed. The prince poked her without the guard noticing.
  
  
  "Her beru Carter inspect the slave camp," said little arab.
  
  
  The sentry looked at us suspiciously, but had no intention of bothering Wahbi with questions. So he stepped aside with a quick bow. We went down the stairs to the front door. I didn't like the way the guard looked at us. We needed a better story to get around someone with more credibility.
  
  
  "I've decided to join you," Wahbi told her as we disappeared into the deserted corridor below. — You gave me a girl, I like her. So I'm with you. You will take me to the slave camp to show me your work.
  
  
  "Ah," the Prince said, " I'm glad of that, Carter.
  
  
  He looked at me and the girl. He took a deep breath as we entered the courtyard. Spotlights flooded the entire place in peace. The guards on the walls saw Wahbi and immediately adopted a wary, reverent attitude. A tall Arab hurried up to us, dressed in finer clothes than he had ever seen her before. He had the face of an old vulture with shadowed black eyes and a sharp pointed beard. He was respectful to Wahbi, but he didn't crawl in front of him.
  
  
  "Khalil al-Mansour," the girl whispered in my ear. "Prince Wahbi's chief advisor and ego master."
  
  
  "Allah is with you," the tall man said to Wahbi in Arabic. He said to her, " You must be Khalil. The Prince told me about you. I think we can work this out together.
  
  
  Arab looked at me with a mixture of anger, a permission flag, and concern. "Pull yourself together, Carter? This is in pure English.
  
  
  I gave it to Prince Wahbi with another invisible push in the back. The little man nodded, " Carter is with us, Khalil. Very good news indeed. Wahbi nodded again. "Emu likes the girl that his emu gave him. He's with us now. I'll take her back to the settlement and show em my work.
  
  
  Khalil looked at the girl, and then at me. He nodded. "A woman has changed a man's mind many times."
  
  
  "So is the money," I said. "I love women and money. More than a grave.
  
  
  The tall old Arab nodded. "A wise decision."
  
  
  "And for you, too," I said. "I have a lot of things worth selling."
  
  
  The Arab's eyes glittered. Somehow he, allegedly, looked too convincing. "I think so, Carter —" he turned to the Prince, " should I call your bodyguard, Prince Wahbi?"
  
  
  "We're in a hurry," I said. "The prince wants a car."
  
  
  "Oh, yes," the prince said as ego nudged him.
  
  
  Khalil al-Mansour called a soldier over. A Jeep appeared from behind a large house. We play this game behind the driver. The gate opened and we rode down a wide dirt road toward the jungle slave camp. This time its not stahl would have us anything to look at. The dead sentries in the room will be found sooner or later.
  
  
  The road diverged about a kilometer from the prince's jungle home. The driver took the right fork in the road, heading for the village. He quickly hissed something in Prince Wahbi's ear. He leaned forward.
  
  
  "Stay here, soldier."
  
  
  The driver stopped and was killed by ego and thrown around the car as he braked. Its jumped behind the wheel. The black girl behind me said warningly, " Carter."
  
  
  Her, turned around. The Prince stared at me, then looked at the driver lying on the ground beside the Jeep. Ego's eyes were startled. He was already free of the drug's effects. He wasn't fully awake yet, but the effects were coming to an end.
  
  
  "All right," I said to his girlfriend. — We'd better tie up the ego. †
  
  
  She answered. - 'Bind?'- "No, I have a better way."
  
  
  The dagger flashed in the night, and Prince Wahbi screamed. She stabbed the ego openly into folding the dollar, stabbing the dagger again and again. As the blood gushed out, he leaned back and slid around the Jeep to the ground. Her knife snatched out around her arm.
  
  
  — You fucking idiot. We needed him.
  
  
  "No," she said stubbornly, " we don't need it at all. He should have died.
  
  
  Her cursed. 'Damn it! Okay, where does this road lead? .. '
  
  
  The sound came from behind us on the road. He was silent and listened to her. I couldn't see anything, but I could hear people following us down the road. We didn't have time to hide Prince Wahbi's body anywhere. She let the Jeep swerve forward, turned Ego around, and pulled off the left fork in the road as fast as she could.
  
  
  Less than a minute later, I heard shouting from behind us. "Take the tailor," I shouted. "Now they're chasing us. How far away is the nearest Portuguese school in the hall?
  
  
  She shook her head. "The Portuguese won't help us. She's a rebel, and you're a spy. Prince Wahbi is a respected citizen. He pays a lot of attention to the people around them.
  
  
  "Then what do you suggest we do?"
  
  
  "There is another road in three kilometers. It goes south to the border. On the other side of the border is my entire hotel area, and. We'll be safe there, and you'll get help.
  
  
  I didn't have time to argue. And I wasn't going to tell hey that the rebels are now unhappy with me or AH, more than Khalil al-Mansir would have been if he had caught us. Perhaps the message hasn't reached all the rebels yet. I should have played it according to the circumstances.
  
  
  We found a road and headed south. He rode without lights, listening for the sounds of pursuit. For a moment I thought I heard something, then the sound faded, as if they were driving along a coast road. He continued south until the road left the jungle and finally ended in nothing more than a trail across an open plain. "We should go walk away from here," the girl said.
  
  
  We are going. Another five versts in a night, without light and in a desolate, broken ground, with sharp and hard bushes. My pants were torn, and her bare feet were covered in blood.
  
  
  "I'll get some food before we go to bed," the girl said.
  
  
  She disappeared into the night, and suddenly I realized that I knew everything about her body, her courage and anger, but I didn't know her name. In a way, she had saved my life, and I knew nothing about her except that I wanted to be with her again. When she returned, her burnous was full of berries and roots I didn't recognize. They tasted delicious, and she sat down next to me during the meal.
  
  
  I asked her. 'What's your name? Who are you?'
  
  
  "Does it matter?"
  
  
  "Yes," I said. "You know my name. You're no ordinary country girl. You're very young, but you can kill.
  
  
  Her face was hidden in the darkness. "My name is Indula. Her daughter is a Zulu chief. Our kraal is located far to the south by the great river Togela, in the dollar fold of our country, where once lived a Wait. My father's grandfather was one of the Induns of Kayetewayo. He fought in our great victory over the British and died in our final defeat."
  
  
  "The defeat at Oelindi?"
  
  
  Her eyes glowed at me in the night. — You know our history, mister?" Carter?
  
  
  "I know something about it," I said. "My name is Nick, by the way.
  
  
  "Nick," she said softly. Maybe she was also thinking about our second time together.
  
  
  — How did Wahbi get you?"
  
  
  "My grandfather and my father never accepted the manners of whites, us South Africans, us English. Our men spent many years in prison. When the young people joined the Wait Sign, and my father didn't have a son to send her, she went. She became a rebel against the South Africans. I was caught twice, and then offered a reward for my capture. Four months ago, I had to run away. These people helped me and sent me to Zululand. A mercenary unit helped me infiltrate Mozambique.
  
  
  "Colonel Lister's unit," I said.
  
  
  "Yes, he hid me along with many others, took me across the border, and kept me safe from the white soldiers."
  
  
  — How did Wahbi get you?"
  
  
  "I was heading to the main mercenary camp with a small squad of Colonel Lister's men when we were attacked by Wahbi bandits. I managed to escape, but they tracked me down and took me to the slave camp. I spent it there for three months. Her eyes were fiery. "If we hadn't run away, she wouldn't have been there on Sundays. No more than that.'
  
  
  "Wahbi couldn't have sold you out in those three months?"
  
  
  She laughed, a rough laugh. "He tried twice, but each time she struggled like crazy, and the buyer didn't take me. I wasn't trained enough. So Wahbi taught me a little more. Before that, he gave me to many men, many men every night."
  
  
  "I'm sorry," I said.
  
  
  "No, — she said quickly. "It was with you..."
  
  
  She shuddered. He looked at her black figure in her dark burnoose.
  
  
  "It was different for me, too," I said. I touched it and felt it vibrate. Her hotel is ee again, here and now, and he knew she wanted me too.
  
  
  "I'm glad I killed him,"she said, her voice rising to a whimper that hurt. "The ego was protected by all whites, from all sides of the border. Even the Negroes bear a resemblance to him. Swazis, old chiefs, and village chiefs sold their girls to emus. Even the Zulukraals, the Owls of money and power.
  
  
  There was hatred in her voice, but also something else. She spoke so as not to think, not to feel. She talked about Prince Wahbi so that she wouldn't tell us anything else.
  
  
  "Something's happened," I said. "An indule?" Something happened to you there.
  
  
  Touch her, and she's gone. Not far, just a few inches, maybe less. She said something, but it wasn't very clear.
  
  
  "Yes," she said. "Something happened there that I've never felt before. A white man, and it happened anyway. But it can't happen again."
  
  
  'Why not?'
  
  
  "Because I want it too much," she said. She turned her face to me like a dark spot in the night. "I killed that vile Arab for humiliating me with fifty men. .. and because I loved him. I discovered that I liked sex too much, and so did Nick. I liked what Wahbi made me do. I am ashamed.
  
  
  "With all the men?"
  
  
  "Not like you, but most men do.
  
  
  "You're confused, Indula. Maybe we can talk later.
  
  
  "Maybe," she said. 'Yes, later. Now we must rest.
  
  
  Wrapped in a burnoose, she's on the bed. His bench press is next to hers. It's still a hotel sl. And you have those moments when you have to let a woman handle everything on her own. Nah had his own battle. Hers was asleep.
  
  
  I woke up just before the African dawn. I felt cold and stiff, but I couldn't wait. Indula woke up right after me. We ate the last of her berries and continued south.
  
  
  By midday, the sun was high when we crossed the border and reached Zululand. Indula seemed to quicken her pace. She smiled at me, as if suddenly feeling less ashamed of her own needs in her own country. She smiled at her rheumatism, but inside she felt great anxiety and continued to observe the surroundings. Now her friends can easily become my enemies. I'll find out soon enough.
  
  
  Five men approached us through the low undergrowth, using ravines and other shelters. They didn't want ih to see her, but ih saw her anyway. I saw her, well, before the Indula, she was in this dell longer. They were rebels, partisans, there was no doubt about that. Ordinary villagers did not carry guns and pan, did not wear uniforms along with old Zulu military clothing and did not slip through the undergrowth with obvious intentions.
  
  
  "Indula," I said.
  
  
  She saw ih and smiled. "Our men." She stepped forward and called out. 'Solomon! Osebebo! This is her. Indula Mishwane!
  
  
  Odin around them asked: "Who is this traveling with Indula Mishwane?"
  
  
  "In another faraway country," the girl said. "Without it, the other world would still be in the hands of the slave Prince Wahbi."
  
  
  They were all slowly approaching us. Odin around the men said: "There are rumors in the country that the evil Prince Wahbi is dead. Do you know about this, Indula?"
  
  
  "I know," the girl said. "We killed the ego. Odin around the others said, " This is a day of joy for Zululand."
  
  
  "Another day is coming soon," said another.
  
  
  "The day He wakes up," Indula said.
  
  
  The first person to speak, who had been staring at me for a moment, now nodded to Indula. He was clearly the leader of this rebel group.
  
  
  "You talk about your friend, and that's good," he said. He was a small, lean Zulu with deadly eyes. — But we don't call the ego a friend yet. As long as he stays with us. Let's go back to our kraal. Others will join us. Indula began to protest. — You don't trust my friend Solomon Ndale?" As if it's not enough that I'm talking about him, and that he killed Wahbi and saved my life. Then know that he...'
  
  
  Ee interrupted, looking at them all with a smile. — I agree to stay with Chaka's sons. It is wise to convince yourself that the person is different before calling the ego a friend."
  
  
  The four around them seemed impressed. But Indula looked surprised, as if she realized I'd cut her off. The leader, Solomon Ndale, looked at me suspiciously. He wasn't an idiot. He didn't trust anyone. I had to risk alerting Indula a little before she told em I was with them. I had no idea what they meant by AX.
  
  
  But the Indula was resigned, and Solomon Ndale motioned for me to join them. We make our way through the undergrowth until we reach a deep ravine with a small paddock at the bottom. About fifteen men and a few women were walking between seven round huts in a barbed-wire fence.
  
  
  Indula and Solomon Ndale conferred with the older men, and then Indula returned and nodded toward the cabin.
  
  
  "They are waiting for a meeting. We'll wait there."
  
  
  He crawled her through the low opening and lifted her onto the straw bed with Indula. The bed seemed to move. It was really moving, crawling with cockroaches. Indula didn't seem to notice; she was obviously used to the hardships of the Zulu hut. I forgot about the cockroaches as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. We weren't alone.
  
  
  There were three people sitting on the other side of the hut. One of them was an old man with red turako feathers tucked into his hair: a Swazi chief. The second was a Zulu woman with a wide Afro, wearing a silk robe fastened to her shoulder with a gold medallion. The third was a middle-aged man with the markings of a Shangan assistant chief. It looked like a gathering of mid-level rebel forces.
  
  
  Old Zvazi spoke first, as his age required. "Is the white man alone around us, Indula?"
  
  
  He used Swahili rather than Siswati, which allowed me to understand ego. He was polite to me.
  
  
  "He is a mighty other who helps us from afar," Indula said. She looked at Shangan. — Is the day near?"
  
  
  "Nearby," Shangan said. "There are good white people."
  
  
  "Now we're waiting for good whites," the woman said. She used English. She was Zulu, but she was even more polite to me , even though Nah's accent was strong. Her silk robe and gold medallion indicated that she was someone important. Her broad-nosed face, dark eyes, and smooth black skin can be hema to anyone in her thirties or forties. But Zulu women age early, and I estimate they were in their late twenties.
  
  
  — Is your husband coming?" Indula asked.
  
  
  "He's coming," the woman said. "And an even more important person. Someone who tells us everything about the Portuguese.
  
  
  I tried not to show my interest, but my stomach clenched — she must be mistletoe, because of that unknown rebel in the Mozambique government. My goal. This might be my chance. I had a dagger and a rifle that I had taken from Wahbi the guard.
  
  
  He tried to keep his voice light. "I heard that a high-ranking official in Mozambique is helping you. Is he coming here?"
  
  
  She looked at me suspiciously for a moment. 'Perhaps.'
  
  
  I let it sink in, but the woman continued to stare at me. She looked strong. Still young, but no longer a girl; not a girl like Indula, with her muscular arms and flat stomach. There was something in her eyes, in her face, in the way she looked. .. The cabin was hot. I could feel the cockroaches moving beneath me, and my nerves were tense at the thought of how I could kill that official and still leave. Maybe that was it, or maybe I suddenly realized what was going on with this Zulu woman: she reminded me of Deirdre Cabot. Suddenly, she felt weak and nauseous. Its supposed to go out by this hut.
  
  
  It was dangerous. I wasn't fully trusted yet, and leaving would have been considered an insult. But I had to risk it. The thought of Deirdre, of the blood spurting around her neck, at night on the riverbank. .. He stood up.
  
  
  "I need some fresh air, Indula. Tell them something.
  
  
  She didn't have to wait for an answer. He crawled out through the low opening and stood there, breathing deeply in the sunlight. Maybe it was just Vlad or the cockroaches. Whatever it was, it saved my life.
  
  
  No one noticed me in the sun. Next to me, there was no one around the village. He looked around for the Zulus and saw ih at the edge of the corral, watching the approaching column of men.
  
  
  A column of white men in green robes. A mercenary squad. It was them they were waiting for. Mercenaries led by Colonel Lister. I saw the body of a Spaniard in front of me.
  
  
  They probably came here to meet with a rebel official from Mozambique. But I didn't have time to think about it now. Getting out of this hut gave me a chance. It was used by the ego. Without a second's hesitation, he turned, skirted the cabin, and ran for the thorn fence at the back. There he cut a path through it with a knife and ran into a deep ravine until he was out of sight.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  
  
  
  I didn't stop until I was well around the edge of the ravine, deep in the shelter of the dense undergrowth. It was still early afternoon, and the undergrowth wasn't the best hiding place to avoid both Zulus and mercenaries, but if there was a chance.
  
  
  My task was still to kill the rebel official.
  
  
  I found a small hillock overgrown with dense undergrowth. There I crouched down as far as I could and looked out at the corral in the ravine. The Colonel and Ego patrol reached the corral, and the Zulus cheered loudly. He saw Solomon Ndeila standing next to Lister, and when he looked up, he saw that the Indula and the Zulu woman had come out of the hut where he had been sitting. The Zulu woman came close to Lister. She was waiting for her husband. No wonder she wore silk and gold. Her, forgot about her.
  
  
  Indula looked around. I saw her talking to Solomon. Both looked around, both wanted to. The Zulu woman said something. Colonel Lister turned around. I saw him talking angrily to his men, and then I looked around the corral. I didn't need to hear what happened. Lister thought I'd died like an eda crocodile in the river. Or at least drowned. Now he knew I was alive, and he would remember his three dead men.
  
  
  Her, saw Solomon and Indula giving orders to the Zulu rebels. Listera headed back to his patrol. In a few moments, they will see where her broke through the fence. I hesitated; all my experience told me to leave as soon as possible, but at the same time, they told me that if I could avoid her ih, I would have a chance to kill that official. If her ran away, his would never have gotten the chance to shoot him. If I hadn't run, he would never have shot anyone else.
  
  
  Alone in the sparse vegetation, I didn't have much of a chance in the ih country. Her escaped.
  
  
  Tomorrow was another day. There was still another day to go, unless my death made my mission a definite success. There wasn't a certain amount of success here to justify my suicide, so I ran.
  
  
  I had a good advantage, and they didn't have cars. Although it was an ihb, it was better trained. Later, she might think of Colonel Lister and Deirdre. He took advantage of the stars, moving cautiously through the night undergrowth. He avoided the villages and, after reaching the jungles and mangrove swamps, headed for the coast. It was a long, slow journey.
  
  
  Without equipment, the closest point of contact with AG was in Lorengo Marquez. It wouldn't be easy . She didn't expect any help from the Portuguese. He was an enemy agent, a spy, both for them and for someone else.
  
  
  She slept for an hour in a hollow log as the Zulus passed mimmo at night. Ten people who looked like black ghosts, and even in the moonlight, her knowledge of Solomon Ndale. They tracked me this far. They were good and determined trackers. This time it was serious. Unsurprisingly, white heads in Lisbon and Cape Town were concerned.
  
  
  As they passed, he slid off the log and followed them. It was the safest place he could be. At least, that's what he thought . Her mistake was almost fatal.
  
  
  The moon has set. Hers followed them at ih faint sounds, and if this German hadn't stumbled, hers wouldn't have advanced much further.
  
  
  "Himmel".
  
  
  It was a burst of gasps less than twenty yards to my left. A small German voice, a scream of terror because he'd hit a tree and bruised his big toe or something. He sank into the swamp up to his eyes, breathing as lightly as he could, and waited. Ih felt her around him in the black night. The mercenaries, a large patrol, swarm through the jungles and swamps like an SS squad in the snow-covered Ardennes.
  
  
  They swam mimmo like demons, ih green robes were white with mud. Silence, deadly ghosts, Flying Dutchmen, two around them so close I could touch ih foot. They looked so tense that they didn't notice me. They never looked down.
  
  
  Waiting for her under the water up to the nostrils. Slowly disappearing into the swamp, they passed mimmo me.
  
  
  Waiting for her. The water got into my ears, nose, and mouth, but I kept waiting.
  
  
  A second line of ghost mercenaries appeared almost a hundred yards behind the first. I try German army tactics, mostly used in dense forests. Old method, but effective. Like a hunted deer or rabbit, it is almost impossible for a hunted person to remain motionless after the enemy has passed. An irresistible urge to jump up and run in the other direction: at the blatant guns of the beginning of the second, enemy line.
  
  
  Her resisted that urge and resisted emu go for the second time. There was still a third line, bitch, of silent snipers in the rear. I waited for her in the shelter for half an hour. Then hers, he turned and walked back to the beach. Waiting too long is also dangerous, and they may turn back.
  
  
  I went faster now. Given the number of mercenaries, he guessed that they should have returned to their own territory. The main village should be somewhere in this swamp. And for the Zulus, hers would be safer if hers was noisy than if hers was trying to be quiet. With so many soldiers looking for me, ih is less bothered by the noise than by the sounds of scuffling. I made a choice, took a risk with my speed, and hoped I was right.
  
  
  I did it. He saw dark figures standing on a small rise in the mangrove swamp. A deep voice shouted something in Zulu. The Bantu knew her well enough to know that this was Corkscrew's summons. Her angrily replied in German:
  
  
  "A boar killed two of our men a few miles away. Major Kurtz had almost cornered the ego. I'll get her some hand grenades, quick ! †
  
  
  He hurried on without stopping. They didn't have flashlights to follow me, and the only Germans they knew in the area were mercenaries. Her, heard them coming back through the swamp. The path in front of me should have been clear.
  
  
  The anger of a few days ago-days that now seemed like weeks-stirred in me again. Hers was not far from Lister's headquarters. Now, out in the swamp, hunting for some unseen prey, a lot more could easily come by. One at a time. But it wouldn't be Stahl killing anyone now. Colonel Lister was prepared for me to do just that, find me, and strike.
  
  
  So I made my way as fast as I could through the swamp and headed straight for the shore. Once there, her city would contact the AG.
  
  
  Swamps gave way to lush jungles, then palm trees and coastal savannas. When the sun came up, her husband got out from under the palm trees and went out on a clean white beach. The natives were casting their nets into the sea, and further out in the blue saw a small fleet of fishing boats heading for fishing grounds further inland. He had been so long in the interior of the country, surrounded by swamps, jungles and dry bushes, that it seemed like an unusual miracle. Take a dip in it and go for a swim at her hotel. Maybe someday I'll have time for miracles and some swimming skills, but that time hasn't come yet. Not in my company.
  
  
  It was heard by a light plane before it was even in my line of sight. Gliding low over the ground, it approached me. He spun around and flew in the same direction he had come from. Her ego had seen the license plates and knew what they meant.
  
  
  Scout of the Portuguese Army. And from the way he approached me, I knew he wanted me. The tem I was told was probably Khalil al-Mansur, a government tem who had been paid by the slave trader, and the Portuguese patrol was not far behind the scout.
  
  
  A patrol wasn't something she wanted to go into battle with on an open beach. He stepped back between the palm trees and cautiously headed north. Lorengo Marquez must have been somewhere nearby.
  
  
  By ten o'clock, no patrol had found me, and the growing number of farms and plantations indicated that I was entering a populated area. Finally he reached civilization: a paved road. He began to look for another pillar of modern civilization-the telephone. If I hadn't been so tired, I would have laughed at the sight: less than six hours ago, I was being hunted in a swamp as primitive and savage as it had been for a thousand years, by my own people hunting with spears. Right now her shell is on a paved road and would like a phone. Africa today!
  
  
  Her found her phone in a glass digital pay camera right by the roadside, like a small piece of Lisbon. According to his information, he knows the number of the American consulate in Lorenco Marquez. That I called, gave a code word that identified AH. Two seconds later, the consul was on the phone.
  
  
  "Ah, years. Morse code. We've been waiting for your call to say sorry for your sister. Maybe we should meet at my place in an hour.
  
  
  "Thank you, Consul," I said, and hung up.
  
  
  "Sorry about your sister. This meant that hell was breaking loose in the consulate. I had to put down the phone and call Rivnenskaya again three minutes later, and he dials me on the phone to which the scrambler was connected. He counted out three minutes and turned around again. Recorded immediately.
  
  
  "Oh my God, N3, where have you been? No, don't tell me. We received a report of your death along with N15; then a report that you are alive again from an Arab thug who says you killed a local Arab prince. Reports that you collaborated with the rebels in three countries and attacked the rebels in three countries; that you raised your own army and that you flew to the Moon on your own power.
  
  
  "I was busy." I said dryly.
  
  
  "Well, you can't come here. I have a sidewalk patrol here. The Arab you killed was important. We can do better ... '
  
  
  "On your sidewalk?" How much ih?'
  
  
  'What's the rush? Well, at least for a day or two.
  
  
  Too long. In small colonial cities, the military and police have unlimited power. They tapped the consulate's line and, scrambling or not, tracked candid's call through the phone company's headquarters. In five minutes or less, they'll know where the call is coming from, and I'll be surrounded by soldiers.
  
  
  Her, said, ' Report to AH, tomorrow at noon.' Prince Wahbi's house. I need a search distress signal.
  
  
  He was already out of the stalls and halfway down the first row of houses, and the consul was probably still muttering on the other side. He had just entered the shelter of the first houses when the first Jeep raced toward the phone booth. Soldiers and policemen jumped out and began to disperse to the empty phone booths as officers furiously shouted their orders. I couldn't wait to admire ihc's efficiency. I got out of the way as fast as I could. Someone in the Mozambican government was terrified of what Wahbi might have told me, or my rebel clerk had long wanted me dead. Probably both. I was wanted by all sides. This infuriated me.
  
  
  When its, got to the ocean, another paved road joins me to the south. My time was running out. She wanted a faster vehicle, and found Ego in a truck parked on the side of the road near a kiosk. The driver left the keys with a nearly full tank. He screamed and yelled as his car drove south. I just hoped that the Portuguese army hadn't thought about the roadblocks yet, and that the last place anyone would expect me to be was there, in Prince Wahbi Fortress.
  
  
  She was released from the truck when the paved road ended. I didn't see any barriers. They didn't even dream that I was going south. By the time it was dark, he was back in the swamp. He Stahl is almost like an old friend there; a man gets used to everything. But its not yet bold to relax, at least not yet .
  
  
  With a web of intrigue, bribery, and self-interest within the government, Wahbi's people already knew I was with Lorengo Marquez, and the rebels and Colonel Lister probably knew it too. They didn't expect me to come back here. I had a few hours ' head start, but the truck will be there, and everything will be put down one by one, and in the morning they will applaud and shout after me.
  
  
  So it was like this. He slept for a few hours, then headed west toward the Wahbi fortress and the slave camp.
  
  
  The first unit she encountered was a mobile Portuguese patrol that was traveling on the same road to the west as hers. Ih wasn't afraid of her. They won't get off the road and go into the swamps with the rebels, Lister, and Arabs all around them. But it will keep me in the swamp, and it will make the others even more dangerous to me.
  
  
  She was confronted by the first mercenary patrol twenty miles from Prince Wahbi's territory. They headed east, and it hung like a rotten pear on a tree until they passed. They'll be back.
  
  
  He circled south until he found the Zulu rebels. They camped in an open field, out of the swamp belt.
  
  
  This led me to go back to the northwest, while the Arabs kept an eye on what was happening here. Perhaps they were the greatest danger. Khalil al-Mansour looked like he knew what he was doing. It was me trying Lisa, and it was ego territory. The only people who didn't follow me were the Swazis. It doesn't keep me at peace. If something went wrong and I had to run this way, they would probably be waiting for me at their border.
  
  
  The Arabs finally found mine after being five miles away from a whitewashed jungle fortress. With them a ferret, it was a cross-country race. I dodged it, and they locked me in. Perhaps all parties hated each other and probably didn't talk to each other; but silently they all knew they wanted me dead and buried. For now, they will ignore the other other. He dove, ran, and bounced back and forth in this jungle like a billiard ball on three pillows. I didn't have much time. Would Hawk have received my message?
  
  
  He was supposed to be killed by a mercenary, and that gave Lister a clue to lock me up and prevent me from escaping north or east.
  
  
  When I had to use my rifle against two Arabs about a mile from the slave camp, the moment I ventured too close to the road, they came for the echo before it died down.
  
  
  Then my shoulder started to burn.
  
  
  A distress call, but isn't it too late? My escape was more than a mile away, but they were all on my tail. He peered up at the sky and saw the helicopter circling in low circles over a rocky cliff that overlooked the jungle.
  
  
  Can I do it for her? My pursuers could also see through the helicopter.
  
  
  He reached the bottom of the hill and began to climb. Khalil al-Mansour and ego Arabs saw me. Bullets whizzed around me as I ran to the shelter, where I dropped my rope ladder by helicopter. One gawk caught me in the shoulder, and the other grazed my leg. Hers fell. I was on my feet again, and the Arabs were fifty yards away.
  
  
  It was seen by ihk when the entire rocky ledge exploded beneath them. A big circle of exploding rocks and dust; with me safe in this circle, AH! The terrifying efficiency stunned me again. I didn't even see our agents who blew up that ledge of rock, but I did see the stairs. Her, grabbed for nah, and Stahl to climb, as the helicopter is rapidly gaining altitude and began to turn around.
  
  
  He got into the cab and lay there, panting. "Well, N3," said a flat nasal voice. — You really messed up, didn't you?"
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  
  
  
  Hawk is in person, in a tweed jacket, in the back of the helicopter.
  
  
  "Thank you," I said. "How are things going?"
  
  
  "I'm fine," he said dryly. "The problem is how we can run the case, from now on."
  
  
  I told her. "They were waiting for us. Mercenaries. They killed Deirdre."
  
  
  "I'm sorry about N15," the old man said.
  
  
  "Someone tipped them," I said. "Someone in the government of Mozambique or possibly Lisbon."
  
  
  "I don't see any other answer, either," Hawk admitted. — But did you have to kill this Arab prince?" All hell broke loose.
  
  
  "I didn't kill him, but I would have."
  
  
  "No sermon, N3," Hawk snapped. I don't need a crusader. Killing this prince was a mistake. This has worsened our relations with Lisbon."
  
  
  "Is there another slaver?"
  
  
  "Apparently, it was useful, and they don't like that we know about ego's activities, especially since he shared his profits with colonial officials. You forced ih to do a lot of cleaning and put the thread to such practice. It's kind of infuriating at a time when they're vulnerable to criticism."
  
  
  "Great," I said.
  
  
  "Not to us. The rebels will make a lot of noise about it. Perhaps Lisbon will really have to do something about it, wipe out the entire colonial machine, and this will seriously undermine ih's sympathy for us."
  
  
  — What do you know about Colonel Carlos Lister?"
  
  
  "A good soldier. In the Soviet service, but now he's working here for the rebels. He has the best army here, beats everyone, maybe even the Portuguese.
  
  
  "Can I kill her ego?"
  
  
  "No, — the old man snapped at me, not even looking at me rudely. "We need to balance everything here and ensure balance."
  
  
  "He killed Deirdre, damn it."
  
  
  "No," Hawk said coldly as the helicopter flew low over the mountains to the north. "He did his job. We killed her, N3. We made the mistake of giving away our plans.
  
  
  Her, looked at him. — Do you really believe that?"
  
  
  "No, Nick," he said quietly. 'I don't believe it . .. I know her. And you know it, too. We don't play children's games here.
  
  
  We are here with the future of the world. Every man fights the way he should and does what I have to do. Deirdre knew it, too. Now you'd better report back, we don't have much time."
  
  
  He continued to stare at it as the helicopter bounced off an updraft in the mountains. Call it the tension of the last few days. Because I knew he was right, and he knew I knew it. We are both soldiers in a war, an eternal war that engages not always noticeable, but always present. A war of survival. If Colonel Lister killed her, it was because he was an enemy, not because he killed Deirdre. And if surviving my country later meant working with Colonel Lister, I would have done so. Then Deirdre would be a thing of the misplaced past, and he knew it. Only sometimes it was unpleasant. †
  
  
  "N3?" said Hawk calmly. For despite his efficiency and coolness, his deadly skill at work, he is also a human being.
  
  
  Its reported everything. Hawk recorded it all on his own tape recorder. In particular, names. You never know when a name can be vital, a weapon, a culture or at best an exchange, a domination.
  
  
  "All right," he said, turning off the recorder, and the helicopter made a sharp turn over the mountains to the west. "Well, they still want us to kill the traitor for them. They say they have a new plan to do this. You will meet a person who will tell you all the details. Someone from Lisbon, Nick. No name, but he's special, above the colonial governor.
  
  
  'When?'
  
  
  'Right now.'
  
  
  He looked down and saw a castle in the mountains. It can be on the Rhine or Tagus. Ego had seen it there before, a replica of a castle high above the Tagus on a rocky ridge dating back to medieval Portuguese times. Built by some colonial baron or envious business magnate who will never own a castle like this in Portugal. Ego was surrounded by a high iron fence on a rocky peak , and she saw uniformed security guards watching from a helicopter.
  
  
  "It must be someone important," I said, looking at the radar antenna that was now slowly rotating around the castle grounds, and at the fighter jet that was parked on the runway outside the castle, an airstrip that stretched far into the jungle.
  
  
  'Him. You'll just talk to him and report back to me later, " Hawk said. "Go ahead.
  
  
  The helicopter hovered over a sprawling lawn carved out of the rocky mountain range by centuries of Black slavery. Its lowered. I was immediately surrounded by soldiers. They were as polite as well-trained diplomats, and as quick and energetic as commandos. Its currently in uniform: Portuguese inspection troops. As I was being led to the castle, I saw a Hawk flying towards the coast. I didn't need to see the cruiser or the Polaris submarine to know where it was going.
  
  
  The corridors in the castle were cool, elegant, and quiet. There was an air of immeasurable desolation, as if the castle had been liberated, and a great power was waiting somewhere in this vast expanse. The soldiers led me through the corridors and through a door to an upstairs room that now served as an office. Then they hurried through the rooms, and I found myself face to face with a small man who was leaning over his desk with his back to me. He didn't move and didn't seem to know I was in the room.
  
  
  I told her. — You want to talk to me?"
  
  
  Ego splitting tensed up. But when he laid down the pen carefully and turned solemnly, almost nobly, he smiled. Then she became aware of ego. Lisbon must have been very worried about a possible uprising.
  
  
  'Mr. Carter, "he said in Portuguese, as if any other language was beneath the dignity of ego," sit down.
  
  
  This was not an order from us, but a request from us. He called for my honor. We also don't always have to love our allies. Her crouched down. He clasped his hands together, like a statesman circling another century, and slowly paced the room, saying. Ego's deep voice, impressive in its pitch, echoed through the room. It was clear that I should not interrupt until I was granted this privilege. He had to give em one thing: he got straight to the point, without fuss.
  
  
  'Mr. Carter, we now have absolute proof that the uprising is planned in four days. This will happen the moment our treacherous clerk appears on television, announcing his cooperation and stirring up a mutiny among our troops. He will also call for an uprising in three countries: Mozambique, Swaziland and Zululand. At that point, all but one rebel force will launch attacks on government targets in three countries. As a paralyzing prelude, Colonel Lister's mercenaries will attack our elite Portuguese troops in ih barracks just two hours before the traitor reveals himself.
  
  
  He stopped walking and looked openly at me. "This is a very good plan, and it might work, especially if Lister's mercenaries manage to paralyze our best unit."
  
  
  — But you expect to be able to repel the attacks?" "I said that at just the right time.
  
  
  He nodded, and Stahl waited.
  
  
  I asked her. "What's your plan?"
  
  
  "First, we will move our picked troops around the barracks to a camp sixty-five kilometers away from Imbamba." He smiled and lit a cigar. "Secretly, of course, at night. And we leave behind a fictitious army. No one knows this except me and the officers."
  
  
  He nodded to her. He started pacing back and forth.
  
  
  "Second, we warn Cape Town and Mbabane."
  
  
  It didn't require a nod.
  
  
  "Third, kill the traitor before he can speak." He studied his cigar. "There is no conscription, no rebellion. This is the key.
  
  
  — And that's still my job?"
  
  
  'That's right.'
  
  
  "Now he knows that AH is being pursued by ego, and he has committed suicide," I said. "We missed the ego once, and this time it will be harder."
  
  
  "You failed because you were betrayed," he said. — It won't happen again, because I'm the only one who knows you'll try again." You missed the ego because your efforts depended on drawing the ego out through the tents and identifying it.
  
  
  "So I don't need to identify the ego anymore?" — Do you know who it is?"
  
  
  "No, I don't know that.
  
  
  "Well, damn it, what should I do? .. '
  
  
  "Very simple, mister. Carter. We know he's one of the three men. You will kill ih all.
  
  
  Sometimes I even feel a little dirty at work and shudder when I think about how our hidden war is being waged. 'All three of them? To disarm one?
  
  
  "To make sure that the traitor fails, to avoid an almost inevitable battle, all three of them must die. I'm sorry that two loyal people will be killed, but do you know a better way?
  
  
  "Find an ego somehow. There must be a way.
  
  
  "Maybe in a few months, a few weeks. But we only have a few days. He has been working for us for many years, and we only have days.
  
  
  I had nothing more to say. It was an ego board. As far as I know, at least one of the innocent officials was probably an ego friend. From what I knew of her, maybe the traitor, too. Waiting for her. Even he hesitated for a moment longer. Then he took a deep breath.
  
  
  "These three are General Mola da Silva, Deputy Minister of Defense, Colonel Pedro Andrade, military Secretary to our colonial governor, and Senor Maximilian Parma, Assistant Chief of Internal Security."
  
  
  "You mean the secret police?" The last one? Parma?
  
  
  'I'm afraid so. The beginning of the second in rank.
  
  
  "All right," I said. 'Where can ih be found? And how?'
  
  
  He smiled thinly. "Like, her, I guess that's your job, that's your specialty. Where, you will find it in this document. This is a detailed list where you can regularly find everyone around these three.
  
  
  He gave me the list, finished his cigar, and said worriedly, " My private jet will take you to Lorenzo Marques, a secret airport known to few in Lisbon. You'll get the weapons you want, and then you're on your own. Remember, if you are captured by these people before you finish your work, I will deny your existence. All three have powerful connections in Lisbon.
  
  
  It was a normal move, Del. He must have pressed some hidden button. The soldiers came in; he went back to his desk and stopped looking at me. The soldiers took me outside.
  
  
  I was shoved into the commander's car, which then flashed higher like lightning. At the airport, I was harshly led to the plane, and we immediately took off. It was getting dark when we landed at a secret airport near the capital. A squad of five escorted me to a camouflaged hut, where I was to receive the weapons I needed. When I was left alone with the orderly, Ego nogi hit her, slid out the window, and disappeared into the darkness.
  
  
  In my line of work, it's helpful to change any schedule known to someone other than you as soon as possible. She would have gotten her own weapon on her own, in her own time. Now she had one, and no one knew when he started it or where he was. Nobody.
  
  
  They wouldn't even know for sure if you were doing the job if it really was on the ih side and his hotel wanted it to be that way.
  
  
  Her, entered the city of walking, passing our consulate, and headed to a certain coffee in the harbor. The moment her husband entered the cafe, he saw the clothes, manners, and smell of local Portuguese fishermen . He took a table in the back, looked very drunk, and waited for the waiter.
  
  
  "Whiskey," I said. "And the woman, eh?" Lulu when she's here.
  
  
  "Does she know you, senor?"
  
  
  "Like pisces knows me."
  
  
  "We only have American whiskey."
  
  
  "If the brand is good. Maybe X.Oops.?
  
  
  "Lulu will take ego to the back room."
  
  
  He's gone. I waited two minutes for her, then got up and went into the back room. Shadow pressed the gun to my back. "Name the king you admire," the voice said.
  
  
  "Half as much as black."
  
  
  The gun was gone. "What do you want, N3?"
  
  
  "First of all, contact Hawk."
  
  
  The waiter walked past mimmo me, pressed up against moan, and the door opened. We went through the wall, down the stairs, and into the secret radio room.
  
  
  "He's on board a cruiser off the coast. Voice frequency and phone number.
  
  
  It was recorded and sold on the radio. The waiter left me alone. Her father was alone with Hawk. It came open to the device. Ei told emu in detail about the important man's plans to put down the rebellion and about my work.
  
  
  "All three of them?" he said in a cold voice. He paused. — I can see they're serious. Can you finish on time?"
  
  
  "I'll try," I said.
  
  
  'Do it. I'll let our people know about the rest of the plans.
  
  
  He disappeared, and I went to find the waiter to get the weapons I needed.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 15
  
  
  
  
  One of the three men was a traitor. But who? All three of them were supposed to die, but the order in which it happened was important to me. If she had been killed by two innocents first, the traitor would have been warned and fled. It was a roulette game where there was no guarantee that I would win.
  
  
  Her tossed a coin by himself. The general lost. Too bad for him.
  
  
  My list indicated that General Mola da Silva usually worked late; a widower in his sixties, with grown-up children in Portugal, with no bad habits or vices. A soldier in the army who lived only by his work. As Deputy Minister of Defense of Mozambique, da Silva was a representative of the Army and Navy. The ego of the work was in plain sight, and this made the ego an easy victim.
  
  
  The Ministry of Defense was located in a fortress-like building in Lorengo Marques. At eight o'clock in the evening, he entered the armed hall in the uniform of a major in Portugal's most elite regiment. Fluent in Portuguese with no accent, her waving papers showed that she had just arrived from Lisbon with a personal message to the General to Silva.
  
  
  Security was tight, but I didn't care. It just needs to find its target. If he worked overtime in his office, his ego was ready to kill there and then leave safely. Ego wasn't in the office.
  
  
  "Simple, Major," said the captain, who was making appointments in his office. — But tonight, General da Silva is giving a speech to the Association of Foreign Affairs interests. Ego won't be here until morning.
  
  
  The Major beamed. "Great, this gives me an extra day — and night-in your city. Show me the right lane, okay? You know what I mean... fun and, uh, company.
  
  
  The captain grinned. "Try Manuelos. You'll love it.'
  
  
  For the record, a taxi took me to Manuelo's, and he left, no longer a major, by the back door. As an ordinary businessman, he took another taxi to attend a meeting of the Association of Foreign Affairs Interests, which was held in a new hotel on Blagodatny beach.
  
  
  The meeting was still going on, and the General had not yet spoken. There were no sentries. The colonial undersecretary is not so important. But there weren't many people in the hall, and most of the people around them seemed to know something else. He slipped down the hall to the staff locker room at the back of the building. The entire staff was black, of course, but a door at the back of the locker room led to the speaker's podium in the conference room. A crack opened it and Stahl watched. A huge round of applause filled the room as she watched. I did it on time. The general got up and walked over to the lectern with a smile. He was tall for a Portuguese, with a shiny bald head, too fat, and a wide, crooked smile that almost never touched the ego's eyes. They were small eyes, cold and lively, the quick eyes of an opportunist.
  
  
  The ego speech was a collection of brilliant, empty, empty statements, and it didn't take long to listen. It was in constant motion, illuminating the rows of insignia. I didn't see her, the bodyguards, but two men at the back of the room were watching the audience intently. So, private bodyguards. Whether or not General da Silva was guilty of treason, he had reason to believe that he had enemies.
  
  
  He calmly closed the door and disappeared around the hotel. The general's car was parked on the side of the road in front of the hotel. The military driver was sleeping in the front. This told me two things. The general won't be here long, otherwise the driver would have had time to have a drink or run errands and get back to both ends of the meeting. She further learned that the General intended to leave the meeting as soon as possible through the main entrance.
  
  
  The bulletin board in the lobby informed me that the meeting would end in a little less than an hour.
  
  
  I went to a hotel in an alley where I rented a room as a religious goods merchant around Lisbon. Left alone in her room, she put on a pair of black jumpsuits over her suit. He set up an infrared sniper scope on a rifle borrowed from Prince Wahbi's security detail and stuffed it into what looked like a long map bag. When they later checked and linked the weapons to the Wahbi Arabs, it was beautiful. I left my suitcase with her, and it was easy to trace me to a German citizen who had just arrived on the last flight around Cape Town and made sure I was seen leaving in my black jumpsuit.
  
  
  The administrative building opposite the hotel where General da Silva was speaking was dark. Again, hers, made sure that some tourists and the doorman in the hotel lobby saw me in my black jumpsuit. He picked the lock on the back of the office building and went up to the third floor. There I left the door to the stairs open, then went up to the top floor and opened the door to the roof. I took off my coveralls and left my ego on the roof ladder. When I got back to the third floor, I picked the lock in the reception area, closed the door behind me, got a rifle around my bag, sat me down by the window, and Stahl waited. Somewhere a tower clock struck ten.
  
  
  Her rifle was raised.
  
  
  In front of the hotel, the driver jumped out around General da Silva's car and hurried around it so as not to close the back door.
  
  
  The General strode out of the lobby. He led the way, also ahead of his two bodyguards, as befitted his ego. The driver saluted.
  
  
  General da Silva stopped to salute before getting into the car.
  
  
  He fired one shot, dropped the rifle on the spot, left the window open, and was in the hallway before the first screams were heard.
  
  
  Her, went down the stairs to the top of the second floor. 'Over there! Third floor. This is an open window. Call the police. Hold the ego.
  
  
  Quickly!'
  
  
  It was picked by a lock in an empty office on the second floor.
  
  
  "He killed the general ... !
  
  
  "The third floor ... ! I could hear the shrill police whistles everywhere... sirens are approaching from afar.
  
  
  He had taken off his suit, and the major's uniform was still underneath.
  
  
  Feet pounded on the stairs, heading for the third floor, and pounded on the office there. "The voice of Ono is a gun. Sniper scope. An angry, angry voice heard her. "He couldn't have gone very far. Idiots. It must have been one of the bodyguards who was afraid that the boss's ego had been shot.
  
  
  In a dark office on the second floor, his wife was standing by the window. The empty Jeep screeched to a stop. Two others followed. The officers ran around the hotel and out into the street. The police were shouting. Police and soldiers broke into the office building. Heavy shaggy sounded in the hallways by me forever. 'To the roof! Hurry up."They noticed an open door to the roof. In a few moments, the black jumpsuits will be found. The witnesses had already told them about the man in the coveralls and described me in ten different ways.
  
  
  He walked down the second-floor corridor, headed for the stairs, and joined the stream of soldiers and officers heading for the roof. On the roof, he was already commanded by three policemen.
  
  
  "These jumpsuits can be distracting. Have you already searched the other floors of the building?
  
  
  "No, Major," said one of the men around them. — We didn't think..."'
  
  
  "Think about it," I snapped. "Everyone around you takes one floor. I'll take it for the second time.
  
  
  I followed them, pushed past each of them on the empty floor, and went out the front door myself. Its growled at the soldiers and officers in the street.
  
  
  — Can't you hold the civilians?"
  
  
  He stared angrily for a moment, then walked away down the chaotic street. In a few hours, they'll calm down, track the man in the coveralls down to the hotel in the alley, maybe discover the rifle's provenance, and in a month or so, they'll start looking for someone like me.
  
  
  He stopped in an alley where he hid his clothes, changed his clothes, threw the major's uniform in the trash and set it on fire. Then I went to my other hotel room and got ready for bed.
  
  
  I didn't fall asleep right away. It wasn't my conscience that bothered me. I had my orders, and no one becomes a Portuguese general without killing a few people. It was anxiety and tension. Now that they knew there was a killer, they would take precautions. I had very little time.
  
  
  It won't take much to kill the next two .
  
  
  I lay on a hillock in the bright morning sun, looking through my binoculars at the governor's mansion five hundred meters away. Colonel Pedro Andrade had spacious apartments in the mansion; there were iron gates behind a high wall, two sentries-one at the gate and one at the entrance to the mansion-and sentries in the main corridors.
  
  
  What I expected happened. Police cars, military vehicles, and civilian limos came and went in a steady, rapid stream. All the cars and trucks stopped at the gate. Anyone who came out to enter was stopped and searched at the mansion's door. The army steamboats looked furious, the police grim, and the townspeople worried .
  
  
  At eleven o'clock, my very important man came in person. Even ego had to be stopped, searched, and his documents checked. They didn't take any chances, the guards were very alert, formal and nervous. And the security measures were extremely thorough, extremely thorough. Maybe too thorough. Her two hours lay on the hill and watched. Twice a suspicious object was found in the car, and a military police captain came running with a squad of soldiers to hold the car at gunpoint until the captain checked the object and said that everything was in order.
  
  
  Her, came to the main road that usually passed in front of the mansion. He studied the road. It was cut into the side of the hill and skirted ego, about twenty-five meters around the governor's mansion at the height of the wall.
  
  
  A truck pulled out onto the road. I pulled out an automatic pistol, put a silencer on it, and as the truck passed mimmo of the main gate and very close to me, I shot one round the front wheels. A tire popped and the truck screeched to a stop. The captain exited through the gate with his unit, and within seconds the truck was surrounded.
  
  
  "You're in there," he snapped at the driver. "Get out and put your hands on the car. Quickly.'
  
  
  All the guards at the main gate came out and, standing in line with each tribe, helped the captain cover the truck with their rifles.
  
  
  It disappeared into the circles of trees and bushes.
  
  
  The National Security Headquarters was a gloomy building with almost no windows on a nondescript side street in the center of the city of Lorenzo Marquez. It was even more lively here as soldiers, policemen, and civilians entered. But here again only policemen and soldiers came out. The police detained the suspects for questioning and may have combed the city in search of any suspect, any known rebel, agitator or political opponent.
  
  
  My list indicated that Maximilian Parma's office was on the second floor at the back. He walked around the building. There were no windows on the second floor at the back: the building adjacent to it was four stories high. The Deputy Chief of Internal Security had a windowless office.
  
  
  There were bars in the windows on the fourth and fifth floors. Only the windows of the upper floor could be used as an entrance, and the walls of the building were solid adobe, without any support. I watched her for a while and saw that the sentry was peeking twice over the end of the roof, which meant that the roof was guarded. No one could tie a rope to go up or down.
  
  
  When it got dark, he went back to the cafe in the harbor. There I got what I needed, and within an hour I was on the roof of the building behind the National Security Service building. I had a special suction cup with me, my thin nylon cord, a rubber hammer, and a stash of climbing handles. I went to work. I attached the sucker as high as I could to the stone moan in the dark, pulled myself up on the nylon cord that ran through the heavy metal eye of the sucker, and inserted two pins into the cement between the bricks with a rubber mallet. and putting his feet on the pegs, now almost level with the sucker, he loosened the sucker and placed it about five feet higher against the wall.
  
  
  They repeated the procedure over and over again, climbing the moan in five-foot increments. It was a tedious, slow job. I was sweating buckets that dark night. The sound of the rubber mallet hitting the pins was almost silent, but still not quiet enough. At any moment, someone passing by the window or peering down over the edge of the roof might hear or see me. He could have slipped and hit the wall. The pin may come off and fall down with a clang. The sucker can let go and make me fall.
  
  
  But none of this happened. I was lucky, and in two hours it was at the height of the upper floor windows, clinging to moan like flies. My luck was right, and the first window I tried it was not closed. A few seconds later, he was in this quiet upper floor, in a small storage room. He opened the door cautiously and looked out. The corridor on the top floor was deserted. He stepped out into the corridor.
  
  
  I could hear the noise from below, the clatter and patter of voices and footsteps. I was in the building, but I didn't think it would help me much to kill Maximilian Parma. But perhaps this was enough to find a weak vulnerability in ih security measures.
  
  
  He took a deep breath and walked down the narrow fire escape that led to the fifth-floor hallway. Soldiers herded suspects into cells. Shirtsleeved policemen raced forward with piles of papers under their arms and pistols slung in shoulder holsters or tucked to one side for their belts. Pandemonium, but purposeful, and I could be discovered at any moment. At best, I'll be considered a suspect and then taken away with the others. In the worst case scenario...
  
  
  I slid back down the stairs, took off my jacket to reveal my luger, took the list of my victims ' details — the only document I had with me-and left. She stepped candidly into a busy corridor, between soldiers, policemen, and suspects. No one bothered to look at me. I had a gun, so I wasn't a suspect, and I had identification, so I had something to look for. After packing up with the police, soldiers, and employees, he took the elevator to the first-second floor. There was less confusion here. There were security posts in front of each office. Some of the people around them looked at me as I passed-who was it, a strange face-but they didn't do anything. This is the weak point of the police state: the discipline is so rigid and hierarchical that people hardly think or ask questions on their own. If you brazenly go out and pretend to fit in, you'll be called to order by the rare curatives, unless you make a noticeable blunder.
  
  
  The power of a police state lies in the fact that routine is so common that you can easily make a big mistake. You can make mistakes every second, and with every second the danger increases.
  
  
  Parma's office had not just one room, but two: it was a suite. Sentries were posted at each door. Getting in is difficult, getting out is even harder. I pretended to study my list, keeping my eyes on the doors of Parma. Once ego, a short, dark-haired man, saw her face-to-face with some poor bastard who was being held in a chair while Parma yelled at him. I once saw him haranguing high-ranking police officers and soldiers around him. Then one day Ego Go saw her in the second room, examining familiar objects on a long table: my rifle, briefcase, and black coveralls.
  
  
  This gave me the idea for a plan. A dangerous plan, but limited time creates big risks. He returned to the cafe the way he had come, covering his tracks. I prepared a few things I needed and went to bed. Tomorrow will be a busy day.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 16
  
  
  
  
  He spent the morning in his room preparing his gear. It took me all morning. I had a ton of equipment for this job, and I would need it all if my plan was successful. I didn't have time for us, our plans to start the second attempt. If that didn't work, she wouldn't have had Stahl fixate on it for the second attempt.
  
  
  By noon, he'd rented a small van and driven to the governor's mansion. I parked my car in the undergrowth and went up the hill I'd watched from the day before. I settled in there, and Stahl waited.
  
  
  Hers lay there all day in the bushes and in the sun, while vultures flew high above me and watched as visitors entered and exited through the governor's mansion. He couldn't smoke, so he took a few sips of water from time to time. He kept waiting for her. The vultures began to circle lower, uncertain as hers had not moved for a long time. Towards evening, vultures began to perch on the upper branches of nearby acacia trees. Colonel Andrade went out for a walk in the mansion's gardens. The vultures continued to watch me. Andrade continued to watch her. The ego walk saved me a problem. I didn't have to make sure he was in the mansion anymore.
  
  
  The Colonel came back inside just as the orange African sun fell from the ego faces over the hills. Vultures flew when he moved. He waited for her for another half hour, then went over the phone line from the mansion to the post on the road in front of the house. He climbed up on a pole, plugged in the wiretapping equipment, and called the mansion's maintenance department.
  
  
  "Cleaning," a voice barked in Portuguese.
  
  
  It was used in Portuguese with a local accent. "I'm sorry, Your Excellency, but tonight I need to check the wiring in the mansion for a new transformer that my superiors want to install in the future. We are on the electric company.
  
  
  "Okay, then make sure your superiors provide the necessary passes. You must show that the ego is at the main gate, " said the voice.
  
  
  "We'll do as you say."
  
  
  Its disconnected and dials the number of the power company. "This is the governor's residence. Your Excellency would like someone to check the wiring this evening. Get a pass and make sure you'll be here in Rivne at nine o'clock in the evening .
  
  
  - For estestvenno. Immediately.'
  
  
  The pass will be issued, the maid will wait for the person, the electric company will send the person, and the discrepancy will be detected later.
  
  
  She went down from the sixth floor and went back to her rented van. It's already quite dark, it's time to start. I didn't think about the consequences of failure, or even about eeos. If a Killmaster or any other agent does this, he will never complete his first assignment, at least not alive.
  
  
  She was dragged out of her new coveralls, her sniper rifle, a large bag, an electrician's uniform, and a heavy black suitcase from the van to the main road. He brought the ego to the exact spot where the truck had stopped yesterday, the front wheel of which had punctured it. I was investigating the mansion to make sure I had the best location. It worked.
  
  
  Here the road ran about eight meters from the manor wall, almost level with its top. A berm ran down from the road to the base of the wall. Beyond the wall, the house itself was about twenty-five yards from the gardens. It was a three-story building, surrounded by white stone with a heavy pitched roof, surrounded by dark wood.
  
  
  The Governor's private quarters were in a corner of the ground floor, facing the garden and the wall, directly opposite where he waited, curled up in the dark.
  
  
  He prepared his black coveralls, dressed in an electrician's uniform, and began working on the material around the black briefcase. The nen had fifty yards of thin nylon fishing line, a hundred yards of thicker nylon cord, a reel, an electric self-propelled tension wheel with a tether, and a special connector for my sniper rifle. When the black coveralls were ready, he put the nozzle on his rifle and took careful aim at the roof of the mansion about fifty yards away.
  
  
  The sound was nothing more than a soft rustle in the night. The black, jagged tip traced a smooth arc across stony and the garden, burrowing into the wooden roof of the house. Passing through a large eye at the end of a steel spike, a nylon thread hung in an invisible arc from where it was hidden to the roof, where it was fixed by the blade.
  
  
  He unhooked the thread from the mount on his rifle, tied one thread to a thicker nylon cord, and attached the other thread to a reel and let the thread wind. The thread wound neatly on the spool, pulling the heavier cord across the wall and garden to the roof, and then back to me through the eye of the steel tip. He loosened the thin wire and tied both ends of the thick cord to a peg driven into the ground by the roadside.
  
  
  I now had a strong rope leading from the road through the wall and garden to the mansion. He took her in his own way and hid her ego somewhere on the side of the road. He fastened the wheel of the harness to the cord, and the black coveralls, stuffed with the contents of a large bag, fastened the harness and stood up.
  
  
  Then he picked up a small electronic control panel and slid down the main road to a place where he was very close to the main gate. Thanks to the visitors, the gates were opened. Two sentries sat in a guardhouse candid inside the walls, and a roadblock was set up openly in front of the entrance.
  
  
  Her, pressed a button on the control panel. On a dark evening, my stuffed coveralls began to move along the rope; across the road, over the wall, and high into the sky above the garden, to the roof of the house. He waited tensely for her, ready to run.
  
  
  Nothing happened. No one saw the " man " fly up through the garden to the roof. He waited until he saw that the dummy had almost reached the roof, then pressed another button on the panel. This will cause noise and panic.
  
  
  'Stop it! Up there! Attention! Attention! Attack!'
  
  
  The screams were loud, and the people weren't rude, alarmed and panicked, on the walls to my right. The three sentries at the gate all three turned around and stared for a moment.
  
  
  'Attention! Alarms: red alert. Governor's number!
  
  
  Three sentries, alert and tense at the order of the extra guard, ran from the gate in response to the alarm.
  
  
  He ran across the road, stepped over the barrier, and calmly walked the twenty-five yards of driveway to the mansion. No one urged me to stop.
  
  
  To my right, the roof of the mansion was illuminated by floodlights, officers shouted, soldiers fired warning shots, and shrapnel flew from the end of the roof. Soldiers ran out of the house, ih was urged on by officers. The sentry at the front door had also disappeared. He entered and walked through the quiet, elegant corridors. The sentries inside also ran in alarm.
  
  
  Maybe I got lucky. Too tight security can always cost you your head, it creates too much nervous tension. They had been informed of the assassin in the black coverall, and now they had a man in the black coverall attacking the governor. Alarm on all fronts. Everyone wants to save the governor.
  
  
  I found the corridor I was looking for, entered it, and went to the door of Colonel Pedro Andrade's room. The ego door opened. While he was still dressing, he went out. Through the open door, he saw a woman behind him, also dressing quickly. The colonel approached me frankly.
  
  
  'Who is this?'What is it?' he asked in a commanding tone. 'An attack? Where?'
  
  
  I took a few steps toward him, muttering something about the governor. The stiletto that tied her to her arm in the cafe fell through her sleeves. Her ego stabbed him in the folding dollar, caught him before he could fall, and carried him to a small alcove. There I sat the ego on a bench with its back to the wall. I went back to the corridor, found the correct corridor to the governor's office, and started dismantling the power line.
  
  
  As he worked on his knees, he saw the governor come out of his retinue, and soldiers were advancing on him from all sides. The two around them pushed me aside. Hers was leaning against the wall, looking as scared and confused as a workman should be.
  
  
  "A mannequin?" the governor said to his two men. "In a sort of chairlift. So much special material for a mannequin? Why? Are you sure?'
  
  
  "A mannequin. Stuffed with some thick straw. We found something suspicious ... '
  
  
  "Then it must be a trick," the governor exclaimed, looking around. 'But why? No one tried to kill me, really?
  
  
  The officer nodded. 'The list. Search the house. It took them twenty minutes to find Colonel Pedro Andrade's body. The governor vowed to return to his quarters.
  
  
  "Andrade! The killer couldn't have gotten out, could he?
  
  
  — No, sir." I'm sure there isn't one. The sentries at the door were immediately dispatched to their posts.
  
  
  Her head snapped around, and the hallway became a madhouse full of angry voices. Using his most civilized Portuguese, he exclaimed ," We must arrest everyone here, even the officers."
  
  
  "I doubt that the governor or anyone else knows who shouted it to this day. At this moment, they did not stop being surprised, but immediately intercepted the cry. He watched her as everyone who didn't belong directly to the governor's office or staff was seized and arrested, from the infuriated old colonel to the maid and girlfriend of the murdered Colonel Andrade.
  
  
  They caught me five minutes later when they saw me openly under their noses. By this time, the real man from the electric company had arrived with his pass, and the ego was also taken away. We were bundled into a car and taken away under guard. The guards were the people around her, the National Security Service, just like I knew her. Now the rest was left to Senor Maximiliano Parma. I hoped he wouldn't disappoint me either.
  
  
  This time, hers, entered the National Security Club building through the front door. We were taken to an interrogation room, where we were searched. In the mansion, he got rid of the stiletto and wrist mechanism. Other than that, I didn't have anything in the spirit of weapons or equipment with me. He didn't want to do it too easily, too quickly, or too confidently for Parma.
  
  
  The Internal Security Service lives a routine life, like all political services; but the security police are even more so. Everything had to be done by the book; experience has taught ih that something like this works best, ih temperament makes ih love to work this way. If there were fewer suspects, they could just check the electricity company, and they would find that they didn't know me there at all. And then it would have happened to me right away .
  
  
  Instead, because there were so many interrogations, we were all subjected to the same step-by-step investigation, including several extremely angry officers, and our stories and alibaba were checked. They examined everything we had with us separately. All I had with me was some cash, keys, a wallet, a fake driver's license, fake family photos, and a small item of great importance. †
  
  
  "Who is Manuel Quesada?"
  
  
  It was a thin man with a cold face, still wearing his jacket as he stood in the doorway of the interrogation room.
  
  
  The investigators stood at attention and almost crawled in front of the cold-blooded man. They found the ego!
  
  
  "That one, sir," the coroner said, pointing at me.
  
  
  The lean boss slowly circled me from top to bottom. Em liked it, and a small smile graced Ego's face. He nodded.
  
  
  "Come on, then."
  
  
  The soldiers pushed me there. We went out through the rooms, down the corridor where everyone stopped to look at me, and up the stairs to the first floor. He kept his face composed and yet as nervous as he could manage. It wasn't so wouldnt be difficult, its nervous enough: the adrenaline was through me now. I was taken to Maximilian Parma's office.
  
  
  The door closed behind me. A thin man with cold eyes was standing behind a small desk. There were three other men in the room. All policemen, no soldiers. Maximilian Parma was sitting at his large desk, busy with some papers. He didn't look up for a while. A very old trick.
  
  
  'So. -"That's Mr. Quesada, isn't it?" he said, without looking at me. Employee of an electrical company.
  
  
  He swallowed it. 'Yes . .. sir.
  
  
  -"What," he looked up, " never heard of you back there?"
  
  
  "Her me...," I muttered.
  
  
  Parma nodded. The man stood up and slapped me hard across the face. He staggered, but didn't fall. Parma looked at me. He nodded again . The other man took a gun, put his ego to my head, and pulled the trigger. The trigger just clicked.
  
  
  No one was laughing. No one spoke. Parma got up from behind his chair and walked around to me. He stopped and looked me straight in the eye. Ego's eyes were small and deep-set.
  
  
  "So, — he said again. "Manuel Quesada, the mannequin, the killer. What about an ordinary mannequin and a killer? No! A person who knows that the ego has been caught, but barely flinches from the blow. A man who only blinks, doesn't flinch, and doesn't whimper at all when an emu puts a gun to him. Not an ordinary killer, do you think?
  
  
  He used his Portuguese. " I... I understand."... but that's not it.
  
  
  "So," it seemed, was Parma's catchphrase. — Still Portuguese, and still very good. Very good Portuguese, but the local dialect is fine. All these beautiful things, and it's just for distraction. Very smart and very efficient.
  
  
  "I was ordered to. Do I need an Oni ? . I told her in Portuguese.
  
  
  'Oni?'Parma said. He shook his head, went back to the table, picked up a small object, and showed it to me. 'Do you know what this is? We found the ego with your keys.
  
  
  The ego put it there to be found: in two places. It was the broken half of the amulet of Symbols of Chaka, the golden sleeping lion.
  
  
  "Her me. .. Her voice faltered again. — Someone must have given me an ego boost in a minute, Your Excellency.
  
  
  — You think I don't know what it is and what it means?" What does this tell me?
  
  
  If he had known, it wouldn't have been as effective as I thought, and I would have put a lot of effort in vain. Hers, too, would be dead in an hour if he didn't know what I was hoping for. But he still didn't say anything.
  
  
  "Come on," he said.
  
  
  I was shown to the second room, where there was a long chair with all the evidence. Parma was a chef who liked to check everything himself. Now, next to all the files on the General da Silva murder case, my black mannequin in overalls is lying on the table. If it wasn't for that, he would have worked a lot for nothing. Parma reached for the thick straw that had been used to beat him up, the coveralls, and pulled out the other half of the sleeping lion. He turned to me and showed the ego to me.
  
  
  "A small mistake," he said. And then in English: "But with what I know, a very important mistake, isn't it?"
  
  
  Her, looked at it, and then also used English. Can we talk?"'
  
  
  Aaaa. He almost beamed with joy, then abruptly turned to his men. "Wait in my office. Her, I'll call you. No break. Is that clear?" I want to talk to this person alone."
  
  
  They left and closed the door behind them. Parma lit a cigarette. "We will finally meet, and all the trump cards will be in my hands," he said. He licked his lips, his eyes glistening at the prospect he saw. "Killmaster personally. N3 is in my hands, and in my hands. You're a captured killer, Carter, ah, you'll have to negotiate with us at great expense. Of course with me.
  
  
  He was right: if he was just a small secret police chief, he must have known that N3 was in the hall on his property and apparently working with the Zulu rebels. Once alarmed, he also had to know my way of working. So when he found the sleeping lion that he advertises on his mannequin, he was amazed, and when the other half turned out to be with Manuel Quesada, he was absolutely sure that he had N3 on AH . It was also too important to be handled by anyone but himself .
  
  
  "A mistake," I said. "I'm definitely getting too old."
  
  
  "Your situation is very delicate," Parma said softly.
  
  
  "If there's no doubt in my mind that you're the killer ..." he shrugged.
  
  
  "Can I have a cigarette?" He gave me one and gave me a light. "To begin with, what is AH, actually doing here? I smoked it. — You don't believe I'm going to talk, do you?"
  
  
  "I think at some point we'll even get you talking," Parma said.
  
  
  "If you live long enough," I said.
  
  
  'Angry? Come on, you were completely searched ... '
  
  
  He walked over to the dummy and put his hand on it. He leapt at me, gun in hand, and violently pushed me aside. Her stumbled across the room. Parma leaned over the mannequin to find what ego thought he had hidden inside. Em didn't like it.
  
  
  He tried to turn around, then stood up. Ego's face turned blue. He gasped for breath. Ego's eyes bulged horribly around his head, and in less than five seconds he fell dead to the ground.
  
  
  Hers was left in the far corner of the room. The gas released when her threw a cigarette into the liquid that soaked the straw was the deadliest weapon she knew. A single breath meant instant death. I doubt that Parma ever realized that the ego method killed, or even that it was dying. This happened before the ego, the mind, could say anything.
  
  
  A police officer who wanted to examine his own evidence would definitely bring the dummy to his office. Definitely an officer who is personally involved in something as important as AI or N3 and the hotel itself. I was counting on it, and it worked. Now all I had to do was get out alive .
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 17
  
  
  
  
  It shouldn't be that hard.
  
  
  When he died, Parma didn't give us the sound. The ego people in the other room were strictly ordered to stay there, and they were well disciplined. It will be a long time before even the highest rank, probably the thin, cold-eyed man who brought me here, remembers to enter when the emu was told not to; or even begins to wonder if something went wrong.
  
  
  I couldn't wear Parma's clothes. It was too small for me. But the second door in ego's office led to a corridor where another sentry was posted. By this point, the entire office should have known that the killer was caught, that he belonged to a secret organization, and that the boss was now cracking down on him. All of them would get an honorable mention and possibly even get promoted; rumors usually spread quickly in an organization like the secret police. With any luck, the vigilance would ease, and now everyone would be grinning at each other as they sipped their wine.
  
  
  All this was going through her mind in a few seconds, so he held his breath, searched Parma's body, picked up the ego gun, and went to the door leading to the corridor. Ee opened it and said, imitating Parma's voice through the handkerchief,"Come in now."
  
  
  The soldier hurried inside. Again, the same overly strict discipline of the police state. He closed the door on her, and in almost the same motion knocked Ego nog down. It collapsed. He was almost my height. I would have used the ego uniform anyway, but this luck saved me a lot of risk. I stripped off my ego, put on my uniform, and went out into the hallway.
  
  
  I left quickly, as if I had an important errand for Parma. The security guard would have seen me come in another day and wouldn't have minded if he'd just come out again. He, too, scarcely looked up; he was talking cheerfully to two other sentries who had left their posts in the excitement of the murderer's arrest. The rumors here really went as fast as I expected.
  
  
  The high-ranking officials who were with Parma during my interrogation were ordered to wait in another office, and there they were probably still waiting. I didn't have to worry about anyone around them noticing my face. He hurried through the noisy corridors, went down to the lower floor, and headed for the front door.
  
  
  The sentry at the main entrance looked at me curiously. He gestured for a drink, and the sentry grinned. Then he found himself on a dark street.
  
  
  I got rid of my uniform in another alley, changed back into the clothes I'd hidden there, and went back to my cheap hotel. There I packed up, paid, and walked two blocks to the third room I'd rented. Her went upstairs and bench press to sleep. I slept well, it was a very long day.
  
  
  Even the police and army cars that drove around the city all night with sirens blaring didn't stop me from sleeping.
  
  
  I sat in my room all the next day. I was watching TV and waiting for my contact person. She didn't say much except for the assassination attempts. Panic gripped the city; martial law was declared, and the area was cordoned off. In a hysterical tone, the government called for calm. Now that the leader had been killed, everything was under control. This is usually the case for toddlers.
  
  
  In a few weeks, when no one else has been killed and nothing else has happened, the government will decide that the danger is over and the colony will settle down again. Everyone congratulated the government, and the government congratulated itself on the decisive action that saved the cause and defeated the dastardly killer. Only a few people, cynics, poets, writers, and a few reporters, would have thought that the killer might have just finished his work and gone home.
  
  
  My contact showed up shortly before lunch as an army captain with a squad of soldiers. He knocked on my door and announced my arrest. She was about to be blown up by ih through the door when the captain shouted: "Don't resist, senor. Your brother has already been arrested. Your true strength is known, escape is impossible.
  
  
  The key word was " brother."
  
  
  I asked her. "What is my real identity?"
  
  
  "You are Senor Halvdan Zwart, employed by Malmö Saw and AX."
  
  
  He opened the door for her. The captain only smiled once. He ordered his men to arrest me. The townspeople ran out onto the sidewalk. Some of them spat on me. The soldiers pushed me into the commander's car, sel captain, and we drove off.
  
  
  'Where to? I asked her.
  
  
  The captain just shrugged. Her, looked at him. There was something about nen that I didn't like. The captain showed us no curiosity, no smiles, no questions. There was something grim about nen, he was too wary. And he wasn't looking at me enough.
  
  
  We rode out of the city in the purple twilight, into the dense wilderness to the south. It was already dark when we entered the courtyard, a large hacienda in the countryside. The soldiers were standing in the shadows around us. There were also two helicopters, one with US markings around it. Her, felt better. The captain led me inside. "You'll have to wait here, mister. Carter, " the captain said.
  
  
  He left me alone. Now I didn't like it at all. He studied the large living room where he stood. Nen had both a luxurious and rustic setting, as well as the estate of a very rich man from an old family. Not an African estate, but a Portuguese one. Chairs and tables, on the Internet and weapons on the walls — all this was moved openly through medieval Portugal.
  
  
  There were no soldiers here, but I could see shadows in every window. He felt trapped. But I did my job. Nothing went wrong. Or was it correct? Its done its job and they don't need it anymore?
  
  
  Knew her too much? So that an important person can now make sure that the emu doesn't need me anymore? This has happened before. And the captain knew it.
  
  
  The door to moans opposite me opened. A man entered the room and looked around as intently as he had before: Hawk.
  
  
  He saw me. 'Nickname? What are you doing here?"'
  
  
  — Didn't you send for me?" I snapped.
  
  
  He frowned. — Yes, it was arranged by a contact to get you out of the country, but ... ... this 'order' is closed, isn't it?
  
  
  "Yes," I said. 'Why not?'
  
  
  "I thought they were taking you back to Swaziland," the old man said. "The minister told me on the phone that he had important business to attend to with me. Maybe he wants to thank you.
  
  
  "Maybe," I said. — But all the windows are guarded, and the captain knows my real name."
  
  
  'Your name! Hawk swore. "Tailor, this is against the whole deal. The minister knows...'
  
  
  Another door opened. — What do I know, Mr. Hawke?"'
  
  
  Ego's deep voice, so impressive for an ego of small stature, echoed through the room. There he stood, alone, around the main people of Portugal, watching Hawk and me. Hawk wasn't afraid. A goshawk won't intimidate us one person in the world.
  
  
  "That no one should know the name of N3 during the task."
  
  
  "But the' mission ' is over, isn't it?" the little man said. "Our three suspects are dead, very professionally, Mr. Carter is still very experienced.
  
  
  "Take the tailor," Hawk roared. You called about an important business matter. You didn't say that N3 would be here, that your people would bring ego here using the code you gave the contact to help the emu escape. You want him to leave for Mozambique as soon as possible. Then why is he still here?
  
  
  "The job is done," I said slowly. Perhaps now the minister is trying to hide his involvement, and he no longer needs it.
  
  
  Hawk laughed thinly. — I wouldn't recommend it, Mr. Secretary.
  
  
  There was a hint of menace in his voice, but when Hawke warns, he has the power, and he stands behind him, and it's never gentle. Ah, maybe destroy an entire nation if necessary. The minister should have known that, but his face didn't move a muscle. She began to feel very uncomfortable. What...?
  
  
  "The work is done," the minister said. — But was it really necessary?" Three of the leading figures around us are dead, but I wonder if one of them was actually a traitor.
  
  
  Silence hung like a cloud in the luxurious living room, as deadly as the gas cloud that had killed Parma. He glanced at the windows, where the shadows of the sentries were visible. Hawke just looked at the minister, his face suddenly serious.
  
  
  "What does that mean?" The old man asked.
  
  
  "We were convinced that the rebels knew and could only do all this if they had a leader, under one of the government officials. Traitor. We know there must be a traitor, but maybe we'd like to be in the wrong place.
  
  
  — Where did you always have to look then? Hawk asked softly.
  
  
  'Mr. Carter killed the rebel leader with us, " the secretary said, looking at me. "But the uprising is going according to plan. We heard that in a few hours Colonel Lister was going to appear on underground television to announce the egoism and call for riots and strikes among the Negroes. We have heard from our neighbors that the rebels are unstoppable and cannot be defeated, and that they can carry out their plans without noticeable problems."
  
  
  Now he looked at Hawke. "Last night, as soon as she became aware of Parma's death, she was ordered to secretly move these selected units around the barracks to Imbamba, 60 kilometers away. All according to plan. He looked at both of us. "In the early evening, Colonel Lister's mercenaries attacked our troops in Imbamba. He attacked the ih on arrival, when they were still disorganized and unformed, and almost destroyed the ih. Within two weeks, they will be useless to us. Colonel Lister was waiting for ih!
  
  
  Hawk blinked. Her mind looked ahead. How was this possible ... ?
  
  
  'But ...' Hawk began to frown.
  
  
  "Before he gave the order, only two people knew about this movement of troops," the minister said. "Me and Mr. Carter.
  
  
  "N3 reported to me, of course."
  
  
  "And then you. - said the minister. The anger was now deep in his voice. 'Her . .. and ah, and she didn't tell them. Then I started thinking. Who among all those involved has contacts with us, as well as with the rebels? Who works both ways? Ah! If only one of our officials was a traitor, who would be able to give these rebels all the information they have? Only one source: AH.'
  
  
  The Minister snapped his fingers. Soldiers burst into the room all day long. The Minister bellowed: "Arrest ih both."
  
  
  Stahl didn't wait for her. She didn't hesitate for a second. Maybe my subconscious mind was ready for this right from the moment I got to this hacienda. It was hit by two soldiers and dove through the window. Under the glass rain of it, he landed on top of the soldier outside, rolled over, and jumped to his feet. He threw himself over the wall of the hacienda.
  
  
  On the other side of it, he leapt to his feet and plunged into the dark jungle.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 18
  
  
  
  
  They came for me. I was less than twenty meters from the jungle when bullets whizzed around my ears, ripping leaves and branches from the trees. She heard the low, furious voice of the minister urging his men on. If he hadn't been convinced beforehand, my escape would have cleared his doubts. But I didn't stand a chance: he wouldn't have listened to any explanations if I'd had any. But I didn't have an explanation, and if her find the ego hotel, her should have been free to do so. I had a feeling that rheumatism lay in Lister's camp.
  
  
  The area around the hacienda was a mix of jungle and savanna, and the soldiers tried to use the open grasslands to cut me off and lock me in the denser swathes of jungle. Ih could hear it all around him, and behind me, in the hacienda, the helicopter engine coughed. Her, saw him take off into the night. And ego spotlights were scanning the ground as he turned in my direction. The minister will call in additional troops, police, and anyone else he can. He could have had the entire police and army of Mozambique at his disposal if he wanted to.
  
  
  Now everyone will follow me, on both sides of the border, and here, on both sides of the conflict. She wouldn't have been a hindrance to Stahl, and Hawk, my only other man, was now a prisoner himself. They don't cause the emu any harm; he had too much power to do so, but they will keep the ego at bay, and for now, AH is limited in his actions. Somewhere I had to find rheumatism on what happened and how it happened. Colonel Lister was supposed to find her. Time has become important.
  
  
  There was only one quick way, the best way under different circumstances. Perhaps the only way to escape. Violent and unexpected. I've been trained for this for years. He returned to the hacienda.
  
  
  The soldiers and the helicopter continued their pursuit in the direction in which he was fleeing. Her mimmo slipped past them like a ghost. But the minister was no fool. He didn't overlook the possibility that I might return. The hacienda was still swarming with soldiers. It wasn't open, but they were hiding in the shadows everywhere, waiting for me to move.
  
  
  But the minister was wrong. He was wrong. He had a Hawk, and he knew the importance of a Goshawk. So he expected me to try to free Hawke. The guards were massing around the house itself, wary of any attempts to get inside again and free Hawke. But I didn't think to try it.
  
  
  Her carapace ran along the wall until it found a side gate, picked the lock, and slipped inside. The US Army helicopter was still in the same spot. It was the helicopter that had brought Hawke to the meeting. The pilot was probably stuck somewhere in the house, but luckily I didn't need it. Only one person was guarding by helicopter. It was knocked down by Ego nog, one well-aimed blow, left where he fell, and jumped into the cab. I took the engine and took off before the soldiers realized what was happening.
  
  
  He took off as fast as a helicopter could carry him. Several bullets hit the hull and landing gear, but none hit me. It flew obliquely around the circle of special ones and disappeared into the night without lights. He turned her toward the ocean to avoid the Portuguese helicopter. From there, it turned south, toward the mangrove swamps and Colonel Lister's village.
  
  
  I landed on the same ledge at the edge of the swamp where Prince Wahbi's men had caught me. In the dark, he made his way back through the swamp to the mercenary village. I didn't see or hear any patrols, and I found the outer ring of sentries almost deserted. There were still a few sentries in the village itself, and the huts were occupied by sleeping women.
  
  
  In the hut, he found her sleeping Indula and a Zulu woman in a silk cloak, whom he met in the rebel village in the gorge. She must be Lister's wife. The cabin was clearly Lister's, larger than the others and with an ego field office, but the colonel himself wasn't there, and neither was Ego's weapon.
  
  
  Where was he? Where were the mercenaries?
  
  
  She didn't have to wake Indula up to ask. Whatever had happened between us in the room in Wahbi's fortress, now of course she thought I was the enemy, and I had no way to prove that I wasn't. He was not her enemy, and indeed he was not the enemy of the Zulus. But my assignment didn't mean any help for them at the moment.
  
  
  I let Ay sleep and slipped back into the swamp. There, in the outer ring of sentries, sat a man dozing over a light machine gun. He was short and wiry, with Indian features and a bandaged arm. Maybe the South American stayed in the village because he was injured.
  
  
  He woke up to the vaults with a knife at his throat.
  
  
  'Where are they? he hissed at her in Spanish.
  
  
  He looked up and shook the sleep from his eyes. 'Who?'
  
  
  "Breathe softly, no sound," I whispered, pressing the knife to ego's throat. "Where's Lister?"
  
  
  Ego's eyes rolled back in their sockets: "Imbamba. Attacks.'
  
  
  "It was early last night. They should be back by now.
  
  
  He looked worried. He knew too much. Or was he afraid of what he knew ?
  
  
  "They should be back by now to head south tomorrow," I said. "The South is the border of the uprising".
  
  
  Now the emu was very scared. He knew her too much. If only I knew that much... who else knew... what were the chances of success?.. on money. ..awards ? He was a mercenary. South Korea America was far away, and he knew where ego and loyalty lay. What it is for most people: being true to yourself. He swallowed hard.
  
  
  "They're on their way, sir .
  
  
  'Where to?'
  
  
  "North, say ten miles from here. Railway from Swaziland to Lorenzo Marques.
  
  
  'North? But . .. '
  
  
  The railway? Web railway from Swaziland to India?
  
  
  Dress up to Lorenzo Marquez? Vital and strategic importance . .. I began to suspect her. North!
  
  
  She was knocked down by a mercenary. She's already been killed by enough more or less innocent people, and I've had enough for now. North!
  
  
  A voice where the freedom fighters of Mozambique would rise up, yes. But the whole plan called for an explosion in the border areas, a concentrated explosion involving Lister's mercenaries as the main force to repel the Portuguese advancing from the north and the regular South African troops advancing from the west. If Lister and Ego's firepower were to move north, away from the border, it would leave the Zulus, Swazi rebels, and the bulk of the Mozambican Negroes alone to face the regular forces of South Africa and Swaziland.
  
  
  Or worse, if Portuguese troops could move south unhindered by Lister — Lister's mercenaries to the north and Portuguese colonial troops to the south — the Zulus and other black rebels would have no chance. It will be a real bloodbath.
  
  
  My suspicions deepened. Carlos Lister was working for the Russians, and he was going to leave the rebels here to be devoured by the lions. While they were dying trying to attack the Portuguese and Swazi armies, Lister pushed north and captured Mozambique. Maybe she knows for sure.
  
  
  She was supposed to warn the Zulus and other Negroes who had to fight modern army troops with assegais and old guns. But, how did I get her to believe me? How?
  
  
  She was tied up by a mercenary and snuck back to the empty mercenary village. He returned to the hut where Indula and the Zulu woman who owned Lister were sleeping. He entered the hut without a word, bent over Indula, and kissed her once, twice, then put his hand over her mouth.
  
  
  She woke with a start. She tried to move, but ee stopped her, covering her mouth. Her eyes rolled wildly back in her head, and they were angry when she looked at me.
  
  
  "Indula," I whispered. — You think I'm your enemy, but I'm not. I can't explain all of this, but I had an assignment and now it's over. Now I have the option to do something different: to save you and your people.
  
  
  She struggled, glaring at me.
  
  
  "Listen," I hissed. "Now's not the time, do you hear? Lister tricked us all . You and me. He used meet your people and then betrays ih. Ego has to stop her, and you have to warn your people. Where is Dambulamanzi?
  
  
  She shook her head and tried to bite my arm, her eyes glittering wildly.
  
  
  'Listen to me. The mercenaries are moving north. Do you understand? Go north !
  
  
  She had calmed down and was now looking at me with doubt in her eyes. Doubt saw her: the north, and the memory of what had passed between us in the room.
  
  
  "I admit that I was sent to do something against you, it was political. But now it's with you, it's also politics, but much more. Now I'm doing what I want to do: I'm trying to stop Lister.
  
  
  She stared at me without moving. He took his chance, took his hand away from ee rta and let go of ee. She jumped up and stared at me. But she didn't scream.
  
  
  'In the north?'she said. "No, you're lying.
  
  
  — You must warn your people. Find Dambulamanzi and tell emu. I'm not going with you.
  
  
  "How can I trust you, Nick?
  
  
  "Because you know me and because you trusted me before."
  
  
  'Trust? White in math?
  
  
  "A white man, yes. But not the enemy. I have his work, and he did it. But now that job is done, and its with you.
  
  
  — me... she hesitated.
  
  
  Suddenly he heard movement and turned quickly. An elderly Zulu woman, Lister's woman, woke up and sat up in her silk dress with a gold buckle that shone in the dim light.
  
  
  "He's lying, Indula. This is a white spy. He came here to kill our leader and stop the rebellion. He works for the Portuguese.
  
  
  He nodded to her. — That's what I was sent to do. But things are different now. I don't believe there was ever a secret Portuguese leader. Have you ever seen, ego, Indula? No, Lister is the only white leader, and he uses the Chucky Tag to his advantage."
  
  
  "Don't listen to ego! the woman exclaimed. Now she spoke English without a chip.
  
  
  Indula looked at the woman, then at me, and I could see the doubt growing on her face. Perhaps now she was reminded of other, minor doubts about the past.
  
  
  "Sibena," she said slowly, " your English is very good now, Stahl. Where did you learn that?"
  
  
  "Her specialists are better than you think," the older woman said roughly. "To our cause." This man. .. '
  
  
  "This is Lister's woman," I said. — Are you listening to Lister's wife, Indula?"
  
  
  Indula seemed to be thinking about things she remembered. "Where are you from, Shibena?" Did we ever know you before Colonel Lister came here?" You have come to us as an egoist. This was Zuluska, so we trusted hey no...
  
  
  Shibena set to work. Fast, well-practiced attacks. A long knife in a dark hand, muscles glistening under black skin. It was an attack on me. She reacted so quickly and so well that if the Indula hadn't worked, she would have killed me for sure. She protected me by reflex. Because we loved each other? Whatever it was, the Indula acted spontaneously and got in Shibena's way. Shibena tossed it aside with a quick flick of her free hand, and Indula was flung aside like a feather. But it was enough. The dagger almost hit me in the face when I added up the dollar, and I felt a pang in my calculations. He quickly lunged and hit Shibenu on the tip of the jaw. She fell like a prostrate bull. It was as strong as it could get.
  
  
  Indulu grabbed her arm. 'Come with me.'
  
  
  She didn't resist any longer and followed me through the tents and through the almost deserted camp. We slowed down, and I warned her to keep quiet. We slipped through the ring of sentries at the post, where the downed mercenary was still tied up. He wasn't trying to make things difficult for us. Perhaps he was glad that he was tied up and no longer bothered us.
  
  
  We approached the helicopter. In the dark, he rose from the ledge of rock and turned the car north. Indula kept looking at me worriedly, not quite sure of me yet. The mercenaries had to find her.
  
  
  Ih found it. They were in the north, the man said. A quiet camp with no campfires, along the Swaziland railway to Lorenzo Marques, forty kilometers north of where they were supposed to be, and just a few hours from where they were supposed to be forty kilometers on the other side of the village.
  
  
  "They didn't make it fifty miles before noon today," I said. "Convinced ?"
  
  
  Indula looked down. "There may be a reason for this."
  
  
  "All right," I said. "Let's find out."
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 19
  
  
  
  
  Gray dawn greeted us as we landed in a small open space about a mile south of the mercenaries. The jungle here has turned into low scrub and savanna. It was quiet, and the wild animals were hidden. People were outraged .
  
  
  We made our way cautiously toward the railroad, and the small mercenary sanctuaries lined up one after the other. They were on full alert. Field patrols closely guard the area. It looks like Colonel Lister didn't want anyone to discover ih until he was done. From a passing train, no one would be able to pick up any traces of the soldiers. Getting into the camp won't be so easy. He saw Lister's tent almost in the middle, safe and well-guarded. I saw her, or something else, or something I didn't see.
  
  
  I asked her. "Where are Dambulamanzi and the other Negroes?" "Maybe they're on patrol."
  
  
  "Maybe," I said.
  
  
  We skirted the outer ring of sentries. Although I couldn't find a safe way to enter the camp, Indula was able to simply enter.
  
  
  "If you're right, you can go in, but you can't go out," her father said.
  
  
  "If I could get to Lister and meet him face - to-face, that would be enough," she said. "But you, they would have taken you ... "
  
  
  A branch snapped in the silence. Indulu pushed her flat to the ground, trying to cover himself as best he could. Another branch snapped, and a shapeless brown shape appeared at the edge of the jungle, pausing to look out into the brush and savanna. Arab. Odin around the people of the dead Prince Wahbi! What was he supposed to do here? I immediately threw this problem around my head. It didn't matter yet. Khalil al-Mansur was probably looking out for mercenaries for his Portuguese " friends." But this was my chance.
  
  
  Hers slid toward him. He never knows what happened to him. An emu put a noose around her neck and strangled her. He quickly stripped off his ego and put on a brown burnous and a black kufiyah , smeared his face with dirt, and pulled the kufiyah over his face and chin.
  
  
  "In your case," her Indule said, " they might be surprised. But you and arab together, you can do it. Let's go.'
  
  
  We walked quietly but casually back to the camp. The first sentry hailed us. Indula introduced herself and told the man that arab wanted to see Colonel Lister. Her hand was on the silenced pistol under her robes . Her body tensed.
  
  
  The guard nodded. 'Continue on your way. The Colonel is in his tent. Indula looked at me for a moment. Her face remained expressionless. The sentry was not surprised to see the Arab. He seemed more concerned about Indula's presence here. The doubt disappeared around her eyes.
  
  
  We went candid through the hidden camp. The green-robed mercenaries looked at us curiously. but they didn't do anything against us. Two sentries let us pass, after asking Indula what she was doing here and why she wasn't in the village.
  
  
  "We have an important message for the colonel," she said. He spoke in Arabic. "A message from Shibena. She's sending me to Colonel Lister."
  
  
  Indula translated this, and then asked: "Where is Dambulamanzi?"
  
  
  "On a mission," the sentry said.
  
  
  He let us pass. Then a German, Major Kurtz, saw her. He was standing in front of Colonel Lister's tent, looking openly at us. I hid my face as much as I could. We moved on. Kurz met us in front of Lister's tent. He stared at me, then suddenly turned to Indula.
  
  
  — Why are you here, woman?" he snapped in Swahili. "Who told you we were here?"
  
  
  It was nonsense, a dangerous corkscrew. The indula didn't flinch. "Shibena," she said calmly. "I have an important message for the colonel."
  
  
  'Oh, right? Kurtz said. All his attention was focused on the girl. Emu didn't care about the silent Arab. "Shibena wouldn't send a message without a password. What is it?'
  
  
  "She didn't give me the password." Indula said. Do your allies need passwords? Do you know Zulu, the rebel, and the chief's daughter, Major Kurtz?
  
  
  The bony German narrowed his eyes. "Probably not, but I want to hear this message. Come on, both of you.
  
  
  He had a luger in his thick hand. He pointed to a tent that was already sitting next to Colonel Lister's. We entered, and he flexed his muscles to pounce on it. It was risky, and if he made a big fuss, we'd never make it out of the camp alive again. But I did. †
  
  
  Suddenly, there was confusion at the other end of the camp. Kurtz turned around. I couldn't see what it was, but this was my chance to quickly grab it. Its stirred. He stepped back and shouted to the sentry.
  
  
  "Guard the two of them in the tent and keep ih there until I get back."
  
  
  He strode toward the commotion. The sentry came to the opening, pushed us with his rifle to the back of the groan and closed the bait tent's number. The ego shadow indicated that he was looking intently at the plain. "Nick," Indula said, " if Kurtz asked for a message, what could we tell him?"
  
  
  "Are you convinced now?"
  
  
  She looked the other way. - It's strange that Kurz doesn't trust me. Even weirder, Shibena had a password . "Kurtz wasn't surprised that Sibena knew they were here in the north."
  
  
  "She lied," I said.
  
  
  "But that might be the reason," Indula said. It's hard to lose faith when your dreams of freedom go up in smoke. She began to believe Lister and Shibena, a woman of her own people.
  
  
  I told her. "Dambulamanzi should be here.He's your contact, and he should be right next to Lister."
  
  
  - Yes, but...
  
  
  Hey, we needed some definitive proof. Colonel Lister's tent was the only place where we could get what we needed.
  
  
  Kurz didn't search us in a hurry. A knife grabbed her and cut a hole in the back of the tent. A sentry was stationed behind Lister's tent. In addition, the outer ring of sentries was opened under the railway embankment. They stood guard, and only looked at the railway tracks. There were two other sentries on the left, and they seemed to be watching something at the far end of the camp, away from the railroad tracks.
  
  
  "There's a guard at the back who will definitely see us," Indule told her. "There's a good chance Kurtz didn't talk to him." I'll make a hole in the back of the tent, and you can go outside and talk to this sentry. He will definitely recognize you. Distract the ego in some way, whatever you think up, and make the ego look the other way.
  
  
  She nodded. Carefully cut the back wall. The sentry didn't see it. Indula slipped out and casually approached the sentry. He was a good sentry, and he noticed her as soon as she came up to him. He aimed at nah, then slowly lowered the rifle. He smiled. It was also lucky that this was a young man who definitely needed a girlfriend.
  
  
  Waiting for her.
  
  
  She approached a young sentry, a Spaniard, apparently a young partisan in the service of the great Colonel Lister. They were still talking to each other, and Indula, despite her youth, had been a partisan for quite some time. She saw what she saw: he was looking at the hotel. She was sitting very close to him now. I saw him tense up. It was against all the rules and training for a sentry to let someone get so close. She soothed him, and he saw her arch her back to bring her breasts close to his face. She covered her bare breasts with mistletoe, like a Zulu woman. He licked his lips and laid the rifle on the ground, holding it in one hand.
  
  
  She turned it around, and he saw her looking around to make sure the other guards weren't looking. Then she nodded.
  
  
  He got out of the hole and walked quickly to the sentry. When he heard me, he turned quickly and tried to pick up the rifle. Ego's eyes suddenly widened, then glazed over. He caught it before it could fall. Indula held a small, sharp dagger in her hand. She knew exactly where to hit someone.
  
  
  He quickly looked around. Nam Odin's crouched mercenaries didn't look in our direction. The two sentries ahead were too busy looking elsewhere. She was carried by a dead sentry to the back of Lister's tent. It was a double tent with a sleeping area at the back, but I had to take a chance. I cut through the back wall, and we brought the dead sentry inside.
  
  
  The only furniture was the colonel's Spartan cot, a trunk, and a canvas chair. Otherwise, the sleeping area was empty. We put the dead sentry under the bed. Nothing moved in the front either. He peeked through the crack and saw Lister working alone at his field desk. Nen was carrying a pistol, knife, bandolier, and backpack shoulder straps. He was ready to leave immediately. Ego's field notebook sat to the left of his chair, its lid open. Hers, Indula nodded. We should have had these records. She looked at me expectantly. I could kill this colonel on the spot and hope to get out alive, but if ego kills her before I have proof, Indula will never believe me.
  
  
  "Listen," I whispered. "We'll have to wait until he leaves the tent." Or until we somehow get the ego out. Perhaps...'
  
  
  He didn't finish the sentence. Lister got up and Kurtz entered the tent. He didn't look relaxed.
  
  
  "A guest, Colonel," the German said.
  
  
  The tent flap was pulled back, and Khalil al-Mansur entered the tent, bent over, straightened his back, and approached the colonel with a smile.
  
  
  "A pleasure, Colonel," he said in English.
  
  
  Listera nodded. "My condolences, Al Mansour. The Prince's death was a shock to all of us.
  
  
  Lister also spoke English. It was probably the only language they had in common. Khalil al-Mansour, sat down with a smile. There was a strong resemblance between the two men; both looked like seasoned wolves revolving around the other other. Al-Mansour continued to smile.
  
  
  "A shock, but fortunately not an irreparable tragedy," arab said. — Are your plans going well?"
  
  
  "Great," Lister said. — Do you have any plans, Al-Mansour?"
  
  
  "Like all men," Khalil said. "The Prince did a great job of taking away the troublesome black rebels who came to you for help and support. You seemed like a friend, a person who helped refugees and then got rid of them without any fuss.
  
  
  "The prince was wise to sell ih into slavery," Lister said. - The choice of black young men, strong and hot-tempered. Ego rich clients liked it. My influence over the leaders made it easier to enslave other women. So you can help each other.
  
  
  Her, looked at Indula. Her dark face was almost gray. There was hatred in her eyes. Now she knew how she had been captured by Prince Wahbi's men when she thought the hall was "safe" in Lister's camp. Lister handed over all the Negroes he supposedly resorts to, Wahbi, to sell ih into slavery so they wouldn't accidentally discover that Lister was on his way.
  
  
  She looked at me and nodded: now she believed me. In another part of the tent, Khalil spoke again.
  
  
  "Mutual benefit," said arab. — Is there a reason why this shouldn't be continued with me instead of the prince?"
  
  
  "No reason," Listera agreed. "If you can keep your ego spot, al Mansour."
  
  
  "Ego of place and ego of promise," Khalil said. "Our support to you in Lorenzo Marques, Mbabane and Cape Town in exchange for your consent to our, well, real professional, business relationship."
  
  
  "Do I need your support in these places, Al Mansour?"
  
  
  Khalil smiled again. "Come on, Colonel. I know your plans. While your lack of support will overwhelm the Zulu and Swazi rebels as Portuguese colonial forces move south, you strike here in the north. You want to try to seize power.
  
  
  "The Mozambique Liberation Front is seizing this power," the colonel said. "Order will be restored through chaos."
  
  
  "The chaos you create for yourself by abandoning the rebels, forcing South Africans to engage in Zululand, and confusing and destroying Portuguese troops with the rebels. A massacre that you are going to put a thread on by calling up your black employees.
  
  
  Colonel Lister's eyes lit up. "We will become the entire force of the Mozambique Liberation Front. The world will call for an end to the bloodshed. Then we will be the only force capable of restoring order. We will negotiate with Lisbon and then take power: a free nation, but in our own hands." He looked at Khalil. "Yes, the support of Cape Town, Lisbon, Rhodesia and even Swaziland can help. You can keep your 'business', Khalil. A small price to pay for strength.
  
  
  "You take power for the Russians. Are you sure they'll agree?
  
  
  "Agreed," Colonel Lister snapped at him. "Her beru power in Mozambique is for herself, for us. Money and power, this is a rich country."
  
  
  Khalil laughed. — I see that we are both men of the world. We'll get along, Colonel.
  
  
  "And her," Coertze said, " all of us. High office, gold, a villa, servants, what else can you fight for?
  
  
  They were all laughing now, smiling at each other like vultures on a dry branch.
  
  
  Indula's whisper was almost too loud. "We have to kill ih."
  
  
  "No, — I whispered. "First we have to save the meet your people. They will be destroyed. If I understand Lister a little, then he will do more than just stay away. It will reveal your plans and alert South Africa. We have to save the meet your people and stop Lister.
  
  
  "But how can we alone ... '
  
  
  "I think I see a way out," I said softly. 'A chance. Perhaps Khalil and the ego people will give us an opportunity, and we should take it now. Do as I say. You take Khalil. Mute. Right now!'
  
  
  We reached the front of the tent. In a moment of sickness, Indula put her dagger to Khalil's throat before he could even rise an inch from his chair.
  
  
  He put a silenced pistol to Lister's head and hissed at Kurtz:
  
  
  — Don't do anything, do you hear? Without a single sound!
  
  
  They didn't move. Startled eyes turned to Indula and stared at me in my brown burnoose. Hema was hers? He didn't introduce himself, but I think Kurtz saw who she was. He paled. Ey was a Killmaster, ey meant what he said.
  
  
  "We're all leaving now," I said softly. You'll be dead before you know it, Sarge, so I'd better watch out for her knife." The Colonel and Khalil will follow me, as is the good Arab custom. Smile, talk, and remember that we have nothing to lose by killing you if we are discovered. Make sure we don't get stopped.
  
  
  They nodded, and he nodded to Indula. The girl went first with Kurtz, her knife stuck in the place on his back where he could have died from the first blow. He followed Khalil and Lister. We walked slowly through the center of the camp, the Colonel and Khalil chatting and smiling, with Khalil's Arab follower walking behind. If anyone around the sentries or other mercenaries remembered that Khalil had entered the tent without one of his men, they would still not ask. Why should it? The colonel didn't worry, and Kurtz led the way with a smiling Zulu girl they all knew.
  
  
  Until Kurtz, Listera, and Khalil were brave or stupid, it was all very simple. They didn't understand, so it was easier. We passed the outer ring of sentries, and passed through the edge of the jungle. Open before us was a grassy hill. He made them all come up just below the top, let them stop, and then looked at them surreptitiously,
  
  
  In the sun, about fifty yards away, he saw several Arabs waiting for Khalil. A little further on, a movement in the bushes announced that the rest of the late Prince Wahbi's men were there.
  
  
  I turned around and saw that the ring of mercenaries had fallen silent a few meters away from me. A few mercenaries casually glanced at their commander and the lieutenant's ego. High-level conference with Khalil. What soldier cared about such things? They would have been told what to do, so they relaxed.
  
  
  This would be zero. He took a deep breath and pointed to the Indula. I gave him the luger from Kurtz's holster.
  
  
  "Guard Lister and Kurtz," he whispered to her. "And if they move their finger, you shoot them."
  
  
  She nodded. He took Khalil by the hand, the gun on his back, and walked with him to the top of the hill. When he was sure that the ego people saw him standing there, he took off the silencer, shot the emu twice in the back, and started shouting in Arabic.
  
  
  "They killed Khalil al-Mansour. Mercenaries. They killed our leader. Attack! Attack! Allah il Allah. Attack!'
  
  
  He turned quickly and disappeared from sight. It was heard by Arabs and black Wahbi soldiers. Colonel Lister and Colonel Kurtz stood there, horrified.
  
  
  At the edge of the camp, all the mercenaries were already on their feet, and the officers rushed forward to leave. On the left, the Arabs were already cursing.
  
  
  "Shoot them," Indule called to her.
  
  
  She shot Kurtz and then made a gun at Lister. The Colonel was a little faster and ducked for cover in a small hollow behind a rock. Indula's shot missed...
  
  
  The mercenaries were shouting: "The Arabs! They shot Major Kurtz and the colonel. Alert! Alert!'
  
  
  In five languages, orders were carried back and forth along the ranks of soldiers. The machine guns began to rattle. Grenades exploded. The Arabs rushed forward, using cover. They found Khalil.
  
  
  Indule shouted it. - 'Leave the ego. Come with me!"'
  
  
  To our right, the jungle was still clear. There was nothing Lister could do to change the situation now. He could only make ih angry. He would win, but the mercenaries would be immaculately battered, and he had even more in store for them.
  
  
  We ran through the jungle, Indula's breasts heaving like free birds. She wanted to get her, but knew there was still too much to do. We arrived at the helicopter as the Arabs and mercenaries behind us engaged in a fierce battle.
  
  
  We took off without firing a shot and turned south. His radio was tuned to the frequency of the Portuguese army. She was introduced and told Colonel Lister's plan and told them not to go south, but openly to Colonel Lister. He used the minister's name and kept repeating the message until we crossed the border into Zululand. He dropped her by helicopter near the village in the ravine where he had been with Indula earlier.
  
  
  "Warn the people," I said as she left. 'Say it! Oni trust you. Send couriers and detain your men. Simple ones, but another day will come.
  
  
  She nodded. Her eyes were moist and shining. 'Nickname?"Her smiled. Solomon Ndale and the ego people came running. As I turned north, I saw her talking to them. They raced back to the village, and he saw the messengers fan out in all directions. We did it. The rebellion will be stopped. There will be no massacre. Freedom for the Zulus should come later. But it will come, and they will still live to embrace and use their freedom.
  
  
  He turned on the radio again and began repeating his message to the Portuguese. Without an uprising, a terrified band of mercenaries can't compare to the Portuguese troops. Mozambique, too, had to wait for its freedom, but even the Portuguese were better than Colonel Lister's bitter freedom.
  
  
  He continued his warning, announcing Lister's plan. A voice rang out.
  
  
  "We heard you," said a deep voice that recognized her immediately. "Our troops are on their way. They won't run away from us this time.
  
  
  "That's better," I said. "What about Hawke, Secretary?"
  
  
  "He's free."
  
  
  "Around ih village too," he said, then gave her location.
  
  
  "Thank you," said the minister's voice. He hesitated. "I owe you my apologies, sir. Carter. But its still surprising.
  
  
  "Later," I said shortly, turning off the radio.
  
  
  It was over. The uprising was stopped, the slaughter averted, and the mercenaries temporarily withdrawn from the assembly line. But it's not quite a thread yet. I still have some unfinished work to do.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 20
  
  
  
  
  Softly, he stepped through the shadows of the swamp. It was only midday, and the swamps around the mercenary village were quiet. They were all gone. The sentry posts are empty and deserted. The message became known here.
  
  
  He stopped at the edge of the village. Even the women were gone, every single one of them. Nothing moved in the midday sun. Several bodies of Negroes and mercenaries lay scattered, as if a quarrel had taken place, as if a personal score had been settled, before the mercenaries fled to the safe havens they could reach. They'll be safe. In this world, there was always someone who could hire people; men who were willing to fight without question.
  
  
  Vultures circled the village. Some were in the trees at the edge of the forest, but no one fell to the ground. Someone else was still alive here. Or there might be someone else alive in this village. He pulled out his automatic pistol and walked slowly between the quiet huts in the hot sun that filtered through the trees.
  
  
  If he had been right, Colonel Carlos Listera would not have stayed with his men the moment he realized that ego's game was up. He had a radio, so he should know. By this time, Portuguese colonial troops had surrounded the ego people. The railway will allow easy access to the places where they fought with the Arabs. Lister would have left as soon as he saw the owner, if he hadn't run away earlier, when she sensed that I would run away to make it public.
  
  
  The only question is whether he will escape alone, in a jeep or a team car, or even in a helicopter, if he has hidden his ego somewhere, which wouldn't surprise me. Or will he take a group of his own people with him? Now that Kurtz was dead, he didn't believe he was with Hema anymore. Running away from your own people is much more dangerous for a group than for a person alone. You never know if the trusted people you brought with you in the heat of battle will suddenly think you're a coward when you run away.
  
  
  No, Colonel Lister was a soldier himself, and he would only get away if he could. He was loyal only to himself and his future employer, who needed nen and could use it. Especially if he had prepared an escape route, an escape plan just in case, which he certainly did.
  
  
  Escape plan and means: money, earnings, important papers that can be sold or used for blackmail. He must have some treasure, and where else but here in this village, probably in the care of his wife's ego. That's why her voice was here. If Lister hadn't come back here, he would have been met by ego somewhere else at some point, but I expected him to come here, and now the vultures have told me that there is someone alive in the village.
  
  
  He walked carefully between the huts, listening for the slightest sound: the breaking of a branch, the creaking of wood or wall, the cocking of a gun or pistol, the sound of a knife being drawn from its scabbard... I didn't hear anything except a few shots in the distance. They were supposed to be the mercenaries that the Portuguese troops had just caught. However, mercenaries do not fight for long if the battle is lost. They disappear, just as they disappeared in this village.
  
  
  I could hear gunfire in the distance and the roar of planes far and near. Planes flying high above the village and planes flying south, across the border. It had to be the South Africans, who now, he hoped, didn't hit the same target as us. But I had a goal.
  
  
  Finally, I reached Lister's cabin and saw Dambulamanzi. A tall Zulu lay in the dust of Lister's headquarters. He was dead, shot in the head. I didn't have to go to lick. Ego's dead hand clutched the spear. He died fighting hema-to, and the ego-arm assegai denied media reports to me about the moment he chopped off Deirdre Cabot's head. I wasn't sorry to see this dead Zulu in the dust.
  
  
  I looked down at his body when I heard a soft chant. Deep melancholic singing. It was coming from around Lister's cabin. He entered cautiously, bent over, but holding the machine gun in front of him with both hands. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, ih saw her.
  
  
  It was a large hut, divided into two parts by hanging hides. There was an empty straw mattress in one room, a desk, a chair, and several chairs in the other. A Zulu woman, Shibena, was sitting on one of the chairs. Her silk robe was almost torn off her body and covered in blood. There was blood in her thick African hair, too. Slowly, as if wounded, she rocked back and forth. A song burst out around her throat.
  
  
  Colonel Carlos Listera was lying over his desk. The ego of the target hung from one end to the other, her booted feet from the other. He was dead. His throat was cut. He had two more wounds on his body, as if he had been stabbed before the emu's throat was cut to finish the job.
  
  
  Lizzie came up to her. "Shiben?"
  
  
  Slowly rocking back and forth, she continued to sing, her eyes turned away to reveal the whiteness.
  
  
  "Shiben?" What happened?'
  
  
  Her body made a smooth motion as she swayed. Under ee's loose hair, the oval of her face was smaller than he'd imagined, too small for her wide nose. She was almost naked, her dress just hanging by a string around her hips. Her shoulders were broad and soft, and her breasts were full of dark pink nipples. Nah had no fat on her muscular thighs or slender flanks, and her body was almost flat. Woman. Something stirred inside me.
  
  
  "I had to do this," she said suddenly in English, pure English without an accent that surprised Indula.
  
  
  "You killed ego?" A lister?
  
  
  — He came here when he ran away by suit. Her white eyes widened and stared at me. "He fled from his people. He came for me, for his money and documents. He must have money and documents. He said he should have it too. She had to go with him.
  
  
  She cut through the bleak cabin air with a ferocious hand gesture, destroying Colonel Carlos Lister again, possibly killing him again. Erasing the ego for your need, your love, your garbage, and your life. And by killing him.
  
  
  "He had a car, money, weapons. He's waiting for me. She shook her head vigorously. "I'm not young. His woman. I loved him. But all his life he worked for his people, lived in a foreign land, to get an education for his people. I couldn't betray him.
  
  
  She looked up, angry and proud. "He betrayed my people. You were right, white man. He told me. He told me. All ego plans, all ego dreams of becoming the leader of Mozambique, ego negotiations with whites to rule must be here. He said that he had almost succeeded, but would succeed another day. In the blood of my people. So I stabbed the ego.
  
  
  She stood up and looked at the dead man. "I stabbed the ego and then cut the emu's throat. It was allowed by the ego of blood to spill on African soil, in the land that he wanted to shed African blood."
  
  
  "Did he kill Dambulamanzi?"
  
  
  She nodded. "Yes, Dambulamanzi was waiting for ego here. I didn't know that. But, Carlos... Colonel ... killed ego. He shot and killed Dambulamanzi, a man who will only fight for the freedom of his people."
  
  
  Her breasts bounced up and down in anger at the violent conflict inside nah. Suddenly I saw her black eyes on my face. Almost hungry eyes. Her breasts seemed to rise and fall apart at the same time, parting to embrace the world. She looked at me and looked down at her nearly naked body. Death, violence, blood, and hatred sometimes have a strange effect. Love and hate are near, life and death, greed and violence. He could feel it in her, raw desire.
  
  
  Did she feel the same way about me?
  
  
  "You... you. .. destroyed the ego, " she said. 'You did it. Indula told me.
  
  
  Her, felt her close to his toes. My voice is absurdly hoarse. "What did Indula tell you?"
  
  
  'What. Her smile was faint, " You were a man."
  
  
  'Here? I asked, looking at Lister, who was hanging his head from the chair. 'With him?'
  
  
  "Here, just because of him."
  
  
  She stripped off the last shreds of her silk robe, let the emu fall to her ankles, and then stepped out naked. He looked at her plump body, her feminine thighs, the prominent bump of Venus, and the triangle of black hair on her black skin.
  
  
  He looked at her, swallowed, but not for long. She came over to me and pulled my lips down to hers. He could feel her tongue, hot and sharp as a knife, in his stomach. Colonel Lister picked her up, carried her into the bedroom, and laid her on the straw. She closed her eyes and opened my arms and legs.
  
  
  I don't remember getting out through my shoes or pants. I don't remember hers lying next to her. I don't remember sliding into nah like a boy taking a woman for the first time, full and heavy and almost throbbing, which hurt. I remember her moans , her kisses, her legs closing around me, and her thighs continuing to lift off the straw to let her sink deeper into nah.
  
  
  We lay side by side, and I touched her body where Venus's mound of life rose beneath her wedge-shaped black hair. She sighed next to me, closed her eyes again, as if falling asleep; her left hand stroked my neck and my chest, and suddenly her right hand flew up and went in the direction of my chest.
  
  
  She was grabbed by ee's wrist with both hands, acting in the same split second as she did, keeping the wrist of the hand that held the knife away from me. The long, razor-sharp dagger she'd pulled out around the straw of the bed was probably the one she'd used to kill Carlos Lister. He wriggled, throwing her over with all his strength, and in the same motion yanked the dagger out from around her arm.
  
  
  I heard a crunch as her wrist broke. The dagger fell to the ground, and she hit the wall of the hut. In an instant, she was back on her feet, rolling over the moment she hit the ground. He whipped his automatic pistol around his pants, which he had dropped on the floor by the bed, and made a weapon of it, holding the ego in both hands.
  
  
  She stopped walking. Ee was shaking not from fear or anger, but from trying to stand still. Her entire body was straining to throw itself at me. Her face was more incomprehensible than painful.
  
  
  I asked her. 'Why?'
  
  
  She didn't say anything. She just stared at me.
  
  
  "Deirdre," I said. 'Why? Why did you do that?"'
  
  
  She still didn't say anything. She was wary there.
  
  
  He said, " Schramm is being converted. — That scar is referring to the question mark on your stomach, Deirdre. I saw her when you dropped your clothes. You've covered up other scars, the perfect disguise: hair, nose, black pigment that doesn't shed. You must have used ego for years. But Schrammel knew her, didn't he? I know your body all too well . Why, Deirdre?
  
  
  "Schramm is turning," Deirdre Cabot said. "Yes, I was already afraid of that scar. That's why she wasn't completely naked when you came here. I was hoping that in the dim light, because of Carlos ' death, and because of my passion, you'd miss Schrammel and give me enough time to..." Women, I thought, are Nick's weakness. If he's hot enough, he won't see this scarface, and this time I'll beat him. It was serious this time, wasn't it, Nick? It was supposed to kill you, wasn't it?
  
  
  He nodded to her. "I would have known sooner or later. No one but the Portuguese Minister, Hawke, and myself knew about this transfer of troops to Imbamba. Still, Lister knew. The only way was to listen to my report to Hawke, and only Agent AX ego could listen. An AX agent who worked with Carlos Lister. And it could only be one AX agent: you, Deirdre Cabot, N15, a woman who's been close to the rebels for years. But you didn't work with the rebels, you worked for Lister. And you played this mock execution game to make me make a mistake.
  
  
  "Strong light and shadow effects," Deirdre said. "Mirrors. Odin around Lister's people was once a magician. A Zulu woman was killed so that we could have a body to feed the crocodiles. And there were a lot of men around who were willing to trade her for me during the execution. It worked, but you were too good, weren't you, Nick? The way you used my body to escape the crocodiles. Carlos was furious, but I wasn't surprised. I was glad I was "dead" when you ran away.
  
  
  "It was you all along," I said. "There was no traitor at all. It all came from you, in AH: all the Portuguese information. You knew there wasn't an official to report the money, so you should have let Lister stop me. Hers, I assume you and Lister want the money . Why, Deirdre?
  
  
  "Power, Nick. And money. All our lives, Carlos and I, we've worked for a good cause, risked our lives, but for nothing. If we were to seize power here, we would have real power and real wealth, not just dirty work, for others. The whole world is corrupt. Look at what you just did. There is no morality. It's all dirt. Its hard to have the power for yourself when all we could get is dirt. I almost had it. .. '
  
  
  "Almost," I said. 'Not really.'
  
  
  "No," she said, looking at me. "You saw Schrammel when you dropped his robe. You've seen this before. .. And yet you took me ... '
  
  
  — You owed me a second night, " I said.
  
  
  "You knew. And yet you slept with me.
  
  
  "I like women."
  
  
  "No, — she said. She found Colonel Lister's trousers and put on an ih. Then I took one of my ego shirts and buttoned it up. "I loved Carlos, but I ruined him. Run away; he knew me too well. You love me, Nick. Can you kill me?"
  
  
  He pulled on her pants. "Don't challenge me, Deirdre."
  
  
  Before he could move, holding the shirt in one hand, she ran over to him. Her automatic pistol was raised and aimed. My eyes were on her back. Its aimed. its..... she's gone.
  
  
  Its stopped.
  
  
  A gunshot rang out from outside. Shot. And then another one. Her ran out around the hut.
  
  
  There, Hawk stood in the sunlight. He had a gun in his hand. Deirdre was lying on the ground. Portuguese soldiers broke into the village. Hawk looked at me.
  
  
  "Its been here. I heard most of this conversation, " he said in his flat nasal voice. "She hasn't been shot in fifteen years. But she wasn't free to walk around or stand trial. Hey, I wouldn't give it to you Ah, let's go talk, okay?
  
  
  "I don't think so," I said.
  
  
  Hawk dropped the gun and turned.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 21
  
  
  
  
  She was asked by Hawke to settle all this with the Portuguese, with all the other governments, and with the rebels if he could. He's probably an expert at this, and the rebels need all the help they can get, even from organizations that they know have connections to the other side. He took me to the plane that would take me away from Lorenzo Marquez.
  
  
  "Zululand is quiet now," he said . They're still catching Lister's mercenaries, at least they can find ih. The slavers are also on the run. There is no one to take over, and the slaves break free. I will make a report to the UN on this slave trade, maybe this will put a new thread."
  
  
  "Don't count on it," I said. "There are both ends to it, as long as there are sheikhs, industrial bosses and pirate leaders with money and chieftains in poor villages who use their little power and there are too many girls and hot-tempered young men around."
  
  
  — You have a dark view of humanity, Nick.
  
  
  "No, only to what is considered free enterprise in most of this world," I said. "If someone wants to buy something, there is always someone who can sell it. An Arab once told me this.
  
  
  "Dead arab. The minister wants her to congratulate you on everything. Although he says the bottom line is that he lost three employees to us, for which and that hell will break loose at home."
  
  
  "He'll take care of it. Politicians and generals take risks when they take on a job. Next time, be more confident in your goal.
  
  
  — Wouldn't it be nice if we didn't have to?" Hawk said. He looked at the planes. "She couldn't stand it, Nick. Our job.
  
  
  Sometimes we have an agent who starts thinking that it doesn't matter, and then takes everything he can get his hands on. This is a risk we must take.
  
  
  "Of course," I said.
  
  
  "She's gone mad, Nick. Think about it. The origins see our power as their own, and have forgotten why nah has this power.
  
  
  "Of course," I said again.
  
  
  "Take a week off this time."
  
  
  "Maybe two," I said.
  
  
  Hawk frowned. "Don't take any liberties, N3."
  
  
  Then he left her an ego. I could see him getting into a black limousine all over the plane. High-level conversation. Her emu liked him . In the end, he thinks that what I do is more appropriate for me. Yet we both kill as we see fit, for the same reason: a safer and better world. I just have to keep believing it.
  
  
  Just as Indula had to continue to believe that her cause would bring hey, a better world. As the plane began to taxiway under the brilliant Mozambican sun, I wondered if I should go out and look for Indula. Something happened to us there, on Prince Wahbi's couch. Something. ..but nah had her own life and her own world. She didn't need me, and this "something" had happened to me before. In fact, I think it always happens to me.
  
  
  This won't happen again in secret meetings in some secret city alley where there shouldn't be two agents. Its going to forget those moments in those hidden rooms. Oh
  
  
  But I really miss them.
  
  
  For now. . A tall, almost bulky, red-haired woman walked down the aisle of the plane as the plane prepared to take off. She looked back at me. He smiled at her. In fact, it wasn't heavy at all. Just a big, big woman.
  
  
  He hurried after her. In a moment, we should sit down and fasten our seat belts. She was asked to sit in the right chair. Hers, he leaned over to the redhead, clearly with both hands full.
  
  
  "Hi," I said. "I love martinis too. My name is. .. '
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About the book:
  
  
  Africa, torn apart by generations of racial hatred and years of bloody uprisings, is the battleground of Nick Carter's latest mission: the hunt for a faceless assassin. Killmaster Carter knows that the victim's identity-ego-is a secret, that the victim is a traitor, but also a ruthless mass murderer...
  
  
  There are three suspects. Nick's order: "Don't take any chances, kill all three of them!" He fights the predicament, the hatred, the consuming wilderness, the primal barbarism and civilized atrocities in Africa today. What role does Deirdre play in this task?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beirut Airport
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  
  
  Beirut Airport
  
  
  
  Dedicated to the people of the Secret Services of the United States of America
  
  
  
  The first chapter
  
  
  
  The hot and dry wind burned my face, burned my lips, in the 130-degree Saudi heat. For the third time, I ran my fingers soothingly over the scalding butt of the Wilhelmina, my 9mm luger. If I ever catch up with Hamid Rashid and the Dutchman, I'll ask him to make sure she doesn't get knocked out by the spring-loaded shoulder holster he was wearing under my jacket. The pits in the two-lane stretch of rubble winding through the desert rang with my teeth.
  
  
  He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and pressed the jeep's gas pedal to the floor. The speedometer needle reluctantly approached seventy.
  
  
  The shimmering heat waves in the desert distorted my vision, but I knew that somewhere on the highway ahead of me was the big SAMOCO truck that was being chased by her.
  
  
  Hamid Rashid was a sly Saudi, small, dark, thin-boned, homosexual. He was also a sadistic killer. I remembered the mutilated body of one of the pipeline guards we'd found in the desert just three days ago.
  
  
  Of course, sometimes you have to kill. But Hamid Rashid liked it.
  
  
  He squinted through his sunglasses and tried to speed out of the jeep. In the distance, a cluster of high, windswept sand dunes dotted the Saudi barrens, interspersed with rough, hard-packed rock ridges not unlike the table mountains of Arizona.
  
  
  If I didn't catch up with the truck before we reached the dunes, I'd be ambushed somewhere on the 37-mile stretch of road between Dahran and Ras Tanura. And Hamid Rashid knew he was going to blush. Before the day is over, Odin will be dead all around us.
  
  
  The Dutchman. In his own way, Harry de Groot, a friendly, blond Dutchman, was just as deadly as Rashid. The breakdown with the Dutchman occurred the previous evening in a coded message from AX, an elite unit of American counterintelligence:
  
  
  De Groot, Harry, 57 years old. The Dutchman. Deputy Director, Enkhizen, 1940-44. East Germany, Abdurazak, 1945-47 Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, espionage, 1948-60. Romania, abdurazak, 1961-66. USSR, spy instructor, 1967-72. Education: University of Göttingen, geology. Family: No. Rating: K-1.
  
  
  K-1 was key. In the cryptic style of AXE, it meant " ruthless and professional." The K-l was equivalent to my own Killmaster rating. Harry de Groot was a well-trained assassin.
  
  
  Geology, of course, explained why ego was sent to the Middle East.
  
  
  Rashid was also an oilman. Fifteen years ago, he studied at the American University in Beirut, primarily in the field of oil exploration. It's a very popular subject in this part of the world.
  
  
  It was also what brought me to Saudi Arabia on an urgent First Priority assignment from AX. It all started innocuously enough on April 17, 1973, when, according to the New York Times, "unknown saboteurs attempted to blow up a Saudi-American Oil Company pipeline in southern Lebanon."
  
  
  Explosive charges were placed under a pipeline four miles from the Replenishment terminal, but there was little damage. Initially, this failed sabotage attempt was written off as another persecution of Yasser Arafat by the Palestine Liberation Front.
  
  
  But this was only the first in a long series of incidents. They were not intended to disrupt the flow of oil to America. October 1973, the war and the subsequent boycott by Arab States had already done so. The goal was to cut off the flow of oil to Western Europe, and the United States could not afford it. We needed a strong, economically expanding Western Europe to neutralize the power of the Soviet bloc, and the oil that was supposed to keep NATO countries alive came through Saudi Arabia. So even though we didn't get the oil ourselves, the American oil companies in the Arab countries pledged to supply our Western allies.
  
  
  When the terrorists razed the oil depot in Sidi Bal, I was called by my hot-tempered boss, David Hawke.
  
  
  My job, Hawk told me, was to find the leaders and cut the plant down by the roots. It had been a long journey, passing through London, Moscow, Beirut, Tehran, and Riyadh, but now I had them-they were racing ahead of me on the highway to Ras Tanura.
  
  
  The truck was approaching, but with it were two high sand dunes and a rocky ridge leading straight ahead. He leaned forward to hide his desert-burned face behind the jeep's small windshield. He could see her through the swaying blue shape of the big cradle until the sharp turn on the highway, where he disappeared between the dunes.
  
  
  I wasn't going to do it.
  
  
  The truck at high speed crashed into the signposts and disappeared between the dunes. He turned off the jeep's ignition so that only the sound of the truck's engine could be heard in the silent desert heat.
  
  
  Almost immediately, the sound was cut off, and he clicked on intimidate, half flying out of the way before it came to a stop. Rashid and the Dutchman did exactly what I suspected. The truck stopped, probably near the road. Rashid and the Dutchman raced toward the rocks on either side of the road, hoping that I would crash into a blocking truck.
  
  
  I wasn't going to do it. Hidden behind a bend in the road, like them, he sat in the Jeep for a while, considering his next move. The sun hung bright in a cloudless sky, a relentless ball of fire searing the desert's quicksand. Sitting still, I could feel the sweat running down my chest.
  
  
  My opinion was accepted. He pulled his legs around the jeep and moved quickly to the foot of a high sand dune. In her left hand, she carried a canister of extra gasoline, which was standard equipment on every SAMOCO car in the desert. In my right hand was a canteen, which was usually hung on a bracket under the dashboard.
  
  
  By this point, Rashid and the Dutchman, expecting big accidents - or at least my frantic attempts to avoid ee - had already realized that her ih had caught up. Now they had two choices: either wait for me or follow me.
  
  
  He had expected them to wait for her: the truck was a natural barricade, and the dune road in both directions was a deadly crater that would have taken her right into the muzzles of two AK-47 assault rifles strapped under the car seat. truck cab. It will take an hour or more to get around the dune on the left. The dune on the right, leaning against a long ledge of rock, would have been impossible to avoid. It stretched for miles.
  
  
  There was only one way-higher and higher. But I wasn't sure I could do it. Above me, the looming sand dune was more than seven hundred feet high, rising steeply with steep slopes cut by shamaals, searing storms of desert winds that sweep the red-brown Saudi wastelands.
  
  
  I needed a cigarette, but my mouth was already dry. I crouched at the base of the dune and drank greedily of the brackish water around the canteen, letting it trickle down my throat. I poured it all over my head. It trickled down my face and neck, soaking the collar of my doublet, and for one grand moment I felt a sense of relief from the unbearable heat.
  
  
  Then, quickly unscrewing the lid from the canister, he filled it with gasoline. When her cap was back on the canister, hers was ready to go.
  
  
  It was incredible. Two steps up, one back. Three up, two back, the sand sliding out from under my feet, throwing me face down on the burning slope, the sand so hot it blistered my skin. My hands gripped the steep slope, then lifted off the hot sand. It didn't work - I couldn't climb the dune outright up. The running sands wouldn't support me. To move at all, I would have had to stretch out on the slope to get maximum traction; but to do so would have meant burying my face in the sand, and the sand was too hot for my ego to touch.
  
  
  Her, turned around and bench press on her back. I could feel blisters forming on the back of my neck. The entire dune seemed to flow under my jacket and down my pants, covering my sweaty body. But at least on my back, my face was surrounded by sand.
  
  
  I lay with my back to this one above the sand as I began to slowly climb the mountain, using my hands in wide movements and my feet in frog kicks. It's like I'm floating on my back.
  
  
  The naked force of the sun beat at me relentlessly. Because of the bright sun, the no-effect sky, and the reflected heat, the temperature difference as it struggled up the hill should have been around 170 degrees. According to the Landsman coefficient, desert sand reflects about one-third of the heat surrounding air sampling.
  
  
  It took me a full twenty minutes before I reached the ridge, panting, dehydrated, thirsty, and covered in sand. He peered cautiously over the top. If the Dutchman or Hamid Rashid happened to be looking in my direction, they would have noticed me immediately, but it would have been difficult for them to shoot-shoot up.
  
  
  It was just as I had imagined it. The truck was parked across the road, and both doors were open. Hamid Rashid, a small figure in his white ghalib and red checkered kaqiya, trotted from the side of the road back to the truck, and positioned himself so that he could take aim on the road through the day's open cabs.
  
  
  The Dutchman had already taken up a defensive position under the truck, protected by a large rear wheel. Her, saw the sun glinting in his ego glasses as he peered out from behind a swollen sand tire, ego's white linen suit and striped bow tie were incompatible with the battered back of an old truck in the desert.
  
  
  Both men were on the highway.
  
  
  They weren't waiting for me at the top of the dune.
  
  
  He leaned back against the protection of the ridge and braced himself for action.
  
  
  First I checked it out with Hugo, the stiletto stiletto I always carry in a suede scabbard strapped to my left forearm. One quick swipe of my hand and Hugo will be in my hand.
  
  
  Wilhelmina pulled it out of its holster and checked it in action to make sure it wasn't clogged with sand. The exploding Luger will rip the shooter's arm off his wrist. She then took out the Artemis silencer around the pocket of her doublet and carefully cleaned the ego of sand before putting the ego on like a gun. I needed to be extra careful with the silencer so that it could be fired three or four times before Rashid and the Dutchman realized where they were coming from. A shot from a luger without a silencer would have given my position away prematurely.
  
  
  I had to perform one more operation before her, was ready to act. He unscrewed the lid from the tarpaulin-covered canteen, twisted the handkerchief into a six-inch rope, and stuck it in the spout. My mouth and throat were dry. Without water, I wouldn't have lasted five hours in this desert heat, but I had a good reason to replace the water with gasoline. The nah released a beautiful Molotov cocktail.
  
  
  He lit it with a makeshift wick and watched with satisfaction as the gasoline-soaked handkerchief began to smolder. If he was able to get far enough down the slope before throwing it, the sudden movement of the actual throw should throw enough gasoline around the neck of the canteen for the whole thing to explode. But if my descent turns into a mad descent down a slope of sliding sand, gasoline will leak out around the canister while I'm holding it, and it will explode in my hand. He said a silent prayer and placed the smoldering bomb on the sand next to him.
  
  
  Then he rolled over on his stomach in the flaming sand and moved slowly toward the ridge, keeping as flat as possible. Wilhelmina stretched out in front of me.
  
  
  He was ready.
  
  
  Hamid Rashid and the Dutchman were still there, but they must have started to worry, wondering what I was up to. The sun glinted off Rashid's gun and looked out over the open door of the cab, but nothing Rashid could see was visible except for a small patch of the red and white checkered kaftan he wore on his back.
  
  
  The Dutchman suggested a better goal. Crouched behind the rear wheel of a large truck, he was angled slightly toward me. Part of the ego of the back, ego of the side, and ego of the thigh were exposed. Shooting down the slope through shimmering heat waves didn't make Ego the best target in the world, but it was all I had.
  
  
  He took careful aim. A good shot would have broken the emu's spine, a very good one would have broken its thighs. Hers, aimed for the spine.
  
  
  He pulled the trigger slowly and deliberately.
  
  
  Wilhelmina shuddered in my hand.
  
  
  Sand splashed at the Dutchman's feet.
  
  
  Involuntarily, he jerked back, partially straightening up. It was a mistake. This made the ego a better target. But the second shot hit him, and he spun around halfway before ducking back behind the cover of the truck's wheel. The third shot kicked up even more sand.
  
  
  He swore and fired a fourth shot through the truck's cab. A successful rebound can lead Rashid out of the assembly.
  
  
  Now he was climbing and crossing the crest of the hill, diving, sliding, almost every tribe in the loose sand, trying hard not to throw himself forward on the precarious footing, Wilhelmina in his right hand and the canteen incendiary bomb in the other, which he held carefully in the air.
  
  
  Three shots from Hamid Rashid's rifle rang out in the silence of the desert. They spat into the sand in front of me in quick succession. The distance wasn't that bad, but a person descending from top to bottom is an almost impossible target. Even the best marksmen in the world will invariably shoot lowly in such different circumstances, and this is what Rashid did.
  
  
  But now he was getting closer and closer to the bottom of the hill. He was thirty yards away from the truck, but he still didn't see Rashid, who fired again through the open door of the cab. Gawking eyes tore a minute of my camisole.
  
  
  It's twenty yards now. All over the hotel, and suddenly became flat and tsenymnogie more solid. It made life easier, but it also made me a better target. A rifle thundered to my right, then again. The Dutchman went back to work.
  
  
  He was now fifteen yards from the truck's cab. Rashid's little AK-47 stretched across the front seat, emitting flames. Her darted to the right and onto solid ground for just half a second before gawking eyes whizzed overhead.
  
  
  As her father knelt down, his left hand swung in a long, looping arc, carefully throwing the incendiary bomb into the truck's cab.
  
  
  She landed perfectly on the seat, rolling over the shoulder of Rashid's rifle toward the wiry Saudi.
  
  
  It must have been only inches from his dark, high-boned face when it exploded in a roaring geyser of flame.
  
  
  The thin cry of agony ended eerily, ending in a high crescendo as Rashid's lungs turned to ash. Hers was already moving, watching friends take cover under the hood of a large SAMOCO truck.
  
  
  I leaned against the heavy front bumper for a moment, gasping for air, the blood pulsing in my forehead from overexertion, and my chest heaving.
  
  
  Now it was her and the Dutchman. Just the two of us playing cat and mouse around an old blue truck with pegs in the middle of an empty Saudi desert. Just a few feet away, I could smell the acrid smell of burning flesh. Hamid Rashid did not participate in this game again, only the Dutchman.
  
  
  He was in front of the truck, exhausted, panting, covered in sand, roasting in his own sweat. It was well positioned behind the rear wheel of the truck. He was injured, but he didn't know how badly.
  
  
  He was armed with a rifle. There was also a damn good chance he had a gun. I had Wilhelmina and Hugo.
  
  
  Everyone around us had only two choices: either chase after the other, or sit and wait for the opponent to make the first move.
  
  
  He quickly knelt down to look under the truck. If it was moving, it would be seen, the ego of the foot. Well, it wasn't visible. A tiny scrap of pant leg peeked out from behind the right-hand wheel, just a glimpse of white canvas.
  
  
  Wilhelmina had her silencer removed for greater accuracy. Holding on to the bumper with one hand and leaning almost upside down, he carefully shot at the scrap of white.
  
  
  At best, it could be triggered by an ego ricochet, or perhaps even cause an explosion that would scare the ego enough to break out around cover. In the worst case scenario, this will allow the emu to know exactly where I am and that I know where he is.
  
  
  The gunshot reverberated in the silence, as if we were in a small room instead of just one, around the most desolate places in the world. The tires exhaled and slowly flattened, tilting the big truck at an awkward angle to the right rear. As a result, the Dutchman had a slightly better barricade than before.
  
  
  He stood up against the heavy grill and started counting. I've fired four shots so far. I'd rather have a full clip of it, whatever happens to us. He fished out a few shells around the pocket of his doublet and started reloading.
  
  
  A gunshot rang out, and something nudged the heel of my shoe, sending sand all over the place out of nowhere. He started, startled. He cursed himself for his carelessness and jumped onto the bumper of the truck in a half-bent position, keeping his head below the level of the hood.
  
  
  The Dutchman is also adept at shooting under trucks. I was lucky. If he hadn't fired from an extremely awkward position - which he should have - he might have shot me through the legs.
  
  
  For the moment, he was safe, but only for a moment. And I couldn't hold on to that unbearably hot metal hood any longer. My body already felt like my ego was being roasted over coals.
  
  
  My alternatives were limited. He could fall to the ground, look under the truck and wait for the Dutchman to make his move, hoping for a shot at him from under the chassis. Except that by using his rifle, he could bypass the protective wheel and spray pretty well any survey point he could choose without exposing much of his body to it.
  
  
  Or I could jump off that bumper and jump into the open space on the left, so I could see the person completely. But as if to call her, he jumped, she landed somewhat off balance , and the Dutchman was on his knees or lying prone and stable. All the emu had to do was move the rifle barrel a few inches to get a good shot.
  
  
  If I had gone the other way, circling the truck, hoping to catch ego off guard on the other side, he would have shot me in the legs the moment he started in that direction.
  
  
  I chose her as the only way available to me. Up. Holding the Luger in his right hand, he used his left hand as a lever and climbed onto the hood, radiator, and then onto the roof of the cab to drop silently onto the back of the truck. With any luck, the Dutchman will find himself fairly low in the sand with a flat right wheel, his attention focused on the space under the truck bed, waiting to catch a glimpse of me.
  
  
  Our shots, our flurry of movement. Obviously, he had made his move unnoticed.
  
  
  He looked out into the space between the slats of the truck's high-backed body. Then he slowly crept up to the right rear corner of the car.
  
  
  Her took a deep breath and stood on her full six-foot-four so that hers could look over the top bar of the sideboards, Wilhelmina at the ready.
  
  
  There he was, sprawled at an angle to the wheel, flat on his stomach in the sand. Ego cue rested on the butt of the rifle, a classic prone position for shooting.
  
  
  He had no idea I was there, just three feet above him, watching the emu's back.
  
  
  Gently, he lifted Wilhelmina to chin level, then reached over the top rail of the truck. He aimed it at the Dutchman's back
  
  
  He remained motionless, waiting for the first sign of movement he might notice under the truck. But its shell isn't it expensive. He was almost dead.
  
  
  It was Wilhelmina who pulled the trigger.
  
  
  The gun's jammed! Damn the sand!
  
  
  Alenka instantly shifted it from his left foot to his right and abruptly lowered his hand to free Hugo. The stiletto slid gently into my left hand, its pearl handle hot to the touch.
  
  
  Hugo couldn't get stuck. He grabbed the hilt of his sword and raised his hand, holding the hairpin at ear level. I usually prefer the blade throw, but at this distance, without the range for a standard flip, it would be a throw with the handle straight down, three feet, open between the shoulders.
  
  
  Some sixth sense must have warned the Dutchman. He suddenly rolled onto his back and stared at me, the ego of the AK-47 arcing toward me as his thumb began to pull the trigger.
  
  
  Her left hand flicked forward and down.
  
  
  The stiletto blade pierced the Dutchman's staring right eyeball and drove the three-edged blade into the ego's brain.
  
  
  Death jerked the saboteur's finger , and the shot echoed harmlessly across the desert sand.
  
  
  For a moment, he held on to the top rail of the truck with both hands, pressing his forehead against the back of his knuckles. My knees suddenly began to shake. I'm fine, I'm well prepared, I never hesitate. But after it's all over, I always have a feeling of intense nausea.
  
  
  On the one hand, her normal person. I don't want to die. And each time, she felt a rush of relief, not the other way around. He took a deep breath and went back to work. This was now commonplace. The job was finished.
  
  
  He took out her knife, wiped it clean, and returned it to the scabbard on his forearm. Then the Dutchman examined her. Its hit him, he's madly shooting under the hill, okay. Gawk got caught in the right ribcage. He had lost a lot of blood, and it was painful, but it wasn't a serious wound.
  
  
  It doesn't really matter, I thought. What mattered was that he was dead and the job was over.
  
  
  The Dutchman wasn't wearing anything important, but I had it transferred to my wallet in a minute. The boys in the lab might learn something interesting from it.
  
  
  Then he turned her attention to what was left of Hamid Rashid. Her held her breath until she would ego the clothes, but found nothing.
  
  
  He got up, fished one of his gold-filtered cigarettes out of the pocket of his doublet, and lit it, wondering what to do next. Just leave it as it is, she finally decided, gratefully inhaling the smoke despite her dry mouth and throat, she could send Sadiqi's team back to collect the truck and two bodies as soon as she got back to Dhahran.
  
  
  Rashid's red checkered kafri caught my attention, and I kicked her ego with the toe of my boot, throwing it into the sand. Something glittered, and he bent down to examine it more closely.
  
  
  It was a long, thin metal tube, very similar to the one used to pack expensive Zhirinovsky cigars. He uncapped it and looked at nah. It looks like granulated sugar. He moistened the tip of his little finger and tasted the powder. Heroin.
  
  
  He closed the lid and balanced the receiver thoughtfully in the palm of his hand. About eight ounces. This was undoubtedly a payment to Rashid on the part of the Dutchman. Eight ounces of pure heroin can go a long way to making an emir by beggar in the Middle East. Ego tucked it into his loincloth and wondered how many of these tubes arab had received in the past. Her ego would have gone back to AX. They could do whatever they wanted with it.
  
  
  He found Rashid's flask on the front seat of the truck and drank it dry before tossing it aside. Then she got into the jeep and drove back along the highway to Dhahran.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Dhahran lowland loomed over the horizon, a dark green silhouette about eight miles down the road. He pressed harder on the accelerator. Dhahran meant a cold shower, clean clothes, and a tall, cool brandy and soda.
  
  
  He licked his parched lips with a parched tongue. Just a day or two more to get my reports in order, and I'll get out of this hellhole. Let's go back to the States. The fastest route is via Cairo, Casablanca, the Azores, and finally Washington.
  
  
  None of these cities would be among the gardens of the world, but I had plenty of time if David Hawke didn't have a task ready and waiting. Normally, he did, but if he was resting piecemeal on the way home, there wasn't much he could do about it. I just needed to make sure that I wasn't receiving any telegrams or telegrams along the way.
  
  
  In any case, I thought, there was no point in taking a dry and uninteresting route. He would have gone home the other way, via Karachi, New Delhi and Bangkok. What's next for Bangkok? He mentally shrugged. Kyoto, probably in a way I've never really cared about before, or the smog and noise of Tokyo.
  
  
  Then Kauai, Garden Island in Hawaii, San Francisco, New Orleans, and finally Washington, and the undoubtedly furious Hawk.
  
  
  Before all this, of course, there was still tonight - and most likely tomorrow night-in Dhahran. His muscles tensed involuntarily, and he chuckled to himself.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Betty Emers had met her just a week ago, her first night in Dhahran after a three-month vacation in the States. One day, she came to the club around nine o'clock in the evening, one of their women with such a sexy aura, who is engaged in some special, subtle way, sent a message to every man in the bar. Almost in unison, all heads turned to see who had entered. Even the women looked at nah, she was like that.
  
  
  I was immediately attracted to her, and she didn't sit alone at her desk for more than five minutes before her, walked over and introduced herself.
  
  
  She looked at me with her dark eyes for a brief second before returning to the performance and inviting me to join her. We had a drink together and talked. She knows that Betty Emers was an employee of one of the American-owned oil companies, and she learned that her life in Dhahran lacked an important element: men. As the evening progressed and I found myself becoming more attracted to her, I knew that this would soon be fixed.
  
  
  Our evening ended with a night of furious lovemaking in her small apartment, when our bodies couldn't get enough of another friend. Her tanned skin was as soft as velvet to the touch, and after we'd used ourselves up, we lay still, my hand gently caressing every inch of that wonderfully smooth skin.
  
  
  When I had to leave the next day, I did so reluctantly, showering and dressing slowly. Betty draped a thin robe over Nah, and her parting was husky: "See you again, Nick." It wasn't a question.
  
  
  Now he thought of her perfect body, her sparkling eyes, her short black hair, and he felt her full lips under his as ee wrapped her in his arms and held her close as we lingered long and deep over the promise of even more pleasure. to come...
  
  
  Now that hers was on the Ras Tanura road in a hot, dusty Jeep, hers was sweating again. But that wasn't it. Her, he chuckled to himself as he drove through the gates of the Dhahran complex. Will be soon.
  
  
  He stopped at the security office and left a message for Dave French, SAMOCO's chief security officer, where he was supposed to pick up Rashid and the Dutchman. He waved away his congratulations and wishes for more details. "I'll give it to you later, Dave, right now I want to drink it and take a bath, in that order."
  
  
  What she really wants, he told himself as he got back into the Jeep, is a drink, a bath, and Betty Emers. He was too busy with Hamid Rashid and the ego gang for him to spend more than a few phone calls with Betty from the first night. I needed to catch up a little.
  
  
  A Jeep stopped her at her cabin in Quonset and climbed out. Something went wrong.
  
  
  As hers reached for the door handle, hers heard the sound of Bunny Berrigan's "I Can't Get Started" coming through the door. It was my record, but I definitely didn't let ego lose it when I left that morning.
  
  
  I pushed the door open in a rage. Privacy was the only way out, around the steaming cauldron of Saudi Arabia, and he'd be damned if he'd see it violated. If it was one of the Saudis, she told herself, I'd have an ego hide, but okay.
  
  
  In one motion, he flung open the door and stormed inside.
  
  
  Sprawled comfortably on the bed, a tall, shiny drink in one hand and a half-smoked cheap cigar in the other, was David Hawk, my AX boss.
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  
  ======================= ================ ========
  
  
  "Good afternoon, Nick," Hawke said calmly, the ego - grim New England face as close to a smile as he'd ever let on. He turned his legs around and sat down on the edge of the bed.
  
  
  "What the hell are you doing here, tailor?" he said, standing in front of him, towering over a small, white-haired man, legs ostentatiously spread, hands on hips. Forget about Karachi. Forget about the Deli. Forget about Bangkok, Kyoto, Kauai. David Hawk wasn't here to send me on vacation.
  
  
  "Nick", - quietly warn. "I don't like to see you lose control of yourself."
  
  
  "Simple ones, sir. The time deviation is the sun." He was still seething, but remorseful. It was David Hawke, a legendary counterintelligence figure, and he was my superior. And he was right. In my email business, there is no place for a man who loses control of his emotions. You either stay in control all the time, or you die. It's as simple as that.
  
  
  He nodded amiably, a cigar with an unpleasant smell firmly clenched between his teeth. "I know her, I know her." He leaned forward to look at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You look awful," he said. "I take it you're done with SAMOKO."
  
  
  He couldn't possibly know, but somehow he did. The old man was like that. He walked over and bent down to examine himself in the mirror.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked like a sandman. My hair, usually jet black with a few streaks of gray, was matted with sand, as were my eyebrows. There were stinging scratches on the left side of my face, as if someone had cut me with rough sandpaper covered in a dried mixture of blood and sand. He didn't even realize he was bleeding. He must have scratched himself worse than he thought while climbing the sand dune. Also, for the first time, I realized that my hands had become tender from pressing ih against the hot metal of a truck in the desert.
  
  
  Ignoring Hawke, she kicked off her jacket and slid out of the holster that held Wilhelmina and Hugo. Wilhelmina needs a thorough cleaning, I thought. He quickly stripped off his shoes and socks, then stripped off his khaki pants and shorts in one motion.
  
  
  I headed for the shower at the back of the Quonset Hut, the sharp coolness of the air conditioner stinging my skin.
  
  
  "Well," Hawke commented, " you're still in good physical shape, Nick."
  
  
  Kind words from Hawk were indeed rare. He flexed his muscles and peeked down at his bulging biceps and triceps. There was a puckered reddish-purple indentation on my right shoulder - I'm trying for a gunshot wound. A long, ugly scar ran diagonally across my chest , the result of a knife fight in Hong Kong many years ago. But I could still gain over six hundred pounds, and my records at AX headquarters still contained the "Top Expert" classifications in shooting, karate, skiing, horse riding, and swimming.
  
  
  I spent half an hour in the shower, showering, rinsing, and letting the icy spikes of water wash the dirt off my skin. After her vigorously toweling off, he put on her khaki shorts and returned to the Hawk.
  
  
  He was still puffing. Perhaps there was a hint of humor in the ego's eyes, but there was no ego in the coldness of the ego's voice.
  
  
  "Feeling better now?" he asked.
  
  
  "I'm sure!" I filled Courvosier's glass halfway , then added one ice cube and some soda. "Okay," I said resignedly, " what's up?"
  
  
  David Hawke took out an iso rta cigar and held it between his fingers, watching the smoke swirl around the ash. "The President of the United States," he said.
  
  
  Her" president! " had a right to be surprised. The president almost always stayed away from Delta. Although our operation was one of the most sensitive for the government, and certainly one of the most important, it also did not go beyond the moral and legal framework that any government should, at least on the surface, support. I am sure that the president knew about what was done, and at least to some extent, knew how we did it. And she is sure that he appreciated our results. But I also knew he'd rather pretend we didn't exist.
  
  
  Hawk nodded his close-cropped head. He knew what hers was thinking. "Yes," he said, " the president. He has a special assignment for AX, and her hotel would like you to handle it."
  
  
  Hawke's unblinking eyes pinned me to the chair. "You'll have to start openly now... tonight."
  
  
  He shrugged humbly and sighed. Good-bye, Betty Emers. But I was flattered to be chosen. "What does the president want?"
  
  
  David Hawke allowed himself a ghostly smile. "This is a kind of lend-lease deal. You'll be working with the FBI."
  
  
  The FBI! Not that the FBI was bad. But it's not in the same league as AX or some of the counterintelligence organizations in other countries that we have to contend with. Like, for example, Ah Fu in Red China or N. OJ. of South Africa.
  
  
  In my opinion, the FBI was an efficient, dedicated group of amateurs.
  
  
  Hawk read my expression and held up a hand. "Easy, Nick, easy. It is important. It's very important, and the president asked you to leave alone."
  
  
  He was taken aback.
  
  
  Hawk continued. "He's heard about you from Haitian lawsuits, knows her, and is probably around a couple of other assignments. Anyway, he asked you specifically."
  
  
  I got to my feet and made a few quick turns up and down the small section that served as my living room. Impressive. Few people in my email business are personally elected to the presidential level.
  
  
  He turned to Hawke, trying not to show his proud pleasure. Good. Could you fill in the details?"
  
  
  Hawk bit down on his cigar, which had already gone out, then looked at Nah in surprise. Of course, a cigar should not leave the house when David Hawk smoked it. He looked at it with disgust and frowned. When he was ready, he started explaining.
  
  
  "As you probably know,"he said," the mafia these days is no longer a ragtag collection of Sicilian thugs who smuggle whiskey and finance floating shitty games."
  
  
  He nodded to her.
  
  
  "In recent years - starting, say, about twenty years ago - the mafia has become more and more involved in legal business.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hey, for estestvenno, very good. They had the money, they had the organization, they had the brutality that American businesses had never dreamed of before."
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "So? It's all common knowledge."
  
  
  Hawk ignored me. "Now, however, they are in trouble. They have expanded and diversified so much that they are losing their cohesion. More and more ih young people are going into a legitimate enterprise, and the mafia-Syndicate, or as they now call themselves, is losing control of them. They certainly have the money, but the ih organization is collapsing and they're in trouble ."
  
  
  "Problems? The last person who read it said that organized crime in America has reached its peak, which has never been the case"
  
  
  Hawk nodded. "Ih revenue is growing. Ih influence is growing. But the ih organization is collapsing. When you talk about organized crime now, you're not just talking about the mafia. You also talk about blacks, Puerto Ricans, Chicanos. in the west and Cubans in Florida.
  
  
  "You see, we've known about this trend for quite some time, but so has the Mafia Commission." He allowed another pale smile to soften his weathered face. "I assume you know what a Commission is?"
  
  
  Her jaw clenched. The old man can get pretty damn mad when he looks so patronizing. "Of course I know her!" I said, and my annoyance at the ego-driven method of explaining this assignment was evident in my voice. He knew very well what a Commission was. Seven of the most powerful mafia capos in the United States, each of whom is the head of one of the main families, appointed by their colleagues as the governing council, court and last resort in the Sicilian style. They met infrequently, only when a serious crisis threatened, but ih decisions, carefully thought out, absolutely pragmatic, were inviolable.
  
  
  The Commission was one of the most powerful governing bodies in the world, given its impact on crime, violence and, perhaps most importantly, big business. It was scanned by your memory bank. Bits and pieces of information began to fall into place.
  
  
  He frowned in concentration, then said in a monotone, " Government Security Information Bulletin number three-twenty-seven, June 11, 1973." The latest information indicates that the Syndicate Commission now consists of the following::
  
  
  "Joseph Famligotti, sixty-five, Buffalo, New York.
  
  
  "Frankie Carboni, sixty-seven, Detroit, Michigan.
  
  
  "Mario Salerno, seventy-six years old, Miami, Florida.
  
  
  "Gaetano Ruggiero, forty-three years old, New York, New York.
  
  
  "Alfred Gigante, seventy-one years old, Phoenix, Arizona.
  
  
  "Joseph Francini, sixty-six years old, New York, New York.
  
  
  "Anthony Musso, seventy-one, Little Rock, Arkansas."
  
  
  Easy. Her hand waved casually in the air-conditioned atmosphere. "Can I give you a breakdown of each one around them?"
  
  
  Hawk glared at me. "That's enough, Carter," he snapped. "I know you have a photographic mind... and you know that I will not tolerate even subconscious sarcasm."
  
  
  "Yes sir." She would only have taken such things from David Hawke.
  
  
  Slightly embarrassed by her, he went to the Hi-Fi machine and took down three jazz records he had listened to. "I'm really sorry. Please continue, " I said, sitting back in the captain's chair, facing Hawk.
  
  
  He picked up where he left off a few minutes ago, pointing his cigar in the air in front of me for emphasis. "The fact is that the Commission sees as well as we do that success is gradually changing the traditional structure of the Syndicate. Like any other group of old people, the Commission is trying to block the amendments, trying to get everything back to how it used to be."
  
  
  "So what are they going to do?" I asked her.
  
  
  He shrugged. "They've already started. They introduce what amounts to a whole new army. They recruit all over Sicily young, tough bandits around the hills, just like when they - or ih fathers-started . "
  
  
  He paused, biting the end of his cigar. "If they do well enough, the country could be engulfed in an outdoor recreation of gang violence that doesn't match what we went through in the early 20s and 30s. And this time it will have racial overtones. The Commission wants to manage blacks and Puerto You know that Ricans have left their territories and they are not going to go without paint."
  
  
  "We don't care. But, how do old dons get their recruits into the country? " she asked. "Do we have any ideas?"
  
  
  Hawke's face was expressionless. "We know exactly - or rather, we know the mechanism, if not the details."
  
  
  "Just a minute." I got up and carried both our glasses to the plastic bar that now served as both a bar and a dining table in the SAMOCO executive's cabin. Emu made her another whiskey and water, poured himself some brandy and soda and another ice cube, and sat down again.
  
  
  "All right."
  
  
  "This is
  
  
  
  
  
  "They're really great," he said. "They pump their recruits through Castelmar in Sicily and then take a boat to the island of Nicosia - and you know what Nicosia is like."
  
  
  I knew her. Nicosia is a collector of the Mediterranean Sea. Every bit of mucus oozing out around Europe or the Middle East ends up coagulating in Nicosia. In Nicosia, prostitutes are sophisticated people, and what others do on lower social levels is indescribable. In Nicosia, smuggling is an honorable profession, theft is an economic pillar, and murder is a pastime.
  
  
  "From there," Hawk continued, " ih is being shipped to Beirut. In Beirut, they are given new identities, new passports, and then sent to the States."
  
  
  It didn't seem too complicated, but I was sure I didn't know all the details. The details weren't one around Hawk's anchor points. "It shouldn't be too hard to stop, should it? Just order additional security checks and identification details for everyone who enters the country with a Lebanese passport."
  
  
  "It's not that easy, Nick."
  
  
  I knew it wouldn't happen.
  
  
  "All ih American passports. They're fake, we know that, but they're so good that we can't tell the difference between fake ones and those issued by the government."
  
  
  He whistled at her. "Anyone who could do this could earn a small fortune on their own."
  
  
  "Probably whoever did it," Hawk agreed. "But the mafia has a lot of small fortunes to spend on such services."
  
  
  "You can still impose a ban on anyone who comes around Beirut. In fact, it doesn't take too many interrogations to prove that the person in the passport is really from Sicily and not around the Lower East Side of Manhattan."
  
  
  Hawk shook his head patiently. "It's not that simple. Ih is brought from all over Europe and the Middle East, not just around Beirut. They start with Beirut, voting, and that's it. After receiving new identity documents and a passport, ihc is sent by plane to another city, then put on a plane to the States. They mostly arrived on return charter flights, which lack basic organization from the very beginning, which is difficult for ih to control.
  
  
  "They usually have a po group on board their big cruise ships when they return to the States too," he added.
  
  
  He took a long drink of brandy and soda and considered the situation. "By this time, you should have an agent inside."
  
  
  "We've always had agents inside the mafia, or - that is-the FBI, but ih is quite difficult to maintain. Either the ih cover somehow blows up, or they have to blow up the ego themselves to give evidence."
  
  
  "But now you have someone there," I insisted.
  
  
  "The FBI, of course, has one, but we don't have anyone in this pipeline who would attract new recruits. This is one of our main concerns."
  
  
  He could see the direction things were going right now. "Then that's what you need me for? To get into the pipeline?" Tailor, it shouldn't be too difficult. It was a project that needed thinking, but of course, the ego could be implemented quite easily.
  
  
  "Well," Hawk said, " yes. I mean, basically that's it. You see, "he continued slowly," the original plan was for us to get a man into the pipeline and then expose him, break up, whatever . And it had to be one around our people. You know that the FBI is out of the question when we're dealing with a foreign country."
  
  
  He nodded to her.
  
  
  "Of course, it could be the CIA, but right now it's too connected to Argentina, and in any case, the president..."
  
  
  She finished the sentence for him. "And in general, these days the president is not very happy with the CIA, especially in Gref."
  
  
  Bob Gref was the current head of the CIA, and ego disagreements with the president were in every Washington insider column for a month.
  
  
  "Absolutely," Hawk said grimly. "So they decided it was a job for AX."
  
  
  Good."But much remains unsaid. Why him, for example? There were a lot of good people in AX. "Anything else?"
  
  
  "All right," he said. "This whole idea that AX would order a person in the pipeline, of course, should have been brought to the president's attention, since the State Department's point of view is involved." He guessed that Hawk had paused, searching for the right words. "He thought it was a great idea, but then he said that while we were going to do it, we could push it even further, all the way to the top."
  
  
  For some reason, I didn't like it. "What does' all the way to the top ' mean?"
  
  
  "This means that you will destroy the Commission," Hawke said openly.
  
  
  He sat in stunned silence for a while. "Wait a minute, sir! The government has been trying to get rid of the Commission since 1931, when they first learned of its existence. Now do you want him to do it?"
  
  
  Hawke looked smug. "The president."
  
  
  He shrugged, showing an indifference he didn't feel. "Well, then, I guess I'll have to give it a try."
  
  
  He looked at his watch. "I have to make a report on Rashid
  
  
  
  
  
  And a Dutchman, " I said. "Then I think I'd better catch a trip to Beirut first thing in the morning."
  
  
  One night last night with Betty Emers, I thought. Betty with her amazing breasts and neat business approach to life.
  
  
  Hawk stood up, too. He took an envelope out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me. "This is your ticket to Beirut," he said. "This is KLM's journey across Karachi. He arrives here today at six twenty-three."
  
  
  "This evening?"
  
  
  "Tonight. Her, I want you to be here." Surprisingly, he reached out and shook my hand. Then he turned and walked out the door, leaving me standing in the middle of the room.
  
  
  He finished his drink, put the glass down on the counter, and went to the bathroom to pick up his clothes and start packing.
  
  
  When Gillett picked her up, the aluminum container of heroin that Haraid Rashid had picked her up fell to the floor.
  
  
  He picked up the phone and looked at Nah, wondering what to do with it. I was thinking of giving it up to ego, but now I have another idea. I realized that I was the only one in the world who knew I had one.
  
  
  All I needed was a couple of cigars in such a container, and it would be like the old game of "three shells and peas" at the carnival.
  
  
  He smiled to himself and tucked the heroin into his loincloth.
  
  
  Then Wilhelm pulled it out of the spring holster on my dresser and started cleaning it thoroughly, my mind racing.
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  
  The flight to Beirut was uneventful. I spent two hours trying to put all thoughts of Betty Emers out of my head, trying to make a plan of action as soon as I got to Lebanon.
  
  
  In my case, a business is, of course, impossible to plan too far ahead. However, a certain direction is necessary to start with. Then it's more like Russian roulette.
  
  
  The first thing I need is a new identity. In fact, it shouldn't be too difficult. Charlie Harkins was in Beirut, or the last time he was, Charlie was a good writer, good at reading passports, fake bills of lading, and the like.
  
  
  And Charlie owes me a favor. It might have been involved by ego when it broke up this Palestinian group seeking to overthrow the Lebanese government, but it was deliberately excluded by ego name on a list that it handed over to the authorities. He was a small fry anyway, and he thought he might come in handy someday. People like that always do.
  
  
  My second problem in Beirut was a little more serious. Somehow I had to get into the mafia pipeline.
  
  
  Best of all, I guessed it was the only way to pretend to be Italian. Well, between my dark complexion and Charlie's handwriting, that could be arranged.
  
  
  He found a metal tube of heroin next to two identical tubes of expensive cigars. This heroin could have been my entrance into a vicious circle.
  
  
  My thoughts drifted back to Betty Emers, and the muscle in my hip jumped. Her fell asleep, dreaming.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Even at nine o'clock in the evening, Beirut Airport was hot and dry.
  
  
  The "Government business" sticker on my passport puzzled the Lebanese customs officials, but it allowed me to pass through long lines of Arabs in white clothes and Europeans in business suits. A few minutes later, he was outside the terminal trying to squeeze his feet into the back seat of a tiny Fiat car.
  
  
  "The Hotel Saint-Georges," I ordered, " and take the tailor and relax." I used to be in Beirut. The section of steep road leading around the airport to the outskirts of the city along steep cliffs is one of the most exciting routes invented by man. The taxi driver turned in his seat and smiled at me. Nen was wearing a bright yellow open-necked sports shirt, but he was wearing a tarbush, the conical red fez of Egypt.
  
  
  "Yes, sir," he laughed. "Yes, sir. We'll fly there low and slow!"
  
  
  "Just slow," I grumbled.
  
  
  "Yes sir!" he said, chuckling.
  
  
  We ejected around the airport at top speed, tires screeching, and turned onto the Beirut road on two wheels. He sighed, leaned back in the seat, and forced the muscles in his shoulder to relax. I closed my eyes and tried to think of something else. It was such a day.
  
  
  Beirut is an ancient Phoenician city built before 1500. B.C. Alexander. According to legend, this was the place where St. George killed the dragon. The city was later captured by the Crusaders under Baldwin, and still later by Ibrahim Pasha, but it withstood Saladin's siege guns and defied the British and French. Bouncing up and down in the backseat of the speeding Fiat as we plummeted down the Beirut road, I wondered what this meant to me.
  
  
  All of St. Georges stands tall and elegant on the palm-fringed shores of the Mediterranean Sea, oblivious to the filth and incredible poverty of the Thieves ' Quarter.
  
  
  
  
  
  y is a few blocks away.
  
  
  He asked for a room in the southwest corner above the sixth floor, got it, and registered it, handing in his passport to an impolite clerk, as required by law in Beirut. He assured me that the ego would be returned within a few hours. What he meant was that several hours had passed since the Beirut security service checked ego. But that didn't bother me; he wasn't an Israeli spy to blow up a bunch of Arabs.
  
  
  In fact, he was an American spy to blow up a bunch of Americans.
  
  
  After unpacking and checking out the view of the moonlit Mediterranean from her balcony, Charlie Harkins called and told Em what I wanted.
  
  
  He hesitated, " Well, you know, she might be able to help you, Nick." There was a nervous whine in ego's voice. It always was. Charlie was a nervous, whining man. He continued, " I Just ... well ... I kind of went out, around this business and ..."
  
  
  "Bull!"
  
  
  "Well, yes, I mean, no. I mean, you know..."
  
  
  I didn't care what the ego was. He let his voice drop a few decibels: "You owe me, Charlie."
  
  
  "Yes, Nick, yes." He made a pause. He could almost hear him glancing nervously over his shoulder to see if anyone else was listening. "It's just that now I have to work exclusively for one piece of clothing, not for someone else and..."
  
  
  "Charlie!" He showed his impatience and annoyance.
  
  
  "All right, Nick, all right. Just this once, just for you. Do you know where I live?"
  
  
  "Could she have called you if I didn't know where you live?"
  
  
  "Ah, yes, yes. Good. How about eleven o'clock?.. and bring your picture with you."
  
  
  He nodded into the phone. "Eleven o'clock." After hanging up the phone, he leaned back on the luxurious snow-white giant bed. Just a few hours ago, I was wading through this giant sand dune, hunting for Hamid Rashid and the Dutchman. I liked this assignment better, even if Betty Emers wasn't around.
  
  
  He looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. It's time to see Charlie. He rolled out of bed, instantly decided that the light brown suit she was wearing would be suitable for the likes of Charlie Harkins, and set off. When I finished with Charlie, I thought I might stop by the Black Cat Cafe or the Famous Arab. It's been a long time since I first got a taste of Beirut's nightlife. But today has been a very long day. He leaned his shoulders forward, stretching his muscles. I'd better go to bed.
  
  
  Charlie lived on Almendares Street, for example, six blocks away, on the eastern edge of Thieves ' Quarter. Number 173. He climbed three flights of dirty, dimly lit stairs. It was damp, in the airless heat, with the smell of urine and rotting garbage.
  
  
  On each landing, four doors that had once been green led down a short corridor, facing a sagging wooden railing that jutted precariously above the stairwell. From behind the closed doors came muffled shouts, shouts, bursts of laughter, furious curses in a dozen languages, the blare of a radio. On the second floor, as Groma passed, a featureless door split open, and four inches of the axe blade stuck out through the wood paneling. Inside, a woman screamed, long and trilling, like a stray cat on the prowl.
  
  
  It was made by the next spring without stopping. I was in one of the biggest red light districts in the world. Behind similarly featureless doors in thousands of featureless apartment buildings on the City's garbage-strewn streets, thousands upon thousands of whores vied with each other for monetary rewards to satisfy the sexual needs of the dregs of humanity washed up in the swarming slums. Beirut.
  
  
  Beirut is both the pearl of the Mediterranean and the cesspool of the Middle East. A door opened ahead of them, and a fat man staggered out of the room. He was completely naked, except for the ridiculous tarbush that sat snugly on his head. Ego's face contorted in a grimace of agony of ecstasy, his eyes dimmed, than hurt or pleasure, he couldn't tell from what. Behind him came a lithe, coal-black girl, clad only in thigh-high leather boots, with heavy lips like a phlegmatic mask, who tirelessly followed the fat Arab. Twice she swung her wrist, and twice the three-lashed whip, tiny, graceful, and painful, slid across the Arab's well-muscled thighs. He gasped in pain, and six tiny rivulets of blood etched his quivering flesh.
  
  
  Arab passed mimmo me, paying no attention to us, to anything but his excruciating joy. The girl followed him with a blanket. Hey, it can't be more than 15 years old.
  
  
  He told his stomach to forget about it and climbed the last of the spring stairs. Here, a web door blocked the stairs. Her, pressed the bell button. Charlie Harkins occupied the entire third floor of the ferret with them, as his ego knew. A few seconds before he answered, a picture of the vast squalor of the ego of an attic apartment flashed through my mind: the ego of a brightly lit defendant with cameras,
  
  
  
  
  
  Pens, pens, and engraving equipment were always there, like an island of calm among dirty socks and underwear, some of which, I recalled, looked as if ih had been used to wipe down the exquisitely crafted little roller press in the corner.
  
  
  This time it took me a moment to recognize the little man who had opened the door. Charlie had changed. Gone were the sunken sticks and the three-day stubble of gray beard that he always seemed to maintain. Even the dead, hopeless look in the ego's eyes was gone. Charlie Harkins looked smart now, wary perhaps, but not as scared of life as they had been for years, since I'd known him.
  
  
  Nen was wearing a light plaid sports jacket, neatly pressed gray flannel trousers, and shiny black ballet slippers. This wasn't the Charlie Harkins she knew. He was impressed.
  
  
  He shook my hand uncertainly. At least that hasn't changed.
  
  
  In the apartment, however. What used to be a cluttered mess is now neat and clean. A fresh green rug covered the old scarred floorboards, and the walls were neatly painted cream. Inexpensive but apparently new furniture was placed to break up the barn-like lines of the large room... a coffee table, several chairs, two sofas, and a long, low rectangular platform bed in one corner.
  
  
  What had once been a haphazard corner of Charlie's office was now covered in latticed panels and brightly lit, as the keys came out through the bulkhead openings.
  
  
  He raised his eyebrows, looking around. "You seem to be doing well, Charlie."
  
  
  He smiled nervously... things are going well, Nick." Ego's eyes glittered. "I have a new assistant now, and things are really going well..." the ego voice trailed off.
  
  
  Her, emu chuckled. "It's going to take more than just a new assistant to do this with you, Charlie." Her, waved her hand at the new decor. "Offhand, I'd say that for once in your life, you've found something sustainable."
  
  
  He tilted his head. "Good..."
  
  
  It was not customary to find a forger with a stable business. This kind of work tends to have sharp jerks and long stops. This probably meant that Charlie had somehow gotten into the counterfeit game. Personally, I didn't care what he did as long as he didn't get what he came for.
  
  
  He must have read my mind. "Uh-huh ... I'm not sure I can do this, Nick."
  
  
  Her friendly smile at Emu and Odin sat down on two-sided sofas that stood at right angles to their twin, forming a false corner in the middle of the living room. "Of course you can, Charlie," I said lightly.
  
  
  Pulling Wilhelmina out of her holster, he casually waved her in the air. "If you don't, I'll kill you." It wouldn't have been Stahl, of course. I don't go out and kill people over something like that, especially not little ones like Charlie Harkins. But Charlie didn't know that. All he knew was that I could kill people sometimes. The thought had obviously occurred to em.
  
  
  He held out a pleading hand. "All right, Nick, all right. I just don't... well, anyway..."
  
  
  Good. Wilhelmina covered it again and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I need a whole new identity, Charlie."
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  "When I leave here tonight, its going to be Nick Cartano, native to Palermo, and most recently around the French Foreign Legion. Leave me in about a year between the Foreign Legion and now. Him, I can pretend." The fewer facts people have to check, the better off I'll be.
  
  
  Harkins frowned and tugged at his chin. "This means a passport, statements... what else?"
  
  
  I ticked it off on my fingers. "I will need personal letters from my family, in Palermo, from a girl in Syracuse, a girl around Saint-Lo. I need a driver's license in Saint-Lo, Swedes in France, an old suitcase and an old wallet."
  
  
  Charlie looked worried. "Gee, Nick, I think I can do it, but it's going to take a while. I don't have to do anything for anyone else right now, and I'll have to act slowly and ... uh..."
  
  
  Once again, I got the impression that Charlie was constantly working for someone else. But at the moment, I didn't care.
  
  
  "I want an ego tonight, Charlie," I said.
  
  
  He let out an exasperated sigh, started to say something, then changed his mind and pursed his lips in thought. "I can get a passport and discharge, okay," he finally said. "There is a demand for those who have forms, but..."
  
  
  "Get the ih," he interrupted.
  
  
  He stared at me grimly for a moment, then shrugged humbly. "I'll try my best."
  
  
  Some people just won't do anything if you don't rely on them. Her, he leaned on Charlie, and around midnight, he walked her through that plastic elegance into the fetid streets of the Block in the role of Nick Cartano. A phone call to our embassy will take care of my old passport and the few things she left at the St. George Hotel.
  
  
  
  
  
  From that moment until he finished this job, he was Nick Cartano, a carefree Sicilian with a hazy past.
  
  
  He was whistling a light Italian tune as he walked down the street.
  
  
  It was moved to the hotel "Roma" and Stahl was waiting. If shell had a stream of Sicilians heading to America through Beirut, they would have gone through the Gypsies. Rum in Beirut is an irresistible attraction for Italians, as if the reception desk is decorated with garlic cloves. Actually, by the way it smells, maybe.
  
  
  However, despite all my plans, the next day she was accidentally met by Louis Lazaro.
  
  
  It was one of those hot days that are so rare on the coast of Lebanon. Scorching desert gusts, the sand is dry and very hot, but the cool blue of the Mediterranean sea softens the impact.
  
  
  On the sidewalk in front of me, hawk-faced bedouins in black abayas trimmed with gold brocade pushed their way mimmo sleek Levantine businessmen; mimmo mustachioed merchants bustled about, talking excitedly in French; here and there appeared tarbouches, I. H. bearers sometimes in strictly cut Western costumes, sometimes in ghalibs, sometimes in black suits. the ever-present nightgowns. On the sidewalk, a legless beggar lay in the accumulated mud of the street, wailing: "Baksheesh, baksheesh" to every passerby, palms up in supplication, and teary eyes pleading. On the street, old Haridan, veiled, sat high on a mangy camel that trudged disconsolately down the street, oblivious to the accusations that constantly evaded the narrow street, and the hoarse horns hummed in discord.
  
  
  On the other side of the street, two American girls were photographing a Negeb family group as they slowly marched down the street, women holding huge earthenware jugs on their heads, and men and women in the soft orange-blue tones that these gentle people often wear. ih hidden and turbans. In the distance, where the Rue Almendares curves south towards Saint-Georges, a magnificent white sand beach was dotted with sunbathers. Like swirling ants in a blue, glassy sea, he could see two water skiers dragging their toy-like boats on invisible strings.
  
  
  It happened suddenly: the taxi was circling blindly around a corner, the driver struggling with the steering wheel as he swerved into the middle of the street to avoid a camel, then turned back to let an oncoming car pass. Tires screeched, and the car spun out of control in a lurching sideways skid toward a beggar groveling on the side of the road.
  
  
  Instinctively, hers, I moved toward him in a rapid dive, half-pushing, half-throwing the Arab out of the way, then tumbling over them into the gutter as the taxi hit the sidewalk and slammed into the stucco wall of the building. slamming into the building in the screaming agony of metal being torn apart.
  
  
  For a moment, the world of Almendares Street was stunned by the wax museum painting. Then the woman began to cry, a long, drawn-out moan that released her fear and seemed to echo with relief in the crowded street. He lay still for a while, mentally counting his arms and legs. They all seemed to be there, though I thought I'd been hit hard on the forehead.
  
  
  He slowly stood up, checking all his working parts. His bones didn't seem to be broken, his joints didn't seem to be sprained, so he went to the window at the front of the cab, squeezing himself into the unshakable plaster.
  
  
  Behind me, there was a multi-lingual babble as I pushed the door open and, as carefully as possible, pulled the driver out from behind the wheel. Miraculously, he seemed unharmed, only dazed. The olive-skinned man's ego was an ashen hue as he breached leaned against the moan, tarbush with a tassel, incredibly bent over one eye, stared incomprehensibly at the ruins of his existence.
  
  
  I'm happy that I'm not experiencing any immediate recovery. He turned his attention to the beggar who was writhing on his back in the gutter, suffering too much to help himself, or perhaps too weak. God knows he was as thin as any hungry man she'd ever seen. There was quite a lot of blood on his face, mostly around a deep gash on his cheekbone, and he was moaning piteously. However, when he saw me bending over him, he propped himself up on one elbow and held out his other hand.
  
  
  "Benefits, kindergartens," he sobbed. "Baksheesh! Baksheesh!"
  
  
  He turned away, indignant. I've seen it in New Delhi and Bombay, living piles of bones and bloated bellies lying in the streets waiting to starve to death, but even these have more human dignity than the beggars of Beirut.
  
  
  I started to walk away, but a hand in my arm held me back. It belonged to a short, plump man with a cherubic face and ego-black hair and eyes. Nen was wearing a black silk suit, white shirt and white tie, which was out of place in the heat of Beirut.
  
  
  "Momento," he said excitedly, ego and purpose swaying up and down as if for increased attention. "Momento, per favore".
  
  
  Then he switched from Italian to French. "Vous vous êtes fait du mal?" Hello
  
  
  
  
  
  The accent was terrible.
  
  
  "Je me suis blessé les genous, je crois," I replied, bending my knees carefully. He rubbed his head. «Et quelque выбрал bien solide m'aogné la tête. Mais ce n'est pas grave».
  
  
  He nodded, frowning, but grinning at the same time. Her guessed that ego comprehension wasn't much better than ego accent. He was still holding my hand. "Speak English?" "What is it?" he asked hopefully.
  
  
  Her father nodded cheerfully.
  
  
  "Excellent excellent!" He was seething with enthusiasm. "I just want to say it was the bravest thing I've ever seen her do. Fantastic! You were moving so fast, so fast! " He was very engrossed in it all.
  
  
  Hers was laughing. "Just a reflex action, I think." So it was, of course.
  
  
  "No!" he exclaimed. "It was courage. I mean, that was real guts, man!" He pulled an expensive cigarette case around the inside pocket of his coat, opened it, and handed it to me.
  
  
  He picked up a cigarette and bent down to pull out the cigarette lighter around Ego's eager fingers. I wasn't sure what he wanted, but he was funny.
  
  
  "Those were the best reflexes I've ever seen her have." Ego's eyes were shining with excitement. "Are you a fighter jet or something? Or an acrobat? The pilot?"
  
  
  I had to laugh. "No, I..." We'll see. What the hell was a tailor like to her? Open now to her was Nick Cartano, a former Palermo resident, most recently a member of the Foreign Legion, currently... currently available.
  
  
  "No, I'm not on them," I said, pushing through the crowd gathered around the wrecked taxi and the stunned driver, and strode down the sidewalk. The little man hurried to hurry.
  
  
  Halfway there, he held out his hand. "Her name is Louis Lazaro," he said.
  
  
  He shook Emu's hand without enthusiasm as he continued walking. "Nick Cartano. How are you?"
  
  
  "Cartano? Hey, dude, are you Italian too?"
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. "Siciliano".
  
  
  "Hey, great! Hers is also a Sicilian. Or... I mean, my parents were from Sicily. Its really American."
  
  
  It wasn't hard to understand. Then a thought struck me, and she was suddenly more gracious. It's true that not every American of Sicilian descent in Beirut will have the mafia connection they'd like, but it's equally true that almost any Sicilian in Beirut could have steered me in the right direction, either by accident or design. . It was reasonable to assume that one Sicilian could lead to another.
  
  
  "No kidding!" He replied with his best smile, " look at me, her adorable boyfriend." "I've lived there for a long time myself. New Orleans. Prescott, Arizona. Los Angeles. Everywhere."
  
  
  "Great great!"
  
  
  This guy couldn't be real.
  
  
  "Oh, my God!" he said. "Two Sicilian Americans in Beirut, and we're meeting each other right in the middle of the street. It's a small, cursed world, you know?"
  
  
  He nodded, grinning. "Of course." He spotted the Mediterranean Sea, a tiny cafe on the corner of Almendares and Fuad, and pointed to a beaded doorway. "What do you say, we shared a bottle of wine together?"
  
  
  "Big!" "What is it?" he exclaimed. "Actually, I'll buy it."
  
  
  "All right, man, you're in touch," I replied with feigned enthusiasm.
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  
  I'm not entirely sure how we approached this topic, but we spent the next twenty minutes or so discussing Jerusalem. Louis just got back from there, and T. once spent two Sundays there thanks to Mr. Hawk's organization.
  
  
  We drove around the city, in conversation, visited the Mosque of Omar and the Wailing Wall, stopped at Pilate's Courtyard, and at Ruth's well, followed the stations of the Cross up Via Dolor and entered the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which still ferret preserved the carved initials of the Crusaders who built ego in 1099. For all his eccentricity, Louis was well versed in history, mistletoe had a shrewd mind and a rather arrogant attitude towards the Mother Church. I was beginning to like him.
  
  
  It took me a while for the conversation to go the way her hotel did, but I finally succeeded. "How long are you going to be in Beirut, Louis?"
  
  
  He laughed. He was beginning to realize that life was just fun for Louis. "I'll be back at the end of this Sunday. Saturday, I think. Although, of course, it was a hell of a lot of fun here."
  
  
  "How long have you been here?"
  
  
  "Only three Sundays. You know... small business, a little fun." He waved widely. "Mostly hilarious."
  
  
  If he didn't mind answering questions, hers, ih didn't mind asking. "What kind of business?"
  
  
  "Olive oil. Import of olive oil. Francini olive oil. Have you ever heard of nen?"
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. “no. I use cognac and soda myself. I hate olive oil."
  
  
  Louis laughed at my weak joke. He was the one around them who always found a bad joke worth laughing at. Good for the ego.
  
  
  He pulled a crumpled pack of Galoises out of his shirt pocket and lit one, while I happily set about making unexpected plans to be friends with Louis Lazaro, the laughing boy of the Western world.
  
  
  Olive oil Francini knew her well. Or at least,
  
  
  
  
  
  Who was Joseph Francini? Joseph "Popeye" Francini. Many people knew who he was. These days, it was Don Joseph, the head of the beginning of the second-largest mafia family in New York.
  
  
  Before Joseph Francini Stahl became Don Joseph, he was a "Popeye" in the entire underworld on the East Coast. Popeye was born around the ego of a very legitimate olive oil import and marketing business. Egos respected egos for their ruthless honesty, ritualistic adherence to Omerta's mafia law, and efficient business practices.
  
  
  When Em was thirty years old, Popeye was struck down by some disease - he couldn't remember what - that finally caused Ego to step down from the banner and find himself in an administrative position with organized crime. There, his excellent business goal proved invaluable, and in a very short time, he was able to gain real power in gambling and usury. He and the two ego brothers built their organization carefully and solidly, with a strong business acumen. Now he was Don Joseph, the aging, grumpy, jealous man he had worked so hard to reach.
  
  
  It was Papai Francini-Don Joseph Francini-who was behind the attempt to strengthen the American young Blood organization in Sicily.
  
  
  She wanted to get into the Sicilian circles in Beirut, and it looked like she hit the jackpot. Of course, Beirut was a logical place for an olive oil merchant to stop. Much of the world's supply comes from Lebanon and its neighbors, Syria and Jordan.
  
  
  But in the presence of Franzini Olive Oil's Louis Lazaro, at a time when the mafia was moving its recruits through Beirut, it was too much to increase the ratio of coincidences.
  
  
  I also had another thought. Louis Lazaro could have been more than just the happy man he seemed. Anyone representing Popeye Franzini would be competent and tough, even if - judging by the enthusiasm with which Louis attacked the bottle-he was inclined to drink too much.
  
  
  He leaned back on the heels of the small chair around the wire where he'd been sitting and tilted his glass over his new amico. "Hey, Louie! Let's have another bottle of wine."
  
  
  He roared with delight, slapping the table with his flat palm. "Why not, compare! Let's show these Arabs how they do it in the old country." The Columbia class ring on his right hand belied ego nostalgia as he signaled to the waiter.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Three days with Louis Lazaro can be exhausting. We saw a soccer game at American University, spent the day visiting the old Roman ruins in Baalbek; we drank too much at the Black Cat Cafe and the Famed Arab, and made it to almost every other bistro in town.
  
  
  In those three hectic days, she'd learned quite a lot about Louis. Her, thought that nen had mafia written on it, and when her discovered how deeply it was etched, all the bells rang. Louis Lazaro was in Beirut working with Francini olive oil, well, introducing his Uncle Popeye. When Louis dropped the bomb on the fourth decanter of wine, it pushed her wine-blurred memory to information about nen. Papai Francini raised his brother's son, and he remembered her from a report he'd read once. Was it that nephew? It probably was, and ego's different last name was most likely a minor cosmetic change. I didn't insist on why ego was called Lazaro instead of Francini, figuring that if it mattered, I'd get to know her soon enough.
  
  
  So I actually got into the hands of my ticket to the Francini pipeline. My jovial, joking companion, who first gave the impression of being a mafioso on a comedy show, must be pretty darn perceptive under that talkative, winey demeanor. Either that,or Uncle Joseph has managed to shield his nephew from the gruesome realities of organized crime, safely sending the ego into the legitimate thread of family life.
  
  
  She licks her belly in the middle of the day, and on the third day of our spree, I tried to find out if Louis Lazaro was involved in Uncle Joe's illegal activities.
  
  
  We were in a Red Fez, each chair tucked into a small walled alcove that looked like a barn stall. Louis was sprawled out in his chair, one strand of black hair hanging down from his forehead. He was sitting openly but relaxed, his hands resting on a small wooden table, drawing what looked like my fortieth galuza of the day.
  
  
  "Hey, kid!" Louis muttered. "You're fine." He paused, looking at his watch the way people do when they're aware of time, even when they're thinking in days, weeks, or months rather than hours, minutes, or seconds. "We need to get back together in the States. When will you be back?"
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "Do you know where I can get a good passport?" I asked casually.
  
  
  He raised his eyebrows, but there was no permission flag in his ego's eyes. People with passport problems were Louis Lazaro's way of life. "Don't you have an ego?"
  
  
  He sipped his wine, frowning. "Of course. But ..." Let it be
  
  
  
  
  
  draw your own conclusions.
  
  
  He smiled knowingly, waving her off with a wave of his hand. "But you came by Palermo, didn't you?"
  
  
  "That's right."
  
  
  "And you grew up in New Orleans?"
  
  
  "That's right."
  
  
  "Four years in the French Foreign Legion?"
  
  
  "Actually. What were you doing, Louis? Did you take notes?"
  
  
  He grinned disarmingly. "Ah, you know. Just make sure you get it right."
  
  
  "Actually," I said. He knew what ego questions were leading to - at least he hoped I did, and even if he didn't want to get straight to the point.
  
  
  He took the cross-examination like any good lawyer. "And for the last couple of years, you've been ... erm... Hanging around Beirut?"
  
  
  "That's right."I poured more wine for her in each of our glasses.
  
  
  Good."He pulled out an ego with a thoughtful look. "I can probably arrange that if you really want to go back to the States."
  
  
  He glanced over his shoulder, just for effect: "I have to get the hell out of here."
  
  
  He nodded. "Maybe I can help you, but..."
  
  
  "But what?"
  
  
  He grinned that disarming grin again. "I don't really know much about you other than your courage."
  
  
  Her carefully weighed situation. She didn't want to play her trump card too fast. On the other hand, this could be my break - in point, and I could always - if events demanded it-eliminate Louis.
  
  
  He pulled out a metal cigar tube around his shirt pocket and tossed it carelessly on a chair. He rolled over and stopped. He got up and pushed his chair forward. "I need to go see John, Louis." Ego patted her on the shoulder. "I'll be back."
  
  
  He left, leaving a small pipe worth about $ 65,000 on the table.
  
  
  I took my time, but when I got back, Louis Lazaro was still there. So was heroin.
  
  
  I could tell by the look on her ego that I'd made the right move.
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  
  At five o'clock in the afternoon, Louis met her in the lobby of his hotel. This time the silk suit was blue, almost electric. The shirt and tie were fresh, but still white on white. The ego's anxious smile didn't change.
  
  
  We stopped a taxi on the street. "Saint-Georges," Louis said to the driver, then leaned back complacently.
  
  
  It was only six blocks and we could have walked, but that wasn't what bothered me. The fact is that St. Georges was the only place in Beirut where she was known as Nick Carter. However, the possibility that either Clare or the floor manager might greet me by name was slim to none. Over-familiarity is not a way of life in Beirut if you are clearly American.
  
  
  I have nothing to worry about. Even in my tight clothes, no one paid me the slightest attention, as Louis made a quick call on the home phone in the lobby and then led me to the elevator, chatting nervously.
  
  
  "That's a really beautiful lady, man! She... she really is something else. But she's smart, too. Oh, Mother! He flicked his thumb over his front teeth. "But all you have to do is just answer her questions, you know? Just play calmly. You will see the vote."
  
  
  "Of course, Louis," Ego assured her. He had already gone through this procedure half a dozen times.
  
  
  A very tall, thin man with expressionless blue eyes opened the door of the suite on the eleventh floor and motioned us in. He moved out of the way as Louis passed, but when I followed him, he suddenly grabbed the inside of my right elbow with similar fingers and spun around. take me back. The leg behind my knees knocked me to the floor as he turned, so that I hit the thick carpet on my face, my arm twisted high on my shoulders, and a bony every tribe pressed against the small of my back.
  
  
  He was good. However, not so good. I could have broken Emu's kneecap with my heel when he took the first step, but I wasn't there for that. It lay there and allowed em to pull Wilhelmina out of her holster.
  
  
  The hand released a cursory scan of my body. Then the pressure on my lower back eased. "He had this vote," he announced.
  
  
  He was careless. Hugo was still resting in the suede scabbard strapped to my forearm.
  
  
  He nudged me with his toe, and he slowly got to his feet. He'll pay for it later.
  
  
  He pushed his hair back with one hand and took stock of the situation.
  
  
  It was in the living room of a large suite, with several doors leading to it. It was extravagantly decorated - for luxury. The heavy dark blue carpet was complemented by blue fabric draperies. The two Klees and Modigliani were in perfect harmony with the clean Danish modern furniture.
  
  
  Two sofas were flanked by small onyx lamps and chrome ashtrays. There were heavy, low coffee tables in front of each sofa, and large rectangles around the gray marble sat like pale islands in a dark blue sea.
  
  
  In front of the porthole sat a dainty Chinese doll, one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen.
  
  
  in my life. Her black hair was straight and black, almost reaching her waist, framing her thin, high features. Almond-shaped eyes in an alabaster face stared at me darkly, full lips full of skepticism.
  
  
  He controlled his face dispassionately as my mind clicked through the memory file. The ten days she spent at AX headquarters last year doing what we bitterly call "homework" were not in vain. Her photos in the dossier in File Room B made me gasp when ee first saw her. In the flesh, the impact was a hundredfold.
  
  
  The woman in the high-collared gray silk evening dress in front of me was Su Lao Lin, next to Chu Chen, the highest-ranking intelligence agent the Red Chinese supported in the Middle East. He had encountered Chu Chen before, both in Macau and Hong Kong; the Su Lao Lin he had only heard of.
  
  
  What I heard was enough - ruthless, brilliant, violent, short-tempered, but meticulous in its planning. During the Vietnam War, she worked with the pipeline that brought heroin to Saigon. Countless American military personnel could blame their addiction on Su Lao Lin's beautiful feet.
  
  
  Now, apparently, she was in a different pipeline-sending mafia recruits to the States. It was not an easy operation. If Uncle Lui and the other members of the Commission could afford Su Lao Lin, it would be a multi-million dollar investment that might be worth it if they could gain - or regain - the great power they held in the major cities of the country. another time.
  
  
  Looking at Su Lao Lin, my small muscles tensed involuntarily. The gray silk, transparent in the light of the floor lamp behind her, only served to emphasize the perfection of this tiny body: full, bold little breasts, a small waist accentuated by the flexibility of neatly rounded hips, legs surprisingly long for such a tiny person, calves slender and flexible, as is often the case with Cantonese.
  
  
  Sensuality crackled between the two of us like lightning. What Communist China's No. 2 agent in the Middle East, linked to the US-Sicilian mafia, was doing was a mystery, but that wasn't the web reason why she was asked to get her.
  
  
  She allowed lust to show in my eyes, and I saw that she had become aware of it. But she won't admit it. She probably saw the same lust in the eyes of half a dozen men every day of her life.
  
  
  "Are you Nick Cartano? Her voice was soft but businesslike, the eastern slur of hard consonants barely noticeable.
  
  
  "Yes," I said, running my fingers through my messy hair. Her, looked at the high hood that is the only transmission of me when her, walked in the door. He was standing to my left, about a foot behind me. He held Wilhelmina in his right hand, pointing to the floor.
  
  
  She gestured casually, her dark red lacquered nails glinting in the lamplight. "Sorry for the inconvenience, please, but Harold feels I should check on everyone, especially people with your..." She hesitated.
  
  
  "My reputation?"
  
  
  Her eyes were clouded with annoyance. "The lack of your reputation. We haven't been able to find anyone who's ever heard of you other than Louis."
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "I guess that means I don't exist?"
  
  
  She moved slightly, and the steam around the window behind her poured down between her legs, accentuating that exquisite silhouette. "That means either you're a fake or..."
  
  
  This hesitation in the middle of each sentence seemed like a habit.
  
  
  "Or else?"
  
  
  "...Or you're really very good." The ghost of a smile flickered across the slightly parted lips, and he smiled in rheumatism. She wants hers to be "really really good." She loves me, period. I could feel it. The feeling was mutual, but we still had a game to play.
  
  
  "In my email business, we don't advertise."
  
  
  "Sure, but in my email business, we can usually draw attention to the majority of people who are in... can say... allied lines?"
  
  
  He found the gleaming cigar pipe in his shirt pocket.
  
  
  She nodded. "I know," Louis told me.
  
  
  I didn't blame her. Nah had a reputation for not making mistakes, and my only physical evidence of a "dark past" was eight ounces of heroin in a tube. That and the fact that Louis was probably pitching for me. But Louis was the nephew of the person who most likely financed most of Su Lao Lin's activities. In the end, this should have been the deciding factor. She wouldn't have displeased Papaya Francini's nephew.
  
  
  Hey, I don't want to upset myself either. Her brazen gaze was fixed on nah. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. She understood the message correctly. I decided to let her off the hook.
  
  
  He fished a pack of Galoises out of his pocket and tapped the open end in his hand for a cigarette. Her knock on the curtain was too strong, and one flew out completely and fell to the floor. Her, bent down to pick up his own ego.
  
  
  At the same time, her right bent to every tribe and lashed her left leg outright backwards. Behind me, Harold screamed, his kneecap shattering under the hard rubber heel of my boot, shattering with every ounce of strength he could muster.
  
  
  Her, turned to the left and sold. As Harold leaned forward sharply, clutching at the shattered ego of every tribe, two fingers of his right hand caught him deep in the ego with his chin, catching ih in the jaw; hers rolled to his shoulders, gently turning him over.
  
  
  It was like plucking a fish out of the water, throwing it forward and at me, so that it made a short arc in the air. Just before her lost lever, her body jerked down sharply, and ego's face slammed into the floor, and behind it lay Alenka's entire ego body. I could almost hear the bones of ego nose breaking.
  
  
  Then he lay still. He was either dead from a broken neck, or simply unconscious from the shock and force of the blows to the deck.
  
  
  Wilhelmina took it and returned it to the shoulder holster it belonged to.
  
  
  Only then did he smooth her hair back with one hand and look around.
  
  
  Nam Lui and Nam Chinese woman didn't move, but excitement came to Su Lap Lin. I could see her by the slight flaring of her nostrils, the tightness of the vein running down the back of her hand, the brightness of her eyes. Some people experience intense sexual fervor as a result of physical abuse. Su Lao Lin was breathing heavily.
  
  
  She pointed disgustedly at what was left of Harold on the floor. "Put it away, please," she ordered Louis. She allowed herself a small smile. "I think maybe you're right, Louis. Your uncle might use a man like Mr. Cartano here, but I think you'd better introduce yourself." Both of you better be ready for the morning flight."
  
  
  There was a hint of dismissal in her tone, and Louis went over to Harold to wrestle. Su Lao Lin turned to me. "Come to my office, please," she said coldly.
  
  
  Her voice was controlled, but the over-modulated tone gave her away. Excitement quivered on her lips. I wonder if Louis felt it.
  
  
  I followed her through the door to a well-appointed office - a large modern chair with a business swivel chair, a streamlined gray metal dictaphone, two straight metal chairs, a gray filing cabinet in the corner-a good place to work.
  
  
  Su Lao Lin walked over to the table, then turned around and leaned back on the ego edge facing me, her tiny fingers half-hooked on the edge of the chair, crossing her ankles.
  
  
  Her lips parted between even teeth, and her tiny tongue poked out nervously, seductively.
  
  
  Her foot caught the door and slammed it shut behind her.
  
  
  In two long strides, they brought me to her, and a light moan escaped her lips as she was held close by ee, holding one hand under her chin, tilting it up as my hungry mouth groped for sl. Ee's arms were raised up, wrapped around my neck as she pressed her body against mine.
  
  
  He clamped his tongue over her mouth, exploring, smashing. No subtlety. Su Lao Lin was incredibly small, but she was a wild woman, writhing, moaning, her long nails tearing at my back, her legs clinging to mine.
  
  
  My fingers found the clasp on the high collar and undid it. It was as if an invisible lightning bolt had slid down on its own. He wrapped both arms around her petite waist and held her away from him in the air. She broke down reluctantly, trying to keep her mouth on mine.
  
  
  Put it on a chair. It was like handling fine porcelain, but this porcelain could wriggle.
  
  
  He stepped back, pulling off her gray silk dress. Then she would sit motionless, leaning back on her hands, her breasts heaving, her nipples sticking out, her tiny feet on the table, her knees spread wide. Blood trickled down her stomach.
  
  
  She was wearing nothing under her gray silk dress. He stared at her, momentarily stunned, savoring the alabaster beauty that sat like a living art object on the bare metal table. Slowly, without invitation, my fingers found the buttons on my shirt, fumbled with my shoes and socks, and undid my belt.
  
  
  He gently lifted her by the buttocks, balancing her for a moment like a cup on a saucer, and pulled her to him as he stood with his legs apart in front of the table. At the first plan of penetration, she gasped loudly, then used the scissors to cut my waist with her legs, so that she was riding on sloping hips.
  
  
  Leaning against the table for support, I leaned back while Su Lao Lin lay on top of me. The world exploded into a whirl of spinning sensations. Twisting and twisting, we writhed in the sparsely furnished office in a frantically hysterical dance. The two-bodied beast straightened up, bumped into the furniture, and leaned against the wall to groan. Finally, with a strong shuddering spasm, we collapsed to the floor, moving, pounding, pushing with all our straining muscles, until suddenly she screamed twice, two short high-pitched screams, ee, cleavage arched, despite my alyonka pressing on nah.
  
  
  He pulled away and rolled over on the floor on his back, chest heaving.
  
  
  . With all the bedrooms in the world, I somehow managed to end up on the office floor. He smiled and stretched. There are worse fates.
  
  
  Then I noticed a tiny hand on my hip. Delicate fingers traced a filigree pattern on the inside of my leg. It was obvious that Su Laoling wasn't finished yet.
  
  
  In fact, it was several hours before she was satisfied.
  
  
  Then, after we'd washed up, dressed, and eaten the lunch that had ordered her, she went about her business.
  
  
  "Give me your passport again."
  
  
  He gave it to me. She studied ego thoughtfully for a moment. "Well, I'll buy you a new one," she said. "I think it's a completely different name."
  
  
  He shrugged and smiled to himself. It seems that my life as Nick Cartano will really be very short-less Sundays.
  
  
  "I want you to leave here in the morning," she said.
  
  
  "Why so fast? I kind of like it here." It was true. In fact, it's also important that she learn as much as possible about the completion of the operation in Beirut before she leaves for the States.
  
  
  She gave me an expressionless look, and it reminded me that it was Su Lao Lin, the Red Chinese agent who had been involved in driving so many American soldiers to hell on the Heroin Road, and not a frail little wildcat on the office floor.
  
  
  "Well? It was an interesting evening, you'll agree."
  
  
  "This is business," she said coldly. "As long as you're around, I can forget that I can't afford..."
  
  
  "So you want her out of here on the morning flight," nah finished. Good. But can you prepare the documents for me so quickly?"
  
  
  Her, knew that Charlie Harkins could. But I doubted that Charlie was still hanging around in Beirut.
  
  
  Su Lao Lin allowed himself the ghost of a smile again. "Would I have suggested it if I couldn't?" It was hard to blame her logic. "I want you to leave," she said.
  
  
  He looked at his watch. "It's already ten o'clock."
  
  
  "I know, but it will take some time... you have to come back here before you leave. Do you understand?" The ghost of a smile again. Su Lao Lin took my hand and led me to the door.
  
  
  Hey smiled at her. "You're the boss," I said. "Where's he going?"
  
  
  "One-seven-three Almendares-sturt. This is on the outskirts of the Neighborhood. You'll see a man named Charles Harkins. He will take care of you. Just tell Em I sent you. It's on the third floor." She patted my hand gently. It was probably the closest thing to a gentle gesture she could ever make.
  
  
  He cursed himself like a fool as he walked down the hall and rang the elevator bell. I had to know that her agent was Charlie Harkins, which meant I was in trouble. There was no way Charlie could have provided me with a new set of papers without telling the Dragon Lady that she was playing Field Agent # 1 with an AXE.
  
  
  Of course, there was only one way out. He felt Wilhelmina's reassuring weight on his chest as he stepped into the elevator. Poor old Charlie was going to be leaned on again, and this time he was going to be immaculately lean.
  
  
  The sixth chapter.
  
  
  Number 173 Almendares Street. Charlie answered the doorbell almost before I took her finger off the bell. However, it wasn't me he was expecting.
  
  
  "Nick...! What are you doing here?"
  
  
  It was a legitimate spin. "Hi, Charlie," I said cheerfully, pushing past him into the room. Her sel odin poked around the couches in front of the coffee table, pulled out a galoise by half-empty pack in his pocket, and lit the ego with an ornate desk lighter that didn't look like it could be from Hong Kong.
  
  
  Charlie was nervous as he closed the door and then sat down in the chair across from me, somewhat hesitant. "What's up, Nick?"
  
  
  Her, emu chuckled. "I have another job for you, Charlie, and I want to talk to you about it, too."
  
  
  He smiled a little. It didn't work out too well. ".. I can't talk too much about business, Nick, " he pleaded. "You know what."
  
  
  Of course, he was right. Half of Charlie's considerable value to the international underworld was his outstanding talents: a pen, a camera, a printing press, an airbrush, and an embossing kit. The other half lay there in absolute silence. If he ever talked about anything, he'd be dead. Too many people in the Middle East will be too afraid that they will be the next ones he will talk about. So silence was part of the ego trade, and when she met Charlie from time to time, she was never asked by the ego to break the ego.
  
  
  But life can be hard, I thought. For a moment I had regrets about what I was about to do, but it was denied by media reports appearing myself that this was the presidential locality of Russia. Charlie Harkins can't count on much in this world.
  
  
  "You should have told me you were working for Lady Dragon, Charlie," he told her in a calm tone.
  
  
  He frowned, as if he didn't know what that meant.
  
  
  "What do you mean ... Err, Lady Dragon?"
  
  
  "Come on, Charlie. Su Lao Lin."
  
  
  "Su Lao Lin? Eh... who is she?" Fear played in ego's eyes.
  
  
  "How long have you been working for nah?"
  
  
  "Her? Working for whom?"
  
  
  He sighed. I didn't have all night to play games. "Charlie," I said irritably. "She sent me here. I need a new set of papers. I'm leaving for the States in the morning."
  
  
  He stared at me, and ego finally dawned. I watched ego with my eyes as he considered this in his mind. He knew I was an AX agent. If Su Lao Lin sent me to get more papers, it meant that I had somehow joined the conveyor belt. And if it was included in the pipeline, it would mean that this pipeline would not work further. He looked around the room as if he could see the newly painted walls, green carpet, and beautiful furniture disappearing before his eyes.
  
  
  He got it right.
  
  
  He asked. "Are you sure?"
  
  
  "I'm sure, Charlie."
  
  
  He took a deep breath. Fate was against Charlie Harkins, and he knew it. He had to inform Su Lao Lin that an AX agent had hacked her security system. But Agent AX was genuinely there, in the room with him.
  
  
  Her emu wasn't jealous.
  
  
  Finally, he made up his mind and sighed again. He reached for the phone on the coffee table.
  
  
  He leaned over the coffee table and slapped his ego hard across the bridge of his nose.
  
  
  Tears welled up in his eyes as he recoiled. Blood trickled down his left nostril. "I have to make a phone call," he breathed. "I have to confirm that she sent you. If I don't do it, she'll know something's wrong. This is standard procedure."
  
  
  No doubt he was right. There had to be some kind of confirmation system, and the phone was as good as any other. Now I had my own dilemma to contend with. If Charlie hadn't called Su Lao Lin, she would have known that there was trouble somewhere. On the other hand, the last thing she needed to do was go to the hotel while Charlie was on the phone with Su Lao Lin. He took it out of Wilhelmina's holster with one hand and handed Charlie the phone with the other. "The voice. Call hey as if he were one of your usual Sicilian clients. Really?"
  
  
  He nodded, startled. "Of course, Nick."
  
  
  He waved the gun in his face. "I want you to hold the phone so that I can hear her too. And I don't want you to say anything I don't approve of. Understand?"
  
  
  Harkins nodded grimly. He dials a number, then holds the receiver to the middle of the chair's stomach, and we both lean forward so that our heads are almost touching.
  
  
  Lady Dragon's soft, aristocratic lisp drifted around the receiver. "Yes?"
  
  
  Harkins cleared his throat. "E ... Miss Lao?"
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "Err... This is Charlie Harkins. I have a guy here who says you sent an ego."
  
  
  "Describe him, please."
  
  
  Inches away from me, Charlie rolled his eyes. "Well, he's about six feet four inches tall, black hair slicked back, square jaw, and ... uh ... well, very broad shoulders."
  
  
  Charlie smiled at her and wagged Wilhelmina's tip at the emu.
  
  
  "Ego's name is Nick Cartano," he continued.
  
  
  "Yes, her ego sent it." He could hear her loud and clear. "We will need everything - identity documents, passport, travel permit. He's leaving in the morning."
  
  
  "Yes, ma'am," Charlie said dutifully.
  
  
  "Charlie..." There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Charlie, have you ever heard of this Cartano? I couldn't get any precise information out of him."
  
  
  He gave her a frantic nod and put Wilhelmina Charlie's face under her chin to emphasize his point.
  
  
  "E... "Sure, Miss Lao," he said. "I think I've heard a little bit about nen in the city. I think he's been around a little bit."
  
  
  Good."She was happy.
  
  
  Charlie stared blankly at the phone. He looked at me, and I really want to blurt out some warning.
  
  
  He took a small step with Wilhelmina.
  
  
  "Good-bye, Miss Lao," he said. He hung up the phone with a shaking hand, and Wilhelmina covered it again.
  
  
  It might have sent some kind of coded warning or omitted a confirmation code, but I doubted it. The situation he was in now was too strange for the ego part of the operation to be expected with such elaborate security.
  
  
  For the second time since I arrived in Beirut, she and Charlie went through the recording process. It was good, but terribly slow, and this time it took almost three hours.
  
  
  I've been thinking for a long time about how I can get rid of it. That was the problem. With Charlie alive, I'd never make it to the airport, let alone back to the States. Even if I leave her ego bound and gagged, it will eventually be released, and I will be reached wherever it is.
  
  
  Rheumatism, obviously, was to kill the ego. But I couldn't do it. He'd killed her many times in his career, and Charlie certainly wasn't the jewel of humanity.
  
  
  But he killed the people he fought her with, or chased her down, or chased her down. That's one thing. But Charlie was something else again.
  
  
  There didn't seem to be any other way out. Charlie had to leave. On the other hand, if Harkins turns out to be dead or missing right after collecting my documents, Lady Dragon will find it very strange indeed. It was a small dilemma.
  
  
  However, Charlie solved it for me.
  
  
  He was studying his new set of documents, this one for Nick Canzoneri. Charlie always liked to stick as close to his real name as possible. "It saves you from sometimes not answering when you don't need to," he explained.
  
  
  All the papers were in good condition. There was a passport stating that Nick Canzoneri was born in the small Calabrese village of Fuzzio, work permits and driver's licenses around Milan, photographs of an indistinguishable young man and girl holding hands in front of Roman ruins, and four letters from Nick Canzoneri's mother on Fuzzio.
  
  
  Charlie did a good job.
  
  
  Then, as he was leaning over the coffee table looking through his new papers, he picked up a lamp from the chair and hit hey, my head.
  
  
  The force of the impact knocked me off the couch and onto the coffee table. Her, felt it split beneath me, when her, collapsed to the floor, the world was a red haze of piercing pain. She didn't lose consciousness due to being hit by the lamp. Schmitz's Law: The disintegration of a moving object dissipates the ego's impact force, directly proportional to the rate of disintegration.
  
  
  But I was in pain.
  
  
  When hers collapsed to the floor, hers instinctively leaned on his palms and threw himself to the side in a roll. As I did so, something else - probably another lamp-shattered near my head, narrowly missing me.
  
  
  Now he was on all fours, shaking his head like a wounded dog, trying to clear his mind. It was as if a small bomb had exploded inside him.
  
  
  He still couldn't see her clearly. But I couldn't stay in one place. Charlie will be on the attack. Lowering his hands and knees, he lowered her head to her bent arms and rolled forward. My feet hit the floor and he rolled over.
  
  
  It slammed into the wall. The push seemed to help. As I instinctively ducked to continue moving, my vision began to clear. I could feel the warm blood running down my face. He jumped out of the way. Its not daring to stay still until it has found its enemy. Any movement I could make could lead me sincerely to him, but he couldn't stay still.
  
  
  Then her ego saw her.
  
  
  He followed me around the corner of the sofas, one hand resting on the back of the sofas, and the other stretched out from his side. In nen, there was a terrible-looking curved knife. He must have pulled the ego around the ornate Arab scabbard she'd seen hanging on moans.
  
  
  Charlie held the knife at waist level, aiming it at my head. Ego's legs were spread wide for counterweights. He moved slowly.
  
  
  My hesitation may have saved my life, but it also left me squeezed into a corner, with a sofa along one wall and a heavy oak table along the other.
  
  
  Charlie blocked my escape route.
  
  
  I snuggled up to moan as he took another step forward, only four feet away from me. Ego's thin lips tightened. The final thrust was coming.
  
  
  I had no choice. Her instinctive hand snatched Wilhelmina's shoulder holster and fired.
  
  
  Gawk hit Charlie openly in the throat, and he stood for a moment, pausing due to the impact of a luger bullet. There was a puzzled look on his face, and he seemed to be looking at me as if I were a stranger. Then the ego's eyes dimmed, and blood gushed down the base of the ego's throat. He fell back, still clutching the knife in his hand.
  
  
  I carefully stepped over my ego, body,and went to the bathroom to see if I could wash my face. At least the cold water would clear my head.
  
  
  It took me half an hour at the sink, and another minute and twenty-two steaming cups of black coffee that Charlie had made for her on the stove before hers was ready to go. Then he picked up his Nick Canzoneri papers and headed back to St. George's. Before he was able to fly to the States, there were still Su Lao Lin's "special personal instructions".
  
  
  And nah also had to get rid of her before she left for Beirut. I couldn't leave her there, pushing Sicilian mobsters through transit to the mafia in New York. And since he was the last person she sent to Charlie, his death wouldn't have looked so good to me.
  
  
  Hers, he sighed as he rang the elevator bell for the ornate St. Georges. Hers isn't the kill Lady Dragon Hotel any more than the kill Charlie Hotel, but I made one stop between ego's Block apartment and the hotel, and that stop helped me get that part of the job done.
  
  
  When Su Lao Lin opened the door for me, there was a softness in her eyes, but it quickly turned to alarm when she looked at my damaged features. I had a strip of sticky tape running through my eye high above one eye, where the Harkins lamp had cut a painful but actually superficial notch, and that eye was swollen, probably already discolored.
  
  
  "Nick!" she exclaimed. "What happened."
  
  
  "It's okay," he assured her, giving her a hug. But she pulled back to look at my face. I remembered the fat Arab and the young girl I'd seen on my first trip to Charlie's apartment. "I just came between an Arab and an ego whore," I explained. "She hit me with a lamp instead."
  
  
  She looked worried. "You have to take care of yourself, Nick... kostya me."
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "I'm leaving for the States in the morning."
  
  
  "I know, but I'll see you there."
  
  
  "Ouch?" It was a shock. I didn't know she was going to come to America.
  
  
  Her smile was close to modest. She rested her head on my chest. "I just decided tonight while you were gone. I'll be there in a couple of weeks. Just to visit. I want to see Francini anyway, and - " There was another pause in the middle of the first sentence.
  
  
  "And..." I prompted.
  
  
  "...And we can spend some more time together." Her arms tightened around my neck. "Do you want this? Do you want to make love to me in the United States?"
  
  
  "Her hotel would make love to you anywhere."
  
  
  She snuggled up to lick. "Then what are you waiting for?" Somehow, the emerald green chiffon thing she was wearing when she opened the door was gone. She pressed her naked body against mine.
  
  
  He picked it up and headed for the bedroom. We had most of the night ahead of us, and he wasn't going to spend it in the office.
  
  
  I didn't tell Hey that she'd never make it to the States, and the next morning I kept having to remind myself of the American soldiers her drug network had destroyed before he could bring himself to do what he had to do.
  
  
  She was gently kissed on the lips by ee before leaving the next morning.
  
  
  The plastic bomb I'd attached to the underside of her bed wouldn't go off for another hour and a half, and I was pretty sure she'd sleep that long, probably longer if for some reason the acid took longer to get into the detonator. .
  
  
  He got the bomb on his way to St. George's after leaving Harkins ' house. If you ever need a plastic bomb in a foreign city, then ee is best obtained from a local CIA resident agent - and you can almost always find a C. I. A. resident agent posing as a local Associated Press representative. In Beirut, it was Irving Fine, a small, round man with horn-rimmed glasses who was passionate about drawing straight lines.
  
  
  We'd run into a friend more than a few times in the Middle East, but he'd refused to give me explosives, I didn't know who I was going to blow them up to, and I hadn't consulted my ego boss first. He eventually agreed when convinced by her ego that it was a direct order from the White House.
  
  
  Of course, this wasn't really the case for Della, and she might have encountered it later, but as she belonged to them, Su Lao Lin was an enemy agent, and she needed to be destroyed.
  
  
  She was also doing very well in the hospital. That's why he kissed her good-bye before he left.
  
  
  
  The seventh chapter.
  
  
  
  Louis met me at the exit around the Trans World Airlines airport an hour later. He was talking to two dark-skinned men in cheap English suits. They might have been olive oil merchants, but somehow he doubted that. As soon as Louis noticed me, he hurried over with his hand outstretched.
  
  
  "Good to see you, Nick! Good to see you!"
  
  
  We felt sorry for each other's hands from the bottom of our hearts. Louis did everything from the bottom of his heart. Then he introduced me to the men he was talking to, Gino Manitti and Franco Loclo. Manitti had a low lobe that hung over his brow like a Neanderthal's. Loclo was tall and lean, and through the ego-strained parting of her lips, he caught a glimpse of a yellowish pair of bad teeth. No one around them spoke English enough to order a hot dog in Coney Island, but ih's eyes had an animal hardness to them, and rta could see the malice in the corners.
  
  
  More dirt for the mafia mill.
  
  
  Once aboard the big airliner, Sell was at the window, and Louis was in the seat next to her. The two Francini family newcomers sat candid behind us. During the entire flight around Beirut in New York, we never heard anyone say a word to us.
  
  
  For Louis, that was more than he could say to her. It's been simmering ever since we put on our seat belts.
  
  
  "Hi, Nick," he said with a grin. "What were you doing last night after I left Su Lao Lin? Man! It's some chick, isn't it?" He laughed, like a little boy telling a dirty joke. "Did you have a good time with her, Nick?"
  
  
  He looked at him coldly. "I had to talk to a guy about my documents."
  
  
  "Ah, yes. I forgot it. This would be
  
  
  Charlie Harkins, I guess. He's a really good person. I think it's the best in its class."
  
  
  He was, I thought. "He did a good job for me," I said evasively.
  
  
  Louis spent a few more minutes talking about Charlie in particular, and good people in general. He didn't tell me much that he didn't already know, but he liked to talk. Then he changed the subject.
  
  
  "Hey, Nick, you know you almost killed that guy Harold in Su Lao Lin's apartment. Oh, my God! I've never seen anyone move so fast before!"
  
  
  He smiled at his friend. I can also be flattered. "I don't like being turned on," I said harshly. "He shouldn't have done that."
  
  
  "Yes, Yes. I definitely agree with her. But, damn it, you almost killed that guy!"
  
  
  "If you can't hit the ball, you shouldn't rush into battle."
  
  
  "Yes, of course... dude... The doctor at the hospital said that the ego kneecap is practically destroyed. Said he'd never walk again. He also has a spinal injury. Maybe paralyzed for life."
  
  
  He nodded to her. Probably because of that karate kick that hit emu on the back of the head. Sometimes it works that way, if it doesn't kill you outright.
  
  
  I stared out the window at the disappearing coastline of Lebanon, the sun shining on the azure Mediterranean Sea below us. She worked for a little more than a day, and already two people were killed, and one Stahl was crippled for life.
  
  
  At least there must be two dead. He looked at his watch: ten-fifteen. The plastic bomb under Su Lao Lin's bed should have exploded half an hour ago ...
  
  
  While its done its job. The mouth of the Russian Federation in Beirut was destroyed. But that was just the beginning. Then I had to fight the mafia in her homeland. Hers would be dealing with a well-established organization, a huge industry that is engaged in spreading across the country like an insidious disease.
  
  
  I remembered a conversation I'd had with Jack Gourlay a few months ago, just before I'd been assigned to deal with the Dutchman and Hamid Rashid. We had a beer at The Sixish on Eighty-eighth Street and First Avenue in New York, and Jack talked about his favorite topic: the Syndicate. As a News correspondent, he spent twenty years covering stories about the mafia.
  
  
  "It's hard to believe, Nick," he said. "I know one of these loan sharks-run by the Ruggiero family-that has outstanding loans of more than eighty million dollars, and the interest on these loans is three percent a week. That's one hundred and fifty-six percent interest on eighty million dollars.
  
  
  "But this is only the initial money," he continued. "They're in everything."
  
  
  "Like what?" He knew a lot about the mafia, but you can always find out from the experts. In this case, Gourlay was an expert.
  
  
  "Probably the biggest one around them is trucks. There is also a clothing center. At least two-thirds of the ego is controlled by the mafia. They pack meat, they control most of the vending machines in the city, private garbage trucks, pizzerias. bars, funeral homes, construction companies, real estate firms, catering companies, jewelry businesses, beverage bottling businesses - whatever ."
  
  
  "They don't seem to have much time for real crimes."
  
  
  "Don't be fooled. They are well versed in hijacking planes, and anything they capture can be sent to ih so-called legitimate retail outlets. The guy who's expanding his clothing business on Seventh Avenue is probably doing it with the money he got from drugs, the guy who's opening a chain of grocery stores in Queens is probably doing it with the money that came from pornography in Manhattan."
  
  
  Gourlay also told me a little about Pope Francini. Em was sixty-seven years old, but he was still a long way from retirement. According to Gourlay, he led a family of more than five hundred initiated members and about fourteen hundred "associate" members. "Of all the old Mustachio Pits," Gourlay said, " this old son of a bitch is by far the toughest. It's probably also the best organized one."
  
  
  On the plane flying towards the States via Beirut, her husband looked at his partner, nephew Luis Francini. Around the nineteen hundred gangsters who made up Francini's family, he was the only one who could call her a friend. And I doubted it would be very useful for anything other than continuous conversation if things got bad.
  
  
  He looked out the window again and sighed. It wasn't a task I liked. I took a novel by Richard Gallagher and started reading it to distract myself from my immediate future.
  
  
  Three hours later it was finished, we were still in the air, the immediate future still looking bleak, and Louis started talking again. It was an unlucky flight.
  
  
  Larry Spelman, Francini's personal bodyguard, met us at the airport. I gathered that Louis was quite well respected by his uncle.
  
  
  Spelman was at least an inch taller than my six-foot-four, but narrow and bony. He had a long nose with a high bridge and piercing, wide-set blue eyes and a face with black flecks on long sideburns, but the emu was only about thirty-five years old. Her ego knew her in reputation: hard as nails, fanatically loyal to Pope Francini.
  
  
  He let out a surprisingly loud laugh as he gently grabbed Louis ' shoulders. "It's good to see you, Louis! The old man sent me here to meet you alone."
  
  
  Louis introduced Manitti, Loclo, and me, and we felt sorry for each other's hands. Spelman looked at me curiously, his blue eyes unwavering. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"
  
  
  He could damn well do it. I could think of any one of a dozen tasks where the emu might have pointed me out. One of the success factors of organized crime in this country was its remarkable intelligence system. The underworld monitors state agents as closely as the government monitors underworld figures. I've never met Spelman in person, but it's possible that he'll recognize me.
  
  
  Damn it! She's only been here five minutes and she's already in trouble. But I played it nonchalantly and hoped the deep tan she got in Saudi Arabia would confuse her ego a little. The duct tape on my forehead should have helped, too.
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "Have you ever been to New Orleans?"
  
  
  “no. Not in New Orleans." He shook his head irritably. "Do you have anything to do with Tony?"
  
  
  Tony?"
  
  
  "Tony Canzoneri, the fighter."
  
  
  Tailor take it again! I'd forgotten my name was Canzoneri, even after hearing Louis introduce me that way just a minute ago. A few more failures like this and I'll really be in trouble.
  
  
  "He's my cousin," I said. "On my father's side."
  
  
  "Great fighter!"
  
  
  "Yeah." I had the feeling that Larry Spelman was keeping the conversation going so that he could study me a little longer. We were playing a fun game. He knew that I had just arrived with Madame Xu Lao Lin around Beirut and that Canzoneri would not be my real name.
  
  
  He didn't like this game. Sooner or later, he'll remember who he is, and the whole charade will explode. But at the moment, there wasn't much he could do about it. "I'll see you in a minute," I said. "I have to go to the bathroom."
  
  
  He took his bag with him and, without leaving the men's room, quickly moved Wilhelmina and Hugo around the suitcase to their usual places: a shoulder holster for Wilhelmina, a spring-loaded suede scabbard for Hugo. In Lebanon, security measures are now in place, so you can not get on planes with weapons. On the other hand, a toilet set lined with lead foil travels very well with you in a suitcase and looks completely harmless and impervious to luggage X-ray machines. Any customs inspector, of course, can decide to take the ego, and annually, but life is full of chances, and for some reason she has never seen a customs inspector check a toilet kit. They'll look at your socks, meet your slippers, and sniff the bag of tobacco to make sure it's not marijuana, but I've never seen it, just one look at the toilet kit.
  
  
  Her exited through the men's room in much greater safety.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The big Chrysler Spelman was driving back to town was filled with Louie's chatter. This time it was delivered by ego's endless laughing monologue. I was hoping it would take Spelman's mind off me.
  
  
  It was just after 6 p.m. when a large blue car pulled up to a particularly nondescript loft in Prince Sturt, just off Broadway. He was the last one out of the cars and looked at the battered sign on the front of the building: Francini Olive Oil.
  
  
  Larry Spelman led us through a small glass-fronted door and down an open hall, past a small office where four women worked intently at their printing desks, wedged between gray filing cabinets and a wall. No one around them looked up as we passed mimmo; in some companies, it's better not to know who's walking around the office.
  
  
  We came to a frosted-glass door with the inscription of Joseph Francini neatly written on it. As if we were all conscripts who had just arrived at a training camp, we gathered ourselves up and put our suitcases against one wall, then stood around and looked shy. Only Louis was immune to the regimental nuances that the group surmised; he leaped over the small wooden railing, and seemed to wrap his arms around the prim receptionist who half rose from her chair when she saw him enter.
  
  
  She screamed. "When did you get back?"
  
  
  He smothered her with kisses. "Just now, Philomina, just now. Hey! You're beautiful, sweet, just beautiful!" As she struggled to free herself from the ego's gorilla-like embrace, her knew it. Despite her appearance - her rimless glasses, her black hair pulled back in a tight bun, and her high-collared blouse-she was a true Italian beauty, tall and slender, but with delicious breasts, a surprisingly small waist, and full, rounded hips. Her oval face, accentuated by huge brown eyes and a pert, cheeky chin, was straight out of Sicily.
  
  
  her olive skin, chiseled features, and heavy, sensual lips.
  
  
  She smiled shyly in our direction as she stepped back from the chair and adjusted her skirt. For a moment, our eyes met on the other side of the room. They met and held it, then she went back to sitting down, and the moment passed.
  
  
  Spelman walked to the desk and disappeared into the open office doorway behind and to the right of Philomena's chair. Louis sat in the corner of the secretary's chair, talking to her in a low voice. The others around us found seats on brightly colored plastic chairs revealing for the day.
  
  
  Larry Spelman reappeared, pushing a chrome wheelchair in which sat a huge old man. It was disgusting, filling up the huge wheelchair and spilling over the sides. It should have weighed three hundred pounds, maybe more. From beneath the mound of fat that formed ego's face, sinister black eyes glittered, oddly rimmed with dark circles, a classic example of moonlight syndrome, usually associated with cortisone treatment.
  
  
  It was then that he remembered reading it all those years ago: Joseph Francini was a victim of multiple sclerosis. He had been in this wheelchair for thirty-seven years-shrewd, bold, ruthless, brilliant, strong, and crippled by a strange neurological disease affecting the central nervous system. It distorts or disrupts motor impulses, so that the victim may suffer from loss of vision, impaired coordination, paralysis of the limbs, bowel and bladder dysfunction, and other problems. Multiple sclerosis doesn't kill, it just torments.
  
  
  He knew that there was no cure for multiple sclerosis, no preventive or even effective treatment. Like most patients with multiple sclerosis, Francini contracted the disease when he was young, at the age of thirty.
  
  
  Looking at him, I also wondered how he did it. With the exception of a few brief periods of spontaneous remission, Francini the ferret was confined to this wheelchair, growing fat and plump due to lack of exercise and his love of eating Italian pasta. Nevertheless, he was the head of one of the most powerful mafia families in the world, with a political acumen and a reputation in underworld circles second only to Gaetano Ruggiero.
  
  
  This was the man he had come to New York to work for and destroy, if possible.
  
  
  "Louie!" He barked in a raspy but surprisingly loud voice. "It's good to have you back." He laughed and looked at the others around us. "Who are these people?"
  
  
  Louis hurried to introduce her. He made a gesture. "This is Gino Manitti."
  
  
  "Bon giorno, Don Joseph". Neanderthaltsev half bowed to the crippled giant.
  
  
  "Giorno". Francini looked at Franco Loclo.
  
  
  There was a tremor of fear in Loclo's voice. "Franco Loclo," he said. Then ego's face cleared. "By Castelmara," he added.
  
  
  Francini chuckled and turned to me. Ego's gaze met hers, but it wasn't easy. There was hatred in those black eyes, but I'd seen it before. It was different, something Papai Francini hated with a passion he'd never encountered before.
  
  
  Suddenly he understood her. Francini's hatred was so vicious because it wasn't directed against one person or group of people, or against a country or an idea. Francini hated himself. He hated his sick body, and while he hated himself, he hated God, whom he had created in his own image.
  
  
  Louis's voice interrupted my thoughts. "This is Nick Canzoneri, Uncle Joe. He's my other one. She was met by ego in Beirut."
  
  
  He nodded to the old man, not quite bowing.
  
  
  He raised one white eyebrow, or tried to. The result was a more manic grimace as one side of the rta's ego opened up and the target tilted sideways from the effort. "More? "he croaked," You were sent not to make friends. Ha!"
  
  
  Louis hurried to reassure ego. "He's also the only one around us, Uncle Joe. Wait until I tell you what he did once."
  
  
  It seemed strange to hear a grown man refer to another person as "Uncle Joe," but I suppose it was all part of Louis ' somewhat youthful approach to life. As for what he could tell me about what I once did, he didn't know the half of it.
  
  
  Her smile was as genuine as Francini could manage, but I really couldn't think of anything to say, so I just shrugged. This is a wonderful Italian way out for any situation.
  
  
  The old man stared intently at rheumatism for a while, and then with a quick flick of his arm, half-turned the wheelchair so that it was facing Louis. It was a remarkable move for someone who just a moment ago found it hard to raise an eyebrow.
  
  
  "Book these guys at Manny's," he ordered. "Give them back tomorrow, and then tell them to report to Rikko." He looked over his shoulder at us. "Damn the tailor!" he said. "I keep the money, they don't even speak English."
  
  
  He looked at Louis. "Tomorrow night we're having some evenings at Tony Gardens. Today is your cousin Philomina's birthday. Be there."
  
  
  Louis grinned happily. "Of course, Uncle Joe."
  
  
  Ego Cousin Philomina blushed prettily.
  
  
  The old man deftly removed his wheelchair and headed back to the office on his own. Spelman gave me a cold look once more, then followed his boss. If he ever knew who I was, one day he would remember.
  
  
  As Manitti, Loclo, and his men followed Louie through the office and into the hallway, I had a very unpleasant feeling about Larry Spelman.
  
  
  
  The eighth chapter.
  
  
  
  Manny had Chalfont Plaza, one around the grand old hotels on the east side of midtown Manhattan. Throughout its long history, Chalfont Plaza has hosted more than one member of the European royal family. This is still one of the standard stops for suburban businessmen visiting New York.
  
  
  A few years ago, a group of prominent businessmen bought Chalfont Plaza with its original owners as a business investment, and then sold it to Emmanuel Perrini, a young ambitious businessman with a lot of capital.
  
  
  The sign on the front still says "Chalfont Plaza", but the mafia, because of its eternal ego, calls the ego"Manny".
  
  
  "Do you want to stop for a drink, Nick?" he asked before I stepped into the elevator after check - in.
  
  
  "No thanks, Louis," I groaned. "I'm exhausted."
  
  
  "All right," he agreed cheerfully. "I'll call you tomorrow, not when, and let you know what's going on."
  
  
  Good. He put on one last friendly smile and waved goodbye as the elevator door closed. Tired? It wasn't just the jet lag that made me forget to put her under Wilhelmina's pillow before going to bed. Instead, ee holstered it on top of the son of a bitch's clothes, which he left lying on the floor when he undressed.
  
  
  When I woke her up, she was just four inches from my rta and pointing candid at my left eye.
  
  
  "Don't move, you son of a bitch, I'll kill her or you."
  
  
  Hers, he was trusted. He lay perfectly still, trying to adjust his eyes to the momentary glare of the bedside lamp. Wilhelmina is only 9mm, but at that moment I felt like I was looking in the direction of a sixteen-inch naval rifle.
  
  
  He followed his gaze up Wilhelmina's trunk to the hand that now held her, then up the long arm until he found her face. As expected, it was an old acquaintance: Larry Spelman.
  
  
  My eyes were burning with fatigue, and when I fully woke up, I felt a pain in my body. Her had no idea how long he'd been sleeping with her. About thirty seconds passed.
  
  
  Spelman jerked his arm, and the steel butt of my own pistol slammed into my face. Pain shot up my jaw. I managed not to scream.
  
  
  Spelman grinned and pulled away, still holding the gun pointed at me. He stood up, grabbed the nearest chair with one hand, and pulled ego close, not even taking his eyes off me.
  
  
  He leaned back in his chair and motioned to Wilhelmina. "Sit down."
  
  
  Carefully lifting herself up, two pillows took her behind them. Nice and comfortable, except for that damn gun. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was three o'clock, and since there was no saint coming through the blinds, it should have been three in the morning. I slept through it for about four hours.
  
  
  He looked at Spelman questioningly, and when he finally woke up, he decided that he must be drunk. There was a strange look in ego's eyes; they didn't seem to be focusing properly. Then he saw her pupils narrow. He wasn't drunk, he was excited!
  
  
  My jaw was throbbing, which hurt.
  
  
  "You think you're a pretty smart son of a bitch, don't you, Carter?"
  
  
  Her inwardly grimaced. He's blown my cover, all right. I wonder if he told anyone else. Not that it mattered much. From the way things looked at the moment, he had all the time in the world to tell it to whomever he wanted.
  
  
  "I don't feel very smart right now," I admitted.
  
  
  He allowed himself a small smile. "I finally remembered, like, an hour ago. Nick Carter. You work for AX."
  
  
  Damn the heroin! Sometimes this happens: a long-forgotten memory is triggered. I've seen it before.
  
  
  "That was about four years ago," he continued. "Tom Murphy pointed you out to me in Florida."
  
  
  "Good company you make," I chuckled. Under the ego facade of being an outstanding lawyer, the dapper gray-haired Murphy was one of the most successful purveyors of pornography in the country. And in Murphy's case, it wasn't just about sex and heroin; he was dealing with real dirt.
  
  
  Spelman pointed the gun at me threateningly. "Who else is in this with you?"
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. "If you know I'm Nick Carter, you know I usually work alone."
  
  
  "Not this time. As soon as I remembered who you were, I called her in Beirut. Su Lao Lin is dead. Charlie Harkins is dead. Harold is in the hospital."
  
  
  At least that part of my plan worked.
  
  
  Spelman grinned. "So you couldn't work alone this time. This Chinese girl was killed almost an hour and a half after she was killed.
  
  
  your trip has taken off."
  
  
  "Ouch?" I caught myself thinking a good thing. It occurred to me that if Spelman thought there were other people working with me, it might buy me some time. It might even involve some legitimate members of the Francini family. They might soon be able to prove that this is a hoax, but at least it will cause some horror.
  
  
  She threw that last thought around her head. My first task was not to cause terror. It was to get out of here alive. But the odds weren't too good right now.
  
  
  "If someone worked with me," I protested, " why do you think they would tell you?"
  
  
  The Luger wheel made a small circle in the air. "Papay Francini will want the whole story," he said. Another small circle in the air. "And when I go and tell emu, I'll emu her every bit of it."
  
  
  Another point in my favor! Spelman hasn't told anyone yet. If I could just get rid of him before he got rid of me, things might start to get better. Starting all the way from an unarmed reclining position on a soft bed wasn't a good start for me, but I needed to do something.
  
  
  I needed to get the ego close enough to grab it, and the only way I could do that was by provoking the ego to attack me. The thought of deliberately provoking an armed attack, of an errant heroin addict, wasn't one of the happiest things I'd ever had. My chances were extremely slim. On the other hand, I didn't see any alternative.
  
  
  "You're an idiot, Spelman," I said.
  
  
  He pointed the gun at me. It seemed to be an ego-favorite gesture.
  
  
  "Start talking, twitch, or you'll die."
  
  
  Hers exploded. "You can't kill me until you know who I'm working with. You know that. You won't like the Papal stuff, Larry. Use your head - if you have a goal with that dose of heroin running through your veins. "
  
  
  He thought about it for a moment. Under normal or otherwise circumstances, I think Larry Spelman was quite an intelligent person. Walking on a cloud of heroin, he could hardly change the direction of his thoughts.
  
  
  He kept talking. The more I say, the longer I'll live. "How did a nice Jewish boy like you get into the mob, Larry?"
  
  
  He ignored me.
  
  
  Another gambit tried it. "Does your mother know that she raised a heroin addict, Larry? She should be proud of herself. How many other mothers can say that ih sons turned out to be drug addicts who spend most of their lives pushing a fat old man in a wheelchair? I bet she keeps talking about you, you know: "My son is a doctor, My son is a lawyer, and then your old lady shows up and says, 'My son is a drug addict'..."
  
  
  It was more childish, and it was unlikely that the ego would be maddened by it. But it really annoyed the ego, if only because my voice interrupted the ego's garbage-shrouded thoughts.
  
  
  "Shut up!" he ordered calmly enough. He took a half step around the chair he was sitting on and almost casually hit me with the side of the luger.
  
  
  But this time he was ready.
  
  
  He turned his head to the right to avoid the blow, and at the same time swung his left hand sharply up and out, catching ego's wrist in a sharp karate kick that should have made ego drop the gun, but it didn't.
  
  
  He rolled to the left on the bed, grabbed ego's wrist, and pressed ego palm up against the white sheets, then slid shoulder to shoulder to apply maximum pressure. Another ego arm wrapped around my waist, trying to pull me away from the shackled hand.
  
  
  He was holding my right hand against my own body. He made a quick convulsive movement, arching his back and offering one to each tribe for leverage, and was able to free his arm. Now I had both hands free to work with the ego hand with the gun, my left hand holding the ego wrist as tightly as possible, and my right hand gripping the ego fingers, trying to pull the ih out of the gun.
  
  
  He released her with one finger and began to slowly, inexorably bend her ego. Ego fingers were fantastically strong. The pressure around my waist suddenly eased. Then ego's free arm slid over my shoulder, and long, bony fingers gripped my face, caught my jaw, and yanked my head back, trying to break my neck.
  
  
  We struggled in silence, grunting with the effort. He worked on that gun finger, aiming for the lever, while at the same time using all his willpower and muscles to keep his head down.
  
  
  Her gaining an eighth of an inch, with the help of a finger, but at the same time felt my head being pushed back. Spelman's fingers dug deep into my throat under my jaw, grotesquely deforming my mouth as his palm pressed my nose. In a moment, when the carotid artery is cut off, I will lose consciousness.
  
  
  A pink haze clouded my eyes, and white streaks flashed painfully through my brain.
  
  
  I opened my mouth and bit hard on one around Spelman's fingers, feeling my teeth sink into it like it was a piece of grilled rib. Hot blood gushed into my mouth as my teeth clenched
  
  
  bumping into the ego joint, looking for joint weakness, then cuts through the tendons, crushing the tender bone.
  
  
  He screamed and yanked his hand away, but my target went with it, biting into the emu's finger. Her savagely tore it open like a dog bone, feeling like her lips and face were covered in blood. At the same time, hers increased the pressure on his gun hand. The ego's thumb was now flexing, and all I had to do was turn the ego back.
  
  
  But my aching jaws loosened, and he began to lose his grip on his finger. With a sudden jerk, he broke free, but at the same time the fingers of his other hand loosened their grip on Wilhelmina, and the luger fell to the floor next to the bed.
  
  
  We wrapped our arms around each other and writhed on the bed in agony. Ego nails wanted my eyeballs, but she buried her head in ego's shoulder for protection and clutched at ego's groin. He turned his hips to protect himself, and we rolled off the bed and onto the floor.
  
  
  Something sharp and unwavering slammed into my head, and he realized he'd hit the corner of the bedside table. Spelman was on top now, his sharp face inches away from me, his teeth bared in a maniacal grin. One fist slammed into my face, and the other hand clamped down on my throat in a chokehold, an ego-weakened, disfigured finger.
  
  
  I pressed my chin to her neck with all my strength and stabbed the emu in the eyes with my outstretched fingers, but he turned his head at the last minute to protect ih by covering ih tightly.
  
  
  He grabbed one of her big ears and yanked violently, turning around. The ego target spun around, and a palm slammed into the ego's pointed nose. I felt the cartilage tear away from the force of the blow, and blood spurted into my face, blinding me.
  
  
  Spelman let out a desperate cry as her ego-trick poe broke free and rolled out. For a moment we were all on our hands and knees, panting, panting, covered in blood like two wounded animals in a fight.
  
  
  Then he noticed Wilhelmina standing off to one side, and at the bedside table. Dropping her hands and knees, she dived swiftly, sliding forward on her stomach as she fell to the floor, arms outstretched and fingers on the gun. My fingernail grazed the butt of the gun, and she lunged again. I felt a strong glee as my hand fell to the hilt, and my fingers wrapped around nah as usual.
  
  
  I had the gun, but Spelman was already on top of me like some big, bony cat, his big hand on my outstretched arm, and his other ego fist was like a plunger in my ribs. I rolled over on my back, rolling my shoulder straight from the left and pulling my knees up so that my legs were pressed twice to my chest.
  
  
  Then he pushed her sharply outwards with his feet, like an unwinding spring. Spelman was hit in the chest with one hand, and the other caught him in the chest, sending him flying backward, his grip on my wrist dropping. He landed on his butt, the momentum carrying his ego to his back. Then he rolled to the right, turning his head down and down, and got down on all fours to face me.
  
  
  He was on his knees, hands raised, slightly cupped, ready to attack. Ego's face was covered in blood around his broken nose. But her pale blue eyes glittered with a single-minded determination.
  
  
  She shot him openly in the face from about eight inches away. His ego features seemed to shrink inward, but he remained on his knees, his body swaying.
  
  
  He was already dead, but my thumb instinctively moved twice more from the trigger, pouring two more bullets into that disfigured face.
  
  
  Then the body fell forward and lay motionless on the carpet in front of me, one lifeless hand slapping my leg. I stayed where I was, panting, my chest heaving. The side of my head was throbbing from the butt of the gun, and it felt like at least two or three of my ribs had been broken. It was five minutes before I was finally able to get to my feet, and then I had to hold on to the bedside table to keep from falling.
  
  
  At first, I was afraid that the sound of three gunshots would make someone run, but in my dazed state, I couldn't think of anything I could do about it if anyone did, so I just stood there, blankly, trying to calm my broken feelings and pull myself together. In any other city in the world, the police would be knocking on my door in a matter of minutes. I forgot that I was in New York, where few people cared, and where no one interfered if they could help.
  
  
  Finally, he stepped over Spelman's body and trudged into the bathroom. Ten minutes of hot showers and a couple of minutes of extreme cold worked wonders for my wounded body and helped clear my mind.
  
  
  From what Spelman had said, I was pretty sure he hadn't contacted us where we were with his information once he found out who hers was. Its appreciated this in its goals. He said, in particular, something about " when Papay Francini finds out about this." Good enough. At the time, I was pretty sure about that, at least for now. Or at least he could hope for it.
  
  
  Now its still facing a payout problem right now. Finding me in the same room as Larry Spelman's battered corpse is out of the question. This situation cannot be an advantage in my relationship with the Francini family. And she certainly wasn't waiting for the police to interfere. We'll have to get rid of it.
  
  
  And I would have to get rid of it so that the ego wouldn't be found for a while.
  
  
  The Francinies will be upset by the absence of Larry Spelman, and they'll be furious if he turns up dead. And the rage can make people wonder: one day ih showed up in Beirut, and four days later the best manufacturer of fake documents for the mafia in the Middle East was dead, along with a fellow Chinese agent. Then, less than twenty-four hours after I arrived in New York, one of Francini's top lieutenants was killed. She wasn't interested in Francini thinking about this trend. Larry Spelman has not yet been found.
  
  
  I thought about it as I dressed. What to do with the six-foot-five inches of a dead and battered gangster? I couldn't take ego to the lobby and hail a taxi.
  
  
  Her mind ran through what I knew about the hotel, from the moment I walked into the lobby with Louis, Manitti, and Loclo, to the moment I woke up with Wilhelmina's muzzle looking at me. Nothing special, just a vague impression of heavy red carpets, gilt-framed mirrors, bellboys in red jackets pushing the buttons of self-service elevators, antiseptic corridors, laundry facilities a few doors away from my room.
  
  
  Nothing much helped. He looked around his room. Its slept in it for hours, almost died in it, but actually its not looked at nah. It was pretty standard, a bit messy at the moment, but standard. Standard! It was the key! Almost every hotel room in New York has a not - too-noticeable connecting door leading to the next room. The door was always always locked, and you were never given a key unless you booked connecting rooms. Yet this door has always, or almost always, been there.
  
  
  As soon as I thought about it, she immediately looked at my face. Sure enough, the door is next to the closet. It just fit so well into the wooden structure that you didn't even notice it. I accidentally tried the handle, but of course it was closed.
  
  
  It wasn't a problem. Svyat turned it off in his room and looked through the crack between the floor and the bottom edge of the wall. There was no peace on the other side. This meant that it was either deserted or the occupant was asleep. Probably asleep at that hour, but it was worth checking.
  
  
  My room number was 634. She dials 636 and holds her breath. I was lucky. I let em ring ten times, then hung up. The saint turned it back on and selected two steel pickpockets, each set of six, that I always wear in my toilet kit. A moment later, the adjoining door was unlocked.
  
  
  Opening it, her, quickly went to the other moans and turned on the saint; it was empty.
  
  
  Back in her room, she undressed Spelman and carefully placed ego's clothes in the bottom of his suitcase. Then he dragged her ego into the next room. Completely naked, with a bloody mess on the person, ego could not be immediately identified. And as far as I can remember, he was never arrested, so the finger printout ego wasn't in the file, and the ego identification would be even more delayed.
  
  
  I left her with Spelman's body in the shower with the frosted glass doors closed and went back to my room to get dressed.
  
  
  Down at the front desk, he was interrupted by a young clerk in a red jacket. Em didn't like the idea of ego being pulled away from the paperwork, but he tried not to show it too much. "Yes sir?"
  
  
  "I'm in room six thirty-four, and if six thirty-six is next to me, deserted, her hotel would take her friend there. She's, uh ... .. he'll come back later."
  
  
  He gave me a knowing grin. "Of course, sir. Just register here for your friend." He turned the notebook toward me.
  
  
  Smart guy with an ass! He signed Irving Fane's name and address, and paid twenty-three dollars for the first night's lodging.
  
  
  Then he took the key and went back upstairs. He went to 636, picked up the Do Not Disturb sign and hung it outside the door. She told them that it might take three or four days for someone to do more than a cursory check with this sign for a day.
  
  
  He went back to his room and checked his watch. Four o'clock in the morning. It's only been an hour since the ferret Spelraan me this is the only transmission. He yawned and stretched. Then he took off his clothes again and carefully hung them on one of the chairs. This time it was hers, and I made sure Wilhelmina was tucked under my pillow before I went to bed.
  
  
  Then Brylev turned it off. At four o'clock in the morning, there was nothing to do in New York.
  
  
  He fell asleep almost instantly.
  
  
  
  The ninth chapter.
  
  
  
  He left Manny's house at nine o'clock the next morning. Spelman's Swede was packed with mine in a suitcase, as was the one around the sheets and pillowcase covered in blood.
  
  
  From Chalfont Plaza, I took a taxi downtown to Lexington and drove to the Chelsea Hotel on Twenty-third Street, just off Seventh Avenue. These days, it's a bit of a run-down old hotel, attracting a lot of unusual characters. However, he had his glory days. Dylan Thomas, Arthur Miller, and Jeff Berryman stayed there. My main reason for moving there was far from literary nostalgia: Larry Spelman's jumpsuits weren't in the neighborhood.
  
  
  The first thing I did was send her out on brown wrapping paper and a ball of rapier. Then he carefully wrapped up Spelman's clothes, bed sheet, and pillowcase, and took the package to the post office.
  
  
  It was sent by a package to Papai Francini. The return address was Gaetano Ruggiero, 157 Thompson Sturt, New York, NY, 10011. The longer Spelman's body remained undiscovered, the better, but once it was found, it was enough to clear me of suspicion. At this point, I wasn't aware of any specific bad relations between Ruggiero and Francini, but once this package is delivered, they will be.
  
  
  The current postal system is such that I can rely - with reasonable confidence - on the fact that a third-class package mailed from Twenty-third Street to Prince Sturt, about thirty blocks away, will take at least Sundays.
  
  
  I went to Angry Squire, a nice little bar on Seventh Avenue around the corner from the hotel, and had a leisurely lunch washed down with two mugs of good Watney ale. Then Louie called her at Ego's apartment in the Village.
  
  
  Louis, as always, was thrilled. "Hey, Nick! What's up, man? I tried to call Manny Place, but they said you checked out."
  
  
  “yeah. Too wouldnt posh for me. She was moved to Chelsea.
  
  
  “great! Great! I know this place. Hey, listen, Nick. Uncle Joe wants to see us today, not when.
  
  
  I wondered if I had a choice. "Sure, why not."
  
  
  Good. About two hours. In Uncle Joe's office."
  
  
  "All right," ego assured him. "I'll see you there."
  
  
  It was a pleasant day, and her walk was leisurely. I haven't seen her in New York in years. In some ways, he had changed a lot; in others, he looked exactly as I remembered her, probably exactly as he had fifty or a hundred years ago.
  
  
  I walked to Sixth Avenue, then headed downtown. Sixth Avenue to Fourteenth Street still looked the same, but it had changed, and for a moment he couldn't recognize it. Then it hit me, and he smiled to himself. Her Stahl was so cosmopolitan that he no longer noticed certain things. Sixth Avenue, from Twenty-third Street to Fourteenth, was almost entirely Puerto Rican. The conversations I heard around me were mostly in Spanish.
  
  
  The bars were still there, but now they had Spanish names; Grotto EI, El Cerrado, El Portokeno. As I remembered it, the old Italian delicacies were still there, but now it was wine and bury with more fruit and fewer vegetables. If anything, Sixth Avenue was cleaner than ever, and the round, buoyant Latin girls clicking mimmo's in their high heels was a big step up from the slow-moving swirls of older ladies with their shopping bags that used to fill the neighborhood. .
  
  
  Fourteenth Street was more like the Calle Catorse in San Juan, but there was a sharp transition from south to Third Street. Here everything was the same as always: a small part of the Village, hardware stores, pharmacies, grocery stores, delicatessens, dime shops, cafes. There had never been a special ethnicity on this section of the avenue, and now there was none.
  
  
  It was a crowd of polyglot people: neatly dressed businessmen in attache suits, wandering hippies with shoulder-length hair and blue jeans, posh housewives pushing black plastic baby strollers, hobbling old ladies with crooked features and empty eyes, children armed with baseball gloves, beggars on crutches. There were more mixed couples than I remembered.
  
  
  At Third Street, the McDougal and Sullivan mimmo turned east, then headed south again on Thompson Sturt, a sad smile of memory on my face. Thompson-Sturt never changes. All the way down to Prince Crushed is an Italian village aspiration: quiet tree-lined streets bordered by solid rows of brownstone, each with a series of steps leading up to heavy oak front doors, each flanked by an iron railing designed to keep unwary people from falling on the steep row of concrete steps leading to the main entrance. basement. For some reason, when building the Village in the late 1880s, the day to bury was always put in front, not behind.
  
  
  The pace here is different than anywhere else in the city. The noise seems muffled, and the action slows down. Old men stand in groups of twos and threes, never sitting on the porch, just standing there talking; fat-chested housewives peering around the upper windows to talk to their neighbors,
  
  
  standing on the sidewalk below.
  
  
  In the fenced-off playground of St. Teresa's Junior High School, local young Italian steamboats, long out of school, mingle with kids in an everlasting softball game. Black-eyed, black-haired Italian girls walk along the sidewalks, openly looking ahead if they are alone. If they're with a group of girls, they squirm and joke, talk constantly, and run their eyes up and down the street, making ih laugh.
  
  
  Thompson Sturt is sparsely populated, with an occasional candy store, inevitably dark green with a faded, half-cut awning covering a newsstand; a couple of delicatessens with huge salami hanging from the windows; a drugstore here and there, almost always in the corner. However, there are funeral homes in Thompson - three around them. You go to one if you're still a Ruggiero, another if you're friends with Francini, a third if you don't have any connections to any family or if you can but don't want them to know.
  
  
  Also on Thompson, between Houston Sturt and Spring, there are five restaurants, good Italian restaurants, with neatly embroidered tablecloths, a candle on each table, a small bar along one wall of the next room. Neighbors often drink in bars, but never eat at tables. They eat at home every night, whining every meal. Yet the restaurants are somehow packed every night, even though they're never advertised - they just seem to attract couples, each around whom has somehow discovered their own little Italian restaurant.
  
  
  By the time hers got to Spring Sturt and turned left toward West Broadway, hers was so wrapped up in the atmosphere of the old Italian quarter that I almost forgot that my involvement was anything less than pleasant. The great old Italian families living south of Houston-Sturt, unfortunately, don't rule each other out for the mafia.
  
  
  He arrived at Francini Olive Oil of Rivne at two o'clock in the afternoon. Ludovic's cousin Philomine was wearing a white sweater that accentuated her breasts and a brown suede skirt that only partially buttoned up the front, so that when she moved, her well-formed breasts were clearly visible. It was much more than she'd expected from a conservatively dressed Philomena the day before, but she didn't like anyone complaining about a very attractive girl in more revealing clothes.
  
  
  She ushered me into Popeye's office with a polite smile and an impersonal air that she might have used for window cleaning or cleaning.
  
  
  Louis was already there, bouncing. He was talking to Popeye. Now he turned and squeezed my hand in a warm handshake, as if he hadn't seen me in months, and put his other hand on my shoulder. "Hey, Nick! How are you? Good to see you!"
  
  
  A huge old man in a wheelchair behind a black desk glared at me. He nodded reluctantly and waved his hand. "Sit down." She sat down on a straight-backed chair, sat down, and crossed her legs. Louis took the other one, turned it around, and then sel was astride nen, arms crossed on his back.
  
  
  Papai Francini shook his head slightly, as if Louis was a mystery he could never solve. Thick fingers found the cigar box on his desk and removed the cellophane from a long black cigar. He put the cigar in his mouth, lit it from the lighter on the table, and then looked at me through the smoke.
  
  
  "Louis seems to think you're pretty damn good."
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "I can handle myself. He was there for her."
  
  
  He stared at me for a moment, assessing my workload. Then he apparently made up his mind. "Good, good," he muttered. He fiddled with both sides of his wheelchair as if he wanted something, then raised his head and yelled:
  
  
  "Philomina! Philomina! Damn the tailor! Do you have my briefcase?"
  
  
  Cousin Louis immediately appeared, though her exquisite grace made her movements seem less hasty. She wove a battered old gray attache case in front of Popeye and slipped out without a word.
  
  
  "Have you seen that damned Larry?" he grumbled to Louis as he undid the clasps. "The ego was gone all day."
  
  
  Louis spread his hands, palms up. "I haven't seen Ego since yesterday, Uncle Joe."
  
  
  "Me too," the old man growled.
  
  
  thank god! This meant that Spelman hadn't spoken to Francini before coming to wake me up. She probably could have been grateful for the heroin effect on that slip.
  
  
  Papai Francini picked up a stack of papers from the attache case, studied the first page for a moment, and then put the ih in its case in front of him. His ego voice, all his ego mannerisms suddenly changed, and now he's a Stahl businessman.
  
  
  "Frankly, Nick, you're not the right person for her to choose for this job. We don't know you well enough, and I'd prefer someone who worked for this organization. However, Louis is here saying that he wants you, and if he thinks he can trust you, that's the main thing ."
  
  
  "I doubt it," Ego gaze exclaimed expressionlessly.
  
  
  "Whatever you say, Don Joseph."
  
  
  He nodded. Of course, what would he tell us? "The fact is," he continued, " that this organization has recently experienced some difficulties. Our business is stalled, a lot of our people have problems with the cops, the Ruggieros are moving left and right. In other words, somehow we seem to have lost control of things. When this happens in business organizations, you call in an efficiency specialist and make some changes. Well, I consider it our business organization and I'm just going to improve it."
  
  
  Papai Francini took a long drag on his cigar and then made it through the smoke at Louis. "Golos moi efficiency expert".
  
  
  I looked at Louis, remembering how quickly my view of nen in Beirut had changed. Outwardly, the ego's demeanor is an assumption of anything but efficiency. He was beginning to love this man. Although hers was sure that he was smarter than he first appeared, hers doubted that he was very cool.
  
  
  Popeye continued, as if reading my mind. "Louis cennegs are cooler than most people think. Her ego raised her that way. It was like he was my own son." Ego's face twisted into a smile as he looked at his nephew, who smiled at emu in rheumatism. "Really, Louis?"
  
  
  "All right, Uncle Joe." He spread his hands expressively, his dark face beaming.
  
  
  Francini's story was running through my head as I listened with one ear to Popeye's apparently repeated story of how Louis Ross was the man he raised ego to be.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Until the outbreak of World War II, the three Francini brothers were a team. Louis ' father, Luigi, was killed during a Marine landing on Guadalcanal in August 1942; young Louis was taken by Joseph.
  
  
  By then, Joseph was struggling with the destructive effects of the PC, although he could still walk with an uneven gait and drive a car. Emu also had to contend with his older brother Alfredo; the two brothers steadily drifted apart, and after Luigi's death, the quarrels escalated into a violent war for control of the family's interests.
  
  
  If the realms between the brothers continued, the entire Francini family, as the center of mafia power, would be undermined. Joseph wasn't going to let that happen. In February 1953, he negotiated peace with Alfredo. On the day of the meeting, he took Odin's Cadillac to pick up Alfredo, and the two brothers drove east through the Village.
  
  
  That was the last time anyone saw Alfredo Francini.
  
  
  Joseph claimed - and continued to claim - that after they visited Alfredo's home in New Jersey, he drove his brother back to town, leaving Ego Sullivan-sturt-where he picked it up. No one has ever been able to prove otherwise. Officially, Alfredo Francini was abducted on a New York City street by unknown persons. Unofficially, the authorities knew better.
  
  
  Only Joseph Francini could confirm ih's suspicions, and Joseph Francini never backed down from his story.
  
  
  Joseph showed a great desire to take revenge on the one who stole his brother's ego. He took Alfredo's wife, Maria Rosa, into his home - "for protection," he said-along with her daughter Philomina, who was only three years old at the time. Maria Rosa died two years later of cancer, but Joseph continued to care for the two brothers ' children as if they were his own. He was never married.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Papai Francini continued to speak, a distinct mass of flesh encased in a chrome tarpaulin cage with spoked wheels.
  
  
  "...So her Louis went to Columbia, and he graduated magna cum laude. Ferret is with them, he runs the Franzini olive oil business, and it's pretty much the only thing we have that generates the revenue it should."
  
  
  "What did you study, Louis?"
  
  
  He smiled shyly. "Business administration. That's why Uncle Joe thinks I can fix some of our operations."
  
  
  "What operations are we talking about?" I asked the old man.
  
  
  He looked at me.
  
  
  "Look," I said. "If you want her to work with Louis, she needs to know what we're getting into. You forget, her just came here."
  
  
  He nodded. Good. We are now talking about porn, securities, trucks, vending machines, laundries, corruption shops, and drugs."
  
  
  "No prostitution?"
  
  
  He dismissed the idea with disdain. "We leave it to the black pimps." He looked thoughtful. "Of course, we have other operations, but we have problems with the topics that it covers."
  
  
  Her, he turned to Louis. "Have you made any conclusions about this?"
  
  
  He sighed and looked a little embarrassed. "Good..."
  
  
  Popeye explained. "Louis has never participated in any of our missions. I've worked hard to keep my ego out of anything but olive oil, and that's fine."
  
  
  He tried not to smile. At the Red Fez in Beirut, after I pulled her trump card with a tube of heroin, Louis in manners
  
  
  implied that he was genuinely there, odin around his uncle's people, behind all of Francini's rackets. On dell itself, he knew almost nothing about ih's inner workings. And Francini the hotel to deal with the "operations"? My skepticism must have shown.
  
  
  “yeah. I know her, " Popeye said. "Maybe it sounds crazy. But, how are things going... something needs to be done. I think Louis can do this by simplifying our business practices."
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "This is your ball game. Where do I enter?"
  
  
  "Louis is my efficiency expert. I want you - someone new to organizations-to help me. All these guys work for me and do what I say. But sometimes ih needs to be persuaded to be more explicit. If they don't want Louis poking around in ih operations because they're probably cheating on me somewhere along the way-I know that. If Louis goes to Odin, they'll try to trick the ego. If you go, they'll know I sent you, so they'll know it's coming from me sincerely, and fuck us about it."
  
  
  For the job she was supposed to be doing for Uncle Sam, this was a heaven-sent opportunity. Good. Now, you've mentioned porn, securities, trucks, vending machines, laundry food, and drugs. What are "trucks"?"
  
  
  The old man gripped both wheels of his wheelchair with rough hands and moved away from the chair a meter or so before answering. "Trucks" is what we call our truck hijacking operation, led by Joe Polito. These are mostly small items like clothing, and from time to time a little bit of equipment, such as televisions or cookers. The other day we took out three hundred stoves in Brooklyn. It turned out badly. The cops, the feds, even Ruggiero, they're all in the way."
  
  
  "Ruggiero?" He was surprised. If he thought he was having a problem with Ruggiero right now, wait until he gets that bag of Larry Spelman clothes!
  
  
  He dismissed Ruggiero with a wave of his hand. "Nothing special. The other day, some around our boys picked up a truck full of clothes, and then a couple of Ruggiero boys stole egos from our boys."
  
  
  "I thought it was all agreed between the families in New York."
  
  
  He nodded his massive head. "Usually. This time, Ruggiero said it was a mistake that the ego boys did it on their own."
  
  
  Hers was laughing. "Do you believe that?"
  
  
  He looked at me in rheumatism. Frivolity was not part of the Papaya Francini lifestyle. "Yes, I know. From time to time, you have to let the boys go off on their own. When you try to control ih one hundred percent, you have a lot of internal problems."
  
  
  Her ego could see her point of view: "What about other operations?"
  
  
  "Practically the same thing. Nothing special. Things seem to be going badly. I think it may be because over the years we've been too relaxed, spent too much time trying to do everything legally. We had more success when we played hard. That's what I want to get back to. Play hard! Good business procedures, but tough! "
  
  
  He made a pause. "By the way, you can use two arrivals with you if you need them. Just give them a week or two to get used to the city, vote, and that's it."
  
  
  "That's right."
  
  
  "That reminds me." He half-turned in his wheelchair, so that ego was positioned in the doorway. "Philomina!" he shouted. "Philomina! Have we received the report on Beirut yet?"
  
  
  She immediately appeared in the doorway. "No," she said softly. "Nothing yet." She was gone again.
  
  
  "Damn the tailor!" it exploded. "This report was supposed to be yesterday, and the ego isn't here yet! I can't find Larry! This whole damn business is falling apart!"
  
  
  He doesn't know the half of it yet, I thought.
  
  
  It was remarkable how he could switch from one personality to another, from a cold, self-important businessman with carefully structured proposals, to a shouting, exasperated Italian tyrant, irritable when things didn't go his way, and sullen when they did .
  
  
  Now he slammed his fist down on the armrest of the wheelchair. "Damn the tailor! You need to settle this. Now! And find Larry, too. He's probably loaded like hell with heroin somewhere.
  
  
  Louis got up and started toward the door, but stopped when he saw me stay seated.
  
  
  The old man glared. "All right?"
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "I'm so sorry, Don Joseph. But I can't do it for free. I need money in advance."
  
  
  He snorted. "Money! The tailor! Stay with me, you'll have a lot of money." He stared at me grimly for a moment, then turned back to me. "Philomina!" he shouted. "Give this new guy some money. Give em a large sum." He turned the wheelchair toward me again. "Now get out of here, take tailor! I have things to do."
  
  
  "Thank you." He stood up.
  
  
  "And I want to see you at the party tonight."
  
  
  "Yes sir."
  
  
  He was still watching as we left the office, a huge old man in a wheelchair, a strange combination of helplessness and strength.
  
  
  I went to where the ego secretary is
  
  
  she was counting some money on her desk.
  
  
  "Against"."She handed me a wad of money.
  
  
  He looked at the bills. They were twenties and fifties.
  
  
  "Thank you, Philomina," I said politely. "Your uncle pays very well, doesn't he?"
  
  
  "My uncle sometimes pays too much," she said sharply, emphasizing " over."
  
  
  She looked from me to Louis with a sudden smile. "See you tonight, Louis. I'm awfully glad you're back."
  
  
  "Of course, Phil," Louis said, embarrassed.
  
  
  We walked down the sidewalk together. "What about your cousin, Louis? Should I change my shaving lotion or something?"
  
  
  He laughed. "Ah, don't mind Philomina. She's doing a great job with the olive oil business, but whenever she gets into ... uh ... other operations, she gets on her tall horse. She doesn't want to do anything about it, really."
  
  
  "What the hell does that mean, tailor? She's old enough to know she can't do both, isn't she?"
  
  
  He laughed nervously, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as we walked. "Well, for Philomina, it's not quite both. It's just that from time to time, she has to give someone some money or something, like she just did to you. We don't usually do organizational work in this office. I think we only did it today because Larry was missing and Ego wasn't around to take Uncle Joe to the Accounting Office."
  
  
  "The Accounting chamber?"
  
  
  "It will all be over in the spring. It's a big old building where we feed our records. Something like a headquarters."
  
  
  We walked in silence for several minutes. Then Louis spoke again. "Where do you think we can find Larry?"
  
  
  "Don't ask me. Tailor, hers just arrived yesterday."
  
  
  “yeah. I forgot it." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Look, why don't you go back to the hotel and rest. See you at the restaurant tonight.".. about nine o'clock."
  
  
  I thought it was a good idea. I certainly had no desire to go looking for Spelman. Especially since I knew where he was. "Excellent," he replied with genuine enthusiasm.
  
  
  He left briskly, whistling, hands in his pockets, heading for what I guessed was the subway. I hailed her a taxi and drove back to the Chelsea.
  
  
  When she got back to the hotel, she called Jack Gourlay at the Novelties. It was strange to call my correct name to the operator on the phone.
  
  
  "Nick Carter!" repeat Jack's slow voice. "When the hell did you get back to town?"
  
  
  "Some time ago," I said. "Listen, Jack, I want to do her a favor."
  
  
  "Of course. What can I do for you?"
  
  
  "I wonder if you could put a story somewhere about Larry Spelman going missing, and that the Francinis think the Ruggieros might have something to do with it."
  
  
  The best way to get someone to think about something sometimes is to tell them exactly what they should be thinking about.
  
  
  On the other end of the line, Jack whistled. "Turn it into a story, tailor! I'll make a story based on them! But isn't it, Nick? Is he really missing?"
  
  
  "He's really gone," I said.
  
  
  "Do the agonists think...?"
  
  
  "I don't know," I said honestly. "But I would like them to think so."
  
  
  He was silent for a while, and then, " You know, something like this could lead to another gang war in the city. The two families haven't gotten along so well lately."
  
  
  "I know."
  
  
  "All right, Nick. If you're sure Spelman is really missing."
  
  
  "He's missing. Indeed."
  
  
  "All right, man, you're in touch. Is there anything else I need to know?"
  
  
  "No, Jack. But I really appreciate it. Hers is kind of busy right now; maybe we can have dinner or a drink together one of these nights when hers is free."
  
  
  "Welcome," he said, and hung up. Get Jack Gourlay to start a story and he won't want to fool around with small talk.
  
  
  He stretched out on the bed and took a nap.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  
  
  
  
  I arrived at Tony Garden for Philomena's party around nine o'clock, and my first impression was that I should have called the FBI, not Jack Gourlay. The place was so jammed by Italian mobsters that it felt like a 1937 rally with Benito Mussolini
  
  
  Usually, Tony's is a small, quiet bar-restaurant that was once a hangout for former and future writers, and is now a Mecca for the current crop of rural bohemians and philosophy-minded hippies with little money. A peephole with an iron grate in the back showed that it had been a restaurant and bar since Prohibition.
  
  
  It's always dark here, with black walls finished in dark brown trim and dimmed lights. The dining room is quite large, but filled with rough-hewn tables. After passing mimmo tables, you will see a small bar room with counters at elbow level and a row of clothes hooks. In real professionals, it is dark, dirty and devoid of decoration, but for many years it was one of the most popular places.
  
  
  My first surprise was the number of people stuck in this place. All the tables were cleared, except for the three long ones in front of the fireplace, which were piled high with Italian pasta of an incredible variety. It was a buffet night with a buffet table and an open bar, each with a glass or plate in hand. In Barra, a small band enthusiastically played Italian songs.
  
  
  Don Joseph Francini and the other guests of honor were the only ones sitting in a row behind a pile of long-stemmed roses that covered the top of a single long chair set up in the corner. It was Philomina's birthday party, but Francini took pride of place, a huge mass of flesh encased in an elegant tuxedo. Philomina Francini sat on his right, and next to her was a large, voluptuous woman whom she did not know. Louis was sitting to Francini's left, and next to him was a short, burly man with a cherubic face and soft, snow-white hair.
  
  
  A small crowd crowded around the chair, shaking hands, paying their respects, introducing the old man to one thing or another. All attention was focused on Franzini; the ego niece sat sweetly and modestly, with a frozen smile on her face, rarely speaking therapeutic words to us. But when I went to lick her, I saw dozens of small white envelopes interspersed with roses. While I was looking at it, a couple more were thrown on the chair.
  
  
  I was puzzling over this phenomenon when Louis noticed me at the edge of the crowd. He immediately jumped to his feet and walked over.
  
  
  "Hey, Nick! How are you? Good to see you!"
  
  
  "Hey, Louie." He took me by the elbow and led me into the bar. "Let's have a drink. I get claustrophobic when I'm sitting next to all these people closing in on me."
  
  
  I ordered her a brandy and soda. Louis drank the same thing he had in Beirut - red wine.
  
  
  We leaned against the back wall to avoid being trampled. "Some idea, huh?" he chuckled. "I'll keep the money, we have a hundred and fifty people here, and at least a hundred around them are already drunk."
  
  
  He was right about that. She was carefully sidestepped by a tall figure in a tuxedo as he staggered past mimmo with a glass in his hand and a lock of hair on his earlobe. "Mariatheresa," he called rather plaintively. "Has anyone seen Mariatheresa?"
  
  
  Louis laughed and shook his head. "In a couple of hours, it really should be great."
  
  
  "It definitely doesn't look like I remember it," I looked around the once - familiar room, now filled with sound. When I knew it years ago, it was a place for a quiet beer and an even quieter game of chess.
  
  
  "I didn't know this was one of the best places to meet you," I said.
  
  
  Louis, for estestvenno, laughed. "That's not true. We have about seventeen restaurants in the lower west area, and a dozen or so more are, say, "branches," but Tony's isn't just one, either, around them."
  
  
  "Then why throw Philomina's party here instead of your own?"
  
  
  He clapped me on the shoulder and laughed again. "It's easy, Nick. See all these guys here? Some around them are fine, good solid businessmen, family friends and the like."
  
  
  I nodded to her, and he continued. "On the other hand, there are also a lot of guys who can be called ... uh ... mafiosi. Understand?"
  
  
  He nodded again. He couldn't deny emu that. Dozens of gruff people were talking, drinking, singing, shouting, or just standing sullenly in the corners. They looked like they were hired around a central Casting call for a new Al Capone movie. And judging by the bulging jackets I noticed, there were more weapons in this place than the Russians could muster against the British in Balaclava.
  
  
  "What does it have to do with the evenings, and not in one of your places?"
  
  
  "Simple. We don't want one of the places around us to get a bad name. You know, if the cops wanted to, they could raid this place tonight and pick up a lot of what they call" unwanted characters." They wouldn't." Of course, they are not to blame for anything, and in the end they will have to let ih go. It will just be harassment, but there will be good headlines about it in the newspapers. It's bad for business."
  
  
  A drunk redhead with freckles on the bridge of her nose was making her way through a crowded room with two black-browed bullies in tow. She stopped in front of Louis, put her arms around Ego's neck, and gave him a big kiss.
  
  
  "Hi, Louie, you're a cute little old man. She was cute, even if she was one of those fashionable girls who had the body of a fourteen-year-old boy - and she was perfectly aware of her own sexuality. She looked at me hungrily. Two of her companions glared at me, but I returned her gaze. Her eyes said you didn't care what the rest of the world thought, and mine said, okay, if that's what you want.
  
  
  Louis introduced himself. Her name was Dreadlocks Pollard, and she worked as a teacher at St. Teresa's Church. One of the gorilla girls with her was called Jack Batey, the other was called Rocco Something ...or something else.
  
  
  Batey made some rude comments about unprofessional teachers, but Dreadlocks and I were having too much fun opening up another one.
  
  
  She was an outrageous flirt.
  
  
  "What's a big guy like you doing here with all these little squat Italians?" she asked, putting one hand on her thin, protruding hip, her head thrown back.
  
  
  He looked at Nah with feigned fright. "Little squat Italians? Keep it up and you'll get pizza tomorrow."
  
  
  She flew out with a flippant wave of her hand. "Ah, they're harmless."
  
  
  He looked at the Dreadlocks carefully. "What is such a nice girl doing here with all these little squat Italians?"
  
  
  Dreadlocks laughed. "You'd better not let Mr. Francini hear that you treat Philomina like a little squat Italian, otherwise you'll end up on che-something Medvedev with pizza."
  
  
  He shrugged, offered hey a cigarette, and lit it for nah. "You didn't answer my corkscrew."
  
  
  She pointed to the chair where Francini and her niece were sitting. "Maybe one day I'll put these little white envelopes together myself."
  
  
  He saw that they were now neatly stacked in front of Philomina, not scattered among the sheaves of roses. "What the hell are they, tailor?" I asked her. "Maps?"
  
  
  "Your name is Nick Canzoneri, and you don't know what that is?" she asked.
  
  
  "Of course I know," I said indignantly, " but you tell me, Miss big Italian Pollard. I just want to know if you know."
  
  
  She was laughing. "Games that people play. In each of these small envelopes is a check from one of Mr. Francini's associates. Even the small steamboats dug up what they could. It's all on Philomina's birthday. Nah probably has seven or eight thousand dollars in there. "
  
  
  "And you want the same thing?"
  
  
  "Maybe one day one of these squat little Italians will offer me something other than a weekend in Atlantic City, and when he does, I'll grab his ego. And when I do, I'll end up sitting at a table full of roses, looking through lots of little white envelopes."
  
  
  "About that weekend in the Atlantic..." he started to tell her, but from across the room Papai Francini was glaring at me and the imperious one, waving his hand in a gesture that didn't allow for hesitation.
  
  
  Her half-bowed Dreadlocks. "I'm sorry, dear. Caesar beckons. Maybe I'll catch up with you later."
  
  
  Her lips pouted. "Rat!" But there was still a challenge in her eyes.
  
  
  He pushed his way through the crowded room and paid his respects to Francini and Philomina.
  
  
  Ego's face was drenched in wine, and his speech was thick. "Did you have a good time?"
  
  
  "Yes sir."
  
  
  "Good good. He put his arm around Philomina's shoulders. "I want you to take my lit girl home." He squeezed her shoulders, and she seemed to shrink a little, lowering her eyes, not looking at us, at anyone around us. "She's not feeling well, but the game has already started. So you'll take her home, eh?"
  
  
  He turned to Philomina. "Really, dear?"
  
  
  She looked at me. "I would be obligated, Mr. Canzoneri."
  
  
  He bowed to her. "Of course."
  
  
  "Thank you." She rose modestly. "Thank you, Uncle Joe. It was just great, but I'm dizzy." She leaned over and kissed the old toad on the cheek. I wanted to feel it.
  
  
  "In fact-in fact!"he roared. He pinned me down with bleary eyes. "Take care of yourself, my little girl."
  
  
  He nodded to her. "Yes sir." Philomina and I moved through the crowd to the door. She mumbled a few good nights here and there, but no one seemed to pay much attention to her, even though it was supposedly ee of the evening.
  
  
  Finally we squeezed through the door of Bedford Sturt. The fresh air tasted good. Philomina and I took a deep breath and smiled at each other. She was wearing a pure white off-the-shoulder evening dress, except for a bright red stripe running diagonally across the front. Her gloves and cape matched the red stripe. Amazingly.
  
  
  His voice remained deferential. "Do you want to stop for coffee first, Miss Francini, or should we go straight home?"
  
  
  "Home, please." Miss Francini was cold again. He shrugged, and we set off. I hailed a taxi at Seventh Avenue and Barrow Sturt.
  
  
  It was only ten minutes to Philomena's apartment building, London Terrace, and we drove in regal silence to the awning that marked the entrance.
  
  
  I paid for her taxi and got out, then helped Philomina. She jerked her hand away. "This will do," she said coldly. "Thank you very much."
  
  
  Her slightly rough hand grabbed her elbow, turned her around, and made her head for the day. "I'm sorry, Miss Francini. When Papay Francini tells me to take you home, I'll take you all the way home."
  
  
  I think she could understand that, but she felt that hey, there was no need to answer. We rode the elevator in cold silence, and the elevator operator tried to pretend we weren't there.
  
  
  We got off on the seventeenth floor, and he followed her to her day, the 17th.
  
  
  She took the key and looked at me coldly.
  
  
  "Good night, Mr. Canzoneri."
  
  
  Her gently smiled and firmly took the key from Nah po's hand. "I'm sorry, Miss Francini. Not yet. I want to use your phone."
  
  
  "You can use the one in the bar on the street."
  
  
  He smiled again as he slid the key into the lock and opened the door. "I'd rather use yours." There wasn't much she could do about it. He was almost twice her size.
  
  
  Philomina lit a candle in the small hall, then went into the neatly furnished living room and turned on one of the two floor lamps that flanked the comfortable sofa. He lifts her to the edge of the couch, picks up the phone, and dials a number.
  
  
  Philomina gave me a dirty look, crossed her arms, and leaned against the opposite wall. She wasn't even going to take off her coat until I got out of there.
  
  
  It was after midnight, but I let the phone ring. The phone in the AXE central information department is open twenty-four hours a day. Finally, a female voice answered. "Six-nine-oh-oh."
  
  
  "Thank you," I said. "Could you pay for this call from my credit card number, please? H-281-766-5502». The last four digits were, of course, the key ones, my serial number as Agent # 1 AXE.
  
  
  "Yes, sir," said the voice on the other end of the line.
  
  
  "I need a red check file," I said. Philomina, of course, could hear everything I said, but she couldn't make much sense of it. The Red file checker was a check on a highly secret list of confidential FBI agents. The white file was for the CIA, the blue file was for the National Security Agency, but I guessed it was the red one I needed.
  
  
  "Yes, sir," the girl said on the phone.
  
  
  "New York," I said. "Filomina Francini. F-r-a-n-c-i-n-i". He looked at her and smiled a little. She sat with her hands on her hips, her fists clenched at her hips, her eyes snapping.
  
  
  "Just a moment, sir."
  
  
  It was more than a moment, but she waited patiently, and Philomina watched.
  
  
  The voice came back on. "Philomina Francini, sir? F-r-a-n-c-i-n-i?"
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "That's in the affirmative, sir. Red file. Status C-7. Four years. Grade twelve. The Franzini Olive Oil Company. Do you understand the status and class, sir?"
  
  
  She would have explained to ih, but knew him well. Philomina was an FBI agent for four years. Her C-7 status meant that she was one of hundreds of thousands of FBI informants who are volunteers and never have any contact with other agents other than the one person who answers them. Class 12 meant that she could never be asked for action, and Nah did not have access to any classified information about the Bureau.
  
  
  Jack Gourlay once told me that thousands of C-7 agents - better called informants-work for legitimate companies in New York, writing regular monthly reports on business transactions. According to ego, ninety-five percent never found anything of value, but the other five percent made all the routine work of reviewing reports worthwhile.
  
  
  He hung up and turned to Philomina.
  
  
  "Well, what do you know?" "Aren't you a cute little girl?"
  
  
  "What do you mean?"
  
  
  "Spying on your own uncle. It's just not right, Philomina."
  
  
  She went white. One hand flew to her mouth, and she bit the back of the joint. "What do you mean?"
  
  
  "Exactly what I said. Spying on your uncle for the FBI."
  
  
  "This is crazy! I don't know what you're talking about!"
  
  
  She looked scared, and I couldn't blame her. As far as she knew, he was just another mobster who was going to meet the Francini family. What I said could be her undoing. There was no point in torturing her. Hey started to tell it, but stopped.
  
  
  She made one small movement, as if holding back a sob, her hands fumbling under the bright red cape. Suddenly, she was holding a small, ugly Saturday Night model pistol. It was pointed almost directly at me. Little looked huge.
  
  
  He hastily threw up his hands. "Hey, wait! Wait!"
  
  
  The look of startled panic that had made me feel sorry for her a moment ago was gone. There was a cold, almost malicious look in her black eyes, and her soft, sensual mouth was set in a tight line.
  
  
  She pointed with an ugly little pistol. "Sit down!"
  
  
  "Now wait..."
  
  
  "I said sit down."
  
  
  He turned to sit on the sofa, bending slightly, as most people do when they start sitting on something as deep-seated as the sofa. Then, in one swaying motion, he grabbed her tight blue pillow that graced the back of the couch and threw her, diving headfirst over the edge of the couch.
  
  
  The gun roared in my ear, and Gawk slammed into the wall directly above my head.
  
  
  On the floor, I quickly ducked and jumped to where she was supposed to be standing, my target flew forward like a battering ram and hit hey, in life.
  
  
  But she stepped carefully out of the way. He saw the gun flash for a moment, then come down. Something hit the back of my head, and my head exploded in a huge flash of red blood and black void.
  
  
  When she came to, she was lying on her back on the living room floor. Philomina Francini sat astride my body. She was uncertainly aware that her skirt was pulled up high above her thighs, but only clumsily. Hers was much more acutely aware of the fact that not enough of the gun was stuck in my mouth. The cold metal felt hard and tasteless to me.
  
  
  Its blinked to clear the ih from the film.
  
  
  Despite her ungracious position, Philomina's voice was cool and effective.
  
  
  Good. Talk. I want to know who you called and why. Then I'll turn you over to the FBI. Understand?" And if I have to, I'll kill you."
  
  
  He looked at Nah with a grim expression.
  
  
  "Talk!" it creaked. She moved the gun back to Rivnenskaya just enough so that it wouldn't stop my mouth, but little of it was still touching my lips. Philomina seemed to prefer point-blank shooting.
  
  
  "Talk!" she demanded.
  
  
  I didn't have much choice. In grade 12, hey, you weren't supposed to get classified information. And hers, of course, was classified. On the other hand, she'd put that damn gun to my face, and it seemed silly to go through with the farce of trying to make me turn me into the FBI.
  
  
  He spoke to her.
  
  
  It's hard to be serious when you're lying on your back with a well-packed and bright girl sitting on your chest, and little gun pushing your lips. But I tried it. I tried very hard.
  
  
  "All right, honey. You're winning, but calm down."
  
  
  She looked at me.
  
  
  I tried it again. "Look, we are on the same side on this issue. Honestly! Who do you think we just called her? I just called the FBI to check on you."
  
  
  "What made you do this?"
  
  
  "What you said. The way you hate everything here and still stay here. There must be a reason."
  
  
  She shook her head, pursing her lips. "Why did you call the FBI instead of Uncle Joe?"
  
  
  "Like I said, we're on the same side."
  
  
  The Saturday night edition didn't waver, but her thoughts must have changed. "What's the FBI number?" she snapped.
  
  
  It was simple. "Two-two-two, six-six-five-four."
  
  
  "What did they tell you?"
  
  
  Its said hey, Class and Status, all of it. Her And kept talking, quickly. I couldn't give Hey any secret details, but I did tell you about Ron Brandenburg and Madeleine Leston at the FBI office to show hey that I was familiar with it. I didn't tell hey that I was in AX, or what my locality in Russia was, but I told hey enough to make her start to get the idea. Gradually, a little of the gun began to move away from my face.
  
  
  When it's finished, she lets out an agonized sob and places the gun on the floor next to my head. Covering her eyes with both hands, she began to cry.
  
  
  "Easy, honey. Easier." He reached out to grab her by the shoulders and pulled her down to hook hey's hand behind her head. She didn't resist, and he rolled her over so we were side by side on the floor, her target resting on my arm and my other arm wrapped around her.
  
  
  "Easy, Philomina, easy." She was still crying, now uncontrollably. It could have been paid! her round breasts on my chest. Cupping her fingers under her chin, he pulled her face away from his shoulder. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.
  
  
  There's only one way a man can keep a woman away from hollyhocks. He kissed her, gently, reassuringly, held her close, kissed her again.
  
  
  Gradually, the crying subsided, and her body became more pliable, relaxed. The emotionless lips softened, then gradually, little by little, parted, then even more. Her tongue stroked mine, then her arms tightened around my neck.
  
  
  I held her close, feeling her rounded breasts press against me. I kissed her gently on her wet lashes and pulled Rivnenskaya away enough to talk.
  
  
  "Easy, honey, easy. Calm down, " I muttered.
  
  
  A shiver ran through her, and she pulled my mouth to hers, and now her tongue was a swift, living organ, penetrating deep, her lips pressed against mine.
  
  
  My right hand, pressing her against me, found the zipper on the back of her off-the-shoulder dress, and I gently pushed it away, feeling the dress crumble under my fingers until they reached her lower back, touching the delicate elastic band of her panties.
  
  
  He slid his hand under her panties and gently ran it over her buttocks, so that the back of his hand reached down. Her thighs lifted slightly so that they didn't touch the floor, and a moment later, her panties were off and ih threw them out. With a flick of her fingers, I unzipped her bra, and as I moved away to make room for her ego to take it off, I felt Philomina's fingers fumble with my trousers.
  
  
  A moment later, Philomina and T. were naked, and her face was buried in my shoulder. I took her to the bedroom, satisfied myself with the feel of her bare breasts against my chest,
  
  
  then he held her close, throbbing with desire.
  
  
  Then Philomina began to move, slowly at first, gently, just touching me, stroking me, her mouth wet and hot against mine. My muscles tensed, calling out to her, trembling with impatience.
  
  
  It moved faster now, the intensity replaced by subtlety, the flames burning the smoke. In one strong convulsive movement, he moved to nah, pinned her to the bed, drove in, rammed her, smashed her, swallowed her and swallowed her.
  
  
  She wriggled upward, writhing in ecstasy, her hands gripping my buttocks and holding me close. "Oh my God!" she exclaimed. "Oh my God!" Her legs wrapped tightly around my waist as she rose up against my weight, and hers, raised on her knees to accommodate her, slid deeper, more exquisitely, then began a wild, sliding swing and finally exploded with a great flood of glee.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  
  
  
  
  Later, still lying on the floor, she snuggled up tight to me. "Don't leave me, Nick. Please don't leave me. I'm so alone and so scared."
  
  
  She was lonely and scared for a long time. She told me about it as we sat at a table by the window, watching the striped dawn break in the east and sipping mugs of black coffee.
  
  
  For years, growing up in the Francini family on Sullivan Sturt as a little girl, she had no idea Mistletoe that Papaya Francini was hema to anyone but her kind and loving "Uncle Joe". The ferret was with them when A was nine years old, and he took great pleasure in letting A push Ego in his wheelchair to Washington Square Park on Sundays, where he liked to feed the squirrels.
  
  
  I sipped my coffee and thought of one of life's most interesting mysteries. Why is it that every woman who is extremely good at it can't make a decent cup of coffee? One of my friends and another said that a woman who is too sexy can be distinguished by the protruding veins on the back of her hand. But in my experience, you can tell ih by the disgusting quality of ih coffee.
  
  
  Philomina's coffee tasted like chicory. He got up and walked over to her side of the chair. He leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips. My hand slid under the blue robe she was now wearing and gently caressed her bare chest.
  
  
  She leaned back in her chair for a moment, her eyes closed, her long lashes pressed softly against her cheek. "Mmmmmmm!" Then she gently pushed me away. "Sit down and finish your coffee."
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "If you want."
  
  
  She giggled. "Not really, but let's finish our coffee anyway."
  
  
  She gave Nah the mocking look of male chauvinism rejected, and sat down again. The coffee still tasted like chicory.
  
  
  I asked her. "When did you become known?"
  
  
  "You mean Uncle Joe?"
  
  
  He nodded to her.
  
  
  She bowed her head thoughtfully. "I think I was about thirteen or so. There was a big story in the New York Times magazine about Uncle Joe. We didn't read the Times. No one in Sullivan's Sturt read it. We all read the Daily News, but someone tore it up. and sent it to me in the mail ." She smiled. "At first, I just couldn't believe it. It said Uncle Joe was a mob boss, a gangster.
  
  
  "I was terribly upset for a long time, even though I didn't understand it all." She paused, her mouth tight. "I even know who sent the ego to me. At least, I think so."
  
  
  Her snorted. People don't usually carry adolescent resentment into adulthood. "WHO?" I asked her.
  
  
  She grimaced. "Pollard's Dreadlocks".
  
  
  "Oh the skinny redheaded girl in the green dress at the party?"
  
  
  "This is mine." She sighed and allowed her voice to soften a little. "Dreadlocks and I went through high school together. We've always hated each other. I think we still hate the ferret. We've grown up a bit now, though."
  
  
  "Why did you always hate each other?"
  
  
  Philomina shrugged. "Rich Italian woman, poor Irish woman living next door. What are you waiting for?"
  
  
  "What happened after you read the story?" I asked her.
  
  
  "I didn't believe it at first, but in a way I should have. I mean, after all, it was in the Times. And she hated it! I just hated it! She used to love her Uncle Joe, and I used to feel so sorry for her ego in the ego wheelchair and all that, and then all of a sudden she can't stand him touching me or being with me."
  
  
  He was puzzled. "But you continued to live with him."
  
  
  She grimaced. "I stayed with him because I had to. What would a thirteen-year-old girl do? Run away? And whenever she showed even a little bit of disobedience, I had him." Unconsciously, she rubbed her cheek. There was a long-forgotten bruise in her memory. "So you learn in a hurry."
  
  
  "Is that what made you go to the FBI?"
  
  
  She poured herself another cup of bitter coffee. "Of course not," she said after a moment's thought.
  
  
  "I hated all the horrible things about killing and stealing and cheating, but I was learning that I was going to live with it.
  
  
  I had to. I just decided that when I was eighteen, I'd run away, join the Peace Corps, do something."
  
  
  "Do most women in the family think so?"
  
  
  “no. Most people around them never think about it. They don't allow themselves to think about it. Ih was taught not to do this when they were little girls. It's the old Sicilian way: what men do doesn't concern women. "
  
  
  "But you were different?"
  
  
  She nodded grimly. "I wasn't charmed by it. I found it repulsive, but I couldn't stay away from him. I read everything I could find in the library about the mafia, the organization, and all that stuff.
  
  
  "Voice why her stayed and why her went to the FBI. Family ties. My father. Uncle Joe killed my father! Did you know about this? He actually killed his own brother! My father."
  
  
  "You know that for sure?"
  
  
  She shook her head. "Not really, but as soon as I read it about things that happened when I was three years old - I think I was in high school then - I just knew it was true. That's what Uncle Joe would do, I just know it. back, her sure that my mother thought so too. She only moved in with Uncle Joe because he forced her to.
  
  
  He stood up again and moved so that he could press her head against his stomach. "You're a real girl," he told her softly. "Let's go back to bed."
  
  
  She looked up and smiled, her eyes sparkling. "All right," she whispered. Then hey, managed to giggle. "I have to be at the office in a few hours."
  
  
  "I won't waste any time," I promised.
  
  
  Without taking her eyes off me, she stood up and undid the belt so that the blue robe fell open. He pressed her against me, my hands under the open mantle and pressed against her body, slowly stroking, exploring her ego. He lifted one breast and kissed the clenched nipple, then the other.
  
  
  She moaned and slammed both hands down the front of my pants, sliding down but grabbing me gently. I shuddered in ecstasy, and in a few moments we were on the floor, writhing with passion.
  
  
  Her lovemaking was as good as coffee was bad.
  
  
  After Philomena went to work that morning, she idled around for a few hours, showered, dressed, and then walked two blocks down Twenty-third Street to the Chelsea . There was a note in my mailbox: "Call Mr. Francini."
  
  
  The clerk's eyes were also wary. There aren't many Francinians in New York these days.
  
  
  He thanked the clerk and went up to his room, looked up the number in the book and dialed.
  
  
  Philomina answered. "Francini olive oil".
  
  
  "Hi there."
  
  
  "Oh, Nick," she breathed into the phone.
  
  
  "What's up, honey?"
  
  
  "Oh... Oh, Mr. Canzoneri." Her voice suddenly became resolute. Someone must have entered the office. "Yes," she continued. "Mr. Francini would like to see you at two o'clock this afternoon."
  
  
  "Well,"I said," at least this will give me a chance to see you."
  
  
  "Yes, sir," she said sharply.
  
  
  "You know her, crazy about you"
  
  
  "Yes sir."
  
  
  "Are you going to have dinner with me tonight?"
  
  
  "Yes sir."
  
  
  "...And then I'll take you home to bed."
  
  
  "Yes sir."
  
  
  "... And make love to you."
  
  
  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." She hung up.
  
  
  He smiled at her all the way to the elevator. He smiled at the clerk, who seemed to make him nervous. He "made" me the boss of the mafia, and this idea did not suit ego.
  
  
  I rounded the corner at Angry Squire for brunch, after picking up a copy of News at a kiosk on the corner of Seventh Avenue.
  
  
  NEW MAFIA GANG WAR MURDER MYSTERY IS COMING SOON
  
  
  According to police Captain Hobby Miller, the mysterious disappearance of Larry Spelman, the famous lieutenant of mafia boss Joseph "Popeye" Francini, could be the beginning of a new gang war.
  
  
  Miller, who is in charge of the Department's special division for Combating Organized Crime, said in an interview today that Spelman, Francini's constant companion and bodyguard, had been missing from his usual hideouts since early Sunday.
  
  
  Captain Miller, according to the story, said that rumors were spreading in the underworld that Spelman was either killed and his body destroyed, or was abducted and held for ransom by a family led by Gaetano Ruggiero.
  
  
  Jack Gourlay did a great job.
  
  
  I finished my day slowly, basking in the warm memories of Philomina and the thought that everything was really going well, as incredible as it seemed to us when I first started it.
  
  
  He arrived at the office of Franzini Olive Oil Company in Rivne at two o'clock in the afternoon. Manitti and Loclo were ahead of me, uncomfortable in the modern chairs. I smiled at Philomina as she ushered us into Popeye's office. She blushed, but avoided my gaze.
  
  
  Popeye looked a little older and fatter today. The evening before affected. Or perhaps it was the effect of Gourlay's story. Francini had copies of the newspaper on his desk.
  
  
  Leaning against the wall at the far end of the room, Louis was nervous as the three of us settled in front of his uncle's ego table.
  
  
  Popeye glared at us, hatred in his ego, soul boiling in his ego eyes.
  
  
  He's upset about Spelman, I thought happily, but I was wrong.
  
  
  "You, Locallo!" he snapped.
  
  
  The mobster looked startled.
  
  
  "Who around you guys was the last person to see that Chinese baba Su Lao Lin in Beirut?"
  
  
  Loclo spread his hands helplessly. "I don't know. Manitti and I left together."
  
  
  "I think the Canzoneri was here," Louis said, pointing in my direction. "I left ego there when I took Harold to the hospital." He gave me a "I have to tell the truth" look.
  
  
  "Were you the last one there?" Popeye snapped.
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "I do not know. Her, talked to her for a few minutes, then Louis left, then she sent me to see that guy Harkins."
  
  
  "Do you know if she was expecting anyone after you left?"
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head.
  
  
  Ego's eyes narrowed thoughtfully at me. "Hmm! You must have been the last person to see Harkins, too."
  
  
  He was getting too close to calm down, even though he really didn't feel like I was in any big trouble right now. "No," I said innocently, " that other guy was there. You were candid before I left. But wait! " She said, suddenly remembering the look in her eyes. "I think it was the same guy that Miss Lin saw her in the lobby of the hotel when she left." He pressed his fingers to her forehead. "Yes, the same guy."
  
  
  Popeye straightened up and slammed his fist down on the table. "What guy?"
  
  
  "Tailor, I don't know if I'll remember. Let's see... Harkins introduced me. Fuggy, I think, or something like that... Fujiero... I don't remember exactly."
  
  
  "Ruggiero?" He threw the words honestly at me.
  
  
  He snapped his fingers. “yeah. Vote and that's it. Ruggiero".
  
  
  "Damn the tailor! What was ego's name?"
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "God, I don't know. Bill, maybe, or Joe, or something like that."
  
  
  "And you say you saw Ego in the hotel?"
  
  
  He spread his hands, palms up. “yeah. He was in the lobby waiting for the elevator when he got out. Her remembered now, her ego revealed later when he walked into Harkins ' house."
  
  
  "What did he look like?"
  
  
  "You know, sort of average. I pretended to be focused, frowning thoughtfully. He might as well have done it well while he was doing it. "I think about five feet ten inches, dark skin type. Oh, yes, I remember her. Nen was wearing a dark blue suit."
  
  
  Popeye shook his head. "It doesn't sound familiar, but there are so many damn Ruggiero's out there that it's hard to tell." He slammed his fist down on the table again, then turned his wheelchair so that he could watch Ludovic's candid comments. "Did this Chinese grandmother tell you anything about Ruggiero?"
  
  
  Louis shook his head. "No, sir, our words." He hesitated. "What's up, Uncle Joe?"
  
  
  Popeye glared at him. "Well, they blew it up! Vote what happened! Some son of a bitch walked in right after you guys took off and blew up the damn place. Tailor take it! The bomb! Vinnie just called from Beirut. He says it's already in all the papers. there."
  
  
  "What about Su Lao Lin?"
  
  
  "Dead as a fucking nail," Vinnie says.
  
  
  Louis was now as upset as Ego, the uncle, hands on hips, head thrust forward. I wonder if he's had sex with her, too.
  
  
  "Is anyone else injured?"
  
  
  Popeye shook his head as if disappointed. “no. Except for that damned Charlie Harkins who got shot."
  
  
  "Is he dead too?"
  
  
  Popeye nodded. "Yes, supposedly."
  
  
  Louis frowned. "You think the Ruggieros did it?" "Good boy, Louis," he applauded silently.
  
  
  "Of course, I think the Ruggieros did it," Popeye growled. "What the hell do you think, tailor? Canzoneri here sees Ruggiero at the lady's hotel, then meets Ego at Harkins ' house. Then there are two corpses. Don't you think there's a connection? Do you think it's just a coincidence?"
  
  
  "No, no, Uncle Joe, "is Louis' moment. "Except that I do not know why the Ruggieros confused ih. We even invited a few guys for them via Beirut. It doesn't make any sense if they just don't want to get us."
  
  
  "Damn the tailor! What the hell do you think?" Popeye picked up a newspaper from a chair and waved it: "Did you read the damn newspaper this morning?"
  
  
  Louis shrugged. "I dunno, Uncle Joe. Larry had disappeared before, when he was high . This story could just be nonsense. You know what Hobbie Miller is like. That Gourlay guy can make ego say whatever he wants. "
  
  
  But the old man couldn't be humiliated. He waved the paper again. "What about Beirut, smart Alec? What's wrong with him?"
  
  
  Louis nodded, trying to figure it out. "Yes, I know him. Two people together is too much. I think they're going to correct us, but holy shit, just a few weeks ago everything seemed to be going well."
  
  
  "Damn the tailor!" The old man slammed his fist into the palm of his hand
  
  
  another ego of the hand. "That doesn't sound good to me!"
  
  
  Louis shook his head. "I know her, I know her, Uncle Joe. But street warfare doesn't make sense right now. We have enough problems."
  
  
  "We have to do something! "I'm not going to stand this shit with anyone," Popeye shouted.
  
  
  "Good, good," Louis said. "So what do you want us to do?"
  
  
  The old man's eyes narrowed, and he half-turned away from the chair. "Kill me, take the tailor! Maybe just a little. I don't want any Ruggiero. Not yet. I don't want it. I just want them to know that we won't be idle." The hatred in Popeye's eyes now turned to excitement. The old man smelled blood. Ego's fat hand gripped the wheelchair's arc. "Go on, take the tailor!" he shouted. "Move it!"
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  
  
  
  
  Louis and I were hunched over cappuccino cups at the Decima Coffee Shop on West Broadway.
  
  
  The walls were chocolate brown, and the worn linoleum floor, probably green from years ago, was a dirty black. A dozen huge paintings in gilded frames hung on the walls, their canvases barely visible because of the fly and grease deposits. Instead of dirty glass, the window displayed a tired collection of baked goods - napoleone, Grandma al rom, mille fogli, cannoli, pastiziotti. The only sign of cleanliness was the magnificent espresso machine at the other end of the mount. It shone brightly, all silver and black, polished to a high gloss. On nen, an eagle raged, ostentatiously spreading its wings, and reigned in cast-iron glory.
  
  
  Louis looked a little sick.
  
  
  Her coffee stirred. "What's up, Louis? A hangover? Or have you never wasted anyone before?"
  
  
  He nodded grimly. “no... Well, no. You know..."
  
  
  I knew him well. Suddenly, Uncle Joe's little nephew Louie wasn't so clean. All his life, he was famous for playing mafia with all its excitement, romance, money and mystery. But he himself was never involved. For Louis, life was a good private school, a good college, a good easy job, running a legitimate olive oil business, a good time hanging out with famous mobsters, but untainted by them.
  
  
  It reminded her again that even the ego name was pure. "Louis," he asked her, " why is your name Lazaro? Wasn't your father's name Francini?"
  
  
  Louis nodded, smiling ruefully. “yeah. Luigi Francini. Lazaro was my mother's maiden name. Uncle Joe changed it for me when it moved in with him. I think it's time to save me all the trouble. The child will be called Al Capone Jr. "
  
  
  Hers was laughing. “yeah. I think you're right. I asked her. "So what are you going to do now?"
  
  
  He spread his hands helplessly. "I do not know. Nobody did anything on the dell itself. I mean, take it, tailor, just go out and kill the guy because he belongs to the Ruggiero..."
  
  
  These are the facts of life, son, I thought. Ego squeezed her shoulder. "You'll think of something, Louis," I said soothingly.
  
  
  We walked down the Decima, and Louis looked around the street for a moment, as if trying to make up his mind. "Look, Nick," he said with a sudden grin, " why don't I show you the Accounting Office?"
  
  
  "The Accounting chamber?"
  
  
  “yeah. It's great. I keep the money, one of a kind." He took me by the elbow and led me down the street through several doors. "It's open here, Four-fifteen West Broadway."
  
  
  It didn't look like much. Another one of those big old lofts you'll see in the Soho area of downtown New York. Above the wide ramp was a large blue door that I guessed was actually a freight elevator. To his right was an ordinary door with windows of a residential type with a standard set of mailboxes of an apartment building.
  
  
  Louis led me through the door. In the foyer, he pressed a button.
  
  
  A disembodied voice answered. "Yes? Who is it?"
  
  
  "Louis Lazaro and my buddy."
  
  
  "Oh, hi, Louis. Let's go." The buzzer sounded, long and squeaky, and Louis opened the unlocked door. From here, there were five steep flights of narrow stairs. By the time we reached the top, I was having trouble breathing, and Louis was practically in a state of collapse, his breathing ragged and his face dripping with sweat.
  
  
  A friendly little man met us in the fifth-floor hallway, and Louis breathlessly introduced me. "This is Nick Canzoneri, Chicky. Chicky Wright, Nick. Chicky runs Uncle Joe's Accounting office. I thought you might like to see it."
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "Of course."
  
  
  Chicky was a little gnome in the shape of a man, with strands of white hair flying over the egos of balding heads, and thick gray eyebrows sprouting from a humorous face. Nen was wearing a dark blue silk shirt, a black-and-white checkered gillette, and gray flannel trousers. The bright red bow tie and red garters on the sleeves made ego look like a horse-racing gambler. He grinned broadly and stepped aside to lead us through a large, unmarked blue door.
  
  
  Louis stood with his back to me, slightly open.
  
  
  "Come in," he said broadly. "This is one of the best offices in New York."
  
  
  It was like that. I didn't know what to expect from a loft on the fifth floor called the Accounting Chamber, but it's definitely not what I found. Chicky took us step by step, explaining the whole operation.
  
  
  "What we've done,"he said with obvious pride," is computerize our betting and number operations."
  
  
  The entire attic has been converted into a modern, brightly polished business office. Ahead of them, a huge computer bank hummed and clicked, staffed by serious young men in neat business suits who processed computer data with unsurpassed expertise. Pretty secretaries worked carefully, clearly along the rows of desks, and electric typewriters competed with each other. All the paraphernalia of any administrative building was stored here.
  
  
  Chicky waved his hand wide. "All number bets placed below Houston-Sturt and all horse bets are processed here. All race results are received directly by phone from Arlington to Chicago East. All money bets are sent here, all records are kept, and all payments are made from here ."
  
  
  Hers, nodded, impressed. "Electronic data processing comes to the bookmaker's office. Very nice to meet you!"
  
  
  Chicky laughed. "Very effective. We process about eighty thousand dollars a day here. We believe what we need is noise as a business. The days of the little guy in the candy store with a notebook in his back pocket are over."
  
  
  "How do prices affect you outside the game?" OTB offices in New York City were initially approved by voters not only as a way to make money for the city and as a convenience for players, but also as a means to banish bookmakers around the criminal world.
  
  
  Chicky grinned again. He seemed like a happy man. "It didn't hurt us at all, although I once worried about it when it was just starting. People like to deal with an old established firm, I think, and they're kind of suspicious of the government that does the bidding operations.
  
  
  "And, of course, we have a lot of numbers, and the government doesn't deal with numbers."
  
  
  "Not yet, anyway," Louis chimed in. "But the way things are going, they probably will soon." He clapped me on the shoulder. "What do you think, Nick? Pretty cool, isn't it? Uncle Joe may look and act like an old Mustachio Pitt, but it has to be the most modern device in the mail business."
  
  
  Louis ' outburst was surpassed only by his ego's naivete. The Accounting Chamber was a step forward in the organization of the criminal world, but not the last in words. It could have been shown to Louis by a mafia-run communications center in an Indianapolis hotel, which would have made the New York Phone look like a PBX switchboard. The results of all the gambling games in the country-racing, baseball, basketball, soccer, etc. - are sent to this hotel every day, and then transmitted to bookmakers from coast to coast in microseconds.
  
  
  Nevertheless, the Accounting Chamber was an interesting innovation: centralized, organized, and efficient. Not bad. "Great," I said. "Amazing!" He tugged at her earlobe. "I guess you're doing trucks here too, huh?"
  
  
  Louis frowned. "No, but... I do not know, maybe this is a good idea. You mean, something like a central command post?"
  
  
  "That's right."
  
  
  Chicky looked a little upset. "Well, we really don't have much space available, Louis, not to mention how hard it is to find someone you can trust these days."
  
  
  I had to laugh. He was up to his neck in the mail business of the underworld, but acted like any office manager in any legitimate delle ... worried that he might have more work to do, or might have to change his working methods. It's not just honest people who resist change.
  
  
  "Nick's new in town," Louis explained, " and I thought I'd show em our demo operation. Anyway, Uncle Joe is going to have Nick and me do all the surgeries in days, just to see if we can pull up a little bit. "
  
  
  Chicky looked dubious.
  
  
  "We'll mostly be concerned about security," I said.
  
  
  Chicky beamed. "Oh, good. I need help there."
  
  
  I asked her. "Did you have any problems?"
  
  
  He sighed. More than I want her. Come to my office and I'll tell you about it."
  
  
  We all entered a beautifully paneled office in the corner of a large loft. There was a neat carpet on the floor, and steel cabinets lined the entire wall. Right behind Chicky's desk was a thick black safe. On the table were photographs of an attractive gray-haired woman and half a dozen children of various ages.
  
  
  "Have a seat, guys." Chicky pointed to a pair of straight-backed chairs and sat down in the swivel chair behind the desk. "I have a problem, maybe you can help me."
  
  
  Louis lifted his chair
  
  
  Her confident emu smiled. For the moment, he forgot that Popeye had given emu some pretty clear instructions. Uncle Joe wants someone killed.
  
  
  "What's up, Chicky?" Louis asked.
  
  
  Chicky leaned back and lit a cigarette. "It's Lemon-Drop Droppo again," he said. "At least I think it's him. He skinned our runner again. Or at least someone."
  
  
  "Take the tailor, Chicky," Louis interjected. "Someone is always robbing runners. What's the big deal?"
  
  
  "The main thing is that it becomes a big deal! Last week we were hit fourteen times, and this week we've already been hit five times. I can't afford it."
  
  
  Louis turned to me. "We usually think that three to four times a week we will charge a runner for what they carry, but that costs a lot more than usual."
  
  
  I asked her. "Can't you protect ih?"
  
  
  Chicky shook his head. "We have a hundred and forty-seven guys who bring in cash every day from all over lower Manhattan. We won't be able to protect ih at all." He grinned. "Actually, I don't even mind if some around them are robbed from time to time, which will make others be more careful. But that's a hell of a lot!"
  
  
  "What about this lemon drop droppo?"
  
  
  Louis laughed. "He's been here a long time, Nick. Odin is around Ruggiero's group, but sometimes he leaves as if on his own. He was once a runner for Gaetano Ruggiero himself, and it seems that every time an emu runs out of money, he chooses a runner. Ih is pretty easy to find, you know. "
  
  
  "Yes, supposedly." Runners are at the very bottom of the criminal ladder. They take the money, and the coupons and send ih to the policy bank, and that's it. Usually they are half-crazed old drunks who have descended too far down the gutter of elderly poverty to do anything else, or young children who are quickly gaining money. There are thousands of ih in New York, vile ants feeding on the discarded carrion of criminals.
  
  
  "Do you think a little Lemon Drop will help us get rid of this?"
  
  
  Chicky grinned again. "It won't hurt. Even if it's not him, it might scare someone off."
  
  
  He nodded and looked at Louis. "You could even kill two birds with one stone, Louis."
  
  
  This reality was not easy for Louis Lazaro. He looked sour. "Yeah," he said.
  
  
  "Why do they call the ego a Lemon Drop?" I asked her.
  
  
  Louis answered. "He's obsessed with lemon wedges, eating ih all the time. I think ego's real name is Greggorio, but with a name like Droppo and a bag of lemon lollipops in his pocket all the time ... I really don't want to hit the ego just for taking down a few runners. I mean, tailor, I went to school with this guy. He's not so wouldnt be bad, just nuts.
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. It looks like he's been doing a lot of this during his assignments. "It's up to you. It was just an idea."
  
  
  Louis looked annoyed. We'll think about it."
  
  
  "What are these two birds with one stone?" Chicky asked.
  
  
  "It doesn't matter," Louis snapped.
  
  
  Chicky was still well aware that Louis was Papaya Francini's nephew.
  
  
  There was an awkward pause. He waved a hand at the gleaming filing cabinets, each stack blocked by a menacing-looking iron rod that ran from the floor up through each drawer handle and bolted to the top of the folder. "What do you have there, family regulations; - identify?"
  
  
  Chicky stubbed out his cigarette and grinned, pleased with the change in atmosphere. "These are our files," he said. "Records of it all, from A to Z."
  
  
  "Everything?" He tried to impress her. "You mean the entire betting operation?"
  
  
  "I mean the whole organization," he said. "Everything."
  
  
  I looked around. "How good is your security?"
  
  
  Good. Good. It doesn't bother me. We're on the fifth floor here. The other four floors are empty, except for a couple of apartments that we use in emergencies. Every night we put up a steel gate on every floor. They fit openly on the wall and are fixed there. And then there are the dogs, " he added proudly.
  
  
  "Dogs?"
  
  
  “yeah. On each floor we have two guard dogs, Dobermans. We release ih every night, two on each floor. I mean, man, no one's going up the stairs with these dogs. They're mean sons of bitches! Even without them, no one can break through this gate without alerting Big Julie and Raymond."
  
  
  "Who are they?"
  
  
  "Two of my guards. They live here every night. Once everyone leaves and locks this gate, no one can enter."
  
  
  "I like it," I said. "If Big Julie and Raymond can take care of themselves."
  
  
  Chicky laughed. "Don't worry, man. Big Julie is the strongest guy on this side of the circus, and Raymond was one of the best gunnery sergeants in Korea. He knows what a weapon is."
  
  
  "Good enough for me." He got to his feet, and Louis did the same. "Thank you so much, Chicky," I said. "I think we'll see you again."
  
  
  "Actually," he said. We felt sorry for each other's hands, and Louie and I went down the stairs. When he was alert, he could see the steel gates built into the walls of each landing. It was a good tough fight, but I had no idea how it could be overcome.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  
  
  
  
  Dinner was delicious, a small table in the back of Minetta's, on a night when there was almost no one there - light antipasto, good oso buco, deep-fried strips of cordon squash, and espresso coffee. Philomina was in that loving, radiant mood that brings a little excitement to life.
  
  
  When she was kissed goodnight by ee in front of her door, everything turned into Siciliano's petulant rage. She stamped her foot, accused me of going to bed with six other girls, burst into tears, and finally threw her arms around my neck and smothered me with kisses.
  
  
  "Nickname... Please, Nick. Not for long."
  
  
  Her mouth twisted free. I knew that if I went in, I'd be there for a long time. I had things to do that night. Her boyfriend kissed her hard on the tip of her nose, spun her around so that she was looking at her door, and slapped her hard on the back. "Go ahead. Just leave the door ajar and I'll see you when I'm done with the things I need to take care of."
  
  
  Her smile was all-forgiving, and once again delighted, she said, " Promise?"
  
  
  "Promise". I was back in the hall before my resolve weakened.
  
  
  The first thing I did when I got to my room at Chelsea was call Louis. "Hi, this is Nick. Listen, how about you meet me tonight? Yes, I know it's late, but it's important. Really! Yes, around midnight. And take Loclo and Manitta. Tony's, I think. It's as good as anything. Ok? Good... Oh, and Louie, get the Lemon Drop Droppo address before you get there, okay? "
  
  
  I hung up before he could respond to the last request. Then her, went downstairs and turned the corner to Angry Squire. He ordered a beer from Sally, a pretty English barmaid, and then called Washington on the phone that hung up on Groans at the end of the bar. This was a routine updated precaution in case the phone in my hotel room was tapped.
  
  
  I called her at the TOPOR Emergency Supply Department and, correctly introducing myself, ordered a 17B disassembly kit, which was sent to me on the same night by Greyhound bus. I can pick her up in the morning at the Port Authority bus station on Eighth Avenue.
  
  
  Set 17B is very neat, very disruptive. Six detonator caps, six timer fuses that can be set to trigger the caps at any interval from one minute to fifteen hours, six pieces of primer cord for less complex work, and enough plastic to blow the crown off the Statue of Liberty's head.
  
  
  It was hard to understand me because of the noise created by a very good but very loud jazz combo, like a few feet away, but I finally got my message across and hung up.
  
  
  At eleven-thirty, Angry Squire left him and wandered down Seventh Avenue, making plans for Lemon-Drop Droppo. At the corner of Christopher and Seventh, it turned right onto Christopher mimmo all new gay size, then turned left again onto Bedford Sturt and a block and a half to Tony.
  
  
  It was a very different scene from the night before at Philomina's party. Now it was quiet and cozy again, back to its usual dungeon-like atmosphere, the dim orange lights on the dark brown walls giving barely enough light for the waiters to move between the tables that had returned to their usual places in the main room. .
  
  
  Instead of a horde of tuxedo-clad Italian mobsters and ih women in long dresses, the place was now sparsely populated with half a dozen long-haired young guys in blue jeans and denim jackets and an equal number of young girls with short hair. similarly dressed. But the conversation wasn't much different from the previous evening. While the conversations at the party focused mostly on sex, soccer, and horses, today's crowd talked mostly about sex, soccer games, and philosophy.
  
  
  Louis was sitting at Odin's desk, against the wall to the left of the entrance, leaning sullenly over a glass of wine. He didn't look too happy.
  
  
  He sat down with her, ordered a brandy and soda, and tapped Ego on the shoulder. "Come on, Louis, have fun. It's not that bad!"
  
  
  He tried to grin, but it didn't work.
  
  
  "Louis, you really don't want to do this, do you?"
  
  
  "What should I do?"
  
  
  Who was he kidding? "Take care of Droppo."
  
  
  He shook his head sadly, not meeting my eyes. "No, I mean, it's simple... Oh, the tailor! No! " he said with more force, glad it was open. "No way! I don't want to do that. I don't think I can do it. Its simple... Tailor, I grew up with this guy, Nick!"
  
  
  "Good! Good! I think I have an idea that will really take care of the baby Lemon Drop, make your Uncle Joe happy and save you from danger. How do you like this package?"
  
  
  Ego's eyes glittered with hope, and an ego-pleasing smile began to spread across his face. "Honestly? Hey, Nick, that would be great!"
  
  
  Good. You did me a favor in Beirut by bringing me here. Now I'll give you one, really?"
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  Good. First of all, I got this in my box at Chelsea today." It was given to emu by a note he had written himself.
  
  
  Canzoneri: You'll find Spelman
  
  
  In room 636 of the Chalfont Plaza Hotel.
  
  
  He's bare-assed and fucking dead.
  
  
  Louis stared at him in disbelief. "Take the tailor! What the hell is that, tailor? Do you think that's true?"
  
  
  "That's probably true, okay. If it wasn't, there would be no point in sending it to me."
  
  
  "No, probably not. But what the hell did they send ego? You just came!"
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "Knocks me to hell. Clera just said that some guy came up and left an ego. Maybe whoever it is you think was just helpful to her and will still pass on your ego."
  
  
  Louis looked puzzled, as he should have. "I still don't understand." He thought for a moment. "Listen, Nick. Do you think it was the Ruggieros?"
  
  
  Atta, baby-Louie! I thought of her. "Yeah," I said. "Vote what I think".
  
  
  He frowned. "So what does this have to do with coming here tonight? And with Lemon-Drop Droppo?"
  
  
  "Just an idea. Are Loclo and Manitti with you?"
  
  
  “yeah. They're in the car."
  
  
  Good. Vote on what we're going to do." I explained my idea to emu, and he was thrilled.
  
  
  "Great, Nick! Great!"
  
  
  88 Horatio was only a few blocks away, about a block from the Hudson River. It was explained by Loclo and Manitti when we arrived. "Remember. We want him to be alive. It's okay if it's a little damaged, but I don't want any wires. Understand?"
  
  
  Behind the wheel, Loclo shrugged. "That sounds crazy to me."
  
  
  Louis slapped his ego lightly on the back of the head to let him know who was in charge. "No one asked you to. Just do as Nick says."
  
  
  Horatio eighty-eight was a featureless gray building with a row of identical high steps and an iron railing. It took Manitti about forty-five seconds to get through the lock on the outer side, and another thirty seconds to open the inner one. We made our way up the stairs as quietly as possible, and finally stopped at the sixth-floor landing to stop choking on the climb. There were only three of us - Loclo, Manitti, and her-and they had the ferret when we left Louie in the car downstairs.
  
  
  Manitti had no problems with the door of the apartment on 6B. He didn't use a plastic card, like all the spy books do now. He simply used an old-fashioned flat blade shaped like a surgical scalpel and a small tool that looked like a steel needle. Less than twenty seconds later, the door swung open noiselessly, and Manitti stepped aside to let me in, a big congratulatory smile of self-satisfaction on his Neanderthal man.
  
  
  There was no peace in what was obviously the living room, but the saint shone through a closed door at the other end of the room. Hers moved quickly forward, Loclo and Manitti were outspoken behind, each around us with a gun in hand.
  
  
  He reached the door, pulled it open, and in one swift movement entered the bedroom. I didn't want to give Droppo a chance to go get a gun.
  
  
  I didn't have to worry.
  
  
  Gregorio Droppo was too busy, at least at the time, to worry about such a small incident as a three-armed man breaking into Ego's bedroom at one in the morning. Droppo's naked body shuddered convulsively, twisting and fluffing the sheets under the girl he was making love to. Her arms were tightly wrapped around ego's neck, pulling him to her, and ih faces were locked together, so that all we could see was the girl's greasy hair, disheveled by the girl's prehensile fingers. Her slender legs, slender and white against the hairy darkness of her ego body, were clipped around her ego waist, chained to the slick sweat pouring down her face. Her arms and legs were all we could see.
  
  
  With a huge effort, Droppo made a classic back-and-up prong move before the final screaming jump. Not having a glass of iced water on hand, he took the next step and kicked his ego in the ribs with the toe of his boot.
  
  
  He froze. Then the ego target whirled around, eyes widening in disbelief. "What-a-a ...?"
  
  
  Her ego kicked him again, and he gasped, which hurt. He broke free, rolling from the girl onto his back, clutching his side in agony.
  
  
  The sudden departure of her lover left her sprawled on her back, her eyes bulging in horror. She propped herself up on her elbows, her mouth opening to scream. He put his left hand over her mouth and pinned her back to the sheet, then bent down and fucked Wilhelmina, his muzzle just an inch from her eyes.
  
  
  She struggled for a moment, arching her sweaty body under the pressure of my hand, then realized what she was looking at and froze, her eyes fixed on the gun. Beads in a jar stood on her forehead, tangling the unkempt strands of red hair.
  
  
  Next to her, Droppo started swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, but Loclo was there. Almost by accident, he slammed the muzzle of his revolver into Droppo's face, and Droppo fell back with an agonized yell, clutching his bloody nose. With one hand, Locallo tore a crumpled pillow off the floor and pressed it against Droppo's face, muffling the sounds. He slammed the other between Droppo's outstretched legs, so that the butt of the ego pistol slammed into the naked man's groin.
  
  
  An animal sound rang out from under the pillow, and the body shuddered high in the air, the crevices arched, all of Alyonka lay on her shoulders, and then collapsed limply on the bed.
  
  
  "He's passed out, boss," Loclo said laconically. I think he was disappointed.
  
  
  "Remove the pillow so that he doesn't suffocate," I looked at the girl and waved Wilhelmina threateningly. "No noise, nothing when I take her hand away. Understand?"
  
  
  She sort of nodded, looking at me in horror. "All right," I said. "Relax. We won't hurt you." He took his hand away from the ee rta and stepped back.
  
  
  She lay motionless on the floor, and the three of us stood there with guns in our hands and admired her beauty. Despite the fact that she was sweating from sex, the horror in her eyes, and her hair was all tangled up, she was adorable. Her bare chest heaved, and tears suddenly welled up around her green eyes.
  
  
  "Please, please don't hurt me," she whimpered. "Please, Nick."
  
  
  Then she learned the truth. It was Dreadlocks Pollard, the little redhead in the green dress she'd flirted with at Tony's party, the same one who'd started Philomena's ordeal years ago with an anonymous envelope containing a clipping from the Times.
  
  
  Next to me, Manitti began to breathe heavily. "Son of a bitch!" he exclaimed. He leaned across the bed, one hand reaching for her breasts.
  
  
  Her ego hit him in the head with the gun, and he jerked in shock.
  
  
  Dreadlocks had tears running down their cheeks. Her disdainful gaze fell on her naked body. "If it's not one squat Italian, then the other one is actually Dreadlocks?"
  
  
  She swallowed, but didn't answer.
  
  
  I reached out and shoved Droppo, but he didn't move. "Take the ego," her Locallo said.
  
  
  Her gaze turned back to Dreadlocks. "Get up and get dressed."
  
  
  She started to sit up slowly, and looked down at her own naked body, as if she had just realized that she was lying completely naked in a room with four men, three of whom were practically strangers.
  
  
  She abruptly sat up in a sitting position, bringing her knees together and bending her ih in front of her. She crossed her arms and looked at us wildly. "You lousy sons of bitches," she spat.
  
  
  Hers was laughing. "Don't be so modest, Dreadlocks. We've already seen how you handle this jerk. We're not likely to see you look any worse." She was yanked by ee's arm and dragged around the trash to the floor.
  
  
  Hers, he could feel a small spark of struggle breaking out around her. I let go of her, and she slowly got to her feet and walked over to the chair next to the bed, avoiding our eyes. She picked up a lacy black bra and began to put it on while looking at the wall. Complete humiliation.
  
  
  Manitti licked his lips, and I looked at him. Loclo came back through the kitchens with four cans of cold beer.
  
  
  He attached all the Commodore's ih and carefully opened it. He gave me one, Odin Manitti, and took one himself. Then he took a fourth and poured it evenly over the inert body of Lemon-Drop Droppo, which spilled onto the sweaty mold and soaked the sheet around it.
  
  
  Droppo woke up with a groan, his hands instinctively reaching for his outraged genitals.
  
  
  Her ego slapped the bridge of Wilhelmina's disfigured nose so hard that it brought tears to his eyes. "What?" he gasped, " what...?"
  
  
  "Just do exactly what I say, buddy, and you can survive."
  
  
  "What?" The em managed to get out again.
  
  
  Her good-natured friend smiled. "Papay Francini," I said. "Now get up and get dressed."
  
  
  Horror showed in his eyes as he slowly got up from the bed, one hand still clutching his groin. He slowly got dressed, and gradually her ego attitude changed. He tried to assess the situation, would like a way out. He hated more than he suffered, and a man who hates is dangerous.
  
  
  Droppo finished the painstaking process of tying his shoes, occasionally letting out a groan at the ego of his tightly compressed lips, then used both hands to grab the bed to get to his feet. As soon as he got up, he slammed his ego knee into her crotch. He screamed and fell to the floor in a dead faint.
  
  
  He pointed at Loclo. "Raise your ego again, Franco."
  
  
  Across the room, fully clothed, Dreadlocks Pollard suddenly came to life. Her hair was still disheveled and her lipstick was fuzzy, but Kelly's green skirt and black silk blouse were on.
  
  
  wearing it over her bra and panties gave her some courage again.
  
  
  "That was cruel," she hissed. "He didn't do anything to you."
  
  
  "Sending this clipping to Philomina Francini years ago was also cruel," I said. "She didn't do anything to you either."
  
  
  The last bit of brutality left Lemon-Droppo with the last traces of fighting spirit, and he came down the stairs with us, bent slightly over, both hands pressed to his stomach.
  
  
  We put Dreadlocks in the front with Loclo and Manitti and squeezed Droppo between Louis and me in the backseat. Then we drove to Chalfont Plaza. Louis, Droppo,and her entered the main entrance of Manny's house, while the other three entered from Lexington Avenue.
  
  
  We met in front of room 636. I took the Do Not Disturb sign off her desk and turned the key. The smell wasn't as bad as it would have been since he'd turned the air conditioner on full power before leaving two nights ago, but it was noticeable.
  
  
  "What's that smell?" Dreadlocks asked, trying to back away. I pushed her hard, and she sprawled halfway across the room, and we all went in. Manitti closed the door behind us.
  
  
  She had been warned of what to expect, and Droppo was too ill to really worry. But not Dreadlocks. She got to her feet, looking clearly angry. "What the hell is going on here, tailor?" "Stop it!" she screamed. "What's that smell?"
  
  
  He opened the bathroom door and showed her the naked body of Larry Spelman.
  
  
  "Oh my God! Oh my God!" Dreadlocks wailed, covering his face with his hands.
  
  
  "Now take off your clothes, both of you," I ordered.
  
  
  Droppo, his face still contorted with pain, obeyed dumbly. He didn't ask any more questions.
  
  
  Not Dreadlocks. "What do you plan to do?" she was yelling at me. "My God..."
  
  
  "Forget about God," I snapped, " and get naked. Or do you want Gino to do it for you?"
  
  
  Manitti grinned, and Dreadlocks slowly began to unbutton her blouse. Stripped down to her bra and bikini bottoms, she hesitated again, but when Wilhelmina waved at her, she pointedly finished her work, throwing her clothes in a small pile on the floor.
  
  
  Louis took both sets of clothes and stuffed ih into the small bag he'd brought with him. Droppo sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the floor. Commodus pushed away the Dreadlocks in the corner so that all we could see was her bare thigh. Her hands covered her chest, and she shivered a little. The room was cold from the air conditioning.
  
  
  He paused in the doorway as we exited. "Now I want you two lovebirds to stay here," I said. "After a while, someone will get up and you can fix it. In the meantime, Manitti will stand sincerely outside the door. If she opens the little crack even a little bit before anyone gets here, they'll " kill you. Do you understand that?" "I paused. "At least the tailor will kill you, Droppo. I do not know what he will do with Dreadlocks."
  
  
  I closed the door and we all took the elevator down.
  
  
  In the lobby, Jack Gourlay called her on a pay phone.
  
  
  "Son of a bitch!" he growled over the phone. "It's two o'clock in the morning."
  
  
  "Forget it," I said. "I have a story for you in the 636 square Chalfont room."
  
  
  "It would be better if everything was fine."
  
  
  "Okay," I drawled. "That sounds good, Jack. There are three people in room 636, all naked, and one around them is dead. And one around them is a woman."
  
  
  "Jesus Christ!" There was a long pause. "The mafia?"
  
  
  "Mafia," I said, and hung up.
  
  
  We all crossed the street to the Sunrise cocktail Lounge and had a drink. Then we went home.
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  
  
  Philomina removed my hand from her left breast and sat up in bed, lifting the pillow behind her to support the small of her back. She frowned in confusion.
  
  
  "But I don't understand, Nick. It's funny, or scary, or something like that. The police can't prove that Dreadlocks and Droppos killed Larry Spelman, can they? I mean..."
  
  
  Her kissed her right breast and shifted to rest her head hey, life, lay across the bed.
  
  
  I explained it. "They won't be able to prove that Dreadlocks and Droppo killed Spelman, but those two will have a hell of a long time to prove that they didn't."
  
  
  "You mean the ih cops will just let you go?"
  
  
  "Not really. Remember when I told you I left that metal cigar container on the dresser before I left?"
  
  
  She nodded. "It was full of heroin. Ih will both be arrested for possession."
  
  
  "Oh." She frowned. "I hope Dreadlocks doesn't have to go to jail. I mean, her, I hate her, but ..."
  
  
  I patted her knee, which was somewhere to the left of my left ear. "Don't worry. There's going to be a lot of stuff in the papers, and a lot of people are scratching their heads, but this is such a shitty story that any good lawyer can beat me up."
  
  
  "I still don't understand
  
  
  
  
  
  and this, " she said. "Won't the police be looking for you and Louie?"
  
  
  "No chance. Droppo knows, but he's not going to tell the cops what happened. It's fucking humiliating. He would never admit to them that a rival gang could get away with it. The Ruggieros will be perfectly angry. on the other hand, and that's exactly what we want ."
  
  
  "What will they do?"
  
  
  "Well, if they react the way I hope they will, they will come out to shoot."
  
  
  The next day, of course, the newspapers came out about the shooting. Give a newspaperman a naked man and a naked girl in a hotel room with a naked corpse, and he will be happy. Add two rival underworld groups and a container of high-quality heroin and he'll be thrilled. Jack Gourlay was over the moon in the fields of journalism.
  
  
  The next morning, the photos in the News were as good as I'd ever seen them. The photographer found Droppo sitting naked on a bed with a naked Dreadlocked man trying to cover himself with his arms crossed. They had to do a little airbrushing to make the ego look decent enough for compaction. The author of the title also had a good time:
  
  
  Nude mafioso and gal caught with naked body and dope
  
  
  The New York Times didn't consider ego a front-page story, as it did in the News, but a six-column, sixteen-page binding with a one-and-a-half column and a sidebar about the mafia's history in New York would have been appreciated. . Both Francini and Ruggiero played a major role, including a fairly detailed account of Popeye's alleged altercation with Philomina's father a few years earlier.
  
  
  Popeye didn't care. He was happy to the point that his ego's hatred of the outdoor pool allowed him to stay. He burst out laughing when Louis showed Em the story the next day, leaning back in his chair and howling. The fact that Larry Spelman was killed didn't seem to bother him at all, except that Spelman's death was an insult to the great chemist Ruggero Francini.
  
  
  As for Popeye, this violation and his squad of dignity that Ruggiero suffered due to one of ih buttons getting into such a ridiculous situation more than made up for the kill. For the Francini of this world, a mysterious murder is a common occurrence, and then a rarity.
  
  
  Louis, too, was glad of the new position he had acquired in his uncle's eyes. I didn't have to give emu his due. By the time he got to the Franzini Olive Oil office that morning, Louis was already enjoying the praise. Hers, I'm sure Louis didn't actually tell Popeye that it was ego's idea, but neither did he tell em that it wasn't.
  
  
  Her sel and stahl wait for Ruggiero to respond.
  
  
  Nothing happened, so I revised my position. Ruggiero had clearly underestimated her. In retrospect, I should have realized that Gaetano Ruggiero wasn't around the sort of leaders who could be panicked into a bloody and costly gang war because of the machinations he started.
  
  
  Popeye Francini is easy to provoke, but not Ruggiero. In that case, Popeye chose her again. I can count on his reaction and a strong reaction. I had a plan before, so I ordered this 17B kit from Washington, and I just needed a little help from Philomina to put the ego in action. My goal was the Accounting Office, to add up the dollar of the entire Francini operation.
  
  
  Ego got it just five days later, followed by Lemon-Drop Droppo caper.
  
  
  All I needed from Philomina was an alibi in case one of the Accounting Office guards could identify me later. Her intention was to make sure they couldn't, but it was a simple enough updated precaution.
  
  
  For Franzini Olive Oil, it was no secret that Philomina "saw a lot of that new guy, Nick, the guy Louis brought from there." It was simple. That night, we just went to a David Amram concert at Lincoln Center. It's almost impossible to get tickets to Amram's concert in New York these days, so it was only natural that we should brag a little about the ones he got. But no one knew they were from Jack Gourlay of the News.
  
  
  He waited until the holy light went out in the house, then left. Amram is probably the best contemporary composer in America, but I had a lot of work to do and little time for nah. She was asked to return before the show ended.
  
  
  It took less than fifteen minutes to get a taxi from Lincoln Center to Soho, 417 West Broadway, next to the Counting House.
  
  
  It was a similar building, four floors of apartments with a large attic on the top floor. Nen didn't have the freight elevator that marked the building next door, but it also lacked guard dogs on every floor, not to mention steel bars on every landing. There was no way he was going to climb the stairs to the Accounting Office. It is almost impossible to crack the lock of a steel grate with one hand and fight a blood-crazed Doberman with the other.
  
  
  Her, entered the building, on 417 and scan
  
  
  
  
  
  Names next to the doorbells. He picked one at random - Candy Gulko-and rang the bell.
  
  
  A moment passed before a voice rang out around the built-in speaker. "Yes?"
  
  
  Fortunately, it was a woman's voice. "Fremonti Flower shop," I said.
  
  
  Pause. "What is it?"
  
  
  He added a touch of impatience to his tone. "Fremonti Flower shop, ma'am. I have flowers for Candy Hollow."
  
  
  "Oh! Come on, get up." The buzzer went off, opening the automatic lock of the inner doorway, and the attache came in and went upstairs, brandishing a brand-new suitcase like any respectable New York businessman.
  
  
  Its certainly not staying on the Candy Jackdaw floor. Instead, she went straight up, past the fifth floor, and up the last small flight of stairs leading to the roof.
  
  
  It was only a few minutes before I was squatting on the roof of 417 West Broadway, contemplating the ten feet of open air sampling between the two buildings, and my imagination easily collapsed to the ground.
  
  
  I examined the tarred roof, and as I lay by the brick chimney, I finally found what I wanted - a long, narrow plank. I wished it wasn't so narrow, but there was no hope of that. I needed a bridge. When her was in college, his long jump was twenty-four feet six inches, but that was a long time ago, it was in daylight, with a nice runway, studded shoes and, most importantly, at ground level, her wasn't going to try to jump ten feet between buildings at night.
  
  
  The board was only six inches wide, wide enough for shopping, but too narrow for confidence. It was pushed by ego through a gap between two buildings, so that he would lie equally on each roof. Holding the suitcase in front of him with both hands, he carefully placed his foot on his rickety bridge, gathered himself up, and ran three steps at a time.
  
  
  I had to run. I don't usually suffer from acrophobia, but if I tried to run across the nah, I would never be able to. Fear would make me make a mistake, and there was no room for nah. He stood still for a few minutes, calming down, still shivering, but sweating with relief.
  
  
  When he had calmed down, he went to the door leading to the stairs. If it had been bolted on from the inside, I would have had to enter the Accounts Chamber offices through a skylight, and that would have been difficult.
  
  
  The door isn't locked. I just needed to open my ego and push through. This was something similar to what the British did in Singapore: all ih guns were pointed out to sea to repel any naval attack; the Japanese went overland, entered the "back door" and captured Singapore. Similarly, the Accounts Chamber's defenses were designed to prevent thought from below; they never thought that an invasion could come from above.
  
  
  I thought about knocking on the door of the Accounting Office on the fifth floor, just to give Big Julie and Raymond something to think about in ih's barricaded little nest, but I couldn't afford to warn ih just to satisfy my twisted sense of humor.
  
  
  She pulled a black nylon stocking over her face, opened the door, and walked in, holding her attache in one hand and Wilhelmina in the other.
  
  
  The two men stared at me, taken aback. They were sitting on either side of a steel-topped chair where they were playing cards. There was a half-empty bottle of gin on the table, along with two glasses and a couple of overflowing ashtrays. The remains of a sandwich rested on the side of a brown paper bag. Under the low-hanging table light, smoke hung in the air. In the shadow of the huge room, a huge computer silently guarded rows of motionless desks and silent typewriters.
  
  
  A few feet away from the chair, two old army cots sat side by side.
  
  
  Odin around the men at the table was huge, his huge muscular body glistening in the light. Nen was wearing her mother's sleeveless shirt with a pair of battered gray trousers that were hooked loosely under her ego's wide paunch. The stub of a thick cigar pinched his yellowed teeth under a huge bush of mustache. Big Julie, no doubt.
  
  
  The ego companion was more than average height, a real street dude in a green felt hat with a wide brim, a bright red silk shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist, and flared Aqueduct check trousers. Two huge diamond rings shone on Raymond's left hand, contrasting with the blackness of his skin. He surprised me. I didn't expect one of the Chicky Wright boys to be black. If a lower-class Italian with great ideas finally began to lose his innate prejudices, the world really was a better place to live.
  
  
  The polio flag of execution lasted only a moment. Raymond's left hand suddenly flashed towards the shoulder holster hanging on the back of the typist's chair next to him.
  
  
  Wilhelmina barked, and stare slammed into a chair, knocking her ego back a few inches. Raymond's hand froze in midair, then slowly returned to the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thank you," I said politely. "Just stay put, gentlemen."
  
  
  Big Julie's eyes bulged, the cigar butt twitching convulsively in the corner of rta's ego. "What the hell..." he croaked in a guttural voice.
  
  
  "Shut up." Wilhelmina's emu waved at her, keeping a close eye on Raymond. Around the two of them, her decided that " he's more dangerous. She was wrong, but then she didn't know it.
  
  
  Casey placed it on the neat chair in front of him and opened the ego with his left hand. He took out two long pieces of rawhide that he had picked up that day at a shoe repair shop.
  
  
  Somewhere below, a dog was barking.
  
  
  The two guards looked at each other, then back at me.
  
  
  "Dogs," croaked Big June. "How do you wish for dogs?"
  
  
  Her, chuckled. "Just stroked ih more heads when mimmo passed it. I love dogs."
  
  
  He chuckled in disbelief. Moscow Gate...?"
  
  
  He grinned again. "It was burned to ashes by ih on my super beam weapon." Her step licks made, and swung the gun again. " You. Raymond. Lie face down on the floor."
  
  
  "Fuck you, man!"
  
  
  I shot her. The shot hit the top of the chair and ricocheted off. It's hard to tell where the gawk bounces off, but judging by the mark on the desk chair, it must have missed Raymond's nose by millimeters.
  
  
  He leaned back in his chair, raising his hands above his head. "Yes, sir. On the floor. Immediately." He slowly got to his feet, arms held high, then carefully lowered himself to the floor, face down.
  
  
  "Put your hands behind your back."
  
  
  He obeyed immediately.
  
  
  Then he turned to Julie and laughed. He was still holding the deck of cards in his hand. He must have been trading when he saw her.
  
  
  "Okay," I said, tossing Odin's emu across the rawhide straps. "Tie up your friend."
  
  
  He looked down at the panties, then at me. Finally, he put down his cards and got awkwardly to his feet. He picked up the straps stupidly and stood looking at them.
  
  
  "Move it! Tie emu's hands behind his back."
  
  
  Big Julie did as the emu was told. When he was done and stepped back, he checked the knots. He did a pretty good job.
  
  
  Her emu waved the gun again: Good. Now it's your turn. On the floor."
  
  
  "What the..."
  
  
  "I told Paul!"
  
  
  He sighed, carefully took out an iso rta cigarette butt, and placed it in the ashtray on the table. Then he did a bench press on the floor, a few feet away from Raymond.
  
  
  "Put your hands behind your back."
  
  
  He sighed again and put his hands behind his back, pressing his cheek to the floor.
  
  
  Wilhelmina laid her on the chair where Big Julie was sitting, and Stahl knelt over it, straddling ego's body to bind emu's hands.
  
  
  Ego's legs shot up, slamming into my back, and his giant body twisted and jerked in huge convulsions from the effort, throwing me back against the table and losing my balance. I cursed my stupidity and dived for the gun, but he grabbed my wrist with a blunt, strong paw, lifted his body on top of me, and pinned me to the floor with his huge weight.
  
  
  Ego's face was next to mine, snuggling up to me. He lifted himself up and slammed his head down, trying to hit her on mine. Hers spun sharply, and the target's ego hit the floor. He roared like a trapped bull and turned back to me.
  
  
  Hers was clutching at my ego eyes with her free hand, fighting the weight pressing down on me, arching my back so my body wouldn't be flattened helplessly beneath it. My searching fingers found ego's eyes, but they were tightly squinted. He chose the next best option, sticking two fingers in the emu's nostrils and ripping the ego back and up.
  
  
  I felt the fabric give, and he screamed, letting go of my other wrist so he could pull on the attacking arm. I pushed off with my free hand, and we rolled on the floor. We rested on the leg of a chair. Ego grabbed her by both ears and slammed his ego's head against the metal furniture.
  
  
  The ego's grip loosened, and I broke free, falling away from it. I jumped to my feet just in time to see Raymond, his hands still tied behind his back, struggling to get up. Her ego kicked him into life with the point of his shoe and dived to pull Wilhelmina out from where it had left her on the chair.
  
  
  A luger grabbed her and spun her around just as Big Julie lunged at me from the floor like a groaning, sweaty catapult. Her dodged and let the emu fly mimmo me when her hit his ego in the heads with the butt of the gun. He slammed headfirst into a chair and lay there, suddenly limp, blood running down his lower jaw around his torn nose and soaking his mustache. On the floor beside him, Raymond writhed and moaned, his hands still clasped behind his back.
  
  
  It was refitted by Wilhelmina. It was such a clean operation until Big Julie became heroic to me. I waited until I was breathing normally, then tied Big Julie's hands together, just as I'd started doing a few minutes ago. Then I turned on all the lights in the car.
  
  
  
  
  
  I started browsing the big bank file manager, in Chicky Wright's office.
  
  
  They were locked, but it didn't take me long to pick the locks. However, finding what I wanted was another matter. But I finally found it. The distribution of Francini's assets by dollar is in the city's business interests.
  
  
  He whistled at her. Popeye not only handled everything illegal in the city, but also many legal operations: meat packaging, brokerage, construction, landscaping, taxis, hotels, electrical appliances, pasta production, supermarkets, bakeries, massage parlors, movie theaters, pharmaceutical production.
  
  
  She opened one of the filing cabinets and noticed several large Manila envelopes stacked in the back. They had no labels, and the valves were closed. Ih broke it and knew I was going to hit the jackpot. These envelopes contained records with sales dates, sales, names, and everything else - about Francini's heroin operation, a complex pipeline around the Middle East in New York.
  
  
  It looks like my late friend Su Lao Lin didn't leave for the drug business when our serviceman left for Indochina. She just moved to Beirut a few thousand miles away. This beautiful woman bought drugs just as much as men. She was a busy girl.
  
  
  Ee, Francini's attitude has always puzzled me. I've always wondered why she was met by a red Chinese agent and former drug distributor working as an employment agency for an American gangster. She was just doing a double job, and hers was only involved in one direction-ee of the many organizational talent bases. It all became clear, and he smiled a little when he thought that he had inadvertently undermined Francini's ties to the Middle East.
  
  
  All the fears I had previously about destroying it have completely disappeared.
  
  
  Her papers were neatly stacked on the table next to the suitcase, then he took out the plastic explosives around the drawer and lined up ih in a row. The plastic is not very stable and should be handled carefully. When it was sent to me by bus around Washington, it was sent in two packages - one for the explosive itself, the other for the caps and detonators. So it was safe.
  
  
  Now it was carefully inserted caps and timer detonators. Set maximum, detonators will go off in five minutes, then activate. Its advertised by one where it was supposed to destroy the computer, and then distributed the other three around the room where they could do maximum damage. I didn't need to be too precise. Four plastic bombs could have taken down the Accounting Office.
  
  
  "Dude, you're not leaving us here." It was more a plea than a question from the black man on the floor. He turned to look at me. He stopped moaning a while ago.
  
  
  Emu smiled at her. "No, Raymond. You and your fat friend will come with me." I looked at Big Julie, who was sitting up slightly on the floor, looking at me with bloodshot eyes. "I want someone to give me a message to Papai Francini."
  
  
  "What's the message?" Raymond is very eager to please.
  
  
  "Just tell em that today's work was marked by a compliment from Gaetano Ruggiero."
  
  
  "Well, take the tailor..." It was Big Julie. Blood was running down Ego's face from his torn nose.
  
  
  He carefully repacked his attache, making sure that the nen contained all incriminating documents, then closed and locked it. I pulled Raymond and Big Julie to their feet and made ih stand in the middle of the room while I walked around and activated the timers on each of the detonators. Then the three of us got out in a hurry, ran up the stairs to the roof, and slammed the roof door behind us.
  
  
  He made Raymond and Big Julie lie down on their faces again, then took a deep breath and raced across the rickety plank bridge to the next building. Crossing it, he pushed aside the board, threw it on the roof, and started down the stairs, whistling happily to himself. It was a good night's work.
  
  
  Halfway down the stairs, he felt the building shake as four massive explosions erupted around a nearby house. When hers came out on the street, the top floor of 415 West Broadway was on fire. He stopped at the corner to turn on the fire alarm, then headed for Sixth Avenue and hailed a taxi that was heading for the outskirts of town. He returned to his seat next to Philomina before the end of Amram's concert, which was the finale of the program.
  
  
  My shvedov was a little disheveled, but I shook off most of the dirt I'd picked up while rolling around on the Accounting Chamber floor. The informal Swedish way in which some people dress for concerts today is not particularly noticeable.
  
  
  Chapter 15
  
  
  
  The next morning, when Philomina left for work, her folded papers taken all over the Accounting Office, and went to ih Ron Brandenburg. There was enough to keep the bus going for the FBI, the Treasury Department, and the Southern District Organized Crime Task Force.
  
  
  
  
  
  y for the next six months.
  
  
  Then he called her in Washington and ordered another set of 17B explosives. Its starting to feel like a Crazy Bomber, but you can't beat the mafia alone with just a gun and a stiletto.
  
  
  When she finally got ready, Louis called her.
  
  
  He practically jumped on me over the phone line. "God, Nick, I'm so glad you called! The whole damn place has gone mad! You need to come here immediately. We..."
  
  
  "Slow down, slow down. What's going on?"
  
  
  "Everything!"
  
  
  "Calm down, Louis. Calm down. What the hell is going on, tailor boy?"
  
  
  He was so excited that it was hard for emu to tell me, but eventually it came out.
  
  
  Someone around the crowd of Ruggiero blew up the Accounting Chamber, firefighters barely managed to save two guards who were beaten, tied up and left to die on the roof.
  
  
  Left to die, damn the tailor! But he didn't say anything to her.
  
  
  Papai Francini, Louis continued, was furious, shouting and banging on the table between periods of sullen depression when he was just sitting in his wheelchair and looking out the window. "The destruction of the Court of Accounts was the last straw," Louis muttered. Francini's gang "went to the mattresses" - from the mafia's point of view, setting up bare apartments all over the city, where they would hide from the sixth to ten "soldiers", far from their usual shelters, protected by each other. The apartments, equipped with extra mattresses for the remaining mafiosi, served not only as "shelters", but also as bases from which the pushers could strike at the opposing forces.
  
  
  This was the start of the biggest gang war in New York City with them ferret as Gallo and Columbo fought in a battle that quickly ended with Columbo paralyzed and Gallo dead.
  
  
  Louie, her, Locallo, and Manitti, along with half a dozen other Francini thugs, approached the mattresses in a third-floor apartment on Houston Sturt. The nen had three windows around it that gave a good view of the street, and-once the roof door was closed - there was only one means of access-up a narrow flight of stairs.
  
  
  We entered such a game and waited for the next step. A few blocks up Ruggiero Street, they did the same. We had half a dozen other apartments similarly occupied, and so did our rivals: each with half a dozen or more heavy suitcases, each with a full supply of pistols, rifles, submachine guns, and ammunition, and each with its own local messenger. bring newspapers, fresh beer, and takeaway education, each with their own round-the-clock poker game, each with their own endless TV, each with their own unbearable boredom.
  
  
  Philomena was on the phone three times a day, so she elicited a few salacious remarks from one of Louis ' hooded friends. He knocked out two of his teeth, and then no one commented on it.
  
  
  It was Philomina and the daily newspapers brought to our messengers that kept us in touch with the outside world. Nothing much happened on the dell itself. According to Filomina, the rumor was that Gaetano Ruggiero insisted that he had nothing to do with Spelman's death, or with the bombings at the Accounting Office. He kept saying that he wanted to negotiate, but Popeye kept his cool. The last time Ruggiero negotiated, a few years ago in the turmoil with Sanremo, it was a trap that didn't end with Sanremo being killed.
  
  
  On the other hand, according to Philomina, Popeye belongs to them, which means that if Ruggiero really wants to negotiate, then he doesn't want to cause any more hostility to his rival. So for two weeks, both factions hung out in these dreary apartments to watch their friends in imaginary shadows.
  
  
  Even Italian mafiosi can get bored over time. We weren't supposed to leave the apartment for any reason, but I had to talk to Philomina privately. One evening, the other guys approved of the idea of drinking some more cold beer-my suggestion-and her volunteered to go get it. I managed to dismiss the others ' warnings about Francini's anger and the danger I was putting myself in, and they finally agreed, thinking I was the craziest person in the group.
  
  
  On the way back around the nearest grocery store, she got a call from Philomine.
  
  
  "I think Uncle Joe is getting ready to meet Mr. Ruggiero," she told me.
  
  
  I couldn't afford it. Half of my battle plan was to pit one mob against another, to drive things to such a fever pitch that the Commission would have to step in.
  
  
  I thought about it a bit. Good. Now listen carefully. Tell Jack Gourlay to call the apartment in ten minutes and ask for Louie." Then its detailed, " hey, what the hotel wants Jack to say to Louis.
  
  
  The phone rang about five minutes after he got back, and Louis picked it up.
  
  
  "Yes? No kidding? Sure... Sure... Good... Yes, of course... Immediately...? Good."
  
  
  He hung up the phone with an excited expression on his face. Shyly, he pressed the large .45 strapped to his chest in a shoulder holster. "It's one around Uncle Joe's guys," he said.
  
  
  "He said that three of our guys were killed on Bleecker Street just a few minutes ago."
  
  
  I asked her: "Who was killed, Louis? Anyone we know?" How bad is it?"
  
  
  He shook his head and spread his hands. "Oh, my God! I don't know. The guy said he just got a notification. I didn't know any other details." Louis stopped and looked around the room impressively. "He said Uncle Joe wants us to hit Ruggiero's men. Hit ih well."
  
  
  This time, the excitement overcame any doubts Louis might have had before. Racing battles does this to people, even with Louis being around this world.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Last night we visited the Garden Park Casino in New Jersey, eight people in two comfortable limousines. The security guard in the lobby of the Garden Park Hotel, dressed as an elevator operator, was no problem; nor was the operator of the private elevator, which only led to the Casino on the supposedly nonexistent thirteenth floor. We chased the security guard into the elevator at gunpoint, knocked out both of them, and started the elevator ourselves.
  
  
  We got out, the elevator was ready, and there were submachine guns in front of us. It was a brilliant scene. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, and plush draperies and deep carpeting helped drown out the croupier's singing, the click of the steel ball on the roulette wheel, and the hum of muted conversation beneath it, punctuated by the occasional exclamation of excitement. It was the largest game room on the East Coast.
  
  
  A handsome man in a tailored tuxedo turned with a slight smile. The emu was about 30, a little stocky but shiny, with jet-black hair and bright, intelligent eyes - Anthony Ruggiero, Don Gaetano's cousin.
  
  
  He understood the meaning of our entrance in one millisecond, spun on his heel, and leaped to the light switch, moaning. Loclo's machine gun scribbled angrily-brutal violence in a charming atmosphere. Ruggiero's crevices buckled, as if his ego had been sliced in two by an invisible giant hand, and he fell like a rag doll against the wall.
  
  
  Someone screamed.
  
  
  He jumped on a blackjack table and shot at the ceiling, then threatened the crowd with his gun. At the craps table ten feet away, Manitti was doing the same. Louis, who he could see out of the corner of his eye, was standing open by the elevator, looking at Ruggiero's body.
  
  
  "All right," I shouted. "Everyone keep quiet and don't move, and no one will get hurt." To the left, the croupier suddenly ducked behind his desk. One of the other mobsters who came with our group shot the emu in the head.
  
  
  Suddenly, there was a deathly silence without movement. Then Francini's thugs began to move through the crowd, collecting money from tables and wallets, taking rings, watches, and expensive Zhirinovsky brooches. The large crowd was shocked, as was Louis.
  
  
  We got out of there in less than seven minutes and drove our limousines back towards the Holland Tunnel and our hideouts in Greenwich Village.
  
  
  Louis kept getting repeated. "Oh, my God!" "Oh, my God!"
  
  
  Ego patted her on the shoulder. "Calm down, Louis. It's all part of the game! " I felt a little sick myself. I also don't like it when people are shot like that, but it was pointless to show it. Its supposed to be cool. But this time the responsibility was placed on me, as I arranged for her to make this fake phone call. I couldn't let this bother me for too long. When you play the same game you played her, someone might get hurt.
  
  
  And the very next day, many people got sick.
  
  
  First, the Ruggieros raided the Alfredo Restaurant on MacDougal Street, where four Popeye truck hijackers had sneaked out for lunch against orders. Two gunmen came in from behind, fired automatic weapons at ih while they were sitting, and quickly left. All four of them died at their own table.
  
  
  Francini struck back. Two days later, Nick "Milan", an aging Ruggiero family lieutenant, was abducted around his Brooklyn Heights home. Two days later, the ego's body was found in a landfill tied with heavy wire. He was shot in the back of the head.
  
  
  Chicky Wright was then killed on the steps of a doctor's office, where he had gone to buy hay fever pills.
  
  
  Next up was Frankie Marchetto, a longtime subordinate of Ruggiero-ego, found driving his car with four shots to the chest.
  
  
  The naked bodies of two of Francini's men were found in a boat drifting in Jamaica Bay. Both had their throats cut.
  
  
  Mickey Monsanno-Mickey Mouse-one of the leaders of the Ruggiero gang, escaped injury when he sent one through his sons to pull his car around the garage. The car exploded when the guy turned on the ignition, killing him instantly.
  
  
  The final straw came on Friday, when six Ruggiero men armed with shotguns and submachine guns broke into the Franzini Olive Oil Co.
  
  
  Only chance saved Franzoni; Philomina had just taken Popeye for a daily walk in the park. Four other men in the office were shot, but two female clerks were unharmed.
  
  
  We were just finishing up Popeye's whimsical plan to raid the Ruggiero estate in Garden Parque, when suddenly ego is canceled. The Commission is rumored to have called a meeting in New York to review the situation, concerned about the sudden increase in attention to mafia cases, as well as the daily increase in the death toll.
  
  
  Louis was excited again as we walked out of our Houston Sturt apartment and headed home, Louis to Ego's bachelor apartment in the Village, and then back to Philomina's."
  
  
  "Boy, Nick! You know, they should all come! Cool Joey Famligotti, Frankie Carboni, Littles Salerno, all big steam! Even Ellie Gigante comes to Phoenix! They're going to hold a meeting. On Saturday mornings."
  
  
  He was like a kid talking about his favorite baseball heroes coming to town, not the seven most important crime figures in America.
  
  
  He shook his head in disbelief, but smiled at em. "Where will it be?"
  
  
  "The Bankers' Association meeting Room on Park Avenue and Fifteenth Street."
  
  
  "Are you kidding? This is the most conservative bank in the city."
  
  
  Louis laughed proudly. "We own it! Or at least I mean that we have shares."
  
  
  "Fantastic," I said. I should have read more carefully, they are the papers that took her around the Accounting Chamber, but it almost didn't take long. Louis patted her on the shoulder. "All right, Paisano. I have a date with Philomina today. Do you want me?"
  
  
  He frowned. "No, not today. But every Saturday I have to take two guys to the bank with me. Do you want to come with Uncle Joe and me?" It can be a lot of fun."
  
  
  Of course, I thought. Unrestrained fun. "Count on me, Louis," I said. "Sounds like a great idea." I waved and got into a taxi, but instead of driving straight to Philomina's, I drove to the edge of town, to the Banker's Trust Association on Park Avenue. Her hotel knows what it looks like. It looked intimidating.
  
  
  I went to the bus station, picked up my 17B kit and went back to Chelsea to think about my problem. Being able to attend the Commission meeting was a stroke of luck, but I needed to figure out a way to get the most out of nah. It won't be much. Tomorrow, the Banker's Trust Association building will be swarming with mobsters, everyone around them fanatically preoccupied with protecting their boss.
  
  
  Oddly enough, it was Philomina who gave me the idea that night, and then dinner.
  
  
  She snuggled closer to me and yawned. "Do me a favor when you go to meet Uncle Joe and Louie tomorrow, okay?"
  
  
  He put his hand on her chest: "Of course."
  
  
  "Now stop it!" She took my hand away. "On your way to the office, could you stop and get a new hot water bottle for Uncle Joe?"
  
  
  "Hot water bottle?"
  
  
  "Don't be so surprised. You know... one is surrounded by red rubber gizmos. When Uncle Joe starts shaking so much that he can't control it, a warm hot water bottle that he can pick up seems to help. He always carries it with him. in this little rack under the seat of the ego wheelchair, so it's comfortable whenever he wants ."
  
  
  "It's fine if you say so. What happened to the old one?"
  
  
  "It started leaking," she said. "He's been using it for a long time."
  
  
  That night I went to the drugstore on Ninth Avenue and Twenty-third Street and bought one. Then, later that night, when he was sure that Philomina was fast asleep, he got up and carefully filled her with plastic.
  
  
  It was difficult to install explosives, a detonator with a timer in a hot water bottle, but I still managed. The meeting was supposed to start at ten o'clock the next morning, so he set the timer for ten-thirty and crossed his fingers.
  
  
  I had to figure out a way to avoid being around when the damn thing went off, because when it did go off, there would be a big explosion . But I'll have to play by ear. Whatever it was, I must admit that her mind was rather restless that night.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 16
  
  
  
  
  
  Locatello drove Popeye, Louie, and me around the office to the Bankers ' Association and helped us unload Popeye around the car in ego's wheelchair. Then, with Louis pushing the wheelchair and her carapace next to it, we entered a large building.
  
  
  The boardroom was on the thirtieth floor, but we were stopped in the first-floor lobby by two very skilled thugs who politely checked us for weapons. Popeye didn't have irons, but Louis had a ridiculously small Derringer, and I had to give it to Wilhelmina and Hugo. Two mobsters gave me a numbered check for my gun, and we took the elevator. No one noticed the hot water bottle on the counter under Popeye's wheelchair seat.
  
  
  Gaetano Ruggiero was already there with two of his ego henchmen,
  
  
  as we entered the large hallway outside the boardroom. He was standing tall and stern at the other end of the room, younger than he might have thought, but with gray spots on his black sideburns. Theft and gambling were ego's main interests, so-called pure crimes, but he was also addicted to drugs, and murder was ego's way of life. On Gaetano's orders, old Don Ruggiero Alfredo, his uncle, was killed so that the young man could take charge of the family.
  
  
  The others followed us in, each with two bodyguards.
  
  
  Joseph Famligotti-Tough Joe-from Buffalo. He was short and stocky, with a dark, fat face and a huge belly that went far beyond the ego belt. He hobbled along, his suit jacket unbuttoned to fit his stomach. He smiled affectionately at Ruggiero and Francini, then walked openly into the meeting room. The two ego bodyguards respectfully remained in the hallway.
  
  
  Frankie Carboni around Detroit. White-haired, rich-looking, in a perfectly tailored gray wool suit, gray shoes with sharp pointed edges, a gray silk shirt, and a white silk tie. He inherited the old Detroit gang, and made its bloodthirsty tactics into a ruthless but effective job that was the envy of all organized crime. He looked like a jolly gentleman.
  
  
  Mario Salerno-Little Testicles of Salerno-by Miami-Avian type, a shriveled little man whose target darted suspiciously back and forth, thickly tanned skin stretched grotesquely over sharply defined bones, a large beaked nose, and a pointed chin. It started with gambling establishments in Havana, moved to Miami, then extended its bloodied tentacles deep into the Caribbean, and to the west, in Las Vegas. At seventy-six, he was the oldest gang boss in America, but he wasn't going to retire. Em liked the ego profession.
  
  
  Alfred Gigante by Phoenix. As tanned as Mario Salerno, medium height, neatly dressed, hunched over, every movement slow and unhurried, each showing the ego of his seventy-one years, but the ego's striking blue eyes are cold and piercing the hairless head. It was said that ego sexual pleasures appealed to little girls. He rose through the mafia ranks as one of the first major importers of heroin in the United States.
  
  
  Anthony Musso-Tony Cook Company: Da Nicola-from Little Rock, Arkansas. Tall, slender, and graceful, with a rich, benevolent air. There were diamond rings on his fingers and a diamond pin around his tie. He wore blue dark glasses that hid the scars around what had been his ego's left eye before he lost it in the gang wars, in the early 1930s. At seventy-one, he was still the king of prostitution, even though he claimed to have made more money from stolen property than from his other operations.
  
  
  One by one, they entered the meeting room. Ih could see her through the open door, shaking hands over the table and exchanging pleasantries. Seven of the most dangerous men in the Americas. Popeye Franzini was the last to enter, being wheeled in by Louis. When they came in, I saw her, dreaming with hot water under a wheelchair.
  
  
  The others around us, about fifteen or so people, were standing restlessly in the hallway, looking at each other suspiciously. No one was talking. Then the door to the boardroom closed.
  
  
  My fist clenched convulsively. I didn't expect Lewis to stay in the boardroom with his uncle. Tailor take it! I liked this guy! But of course, you can't afford it in my mail business is.
  
  
  I was just about to leave when the door opened and Louis came out, closing it behind him. He came up to me.
  
  
  He looked at his watch. 10:23. Seven minutes to go. "Let's go," I said with forced nonchalance. "Let's take a walk and get some air."
  
  
  He looked at his watch and grinned. "Of course! Why not? They'll be there for at least an hour, maybe more. Tailor take it! Isn't that Frank Carboni? God, this guy just looks rich. And Tony-cook company: da nicola! Ego saw her once, when ... "
  
  
  He was still talking when we took the elevator down to the main lobby, where we collected our weapons from the locker rooms and then walked out onto Park Avenue.
  
  
  We had just crossed the street and were looking at the fountains flowing in the square of a large office building when an explosion tore through most of the thirtieth floor of the Bankers ' association building.
  
  
  Louis turned, one hand on my forearm, and looked up at the black smoke rising high above the building wall. "What was that?"
  
  
  "Just a guess," I said casually, " but I think you've just become the head of the beginning of the second-largest mafia family in New York."
  
  
  But he didn't hear me. He was already running, dodging traffic on Park Avenue like a football linebacker, desperately trying to get back into the building, back to his Uncle Joseph, under his own responsibility.
  
  
  He mentally shrugged and hailed a taxi. As far as I knew, my work was finished.
  
  
  All I had to do was pick Philomina up at her apartment and head to the airport. I had two tickets in my pocket and decided to,
  
  
  that the two of us could spend about three weeks in the Caribbean, just relaxing, loving and relaxing. Then I'll report it to Washington.
  
  
  She met me at my apartment when her husband came in, wrapping his arms around my neck and pressing his body against mine.
  
  
  "Hi, honey," she said happily. "Come into the living room. I have a surprise for you."
  
  
  "Surprise?"
  
  
  "Your friend." She was laughing. I walked into the living room, and David Hawke smiled at me from the couch. He stood up and walked over to him with his hand outstretched. "Good to see you, Nick," he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Carter Nick
  
  
  Death of the Falcon
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  
  Death of the Falcon
  Chapter 1
  
  
  
  The phone ringing in my room allowed my math class across the street to survive another thirty seconds. I was sure the phone would ring again, then be silent for twenty seconds before it rang twice more; it would be Hawke's special two-ring system, signaling me to call em immediately. Over the years, I'd developed an almost instinctive sense that knew when Hawk's signal was coming at the first ring. And in ninety-nine cases, he was right about the numbers. Her focus returned to the Anschutz 1413 Super Match 54 scope as the bell rang for the second time, then went silent. Before the second double ring, he pulled the trigger.
  
  
  The descent was perfect. Through the partially opened French doors across the street, I saw a third eye suddenly appear in my victim's forehead. This was slightly above and between the other two, who would never again happily watch an AX agent being tortured for the resulting information. Ih the angry flicker stopped forever as Krishikov collapsed into a chair. Only this third eye seemed alive when a small blood tumor appeared in nen, which glistened briefly in the light, and then rolled down the bridge of her nose.
  
  
  But the second double ring of the phone rang shortly after I fired, and I stepped back around the open window of my shabby apartment, laid my rifle on the bed, and picked up the receiver. She gets a direct call from Hawke, and he answers right away.
  
  
  "You're not mistaken," he always warned.
  
  
  There was no need to install a scrambler on the phone in this small Montreal apartment. And Hawke's reminder, but he never turned it down, and he automatically replied, " I know."
  
  
  "Have you made this sale yet?"
  
  
  "Mr. Kay just bought ego, " emu told her. "Now I need to close this office as quickly as possible and move on."
  
  
  "I think it's time for you to go back to your home office," the Old Man said slowly. "We have a client in the city who needs your services." He waited a moment, then added, " This is one of our biggest clients in Washington. Do you understand?"
  
  
  That stopped me for a moment. He didn't want her to be in Washington; he didn't want to risk anyone around the competition noticing me - us on their side, us on ours; because if anything happened in the capital, he and ego were N-rated agents who might be there at that time time, will be blamed for this. This is the problem with the N rating - I have N3-and with the permission to finally solve the problem. Everyone thinks you're the bad guy; that's definitely a feeling on ih's part, and ours too-unless you're doing a little dirty work that they can't handle. Then Killmaster becomes the hero - until the job is done.
  
  
  Besides, Hawke has never been particularly enthusiastic about lending me to another agency, and the ego of saying "client" can mean another intelligence organization. She was asked to ask the ego which super-intelligence agency software was fooling around again and needed us to pick up the pieces for them, but we were on the phone without encryption, so my questions had to wait until I got back to the States.
  
  
  Moreover, he realized that Hawke's slow, deliberate tone was meant to convey much more than just plain exhaustion at the end of another long day. I knew her better than that. For a man who excelled over the years, he was able to defend his position with the best around us when the job required it. No, Hawk didn't use that tone because he was tired; someone was in the office with him, and the careful tone of ego's voice warned me not to give em a chance to say anything that would give that someone any clue as to where he was or what he was doing. I was studying.
  
  
  "Yes, sir," I said simply.
  
  
  "Pack your bags and head to the airport," he instructed dryly. "I'll buy you a plane ticket for your next trip to DC ... Ah, yes, I don't think you'll need all your equipment. "I think you can store some around them in your local office."
  
  
  I knew that our weapons officer wouldn't be happy when he found out that she was left alone for the egos of her favorite rifles in Montreal; but Hawke apparently wanted her back quickly, and he didn't want to be delayed by an airport permit, which would have been unavoidable. If I tried to get on a plane with this weapon. I had a specially designed briefcase with a lead screen for my own weapon, but not for the rifle.
  
  
  "I'll be at your office early tomorrow morning," I said.
  
  
  He had other ideas. "No, go openly to the Watergate Hotel. I'll contact you there. A reservation has already been made in your name ." He didn't even mention my name, let alone my room number, on his unencrypted phone. "I took the liberty of sending someone there with clothes for you. I hope you don't mind.
  
  
  "No, sir. It was very thoughtful of you."
  
  
  Hawke played it very formally in front of his company, and I knew it had to be someone particularly important; usually by default.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Pentagon or the CIA, when they came to ask for favors.
  
  
  After we said our equally harsh goodbyes, I put down my phone and stood looking at it for a while. He was pretty sure the president hadn't been to Hawke's office. But there was only one person in Washington that the Old Man really respected: one from the ego of old school buddies who managed to do everything right for a change. As I hurriedly packed my bags, I wondered what the Secretary of State had talked to Hawk about and how it might affect me.
  
  
  After checking the street to make sure that Mr. Pierce's three-eyed corpse hadn't been found yet, and someone hadn't figured out the line of fire, hers was picked up again to call our local office; I needed to arrange to pick up the rental car that hers was driving to Montreal and the rifle that hers was carrying. he locked it in her trunk. Last of all were my Wilhelmina Luger in a shoulder holster, and my Hugo stiletto in a suede scabbard on my forearm. They entered the original compartment in the briefcase that the lab technicians had designed for agents traveling with guns on commercial flights. Special lead protection prevented the alarm from going off when we boarded the plane. I wish there had been time to make a similar suitcase to carry the rifle; it would have been easier to return it to Eddie Blessing, our gunsmith, personally. The ego face really glows when one of the ego "toddlers" comes home. Well, she was happy enough to take the children with her. I had a feeling I was going to need them soon.
  
  
  Just ten minutes later, he was regretting his hasty packing. As she was leaving a dilapidated boarding house opposite Kryshchikov's previously guarded house, she noticed two men sprawled out in a rented Nova, which she had parked two doors down the street. With a suitcase in one hand and a briefcase in the other, he couldn't seem too threatening, because they only looked up briefly at the sound of the door closing behind me before continuing their conversation. She knows it's Russian, and a quick glance at the ih faces in the streetlamps told me who they were.
  
  
  Stahl called her ih "Laurel and Hardy" for the short time he watched Kryshchikov and the couple who followed in ego's footsteps. The local AXE office informed me of ih's real identities and ih jobs as favorite assassins and spy bodyguards. An hour earlier, I'd seen them drive up with their boss and drop off Ego in front of Ego shelter; then they'd left. At the time, I found it unusual that they didn't enter the building with him as usual, and he mistakenly thought that he must have gone to ih on some sort of mission. Obviously, however, they were ordered to go back and take a walk outside. Either Kryshchikov had some work that he didn't want them to know about, or he was expecting someone and went to ih to wait outside, possibly to pick up his visitor and check on him before letting ego in.
  
  
  At that point, it didn't matter to me what was on the ih agenda; I needed to get to this Nova and get out of it before one of the servants of the man with three eyes entered Kryshchikov's room and discovered the body. The only thing stopping me from getting out of there was a couple of killers. I was pretty sure they'd been informed of what most of our people looked like, including me. Our intelligence network is not web-based, but smart enough to keep the enemy secret.
  
  
  I couldn't stand on the doorstep any longer without arousing their suspicions, and the Nova was the only vehicle, at best, that I had to leave the area, so I headed for it. Hardy - the fat man AXE had warned me was a deadly pile of hard muscle-was standing with his back to me. The lanky one-Laurel, a well-known switchblade expert who enjoyed cutting small pieces off his captives until they were ready to talk-looked openly at me as hers approached, but in reality, Dell didn't see me in the shadows, as he was engrossed in conversation.
  
  
  Her could see that, for example, the moment I approach the trunk of her car, I find myself in a small circle of light from a street lamp, and that Laurel will probably be watching me when I approach her licking. Her, turned to the curb so that the Hardy crevices partially blocked my view of the ego satellite. The size of this back could block an M16 zoom tank, except that Laurel was about a head taller than his partner. I knew instinctively that something about me had caught Laurel's attention as I stepped off the curb and put my luggage behind the car. Keeping his head turned toward the street, he took out his keys and opened the door, feeling as much as she did that Laurel had stopped talking and was walking toward the back of the car.
  
  
  The click of a switchblade told me I was recognized. I turned to face him as he lunged at me, preceded by five inches of steel. He stepped back and let the ego's momentum carry him forward, then back
  
  
  
  
  
  
  and hit the emu from the side of the neck, in the nerve center just below the ear. He fell face-first into the rack, her, reached out, and slammed the lid of the ego into the small of her back. The end of the heavy metal hit his ego, like at waist level, and she heard a loud click that must have been the ego's spine.
  
  
  He opened the lid of the chest again, and in the faint glow of ego, the world saw ego's face twisted in pain, his mouth open in silent screams of agony that no one heard.
  
  
  By then, Hardy was clumsily walking around the car, one ham-shaped hand reaching for me, the other fumbling with the ego belt in his handgun. Her pulled the jack handle around the chest and, using it as an extension of her arm, slammed hey sincerely into that huge pudding face. He backed away, spitting out shards of broken teeth and growling in pain as blood gushed around what was ego's nose. The hand that was already trying to grab me turned into a swinging six, as hard as a two-by-four, as he snatched the jack handle around my arms. He flew through the air and flew out into the street.
  
  
  If he'd been smarter, he'd have kept trying to free his gun, which was stuck between his ego-filled belly and his tight belt. Instead, frantic with pain, he charged forward like an angry bear, arms outstretched to wrap me in what I knew would be a deadly embrace. I was warned that this is my ego's favorite method of slaughter. At least two of the men we knew of were found crushed almost to a pulp, their ribs crushed against vital organs, and they were dying horribly, drowning in their own blood. He stepped out onto the sidewalk again; looking at his giant hands.
  
  
  When he finally pulled away from that awful embrace, he tripped over Laurel's dead legs and fell to his knees. Clasping her hands together, ih emu got her on the back of the neck, and he stretched out on the street at full height. The blow would have killed most people instantly, but as he stared at him in amazement, he grunted, shook his massive head as if trying to clear his tangled brain, and began to kneel. Ego's hands groped out for support, and one of them closed around Laurel's switchblade, which fell to the sidewalk. Fingers like sausages wrapped around the handle of the knife as it started to rise. What was almost a smile appeared on that bloody, now jagged mouth, and the little piggy eyes of the laugh twinkled as they focused on me. Recognition also came to them when he realized who I was, and blood flowed down his ego lips as he swore in Russian and said:
  
  
  "Dog's son! I'll split you in half, Carter, and feed you to the pigs. The muscles in his neck tensed, and his heavy pulse danced grotesquely candid under the flushed flesh of the thick neck's ego. He took two clumsy steps toward me. Like a player who was abandoned by the Viking defense lines, her ego kicked that ugly pumpkin-smashed face.
  
  
  The powerful drop of flesh rushed forward again. The hand holding the knife hit the street first, holding the blade upright, and the thick neck fell on top of it. Her dodged the spray of blood that spurted down the ego-severed artery and walked to the back of the Nova; yanking Laurel's still-twitching body around the trunk, she slammed the lid shut.
  
  
  As I was putting my luggage in the backseat, I heard her scream from the house across the street. He passed through the open French doors of the second floor, and he knew that Krishchikov's body had been discovered. Once inside the Nova, his car sped out of the still-quiet street and headed for the airport, grimly thinking that even more surprises were waiting for the man upstairs when he started looking for Kryshchikov's bodyguards.
  Chapter 2
  
  
  
  One thing he had to tell her about the role Hawk was forcing me to play was that the conditions were good. According to the tags on the Gucci luggage that was waiting in the Watergate room when she arrived, it was Nick Carter from East 48th Street in Manhattan. She knows from this address of the brownstone building in Turtle Bay that our bureau used as offices, the harbor, and an apartment building in New York. The Swedes in the bags were obviously expensive, conservative in color, and the cut was reminiscent of the taste of a Western oil millionaire. These boys around Dallas and Houston may not be keen on bright tweeds and cages, but they like the ih road, Swedes ' ride to be as comfortable as the Levi's they carry in the old paddock. Camisoles with wide shoulders and side openings of the newlyweds tight trousers with pockets located in the front in the style of blue jeans and wide loops for hard belts with brass buckles that came with them. Very soft white cotton shirts had double pockets with buttons on the front. I noticed that everything was the right size, even a few pairs of handmade boots for three hundred dollars.
  
  
  If Hawke wants her to play a rich oilman, I thought as I unpacked and put my things away in the huge walk - in closet, I don't mind at all. The room also helped. As big as some of the studio apartments where Gilles lives - which is exactly what they were originally designed to be, because Watergate was designed as
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When it first opened, it was a dorm-living room-the bedroom combined with the living room was approximately twenty-four feet long and eighteen feet wide. The nen had a full-size sofa, a couple of armchairs, a large color TV, a fully equipped kitchenette, and a large double bed in an alcove.
  
  
  Light streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto the terrace. I looked out at the ten-acre Watergate complex, at the majestic historic Potomac River, and saw four skulls gliding smoothly over the water. Racing season was about to begin, I realized, as I watched the college teams stroke their oars rhythmically. It might have been the moment when the opponent's helmsmen increased their pace, because the projectiles suddenly rushed forward in a fast current. My assessment of the tight coordination of the rowers was interrupted by the phone ringing. I bet you Hawk when he picked up the phone. But the voice that said, " Mister. Carter? told me it was one razz by the numbers, that I was wrong.
  
  
  "This is Mr. Carter."
  
  
  "This is the concierge, Mr. Carter. Your vending machine is at the front door.
  
  
  I didn't know what kind of car he was talking about, but on the other hand, I wasn't going to argue. I just said, " Thank you, I'll go now."
  
  
  Presumably, Hawk was the only one who knew that Nick Carter was in Watergate, so I thought he'd sent a car for me; hers, headed for the lobby.
  
  
  As he passed the concierge desk on his way to the front door, he carefully handed a five-dollar bill to a beautiful woman in a black suit behind the counter and said cheerfully, "Thanks for calling about my car." If Hawke wanted her to get rich, he'd be playing rich - for money AXE.
  
  
  "Thank you, Mr. Carter." An egotistical tone followed me as she pushed open the glass door leading to the circular driveway that now shelters the hotel entrance. The doorman started asking if he should have signaled one of the ubiquitous taxis parked in the driveway, then stopped when hers, heading for the Continental limousine idling at the curb. Since it was the only view of hers, I figured it should be my car. As she approached, the driver, who was leaning against Egomaniac, strained to get her attention and said softly, " Carter? When he nodded to her, he opened the door.
  
  
  There was no one inside, which made me a little wary; instinctively hers, I touched the outline of my luger and case to convince myself that my best friends were nearby, then hers settled back into the gloved leather upholstery as the driver came over to take his place behind the wheel. He swung the big car around in a circle and up the driveway to Virginia Avenue, where he took a straight turn.
  
  
  When we stopped for a traffic light, her tried the door and it opened without any problems. This calmed me down a bit, so I lifted the panel cover in the armrest and pressed the switch that lowered the glass window separating me from the driver. "Are you sure you know the way?" I asked, trying to make it easy.
  
  
  "Yes, sir," the driver replied. I waited a minute, waiting for him to add something that might tell me where we were going, but nothing came.
  
  
  "How often do you go there?"
  
  
  "Yes sir." Punch, two.
  
  
  "Is it far?"
  
  
  "No, sir, we'll be at the White House in a few minutes."
  
  
  Run home. Actually, clear out the ball park; visiting the White House wasn't on my usual itinerary. Well, he told himself, you've gone from being a state registrar to being president overnight. But why?
  
  
  But it was Hawk, not the president, who told me that I would soon be playing babysitter to a woman named Silver Falcon, who was the most explosive woman in the world.
  
  
  Silver falcon.
  
  
  "Her name is Liz Chanley, and she will be arriving in Washington tomorrow," Hawke said. "And it's your job to make sure nothing happens to her. I told the president and secretary that we were taking responsibility for her safety until she was no longer in danger."
  
  
  When Hawk mentioned the other two in the room with us, he stared at each of them in turn. It couldn't be helped. The president caught me and gave me a small nod. The Secretary of State caught me doing it, too, but he was too much of a gentleman to add to my embarrassment by acknowledging the fact. I decided that my only chance of making a comeback was to look smart, so I interjected, " I know who Liz Chanley is, sir."
  
  
  Hawke looked like he could kill me sincerely right now, for even making it clear that Odin's ego-driven prize men might not know who everyone important was, but I was relieved when, before he could keep it in his goal to dwell on later, the Secretary of State suddenly asked, " How?"
  
  
  "I've had several assignments in the Middle East, sir, and our background information is fairly thorough."
  
  
  "What do you know about Liz Chenley?" the secretary continued.
  
  
  "That she is the ex-wife of Shah Adabi. That her Arabic name is Sherima, and that they had triplets about six years ago. And about six months ago, she and Shah divorced. She's American, and her father was Tex
  
  
  
  
  
  as an oilman who helped organize the drilling operations in Adabi and Stahl is a close friend of chess."
  
  
  It seems that no one wanted to stop my performance, so No one did. He continued: "Immediately after the divorce, Shah Hassan married the daughter of a Syrian general. Liz Chanley-Sherima uses her American name - veins again at the royal palace in Sidi Hassan about two Sundays ago, and then went to England for a visit. Presumably, she is returning to the States to buy a place in the Washington area and settle down. Nah has a few friends here, most of whom she met during her years of diplomatic visits with the Shah.
  
  
  "As for that name," I said, " his ego has never heard of it. Hers, I guess it's classified."
  
  
  "In a way, yes," the secretary nodded, and a faint smile appeared on his lips. "Silver Falcon" is the name that the Shah gave her, after the wedding, to symbolize her new royal position. It was ih personal selection until this problem started."
  
  
  - the president specified. "We used it as code, so to speak."
  
  
  "I see," I said. "In other words, when in some situations it is unwise to talk about it directly..."
  
  
  "She becomes the Silver Falcon," Hawk finished for mc.
  
  
  He sent a letter to the president. "Sir, his, sure I should know more about the former queen and about Adabi."
  
  
  "With your permission, Mr. President, I will add some details that Mr. Carter may not know," the Secretary of State began. Receiving a nod of approval, he continued, " The Adabi are a small but powerful nation. Powerful, because it is one of the richest oil-producing countries, and also because its army is one of the most trained and equipped in the Middle East. And both of these facts, first of all, thanks to the United States. Chess was educated in this country, and just as he was finishing graduate school at Harvard, his father died of bone cancer. The old Shah might have lived longer if there had been adequate medical care in Adabi, but there was none, and he refused to leave his country.
  
  
  "When Shah Hasan Stahl was ruler," the secretary continued, " he was determined that we would never again need medical attention for one ego of the people. It also helps make sure that the ego test subjects receive the best educational services that money can buy. But there was no money in Adabi, because no oil was discovered there at that time.
  
  
  "Hassan realized that the ego of the entire hotel area, a, in fact, has the same geological composition as other oil producing countries, so he wrote to our government for help in conducting exploration drilling operations. Several Texas-based oil companies formed a corporation and made their own drilling specialists in Adabi in rheumatism at the request of President Truman. They found more oil than anyone could have imagined, and the money started flowing into Sidi Hassan's coffers."
  
  
  The secretary went on to explain that Hassan's ex-wife was the daughter of a Texas oil expert in Adabi. Liz Chanley became a Muslim when she married the Shah. They were extremely happy together with their three young daughters. Nah had never had a son, but that didn't matter to Hasan anymore. The prenuptial agreement stipulated that the crown would pass to Ego's younger brother. "Who, I might add, also likes the United States, but not as much as Hassan," the Secretary of State said.
  
  
  "Over the years, especially after the 1967 Arab-Israeli war," he continued, " Shah Hassan managed to get a moderate voice in the Arab councils. But the pressure in him has greatly increased. Twice in recent years, fanatics have tried to kill Hassan. Unfortunately for the conspirators against the Shah's rule, the assassination attempts only rallied the egos of the people for the egos of the people."
  
  
  I couldn't help but interrupt her to ask why Hasan had divorced Sherima.
  
  
  The Secretary of State shook his head. "The divorce was Sherima's idea. She suggested it after the last attempt on Hassan's life, but he didn't hear about it. But she went on to tell Emu that if he left her, other Arab countries might take it as a sign that he was truly on the IHF side and stop their campaign to overthrow him. She eventually convinces ego that he should do it, if not for his own safety, then for the safety of his little girls.
  
  
  "Sherima was also the one who suggested that he should immediately remarry, and she insisted that the ego of the new woman be an Arab. In fact, it was she who chose the girl, then the intelligence service, for an alliance that could link Hassan to a powerful military man in another country."
  
  
  "Why is there such concern for her safety?" I asked her. "I thought," I explained, " that once she was no longer the Shah's wife, I wouldn't be in any danger.
  
  
  The president turned to Hawke and said, " I think you'd better deal with that part of the explanation. Sources of the Russian agency have provided information about a plot to assassinate former Queen Sherima. He turned from Goshawk to me, then back again, before saying, "And your agency discovered part of the plot to"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  prove that she was acting as a secret agent for the United States Government throughout her marriage."
  Chapter 3
  
  
  
  "You're probably familiar with the Silver Scimitar mechanism," Hawk said. He didn't wait for me to admit that fact - and I couldn't blame ego for trying to impress the president by suggesting that ego's chief agent was certainly familiar with everything that was going on in the Middle East; after all, he was the Man when it came to the outcome much-needed operational actions in connection with the protests of the CIA and the Pentagon. He continued: "Ever since the ferret was originally created as a power unit of the Black September movement, the ego fanaticism of the members has been increasing almost day by day.
  
  
  "In recent months, the scale of Scimitar atrocities has alarmed even Al-Fatah. It has reached the point where Black September, which supplies operating funds with a Scimitar, is afraid to try to stop the bloodshed. Odin Poe of the September leaders, who still tried to pull on the reins, was found murdered in Baghdad. The Iraqi government hid how he died, but our Baghdad office knows the details of his "execution". The ego was electrocuted. After the ego had been stripped, broken, and maimed, a chain was wrapped around the ego body; then the terminals of the arc welding machine were attached to the ends of the break and the current was turned on. Every link burned through ego and flesh. With them the ferret in the pet Scimitar had its own way; no protests ."
  
  
  Hawk paused to chew on his cigar, then continued: "The Scimitar leader calls himself the Sword of Allah, and his real identity is known only to two or three members of the high command." Even they are afraid to give the ego its real name. For some reason, he hates Shah Hassan and is determined to banish ego from the throne. We know that he was behind the most recent assassination attempt and probably instigated the first one.
  
  
  "Our office in Sidi Hassan captured one of the Sword's top lieutenants and convinced ego to tell us what he knew about Scimitar's plans..."
  
  
  "How?" the president asked.
  
  
  "Sir?"
  
  
  "How did your ego convince you?"
  
  
  "We used an arc welding technique," Hawke said. "Only we didn't push the switch. The man took part in the execution of the September leader and saw its consequences. He spoke as our man reached for the light switch.
  
  
  There was a brief silence, then the president said, " I'm not sure.: "Go ahead."
  
  
  "Sherima was chosen as the target for the attempted destruction of Hassan," Hawke said. "When it became known that she was returning to the States, he came up with a brilliant plan.
  
  
  "What if she had been killed while she was in Washington? And at the same time, Hasan was presented with evidence - fake and false, of course, but almost impossible to refute - that all along ihk Sherima was a secret agent of our government."
  
  
  "But isn't it the opposite?" I asked her. "If she was an agent of the United States, wouldn't she be safe here?"
  
  
  "That's where the little player comes in," Hawke said. "From some source close to Sherima, he received a statement purporting to be a confession. Basically, nen says that she actually came to Washington to tell her capitalist bosses that she was disappointed with what she did to the man she always loved, and that she was going to tell Hassan the truth. Then the Sword's story would be that she was killed by the CIA before she could tell the shah how she used it. Ee fake 'confession' will of course be in the hands of the shah ."
  
  
  "Will you believe chess in this?" The Secretary of State should know.
  
  
  "We know how deeply he is emotionally attached to her - it's hard to say how such a man in love will react," Hawke said. "If ego could be convinced that Sherima was pushing for a divorce to get out of the country because she didn't want to hurt em anymore, he might also accept as logical fake evidence her involvement with the CIA."
  
  
  "Mr. "Carter," the secretary said, " can you imagine what would have happened in the Middle East if Shah Hassan had turned against us? For many years, Hassan was considered one of our best friends in his part of the world. Moreover, the ego-armed forces have become almost an extension of our own thoughts and Pentagon planning for an all-out war effort. It is vital that he remains a friend of the United States."
  
  
  On the way around the White House to AX headquarters in the Secretary of State's limousine, Hawke looked worried. He asked simple questions about my return flight, how I liked my room at Watergate, and whether the closet he'd ordered me to put together was a good fit. I was pretty sure he was going to tell me more, but he didn't risk the driver overhearing, despite the heavy partition separating us from him. The driver was ordered to take us to our dorms and then return to pick up the receptionist, who had something else to discuss with the president.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As we sat in Hawke's office - the only room where he really felt safe, because he had his electronics experts check it daily for surveillance devices-he chewed on Dunhill for as long as he felt most comfortable. He relaxed in one of the seemingly heavy oak captain's chairs that faced Ego's desk, while he hurriedly scanned the latest news in the never-ending stream of dispatches, coded messages, and situation assessment reports that flowed through Ego's office.
  
  
  Eventually, the stack of papers was reduced to three Manila folders. He handed me the first, extensive file on Sherima, which dates back to her childhood in Texas and included almost everything she had done since that time. Drawing my attention to the latest reports about the former queen, he gave me a brief summary with instructions to remember the information until morning. According to Hawke, Shah Hassan was extremely generous to the woman he divorced, pointing out that our Zurich office learned that $ 10,000,000 was transferred to her account on the day she left Sidi Hassan.
  
  
  At the AXE office in London, where Sherima went first after leaving Adabi on Shah's personal Boeing 747, there was a brief information about several hundred hours of films taken by our beetles. It turned out that Sherima, as I was already told, was planning to buy an estate somewhere in the countryside near Washington. The Arab stallions and brood mares that she had lovingly tended at the palace in Sidi Hassan were to be brought to her when she settled in.
  
  
  According to the report, Sherima will arrive in DC in just two days. The Adab embassy here was ordered to arrange a room at the Watergate Hotel for Nah and her guests. "It's all set," Hawk said. "Your room is next to this suite. It wasn't hard to arrange. However, we haven't been able to fix this package yet. The couple who are currently working out in the gym at nen won't leave until the morning of the day she arrives, and unfortunately, the woman at nen contracted the virus two days ago and hasn't been around the room since the ferret. We'll try to get someone there before Sherima's yahoo arrives, but don't count on mistakes for a day or two."
  
  
  I flipped through the dossiers on the people who would be traveling with Sherima. Ih was two. A. bodyguard and companion. After she chooses the estate, a whole staff will be hired for her.
  
  
  The first folder covered Abdullah Bedawi's bodyguard. He looked like Omar Sharif, except for a nose with a prominent bridge that engaged gave him a typically Arabic hook. "He was personally selected for the job by Hassan," Hawke said. "This man was a former palace guard who saved Hassan's life during the last assassination attempt. We don't have too much information on him, except that he was the Shah's personal bodyguard after that and is supposedly very loyal to Emu - and Sherima. We have heard that he protested when Hasan assigned an ego to the former queen and sent it away, but in the end did as the emu was ordered.
  
  
  "Abdul must be a strong bull and an expert in judo and karate, as well as an excellent marksman around all types of weapons. It can be useful if you find yourself in a difficult situation. But don't trust emu. Don't trust anyone."
  
  
  Hawke held out the next folder with a small smile and said,"I think you'll like this part of the job, Nick."
  
  
  I knew what he meant as soon as I looked at the picture attached to the inside cover. The girl buried her nose in the white stallion's mane. Her reddish-blond hair formed a mane of its own as it fell below her slender shoulders, framing a beautiful face with high cheekbones. Her lips were wet and full, and her big brown eyes seemed to be laughing at something or something in the distance.
  
  
  The body with that face was even more gorgeous. She was wearing a black turtleneck sweater, but her ego couldn't hide the curves of her ripe, full breasts, high and almost straining to get free. The tight black-and-white plaid trousers accentuated her narrow waist and highlighted her slender hips and long, slender legs.
  
  
  Hawk cleared his throat with a prolonged ahem. "When you're done looking at the photo, you can take a look at the rest of the dossier," he said. He obediently moved on.
  
  
  Each accompanying leaflet was titled candyce with photos of the (Candy) Knight. The first one contained the basics. Although Ay looked to be in her mid-twenties, three years old, Della Ay was in her mid-thirties. Like Liz Chenley, she was born in Texas, and her widowed father was one of the oil workers who went with Chenley to Adabi to conduct exploration drilling. I was beginning to understand the wardrobe Hawk had chosen for me. Candice Knight's father and Bill Chanley were close friends, and Candice became friends with Sherima.
  
  
  The dossier referred to another assassination attempt on Shah; as did Abdul, the father of Candy Resorts Shah. But unlike" Monk, " Ego's heroism cost him his life in front of Candy's father. He threw himself in front of the gunslinger. Hassan never seemed to forget that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  because the young girl didn't have a mother, he practically adopted Candy into the royal household. It belongs to them that her friendship with the Queen made this transition somewhat easier.
  
  
  Candy Knight has no family left, then her father's death. She was unmarried and, according to the report, was apparently loyal to Sherima. After the divorce, Shah persuaded Candy to go to Washington with her.
  
  
  He opened a half-million-dollar account for a young woman in Zurich at the same time that Sherima's account was opened.
  
  
  According to observations in the House of Chess, Candy always seemed cold towards Hassan, despite his material and human kindness towards her. Our investigator for Sidi Hasan said that it was rumored that she had once been in love with Hassan.
  
  
  He started to close the folder, planning to read it all again more carefully in his hotel room.
  
  
  "No, wait," Hawk said. "Take a look at the last part."
  
  
  I asked, opening the file again. "But the unconfirmed parts in most dossiers are usually nothing more than assumptions from..."
  
  
  I cut myself off when my eyes fell on the first few paragraphs of Candice Knight: Unconfirmed. The note detailed the subject's sexual life.
  
  
  "A little less monotonous than the rest of the report, isn't it, Nick?"
  
  
  "Yes sir." He returned for a moment to the photograph of the young woman whose private life he had been reading.
  
  
  Obviously, the writer didn't want to say this openly, but judging from the wicker and hearing aid collection he had collected, it seemed that the brown-eyed young woman, a confidante of the former Adabi Queen, was a nymphomaniac. Candy is rumored to have passed through a veritable legion of Americans hired by oil companies in Adabi and continued to serve most of the people attached to the United States Embassy in Sidi Hassan.
  
  
  The investigator was thoughtful enough to point out that Candy's overly active sex life began shortly after her father's death and Sherima's marriage to Shah, and guessed that it was probably as a result of these events that she went in search of a way out. ee feelings.
  
  
  The final paragraph reports that over the last year and a half, she appeared to have reduced her sexual activity, at least as far as TOPOR is aware.
  
  
  "Pretty thorough," I said.
  
  
  "Do you think you can handle it, N3?"
  
  
  "I'll do my best, sir," I said, trying not to smile.
  Chapter 4
  
  
  
  Since my cover story was a culture advocating at best troubleshooting for a Houston oil company with a worldwide interest, her spent the beginning of the second day at a briefing on the oil business. The first half of the day passed in the background; the beginning of the second half was a spin on what she knew. My memory banks are working pretty well, and I was pretty sure I'd passed when Hawke called me to his office around ten in the morning with a smile on his face.
  
  
  "Well, Nick," he said. "The briefing tells me that you did quite well. How do you feel about this? "
  
  
  "Honestly, sir," emu told her, " I'd like a couple more days. But I think I can handle it."
  
  
  "Good, because there's just no time. Sherima and the others arrive around London around noon tomorrow. Now we're pretty sure nothing will happen to her for a day or so. The Sword's plan, as we ego understand it, is to allow ay to stay in a hotel and establish contacts; then he will arrange a murder to arouse suspicion on the CIA.
  
  
  "The Secretary of State has already spoken with Sherima in London. She was invited to his house for dinner. Abdul Bedawi will take her to the minister's house in Alexandria. This will tie the two of them together for the evening and leave the knight girl alone.
  
  
  "And that's where I came from," I said.
  
  
  "That's right. You will be contacted early in the evening. I want you two to be good friends. Good enough that it's easy for you to meet Sherima and, because of your obvious affection for Candice Knight, have an excuse to stick around for them. Right?"
  
  
  "Yes, sir. How long will I have? "
  
  
  "The secretary will see that the dinner will be pleasantly prolonged. Then, when it's time for Sherima to return, her car will have a little trouble starting up. Nothing out of the ordinary, and nothing that would arouse Bedawi's suspicions."
  
  
  Her, chuckled. My backup team was up to par. "Good-bye, sir," I said, heading for the door.
  
  
  "Good luck," Hawk said.
  
  
  In its seven years of operation, the Watergate Hotel has served global celebrities, and the ego of the staff, for estestvenno, has developed a haughty attitude towards the presence of famous people who come and go. Most of the big stars of dance and theater have appeared in the Kennedy Center, NY at one time or another, so the house next door to the center is a logical choice for them to stay. Movie actors who come to the County for personal appearances invariably stop at Watergate; and it's a home away from home for the jigs. Most political figures in the world
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There are even a few top-level international leaders who temporarily reside in the official government guest mansion, Blair House, and speak at meetings in one of the hotel's luxurious banquet halls.
  
  
  However, even though the hotel staff is used to such international celebrities, the ex-wife of one of the world's remaining absolute monarchs got ih thinking. It was obvious that Sherima was paying special attention, and when her was watching her post in the lobby, her could see that she was getting it.
  
  
  Hers decided to be in the lobby the day hers, knew that Sherima was leaving for Alexandria. There aren't many places to sit, but after wandering around in front of the newsstand for a while, researching country newspapers, and stopping at a Gucci store near the hotel's main entrance, I managed to demand Odin around the chairs. in the lobby. Traffic was heavy, but he could keep an eye on the two small elevators serving the upper floors and the concierge desk.
  
  
  Around five o'clock, she was seen by a man she had come to know as Bedawi getting off the elevator, walking to the stairs leading to the garage, and then disappearing. Assuming that he was going to get the limo, he casually walked up to the entrance; about ten minutes later, a large Cadillac with diplomatic plates pulled into the entrance and stopped. The doorman started to tell the driver that the emu would have to go around in circles, but after a short conversation, Bedawi got out and went inside, leaving the car at the door. Apparently, the doorman agreed that the former queen should not go further than a couple of steps to her carriage.
  
  
  I saw Bedawi go to the concierge desk and then come back to wait for his passenger. He was shorter than she'd expected, about five feet ten inches, but solidly built. Nen was wearing a well-cut black blazer that accentuated the ego's massive shoulders and cut sharply into her tiny waist. Tight black slacks accentuated ego's incredibly muscular thighs. He was built like an early pro football quarterback. The driver's cap-covered hair, which he knew from the ego photo was cropped short and was ink-black. Ego's eyes matched his hair, and they covered everyone who passed mimmo him. I went back to the Gucci store to watch it from behind a row of men's handbags hanging by the window near the store. Her, decided that he wasn't missing anything.
  
  
  Her, knew that the moment Sherima appeared in the ego's field of vision, by the sudden tension that filled the person. Her, approached the day, just in time to see her pass. I knew from her report that she was five feet five inches tall, but personally she seemed a lot smaller. However, every inch was the size of a queen.
  
  
  Bedawi held the door open for her, and as she slipped into the limo, her dress slipped just above her elbows for a moment before she pulled her foot in. Several people standing nearby waiting for a taxi turned to look, and she could tell by the whispers that some around them had become known further, perhaps by the photos that the local newspapers they had brought that morning with stories of her expected arrival in the capital.
  
  
  He decided it was time to go to work and headed for the elevator.
  Chapter 5
  
  
  
  Her body was as warm and receptive as I'd imagined it would be. And her appetite for lovemaking proved to be as much of a challenge as hers had ever faced. But the tingling invitation of her fingers sliding over my neck and my chest aroused my passion until those caresses became more demanding, more urgent.
  
  
  I don't think I've ever touched such soft, sensitive skin. As we lay weary and tired on the twisted sheets, he brushed a long lock of silky hair from her chest, letting his fingers lightly brush her shoulder. It was like stroking velvet, and even now, exhausted with love, she moaned, pushing me forward and finding my lips with hers.
  
  
  "Nick," she whispered, " you're fantastic."
  
  
  Propping herself up on one elbow, she looked up into those big brown eyes. For a brief moment, I had a mental image of her, her photos in the file, and he realized that it did not reflect the depth of her sensuality at all. Leaning down, I covered her full mouth, and after a moment it was obvious that we weren't nearly as tired as we thought we were.
  
  
  You'd never consider yourself a sexual coward, but that night her mind went to the limit of pure exhaustion with a woman whose demands were as intense - and arousing - as any woman with whom she'd ever made love. Yet, after each frantic climax, as we lay in the other's arms, hers, I felt the desire build again as she let her fingers lazily caress my thigh or brushed her lips against mine.
  
  
  However, it was Candy Knight, not her, who finally fell into a tired sleep. As I watched the smooth rise and fall of her breasts, now half hidden by the sheet I'd draped over her, she looked more like an innocent teenager than the insatiable woman whose moans still echoed in my ears. She stirred slightly, moving closer to my licks as her, reached over to the bedside table and picked up the watch.
  
  
  It was midnight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A cool breeze came through the half-open window, ruffling the curtains and making me shiver. He reached out and picked up the phone, trying to be as quiet as possible, and pressed the Yes button.
  
  
  The hotel operator responded immediately.
  
  
  Glancing softly at the sleeping Candy, he said, " Could you call me at twelve-thirty? I have an appointment and I don't want to be late ... “thanks.
  
  
  Beside me, Candy stirred again, wrapping the sheet tightly around her shoulders as she rolled over. A tiny sound, almost like a whimper, filled her throat, and then she still looked more childish than ever. Her gently bent down, brushed a lock of hair from her forehead and gently kissed her candid over her eyes.
  
  
  Then her bench press is on her back with her eyes closed. Thirty minutes would have been enough rest for me, and so would the Candy. We'll both be up before Sherima gets back to the hotel.
  
  
  As he relaxed, he allowed his mind to drift back to the past hours, from the time he'd gone upstairs, then Sherima's departure. He went to the door of her room and stood up, fumbling with the key, trying to get it into the lock ...
  
  
  Like many people, Candy made the mistake of opening the door flap of a peephole with a light on it so that hers could tell that she was trying to see who was trying to get into the room. Apparently, she wasn't repulsed by what she saw, because the door suddenly opened. Her eyes were as questioning as her voice.
  
  
  "Yes?" she said.
  
  
  Feigning surprise, he stared at nah, looked at his key, the number on sl day, then walked back down the hall to his room. Brushing away his stetson, he said in his best Texas drawl, " I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm truly sorry. I think I was thinking about something and went too far. My room is back there. I'm sorry to bother you."
  
  
  The wide, wary brown eyes continued to measure me, taking in my hat, suit, and square-toed boots, and finally took in my six-foot frame again and saw my face. At the same time, it was clearly visible, as the bright chandelier in the suite's foyer highlighted her long legs under the sheer negligee almost as clearly as the thin fabric revealed every delicious detail of her firm breasts protruding sensuously towards me. Desire surged through me like an electric shock, and almost immediately I felt her feel it, too, as her gaze fell to my waist and lower, where I knew the tight trousers would give me away if we stood looking at each other for a moment longer. In a gesture of mock violation, the stetson moved it in front of him. She looked up, and it was obvious that my gesture startled her. Her face turned red when she finally spoke:
  
  
  "It's all right," she said. "You didn't bother me. I'm just sitting here enjoying my first moment alone in the last few weeks."
  
  
  "Especially since I have to apologize, ma'am," I replied. "I know how you feel. I've been on the road, running from meetings here in Washington, to Dallas, to New York, almost three Sundays, and I'm tired of talking to people. Her, I feel like a cayuse who has been in the pen for a spell, but without a good run. He silently hoped he hadn't overdone his accent.
  
  
  "You're a Texan, mister, and...?"
  
  
  "Carter, ma'am. Nick Carter. Yes, ma'am, her name is. Hers was born near Potita, in Atacosa County. How do you know that?"
  
  
  "Cowboy, you can take the boy from Texas, but you can't take Texas from the boy. And he should know; a Texan should know her, too.
  
  
  "Well, I'll have her..." "How about this? But you sure don't look like a girl from Texas. He allowed his eyes to move with less care up and down her curvy, scantily clad body again, then tried to lift ih k ee's face with a sheepishly guilty expression. Ee's satisfied smile told me that I had managed to flatter ee, the way she obviously liked flattery.
  
  
  "She's been away from Texas for a long time, "she said, adding almost sadly,"Too long."
  
  
  "Well, ma'am, that's not very good," he sympathized. "At the very least, its going home pretty quickly. However, not as much as I would like to do lately. I seem to spend most of my time running back and forth between here and New York, trying to explain to people here why we're not lifting more oil, and to people in New York why people down here can't understand that you don't just turn the tap more and let more flow out." My stretching is easier now that it's done.this convinced the native Texan.
  
  
  "Are you in the oil business, Mr. Carter?"
  
  
  "Yes, ma'am. But don't blame me if you don't have enough gas. It's all the fault of these Arabs ." Then, as if suddenly remembering where we were talking, he said, " Ma'am, I'm sorry you're standing here.
  
  
  I know you enjoyed being alone when her ego interrupted, and I'll just go back to my own ...
  
  
  "It's all right, Mr. Carter. I enjoyed just listening to you talk. It's been a long time since I've heard such talk as yours, ferret with them... it's been a long time. That sounds nice
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, and it reminds me of home. By the way, "she continued, holding out her hand," my name is Candy, Candy. Knight.
  
  
  "It's a real treat, ma'am," I said, taking her hand. The skin was soft, but the grip was firm, and she shook the hand like a man, not the stranglehold that some women offer. As if struck by a sudden inspiration, his father rushed on. "Ma'am, would you like to have dinner with me? If not, Mr. Knight, who could be objected to.
  
  
  "Mr. Knight's house," she said again, with sadness in her voice. "What about Mrs. Carter?"
  
  
  "Mrs. Carter isn't here either. I just never had the time to bind myself like that."
  
  
  "Well, Mr. Carter ..."
  
  
  "Nick, please, ma'am."
  
  
  "Only if you call me today and forget about this ma'am for a while."
  
  
  "Yes, ma'am... erm... Candy».
  
  
  "Well, Nick, I really don't want to go out for dinner." Then, seeing the obvious disappointment on my face, she hurried on. "But why can't we just have dinner at the hotel? Maybe even open here? I don't want to be alone so much that I miss the chance to talk to a real live Texan again."
  
  
  "All right, Miss Candy... err... Candy. It just sounds great. Look, why don't you just let me find something through the food delivery services, put it all in my dig, and surprise you. So you don't even have to get dressed. She glanced down at her negligee, which had been torn wide open during her animated conversation, then looked shyly accusingly at me, who was following her gaze. "I mean, umm, you could just wear something comfortable and not worry about getting dressed."
  
  
  "Don't you think it's comfortable, Nick?" she asked angrily, pulling the nightgown a little tighter down the front, as if that would somehow hide her breasts under the sheer fabric.
  
  
  "I think so,"I began, and then, again embarrassed," I mean, if you come down to my room, you might not want to carry this across the hall."
  
  
  She poked her head out a day later, looked pointedly along the length of about twenty feet to my bed, and said: "You're right, Nick. It's a long walk, and I wouldn't want to shock anyone at Watergate." Then he added with a wink, " There's already enough scandal here. Okay, give me an hour or so and I'll be there. There was a hint of laughter in her voice, and she added shyly:: "And I'll try to be careful that no one sees me coming to your room."
  
  
  "Oh, ma'am, that's not what I meant," I blurted out, deliberately backing away and stumbling over my feet. "I meant-
  
  
  "I know what you mean, big Texan," she said, chuckling heartily at my obvious embarrassment as I continued to back up to my car. "See you in an hour. And I warn you, I'm hungry.
  
  
  It turned out that eda wasn't the only thing I wanted.
  
  
  It was hard to believe that someone with such a slender figure would pack so many things in one go whining. And as she came, the words spilled out. We talked about my work and Texas, which logically led to her explaining how she ended up in Adabi and became Sherime's companion. She only faltered once when it came to discussing her father's death. "Then my father got sick..." she began at one point, but her ego changed," And then my father died and she was left alone ..."
  
  
  By the time she was served the chocolate mousse that the waiter had put in the nearly empty refrigerator in the kitchenette to keep it cold, Candy had pretty thoroughly researched her past. This was exactly what I already knew from the AX report, except for how she avoided any mention of men in her life. But I wasn't going to talk about it. However, it was hard not to think about it as I watched that hard body tighten in every seam, or as she bent down to pick up a napkin that had slipped from her lap, and one perfectly formed breast almost slipped out around the deep V of her shirt.
  
  
  My hands itched to get under that shirt, and I had a feeling she knew it. At the end of dinner, when her stood behind Candy to help Hey get up from the chair, her suddenly leaned in to give ee a full kiss on the lips, then quickly pulled away. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't resist ... ma'am.
  
  
  Her big brown eyes were soft as she spoke. "The only thing I object to, Nick, is ma'am. I liked the rest... "
  
  
  "Then let's try again. He took her in his arms and pressed his lips to her full mouth. She tensed for a moment, then hers, and felt the warmth rush to her lips as they parted. Slowly, but instinctively, she responded to my caresses, relaxing into my embrace. I pulled her closer, moving my hand a little forward until my fingers were just below the curve of her breast. She moved in my arms so that my hand slid up and he wrapped his arms around her gently, then tightened as he felt her nipple swell and harden under my fingers.
  
  
  Candy leaned back on the couch and he followed her, my lips still glued to hers in a kiss that seemed endless. She moved out of the way so I could stretch out next to her without saying a word to us. Hey, I didn't need to, because I could feel her body pressing against mine. Ee eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  they were closed, but they opened wide, looking scared or confused for a moment before closing again.
  
  
  My hand slid inside her shirt, and her silky skin felt velvety and hot under my touch. Candy moaned deep in her throat, and her hands became more demanding.
  
  
  Still no words speak to us, she writhed on the soft pillows. For a moment, I thought she was trying to push me off the couch, but her hands, which had been scratching my shoulders with erotically annoying scratches, moved to my waist, and I realized that she was trying to give me a place to lie on my back so that she could move on top of me. With my help, hey managed it easily, then soft hands slid down my chest to the collar of my shirt. At her insistence, her tie was already removed before we even started playing this game, so that nothing would interfere with her searching fingers as they began to undo the buttons.
  
  
  Lifting her upper body but not breaking the kiss, she straightened my shirt and yanked out the ends of my pants. My hands were busy, too, and with almost identical movements, we pulled the other off the other shirt, then lay back down, once again locked together at full length, those bare breasts touching and caressing.
  
  
  We stood there for so long before he grabbed ee by the waist, lifted her up slightly, and then slid his hand between us to undo the buckle of her belt. She turned to one side to make it easier for me, and his rheumatism quickly undid the big Levi buttons. She lifted herself up slightly again so that he could push her jeans down her thighs.
  
  
  Breaking away from my lips and lifting her head, Candy looked at me. "My turn," she said softly. Moving back along my body, she leaned down to kiss my chest, then rose to her knees. She took off first one leg of her jeans and panties, then the other, before bending down again to undo my belt buckle.
  
  
  We moved towards the bed in our arms, and in another moment it was gone...
  
  
  The phone call was short, but instantly it's the only transmission I have. He picked up the phone before it rang again, saying "Hi" in a low voice.
  
  
  "Mr. Carter, it's twelve-thirty. The operator spoke automatically and softly, and she hurried off, almost apologetically: "You asked me to call you so you wouldn't miss the meeting."
  
  
  "Yes, thank you very much. I woke her up." He made a mental note to spend some more Hokage-for money and send something to the switchboard operators. It doesn't hurt to have as many people on your side as possible.
  
  
  Candy sat up and the sheet fell off her chest. "What time is it now?"
  
  
  "1230."
  
  
  "Oh my God, Sherima should be home." She started climbing around the trash, demanding, " How could you let me sleep for so long?"
  
  
  "You've only been asleep for half an hour," I said. "It was midnight when you landed."
  
  
  "God, where did the night go?" she said, swinging her feet to the floor and standing by the bed.
  
  
  I let my eyes wander meaningfully over her naked body and then over the rumpled bed, not saying anything.
  
  
  "Don't say that," she laughed, then turned and ran to the couch to get her jeans and shirt. When she came across them, she said: "I hope Sherima isn't there. She will definitely be worried, and Abdul will be angry ."
  
  
  The last part of her words was uttered with a slight fright. I decided to see to it. "Abdul? Why should he be angry? He's not your boss, is he?"
  
  
  Flustered for a moment, she didn't answer. Then, gathering her strength, she went to the door, laughed, and said, " No, of course not. But em likes to know where I am all the time. I think he thinks I should be my bodyguard, too.
  
  
  Her, got up and followed her into the day. After hugging her for one last long kiss, he said to her, letting her go: "I'm very glad he wasn't guarding your body tonight, ma'am."
  
  
  She looked at me, and her eyes were full of shyness. "Me too, Nick. And I really mean it. Now, please, I must go."
  
  
  He picked up his stetson from the chair and ran it over his bare thighs. "Yes, ma'am. See you at breakfast."
  
  
  "Breakfast? Ah, yes, I'll try her Nika, I'll really try her.
  Chapter 6
  
  
  
  I was thinking about a sex contest last night when my phone rang.
  
  
  "Nick, are you up? It's Candy.
  
  
  I told her I was just getting dressed, even though I didn't actually get to bed until a little after five. Then training and showering her spent about thirty minutes on the phone at AX headquarters. She was asked to see if any further information had been received about the Company's plans, but I was told it had not been received. Our local agents have learned that most of the radical underground groups in the county area appear to have become active after remaining relatively quiet for almost a year. Some around them, especially the revolutionary terrorist group known as the Coalition of Arab Americans, held secret meetings attended only by unit leaders, even though all members were put on alert. Why no one sees it
  
  
  
  
  
  
  he shouldn't know.
  
  
  "Breakfast, Nick," Candy said impatiently.
  
  
  "Great," I said. "Down the stairs?"
  
  
  “yeah. I'll see you on the Terrace in about half an hour."
  
  
  "So you sold out Sherima after getting out and meeting her public?"
  
  
  Candy responded: "There will only be two of us, Sherima and her." In rheumatism to my corkscrew, this didn't make much sense, but then her realized that the former queen was probably nearby, and that Candy couldn't speak too fluently. The urge to tease her under such different circumstances was too strong to resist, so I told her:
  
  
  "I'll wear a cowboy hat and have an erection."
  
  
  Her laugh escaped me before she hung up.
  
  
  At first, only a few members of the assault skill turned to look at the two attractive women walking towards my table; but when the maitre d', apparently recognizing Sherima, intercepted ih halfway across the room and started making a formal fuss over her, people took notice. Voices turned to whispers, and casual glances turned to stares as Sherima talked to the waiter. By the time they finally passed the patronizing head waiter's mimmo, he saw that almost everyone in the room recognized the former queen. Even the normally busy waiters and waitresses gathered around the long buffet table to discuss the famous arrival.
  
  
  "Nick, I'm sorry we're late," Candy began, " but her ..."
  
  
  "Don't believe me, Mr. Carter, Nick," Sherima interrupted. "Candy mistletoe has nothing to do with our lateness. It's my fault. I need time to decide that I'm ready to face what I'm sure is happening right behind us." She held out her hand and added: "Her Liz Chanley."
  
  
  After receiving a hint of ease from Nah, he shook her hand.
  
  
  "Hey, Liz. Candy says you went hunting today, " I said. "Where are you going?"
  
  
  "To Maryland," she said. "In the Potomac region and north of there. I had dinner with Secret last night ... with an old friend, and he guessed that the area might be exactly what I was looking for. I want her somewhere where I can put my horses.
  
  
  I liked the way Sherima stopped before telling the Secretary of State and turned it into an " old friend." This showed that she was confident enough not to give up famous names in order to secure her position. He decided that behind that beautiful face was a nice person.
  
  
  The waiter cautiously condemned the Court of Bosnia and Herzegovina in the background, and he motioned ego to order our edu. Poached eggs, toast, coffee for Sherima; same with Candy, only her eggs will float over a hefty portion of corned beef; ham and eggs, toast and coffee for me.
  
  
  She turned the conversation to Sherima's afternoon agenda, kindly offering her services as cheques should be kept - with Her Highness's permission, of course. Just as affectionately, she received the services of a sympathetic American. A couple of Candy rubs against mine, slow and sensual. When her, glanced at nah, she smiled innocently at me, then turned to offer Sherima another coffee, her foot not stopping us for a moment.
  
  
  I found it hard to focus on Maryland's real estate businesses.
  
  
  The husky bodyguard opened the limo door as soon as he saw Sherima and Candy arrive at the hotel entrance. Then he suddenly noticed that I was right behind him, and his right hand let go of the door and automatically went to his belt. Sherima's words stopped ego before he could pull out the gun he knew was supposed to be hidden there. She, too, obviously understood what the ego's sudden action meant.
  
  
  "It's all right, Abdul." She said softly, turning to me, adding, " Carter's with us." Her, approached her and Candy, and she continued, " Nick, Mr. Carter, I want you to meet Abdul Bedawi, who is looking after me and Candy. Abdul, Mr. Carter is coming with us today. He's my friend, and he knows where we're going."
  
  
  I couldn't decide if Abdullah's expression was the result of suspicion, the use of my name, or outright dislike. But in an instant, he covered it with a wide grin, even though his ego eyes continued to appraise me from head to toe as he bowed. To talk to Sherima, he was watching me intently. "As you wish, my lady."
  
  
  He held out his right hand and said, " Hello, Abdul. Nice to meet you. I'll try not to get lost.
  
  
  "I will also try not to let us go astray," he replied.
  
  
  There was some hesitation on ego's part before he finally took my hand. For another brief moment, we tested the other one for strength, but neither of us noticed. The ego power was crushing, and he seemed surprised that I didn't try to break away from nah. However, no one onlookers would have suspected our little battle from the smiles on our faces or the ego cordiality when he finally let go, bowed, and said, " Nice to meet you, Mr. Carter." Ego English was formal, precise, and typical of Arabs who grew up in countries where the British and Americans had a strong influence.
  
  
  Bedawi held the door open until we were in the back of the car, then walked around and took his seat
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I noticed that the first thing he did was roll down the window that separated the rear compartment from the driver's seat, as passengers would normally do when they were ready to talk to the driver. He didn't risk missing what we'd just said.
  
  
  As we set off, Sherima glanced around the car and said, " I'm not sure what you're talking about.: "Different car today, Abdul?"
  
  
  The disdain was evident in Ego's voice as he replied, " Yes, my lady. I do not know what is going on at the embassy. They don't seem to understand that we have to have our own car. I spent two hours after we got back last night checking on another car to make sure we didn't have a problem again today. Then, when I arrived at the embassy this morning, they prepared this car for us. The other one is missing ."
  
  
  It occurred to me that maybe Hawk was playing games with the car again, but I was pretty sure he would have told me about it. He wondered if anyone at the embassy was involved in the Sword plot when he steered Bedawi through the Georgetown M-sturt Canal Road. It was difficult to play in yandex. Navigator and all receipts should be saved at the same time, but I managed to point out some interesting shops and fine restaurants in this charming old sector of the capital as we passed mimmo.
  
  
  "This is Kanal Rod, Abdul," I said as we turned off M-sturt and headed down the scenic highway. "We are still on this path for some time. It eventually becomes George Washington Boulevard and takes us exactly where we want to go."
  
  
  "Yes, Mr. Carter," the driver said coldly. "I've been studying maps for a while this morning."
  
  
  "You never sleep?" I asked her.
  
  
  "I need very little vaults, sir."
  
  
  Sherima interrupted, feeling, as she did, the tension that was building between us. "Why do they call it Canal-rod?"
  
  
  "Well, you see that big ditch filled with water," I said, pointing out the window. When they nodded automatically, he continued: "This is what's left of the old Chesapeake and Ohio Canal barges. Barges with cargo and passengers were towed on mules. You can still see the trail. It's a bare strip on the grass by the canal.
  
  
  "As I recall, someone told me that the shell canal used to run to Cumberland, Maryland, which must be almost two hundred miles away. After all, it was connected by some sort of viaduct across the Potomac to Alexandria. For a hundred years, barges ran along the canal, and then it was closed around the time the First World War ended."
  
  
  "What are they doing with it now?" asked Candy.
  
  
  "It's been preserved by the National Park Service," I explained, " and people only use it for hiking or cycling on the trail. I don't know if they still make it a ferret or not, but when I was here a few years ago, there was still a boat going down the canal for sightseeing. Of course, it wasn't one, around the original ones, but just copies. They tell me it was a very fun ride with a mule pulling a barge. It must have been a great day.
  
  
  While the women stared out the window, exclaiming over and over the beauty of the landscape along the canal route, hers was watching Bedawi drive the big car. He was an excellent driver, despite driving on unfamiliar roads, keeping a close eye on every passing sign or turn. At one point, he noticed me watching him in the rearview mirror, and a tight smile crossed his face.
  
  
  "Don't worry, Mr. Carter,"he said dryly," I'll get us there safely."
  
  
  "We'll be heading to George Washington Boulevard soon," I said, as if trying to explain my attention to him and the road. "We continue to drive along it until it turns into MacArthur Boulevard. Then we can get off almost anywhere and go to the horse country around the Potomac, Maryland."
  
  
  "My lady," he said quickly, " don't you want to go to see the sights of this route?"
  
  
  "Oh, yes," she said. "Great Falls. It should be beautiful. Isn't that bothering us, Nick?"
  
  
  "You're welcome. MacArthur Boulevard leads directly to it. And that's really something to look forward to."
  
  
  A few minutes later, the car pulled smoothly into the parking lot of the Great Falls Recreation Area. There were surprisingly few cars. He suddenly realized that it was a weekday, and most of Washington was at work.
  
  
  Sherima, Candy and her went to the waterfall. Bedawi stayed. When her father turned to see what he was up to, he was leaning over the open hood, apparently fiddling with the engine.
  
  
  As we started down the path through what had once been a canal lock, the three men who had been standing outside the Park Service office in the area that used to be a beachside rest stop and a hotel also moved in that direction. From the fact that they were almost obsessively photographing each other in front of the nearest sign, and from the array of cameras that hung around their necks around them, she suspected they were Japanese. Her, saw that I was right when we approached licks, and they crossed to the other side of the canal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Let's go, " one of the men around them shouted to his companions, looking at his watch. "We have to hurry if we want to take pictures of the waterfall and still get to the city in time to take pictures of the Capitol and the Washington Monument."
  
  
  He smiled to himself, thinking how typical it was for ih to want to record everything they saw on tape. Then it suddenly dawned on me that what was unusual about this scene was that the obvious leader of the trio was speaking in English, not Japanese. As I watched them hurry along the canal bank and head for the budding trees and shrubs, a small warning bell rang in the back of my mind. As Sherima and Candy crossed the canal path, her father stopped and looked back at where Bedawi was still fumbling under the raised hood. Finally, I realized that our car was the only car on the large lot, with the exception of the Datsun parked at the far end. Apparently, the group of tourists who had returned from the waterfall as we arrived had left in other cars. Obviously, Sherima's bodyguard also thought that we had entered a service building, a park, otherwise he would have followed us.
  
  
  "Nick! Candy waved at me from the turnoff into the woods. I waved at them and followed them, pausing just for a moment to turn once more to see if Bedawi had heard her and would follow us. He didn't look up. The engine must be running and I couldn't hear anything, I decided.
  
  
  When Sherima and Candy caught up with her, they were busily reading a brass plaque attached to a huge boulder by the waterfall trail. The Japanese camera bugs were nowhere to be seen, which didn't surprise me, but ih expected to hear them on the winding road that lay ahead. However, the forest around us was quiet, and the only sound was women's chatter.
  
  
  He walked past them, then waited until they had caught up with the pedestrian bridge over the first one, around small rushing streams that flowed noisily through the forest. As they looked down at the frothy water below us, Candy asked, " What's going on?": "Why is it so foamy? The water doesn't seem to be moving fast enough to form foam."
  
  
  "These bubbles are not created by nature. It's just plain old American pollution, " I said. "This foam is exactly what it looks like - soap foam. Detergent, to be precise. They get into the river upstream, and then when the ih starts a fast current here, foam begins to form, like in a washing machine ."
  
  
  We crossed to another footbridge that crossed a faster current that cut a deeper ravine in the rock. Sherima pointed out to us one place where the rushing water had dug a pothole; a small rock was trapped inside the hole, and the water that flowed through the pothole was sliding down the ego wall. She started telling Candy about a glacier garden she visited in Lucerne, Switzerland. She took advantage of ih's interest in discussing how water can make small rocks around big ones, and slipped away along the trail.
  
  
  About twenty yards away, a sudden snapping of a branch to the side and slightly ahead of me froze me. He waited for her for a moment, then, hearing nothing more, left the path and slid into the bushes, moving in a wide circle.
  
  
  "Where are they?"
  
  
  The whisper was in Japanese, to my left, licking the trail to the waterfall. As I crawled forward, I found myself looking at the backs of two Japanese tourists crouched behind a huge boulder.
  
  
  "Shut up," hissed the beginning of the second man in rheumatism at his companion's alarming corkscrew. "They'll be here soon."
  
  
  Nervous couldn't be silenced. "Why iht? We were told that there would only be two women. Do we have to kill this person too? Who is he?"
  
  
  "I do not know who he is," said another. She became known in nen to an English-speaking viewer.
  
  
  Translating Japanese in whispers was difficult, and I wanted him to use English again. "Whatever he is to us, he must die like them. There should be no witnesses. Alexander order of the Sword. Now be silent; they will hear you."
  
  
  Japanese and working for a Sword! Wait until Hawk finds out, I thought, and added to myself, if he ever does. I was pretty sure I could handle the couple in front of me, despite the silenced pistols they were holding. It was the third person who bothered me. I didn't know exactly where he was, and the women would be there at any moment. Praying that the pothole and spinning rock would mesmerize ih for a few more minutes, I pulled Wilhelmina around the holster on my belt and let Hugo fall into my hand around the scabbard of my forearm. Both of the waiting assassins had to die at the same time, without making any noise. I took off my jacket and wrapped it around my left arm and luger. It was a makeshift silencer, but it had to fit.
  
  
  Hers quickly moved four steps forward, being right behind the couple before they noticed my presence. The moment the cloth-wrapped Luger touched the back of the nervous Japanese man's neck, the trigger pulled
  
  
  
  
  
  
  . Her made sure that little was tilted up to gawk passed through the ego brain, coming out around the top of her head. As I timed it, gawk continued on her way to the sky. I couldn't allow the noise that would have been unavoidable if it had hit a rock or tree when it flew out over the skull's ego.
  
  
  Even as his target jerked back in a deadly contraction, my knife slid between the discs of the other's spine, ripping open the ligaments that controlled the ego's nervous system. My jacket-clad hand came forward and closed around the dead man's rta in case he screamed, but I couldn't get enough air. He swung her with his hip to pin the first dead man to a boulder, then gently lowered the second to the ground, then let the ego-companion slide down beside him. As he did, he heard a shout from behind down the trail.
  
  
  "Nick, where are you?" It was Candy. They must have realized that I was no longer there, and perhaps they were afraid of the silence of the forest.
  
  
  "Here," I said, deciding I should let the third assassin find me. "Just keep going on the trail."
  
  
  After arranging his jacket as if he'd casually slung it over his arm, he stepped out onto the trail and walked on. I knew he had to be close - they wouldn't be too far apart - and I was right. As I rounded the huge slab of granite that actually formed the wall next to the path, he suddenly came into view, blocking my path. A silenced pistol aimed at my life
  
  
  "Don't shoot; His sword," he whispered to her in Japanese. Ego hesitation indicates that he is unprofessional, and cost the emu his life. A gawk from my luger wrapped in my jacket hit the emu in the fold dollar and flew up, lifting its body for a moment before it began to plummet forward. Ego caught her and dragged her over the granite slab, throwing her there. An eerie gurgle escaped the ego of the gaping rta. I couldn't risk Sherima or Candy hearing ego as they passed, so I plucked a bunch of grass and shoved Ego deep between her lips, which were already turning blue. Blood spurted out from under my makeshift gag, but no sound penetrated it. Turning and running a few feet away to where the other dead Japanese were lying, she was led by ih around the boulder they had ambushed and acted quickly while she heard Sherima's words and Their voices coming closer. By the time they reached me, hers was back on the trail, my jacket draped carelessly over my arm again so that the bullet holes weren't visible, and my collar and tie were undone. He put her gun, holster, and wallet in his pants pockets.
  
  
  Candy set the corkscrew that was on ih faces. "Too warm, Nick?"
  
  
  "Yes, ma'am," I drawled. "On such a warm day, this hike will undoubtedly be a hot affair. I hope you don't mind, ladies.
  
  
  "I don't know for sure," Sherima said. "This suit with wool trousers is also starting to feel quite uncomfortable."
  
  
  "Mine too," Candy chimed in. "Actually, I think I'll just throw this jacket over my shoulders." She took off her jacket, and as A helped her adjust it around her shoulders, he noticed that she'd stopped at the bra under today's man-made white shirt. Hey, couldn't keep her big breasts down. She seemed to sense my critical assessment, because she turned Rivnenskaya enough to touch my right breast, and then looked at me innocently. I was playing this game with her, lifting my hand as if to brush away a stray lock of my hair, but trying to keep my fingers from sliding over the bulge of my shirt. Ee's quick muffled sigh told me that she was feeling the same desire as hers.
  
  
  "I think we'd better move on," I said, moving away from nah and leading the way down the path again. "The waterfall is only a short distance away. If you listen carefully, you can hear water."
  
  
  "That must have been the noise she heard," Sherima said, turning to Candy. "But I thought it was you, Nick, moving around in the bushes in front of us after we missed you at that pothole spot."
  
  
  "It must have been a waterfall," I agreed, grateful for the growing noise that reached us as we walked. "I decided to continue while you two look at the locks. She's a camera buff and thought I could catch up with those Japanese tourists and see what equipment they have. But they must have listened to whoever was so worried about the time, because nu isn't around, and they're probably already a few feet ahead of us. We'll see ih on the observation deck at the waterfall."
  
  
  By then, the roar of water rushing over the waterfall ahead was quite loud, then as we rounded the signposts, we were struck by the sheer beauty of the huge, steep cascade.
  
  
  "Oh my God, this is fantastic," Sherima exclaimed. "So sweet and so scary at the same time. Is it always so cruel, Nick?
  
  
  "No," I said as we approached the metal pipe that served as a fence around the observation deck created by nature and the Park Service. "At this time of year, with spring thaws, the water is high.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm told that sometimes it turns into a trickle, but now it's hard to believe. And around what I remember from my last visit here, the floods seem to have washed away quite a few of the banks here."
  
  
  Candy asked, moving a little away from the railing.
  
  
  "No, I'm sure it's safe, or someone from the Park Service won't let us in," I said. He draped her jacket over the railing, then turned, took her hand, and pulled her forward again. "Look, you'll see that & nb still has to climb before it gets here."
  
  
  When she... After confirming the safety of our survey point, ih drew her attention to the other side of the river. "This is the Virginia side," I explained. "All over the hotel, and up there. It forms palisades, like the ones on the Hudson River opposite New York, only not so steep. Along the same side runs the highway, and on this plateau there is a great ending in a place to go down to the rapids. They also set up a small picnic grove there. Maybe you can see Great Falls from there ... Hey! Drain it!"
  
  
  "Oh, Nick, your jacket!" exclaimed Candy, leaning over the railing and sadly watching my jacket move quickly through the k & nb air.
  
  
  He just sighed, and both she and Sherima groaned sympathetically as he fell into the water and was swept away by the foaming current below us. Drawing ih's attention to the opposite shore, she removed her jacket over the railing. Hawk might not be too happy that a piece of the expensive wardrobe was thrown away so easily, but she wouldn't be able to put it back on anyway. No one would have believed that two round singed holes were the latest in men's fashion-even in Texas.
  
  
  "Oh, Nick, your beautiful jacket," Candy moaned again. "Was there anything valuable in nen?"
  
  
  “no. Luckily, my wallet and most of my papers are in my pants, "I said, holding up my wallet and hoping they'd think the bulge of Luger on the other side was my"papers." Hers, added, " It's a habit I picked up in New York after a pickpocket picked up virtually everything I was carrying while her was telling em how to get to Times Square."
  
  
  "Nick, I feel responsible," Sherima said. "You should let me replace the ego for you. After all, you're here because. See her at the Waterfall hotel. I wish the other Abdullah had never suggested it."
  
  
  "I'm here because I want to be here," her father said. "And don't worry about ego replacements; you know how much money we people in the oil industry are throwing into bills by lobbying in Washington."
  
  
  She gave me a strange look, then she and Candy laughed when my smile told them I was joking. "If only they knew," I thought, " how I got the bill!
  
  
  He looked at his watch and said we'd better get back to the car and continue our house hunting. As we retraced our steps, her father said:: "I was hoping we could have lunch somewhere nice in the Potomac area, but I figure with me in my shirt sleeves, we'll have to settle for a Big Mac."
  
  
  "What is a Big Mac?" They both asked at once, their voices a mixture of surprise and amusement.
  
  
  "Actually, "I said, slapping my forehead," I forgot that you two have been out of the country for so long that you've never had the goodies of the century. Ladies, I promise you that if we find a McDonald's, you'll get a real surprise."
  
  
  They tried to convince me to tell them about the Big Macs as we walked, and he insisted on his part, refusing to explain anything further. She was drawn into this ludicrous discussion by ih while we were passing a mimmo site where three corpses were littered with undergrowth, and they passed the mimmo without noticing us hints of the bloodshed that had recently taken place there. We had just reached the bridge, where the women were watching a rock turn in a pothole, when Abdul ran up to us. He wondered why he hadn't shown up sooner, given ego's supposed commitment to the role of sentinel turpentine, but he had an explanation ready.
  
  
  "My lady, I'm sorry," he begged, almost prostrating himself in front of Sherima. "I thought you went into this building, near here, so I started checking the engine of the car, like his hotel, do before we left. Just a few minutes ago, he discovered that you weren't there, and immediately came for you. The ego bow almost touched the ground again.
  
  
  "Oh, Abdul, it's all right," Sherima said, taking ego's hand so that em had to get up. "We had fun. We just went to the waterfall and back. You should have been there... When he saw that he was mistaken in her understanding, mistaking it for a reprimand, she hurried to explain, " No, I mean, you should have been there to see the waterfall. They're impressive, just like your friend told you. And you could have watched Mr. Carter's jacket fly off into the suds.
  
  
  He seemed completely taken aback by her last words, and by the time she finished
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ed explained my loss to em, and we went back to the limo. He looked at me thoughtfully as we played such a game in the car, and he decided that he was probably wondering what a careless idiot I would be if I lost a valuable jacket like hers, but he only politely expressed his regrets, then got in and started walking back to Falls Road.
  
  
  We had just started across the Potomac when the little dagger that pierced my thoughts suddenly raised itself: what other Abdullah had told em about Great Falls? He had never been to this country before. So when did he meet someone else here? Twice Sherima mentioned that the suggestion of a side trip to the waterfall was made by this unknown friend, and twice my brain registered it and then moved on to other things. He made another mental note to try to find out, either from Candy or through nah, where Abdul had met this acquaintance.
  
  
  The next couple of hours were spent simply driving around the area, which allowed Sherima to see the types of homesteads that dotted it and the hilly terrain that usually accompanied ih. We had to stop a few times when she was admiring a herd of horses grazing in the pasture, or when she was excited about the private steeplechase track that now stretched almost to the curb.
  
  
  We never found McDonald's, so we finally had to tell them about the ih menu burger chain. At noon, we stopped at a small village inn, after I checked it out to make sure I was served without a camisole.
  
  
  At one point, he excused himself and went to the men's room, instead going to a phone booth that he noticed near the cash register. Her father was surprised to find Abdullah in front of him. He refused to have lunch with us; when we were inside, Sherima explained that he preferred to prepare his own education, strictly adhering to his religious dietary rules in all fairness.
  
  
  He noticed me almost at the same time that ego saw her in the phone booth, and he quickly hung up and left to make room for me.
  
  
  "I reported to the embassy where we were," he said coldly. "Your Majesty may wish to contact my lady at any time, and I have been ordered to regularly inform our ambassador of our whereabouts."
  
  
  That seemed like a logical explanation, so he didn't say anything, just letting him pass and watching until he got out to the car. Then Hawke called to report to her. There was no need to worry about the lack of scrambler in the pay phone. He was a little upset when he asked someone to clean up the landscape of Great Falls. I left her the details of how to collect the three corpses without arousing suspicion from some Park Service employee, put them in front of him, and just briefly submitted to emu our work schedule for the rest of the day, then told emu I'd contact him. when we got back to Watergate.
  
  
  Shortly before I hung up, I asked her if the Communications Corps had been able to infiltrate Sherima's apartment to deduce our mistakes. Ego's grunt of disgust told me that no listening devices had been installed, and then he explained why. "It looks like someone called the Adabia embassy and didn't realize that Sherima might have felt more at home if local online and handmade items were sent to decorate the room while ee was away. Anyway, the First secretary was in the room almost from the moment you all left, and he had people bringing in and out of things all day. We're ready to move in as soon as they get out of there, but I think the first secretary wants to be around when Sherima gets back so he can take over the finishing job.
  
  
  "Who called to suggest all this?"
  
  
  "We haven't been able to find out - yet," Hawke said. "Our contact at the embassy thinks the call was directed directly to the ambassador, so it must have come from Sherima herself, your Miss Knight, or possibly that Bedawi."
  
  
  "Speaking of nen,"I said," let's see if you can find out if he knows anyone at the embassy, or if he was able to contact a friend here."
  
  
  He told Emu how our side trip to Great Falls was offered. Hawk said he'd try to give me some rheumatism by the time we got back.
  
  
  Then, raising his voice almost to a warning tone, he said: "I'll take care of those three packs of Japanese goods you mentioned while leaving ih at the waterfall, but please try to be more careful in the future. This kind of collection service is quite difficult to organize in this area. The competition between the agencies that might have to participate is so great that one around them might find it advantageous to use the information against us from a business perspective ."
  
  
  I knew he meant that emu would have to negotiate with the FBI or CIA to hide the fate of the trio of would-be killers. Such requests for help always upset ego, because he was sure that emu would have to repay the favor ten times later. "I'm sorry, sir," I said, trying to sound like hers was. "It won't happen again. I'll be left behind next time."
  
  
  "That won't be necessary," he said sharply,
  
  
  
  
  
  then he hung up.
  
  
  When he returned to Sherima and Candy, he found that noon had already arrived. We all got hungry after the walk, and since hers was doing a little more exercise than the others, my stomach screamed eda to everyone, and the eda was good. We finished quickly, then spent another hour traveling through the hunting country, Candy diligently taking notes while Sherima told us which sections she was particularly interested in. They decided that Candy would start contacting real estate agents the next day. Hopefully they'll find homes within the next Sunday or two.
  
  
  It was shortly after five in the evening. When Abdul was back, the limo turned into the Watergate driveway. By then, we'd decided to have lunch in Georgetown. I insisted that they be my guests at Restaurant 1789, a great dining spot located in a building built in the year the restaurant got its name. Sherima was again hesitant to impose on me, but I persuaded her to accept by accepting her invitation to be her guest the following evening.
  
  
  When we got out, around the car, Sherima ordered Abdul to come back at eight-thirty to pick us up. Her advice was that we could easily take a taxi to Georgetown, and that Abdul could have a good night.
  
  
  "Thank you, Mr. Carter," he said with his usual icy reserve, " but I don't need the day off. My job is to be at my lady's disposal. I'll be back at eight-thirty."
  
  
  "All right, Abdul," Sherima said, perhaps sensing that her loyal bodyguard's feelings might have been hurt. "But you'll definitely find something to eat."
  
  
  "Yes, my lady," he said, bowing. "I will do it immediately at the embassy. I can easily go there and come back here, as you said. He ended the discussion by quickly walking around the car and driving away.
  
  
  "Abdul takes his job very seriously, Nick," Sherima said as we took the elevator to our floor. "He doesn't want to be impolite; it's just ego-driven."
  
  
  "I understand," I said, stopping at my car as they continued on their way to their room. "I'll see you in the lobby."
  
  
  A few moments later, I was on the phone with Hawk, who had some information for me.
  
  
  "First of all," he began, " that fool First Secretary didn't give up waiting for Sherima about fifteen minutes ago. We never made it to the suite, so don't count on mistakes."
  
  
  I started to say something about a phone, no encoding, but he cut in to say that at least we didn't waste a day in Watergate. "You have a scrambler installed on your phone, so you can talk freely."
  
  
  "Big! What about my three friends at the waterfall? »
  
  
  "Right now," he said slowly, "ih completely burned corpses are being recovered around the wreckage of the ih Datsun on MacArthur Boulevard, near the Naval Research Center. A tire must have burst, because they suddenly swerved and crashed into a tanker truck that was waiting to enter the Center. At that time, a couple of naval intelligence officers who saw the accident were passing by. Fortunately, the tanker truck driver jumped candid before the explosion. According to what the Naval Institute's witnesses told the Maryland State Police, the truck driver is perfectly safe in the hall. It was just an accident ."
  
  
  "Did you learn anything about them before the accident?"
  
  
  "Ih photos and printouts were taken, and we discovered that they were members of Rengo Sekigun. We thought that most of the Japanese Red Army fanatics had been captured or killed, but it is clear that these three fled across Tokyo and headed for Lebanon; ih took Black September.
  
  
  "How did they get here?"
  
  
  "We haven't determined it yet, but we're working on it. The Beirut office reports that it had a report that some Japanese trained by Black September decided that the September organization wasn't militant enough for them, so they independently made contact with the guys around the Silver Scimitar Sword. He may have arranged for ih to be sent here for this job on Sherima.
  
  
  So they didn't think Black September was militant enough, I mused. "What did they think of the little massacre that ih compatriots staged at Lode Airport in Tel Aviv a couple of years ago - a manifestation of pacifism?"
  
  
  "What are your plans for the evening?" "Do you want to assign a backup of some sort?"
  
  
  I told Emu about our dinner at the 1789 restaurant, then called him. As if on cue, there was a knock on my door.
  
  
  Loosening his tie, he went to the door and opened it. Candy immediately squeezed past me, quickly closing the door behind her.
  
  
  "Don't you ever go into a room?" Her reproached her.
  
  
  "You can never tell who's there," she replied, then wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me deeply. Our tongues played games for a while, then she tore her mouth off and said, " Mmm. His hotel, do it all day, Nick. You have no idea how hard it was to behave when you were with Sherima."
  
  
  "You don't know how hard it was for me, but what about Sherima?" I asked, not entirely distracted by the fact that it had opened.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  unbuttoning my shirt, unbuckling my belt, and guiding me to the bed.
  
  
  "She took a quick shower and then said she was going to sleep until seven forty - five," Candy replied, sitting down on the bed and gesturing for me to join her. "That means we have more than an hour before I have to go back there and get dressed myself."
  
  
  Her sel is next to her, taking her face in her hands.
  
  
  "You don't mind living dangerously with our little secret, do you?"
  
  
  At first she smiled in rheumatism at this, but suddenly her face clouded, and big brown eyes looked mimmo me at the door. There was a strange bitterness in her voice as she said absently, " Everyone has a secret." All of us, aren't we? You, me, Sherima, Abdul... The last word was said with a grimace, and for a moment he wondered why. "I am even the ego of the Highest and Most Powerful Majesty Hassan..."
  
  
  She realized that I was watching her closely as she spoke, and seemed to break away from her mood, wrapping her slender arms around my neck and pulling me down.
  
  
  "Oh, Nick, hold me. No more secrets now - just hold on to me.
  
  
  He covered her full mouth with his and kissed her. She ran her fingers through my hair, then ran them down my neck, returning my kiss long and deep. We will share another other. She walked over to the bed.
  
  
  She was lying on the floor on her back, her long wavy hair spread out on the pillow above her head. Her eyes were partially closed and her face was more relaxed. I ran my finger down her chin, then down her long, classic neck, and she let a deep sigh escape her lips as my caresses became more intimate. She turned to her and kissed me urgently.
  
  
  For a few minutes we lay side by side, not speaking, almost touching each other uncertainly, as if everyone around us was waiting for the other to object in some way. I saw her return to her thoughts. From time to time, she would close her eyes tightly, as if to erase a thought from her mind, then open her eyes wide to look at me and let a smile form on her lips.
  
  
  Finally, he was asked: "What is it, Candy? You think a lot about this or that." Her voice was as casual as possible.
  
  
  "Nothing, really nothing," she said softly. "His... he would have been better off if we had met ten years ago... " She rolled onto her back again and put her hands behind her head. "Then so much wouldn't have happened... With you to love... " She paused, looking up at the ceiling.
  
  
  He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at Nah. I don't want this beautiful woman to fall in love with me. But then, he also wasn't going to feel the same way about her as he did about her.
  
  
  There was nothing she could say in her rheumatism that wouldn't betray the fact that I knew a lot more about her own secret past - and what she was probably talking about right now - so I filled her silence with a long kiss.
  
  
  In the moment of illness, our bodies said everything that needed to be said at the time. We made love slowly and easily, like two people who have known each other for a long time, giving and receiving the same pleasure.
  
  
  Later, as we lay quietly with Candy's head on my shoulder, I could feel her relax, the tension of her earlier thoughts gone. Abruptly, she straightened up.
  
  
  "My God, what time is it?"
  
  
  He picked up the clock on her bedside table and said, " Seven-forty Rivnenskaya, ma'am," in an exaggerated drawl.
  
  
  She was laughing. "I just like the way you talk, Nick." And then: "But now I have to run." As she gathered up her clothes and jumped back into the nah, she muttered like a schoolgirl approaching curfew. "God, I hope she's not awake yet ... Well, I'll just say that I had to go down to the lobby for something ... Or that I took a walk or something ..."
  
  
  Dressed, she leaned over the bed and kissed me again, then turned and ran around the room. "See you in forty - five minutes," he called after her.
  
  
  While taking a shower, her realized that no matter what her thoughts focused on, they always came back to form around the image of Candy and repeat her words. People had secrets-that's a fact. And, perhaps, my selection from nah was the biggest of all. But something in her tone bothered me.
  
  
  This was turning into more than a simple task of protecting the former queen. There was a mystery that completely muddled the lives of these people, and although it might have been a personal matter, it still intrigued me. However, it seemed that these were more than personal considerations: and they seemed to center around Abdullah.
  
  
  Bedawi could only envy the way her ego had usurped her role. He certainly seemed humiliated that he'd slipped away from his duties at the waterfall, and that ego's coldness towards me only increased afterward. However, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the ugly-looking bodyguard than met the eye. AX o nen's backstory was too incomplete.
  
  
  Hoping that Hawke would get more information about Bedawi's friends in Washington, she went through the shower under the warming rays of the overhead lamp. It should have been delivered
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her, I told myself that my reasoning would allow me to rest for a while until I had more reliable information.
  
  
  Choosing a Texas-inspired tuxedo, I started to dress, laughing silently at how Hawk hadn't missed a single detail in my wardrobe. The jacket, though formal, was buttoned with the logo of my intended business.
  Chapter 7
  
  
  
  "It was amazing, but I feel like I put on at least ten pounds," she enthused as she and Sherima waited for her coat to be picked up by ih all over the dressing room. "If she adds in color, it won't be noticeable," I thought, handing over the checks. The floor - length white sheath dress she was wearing looked like it was sewn on her, and gentle hands pressed the soft material to every curve. It was sleeveless and split at the knee, accentuating both the reddish highlights of her loose hair and the golden tan that I knew covered every delicious inch of her body. Her suspicion was that she chose the dress for that very reason.
  
  
  "Me too," Sherima agreed. "Nick, dinner was great. The cuisine here is as good as any cuisine I've tried in Paris. Thank you so much for bringing us here."
  
  
  "With pleasure, ma'am," I said, taking her long sable coat from the maid and draping it over her slender shoulders as she indicated that she preferred to wear ego-style cloaks, as she had done before. She was wearing a black second Empire-style dress that accentuated her shoulder-length black hair and the high chest that adorned her slender figure. She was proud to walk into the dining room in 1789 with two such beautiful women and calmly respond to the envious glances of every man there. Thanks to his seemingly endless external connections, Hawke managed to arrange a somewhat private chair for us in a short time, but I realized that rumors of the former queen's presence quickly spread when a stream of people started looking for excuses to pass mimmo us while we were having lunch. He was sure that Sherima and the Candy were also noticed, but the nam Odin around them didn't decide to tell him.
  
  
  "There you go," I said, holding out Candy's leopard-print coat. As she wrapped herself up in the luxurious clothing that would surely outrage wildlife conservationists, he let his hand linger on her shoulders for a moment, touching her soft, sensitive skin. She gave me a quick, knowing smile. Then, turning to Sherima, she said something that almost choked me.
  
  
  "You know, I think I'm going to exercise before I go to bed tonight."
  
  
  "That's a good idea," Sherima agreed, then looked at the Candy carefully, perhaps suspecting the double meaning of ff in the other.
  
  
  When Candy returned her gaze with an innocent expression, saying, " Unless of course her not too tired. Sherima's face broke into a warm smile. She gently touched Candy's hand, and we headed for the door.
  
  
  When we reached the street, he walked between the two women, allowing each of them to take his arm. Her hand squeezed Candy's elbow, and she returned the gesture by squeezing my forearm. Then a slight shudder that I knew came from sexual arousal swept over her.
  
  
  "Cold?" Hey asked him, grinning.
  
  
  “no. It's beautiful tonight. It's so warm here, more like summer than spring. Nick, Sherima, "she added quickly," what do you think of a little walk?" These old houses here are so beautiful, and exercise will benefit all of us."
  
  
  Sherima turned to me and asked: "Will it be safe, Nick?"
  
  
  "Ah, I think so. A lot of people seem to be enjoying the nice weather tonight. If you want, we could take a walk around Georgetown University, then go around and walk down N-sturt to thousands of armed peacemakers insist USA Avenue, and then down M-Sturt. Vote where you noticed all these stores this morning, and I think some around them are opening late. It's a little after eleven, and at least you could make a small showcase.
  
  
  "Go on, Sherima," Candy said. "That sounds like fun."
  
  
  By then we had reached the limo, where Abdul was standing holding the door open. "All right," Sherima agreed. Turning to her bodyguard, she said: "Abdul, we're going for a little walk."
  
  
  "Yes, my lady," he said, bowing as usual. "I'll follow you in the car."
  
  
  "Oh, that won't be necessary, Abdel," Sherima said. "Nick, can we pick a corner where Abdul can meet us in a little while? Better yet, I have an idea. Abdul, stay free for the night. We won't need you again today. We can get the hotel fees back, can't we, Nick?"
  
  
  "Oh, of course," I said. "Out of thousands of armed peacekeepers, the United States insists, there are always plenty of taxis on Avenue."
  
  
  When her bodyguard started protesting that it wouldn't be difficult for emu to follow us in the car, and that this was ego's place to be with her, Sherima raised her hand to silence ego. This gesture was obviously a relic of her days as Queen Adabi and Abdullah, an experienced courtier, because he was silent instantly.
  
  
  "That's an order, Abdul," she told em. "You've constantly taken care of us with them ferret since we came to this country, and I'm sure you'll be able to use the rest. Now do as I say." Her tone left no room for argument.
  
  
  With A deep bow,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Abdul said, " As you wish, my lady. I'll return her to the embassy. What time do you want her to be at the hotel in the morning? "
  
  
  "Ten o'clock will probably be early enough," Sherima said. "I think Candy and I can get a good night's sleep too, and this little walk will be just what we need."
  
  
  Abdul bowed again, closed the door, and walked around the car, pulling away! when we started walking down the avenue walkway to the university grounds just a few blocks away.
  
  
  Passing by mimmo old buildings on campus, he told the girls what little he knew about the school. It was almost two hundred years old, once run by the Jesuits, and later developed into one of the world's most renowned institutions for the study of international and diplomatic service. "Many of our most important statesmen have studied here over the years,"I said," which I think makes sense, since it's in a hall in the capital."
  
  
  "It's beautiful," Sherima said, admiring the Gothic grandeur of one around the main buildings as we passed mimmo. "And it's so quiet here, it almost feels like we've retreated in time. I think it's wonderful how the buildings have been preserved. It's always so sad to see the grand architecture of the city's old neighborhoods ignored and falling into disrepair. But it's amazing ."
  
  
  "Well, ma'am, our time travel will end when we get back here before the thousands of armed peacekeepers insist on US Avenue," I said. "On a night like this, the pubs will be full of young people engaged in very modern social rituals! And by the way, Washington should have some of the most beautiful women in the world. An old friend of mine from around Hollywood was working on a movie here, and swore he'd never seen so many attractive women in one place before. Vote what a Hollywood man says.
  
  
  "Isn't that why you enjoy spending so much time in Washington?" asked Candy jokingly.
  
  
  "Just do business with me, ma'am," he insisted, and we all started laughing.
  
  
  By then we had turned onto N-sturt and they noticed the old houses carefully preserved in their original state. He explained to her that since 1949 and the passage of the Old Georgetown Act, no one is allowed to build or demolish buildings in the Historic District without permission from the Fine Arts Commission.
  
  
  "Nick, you sound like a travel guide," Candy once joked.
  
  
  "That's because I love Georgetown," I said honestly. "When I find time to drive here, I always end up walking around the streets, just enjoying the whole atmosphere of the area. In fact, if we have time and you're not too tired from the hike, I'll show you a house that her hotel would like to buy someday, and just settle in nen. It's at Thirty - second Street and Moose Street. Someday - maybe very soon-but someday I'll have this house, " he mused aloud.
  
  
  As I continued my short lecture tour, I realized that the day of my final retirement might never come. Or that it could happen very soon-and cruelly.
  
  
  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the battered old station wagon was passing mimmo us for the third time as we pulled up opposite 3307 N Street, and he was explaining to her that this was the house that President Kennedy, then a senator, had bought. Jackie gets a birthday present for her daughter Caroline. "They lived here before they moved to the White House," I said.
  
  
  While Sherima and Candy were looking at the house and talking in low voices, he used the opportunity to watch the station wagon move down the block. Just around the corner of Thirty-third Street, he stopped, parking twice in a dark spot under the streetlights. As I watched, two dark figures came out on the right side, crossed the street, and walked almost to the intersection ahead of us. I noticed that there were four people in the station wagon, so they had two left on our side of the street. Without being obvious to Sherima and Candy, he moved her raincoat, which he was wearing over his right arm, to the other side after placing his Luger in his left hand so that the coat was draped over it. Then he turned back to the girls, who were still whispering about the tragedy of JFK, NY.
  
  
  "Go on, you two," I said. "It was supposed to be a night for fun. I'm sorry I stopped here."
  
  
  They came up to me, both depressed and saying little as we walked. We crossed Thirty-third Street, and left her ih alone with ih thoughts. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two men cross the street. They came back to our side and fell after us. About thirty yards ahead, the driver's side doors of the van opened, but no one got out. Her, thought it would happen when we approach licks, where the darkness was deepest in the block.
  
  
  My companions didn't seem to notice the footsteps rapidly approaching behind us, but I was there. A few more yards and we'll be caught between two pairs of assassins ready to make another attempt at Sherima. Its decided to act while we were in
  
  
  
  
  
  
  a place where some of the light from a streetlamp filtered through the branches of still leafless trees.
  
  
  Turning suddenly, he collided with two tall, muscular black men, who were already almost running to catch up with us. They stopped when she was abruptly called out.:
  
  
  "Are you deceiving us?"
  
  
  Behind me, hers, I heard one of the women gasp as they suddenly turned to face a hulking pair in dark robes who were glowering at me. I also heard a metallic thud far away from the block behind me, which told me that the door of a station wagon parked on two sides had swung open and slammed into one of the cars on the side of the road.
  
  
  "No, what are you talking about?" Odin around the men objected. However, his actions contradicted his words as he charged forward with the knife open.
  
  
  My hand, wrapped in my coat, moved the knife to the side as I pulled the trigger of the Luger. Gawk caught the emu in the chest and knocked it back. I heard him grunt, but I already turned back to my partner, who was scratching at the gun stuck in his belt. My stiletto landed in my right hand, and hers drove ego into it, pressing ego's hand to ego's stomach for a moment before pulling it out. He then lunged forward once more and drove the blade deep into Ego's throat, then immediately pulled Ego out.
  
  
  Someone, she thought, Candy, screamed at the sound of my gunshot, and then another scream - this time from Sherima - instantly brought me back to them. Two more big blacks were almost on their feet. One was raising a pistol; the other appeared to be trying to open a jammed switchblade. She was shot again at Wilhelmina, and part of the shooter's forehead suddenly disappeared, and the flow of blood changed it.
  
  
  The fourth attacker froze in place when she pulled the Luger out of the overpay and made an ego on it. In the doorway of the house next to us, the holy Lord lit up, and I saw fear turn a black face into a shiny mask of fear. Lizzie came up to her and said softly::
  
  
  "Who is the Sword? Where is he? "
  
  
  The terrified man's features seemed almost paralyzed as he looked at me, and then at luger's face pointing up under his ego chin. "I dunno, man. I swear it. Honestly, man, I don't even know what you're talking about. All I know is that we were told to wipe you off the face of the earth.
  
  
  I could tell that Sherima and Candy were approaching me, instinctively seeking protection. I also knew that my prisoner was telling the truth. No one around those who were so afraid of death would worry about keeping secrets.
  
  
  Good. I said. "And tell whoever gave you the order to cool off, or he'll end up here like your friends."
  
  
  He didn't even answer, just turned around, raced to the station wagon and started the engine that had been left running, and drove off without bothering to close the doors that had crashed into two cars parked along the street.
  
  
  Suddenly aware that lights were on in almost every house in the neighborhood, I turned to find Sherima and Candy huddled together, staring in horror at me and the three sprawled figures. Finally, Sherima spoke up:
  
  
  "Nick, what's going on? Who are they?" Her voice was a hoarse whisper.
  
  
  "Predatory," I said. "It's an old trick. They work as four people and box with their victims so that they can't run in the same direction as us."
  
  
  I realized they were both looking at the gun and the knife in my hands-especially the still-bloody stiletto. He bent down, stuck the ego deep in the ground next to the paved path, and pulled the ego out clean. Straightening up, he said to her, " Don't let this upset you. I always carry ih with me. I picked up the habit in New York, but I've never used them before. I had a ferret with them, like I was robbed there one night, and he spent a week in the hospital having stitches applied and removed ."
  
  
  Certain that the call to the police had been made through one of the now brightly lit houses in the neighborhood, she put the Luger back in its holster and shoved the knife back up her sleeve, then took the girls ' hand and said:
  
  
  "Let's go, let's get out of here. You don't want to get involved in something like this." My words were aimed at Sherima, and despite her shock, she understood what I meant.
  
  
  "No. No. It will be in all the papers ... What about them? She looked at the bodies on the ground.
  
  
  "Don't worry. The police will take care of them. When we get back to the hotel, I'll call my police friend and explain what happened. I won't identify the two of you unless absolutely necessary. And even if that's the case, I think the D.C. police will be just as intent on keeping the real story out of the papers as you are. The headlines about the attack on you would be even bigger than the one about Senator Stennis being shot, and I'm sure the District doesn't want that kind of publicity anymore.
  
  
  During the conversation, she was quickly led by ih mimmo of the two dead and one dying man lying on the ground, and continued to lead ih around the corner to Thirty-third Street. Moving hastily and expecting police cars to arrive at any moment, ih continued driving until we reached the corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  of O Street, then let them rest for a moment in front of the historic old St. John's Episcopal Church.
  
  
  "Nick! Look! Taxi service! »
  
  
  Candy's first words since the attack were the sweetest he'd heard in a long time. Not only did this mean that she went through all the shock that temporarily paralyzed her vocal cords and started thinking rationally again, but at that point we were nothing more than an empty taxi. Her, went outside and stopped him. He helped them in, sat down behind them, and said softly to the driver," Watergate Hotel, please, " as he slammed the door. As he pulled away, a county police car roared down Thirty-third Street. By the time we reached the thousands of armed peacemakers on Insist USA Avenue and M-Sturt, Georgetown's main intersection, police cars seemed to be approaching from all directions.
  
  
  "Something big must have happened," the taxi driver remarked, stopping to let one of the cruisers pass ego. "Either that, or the kids are getting close to Georgetown again, and the cops don't want to miss it this time, just in case the girls decide to join in."
  
  
  No one around us wanted to answer emu, and our silence must have offended his ego, his sense of humor, because he didn't say a word to us until we got back to the hotel and he announced the fare. The two-dollar tip returned Emu's smile, but my attempt to brighten up the faces of my companions as we entered the lobby failed miserably, as they didn't seem to respond to my corkscrew:
  
  
  "Let's go to the elevator?"
  
  
  As we drove up to our floor, it suddenly dawned on me that they probably didn't know about the lanes because they weren't in the village when this craze happened. He couldn't explain it either, just walked ih to the door and said: "Good night." They both looked at me strangely, muttered something, then closed the door in my face. He waited for the bolt to snap, then went to his room and called Hawke again.
  
  
  "Two around them all over New York, dead. The gawker who was hit in the chest is still in the intensive care room of the hospital, and it is expected that he will not live to even regain consciousness. It's around the District of Columbia. They all seem to be connected to the Black Liberation Army. New York says a couple from there are wanted in Connecticut for the murder of a state trooper. The local is out on bail for a bank robbery, but Ego is wanted again for a supermarket robbery."
  
  
  It was almost two in the morning when Hawk came back to me. He didn't look as upset as when Emu had called her earlier to tell her what had happened in Georgetown. His immediate concern then was to establish a plausible cover for the district police. Because of one of the highest crime rates in the country, they couldn't expect to take kindly to adding three more homicides to the local total in the FBI's statistical reports.
  
  
  "What will be the official version?" I asked her. I knew the police would have to find some explanation for the shooting and something like that, in one of the best residential areas in the city.
  
  
  "Four robbers made the mistake of choosing a decoy team, and two detectives posed as women, and they were the losers in the shootout."
  
  
  - Do the newspapermen buy it?
  
  
  "Maybe not, but ih editors will do it. The request for ih cooperation was so high that they couldn't disagree with it. The story will get into the newspapers, but it will not be played at all. The same is true for radio and television; they will most likely abandon it entirely."
  
  
  "I'm sorry for causing you so much trouble."
  
  
  "I think it can't be helped, N3." Hawke's tone was considerably softer than it had been a couple of hours ago. "What I'm most concerned about," he continued, " is that you may have blown your cover with Sherima and the girl. Her still ferret can't figure out why you agreed to this walk in the first place. I think it would be wiser to return to the hotel by car ."
  
  
  I tried to explain to her that I was facing a tailspin: whether to appear like a partygoer and possibly lose the advantage of being seen as pleasant company, or risk taking a walk in what should have been a relatively safe place.
  
  
  "I didn't expect the four of them to bet on the restaurant," I said. "However, there is always the possibility that if they hadn't caught up with us on the move, they would have disabled the car and just started shooting."
  
  
  "That can be frustrating," Hawk agreed. "According to our information, all over New York, one pony usually uses a sawn-off shotgun. Vote on how they linked ego to the soldier's murder. If he had discovered this when the three of you were crammed into the back of a limo, there's a pretty good chance that the district police would have had the same number of victims, just a different line-up. I wonder why he didn't use ego on the street. It was probably in a station wagon."
  
  
  "Maybe the Sword set the ground rules," I guessed. "If he plans to
  
  
  
  
  
  
  threaten the CIA with Sherima's death, as we suspect that the shotgun might not have seemed like a suitable weapon for secret agents to use."
  
  
  "Whose idea was this little outing anyway?" Hawk should know.
  
  
  This was the moment that bothered me from the moment the three of us played such a game on our random taxi ride and headed back to Watergate. Her mind replayed the conversation that had led up to our near-fatal walk, and told Hawk that the ferret still hadn't made a final decision on the origin of the ego.
  
  
  "I'm sure it was Candy, who was just celebrating this beautiful night, and suddenly got inspired by the walk," he explained to his boss. "But the idea didn't seem to come to me until after he and Sherima talked about exercise. And the conversation about exercise, as far as I can remember, really started when Candy made a remark that was meant for me and had nothing to do with walking."
  
  
  "How's that?"
  
  
  Trying not to provoke Hawke's moral outrage, T. explained as simply as possible that her words seemed intended to convey the message that she would visit my room later that night. He chuckled for a moment, then decided, as he had long ago decided hers, that there was no way to pin the blame for Georgetown's walking on any ulterior motive. At least for now.
  
  
  However, Hawk wasn't going to give up on the subject of my sexual adventures. "I am sure that another attempt will be made on Sherima in the near future," he said. "Maybe even tonight. I hope you don't let yourself get distracted, N3.
  
  
  "My charges should be sleeping soundly by now, sir. Today in Great Falls, Candy told me that Nah has tranquilizers, so she was advised by Ay and Sherima to take one or two before bed tonight. And they agreed it was a good idea. I hope that a good night's rest will help them forget some of the details of this evening, and I hope that ih will remove unnecessary doubts about my explanation that I am armed.
  
  
  Before hanging up the phone, Hawk said that he had completed the task he had given her in our initial conversation afterward. "As we were discussing, I got a call from the assistant manager of the hotel. Emu was told that it was a call on Adabia's phone and that a persistent freelance photographer had approached Sherima at dinner that evening. "Gentleman Adabi" has requested that someone watch the corridor on your floor tonight and make sure that no one disturbs her. The night manager said he would take care of it right away, so there should be someone there."
  
  
  "He's in there," I said. "I checked the hallway myself earlier, and the elderly Irishman who was supposed to be the house detective pretended to search his pockets for the room key until I got back inside."
  
  
  "Didn't he suspect that you had poked your head out into the city?"
  
  
  “no. I got coffee sent to me as soon as I got back, so I put the tray back on the door. He probably just guessed that I was putting the ego in there to take the ego to room service.
  
  
  "Well, when he's there, the only other entrance to Sherima's room is through the balcony, and I think you'll close that off," Hawke said.
  
  
  "I'm looking at it sincerely now, sir. Fortunately, the second phone in this room has a long cord, and it is not at the balcony right now.
  
  
  "Okay, N3. I'm waiting for a call from you in the morning ... Ha, I think it's because it's already morning, which is this morning.
  
  
  When I told her I'd pick her up at eight in the morning, Hawke said, " Let's do it at seven. I'll be back here by then."
  
  
  "Yes, sir," I said and hung up, I know that the old man is really not going home to bed, but will spend the rest of the night on a worn leather baha'i in his office. This was the ego "duty room" when we had a major operation going on.
  
  
  I turned the two wrought-iron chairs on my small terrace into a makeshift sunbed, and my raincoat into a blanket. It was still a pleasant night, but the Potomac dampness had finally penetrated, and I got up to move a little and get rid of the bone-chilling chill. It was three-thirty on the glowing dial of my watch, and I was just about to try some push-ups when a soft thud on the next balcony outside Sherima's room caught my attention. Huddled in the darkest corner of the room, I looked out over the low wall separating my balcony from Sherima's.
  
  
  I didn't see her there at first. Straining her eyes in the dark, she noticed a rope hanging from the roof of the hotel and passing mimmo Sherima's balcony. I thought I heard the rope hit and fall mimmo the curved front wall. Then he heard another sound from above, and when he looked up, he saw someone coming down the rope. Ego's feet dangerously slid mimmo's overhang as he began a slow descent, shifting his arms. I couldn't see anything but the ego of my shoes and the cuffs of my trousers as I jumped over the partition and pressed myself against the opposite wall, deep in the shadows. Until now of the ferret, it was impossible
  
  
  
  
  
  to notice me. A moment later, when he was anchored to a groaning balcony three feet high, he was less than ten feet away from me. Her body tensed, controlling my breathing, and I stood perfectly still.
  
  
  Fully clothed in black, he regained his composure for a moment before falling quietly to the floor of the terrace. He paused, as if waiting for something. Thinking that he might have been waiting for a companion to come down the rope, he also waited for her, but no one appeared from above to join him. Finally, he came to the sliding glass door and seemed to be listening for something, perhaps to see if anyone was moving inside.
  
  
  When he tried to open the door, hers, he decided it was time to act. I walked up behind him, slung myself over his shoulder, and put my hand over his mouth, while at the same time letting him feel my luger against the side of his head.
  
  
  "Our words, our sounds," I whispered. "Just go back like him and step back into the day."
  
  
  He nodded, and she took three steps back, still holding her hand to her mouth, so he followed my retreat, whether he wanted to or not. It was her ego that turned her around when we got to the farthest corner of the day. In the soft light that streamed up the Watergate courtyard from below, he could see that he was an Arab. Fearless, too. Even in that thin glow of hers, I could see the hatred in ego's eyes; his angry face didn't flash our shadow of fear at being caught.
  
  
  Keeping his Sledge Driver's eyes open in front of ego's mouth, he asked her, " Is anyone else on the roof?"
  
  
  When he didn't answer, he was tagged by ego as a professional; apparently he realized I wasn't ready to shoot ego and risk waking up the entire hotel. Testing his egoism, he swiped the barrel of an emu heavy pistol across the bridge of her nose. The crunch of bones was loud, but she knew it was only because she was sitting so close to him. I tried to ask corkscrew again. He was a real pro, didn't answer, and didn't even dare raise his hand to wipe away the blood that was already welling up on his chin.
  
  
  Shifting the gun to his left hand, he let the stiletto fall on his right and brought it under Ego emu's throat, stopping just short of breaking the skin. He flinched, but his ego's eyes continued to challenge, and his lips remained closed. I lifted it up a little with the needle blade, and it pricked the ego's skin, drawing even more blood. Still he was silent. A little pressure made the spot in the ego's throat go deeper, open beneath the ego Adam's apple, which began to sway nervously.
  
  
  Another inch and you'll never be able to talk again, her ego warned her. "Now, let's try again. There's someone else...
  
  
  The sound of Sherima's balcony door opening brought the interrogation to an abrupt halt. Holding the stiletto around the prisoner's neck, I turned slightly, my Luger swinging to cover the figure coming out around the doorway. It was Candy. For a moment, when she saw the creepy scene, she was lost in her shaggy thoughts. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she became aware of me; then she stared with expressionless horror at the bloodied man almost impaled by the blade in my hand.
  
  
  "Nick, what's going on?" she asked softly, approaching me cautiously.
  
  
  "I couldn't sleep," Hi told her, " so I went out on the balcony to get some air and relax a little. I noticed this guy standing at Sherima's door, so I jumped over the wall and grabbed ego."
  
  
  "What are you going to do with it?" she asked. "Is he a burglar?"
  
  
  "The vote is what we were talking about," I said. "But I kept telling her."
  
  
  "What happened to the ego face?"
  
  
  "I think he accidentally fell on the balcony.",
  
  
  I lied to her.
  
  
  My prisoner didn't move, except for the ego of his eyes that flickered over our faces as we talked. However, when it was mentioned by the ego "accident", the corners of the ego rta stretched into a narrow smile.
  
  
  "It looks Arabic," Candy whispered. "Could he have tried to hurt Sherima?"
  
  
  "I think we'll go next door with me and talk about it for a while," he said, and was glad to see the look in nightwalker's eyes finally come back after the fear.
  
  
  "Can't we call the police, Nick?" said Candy, not taking her eyes off the Arab. "After all, if someone tries to harm Sherima, we should get some protection. Maybe I should call the embassy and call Abdullah."
  
  
  At the mention of her bodyguard's name, the big Arab's nostrils pinched as he sucked in air. The name clearly meant something to him; as I watched him, drops of water formed on his forehead, and I got the impression that he feared the wrath of the former queen's devoted guardian. Ego's eyes rolled up the balcony and then darted up, as if he wanted some way out.
  
  
  "It would be nice to call Abdul," I agreed. "Maybe he can get some answers from our friend here."
  
  
  The Arab's eyes darted up again, but he didn't say anything.
  
  
  "I'll go do it now," Candy said, dodging. "Sherim
  
  
  
  
  
  He's sleeping soundly, and the pills are working, so I'll tell Abdul ... Nick, watch out!
  
  
  Her cry wasn't loud, but at the same time she grabbed my arm, and her totally unexpected strength pushed my arm forward, driving the knife deep into my captive's throat. Ego's eyes opened in disbelief for a moment, then closed almost simultaneously. Stiletto jerked her away. Then the blood started to flow, and he knew at once that he would never speak to Hema and me again. He was dead. However, he wasn't worried about Nen candid back then, because he was looking around to see what caused Candy to gasp in horror.
  
  
  Still gripping my hand, she pointed up, apparently not yet realizing the effects of her sudden push on my arm. "There's something moving," she whispered. "It looks like a snake."
  
  
  "It's a rope," I said, holding back my rising anger. He turned and bent over the Arab, who had slid down to the corner of the terrace. "The voice, how it got here."
  
  
  "What happened to him?" "What is it?" she asked, looking at the dark bulk at my feet.
  
  
  Her couldn't let Ay know that she was the cause of ego's death. Nah had had enough trouble, and hey, she didn't have to carry another burden. "He tried to leave when you screamed, slipped and fell on my knife," I explained. "He's dead."
  
  
  "Nick, what are we going to do?" There's that absurd fear in her voice again, and at that moment I didn't want a hysterical woman in my arms. Leaning down quickly, he wiped the blood from the knife on the dead man's jacket, then tucked the blade into his sleeve and returned the luger to its holster.
  
  
  "First," I said, " I'll move her body over the wall to my room. We can't stay here and talk, we can wake Sherima up, and it's best if she doesn't know anything about it after what she's already been through tonight. Then I'll help you over the wall and we'll talk for a while. Now, while I take care of Nen, you can duck back inside and make sure that Sherima is still asleep. And put on a robe or something, and then come back here."
  
  
  Events were moving so fast that I didn't notice until those ferrets that all that Candy was wearing was a thin pale yellow negligee cut to a deep V and barely containing her generous breasts, which were already heaving convulsively with each nervous breath.
  
  
  As she turned to do as I said, she was picked up by the dead man on the floor and unceremoniously thrown by ego over the wall that separated the two balconies. Then he walked over to the would-be assassin's rope, which was now still hanging over the front wall of Sherima's terrace. I was pretty sure that he hadn't come to the hotel alone; it was likely that at least one other friend was still waiting on the roof above us.
  
  
  And he was pretty sure that whoever was there took it off after this one didn't come back in a reasonable amount of time. If the Arab's accomplice had been as professional as the ego-dead other, he would have known that something had gone wrong. The kill, if successful, should have occurred in five to ten minutes at most. And a glance at my watch told me that it had been fifteen minutes since the ferret's ego legs first appeared on the rope. Although all conversation outside Sherima's room was conducted in whispers, and most of the movements were muffled, there was still the possibility that the second man or people had started to hear something, because the courtyard of the Watergate was quiet at this hour. Only the sound of a random car passing along the nearby Potomac Highway broke the night's silence, and that didn't cover the noise on the balcony at all.
  
  
  He decided not to climb the rope to the roof; instead, he jumped on the balcony railing and partially cut through the rope, loosening it enough for Rivnenskaya so that if anyone tried to climb it again, it would not support the intruder's weight and would dump the ego in the courtyard ten floors below. Candy reappeared at the balcony the day after her, jumped off the railing. She stifled a cry, then saw that it was hers.
  
  
  "Nick, what?"
  
  
  "Just make sure no one else is using this route tonight," I said. "How's Sherima?"
  
  
  "It goes out like a saint. I think she took a couple more tranquilizers, Nick. I gave her two minutes before she went to bed, but it wasn't until I was in my bathroom that I noticed that the bottle was sitting on the sink. Ih counted it, and ih turned out to be at least two less than it should have been.
  
  
  "Are you sure she's okay?" He was concerned that the former queen might have an unintentional overdose.
  
  
  "Yes. I checked her breathing, it's normal, maybe a little slow. Her confident that she only drank four of my pills, and that's enough to cure her for ten or twelve hours.
  
  
  From the looks Candy gave her, I realized that Nah had a lot of questions. For a while, she had to search for answers by asking her, " What about you? Why are you awake? Didn't you also take something to help you sleep?
  
  
  "I think she was so caught up in calming down Sherima, too
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I just forgot it, Nick. Finally, he plopped down on the bed and began to read. He must have dozed off for about an hour without taking any tranquilizers. When I woke up, I went to check on Sherima, and then I heard a noise on her balcony ... you know what happened after that. She paused, then asked sharply, " Nick, who are you really on Della Street?"
  
  
  "No questions asked, Candy. They can wait until we get to my room. Wait here a minute.
  
  
  Her again jumped over the partition and carried the dead Arab to her room, hid the ego, showered, and pulled the curtain across the tub in case Candy entered the bathroom. Then hers, went back to Sherima's balcony and lifted Candy over the partition, following what he hoped was my last night's hideout.
  
  
  Candy hesitated to enter the room, and he realized that she probably expected to see a dead person on the floor. He led her inside and closed the sliding door behind us. It was turned on by the saint when he was inside, before, to hide the corpse. Candy took a quick look around the room, then breathed a sigh of relief when she couldn't see Ego anywhere. She turned to me and said: "Can you tell me now, Nick?"
  
  
  She stared openly at me with wide, unblinking eyes as she clutched a sheer negligee over a matching dress. He put his arm around her and led her to the couch. Her sel next to her and took her hands. After thinking through what I hoped would be a plausible story, I began to speak.
  
  
  "My real name is Nick Carter, Candy, and I work for an oil company, but it's not so much a lobbyist as a private investigator. I usually do staff safety checks, or if someone around our people has a problem, I try to smooth out the bumps and make sure that there are no headlines that would put the company in a bad light. I have a license to carry a gun, and I've had to use it a couple of times abroad. I started carrying a knife after I got into quite a mess in Cairo one day - a couple of thugs took my gun and I ended up in the hospital."
  
  
  "But why are you here now? Is it because of Sherima?
  
  
  "Yes," I said. "We were informed around our office in Saudi Arabia that there might be an attempt on her life. The threat didn't seem too serious, but my superiors decided to send me here just in case. If someone tries something and I can save ee, the company expected that Shah Hassan would be very grateful to us - our company has been trying to settle relations with him for some time. There are still a lot of potential oil reserves in Adabi that are not leased to anyone for exploration, and my bosses would like to work on them."
  
  
  She seemed to be trying to accept my explanation, but she asked an obvious corkscrew: "Wasn't the American government told about the threat to Sherima? Isn't ihk protecting her?
  
  
  "I thought so for a while, too," I said, trying to sound confused. "But the people who pay my salary, and it's a good one, want to appear like good guys if something happens. There will be billions at stake if they get the drilling rights in Adabi. And to be honest, I don't think anyone really took the threat seriously. It seemed that there was no reason for anyone to want to kill Sherima. Maybe if she was still married to Hassan, but we didn't think there was any danger of divorce later."
  
  
  "But this person is on the balcony ... Do you think he was trying to hurt Sherima?"
  
  
  "I don't know exactly. He could have just been a burglar, although the coincidence of being an Arab now surprises me."
  
  
  "What about those men in Georgetown tonight? Is this also a coincidence?
  
  
  "I'm sure it was a coincidence. Just recently, I checked it out with my friend at the county police department, and he told me that all three men they found on the street have records as predatory or petty thieves. It looks like they were wandering around looking for possible victims and noticed that we went out all over the restaurant, saw that we had a limo, but we started walking, so they followed us."
  
  
  "Did you tell him that you shot at them? Will we have to answer questions and go through a police investigation? Sherima would simply die if she interfered in such matters. She tries so hard not to embarrass Hassan.
  
  
  I explained to her that I hadn't informed my supposed cop friend that I didn't know anything about the incident in Georgetown, other than just saying that I was in the area at the time, had seen all the police cars, and was wondering what had happened. "I had a feeling that the police thought that these black men made a mistake trying to rob some big drug dealers or something, and hushed it up. I don't think the police will try too hard to find out who killed ih. They probably think they don't have to worry about three thugs less on the street."
  
  
  "Oh, Nick, this is all so awful," she whispered, snuggling up to me. "What if someone is trying to hurt you?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What if you were killed? She was silent for a moment, deep in thought. Then suddenly she jerked up and looked at me with burning eyes. "Nick, what about us? Meeting me was part of your job? You had to make me fall in love with you just so you could stick close to Sherima?
  
  
  I couldn't let Ay believe it, so he pulled her almost roughly to him and kissed her deeply, even though she resisted. When she was released by ee, he told her, " Dear lady, I have been ordered not to even make contact with Sherima or Hema-or with her, unless there is a threat. My bosses arranged for me to have this room next to hers, yes, but my meeting with you was strictly a fluke. It turned out to be also wonderful. But when the company finds out I've been hanging out with you and Sherima, I'm in big trouble. Especially if they think I might have done something that might have let ihk down later when they try to get those oil contracts."
  
  
  She seemed to believe me, because her face suddenly looked worried, and she leaned in to kiss me, saying softly, " Nick, I won't tell anyone. Even Sherima. I was afraid you were using me. I don't think I can - " The sentence broke off as she buried her face in my chest, but I knew what she was going to say, and I wondered who had used her and caused such pain. Touching her, he lifted her face and gently pressed his lips to hers again. Ee rheumatism was more demanding when her tongue touched my lips, and when ih opened it, she rushed inside to become a probing, teasing demon that elicited an instant reaction from me.
  
  
  Finally breaking the embrace, she asked, " Nick, can I stay here with you both ends of the night?"
  
  
  Her hotel had called the AX and arranged for another collection - the man in the bathroom-so her flippant reply was, " I'm afraid there isn't as much time left for the night as there's supposed to be. The sun will rise in a couple of hours. What if Sherima wakes up and finds you gone?
  
  
  "I told you she'd be out for a few hours." She pouted and said: "Don't you want her to stay?.. Now that I know everything about you?" The pouting target turned into a resentful expression, and he knew she thought she was being used again.
  
  
  Picking her up, he got up and carried her to the bed. "Take off these clothes," I ordered, smiling. "I'll show you who wants you to stay." When I started to undress, I picked up the phone and told the staff to wake me up at seven-thirty.
  
  
  When the wake-up call rang, he got up and did the exercises. He picked it up after the first ring, quietly thanking the operator so as not to wake Candy. I needed a few more minutes before I sent her back to Sherima's apartment.
  
  
  First, I had to get dressed and slip out onto the balcony to pick up the makeshift alarm system. After being tossed Candy on the bed, she insisted on going to the bathroom before we started making love. She explained that she had seen Vyacheslav make-up, but I was sure that her intense curiosity had made her check out where the dead man had hidden her.
  
  
  I took the opportunity to take out a long piece of black thread around the reel I always carried in my luggage. After tying one ego thread around the glass around the kitchen corner and jumping over the wall to Sherima's balcony door, I tied the other thread to the handle. I couldn't see the ego in the dark. He hopped onto his side again and brought the glass to the top of the partition. Anyone who tried to open Sherima's door tore off the glass and shattered on the balcony floor. Since we weren't in one accident a few hours before dawn, I knew no one was trying to get to Sherima that way. And the hotel detective in the hallway didn't make a fuss.
  
  
  When I got back to the room, I saw her, that the demands we made on each other for more than two hours of passion before Candy finally fell asleep were reflected on her face, bathed in the morning sun that shone through the balcony doorway. She made love with complete dedication and gave herself with an intensity that surpassed all our previous meetings. We got together again and again, and after each peak, she was ready again, her caressing hands and teasing mouth almost making me prove my affection again, erase any thought that I was just using her.
  
  
  He leaned down and kissed her soft, wet lips. "Candy, it's time to get up." She didn't move, so her lips slid down her slender neck, leaving a trail of quick kisses in their wake. She moaned softly, and ran a hand over her face as a childish frown quickly crossed her face. He slid his hand under the sheet and pressed her to his chest, massaging her gently, kissing her lips again.
  
  
  "Hey, pretty girl, it's time to get up," I confirmed, looking up.
  
  
  She let me know that she was awake, reaching out and wrapping both arms around my neck before I could get up. She pulled me to her, and this time she began to kiss my face and neck. We ended up in a long hug, and ee let her go
  
  
  
  
  
  
  to finally say:
  
  
  "Sherima will wake up soon. Almost eight o'clock.
  
  
  "It's not fair to send me out to vote like this," she muttered, leaning back against the pillows and blinking in the bright morning sun. She turned to face me and smiled shyly, then looked down at my pants.
  
  
  "You're dressed," she said. "That's not fair either."
  
  
  "I haven't slept or dressed in hours," she teased. "I did some exercise, wrote a book, toured the county, and had time to make a short film."
  
  
  She sat up, filling the room with laughter. "I suppose you've branded a whole herd of cattle, too," she said between laughs.
  
  
  "Well, ma'am," I said, " now that you mention it ..."
  
  
  "Oh, Nick, even with everything that's happened," she sighed, her face softening, " I don't think I enjoyed the company of men as much as you did - not for long."
  
  
  The smile faded from her face and she became serious again, a thoughtful expression appearing on her forehead. She sat back on the pillows for a moment, listening to what her mind was saying. Then, just as abruptly, she turned her bright brown eyes back to me, and he saw a smile flicker at the corners of her mouth.
  
  
  "Sherima isn't up yet," she chuckled, starting to lean back on the bed. "At least another ... ouch... half an hour..."
  
  
  "Oh, no, not forever," I said, jumping up from the chair I'd taken. "This time, I mean!"
  
  
  I had too much-del-this morning to give way to tempting Candy invitations. Going to the bed, he found her, bent down and pulled off the covers, in the same movement turned her to life and slapped her ass.
  
  
  "Ouch! It hurts!"
  
  
  I wasn't sure what caused her pain, but she jumped out of bed.
  
  
  "Now," I drawled, " we must take you to your room."
  
  
  At first she gave me a puzzled look, then, looking at her negligee and negligee lying on the chair, she said, " Oh, actually. I don't have any keys.
  
  
  "That's right, so that's the way you came."
  
  
  As she put on her nightgown, she seemed to suddenly recall her other huge appetite. "Nick, how about breakfast?"
  
  
  "A little later. I need to make a phone call. "
  
  
  "Excellent. How do I get back to my room without being noticed? "What is it?" she asked, tightening her nightgown tightly.
  
  
  "Just like that." He picked her up and carried her to the balcony, then lifted her over the dividing wall. If there were other people who were up early that morning at Watergate, they must have thought they were seeing something. When she got down to the floor, she leaned back against the wall and gave me a quick kiss, then turned to me. I ran through the door to Sherima's room.
  
  
  Back in his room, he went to the phone and dialed Hawke's number. I was just about to dial the last digit when my doorbell started ringing crazily, and at the same time, there was a knock on the door panel. After hanging up, he ran to the door and pulled it open. Candy was there, her face pale and her eyes filled with tears.
  
  
  "Nick," she exclaimed, " Sherima's gone!"
  Chapter 8
  
  
  
  Candy dragged her back to Sherima's room and slammed the door behind us. I had enough trouble not inviting curious guests to show up in the lobby or call the front desk to find out why a girl was yelling at this hour. Candy sat at the door to Sherima's room, wringing her hands and repeating: "It's my fault. I should never have left her alone. What do we do, Nick?" What are we going to do?"
  
  
  Its already done something. From the appearance of the former queen's living room-bedroom, it was obvious that there wasn't any struggle. He returned to the foyer, where Candy pressed herself against the doorway, still repeating her litany of despair. A quick glance into her room showed me that there was no struggle there either. Apparently, Sherima was taken away while she was still under the influence of tranquilizers. But, how did the hijackers drag her around the hotel? What happened to the Watergate security guard who was supposed to spend the night in the hallway? I needed to check my ego's location, but I couldn't risk moaning Candy following me down the hall again. It was supposed to be occupied by sl.
  
  
  Taking her firmly by the shoulders, I gave her a little shake, and then even harder, until she stopped screaming and looked at me. "Candy, I want you to go through Sherima's clothes and tell me if anything is missing. We need to find out what she was wearing when she went out around the hotel. While you're doing this, I need to go back to my room for a moment, okay? I want you to keep this door closed and locked. Don't let anyone in but me. Are you listening?" Do you understand what you need to do? "
  
  
  She nodded, her chin trembling and tears welling up in her eyes. Her lips trembled as she asked, "Nick, what are we going to do? We have to find her. Can't we call the police? Or Abdul? What about Hassan? Should we have let him know? And the embassy?
  
  
  "I'll take care of everything in silence," he assured her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  hugging her for a moment to calm her down. "Just do as I say and see if you can find out what she was wearing. I'll be right back." Now remember what I said about not letting anyone in. And no phone calls are open now. Do not talk on the phone, so that if Sherima tries to call you, the line will not be busy. Will you do it, Candy? "
  
  
  Sniffing her nose, she lifted one sleeve of her expensive nightgown and wiped away the tears streaming down her face. "All right, Nick. I'll do what you say. But come back, please. I don't want to be here alone. Please."
  
  
  "I'll be back in a couple of minutes," I promised. As I walked out the door, she locked it behind me.
  
  
  There was still no sign of the hotel security guard in the hallway. Either he left his job, which seemed unlikely if another employee hadn't changed his ego, or ... Turning around, he pressed the button that rang for the day of Sherima's phone number. When Candy asked nervously: "Who is it?" I gently introduced myself, and she dropped the bolt and let me in.
  
  
  She started saying, " Nick, I just started looking for her..."
  
  
  Slipping mimmo on top of her, rushed to her room and checked the bathroom. It's empty. Running back to Sherima's cabin, he entered her bathroom. The shower curtain was pulled over the tub, and he pulled it aside.
  
  
  Obviously, he wasn't the only one who hid the body that night. In a frozen pool of blood in the tub lay the aging house detective she'd seen earlier, fumbling for his keys. Death was the only relief he got, his could see where blood was flowing all over the multiple stab wounds in Ego's chest. He probably made the mistake of getting too close to the person who came to Sherima's room without first drawing his revolver. He pulled back the shower curtain and walked out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
  
  
  My face must have shown something, because Candy said hoarsely, " Nick, what is this? What's there? Suddenly, she gasped and her hand flew to her mouth, " Nick, is that Sherima? Is she there?"
  
  
  "No, it's not Sherima," I said. Then, as she reached for the bathroom handle, ee grabbed her arm. "Don't go there, Candy. There's someone out there ... He's dead. I do not know who he is, but I think he may be the hotel security officer who tried to protect Sherima. There's nothing we can do for him right now, so I don't want you to go in there.
  
  
  Candy looked like she was wotum-wotum was going to faint, so he led her back to the main living room and sat her down for a minute, stroking her beautiful hair as she stifled her sobs. Finally, she looked at me and said:
  
  
  "We need to call the police, Nick. And I have to tell the embassy so they can get in touch with Hassan. This is my job. He was supposed to be with her and help protect her." She started crying again.
  
  
  I knew I was wasting my precious time, but I had to keep her from making phone calls that might spread word of Sherima's disappearance to the Sidi Hassan Palace. It's time to tell ey the truth - at least ee's version. He raised her head and, without taking his eyes off nah, tried to speak quite sincerely, saying:
  
  
  "Candy, I have to tell you something. What I told you last night about working as an investigator for an oil company is not true.
  
  
  She was about to say something, but I put my finger to her trembling lips and kept talking.
  
  
  "She's kind of an investigator, but for the United States government. I work in the Secret Service's executive protection division. I was assigned to protect Sherima after we received notification from foreign sources that someone might try to kill Sherima."
  
  
  Candy's eyes widened at my words, and he paused so she could ask her corkscrew question. "Why, Nick? Why would anyone cause harm in all the houses around Sherime? She's not the queen anymore.
  
  
  "To embarrass the United States," I explained. "That's the whole point. There are people in Adabi who would like the United States to lose its influence in Hassan Chess. And if anything happens to Sherima here in the States, we're sure it will. You know he still cares a lot about her, don't you?
  
  
  "Sure," Candy said, wiping away another tear. "He loves her more than anything else in the world. He always did. He didn't want to divorce her, but she made him do it. Nick, this is eeee; do you remember her telling you that everyone has secrets? Well, Sherima said that Hasan had to give up nah to save his life and the children, and ... Oh, Nick, what's going to happen to her? What did they do to her?
  
  
  "Don't worry," I said, hoping I sounded confident. "We will find Sherima and bring her back safely. But you have to help. Not just Sherima, but it's your turn." In the rheumatism on the corkscrew that flashed at nah on the man, her continued: "You see, if you contact the Adabian embassy now, news of Sherima's abduction will spread. "Immediately, the world will know that the United States failed to protect it. And that's why she's being kidnapped
  
  
  
  
  
  
  hijackers are being counted. I think they're planning to hold her off for a while, maybe long enough to focus everyone's attention on hunting her down, and then... "I didn't need to say the obvious-Candy's expression told me she understood what I meant. .
  
  
  "So, you see," I continued, " as long as we can hide her disappearance, she'll be safe. The people who took it need headlines. At least for the time being, we can keep ih from being ih received. But I need your help. Will you pretend that Sherima is here and safe? It can save people's lives and help your country."
  
  
  "Nick; its been so long since I left here that I don't think of it as my country anymore. But I'll do whatever you think will help Sherima.
  
  
  "It will also help Hassan and Adabi," he said. "If chess goes around the United States, it won't last long. There are people in the Middle East who are just waiting for the decision to move to an ego country. And it's not just about driving the ego off the throne. It would mean the ego's life."
  
  
  For a moment, Candy's eyes flashed with fire, and she spat out, " I don't care about nen. He deserves what he gets ." My astonishment must have shown on my face, because she went on, very dejectedly: "Oh, Nick, I didn't mean mistletoe. It's just that I'm most concerned about Sherima. She never did anything that didn't hurt anyone."
  
  
  I didn't have time to question her about her obvious assumption that Hassan had hurt people, but I made a mental note to come back to it later. Instead, he told her: "Then I can count on your help?" When she nodded, he said, " Um, here's what you need to do..."
  
  
  "Abdul will be arriving at Watergate soon to pick her and Sherima up so that he can go looking for a home again," he explained, noting the time. Her job was to keep Emu from finding out about Sherima's disappearance, as he was a servant of Shah Hassan and felt obligated to report her immediately. Candy wanted to know how she should do this, so she was advised that when Abdul called from the lobby, she told Em that Sherima wasn't feeling well and decided to stay in her room and rest for the day. However, she had to tell the bodyguard that Ego was the owner of the hotel to take Candy back to Maryland so that she could contact the real estate agents, since Sherima was staying in the area to buy the estate.
  
  
  "What if Abdul wants to talk to Sherima?" asked Candy.
  
  
  "Just tell em that she's fallen asleep again and doesn't want to be disturbed. Tell emu that if he insists, emu will have to take responsibility. I think he was prepared enough to obey Sherima's orders through you, that he would do what he was told. Now I want you to go on a date with him and keep ego in Potomac for as long as possible. Stop by every real estate agency you can find and make the ego wait while you go through the listings. Give me as much time as possible before I return to Washington. Then, when you do have to go back, explain that you need to do some shopping for Sherima and ask ego to take you to some shops in the city center. This will give me a few hours to try and track down Sherima and see if we can get her back before you get back. Great?"
  
  
  She nodded, and then demanded, " What's the matter?": "But what if you don't find her by then, Nick? I can't put the ego away forever. He'll want to call a doctor or something if Sherima isn't up by the time we get back. What should I tell Abdul then? »
  
  
  "We'll just have to worry about it when the time comes. You can tell the manager before you leave here this morning that Sherima isn't feeling well and doesn't want to be disturbed... maids or phone calls. That way, no one will try to get into the room today. And the switchboard won't accept calls to the room. Better yet, maybe you should instruct the manager to have the switchboard let everyone who called Sherima know that she wasn't at the hotel on the day. Make sure that they understand that you need to say this to everyone, even if it's someone on the phone. Emphasize the fact that Sherima is unwell and doesn't want calls or visitors. He'll listen to you, because from what you've already told me, you've been dealing with the hotel staff since you arrived.
  
  
  "Do you think this will work, Nick? Can you find Sherima before she gets hurt?"
  
  
  "I'll do my best. Now I need to go next door and make some phone calls. I don't want to link this phone right now, just in case. Get dressed and ready when Abdul arrives. And don't forget to check out Sherima's clothing to see what she was wearing when she was taken away.
  
  
  He checked to make sure she was up and moving before going back to her room and calling Hawke. How ble briefly told emu what happened, and that I had arranged with Candy to keep the news from spreading. He wasn't so sure that I was right to call myself an agent of the Executive Protection Service - if something went wrong, it could have serious consequences, and it looked like it was the bureau
  
  
  
  
  
  
  You were going to take the blame for this, " but he agreed that the story was better than telling Ay the truth about yourself and the others.
  
  
  He was also a little confused about Emu having to arrange for two bodies to be delivered to Watergate, but we quickly worked out a plan. Two ego-conscious people deliver a couple of packing crates to my room, ostensibly with rented movie projection equipment. Each hotel employee passing through the delivery entrance will be asked to install business conference equipment in my room and then return to them later. The corpses leave with the packing boxes.
  
  
  "What about the hotel security guard?" "There is a possibility that soon someone will come to change the ego. Allegedly, he was on duty all night.
  
  
  "As soon as we're done on the phone," Hawk said, " I'll get on it. Since we have such an influence that we have on the people who run the hotel, we are in a pretty good position, but even so, we will have to make every effort to keep it a secret. And we can only keep quiet about it until there is some official explanation for ego's death."
  
  
  I was told to stay in my room and wait for further information from Hawke. Her hotel get down to business, but admitted when he pointed it out that at the moment its really not much I can do. He assured me that he would immediately notify me through all official channels, so that he could look for a woman of Sherima's description, without mentioning her by name. In addition, all AX agents who have infiltrated militant radical groups and known subversive organizations operating in the District area will be ordered to use any means at ih's disposal to locate the former Queen.
  
  
  In rheumatism at Corkscrew Hawk, she is told by Emu that he is confident that Candy Knight will cooperate in an attempt to cover up Sherima's disappearance. "Not so much because it's for her country," he told her Old man, " but for Sherima herself. And ostensibly not Hasan's owl, " he added, telling Em about her obvious dislike for the math major who had done so much for Nah. "She would like to know what is behind her feelings for Shah," I said.
  
  
  "I'll see if I can get her anything else at our branch in Sidi Hassan," Hawke said. "But I think they put all the available information in this dossier. Now, N3, if you don't have anything else, I want to put it all into action."
  
  
  "Actually, sir. I'll be waiting for your call." I just want to go next door to see if Candy is ready to distract Abdullah Bedawi, then I'll go back to my room as soon as I know they're leaving for Maryland."
  
  
  Before interrupting our conversation, Hawk denied reports that appeared in the media about me putting up a "Do not disturb" sign on my day and Sherima's day number. "We can't let a maid walk into one of our rooms and start washing the shower," he said. Her response was, as always, ego-soothed by attention to the smallest details, no matter how difficult the operation was in general. Then they hung up.
  
  
  "Abdul is waiting for me downstairs," Candy said as soon as she cleared the door and let me into Sherima's room.
  
  
  "How did he take the news that Sherima stayed home today?"
  
  
  "At first, he claimed in a conversation with her. Then it occurred to me that maybe we were celebrating too much after we left the ego last night-God, was that just last night? It seems like a long time ago - and that she was hungover, didn't want to see anyone, wasn't used to drinking so much ... He was a bit locked in to it - you know Muslims and alcohol. But in the end, he agreed to it. I'll keep my ego out of the way and keep myself busy as long as I can, Nick, but you need to find her quickly. Abdul will kill me if he thinks I had anything to do with her disappearance, or if he even suspects I held him back from asking."
  
  
  "Don't worry, Candy," I said as confidently as I could. "We'll find her. I just got off the phone with headquarters, and a lot of people are already looking for her. What was she wearing?
  
  
  "I think she was still wearing her negligee. As far as I can tell, none of her dresses are missing, but nah ih has so many. Oh, yes, her long mink was gone, too.
  
  
  "They probably put this around nah to get her out. Over a negligee, it may look like she's wearing an evening dress. As far as he could tell, they probably took her down in the service elevator and then through the garage. If she was still drugged by those pills, she might look like a girl who hasn't had too much to drink and is being helped home by a couple of friends.
  
  
  Suddenly the phone rang, startling us both. "Didn't you make sure the switchboard didn't pick up calls?" he asked her.
  
  
  The manager wasn't on duty yet, but the assistant manager was very polite. He assured me that the Queen would not be disturbed.
  
  
  "Answer me," I said when the ring sounded again. "It must be Abdul talking on the home phone in the lobby. Distribution board
  
  
  
  
  
  I can't control who dials candid messages from there. Be sure to reprimand the emu for calling and for risking waking up Sherima."
  
  
  Candy picked up the phone, listened briefly, and nodded to me that I was right in my assumption, then continued her story! Abdul for daring to call the room when Emu was told to just wait for her and not disturb Sherima. She did a good job of it, and I mentally applauded her acting skills in the midst of stress.
  
  
  When she hung up, she turned around and said, " Nick, I have to go. If I don't, he'll be next. He says that the ferret still isn't sure that the emu should go out of town when "milady" isn't feeling well."
  
  
  "Okay, Candy," I agreed, giving her a quick kiss as she draped a fox jacket over her snow-white blouse. "Just don't let em suspect anything. Behave normally and keep your ego away for as long as possible."
  
  
  "I'll do it, Nick," she promised as he let her out the door. "Just find Sherima." Another quick kiss and she was gone. I closed the door behind her and stood for a moment, looking at the lock and chain, at the door - the solid steel bars. He wondered how someone could get into the room without breaking through the chain, making enough noise to wake everyone on the floor. Apparently, the chain was out of place. This can't be happening, since Candy was in my room at the time of the abduction, and nah didn't have a chance to secure it in place before then. While we were making love, someone used the vacant door to enter and carry away the former queen she was supposed to protect. And in the process, they killed a man whose career as a security guard never turned his ego against anyone more dangerous than an overzealous autograph hunter or a low-class petty thief. Disgusted with myself, I put her Do Not Disturb sign in Sherima's room for the next day and went back to my room. When he opened the door, the phone rang, and he ran to the emu to answer it. Hawk spoke as soon as she sensed my voice:
  
  
  "Men deliver your movie projector and other things in, say, an hour. The security guard they killed was a bachelor and, according to his personal data, had no family in the area. At least it's a break; no one will be waiting for ego at home this morning. The hotel manager will inform the Watergate security chief that he has Hogan - that's the man's name-on special assignment, and that he should be off duty for a couple of days. This is all I have for you-wait a minute ... "
  
  
  He could hear the buzzer that signaled a call coming in through Hawke's many desk phones, and he could hear him talking to someone on the other end of the line, but he couldn't make out the words. Then it came back to my line.
  
  
  "It was a connection," he said. "Our monitors report that the signal was transmitted, apparently in code, to a station in Adabi less than ten minutes ago. The sender hasn't been on the air long enough for us to fix it here. The message was short and repeated three times. Decoding is currently working on this - if they come up with anything, I'll get back to you right away.
  
  
  "Do we have a car covering Sherima's limo?" I asked her. It was part of a plan that Hawk and I had worked out earlier. We also don't want anyone grabbing Candy and Sherima's bodyguard. Its intentionally forgot to mention this Candy problem, I don't want to suggest hey hey that there might be something to worry about personally.
  
  
  “yeah. Wait until I check her location.
  
  
  I heard Hawk talking to Chem again. I guessed that this was the radio room used to direct local operations, and then he wrote to me again:
  
  
  "Right now, the driver and the girl are in Georgetown, preparing to turn onto the Canal Road; for example, the same route you took the other day."
  
  
  Good. I think hey, I managed to convince him that it was ih's job to find Sherime at home as quickly as possible. Now, if she can keep ego busy for most of the day, we'll have a little time before the message reaches the embassy.
  
  
  "Let's hope so," Hawk agreed, and then added: "I'll contact you as soon as I get anything else for you, N3."
  
  
  When he hung up, she went to the bathroom and checked on the dead Arab. The corpse was frozen in the tub, thankfully in such a cramped position that it was easier to place the ego in the makeshift coffin that was soon to be delivered to my room. I was glad of that; I didn't want to start breaking a dead man's arms or legs in math.
  Chapter 9
  
  
  
  It was midday when I got the notification from Hawk again. By then, the bodies had been removed, both around my room and around Sherima's apartment. The last job wasn't so easy. By the time Hawk's men arrived, the maids were already working on the floor. Getting the Arab into one of the equipment boxes in my room wasn't too difficult, but it was necessary to distract the maid in my wing a little while while they went into the next room and removed the terrible bundle.
  
  
  
  
  
  take the bathroom there. To do this, I had to walk down the hall to the maid's room and keep her busy with silly questions while they did their work.
  
  
  By the time the maid explained to me that she was too busy to sew a few buttons to my shirts and personally handle the laundry for me - the cleaner and valet services would happily take care of any such tasks-she repeatedly insisted, while he pretended not to understand that she was mistletoe in the bathroom. Vida - she must have thought I was a complete idiot. In the end, though, he was almost able to talk her out of it by showing her a twenty-dollar bill. I pretended to give up when I heard a cough in the hallway - the signal that Hawke's men were done-and headed for the service elevator, putting twenty minutes back. However, her disappointed look was partially erased with the five dollars ay handed her as "consolation," and the free expenses - if they were simple - the Texan attracted another other in the state of Watergate.
  
  
  However, Hawke's call didn't help me ease the longing I felt for being stuck in this room. Her, knew that somewhere Sherima was a prisoner of the Sword or the ego of people, and her was sitting on his ass and couldn't do anything about it until the secret agents of AXE ih informants came up with a lead. And Hawk's rheumatism my immediate corkscrew about this potential lead didn't help:
  
  
  "Nothing. No one seems to know anything. And that's not the worst of it, N3 ."
  
  
  "What now?"
  
  
  "The State Department has received a request from the Adabia Embassy regarding Sherima's safety. The ambassador acted at the direct request of Shah Hassan. Someone in Adabi - whoever got the radio signal - told the Shah that Sherima's life was in danger here. We still ferret don't know who transmitted the signal this morning, or who got their ego in Sidi Hassan. But this is the message that Decoding analyzed based on the signal a few minutes before the Adabia embassy call: "Sword ready to strike."
  
  
  "It looks like she's still alive," he interrupted. "Don't you think it would say something like 'Sword struck' if she was dead?"
  
  
  Hawk must have come to the same conclusion, too, since he agreed with me, though I think we both admitted to ourselves that we were hoping for the best, fearing the worst. "However," he continued gloomily, " I don't think we have too much time. According to the state, the Adabian embassy has already made inquiries to Watergate about Sherima's whereabouts. They were told that she was away for the day, because you asked the girl to make an appointment with the manager. Finally, the embassy spoke to the manager directly, and he did as instructed, informing the first secretary that he understood Sherima had gone to Maryland to look for a house. At the moment, ih has satisfied this, but now the pressure on them is growing."
  
  
  "How's that?"
  
  
  "It seems that someone at the embassy suddenly realized that Abdul Bedawi did not show up all day, as he apparently did."
  
  
  "I find that strange, too," I said. "I wonder if he didn't call. He had emphasized this before. Where is the limo now?
  
  
  Hawk left the line to check the radio room, then handed me a report: "Your friend is currently sitting in a realtor's office in Potomac. This is the beginning of the second corkscrew in which she stopped. The driver is waiting in the car.
  
  
  "Something's wrong," I said. "Normally, he would use the opportunity to make a phone call to report it. Unless..."
  
  
  "If what, N3?"
  
  
  "Unless he already knew what he'd find out when he contacted the embassy, sir." Can you keep our car near them from now on? I don't like all this music anymore." My mind raced ahead of my words as everything fell into place. "I have a feeling that we are doing exactly what they want us to do."
  
  
  "We are already holding on as much as possible to lick towards them without removing our hands completely. But wait a minute, Nick-Communications tells me that one morning these people in the undercover car thought they were the ones who were killed. Sherima ih's limousine was cut off by a patrol car accompanying the funeral procession. When they were finally able to continue driving, the limo obviously slowed down because it was only a couple of blocks away. It seems that Bedawi may have been waiting for them to catch up."
  
  
  Hawke started to say something else, then asked me to wait when another phone call in the ego office heard her. When I recognized the ring, I got a chill - a double ring. He knew that it was coming from a red phone located near Hawke's right elbow, and that it was directly connected to the Oval Office in the White House. I was with Hawk once when it rang, and the ego of my rheumatism - "Yes, Mr. President" - told me I'd called the hotline. He never confirmed the idea
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He could tell that he was annoyed with himself for answering the phone this way with Hema anywhere within earshot.
  
  
  It must have taken her only five minutes to get back on the line, but it felt like hours. I couldn't hear what he was saying; the red phone had a specially designed mouthpiece that limited the words to the transmitter. He was sure there was a super scrambler on the line, too.
  
  
  Hawk finally came back to me on the phone.
  
  
  "Yes sir."
  
  
  "Did you recognize the ring?" He never missed anything, though when he was in Ego's office the day he answered the president's call, he tried to pretend he didn't hear him answer the red phone. However, he obviously remembered the incident.
  
  
  "Yes, sir," I said.
  
  
  "The Secretary of State is in the hall with the president. He has just been contacted directly by the Adabian Ambassador, acting on special orders from Shah Hassan. The United States Government was requested to use the po-solution to immediately locate the former Queen Sherima and make direct contact with the Ego of Her Royal Highness. The secretary had no choice but to say that we would try to do it immediately."
  
  
  "How soon is 'right away'?" I asked her.
  
  
  "The secretary bought us some time, N3, but at the same time put us in a dead end. He told Ambassador Adabia to inform Shah Hassan that Sherima was supposed to return to his home for dinner tonight, but not in Alexandria, but at the townhouse he keeps in Georgetown. He told the ambassador to assure the Shah that Sherima would contact him directly via the State Department radio network. It has an international transmitter link around city House and over ego House in Alexandria. The ambassador informed the secretary that I had spoken to him and that the Shah would be waiting at his radio despite the six-hour time difference."
  
  
  "How much time do we have?"
  
  
  "The secretary said that Sherima was supposed to arrive in the afternoon around eight o'clock. It will be two o'clock in the morning in Sidi Hassan. And you can bet that the shah will be waiting. That means we have about seven and a half hours to get Sherima back to Watergate, Nick.
  
  
  She was asked by Hawke if he would contact the agents in the car covering Candy and Abdullah and ask them for the name of the realtor's office in Potomac where the limo was parked. He said he would recognize the name for me for a moment, then asked me why I needed the name.
  
  
  "I'll bring ih back here," emu told her. "I'll call Candy and tell her that the embassy suspects something has happened to Sherima, so there's no point in her pretending to be with Abdul. I'll tell her hey not to let on that I called, but just tell em it's time to get back; she might say that she's also worried about Sherima being alone, or something like that. I want to see what happens when they get back. There's something wrong with all of this, but I can't figure it out. Or maybe I'm just tired of sitting in this hotel room, and I think I might be provoking some action by doing so. Are you all right, sir?"
  
  
  "You're in charge, N3," Hawk said. "Is there anything else you need from me right now?"
  
  
  "No, sir. Just tell that backup car to stay close to them, and I want to be informed of ih's whereabouts when they get back to the County."
  
  
  "I'm asking the radio room to contact you directly every ten minutes, N3," Hawke said. "I'll have to go to the White House. The president wants her to be there when he and the Secretary of State decide what to do if Sherima doesn't have time to talk to Hassan."
  
  
  She was asked to tell em that I would do everything I could to prevent this possibility from happening, but I already knew her, that he knew about it.
  
  
  Shortly after Hawke hung up, the radio operator AX called to tell him the name of the real estate agency where Candy was performing her part of the charade. I got her number through information and called, surprising the woman, who didn't answer, asking about Miss Knight. When Candy got on the line and found me calling hey, she seemed even more surprised.
  
  
  "Nick, how did you know where to find me?"
  
  
  "There's no time to explain, beautiful. I'll tell you all about it later. There has been a new development, and I want you to come back here as soon as possible."
  
  
  "What happened? Is that Sherima? Did you find her?" She...
  
  
  She was interrupted by saying, " No, it's not Sherima, and we haven't found her. But we've heard rumors that Shah Hassan is trying to contact her. Somehow, we believe, the emu was informed that she was gone. Now don't tell Abdul that you know anything. Just say that you've decided to go back; you're worried about Sherima in the first place, and that the agents you visited already seem to have enough homes for Sherima to leave without moving on.
  
  
  "Maybe he'll hurry me back, Nick. If I do that, he might think something is wrong."
  
  
  Her reasoning made sense, so she was advised by ay not to force ego to go openly to the city, but to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  Follow our original plan - stop by a couple of stores ostensibly to run errands in Sherima. "But take your time," I warned, " and don't let Abdul show up at the embassy if you can. Take ego back to your room when you get back to Watergate.
  
  
  "Where are you now, Nick?"
  
  
  "Yes, Candy. I'll be waiting for you to return."
  
  
  Candy paused, then asked slowly, " Nick, do you think Abdul might have been involved in Sherima's disappearance? Is that why you want him back?"
  
  
  "But now I do not know what to think. But I'd rather have him where I can keep an eye on him. Just try to come back here in a couple of hours if you can do it without being too obvious about it ."
  
  
  "All right, Nick. See you soon."
  
  
  Five minutes later, after I put down my phone and flopped down on the bed, the radio operator called to say that Candy had left the Potomac real estate office and that the limo was on its way back to Washington.
  
  
  "Keep me posted on every ih move," I instructed him before hanging up.
  
  
  Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. I was told that the backup car was heading south on 190 River Road, about five hundred yards behind Sherima's limousine, and was approaching the intersection with Cabin John Parkway. This meant that Abdul was taking a more direct route to the County than he and Candy used to get to Maryland's horse country. He obviously read the maps a little more after our previous expedition there.
  
  
  "Instruct the cover car to keep ih in sight at all times," he told her radio operator. "I don't care if they crash blatantly into the rear bumper, I don't want to lose this car."
  
  
  "Yes, sir," he replied, and even before he hung up, I could hear him start relaying my orders through the powerful AX transmitter.
  
  
  The speed with which the ego's next report arrived, it frees me up. And the report did not encourage ego at all.
  
  
  "Subject's car stopped at a service station near the intersection of River Road and Seven Locks Road." Her hand found the map, and he continued: "Car C reports that the driver has gone to the gas station, and the attendant is filling up the limousine. Car " C " has stopped, out of sight of the station, and one agent goes forward walking to keep up with the surveillance... Can I have her stay on the line to check out the ego report, sir?
  
  
  "Yes," emu told her, and waited for about ten minutes before he heard the radio crackle in the background with the report. The radio operator returned to the phone with words that confirmed one of my worst fears: Candy couldn't stop Abdul from reaching the phone:
  
  
  "The agent in Car C reports that the limo driver was at the service station eight minutes before he returned to his car. At this time, the agent watched the driver on a pay phone at the station, then received a call from the duty officer. At least two calls were made by the driver and one by a female passenger, but the agent wasn't close enough to see the numbers dialed. The limo and now the passengers are heading south on Cabin-John Boulevard... Just a moment, sir. I could hear another transmission, but I couldn't make out the message. The AX operator soon told me what was going on:
  
  
  "Subject's car has left on George Washington Memorial Boulevard, and is still heading south. Car C will report again in five minutes if you don't want to be contacted, sir.
  
  
  “no. Just report to Machine C to maintain this reporting schedule ."
  
  
  When her connection was interrupted, I was wondering who Hema Abdul had contacted. It made sense that Odin's ego call had been made to the embassy, which meant that he now knew what had happened to Sherima's whereabouts - if he didn't already. But who else did he call?
  
  
  The next three messages, at five-minute intervals, were around our car C, which only informed me that Sherima's limo was continuing to move back into the area on George Washington Boulevard. When he was asked by the radio operator to check the car's speed, he sent a request to Car C and soon informed me that Abdul seemed to be maintaining the same 45-50 mph he was keeping while driving in and down the Potomac. I asked her to confirm this speed and was sure that the initial information was correct.
  
  
  This caused even more suspicion in the direction in which it was being built. If Abdul had been informed by the embassy that Sherima might be in danger, Emu should have returned to the city as soon as possible. I really wanted Hawk to go back to his office so that he could check his contacts at the embassy and who, if the bodyguard had called there. However, since Hawk didn't contact me, I didn't realize that he was still in the White House courtroom. The AX radio operator confirmed this fact to me during his next report.
  
  
  "Do you want the Comm to issue an emergency call to the ego pager?" the radio operator asked.
  
  
  "No, that won't be necessary," emu told her as he saw Hawk's small phone suddenly start humming
  
  
  
  
  
  However, right now it would be useful to know if anyone around our underground contacts managed to lead to Sherima's disappearance. As the agent in charge of the operation, I had the right to contact Hawk's executive office and request the status of any field reports, but I decided that I would wait until the Old Man returned to headquarters. In any case, he was sure that he had given orders that Oborua should be informed of all important communications relevant to the case.
  
  
  Keep an eye on Sherima's car on my map while the reports were being relayed to me, traced it back to the Canal Road entrance, and realized that she was back in the area. Since it seemed to her that Abdul knew something was wrong with Sherima, she expected him and Candy to return to the hotel soon. She wouldn't be able to distract him by any means if he sensed that "Her Highness" was in danger.
  
  
  Just two minutes later, the ego of the last report from the AX radio operator came back to me on the phone. "Sir, something has happened that I think you should know about. Car C began transmitting ahead of schedule to report that the limousine it was following had slowed down significantly. Then car C suddenly broke contact and I couldn't pick it up again."
  
  
  "Keep trying," I ordered. "I'll stay in touch."
  
  
  Over and over, I heard him say the phone numbers of car C. Em didn't have to call me to tell me he hadn't received a response. Then, all of a sudden, I heard a message on the phone coming to the radio room, and I had the hope that Car C might have been in the transmission stop zone. Ih quickly broke up when the radio operator returned to the line:
  
  
  "Sir, its, I'm afraid you have a problem. Monitoring has just caught the flash of the county police, who have already ordered patrol cruisers to investigate an accident on Canal Road in the area where our car last arrived in the square. Are there any orders?"
  
  
  “yeah. Step away from the lines and ask the Viewer to call me directly. I want to know every word the county police have to say about this call." The radio operator was shrewd enough to cut the connection immediately without responding to my instructions.
  
  
  Ninety seconds later, my phone rang again - the Watergate switchboard must have thought I was booking bets outside my room with so many calls. An observer in the AX monitoring section began reporting what they had learned by eavesdropping on the voice of the district police. The news wasn't good. The county cruiser was apparently close to the Canal Road site and quickly arrived at the scene. The initial report to headquarters headquarters was that the car had crashed and caught fire, and ambulances were needed.
  
  
  "Wait a minute, sir," my new interlocutor said, and I could hear the cross-talk on the radio again in the background. It was soon back on line with an update. "It looks bad, sir," he said. "The DP cruiser just requested that % Name % answered the call and sent all available spare cars. The patrol officer who called said that a second cruiser had already arrived, and they were trying to put out the fire, but they also needed a fire truck. In addition, he said that there is evidence of shooting at automatic weapons."
  
  
  "There is no indication that there is a second car at the scene - a limousine?" she was asked.
  
  
  "Nothing yet. Wait, vote again ... Cruiser reports three dead, sir. We had three men in this car C; it looks like they bought the ego "
  
  
  She was instructed by ego to transmit a message to our radio room to send the nearest available AX unit to the scene. "I want to get a full account of what happened as soon as possible. Someone must have seen it, or the district police wouldn't have guessed so quickly. When he got back on the line, then relayed my orders, I had something else for him: "Get another phone and see if the Old Man is back... No, even better, turn on the alarm on his phone. beep. Her, I want him to contact me here as soon as possible. I'm going to use the phone to get him to call me.
  
  
  As soon as I hung up, my phone rang again. Picking up the phone, he asked her: "Did you hear that, sir?"
  
  
  The voice that answered wasn't a Hawk.
  
  
  "Nick? It's hers, Candy.
  
  
  Stunned, he almost shouted out: "Where are you?" on nah.
  
  
  "In a small boutique, thousands of armed peacekeepers are being insisted on by US Avenue in Georgetown," she said. "Why not? What happened?"
  
  
  "Where's Abdul?" I demanded, taking my time to explain.
  
  
  "Sit in the front of the car. Why, Nick? What happened?"
  
  
  "Are you sure there is one?"
  
  
  "Of course, its safe. I'm looking out the window at him now. Nick, please tell me what's going on." I made it like you said, and asked ego to stop here, presumably so they could pick up the sweater that Sherima saw in the window last night and mentioned she wanted. Was it wrong? You said it was ego-delaying to return to the hotel until I could find it.
  
  
  I was sure Hawk must be trying to contact me by then, but I needed to learn something from Candy. "Honey, don't ask me sincerely now how I know him, but both you and Abdul have settled on
  
  
  
  
  
  a gas station, and he made a few phone calls. Do you know who? »
  
  
  She started to ask how she knew about the roadside stop, but ee interrupted her and said sharply, " Not now, Candy. Just tell me, do you know who he called?"
  
  
  "No, Nick. I didn't go to the station. Her ego tried to keep her from stopping at this place, but he insisted that we needed gas, and ...
  
  
  "You know, she'd love to hear all about it, but right now I need to hang up. Just do me a favor and borrow Abdullah as much as you can. A promise? »
  
  
  "Good," she says, offended, because I shrug off what looks like a good effort on her part. "Just tell me one thing," she continued, " is there anything about Sherima?"
  
  
  “no. But don't worry. Now I need to hang up." Hers, heard her say something when her pressed the button that would have turned us off, but at the moment hers couldn't worry about what it was. Immediately, the phone rang again. This time I waited until I was sure that the voice that answered my greeting was Hawk's before I asked, " What's your name?": "Did you hear what happened, sir?"
  
  
  “yeah. I was just entering the office when my pager rang. I tried to call you, but your line was busy." The latter was almost a reprimand.
  
  
  "I feel like I've spent my entire life with this phone," I said grimly, " while other people have been killed." She then began explaining what I knew about Candy's trip to Potomac, and the events that followed after I contacted her there and arranged for Nah and Abdullah to return to the city. "I'm sure the ego calls had something to do with what happened later on Canal Road," I said, concluding my report.
  
  
  "You're probably right," Hawk agreed. "Let me tell you what I managed to learn about them a few minutes ago that I came back..."
  
  
  First, it was obvious that three of our men were dead. Hawk contacted his contact with the county police, and after a few hasty radio requests and responses from officers at the scene, it became clear that the car was ours, and that the bodies were either in it or close enough to be passengers. . "And it didn't crash," Hawke continued. "The initial report was incorrect. It exploded - or rather, a grenade was thrown at it, and it exploded, throwing it into the ditch. Then, according to the person who initially reported the incident-he's a tow truck operator who has a radio in the truck, and that's why the police got the notification so quickly - the VW motorhome stopped near the burning car. Two men came out of the campsite and fired at the wreckage around the machine guns."
  
  
  "Did the tow truck operator get the license number on wheels?"
  
  
  The witness was too stunned by the sudden outburst of violence to notice the VW license plate, Hawke was told, but Emu managed to give a pretty good description of the ambush vehicle. Working in the garage, he was familiar with most models of cars and trucks, and the information he provided had already been placed in the universal bulletin in the county and its surrounding area. Road barriers were installed on all bridges and major highways around Washington, while state police in adjacent Maryland and Virginia constantly monitored all major thoroughfares and sent cruise cars to less-used roads.
  
  
  I didn't have time to tell Hawke about Candy's call to Georgetown, and when she did, the ego conclusion was the same as hers. "He keeps to a routine," Hawk agreed, " so that it doesn't look like he had anything to do with organizing the attack on our C-car. He probably doesn't know that Odin is around our people following him, went ahead and watched him call this service station. As far as he knew, Car C just stopped out of sight and waited for him to get back on the highway."
  
  
  Something Hawk had just said rang in my mind, but I didn't have time to focus on it because he'd given me some instructions. "Stay in your room, Nick, while I coordinate the hunt for that Volkswagen. I want to be able to contact you when it is discovered, then I will have a job for you." The way he said it left me in no doubt about what the job would be like once the killers were identified. "And her, I want you to wait until Ms. Knight and that bodyguard, Abdul Bedawi, get back to the hotel. If he stuck to his pattern, he would go up to Sherima's apartment to see how she was feeling.
  
  
  "I'll be right here, sir," I assured her when our conversation was over.
  
  
  When Hawk took over communications, he expected my phone to be stationary for a while, but I was wrong. It rang again almost instantly, and when she answered, the caller introduced herself as a clerk in a boutique in Georgetown - a name that doesn't make much sense as something sly.
  
  
  "Mr. Carter, I tried to call you, but your line was busy, " she said. "A woman gave me twenty dollars for promising to call you and give you a message. She ran away from here so fast that she didn't have time to call herself.
  
  
  "What is it
  
  
  
  
  
  
  an email message? "I asked, I know hema must be this lady.
  
  
  "She just told me to let her tell you that Candy said to call you and say that someone just didn't remember her name, she was in such a hurry that she didn't get caught - anyway, someone left and she was going to try to follow him and she would call you later. Does that mean anything to you, Mr. Carter?"
  
  
  "Of course," her father said. "It means a lot. Did you happen to see where she went?"
  
  
  "No, I didn't know. It all happened so fast that I didn't even think to stop. She just grabbed a pencil from the counter right here, wrote down your name and phone number, gave me a twenty-dollar bill, and left."
  
  
  "Thank you so much," I said, asking her name and address again, and writing it down. "You'll get another twenty dollars in the mail in a day or so."
  
  
  She insisted that it wasn't necessary, and then asked me to hold the line. I heard her talking to Hema-to before she turned to the phone and said to me, " Mr. Carter, one of the girls who works with me here was watching the lady as she was leaving the store. She says she saw her getting into a taxi and it quickly flew away."
  
  
  He thanked her again, then hung up and called Hawk to update him on the latest changes. He decided to ask the district police to radio out a warning signal to all the cars in order to track down Sherima's limousine. He advised her not to stop the car if it was spotted,but to try to keep it under surveillance until it stopped. He gave an order and then said, " What do you think of this, N3?"
  
  
  "I think Abdul must have seen Candy calling around these boutiques and realized that ego plans needed to be changed. He must know that she's helping someone cover up Sherima's disappearance, and he probably thinks it's hers. That is, if he had anything to do with her abduction.
  
  
  And ego take-off in this way makes the ego obvious. My guess is that he's probably heading to where they're holding Sherima. If she's still alive. Her, I hope the district police catch him soon. Do you have any information about the VW camper?"
  
  
  "Nothing yet," Hawk said ruefully. "I'll call you back if I get anything. In any case, you'll have to wait there in case Miss Knight calls.
  
  
  "I know," I said grimly, feeling resigned to waiting in my room forever. "I just hope she doesn't try to play the detective herself and get too close to him. I think it's safe to assume that she's still following the ego trail somewhere. If she had lost it, she would have contacted me herself."
  
  
  Although I'd recently started feeling annoyed that my phone was constantly ringing, now I was hoping it would ring again after Hawke hung up. That didn't happen, and as I sat and watched the seconds turn into seemingly endless minutes, I knew that once they started to turn into hours, it would soon be time for him to invite Sherima to the Secretary of State's house for her radio conversation with the Shah. Hasan. And I also know that if we don't get this date right, the whole world could start falling apart in explosions that will spread from the Middle East to the outer reaches of space.
  
  
  By the time Candy called just after four, she'd taken a quick nap from the lush carpeting of Watergate. During that time, Hawk called twice with depressing reports that our killer motorhome and Sherima's limo and driver had not been found. He could understand that a limousine was hard to find among the thousands of public and private individuals in Washington, but a motor home should have been easier if it hadn't been hidden somewhere before the bulletin got into the police network.
  
  
  Candy's words gushed out like water around a dam breaking; she didn't even wait for her to answer her questions:
  
  
  "Nick, it's Candy. Did you get my message? Abdul drove away, and a taxi grabbed him and followed him. We were everywhere. It cost me fifteen dollars because the taxi driver said emu shouldn't do it. Anyway, Abdul parked about a block away from the Adabian embassy and just sat there for a while, then a man she didn't know got out and got in the car, and they drove away. I followed them, and they drove around in circles for a while, and then ...
  
  
  "Candy!" Her voice finally broke into a torrent of explanation as she paused to catch her breath. "Where are you now?"
  
  
  "At St. John's College," she replied casually, and then, when her incredulous voice confirmed the name, she continued, " I came here to use the phone. They were very kind and allowed me to use one without paying after I told her it was urgent. The lady said ...
  
  
  When I yelled "Candy" at her again and demanded that she tell me where Abdul was in the gym, she took offense again, saying, " Nick, that's what I was trying to tell you. He's in a house about a block away, on Military Road. She said that Sherima's bodyguard drove the limo candid to the garage behind the house. "I saw ego because the taxi driver drove mimmo very slowly when he saw Abdul turn into the driveway. Ego asked her to let me out at the next corner,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Utah Avenue, then mimmo walked back to the house, but I think he and the man by name have already gone inside."
  
  
  "Nick, do you think Sherima might be there?"
  
  
  "That's just what I want to know," Hey told her, asking for an address on Military Road.
  
  
  She gave me an ego and then said, " Nick, are you coming out on your own or are you going to send the police?" When I told her I'd be on my way as soon as I could get down and get in a taxi, she said: "That's good. Sherima might be embarrassed if the police arrive and there is a commotion.
  
  
  She would have laughed if it wasn't for such a serious situation; just a few hours earlier, Candy had been all for calling in the army, navy, and anyone else to help find Sherima, but when it became clear that the former queen might have been found, she was concerned about protecting the reputation of her friend and employer. .
  
  
  "Don't worry," her father said. "I will make sure that Sherima's name is not mentioned in the newspapers. Now wait for me at school. What's the name again? St. John's College ... " Him ignored her protest that she wanted him to pick her up and take her to the house, instead insisting:"Do as I say. I do not know what Abdul and the other's ego are up to, but there may be problems and I don't want you to hurt me." It was better that she didn't know yet how many men had already died that day, and that more would almost certainly follow. "I'll come get you as soon as I can. Now I have to get started." Her phone was hung up before she could continue arguing.
  
  
  I needed to make another phone call before takeoff. Hawk listened as I told him what Candy had reported, then said, " The person he picked up at the embassy might be Sword, N3." When she agreed, he continued: "And his realized this address on the Military Road. These are what the CIA sometimes uses as " safe havens." Her, thought we were the only ones besides the CIA who knew about it, but obviously the enemy also has pretty good intelligence sources. Do you realize what the Sword is probably going to do, Nick?
  
  
  "The voice where the Silver Falcon will be found dead," I said. "And there will be plenty of evidence that she worked for the CIA and was killed when she threatened to expose her former employer's Adabi plot. But doesn't the CIA keep someone on their premises all the time? »
  
  
  "I think so. But the Sword does not hesitate to kill anyone who stands in the way of egoism. And if, as Miss Knight says, he and this Bedawi entered the house openly, they probably already committed their murder.
  
  
  "I'm already an edu, sir," emu told her. While we were talking, I checked my map and estimated that it would take me about twenty-five minutes to get to the address on the Military Road. Hawk said he'd send a backup team to pick me up as soon as possible. Most of the local agents were out in the field trying to track down the VW motorhome and ego deadly crew, but he said he would send a team to help me immediately. However, I knew that this was the task of a master assassin, and I asked ego to instruct his men to hold back unless he was absolutely sure I needed help.
  
  
  He said he would pass on the necessary orders, then wish me luck - which he didn't usually do - and cut the connection.
  Chapter 10
  
  
  
  As I walked around the room, something hard slammed into my back, and a cold, even voice said softly, " Let's take the service elevator down, Mr. Carter... No, don't turn around." The order was executed with another blow to the spine. "It's a magnum .A .357, and if I have to pull the trigger where it just pointed, most of your spine will come out through life... That's better, just keep walking down the hall to the elevator and be sure to keep your hands open at your sides."
  
  
  I didn't have time to alert the operator when he opened the service elevator door. Blackjack immediately knocked ego to the floor of the car. Not long before her, I felt the pressure in my back relax for a moment, and looking at the broken lobe of the cameraman, her, I realized that my captor had switched the Magnum to his left hand, leaving his right free to hit the man. .
  
  
  Following orders, he dragged the elevator operator to the nearest linen closet and slammed the door in front of him, hoping that he would be found in time and medical attention would help. This action gave me the opportunity to see the person who was holding a large gun pointed at me while hers was working. It was another Arab, shorter and tougher than the one who had died on the balcony with my knife in his throat. He switched hands with the gun again long enough to get the key to the housekeeper's linen closet, which, fortunately for his ego's purposes - or perhaps by arrangement - was left in the lock of the linen closet. He was a connoisseur of leather goods. The blow broke the key in the lock, making sure that the ego's discovery of the battered contents would be delayed even longer.
  
  
  "Now let's go down to the basement, Mr. Carter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  my stocky companion said. "Just walk candid into the elevator, facing the back moans... That's enough... Now just lean forward from the waist and press your hands to the groan. You've seen the police search prisoners, Mr. Carter, so you know what to do... really, and don't move.
  
  
  We walked down to the lower level of the Watergate in silence. A buzzer sounded, indicating that buttons were pressed on several floors to signal a pickup truck, but the car was switched to manual control, and the arab did not stop. When the day finally opened, I was already given instructions to get out: turn around, hands at my sides, get frank around the car and turn left. If someone is waiting, just go through mimmo as if nothing has happened. If I do anything that arouses suspicion, he and several innocent people will die.
  
  
  No one was waiting in the basement, but as we walked down the corridors leading to the Watergate garage, two men in hotel service uniforms looked at us curiously. To save ih's life, I pretended to be friendly talking to the man who was standing next to me, his gun now embedded in my ribs around my jacket pocket. Apparently, they thought we were hotel managers or guests who got lost in our garage, and passed mimmo us without saying anything.
  
  
  "All right, Mr. Carter," my polite captor said when we were out of earshot of the couple. He stepped back behind me again, giving directions that eventually led us to a remote part of the garage. There were only a few cars parked there, plus a Volkswagen motorhome. Unsurprisingly, Ego wasn't noticed by the patrols. With me, arab must have dropped off his mates somewhere, then drove candid to the Watergate garage and waited at my door almost from the moment he started hunting them.
  
  
  Automatically, I headed for the camper, and arab correctly understood my actions. "So you know about this, Mr. Carter. We were sure that you would do it. That's why I was sent for you. However, we will use a car that will be parked next to the Volkswagen. He's been here since last night. Odin around our men never returned to him after visiting the roof. Hers, I'm sure you know why.
  
  
  I didn't answer, but my talkative other obviously didn't expect an answer, because he continued: "Come openly to the back of Vega, Mr. Carter. You will find that the trunk is open. Just raise your ego and slowly get inside. There's no one around, but I wouldn't want to shoot her anyway, around that gun in the garage. The sound will be quite loud, and if someone comes with an investigation, they will also have to be killed."
  
  
  He had almost reached the barrel of the Vega when the gunman apparently realized that he had made a serious mistake and immediately corrected it. "Hold on, Mr. Carter. Now lean over to the trunk lid... I'll take the gun. Okay, you can get up again and open the trunk ... If you'll just sit down and make yourself comfortable, we'll go.
  
  
  Curled up in the cramped cabin, I made sure I was naked in the lounge, as far under the awning as possible, with my feet pressed against the opening. While hers was shrinking, Arab continued to point the Magnum at my head; then, when hers seemed to settle, he stepped back and reached for the lid of the chest. As he started to descend, his eyes kept on the body's ego to make sure it didn't move any further away. Just when her knew that her ego's view of me would be completely blocked by the nearly closed lid of the chest, her kicked it with both feet, putting all the force of her coiled legs into the kick.
  
  
  The lid of the chest bounced up, hit something, and kept going. By the time I could see her, I found myself looking at a grotesque twisted face on the head, which was now tilted back at what seemed an impossible angle. Unseeing eyes, which were already beginning to fade, peered at me from the lower edges of their sockets. The hand holding the big Magnum jerked involuntarily toward the trunk of the car, but the nervous system never gave those frozen fingers the signal to pull the trigger.
  
  
  As he swung one leg over the edge of the chest and started to climb out, the dying Arab suddenly fell back, stiff as a board. The back of Ego's head hit the concrete floor of the garage first and bounced forward with a loud crack. It wasn't until I bent down to pull my Luger from the waistband of the man who held me captive that I realized what had happened when I slammed the trunk lid up. The ego blade, like a blunted guillotine blade, caught the emu under the chin, throwing its head back with such force that it broke its neck.
  
  
  After searching Ego's pockets, she found two sets of car keys. On one ring was a tag with the same number: motorhome, VW and the name of the car rental agency. I tried one around the keys on the other ring in the Vega trunk and it worked. This was pretty convincing proof that this person was with the one who stabbed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  on Sherima's balcony last night. I was wondering who else might have been around for what was supposed to be a mission to kidnap the former queen. Could the Sword also be on the roof of the hotel? Was it the one who killed her by accident when Candy panicked and hit my arm trying to tell me that, not to say a word to us as he kept rolling his eyes up?
  
  
  There was no time to check the Volkswagen, and he didn't want anyone to find me with a dead body in the garage. Ego tossed her into the Vega rack, slammed the lid that had taken ego's life, and lifted her into the driver's seat. What the hell, it would save AX's taxi fare to Military Road, and one less body for Hawke if he had to arrange a Watergate exit.
  
  
  Twenty minutes after I paid for parking, the Vega ticket was stamped almost sixteen hours earlier at one in the morning. "I was passing through an address on the Military Road. Fortunately, most of the county police cars that day focused on hunting the VW camper, not worrying about traffic light breakers or speeders, so I drove fast and non-stop. He turned the next corner and parked. As I walked back to the intersection, I noticed a large cluster of low buildings on the hill across the street, and decided that it was probably the entire hotel area, not St. John's College, where Candy was supposed to be waiting for me. I turned the corner and walked quickly back to Military Road, not wanting to risk explaining to some helpful passerby that I knew there shouldn't be parking on this side of the street and that there shouldn't be any space on the other side, and that I was in a hurry.
  
  
  Passing mimmo, she took a quick look at the house, from where Candy said that Abdul and the man she suspected was the Sword that got inside. It seemed to fit in with the neighborhood around the red-brick, multi-level ranches. Probably between the ages of twenty and twenty-five, shaded by trees in summer, it was surrounded by " a hedge that was allowed to grow high enough to block the view of casual passers-by, but not an obvious guarantee of privacy. . The break in the front fence occurred in the driveway that originally led to the two-car garage at the back of the house. A stone path led up to the entrance. Outwardly, it looked like the home of a moderately wealthy family.
  
  
  If the CIA managed its "safe houses" in the same way as AX, this image of respectability would be carefully cultivated by the permanent residents of the house. Hawk usually assigned two agents to each of the shelters, which we used for secret meetings, or to hide enemy agents who "turned ferret" on them until a new identity was established for them, or as recovery points for wounded personnel. Local agents, usually a man and a woman posing as a married couple, should be friendly with their neighbors, but not so sociable that people in the neighborhood suddenly call. The hawk likes to set up its roosts in residential areas, rather than in remote areas that are more open to surprise attack. And it seemed that the CIA had adapted a similar setup, at least as far as area selection was concerned.
  
  
  Her mimmo passed the house and went to the door of the next house. It opened a moment after the phone rang, but only as far as the chain would allow. A white-haired woman stuck her nose in the hole, while the German Shepherd's muzzle poked out at me. The shepherd said nothing, but expressed his suspicions more clearly, with a deep growl. She soothed the ego: "Hush, Arthur!"
  
  
  "Simple," I said, " but I'm looking for her DeRozov. I do not know the exact number, but they must live on Military Road, near Utah, and I thought maybe you ih know.
  
  
  "No, I don't recognize that name. But over the last couple of years, there are a lot of new people in the neighborhood."
  
  
  "They're a young couple," I explained. "She is blonde, about thirty years old, and Kalinich is about the same age. He's a big guy; you'll definitely notice the ego, because he's about six feet four inches tall and weighs about two hundred and forty pounds. Ah, yes, they bring a VW motorhome."
  
  
  She shook her head until Kemper mentioned it, then a flicker of recognition crossed her face. "Well," she said hesitantly, " there's a nice young couple living next door. They've been there for about a year, but its not known to ih other than to say hello. But I'm sure they're not your friends. She's not blonde, and he's not that big. Maybe this tail, but with a thin side. The only thing that... "
  
  
  "Yes?" I insisted.
  
  
  "Well, I noticed it when I took the bus with my husband to go to work this morning, and there was a Volkswagen van parked in the driveway."
  
  
  "What time was it?"
  
  
  "I think it's a quarter to eight or so, since we usually leave."
  
  
  "I didn't notice anyone there just now," I said. "You don't happen to
  
  
  
  
  
  
  did you see him leave? "
  
  
  "Actually, I say yes. I was just walking out the door later in the morning - it must have been midday or maybe mid-thirty - when I saw her drive off and drive away. I was going to visit a friend of Legation Sturt, and ...
  
  
  "Did you see who was there?"he interrupted. "Maybe they were my friends."
  
  
  "No, I didn't know. The ego was gone before I got down to the sidewalk, and it looked like they were in a hurry. I'm sorry."
  
  
  He was pretty sure where the Volkswagen and the ego team of killers were headed; they had a date on Canal Road that had been hastily arranged by a phone call. I thanked the woman for her help and said I might try her next door, in case the people in the camper were my friends, by calling another neighbor. The shepherd growled again as her husband turned to leave, and he almost grabbed his muzzle when she closed the door.
  
  
  Casually walking down the driveway to the CIA shelter, he continued to walk around the house to the garage. Ego found the folding door unlocked, and he slid it up on its well-oiled hinges. Sherima's limo was still parked there, next to the Mustang that she knew belonged to the permanent residents of the house. Closing the door softly, she walked into the small courtyard of the ranch. There was a barbecue cart, rusty from standing out from the winter snows.
  
  
  Not so good, boys, I thought. Real homeowners would keep a BARBECUE in the garage for the winter.
  
  
  The screen door was locked, but she pushed it open with the tip of her stiletto. The back door was also locked. My plastic American Express card slid back the bolt, and while holding it in place, I tried to turn the handle with my other hand. He turned and the door opened. He returned the credit card to his wallet before pushing the door even further and was relieved to find that it didn't have a chain latch.
  
  
  Quickly stepping inside, he found himself in the kitchen. When I looked around, the house was quiet. The dish, probably from breakfast, was washed and stacked in the dryer next to the sink. I tiptoed into the dining room, then into the living room. There was no sign of a struggle down there. Then, as I was about to climb half a flight of stairs that apparently led to the bedrooms, my attention was drawn to a small hole in the plaster groaning next to the stairs. Using the stiletto blade again, her dug out a bullet in moans. It looked like a .38 flattened in the plaster. Leaning down, he examined the cheap oriental rug that covered the floor in front of the entrance.
  
  
  The crimson stain was almost lost in the pattern. Someone opened the front door and was shot, solved it. Probably a .38 with a silencer. There was a cloakroom in the small foyer. I found the door locked, which was unusual enough to make me want to know what was inside. After trying several of his picks, he found one that turned a simple lock.
  
  
  The body of a man lay on the toilet floor under the coats that hung there. The corpse was wearing a hat and coat, and I could tell he was tall by the way ego's knees were doubled up to squeeze ego into the confined space. Pushing the hat away from the slouching emu's face, he saw where gawk had hit the emu in the left eye. So much for half of the " beautiful young couple next door." Apparently, he was about to leave the house when someone came to the front door, and he made the fatal mistake of not using the peephole to see who was in the hall outside before opening it. Whoever was standing there had a silenced pistol at the ready, and he fired as soon as the door opened, then caught his victim and gently lowered him to the carpet on the floor, so that the "wife" of even the dead man did not know what had happened.
  
  
  Her, decided that she must also be somewhere in the house. The men of the Sword would not risk carrying out a corpse. Taking Luger, he climbed the stairs to the upper level. In the silence of the house, the light creak of the carpeted stairs was loud. At the top of the stairs to my right, the bedroom door was open. I went in and found it empty. She quickly went to the closet. Nen had men's clothing, Swedes and nothing else. Quickly turning the bedspread over, he realized that there was nothing under the bed, so he went back to the hall and slowly opened the next door on the same side. It was a bathroom-empty. There were men's toiletries and a razor in the medicine cabinet over the sink. The dead man below must have had stomach trouble; there were antacid bottles on one of the po pollocks. Well, that ego doesn't bother me anymore.
  
  
  Crossing the hall, I passed through another open door into what I guessed from its size was the main bedroom of the house. The woman I was hunting for was neat; the Swedes were neatly arranged on hangers, and her shoes were stacked in boxes on the floor of the large double toilet. Apparently, she and her partner maintained a strictly business relationship, despite the fact that they lived together for about a year. Only one around two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  the pillows were rumpled. It suddenly dawned on me that the sheet on the bed was only tucked in on one side. She must have been making it up when the gunman went up to the top of the second floor.
  
  
  Dropping to his knees, he looked under the bed. Blind eyes stared back at me from a face that must have been beautiful before the gawk ripped off part of its jaw, blood splattering the long black hair that fanned out on the floor. She was wearing a quilted yellow housecoat, and her front was covered in dried blood where she'd been hit by the second shot.
  
  
  He dropped the blanket and got to his feet. Walking quickly through the rest of the upper floor, she checked out the third bedroom and main bathroom, further evidence of the CIA housekeeper's neatness. Hiding behind a stack of towels in a linen closet, she was discovered by a powerful two-way radio tuned to a frequency she knows belongs to the CIA. It probably only worked when the safe house was used. There was no need for direct contact with the top-secret intelligence agency headquarters near Langley, Virginia, except in such cases. I flipped the radio switch, but there was no noise on the TV. Groping behind the cabinet, he picked up some wires that had been pulled out and cut.
  
  
  Once downstairs, he paused in the front lobby, listening intently for any sound that might indicate a Sword and Abdul Bedawi, hopefully Sherima and possibly two of the three campsite killers were still in the house. Only the ticking of Seth Thomas's old beehive clock on the sideboard in the dining room broke the silence.
  
  
  I tiptoed back to the kitchen and found the door that was supposed to lead to the basement. I checked the handle and found it unlocked, so I opened it a crack. There was a faint hum around the gathering, but I didn't hear it-I was walking up the ten-step staircase when I opened the door wide.
  
  
  However, Sergei was on fire in the basement, and he could see the linoleum floor below. As he slowly descended the stairs, a washer and dryer appeared against the far wall. Behind the stairs, the oil burner and water heater were turned off. Almost at the bottom of the stairs, I stopped abruptly, suddenly realizing that only a third of the basement was open; maybe less, I decided, remembering the jumbled rooms above.
  
  
  The rest of the basement is cut off by a wall around two concrete blocks. The walls had obviously been added long after the house was built, because the gray blocks were much newer than they were, forming the other three sides of the areas it entered. Quickly estimating the size of the house itself, he estimated that the CIA had created a secret room or rooms totaling about fifteen hundred square feet. Thus, it was the safest part of the shelters, where friends or enemies in need of protection could hide. He guessed that the interior might also be soundproofed, so if someone was lurking there, the ego wouldn't give away any noise if the neighbors unexpectedly visited the local agents.
  
  
  My guess is that no sound gets through the walls and ceiling of the secret shelter in a row.this convinced me that Sherima and her captors were also inside. I suspected that I was waiting for something or someone, but I didn't know what or to whom. Certainly not because of any signal in the radio-and upstairs, because ego utility was disrupted by the one who cut the wires. There was a good chance, however, that Adabi's message - "Sword ready to strike" - had been transmitted from here before the radio was built out.
  
  
  There didn't seem to be any entrance to the concrete-paneled room, but she went over to groan to get a closer look. The CIA created a beautiful illusion; probably when an explanation was needed for the unusually small basement, if the "young couple" had to allow meter counters or repairmen into the basement, they might have said that the people they bought the house from hadn't finished building the landscaping yet. a barrel due to lack of funds, and just closed the rest of the excavation. He could almost hear the pretty raven-haired woman saying to the curious electric company representative, " Oh, we'll finish this ourselves someday, when it's easier to get the mortgage money. But we bought the house so well because nen didn't have a full basement."
  
  
  Licks, to the farthest point of the wall from her staircase, found what he wanted. A small crack in the blocks marked an area about seven feet high and perhaps thirty-six inches wide. It was supposed to be the door to everything that lay beyond, but how did it open? A bright brylev of unshadowed overhead lights gave plenty of light until some switch or button was pressed that would open the hidden door. There didn't seem to be such a device on the moan itself, so her stahl looked around in other parts of the basement. He had to get through that door quickly; time was running out.
  
  
  It would take ten unpleasant minutes, but found nothing. I was just about to start clicking on
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ordinary concrete blocks in the groan, hoping that the one around them might be the key. As I retreated to the hidden door, I passed her alone around the large support beams and saw out of the corner of my eye what had been in front of me all along - the world switch. But what did this switch turn on? The one at the top of the basement stairs obviously only controlled two lights, and they were already on.
  
  
  I checked the wiring that led directly from the switch. It may have something to do with the laundry equipment or the oil burner. Instead, the wire ran straight up to the ceiling and crossed a point near the crack that marked the entrance to the secret room. Luger was holding her in one hand, and he flipped the light switch with the other. For a moment, nothing happened. Then he felt the floor vibrate slightly under his feet, and heard a muffled screech as a section of the wall began to swing outward on well-oiled hinges, apparently from an electric motor somewhere behind it.
  
  
  With the gun in her hands, I stepped through the opening as soon as it was wide enough to let me in. The scene that greeted me today could have rivaled the cover of one of those old magazines for the public.
  
  
  Sherima was tied to the far wall opposite me. She was completely naked, but I didn't have time to appreciate the lush curves of her tiny figure. He was too busy looking at the man standing next to her and covering the others in the room with his Luger. Abdul was standing next to Sherima, and from the look on her face, he could tell that he was doing something disgusting that was interrupted by my arrival. Sitting at a table in a large open space created by the CIA was a well-dressed Arab who he was sure was the man Abdul had picked up at the Adabia embassy - the one Hawk and I had assumed was a Sword. . Obviously, he was working on some papers, he looked up from the papers and stared at me, and the gun.
  
  
  Two other Arabs were resting in another corner of the shelters. One of them was sitting on a bed usually used by temporary CIA guests. An automatic rifle lay beside him. The ego twin was in the hands of the last meal around this group of government shelter residents. He started to raise his rifle as his entered the room, but stopped when little of my gun turned in ego's direction. No one around them seemed surprised to see me, except for Sherima, whose eyes widened first at the flag of permission to perform, and then at the embarrassment of her nakedness. I was sure they were waiting for me when Abdul spoke:
  
  
  "Come in, Mr. Carter," he said, still polite, even in the tense situation he found himself in. "We've been waiting for you to arrive. Now my plan is complete ."
  
  
  Calling it an ego plan made her momentarily startled. Hawk and I were wrong. The person who played Sherima's bodyguard and Adabia Embassy official's chauffeur was a Sword, not someone who was an ego passenger. Abdullah was looking at it now, as if she was looking at him for the first time. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement from the direction of the room, where the two men froze in place. Her pulling the trigger, shaking her head, and gawking eyes from the Luger hit an Arab with an automatic rifle high as he turned to try to point the barrel at me. He was dead before he fell to the floor after his rifle fell out of his hands.
  
  
  Don't try, the ego of her companion warned her as he reached for the gun next to him on the bed. I wasn't sure if he understood English, but he didn't seem to have any trouble interpreting the tone of my voice or my intentions, because his hands were wriggling back and up toward the ceiling.
  
  
  "It wasn't necessary, Mr. Carter," Abdul said coldly. "He wouldn't have shot you. That wasn't part of my plan."
  
  
  "Today, he didn't hesitate to use this thing," her Mechu denied the media reports. "Or was killing these three people part of your plan?"
  
  
  "It was necessary," Abdul replied. "It was almost time for me to come here - and they were watching me too closely to do so without revealing where my men were holding Her Highness." The latter was said with a sneer as he turned slightly towards Sherima. "Were they good company, my lady?" He said these last words in a tone that made ih seem dirtier than anything he or two ego thugs could do to a beautiful bound captive, and the blush spreading from her face to her bare throat and heaving chest told me that she was ... it was both mental and physical.
  
  
  Sherima still wasn't talking to them ferret as her opened the secret door and entered the secret room. I had a feeling that she was in shock or just out of it. Or maybe she'd been drugged, in addition to the tranquilizers that hey had given her, and it was only now that she was beginning to fully control her feelings.
  
  
  "All right, Abdul, or should I say Seif Allah?" He said. My ego response to using the Arabic word for the sword of Allah was simply to bow slightly. "Take these smashes off Her Highness. Quickly."
  
  
  "That won't be necessary, Abdel," a voice said .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I told her. "Drop the gun, Nick, and put your hands up."
  
  
  "Hello, Candy," I said without turning around. "What held you back? I've been waiting for you to join us here. If you had arrived a couple of minutes earlier, you could have saved one's life through your buddies."
  
  
  The shock of seeing her longtime friend and companion holding a gun on the man who had come to rescue her brought Sherima fully awake. "Candy! What are you doing? Nick came to get me out of here! »
  
  
  When she was told by Ay that Candy Knight was the only one who made it possible to capture her, this revelation was too much for the former Queen. She burst into tears. Gone was the royal dignity that had steadfastly supported her in the face of her tormentors. She was a woman who was betrayed by someone she loved like a sister, and she cried over and over, " Why, Candy? Why not?"
  Chapter 11
  
  
  
  He still hadn't dropped his gun or raised his hand, but Abdul left Sherima and came over to take the luger from me. At that moment, there was little he could do other than let him have it. If Candy pulled the trigger on me, there would be no hope for the sobbing woman whose target had fallen on her chest. Her world was split into a billion pieces, and for Nah they forgot about physical pain. The rough folds cut by the ropes around her wrists and splayed ankles were no longer as violent as the process of her life's disintegration - a process that began when she was forced to leave the man she loved and her children behind.
  
  
  "Now if you'll just walk up to moan, Mr. Carter," Abdul said, pointing with my gun where he wanted me to go.
  
  
  To buy time, Ego asked her, "Why don't you let Candy tell Sherima why she sold it? You have nothing to lose now.
  
  
  "Nothing but time," he said, turning to order the gunman on the bunk to come and guard me. When the man picked up a submachine gun and started toward me, he stopped to look at his dead comrade. Fury flashed across his face, and he raised the rifle threateningly and pointed it at me.
  
  
  "Stop!" said Abdul, still speaking to him in Arabic. "The ego cannot be killed with this weapon. When everything is ready, you can use the gun that they used upstairs.
  
  
  Sherima raised her head and looked at me questioningly. Apparently, she was kept outside until the Swordmen got rid of the permanent CIA agents. "A' nice young couple 'is dead upstairs," her father said. "At least the neighbor described them as good."
  
  
  "They were spies for your imperialist CIA," Abdul growled at me. "We've known about this for some time, Mr. Carter. Selim here, "he continued, nodding toward the man at the desk who had returned to his paperwork after I'd been disarmed," has been very helpful in this regard. He is attached to security at the embassy, and once emu had to accompany Shah Hassan here when our illustrious monarch was in Washington to take orders from his CIA masters. This meeting lasted almost six hours, and Selim had plenty of opportunities to memorize the layout of the house. For spies, they weren't very smart; Selim was even allowed to stand guard at the secret door to this room and see how it worked while he waited for Hasan."
  
  
  "Chess never took orders from anyone," Sherima snapped at her former bodyguard. "I remember him telling me about this meeting when he returned to Sidi Hassan. The CIA kept ego informed of what was happening in the rest of the Middle East so that he could protect himself from those who pretended to be our friends while they plotted to take the throne from him."
  
  
  "Who but you and Hassan believes in this fiction?" Abdul said smugly. "By the time we're done, everyone in the Arab world will know about ego's betrayal and how it allowed imperialist warmongers to use themselves and their people. And as he stahl ih a running dog thank you "
  
  
  When a large question mark appeared on Sherima's pretty face, Abdul gloated. "Oh, yes, my lady," he said, returning to her, " didn't you know? You are the one who clouded Hasan's mind so much that he couldn't decide what was best for the land of ego. You used that evil body of yours to inflame the ego with passion so that it couldn't see who the ego's true friends were." To emphasize his point, Abdul reached out and indecently stroked Sherima's chest and thighs as she tried to evade his tormenting caresses, the pain of her rough bond and the nausea of his barbaric touch both showing on her face at the same time.
  
  
  "Then, when you made Hasan your love slave," Abdul continued, " you began relaying the emus the orders of your masters here in Washington."
  
  
  "That's a lie!" said Sherima, her face reddening again, this time from anger rather than being disturbed by what her former servant was doing to her body. "Hassan only thought about what was best for the ego of the people. And you know it's true, Abdul. He trusted you as a friend and has always trusted you since the day you saved Emu's life."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course I know that, Your Highness, " Abdul admitted. "But who will believe that when the world sees the evidence that Selim is preparing here-evidence that is already waiting for ih to be handed over to the mighty Shah when we report your death at the hands of the CIA."
  
  
  Sherima gasped. "Are you going to kill me and blame it on the CIA? Why should the Shah believe this lie? Especially if you're going to suggest that I worked for the CIA."
  
  
  Abdul turned to me and said, " Say hey, Mr. Carter. Her, I'm sure you've already figured out my plan.
  
  
  She wasn't asked to reveal how well AX knew about the Sword plot, so her just said, "Well, they might try to convince the Shah that you were killed because you decided to disclose CIA operations to Adabi Hasan and the rest of the world."
  
  
  "Absolutely fantastic, Mr. Carter!" Abdul said. "I see that you, employees of the executive Protection Service, also have brains. We thought you were nothing more than glorified bodyguards, fit for us to do more than stand outside embassies and consulates."
  
  
  The sword didn't know this, but it responded to the big corkscrew that was in my heads with them ferrets as it first told me it was waiting for me at the CIA safe house. He obviously didn't know us about AX, or who Della really was. He looked at Candy, who had been sitting quietly, still holding the small pistol, throughout the entire conversation between Abdul and Sherima.
  
  
  "I think I should thank you for telling Em who she is, honey," I said. Her face was defiant as she continued: "You're pretty good at using your body to get the information you need. Thank you."
  
  
  She didn't answer, but Abdul chuckled and said, "Yes, Mr. Carter, she uses her body well." From the way he scoffed as he spoke, her realized that he too had experienced the beauty of Candy love games. "But in your case," he continued, " Nah wasn't affected by uncontrolled passion. You, as I was treated to her pleasures at a party-according to my instructions. I needed to know where you fit into the picture, and as soon as she discovered that you were also working for the capitalist government, he decided to include you in his plans."
  
  
  "It was nice," I said, referring to the Candy Bar, not to Abdul. "Tell me, Candy, the man on Sherima's balcony - was it an accident when you stabbed my emu in the throat? Or were you afraid that he was going to talk and tell me that the Sword was also on the roof of Watergate, directing the attempted abduction of Sherima? »
  
  
  Her big brown eyes refused to look at me, and she still didn't say anything. However, Abdul was not so restrained. Satisfied that Ego's plot to destroy Shah Hasan would succeed and that nothing would interfere with emu, he seemed almost ready to discuss all aspects of operations.
  
  
  "That was very clever of her, wasn't it, Mr. Carter?" he said condescendingly. "I heard about it when I went down to Sherima's room to see what went wrong. That's when I told her, hey, to keep you occupied for the rest of the night while we eloped with Her Highness... I'm sorry, Her former Highness. Just imagine, that old fool around the hotel detective himself thought he could stop us. He came right up to me and let me know what I was doing at the door of my room at this hour, flaunting my hotel badge as if I looked torn. He didn't add the obvious - that Em wouldn't have had to kill the old man - after all, Abdul was recognized as Sherima's official bodyguard.
  
  
  "Unfortunately for him, he probably thought so," I said. "He didn't really understand what was going on, only that he had to protect the woman from being disturbed." I admitted to myself that it was our mistake.
  
  
  Sherima, terrified by everything she'd heard in the last few minutes, asked her old high school friend once more: "Why, Candy? How could you do this to me? You know that Your Highness and I loved you. Why not?"
  
  
  Corkscrew finally reached Candy. With a flash of her eyes, she said dismissively: "Of course, Hassan loved me. That's why he killed my father! "
  
  
  "Your father!" exclaimed Sherima. "Candy, you know that your father was killed by the same person who tried to kill the Shah. Your father saved Hassan's life by sacrificing his own. Now do it to me and him."
  
  
  "My father didn't sacrifice his life!" Candy almost screamed and cried at the same time. "Hasan killed ego! He dragged my father out in front of him to save his lousy life when he was attacked by a killer. I swore to her that I would contact Hassan when I found out about this, and now I'm going to do it."
  
  
  "That's not true, Candy," Hey Sherima said passionately. "Hassan was so surprised when this man burst into the reception area of the palace and followed him that he just stopped. Your father jumped in front of him and was stabbed. Then Abdul killed the killer."
  
  
  "How do you know?" Candy replied hey. "You were there?"
  
  
  "No," Sherima admitted. "You know, he was with you at the time. But Hassan told me about it later. He felt responsible for your father's death, and
  
  
  
  
  
  
  what is responsible for you"
  
  
  "He was responsible! He was a coward, and my father died because of it! He just couldn't bear to tell you the truth, because then you'd know he was a coward, too."
  
  
  Candy, Sherima pleaded, my father told me the same thing. And he wouldn't lie to Stahl about something like that. He was your father's best friend and ...
  
  
  Candy wasn't listening. Interrupting Sherima again, she shouted: "Your father was just like mine. First, the company's person. And the oil company couldn't let the ego people know that Hassan was an earthquake, otherwise they wouldn't support him. Then the precious company would be thrown out of the whole country. Hassan lied, and everyone who worked for the oil company supported him."
  
  
  He was watching the Sword while the two girls were arguing, and the smirk on his face made my head spin. Candy doesn't look like herself, I thought. It was almost as if she was repeating a story that they had told over and over again. Her, stepped in to ask her corkscrew. "Candy, who told you about what happened that day?"
  
  
  She turned to face me again. "Abdul. And he's the only one who was there who had nothing to lose by telling me the truth. That day, he too was almost killed by that person. But he wasn't a coward. He went up to this crazy killer and shot him. Hassan was just lucky that Abdul was there, otherwise this man would have taken my father's ego right after him."
  
  
  "When did he tell you about this?" I asked her.
  
  
  "The same night. He came up to me and tried to comfort me. He'd just casually mentioned what had happened on Della Street itself, and her, snatched the rest from him. He made me promise not to tell anyone about what chess had done. He said that at that time it would have been bad for the country if everyone knew that the Shah was an earthquake. It was our secret. I told you we all have secrets, Nick.
  
  
  "Enough of this," Abdul said sharply. "We still have a lot to do. Selim, how will the documents arrive? Are you almost done? »
  
  
  "Five more mines." With them ferret as he entered the room, the official representative of the embassy spoke for the first time. "I used the code book we found upstairs to prepare a report stating that Her Highness-the former Queen-had informed her superiors that she no longer believed that what the CIA did in Adabi was right, and that she regretted helping them all. this time. She threatened to expose the CIA to Her Highness and the world's press."
  
  
  "Anything else?" Abdul demanded.
  
  
  "The paper I'm currently completing is a coded message telling people in the house to get rid of Sherima if they can't change their mind. According to the solution, they should make it look like an accident. Otherwise, she should be shot and her body disposed of in such a way that the ego will never be found. In this case, the report says, a cover story will be released stating that she is believed to have disappeared because she fears the Black September movement will take her life. Another paper is also ready."
  
  
  He had to admit that the Sword had devised a scheme that would almost certainly put the CIA - and thus the United States government - on a par with Shah Hassan and the world at large. I was thinking about possible offshoots of fold paper when Candy suddenly asked me:
  
  
  "Nick, you said you were waiting for me. How do you know? How did I give myself away? "
  
  
  "On the way here, I remembered two things," her father said. "First, what was reported by one of the men who followed you and Abdul to Potomac this morning. He watched Abdul stop at a gas station and you both used your phone. This reminds me that I asked you if you had a chance to hear who Abdul was calling, or what number he was dialing, when you later called me at Watergate. And you said you didn't go to the station with him. But you did, my dear. Only you didn't know that someone saw you doing it and reported it."
  
  
  "So it was the Security people who were following us, Mr. Carter," Abdul said. "I thought about it, but I didn't have enough experience in this country to be able to find out all the different undercover operators. But I didn't think anyone around them would dare come close enough to watch us at the station. I thought they waited around the bend until they saw us pull back onto the road."
  
  
  "From where you were driving slowly enough for your men in the van to reach the ambush point," I added.
  
  
  "Exactly."
  
  
  "You made two calls, Abdel," emu told her, and he nodded in agreement. "I know it was with the men in this house who held Sherima captive, finally killing a man and a woman. Who was the other call... Selim? »
  
  
  "Really again, Mr. Carter. I should have told em I'd pick him up soon. After Miss Knight and I played our little charade in Georgetown in your favor, so that you could be lured outright here.
  
  
  "So you should have called the taxi company,"I said, looking at the Candy. "You had to order a candid taxi at the boutique to
  
  
  
  
  
  you could have gone out quickly and made sure to leave before that girl followed you outside to ask any questions."
  
  
  "Actually, one more time," Abdul said before Candy could answer me. He needs to be sure that he gets all the credit for planning the entire installation. "And it worked, Mr. Carter. You're here as planned ."
  
  
  Her hotel let the air out of him a little, so he said, " Actually, it was this taxi story that made me think about Candy and the many coincidences she was involved in. Only in movies does someone run out around a building and immediately get in a taxi. It's as if the hero always finds a parking spot exactly where he needed it. Anyway, I remembered that it was Candy's idea to take that little walk around Georgetown and that she insisted on spending last night with me while Sherima was kidnapped. Then I remembered the phone calls at the gas station, and everything fell into place."
  
  
  "I'm afraid it's too late, Mr. Carter," Abdul said. He turned to the math guy at the desk, who was beginning to gather up ego papers and stuff something - the CIA code book, I guessed-in a minute. "Are you ready, Selim?"
  
  
  "Yes." He handed the Sword some pieces of paper he was working on and said, "These are the ones that can be found in the house." The ego leader took ih, then extended his hand again. Selim looked at him for a moment, then timidly took out a code book from his pocket. "I just thought I should take care of it," he apologized. "There's always a chance that when the police arrive, they might search you, and it wouldn't be wise to have ee in your possession."
  
  
  "Of course, my 'other'," Abdul said, putting an arm around ego's shoulder. "It was good of you to think about my safety. But I will worry about it and at the same time remove any temptation from your path. There are some who would pay a lot to get this little book, and it's best that the money goes directly to me and our glorious Silver Scimitar movement. Isn't that right, Selim? "
  
  
  The little forger named quickly nodded in agreement and seemed relieved when the Sword loosened the bear hug it was holding onto the man's shoulder. "Now you know what to do?"
  
  
  "I'll go openly to the embassy, and then..." He stopped abruptly, looking startled, and asked, " What kind of car was she supposed to use? And Mohammed, who was supposed to bring this Carter guy here? What happened to him?
  
  
  Abdul turned to me. "Oh, yes, Mr. Carter. Her hotel will ask you about Muhammad. I assume her ego suffered the same fate as our friends in the Black Liberation Army in Georgetown. And much more."
  
  
  I was just about to reply to emu when I saw Candy's questioning expression and decided that she didn't know anything about "the others". Remembering the trio of Japanese who were waiting for us in Great Falls, I got another revelation, and had this idea for future reference. "If Mohammed is the person who was waiting outside my room, he was detained. He asked me to tell you that he would be late. Very late. In fact, I don't think he'll survive at all."
  
  
  Abdul nodded. "I suspected it," he said.
  
  
  "Candy, were you watching when Mr. Carter arrived like I told you? How did it get here? "
  
  
  "I saw him walking around the car that he had parked around the corner," she said. "It was Vega."
  
  
  "Again, as I suspected," Abdul said, bowing to me. "It looks like we have a lot to repay you, Mr. Carter, including bringing our car here so Selim can return to the embassy." He held out his hand. "Can I have the keys? Reach them very carefully." He pointed at the assassin with the submachine gun, and he saw ego's thumb tighten slightly on the trigger.
  
  
  Her fished out a key ring around her pocket and started throwing ego math classes with a rifle. "No way! For me, " Abdul said quickly, ready for any suspicious action on my part. Hers did as he said, then he handed the car keys to his math supervisor Selim, saying, " Keep following your instructions."
  
  
  "I'll be waiting for your call at the embassy. When it comes, I call the police and tell them that you called me from this address and said that you found Her Highness murdered. Then I radio it to His Highness and tell him what happened."
  
  
  "And how did I get to this address?"
  
  
  "I sent you here when it turned out that Her Highness was missing. Her, remembered that once Ego Royal Highness asked me to take ego to this house to meet some Americans, and thought that maybe Her Highness came here to visit her American friends. And I don't know anything else about whether it's a house or something like that.
  
  
  Good. Don't forget all the words around what I said to you, Selim, " Abdul said, patting ego on the back. "Go and wait for my call. Mustafa Bey will pick up the car later and return it to the rental agency. Park ego in the embassy parking lot and tell the attendant that someone is coming for the keys." When Abdul flipped a switch inside the shelter, similar to the one on the pole outside, the heavy door swung open again. He said the last word to his own discretion in math and then looked at his watch. "It's now six o'clock. You should be
  
  
  
  
  
  
  at the embassy in half an hour, and we should be done here by then. Expect my call between six-thirty and six-forty-five. Allah is with you."
  
  
  "And with you, Seif Allah," the treacherous Adaba clerk said as the concrete panel closed again, sealing us in the soundproof room as Sherima and I stared into the eyes of certain death.
  Chapter 12
  
  
  
  As soon as Selim left, Abdul started posting his fake CIA memos. Mustafa Bey kept his gun pointed at me with an angry face, only occasionally shifting his gaze for a moment to catch a glimpse of his former queen's naked body. Somehow, he knew that he was the one who molested her while she was hanging from the ropes that held her arms and legs apart. Its also been certain that he and ego are now a dead comrade, you probably received strict orders from the Sword not to rape the ih captive. Any such sexual assault would have been discovered in an autopsy, and I didn't think the Sword would have had that kind of complication. The murder had to be as neat as if it had been committed by CIA professionals.
  
  
  I wasn't sure how the Sword would explain the difference in time of death between the corpses upstairs and Sherima. Then it dawned on me that these bodies would not be found in the house. All emu had to do was say that he broke in and found the secret door open and Sherima's body lying in a secret room. He could also tell that he saw one or two people drive away when he arrived in the limo. Or he could have opened the trunk of the Mustang in the garage and then told the police that someone had run away when it pulled up. The logical assumption would be that the killer was about to carry off Sherima's body when her bodyguard arrived there and startled him.
  
  
  I was wondering where her ego plan fit in. I knew then that I would be the dead man who would help make Abdullah's story even more impenetrable, and he understood why I shouldn't be killed with an automatic rifle. He was supposed to die from a bullet around the same gun that killed Sherima. Abdul could tell that he had led me to the house to look for her, and the man who had escaped through the garage when we arrived fired another shot before running away, which startled me. Abdul pretended that he didn't know her by the Executive Protection Service (as he now thought I was), and explained that I was just a person who was being nice to Sherima, to whom he asked for help.
  
  
  This story, of course, will not stand up to criticism in the framework of an official investigation. But will the government be able to convince Shah Hassan that our story is not a cover-up for the CIA's involvement in her murder? And any disclosure of my true identity as an AX agent would only make the whole situation even more complicated and suspicious. After all, hers was pretty close to the former queen almost from the moment she arrived in Washington. How could this be explained to the man who loved her?
  
  
  While hers was thinking about the complexity of the plot, hers was watching Candy. She sat down on the bed and seemed to avoid looking at me or Sherima. I don't think she expected to see her ex-boyfriend stripped and brutally bound. Her, realized that the rope marks on her wrists and ankles were to be given away as part of CIA torture to try to get the former queen to change her mind about shedding the saints of her alleged plot on Adabi.
  
  
  By then, Abdul had finished hiding the counterfeit notes. He walked up to my security detail and started giving orders in Arabic. "Go upstairs and take the two bodies to the side door. Then approach the limo as you can lick k day. Select the racks and load ih. Make sure that no one sees you doing this. Then come back here for Karim. Unfortunately, he has to go with the capitalist pigs. There will be another passenger in the trunk, so make sure there is room."
  
  
  Ey was the only one who could hear what the Sword was saying on its own in math, and the ego words implied something I hadn't thought of up to this point. If Sherima and I are found dead at the scene, then the only" passenger " in the trunk should be Candy! And I guessed what was in the" other paper " that the forger Selim had finished, and the contents of which he had avoided mentioning. He was sure that nen portrayed Candy as the CIA's link to Sherima and therefore to Shah Hassan. This part of Abdullah's plan was strained by the fact that her disappearance at the time of Sherima's death would have looked even more suspicious if the CIA hadn't been able to produce her to refute the evidence fabricated by the Sword.
  
  
  When Mustafa had left and the massive door was dead again, he said, " Candy, tell me something. When did you get Abdullah to join you in seeking revenge on Shah Hassan? »
  
  
  "Why not? What does this mean?" She looked at me to answer, but turned away again.
  
  
  "I assume it was around the time that the news of Sherima's divorce and return to the States got out, really?"
  
  
  Her brown eyes searched my face, and she finally nodded, then said, " I don't know.:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  that was about then. Why not?"
  
  
  Abdul didn't say anything, but ego's black hawk-like eyes darted from nah to me as he continued to speak, hoping that he was too tense to notice that I never raised my hands again after throwing the car keys at the emu.
  
  
  "What did he say?" Her asked and then answered her corkscrew. "I'll keep the money, it was like he finally realized you were right. This Hassan was a bad person who didn't really help his people, but just accumulated wealth for himself and gave away several schools and hospitals to keep people quiet."
  
  
  Her face told me I'd hit the mark, but she wasn't ready to admit it, even to herself. "Abdul showed me proof of this! He showed me the Swiss bank records. Did you know that the good old philanthropist Hassan has invested more than a hundred million dollars there? How can you help yourself, not your country? "
  
  
  Sherima was alive again, listening to our conversation. Once again, she tried to convince Candy that she was wrong about her ex-husband. "It's not like that, Candy," she said softly. "The only money that Hasan ever sent over Adabi was to pay for the equipment that our people needed. This is also the money he invested in Zurich for you and me.
  
  
  "Voice, how much you know about your precious Hassan," hey Candy called out. "Abdul showed me the notes, and then he suggested how we could destroy it using with you."
  
  
  "The records could have been tampered with, Candy," I said. "You saw tonight what an expert Selim is in such things. Bank documents would be much easier to create than CIA-encoded bank notes."
  
  
  Candy looked from Abdullah to me, but found no relief from the doubts emu had instilled in her. "Abdul wouldn't do that," she said sharply. "He helped me because he loved me, if you must know!"
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. "Think about it, Candy. Would a man who loved you have allowed you to go to bed with someone else-ordered you to do it - like you?"
  
  
  "It was necessary, wasn't it, Abdul?" said Candy, almost crying when she turned to him for help. "Tell em how you explained that the ego needs to be kept busy overnight so you can pick up Sherima, that there's only one way to keep someone like him busy. Tell emu, Abdul." The last three words were a plea for help, which quickly went unanswered as Abdul said nothing. His face was set in a cruel smile; he knew what I was trying to do, and em didn't care, because he felt it was too late to change anything.
  
  
  "I can't buy this, Candy," I said, slowly shaking my head again. "Don't forget, you already knew what kind of person I was. You and I were together before Abdullah ever told me. He left for Alexandria with Sherima before she met you that first night. You remember that night, don't you? "
  
  
  "It was just because I was so lonely!" she now sobbed, looking wildly at Abdullah. Apparently, she didn't tell him everything about her first meeting with me. "Abdul and I haven't had a chance to be together in months. There was so much time to prepare for the departure of Po Sidi Hassan. And then all the time we were in London, I had to be with Sherima because she was acting like a child. Abdul, there was nothing wrong with him that first night. You have to believe me. I just need someone. You know what I'm like."
  
  
  She ran toward him, but he backed away to keep an eye on me. "Stay there, my dear," he said sharply, stopping her. "Don't get between Mr. Carter and my friend." He waved the gun. "That's exactly what he wants you to do."
  
  
  "Then it's okay? Do you understand, Abdul? She wiped away her tears. "Tell me it's okay, honey."
  
  
  "Yes, Abdul," her ego urged, " hey, tell me everything.
  
  
  Hey, tell me all about the Silver Scimitar and how you are the Sword of Allah, who led the most brutal pack of murderers in the world. Tell abba all the innocent people-2 that you sacrificed to try to take control of the entire Middle East. And be sure to tell me, hey, how she's going to be the next victim.
  
  
  "That's enough, Mr. Carter," he said coldly, while Candy asked: "What is he talking about, Abdul? What about the Silver Scimitar, and what about me when I become her next victim? "
  
  
  "Later, my dear," he said, looking at me intently. "I will explain everything as soon as Mustafa returns. We still have a lot to do ."
  
  
  "Candy, actually," I said sharply. "You will know when Mustafa returns. Right now, he's loading the trunk of a Cadillac with the bodies of two people upstairs. Then it should go back to Kareem on the floor. And it also saves space for you in the trunk. Really, Abdul? Or do you prefer the Sword of Allah now, when the moment of your victory is so close? »
  
  
  "Yes, Mr. Carter, I think I do," he said. Then he turned slightly to Candy, whose hands were pressed to my face in horror. She looked at him incredulously as he turned to her and continued in an icy, hard tone, " Unfortunately, my dear, Mr. Carter is very right. Yours
  
  
  
  
  
  
  the feeling for me ended as soon as you gave me the opportunity to make the former Queen my prisoner and lured Mr. Carter here. As for you, Mr. Carter, "he continued, turning back to me," I think you've said enough. Now, please keep your mouth shut, or I will be forced to use this rifle, even if it means changing my plans."
  
  
  Reporting that I was right about the Sword's intention to use my corpse as the best evidence to support the ego stories - that he and she were trying to save Sherima-made me a little bolder in the face of automatic weapons. He would only shoot me as a last resort, I decided, and I hadn't forced the ego to do so yet. Her hotel continued the conversation, Candy, despite his threats, so said:
  
  
  "You see, Candy, there are people who make love out of mutual pleasure, like you and me, and there are people like Abdul here who make love out of hatred to achieve their goals. Abdul Stahl was your lover when he was ready to use you, not before, as I understand it."
  
  
  She lifted her tear-stained face and looked at me without seeing me. "Until then, we were just friends. He would come and we would talk about my father and how terrible it was for Hasan to be responsible for an ego death to save his greedy life. Then, finally, he told me that he had loved me for a long time, and ... and he's been so careful for such a long time, and - " she suddenly realized that she was talking about herself, and looked guiltily at Sherima, and then back at me.
  
  
  I suspected that a long time ago she had told an old friend of hers about the intense search for love that had once led her from man to man. But she didn't know I knew about her nymphomania. It was obvious now that she was embarrassed to admit it in front of me. More importantly, he was aware of the passage of time, and Mustafa would soon return to the hidden room. His had to make a move, before that, and letting Candy participate in the discussion of her affair with Abdul meant nothing but wasting valuable minutes.
  
  
  Taking a chance that the cunning Arab plot was a thing of the past, he asked her, " Did Abdul ever tell you that he was the one who planned the assassination attempt that killed your father? Or that the killer should never have gotten to the Shah. Isn't it? "She was pushed by ego, while Candy and Sherima gaped in shock and disbelief. "Wasn't he just someone you used, intending to shoot him before he got close enough to actually stab Hassan? You knew that saving the Shah's life would gain ego trust, dis supposedly he was such a person. Not only that, if Hasan had been killed then, ego, the humans would have destroyed everyone involved in the murder, and it would probably have meant a thread for the Silver Scimitar's movements. You weren't strong enough to ask the rest of the Arab world for help."
  
  
  The sword didn't respond, but I saw ego's thumb tighten on the trigger again. I was pretty sure I'd guessed right, but I didn't know how far I could get her before those bullets started spewing at me. I had to take it one step further to try to push Candy k into action.
  
  
  "See how quiet the great man is now, Candy?" I told her. "I'm right, and he won't admit it, but he's actually responsible for your father's death, and what's more..."
  
  
  "Nick, you're right!" exclaimed Sherima, interrupting me. Abdul tore his gaze away from me for a moment to look in her direction, but the cold gaze returned to me before it could land on him.
  
  
  In a voice full of excitement, Sherima continued to say, " I just remembered what Hasan said when he told me about the attempt on his life. It wasn't registered at the time, but what you just said reminds me of it - boolean matches. He said it was too bad that Abdul Bedawi thought emu had to push Mr. Knight in front of the killer before he shot him. That Abdul had already drawn his gun and probably could have shot him without trying to distract attention by pushing Mr. Knight. It was Abdul who sacrificed your father, Candy, not your Ego Highness! »
  
  
  The sword couldn't watch all three of us. For obvious reasons, he focused on Sherima and her story, as well as me. If she hadn't screamed in pain and rage as she turned to grab the gun on the bed, he wouldn't have aimed it at her fast enough. As she raised the small pistol at her waist, heavy bullets began to work their way up her chest and then back down her face as Abdul turned the direction of his bullet pistol. Miniature fountains of blood gushed around the countless holes in her beautiful chest and burst out around the brown eyes that no longer narrowed with passion as she teased her lover to an endless climax.
  
  
  One of Abdullah's first bullets knocked out Candy's gun around her arm, and sent her spinning across the floor. He continued to hold back the trigger of his rifle, laughing as he fired a stream of bullets at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  a target that constantly twitched and twisted under the blows, even as the once-beautiful red head was thrown back onto the bed.
  
  
  I was just about to pick up the Candy pistol, a Beretta Model 20 .25 caliber, when my movements clearly caught the ego's attention. The heavy rifle arched toward me. Triumph flashed in ego's eyes, and he saw that the recklessness and lust for power, the daring, all thoughts of ego's need for my corpse later. The time came, and a smile spread across his face as he deliberately aimed the muzzle at my groin.
  
  
  "Never again, Mr. Carter," he said, his trigger finger white with pressure as he pulled the ego further and further until it stopped moving. Ego's face suddenly paled as he realized with horror, at the same moment as hers, that the magazine was empty and its deadly contents had been used in gruesome intercourse with a corpse.
  
  
  I had to laugh at the ego-driven inadvertent use of an international Jewish slogan that protested that the horror that once gripped European Jews would never happen again. "You can get kicked out of the Arab League for saying that," Emu told her as he grabbed the Beretta and made Emu the ego of his life.
  
  
  Candy's death clearly didn't assuage ego's rage; the meaning drained out of his head as he swore and threw the rifle at me. I dodged it, and gave Em time to pull back his tight jacket and pull out the pistol I'd known for so long was in its holster. Then it was my turn to pull the trigger. The Model 20 is known for its accuracy, and gawking broke Emu's wrist just as I expected.
  
  
  He swore again, looking at the twitching fingers that couldn't hold the gun. It fell to the floor at an angle, and we both watched, momentarily motionless and fascinated, as it spun briefly at ego's feet. He was the first to move, and he waited again as ego's left hand gripped the heavy machine gun. When he was almost up to his waist, Candy's Beretta barked a second time, and he had another broken wrist; the submachine gun crashed to the floor again.
  
  
  The sword stepped on me like a crazed man, its hands slapping uselessly at the ends of the massive arms that reached out to take me in what it knew would be a crushing bear hug. I wasn't going to risk it reaching me. The second crack of the Beretta came like an echo of the sharp response that preceded the emu by a second.
  
  
  Abdel screamed twice as the bullets sank into Ego's kneecaps, then another scream erupted around ego's throat as he plummeted forward and landed on his knees, which were already sending knife-sharp streaks of pain through him. Controlled by a brain that was no longer functioning logically, he propped himself up on his elbows and slowly moved across the linoleum floor toward me. Obscenities poured down ego's twisted lips like bile until he finally sprawled at my feet, mumbling unintelligibly.
  
  
  He turned away and walked over to Sherima, suddenly realizing that her screams, which had started when the Sword bullets tore Candy apart, had turned into deep, hoarse sobs. Rearranging his hands with his weapons to be ready in case the secret door started to open, he unsheathed his stiletto and cut the first of the chains. As her lifeless hand dropped to her side, she noticed my presence and raised her bowed head. She looked at me, then at the Groaning Sword on the floor, and I saw the muscles in her throat tighten, holding back the gag reflex.
  
  
  "Good girl," he said to her as she fought back the urge to vomit. "I'll let you go in a minute."
  
  
  She shuddered and involuntarily started to look towards the bed. I moved in front of her, so that I wouldn't have to see the bloodied woman she loved like a sister, when my blade freed her other arm. She dropped onto my chest, the top of her head barely touching my chin, and gasped, " Oh, Nick... Candy... Candy... It's my fault... It's my fault..."
  
  
  "No, it's not," I said, trying to comfort her while supporting her with one arm and crouching down to cut the ropes around her ankles. After breaking the last violent bond, I stepped back and hugged her to me, saying soothingly, " It's not our fault. Candy couldn't help herself. Abdul convinced her that Hassan was to blame ...
  
  
  "No way! No! No! You don't understand, " she sobbed, leaning back to pound her tiny clenched fists on my chest. "It's my fault that she's dead. If I hadn't told this lie about remembering what Hasan said, she wouldn't have tried to kill Abdullah, and ... and that would never have happened ." She forced herself to look at the ghastly, blood-soaked figure sprawled on the bed.
  
  
  "Was that a lie?" I asked incredulously. "But I'm sure that's exactly what happened. I pointed my Beretta at the Sword that lay motionless. I couldn't tell if he was unconscious or not. If not, he didn't make it clear that he'd heard what Sherima was telling me. "What made you say that if it never happened?"
  
  
  "I saw what you were trying to raise
  
  
  
  
  
  
  or distract the ego so that you can probably jump on it and take the ego's gun. Her thought was that if her said what I did, he might look my way or maybe follow me and you'd have your chance. I never thought this would happen. Her body convulsed again with terrible sobs, but I didn't have time to calm her down. Over the sound of her crying to him, I heard something else, the whirring of an electric motor, and my brain spun with it, remembering the noise that had been noted the first time the door to the CIA shelter had been opened to her.
  
  
  There was no time to be gentle. He pushed Sherima over to the table and hoped that her legs had regained enough circulation to hold her down. As hers turned toward the opening, hers saw out of the corner of her eye that she was partially hiding in the shelter that hers intended to take.
  
  
  It was then that he discovered that the Sword was faking unconsciousness. Before the massive concrete barrier was opened far enough for the ego man to enter the room, he got up on his elbows again and shouted a warning in Arabic:
  
  
  "Mustafa Bey! Danger! Carter's got a gun! Be careful!"
  
  
  Her gaze darted to Ego as he slumped back down on the tile. Trying to warn his bandit took the last of his strength, which was draining down his ego wounds as the blood oozed out. Tense, she waited for the assassin to enter the doorway. However, he did not appear, and the engine that powered the heavy panel completed its cycle as the door began to close again. An air sampling whistle told me when it sealed the shelters. We were safe inside, but I knew I had to get out. He looked at his watch. Six-twenty. It's hard to believe that so much has happened since the sixth hour, when the Sword sent its henchman Selim back to the embassy. It was even harder to believe that I had to get Sherima out of there and get her to the Secretary of State in just ninety minutes.
  
  
  He knew that Selim had been instructed not to contact his cohorts in Sidi Hassan until he received notice from the Sword. He'd delayed that part of the plan, of course, but he couldn't stop the Shah from waiting for Sherima's voice on the radio. And there was a professional assassin who was ready to stop me from getting it. I also had an automatic rifle, but still a .38-caliber silencer was missing, which very effectively brought down two CIA agents with well-aimed shots. Hers was outweighed by Ego's firepower, just like my Luger ,but he had the advantage that he could wait for hers to exit through the only exit in the secret room. Besides, I had a deadline and he didn't.
  
  
  I was supposed to wait outside - Goshawk's men must have arrived by now-but they'd be under orders not to interfere unless it was obvious I needed help. And there was no solution to communicate with them over a soundproof room.
  
  
  My contemplation of the odds before me was suddenly interrupted by a trembling voice behind me, " Nick, is everything okay now?"
  
  
  He'd forgotten her former queen, who he'd pushed roughly to the floor. "Yes, Your Highness," Ay told her, chuckling. "And Owl Asks, find your clothes. I have enough on my mind not to be distracted by your beauty.
  
  
  After he said that, I was sorry that I used the word beautiful.
  
  
  It brought back memories of a beautiful woman who used to laugh and love me, and who now turned into a piece of meat slaughtered by a bullet in the corner. It was my turn to hold back the ravine rising up inside me.
  Chapter 13
  
  
  
  Sherima found the negligee she was wearing when they took her away, but not the mink coat. We figured someone must have taken her after we moved her to the basement. She couldn't remember much around what had happened, probably because the tranquilizers Ay had given Candy were much more effective than she'd guessed.
  
  
  It was hard to keep my eyes from enjoying the golden curves of Sherima's petite figure under her thin underwear as she hurriedly told me that she vaguely remembered how her suddenly this is the only transmission Abdul has told hey, something about someone trying to cause hey, in all the houses around, and that he was supposed to take her away, obviously no one knew about it. Odin's human ego must have been with him, because she remembered two people supporting her as she got into the limo.
  
  
  She didn't remember anything else except waking up later to find herself tied to moaning, naked. The one whose name we now knew was Mustafa was running his hands over her body. She apparently chose not to talk about this part of her ordeal and quickly ignored it, going on to explain that Abdul eventually arrived with Selim around the embassy. Her former bodyguard didn't bother to answer her questions and just laughed when she ordered him to release her.
  
  
  "He just said that soon I wouldn't have anything to worry about anymore," Sherima recalled with a shudder, " and she knew what he meant."
  
  
  As she spoke, the Sword examined her and found that it was still cold. I tore her strip
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sherima's negligee and bandaged ego's wounds to stop the blood that was still oozing around them. He would still be alive if he could just get ego out of there and get medical attention. But it was obvious that he wouldn't be able to do much with his hands anymore, even if the ego wrists were restored. And it would have required extensive surgery to turn those broken kneecaps into something that could even allow him to drag himself along like a cripple.
  
  
  I didn't know how long Mustafa would be waiting outside, I know that ego leader Stahl is my prisoner. He thought that if he was a fanatic like most Sword men, he wouldn't have done the wise thing and run away. Ego the only two options are either to try to get inside and save Abdullah, or to sit and wait for her to try to get out.
  
  
  He slid out of his doublet and said to Sherima, " Sit in that chair again. I'm going to open the door and see what our other one does. He can just shoot, and you're standing right in the line of fire right now.
  
  
  When she was out of sight, her father flipped the switch that moved the concrete panel. The few seconds it took to open felt like hours, and he remained pinned to the moan, my Luger ready. However, nothing happened, and I needed to find out if the killer was still hiding in the outer basement.
  
  
  Draping his jacket over the shoulder of his empty automatic rifle, he crept to the door scythe as it began to slam shut again. I slid my jacket through the narrowing hole and watched it detach from the muzzle of the rifle, while I heard two small pops outside. I jerked my rifle away before the heavy door locked us in again.
  
  
  "Well, he's still in there, and it looks like he won't get in," her self said more than anyone else. Sherima heard me and poked her head around the end of the chair.
  
  
  "What are we going to do, Nick?" she asked. "We can't stay here, can we?"
  
  
  She didn't know how much she needed to get out of there as quickly as possible; I didn't take the time to tell her about her ex-husband and the timing of her ego feed on the radio.
  
  
  "We'll get out, don't worry," I assured her, and then, I don't know how we're going to do it.
  
  
  A sensible person, she remained silent while her mind considered its next move. I visualized the part of the basement that lies behind the doorway. The washer-dryer door was too far away from the house to hide if I tried to break it. The oil burner sat against the far wall, near the stairs. It seemed to her that Mustafa must have hidden under the stairs. From there, he could keep the doorway closed and stay out of sight in case of a surprise attack from above.
  
  
  I looked around the CIA hideout, hoping to find something that might help me. One corner of the large room was enclosed by a wall, forming a small cubicle with its own door. Previously, it might have been imagined that this was probably a bathroom; when he went to the door, he opened it and found that he was right. The nen contained a sink, toilet, mirrored first aid kit, and a shower stall with a plastic curtain across the nah. The accommodations were simple, but most of the CIA's guests were short-term and probably didn't expect the apartments to rival those at Watergate.
  
  
  Not expecting to find anything of value to me, I automatically checked the first aid kit. If the shelter was used by a man, it was well equipped. The triple shelves held toiletries - a safety razor, an aerosol can of shaving cream, a bottle of Old Spice lotion, bandaids, and duct tape - as well as a variety of cold pills and antacids like the ones on the bathroom shelves. used by a dead agent upstairs. Do this in the trunk of the limo outside, as the Sword henchman is obviously finished playing the undertaker upstairs.
  
  
  I started to walk out of the bathroom, but turned back when an idea hit me. In her frantic work, she made several transitions between the bathroom and the secret doorway, piling everything she needed on the floor next to it. When he was ready, he called Sherima over to her hiding place, and informed her of what she should do, then pushed a chair across the tiled floor to a spot next to the light switch that activated the door.
  
  
  "Okay, vote, that's it," he said, and she sat down next to the table. "Do you know how to use this?" It was handed over by hey little Candy gun.
  
  
  She nodded. "Hassan claimed to have her learn to shoot, then a second attack on his life," she said. "I learned it pretty well too, especially with my gun." Ee didn't show up when she checked to see if the gun was loaded. "It was exactly the same. Hassan gave me one, and her twin, this one, Candy. He recognized her voice, too. He never expected that ever... Her eyes filled with tears, and she fell silent.
  
  
  "There's no time for that now, Sherima," I said.
  
  
  She breathed in her tears and nodded, then bent down and picked up her nightgown to wipe away the ih. At any other time, I would have been grateful
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her looked around, but now hers, turned to prepare for our escape attempt.
  
  
  Taking a can of shaving foam, he removed the top and pushed the nozzle to the side to make sure that there was a lot of pressure in the can. The whoosh of spewing foam told me it was a new one.
  
  
  Then came the shower curtain. Wrapping a container of shaving cream with cheap plastic wrap, it made a platform size o? the basketball, then lightly secured ego with strips of sticky tape, making sure it wasn't packed too tightly because it was too small for air to collide between the folds of the curtain. I took the ego in my right hand and put it down, deciding that it was enough to control it for my purposes.
  
  
  "Now," I said, holding out my right hand to Sherima.
  
  
  She took one of the two spare toilet paper rolls that hers had removed from the bathroom shelf, and while ego held it in place, she began wrapping the sticky tape around ego, attaching it to the inside of my right hand just above the wrist. . When it seemed to be firmly anchored, she did the same with the second roll, anchoring the ego on my arm just above the other. By the time she finished, I had about four inches of makeshift padding along the entire inside of my arm from wrist to elbow. I knew it wasn't enough to stop the bullet, but hopefully it was thick enough to avoid deflecting the bullet or significantly reducing its force.
  
  
  "I guess that's all," hey told her, looking around to make sure my other equipment was on hand. Suddenly he stopped, startled by his own shortsightedness. "Matches," I said, looking helplessly at nah.
  
  
  He knew what was in the pockets of ih net, so he ran over to the dead Karim and searched the ego with his free left hand. There are no matches. It was the same with Abdul, who groaned when ego rolled her over to touch ego's pockets.
  
  
  "Nick! Vote!"
  
  
  He turned to Sherima, who was rummaging through the drawers of a chair. She held one out around these disposable lighters. "Does it work?"I asked her.
  
  
  She clicked the wheel; when nothing happened, she moaned in frustration, not pain.
  
  
  "At the same time, you have to hold on to this little trick," I said, running up to her as I realized that she probably hadn't seen many lighters like this in Adabi. She tried again, but it didn't work. Ego took it from nah and clicked the wheel. The flame came alive, and she was blessed by an unknown smoker who had forgotten his lighter.
  
  
  He kissed Sherima on the cheek for good luck and said, "Let's get out of here." She was reaching for the door switch when her father returned to his seat, picking up a basketball bomb in his right hand and holding a lighter in the other.
  
  
  "Currently!"
  
  
  She flipped the light switch and then fell to the floor behind the desk, the gun clenched in her fist. I waited for her until the bike began to swirl, and when it did, I flicked the lighter. As the door began to swing open, her flame touched the plastic bag in her hand. It lit up immediately, and by the time the door was ajar, I had a glowing ball in my hand. Moving to a point inside the door frame, he cupped its opening with his hand and made a flaming ball towards the spot where he thought Mustafa should be hidden.
  
  
  He turned off the holy light in the basement so that the light from inside would illuminate anyone who passed through the door. Instead, the move worked in ego's favor; when a flaming piece of plastic suddenly appeared in the dark, it temporarily blinded Ego so much that he couldn't take aim when he fired at my arm.
  
  
  The one around the .38 bullet came off the toilet paper coil closest to my wrist. The first second hit a barrel lick to my elbow, was slightly distracted and punctured the fleshy part of my arm there. I jerked my hand away as blood ran down the angry cuts on my arm.
  
  
  I couldn't stop to stop the ego. Grabbing the automatic leaning against the wall, her ego pinned her between the door frame and the most massive panel. He was counting on the door being carefully balanced, so that the rifle would be strong enough to keep it from closing.
  
  
  There was no time to see if it would work. I had to implement the next part of my plan. Since I wasn't going to stick my head in the door jamb to see how effective my fireball attack was, I used the mirrored door that I took out around the first aid kit in the bathroom. Wrapping myself around rama's ego and waiting for my makeshift periscope to shatter with Mustafa's next bullet, I scanned the scene from the outside.
  
  
  I missed my target-the alcove behind the basement stairs. Instead, a makeshift fireball landed next to the oil burner. As he watched, Mustafa, apparently afraid that the big heater might explode, ran around his hiding place and grabbed the still-burning bundle with both hands, keeping ego at arm's length so that the flames wouldn't scorch him. That meant he'd either thrown the gun away, or put the ego back in his belt. I didn't wait to see her anymore. Dropping the mirror, he pulled out his Luger and went outside, realizing that
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I think my wedge by rifle didn't let the concrete door close.
  
  
  Mustafa was still holding the fireball, desperately looking around the basement for a place to throw it. Then he noticed me standing in front of him with my gun pointed, and his already terrified eyes widened even more. I could tell he was going to throw a flaming pack at me, so I pulled the trigger. I didn't have a chance to see if you got her ego.
  
  
  The crack in my luger was lost in the explosion that engulfed the Sword's accomplice. I didn't know if my goggle-eyed can of pressurized shaving cream had blown up or if the bomb had reflected the embers off the flaming plastic. Perhaps it was a combination of both. Mustafa picked up the bundle to throw it to me, and the blast hit him squarely in the face. Falling to his knees with the force of the explosion, he watched as the ego traits disintegrated. As the basement darkened again - the explosion extinguished the flames-I felt as if the killer's eyes had turned to liquid and were running down ego's cheeks.
  
  
  Shocked but unharmed, her father jumped to his feet and heard Sherima's screams in the room that had been her torture chamber just before.
  
  
  "Nick! Nick! Are you all right?" What happened?"
  
  
  I stepped back into the doorway so she could see me.
  
  
  "Score two points for our team," I said. "Now help me get this off my arm. Everything will be fine.
  Chapter 14
  
  
  
  The tape that normally held the blood-soaked toilet paper rolls to my hand also held my stiletto in place. I had to wait for Sherima to find a pair of scissors in the chair drawer before she could cut off the crimson cloth. More strips of cordon ee clean negligee became bandages for me, and by the time she stopped the blood bubbling up the creases from the bullet, what had once been an expensive piece of underwear was almost gone.
  
  
  "You're really going to be a sensation at dinner tonight," I said, admiring the small, firm breasts that pressed so tightly against the soft fabric as she worked my arm. My hasty explanation of her appointment to the Secretary of State's house less than an hour later elicited, she was glad to see, a typically feminine reaction: "Nick," she gasped. "I can't go on like this!"
  
  
  "I'm afraid you'll have to. No time to go back to Watergate, and by eight o'clock still have you on the radio. Now let's get out of here.
  
  
  She stepped back, turning to look first at Candy's body on the bed, then at the Sword spread out on the floor. "Nick, what about Candy? We can't leave her like this."
  
  
  "I'll have someone take care of her, Sherima. And so is Abdul. But believe me, the most important thing right now is to give you a chance to talk on the radio with ...
  
  
  "ATTENTION DOWN. THIS HOUSE IS SURROUNDED! COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP! ATTENTION DOWN. THIS HOUSE IS SURROUNDED. COME out, PUT YOUR hands up."
  
  
  The megaphone echoed again, then fell silent. Help has arrived. Goshawk's men must have raided the house when they heard the shaving cream bomb go off, and probably searched the rooms on the upper floors before deciding to take the screaming man to the basement door. Most likely, they were quite surprised when they opened it, and they had an acrid haze from the extinguished plastic flame.
  
  
  I walked up to the concrete doorway and shouted, "This is Nick Carter," and then introduced myself as the head of the oil company that supposedly hired me. There were many things he hadn't explained to Sherima yet, and what they would never tell him. At this point, it seemed like the best thing to do was go back to how she knew me initially.
  
  
  "I'm here with... with Miss Liz Chenley. We need help. And an ambulance."
  
  
  "GO TO THE DOORWAY, PUT YOUR hands up."
  
  
  He obeyed the megaphone's instructions. One of the AX agents upstairs knows me, and the basement quickly filled up with Goshawk people. It took me a few valuable minutes to instruct the group leader on what to do at home, and then she said, " I need a car."
  
  
  He gave me his keys and told me where Ego's car was parked. "Do you need someone to drive you?"
  
  
  “no. We'll do it. He turned to Sherima and held out his hand, saying, " Shall we go, Your Highness?"
  
  
  Once again, the Queen, despite wearing a royal dress that was ripped to the middle of her thighs and left little to the imagination, took my hand. "We're happy to retire, Mr. Carter."
  
  
  "Yes, ma'am," I said, and led her to mimmo the baffled AX agents who were already working on the Swords. They were trying to get ego back to consciousness before the ambulance arrived, which would then take ego to a small private hospital that Hawke had generously allocated with agency funds, so that Emu was provided with a special ward for patients he was interested in. Sherima stopped at the door when she heard ego moan again, and turned when his eyes opened and he stared at Nah.
  
  
  "Abdul, you've been fired," she said grandly, then stormed out of the shelters and up the stairs ahead of me.
  
  
  Like slime
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A day later, the Secretary of State and Hawk appeared in the richly paneled library, and she rose to her feet. The four-poster porter's chair was comfortable, and he was almost dozing off. The secretary spoke briefly with the Old Man, then returned to the room where the ego's powerful transmitter was located. Hawk came over to me.
  
  
  "We're going to give hey, a couple of miles on the radio with him," he said. "At least as much privacy as possible with the monitoring equipment that we have today."
  
  
  "How did it go?" I asked her.
  
  
  "It was pretty formal," he said, and politely asked, "How are you?" and " Everything okay?"
  
  
  I wondered how formal the painting would have looked to him if the CIA hadn't checked the storage room in the lobby as we left the safe house and found Sherima's mink coat there. The secretary offered to help with this when we arrived, but Sherima held ego in check, explaining that she had caught a cold on the way there and would hold ego for a while, and then followed the secretary to the library like a grandfather. the clock in the ego lobby struck eight.
  
  
  In the time since Ferret, her told Hawke what had happened in the house on Military Road. He spoke on the phone several times, giving instructions and updating reports on the various departments he assigned special personal tasks to, and then after I finished my story. The secretary had an encryption line that connected directly to Hawke's office, and the Old Man's instructions were relayed through our communications network.
  
  
  Hawk went to make another phone call, and her father leaned back in the big old wicker chair. When he returned, he could tell that the news was good, because there was a slight smile on his face that expressed extreme pleasure.
  
  
  "The sword will be fine," Hawk said. "We're going to put the ego back on its feet and then send the ego to Shah Hassan as a sign of our mutual friendship."
  
  
  I asked, suspicious of my boss's generosity," What do we get in return?"
  
  
  "Well, N3, we decided to suggest that it would be nice if the Shah just returned some of those little gifts that the boys at the Pentagon used to slip emu when no one was looking."
  
  
  "Will he agree to this?"
  
  
  "I think so. From what I just heard in the library, I think the Shah will soon give up his throne. This means that his brother's ego will take over, and I don't think Hasan wants anyone else to have their finger on the trigger of these toys. I understand another divorce is just around the corner, too, and ...
  
  
  He turned at the sound of the library door opening. Sherima came out, and the Secretary of State said, " Well, my dear, I think we can finally go out for lunch. I've had a little extra warmth in the dining room, so I'm sure you won't need your coat now."
  
  
  When he reached out to take it, her, he laughed. Sherima gave me a smile and a wink, then turned to slip out of the hole. Confused, Hawk nudged me and said reproachfully under his breath, " What are you giggling about, N3? They'll hear you.
  
  
  "It's a secret, sir. Everyone has Odin.
  
  
  When the long coat came off Sherima's shoulders, it was as if the Silver Falcon had shed its wings. As she walked regally toward the candlelit dining room, my secret was revealed. And hers, too.
  
  
  
  Thread.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Carter Nick
  
  
  The Aztec Avenger
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  
  The Aztec Avenger
  
  
  translated by Lev Shklovsky
  
  
  
  The first chapter.
  
  
  A few months ago, I experienced what a psychologist would call an identity crisis. The symptoms were easy to see. At first, he began to lose interest in his work. Then it turned into agonizing discontent and finally outright dislike for what I was doing. I had a feeling that I was trapped, and I was faced with the fact that I was in a good life and what the hell had I achieved?
  
  
  It was a corkscrew question.
  
  
  "Who are you?"
  
  
  And rheumatism was: "I'm a murderer."
  
  
  I didn't like the rheumatism.
  
  
  So I went down AX, around Hawk, down Dupont Circle in Washington, DC, and swore that I would never do any other work for them as long as I lived.
  
  
  Wilhelmina, 9 mm caliber. The luger, which was practically an extension of my right hand, was packed together with Hugo and Pierre. He gently ran his fingers over the deadly, sharpened steel of the stiletto before setting down the ego and wrapping the gun, knife, and tiny gas bomb in the suede lining. All three of them went to my safe deposit box. The next day I was gone,
  
  
  With them, her ferret was hiding in half a dozen countries under twice as many false names. Her hotel of peace and quiet. Her hotel wants me to be left alone, so that I can be sure that I will stay every day to enjoy the next one.
  
  
  I had Rivne for six months and two days before the phone rang in my hotel room. At nine-thirty in the morning.
  
  
  I wasn't expecting a phone call. Her, thought no one knew I was in El Paso. Ringing the bell meant that someone knew something about me that they shouldn't know. I didn't like the idea as hell, because it meant that she was going to be careless, and carelessness could kill me.
  
  
  The phone on the nightstand next to my bed kept screeching. He held out his hand and picked up the phone.
  
  
  "Yes?"
  
  
  "Your taxi is here, Mr. Stephans," said the overly polite voice of the desk clerk.
  
  
  I didn't order her a taxi. Someone was letting me know that they knew I was in town, and that they also knew the alias under which they registered.
  
  
  It's useless to guess who it was. There was only one way to find out.
  
  
  "Tell Em I'll be there in a few minutes," I said, and hung up.
  
  
  I didn't rush it on purpose. He was sprawled out on the king-size bed, his head propped up on the folded pillows, when the phone rang. He put his hands behind his head and stared across the room at his reflection in the large row under the longer walnut-veneered triple dresser.
  
  
  He saw her, a lean, lithe body with a face of indeterminate age. That face just missed the beauty, but that wasn't the point. It was a face that reflected the cold with eyes that had seen too much in one lifetime. Too much death. Too many murders. Too much torture, maiming, and more bloodshed than any man should see.
  
  
  I remembered how once, a few years ago, in a room in a small boarding house in a not-so-elegant neighborhood, a girl suddenly flared up at me and called me an arrogant, cold-blooded son of a bitch.
  
  
  "You just don't care! Tell us something, tell us something! "she was yelling at me. "You don't have any feelings! I thought I meant something to you, but I was wrong! You're just a bastard! It doesn't mean anything to you - what have we been doing for the last hour? "
  
  
  I didn't have an answer for nah. I lay naked on the rumpled bed and watched her finish dressing, without a trace of emotion on my face.
  
  
  She grabbed her purse and turned to face him.
  
  
  "What makes you who you are?" she asked me almost plaintively. "Why can't I contact you? Is this hers? Don't I mean anything to you? She's absolutely nothing to you?
  
  
  "I'll call you at seven today," I said curtly, ignoring her angry demands.
  
  
  Abruptly, she turned and walked out the door, slamming it behind her, and Hey watched her go, and I know that by the end of the day, she'll know in a heartbeat that she's not "absolutely nothing"to me yet. He didn't let his feelings matter, because from the very beginning of our romance, she was one of the many people who played a role in my AX assignment. Her role is over, he's in the night. She knew too much, and at seven o'clock in the evening she was pulled down by her stiletto from the last curtain.
  
  
  Now, a few years later, he was lying on another bed in a hotel room in El Paso, looking at his face in the mirror. That face accused me of being what she called me - tired, cynical, arrogant, cold.
  
  
  I realized that I could lie on this bed for hours, but someone was waiting for me in a taxi, and he wasn't going anywhere. And if she was asked to find out who had broken into my anonymity, there was only one way to do it. Go down to face it.
  
  
  So I swung my legs out of bed, got up, straightened my clothes, and walked out of my room, wanting the safety of Wilhelmina tucked under my armpit - or even the cold lethality of pencil-thin Hugo, with hardened steel attached to my arm.
  
  
  
  
  In her lobby, he nodded to the clerk, passing mimmo and exiting through the revolving door. After the air-conditioned chill of the hotel, the wet Savchenko of an early El Paso summer morning wrapped me in a wet embrace. The taxi was parked at the curb. He walked slowly to the cab, automatically scanning it. There was nothing suspicious about us on the quiet street, us on the faces of the few people casually strolling along the sidewalk. The driver walked around to the far side of the taxi. "Mr. Stephans? I nodded. "My name is Jimenez," he said. She was caught by the gleam of white teeth in a dark, hard face. The man was stocky and heavily built. Nen was wearing an open-necked sports shirt over blue slacks. Jimenez opened the back door for me. I saw that there was no one else in the taxi. He caught my eye. "Are you satisfied?" I didn't answer the emu. With her sel in the back, Jimenez closed the door and walked over to the driver's side. He slid into the front seat and pulled the car out into the light traffic. It moved further to the left until it sat down almost openly for the stocky man. As I did so, I leaned forward, my muscles tensing, the fingers of my right hand flexing so that the joints tightened, turning my fist into a deadly weapon. Jimenez looked in the rearview mirror. "Why don't you sit down and relax?" he suggested lightly. "Nothing will happen. He just wants to talk to you." "Who?" Jimenez shrugged his massive shoulders. "I do not know. All I have to tell you is that Hawk said you should follow the instructions. Whatever that means to us. It meant a lot. That meant Hawk was letting me get some rest. This meant that Hawk always knew how to contact me. That meant I was still working for Hawke and AX, the top-secret intelligence agency of the Americas. "Okay," I said wearily, " what are the instructions? "" I have to take you to the airport, " Jimenez said. "Rent a light plane. Make sure that the tanks are full. As soon as you get above the terrain, move at a speed of sixty degrees. And set up your communication radio, Unicom. You will receive further instructions in the air." "I'm obviously going to meet hema-to," I said, trying to get more information. "Do you know who it is?" Jimenez nodded. "Gregorius". He threw the name in the air between us like he'd dropped a bomb. * * * By ten-thirty, I was at 6,500 feet, heading 60 degrees, with my radio tuned to 122.8 megahertz, which is the Unicom frequency for inter-aircraft conversation. The sky was clear, with a small patch of fog at the horizon. The Cessna 210 kept her firmly on course in slow cruising mode. He continued to stare from side to side, scanning the sky around him. It was seen by another plane coming to intercept when it was still so far away that it looked like a small dot that does, maybe, anything, even an optical illusion. He further reduced the speed of his plane by pulling back the throttle and returning the trimmer. A few minutes later, another plane took shape. Soon it turned in a wide arc, circling, coming at me, I'm flying from wing to tip. The plane was a Bonanza. There was only one man in nen. The Bonanza pilot picked up the microphone. A rough baritone voice heard her in the earphones. "Five... nine... Alpha. Is that you, Carter? He picked up his microphone. "Yes". "Follow me," he said, and the Bonanza moved smoothly north, skimming ahead of my plane, a little to my left, and just above me, where it could easily be kept in view by Ego. Her Cessna 210 turned to follow, pushing the throttle forward, picking up speed to keep the ego in sight. Almost an hour later, the Bonanza slowed down, lowered its flaps and landing gear, and turned on a steep bank to land on a bulldozer-driven strip at the bottom of the valley. As I followed the Bonanza, I saw the Learjet parked at the far end of the runway, and I knew Gregorius was waiting for me. Inside the sleek Learjet, hers was sitting across from Gregorius, almost covered in expensive leather. "I know you're angry," Gregorius said calmly, his voice flat and precise. "However, please don't let your emotions get in the way of your thoughts. That wouldn't be like you at all. "I told you that I would never do another job for you again, Gregorius. Hawke had told her that, too. Her gaze was focused on the big man. "That's what you did," Gregorius admitted. He took a sip of his drink. "But nothing in this world is ever final-except death." He smiled at me with a big rubber face with large features. A large mouth, large eyes that bulged like splinters under thick gray brows, a huge bulging nose with heavy nostrils, rough pores on sallow skin-Gregorius ' face was like a rough clay sculptor's head, cast to heroic proportions to fit the rest of his body's ego. rough body. "Besides," he said softly, " Hawk loaned you to me, so you really work for him, you know.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Prove it."
  
  
  Gregorius pulled out a folded sheet of thin leather around his pocket. He held out his hand and handed it to me.
  
  
  The message was in the code. Not so wouldnt be difficult to decipher. Decoded, it read simply: "N3 under Lend-lease Gregorius. Clean AX until shutdown. Hawk.
  
  
  He lifted his head and looked coldly at Gregorius.
  
  
  "It could be a fake," I said.
  
  
  "This is proof that it's genuine," he said, and handed me the package.
  
  
  He looked down at his hands. The package was wrapped in paper, and when I tore it off, I found another package under the suede. And wrapped in suede was my 9mm Luger, the slim knife that carried it in a scabbard strapped to my right forearm, and Pierre, the tiny gas bomb.
  
  
  Ih - safe would have removed it, I thought, six months ago. I'll never know how Hawk found my safe deposit box or got its contents. But then Hawk was able to do a lot of things that no one knew about. He nodded to her.
  
  
  "You've proved your point," he said to Gregorius. "The message is authentic."
  
  
  "So will you listen to me now?"
  
  
  "Go," I said. "I'm listening."
  
  
  CHAPTER TWO
  
  
  Her declined Gregorius ' offer of lunch, but I had her drink coffee while he had a big edu. He didn't speak as he ate, concentrating on Ed with almost total dedication. This gave me the opportunity to study it while I smoked it and drank coffee.
  
  
  Alexander Gregorius was one of the richest and most secretive people in the world. I think he knew more about nen than anyone else, because I created an incredible information network for ego when Hawk first loaned me an emu.
  
  
  As Hawke said, "We can use the ego. A person with ego power and money can help us a lot. There's only one thing you need to remember, Nick. So that he knows us, I want to know her too.
  
  
  He created a fantastic information system that was supposed to work for Gregorius, and then tested it by ordering information collected about Gregorius himself. It was passed this information to the files of TOPOR.
  
  
  There was a hell of a lot of reliable information about the ego's early years. For the most part, this is unconfirmed. It was rumored that he was born somewhere in the Balkans or Asia Minor. It was rumored that he was part Cypriot and part Lebanese. Or a Syrian and a Turk. There was nothing definitive.
  
  
  But I discovered that ego, the real name, wasn't Alexander Gregorius, which very few people knew. But even he couldn't figure out where he really came from, or what he'd been doing for the first twenty-five years of his life.
  
  
  He appeared out of nowhere right after the start of World War II. In the immigration file in Athens, he was listed as having arrived from Ankara, but his passport was Lebanese.
  
  
  By the late ' 50s, he was deeply immersed in shipping in Greece, oil in Kuwait and Saudi Arabia, Lebanese banking, French import-export, South American copper, manganese, tungsten - whatever. It was almost impossible to track all of the ego's activities, even from an insider's location.
  
  
  It would be a nightmare for an accountant to disclose accurate data to the ego. He hid ih by incorporating Liechtenstein, Luxembourg, Switzerland, and Panama-countries where corporate secrecy is virtually unbreakable. This is because S. A. is the name of many companies across Europe and South America, meaning Societe Anonyme. No one knows who the shareholders are.
  
  
  I don't think even Gregorius himself could have known the exact size of his wealth. He no longer measured it in dollars, but in terms of power and influence - he had a lot of both.
  
  
  What I did for him, on this first assignment from Hock, was to create a sum information service that dealt with insurance companies, credit-checking organizations, and a news magazine with foreign bureaus in more than thirty countries and more. a hundred correspondents and stringers. Add to that an electronic data processing firm and a market research business. Ih the combined research resources were staggering.
  
  
  I showed her to Gregorius how we could put all this data together by compiling fully detailed dossiers on several hundred thousand people. Especially those who worked for companies in which he was interested, or which he fully owned. Or who worked for its competitors.
  
  
  Information came from correspondents, from credit experts, from insurance reports, from marketing research specialists, from the ego file of a news magazine. All of this was sent to the company's IBM 360 computer bank, EDP, located in Denver.
  
  
  In less than sixty seconds, I could have gotten a printout anywhere around these people filled with information so comprehensive that it would have scared the hell out of ih.
  
  
  It will be complete from the moment ih's birthday, the schools they go to, the grades they get, the exact salary for every job they've ever done, the loans they've ever taken out, and the payouts they have to make. It can even calculate the estimated annual levy on profit for each year of operation.
  
  
  Emus know the cases they've had, or have had. Immediately to the names and add the concerns of ih mistresses. And in nen there was information about ih sexual inclinations and perversions
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There is also one special reel of film containing about two thousand or more dossiers, with input and output processed only by a few carefully selected former FBI employees. This is because the information is too secret and too dangerous for others to see.
  
  
  Any U.S. District attorney would sell his soul to get his hands on the collected reel of data on mafia families and Syndicate members.
  
  
  Only Gregorius, or her, could have allowed a printout from this special reel.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Gregorius finally finished his lunch. He pushed the plate away and leaned back in his chair, dabbing at his lips with a linen napkin.
  
  
  "Carmine Stocelli is the problem," he said sharply. "Do you know who he is?"
  
  
  He nodded to her. "It's like asking me who owns Getty Oil. Carmine runs the biggest mafia family in New York. Numbers and drugs are my specialty. How did you encounter it? "
  
  
  Gregorius frowned. "Stocelli is trying to connect to one around my new businesses. I don't want to have him there."
  
  
  "Tell me the details."
  
  
  Construction of a number of sanatoriums. One in each of the six countries. Imagine an enclave consisting of a luxury hotel, several low-rise residential condominiums adjacent to the hotel, and about 30 to 40 private villas surrounding the entire complex ."
  
  
  Her, emu chuckled. "And only millionaires, really?"
  
  
  "That's right."
  
  
  I quickly calculated it in my mind. "That's an investment of about eight hundred million dollars," I said. "Who finances the ego?"
  
  
  "I," Gregorius said, " every cop invested in it is my own money."
  
  
  "This is a mistake. You have always used borrowed money. Why are they yours this time?
  
  
  "Because I borrowed a couple of oil companies to the limit," Gregorius said. "Drilling in the North Sea is damn expensive."
  
  
  "Eight hundred million." I thought about it for a minute. "I know how you work, Gregorius, I'd say you expect a return on your investment of about five to seven times that amount when you're done."
  
  
  Gregorius looked at me sharply. "Very close to it, Carter. Hers, I see you haven't lost touch with the subject. The problem is that until these new Russian projects are completed, I won't be able to raise a penny for us."
  
  
  "And Stocelli wants his ego fingers in your pie?"
  
  
  "Shorter than".
  
  
  "How?"
  
  
  "Stocelli wants to open a casino in each of these resorts. Ego gambling casino. I wouldn't have been part of it."
  
  
  "Tell em to go to hell."
  
  
  Gregorius shook his head. "It could have cost me my life."
  
  
  I asked, raising an eyebrow.
  
  
  "He can do it," Gregorius said. "He has people."
  
  
  "Did he tell you that?"
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "When?"
  
  
  "At that time, he showed me his offer."
  
  
  "And you expect me to get rid of Stocelli?"
  
  
  Gregorius nodded. "Exactly."
  
  
  "By killing the ego?"
  
  
  He shook his head. "It would be an easy way. But Stocelli openly told me that if I tried anything so stupid, the ego people would be ordered to get me at all costs. There must be another way ."
  
  
  He smiled cynically. "And I need to find an ego, don't I?"
  
  
  "If anyone can, then only you can," Gregorius said. "That's why I asked Hawke about you again."
  
  
  For a moment, I wondered what would make Hawk borrow me. AX doesn't work for individuals. AX only works for the American government, even if ninety-nine percent of the American government was unaware of the existence of the ego.
  
  
  I asked her. "Are you really that confident in my abilities?"
  
  
  "Hawk," Gregorius said, and that was the end of it.
  
  
  Its got up. My goal-almost touched the ceiling of the Learjet cabin.
  
  
  "Is that all, Gregorius?"
  
  
  Gregorius looked at me. "Everyone else says it is," he commented.
  
  
  "Is that all?" I asked again. Her, looked down at him. The coldness I felt, the dislike, came out in my voice.
  
  
  "I think that will be enough even for you."
  
  
  I climbed out of the Learjet and down the steps to the desert floor, feeling the sudden heat of the day, almost as intense as the anger that was beginning to build up inside me.
  
  
  What the hell was Hawk doing to me? N3, killmaster, forbidden to kill? Should Carter confront a high-ranking mafia boss - and when it got to him, he shouldn't have touched the ego?
  
  
  For God's sake, was Hawk trying to kill me?
  
  
  THE THIRD CHAPTER.
  
  
  By the time he flew the Cessna 210 back to EI Paso Airport, handed in the key, and paid the bill, it was noon. I had to walk about two hundred yards from the flight kiosk to the main terminal building.
  
  
  In the lobby of hers, he went straight to the phone bank. Then he went into the booth, closed the door behind him, and emptied the coins onto a small stainless-steel shelf. Her puts a dime in the slot, dials zero, and then dials the remaining Denver number.
  
  
  Enter the operator.
  
  
  "Get a call," her voice said. "My name is Carter." I should have explained this.
  
  
  I waited impatiently for the chimes to pulse in my ear until I heard the phone ring.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then on the third ring, someone answered.
  
  
  "International data".
  
  
  The operator said ," This is the operator, El Paso. Mr. Carter is calling me. Will you accept? »
  
  
  "One moment, please." There was a click, and a moment later a man's voice rang out.
  
  
  "Okay, take it," he said.
  
  
  "Continue, sir." I waited until the operator heard the disconnection.
  
  
  "Carter's here," I said. "Have you heard from Gregorius yet?"
  
  
  "Welcome back," Denver said. "We got the word."
  
  
  "Am I turned on?"
  
  
  "You're on, and you're being recorded. Order."
  
  
  "I need a printout about Carmina Stocelli," I said. "Everything you have on him, and the ego of the organization. First, his personal data, including the phone number where I can contact him ."
  
  
  "Soon," Denver said. There was another brief pause. "Ready to copy?"
  
  
  "Ready".
  
  
  Denver gave me a phone number. "There's still code to use to get to it," Denver said, and ego explained it to me.
  
  
  He hangs up in Denver, then dials New York.
  
  
  The phone rang only once before ego was picked up.
  
  
  "To wouldnt?"
  
  
  "My name is Carter. I want to talk to Stocelli."
  
  
  "You got the wrong number, kid. There's no one here with that name.
  
  
  "Tell em I can be reached at this number," I said, ignoring the voice. I read it from the phone booth number in El Paso. "It's a pay phone. I want to get a notification from him in ten minutes."
  
  
  "Roll back, Charlie," the voice growled. "I told you, you got the wrong number." He hung up.
  
  
  He hung up the phone and leaned back, trying to get comfortable in the cramped space. He took out one of his gold-tipped cigarettes and lit it. Time seemed to pass quickly. Its playing with the coins on the shelf. He smoked the cigarette almost to the filter before throwing it on the floor and crushing it under his boot.
  
  
  The phone rang. I looked at my watch and saw that only eight minutes had passed since I hung up the phone. He picked up the phone and immediately, without saying a word to us, put it back on the hook. I watched the second hand of my wristwatch tick frantically. Two minutes passed before the phone rang again. Ten minutes after I hung up, in New York.
  
  
  He picked up the phone and said, "Carter, here."
  
  
  "All right," said the heavy, husky voice that she recognized as Stocelli's. "I got your message."
  
  
  "Do you know who she is?"
  
  
  "Gregorius told me to wait for a call from you. What do you want?"
  
  
  "To meet you."
  
  
  There was a long pause. "Will Gregorius accept my offer?" asked Stocelli.
  
  
  "Vote what I want to talk to you about," I said. "Where and when can we meet?"
  
  
  Stocelli chuckled. "Well, you're halfway there now. I'll meet you tomorrow in Acapulco.
  
  
  "Acapulco?"
  
  
  "Yes, allegedly. She's in Montreal now. I'm going from here to Acapulco. See you down there." You will check in at the Matamoros Hotel. Is that your name?" My boys will contact you and we will meet again."
  
  
  "Good enough."
  
  
  Stocelli hesitated, then growled, " I'm not sure.: "Listen, Carter, I've heard something about you. So, her, I warn you. Don't play games with me! »
  
  
  "See you in Acapulco," I said, and hung up.
  
  
  I fished another dime out of my pocket and called Denver again.
  
  
  "Carter," I said, introducing myself. "I need a printout of operations in Acapulco. Who is associated with Stocelli? How big is it? How does it work? Anything you can get out of them. Names, places, dates ."
  
  
  "Got it."
  
  
  "How long will it take?"
  
  
  "By the time you get to Acapulco, you'll have the information, as well as the other materials you requested. Is that soon enough? Anything else?"
  
  
  "Yes, allegedly. I want the phone to be flown to the Matamoros Hotel. And her, I want him to wait for me when I get there."
  
  
  Denver started to protest, but Ego interrupted her. "Take a tailor, rent a small plane if you need to," I said sharply. "Don't try to save a few pennies. It's Gregorius ' money, not yours!
  
  
  He hung up and went outside to get a taxi. My next stop was the Mexican Tourist Office for a visitor's permit, and from there, I headed across the border to Juarez and the airport. It barely managed to catch the Aeromexico DC-9 to Chihuahua, Torreona, Mexico City and Acapulco.
  
  
  CHAPTER FOUR
  
  
  Denver was a good boy. The tele-copy machine was waiting for me in my room when I checked in at the Matamoros Hotel. It wasn't time for a report yet, so I went down to the wide tiled deck overlooking the bay, sat down in a wide wicker chair, and ordered a glass of rum. He sipped it slowly, looking across the bay at the city lights that had just come on, and the dark, indistinct hills that towered over the city to the north.
  
  
  I sat there for a long time, enjoying the evening, the silence, the city lights, and the cool sweetness of rum.
  
  
  When I finally got up, I went inside for a long, leisurely dinner, so it wasn't until almost midnight that I got a call from Denver. I took it in my room.
  
  
  He switched on the tele-copy machine and inserted the receiver. The paper started to come out one at a time.
  
  
  I scanned it until it slid out, until finally I had a small stack of paper in front of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  The car stopped. He picked up the phone again.
  
  
  "Voice and all," Denver said. "I hope this helps you. Anything else?"
  
  
  "Not yet."
  
  
  "Then I have something for you. We've just received information from one of our contacts in New York. Three Frenchmen were picked up by customs officials at JFK Airport last night. Ih was caught trying to smuggle a shipment of heroin. Ih names are Andrey Ermakov, Morris Berthier and Etienne Dupree. Do you recognize ih? "
  
  
  "Yes,"I said," they are connected to Stocelli in the French part of the ego drug operations."
  
  
  "You were reviewing the report as it came in," Denver accused me.
  
  
  He thought for a moment, then said, " There's no point. These people are too big to carry loads on their own. Why didn't they use a courier? "
  
  
  "We can't understand it either. According to the message we received, the plane arrived via Orly. Oleg picked up his bags on the turntable and carried ih to the customs counter, as if the emu had nothing to hide. Three bags, but practically everything they had was a chunky ten kilos of pure heroin ."
  
  
  "How much did you say?" I interrupted her.
  
  
  "You heard me correctly. Ten kilos. Do you know how much it costs? "
  
  
  "Street price? About two million dollars. Wholesale sales? It will cost from ten to a stylish twenty thousand for the importer. That's why it's so hard to believe ."
  
  
  "You better believe it. And now for the funny part. Ermakov claimed that he knew nothing about the heroin. He denied that the bag was ego."
  
  
  "Was that it?"
  
  
  "Well, it was Casey Attache - one of the biggest-and nen had his ego initials stamped out. And an ego name tag was attached to the handle."
  
  
  "What about the other two?"
  
  
  "The same thing. Berthier Ness is twelve kilos in a night bag, and Dupree is eight kilos. That adds up to about thirty kilograms of the purest heroin that customs has ever encountered ."
  
  
  "And they all say the same thing?"
  
  
  "You guessed right. Everyone puts their bag on the control counter in bold type, like brass, as if it contains nothing but shirts and socks. They shout that this is the subject ."
  
  
  Maybe, I thought, except for one thing. You don't need to spend three hundred and fifty thousand dollars ' worth of drug money to create a frame. Half a kilo is tailor-made, even a few ounces is enough.
  
  
  "As the customs service considers."
  
  
  "Was there a tip-off?"
  
  
  "We need words. They went through a full search procedure, because customs knows about ih activities in Marseille, ih names are included in a special list. And that makes it even weirder. They knew they were on that list. They knew that ih would be thoroughly checked by customs, so how could they expect to get away with it? "
  
  
  Stahl did not comment on it. Denver continued. "You will find this even more interesting if you connect the ego with another piece of information in the file we just gave you. Stocelli was in Marseille last week. Guess who Hema met while he was there? "
  
  
  "Miso, Berthier, and Dupree," I said. "Smart guy."I didn't say anything for a moment,' Do you think it's a coincidence?'" "I don't believe in coincidences," I said flatly. "So are we."
  
  
  "Is that all?" "I asked her, and Denver said yes, wished me luck, and hung up. Then I went down and had another drink.
  
  
  Two hours later, he was back in his room, undressing, when the phone rang again.
  
  
  "I've been trying to contact you for a couple of hours," Denver said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.
  
  
  "What's going on?"
  
  
  "It blew the fans away," Denver said. "We get reports from our people all day. So far, Dattois, Torregross, Vignal, Gambetta, Maxi Klein and Solly Webber have all scored! "
  
  
  He whistled in surprise that Denver had just named six of the top drug dealers associated with Stocelli's ego operations on the East Coast. "Tell me the details."
  
  
  Denver took a deep breath. "This morning at La Guardia Airport, Raymond Dattois Dattois, who was arrested by the FBI, arrived on a flight from Montreal. Dattua was searched and the key to the airport locker was found in Ego's coat pocket. There were twenty kilos of pure heroin in the suitcase in the locker."
  
  
  "Continue."
  
  
  "Early this morning Vinny Torregrossa received a box at his home in Westchester. The ego was delivered in a regular United Parcel Service van. He barely had time to open it when he was attacked by agents of the Bureau of Drugs and Dangerous Drugs, acting on a tip-off. There were fifteen kilos of heroin in the box!
  
  
  "Gambetta and Vignal were arrested this evening around 7 p.m. by the NYPD," he continued.
  
  
  "Well, they warned me on the phone. They picked up the two men in Gambetta's car in midtown Manhattan and found twenty-two kilograms of heroin packed in the spare tire compartment in the trunk."
  
  
  He didn't say anything as Denver continued his concert.
  
  
  "Around ten o'clock in the evening, the feds entered the Maxi Klein penthouse hotel in Miami-Napasti. Klein and ego partner Webber had just finished lunch. The agents found fifteen kilos of heroin in the compartment of the dining chair that the waiter had brought with his lunch less than an hour earlier.
  
  
  
  
  
  Denver paused, waiting for me to say something.
  
  
  "It's pretty obvious that they were framed," I mused.
  
  
  "Of course," Denver agreed. "Not only the feds and local police have been notified, but also the newspapers. We had one of our information bureau reporters at each of these meetings. Tomorrow, this story will be ranked first in every newspaper in the country. It's already on the air ."
  
  
  "Will the arrests remain?
  
  
  "I think so," Denver said after a moment's thought. "They're all shouting about fraud, but the feds and local cops" have been waiting a long time to nail these guys. Yes, I think they people are going to come after him to admit it ."
  
  
  I counted it a little in my head. "That's only a hundred and two kilograms of heroin," I said, " considering what they took from Miso Berthier and Dupree two days ago."
  
  
  "Open on the nose," Denver said. "Taking into account the fact that the cargo has a street value of two hundred to two hundred and twenty thousand dollars per kilogram, the total amount is more than twenty-one million dollars. Tailor take it, but at a price of ten to twelve thousand dollars per kilo of Stockelli, when he imports ego around Marseille, it's over a million to the numbers of thousands of dollars
  
  
  "Someone got hurt,"he commented.
  
  
  "Do you want to hear the rest?"
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "Did you know that Stocelli was in Montreal yesterday?"
  
  
  “yeah. Her, talked to him there."
  
  
  "Did you know that he met Raymond Dattois when he was there?"
  
  
  "No," but with the information Denver just gave me, I didn't find it too surprising.
  
  
  "Or that the day before he met Dattua, Stocelli was in Miami Beach, meeting Maxi Klein and Solly Webber?"
  
  
  "Clean"
  
  
  "Or that a week after he returned to France, he met both Torregrosa in Westchester and Vinale and Gambetta in Brooklyn?"
  
  
  "I asked. "How the hell do you know all this about Stocelli?"
  
  
  "Gregorius made us track down Stocelli about three weeks ago," Denver explained. "With them ferrets, we had teams of two and three people watching him twenty-four hours a day." He chuckled. "I can tell you how many times a day he went to the toilet and how much sheet paper he used."
  
  
  "Stop bragging," emu told her. "I know how good the information service is."
  
  
  "All right," Denver said. "And now there is another fact that saved it for you. Shortly before Ego was captured by the Feds, Maxie Klein was talking to Hugo Donati in Cleveland. Maxi asked the Commission to sign Stocelli's contract. Emu said it's already in development."
  
  
  "Why not?"
  
  
  "Because Maxi was worried that Stocelli had framed Miso, Berthier and Dupree. He'd heard about Torregross, Vinale, and Gambetta on the radio. He thought that nu had set up Stocelli and that he was next."
  
  
  With good-natured sarcasm, he said to her:: "I assume Maxie Klein called and told you personally what he said to Donati?"
  
  
  "Vote, vote," Denver said with a laugh. "With them ferrets, as Maxi met Stocelli, we tapped ego phones."
  
  
  "Maxie isn't stupid enough to use the phones in his hotel room to make such a call," I said. "He would have used a booth on the street."
  
  
  "Yes," Denver said, " but he's careless enough to use the same booth no more than once. We've set up wiretaps on half a dozen booths that we've discovered he's been using consistently over the last couple of days. It paid off tonight ."
  
  
  I couldn't blame Denver for being smug. The ego people did a damn good job.
  
  
  I asked her: "How do you understand this?" "Do you think Stocelli framed his partners?"
  
  
  "It really looks like this, doesn't it? And the Commission seems to think so too, as they have decided on a contract with him. Stocelli is dead.
  
  
  "Maybe," I told her evasively. "He also heads one of the biggest families in the country. It won't be easy for them to get to it. Anything else?"
  
  
  "Isn't that enough?"
  
  
  "I think so," I said. "If anything else breaks, let me know."
  
  
  He hung up thoughtfully and sat down in a chair on the small balcony outside the window. I lit a cigarette and stared out into the soft Mexican night, scanning the information that had so suddenly struck me.
  
  
  If what Denver said was true - if Stocelli was under contract - then he would have had a few more months on his hands. So much so that he didn't have time to bother Gregorius. In this case, my job was done.
  
  
  Still, it seemed too simple, too random a solution to Gregorius ' problem.
  
  
  I looked at the facts again. And doubts began to creep into my head.
  
  
  If Stocelli had really set up a setup, he would have known that his own life was in danger. He knew that the emu would have to lie low until Savchenko died down. Of course, he would never come to Acapulco so openly.
  
  
  It didn't make sense.
  
  
  Corkscrew: Where would he go to get a hundred and two kilograms? It's very much heroin. He wouldn't have gotten the ego from his Marseille friends - if he was going to use it to frame ih. And if he had written to other sources, he would not have heard about such a large purchase.
  
  
  
  
  
  Corkscrew: Where would he get more than a million dollars in cash to make a purchase? Even in the underworld of the mafia and syndicate, such money is difficult to obtain in a lump sum and in small, untraceable accounts. No one takes checks or offers credit!
  
  
  Corkscrew: Where would he feed things? Why wasn't there our word on this material before it was exposed? Interpol, the French narcotics bureau-L'Office Central Pour la Suppression du trafic des Stupefiants - our own US Department of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs-all should have known about this beforehand around their extensive networks of paid informants.
  
  
  Another thought: if Stocelli could write off such a large amount of heroin, did this mean that he could get even larger amounts?
  
  
  Vote that can really give a person chills.
  
  
  These questions and their many possible answers spun around in my head like a riderless merry-go-round with wooden horses galloping up and down on their steel poles, and as soon as its high places reached one idea, another appeared that seemed more logical to me. .
  
  
  Hers was finally lost in the maze of frustration.
  
  
  The biggest corkscrew was why did Hawk lend me to Gregorius? The key lies in the phrase "lend-lease". I was being loaned out, and Hawk was going to get something in return for my services. What?
  
  
  And more than that. "Clean AX" meant that I couldn't access production facilities or AX personnel. It was a purely private enterprise. Hawk told me I was on my own!
  
  
  Good. He could understand that. AX is a top-secret agency of the US government, and it definitely wasn't a government job. So, no calls to Washington. No spare parts. There's no one to clean up the mess after me.
  
  
  Just her, Wilhelmina, Hugo and, of course, Pierre.
  
  
  He finally said to hell with it and went downstairs to have one last nice drink on the terrace before going to bed.
  
  
  CHAPTER FIVE
  
  
  I woke up in the darkness of my room from some atavistic, primordial sense of danger. Naked under a light blanket and sheet, I lay motionless, careful not to open my eyes or give any indication that I was awake. He even continued to breathe in a slow, regular sleep pattern. I was aware that something had woken me up, a sound that didn't belong in the room, touched my sleeping mind, and pushed me into a state of wakefulness.
  
  
  His ears were tuned to pick up anything that was different from the usual nocturnal sounds. She heard the faint rustle of curtains in the air-conditioning breeze. I heard the faint ticking of the little traveler's alarm clock, which I'd placed on the nightstand next to my bed. I even heard a drop of water fall around the bathroom faucet. No one around these walls has ripped me out across the vaults.
  
  
  Anything else was dangerous to me. It was an interminable minute before he heard it again , the slow, careful sliding of his shoes on the carpet, followed by a thin exhalation that was too much delayed.
  
  
  Still without moving or changing the rhythm of his breathing, he opened his eyes a little sideways, watching the shadows in the room from the corners of his eyes. There were three strangers. The two around them came to my bed.
  
  
  Despite every impulse, he forced himself to remain motionless. He knew that in a moment of illness, there would be no time for deliberately planned actions. Survival will depend on the speed of my instinctive physical reaction.
  
  
  The shadows drew closer. They split up, one on each side of my bed.
  
  
  When they leaned over me, hers exploded. My torso abruptly straightened, my hands shot up and grabbed ih for the neck to smash the heads together.
  
  
  Hers was too slow in a split second. My right hand grabbed one of the men, but the other one was pulled out by my subterfuge.
  
  
  He made an angry sound and lowered his hand. The blow hit me on the left side of my neck, in the shoulder. He didn't just hit me with his fist; he almost fainted from the sudden pain.
  
  
  He tried to throw himself off the garbage. I reached the floor as a third shadow lunged at me, slamming my back against the bed. She was knocked down by Ego's knee, hitting Ego hard in the groin. He screamed and doubled over, and his emu's fingers sank into his face without the ego's eyes noticing.
  
  
  For a moment, hers was free. My left arm was numb from the blow to my collarbone. He tried to ignore it, falling to the floor in a Rivnenskaya crouch so that the lever bounced in the air. My right hand slammed down sharply horizontally. It hit one of the men high in the chest, knocking the ego against the wall. He exhaled, which hurt.
  
  
  I turned to the third man, and the end of my arm swung toward him with a short side kick that should have broken the emu's neck.
  
  
  He wasn't fast enough. Hers, I remember starting to throw a punch and seeing the ego arm swing at me, and knowing, in that split second, that I wouldn't be able to parry it in time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was right. Everything went right away. Hers, fell into the deepest and blackest hole I've ever been in. It took me forever to fall, and then I hit the floor. And then for a long time there was no consciousness.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  I woke up and found myself lying on the bed. Sergey was turned on. Two men were sitting in chairs by the window. The third man was standing at the foot of my bed. He was holding a large Spanish-made Gabilondo Llama automatic pistol in his hand, pointing it at me. Odin, around the men in the chairs, was holding a Colt .38 with a two-inch barrel. Another tapped a rubber baton into the palm of his left hand.
  
  
  The target was hurting. My neck and shoulder hurt. Her eyes darted from one to the other. Finally, he was asked: "What the hell is all this, tailor?"
  
  
  The big man at the foot of my bed said, " Stocelli wants to see you. He sent us to bring you back."
  
  
  "A phone call would have done it," he commented sourly.
  
  
  He gave an Aryan shrug. "You could have escaped."
  
  
  "Why should I run? I came here to meet him."
  
  
  No response. Just a meaty shoulder shrug.
  
  
  "Where is Stocelli now?"
  
  
  "Upstairs in the penthouse. Get dressed."
  
  
  Tired of her, got out of bed. They watched me closely as I pulled on my clothes. Every time her left hand reached out, her shoulder muscles ached. He swore under his breath. The six months he'd spent away from HOME had done the trick. I didn't have time to do my daily yoga exercises. He let his body relax. Not really, but it mattered a little. My reactions weren't as fast as they used to be. Stocelli Dolly's three thugs had only a second's delay. Before that, I could have caught the two of them leaning over my bed and smashed their heads together. A third person would never get up from the floor, after his ego, for example.
  
  
  "Come on," I said, rubbing my aching collarbone. "We don't want to keep Carmine Stocelli waiting, do we?"
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Carmine Stocelli was sitting in a low upholstered leather chair at the far end of the huge living room of his penthouse apartment. Ego's burly figure was wrapped in a relaxing silk robe.
  
  
  When we came in, he had a cup of coffee. He put down his cup and looked me over carefully. Ego's small eyes peeked out around a round, dark-jawed face filled with hostility and suspicion.
  
  
  Stocelli was in his late fifties. Egoist was almost bald, except for a monastic tonsure for the oily black hair he'd grown out and combed back in scanty strands over his polished, bare skull. When he looked at me from head to toe, he gave off an aura of ruthless power with such force that I could feel it.
  
  
  "Sit down," he growled. He sat her down on the couch across from him, rubbing his sore shoulder.
  
  
  He looked up and saw his three boys standing nearby. Ego's face frowned.
  
  
  "Out!" he snapped, pointing with his thumb. "I don't need you anymore right now."
  
  
  "Will you be all right?" the big one asked.
  
  
  Stocelli looked at me. He nodded to her.
  
  
  "Yeah," he said. "I'll be fine. Fuck off."
  
  
  They left us. Stocelli looked back at me and shook his head.
  
  
  "I'm surprised you were defeated so easily, Carter," he said. "I heard you were worth a few tougher things."
  
  
  An ego look met her gaze. "Don't believe everything you hear," I said. "I just let myself get a little careless."
  
  
  Stocelli said nothing, waiting for me to continue. He reached in a minute, took out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one.
  
  
  "I came here," I said, " to tell you that Gregorius wants to get rid of you. What do I need to do to convince you that you will feel bad if you visit him?
  
  
  Stocelli's small, hard eyes never left my face. "I think you've already started to change my mind," he growled coldly. "And I don't like what you're doing. Ermakov, Berthier, Dupree - you set up ih well. I'll have a hell of a time creating another source that matches them."
  
  
  Stocelli continued in an angry, hoarse voice.
  
  
  "All right, I'll tell you about my doubts. Let's say you discovered ih before you talked to me, okay? Like you were supposed to show me that you had balls and could do me no particular harm. I'm not mad about it. But when her talked to you on the Montreal way, her told you that no more games. Right? Didn't I tell you no more games? So what's going on? "
  
  
  He counted well on his fingers.
  
  
  "Torregrossa! The vignale! Gambetta! Three of my biggest clients. They have families that I don't want to fight with. You gave me your message, okay. Now it's my turn. I'm telling you, your boss will regret letting you out! Can you hear me?"
  
  
  Stocelli's face was red with anger. He saw the effort it took for em to stay in the chair. He tried to get up and hit me with his heavy fists.
  
  
  "I had nothing to do with it!" Her words were thrown in Emu's face.
  
  
  It exploded. "Bullshit!"
  
  
  "Think about it. Where would you pick up more than a hundred pounds of heroin? »
  
  
  It took me a while to realize that. Gradually, the man's ego reflected distrust. "A hundred kilograms?"
  
  
  "A hundred and two, to be exact. Vote what happened when they took out Maxi Klein and Solly Webber ...
  
  
  
  
  
  "...they took Maxie?" "What is it?" he interrupted.
  
  
  "Tonight. About ten o'clock. Along with fifteen kilos of it all.
  
  
  Stocelli didn't ask for details. He looked like a man who was stunned.
  
  
  "Keep talking," he said.
  
  
  "They decided on a contract with you."
  
  
  He let the words fall on him, but the only reaction he could see was the tightening of Stocelli's muscles under the ego's heavy jaws. Nothing else could be seen of his face.
  
  
  He demanded. "Who?" "Who issued the contract?"
  
  
  "Cleveland."
  
  
  "Donati? Did Hugo Donati sign a contract with me? What the hell? "
  
  
  "They think you're trying to take over the entire East Coast. They think you framed your friends."
  
  
  "Come on!" Stocelli growled angrily. He glared at me, then saw that I wasn't joking with him. The ego tone changed. "Are you serious? Are you really serious?
  
  
  "It's true."
  
  
  Stocelli rubbed a thick hand over the rough stubble on his chin.
  
  
  "Damn it! It still doesn't make sense. I know it wasn't hers.
  
  
  "So you've got a headache again," Emu told her sincerely. "You could be the next person on the list to be customized."
  
  
  "Me?" Stocelli was incredulous.
  
  
  "You. Why not? If you're not following what's happening, then someone else is trying to take over. And emu will have to get rid of you, Stocelli. Who would that be?"
  
  
  Stocelli continued to rub his chopsticks angrily. Ego's mouth twisted in annoyance. He lit a cigarette. He poured himself another cup of coffee. Finally, he reluctantly said, " Okay, then. I'll keep her here. The penthouse rented it. All four suites. No one comes in or out but my boys. They can send anyone they want, but she's protected as long as she's here. If necessary, I can stay for a few months."
  
  
  I asked her. "What will happen in the meantime?"
  
  
  "What's that supposed to mean?" Suspicion raised Ego's eyebrows.
  
  
  "While you're sitting here, Donati will try to take over your organization in New York. You'll be sweating every day, wondering if Donati got to one of your hit points to get you ready for the kick. You'll live with a gun in your hand. You won't eat because they might poison your edu. You won't sleep. You'll wake up wondering if someone has thrown a stick of dynamite into the rooms below you. No, Stocelli, admit it. You can't stay safe here. Not for very long."
  
  
  Stocelli listened to me, not saying a word to us. Ego's dark face was seriously impassive. He kept his small black eyes on my face. When it was finished, he nodded his round head grimly.
  
  
  Then he put down his coffee cup and suddenly grinned at me. It was like a fat vulture smiling at an emu, its thin lips on a round face curving in a mindless parody of friendliness.
  
  
  "I just hired you," he announced, pleased with himself.
  
  
  "You what?"
  
  
  "What happened? Didn't you hear me? He said he'd just hired you, "Stocelli said. You'll get me off the hook with the Commission and Donati. And you will prove to them that I had nothing to do with what happened.
  
  
  We looked at each other.
  
  
  "Why should I do you such a favor?"
  
  
  "Because," Stocelli grinned at me again, " I'll make a deal with you. You'll relieve me of my responsibility with Donati, and I'll leave Gregorius alone.
  
  
  He leaned toward me, the thin, humorless smile slipping from his ego.
  
  
  "Do you know how many millions of dollars I can earn from these gambling establishments in Gregorius' projects? Have you ever stopped to figure it out? So what does it mean to me that you did this job? "
  
  
  "What's stopping me from letting the Commission take care of you?" Ego asked him openly. "Then you won't be around to bother Gregorius."
  
  
  "Because I'll send my boys after him if I don't make a deal with you. I don't think Emu will like it.
  
  
  Stocelli paused, his small black button eyes fixed on me.
  
  
  "Stop fooling around, Carter. Is this the case? »
  
  
  He nodded to her. "This is the case."
  
  
  "All right," Stocelli growled, leaning back on the couch. He gave a rough thumbs-up gesture. "On your way. Let's go.
  
  
  "Not now." He went to the desk and found a notebook with hotel supplies and a ballpoint pen. She sat down again.
  
  
  "I need some information," I said, and started taking notes as Stocelli spoke.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Back in his room, he picked up the phone and, after arguing with the hotel operator and then the long-distance operator, finally called Denver.
  
  
  Without preamble, I asked her ," How quickly can you get me a printout of half a dozen airline passenger lists?"
  
  
  "What time is it?"
  
  
  "No more than a couple of weeks. Some of them are just the other day.
  
  
  "Domestic or international flights?"
  
  
  "Both."
  
  
  "Give us a day or two."
  
  
  "I need them earlier."
  
  
  Denver's unhappy sigh could hear her. "We will do everything in our power. What do you need? »
  
  
  Emu said it. "Stocelli was on the following flights. Air France around JFK airport in Orly, on the twentieth of last month. Air France departs via Orly to Marseille on the same day. TWA around the Eagles in JFK on the twenty-sixth. National Airlines, all over New York to Miami on the twenty-eighth...
  
  
  "Wait a bit.
  
  
  Do you know how many flights they operate per day? »
  
  
  "I'm just interested in the one that Stocelli was on. The same goes for Air Canada: around New York to Montreal on the fourth, around East to New York on the fifth and by Aeromexico to Acapulco on the same day ."
  
  
  "Only with Stocelli flights?"
  
  
  "That's right. This shouldn't be too difficult. Her hotel would also like you to get the passenger manifest of the Dattois race from Montreal to New York ."
  
  
  "If we had flight numbers, we would save a lot of time."
  
  
  "You, well, will have more if your people keep an eye on him," he pointed out.
  
  
  "Do you want copies of these manifestos sent to you?"
  
  
  "I don't think so," I said thoughtfully. "Your computers can do work faster than hers. I want the lists to be checked to see if there is any name that occurs in two or more around these flights. Especially on international flights. They require a passport or tourist permit, so it will be more difficult to use an assumed name.
  
  
  "Let me know if I've got these flights right."
  
  
  "Take this off the tape," emu told her. He was getting tired and impatient. "I hope you've been recording me."
  
  
  "Actually," Denver said.
  
  
  "I would be grateful to get the information as quickly as you can dig it up. And one more thing - if you come across a name that has been mentioned on more than one of these flights from Stocelli, I need a full statement of who that person is. Everything you can learn about nen. Complete information. Put as many men as you need into it. And keep feeding me information as it comes in. Don't wait to put it all together."
  
  
  "That'll do," Denver said. "Anything else?"
  
  
  I thought about it a bit. "I don't think so," I said, and hung up. He stretched out on the bed and was fast asleep in a moment, despite the throbbing in his head and the pain in his shoulder.
  
  
  CHAPTER SIX
  
  
  I slept late. When I woke up, my mouth was dry from having smoked too much the night before. He showered and put on a pair of swimming trunks and a light beach shirt. He put on a pair of dark jeans and went down to the pool with his camera around his neck and a bag of equipment slung over his shoulder.
  
  
  Camera equipment and dark glasses, along with a bright sports shirt with a pattern, make a good disguise if you don't want people to notice you. You're just another tourist in a city full of ih. Who will look at another gringo?
  
  
  Huevos rancheros ordered it for breakfast by the pool. There were only a few people around the pool. There were a couple of pretty young Englishwomen. Slender, fair-haired, with cool, clear English voices emanating from almost motionless lips. The tone was smooth, the vowel sounds were liquid as water, and still glistened from ih tanned bodies.
  
  
  There were two other women splashing around in the pool with a muscular personality that looked like an emu in its late twenties. I saw her like. All ego bulging pectoral muscles and biceps are over-developed due to constant weight lifting.
  
  
  He was a pain in the ass. Emu didn't like the two girls in & nb. He knew the English women, but they ignored him very much.
  
  
  Something about nen annoyed me. Or maybe her request to prove that I can do it. I waited until the Englishwomen looked in my direction, then smiled at them. They smiled at me in rheumatism.
  
  
  "Hello there. The long-haired blonde waved at me.
  
  
  She motioned for ih to come over and join me, and they did, dripping water, sprawled on their hips and casual.
  
  
  "When did you arrive?" another asked.
  
  
  "Last night."
  
  
  "I thought so," she said. "We haven't noticed you here before. There aren't many guests at all. Did you know about this?
  
  
  "My name is Margaret," the first girl said.
  
  
  "And her name is Linda ..."
  
  
  "Her Paul Stephans," he said, naming his cover story.
  
  
  When Maskles got out, there was a splash in the pool.
  
  
  Without looking at him, Linda said:: "The voice and that nerd again. Are they all like this in San Francisco?
  
  
  "San Francisco?" Margaret asked, puzzled. "At breakfast this morning, Henry told me he was in Las Vegas."
  
  
  "It doesn't matter," Linda said. "Wherever he is, I can't stand his ego."
  
  
  She flashed me a smile and turned on her long, tanned legs. Margaret gathered up the ih towels. He watched them climb the stairs leading to the hotel terrace, his lithe, bronzed legs moving in beautiful counterpoint to his half-naked, sensual bodies.
  
  
  At the same time, I was curious about Henry, who came from San Francisco or Las Vegas.
  
  
  For example, at this time, a young couple came down the stairs and ended up with their stuff next to me.
  
  
  The man was thin and dark. Very hairy legs. The woman with him was a slender and beautiful figure. Her face was more defiant than pretty. They entered the water and swam, and then came out. I heard them talking to each other in French.
  
  
  He dried his hands on a towel and took out a pack of Gauloises. "The matches are wet," he shouted to the woman.
  
  
  He saw me looking at him and came over. He kindly said, " Do you have a match?"
  
  
  Emu threw her a lighter. He cupped his hands in front of his face to light a cigarette.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thank you. Let me introduce myself. Jean-Paul Sevier. The young lady is Celeste. And you?"
  
  
  "Paul Stephans".
  
  
  Jean-Paul gave me a cynical smile.
  
  
  "I'm sorry I don't believe you," he said. "You're Nick Carter."
  
  
  Her voice froze.
  
  
  Jean-Paul waved his hand lightly. "Don't worry. I just want to talk to you."
  
  
  "Talk?"
  
  
  "We are puzzled by your connection to Stocelli."
  
  
  "We?"
  
  
  He shrugged. "I represent the group around Marseille. Does the name Andrey Ermakov mean anything to you? Or Maurice Berthier? Or Etienne Dupree?
  
  
  "I know the names."
  
  
  "Then you know the organization I represent."
  
  
  "What do you want from me?"
  
  
  Jean-Paul sat down at my table. "Stocelli isolated himself. We can't get to it. Our Mexican friends here can't reach it either. You can do it."
  
  
  "I do not know what you expect from me. Go in and shoot a man? "
  
  
  Jean-Paul smiled. “no. Nothing more rude. We just want your cooperation to - as you say-set up the ego. We'll take care of the rest."
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. "That won't do."
  
  
  Jean-Paul Stahl's voice was harsh. "You don't have a choice, Mr. Carter." Before he could interrupt, he quickly continued. "One way or another, we're going to kill Stocelli. By that, I mean that our Mexican contacts will do us a favor. But now all they're asking for is a meeting with you. It's not much, is it?
  
  
  "Just a meeting?"
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  Hers, I thought for a second. This may be an attempt to confuse me. On the other hand, it was the fastest way for me to find out who these Mexicans were. In my email business, you don't get anything for nothing. If you want something, you have to take the risk.
  
  
  "I'll meet them," I agreed.
  
  
  Jean-Paul smiled again. "In that case, you have a date today. Her name is Senora Consuela Delgardo.
  
  
  I was told that she was a very beautiful woman. She'll call you here at the hotel around seven-thirty.
  
  
  He stood up.
  
  
  "I'm sure you'll have a pleasant evening,"he said politely and went back to join Celeste, who was practicing again just out by the pool.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Licks, by the evening of her taxi ride, went down the hill from the hotel to El Center, in the area of the cathedral, the square and the monument to heroes. El Center is the center of the city. From here, all taxi and bus fares are calculated by zone.
  
  
  Acapulco is the main city in the state of Guerrero. And Guerrero is the most lawless state in Mexico. The hills near Acapulco are filled with bandits who will cut your throat for a few pesos. The police are not able to enforce the law outside of the city. Even the army has problems with them.
  
  
  Wearing a bright sports shirt, a pair of light blue slacks, and legs in her new leather trousers, he walked into the park next to the embankment.
  
  
  Wherever we turned, Los Indeos saw her, the broad, dark faces of men with close-cropped jet-black hair. ih women were squatting next to them. And all around them were obsidian eyes, high cheekbones, and thoughtful Indian faces.
  
  
  When her, looked at them, her realized that I was trying to sculpture ih ancient gods was more than an image of some unknown deity; besides, it should be a good resemblance to how they looked in the days of the Toltecs themselves.
  
  
  And they haven't changed much over the centuries. Those Indians looked like they could still open your chest with a flint knife and rip out a bleeding, throbbing dollar stack.
  
  
  He headed for a quieter part of the waterfront, taking pictures as he went. Further down the curve of the embankment, she saw a commercial tuna boat, stocky and squat. The Ego decks were littered with equipment, and it was tied fore and aft by heavy Manila cables to black iron bollards on a concrete malecon.
  
  
  In the distance, in the docks under the massive masonry of Fort San Diego, on the crest of a hill, she saw a cargo ship moored next to the warehouses.
  
  
  He walked around the malecon. On the stone steps leading to the water's edge, her father stopped and looked down.
  
  
  There were two fishermen there. Young and old. They were both naked except for their torn shorts. Between them, they held a huge six-foot turtle. The turtle was lying on its back and was helpless.
  
  
  The young man took out a knife with a long, thin blade that had been honed so many times that it was now a thin crescent around the convex steel.
  
  
  He slid the blade under the lower part of the turtle's shell near the rear fin. The blood turned red from the first blow. He cut with quick, savage strokes, running the knife under the edge of the lower shell, slicing through skin, flesh, muscle, and webbing with quick movements of his wrists as he crouched down next to the turtle.
  
  
  The turtle twisted its head from side to side in slow, silent agony. Her slanted reptilian eyes were dim from the sun. Ego flippers flapped in a rhythmic, hysterical helplessness.
  
  
  He watched as the young man's knife sank even deeper into the turtle. With each blow of ego, the hands turned red with blood, first the fingers, then the hands, then the wrists, and finally the ego's forearm to the elbow.
  
  
  
  
  He could see the turtle's insides, pulsing with pink, wet balls of guts.
  
  
  After a few minutes, they were done. They poured a barge of sea water down the steps of the port and put the turtle meat in a bushel basket.
  
  
  It was taken by a full roll of color film when they were slaughtering the turtle. Now, as he rewound the tape and started reloading the camera, a voice behind him heard her.
  
  
  "They're pretty good, aren't they? The one with the sword, eh?
  
  
  Her, turned around.
  
  
  Emu was in his early twenties, good-looking, with a stocky athletic body, muscles moving easily under his ego-dark copper-red skin. He was wearing cotton slacks, sandals, and a full-length sports shirt, revealing a wide chest. He was like everyone else around the hundreds of beach boys who hang around hotels.
  
  
  "What do you want?"
  
  
  He shrugged. "It depends. Do you need a guide, senor?
  
  
  "Clean" I turned away and went to the Campfire Miguel Aleman. The boy walked beside me.
  
  
  "What about the women, senor? Eh? He winked at me. "I know a very beautiful girl who knows a lot of tricks..."
  
  
  "Get lost!" I said, irritated by ego's unusual insistence. "I don't like pimps!"
  
  
  For a moment, I thought this guy was going to pounce on me. Ego's dark face was mottled with sudden dark blood. Ego's hand went back to his hip pocket and stopped. He saw the pure murderous rage flash in ego's eyes.
  
  
  He tensed, ready to spring.
  
  
  He took a deep breath. Sergei's eyes went blank around the ego. He said, trying to smile but failing, " Senor, you shouldn't say that. Someday you'll say that word to someone and they'll stick a knife in your ribs.
  
  
  "I told you, I didn't need your help."
  
  
  He shrugged. "Very bad, senor. I can help you a lot. Maybe you'll change your mind the next time I offer it to you, eh? Luis Aparicio. In the meantime, goodbye.
  
  
  He turned and strode away, walking with an exaggerated gait, showing off his masculine personality.
  
  
  There was something strange about what had just happened. Her insulted him. I called her ego, a name that any other Mexican man would say would put ego at my throat like a knife. However, he swallowed his pride and continued to pretend that he was just another tourist guide.
  
  
  I was going to drink it in the city center before going back to the hotel, but now I've changed my mind. I was sure that my future friend's suggestions were not accidental. I knew I'd see Luisa Aparicio again.
  
  
  He walked out into the street, waving at the man with the fiber sign. When he entered, he saw a familiar figure on the other side of the Bonfire. It was Jean-Paul. The thin Frenchman was with Celeste. He raised his hand in greeting as my taxi drove away.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Senora Consuela Delgardo hurried over. She arrived at the hotel near Rivnenskaya at seven-thirty in a small red Volkswagen. I saw her enter the lobby and look around. As her projectile approached her, she saw me and held out her hand. We walked out the door together.
  
  
  Consuela drove along the winding roads as if she were participating in a Mille Miglie.
  
  
  We had a drink at Sanborn's, where only the seats around the piano bar were lit. Its noticed that it made us to these tables. I couldn't see anyone, but anyone could have seen me, damn it.
  
  
  Then we went to Hernando's for lunch. We met a tall, red-haired Englishman with such a thick British accent that it was almost a travesty. Consuela told me that his name was Ken Hobart and that he ran a charter airline. He had a thick RAF-type moustache under his beak. Finally he left, leaving us alone.
  
  
  Consuela Delgardo was a beautiful woman. Hey, in her late twenties, she was a bold, beautiful woman with a strong face. Nah had long dark brown hair that she wore almost to her waist. She was tall, with gorgeous legs, a narrow waist, and full breasts. There was no trace of an accent in her English.
  
  
  It bothered me that she was looking at me as boldly and appraisingly as her nah.
  
  
  For coffee, he said to her:"Senora, you are a very nice woman."
  
  
  "...And you could go to bed with me, " she finished.
  
  
  Hers was laughing.
  
  
  "If you put it that way, of course."
  
  
  "And her," she said, " I think you're a very good person. But I'm not going to bed with you tonight."
  
  
  "In that case,"I said, getting to my feet," let's go to your friends and find out what they have to tell me."
  
  
  We went to see Johnny Bickford.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Bickford was in his early sixties, gray-haired, with a broken nose and a deep tan. The knuckles of both hands were flat due to the fact that ih was broken many times in the ring. Her broad shoulders bulged from a short-sleeved cotton knit sweater. Faded tattoos, blue for dark brown skin, covered both forearms.
  
  
  Ego wife Doris was almost as tanned as he was. Platinum blonde hair, sun-bleached eyebrows, and a faint light shade on her arms. She was also a lot younger than Bickford. I'd say he was in his thirties. And she was teasing. Nah didn't have a bra under her dress, and her cleavage was solid and solid.
  
  
  She smelled like Arpezh perfume. And her bet is that when she was younger, she used to visit for at least two hundred a night. You can always spot an ex-call girl. There's something about them that ih gives out.
  
  
  The terrace of Bickford's house overlooked a narrow bay leading around the Pacific Ocean in the bay. He could see the dark expanse of the ocean, as well as the lights of Las Brisas and the naval base at the foot of the hills across the bay. Scattered haphazardly up and down the hill were the lights of other houses, like motionless fireflies encased in a gelatin of purple night shadows.
  
  
  The two of us were alone on the terrace. Consuela excused herself and went inside to freshen up her makeup. Doris went with her to show Hey the way to the ladies ' room.
  
  
  He took a chance and said sharply into the darkness,"I don't want to be a part of your deal, Bickford."
  
  
  Bickford wasn't surprised. He said it easily: "Vote what we were told, Mr. Carter. But sooner or later we will get Stocelli. Since it's easier for you to reach them than us, you'll save us a lot of time ."
  
  
  Then he turned to Bickford and said sharply:: "I want you to get behind Stocelli."
  
  
  Bickford laughed. "Now come on, Mr. Carter. Ego's voice was hoarse, like a former medalist's. "You know you can't tell us what to do."
  
  
  "I can blow your entire organization apart," I said. "What position did he get into?"
  
  
  Bickford chuckled. "Is that a threat?"
  
  
  "Call it what you will, but you'd better take me seriously, Bickford."
  
  
  "All right,"he said," prove it."
  
  
  "Just a few facts," I said. "Your people supply heroin to the States. For example, a year ago, you were only associated with products grown in Mexico. But the authorities were harassing the poppy growers, and this deprived you of a source of supply, so you turned to Marseille. Your organization has become part of the pipeline around Marseille to the States. You deliver goods to the States via Matamoros to Brownsville, via Juarez to El Paso, via Nuevo Laredo to Laredo, via Tijuana to Los Angeles. Many around them go candid from here to San Diego, San Francisco, Seattle, usually on a tuna boat or cargo ship. Many around them are flown by private planes across the border to Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico. Do you need the names of some of the ships you use? I can give it to you, Mr. Bickford. Push me hard enough and ih will turn him over to the authorities."
  
  
  "Jesus Christ!" said Bickford slowly and softly, as if he was in shock. "What you know is enough to kill you, Carter!"
  
  
  "I know a lot of things that might get me killed," I replied coldly. "What about this one? Will you leave Stocelli alone? "
  
  
  Bickford was still stunned by what he'd heard. He shook his head... I can't do that, he can't make that decision."
  
  
  "Why not?"
  
  
  There was a pause, and then he confessed, " Because I'm just the guy in the middle."
  
  
  "Then pass the word," emu told her, pressing ego hard. "Tell your boss," I saw Bickford wince at my use of the word, " that I want him to leave Stocelli alone."
  
  
  I saw two women come out of the house to meet us. He got to his feet
  
  
  "I think we'll have to run," I said, taking Consuela's hand as she approached me.
  
  
  Bickford stood up, a big, thin man with white hair in the moonlight, a worried expression on his face, a haggard face, and he knew he had judged him correctly. He was eliminated by suit, because the emu didn't have the guts to take a hard hit and come back with a swing. It was all on display. Egoism was external.
  
  
  "You'll have to come again," Doris said cheerfully, looking at me, her eyes full of invitation. "The two of you will come together," she added.
  
  
  "We'll do it," I said, not smiling hey, in rheumatism. He turned to Bickford. "It was nice talking to you."
  
  
  "You'll hear from us soon," Bickford said, not trying to keep up the pretense. Doris gave him a sharp warning look.
  
  
  The four of us went to Consuela's small car and said good night.
  
  
  On the way back to my hotel, Consuela was silent. We were almost there when she was suddenly asked: "Who is Luis Aparicio? Is he the only one who will meet your people? "
  
  
  "Who?"
  
  
  "Luis Aparicio". He described her to a young Mexican man he'd never met on the Malecon.
  
  
  After a pause she said: "I don't know his ego. Why not?"
  
  
  "I was just thinking. Are you sure?"
  
  
  "I've never heard of nen." Then she added: "I don't know everyone in the organization."
  
  
  "And the less you know, the better?"
  
  
  Consuela didn't answer for a long time. Finally, in a voice devoid of any warmth, she said, " I'm still alive, Mr. Carter. And, on my own, I'm doing fine ."
  
  
  CHAPTER SEVEN
  
  
  Consuela dropped me off at the hotel and continued on her way, the Volkswagen's gears clattering. The lobby was deserted. He walked through it to the wide terrace that overlooked the city across the bay. A chair found her and Sell, I want to smoke my last cigarette before I go out for the night.
  
  
  When he lit a cigarette, he flipped it over the railing, the glowing coal forming a tiny red arc in the darkness. As he was about to get to his feet, he heard someone step out onto the terrace.
  
  
  Henry came up to me, looking at me in the dark, trying to recognize me.
  
  
  "Hello there. You were at the pool this morning, weren't you? "What is it?" he asked cautiously.
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  He let his heavy body settle into the chair across from me. "They never showed up," he complained, his voice exasperated with frustration.
  
  
  "What are you talking about?"
  
  
  "Those chicks," Henry said disgustedly, " none around them. It's one-thirty, and we've never had one of those stupid girls go skinny dipping.
  
  
  "Did you really think they were skinny dipping?"
  
  
  "Of course. At least the two of them he was with. They probably found some damned Mexican beachgoers instead! »
  
  
  He reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. The flash of a match lit up Ego's heavy, tanned face before he blew out the flame.
  
  
  "This English chick is the kind of girl you'd like to get your hands on," he said sullenly. The other one is not bad, but Margaret got all the charm. Ee the old man is loaded. The web problem is that it's so damn cold, it'll probably give you frostbite!
  
  
  Ignoring his dislike of him, he asked as casually as possible, " What are you doing?"
  
  
  "Doing it? I don't get you, man.
  
  
  "Hema are you working?"
  
  
  Henry laughed. "Hey, man, this isn't for me! Its live! I'm not tied to my job. I'm still free, you know?
  
  
  I told her. "No, I don't understand."
  
  
  "I have connections. I know the right guys. I do them a favor from time to time. For example, if they want someone to lean on it. I'm pretty good at it.
  
  
  "Are you a muscle?"
  
  
  "Yes, you could say that."
  
  
  "Have you ever really leaned on anyone? Have you ever signed a contract? "
  
  
  "Well, I wouldn't want to talk about something like that," Henry said. "I mean, it wouldn't be wise to turn off the sound, would it?" He paused, letting the words sink in, and then said: "I would definitely like to snuggle up to that little chick Limey. I can teach her a few tricks!"
  
  
  "And take her to Las Vegas with you?"
  
  
  "You got the idea."
  
  
  "Or will it be San Francisco? Where are you from? "
  
  
  There was a slight pause, and then Henry said in a hard, unfriendly voice:: "What's your business?"
  
  
  "I'm interested in people who don't know where they're from. It bothers me."
  
  
  "Get your bloody nose out of my hands," Henry growled. "It will make the price of many people healthier."
  
  
  "You didn't answer my corkscrew, Henry," I insisted softly, surprising him by saying his name.
  
  
  He swore and got to his feet, a hulking shadow in the darkness, his big hands clenched into stone fists.
  
  
  "Get up!" he said angrily, waiting for me to get up. He made a threatening move of licking. "Get up, I told her!"
  
  
  He reached in a minute, took out a gold-tipped cigarette, and lit it lightly. Snapping the lighter shut, he said, " Henry, why don't you just sit down and answer my corkscrew?"
  
  
  "Damn you," Henry said threateningly. "Get up, you son of a bitch."
  
  
  He took out an iso rta cigarette and, in one continuous motion, plunged it into Henry's face, the ash scattering, sparks flying into his eyes.
  
  
  Ego's hands instinctively went up to protect his face, his eyelids reflexively closed; and in that second, hers leaped up from the chair, my forearm arched, my entire body caught the blow as my frozen, flat-knuckled fist sank deep into Henry's life just below Ego's ribcage.
  
  
  He let out an explosive grunt and doubled over in agony. It hit his ego in the face as he fell, hitting the emu in the bridge of the nose, breaking the cartilage. Henry gagged, his knees buckling as he slid down to the flagstones of the terrace. Blood flowed around his nostrils, onto his chin, and onto the tile.
  
  
  "Oh, my God!" he gasped in pain. Painfully. He pressed a hand to his bruised nose. "Not forever anymore!"
  
  
  I took a step back, looking at the large, helpless, crouching figure in front of me.
  
  
  "Where are you from, Henry?" Ego asked her softly.
  
  
  The big man drew in a shuddering breath.
  
  
  "Vegas," he said, and there was pain in his voice. "I've been in Vegas for the last couple of years. Before that, it was San Francisco ."
  
  
  "What are you doing in Vegas?"
  
  
  Henry shook his head.
  
  
  "Nothing," he said. "I used to be a bouncer at the club. I was fired last month ."
  
  
  "Get up."
  
  
  Henry slowly got to his feet, crossing one arm over his stomach and pressing the other to his nose, ignoring the blood trickling down his wrist.
  
  
  "Who are your contacts?"
  
  
  Henry shook his head. "I don't have any," he muttered. "It was just a conversation." He caught my eye. "My word of honor! I'm telling you the truth! " He tried to take a deep breath. "My God, it feels like you broke some ribs."
  
  
  "I think you should leave here," I suggested.
  
  
  "Eh?"
  
  
  "Tonight," he said, almost affectionately. "I think it's best for you."
  
  
  "Hey, listen -" Henry began, and then stopped and stared at me, trying to read my expression in the dark, but without success. He gave up.
  
  
  "Good," he sighed. "Her leaning on guys in my day was enough.
  
  
  I guess it's my turn, right? He shook his head. "Me and my big mouth."
  
  
  He slowly backed away from me until he reached the lobby doors, then quickly turned and walked inside.
  
  
  He sat down again and took out another cigarette.
  
  
  "You smoke too much," said a voice from all around the far, darker end of the terrace. "I'm surprised that a person who smokes as much as you moves so fast. I was sure you'd be hurt. What, Henry, is he a big man, n'est ce pas? "
  
  
  "Hello, Jean-Paul," I said without permission. "How long have you been here?"
  
  
  "Long enough. You're putting yourself in too much danger, my other man.
  
  
  "He's not dangerous. He's a punk.
  
  
  "He almost died," Jean - Paul said. "If he knew how close he got, I think he would have gotten his underwear dirty."
  
  
  "I was wrong about him," he said soberly. "I thought he was after Stocelli. He should have known her better. He's a nobody."
  
  
  "It happens. It's better to make a mistake and apologize if you can't be right. By the way, who was the Mexican who approached you today, not when?
  
  
  "He said his name was Luis Aparicio. He was trying to sell me his services, the checks should be saved, an assistant or a pimp - what would she want? I thought your friends might send it to me."
  
  
  "It's possible. What makes you think that?"
  
  
  "My suspicious nature," I said dryly. "On the other hand, Consuela says she's never heard of nen before."
  
  
  Jean-Paul paused. Then, almost as an afterthought, he said, " By the way, I have a message for you. Obviously, whatever you told us to them tonight, you got a quick case of rheumatism. Tomorrow is not when, please plan to go to El Cortijo for a bullfight. It starts at four o'clock."
  
  
  "When did you get this message?" I asked suspiciously.
  
  
  "Shortly before you returned to the hotel. Her ego was coming out when your friend Henry showed up. I decided to wait until we were alone."
  
  
  "Who is this from?"
  
  
  "He said ego's name is Bickford. He said he passed the word on to his boss. You will talk to your supervisors."
  
  
  "Is that all?"
  
  
  "That's enough, isn't it?"
  
  
  "If you talked to Bickford," I said, " you know what I said to them. I want you to get behind Stocelli."
  
  
  "That's what he said. He also told me about your threat.
  
  
  "All right?"
  
  
  Even in the dark, I could see Jean-Paul's face grow serious. "My people in Marseille want Stocelli to be punished. We can't push our Mexican friends any further than we have already done. This is the ih solution ."
  
  
  "And you?"
  
  
  He shrugged. "If we have to, we can wait. Stocelli will never walk around this hotel alive. However, "he added," if they decide to disagree with what you're suggesting, if they decide to pursue Stocelli despite your threats, then in all likelihood you won't live long either. Have you thought about it?
  
  
  "Something to think about, isn't it?" he said lightly, and walked into the lobby himself.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  In my room, the Xerox Telecopier 400 unpacked it from its case and placed the ego next to the phone. My call to Denver was delivered without a long delay.
  
  
  "Did you think of something?"
  
  
  "We hit the target," Denver said. "We don't have all the passenger manifest lists yet, but we found ih in Air France, Air Canada and Eastern. Can we talk openly, or do you want it to be on the phone?
  
  
  "In the car," I said. "There are difficulties here. The Miso organization stepped in. And they got their local friends involved."
  
  
  Denver whistled. "You have your hands full, don't you?"
  
  
  "I can handle it."
  
  
  Denver said, " All right, we'll put this on the phone copier. By the way, we were lucky. We have a file in this topic. Passed through our credit verification bureau. A few years ago, they made a report on the ego of companies. We have listed some of the main points in our report. We don't have all the information about nen yet, but he doesn't exactly fit in with Stocelli's group of friends, as we can see."
  
  
  "Put the ego wire in," he told Denver, advertised the handset in a Telecopier stand, and turned on the equipment.
  
  
  When the machine finished working, he picked up the phone and said, " Let me know everything you've learned as soon as possible."
  
  
  "Did you read the last line of the report?"
  
  
  "Not yet."
  
  
  "Read this," Denver said. "That should scare the hell out of Stocelli if he finds out."
  
  
  I gathered up my equipment and went back to read a few paragraphs of the facsimile report.
  
  
  COMPARISON OF PASSENGER MANIFESTS for? AIR FRANCE, JFK TO ORLY, April 20-AIR FRANCE, ORLY TO MARSEILLE, April 20-NATIONAL AIRLINES, JFK TO MIAMI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, April 28-AIR CANADA, NEW YORK TO MONTREAL, 5/4.
  
  
  FIRST CLASS FOR STOCELLI PASSENGERS ON ALL THE ABOVE FLIGHTS. NO DUPLICATION OF OTHER FIRST-CLASS PASSENGER NAMES. HOWEVER, DUPLICATION ON ALL ABOVE FLIGHTS-REPEAT - ALL ABOVE FLIGHTS IN THE "ECONOMY" SECTION PASSENGERS ARE REWRITTEN UNDER THE NAME HERBERT DIETRICH.
  
  
  CHECKING THE AIR CANADA PASSENGER MANIFEST
  
  
  MONTREAL TO LAGUARDIA, 5/6-RAYMOND DATTOIS AND HERBERT DIETRICH LISTS.
  
  
  FINALLY, CHECK OUT AEROMEXICO, JFK TO MEXICO CITY AND AC
  
  
  
  
  
  APULCO, 4/5-STOCELLI AND DIETRICH.
  
  
  CONTINUING TO CHECK OTHER PASSENGER MANIFESTS. LET US KNOW HOW IT RECEIVES THE INFORMATION.
  
  
  BEST INDICATIONS: HERBERT DIETRICH IN THE ACAPULCO GYM.
  
  
  - THREAD -
  
  
  Her attention was drawn to the beginning of the second sheet:
  
  
  INFORMATION DERIVED FROM THE CREDIT REVIEW REPORT OF DIETRICH CHEMICAL COMPANY, INC.
  
  
  HERBERT DIETRICH, PRESIDENT. THE FULL REPORT IS AVAILABLE. THE FOLLOWING IS PERSONAL DATA ONLY: HERBERT DIETRICH, 63, WIDOWER, ADDRESS 29 FAIRHAVEN, MAMARONECK, NEW YORK. DIETRICH BOURNE LAWRENCE, KANSAS. GRADUATE OF THE UNIVERSITY OF KANSAS. MASTER's DEGREE IN Chemistry, Cornell RESEARCH CHEMIST, UNION CARBIDE, E. I. DUPONT, WORKED ON ATBOMB CHEMISTRY AT THE MANHATTAN PROJECT DURING WORLD WAR I. INTER-WORLD CHEMICAL AND POST-WORLD WAR II RESEARCH DIRECTOR. OPEN OWN R & D LABORATORY, 1956. IN DIETRICH CHEMICAL CO. Currently, THERE ARE THIRTY EMPLOYEES WORKING TOGETHER. PROFITABLE ACTIVITY THAT SPECIALIZES IN RESEARCH PROJECTS
  
  
  task. SOME INDEPENDENT RESEARCH. THE SALE OF SEVERAL VALUABLE PROPRIETARY FORMULAS GENERATES ANNUAL REVENUES IN THE NETWORK FOR SEVEN VALUES. THE TOTAL ANNUAL VOLUME EXCEEDS 3,000,000 US DOLLARS. DIETRICH GILLES HAS LIVED IN MAMARONECK SINCE 1948. SUPERBLY RESPECTED. FINANCIAL SECURITY. WORKS IN CHURCHES AND COMMUNITY GROUPS. CHILDREN: SUSAN, BORN IN 1952. ALICE, 1954 BIRTHDAY. TO US IN MARRIAGES. WIFE: Charlotte, died in 1965.
  
  
  WE STARTED A FULL INVESTIGATION. I PASS THE REPORT ON COMPLETION.
  
  
  - THREAD -
  
  
  She had two sheets of paper undressed and bench press in bed. As he lay in the dark, just before he fell asleep, his mind went over the last line of the first page of the report:
  
  
  LATEST INDICATIONS FOR USE: HERBERT DIETRICH IN THE ACAPULCO GYM.
  
  
  He wondered who the hell Herbert Dietrich was, and what possible connection he might have with criminals like Stocelli, Miso, Dattua, Torregrossa, Vignal, Webber, and Klien.
  
  
  CHAPTER EIGHT
  
  
  The next morning, I was at home by the pool when Consuela Delgardo came down the steps and across the lawn around the pool to join me. I was surprised to see how much more attractive she was in daylight. She was wearing a loose woven light beach coat that ended just below her thighs, showing off her gorgeous legs that rotated in a rhythmic, smooth gait as she approached me.
  
  
  "Good morning," she said in her pleasant husky voice, smiling at me. "Are you going to invite me to sit down?"
  
  
  "I didn't expect to see you again," I said. A chair pulled it out. "Would you like a drink?"
  
  
  "Not so early in the morning." She took off her beach coat and draped her ego over the back of the chaise longue. Underneath was a dark blue bathing suit, almost transparent except for the chest and crotch. It looked as if she was wearing a fine mesh stocking over a bathing suit. Although it covered her more than her panties could have, it was almost as revealing and was certainly much more thought-provoking. Consuela noticed me looking at nah,
  
  
  "Do you like it?" she asked.
  
  
  "It's very attractive," I admitted. "Few women around you can carry an ego and look as good as you do."
  
  
  Consuela sat down in the chair that Nach had pulled out for her. Even in direct sunlight, her skin felt smooth and supple.
  
  
  "I told them I was your guest," Consuela said, " and I hope you don't mind."
  
  
  "You're welcome. But why? Its sure that this is not a social call ."
  
  
  "You're right. I have a message for you.
  
  
  "With what?"
  
  
  "Bickford's."
  
  
  "About bullfighting in El Cortijo? I got her message last night.
  
  
  "I'll go with you," Consuela said.
  
  
  "So they recognize me?"
  
  
  “yeah. I hope you don't mind taking me out of the house, " she added cheerfully. "Most men would want this"
  
  
  "Take the tailor," I said irritably. "Why can't they just tell me just yes or no? Why all this nonsense? "
  
  
  "It seems that you told Bickford something about ih's activities last night. This shocked ih. They didn't think that anyone knew so much about the operation they were performing. I think you've managed to scare ih.
  
  
  "And where do you fit in?" he asked her openly.
  
  
  "It's none of your business."
  
  
  "I could make it my own business."
  
  
  Consuela turned and looked at me. "Isn't it an important operation. Just prima takes me at face value."
  
  
  "What's that?"
  
  
  "Just an attractive woman who gets escorted around town from time to time."
  
  
  "No," I said, " you're more than that. I bet if hers had looked at her passport, his would have found it filled with visa stamps. At least eight to ten trips to Europe. Most of the entry stamps will be from Switzerland and France. Right?"
  
  
  Consuela's face froze. "Bastard," she said. "You saw it!"
  
  
  "No," I said, shaking my head. "This is understandable. There is a lot of money in your email business. They can't let them swim here in Mexico or in the States. The best place to hide your ego is in Switzerland or the Bahamas-with numbered accounts. Someone has to take the money from here to there. Who is better than you? Attractive, cultured, elegant woman. You will place a bet on being a courier for them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The one who makes all the beautiful trips and smiles so pleasantly at customs officers as they pass through mimmo countries, and who is known to half a dozen bank tellers in Zurich, Bern and Geneva.
  
  
  "What else are you so sure about?"
  
  
  "That you never carry drugs. They'll never risk you getting caught for drug smuggling. Then they will have to find another courier who they can trust in cash just as they now trust you. And that's hard to do ."
  
  
  "You're damn right!" Consuela was indignant: "They know that I will never carry drugs with me."
  
  
  "Is it easier for you to think that you only carry money?" I asked her, with a hint of sarcasm in my voice. "Is that all right? You know, money and heroin. If you're going to be moral, where do you draw the line? "
  
  
  "Who are you to talk to me like that?" Consuela asked angrily. "Everything you do won't stand up to scrutiny either."
  
  
  I didn't say anything to her.
  
  
  "We wouldn't be so different," Consuela told me, the anger of solving scientific research problems in her voice like blue-white ice in the middle of winter's belly covering a rock. "I realized a long time ago that this is a hard life. You're doing the best you can. You do your job, and I do mine. Just don't judge me." She turned away from me. "Accept me for who I am, vote, and that's it."
  
  
  "I make very few judgments," her husband said. "And nothing in your case."
  
  
  He reached out, grabbed her chin, and turned to face him. Her eyes were frozen with the cold of indignation. But beneath the thin layer of pent-up rage, he sensed a swirl of seething emotions that she could barely control. I felt a sharp reaction inside her to the sudden sensual feel of her smooth skin on my fingers, and I had an overwhelming need to unleash the turmoil that was raging inside her.
  
  
  For a long, endless minute, he forced her to look at him. We fought a silent battle within a few inches of the space between our faces, and then he let his fingers slowly slide over her chin and slide over her lips. The ice melted, the anger gone, around her eyes. Hers, saw her face soften, thawed in complete and utter surrender.
  
  
  Consuela parted her lips slightly, biting my fingers gently, her eyes never leaving mine. I pressed my hand to her mouth, feeling her teeth brush against my flesh. Then she let go. He took his hand away from her face.
  
  
  "Damn you, tailor," Consuela said in a hissing whisper that barely reached me.
  
  
  "I feel the same way."My voice was no louder than sl.
  
  
  "How do you know how I feel?"
  
  
  Now the anger was directed at nah herself for being so weak and allowing me to discover it.
  
  
  "Because you came here to see me, whereas you could just as easily have called. Because of the look on your face, it's open now. Because it's something I can't put into words or even try to explain ."
  
  
  Her voice trailed off. Consuela got up and picked up her beach robe. She put on the ego in one lithe motion. He stood beside her. She looked at me.
  
  
  "Come on," I said, taking her hand. We walked along the edge of the pool and along the gravel path, up several flights of stairs that led to the terrace and the elevators that took us to my room.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  We were standing close together in the dimness and coolness of the room. The curtains were drawn, but Sergei was still getting in.
  
  
  Consuela wrapped her arms around me and pressed her face against my shoulder, close to my neck. I felt the softness of her cheeks and the wetness of her lips as her teeth gently nipped the tendons of my neck. She was pressed by her lick to me, the heavy fullness of her breasts pressed softly against my chest, my hands gripping her thighs.
  
  
  Now, as she resolutely raised her face to me, I leaned forward to meet her. Her mouth began a vicious, persistent, relentless search for my lips and rta. I took off her beach coat, pulled the maillot straps off her shoulders, and pulled the suit down to her hips. Her breasts were incredibly soft - silky skin on my bare chest.
  
  
  "Oh, wait," she said breathlessly. "Wait." And she came out, circling my arms long enough to pull the suit off her hips and out of it. She dropped a handful of politics and politics on a chair and reached for the waistband of my swimming trunks. It came out through them, and we moved together so instinctively, as if we had done this action so many times before that now it was almost second nature to us, and we didn't have to think about what to do next.
  
  
  We moved to the bed. I reached out to her again and was very gentle and very persistent with her until she came alive in my arms.
  
  
  She once said breathlessly, " I didn't think it would be like this. God, that feels good.
  
  
  She shuddered in my arms. "Oh my God, this is good!" she exclaimed, breathing her warm, moist breath into my ear. "I love what you do to me! Don't stop! "
  
  
  Her skin was thin and soft, smooth from the subtle luster of the bank, smooth as a ripe female body swollen with excitement. Her lips were warm and wet, and the wetness clung to me everywhere she kissed me. She moved slowly in rheumatism to my stroking fingers, until she was wet and full, and couldn't resist a determined turn toward me.
  
  
  Eventually, we came together in a fit of madness, her arms wrapped around me, her legs entwined with mine, she clung to me as hard as she could, pulling me in with her arms, her throat slightly shrill with sounds that turned into a cat's growl full of helplessness.
  
  
  At the last moment, her eyes opened and looked into my face, just a hand's breadth away from nah, and she screamed in a ragged voice: As her body exploded against mine, her hips slammed against me with a fury she couldn't contain.
  
  
  Later, we lay together with her head on my shoulder, each of us smoking a cigarette,
  
  
  "It doesn't change anything," Consuela told me. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling. "That was what she was supposed to do..."
  
  
  "...we can do that, " sl corrected her.
  
  
  "All right, we will," she said. "But it doesn't change anything. Think about it openly now."
  
  
  "I didn't think it would be."
  
  
  "It was good, though," she said, turning to me and smiling. "I like to make love in daylight."
  
  
  "It was very good."
  
  
  "God," she said, " it was good to have a man again. No one was worried. I hugged her tighter.
  
  
  This is crazy, Consuela thought. "It doesn't have to be so good the first time."
  
  
  "It happens sometimes."
  
  
  "I think you'll always be fine," Consuela said. "Just don't think about it, do you? We don't know if it will ever happen again, do we? "
  
  
  She turned to face me so that the bed was on its side, but one leg was on mine, and she snuggled up to my body.
  
  
  "Look," she said in an urgent whisper, " be careful, okay? Tell me personally that you'll be careful.
  
  
  "I can take care of myself," I said.
  
  
  "That's what everyone says," she said. Her fingers brushed the scars on my chest. "You weren't so careful when you got this, were you?"
  
  
  "I'll be more careful."
  
  
  Consuela jumped away from me and rolled onto her back.
  
  
  "Tailor!" she said in a hoarse, mature voice. "Be a female tailor." Do you know what this is?"
  
  
  CHAPTER NINE
  
  
  Consuela went home to get dressed. She said she'd be back in about an hour to pick me up for a meeting later. He was taking a leisurely shower and shaving when the phone rang. The gruff voice didn't bother to identify itself.
  
  
  "Stocelli wants to see you. Open now. He says it's important. Get up here as fast as you can.
  
  
  The phone went silent in my hands.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Stocelli's dark, round face was almost purple with impotent rage.
  
  
  "Look at this," he bellowed at me. "Damn it! Just look at this! The son of a bitch got it, no matter what we did.
  
  
  He pointed a thick forefinger at a package wrapped in brown paper with a blue sheet of paper taped to it.
  
  
  "You think this is my damn laundry room?" Stocelli was shouting at me in his hoarse voice. "Take this. Go get it! "
  
  
  He picked up the bag from the coffee table. It was a lot heavier than it should have been.
  
  
  "We've discovered the ego," Stocelli growled. "Guess what's inside."
  
  
  "I don't need to guess."
  
  
  "You're right," he said fiercely. "Five kilograms of horse. How do you like it?"
  
  
  "How did it get here?"
  
  
  "The messenger brought the ego. He goes up in the elevator, so my boys stop ego at the entrance. He tells them it's the underwear he sent her yesterday, puts ego on a chair, and takes the elevator back down. They even tip emu. Those stupid bastards! The damn package is sitting there for over an hour before they think to tell me about it. How do you like it? »
  
  
  "Was he a hotel employee?"
  
  
  Stocelli nodded. "Yes, he's an employee. We brought the ego here ... All he knows is that he's sitting on a counter in a parking booth, waiting for a delivery. The laundry form says my name and the penthouse number, so he brings it up here."
  
  
  I asked her. "I don't think he saw who left it?"
  
  
  Stocelli shook his round, almost bald head. "No, it was just like that. This could have been picked up by any of the hotel employees working in the parking service. He just happened to see it first and thought he'd bring another package."
  
  
  Stocelli stomped heavily to the window. He stared blankly at the package, not seeing it. Then he turned to face me with his thick, lumpy body.
  
  
  "What the hell have you been doing for the last day and a half, tailor?" he asked irritably.
  
  
  "I kept you from dying," he told her just as sharply. "The Miso organization sent a person here to have the local organization kill you."
  
  
  Stocelli was momentarily speechless. He slammed his fist down on the palm of his other hand in frustration.
  
  
  "What, take a tailor?" it exploded. "Damn it? First the Commission, and now the Miso Gang? He shook his head like a short, angry bull. He demanded. "How did you find out about this?"
  
  
  "He contacted me."
  
  
  "Why?" Stocelli's small eyes focused on me, narrowing suspiciously in his round face. He hadn't shaved, and his black stubble contrasted with the black sheen of the few strands of hair he'd brushed across his bald spot.
  
  
  "They want her to help them kill you."
  
  
  He put his hands on his hips, his legs straddling, leaning toward me as if he was having a hard time keeping from attacking me.
  
  
  "Why not? You want to know, don't you? "
  
  
  "What did you tell them?" Stocelli asked.
  
  
  "To get rid of you."
  
  
  Stocelli raised an eyebrow. "To wouldnt? Something else? And if not, what then? "
  
  
  "Then I'll reveal it to ihk."
  
  
  "Did you tell them that?"
  
  
  He nodded to her.
  
  
  Stocelli pursed his small lips thoughtfully ... " You're playing rough, aren't you ..."
  
  
  "Them too."
  
  
  "What did they say when you told them that?"
  
  
  "I should get ih rheumatism today no way when."
  
  
  Stocelli tried not to show any concern. "What do you think they'll say?"
  
  
  "You can decide for yourself. They need the Miso organization more than you do. It makes you expendable."
  
  
  Stocelli was a realist. If he was scared, he didn't show it. "Yes, allegedly. Is that what you're supposed to think, really? He suddenly changed the subject. "Who's around Marseille?"
  
  
  "Someone named Jean-Paul Sevier. Do you know ego?"
  
  
  Ego lobe frowned thoughtfully. "Sevier?" He shook his head. "I don't think I've ever met an ego."
  
  
  Jean-Paul described it.
  
  
  Stocelli shook his head again. "I still don't know Ego the ferret. But that doesn't mean anything. He never paid any attention to us, to anyone around them, other than the guys running the organization. Ermakov, Berthier, and Dupree. I wouldn't know anyone else."
  
  
  "Does the name Dietrich mean anything to you?"
  
  
  No reaction. If Stocelli knew the name, he hid it well. "I've never heard of nen. Is he from Khema?
  
  
  "I do not know if he has anything with Hema. Have you ever dealt with someone with that name? "
  
  
  "Look," Stocelli growled, " she's met a couple of thousand guys in her life. How the hell do you expect me to remember everyone I've met? That's for sure-no one around them, hema her never had anything to do with. Who is this guy?"
  
  
  "I do not know. I'll let you know when I know."
  
  
  "All right," Stocelli said, ignoring the subject. "Now I have a little job for you. Her, I want you to get rid of that damn package. He jerked a thumb at the bundle.
  
  
  "I'm not your errand boy. Ask someone through your people to throw out the ego.
  
  
  Stocelli laughed out loud. "What's wrong with you? Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think she's dumb enough to let anyone around my boys run around this hotel with five kilos of heroin? If ih gets caught, it's like pointing a finger at me. Besides, you know damn well I can't trust them to get rid of it. Do you know how much it costs? Whoever her ego passes it on to, the first thing they'll do is try to figure out what angle they can sell it from. Five kilos is better than a million dollars on the street. This is too much temptation. No, sir, we have Odin around my boys! "I changed my mind. "All right," I said. "I'll take this." Stocelli was suddenly suspicious of my easy agreement. "Wait a second, "he growled. Why didn't you tell me to back off? I'm asking you for a big favor. You'll get caught doing this, and you'll spend the next thirty years in a Mexican prison, really? From what I've heard, it's not the place to spend even thirty minutes. So why do you want to stick your neck out for me like this? "
  
  
  Her emu smiled and said ," It doesn't matter, Stocelli. Its the only one here you can trust to get rid of this for you and not get your ass dirty. I wasn't about to tell him what I meant. The less Stockelli knew about my plans, the better. Stocelli nodded slowly. "Yes, allegedly. Come to think of it, it's fun, isn't it? It turns out that around all my boys, you're the only one I can rely on.
  
  
  "Very interesting."
  
  
  He picked up the bundle and tucked it under his arm, then turned to leave.
  
  
  "Let me know what's going on," Stocelli said, his voice almost friendly. He came with me to the house. "I'm nervous sitting here, I'm not sure what's going on."
  
  
  I took the elevator down to my room without meeting anyone. He opened the door with his key and went in. Then he stopped. On my bed was a brown paper-wrapped package with a blue laundry list attached to it, identical to the one that had held her in the crook of her arm and that had just picked her up from Stocelli's penthouse.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  It didn't take me more than ten minutes to fix it, so that when the police arrived, they didn't find anything. If the picture had been the same, hers, I knew the police would have been notified that they might find one stash of heroin in Stocelli's penthouse and another in my room. They were probably already on their way to the hotel.
  
  
  Less than half an hour later, I was in the lobby waiting for Consuela to pick me up. He wore a camera around his neck with a 250mm telephoto lens attached to it. I had a large cowhide camera bag slung over my shoulder.
  
  
  Consuela was late. He put her in a bag with a heavy camera and a camera on the table.
  
  
  the seat of the chair. "Keep an eye on it for me, all right," he said to one of the messengers, handing Em a ten-peso note. He walked over to the table.
  
  
  Klera looked at me with a smile.
  
  
  "Senor Stephans, isn't it?" Can I help you with something?"
  
  
  "I hope so," I said politely. "Do you have a registered guest named Dietrich-Herbert Dietrich?"
  
  
  "Momentito," Clera said, referring to the guest's file cabinet. He scanned it, then looked up. "Yes, senor. El Senor Dietrich arrived yesterday.
  
  
  Yesterday? If Dietrich arrived yesterday and Stocelli arrived the day before, and he was on the same plane as Stocelli, then where was Dietrich for twenty-four hours?
  
  
  He thought about it for a moment, then asked: "Do you know which room he's in in the hall?"
  
  
  "It's number nine-three," said Klera, checking the folder again.
  
  
  "Do you happen to know what he looks like?" I asked her. "Is it possible that you could describe the ego to me?"
  
  
  Clare shrugged. "Lo siento mucho, Senor Stephans. It's impossible! I'm sorry, but I wasn't on duty when Senor Dietrich checked in.
  
  
  "No es importante," emu told her. "Thanks anyway." It was handed to emu by a folded bibl.
  
  
  Clare smiled at me. "De nada, senor. If I can help you in the future, let me know."
  
  
  He went back through the lobby and picked up his equipment. I hung my camera around my neck when Consuela came up to me.
  
  
  "Oh my God," she said, laughing at me, " you really do look like a tourist with all this photographic equipment strapped to you."
  
  
  Her smiled hey, in rheumatism. "Tools of my trade," I said easily. "I'm a freelance photographer, remember?"
  
  
  "Tell me about it later," Consuela said, glancing at her wristwatch and taking my hand. "We'll be late if we get caught in traffic."
  
  
  We were just exiting the ring road in front of the hotel when a police car swerved and stopped in front of the entrance with a blaring siren. Four policemen jumped out and quickly entered the hotel.
  
  
  "What do you think they want?" asked Consuela, looking in the rearview mirror.
  
  
  "I'll be damned if I know her."
  
  
  Consuela looked at me sideways, but said nothing more. She focused on speeding along the Costera Miguel Aleman, mimmo Acapulco Hilton to Diana Circle, where the Paseo del Farallon crosses the Costera. She was on Highway 95, heading north to Mexico City.
  
  
  About a mile down the road, Consuela turned onto a dirt road that led into the foothills. Finally, she pulled up in a gravel parking lot that was half full of cars.
  
  
  "El Cortijo," she announced. "Farm house".
  
  
  She saw a wooden structure painted bright red and white, on the dell itself no more than a large circular platform built six feet above the ground, surrounding a small, sand-covered ring. A tiled roof was erected over the site, the center of which was open to the sky and the bright sun. The platform itself was just over ten feet wide, just wide enough for small tables two deep to be placed around the perimeter.
  
  
  We played this game on a chair by the railing, opposite the gate through which the bulls were supposed to pass. From this position, our view of the ring below us was completely unobstructed.
  
  
  The band started playing a slow tune. Four men strode into the ring on the hard-packed sand, bragging to the beat of the music. The crowd applauded them.
  
  
  She expected them to be dressed in traditional trajas de luces, the tightly cut, brilliantly embroidered "costumes with lights" worn by the matadors she had seen in the bullring in Pamplona, Barcelona, Madrid and Mexico City. Instead, the four men were wearing short dark doublets, white ruffled shirts, and gray trousers tucked into ankle-length black boots. They stopped at the far end of the ring and bowed.
  
  
  Scattered applause rang out. The matadors turned and walked back, disappearing under the platform below us.
  
  
  The chair next to us was full. There were six people in the group. Two out of three girls play this game with their backs to the ring. Around them, one was blonde, the other red-haired. The third girl was small and dark, with a delicate stone face.
  
  
  At the head of the chair, a tall, gray-haired man with a large paunch started joking with the girls. A tall, thin man sat between the red-haired man and the stocky, bronzed Mexican.
  
  
  He leaned toward Consuela. "Are these your people?"
  
  
  "Two around them." Her voice was barely above a whisper. She didn't turn away from the ring.
  
  
  "Which two?"
  
  
  "They'll let you know."
  
  
  Now the Picador rode out into the ring on a horse with heavy padding on the right side and a long slap on the side of his right eye so that he couldn't see the bull.
  
  
  The bull lowered its horns and charged the horse. With a vicious push, the Picador bent down and drove the blade of his shovel deep into the bull's left shoulder, leaning all his weight on the long handle. He strongly resisted the bull's push, keeping the horns away from his horse. The bull broke free at an agonizing speed and ran around the ring, whipping bright blood around the wound on his shoulder, a striped red ribbon on the dusty black hide..
  
  
  
  The first banderillero entered the ring. In each hand he held a long-hafted spear, and with his arms outstretched in the shape of a triangle, he made a curved gesture at the bull. The bull lowered its head to charge. Bending down, Banderillero placed a sharpened spear on each of the bull's shoulders. The sharp iron slid into the animal's tough hide as if it had been made from tissue paper. He looked at the people at the next table. No one around them paid any attention to me. They watched the action in the ring. The matador came out again, carrying a small muleta. He took short steps toward the bull, trying to get ego to charge. The bull was very bad. But the matador was even worse. The blonde at the next table turned away from the ring. "Hey, Garrett, when are they killing the bull?" "In a minute or two," the burly man replied. "You won't see it until you turn around." "I don't want to see it. I don't like the sight of blood." The bull was tired. The matador was ready to kill. The bull's flanks were heaving with exhaustion, and ego's target was bent over the sand. The matador went to the lowered head, bent down, and plunged his sword into the bull up to the hilt. He missed the vertebrae .. If you cut the spine, the bull will instantly collapse. It's a quick, clean death, almost instantaneous. This bull didn't fall. He stood with a sword in his neck, blood flowing down a fresh wound, and flowing around the two spears on his shoulders and around the gaping wound in the picture. And to vote, blood gushed through the ego of the RTA in a thick, viscous stream. "The voice is shit," said the blonde, who had unwittingly turned her back to the ring. "It's such a damned bloody hand! Who needs all these murders?" Mexicantsev was surprised by her disgust. "We are still a primitive people, "he said, hey." Sword, knife - steel, and bloodletting enhance our sense of masculinity. You Northamericanos are too soft. "Fuck you, Carlos," she snapped, and turned her back on the arena. The matador returned to the bull with a stabbing sword in his hand. Odin po Banderillero drew another sword. The matador leaned over the bull and made a chopping motion. The blade sliced through the bull's spinal cord, sending it crashing to the sand. Garrett turned his head and caught my eye. He stood up. "I've got a couple of bottles of whiskey in my car," he said loudly. "Let's go get them, Carlos." He'd seen them walk around the perimeter of the arena and cross the wooden platform that led directly to the parking lot. Consuela touched my arm. "You can join them now." Her followed them around the aviary. Garrett picked his way through the parked cars until he reached the far end of the road. He stopped to turn around and wait for me. When he came up to her, he looked at me coldly. Hers stopped in front of him. I do not know what he expected from me, but I never lost our words, our time. "Put Stocelli down," I said sharply, looking up into Garrett's heavy, belligerent face. Then my gaze shifted to Carlos, who met my gaze with an impassively polite expression. Carlos was wearing light green slacks, a shirt wrapped around raw silk, and white loafers with tassels on the small legs. He looked like a jerk, but I sensed a deep core of toughness in nen that Garrett didn't have. Garrett was bluffing and pompous. Carlos was more dangerous around the two of them. Carlos reached out and touched my arm. Ego's voice was very calm and polite. "Senor, I think the climate of Acapulco Stahl is very unhealthy for you."
  
  
  "I'm not afraid."
  
  
  Carlos gave a small shrug of his plump shoulders. "This is very bad," he said. "A little fear can sometimes save a man's life." He turned away from them, hiding his anger. He returned to the ring across the tables to Consuela. He touched her arm. "There will be problems. Can you go back to the city with your friends?" Why?" "Give me your car keys. "I'll leave ih at my hotel." Consuela shook her head. "She brought you here. I'll take you back." "Come on then." She was packed with a camera and a large bag of equipment. Following Consuela a step behind me, hers, Poe stepped out of the enclosure. We were crossing a small wooden bridge, and Consuela was sitting next to me, when a movement caught her eye out of the corner of her eye. With a pure, instinctive reflex, he flung Consuela away from him against the railing and ran for the wooden moan that made up one side of the pass. It bounced off the wall at an angle, spun around, and landed on one of every tribe. My neck caught fire, as if someone had seared it with a hot iron. He felt a trickle of blood run down her collar. "What is it?" Consuela exclaimed, and then her gaze fell on the long-handled banderilla, which was now still shaking into moans between us, its sharpened steel spike buried deep in the wood. A long handle with a ribbon swinging back and forth like a deadly metronome.
  
  
  
  
  He remembered how easily the barbed steel had sunk into the bull's leather hide. It wouldn't have been hard to imagine the ligature of the ilium piercing my throat if I hadn't acted so quickly.
  
  
  He stood up and dusted off the knees of his trousers.
  
  
  "Your friends don't waste any time," I said fiercely. "Now let's get out of here."
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Jean-Paul was waiting for me in the hall. He jumped to his feet as she entered. I walked across the lobby to the elevators, and he walked beside me.
  
  
  "All right?"
  
  
  "I was told to get the hell out of Acapulco."
  
  
  "And?"
  
  
  "They also tried to kill me."
  
  
  We entered the elevator. Jean-Paul said ," I think you're in a bad position, my other one."
  
  
  I didn't answer. The elevator stopped on my floor. We got out and walked down the hall. When we came to my room, her father took out the key.
  
  
  "Wait," Jean - Paul said sharply. He held out his left hand for the key: "Give the ego to me."
  
  
  He looked down. Jean-Paul was holding a pistol in his right hand. I don't argue with guns this close. I gave em the key.
  
  
  "Now step aside."
  
  
  Her, moved away. Jean-Paul inserted the key in the lock and turned it slowly. With a sudden movement, he flung open the door, falling into the face of every tribe, the gun in his ego hand aimed at the room, ready to hit anyone inside.
  
  
  "There's no one there," emu told her.
  
  
  Jean-Paul got to his feet.
  
  
  "I never hesitate to exercise caution," he said. We entered the room. He closed the door behind us, went to the terrace window, and looked out. Behind me, Jean-Paul was preparing drinks for us. He tossed her bag of equipment onto a chair and put his camera on top of it.
  
  
  Looking out over the bay, I saw motorboats towing water skiers. There were several motor sailboats anchored at the yacht club. The tuna boat he'd seen the day before was still tied to the embankment. Her, thought about it.
  
  
  Jean-Paul asked: "Aren't you afraid to turn your back on me?"
  
  
  "Clean"
  
  
  He stirred the drinks. "While you were away, we had some excitement. The hotel was visited by the local police. They searched Stocelli's penthouse apartment."
  
  
  "Right?"
  
  
  "They also searched your room." Jean-Paul was watching my face intently, trying to catch the slightest expression on my permission to perform flag. "It doesn't bother you?"
  
  
  "I expected this."
  
  
  He turned back and looked out the window again. I knew from the moment I saw the fake laundry bag on my bed that I was going to call the police.
  
  
  Well, they probably warned them to search both Stocelli's apartment and my room for drugs. Someone tried to put a heavy frame on Stocelli.
  
  
  But that wasn't what bothered me.
  
  
  "Why would the police search Stocelli's cottage?" asked Jean - Paul.
  
  
  "Because today emu delivered five kilos of heroin wrapped up like a bundle of laundry," I said.
  
  
  Jean-Paul whistled in surprise.
  
  
  "Visible, so he got rid of it. Eh bien? "
  
  
  "I got rid of it with him."
  
  
  Another long pause. "But why did they search your room?"
  
  
  “no. Another package, like it was delivered to my room, " I said calmly, still with my back to Jean-Paul. "Another five kilos in exactly the same package."
  
  
  Jean-Paul digested the information thoughtfully. Then he said: "Since the police didn't find anything, may I ask her what you did with the heroin?"
  
  
  "I took the ego with me."
  
  
  "And you got rid of it today, not when? How clever you are, mon amil.
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. "No, it's still in my equipment bag. All ten kilos. I carry my ego with me all day ."
  
  
  Jean-Paul turned to look at the bulky equipment bag that a chair by the window had placed for her. He started laughing.
  
  
  "You have a great ending and sense of humor, my other one. Do you know what would have happened if the police had found this in your possession? "
  
  
  "Yes. Thirty years of hard labor. So I was told.
  
  
  "Doesn't that bother you?"
  
  
  "Not so much as something else."
  
  
  Jean-Paul brought me a drink. He took his own and sat Odin down around the chairs.
  
  
  He raised his glass. "A voire sante!" He took a sip. "What's bothering you?"
  
  
  Her, turned around. " You." " You are not in the Miso organization."
  
  
  Jean-Paul sipped his rum. There was a challenge in his gray eyes. "Why do you think that?"
  
  
  "In the first place, you are too friendly with me. You're more like my bodyguard. Second, you don't actually insist on destroying Stocelli. Finally, you knew all day that someone was trying to frame Stocelli, just like Miso was framed. This was to prove to you that Stocelli didn't frame Miso, and that's why you're chasing the wrong guy. But you didn't do anything about it."
  
  
  Jean-Paul said nothing.
  
  
  I moved on. "Not only that, but you were stuck in the hotel all day, even though four cops were searching the restaurant for drugs. If you really were on the Marseille organization, you would run away like a tailor in the foreground when looking at them ."
  
  
  "Right?"
  
  
  "So who the hell are you, tailor?"
  
  
  "Who do you think she is?"
  
  
  "A policeman."
  
  
  "What makes you think that's the case?"
  
  
  "The way you walked through the door a few minutes ago. This
  
  
  strictly police equipment. You weren't taught that.
  
  
  "You are astute, mon vieux! Yes, her cop.
  
  
  "Drugs?"
  
  
  "L'Office Central Pour la Suppression du Trafic des Stupifiants. We are working with your Federal Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs, BNDD ."
  
  
  "And the Mexican police?"
  
  
  "For this operation. Federates. They know I'm working undercover."
  
  
  "Did the Yermakov organization really send someone here to force the Acapulco gang to eliminate Stocelli? Or was it a cover story? "
  
  
  "Ah, they sent a person, alright. Vote as we found out about it. We asked the Mexican police to detain him when he got off, around the plane to Mexico City."
  
  
  "And he told you all about ih's plans for Stocelli? I thought Corsicans didn't talk. They are supposed to be even more silent than the Sicilians.
  
  
  Jean-Paul smiled at me. "The Mexican police are not as reserved as we are. Especially with foreign criminals. They attached electrodes to the ego testicles and turned on the current. He screamed for five minutes and then broke down. He'll never be the same again, but he told us everything."
  
  
  I changed the subject. "How do you know the equipment for me?"
  
  
  Jean-Paul shrugged. "I know what you're singing," he said." I know that you are N3-an elite assassin in this organization. That's why her hotel would like you to cooperate with us ."
  
  
  "Who are 'we'? And how?"
  
  
  "The Americans want Stocelli. Mexican police demand the elimination of Acapulco organizations. And we, the French, would like to break the link between the Miso gang, the Stocelli gang and the Acapulco gang ."
  
  
  "My orders are coming from Washington," emu told her. "I need to check with them."
  
  
  Jean-Paul smiled at me. "You mean you'll have to consult Hawk."
  
  
  I didn't say anything to her. Jean-Paul had nothing to do with knowing about the Hawk - or that I was No. 3, or that I was designated an assassin. He knew too much.
  
  
  "Hi, I'll let you know," I said.
  
  
  Jean-Paul got up and put down his glass. He went to the door and opened it. He started to leave, then turned in the doorway.
  
  
  "Her hotel would get your rheumatism report no later than this evening," he said. "We intend to..."
  
  
  Like a needle on a phonograph, his voice suddenly breaks off in the middle of the first sentence,and the word ends with an indistinct bellow of a flag of permission to perform. He stumbled, staggered, and took a half step forward into the room, slamming the door behind him. Then he leaned back on his back and slid to the floor.
  
  
  Her jumped across the room. Jean-Paul's eyelids were closed. A frothy crimson bubble suddenly burst out around the ego lungs. Blood spurted down the rta's ego. Ego's feet thumped heavily on the floor in protest of death.
  
  
  I reached for the door handle, but my body collapsed on the bottom panel and wouldn't let me open it.
  
  
  Outside, the thick carpet in the hall drowned out all possible shaggy sounds. He let go of the handle and knelt down in front of the Frenchman's slender body. He felt her pulse. There was no ego. He half-turned to face him and saw the hilt of a bone-handled knife protruding from Jean-Paul's back in a strange malignancy.
  
  
  CHAPTER TEN
  
  
  The killer chose the right time. I didn't hear the doors open or close. No one came out into the corridor. The hallway outside my room was quiet. He stood over Jean-Paul's body for a long time before reaching out and grabbing the hall mat, dragging the corpse deeper into the room and pushing it back. He opened the door cautiously and looked out. The corridor was deserted. I closed and bolted the door, knelt down in front of the Frenchman's slender body sprawled on the bloodstained carpet, and stared into the emu's face for a long time, all the while feeling anger raging inside me because I had made a mistake.
  
  
  She should have realized earlier in El Cortijo that Carlos had already put in place all the plans he had to get rid of me, even before he and Brian Garrett met me. Hers should have known that he was never going to let me leave Acapulco alive while hers knew what I would do to the ego organization. I probably thought I'd have more time, at least until tomorrow morning, but I was wrong about that assumption. Time was up, and now Jean-Paul was dead because of it. I also knew that I would never get the Mexican police, especially Lieutenant Fuentes, to believe that I wasn't involved in Jean-Paul's death.
  
  
  I should have acted long ago. He looked at Jean-Paul's open, intent eyes and reached out to close them. Ego unbuttoned her jacket. A Smith & Wesson Airweight Model 42 .38 revolver with a walnut handle was tucked into a short holster in the waistband of ego's trousers. He shifted her gun to his own loincloth. He looked at his watch - it was too early in the evening to try to dispose of the body. Even though there weren't many guests in the hotel, it would be too hard to assume that the corridors were empty right now.
  
  
  Ego corpse carefully wrapped her in a thin rug. not up to her ankles, but her ego face was covered.
  
  
  With the strips of cloth he'd torn from the pillowcase, the rug tied her to her ego, chest, and knees.
  
  
  There was a secret place in the room that asked for it. The clothes closet was too dangerous, so I decided to shove her body wrapped in carpet under the double bed, dropping the bedspread on its side so that the ego end was almost on the floor.
  
  
  After putting Jean-Paul out of the way for a moment, he focused his attention on clearing the evidence of what had happened. It was turned on by the saint in the hall, checking the walls for blood spatter. I found several of them. The bottom panel of the day was a mess. In the bathroom, I soaked a towel in cold water, went back to the hall and washed the door and walls.
  
  
  The mat kept the blood off the floor.
  
  
  Then he rinsed her out as best he could, wadded up her ego, and tossed it on the floor under the sink. He took off his bloodstained clothes and took a shower.
  
  
  She used two more towels, dried herself and rolled ih and threw it in the sink along with another towel. Let the maid think I'm a slob. At the very least, it would prevent hey from looking too closely at the first towel.
  
  
  After he shaved, he changed into a clean sports shirt, slacks, and a Madrasa jacket.
  
  
  Hugo was going to wear it, and Wilhelmina, my 9mm Luger, was going to wear it, but a 9mm pistol of any size gives a pretty big bump. It's too easy to see under the light clothing, so I left her a gun and a knife in the fake bottom of my attache case.
  
  
  Instead, he settled on Jean-Paul's .38 light revolver.
  
  
  Normally, I wouldn't wear a jacket. The May evenings in Acapulco are too warm to make a jacket unnecessary, but I had a Jean-Paul revolver, and even though it was small, it was still too noticeable if I didn't wear something to cover my ego.
  
  
  When he finished dressing, he went back to the bathroom. A bottle of the sleeping pill nembutal was taken from the shaving kit. There were ten or twelve capsules in the bottle. Sometimes when I can't sleep, her beru is all alone around them. Now I had other uses for them. I put it in a small plastic container in a minute, along with a roll of half-inch duct tape that I already had in my medicine cabinet.
  
  
  Back in the bedroom, he picked up his camera and slung the bulky camera bag over his shoulder.
  
  
  Outside the door, I hung a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside handle of the door. I put her room key in a minute. As in many hotels, Matamoros has a heavy bronze plaque attached to the key so that guests don't have to carry it around and have the habit of leaving the key on the counter. I don't like doing this. I want to be able to walk in and out of my room without attracting attention, stopping at the chair every time. The key and nameplate lay heavy in the back pocket of my trousers.
  
  
  When we went down to the lobby, no one saw us in the corridor or in the elevator. I stopped at the front desk to ask if there was any mail for me. I didn't expect anything, but when Clare turned to the counters behind him, I was able to check the Suite 903 slot. Both keys were in the drawer. Apparently, Dietrich didn't show up after all.
  
  
  Clare turned back, smiling ruefully. "No, senor, there is nothing for you." This wasn't the same Klera he'd talked to earlier, not when,
  
  
  "Do you know Senor Dietrich?"
  
  
  "Senor Dietrich?"
  
  
  "Suite nine-three," emu said.
  
  
  "Ah! Sure. He's a very nice gentleman who arrived yesterday. It was registered by ego alone."
  
  
  "There's no ego right now, is there?"
  
  
  Clare shook his head. “no. Her, saw him leave about half an hour ago.
  
  
  "Are you sure? A man in his sixties - her husband. That was all I knew about Dietrich's appearance. Hers, hoping that Clare would take the bait.
  
  
  "Of course I know him, what he looks like! Quite high. Very thin. Very outstanding. Silver hair. Blue eyes. He walks with a slight limp, even though he doesn't have a walking stick. My daughter is very beautiful ."
  
  
  "I'm a daughter?"
  
  
  "Yes, senor. You can't forget a beautiful girl like her! What long blonde hair! "It was then that Clare found himself thinking that ego dawned. He raised a knowing eyebrow. "Of course, maybe she's not ego's daughter, eh, senor? We don't ask such questions."
  
  
  "Okay, this is Dietrich. Byblos handed it to the clerk. "I'll contact him later."
  
  
  "Can I leave a message for em, senor?"
  
  
  "No, I do not know when I will be able to see the ego. Thank you for the information."
  
  
  "De nada".
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  At the Hertz office, he rented a car and drove to Sanborn, where he bought a detailed map of the Acapulco banner. In the dining room, he sat her down in a booth, ordered coffee, and spread the map out on the table in front of him. He tried to lead the way to Bickford's villa, where Consuela had driven me last night. The map didn't show even smaller alleys, so he wasn't entirely sure if he had chosen the right street. Her, remembered that it was a short cul-de-sac and that there were only a few houses on the nen. All houses have a view of the bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was sure I'd recognize the street if I found it again. Bickford's house was the last one at the end of the cul-de-sac, isolated from the others.
  
  
  I mentally went through it by solution until I narrowed ih down to three. It took me two cups of coffee and half a dozen cigarettes before I finally put the card down and left.
  
  
  The thread of the street wasn't a dead end, as the map showed. It was extended to join another alley, so hers, turned around and tried the second one. It was a dead-end street, but there were too many houses crammed together as closely as possible.
  
  
  He tried again. This was also wrong, so I drove back to the highway and pulled off the road. By now, it was almost ten-thirty. I turned on the ceiling light and opened the map again, trying to figure out where I'd made a mistake. Finally its found this. I took it at the wrong intersection. The saint turned it off, rolled up the map, and drove back to the road.
  
  
  This time it was found only after the second attempt. Along its length were four widely divided houses. Bickford's house was the last one on the bay, and the street was fronted by a high wall of mud brick and iron-barred gates. Hey, I didn't drive up to him. He left the car out of sight around the corner and followed the dirt road to the gate, which was secured by a chain and lock. He rang the bell, and Stahl waited. In the darkness, she could hear the chirping of insects and the clicking of palm leaves rubbing against each other in the soft, wet sea breeze.
  
  
  A few minutes passed before the doorman, an elderly, gray-haired half-breed with a bristly mustache, appeared, tucking his shirt into his baggy trousers as he strode down the path.
  
  
  He didn't give Em time to think.
  
  
  She was abruptly cut off in Spanish. "Hurry up, viejo! "" Senor Bickford is waiting for me!"
  
  
  The old man stopped a foot from the gate, looking at me with a thoughtful frown.
  
  
  "I don't know anything-"
  
  
  "Highlight the gate!"
  
  
  The old man took out a flashlight from his pocket. He turned the ego in my face.
  
  
  "Not in my eyes, you old fool! Direct the brylev to my hand."
  
  
  The old man obediently held the flashlight down. He saw blued steel from Smith & Wesson .38. Without taking his eyes off the gun, the gatekeeper took out a thick bunch of keys around the pocket of his worn trousers. Ego's fingers trembled as he selected a key and inserted it. The lock opened. He reached out with his left hand and unhooked the chain. He pushed open the gate, still pointing the gun at the old man, and went inside.
  
  
  "Close the gate, but don't lock it."
  
  
  He did as his emu said.
  
  
  "Who else is here?" He pointed the gun at her to get off the trail.
  
  
  "Just the senor and the senora," he said nervously.
  
  
  "Your wife?"
  
  
  «Mi mujer es muerta. She's dead, only hers remains.
  
  
  "Other slaves?"
  
  
  "Incoming users. They don't sleep here. They won't be back until morning."
  
  
  "Senor Bickford already bench press to bed?"
  
  
  The old man shook his head. "I don't think so; the holy Light is still burning down there.
  
  
  He looked up at me with watery, frightened eyes. "Do me a favor, senor, her old man. I don't want any trouble.
  
  
  "There might be a lot of trouble here today," I said, watching him.
  
  
  "I can be very far away, in a very short time," the old man pleaded. "Especially if the police might come."
  
  
  "All right," I said. He reached into his wallet and pulled out four hundred pesos - about thirty-two dollars.
  
  
  "To make your trip easier. For your inconvenience. "I put the notes in the gatekeeper's hand.
  
  
  The old man looked down and shoved the bills in a minute: "Can I go now?"
  
  
  He nodded to her. The man opened the gate a hand's breadth apart and slipped through. He immediately ran down the muddy road, his boots slapping on his heels and making soft scraping sounds on the gravel. He turned a corner and was out of sight in a few seconds.
  
  
  He pushed open the gate and moved into the darkness of the manicured grounds toward the house.
  
  
  Around the doorway that led from the kitchen to the dining room, he watched Bickford and his wife. They were both sitting in the part of the living room that he could see through the dining room.
  
  
  Bickford picked up the magazine in his hand and took off his thick-rimmed reading glasses.
  
  
  "Do you want a drink before we go to bed?" He asked Doris.
  
  
  Doris was sitting on the couch, painting her toenails with great concentration. Without looking up, she said: "Take a double."
  
  
  He entered the dining room and stopped at the archway that separated it from the living room. "I suggest you save it for later," I said.
  
  
  Bickford looked up in surprise. Doris dropped a bottle of nail polish on the white sofa. "Voice of shit!" was all she said.
  
  
  I walked into the living room and let Bickford see the gun in my hand.
  
  
  He demanded. "What the hell is all this, tailor?"
  
  
  "Your friends don't want things to be easy."
  
  
  He licked his lips, glancing nervously at the gun. "Why her? I did what you asked."
  
  
  
  "As you once said, you're just a guy in the middle. I think that means you get it from both sides."
  
  
  "What do you want?"
  
  
  "A little. You and I are going for a ride together."
  
  
  "Hey, wait a second!" yelled Doris.
  
  
  "He won't get hurt if he does what I tell emu," I assured her.
  
  
  Bickford was still nervous about the gun.
  
  
  "She stays." He took out the bottle around his pocket and emptied two capsules onto the top of the bar.
  
  
  "Ms. Bickford, I'd appreciate it if you'd just take these pills ...
  
  
  Bickford exploded, getting to his feet. "Leave her out of it!
  
  
  "That's what I do. I'm not stupid enough to tie her up. There are too many chances that it will be released. And I'd rather not hit her in the head.
  
  
  He asked."What - what is this?"
  
  
  "Sleeping pills. They don't cause any harm."
  
  
  Doris got up from the couch and walked over to the bar. I noticed that she wasn't scared at all. She even gave me a quick smile, which Bickford didn't see. She took the pills and poured herself a glass of water.
  
  
  "Are you sure they won't hurt me?" There was a hint of amusement in her voice, her green eyes with thick lashes looking boldly into mine. She put the pill in her mouth and washed it down with ih, then came over to me. "All I'm going to do is fall asleep?"
  
  
  "Sit down, Mrs. Bickford."
  
  
  "Doris," she murmured, still looking boldly into my face, a tiny smile on her lips.
  
  
  "Back on the couch." Doris slowly turned away from me and walked back to the couch, deliberately swaying her hips. Bickford walked over to her and sat down next to her. He took her hand thoughtfully, but she pulled away.
  
  
  "For Heaven's sake, Johnny. He's fine, so take it easy, okay? If he wanted to hurt me, you couldn't stop the ego." She turned to face me. "How long does it take?"
  
  
  "Ten to twenty minutes," I said. "You could just stretch out and relax. We'll wait.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  After less than fifteen minutes, Doris closed her eyes. Her breasts rose and fell in a light arched rhythm. He waited another five minutes for her, then motioned Bickford out of the way.
  
  
  "Let's go."
  
  
  Bickford got to his feet. "Where to?"
  
  
  "We're going to visit the tuna boat," I said. "The one that's not tied to the embankment..."
  
  
  "What the hell are you talking about, tailor?"
  
  
  "...And then on board, "I continued, as if Bickford hadn't said a word," you must meet the master and hand over the emu pack. Tell em that ego will be taken to San Diego in the usual way.
  
  
  "You're crazy!" Bickford exploded. "You want to kill both of us?"
  
  
  "You're not dead yet," I said, holding the gun to ego's chest.
  
  
  He stood there, clumsy, aging, defeat making the ego look older than its years. "But they'll kill me when they find out. You know that, don't you? "He looked at me. "How did you know about the tuna boat?" he asked blankly.
  
  
  "I told you last night that I have a list of ships that your people have used to smuggle heroin into the States. Tuna boat - "Mary Jane" from San Diego. He's been hanging around for days, waiting for another package ."
  
  
  "You can guess," Bickford said hesitantly, but a flicker of his face caught hers, and that was all the confirmation I needed.
  
  
  "Not anymore," I said. "Let's go and get them the package they're waiting for."
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Getting the package to the tuna boat wasn't a problem. We drove Bickford's car down to the waterfront, Bickford driving and me sitting next to him with the .38 in my hand.
  
  
  Once in the boat, Bickford went straight to the captain's cabin. The three around us filled the small room. Bickford told the story. The captain didn't ask any questions, except to look at me suspiciously as he handed Emu the bags.
  
  
  "He's fine," Bickford vouched for me. "It's the ego of buying. He just wants to make sure that we're being selfish."
  
  
  "We've never had a problem," the captain complained as he took the bundle from me. He looked at nah and turned it over in his hands. "Laundry service? This is new to me.
  
  
  "How soon can you set out?"
  
  
  "Half an hour-maybe less."
  
  
  "Then you'd better go."
  
  
  The captain looked at Bickford questioningly. "Do as he says," Bickford told emu.
  
  
  "What about the package that was waiting for her?"
  
  
  Bickford shrugged. "It was postponed. We can't let you stay here too long.
  
  
  "All right," the captain said. "The sooner you two clear my decks, the sooner I can start it."
  
  
  Bickford and I left our cabins, making our way slowly across the cluttered deck in the dark. There I stopped at the tarpaulin-covered lifeboat and quickly, turning my back on him so that he couldn't see what I was doing, I put the bag under the heavy tarpaulin in the lifeboat.
  
  
  As we jumped down to the dock, we heard the engines start up. There was a lot of activity on deck.
  
  
  We came to the spot where Bickford had parked his car on the Bonfire.
  
  
  "What now?" Bickford asked me as we entered.
  
  
  "I think we should visit Brian Garrett," I said. Bickford said to protest, but thought better of it.
  
  
  
  It was held by a short blued-steel revolver just inches away. He drove the car east along Coster Miguel Aleman, driving out of town to the top of the promontory. Finally, he turned onto a secondary road and stopped a few minutes later.
  
  
  "Down there at Garrett's house. Do you want her moved in candid? "
  
  
  The house stood out on its own, exposed under the crest of a ridge on the edge of a cliff that sloped two hundred feet below it to the sea. We were yards from either side of the driveway leading to the main gate of the house.
  
  
  "No, stop here."
  
  
  Bickford pulled the car over to the side of the road. He stopped the ego and turned off the ignition and headlights. The sudden darkness surrounded us, and as it did so, the butt of his gun hit Bickford on the back of the head, hitting the emu right behind the ear. He slumped over the steering wheel. He put the pistol in the right pocket of his doublet, and around the other pocket he took out a roll of duct tape. Bickford's hands were dragged behind her for ego's sake, and a dozen rounds of surgical tape were taped over her wrists. It was stuck in the emu's mouth with a handkerchief, sticking a strip of glue from one side to the other to hold the gag in place.
  
  
  I walked around the car and opened both of its left doors. Bickford was heavy. The years have turned the ego into a heavy alenka. I had to do my best to move my ego's inert body into the back of the sedan. He bent down and bandaged ego's ankles and knees. When I finished it, I ran out of ribbons, but it was still tied up. I wouldn't have to worry about him getting out.
  
  
  Ten minutes later, he moved silently along the edge of the road in the dark until he came to the high moan that surrounded Garrett's villa. The wall began at a steep drop to my right, cut through the field, then formed a semicircle around the sprawling house to the end of the cliff on the far side.
  
  
  Beyond the wall, a holy light burned. He could hear voices calling out to each other. Approaching Licks k to moan, she heard the splashing of water. Her knowledge in one of the girls ' voices is the voice of a blonde I saw that day in El Cortijo.
  
  
  He crept along the base of the wall until he reached the driveway that led directly to the road. The front of the gate was illuminated by two lanterns hanging high from the main pillars. I didn't have time to cross the driveway so close to the house without being seen, so I crawled back to the road and crossed it where I'd left Bickford and the car. It took me twenty minutes to fully explore the other side of the house, from the edge of the cliff to the roadway, and then it, back up, and back up to the edge of the road again.
  
  
  I was about to cross the road, my leg muscles already straining to take a step, when some deep-seated sense of danger stopped me.
  
  
  The night sounds didn't change. Under the edge of it, I could hear the waves crashing against the boulders in their slow, uneven rhythm on the narrow sandy beach. The sea wind from the west rustled the palm leaves as if rubbing dry hands. The nocturnal insects whined and chirped, chirping in the darkness around me, but it was as if some primal alarm had been triggered in my mind.
  
  
  A long time ago, I learned to trust my instincts completely. Even before the first faint whisper, the sound reached my ears, he darted to the side, dodging his invisible opponent.
  
  
  Its almost intact. The blow aimed at my spine caught me in the forearm as hers turned, the knife blade entering my right arm just below the elbow, piercing ego to the wrist, causing me to drop the gun that was holding her in my hand. At the same time, a hard, muscular body slammed into me, knocking me off the counterweights.
  
  
  He fell on his face, barely managing to avoid the retaliatory blow as the blade sliced through the air where he had been just a second ago. Without thinking, acting purely on reflex, he quickly rolled away to the far side of the road.
  
  
  I looked up and saw the square figure of my attacker standing in a fighter's pose with his legs spread wide. The moon saint reflected off the sharpened blade on the steel like a razor, which he held out in his outstretched hand, moving his hand back and forth. I heard her gasp as the man shuffled toward me, one step at a time.
  
  
  He gathered her legs under him. My left hand was scratching at the road. He found it and grabbed a fist-sized rock. I could feel the wet warmth of blood trickling down my right forearm and wrist. He tried to move her with his right hand. He was almost uselessly numb from the impact.
  
  
  The man went to the open window of the driver's seat next to the car. I saw him put his hand through the window, and suddenly the headlights of the car came on, illuminating the road and the edge of the field, pinning me with their sharp white light.
  
  
  Slowly, he got to his feet, squinting at the brightness of the lights.
  
  
  
  He started to move, trying to get out from under the headlights.
  
  
  The attacker stepped out in front of the car, a sharp and dangerous silhouette against the blinding aurora rays.
  
  
  He took another step forward.
  
  
  "You shouldn't run."
  
  
  The long blade of the knife in ego's hand began its slow, serpentine weaving again.
  
  
  "Stop, hombre! I'll make it quick for you.
  
  
  The voice recognized her. It belonged to the stocky young mathematician who had approached me on the quai two days earlier - Luis Aparicio. The memory brought back two others. For some reason, an image of a gutted turtle flashed through my mind. In his mind's eye, he could see the turtle lying helplessly on its back, the fisherman's quick stabs, the muscular arm covered in blood up to the elbow, and the long cerro-pink balls of wet gut spilling down the steps of Port Bar.
  
  
  Pushing the images away, he forced himself to remain calm. "Hey, Lewis."
  
  
  "I told you we'd meet again," Louis said. He took another shuffling step. "Your friend at the hotel sent her to the wrong place this evening. I'll take care of you now."
  
  
  "Were you following me?"
  
  
  Louis shook his head. "No, I'm not following you. He had come here to see Carlos Ortega, to tell em what he had done at the hotel. I'm walking down the road and I see a car. What do you think I find inside, it's connected, eh? So here I am waiting. He smiled bleakly and took another step toward me. "Hombre, I'm going to cut you up slowly, and there's nothing you can do."
  
  
  My mind raced, figuring out the few options I had. Running will only delay the thread for a few desperate minutes. It was just as useless to stand and fight with only a stone as a weapon and a helpless hand. Fighting a trained fighter with a knife without a weapon would be pure suicide.
  
  
  In that second, I evaluated and rejected all but one option, and even then I knew the odds would be very much against me. She was reminded of one small fact. Hers, I remembered how quickly Lewis had gotten around to it when hers had turned down his offer to be my guide. I bet on it.
  
  
  I laughed at him, and the grin in my voice reached out and bit him like a slap in the face. "Only from behind and in the dark - and you missed!"
  
  
  Louis stopped moving forward. We were no more than eight feet away, the other on the other side
  
  
  "You think I can't do that?"
  
  
  He held out his left hand so that Louis could see the stone that held it. He deliberately flipped his hand over and let the emu fall to the ground.
  
  
  "I might need a gun for a man," I said, putting as much contempt into my voice as I could muster. "For you..." - spat it out on the road.
  
  
  Louis turned slightly to me. The headlights touched and illuminated ego's face in sharp black-and-white triangles. Ego's mouth twisted into an angry grimace.
  
  
  Slowly, he reached back into his loincloth with his left hand and pulled out the handkerchief. Ego wrapped it around his cut right forearm.
  
  
  "What are you going to use when it cuts your life open?" Louis chuckled.
  
  
  I didn't look at him, even though every nerve in my body screamed for him to keep his eyes on the knife in Louise's fist. I held it out again with my left hand, and my fingers entered its width and wrapped around the heavy brass tray attached to my hotel room key. He kept his body away from Louise as he pulled out the key and plate around his pocket.
  
  
  "You don't have the guts to come face to face with me," she taunted him. "I can take that knife away from you, make you get down on all fours and lick your ego with your tongue like a dog! You'd love that, wouldn't you, you little prick.
  
  
  "Don't say that!" Louis growled, shaking with rage.
  
  
  He nudged her again. "Malcredo, chico! I spit on little pimps like you! "
  
  
  She deliberately turned her back on him and took a step away from him. Louis let out a cry of rage and ran after me.
  
  
  With the first scratching sound of it, he threw himself to the side and spun around. Louise's knife lashed out at me, slicing through the air where she'd been standing just a split second ago.
  
  
  A fierce swing of the ego lunge left the ego wide open. With all the strength he could muster, he swung his left arm around and slammed the brass plate and key directly into Louis ' face from just a few inches away. The heavy end of the copper plate caught ego's eyelids.
  
  
  He screamed, which hurt. One hand involuntarily went up to Ego's blinded eyes, the other desperately stuck out a knife as he stumbled, his sandals slipping on the loose gravel of the road. He fell to one side of the tribe, his left hand outstretched to stop his fall, the other still clutching the knife.
  
  
  I took a long, wild step forward, kicking hard with all the strength of my right foot - thigh muscles, calf muscles, back muscles - all explosively focused with all the strength of my body, my ankle locked, my toe rigidly five-pointed.
  
  
  And Louis, pushing desperately alone, got to his feet, swaying blindly as the tip of my boot hit him squarely in the middle of the ego's throat.
  
  
  Ego's mouth dropped open. Ego knife dropped. Both hands were up to his neck. He struggled to his feet, staggering, straightening up at last to stand on bent knees, swaying, crouching, the rough animal sound of an ego scream blocked in the ego throat of a broken larynx.
  
  
  Louis turned to me, the cruel holy light shining brightly on Ego's bulging eyes and haggard face. Blood flowed down the ego of the eyelid, where the key and plaque had torn ih. Ego's mouth opened and closed as he tried to draw air into his lungs. Ego's chest heaved with a huge and futile effort. Then ego's legs buckled, and with a gasp, he fell forward, hitting his face on the gravel road. He was thrashing around like a crabbe in the mud, trying to breathe, trying to get up. His muscular body arched in one giant final spasm, and then he froze.
  
  
  He watched him carefully for a long time, catching his breath. Then her, walked over to him and picked up the knife next to ego's body. He wiped his blood off the blade on Louise's shirt, put the blade in the hilt, and put the ego in a minute. Her hotel key found her, and after a few minutes of searching, he found a .38-caliber revolver, which he knocked out around my arm in an ego-first, murderous rush.
  
  
  Finally he found her, went back to the car, and turned off the headlights. I didn't know how long it would be before someone would show up. In the sudden darkness, I felt exhausted and tired, and my arm was starting to hurt a lot, but there was still something I could do at both ends of the night. In the first place, he couldn't leave Louise's body where it was. She hasn't been found out yet.
  
  
  He opened the trunk of the car and, despite his fatigue, dragged Ego body to the car and dragged her into the compartment, then slammed the lid shut.
  
  
  Wearily, he climbed into the front seat and took the car with him. Ego turned her around in the dark before turning on the headlights and driving back to Bickford's house.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Half an hour later, he was sitting patiently in Bickford's living room, waiting for the big man to regain consciousness. My arm gave me hell, especially when I had to move Bickford's inert body around the car and into the house, but I managed it despite the pain. The cut was cleaned with peroxide and ego wrapped tightly in bandages she'd found in the medicine cabinet in Bickford's bathroom. The wound wasn't deep, and the tendons hadn't been cut, but now the numbness was gone and it hurt. He tried to ignore the pain, training his fingers to keep them from straining. From time to time, he took the pistol in his wounded hand and gripped the butt tightly. After a while, I made sure that I could use the ego with my right hand if necessary.
  
  
  Bickford was still missing. And a woman's ego, too. Doris will probably sleep until late in the morning. While I was waiting for Bickford to recover, I went to the phone and got the number I needed through information. I called the police station and hung up quickly because I didn't want to answer any questions. He returned to his chair and waited patiently.
  
  
  Fifteen minutes later, Bickford woke up. I saw the surprise on his face when he found him sprawled out on the floor and looking at my ballet slippers. He grunted heavily and rolled onto his back. He bent down and tore off the RTA ego tape. He spat out the gag.
  
  
  "Son of a bitch," he said hoarsely,"why did you hit me?"
  
  
  Corkscrew ignored her. "I want you to call Garrett."
  
  
  Bickford glared at me. "What the hell, tailor, should I tell emu that?" he asked sourly. "That I screwed up? That you're sitting here in my house, with a gun in your hand, and you want to talk to him?
  
  
  "Exactly. Down to the last detail."
  
  
  I knelt down beside him, took Louise's knife out of my pocket, and pressed the button on the side of the handle. The blade flew out, and Bickford's eyes widened in sudden fear. Roughly speaking, flipped her ego, dcs, cutting through the sticky tape that normally bound ego's wrists behind him, and then cut the tape on his ankles and knees.
  
  
  He sat up slowly, flexing his fingers. He got unsteadily to his feet, moving ponderously around the room. Ego's gaze fell on the couch where Doris was lying.
  
  
  "She's still sleeping. I've already checked it out.
  
  
  "Hey, you better be fine," Bickford growled.
  
  
  Her comment was ignored: "Pick up the phone and tell Garrett that I'm waiting for Ego here and that he needs to take his friend Carlos with him."
  
  
  Bickford glared at me, but he reached for his phone and rang the bell. We had no choice but to wait for Brian Garrett and Carlos Ortega to arrive.
  
  
  CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
  
  Doris was still asleep on the couch. Bickford sat next to her, ungainly as an animal, pale with fatigue and worry. Carlos was sitting in one of the chairs, his legs neatly crossed in front of him to avoid ruining the creases in his trousers.
  
  
  He just stared at the bandage that covered my right arm from elbow to wrist. My Madras jacket lay on the floor next to me, its right sleeve torn. The gun in my right hand was steady, without the slightest sign of shaking, despite the pain I felt in hers. I couldn't let him think I was badly hurt. Brian Garrett was leaning forward in the other chair, his fleshy face flushed with anger, and he was staring at me intently.
  
  
  "Just so you know what Bickford told you is true," I said. He leaned over the coffee table littered with magazines and newspapers. The Sunday edition of New Mexico was excellent. She was picked up by a piece of newspaper. Under it was a one-pound plastic bag stuffed with white powder.
  
  
  Carlos and Garrett both looked at the bag, their eyes riveted irresistibly on it. With her left hand, he took out Louise's knife and snapped the blade.
  
  
  Carlos ' expression didn't change. If he recognized the knife, he didn't see any sign, but then there were hundreds more of Odin's kind in the city, around which Jean-Paul was buried deep in the spine.
  
  
  Her stabbed the blade of the blade into the bag, ripping it open slightly. Some of the powder had spread on the glass of the countertop.
  
  
  "Want to check it out?"
  
  
  Carlos touched the powder with the tip of his finger. He put a fingertip to his tongue. He nodded.
  
  
  He held out the knife again and enlarged the incision. He put the knife back in his pocket, still clutching the gun. Then he took the torn bag in his left hand and headed for the French doors. I pushed one of them around the door with my foot. I stand in the doorway, still looking at them, the .38 Smith & Wesson pointing straight at Carlos, its torn bag overturned so that the white powder flies out into the night.
  
  
  Garrett jumped to his feet, he exploded, " Fool!"
  
  
  "Sit down, Brian," Carlos said calmly. "This is a high-stakes game. This person shows us that he can afford to participate in this."
  
  
  Brian sat down again. He ran a meaty hand through his graying hair. "Damn you, tailor," he told me fiercely. "What do you want from us?"
  
  
  "Exactly what her hotel used to do. Leave Stocelli alone. Stay away from me."
  
  
  Carlos asked calmly.
  
  
  "I'll smash you to death. I've told you this before.
  
  
  "You speak broadly, Mr. Carter. I don't believe you can do it."
  
  
  "I was looking at the French open day. Now he said to her, " Come out for a minute. I want you to see something.
  
  
  They exchanged glances. Carlos shrugged, as if to say he didn't understand what I meant. The three around them got to their feet and walked out onto the terrace.
  
  
  "There. Take a look at the naval base."
  
  
  We could make out a wave of activity when Sergey suddenly lit up. The deep, insistent hoot of a ship's horn, the insistent hoarse sounds of battle stations, came to us across the bay. In just a few minutes, we could see the faint silhouette of a corvette backing away from the dock and then, as it turned, churning up the water in the stern. It began to pick up momentum. By the time the corvettes reached the narrow entrance to the ocean, she was moving at almost flanking speed, swirls of white spray forming two rooster tails on her bow.
  
  
  "What's all this about?" Garrett asked.
  
  
  "Tell em what you think," Bickford told her. Even in the moonlight, she could see the fear on his face.
  
  
  "They're coming for the tuna boat," he guessed.
  
  
  "Absolutely fantastic."
  
  
  "But how? How could they know about this? "
  
  
  "I told them," her father said. "Now, let's go back inside?"
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  "Let me clarify this," Carlos said. "Did you give the captain five kilos of heroin and send the ego?"
  
  
  Bickford nodded plaintively. "He would have killed me, Carlos. I didn't have a choice."
  
  
  Carlos turned to me. "And then you notified the naval base?"
  
  
  "Indirectly. I called the police. I think they'll pick up your ship in the next half hour or so.
  
  
  Carlos smiled confidently. "Do you think my captain would be stupid enough to allow the police to board his ship without first dropping the package overboard?"
  
  
  "Of course not," I agreed. "But he doesn't know about the other four kilos he pawned when Bickford and I left the ship. They will only find the second package because I told them where to look for ego. The first one was just a decoy."
  
  
  Carlos's face was an olive mask with two narrowed eyes fixed on me.
  
  
  "Why not?"
  
  
  "Do you still think I can't break up your organization?"
  
  
  "I see." He leaned back in his chair. "You just cost us a lot of money, Mr. Carter. Our captain will think we cheated our ego. It will be hard to keep him talking while he thinks so.
  
  
  "This is the first step," I said.
  
  
  I think we'll have to end it forever, Carlos mused aloud. "We can't risk him talking."
  
  
  "He's not a big part of his squad. Put down the rest of the damage ."
  
  
  "We also lost a ship. Is that what you meant? Truth. Worse , the rumors will spread. It will be difficult for us to find a replacement emu."
  
  
  "Now you understand."
  
  
  
  
  "And with that in mind, you refused - let me say-another four, and five, nine kilos, plus the one you threw out so abruptly to impress us-ten kilos of heroin? »
  
  
  He nodded to her.
  
  
  "That's a lot of money to throw away," Carlos said, watching me.
  
  
  "It's worth it."
  
  
  "We underestimated you." Ego's voice was still calm. We could be two businessmen discussing stock market fluctuations: "We have to do something about it."
  
  
  "Don't try it. It's already cost you two men.
  
  
  "Two?" Carlos raised an eyebrow. "Captain of Odin. Who's different? "
  
  
  "Luis Aparicio".
  
  
  This time, I could see how my words shocked Carlos, but the man regained control almost immediately. He pointed to the bandage on his arm.
  
  
  "He almost took me. However, it wasn't good enough."
  
  
  "Where's Louis?"
  
  
  "Dead."
  
  
  I watched as Carlos froze , all but the ego in his eyes, which looked at me doubtfully, as if he didn't trust what he was hearing.
  
  
  "You'll find the ego in the trunk of Bickford's car," I said, watching carefully how my words affected all three of them. Bickford almost jumped out of his chair. Carlos had to reach out to hold him back. Garrett's face was mottled red. Carlos leaned forward, and for the first time saw pure hatred on his face.
  
  
  "He was my nephew," Carlos said. The words coming out of my mouth were numb with the realization of what I'd said.
  
  
  "Then it will be your family duty to bury his body," I said, and moved my hand so that the squat .38 revolver was pointed directly at Carlos ' head. Carlos sank back into his chair.
  
  
  I asked her. "Aren't you going to ask me about Jean-Paul Sevier?"
  
  
  Carlos shook his head. "I don't need to. Your corkscrew tells me that Louis is a success."
  
  
  "So Louis didn't make a mistake?"
  
  
  "I don't know what you mean." Carlos pulled himself together again.
  
  
  "I thought that Jean-Paul was killed by mistake, that I was the target. But if Louis killed ego intentionally, then you knew he was a police agent.
  
  
  Carlos nodded slowly. "Yes."
  
  
  "How did you know?"
  
  
  Carlos shrugged. "There have been several attempts to infiltrate our organization in the past. We've become very cautious lately. Yesterday, to double-check that Jean-Paul was who he said he was, I called our friends in Marseille. We checked everything except one. Jean-Paul Sevier didn't fit the description of the man they'd sent. So I told Louis to get rid of him."
  
  
  Ego still didn't sound worried. Ego's face returned to its usual coolness, and his features took on their usual softness.
  
  
  "We have reached a detente, Senor Carter," Carlos said. "Apparently, we, the one around us, can't make a move without provoking violent retribution from the other."
  
  
  "Right?"
  
  
  "Wait a second, Carlos!" Garrett chimed in to protest. "Are you saying that we'll go together with that son of a bitch?"
  
  
  He looked at the angry face with the chin, the tiny broken veins on Garrett's nose, the cuts on his ego-thick chin where he'd cut himself while shaving. Her, realized that this was a man whose impatience could destroy the ego by dismissing the thought.
  
  
  Carlos shrugged. "What other alternative do we have, amigo?"
  
  
  "Damn it! It cost us two men and a ship. Are you going to let him get away with it?" "
  
  
  "Yes." Carlos didn't look at Garrett as he spoke. "There's nothing else we can do at the moment."
  
  
  "What do you have planned for me later?" I thought. I was sure that Carlos wasn't going to let me live if he could help her, he was too dangerous for him. I knew that Carlos would come with me for now, because he had no other choice. The corkscrew question was, how long would it last?
  
  
  Its got up. "I take it you've agreed to leave Stocelli behind?"
  
  
  Carlos nodded. "You can tell em that he's safe with us."
  
  
  "Her too?"
  
  
  Carlos nodded again. "We will make every effort to protect our organization from the damage you have already caused. Survival comes first, Senor Carter.
  
  
  He moved slowly toward the French doors. Pausing in the doorway, he said:: "You made one mistake today. I told you it would be expensive. Don't follow me again. It would be another mistake ."
  
  
  "We benefit from our mistakes." He didn't take his eyes off me. "Rest assured, we won't be so stupid next time."
  
  
  This remark could be taken seriously. I thought I was sure that the next time he sent someone after me, he would be more careful.
  
  
  Just remember Louise, her ego warned her. "If there is another attempt on my life, I will go after the man who ego sent for you! Entiende, Senor Ortega?
  
  
  "I understand very well."
  
  
  He turned quickly and left through the French doors, leaving the three of them in the living room: Carlos sitting in a deep armchair, the smoothness of their egos an unfathomable mask that hid their egos as he watched me leave; Bickford, a gray-faced bully sitting next to his sleeping wife; and Brian Garrett, glowering at the dust white powder on the carpet and an empty torn plastic bag lying on the floor near the doorway where his ego had dropped it.
  
  
  
  
  He crossed the terrace and swung his legs over the decorative balustrade around the concrete blocks to the grass in the courtyard. Then, hiding in the darkness, I turned back and stood at the window that was open next to the terrace, pressing my back against the moaning house, gun in hand, waiting to see if they would follow me.
  
  
  Turning his head, he saw her ih in the living room. No one around them moved.
  
  
  A few minutes later, Brian Garrett came over and picked up a plastic bag of heroin.
  
  
  "Ten kilograms! Where the hell did the tailor put his hands on ten kilos to throw away well, like they weren't worth a dime?
  
  
  "You're a fool!" Carlos spat out the words. Garrett turned to face him. "Forget about the heroin. Her name is Carter. I want her ego dead! Don't you see what he's doing to us?
  
  
  CHAPTER TWELVE
  
  
  He probably entered the hotel through the service entrance because he didn't want to advertise his presence. Instead of going to his room, hers, he took the service elevator to the ninth floor.
  
  
  Room 903 was at the end of the corridor. He looked at his watch. It was three-thirty in the morning, but there was a tiny streak of light between the door and the windowsill. I wonder why Dietrich gets up so late. He carefully inserted the metal probe into the lock and pressed the thin plastic card into the door latch.
  
  
  The shutter swung back, making only a faint click. I waited for her, listened, and when there was still no noise on the other side of the street, I took out her snub-nosed .38 Smith & Wesson and pushed the door open noiselessly.
  
  
  Her, went into the living room. I heard a noise in one of the bedrooms. Almost immediately, a tall, white-haired man appeared in the doorway. Thin and bony, he looked as frail as a praying mantis, with an egoistically long, bony face and a grim dignity. He stopped in utter surprise,
  
  
  "What the hell are you doing here?" "domineering," he demanded. "Put the gun away!"
  
  
  "Are you Herbert Dietrich?"
  
  
  "Yes, her name is Dietrich. What's it? A robbery? "
  
  
  "My name is Paul Stephans,"I said," and I think it's high time we talked, Mr. Dietrich."
  
  
  Recognition flickered in ego's eyes. "You're Stocelli's man!" he said accusingly.
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. "Why do you think he's involved with Stocelli?"
  
  
  "I was told that you had a secret meeting with him at three in the morning the night you arrived."
  
  
  He sighed. Apparently, everyone in the hotel knew about this midnight event.
  
  
  "I'm not a Stocelli man. I'm doing a job for Alexander Gregorius. He sent me here to deal with Stocelli on a business matter."
  
  
  Dietrich took a moment to understand what I had just said to emu.
  
  
  He exclaimed, "Oh my God! "" I just did a terrible thing. And it's too late to fix it! "
  
  
  I asked her. "You mean the five kilos of heroin in my room?"
  
  
  Dietrich nodded, and that was the confirmation I needed. He also admitted that he framed Stocelli's partners and tried to do the same to Stocelli and me.
  
  
  "I got rid of it," emu told her.
  
  
  Dietrich shook his head. "Even more. She was sent by a bellboy to your room with a black cloth suitcase. Nen has almost thirty kilograms of heroin in it. No more than an hour ago."
  
  
  "Have you reported it to the police yet?"
  
  
  Dietrich shook his head slowly. "I was going to... when I heard the door open."
  
  
  "The police won't bother me about this," emu told her, watching ego's reaction.
  
  
  There was a note of fright in ego's voice.
  
  
  "Who are you, Mr. Stephans? What kind of person are you that you were sent out alone to deal with a small animal like Stocelli? The police don't bother you. It doesn't bother you at all that there's enough heroin in your room to put you in jail for the rest of your life. You break into a hotel room at almost four in the morning with a gun in your hand. Who the hell are you, tailor?"
  
  
  "Someone who won't hurt you," ego assured her. I saw that he was on the verge of breaking up. "All I want from you is some information."
  
  
  Dietrich hesitated. Finally, he exhaled. "Okay, let's go."
  
  
  "At the moment, she counted more than one hundred and forty kilograms of heroin, which you distributed. The ego has a market value of between twenty-eight and thirty-two million dollars. How the hell did a man like you get his hands on so much heroin? Even Stocelli can't do this with all his contacts. Where the hell do you get this stuff from, tailor?" "
  
  
  Dietrich turned away from me, a stubborn expression on his face.
  
  
  "That's the one thing I won't tell you, Mr. Stephans."
  
  
  "I'm thinking of telling you forever."
  
  
  A woman's voice came from behind us.
  
  
  Her, turned around. She was sitting in the doorway to the other bedroom, wearing a light, semi-transparent negligee. Beneath it, she was wearing a short nylon nightgown that fell to her knees. Her long, straight blonde hair fell almost to her waist. Hey was in her mid-twenties, her face a softer, more feminine version of Dietrich's elongated tailors. Beneath her broad forehead, her tanned face was separated by a thin, long nose that almost looked too thin. Her eyes were as soft as her father's.
  
  
  The chin was a delicate combination of the broad curves of the sticks and the jaw.
  
  
  "Her name is Susan Dietrich. I overheard what you said to my father. I apologize to you. It was her fault. She was the one who bribed the messenger to give her information about you. He told me that you were seen leaving the Stocelli penthouse the other day. That's why we thought you were an ego mercenary.
  
  
  She went into the living room and stood next to her father, putting her arms around him.
  
  
  "I think it's time to tell you something. It's been tearing you apart for years. You need to stop. You're going too deep.
  
  
  Dietrich shook his head. "I won't stop, Susan. I can't stop! Not before each of them ...
  
  
  Susan applies her fingers to the ego lips. "Please?"
  
  
  Dietrich took her hand away. "I won't tell him it was," he said defiantly, the ego in Stahl's voice almost fanatical. "He will tell the police, and they will all get away with it. Everyone around them! Don't you understand? All my efforts - all these years will be wasted."
  
  
  "No," I said, " frankly, I don't give a damn about the people you framed or how long they'll rot in prison. All I want to know is where you get all this heroin from.
  
  
  Dietrich raised his thin, pale face to me. He could see the lines of suffering etched deep into the ego's skin. Only years of agony could bring out the agonizing expression in an old man's eyes. He looked at me intently and without a trace of expression in his voice said simply: "I can handle it, Mr. Stephans."
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Dietrich held Susan's hand tightly in both of his as he told me his story.
  
  
  "I had another daughter, Mr. Stephans. Her name was Alice. Four years ago, she was found dead of a heroin overdose in a filthy New York hotel room. Hey, I wasn't even eighteen then. A year before her death, she was a prostitute. As the police told me, she took on anyone who could pay hey even a few dollars, because Hey desperately needed money to pay for her addiction. She couldn't live without heroin. In the end, she died because of it.
  
  
  "I swore revenge. He vowed to find the people who believe, the ones who make it possible - the ones at the top! Big people that the police can't touch because they never deal with things on their own. People like Stocelli, Torregrossa, Vignale, Gambetta, Klein and Webber. The whole filthy pile! Especially for those who process ih. Men like Igor, Berthier and Dupree.
  
  
  "If you know anything about me, then you know that I am a chemist. Recently, her found a way to get revenge. I found a way to literally bury ih ih in its own filthy stream! "
  
  
  He paused, his eyes glittering with the light radiating from all the depths of the person's ego.
  
  
  "I found a way to produce synthetic heroin."
  
  
  Dietrich saw my expression.
  
  
  "You don't believe me, Mr. Stephans. But it's true. It was actually discovered by a method of producing heroin hydrochloride with a purity above ninety-one percent." He got to his feet. "Come with me."
  
  
  I followed him into the kitchen.
  
  
  Dietrich turned on the holy light and showed it. "Come to your senses."
  
  
  On the counter was a simple system of glass retorts and glass tubes. For the most part, it didn't make sense to me, but I'm not a chemist
  
  
  "That's true," Susan said, and he remembered that at the beginning of the second page of the report that Denver had sent me via Telecopier, the key phrase about Dietrich Chemical Inc. was " research and development." Had the old man also found a way to produce heroin synthetically?
  
  
  "Yes, Mr. Stephans," Dietrich said almost proudly, " synthetic heroin. Like many discoveries, I almost stumbled upon the drug synthesis technique, although it took me a long time to perfect it. And then "- Dietrich reached over to the counter and held up a brown plastic quart bottle, holding it aloft - " then I opened it up to learn how to concentrate a synthetic substance. This bottle contains concentrated synthetic heroin. I think a good analogy would be to compare ego to concentrated liquid saccharin, one drop of which is equal to a full teaspoon of sugar. Well, this is even more concentrated. I dilute it with ego plain tap water, half an ounce to the gallon ."
  
  
  I must have hesitated, because Dietrich caught my arm. "You have to believe me, Mr. Stephans. You've tested it yourself, haven't you? "
  
  
  I didn't know her, but I remembered Carlos Ortega reaching out with his index finger and touching the powder, touching it to his tongue, and then nodding in agreement that it was indeed heroin.
  
  
  "How does it work?"I asked her.
  
  
  "You know I'll never reveal the formula."
  
  
  "I didn't ask you that. I just don't understand how you can get crystal powder around this "- I pointed to the bottle - " and plain water."
  
  
  Dietrich sighed. "Very simple. The concentrate has the property of crystallizing water. Just as cold turns rain into snowflakes, which are nothing more than crystal water. A gallon of water weighs about three kilograms. This bottle contains enough concentrate to make almost two hundred kilograms of synthetic heroin, which is indistinguishable from real heroin hydrochloride. There is no chemical test in the world that shows even the slightest difference. And I can do it for just a few dollars a pound. Do you know what that means?"
  
  
  He knew her, of course, even if he didn't. The implications of what Dietrich just said were huge. Thoughts swirled around like the wreckage of a typhoon. I couldn't believe that Dietrich didn't know what he was saying.
  
  
  We went back to the living room, Dietrich pacing back and forth, as if the energy in nen had to find some release other than words. I kept silent because I wanted to sort out my thoughts, my thoughts.
  
  
  "I can do it anywhere. The heroin she tried to plant in your room? Did you think he imported so much heroin into Mexico? I didn't have to carry an ego. I can do it here just as easily as he did in France, when there was an ego in them Frenchmen. I did it in New York. I did it in Miami."
  
  
  Susan sat down on the sofa. He watched Dietrich pacing back and forth within the living room, and knew that the man wasn't quite in his right mind.
  
  
  Her ego caught her attention. - "Mr. Dietrich ".
  
  
  "Yes?"
  
  
  "You've asked me before if I know what your discovery means? You?"
  
  
  Dietrich turned to face me, puzzled.
  
  
  "Do you know how valuable your discovery is to the people you're trying to destroy? Do you know what risks they are currently taking by bringing drugs into the United States? Or how many millions of dollars in cash do they have to pay for it? They only do it for one reason. Fantastic profits. Hundreds of millions a year. Now you have found a way that will eliminate the risk of drug smuggling to the States, as well as bring them more profit than they could ever dream of. Don't you know what your formula is worth to them? "
  
  
  Dietrich stared at me blankly.
  
  
  "No, there isn't one around these people who wouldn't commit a dozen murders to get your formula. Or you, for that matter.
  
  
  He stopped almost in mid-stride, his face suddenly startled.
  
  
  "Me... I never... I never thought about it, " he muttered.
  
  
  "Tailor take it, think about it!" She finally got through to him. There's nothing more to say.
  
  
  The old man walked over to the couch and sat down next to his daughter, covering his face with his hands. Susan put her arm around ego's slender shoulders to comfort him. She looked across the room at me with pale gray eyes.
  
  
  "Will you help us, Mr. Stephans?"
  
  
  "The best thing you can do now is go home and keep your mouth shut. Never says a word to anyone else."
  
  
  "We have no one else to help," she said. "Please?"
  
  
  Her gaze was on them, a father and daughter caught in a web moved. My duty was to Gregorius, and in order to help emu, I had to keep my promise to Stocelli to clear ego before the Commission. All I had to do was hand the two of them over to emu, but the thought of what Stocelli would do if he fell into ego hands after death was repugnant. And if Dietrich had given it to Stocelli, it would have been the same as giving the emu Dietrich's formula. During the year, Stocelli will control the entire drug business in the States. No major operator can compete with it. With the elimination of the risk of smuggling heroin into the States and the incredible profit margins due to the ego of low production costs, there was no time at all when Stocelli Stahl was supplying all the drug dealers in every city in the country. The ego is unstoppable. Giving Dietrich to Stocelli would be like bringing a plague to the country.
  
  
  I knew I had to keep Dietrich's formula away from Stocelli. And since it was locked up in the old man's mind, I had to take the two of them out of Mexico.
  
  
  "All right," I said. "But you have to do exactly what I tell you."
  
  
  "We will."
  
  
  "How much heroin do you have in there?"
  
  
  Dietrich looked up. "Almost forty kilograms, in the form of crystals."
  
  
  "Get rid of it. And from everything you brewed, too. Get rid of all the glassware. You can't risk the ego being seen by a maid or messenger. Clean this place thoroughly."
  
  
  "Anything else?"
  
  
  "Yes. Tomorrow I want you to book your return trip to the States on the first plane.
  
  
  "And then?"
  
  
  "Nothing yet. That's all you can do.
  
  
  He suddenly felt exhausted. My arm ached with a dull throbbing pain. I needed rest and sleep.
  
  
  "What about Stocelli?" asked Dietrich, the fanatical fire in his ego eyes flashing again. "What about him? Does he get away with it? Does this mean that the ego will not be punished?
  
  
  "Hi, I'll take care of Stocelli. I give you my word.
  
  
  "Can I believe you?"
  
  
  "You'll have to believe it."
  
  
  I got up and told them I was tired and leaving, and went out the door, closing it carefully behind me. When I left, no one said anything about us. There was nothing else to say.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  It was well past four in the morning when I left Dietrich and my daughter's ego, but I still had one last job to do before I could fall asleep. I went back to my room to pick up the tape recorders - a pocket one and a slightly larger one.
  
  
  
  The larger tape recorder was equipped with high-speed playback. He could play an entire hour of tape in less than thirty seconds. To anyone who listened to the ego, the sound it made was nothing more than a high-pitched howl.
  
  
  With both cars hers, I went down to the abandoned lobby and settled in one of the phone booths. Pretending to speak into a microphone, I dictated a report on my activities on a small pocket recorder. It covered almost everything that happened, except for the murder of Luisa Aparicio. It took me almost fifteen minutes before her finished speaking.
  
  
  Then she got a call from Denver.
  
  
  "You look tired," Denver said when he reached the line.
  
  
  "Yes," I said tartly , " so let's get this over with, okay?"
  
  
  "I'm recording now."
  
  
  "High speed," I said wearily. "Let's not work all night."
  
  
  "Roger. Ready to go."
  
  
  "Okay, this is personal. Only for playing Gregorius. Repeat - only for Gregorius.
  
  
  Then I put the tape in the high-speed player and pressed it against the phone's microphone. He pressed the "play" button, and the car screeched like the shrill cry of a distant saw. The sound lasted seven or eight seconds, then stopped abruptly.
  
  
  He put the phone to his ear and asked, " How was your appointment?"
  
  
  "The instruments show that everything is in order," Denver admitted.
  
  
  "All right," I said. "I want this tape destroyed immediately after being handed over to Gregorius."
  
  
  "I'll do it. Anything else?"
  
  
  He said, " No. I think that's all for now."
  
  
  I hung up on her. Before leaving the booth, she rewound the original tape, put it on the microphone, and ran it in "record" mode on a high-speed tape recorder until the tape was completely erased.
  
  
  Back in my room, I had to close the curtains to avoid the glare of the approaching dawn. I undressed, got into bed, and lay there thinking for a long time, because my mind was focused on the last part of the message I'd sent her to Gregorius:
  
  
  "What Dietrich discovered is so dangerous that emus can't be trusted. The male is extremely neurotic and unstable. If the ego formula for synthetic heroin ever gets into the wrong hands, I don't want to think about the consequences. Objectively, I would recommend eliminating her ego as soon as possible."
  
  
  CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  
  
  I slept through it until late in the evening, when a hysterical and frightened Susan woke me up with her frantic knocking on my door.
  
  
  He climbed out around the trash and opened the door hesitantly. Susan was wearing only a bikini and a see-through beach jacket. Her long blond hair cascaded down her chest.
  
  
  She screamed. "My father is gone!"
  
  
  Fear was a pale shadow on her face. Her eyes turned into a distracted blank stare from the shock that she could barely control.
  
  
  When her moment finally arrived, her, put on trousers, a shirt and sandals. We went up to her room.
  
  
  He looked around the living room of the Dietrich suite. It was a rout. The lamps were overturned, and the coffee table was on its side. Cigarette butts were strewn across the ashtrays on the floor.
  
  
  He turned back to the kitchen. It was completely deserted. Of the retorts, tubes, and other lab equipment she'd seen there just a few hours ago, there was nothing left.
  
  
  "There!" said Susan. "Look at this!"
  
  
  "Tell me what happened."
  
  
  She took a deep breath to calm herself. "I woke up around ten-thirty this morning. My father was still asleep. We went to bed right after you left, but he was so excited that I made Ego take a sleeping pill. She got a call from the airlines as soon as she got up, and they booked us to leave today at no particular time. This was the earliest flight I was able to book. Then I had a cup of coffee. By then it was eleven o'clock. I asked her to stay up for a while and didn't think it would be better if I let her sleep as long as possible in front of her father, so I went down to the pool. She was there only a few minutes ago. I went back to pack my things and-and found this! She waved her hand in frustration.
  
  
  "Did you find a note or something here?"
  
  
  She shook her head. "Nothing! Apparently, my father had woken up and dressed. He must have made himself breakfast. The dishes are still on the table on the terrace. All he ever had was juice, coffee, and an egg ."
  
  
  He looked around the kitchen. "Did he clean up here?"
  
  
  "I do not know. He didn't do it last night. He was too tired. He said he would do it this morning.
  
  
  "What would he do with the lab equipment?"
  
  
  "He told me he would smash the ego and throw the wreckage in the trash."
  
  
  "And him?"
  
  
  Susan lifted the lid of the trash can. “no. There are no dishes here.
  
  
  "He told me that he had made another forty kilograms of heroin. Where did he feed it from? "
  
  
  "In the cabinet over the sink."
  
  
  "Is it there?"
  
  
  She opened the cabinet doors to let him see that the shelves were empty. She turned a puzzled face to me.
  
  
  "Did he give up his ego?"
  
  
  She shook her head. "I do not know. I don't think so. Last night, he didn't do anything but go to bed.
  
  
  "What about the concentrate?
  
  
  Susan looked around the kitchen again. She lifted the lid of the trash can. "The voice," she said, picking up the used paper towels. She picked up the plastic bottle. "It's empty."
  
  
  "At least, thank God.
  
  
  He returned to the living room.
  
  
  "Is he playing another game of his own?" "Did he go after Stocelli?"
  
  
  "Oh my God!" she exclaimed in horror: "I never thought about it!"
  
  
  "I told em that he was playing with assassins! What the hell did he do? "
  
  
  Susan just shook her head. Tears filled her eyes. She suddenly threw herself into my arms. Her long blond hair flowed down her back. I could feel the highlight of her nearly naked body next to mine, her small firm breasts pressed against my chest.
  
  
  She was sniffing at my chest, and he cupped her chin in his hand to turn her face toward him. She closed her eyes, pressed her lips to mine, and opened her mouth.
  
  
  After a moment, she tore her mouth away, but only by a fraction of an inch.
  
  
  "Oh God," she whispered, " make me forget! I can't take it anymore Please, please ... make me forget! "
  
  
  And her, did it. In the wreckage of the living room. In the light streaming through the windows. Somehow we tore off our clothes and hugged another one, and we both found forgetfulness and let go of our own tension.
  
  
  Her breasts fit my palms as if they were sculpted in ih shape. Her thighs parted and wrapped around me. No more teasing. Nothing but a sudden violent fight between friend and friend. She took me in the same way as her son.
  
  
  And finally, covered in sweat, slick from the jar, engulfed in a fierce surge of sexual energy, she exploded in my arms, her nails digging into my back, her teeth digging into my shoulder, and her moans filling the room.
  
  
  We had just left, tired but jaded, when the phone rang.
  
  
  We looked at each other.
  
  
  "You answer it," she said wearily.
  
  
  He walked across the room to the table by the window. "Hello?"
  
  
  "I'm happy for you there, Carter," a male voice said sharply. "Senor Dietrich's life is in your hands. The lady you're dating will meet you tonight. Eight hours. At the same place where you had dinner with her earlier. And make sure you're not being followed by the police.
  
  
  The phone stuck in my ear, but not before she recognized Carlos Ortega's voice, soft, courteous, reserved, without the slightest hint of emotion or drama.
  
  
  He hung up.
  
  
  "Who was that?" Susan asked.
  
  
  "Wrong number," I said, and went back to her.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  We spent the day in pleasant lust. Susan burrowed into me, as if trying to hide from the world. We went into her bedroom, pulled down the curtains, and closed saint and honor. And we made love.
  
  
  Later, a few more later, he left her to go to her room to change her clothes.
  
  
  "I want you to stay here," her father said. "Don't go around the room. Don't open the door. Payment without exceptions. Do you understand?"
  
  
  She smiled at me. "You'll find him, won't you?" she asked, but it was more of a statement than a corkscrew. "Father will be fine, right?"
  
  
  I didn't say hey. Her, knew that I had no way of making her realize the terrible cruelty of the men among whom she roamed, or ih callous indifference to hurting another man.
  
  
  How could I explain hey, a world where you wrapped a chain around a gloved fist and slapped a man in the ribs over and over again until you heard the dry crunch of bones breaking, and watched dispassionately as he started spewing his own blood? Or put your ego hands on the board and smashed your knuckles with a crowbar? He paid no attention to the animal screams that hurt the ego of the torn throat, and paid no attention to the crushing spasms that caused the ego's body to turn into limp muscles and torn tissues.
  
  
  How could he make her understand men like Carlos Ortega, Stocelli, or Luisa Aparicio? Or me, for that matter.
  
  
  With Susan in her present state of mind, it was best not to say anything. She wasn't Consuela Delgardo.
  
  
  Ee kissed her on the cheek and left, locking the room behind him.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  In my own room, he was immediately noticed by a black suitcase, which Herbert Dietrich told me about thirty kilograms of pure heroin. I put it in my suitcase without opening it. Jean-Paul's body is another matter. If AX could summon it, it wouldn't be difficult to get rid of it. But I was alone, and that was a problem.
  
  
  There was simply no way to get rid of it, and time was running out, so he finally decided to postpone taking any action. I turned her body around, then lifted her arms and carried her out onto the terrace, placing her carefully on one of the deck chairs. To any casual observer, he looked like he was taking a nap.
  
  
  He showered and changed quickly, then strapped Hugo to his left forearm and put on a low-slung shoulder holster. They watched her as Wilhelmina slipped under her elbow. He took out a clip of 9mm rounds, reloaded the clip, and snapped the cartridge in the chamber before setting the safety catch.
  
  
  He put on another light jacket.
  
  
  
  
  Not when I didn't get away with it at all. A 9mm Luger is a big gun, we're told, and the bulge under my jacket would have given me away. But at night, he couldn't handle it. That is, if no one was looking at me too closely.
  
  
  When he was ready, he walked her around the room and down the hall to the service elevator, heading for the back exit.
  
  
  Less than five minutes later, he was out of the hotel, huddled in the back of a taxi and heading for El Center.
  
  
  As soon as we'd walked a few blocks, she was lifted into the seat. We rode west along Kostera. The Costera is too open and there are too many police cars in it for her to feel comfortable, so she was asked by the driver to turn off as we approached Calle Sebastian el Cano. Three blocks later, we turned left onto Avenida Cuauhtemoc, which runs parallel to Coster almost all the way to El Centro. Where Cuauhtemoc joins the Avenida Constituyentes, we turned left again. She was asked by ego to stop at the corner of Avenida Cinco de Mayo and paid by emu, watching him drive away through the fields of view before hers moved in.
  
  
  It was only two blocks from the cathedral, whose elegant, blue-painted onion spires make Ego look like a Russian Orthodox church. Another taxi took her, and he dropped me off a few blocks from Hernando's house. Her could have walked this distance because it wasn't so wouldnt go further, but her would have attracted less attention by pulling up in a taxi.
  
  
  It was eight o'clock in Rivne when Hernando came in to see her. The pianist played soft rhythms on the piano with his big black hands, eyes closed, rocking gently back and forth on his seat. I looked around. Consuela wasn't in the piano bar. Her, went through the dining rooms. She wasn't in any of them.
  
  
  Her sel is at the bar for a drink while waiting for her. He looked at his watch. Five minutes past seven. He got up, went to a pay phone, and called the hotel. They called Suite 903. There was no response. Obviously, Susan was following my instructions strictly. She didn't even answer the phone.
  
  
  When I turned away from the phone, Consuela was sitting at my elbow. She took my hand and kissed me on the cheek.
  
  
  "Have you tried contacting Susan Dietrich at the hotel?"
  
  
  He nodded to her.
  
  
  "Then you know that Miss Dietrich is clean in her room," she said. "She wasn't there for at least half an hour. She left with someone you've already met."
  
  
  "Brian Garrett?" I said, feeling unsure.
  
  
  Consuela nodded.
  
  
  "I assume he told A story about taking her to her father's house?"
  
  
  "How could you even guess? That's exactly what he did. She didn't make a fuss at all."
  
  
  "Why not?"
  
  
  "Among other things, to make sure you don't cause any problems when I take you to meet Carlos later." Her face softened. "I'm so sorry, Nick. You know I have to go with them, even if it hurts you. How much does this girl mean to you? "
  
  
  I looked at Consuela in surprise. "I only met her last night," I said. "Didn't you know?"
  
  
  "For some reason, I got the impression that she's your best friend."
  
  
  "Forget it. What's next? "
  
  
  "You will invite me to dinner at La Perla." She smiled at me. "We're going to have a nice meal and watch the high divers."
  
  
  "And Carlos?"
  
  
  "He'll meet us there." She reached out and gently touched my cheek with her fingers. "For God's sake, Nick, don't look so hard. She's not so unattractive that you can't smile at me, can you? "
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  We descended the narrow stone steps that cut steeply into the inner face of the Kebrada cliffs below the El Mirador Hotel. We had a light dinner at El Gourmet restaurant on the upper level, and now hers followed Consuela as she descended in the dark to La Perla on the lower level. She found a seat at one of the small tables near the railing that overlooked the narrow ledge of the sea and the waves lapping at the base of the cliff.
  
  
  It was almost ten o'clock. Consuela didn't try to make small talk during lunch.
  
  
  "How much longer?" - I asked him further when we played such a game.
  
  
  "Not for long. He'll be here soon. In the meantime, we can watch the high divers."
  
  
  By the time we finished our first drink, the divers had reached a low rocky strip to our left, and descended to a ledge frank above the water. Ih was three. Around them, Odin dived into the bay from a cliff outcrop and swam across to the other side. Now all the lights, except for a few spotlights, were turned off. The first diver came out through the water, his wet body glistening. The searchlights followed him as he slowly climbed the nearly sheer cliff he was about to dive from. Holding on to a foothold, holding on to the rock with his fingers, he made his way to the top. Finally, he jumped onto a ledge about thirty feet above the bay.
  
  
  The young diver knelt briefly in front of a small shrine behind the ledge, bowed his head, and made the sign of the cross before getting to his feet.
  
  
  
  Then he went back to the edge of the cliff.
  
  
  Now the floodlights were out, and he was in darkness. Below us, a heavy thunderstorm broke out, and a white song rose high above the base of the rocks. On the opposite side of the chasm, a bonfire of crumpled newspaper lit up, and a bright consecration lit up the scene. The boy crossed himself again. He stretched on his toes.
  
  
  As the drums started revving, he leapt out into the darkness, his arms flying up at his sides, his ego legs and crevices arching until he was a bow in the air, slowly at first, then faster, sinking into the brightness. the world of bonfire and, finally, the world of outdoor activities-ego hands interrupt the swan jump and at the last moment rise above the ego head.
  
  
  There was silence until the water parted in the egos of the heads, and then there were shouts, cheers, and greetings.
  
  
  As the noise around us died down, I heard Carlos Ortega speak from behind me. "He's one of the best divers around." He pulled up a chair next to Sell and me.
  
  
  "From time to time," Carlos said politely, sitting down and adjusting his chair, " they kill themselves. If the ego initially slips off the ledge during the jump, or if it doesn't bounce far enough to leave the rocks... he shrugged. "Or if he misjudges the wave and dives too steeply when there isn't enough water. Or if the backlash takes the ego out to sea. Ego can break up outdoor activities. against the stone. That's how Angel Garcia died when a jungle movie was shot here in 1958. Did you know about this?
  
  
  "You can skip the review lecture," I said. "Let's get down to business."
  
  
  "Do you know that Senor Dietrich is my guest?"
  
  
  "I managed to figure it out for myself."
  
  
  "Did you know that Ego's daughter decided to join him?"
  
  
  "So he knows her," he said dispassionately. "What the hell do you want from me, tailor?"
  
  
  Consuela spoke up. "Can I have him leave you now, Carlos?"
  
  
  "Not now." He took out a small, thin cigar and lit it slowly. He looked up at me and said pleasantly: "Would you like to cooperate with us?"
  
  
  He was waiting for her. She was expected and thought about almost everything except this one. The suggestion caught me off guard. He looked at Consuela. She was also waiting for my answer.
  
  
  Carlos leaned in for another lick. I smelled her ego aftershave aftershave. "I know about Dietrich's formula," he said, and his voice barely reached my ears. "I know about the ego talking to you and what it can produce."
  
  
  "This is a real spy system in the hotel," he commented.
  
  
  Carlos ignored my comment.
  
  
  "What Dietrich discovered could make us all billionaires."
  
  
  He leaned back in his chair.
  
  
  "Why involve me in the deal, Ortega?"
  
  
  Carlos looked surprised. "I thought it would be obvious to you. We need you."
  
  
  And then I understood him. "Stocelli," I muttered. "You need a heroin distributor. Stocelli will be your distributor. And she needs you to get to Stocelli.
  
  
  Carlos gave me a thin, angry smile.
  
  
  Consuela spoke up. The burrito silenced her. "Perhaps you should leave us now, my dear. You know where to meet us - if Mr. Carter agrees to join us."
  
  
  Consuela stood up. She walks around the small table next to me and puts her hand on my shoulder. He felt the tight pressure of her slender fingers.
  
  
  "Don't do anything rash, Nick," she muttered. "Three men at the next table are armed. Isn't that right, Carlos?
  
  
  "Esverdad".
  
  
  Consuela started toward the stairs. He watched her for a moment before turning back to Ortega.
  
  
  "Now that she's gone, Burrito, what do you want to tell me that you don't want her to know?"
  
  
  Ortega didn't answer for a moment. He held one up around our empty glasses and idly twirled it between his fingers. Finally, he put it down and leaned toward me.
  
  
  "You think I didn't know that John Bickford is a weakling who can be pushed around without too much trouble? He thinks with his penis. For him, only the ego of the woman, this dear prostitute, is important. And Brian Garrett? Don't you think I know that Garrett isn't stronger than Bickford?
  
  
  Carlos was whispering now, his face only inches from mine. Even in the dark, I could see her ego eyes lighting up with the power of ego, inner vision.
  
  
  "I can become one of the richest people in the world. But I can't do it myself. Here in Mexico, I have some influence. I have connections. But what happens when we move our operations to the States? It would have been just Bickford, Garrett, and me. Will you see Bickford face off against Stocelli? Or Garrett? They would get their pants dirty when they first met him face to face. Do you understand what I'm saying?
  
  
  “yeah. You'd get rid of Garrett and Bickford so you could work out a deal with me.
  
  
  "Exactly. What do you say? "
  
  
  "Which kingdom?" "I said, I know Ortega will take my corkscrew as the first step toward my agreeing to go with him." "Ten percent," I laughed out loud. I knew Ortega would talk me into a bargain.
  
  
  
  If he hadn't done it, he would have been suspicious. Ten percent is ridiculous. "If I go with you, we'll share it equally."
  
  
  "Fifty percent? Definitely not."
  
  
  "Then find yourself another boy." He leaned back in his chair and picked up his pack of cigarettes from the table. In the glow of the lighter, he saw Ortega's face regain its smooth, cold composure.
  
  
  "You can't bargain."
  
  
  "Who said so? Listen, Burrito, you need it. You just told me that you can't make this deal without me. Bickford and Garrett? Stocelli would eat ih, spit it out, and chase you. Now listen to this. If you're going to hand me a carrot to stretch later, you'd better make it fat and juicy, tailor take it, or I won't even nibble on it.
  
  
  "Forty percent?" Carlos suggested carefully, watching me closely.
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. "Fifty percent. And if I ever catch you trying to cheat me - even for a penny-I'll come get your hide."
  
  
  Carlos hesitated, and I knew I'd convinced him. Finally, he nodded his head. "You're haggling for real," he said reluctantly. He held out his hand. "Agreed."
  
  
  He looked at his hand. "Come on, Ortega. We're still not friends, so don't try to make me think I'm your buddy. This is a purely business transaction. I like money. You too. Let's leave it at that.
  
  
  Ortega smiled. "At least you're being honest." He put his hand to his side and got to his feet. "Now that we're partners, shall we go, Senor Carter?"
  
  
  "Where to?"
  
  
  "I'm a guest at Garrett's hacienda. He asked me to invite you to join us there-if you decided to join up with us." He smiled at his own irony.
  
  
  As we were walking up the narrow stone and concrete staircase that led around La Perla Nightclub, I saw that we were being followed by three men who had been sitting at a nearby table all evening.
  
  
  A car was waiting for us on a circular cobblestone street at the top of a cliff. The driver held the door open as we approached it. Ortega led the way into the backseat and motioned for me to join him. When he was settled in, the driver closed the door and walked over to the front seat. He started the engine and then turned to face me, his thick fist gripping the butt of a large Mauser Parabellum pistol, an ego that was pointed directly at my face from only a few inches away.
  
  
  Without moving, he asked her, " What the hell is all this, Carlos?"
  
  
  "Your gun," Ortega said, holding out his hand. "It made me nervous all evening. Why not give it to me so I can relax? »
  
  
  "Tell Em to be careful," I said. "I'm asking for it now."
  
  
  "Nonsense," Ortega said. "If he somehow gets out of his doublet, he'll shoot."
  
  
  Wilhelmina carefully pulled it out of its holster. Ortega took it from me.
  
  
  "Do you have any other weapons, Senor Carter?"
  
  
  It only took me a dolly of a second to decide. Hugo drew it from its scabbard and handed it to Ortega. "Take care of them for me," I said lightly.
  
  
  Ortega snapped," Vamanos, Paco!" The driver turned around and brought the car to a stop. He circled the central island and descended the hill.
  
  
  We slowly descended the cobblestone streets from the cliffs of Cebrada and through the narrow streets of old Acapulco. As we turned onto Costera Miguel Aleman and headed east, I could look across the bay at the lights of the Matamoros Hotel. Ortega-caught my eye.
  
  
  "It would be very bad for you to even consider going back to your hotel, Senor Carter," Ortega said dryly.
  
  
  "How did you know that?"
  
  
  "You can run into Teniente Felix Fuentes all over the Federation," Carlos said. "And that would be bad for both of us, wouldn't it?"
  
  
  He turned his head to me, his dark eyes gleaming with malicious amusement.
  
  
  "You thought I didn't know Teniente Fuentes was here in Acapulco?" he asked. "You think her a fool?"
  
  
  Chapter fourteen.
  
  
  On the first floor of Garrett's huge hacienda, a noisy party was going on. A dozen ego friends came down Newport Beach in an eighty-foot motor sailboat. The stereo was humming, and half the guests were already drunk. Ortega-and Paco-dragged me upstairs to my bedroom. Paco pushed me into the room, slamming the door and locking it behind me.
  
  
  Consuela lying in a huge royal bed. Across the room from the nah was a whole wall of cabinets, all of which were mirrored to reflect every reflection in the room.
  
  
  She smiled at me, and suddenly she was a sleek, sinuous cat circling the jungle, stretching sensuously. She was holding her hands. "Come here."
  
  
  He stretched out in his chair, leaned back, and crossed his legs.
  
  
  "I want you to make love to me," Consuela said, half - closing her eyes and twisting like a sleek, lithe tigress. He sat there, looking at nah thoughtfully.
  
  
  "Why not?" I asked her. "Because the house is full of people? Does it turn you on?
  
  
  "Yes." Consuela's eyes were slightly open.
  
  
  She gave me a possessive smile. "You're teasing me," she said. "Come here."
  
  
  He got up and moved to the bed.
  
  
  He sank down on top of her, pressed his lips to the smoothness of her throat, and held her long, ripe body in his hands. She let her weight fall on Nah as he breathed in her ear.
  
  
  Consuela lifted my head, taking it in both hands and smiling into my eyes.
  
  
  He got up from nah and walked across the room,
  
  
  "Where are you going?"
  
  
  "Shave," I said, rubbing my hand over the stubble on my cheeks. I went to the bathroom, took off my clothes, then turned on the shower and entered it.
  
  
  I toweled myself dry and was washing my face when I heard her call out, " What took you so long?"
  
  
  "Join me," she said.
  
  
  A moment later, I heard her come up behind me, and then hers, felt her naked body pressed against me, soft breasts pressed against my back, smooth arms wrapped around my waist, wet lips kissing my shoulder blades and running down my spine. to my neck.
  
  
  "You're going to make me cut myself."
  
  
  "Shave later," she whispered to my back.
  
  
  "Take a shower while I finish shaving," I said.
  
  
  Her was looking at nah in the mirror as she left. She turned on the water and disappeared behind the shower curtains. I heard a strong jet of water gush around the shower head. He glanced quickly at the shelves near the mirror. On the counter, she found a pint-sized bottle of shaving lotion in a heavy crystal decanter.
  
  
  Consuela called me. "Come here with me, darling!"
  
  
  "In a moment," I said.
  
  
  He took a hand towel from the stands and wrapped it around the ego decanter. Holding both both ends of the towel in one hand, she swung her ego back and forth, then hit the heavy load of the makeshift weapon in her left hand. He slapped my palm with a reassuringly firm punch.
  
  
  Then he went to the bathroom and carefully pulled back the curtain.
  
  
  Consuela was sitting with her back to me, her face upturned and her eyes closed against the heavy spray of water hitting the floor. For a second, he took in the rich, curved curvature of her body, the smoothness of her back, and the way her waist curved and then expanded to connect with her round hips and long hip line.
  
  
  With a loud sigh of regret, her short, quick wrist flick hit him with the towel-wrapped decanter on the back of her head. The blow hit Abe right in the ear.
  
  
  When it failed, ee alenka caught it with his left hand, feeling her soft skin slide over my own, feeling all the smooth, elastic flesh suddenly relax in the crook of my arm. He dropped the decanter on the mat behind him and reached under her feet with his right hand.
  
  
  After dragging her around the tub, he carried her to the bedroom. He carefully placed her on the bed, then went to the far side and pulled back the covers. He picked her up again and laid her gently on the sheet.
  
  
  Her long brown hair, wet from the shower, was spread out on the pillow. One of her slender, tanned legs was half-bent at the knees, the other stretched out bare. Her target tilted slightly to one side.
  
  
  Her felt a surge of remorse for what I had to do when I pulled the top sheet over her to cover the beautiful joint of her leg. Then he lifted her right hand and placed it on the pillow above her head. He stepped back and looked at Nah. The effect was just right - as if she was asleep.
  
  
  Now he pulled back the covers on the other side of the bed, deliberately rumpling the sheets. He tapped the pillow until it was disheveled and threw it randomly against the headboard. It was turned off by all the saints in the room, except for one small lamp in the far corner of the room.
  
  
  Back in the bathroom, he dressed and checked the bedroom one last time before slipping out through the high French windows and onto the dark balcony, carefully closing the door behind him.
  
  
  The sounds of yahoo came to me from below. The music was just as loud as it had been when she'd arrived with Carlos. The pool was illuminated by floodlights, making the area around it seem even darker. The balcony on which he stood was in the darkest part of the shadow.
  
  
  The room behind me was in a wing of the house that overlooked the pool, and he was sure the Dietrich family would be in the other wing of the house. Moving silently, she strode across the balcony, snuggling up to moan to stay in the shadows.
  
  
  The first door he came to was unlocked. He opened it a crack and peered into the room. It was empty.
  
  
  Her, moved on. I tried the next room. Again, nothing. Her, went to the front of the hacienda. From where I crouched in the shadows of the balcony, I could also see the two guards at the front gate, which was illuminated brightly and sharply by the floodlights mounted above the entrance. Beyond it was a driveway that led directly to the road at the edge of the cliff. There were probably other guards patrolling the area.
  
  
  He returned to the wing where Consuela Delgardo's bedroom was located. I checked it, every bedroom is there. The last one was the room where Burrito was sleeping.
  
  
  
  The heavy smell of ego shaving lotion hit my nostrils as soon as she entered the room. He took a chance and lit the lamp. There was a large wardrobe against the far wall. It was opened the next day. Under Ortega's neatly hung trousers and sports shirts, he found a cardboard box with its flaps closed. It was opened by the ego. Inside were a lot of familiar plastic bags of heroin. This was the forty kilograms that Dietrich had.
  
  
  After securing the cardboard box, he put it back in the cabinet and closed the doors, then turned off the lamp and left.
  
  
  Well, the heroin had found her, but there was still no sign of Dietrich or her daughter's ego. I'm standing in the dark of the balcony, pressed up to moan home, its started to feel my frustration. He looked at the glowing hands of his watch. More than ten minutes passed.
  
  
  Still left to check at the bottom, she returned to the farthest thread of the balcony and, falling lightly, descended to the ground. The edge of the cliff was only a few feet away and dropped steeply into the sea almost a hundred feet below. Hidden in the bushes, he moved from one room to another, completely scanning the lower floor. No sign of the Dietrichs.
  
  
  Servants ' quarters? Yes, of course. They could have been there. This made more sense than keeping ih in the main house, where they could be accidentally bumped into. He moved through the neatly trimmed grass, moving from one palm tree to another, hiding in the ih shadow. Twice I had to avoid the patrolling guards, luckily there were no dogs with them.
  
  
  The servants ' quarters were a long, low, one-story building of mud brick. He could look at each of the six rooms through the windows. Each one was lit up, and there was no one in it but Garrett's Mexican assistants.
  
  
  He moved away from the building, crouching under the leaves of a stunted pineapple palm. He looked back at the hacienda. It was built on a foundation around concrete slabs without a basement. There was no attic. I checked her house thoroughly and was sure that the Dietrichs weren't in nen, unless they were dead and the bodies were stuffed in some small closet that didn't notice her. But that was unlikely. Carlos needed them alive.
  
  
  He looked at his watch again. Twenty-two minutes passed. Where could they be? I went through the remaining options again. He could go back to the room where Consuela was lying unconscious and wait to follow Carlos. When we got out, around the El Mirador Hotel, he said we were leaving for the States around four or five in the morning. But if he had done it, if he had waited for this moment, the initiative and advantage would have been for Carlos.
  
  
  That would be a mistake. Her, knew that I needed to take breaks on my own. Either way, I knew I had to leave at Carlos ' hands, and I had to do it quickly.
  
  
  He carefully evaded the patrolling guards and skirted the hacienda, then headed for the edge of the cliffs. Sinking to the edge of it, he began to descend.
  
  
  In the darkness, I could barely make out my footholds as I descended the cliff. The cliff was steeper than it looked. Inch by inch, holding her hand, he let himself down. Once my toes slipped off the slippery, wet dress surface, and only the desperate reach of my fingers kept me from falling several feet to the boulder-strewn base of the cliff.
  
  
  He was only ten feet below the end of the cliff when he heard the guards pass overhead. The sound of waves and wind prevented me from hearing ih approach earlier. He froze in place, afraid to make a sound.
  
  
  Odin lit a match around them. There was a brief flash, and then darkness again. I thought that at any second the Odin around them might step to the edge of the cliff and look around, and the first thing I'd know I'd been spotted would be a bullet tearing me out of my precarious supports. He was completely vulnerable, completely helpless. My hands were aching from being held in an awkward position when ih heard her for the first time over my head.
  
  
  They were gossiping about a girl in town, laughing at some trick she had applied to one around them. A cigarette butt arced over the cliff, ego red coal fell mimmo me.
  
  
  "...Vamanos! " said one around them at last.
  
  
  He forced himself to remain motionless for almost a full minute before he dared to risk them leaving. I started to descend again, my mind focused on the descent. He stretched out his leg, found another foothold, checked it carefully, and lowered himself another six inches. By this point, my muscles were aching from the agony. My right forearm, where Louis had cut me, began to throb, which hurt. With a conscious effort of will, it blocked everything that was in my heads, except for the gradual slow sinking.
  
  
  One day my beginnings slipped into a crack and I had to pull it out. My ankle was aching from the sharp turn as I was going down. My hands were torn, and the skin on my fingers and palms was scraped on the rocks.
  
  
  We kept telling ourselves that I only had a few feet to go, a few more mines, a little more.
  
  
  And then, panting, almost exhausted, I was on the narrow beach, moving along the base of the rocks, avoiding boulders, forcing myself to run tiredly along the curve of the promontory, trying not to think about how much time had been spent on my descent.
  
  
  CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  
  
  At the far end of the promontory, she found a shallow ravine cut between steep cliffs. In the rainy season, it would have been a stream of water that poured flood waters from the hills into the sea. Now he presented me with a path to the top of the cliff.
  
  
  He stumbled and slid through the loose shale until he came out a hundred yards from the road. To the east, almost half a mile away, she could be seen in the glow of the floodlights above the front gate of Garrett's hacienda.
  
  
  I waited for her at the side of the road, forcing myself to wait patiently, trying not to think about how fast my time was running. More than three-quarters of the hour she'd allowed herself had passed. Finally, headlights came on in the distance. He walked out into the middle of the road, waving his arms. The car stopped, and the driver stuck his head out the window.
  
  
  "Qui pasa?" he shouted at me.
  
  
  Her, went to the car. The driver was a teenager with long black hair slicked back behind his ears.
  
  
  "Phone number. Can you get me to the phone?" El asunto es muy importante! »
  
  
  "Get in!"
  
  
  He ran to the front of the car and slid into the seat. Even when he heard her gasp, "Vaya muy de prisa, por Favor!" he put on the clutch at the start of the car. Gravel flew out from under the rear wheels, and the car lurched forward, the speedometer reading sixty, seventy, and then a hundred and ten kilometers an hour.
  
  
  Less than a minute later, he screeched into the Pemex station and burned rubber while stopping.
  
  
  He pushed open the door and ran to a pay phone. I called her at the Matamoros Hotel, thinking how strange it was that Ortega himself had told me where to find Teniente Fuentes.
  
  
  It took almost five minutes to connect the ego to the phone. It took another five minutes to convince ego that I was going to give the emu the cooperation that Jean-Paul had asked me for a minute before the ego murders. Then I told Fuentes what I wanted from him and where to meet me.
  
  
  "How soon can you get here?" I finally asked.
  
  
  "Maybe a minute ten."
  
  
  "Do it earlier if you can," I said, and hung up.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Teniente Felix Fuentes had a face like a Toltec idol carved all over the brown stone. Short, massive chest, powerful arms.
  
  
  I asked as I got into the unmarked ego police car.
  
  
  "She's in the backseat. This is my personal hunting weapon for small game. I care about nen. What do you mean? "
  
  
  Fuentes took the police car. He told emu where to go. As we drove, I told him what had happened. He told Fuentes about Dietrich and Ego's formula for producing synthetic heroin. He told emu that Ortega was now holding Dietrich captive and what Ortega planned to do. Fuentes listened soberly as he told the emu's story to everyone.
  
  
  "Now," I said, " I need to get back to that house before they know I'm gone. And as soon as I get back, I want your men to raid it. We have to get rid of Ortega. If we can create a panic, there's a good chance Ortega will lead me to Dietrich.
  
  
  "What excuse do I have for attacking Garrett's hacienda, Senor Carter?" He's a very powerful man. Neither did Ortega.
  
  
  "Is forty kilos of heroin a sufficient excuse?"
  
  
  Fuentes whistled loudly. "Forty kilograms! Forty kilos of her would have broken into the president's house!"
  
  
  Her emu told her where to find the heroin. Fuentes took the microphone and radioed headquarters for backup. He was outspoken. No sirens, no flashing lights, no action until he gives the signal.
  
  
  By this time, we were back on the road that used to lead mimmo to Garrett's hacienda. Almost at the exact spot where Bickford's car had parked the night before, he stopped to let me out.
  
  
  He took the rifle and cable from the backseat. Her gun was raised. "It's a beauty," emu told her.
  
  
  "My prize possession," Fuentes said. "Again, I ask you to be careful with this."
  
  
  "Like it's my own," I said, and turned away, crouching low, looking out over the field. Fuentes backed up the police car on the road about a hundred yards away to intercept the others as they approached.
  
  
  He chose a spot on a small rise about two hundred feet from the driveway that led directly from the road to Ego's house. It was at a slight angle to the gate. Her thrown hook to her feet and gently bench press life, holding the rifle in her hands.
  
  
  A few minutes later, two police cars pulled up, the second almost immediately behind the first. Fuentes made ihs to a position, one on each side of the road leading to the driveway, men in cars waiting with their engines and lights off.
  
  
  
  He lifted the heavy rifle to his shoulder. It was a beautifully crafted Schultz & Larson 61-caliber rifle .22, a single-shot weapon with a longitudinally sliding bolt, a 28-inch barrel and a ball front sight. The handstand was adjustable for my left hand. Loji was carved with a thumb hole so that it could be held by a semi-molded pistol grip with the right hand. The rifle, specially made for international matches, was so accurate that I could put a bullet through the tip of a cigarette at a distance of several yards. Ee heavy alenka, sixteen and a half pounds, made her steady in my hands. I made it alone around two spotlights set high above the left side of the front gate.
  
  
  My fist clenched slowly, and my finger tightened on the trigger. The rifle swayed slightly in my hands. The spotlight went out at the same time as a sharp crackling sound in my ears. It was quickly turned by the bolt, pulling the ego up and back, and the spent cartridge flew up. He fired another round, slammed the bolt shut, and locked it.
  
  
  I shot her again. Another searchlight exploded. There were shouts in the hacienda, but the front gate and the area around it were in darkness. He threw out the shell casing again and reloaded the rifle. Through the open bars of the gate, she could see the glass window in the living room, looking out over the still-lit pool.
  
  
  He adjusted the scope to an extra distance and aimed again. I put a bullet in the glass, and the web stuck my ego almost in the center. As hers was being recharged, his heard faint screams all over the house. He fired the fourth bullet through the window around the plate glass at a distance of no more than 30 cm from the other hole.
  
  
  There were screams from inside the house. Suddenly, all the holy light went out. Music, too. Someone finally got to the main switch. He put the rifle down so that Fuentes could easily find it, took the rope, and ran across the field to the moan surrounding the house.
  
  
  Now that he was close, he could hear the noise and screams coming from inside. Her, heard Carlos yelling at the guards. Around them, Odin fired into the darkness until he emptied his pistol. Carlos shouted furiously at the emu to stop.
  
  
  Hers moved quickly along the wall. For example, when he was forty or fifty feet from her gate, he stopped and took the hook off his shoulder. It was thrown by a hook over the wall, and the prongs caught on the first throw, the metal firmly embedded in the brickwork of the wall. Hand in hand, he lifted himself up on top of the wall. Unhooking the hook, he threw her ego over the other side and jumped down beside it, landing on his haunches.
  
  
  As his was running through the bushes towards the moaning house away from the pool area, her rope coiled again. She stopped on the balcony and was thrown again by the hook, which caught on the railing.
  
  
  I pulled myself up until my fingers caught on the wrought iron railing, and hers, I climbed over the edge. It took only a moment to pull on the rope, and he ran across the balcony to the room he had left more than an hour ago.
  
  
  As he opened the door for her to slip inside, she heard the first rising wail of a police car's sirens. Consuela was still unconscious. In the dark, I shoved a coiled rope under the double bed. He quickly took off his clothes, letting them fall to the floor in a heap. Naked, he slipped under his outer clothing next to Consuela's warm, naked body.
  
  
  She could hear the insistent, rising and falling wail of approaching police sirens, then shouts from below and outside. Then there was a knock on the bedroom door. The handle shook angrily.
  
  
  Someone had stuck a key in the lock and violently twisted the ego. The door swung open and slammed against the wall. Ortega stood with a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other.
  
  
  "What the hell is going on?" I demanded.
  
  
  "Get dressed! No time to waste! The police are here! »
  
  
  I hurriedly grabbed her pants and shirt and put on an ih. He slipped his feet into moccasins without bothering to put on socks.
  
  
  "Wake her up," Burrito growled, pointing the flashlight at Consuela. She was lying on the floor when ee left her, her hair flying on the pillow, her arm bent, her aim, her face turned to one side.
  
  
  Her, emu chuckled. "No chance. She'd had too much to drink. She disconnected from me when it got interesting ."
  
  
  Carlos swore in frustration. Then we'll leave her, he decided. "Let's go!" He waved the gun.
  
  
  Her, went out ahead of him. I heard the police sirens again.
  
  
  I asked her. "What the hell are the police doing here?"
  
  
  "I'd like to know that myself," Carlos snapped angrily. "But I'm not going to stay and find out."
  
  
  He followed Ortega down the hall to the stairs. He shone his flashlight down the stairs. Brian Garrett stood at the bottom of the stairs, blinking in the light, and looking up with a startled, ego-bright expression on his face. He ran halfway to meet us, the drunkenness washing the panic out of him.
  
  
  
  
  He shouted. "What the hell are we going to do now, tailor?"
  
  
  "Get out of the way."Carlos came down the steps to pass mimmo Garrett. Garrett grabbed Ego's arm. "What about forty kilos of heroin?" "What is it?" he asked hoarsely. "Damn it! This is my home! They'll put me in jail for this! Where should I run to? »
  
  
  Carlos stopped in mid-stride. He turned to Garrett, and the holy ego of the flashlight shone eerily on ih.
  
  
  "You're right," Carlos said. "You have nowhere to run, huh?"
  
  
  Garrett looked at him with frightened eyes, silently pleading with ego.
  
  
  "If they catch you, you'll talk. I don't think I need that kind of trouble, " Carlos said roughly. He raised the gun and pulled the trigger twice. The first shot hit Garrett right in the middle of the chest. He opened his mouth in shock as a second gawk smashed Emu's face.
  
  
  Although Garrett's body was pressed weakly against the railing, Carlos was already descending the stairs. He was almost running, and she was only a step behind him.
  
  
  Carlos called over his shoulder to me as we turned into the thread of the living room. He went down the hall to the kitchen and out the service door. A large sedan was waiting there, the engine idling, and the same driver was driving.
  
  
  Carlos opened the back door. "Get in!" "No," he snapped. He threw himself into the car. Carlos ran to the front seat, slamming the door.
  
  
  "Vamanos, Paco!" he shouted. "Pronto! Pronto! »
  
  
  Paco put the car in gear and stepped on the gas pedal. Thick tires with wide treads dug into the gravel. We picked up speed as we rounded the corner of the house, following the curve of the ring road in front of the entrance. Paco frantically spun the wheel to head for the gate, honking his horn as loudly as he could at the idiots to open the gate.
  
  
  He hit the intimidate button for a moment, slowing the car down until the one around the gate opened enough for us to squeeze through, and then he hit the gas pedal again. A large car flew out around the gate.
  
  
  The first group of police cars was parked less than twenty yards from the house, blocking access to the main road. The police crouched behind the car and shot at the gate as we passed mimmo.
  
  
  Paco didn't hesitate. Cursing, he turned the wheel of the car, sending it careening out of the driveway and onto the uneven ground of the fields, still pressing the gas pedal. In the darkness without a beacon, the heavy car sped across the field, swaying and swaying like a maddened wild mustang, throwing a rooster's tail in the dust and clumps of dirt.
  
  
  The sedan's lurching, turning roll threw me helplessly from side to side. Her, I heard someone shooting at us. The rear window shattered, showering me with shards of broken glass.
  
  
  More shots rang out, and then the car stopped rumbling as Paco suddenly turned the wheel again and brought us back to the road. We took off at high speed.
  
  
  There was no pursuit. Once on the highway, Paco switched on the headlights and brought the big car almost to racing speed.
  
  
  Carlos sat up and leaned over the back of the front seat. He smiled at me and said, " You can sit down now, Senor Carter. For now, I think we're safe."
  
  
  "What the hell was that all about?" he asked, getting up from the floor where I'd been dumped and leaning back against the seat cushions. He took out a handkerchief and carefully brushed the sharp shards of glass from his trousers.
  
  
  "I think it was because the captain of our ship spoke up," Carlos guessed. "He knew we needed to ship the cargo. I think the police figured out that Garrett had it.
  
  
  "What now?"
  
  
  "Now we will take Senor Dietrich and his daughter and go to the States. Our plans haven't changed. Ih was just moved for a few hours."
  
  
  "What about Consuela?"
  
  
  Carlos shrugged.
  
  
  "If she keeps her composure, everything will be fine. Garrett's friends didn't know anything about our activities. Consuela is smart enough to claim that she, too, was just a guest and doesn't know anything about what they'll find.
  
  
  "And Garrett's murder? I understand you've taken care of this problem.
  
  
  Ortega shrugged. "It had to be done sooner or later."
  
  
  "Where to now?"
  
  
  "To Bickford," Ortega said. "The voice of where the Dietrichs are being held."
  
  
  CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  
  
  The soft, tender expression disappeared from Doris Bickford's face. What was leaked now was the unadorned, ruthless core that was her real self, which seemed even tougher due to the contrast with her small doll-like features framed by her long platinum blonde hair. John Bickford prowled the living room like a huge aging lion limping through the last few months of its life in angry bewilderment at the loss of its strength, its ego mane white with age. He couldn't find the words. He couldn't understand the changes that had taken place in his wife's ego over the past few hours.
  
  
  Herbert Dietrich sat down on the bed, Susan beside him.
  
  
  
  Dietrich was a haggard, tired man, tired from the strain of the day showing his face, an old man on the verge of collapse, but sitting openly and stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the fatigue that had already settled in his ego bones. But his eyes were covered with a dull, unseeing stare, a curtain behind which he was hidden from the world.
  
  
  Doris turned to us as Carlos and I entered the room, the gun in her hand quickly pointed in our direction before we knew it.
  
  
  "For God's sake," she said sarcastically, turning the gun away, " why is it taking so long?"
  
  
  "It's only three o'clock," Carlos said easily. "We didn't plan to leave until almost five."
  
  
  "So we're ready to leave?" I don't think he "- she pointed to her husband with the gun - " can hold out much longer." He's a bundle of nerves. There was sharp and sharp disdain in her voice. Bickford turned, concern evident in his rough, scarred face. "I didn't bargain for it, Carlos," he said. "You can count on me."
  
  
  Carlos jerked his head up and stared at the big former medalist. "Is that really what you mean?"
  
  
  Bickford nodded gravely. "I'm pretty damn sure. I don't want to take any part in a kidnapping or murder."
  
  
  "Who said anything about the murder?"
  
  
  "Do you understand what I mean?" Doris interrupted. "He's been like this all day, with a ferret with them, like you brought the old man here. And when Brian Garrett walked in with the girl, he totally broke up."
  
  
  "I can't accept this, Carlos," Bickford said apologetically. "I'm sorry."
  
  
  Doris pointed at me. "What about him?" Carlos smiled at her for the first time. "From now on, he's with us," he said. Doris looked at me in surprise.
  
  
  Susan Dietrich looked up. Shock was written all over her face. Left her own face blank. Susan turned away from me, her eyes filled with despair and fear.
  
  
  Doris appraised me as coldly as I might have appraised the expensive sable coat Abe had brought me. Finally, she said, " He'll do. I think we're better off with two legs than Johnny.
  
  
  Bickford turned around. "What do you mean?"
  
  
  "You want to leave, don't you?"
  
  
  "That's right. For both of us. You're coming with me."
  
  
  Doris shook her head, her long platinum hair swaying in front of her face. "Not her, honey," she said sarcastically. "I don't want to leave. Not now. Not when the big money starts coming in."
  
  
  "What's wrong with you?" Bickford asked incredulously. He walked over and grabbed her by the shoulders. "You're my woman! Go where I'm going! »
  
  
  "Take the tailor! I want a man, not a broken old boxer who can't talk to us about anything but the good old days when they beat the shit out of him. Well, the good old days are just beginning to come for me, dear. And you won't stop me from enjoying them! "
  
  
  Bickford looked like he'd just caught a hard right punch to the jaw. Ego's eyes froze in disbelief. "Listen," he said, shaking her roughly. "I took you for life." I gave you things. Its made a lady around you, not a hundred-dollar call girl! What the hell's gotten into you, tailor?"
  
  
  "She was taken away by her own life!" said Doris Emu sharply. "And its the one who pushed you to be able to afford to give me things. Who introduced you to Brian Garrett? Who paved the way for you? Don't be a fool, Johnny. It was hers all the way. If you don't want to go with you, I'll go alone. Don't think you can stop me.
  
  
  Bickford stepped away from nah. He stared blankly at Doris, then turned helplessly to Carlos. "Carlos?"
  
  
  "I prefer not to interfere."
  
  
  "What the hell are you doing," Doris said confidently to Ortega. "You and I are already involved. It's time for that special stupid prick to find out about us, Carlos.
  
  
  Bickford looked at each of them in turn, a man who was swayed from one punch after another, but he was still standing, still hungry for punishment.
  
  
  "You two?" "What is it?" he asked, stunned.
  
  
  "Yes, the two of us," Doris confirmed. "All this time. Didn't you know that, Johnny? You didn't even get a little suspicious? Why do you think we make so many trips to Mexico every year? Why do you think Carlos never visited us in Los Angeles? »
  
  
  The phone rang, breaking the silence that followed her words. Burrito quickly picked up the phone. "Bueno!... Oh, it's you, Hobart. Where, tailor take it... at the airport?... Good! How soon can you leave?" He looked at his watch. "Yes, twenty minutes at most. Maybe less. Her, I want you to be ready for takeoff when we get there. Full tanks, let's go both ways.
  
  
  Burrito hung up. "Shall we go? Hobart at the airport.
  
  
  Bickford stepped in front of him. "Not yet," he said stubbornly. "You and I have a lot to talk about. "I want to clarify something first ."
  
  
  "Later," Ortega said impatiently.
  
  
  "Now!" said Bickford, taking an angry step toward him and pulling back his clenched, broken fist to punch Ortega in the face.
  
  
  "Johnny!"
  
  
  Bickford turned to Jean. Doris raised the gun in her hand, straightened her arm so that it pointed at him, and pulled the trigger.
  
  
  
  A sharp shot rang out. Susan screamed. Bickford's face twisted. He opened his eyes wide. I couldn't tell if the look of surprise on his face came from the impact of the bullet hitting him, or from the shock of realizing it was Doris who had shot him. Ego's mouth was open, and a trickle of blood was running down his chin. He forced himself to take a stunning step toward Doris, both of his powerful arms outstretched toward her. She backed away and pulled the trigger again. Bickford collapsed to the floor.
  
  
  In the silence, Doris turned to Carlos and said firmly, " Are we going to stay here all night?"
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  It was a small private airport, a web-like dirt strip with two hangars, at the near end. Hobart was waiting for us when the big sedan left the main road and sped down the rutted road toward the far end of the field. In the moonlight, the plane looked bigger than it was on the dell itself. She knows, in a Piper Aztec Model D plane with two turbocharged engines, in flat nacelles.
  
  
  We got out, all around the car, except Paco. He sat motionless, the engine running.
  
  
  "Hello," Hobart said when he saw me. "You're the guy she met last night. Nice to meet you again so soon.
  
  
  "Are you ready to go?" Carlos asked impatiently.
  
  
  "I refilled the tanks myself. We can take off as soon as you're all on board."
  
  
  Susan helped herself to the plane in front of her father-and followed him. Doris followed them in, perching on the wing root, waiting for them to sit down and fasten their seat belts before she entered.
  
  
  He climbed up on the wing and stopped. From the moment we arrived at Bickfor until now, ferret, I didn't have time to take any action. If she'd had one, it would have been different, but I saw Doris Bickford ruthlessly put two bullets in her husband. He knew that she would point the gun at Susan or Dietrich without regret. If she killed anyone around them, she wouldn't hesitate any more than if she killed Johnny Bickford.
  
  
  This would be the last chance to take a break, one way or another, but if she knew about this fact, so would Carlos. He said sharply: "Please don't try to detain us. We don't have much time."
  
  
  I couldn't do anything to her, Doris and I on the plane holding a gun to Dietrich and Susan, Carlos and I holding a revolver that he could have turned against me for a split second, and especially since Paco was now looking out the car windows with a big 9mm Mauser Parabellum pistol in his hand as if he was just hoping for an opportunity to use it.
  
  
  I was about to bury my head in the plane when I heard the sound of a car speeding down the dirt road towards us.
  
  
  "Hurry up!" The Burrito shouted at me.
  
  
  The police car turned on its siren and red flashing light. As he raced toward us on a country road, a series of shots rang out. She heard the sound of bullets slamming into the side of a heavy sedan. Paco threw open the door and ran to the front of the car. He started shooting at the police car. The big Parabellum flinched in ego's hand with each shot.
  
  
  Ken Hobart's scream could be heard, but it was muffled by the explosion of Paco's mauser.
  
  
  Suddenly, the police car went off the road in a long skid, spinning in a screech of tires, completely out of control, its headlights forming spinning arcs in the dark like a giant spinning St. Catherine's wheel. Paco stopped shooting. He could hear Carlos ' rasping breath.
  
  
  The silence was almost complete, and at that moment, when the danger was over, Paco panicked. He jumped to his feet and threw himself into the driver's seat. Before Carlos could figure out what he was doing, Paco was in gear and racing through the fields into the night as fast as he could go.
  
  
  Carlos shouted to the emu to come back. "You idiot! Fool! No danger! Where are you going? Come back!"
  
  
  He stared at the car's taillights, which were getting smaller by the second. Then he shrugged and jumped off the wing, ducking under it to reach Ken Hobart. A lanky, red-haired Englishman was crouched in a mess on the ground near the right main landing gear.
  
  
  Carlos slowly stood up, holding the gun limply in his hand, frustration reflected in every line of his ego.
  
  
  He said these words in a tone of quiet humility. "And the fool left." He turned away from the body. He jumped down from the wing and knelt beside Hobart. The Englishman's target landed on the plane's right tire. Ego's chest was reeling with blood that was still slowly oozing out of it.
  
  
  Hobart pulled her as far away from the plane as possible. Wiping the blood from his hands with a handkerchief, he returned to Carlos, who was still standing next to the plane. Ego asked her roughly. "What's wrong with you?"
  
  
  Defeat was written in every line of selfishness. "We're done here, amigo," he said dully. "Paco left with the car. Hobart is dead
  
  
  
  
  We have a clear opportunity to escape around this place. How long do you think it will be before more police show up here?" »
  
  
  Her growled at him. "Not before we leave. Get on this plane! "
  
  
  Carlos looked at me blankly.
  
  
  "Tailor!" He swore at him. "If you stand there like an idiot, we'll never get out of here! Move fast! »
  
  
  I got on the wing and sat in the pilot's seat. Carlos followed me, slamming the cab door shut and getting into the seat.
  
  
  It was turned on by the upper saint in the cockpit and quickly scanned the panel. There was no time to go through the full checklist. I could only hope that Hobart had been right when he said the plane was ready to take off, and I prayed that none of the shots fired by the police had hit a vital part of the plane.
  
  
  Almost automatically, my hand took in the main switch, turned on the automatic switches of the turbocharger, turbo switches. Magneto and the electric fuel pumps turned it on, then pressed the throttles down about half an inch, and pushed the levers of the fuel mixture to full power. Fuel flow meters started registering. Let's go back to disabling idle mode. I turned on the left starter switch and heard the howling, rising cry of the starter.
  
  
  The left screw swung once, twice, and then stopped with a crash. Mix again until fully saturated. I took the right engine.
  
  
  No time to check all the instruments. There was only enough time to shift the elevators, ailerons, and rudder while her boxes were powered by twin engines and the plane taxied out onto the runway, swerving onto nah, trying to align with ego's blurry outline in the dark. It was turned off by the saint in the cabin and turned on the landing lights. I set the quarter flaps, and then my hands took hold of the twin throttles, gently pushing the ih forward until they reached the stop. The big turbocharged Lycomings roared as the plane began to move down the runway faster and faster.
  
  
  When the speed indicator reached eighty miles an hour, the steering wheel pulled her back. The nose lifted, and the sound of wheels on the bumpy dirt lane stopped. Brylev turned it off. We were in the air.
  
  
  He did the rest of the climb in total darkness, lifted the gearshift lever, heard the whine and then the heavy thud of the main gear being pulled back into the wheel arches. At one hundred and twenty miles an hour, it was balanced by the plane to maintain a constant rate of climb.
  
  
  For the same reason that I turned off my landing lights as soon as I hit the ground, I didn't turn on the red and green running lights or the rotating flashing light. Her hotel, so that no one on the ground could see the plane. We were flying in total darkness, pretty damn illegal, and only the faint blue flames around our exhaust gave away our position, and when it was reduced by the power of the climb, and even they disappeared.
  
  
  At eighteen hundred feet, the plane turned northwest, keeping the mountains to its right. He turned to Carlos. "Look in the map drawer. See if Hobart has any ego cards there.
  
  
  Ortega pulled out a stack of WAC cards.
  
  
  "All right," I said. "Now, if you'll tell me where we're going, I'll try to get us there."
  
  
  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  
  
  It was already light when it reduced power and slid down the mountains to the brown, bare hills, somewhere in the area bounded by Durango, Torrin, and Matamoros. We were flying at less than five hundred feet, and Ortega was looking out of the starboard windows and giving me directions.
  
  
  Hers, landed on a strip north of an isolated ranch. At the end of the strip, there was only a wooden hut. It was taxied to him by a large airplane and research problem-solving engines.
  
  
  A grim-faced Mexican in shabby Chinos came out to meet us. He didn't talk to us when he started servicing the plane, refilling the tanks, and checking the oil.
  
  
  We all went out on a plane. It was laid out in a cross-section of an airplane wing's aerial map, and Carlos drew me the route it was supposed to take, marking the point where we were supposed to sneak across the border into the States.
  
  
  "This is where we cross paths," he said, pointing to a spot on the Rio Bravo River south of the Texas railroad town of Sierra Blanca. "Starting from here," he pointed again to a spot more than a hundred miles inside Mexico, " you'll have to fly as low as possible." You cross the river at a height no higher than the treetops, immediately make signs to go around the Sierra Blanca to the north, and then, at this point, head northeast."
  
  
  "And from there?"
  
  
  Carlos straightened up. "From there, I will guide you again. Remember, the minimum height is until we cross the border ."
  
  
  Its just put the diagrams and put ih in the order that its ih used. Mexicantsev finished refueling the plane with fuel. Doris returned with Susan and the old man. They boarded the plane, Susan ignoring me as if I didn't exist, Dietrich walking like a man in a trance. Carlos followed me in.
  
  
  He closed and locked the door and buckled on his seat belt. He sat there for a moment, rubbing the blisters on his chin, his eyes tired from sleeplessness, his right arm aching.
  
  
  "Shall we go?" Burrito insisted.
  
  
  ;
  
  
  He nodded and started the engines. It was turned downwind by the plane and powered up as we sped across the muddy field and soared into the crisp blue Mexican sky.
  
  
  The flight from Torreon de Durango to Rio Bravo takes several hours. I had plenty of time to think, and the vague ideas that had begun to form in my head the night before - wild, almost impossible thoughts-began to crystallize into a hard suspicion that was becoming more and more solid by the minute.
  
  
  Following Carlos ' instructions, he descended at a low level and crossed the border at treetop height south of the Sierra Blanca, then circled the town far enough to be out of sight. Ten miles to the north, the plane turned northeast. As a few minutes passed, the suspicion in my head began to solidify and turned into something more than just a vague, uncomfortable wiggle.
  
  
  He picked up the air route map again. El Paso was northwest of us. He projected an imaginary line from El Paso at a sixty-degree angle. The line ran into New Mexico, approaching Roswell. He looked at the compass on the plane's dashboard. On our current flight, we will cross this line in just a few minutes. I was looking at my watch.
  
  
  As if he, too, was looking at the map and looking for an imaginary line, Carlos said at just the right moment: "Please take this path," and pointed to a place to the north of us, in the valleys of the Guadeloupe Mountains.
  
  
  It was no longer a suspicion. That thought became a certainty. I followed Carlos ' instructions until we finally flew over the ridge and saw the valley, and Carlos pointed to nah and said: "Vote! Voice where I want you to land.
  
  
  He turned the throttles back on, turned the mix controls to full power, lowered the flaps and landing gear, and prepared to land. The twin-engine plane turned her into a steep bank, straightening out at the final stage of the approach with last-minute flaps.
  
  
  I wasn't surprised to see the big Lear jet at the far end of the runway, or the single-engine Bonanza plane next to it. Her plane laid her down and allowed the emu to settle gently on the muddy runway, applying only a small amount of power to prolong the roll, so that when her plane finally swerved off the runway, it stopped a short distance away from the other two planes.
  
  
  Carlos turned to me.
  
  
  "Are you surprised?" "What is it?" he asked, a small smile on his thin lips and a gleam of amusement in his dark eyes. The gun was back in ego's hand. From this short distance, he could see that each chamber in the cylinder was " loaded with a thick copper-sheathed bullet.
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. "Actually, it's clean. Not after you gave me the last direction. I'd be surprised if things were different."
  
  
  "I think Gregorius is waiting for us," Carlos said. "Let's not keep the ego waiting any longer."
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  In the bright New Mexico sunlight, she was slowly lifted up next to Gregorius ' massive frame. Carlos, Doris Bickford, Susan Dietrich, and her father were on an air-conditioned Lear plane. A muscular militant with acne scars walked a dozen paces to our rear, never taking his eyes off me.
  
  
  Gregorius Schell walked slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, his head raised to the bright, cloudless sky.
  
  
  He asked casually: "What made you suspect that I might be involved?"
  
  
  "Carlos knows too much too soon. I just couldn't believe that the ego people were keeping me under such close surveillance that they knew my every move. Of course, the first time he met Stocelli, he wasn't wary of her. What I couldn't accept was that Ortega's men had followed me the night Dietrich saw her, or that they had heard our entire conversation. It was too much of a coincidence. Carlos kidnapped Dietrich a few hours after I made my report to Denver - and that report was meant only to meet your ears! With the exception of me, you were the only person in the world who knew what Dietrich had discovered and how valuable it was. So Ortega must have received information from you.
  
  
  "Well," Gregorius said, " the corkscrew question is, what are you going to do about it?"
  
  
  I didn't answer the emu. Instead, he said, " Let's see if my assumptions are correct, Gregorius. First, I think you made your initial fortune smuggling morphine around Turkey. Then you changed your name and became a law-abiding citizen, but you never got out of the drug business. Right?"
  
  
  Gregorius nodded his big head in silence.
  
  
  "I think you helped finance Stocelli. And now I know you're the money man behind Ortega.
  
  
  Gregorius stared at me, then looked away. Ego's fleshy lips parted as if he was pouting. "But you also knew Ortega couldn't handle Stocelli."
  
  
  "You can handle Stocelli," Gregorius said calmly.
  
  
  "Yes, I can do it. That's why you asked Ortega to involve me in the deal. He would never have done it alone. Too much pride and too much hatred for killing my nephew's ego."
  
  
  
  "You're very clear-headed, Nick."
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. He was tired. The lack of arches, the strain of so many hours on the plane, the cut on my right arm - it was all starting to take its toll on me.
  
  
  "No, not really. I made a mistake. I should have killed Dietrich as soon as she found out about the ego formula. There would be a flow to this case ...
  
  
  "But your compassion for the old man won't allow it. And now I offer it to you, they are the same ingredients as Burritos. Just remember, you'll be my partner, not my ego, and I certainly won't give you the full fifty percent. However, this will be enough to become a very rich person.
  
  
  "And if I tell her no?"
  
  
  Gregorius nodded his head in the direction of the skittish bandit who was standing a few yards away, watching us. "He'll kill you. Emu can't wait to show how good he is."
  
  
  "What about AX? And the Hawk? I don't know how you've managed to trick your ego into thinking you're a real person for so long, but if I go with you, Hawk will know why. And my life won't be worth a cop! The hawk never gives up."
  
  
  Gregorius put his arm around my shoulder. He squeezed his ego in a friendly gesture. "Sometimes you surprise me, Nick. You're a killer. Killmaster N3. Didn't you try to escape from AX in the first place? Is it because you are tired of killing only the owl of the misty ideal? You want to be rich, and I can give you that, Nick.
  
  
  He took his hand away, and Ego Stahl's voice was icy.
  
  
  "Or I can give you death. Open now. A burrito would love to rip your head off! »
  
  
  I didn't say anything to her.
  
  
  "All right," Gregorius said sharply. "I'll give you time to think about all your doubts and the money that might be yours."
  
  
  He looked at his wristwatch. "Twenty minutes. Then I'll wait for her answer."
  
  
  He turned and walked back to the Learjet. The bandit stayed behind, carefully keeping his distance from me.
  
  
  Until now, the ferret had been sure that Gregorius wouldn't kill me. He needed me to deal with Stocelli. But not if I told him to go to hell. Not if her emu says no. And her emu was going to turn her down.
  
  
  I stopped thinking about Gregorius and started working on getting out of this mess alive.
  
  
  I looked over my shoulder at the bully following me. Even though he carried the gun in a shoulder holster rather than in his hand, he wore his sports jacket unbuttoned so that he could pull the gun out and shoot before his friends got close to him. He shelled when her shell was on, and stopped when hers was on, always keeping at least fifteen or twenty yards away from me so that I wouldn't have a chance to jump on him.
  
  
  The problem wasn't just how to escape. One way or another, I could probably get away from this thug. But there were Dietrichs. I couldn't leave ih in Gregorius ' hands.
  
  
  Everything I decided to do should work the first time, because there was no second chance.
  
  
  Mentally, I checked what I had that I could use as a weapon against the bandit behind me. A few Mexican monettas. Handkerchief and purse in one hip pocket.
  
  
  And in the other was Luisa Aparicio's folding knife. That should have been enough, because that's all I had.
  
  
  He followed a long dirt track for almost two hundred yards. Then he turned around and walked back in a wide arc, so that, without him noticing, I managed to approach our plane, hiding from the Learjet.
  
  
  By this time, the sun was almost open overhead, and daylight Savchenko sent shimmering waves bouncing up from the bare ground. She stopped behind the plane and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping the sweat from her brow. As I moved on again, the gunman called out to me. "Hello there! You dropped your wallet.
  
  
  He stopped and turned around. My wallet was lying on the ground, where my handkerchief had deliberately dropped it when I got it out.
  
  
  "I did," I said, feigning surprise. "Thank you."By chance, I came back and picked it up. The bandit didn't move. He was standing on the wing of the plane, out of sight of everyone in the Learjet, and now he was only ten feet away. He was either too bold or too careless to back down.
  
  
  Still looking at him, he and her slipped the wallet into his other loincloth and closed his fingers around the handle of Luisa Aparicio's knife. I took my hand out around my pocket, my body covering my arm from the shooter. Pressing a small button on the handle, her father felt the six-inch blade slide out along the hilt and snap into place. She turned the knife in her hand, grabbing the blade in a throwing position. He started to turn away from the arrow, and then suddenly turned back. My hand went up, and my arm shot out. The knife fell out around my arm before he realized what was happening.
  
  
  The blade caught the emu in the throat just above the collarbone junction. He gasped. Both hands went up to ego's throat. He lunged at him, grabbing ego by the knees and knocking him to the ground. Raising his hand, he grabbed the handle of the knife, but ego hands were already there, so ego hands clenched it in a fist and gave a sharp tug.
  
  
  
  ;
  
  
  Blood gushed down the torn flesh and gristle of ego's heavy neck. Ego's pock-marked face was only inches from mine, his eyes staring at me with silent, desperate hatred. Then the ego's hands dropped, and the whole ego, body relaxed.
  
  
  I squatted her down, the blood on my hands like sticky raspberry lotion. He carefully wiped his hands on the cloth of his ego camisole. Her picks up a handful of sand and scrapes off all that's left.
  
  
  Finally, he reached into ego's jacket for the gun that he so foolishly carried under his arm instead of in his fist, ready to fire.
  
  
  It was a huge Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum revolver that drew her weapon. This is a huge pistol, designed specifically to provide accuracy and striking power even at a distance. This is really too powerful a weapon to carry the ego with you.
  
  
  Holding the gun behind her back, he got up and walked quickly around the plane to the Learjet. He went up the steps to the cabin.
  
  
  Gregorius saw me first.
  
  
  "Ah, Nick," he said with a cold smile on his face. "You've made up your mind."
  
  
  "Yes," I said. He pulled a heavy magnum from behind his back and pointed it at him. "Yes."
  
  
  Gregorius ' smile faded. "You're wrong, Nick. You're not going to get away with this. Not here."
  
  
  "Maybe." He looked at Susan Dietrich. "Go outside," I ordered.
  
  
  Doris raised the gun and put the ego in Susan's head. "You just sit still, honey," she said in her sharp, thin voice. My hand shifted slightly, and my finger pulled the trigger. The .44 magnum's heavy stare slammed Doris back against the bulkhead, ripping half of her head off in an explosion of white bone, gray brain matter, and red gushing blood.
  
  
  Susan put her hands to her mouth. Her eyes reflected the sickness she felt.
  
  
  "Go away!" Her father said sharply.
  
  
  She stood up. "What about my father?"
  
  
  He looked at the spot where Dietrich was sprawled out on one of the large leather chairs that were completely reclined. The old man was unconscious.
  
  
  "I want you to get out first," Susan said, stepping carefully around Gregorius. I moved her out of the way so that she could cross behind me. She went out the door.
  
  
  "How are you going to get the ego out?" Gregorius asked, pointing at Dietrich. "Do you expect us to help you move your ego?"
  
  
  I didn't answer. He stood for a moment, looking first at Gregorius, then at Carlos, and finally at the old man. Don't say a word to us, her, backed out the door and down the steps.
  
  
  There was a sudden rush of activity in Learjet. The stairs went up, the door closed, slammed, and Susan ran to me and grabbed my arm.
  
  
  "You left my father there!" she screamed.
  
  
  Ee hugged her and backed away from the plane. Through the small window of the cockpit, he watched the pilot slide into his seat. Ego's hands went up, flicking switches quickly. A moment later, he heard the engines start to whine as the rotor blades spun.
  
  
  Susan pulled away from my hand. "You didn't hear me? My father is still inside! Take the ego! Please get your ego out! Now she was shouting at me over the roar of the jet engines. There was a look of despair on her face. "Please! Do something!"
  
  
  I ignored her. I stood there with the heavy revolver in my right hand and watched as the Learjet, both engines now on fire, rolled awkwardly and began to roll out of us.
  
  
  Susan grabbed my left arm, shaking it and screaming hysterically: "Don't let them get away!"
  
  
  It was like he was standing apart from both of us, trapped in his own lonely world. Her, knew what I needed to do. There was no other way. I felt cold despite the hot New Mexico sun. The cold seeped deep inside me, scaring me to the core.
  
  
  Susan reached out and slapped me across the face. I couldn't feel her at all. It was as if she hadn't even touched me.
  
  
  She was yelling at me. "Identify the emu, owl of God!"
  
  
  Hers, watching the plane approach the far end of the runway.
  
  
  It was now a few hundred yards away, the egos of the thrusters blowing up a swirl of dust behind it. He turned around in the lane and started a runout. The twin engines now screamed, a high-pitched whirl and noise deafening our eardrums, and then the plane picked up speed and sped down the dirt lane toward us.
  
  
  Her left hand was pulled out by a ruse, Susan. I picked it up .44 Magnum and wrapped his left hand around his right wrist, raising the revolver to eye level, aligning the front sight bar in the rear sight slot.
  
  
  When the plane caught up with us, it was almost at maximum take-off speed, and just before the nose wheel started to lift, it fired a shot. The left tire exploded, shattering into pieces like a heavy bullet. The left wing dropped. The ego tip caught on the ground, turning the plane with a strong agonized cry of breaking metal. The wingtip tanks had opened, and fuel was spewing out in a black, greasy stream.
  
  
  
  In slow motion, the plane's tail rose higher and higher, and then as the wing snapped off at the root, the plane flipped up and down on its back, twisting the runway in a cloud of black fuel dust and brown dust shards of metal flying wildly in bright splinters.
  
  
  She was shot again at the plane, then a third and fourth. There was a quick flash of flame; an orange-red fireball expanded around the broken, mangled metal of the fuselage. The plane came to a stop, flames bursting out of it as thick, oily black smoke poured over the Holocaust of leaping flames.
  
  
  Still with no sign of emotion on my face, I watched as the plane destroyed itself and the passengers ' egos. Her weapon dropped and he stood weary at the bottom of the valley; Alone. Susan slid down to her knees with me, pressing her face against my leg. He heard a whimper of frustration escape around her throat, and he reached out cautiously with his left hand and touched the tip of her golden hair, unable to speak to her or comfort her in any way.
  
  
  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  
  
  He informed Hawke over the phone in El Paso, and finally cynically told Em that Gregorius had been cheating on ego for years. That he loaned me from AX to one of the world's top criminals.
  
  
  Hawke's dry chuckle came over the line.
  
  
  "Do you really believe that, Nick? Why do you think he broke all the rules and let you work for him? And report that you can't contact AX for help? "
  
  
  "You mean-?"
  
  
  "I've been interested in Gregorius for many years. When he asked you, her, he thought it was a great opportunity to smoke out his ego in the open air. And you did it. Nice work, Nick.
  
  
  Once again, the Hawk was one step ahead of me.
  
  
  "All right,"I growled," in that case, I earned it on vacation."
  
  
  "Three Sundays," Hawk snapped. "And give my regards to Teniente Fuentes." He abruptly hung up, leaving me wondering how he knew I was going back to Acapulco again.
  
  
  So now, in beige slacks, sandals, and an open sports shirt, she sat at a small table next to Teniente Felix Fuentes of the Seguridad Federal Police. The chair stood on the wide terrace of the Matamoros Hotel. Acapulco has never been more beautiful. It glistened in the rays of the tropical sun licks, in the evening, washed away by an early rainstorm not when.
  
  
  The waters of the bay were a deep blue, and the city on the opposite side, almost hidden by the palm trees that surrounded the Malecon and the park, was a gray blur at the foot of the brown-rimmed hills.
  
  
  "I understand that you haven't told me everything," Fuentes said. "I'm not sure I want to know everything, because then I might have to take official action, and I don't want to do that, Senor Carter. However, I have one corkscrew. Stocelli? "
  
  
  "You mean he got away with it?"
  
  
  Fuentes nodded.
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. "I don't think so," I said. "Do you remember what I asked you to do when I called yesterday, not when around El Paso?"
  
  
  "Of course. She was personally informed by Stocelli that my government considers ego persona non grata and has requested ego to leave Mexico by this morning at the latest. Why not?"
  
  
  "Because I called em right after talking to you. I told emu that I'd take care of everything and that he could go back to the States."
  
  
  "Did you let him get away?" Fuentes frowned.
  
  
  "Not really. She was asked by ego to do me a favor, and he agreed."
  
  
  "A favor?"
  
  
  "Bring my luggage back with you."
  
  
  Fuentes was puzzled. "I don't understand. What was the purpose of this? "
  
  
  "Well," I said, looking at my watch, " if Ego's plane arrives on time, Stocelli will arrive at JFK, NY in the next half hour. It will have to pass through customs. Medium ego luggage is a black cloth suitcase with no markings to indicate that it belongs to anyone other than Stocelli. He can claim it's the one around my bags, but he has no way to prove it. Besides, I don't think customs will pay any attention to his protests."
  
  
  Understanding dawned in Fuentes ' eyes.
  
  
  "Is this the suitcase that Dietrich sent to your room?"
  
  
  "That's true," I said, smiling, " and the nen still contains the thirty kilos of pure heroin that Dietrich put in it."
  
  
  Fuentes began to laugh.
  
  
  Her mimmo stared at him through the doorway leading down the hotel lobby. Consuela Delgardo was walking toward us. As she approached, I saw the look on her face. It was a mixture of joy and expectation, and a look that told me that somehow, somewhere, somehow, she was going to get back at me for what I'd done to her, at Garrett's Hacienda.
  
  
  She came to the table, a tall, stately, plump woman, her oval face never more beautiful than it was now. Fuentes turned in his chair, saw her, and got to his feet as she approached us.
  
  
  "Senora Consuela Delgardo, Lieutenant Felix Fuentes."
  
  
  Consuela held out her hand. Fuentes raised the ego to his lips.
  
  
  "We've met," Fuentes muttered. Then he straightened up. He said ," If you're going to be in Mexico for a while, Senor Carter, I'd appreciate it if you'd be my guests for dinner one night.
  
  
  
  Consuela took my hand possessively. Fuentes caught the gesture.
  
  
  "We'd be happy," Consuela said hoarsely.
  
  
  Fuentes looked at nah. Then he looked at me. Ego's eyes flickered for a moment, a barely discernible expression, but his face remained as calm and stern as ever - the walnut-brown image of an ancient Toltec god.
  
  
  "Have fun," Fuentes told me dryly. And then he closed one eye in a slow, voluptuous wink.
  
  
  Thread.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carter Nick
  
  
  The Jerusalem Case
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  
  Killmaster
  
  
  The Jerusalem Case
  
  
  
  
  
  Dedicated to members of the United States Secret Service
  
  
  
  
  When you meet disbelievers, cut off their heads until you have caused a great slaughter among them; and bind ih in bonds, and then either let ih do it for free, or demand a ransom ...
  
  
  The Qur'an
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Prologue
  
  
  
  
  
  The air-conditioning units were running at top speed in the gilded ballroom of the Eden Hotel, but the room was packed with two hundred yahoo singles, and the smoke, meat, and desperation was as hot as a jungle. .
  
  
  Large double doors at the end of the room led to the far end of the thread, to a rocky path that sloped down to the beach, to cool fresh air, to a quiet place where the blue-black ocean met the sandy shore without any noise. Sonny, your host is on the weekend.
  
  
  As the evening drew to a close, some of the party-goers left. They, who were lucky, went hand in hand, the man spreading a jacket on the sand for the girl. The wretches went out alone. Think about why they were so unlucky; think about the money they spent and the vacation they took, or get some fresh air before trying again. And some just went out to the stars every year before going home to apartments, in the States, in cities where there are no more stars.
  
  
  No one noticed the tall man in the Carden jacket walking toward the far end of the beach. He walked quickly with a flashlight, walking his dog from an expensive hotel in the Bahamas down to where the beach was darkest and quietest. One day, he glanced at the passing mimmo loners. A look that could be interpreted as annoyance. But no one noticed.
  
  
  No one noticed the helicopter either. Only when it has descended so lowly that you thought it was flying candid with you, and if it doesn't land quickly, it will fly out through the big glass doors and land in the middle of a glittering ballroom.
  
  
  Three hooded men tumbled out around the helicopter. They had guns. The man in Carden's jacket looked up in quiet surprise, just like the others. He said ," What the hell! Then they grabbed ego and shoved him quickly and roughly toward the helicopter. The people on the shore stood motionless, motionless as palm trees on the beach, wondering if what they were seeing was a dream, and then a little man across Brooklyn shouted, "Stop ih!" Something cut off in the quiet crowd, a crowd of bustling losers around the big city, and some around them ran to meet them a dream to fight, perhaps for the first time in your life. hooded men smiled, raised submachine guns, and covered the beach with bullets and screams, and under the thunderous smoke, the faint hiss of a phosphor grenade, and then fire - a fast-spreading fire that devoured the dresses they'd bought. on occasion, and little matching sweaters, and rented tuxedos, and a little man from Brooklyn, and a teacher from Bayonne ...
  
  
  Fourteen dead, twenty-two wounded.
  
  
  A man with a dog was taken by helicopter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The first chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hers was lying naked in the sun. He didn't move a muscle for more than an hour. I was starting to like it. I started thinking about never moving my muscles again. Her question was, if you lay in the desert sun long enough, can the embers turn you into a statue? Or a monument? Maybe it could become a monument. Here lies Nick Carter. I bet you'd make her a tourist statue
  
  
  Attraction. Families would visit me on four-day weekends, and the kids would stand there making faces - as they do with Buckingham Palace guards-trying to get me to move. Only it wouldn't have been Stahl. Maybe I can get into the Guinness Book of World Records: "The record for no muscle movement is 48 years and twelve minutes, set by Nick Carter in Tucson, Arizona."
  
  
  I squinted at the long horizon, at the dim blue mountains surrounding the desert, and took a deep breath of air so clear that I thought my lungs were a slum.
  
  
  He looked down at his leg. She stahl looks like a part of me again. At least it was as dark brown as the rest of my body, looking more like a real human leg than a vacuum cleaner hose.
  
  
  I'm talking about not moving your muscles, which was a sensitive topic six weeks ago. Six weeks ago, the cast was still on my leg, and Dr. Schilhaus was cackling and talking about my recovery in if instead of when. The gawk that bastard Jennings was lucky enough to have cracked a bone, and the shards cut into muscles or nerves or whatever it is that makes the leg do its thing, and we weren't kidding when we weren't moving anymore.
  
  
  He looked back at Rod. In the endless world of sand, sage and sun, in the distance - a lone rider on a bronze mare. He closed his eyes and swam away.
  
  
  "Strike!"
  
  
  She hit me with a rolled-up paper and woke me up from my X-rated dreams. She said: "Carter, you're hopeless. I'll leave you for an hour, and you can leave."
  
  
  Her eye opened. Millie. Beautiful. Even in that stupid white nurse's uniform. A big bun of luscious blonde hair, gold-platinum and yellow-pink hair, big brown eyes, a brilliant tan and a soft full mouth, and then moving down and reading from left to right, two of the most beautiful breasts in the world, rich and high and round, and then-tailor take it, her moved a muscle.
  
  
  He groaned and rolled over. "Go," she said. "Get back to work."Work meant physical therapy for my leg. Millie was a physical therapist. For my leg. Everything else was unofficial.
  
  
  Her took a towel and wrapped the ego around her. Hers lay on a canvas rug on a massage table on the balcony of a private bedroom in a large Spanish mission-style mansion about thirty-five miles southwest of Tucson. Aunt Tilly's Shelter Or, as Ego is less affectionately called, A. T. R. for Therapy and Rehabilitation. A boarding school for Cold War veterans.
  
  
  Hers was there, courtesy of Harold ("Happy") Jennings, a former bootlegger, ex-convict, expatriate, owner of a tiny hotel in the Caicos Islands just across the street from Haiti. Happy's Hotel turned out to be a clearing house for a group of freelancers called Blood And Vengeance. Ego's avowed goal was to get blood and take revenge on a select group of American scientists. The movement was funded by a wealthy South American ex-Nazi, who made it all a Happy experience. Blood and retribution are a thing of the past, but hers, paid for the victory with a two-week coma and a broken leg. In exchange, AX gave me two months of sun and recovery exercises and Millie Barnes.
  
  
  Millie Barnes grabbed my left leg and attached a metal weight to it. "And stretch," she said, " and bend... and bend over... and stretch, two-three-hey! That's not bad. I'll keep the money, you'll be walking without crutches next week." Her, looked at nah doubtfully. She shrugged her shoulders. "I didn't say run."
  
  
  He smiled at her. "This is also normal. I just figured I shouldn't be in too much of a hurry. Her lying here thinking that life is short and too much time is wasted on living."
  
  
  She raised her eyebrows. "This doesn't sound like a Killmaster replica."
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "So maybe that's not the case. Maybe I'm thinking about quitting my job. Roll around. Do what real people do." He glanced at nah. "What do real people do?"
  
  
  "Lie down, I want them to be Nick Carter."
  
  
  "With all my might."
  
  
  "Keep moving your leg."
  
  
  "Hema would you like to be?"
  
  
  She gave me an open, girlish smile. "When I'm with you, its happy to be Millie Barnes."
  
  
  "And when will I leave?"
  
  
  "Ah! When you're gone, I'll lock myself in this very room with my memories, my tears, and my poetry books." She pursed her lips. "Is this the kind of rheumatism you want to hear?"
  
  
  "I want to know what you want out of life."
  
  
  She was sitting on the balcony railing to my left, her arms crossed over her chest, the sun shining yellow stars in her hair. She shrugged her shoulders. "I haven't thought about wanting something in years."
  
  
  "...Told Grandma Barnes on her ninetieth birthday. Come on, baby. This is not a thought for a young woman.
  
  
  Her eyes widened. I'm twenty-eight."
  
  
  "This old one, huh?"
  
  
  "Keep stretching your leg out "
  
  
  Her extended leg. She reached out and raised her hand even higher, staggering as she greeted the sun. She took her hands away, and he held ih up, two legs higher than her head. "Push yourself so high next time." His bent, bent, and pushed so high.
  
  
  "Millie... If her father had gone..."
  
  
  "Nonsense, Nick! What you're going through is typical twelfth Sunday thinking."
  
  
  "I'll bite you. What is it?"
  
  
  She sighed. . "It's just the first month you guys spend here, you're all in a blazing hurry to get out, the second month you focus on working hard the third month. Your metabolic changes are getting used to all these lies. You start philosophizing, you start quoting Omar Khayyam. Your eyes are blurry when you watch The Waltons ." She shook her head. "Typical Twelfth Sunday Thinking",
  
  
  "So what happens next?"
  
  
  She smiled. "You'll see the voice. Just keep flexing that leg. You'll need it."
  
  
  The phone rang in my room. Millie went to answer it. I watched the muscles in my leg quiver. Everything was coming back. She was probably right. I can throw out her crutches next week. She kept the rest of her body in shape with dumbbells and jump ropes and a long daily journey, and his still weighed $ 165. The only thing I'd added during my stay at Aunt Tilly's was a beautiful, ridiculous pirate mustache. Millie said it made me look really angry. I thought I looked like Omar Sharif. Millie said it was the same thing.
  
  
  She went back to the balcony door. "Can I trust her to continue working with you this time? New arrival..."
  
  
  He looked at her and growled. "A beautiful novel. First you leave me at noon, and now another man. Who is this guy?"
  
  
  "Someone named Dunn."
  
  
  "Dann around Berlin?"
  
  
  "The same thing."
  
  
  All things considered, I'm more envious of her dinner."
  
  
  "T!" she said, and came over and kissed me. She wants it to be bright. A little kiss as a joke. Somehow it turned into something else. Finally, she sighed and pulled away.
  
  
  He said to her, " Give me this paper before you go. I think it's time for me to train my brain again."
  
  
  She threw the paper at me and ran away. Its just putting the ego back on the first page.
  
  
  Leonard Fox was kidnapped.
  
  
  Or, in the words of the Tucson Sun:
  
  
  Billionaire hotel czar Leonard Fox was abducted around his Grand Bahama Island sanctuary amid a hail of bullets and grenades.
  
  
  Carlton Warne, the treasurer of Fox's holding company, received a ransom note this morning demanding $ 100 million. The note was signed "Al-Shaitan", which means"devil" in Arabic.
  
  
  This is the first terrorist attack by the group, which is considered to be a shard of "Black September", a Palestinian blogger responsible for the murders at the Munich Olympics and the massacres at the airports of Rhyme and Athens.
  
  
  When asked how he plans to raise the money, Warne said the company will have to dump its shares and sell its holdings "at a significant loss. But, "he added," this isn't the time to think about money. After all, a man's life is at stake."
  
  
  Yasser Arafat, the chief representative of the P. L. O. (Palestine Liberation Organization, all-forces Fedayeen steering committee) offered his usual "No comment".
  
  
  
  
  There was a wild irony in that. Fox went to the Bahamas primarily to preserve his freedom and fortune. The feds were preparing to throw a book at her. A special leather-bound edition with gold engraving; one that lists only million-dollar crimes - securities fraud, electronic fraud, Egypt, tax fraud. But Fox managed to escape. To the safe legal haven of the Greater Bahamas.
  
  
  Now, irony number two: even if Varn paid the ransom, Fox's best hope of staying alive was if federal agents snatched ego back. It was the ultimate example of the old idea that the devil you know is better than the devil - or Al-Shaitan - you don't know.
  
  
  Washington will take over, all right. Not for the love of Leonard Fox. Not even just because of the principle involved. We would do this for a simple reason around self-defense, so that hundreds of millions of dollars of American money would not fall into the hands of terrorists.
  
  
  I started to wonder if I was involved in this SECTOR. And who's in AX. And what was the plan? I looked out at the sunlit landscape, and suddenly felt the need for icy sidewalks, cool thoughts, and a cold, hard weapon in my hand.
  
  
  Millie was right.
  
  
  The twelfth Sunday was over.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The second chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonard Fox was dead.
  
  
  Dead, but Al-Shaitan didn't kill the ego. He just died. Or, as my other says, " the ego of folding a dollar hit."
  
  
  "After spending two Sundays in a terrorist camp, landing safely at Lukaya airport, then saying hello to the TV cameras, paying a hundred million dollars to live-Leonard Fox died. Three hours at home - and pfft!
  
  
  If there's such a thing as Fate, you'll agree that Nah has a dark sense of humor.
  
  
  Jahns looked down at his cards. "I'm on the cop."
  
  
  Campbell pulled one out and bit into it. Ferrelli said: "Relay race". A dime dropped it and picked up a nickel. We made a great group of players. They gathered around the hospital bed. Jens with his feet pinned to the ceiling in this magnanimous torture known as deadlifts, Campbell with a blindfold over one eye, and Ferrell with a thick black four-month-old beard sitting in a wheelchair, recovering from everything that happens when gang bullets hit you in the gut. As for me, his, passed Paris in the morning and compared to others, hers, felt healthy.
  
  
  He turned to Jahns. Our man is in Damascus. At least a week ago. He was new to AX, but he knew the Middle East. "So what do you think they'll do with the money?"
  
  
  "Matches you that nickel." He tossed the nickel on the bed. "Tailor, I do not know. Your guess is as good as mine." He looked up from his maps. "What's your guess?"
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "I do not know. But I doubt they'll use it to stock up on canned goods, so I guess we just bought ourselves a bunch of horrors.
  
  
  Campbell was thinking of playing a penny game. "Maybe they're buying a few more SAM-7 missiles. Hit several planes coming in for a landing. Hey, when's the Boeing 747 hunting season?"
  
  
  Ferrelli said, "Any month with a four"
  
  
  "Fun," I said. "Are we playing cards?"
  
  
  Campbell decided to shell out a few pennies. I know Campbell, he had a good hand. "The worst part,"he wrote to Ferrelli," is that whatever terror they decide to buy us, they will buy our egos with good old American money."
  
  
  "Amendments. With Leonard Fox's money." Ferrelli grinned and stroked his beard. "The Leonard Fox Memorial Terror".
  
  
  Campbell nodded. "And I don't think Fox is losing a lot of cola."
  
  
  "Are you kidding me?" Ferrelli discarded his cards. "Where Fox is now, they don't sleep. Fire and brimstone keep you awake. Dude, I heard it was one bad soul."
  
  
  Jahns looked at Ferrelli. Jeans had the face of a British officer. Desert tan, sun-bleached blond hair; perfect foil for icy blue eyes. Jahns smiled. "I think I can hear the green sound of jealousy."
  
  
  Her brow furrowed. "Who would be jealous of the late Leonard Fox? I mean, who needs a couple of billion dollars, a castle in Spain, a villa in Greece, a private jet, a hundred-meter yacht, and a couple of world-class ones?.. girlfriends of famous movie stars? The tailor! Ferrelli has the best values, doesn't he, Ferrelli? "
  
  
  Ferrelli nodded. "Of course. Such things can destroy your soul."
  
  
  "Actually," I said. The best things in life are the sun and moon, and Oreo cookies ."
  
  
  "And my health," Ferrelli said. "I got my own health."
  
  
  "You won't get it if you don't go back to bed." Millie was sitting in the doorway. She went to the window and opened it wide. "My God," she said, " what are you smoking? It's like a real smoke-filled room." She turned to me. "Dr. Schilhaus wants to see you in fifteen minutes, Nick." She cleared her throat. "He also wants to see Ferrelli in the team and Campbell in the gym."
  
  
  "Eh, Jens?" said Ferrelli. "What would he see Jahns' hotel wearing?"
  
  
  "In drag and drop," Campbell suggested.
  
  
  "In debt," Ferrelli said.
  
  
  "Madness," Campbell said.
  
  
  "In..."
  
  
  "Go ahead!" Millie said.
  
  
  They went.
  
  
  Millie sat down in a black plastic chair. "This is quite an interesting story about Leonard Fox. I couldn't believe it when I heard the news. What a wild ending."
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. "It's not a thread, baby. This may be a thread by Leonard Fox, but it's just the beginning of something else. Whatever tricks they have planned for us with the money."
  
  
  Millie sighed. "I know what capers would suit her. Well, ask me, guys, mink capers."
  
  
  Jahns turned and gave Nah an icy look. "Would you really?"He suddenly became very serious. The lobe's ego was deeply wrinkled. "I mean, are these things important to you?"
  
  
  She paused for a moment, and her eyes changed. It was as if she had read something between the lines. "No," she said slowly. "No, Ted. Not at all." She abruptly changed her tone. "So you think Al-Shaitan will spend money on terror."
  
  
  Jahns shifted, too. "If we don't find ih first."
  
  
  Millie quickly looked from Jahns to me to Jahns again. "By the word 'we', hers, I guess
  
  
  do you mean AX? "
  
  
  He looked down at his foot, which was reaching for the ceiling. "Well, let's just say I don't mean me. Thank you to this drunken, stupid idiot. You know, an Arab gypsy once told me that Tuesday was my bad day. So every Monday night I put my gun away, and I never do anything shady for her on Tuesday. So what's going on? I'm walking down the street on an innocent errand, and a stoned tourist hits me in his car. When? "
  
  
  "Friday?"
  
  
  Jahns ignored me. "I would give my right leg to be in Syria now."
  
  
  Hers, looked at his leg. He said to her, " No one will take it."
  
  
  He continued to ignore me and looked at Millie. "Anyway, answering your corkscrew, dear, you can keep the money that many steamers are openly looking for Shaitan right now." Now he turned to me. "God, they've had more than two weeks - a whole world of hot agents - and they couldn't have come up with our feature."
  
  
  "And then Fox walks away and dies before he can speak. I bet Washington is really mad." He glanced at Jahns. "You think there was an AX?" He started to shrug.
  
  
  Millie said quickly: "As for Al-Shaitan , what actions do you think they are planning? I mean, against whom?"
  
  
  Jahns shrugged again. "It depends on who Al Shaitan is. There are dozens of factions in Fedayeen, and they all have slightly different goals and a slightly different list of enemies."
  
  
  Millie frowned. "Can you explain?"
  
  
  He winked at her. "I like to explain. It makes me feel smart. Listen: you have a couple of extremist groups who not only want to wipe Israel off the face of the earth, but also want to overthrow the Arab regimes - start a whole revolution. And if Al-Shaitan is part of this gang, the list of "against whom" can be quite long. On the other hand, there is Al-Fatah, the largest group. They more or less stick to a compromise, which can be nonsense. Because Black September - the bloodiest steamrollers in the entire PLO-must become part of Fatah." He threw up his hands. "So you're trying to figure it out."
  
  
  "But the paper said that Shaitan might be part of Black September." Millie looked at me. "What does that say about them?"
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. "Absolutely nothing. Look, they have so many factions because they all have their own ideas. So they form a group, and pretty soon the group starts breaking up into groups, and pretty soon the splinters break up into groups, and for all we know, Shaitan could have been six stupid guys who didn't like what they got for dinner." He turned to Jahns. "How's that for theory? A power-crazed vegetarian bitch?"
  
  
  Jahns looked at me very strangely.
  
  
  Her brow furrowed. "This - in case you didn't get it - was a joke."
  
  
  He kept looking at me very strangely. "You might be right."
  
  
  He turned to Millie. "I think emu needs a shot."
  
  
  "I'm fine." He still looked strange. "What I'm trying to tell you is that maybe you're right. Al-Shaitan can be hema anywhere. Maybe anything at all. Let's assume that ih only had six guys - you won't need more to raid Fox..."
  
  
  "Right?"
  
  
  "So... so maybe they're on their own. Maybe they really have their own crazy scheme."
  
  
  "Maybe they want to legalize carrots?"
  
  
  "Or maybe they want to blow up the world."
  
  
  We suddenly exchanged a long, quiet look. We came up with a damn dirty idea. If Shaitan were six madmen alone, it would be much harder for them to reconsider their guesses. Ih moves and plans can be anything. Absolutely anything.
  
  
  I thought about it a few minutes later, when Schilhaus was testing me, pushing me in the leg, and pronouncing me better. "The price of many is better, N3. Almost one hundred percent," he smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  Millie was smiling. "The price of many people is better."
  
  
  She was slapped by ee on her bare beautiful ass. "Unromantic bitch," I said. "I'm talking about my leg at a time like this..."
  
  
  "Well," she said angrily,"I couldn't help noticing..."
  
  
  "You shouldn't notice anything at all. You should be too busy looking at the colored lights."
  
  
  "Oh, these," she said, running her finger very slowly down my back, all over my back. "You mean they're the red-blue shimmering things that happen when the bells ring...?"
  
  
  Her, looked at nah. "You're just lucky," I said, pulling her close, " that J likes smart women." My hands were holding the cup around her chest, and my cup was overflowing with her luscious femininity.
  
  
  "Dear?" she said very softly, "For the record" - she kissed my ear - "you're a spectacular light and sound show."
  
  
  "And you would...
  
  
  I kissed her on the chest, " Do you want to play this record again? "
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  Millie was awake. I felt her lashes brush against my shoulder. She pretended to be asleep, and Ace called her, pretending to believe Hey. When a woman plays this game, nah usually has a pretty good reason. And most of them weren't playing mindless games.
  
  
  The room was quiet and dark, except for the moonlight that filtered through the blinds, forming a pattern all over the stripes on the ceiling. The night was cool, and the curvy brown body that was wrapped around me was covered with a dark blue blanket, I didn't need ego to see. It floated in my head, danced between the stripes of the moon on the ceiling.
  
  
  Millie was a paradox. It's a very simple girl. Nah had an unwavering efficiency. Nothing bothered Millie. She could look you in the eye even if half of your face was blown up. And in that look there was no pity for us, no fear for us. And you'd know she wasn't playing.
  
  
  Everything about Millie was normal, including us. It was a good, deep friendship that included sex, but not a love affair. Millie once had an affair with Sam, but Sam died.
  
  
  Only the picture was wrong. No one ever "loves" again. If Juliet hadn't married, around herself, four years later she would have married someone else, and for five you get ten, she would have married for love. Maybe not quite the same kind of love, but love is exactly the same. Because love is like any other talent. If you do something well, you need to do it again. Millie had a talent. She was just afraid to use it.
  
  
  She shifted over my shoulder. "What time is it now?" she asked.
  
  
  It was eleven o'clock.
  
  
  Her leg stretched out and turned on the TV with her toes. She said: "Stop showing off," and yawned cautiously.
  
  
  The TV turned on, and the woman announced to sleepy America that she wasn't bothered by the smell of her armpits. Millie covered her face with a pillow. "If you're watching a movie, I'll tell you how it ends. Americans, cowboys, and cops always win."
  
  
  I said to her:"I don't want to tell you, but I plan to update her annually."
  
  
  "The same ending. Americans, cowboys, and cops always win."
  
  
  Wu said, " Terror is back in the headlines again." Her villages are outspoken. Millie rolled into my arms.
  
  
  "Three days after the death of Leonard Fox - another daredevil's delight. This time on the Italian Riviera, when American millionaire Harlow Wilts was abducted from his private country villa. Wilts, who owns a majority stake in the Cottage motel chain, has just arrived in Italy to discuss plans to buy the Ronaldi Hotel." (Footage of Wilts arriving in Italy.) " Chris Walker from Minnesota was talking to his wife..."
  
  
  The camera showed a lavish living room in the millionaire suburb of Somewhere, Minnesota, where a tearful Mrs. Wilts was telling the same cold story. The kidnappers wanted a hundred million dollars. For two Sundays. In cash. They called themselves Al-Shaitan. Devil.
  
  
  Whatever they were planning to buy us with that money, the price was now up to two hundred million. And if someone didn't save Wilts, the Devil would have to pay.
  
  
  Her, closed his eyes. Just what you need right now, an outdoor swimming pool. Two hundred million dollars ' worth of terror.
  
  
  Millie reached out and turned off the TV. "Give me a hug," she said. "Just hold me, okay?"
  
  
  Ee hugged her. It was really shaky. I told her: "Honey, hey! What is it? Look, no one's chasing you."
  
  
  "Mmm, I know her. But I have a terrible feeling that someone is following you. That this is the last night we'll be together."
  
  
  Her brow furrowed. "Let's go. Who's following me? Who even knows I'm here?"
  
  
  "THE AXE," she said softly. "AX knows you're here."
  
  
  We stared at each other for a very long time. And suddenly it wasn't an empty sound anymore. All of a sudden, it was worth a lot more than just being friendly.
  
  
  "You know..." she began.
  
  
  She was kissed by ee. "I know.'"
  
  
  I pulled her in close as I could lick her, and then it didn't change anything.
  
  
  In fact, it mattered.
  
  
  The next morning, Hawke made a phone call to AX in Washington, and by the evening of her flight to the Middle East. Mission: Find and stop the Devil.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The third chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rehov Dizengof is the Broadway of Tel Aviv. Or, to be more precise, it's Piccadilly Circus, Sunset Strip, and Miami Collins Avenue all rolled into one. These are cafes, shops, bars, bars, diamonds, denim, music, theaters, holy, noise, cars, crowds and new plastic pizza stands.
  
  
  Hers was sitting at a table in
  
  
  an open-air cafe where I drink a lot of beer, Gold Star and watch the sunset over the city. It was like a thick red beach ball rolling slowly across the orange sky.
  
  
  I was here because Robbie Jackson was dead. Robbie lived in Tel Aviv. But he was wrong. Ego visa defined ego as an American journalist, World Magazine's Middle East correspondent. The title allowed emu to ask a lot of questions and send telegrams, cryptic and otherwise, to the Amalgamated Press and Wire Service. It just so happens that Washington Aces. Ego's real occupation was being an AX observer.
  
  
  The job of an observer is very similar to what it looks like. Observe. To know what's going on in the ego parts of the world. This means, among other things, knowing who the informants hired by muscle and the local gangsters are, and also finding out who they are, guys who can lend you a boat, give you shelter, or cut out a bullet. Robbie was good. Better than good. Robbie was a thinker. He had one of those analytical minds of a chess master. He's been in this job for more than three years and hasn't called us the wrong shooter yet. So when Robbie telegraphed with a four-star code, " Found the devil. Send the troops", there was only one corkscrew left to ask: is there a place for people with Slaves above Rushmore?
  
  
  Just an hour later, Robbie died. He was stabbed in the back in a Jerusalem alley. Fox was still a prisoner when it happened, but if the Slave really knew where the millionaire was in the hall, he didn't have time to tell anyone else. At the very least, he didn't have time to tell AX about it.
  
  
  My job was to try to re-open the discussion. Follow the Slave trail to the Al Shaitan hideout and rescue a new victim, Harlow Wilts. I decided to start it in Tel Aviv, because that's where Jackson Rabov started. What he learned in Tel Aviv sent ego on a path to Jerusalem.
  
  
  Maybe.
  
  
  Maybe it's the best thing you've got. An agent's job consists of a mountain of probabilities, a giant stack of probabilities. And you always play "find the needle" and always play against time.
  
  
  He looked at his watch. It was time to go. She was stopped by a waiter and asked for a check while the sky was giving her roses, and then it turned a deep crimson-pink, as if it had heard the clicks of everyone else and found itself uncomfortable about the whole thing.
  
  
  He walked through the crowd to Allenby Sturt, watching the girls in low-slung jeans and soft, beautifully embroidered shirts that hinted at round wealth without a bra. He watched the boys look at the girls, and the tourists in cotton dresses stare with equally fervent eyes at the coffee-cart display of baked goods.
  
  
  A taxi found her and gave her the wrong address in Jaffa, an old Arab city that was a few miles to the south and a couple of centuries old. Back to the narrow, winding streets, vaulted stone alleys, and Kasbah-style mazes. Back to the real Middle East and away from the Universal Approach that seems to transform every city in the world into every other city in the world.
  
  
  He paid the driver and walked the four blocks to Rehov Shishim, a squat building with thick walls and a red roof. Through the stone courtyard and Odin's spring up.
  
  
  Her father knocked three times on the heavy wooden door.
  
  
  "Eh?" said the voice. It was sharp and deep.
  
  
  "Glidat vanil," he replied in a falsetto voice.
  
  
  "Hayom har?" He started laughing.
  
  
  "Lo," I said in a soprano voice. "Yorad geshem".
  
  
  One translation of this would be: "What? "" Vanilla ice cream."Is it cold?" "No, it's snowing." Another translation was that I wasn't being followed.
  
  
  The door opened. Benjamin was smiling. He pointed to the dark, cozy mess in the room. "Every time I have to use one around these code words, I feel like a damn shiny metal agent. Do you want some cognac?"
  
  
  I told her I wanted to.
  
  
  He went into the kitchen and poured two glasses. David Benjamin was an agent of the first rank of the Israeli intelligence agency Home Bet. I worked with him about ten years ago and was here because Robbie could work with him too. A lone AX observer in a friendly country is required to cooperate with local agents. And if he hadn't been in touch with Benjamin, then maybe Benjamin would have known who he was in contact with.
  
  
  He returned with his glasses and a bottle and set his awkward six-foot frame on the worn brown leather sofa. Raising his mug, he said, " Le haim. Good to see you, Carter." He propped his feet up on a scarred chair.
  
  
  Benjamin had changed. He lost the glittering gaze of a young warrior with an ego-cool assumption of immortality. Now he looked like a real warrior. And harder and softer than the boy he was. The face was cut to the main angles, and the blue eyes were framed with slanting lines. Nen was wearing an itchy sweater
  
  
  and jeans.
  
  
  He lit it. "I told Vadim why she was invited to see you. So I guess I don't need to start from the top."
  
  
  He shook his head. “no. I understand what the problem is. The problem is that our mutual friend lacked the spirit of cooperation. Oh, yes, of course, "he shrugged and leaned back," if I need information, if he has it, he'll tell me. If only ego had asked her. He definitely wasn't a volunteer."
  
  
  I looked at him and smiled. "Tell me," I said, " if you knew where Shaitan was hiding, would you rush to the phone booth and call the POLICE?"
  
  
  Benjamin laughed. "All right," he said. "So it balances us out. If I had known her, I would have gone there with my people, and taken ih for the greater glory of Israel. But if I knew her, and you asked me, I'd have to tell you . And since I understand you're asking, no. He didn't tell me anything about where Al-Shaitan might be."
  
  
  "Do you know anyone else that he might have said?"
  
  
  Shin Bet? No. If he had told anyone, it would have been hers. Its a bit of a dig for you. Came up with something that might not mean anything, or it might be a place to start. Just before the Slaves left Tel Aviv for Jerusalem, he received about twelve thousand pounds around his foundation."
  
  
  "Three thousand dollars."
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "Paying someone?"
  
  
  "So I imagine. And what-what I know about Jackson Slaves. He never paid until he checked the information. So you have to figure out that for three thousand dollars, someone told em the big truth."
  
  
  "The corkscrew question remains: was there money for someone here in Tel Aviv, or for someone Hema was going to meet in Jerusalem?"
  
  
  Benjamin smiled. "That leaves a tailspin." He poured another glass of slightly sweet cognac. "And again - if her rheumatism knew, her would have told you. Again , I don't know her," he took a quick sip and grimaced. "Look," he said, " this Shaitan gang is also bothering us. Oh my God, we, they, who are they really chasing. If they get their hands on that four hundred million..."
  
  
  "Wait a second! Four? Where it comes from, one plus one - two. Fox and Wilts. Two hundred million."
  
  
  "Both Jefferson and Miles. Four hundred million." He crossed the room and picked up the Jerusalem Post. "Against".".
  
  
  He tossed me a newspaper. It was read by Roger R. Jefferson, Chairman of the Board of National Motors. Thurgood Miles, a multi-million dollar dog food heir. Both were abducted the night before, abducted from safe houses in the States. Now I had to save three guys. I put down my newspaper.
  
  
  "This Shaitan sounds too clever to be true."
  
  
  Benjamin nodded. "But not them." He smiled grimly. "And the myth of Arab inefficiency unfolds in the dust"
  
  
  Ego examined her and sighed. "You said Shin Bet was also worried..."
  
  
  "Of course. Someone is working on it." He shook his head. "But who? Where? She's just as ignorant as you are. The only thing we can safely assume is that Shaitan's base in the hall is not in Israel. That leaves a lot of other options. Libya? Lebanon? Syria? Iraq? The partisans are growing."
  
  
  "Okay, so we know this is the Middle East - and Robbie's first lead came from Tel Aviv."
  
  
  "Or Jerusalem. Look, Vadim knows why you're here. You spoke to him today. Vadim is my boss, like a Hawk, everything is yours. So if he didn't tell you anything, you might think he doesn't know anything ... or he knows something and doesn't want to tell you. Hers, hers is here on another matter. The best thing I can do is point you in the right direction and tell you that if you've ever been pinned down in an alley with your back to a groan and six guns in your stomach - if you can get to a phone booth, call me and I'll come."
  
  
  "Thank you, David. You're a real peach."
  
  
  He smiled. "They don't fit better than me. Do you need any leads?"
  
  
  "Do I have to answer?"
  
  
  "I would suggest you look for Sarah Lavi. Allenby-sturt is here in Tel Aviv. American repatriate. A teacher, I think. They're with Robbie... I was shaking. Is that a word?"
  
  
  "Shaking," I laughed. "But it's the same."
  
  
  He thought about it for a moment and smiled. Then he started laughing. A low, full, rolling sound. It reminded me of evenings long ago. David and ego girl. I asked her how she was.
  
  
  Ego's eyes turned gray. "Daphne is dead." He reached for a cigarette, his face set in stone. I knew him well enough not to say "simple." He continued with Rivnenskaya. "I have another thought that you might want to follow." Ego eyes begged me not to make ego feel.
  
  
  "Shoot," I said.
  
  
  "Restaurant on El Jazzar Street. And if you want to hint about the area, Al Jazzar is an Arabic word meaning thug. In any case, we will
  
  
  we looked after the place, and I saw Robbie go in there once. Maybe he had a contact there."
  
  
  Maybe another forty to one.
  
  
  He gave a broad shrug. "I know it's not much, but it's all I can think of." He leaned back and met my gaze. "My own sources don't know anything useful."
  
  
  "And if they did?"
  
  
  He cleared his throat, " I'd tell you."
  
  
  "My word of honor?"
  
  
  "Go to hell."
  
  
  Its got up. "Not her. Its going to heaven. For my pure thoughts and good deeds." He took one last sip of cognac.
  
  
  He held out his hand. "Good luck," he said. "And its serious, Nick. If you need any help, you can count on me."
  
  
  "I know," I smiled. "As long as I have a dime for the phone."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The fourth chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Let's talk about adet. Inside, Club El Jazzar looked like Dante's Seventh Circle. The place they leave for murderers. It was a men-only crowd, and the man felt like they'd rather kill you than drink you up.
  
  
  The room was small, crowded, and dark, painted a deep purple. Scimitars hung from tasseled cords, and snakes of smoke climbed the walls, heading for the low, mottled ceiling, where the black wings of a whirling fan smashed ih back into meaningless clouds. From somewhere in the depths came the sound of an ood and the tinkle of a tambourine.
  
  
  When her father walked through the door, everything stopped. Forty pairs of eyes flashed through the air; eighty eyes moved in the same instant. You could almost hear them all spinning. Then the conversation started again. Below. Rumbling. And a tambourine.
  
  
  A small, dark man in a shirt soaked from the bank came up and gave me a small, dark look. He crossed his arms and stared at me, too short for the macho ego to work well. He spat on the floor. Half an inch off my shoe.
  
  
  He smiled at her. "Good evening to you, too."
  
  
  He bowed his head. "American?"
  
  
  "Actually. American. Hungry American. My friend around the world recommended the place to you." I said it loudly to her.
  
  
  He moved his alenka; erased it, and then frowned again. "Did you come for food?"
  
  
  He nodded to her. "And drink."
  
  
  He nodded. «Eft. We'll give you a good one." I already had heartburn from the smell of ego breath, and judging from the way he said "We'll give you a good one", her, decided it was a good idea and decided to buy a bottle of charcoal. Activated charcoal is one hell of an antidote to just about any poison or medicine that someone might put in your drink. Or stuff it in a stew. A tablespoon in a glass of water and you'll probably live to tell this story.
  
  
  He led me along the crowded room, mimmo of people's whistling eyes, to a second room at the back. They led me to a wine-colored plastic booth that now seemed to be in the ring of a small stage. Two young hooligans in black satin shirts stood near the stage and strummed music, while the third, in a flowing white burnoose, absently shook a tambourine.
  
  
  Her had no idea in hell where she was. Her, stepped into someone else's territory. A bandit's lair. But what gang?
  
  
  A big, broad guy came up to the table. He was a dark, energetic Arab. He took my pack of cigarettes, took one, lit it, sipped, sat, and examined the gold on the tip of the holder. "American?" He said with a slight accent.
  
  
  "I am, yes. No cigarettes."
  
  
  "Turkish?"
  
  
  “yeah. Actually. Turkish". She expected him to get down to business. Or at least up to what I hoped was the gist of it. My plan was simple. Stupid, but simple. It was played by two Maybes against the middle. Maybe number one was a double chance that maybe vocalist Robbie was here and maybe he would try to make contact, hoping to make another three grand quickly. Perhaps number two was that there might have been a slave killer here. This could also save me a lot of time. The fastest way to find out who your enemy is is to go to the alley and find out who is trying to kill you.
  
  
  The man studied her from across the chair. He was hard, square-jawed and muscular. Under a tight green cotton T-shirt. They were faded under the bulging jeans. The waiter came in. I ordered some arak. Bottle. Two glasses.
  
  
  The man across the chair said: "Are you a slum?"
  
  
  "The slums?"
  
  
  He narrowed his eyes in defiance. "In case you haven't noticed, this is a slum. No big hotels with ocean views. No sunny rooms with private bathrooms."
  
  
  He sighed heavily. "So where does this lead us? For rhetoric or an alley fight?" Hers, he shook his head. "Listen, my other friend, I heard all this. I cover her scenes for World Magazine." He let that sink in before continuing. "And her, I heard all the words, I saw her, all the wars, and sincerely now I would just love her
  
  
  sit and drink and don't get us into any hot trouble."
  
  
  "World Magazine," he said calmly.
  
  
  He said," Yeah, " and lit a cigarette. Arak came.
  
  
  He said, " What's your name?"
  
  
  I said, " Mackenzie."
  
  
  "I doubt it."
  
  
  He said to her: "What do you have?"
  
  
  "Yusef," he said to me. "Abu Abdelhir Shukair Yousef".
  
  
  "All right," I said. "I don't doubt it."
  
  
  A bright saint cut through the smoke onto the stage, and a tambourine shouted, " Naam! Naam! " and went into a paralyzed Jangles frenzy. The whistle rang out even before she came out; a dark-skinned girl in a shimmering silver piece of rook and a skirt that fell like a full-length curtain, all over the ribbon that engaged the price of a leg below the waist. Streams of dark hair fell down her back, framing a delicate, beautiful face that was almost completely devoid of makeup.
  
  
  Music began to play, tasteless, almost hypnotic in its monotony. And the girl began slowly. Undulating, flowing, until her body seemed to be made up of liquid, and the lights reflected off the silver, has the shape of a circle of her dress, like stars in a wavy fantastic sky, and her body continued to melt, this incredible body.
  
  
  Let me tell you about dancing and life. They're usually plump, fat women with four tons of makeup and four bellies. And when these ladies start throwing their egos around, you sit back and hope it doesn't catch on. This girl was something else. You've never dreamed better. Even in my wildest and wildest dreams.
  
  
  The dance, so to speak, was over. He turned to Yusef. He's gone. Instead, the sweating owner leaned over the booth, his face contorted with a rusty smile. I decided I liked him better when he frowned. "Eda," he said. "You say you want food?" I told her what I did. Ego's smile widened. "We give you a good one." The result is a descending nott scale. The tambourine rang.
  
  
  He's gone. He sipped his arak, a spicy drink that looked a little like ouzo or Turkish raki. The three thugs walked down the bar in mimmo chairs, a trio of printed nylon shirts open to the waist, revealing muscles and elaborately decorated medallions. The surly waiter came in with the food. Quick eyes sweep over me. Eda looked normal, which means I won't need any miracle drugs. Bromine, yes. Coal, clean. I started eating it.
  
  
  The trio returned and accepted me, calculating my height, Alenka, and strength. They returned to the bar and reported their findings to the others. Join a gang.
  
  
  What gang?
  
  
  Whatever the game's ih was, it wasn't a subtlety. The other three boys took a walk around the bar. A-one, a-two, a-three-and a-shaggy, timed to the Jangling rhythm. They passed mimmo me, turned, and swam back. Average height: five feet ten inches; average age: twenty-one years. They came to my table and sat in a booth around me. He continued to eat it. They were watching. The one in the purple and orange shirt leaned on a chair and leaned forward. He had long hair and a fleshy, pouty tough-guy face. "So," he said in English,"do you like kebabs?"
  
  
  Let's go, I thought. It will be such a scene. 1950s hood-style showdown, outdated " smart dumbass."
  
  
  "I told her. "I ordered Komarova. But in her life, I learned to take what I get. Like you guys, for example." He continued to eat it.
  
  
  The crimson orange turned into red stripes. "Smart, "he said." The American is smart."
  
  
  "Smart," said Red Tabby, who wasn't smart enough to think of anything else.
  
  
  They were Green Flowers with a wide grin. "I don't think he's that smart."
  
  
  Happy New Year, ' 53, she told herself. I knew they weren't armed. Tight shiny shirts and tight shiny pants were sewn so close to ih nervous bodies that they couldn't even hide cuticle scissors. It could have been worn by ihk and walked away smiling. But they didn't know that, or they didn't care. They were young, angry, and begging for a fight.
  
  
  "Not so smart," Purple-Orange said. It belongs to them that he was the leader of the room. (Which package?) "It's not so smart to come to El Jazzar. Do you know what El Jazzar means?"
  
  
  He sighed. "Listen up, guys. I think it's great that you came here. I mean, not many people will take time out just to cheer up a lonely stranger. So I want you to know that I say this with great gratitude and appreciation. You're off now."
  
  
  There was a small conference dedicated to the meaning of the word "away". I put my right hand on my lap, just in case I had to reach for my luger. Wilhelmina ih's outburst will scare you away. They won't be a problem alone, but as soon as the fistfight starts here, I'll fight the entire clientele. And sixty to one isn't my best chance.
  
  
  They decoded "away" and made their first move threatening faces, standing up
  
  
  Her hand was on the butt of her pistol, but it wasn't Wilhelmina's butt that came to her rescue. The performer of the dance of life returned to the stage. "Gentlemen," she said in Arabic, " I want to participate in a special dance. Who's helping me? " She looked around the room. "You!" she said quickly to Crimson-Orange. She curled her thumb in a hello gesture. "Let's go," she coaxed.
  
  
  He hesitated. Half annoyed, half flattered. "Let's go," she said again. "Or are you shy? Ah, are you shy? She pursed her lips and moved her hips. "A big man is afraid of such a little girl?"
  
  
  The room laughed. A voice and crimson-orange jumped onto the stage. She ran a hand through Ego's long black hair. "You may need friends to protect you. Come on, friends." She looked up at the saint and beckoned with her finger. "Come protect the ego."
  
  
  She made a bump. More hot laughter through the smoky room. And a few seconds later, red stripes and green flowers appeared on the stage.
  
  
  The music started. Her body shuddered. Weaving and swimming around three men. Hands drop, wave, irritate; arching back, straightening hips. By Middle Eastern standards, she was thin. Strong and flexible, with the lightest bloat of life. Narrow waist. Round, gorgeous, melon breasts.
  
  
  She was looking at me.
  
  
  She still wanted to.
  
  
  She jerked her head. A second later, she did it again, looked me in the eye, and shook her head; then she turned her gaze away from me. International language for Scram.
  
  
  I followed her advice. She took the children off my back. Or maybe it's not a coincidence. In addition, he graduated from El Jazzar. He showed his face and poked the bait. The word will spread. If anyone could find me, they would. And there may be a reason to leave now. Maybe someone wants to meet me. Or maybe someone was trying to kill me. Her threw the money and left.
  
  
  No problem getting out through the bar. No one's eyes even whistled at us. That should have been my first hint.
  
  
  Her, went outside. I lit it in front of the club. He listened for sounds that might have been the scrape of boots on broken stone in the street, the slap of a knife blade on carapace, or the long intake of breath before a jump. But I didn't hear her.
  
  
  I went. The street was no more than twelve feet wide; the wall was moaning twelve feet wide. The buildings tilted. My shaggy voices echoed. Still no traffic, just narrow twisty streets, a cat's cry, and the moonlight.
  
  
  Blam! He leaped through the arched window, the man's bulk slamming into me, mid-shoulder, taking me with him on the long, spiraling ride back. The impact carried us both through the air and rolled us toward the exit, around the alley.
  
  
  They waited, the six of them, and ran for the exit. And they weren't impatient, sloppy kids. They were adults, and they knew what they were doing. I jumped off, and he jumped up, thrusting Hugo, my Stiletto, into my palm. But it was hopeless. Two more guys jumped out from behind, grabbing my arms, snapping my neck.
  
  
  He kicked her on the first protruding groin and tried to get out through the judo gate. We don't care. The only thing she's struggled with in the last fourteen weeks is Aunt Tilly's punching bag. And punching bags don't give an answer. My time stank. They were on me all over the place, butting me in life, blowing up my jaw, and che-a boot sank into my shin, my newly minted left shin, and if you want to know what happened after that, you'd better ask ih. I wasn't there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The fifth chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first thing I saw was the black sea. Then the stars slowly appeared. And the crescent moon. It belongs to them that I didn't die and go to heaven, because I guess when you're dead, your jaw doesn't look like a bruised melon, and your leg doesn't send you Morse code messages with pain.
  
  
  My eyes adjusted. I watched her through the skylight, lying on the couch in the big room. Studios. Artist's workshop. The ego was lit by candles on tall stands, and they cast harsh shadows on the bare wooden floors and canvases stacked on the walkway.
  
  
  At the end of the room, about thirty feet away, Abu Abdelhir Shukair Youssef was sitting on a chair, studying my gun.
  
  
  I closed my eyes and thought about it. Okay, so I went to El Jazzar, brainless and rusty, begging for trouble, and fancy gin got my wish. Three stupid moves in one short evening. Break the world record for stupidity. Quickly. Call Guinness. I knew that sooner or later I would get into the ego book of records.
  
  
  First, I was framed by a rotten grandmother dancing on her stomach; second, I was beaten up by a gang of thugs in an alley; third, the stupidest one around, he thought I was smart-ass, that's the word. More courage than common sense.
  
  
  And now its stuck in plays.
  
  
  He tried to get up. My body wasn't being seen, it's such a good idea. In fact, it made my head fly. My head obeyed-round and round.
  
  
  Yusef started to cross the room. The pistol in his hand is Wilhelmina's Luger.
  
  
  He said, " I think you two had a little fight."
  
  
  It didn't seem so small."
  
  
  He laughed without humor. "Here - if you survive the fight, we consider it insignificant." He sat down on the floor and handed me the gun. "I think you're going to lose this." He pulled out my stiletto. "And also this."
  
  
  "Well, damn her." Luger took it, tucked Ego into his belt, and slid the stiletto back into its scabbard. He looked at Yusef. He lost his dark, merciless gaze and looked at me with quiet appreciation.
  
  
  "How did I get here?"
  
  
  "I thought you'd ask. I found you in the alley."
  
  
  She flinched at the phrase. It made me feel like an orange peel or a bag of leaking coffee grounds. Things that can be found in alleys.
  
  
  "I also found your gun behind the pillar. They did a good job with you."
  
  
  "'Good' depends on where you're sitting." He met his gaze. "Where are you sitting?"
  
  
  "You could say I'm bad for the other gang."
  
  
  Now." Finally. "What gang?"
  
  
  "Are you thirsty?"
  
  
  "What gang?"
  
  
  He got up and found a bottle of vodka. "For starters," he said across the room, " they call themselves B'nai Megiddo. In English: Sons of Armageddon. And if you remember your Bible ..."
  
  
  "Armageddon is a flood of light."
  
  
  "You're close. Here they are fighting the last war."
  
  
  "My goal is where they fought in the last war. Who are these steam engines? And what do they have against my head?"
  
  
  He handed me the bottle. I took the cork off her nah and carefully examined her face. A large, bony face with a curved nose. Short-cropped hair. Smart-sad eyes. They were now twinkling out of light fun. "Maybe they're just trying to rob you... or maybe they know who you are."
  
  
  "Who? Her? McKenzie around the world?"
  
  
  He shook his head. "And its King Faisal. I don't think Megiddo knows who you are, but I do. You worked with Robbie, and so did hers. And reporters don't carry lugs and stilettos on stilettos. Now do you want to talk about the mail business or not? "
  
  
  "How much does it cost?"
  
  
  "Five hundred dollars in your money."
  
  
  "What did Robbie pay?"
  
  
  “yeah. Absolutely fantastic. I give it to you to save your life."
  
  
  He took another sip. "How about some vodka? Is it to the house?"
  
  
  He leaned back and stared at me coldly. "Oh, right. You resent my accusations. A pure-minded, principled American and a nasty, fussy, immoral Arab."
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. "Err. Wrong. And as long as we stick to stereotypes, I resent that I am considered a pure mind." He handed em the bottle. "But you're right about one thing. I'm suspicious of guys who sell new products, because news is something that can be sold twice. Once in each direction. Net double profit."
  
  
  Ego's hand tightened on the bottle. Ego eyes cut through mine. "This doesn't apply."
  
  
  Our eyes struggled for a few more seconds. "Okay," I said, " I think I'll buy this. First, tell me - how did you get into the newspaper game?"
  
  
  "For beginners," he said, writing down the phrase, " its drusus. Do you understand?"
  
  
  Understood her. The Druze are a small Islamic sect that is persecuted in most Arab countries. About 40,000 of them live in Israel and live much better than under the Arabs. Emu let her continue.
  
  
  "I come from the Golan Heights. The entire territory of the hotel, a, which Israel conquered in 1967. But it's not a vegetable grower. And it's not a basket-maker." He glanced quickly at the piles of canvas. Strong, rocky, black landscapes. "So," he said simply,"I came to Tel Aviv."
  
  
  "As I understand it, without love for the Syrians."
  
  
  "Completely loveless. And hers is a Syrian." He stared at the bottle in his hand. "But first her man. And secondly, Druse." He started to smile. "It's interesting how a person gets attached to their labels. To tell you the truth, I think I'm an atheist, but they call me a Druze. They follow me like a Druze. And that's why I'm proud to say I'm a Druze."
  
  
  He took a long drink and set the bottle down. "And this story is also "in the house". Now we are discussing B'nai Megiddo."
  
  
  Youssef told me that B'nai Megiddo was inspired by a group called Matzpen. Translation: Compass. They think they're pointing in the right direction. They indicate the leftmost direction.
  
  
  Matzpen has about eighty members, both Arab and Jewish,and most of them are students. They want the State of Israel to be dissolved and replaced by a communist one.
  
  
  This is the form of government. In this idea, they put the guy in parliament and we didn't get anywhere. The fact that ih candidate was in prison at the time on charges of spying for Syrian intelligence did not greatly increase ih's chances.
  
  
  However, terror is not an ih style. Not so far away. They are mostly published in Palestinian newspapers, joining "Communists everywhere", including the Palestinian commandos. While they ran for office and tried to free their candidate, they went to local bars, hitting places like the streets of El Jazzar, where life is hard, and the siren song ih manifesto can sound like Pied Piper bait. .
  
  
  And the next thing you know, it's B'nai Megiddo. A bitch of frustrated, angry kids who think "communism" means " something in vain." And not only that. It's also a way to blow off steam, break a few windows, break a few jaws, and thus establish the best path.
  
  
  Dis: we've already talked about this, let's discuss the best way forward. There must be one. There must be a way to eliminate poverty and dead-end slums, hatred, prejudice and all the other age-old vices. But communist systems-with ih purges, labor camps, and regulations, with ih's own illogical yellow brick road, with ih's harsh suppression of ih by royal states-are not, if you ask me, the best path.
  
  
  "How are they related to Al-Shaytan?"
  
  
  Yusef shook his head. "B'nai Megiddo? I'm not sure it's them. At least not yet. Let me start at the beginning. I live a few blocks from Al Jazzar, so it's easy for me to go there often. Her Syrian, an artist. It is likely that I will also be a revolutionary. So I talk about the party line, and they talk to me too. Anyway, a few days before Fox's abduction, Odin was talking loudly around the guys there. He went to Megiddo to buy a lot of weapons, said he could buy twelve hundred pounds ' worth of Kalashnikovs. That's three hundred dollars. Everyone was very happy.
  
  
  "The thing is, this guy also pushes hashish. Half the time it's above the clouds, so I thought it might be one of my ego's pipe dreams. Her, he said:"Will this money fall from the trees? Or are you planning to rob the storage facilities of the Hilton hotel? "He told me that no, he has a source of big money."
  
  
  "And he did it?"
  
  
  "Who knows? It was like a big piece of pie in the sky. He started talking about his brother who had another one who suddenly got rich. Ego's brother, according to ego, asked a friend where he got the money, and he said that his work was agreed upon. The job involved a kidnapping plan, and according to ego, the payback would have been huge."
  
  
  "And Megiddo was involved?"
  
  
  "Don't jump to conclusions. As far as I know, no one participated. No one has ever seen the other's brother or ego. They live in Syria. In a village called Beit Temi. Just a few miles from the ledge. When to her, I tell you, it sounded like Medvedev to the sky, hers meant that it was all a ladder of "if's". If a brother came across a job, he would give Megiddo some work. And if Megiddo was doing this job, they would have money for weapons."
  
  
  "And?"
  
  
  "And I didn't see any money, I didn't see any weapons, and no one in Megiddo bragged about the abduction."
  
  
  "And the guy who told you that?"
  
  
  “yeah. The guy was killed."
  
  
  We were both silent for a moment, except for the click of wheels in our heads.
  
  
  "And you told this story about the abduction of Slaves."
  
  
  He nodded. “yeah. As soon as I heard it."
  
  
  "When was big mouth killed?"
  
  
  Yusef squinted at the dot in the air. "Wait and I'll tell you straight out." The air calendar switched to a date. He snapped his fingers. "The twenty-fifth. Two days before the slave murders. Four days before Leonard Fox's return. But no - to answer your next corkscrew - I didn't know if there was a connection. I do not know if Rabov followed this up. "
  
  
  I remembered what Benjamin had said about Robbie. That he never paid until he checked the information. "But he paid you?"
  
  
  "Of course. The day he left, around town."
  
  
  "Although, as far as you know, there was no guarantee that the group involved was Al-Shaitan or that the victim of the abduction was supposed to be Leonard Fox."
  
  
  He shook his head. "I'm telling Robbie the truth. Whether or not it's true is ego's business, not mine."
  
  
  So Robbie could have paid emu anyway. Good faith. Benevolence.
  
  
  "Do you know why Robbie went to Jerusalem?"
  
  
  Yusef smiled. "You don't understand. It was brought by Rabowitz. Not the other way around."
  
  
  She smiled at the rheumatism. "It was worth a try." Something was bothering me. "The other brother who flashed money..."
  
  
  “yeah. What's wrong with him?
  
  
  "Before the abduction, he flashed money."
  
  
  Yusef's eyes narrowed. "Right?"
  
  
  "So the hired thug wasn't reached before the action started. At least, nothing special."
  
  
  Now we were both looking through our glasses at the air sampling area.
  
  
  He turned to Yusef. "What was the dead guy's name?"
  
  
  "Mansour," he replied. My brother's name is Ali, I think."
  
  
  "Does my brother still live in Beit Nam?"
  
  
  He shrugged. "If my brother is still alive."
  
  
  "Yes," I said, " I know what you mean. Sometimes death can be contagious."
  
  
  We set up a place for her to send the money to, and Youssef called a friend who had a wrecked truck to come pick me up.
  
  
  The other was a Syrian, but not an artist. Or rather, he was a sort of junk dealer - in the nineteenth - century sense of the word "junk" - and had to be stuffed with old clothes, battered pots, and a large, stained blue-striped mattress that kept swaying to the ground. on his shoulders when he was driving. He turned around, cursed the ego, beat the ego, and continued driving with the other hand. Ego's name was Rafa, and when he dropped me off at the address emu gave her, emu said good luck to ego the seventh son.
  
  
  He sighed and told me that he had eight daughters.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sixth chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Would you like some coffee?" It was a long night. Coffee was probably a good idea. I told her I'd be there, and she disappeared, leaving me alone in the ordinary living room of Universal Modern. Brown striped sofa, glass tables, replica Barcelona chair.
  
  
  Sarah Lavi rang the doorbell flawlessly at midnight. In fact, I had the feeling that she was welcoming the intrusion. She didn't seem to be trying to sleep these nights. Sergei was burning all over the apartment, and a large unfinished pillowcase with a needle point lay at the base of the chair, along with balls of bright wool. Music was playing, pulsing with bossa nova.
  
  
  She came back with a pot and cups. "I didn't ask - do you take cream and sugar with your coffee?"
  
  
  "Sugar, if you have it."
  
  
  She disappeared in a swirl of skirts. Colorful person Sarah Lavi. They were all wearing peasant skirts and peasant blouses, with giant gold hoops in their ears. This outfit refuted the media reports that appeared to me about a paint shop in Seattle. The one with the neon sign in the window: "If we don't have color, the ego doesn't exist." Nah's hair was dark, almost black, and slicked back from her face, which went well with her pale, high - cheekboned face and huge, lashed, almost black eyes. Hey, she was about thirty, and she was close to what they call a real woman.
  
  
  "So the world sent you to take Jack's place." She handed me a bowl of sugar and a spoon.
  
  
  "It's not a small job, as far as I know, I heard it was good."
  
  
  A small silence.
  
  
  "There's another reason they sent me," I said, " we'd like to learn more about the dorms... why he died."
  
  
  Her eyes left me in silence. She shrugged helplessly and fell back into the distant silence.
  
  
  Her said, " I-I'd like to ask you a few questions. Me... I'm really sorry."
  
  
  She looked me in the eye again. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I didn't want to act like a delicate flower. Go ahead. Ask your questions."
  
  
  Good. First of all, do you know what story he was working on?" I had to play along with the Slave cover. The girl either knew or didn't know the truth. Most likely, both. She knew and didn't know. Women are professionals at such things. They know and don't know when ih husbands cheat. They know and don't know when you're lying.
  
  
  She shook her head. "He never told me about his work..." A small lift at the end of the sentence, turning the ego into an unconscious tailspin: tell me about the ego work."
  
  
  The subtext ignored her. "Can you tell me anything about what he was doing? Real professionals. Let's say a week before ego leaves."
  
  
  It looked empty again. "There were two nights when he was left alone for dinner. Didn't come back before... well, maybe until midnight. Is that what you mean?"
  
  
  I told her what it was. He asked her if she knew where he went on the oni night. She didn't do it. She said she never knew. She never asked. She blushed a little, and I thought I knew why.
  
  
  "I doubt it was any other woman," her husband said.
  
  
  She looked at me with a wry expression. "It doesn't matter," she said. "Indeed."Hey, I had to look up from 'really'.
  
  
  She sipped her coffee and put down her cup. "I'm afraid you'll find me a rather disappointing source of information. His knew so little about the rest of Jack's life. And that was part of it... Well, the 'deal' that I never tried to find out." She ran her finger over the design on the cup.
  
  
  She did it again, and then said slowly,"I guess I always knew it wouldn't last."
  
  
  The last one was an invitation to talk.
  
  
  I asked her what she meant by mistletoe.
  
  
  "I mean, I wasn't very good at it. Her ego knew the rules and stuck to the ego did, but I always wondered why there were rules? " Her eyes were like shiny spotlights on my face. They didn't find anything. They retreated to the bowl. She shrugged, experienced and elegant, feeling like a failure. "I was never sure. We'd never seen her, but I wasn't sure. And Jack was very confident." She pulled out the earring and smiled wryly again. "A woman can never be confident in a man who is confident in himself."
  
  
  "Did your mother recognize you by this?"
  
  
  “no. Her alone everything became known. But I'm sure you're not here to find out what she's learned about men. So ask your questions, Mr. Mackenzie."
  
  
  He stopped to light a cigarette. Finding out about the dead agent's girlfriend was the first thing I realized. Is she smart enough to be an enemy agent? Ambitious enough to sell your ego? Stupid enough to betray her ego? Or angry enough? Her doubted that Sarah was anything around this, but she wasn't sure about nen. And that made Nah curious, despite herself. And if a woman is curious, she can also be careless. Despite myself.
  
  
  "We talked about ego last week here. Do you know anything he did - did he talk to Hema?"
  
  
  She started to say no... wait. He did make a lot of long-distance calls. I know her because we are... because I just got the bill."
  
  
  "Can I have a drink?"
  
  
  She went to the desk, rummaged around, and came back with a phone bill. He looked at him quickly. The calls were detailed. Beirut. Damascus. Numbers were listed. I told her I wanted to keep my ego, and I gave it to her in a minute. "Ego phone book," I said. "Did you get this?" It was one of the things I came for. The book could give me a line to his contacts. Without this line, it would have worked in the dark.
  
  
  "N-no," she said. "It was in a box with other things."
  
  
  "What box?" I told her. "With what other things."
  
  
  "With your notes and papers. He kept ih in the closet in a locked drawer."
  
  
  "What happened to the box?" I said slowly.
  
  
  "Ah. Another American took it."
  
  
  "Another American?"
  
  
  "The other reporter."
  
  
  "Out of the World?"
  
  
  "All Over The World."
  
  
  She started this round with a sinking feeling. The feeling was now in the basement.
  
  
  "Do you happen to know ego's name?"
  
  
  She looked at me sharply. "Of course. Hers wouldn't be serving Jack's stuff to a stranger."
  
  
  "So what was ego's name?"
  
  
  "Jahns," she said. "Jens, Ted."
  
  
  He took one last drag on his cigarette and slowly, slowly put it out in the ashtray. "And when it was... Jens, is Ted here?"
  
  
  She looked at me questioningly. "Three or four days ago. Why not?"
  
  
  "No reason," I said quickly. "I was just curious. If Jahns comes back, let me know, okay? I'd like to ask her something."
  
  
  Her face relaxed. "Of course. But I doubt the tailor will take it. He's in an office in Damascus, you know."
  
  
  Its said: "I know."
  
  
  I decided to go the other way. "Besides the papers Jahns took, is there anything else from Jack that's still here? What about the things he had with him in Jerusalem?
  
  
  "There were. In fact, they arrived today. Ih was sent by the hotel. I have a suitcase in my bedroom right now. Her didn't open it. Her... hers wasn't ready. But if you think it will help... "
  
  
  He followed her into the bedroom. It was a large, spacious room with an abandoned bed. She began to straighten the bed. "Over there," she pointed with her chin at the worn leather suitcase.
  
  
  I told her. "Keys?"
  
  
  She shook her head. "Combination. Numbers from 4 to 11. It's my birthday."
  
  
  "Your birthday?"
  
  
  "This is my suitcase. Jack's suitcase fell apart."
  
  
  I processed the combination and opened the bag. She was done with the bed. "Put it here."
  
  
  He picked up her suitcase and put Ego on the bed. She sat down next to him. Her hotel would tell hey to come out through the rooms. Not just so she wouldn't be over my shoulder, but because she was a damn attractive woman. And at the moment, a woman who needs to be held. It was Robbie who started sorting through her things.
  
  
  No paperwork. Clean water. Nothing slipped out of the lining of the bag. Who left her clothes behind. Jeans. Chinos. A pair of hoodies. Dark brown suit. Jacket. Boots.
  
  
  Boots. Heavy boots. For the city of Jerusalem? One of them picked it up and looked at it carefully, turning it over. An orange streak of dust clung to the sole of the shoe. Ego scratched it with his finger. The orange stripe is dust.
  
  
  And at the bottom of his chinos, orange dust. Robbie wasn't in town, he was somewhere else. He was on the plain. A plain with rust-colored chalk cliffs.
  
  
  Sarah looked at me with puzzled wariness.
  
  
  "Did you get notifications from Jack while Ego was away? Do you know if he went anywhere around Jerusalem?"
  
  
  "Yes, yes," she said. "How did you know? He went to Jerusalem candid from here. He stayed at the American Colony Hotel. I know he went there first because he called me that night. And then two nights later... No, three, it was twenty-five. fifth. He called me again and said he was going away for a few days and I shouldn't worry if I couldn't get in touch with him." There were questions in her statements again. He didn't have to ask her if she knew where he'd gone.
  
  
  So all I knew was that Robbie had gone around Jerusalem in X, and back to Jerusalem. Wherever he went, he would have come back alive. Ego was killed in Jerusalem. On the twenty-seventh.
  
  
  He continued to study the Slaves ' clothing. Sarah made her feel like a vulture. A cold-blooded bird that feeds on the remains. A matchbox was found in her jacket pocket. It was put by the ego in its own moment. I can come back later.
  
  
  And these were the last effects of Jackson Slaves.
  
  
  "What about the car? Is she still in Jerusalem?"
  
  
  She shook her head. "He didn't take the car. He left it to me."
  
  
  "Wallet, keys, money?"
  
  
  She shook her head again. "Whoever killed him took everything. Ego, the clock, too. That's why she was so sure it was... Well, like the police said, a robbery. At least... I was sure until tonight" Another corkscrew.
  
  
  "Hey, rheumatism. She would have believed in rheumatism and would not have believed it. "It was probably a robbery," I said.
  
  
  The suitcase closed it.
  
  
  She stayed on the bed.
  
  
  The music was coming from the other room. The sexy bossa nova bit.
  
  
  "All right," she said. "If you're done..." but she didn't move. What surprised her was that she didn't move. But she still didn't move. Hers, too. Her eyes were on her shoulders. Smooth curves passed to her neck, and the long silky neck turned into a small upturned chin, and the chin passed to soft, puzzled lips.
  
  
  "Yes," I said. "I think I finished it."
  
  
  A week after someone stabbed me in an alley, I don't want any other guy messing around with my girlfriend. I thought maybe Robbie felt the same way.
  
  
  Her, say good night and left.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The seventh chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a big four-course Sunday breakfast, and room service put a chair on the balcony. It was late, 10: 30. I was in a deep, spidery sleep, and the ego threads were still plaguing my brain.
  
  
  The weather was mild, the sun was shining, and the balcony overlooked the Mediterranean Sea. The sound of seabirds. A splash of waves. The day was like a sweet smiling Mata Hari who was just trying to get me out of my debt.
  
  
  He poured her another cup of coffee, lit a cigarette, and reached for the newspaper he'd ordered with breakfast. A small article gave me some bad news.
  
  
  Harrison Stoel, a lawyer and editor of the popular monthly magazine Public Report, was abducted. Al Shaitan again. Again, for a hundred million dollars.
  
  
  And four and one - five hundred million. Half a billion dollars.
  
  
  For what?
  
  
  I tried something else. I looked at the list of kidnap victims. My mind automatically found the pattern. There was no reason for the pattern to exist, but my mind is set on finding patterns.
  
  
  Leonard Fox, the king of hotels. Large glass calve in every city in the world. Giant Coca-Cola bottles are strewn across the horizon. Fox was in trouble. A big problem. Among other things, it was a problem with money. A private claim for damages for two hundred million; now add what the government can get. A couple of million in unpaid taxes, plus fines for at least a dozen fraud cases. Fox lived in the Bahamas, but Foxx Hotels Inc. was in a precarious position.
  
  
  Roger R. Jefferson: National Motors. Minor league car business, major league parent companies. Car sales were falling across the industry for a variety of reasons - the energy crisis, rising prices, and the invention of the eight-mile-per-gallon car. National Motors has closed two plants and is currently dealing a blow to a third. Jefferson was an ordinary man with a salary of $ 200,000 a year). Whatever it was, he couldn't raise the ransom. The claim was made by National itself.
  
  
  Harlow Wilts: Cottage motels. Southwest network of one-night tours. The motel business runs on gas, too, and people think twice about taking a vacation when a hamburger costs fifty dollars a pound. And Wilts was already too far gone in his plans to buy an Italian hotel.
  
  
  Harris
  
  
  on the Gallery: what they called the "crusader editor". Postal and printing activities reached such a high level that he supported the "Public Report", requiring additional contributions.
  
  
  So until now, the ferret had a pattern. Everyone had money problems. What did that mean? This meant that banks would not make loans worth hundreds of millions of dollars. This meant that companies would have to sell their assets and go bankrupt. What did it all mean? Nothing. Why should Al-Shaitan care about bankruptcy?
  
  
  And there was the case of Thurgood Miles to complicate the scheme. Miles's Po Pooch Bag Dog Food plus boarding schools, beauty salons, clothing stores, gift shops, hospitals, hotels and funeral chapels - all for dogs. And all this brings a profit that can easily amaze the imagination. Thurgood Miles: pattern breaker.
  
  
  And there was no reason for the template to exist.
  
  
  The phone rang. She was answered by an extension on the balcony. David Benjamin answered my call.
  
  
  Ego asked her if he would check the phone numbers. Find out who Rabov called in Beirut and Damascus a week before his death.
  
  
  He wrote down the numbers. "Did you learn anything else important?" He seemed evasive. Like he knew I knew something.
  
  
  "Nothing special."
  
  
  "Hmm. Are you sure?"
  
  
  "Of course, its safe." Her, looking at the beach, or rather, at a particular red bikini on the beach.
  
  
  "So what are your plans? Will you stay in the city?"
  
  
  Her eyes snapped up from her bikini. "No," emu told her. "I'm going to Jerusalem."
  
  
  "Well, if you're planning to rent a car, try Kopel on Yarkon Street. You can take a Fiat 124 and swap your ego in Jerusalem for a Jeep... if you need it."
  
  
  He paused. "Why do I need a Jeep in Jerusalem?"
  
  
  "You won't need a Jeep,"he said," in Jerusalem."
  
  
  "Are there any other useful suggestions?"
  
  
  "Eat leafy vegetables and get plenty of rest"
  
  
  Emu advised her to do something.
  
  
  It was rented by Fiat 124 from Kopel Rent-A-Car on Yarkon Street. Nine bucks a day, plus ten cents a mile. They said I could exchange my ego jeep in Jerusalem.
  
  
  He headed southeast on a four-lane highway that stretched for seventy kilometers. About forty-four miles. He turned on the radio. American Rock Panel discussion on fertilizers. I turned off the radio.
  
  
  He hadn't exactly lied to Benjamin when he told Em that he hadn't found anything important. In fact, it probably hurt to be true. For five hundred dollars, they bought me the name of my brother Trup in Beit Nam. Vote and that's it, and probably nothing.
  
  
  And as for the five hundred dollars, if that was all Robbie had paid Youssef, that left another twenty-five hundred dollars. Somewhere in the future, he achieved more.
  
  
  Who did he pay?
  
  
  Without the ego of her contact list, I had no idea.
  
  
  And without any clues, five guys can lose five hundred million. Or maybe ih life.
  
  
  Which brings me to the question: who had any hints? Who took Rabah's things? It was easy. James. But he was in Arizona tied to a bed. Go to the beginning. Ih took the American. An agent? A spy? More? An enemy?
  
  
  He turned on the radio again and reached for a cigarette when he remembered.
  
  
  A matchbox. The one from the Slaves ' doublet.
  
  
  Shanda Baths
  
  
  78 Omar Street
  
  
  Jerusalem
  
  
  
  
  On the inside of the cover, the name Chaim is handwritten.
  
  
  Then again, it probably didn't mean anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The eighth chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  The map of Israel reads like an index to the Bible. You can start with the Book of Genesis and go through the Mines of Solomon, the Tomb of David, Bethlehem and Nazareth, and end with Armageddon. If you want a short version, come to Jerusalem.
  
  
  The city takes your breath away with every step. Because you are standing where Solomon kept his horses, and now you are walking along Via Dolorosa, the street where Christ was carried with the cross. And there Muhammad ascended to heaven. And the tomb of Absalom. And Mary's grave. The Wailing Wall. Golden dome of the Omar Mosque; stained glass room of the Last Supper. It's all there. And everything looks about as it did then.
  
  
  Jerusalem has 200,000 Jews, 75,000 Muslims, and 15,000 Christians; there are also tensions, but no more so than now, when the city was divided and Arabs lived under Arab rule without running water or sanitation.
  
  
  Part of the city called "East Jerusalem", which belonged to Jordan before the 1967 war. Just like Mount Scopus and the Mount of Olives.
  
  
  Thus, "East Jerusalem" has an Arabic character.
  
  
  "Arabic in character" can be misunderstood. Because the Arabic character is misunderstood, at least by most of the Western Arabs around us, it remains the last true barbarian exotic in the Western consciousness. Sheikhs with four wives, Sharia law, questionable morals and bad teeth. Runaway merchants who will sell you a "real antique carpet" and ask for two piastres more for their daughter. Bad guys who torment the good guys in the movies and haven't been up to anything good since the day Rudolph Valentino died. The terrorists didn't help the image. In fact, they even became an image. And that's pretty stupid.
  
  
  All Arabs are no more violent terrorists than all Arab sheikhs. If I need to make a generalization about Arabs, and I hate it in general, I would say that they have a great mindset, broad humor, great manners, and a friendliness that sometimes borders on excessive.
  
  
  American colony hall in East Jerusalem. Once it was the victory Palace. Gold-plated tile dome for fun. Now rooms cost twenty dollars a day. Huge rooms with beamed ceilings and oriental patterns on the walls.
  
  
  I registered as a McKenzie worldwide and went out to the sunlit courtyard for lunch. Eda is French, as well as Middle Eastern. I ordered her French food and Israeli wine. It was late for lunch, and most of the tiled tables were empty. Four local businessmen were stoned through a bed of blooming geraniums. Next to me, a tanned, expensive-looking couple stared at a silver espresso pot, waiting for the coffee to turn black to suit their taste. The man sighed. He didn't want the ego to be kept waiting.
  
  
  My wine arrived, and the man craned his neck to see the label. Emu let her try it. I thought that if I told her emu, we'd be sampling the wine in the next half hour. Then he'll want to talk about restaurants in France and the best shirt manufacturer on Saville Row. So I let em have a drink.
  
  
  He cleared his throat. "Simple," he said. American. "I was just wondering ..."
  
  
  "Mikveh Israel".
  
  
  "I beg your pardon?"
  
  
  "Wine". I spun her bottle. "Mikveh Israel".
  
  
  He read the label. "Mikveh Israel".
  
  
  He was wearing a six-hundred-dollar suit - a brown suit, dark shirt, dark skin, and brown hair. What can be called a tangible success. The lady next to him completed the image. Blonde Grace Kelly by pale blue silk.
  
  
  "I thought you looked familiar earlier." She spoke in melodies. Accent, French. "But now I know who you remind me of." The look was flirtatious. Cool, but hot. She turned to an ad for suntan lotion. "Who do you think you are, Bob?"
  
  
  Bob was silent . My eda has arrived. She leaned over to the waiter and took my hand. The waiter winked at me and left. She leaned forward. "You don't ... isn't that right?"
  
  
  "Omar Sharif. Uh. Apologies." He stubbed out his cigarette and started eating his lunch. Bob was looking at my cigarettes. In a minute, he will ask to see the bundle. He cleared his throat.
  
  
  "Her, Bob Lamotte. And this is Jacqueline Rain."
  
  
  I gave up on her. "Mackenzie's." We all felt sorry for each other's hands.
  
  
  "Are you here on vacation?" Bob asked.
  
  
  I told her that I work for World Magazine. Her tactic was saying it so much that I was starting to believe it.
  
  
  He told me that he worked at Murals Oil. He said "Ouch" and continued eating. Not " Ouch?" Just " Ouch." The ego wasn't supposed to be intimidating.
  
  
  "How's Medvedev with custard?"
  
  
  "Hmm?"
  
  
  He pointed at my plate. "Kish. How's that?"
  
  
  "Great."
  
  
  "Not as good as Madame Dit's, I keep the money. Have you ever been to Madame Diet's in Paris? The best Medvedev with custard in the world, without exception."
  
  
  "I'll remember that."
  
  
  "Are you here alone?"
  
  
  "Mmm. Yeah."
  
  
  "All right," Jacqueline said. "In that case, maybe..." The look she gave Bob read like teleprompter cards. Bob understood Ego's line.
  
  
  "Ah ... yes. Do you want a ticket to the concert tonight? I have a meeting, a business meeting, and, well, Jacqueline wants to go here, but hey, well, it's kind of awkward to go alone. So uh..."
  
  
  Jacqueline looked at me long and slowly. The why-I-cat-away-what-he-doesn't-know-won't-hurt look. Her eyes were green and studded with gold.
  
  
  I told her: "God, I'm sorry, but I have other plans."
  
  
  People like Lamotte make me say things like "take a tailor." And women like Jacqueline are bad for humans. You can hear the ih wheels clicking as they plan to hook you, but the subtle fragrance, the silky hair, the light hand in your hand, then slipping away... and the next thing you know, you're hooked. And the next thing you know, you're back in the ocean.
  
  
  "Maybe another time?" They said it together, and then they both laughed.
  
  
  "Maybe," he said as they laughed.
  
  
  The check demanded it, paid it, and left.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  There are Turkish baths and there are Turkish baths.
  
  
  And then there's Shanda.
  
  
  Authentic Turkish and authentic baths. No nonsense. Choose-steam heating or dry zest, hot pool, cold pool or medium-warm. Shanda is located in another former palace. Stained glass windows, mosaic floors, high gilded domed ceilings.
  
  
  And Hema, in the name of Allah, was Chaim? Haim could be working here, or just hanging around. Haim might have come to see Robbie at least once. Haim can't be here at all. Or Slaves, too. Maybe he just found a matchbox. Excuse me, miss, do you have any saints? Sure. Here. It's all right. Keep ih.
  
  
  He walked over to the table. A battered office-style desk chair from 1910 in the middle of the pasha-style lobby. The sign read: "IL 5 admission. $ 1.15". I paid it to the cashier. It was like my memories of S. Z. Sackell-a turkey with butter balls and glasses.
  
  
  I put down my change and thought for a minute.
  
  
  "So?" he said in English, " so what's the matter?"
  
  
  Its said: "Do I look like something happened?"
  
  
  "Have you ever seen anything happen to anyone? Everyone has something of their own. So why are you different?"
  
  
  He smiled at her. "He's gone."
  
  
  He shrugged. "Right?"
  
  
  So why not? He said, " Is Chaim here?"
  
  
  He said, " Chaim who?"
  
  
  "I do not know. Who do you have?"
  
  
  He shook his chin. "There is no Chaim here." He bowed his head. "So why do you ask?"
  
  
  "Someone told me to ask Chaim."
  
  
  He shook his chin again. "There is no Chaim here."
  
  
  Good. Good. Where's the locker?"
  
  
  "If you said Chaim sent you, that's something else."
  
  
  "Anything else?"
  
  
  "If you said Haim sent you, I'll call my boss. If I call my boss, you'll get special treatment."
  
  
  He scratched her head. "Could you call the boss?"
  
  
  "If I called my boss, I would be happy and happy. There is only one problem. Haim didn't send you."
  
  
  "Look, let's say we start over. Hello. A good day. Haim sent me."
  
  
  He smiled. "Yes?"
  
  
  He smiled at her. “yeah. Will you call the boss?"
  
  
  "If her boss called her, she would be happy and happy. There is only one problem. The boss isn't here."
  
  
  Her, closed his eyes.
  
  
  He said, " Tell me you're going to the steam room." I'll send her to the boss later."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  Fellini had the steam room kit. It was round and tall, like a small Colosseum, surrounded by round white stone slabs that rose like grandstands to a high domed ceiling of colored glass. With the steam, it was like a surrealist's dream of Pompeii. Bodies sprawled on the stone steps appeared in midair, but just in time to prevent a collision. Visibility was almost zero.
  
  
  I found her locker and rented a large Persian-patterned towel and a fiber scraper they call a washcloth. I didn't know how the boss could have found me. He couldn't even get to his feet.
  
  
  Her, climbed up on the slab about twenty feet up. Steam rises. It was good and hot. I thought I could fix the dents from the previous night. Relax sore muscles. Her, closed his eyes. Maybe Robbie Jackson just came here to relax. Maybe he came for the steam, the pool, and the special treatment Chaim sent me.
  
  
  He had to admit that the treatment was special. From somewhere in the Pompeian mists, a pair of hands quickly flew in. They grabbed me with a hammer and pulled me out by the counterweights. It was so damn hot that her ego couldn't see it. But I know how to take a seizure off the hammer. I can do it, as they say, with my hands behind my back.
  
  
  I hit her back with a judo kick, and the guy flew away from me, again and again, and disappeared in a puff of steam.
  
  
  Not for long.
  
  
  He hit me in the ribs with the butt of his rifle (you need radar to fight there), and he slipped on a rock. The towel flew and he was naked, and then he was coming at me again, a big faceless blob, starting to dive like a bomb to kill.
  
  
  I waited for the second nachah to lift off the ground and roll over! Her body slid down a step, and her body slammed into an empty rock. I was on nen before he could say "ugh"! I hit his ego across the throat with the side of my hand, but he blocked me with a hand as thick as a tree trunk. He was built like King Kong, and the look on his face didn't change my mind. We were practically doing Indian wrestling until he grunted and shuddered, and we both rolled over and over, and suddenly he fell on the step,
  
  
  and he hit his head on a rock.
  
  
  For example, then it could use the help of Wilhelmina. But of course it wasn't his Luger that took her to the steam room, but Hugo, his trusty stiletto, took her. Unfortunately, her ego hid the towel belt, and it flew away when the towel flew, and her ego lost somewhere in that pair.
  
  
  But as someone said, search and find. I felt something sharp prickle on my back. In this blockbuster movie, I was pinned down like a fly, and I was trying to make a chopped liver around my head, and my own knife started stabbing me in the back.
  
  
  I got enough leverage to make a move. He grabbed the step in front of me and pushed me away, and we both rolled back and forth, down-and now I had the stiletto. But now he had my hand with the knife, and we rolled over again, pushing the knife, only now he was on top of me and pinning my hands. He held it up to every tribe, and ego's eyes started to bulge, and we went back to him. He heard something snap, his breath hiss, and his hand relax. I was approaching and realized that I was pushing a knife into the corpse.
  
  
  He slowly stood up, looking at his attacker. Ego's neck broke on the corner of the step, and the target was hanging from the end. He stood up, breathing hard. The ego body collapsed. It began to roll. Up and down through the stands of white stone steps, down through the rising infernal clouds of steam.
  
  
  He walked around the rotunda and down the steps. I was halfway out the door when I heard someone say, " What do you think that noise was about?"
  
  
  The ego comrade replied ," What noise?"
  
  
  I decided to visit my boss. Then he put on his clothes and went to the door marked "Director". The ego secretary told me that there is no ego. Mimmo ee of the chair and servants walked past her and opened the door to the boss's office. There was no ego. The receptionist was sitting at my elbow, a plump, cross-eyed middle-aged woman with her arms crossed over her chest. "Is there a message?" she said. Sarcastic.
  
  
  "Yeah," I said. "Tell em that Haim was here. And its the last time I recommend ego place."
  
  
  He stopped at the reception area.
  
  
  "Did Haim send many friends?"
  
  
  "Nah," he said, " The first one is you. The boss only told me two days ago."Be careful when someone says Haim."
  
  
  Two days ago. He began to create his own land of meaning.
  
  
  Maybe.
  
  
  "So?" he asked me. "Is something wrong?"
  
  
  "No," I said slowly. "It's all right. Just fine."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The ninth chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kopel Rent-A-Car didn't help me. And my children. I got lucky at Hertz. Yes, Mr. Robbie rented a car. The twenty-fifth. At seven in the morning. He specifically ordered a Land Rover. I called the day before to make a reservation.
  
  
  "And when did he get his ego back?"
  
  
  She ran her fingers over the receipt file. An ugly girl with bad skin. She gave me a smile that looked like a hired hand. "The twenty-seventh. Eleven-thirty."
  
  
  Twenty minutes later, he telegraphed to AX. An hour after that, he died in an alley.
  
  
  She started to close the file drawer.
  
  
  "Can you tell me something else?"
  
  
  A sign on the counter said her name was Miss Mangel.
  
  
  "Can you tell me how many miles he spent on the Rover?"
  
  
  She flung her plum-shaped spear nails back across the letter "R" until she reached Robbie. "Five hundred and forty kilometers, sir."
  
  
  I put a fifty-pound note on the counter. "What is it, what is it for?" "What is it?" she asked suspiciously.
  
  
  "That's because you've never heard of Mr. Robbie, and no one here has asked about nen."
  
  
  "About whom?" she said and took the bill.
  
  
  He took the card from the counter and left.
  
  
  There was an adv = β, and I just rolled around for a while, trying to relax my mind and prepare for the next serious bout of reflection. The city was the color of rose gold, like a giant bracelet thrown between the hills. Church bells rang, and the voice of the muezzin of the land resounded from gilded minarets. La ilaha illa Allah. Muslim call to prayer.
  
  
  The city itself was like a kind of prayer. Arab women, exotic in veils, balancing on baskets on their beads, blending in with tourists in cut-off jeans and Orthodox priests in their long black robes and long black hair, and men in kafiyahs on their way to the mosque and Hasidim. The Jews go to Groan. He wondered if a city named by a God with three names would ever be able to shine from the sky in a mirror and say: "Look, guys, this is how it should be. Everyone lives together in peace." Shalom Aleichem, Salam Aleikum. Peace be with you.
  
  
  He went back to his room and ordered a vodka, then poured hot water into the refrigerator.
  
  
  I took a bath and took vodka with me to the bath. Except for the spot on the back of my head where it hurt to brush my hair, my body forgot the day. Not forgiving, just forgetting.
  
  
  The phone rang. She groaned. There's no such thing as possum luxury in my job, allowing phones to ring or doorbells to ring. Either someone wants to get you, or someone wants to get you. And you never know what until you answer.
  
  
  Her cursed and climbed out around the tub, dripping on the phone, leaving footprints on the oriental carpet.
  
  
  "Mackenzie?"
  
  
  Benjamin. Her emu told her to wait. I told her I'd eaten vanilla ice cream. Her hotel is getting it. I thought it was melting. Comic book code: Maybe we're being tapped. I checked her room, of course, but you can follow the switchboard phone from anywhere. And someone in Jerusalem was following me. He hung up and counted twenty, and when he picked it up, he said em had to go; ego's doorbell was ringing. I told her I'd call em back. He told me to call at ten.
  
  
  I've been thinking about going back to the bathroom, but it's like reheating toast - it's more work than it's worth. He took a towel, his drink, and a map and stretched out on the large double bed.
  
  
  Robbie drove 540 kilometers back and forth. Two hundred and seventy one way. Starting with Jerusalem. I checked the zoom level at the bottom of the map. Forty kilometers to an inch. He measured it 6 inches and drew a circle around Jerusalem; 270 kilometers in each direction. Only about 168 miles.
  
  
  The circle extended north and covered most of Lebanon; east-northeast, it entered Syria; Moving southeast, it captured most of Jordan and a fifty-mile chunk of Saudi Arabia. In the south, it covered half of Sinai and in the southwest, it landed on the porch of Port Said.
  
  
  Somewhere in this circle, Robbie found Shaitan.
  
  
  Somewhere in this circle I'll find Shaitana.
  
  
  Somewhere on the orange dust plain.
  
  
  First things first. Jordan is enemy territory for commandos, and in Egypt it quickly becomes unreliable. The Sinai Peninsula is a good place to hide, but it's full of Israelis and UN observers, as well as Sadat's Egyptians, who are getting pretty comfortable with the United States. Mark this as "maybe", but not as the first option. Nor was it Arabia, which has left most of Syria and most of Lebanon, a country with a large Palestinian contingent. Syria, whose army was still fighting Israel, still hopes to gain a foothold despite the peace talks. Lebanon, a well-known special forces base.
  
  
  So, in the drawing, Shaitana was in Lebanon or Syria.
  
  
  But did they stay where they were when ih found the Slaves? Or did they decide they were safe enough to just stay put, then kill?
  
  
  In Lebanon or Syria. Robbie called Damascus, Beirut, Syria, and Lebanon.
  
  
  Then rumors began to appear in my head.
  
  
  Maybe Benjamin tracked the calls.
  
  
  Maybe he had some amazing information.
  
  
  Maybe I should get dressed and go out to lunch.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  The restaurant was called the Arabian Knights, and the walls and ceiling were covered in cloth; purple, red, yellow, and dizzying. A giant birdcage filled the center of the room, and a crimson-red-yellow bird laughed as it watched the visitors by candlelight.
  
  
  Her took a chair and ordered vodka and a platter of lamb, pecans, chickpeas, rice, spices and sesame seeds. Its said: "I want to open sesame seeds." The waiter bowed politely and backed away.
  
  
  A few minutes later, he was back with a drink, and a few minutes later, he was back with Jacqueline Rain.
  
  
  "I thought it was you on the corner. You want to be alone, or ...
  
  
  We settled on " or " and she sat down. She was dressed in Paris, and it smelled like Paris, and her blond hair was pulled back from her head and fell in little curls around her neck. Evil diamonds glittered in Nah's ears, and something else glittered in her eyes.
  
  
  She lowered her ih and said,"You don't like me, do you?"
  
  
  Its said: "I don't know you."
  
  
  She laughed a little roughly. "Is there an expression ' begging for a corkscrew'? "I think you just installed this corkscrew. Its asking ego again. Why don't you like me?"
  
  
  "Why do you want me to do this?"
  
  
  She pursed her red lips and bowed her head. "For a man so attractive, it's pretty naive",
  
  
  "For such an attractive woman," he tried to read the glint in her eyes, " you don't have to chase men who don't like you."
  
  
  She nodded and smiled. "Touch. Now , are you going to buy me a drink or send me home to bed without dinner?"
  
  
  I showed it to the waiter and ordered it
  
  
  red hey, have a drink. She was looking at the bird. "I was hoping that we could be good to each other. Her voice trailed off into silence.
  
  
  "Were you hoping?"
  
  
  She showed me her green-gold eyes. "I was hoping that you would take me with you when you left. Away from here."
  
  
  "From whom?"
  
  
  She pouted and ran her finger over it. "I don't like what he's doing to me." He looked at the diamonds shining in her ears and thought that emu liked what she was doing to him. She noted my gaze. "Ah, yes. There is money. Lots of money. But money, I believe, is not everything. There's tenderness and bravery... and... " she gave me a long, melting look. "And much, much more." She parted her lips.
  
  
  Take it and print it out. It was a bad scene around a bad movie. Nah had a class, but she couldn't play. And even though I admit I was brave and gentle and looked like Omar Sharif and all that, everything that shone in her eyes wasn't love. It wasn't even good pure lust. It was something else, but I couldn't read it.
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. "Not that Patsy. But don't give up. How about that tall guy?" He pointed at the handsome Arab waiter. "Not much money, but keep the money that he has ih much more."
  
  
  She held out her glass and stood up abruptly. There were tears in her eyes. Real tears. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I made a fool of myself. I thought it didn't matter what I thought." Real tears were actually streaming down her face, and she was wiping away ih with trembling fingers. "Just me ... I'm so desperate, gee!" She shuddered. "Good night, Mr. Carter."
  
  
  She turned and half ran around the room. He sat there in disbelief. I didn't expect this both ways.
  
  
  I also didn't tell hey that my name was Carter.
  
  
  I finished my coffee before ten, went to the phone booth, and called Benjamin.
  
  
  "Someone's turning up the heat, huh?"
  
  
  In response, Emu told her a story in the steam room.
  
  
  "Interesting."
  
  
  "Isn't that right? Do you think you have time to check out this place? Especially the boss? Haim, hers, I guess, was just a clue."
  
  
  "Chaim means life."
  
  
  "Yes, I know him. My life takes me to many strange places."
  
  
  Pause. I heard him strike a match and take a drag on his cigarette. "What do you think Robbie was doing with the matchbox?"
  
  
  I said to her, "Come on, David. What's it? First-year intelligence test? The matchbox was a plant only for my eyes. Someone put an ego in Robbie's luggage, I know someone like me will find an ego. And follow him. What I don't like most about this idea is that everything I find now might be a plant."
  
  
  He laughed. "Great."
  
  
  "Hmm?"
  
  
  "The deck. Or at least I came up with the same answer. Anything else you'd like to share?"
  
  
  "Not at the moment. But you called me."
  
  
  "Phone calls from Slaves. Her phone numbers were traced."
  
  
  She took out a book and pencil. "Talk."
  
  
  "The room in Beirut is all Fox. Robbie called from station to station, so there's no record of who he called."
  
  
  "How about a Cloth?"
  
  
  “yeah. It's clear. Phone number that is not included in the list. Private home. Theodore Jens. Mean anything?"
  
  
  Oi oi. I had Sarah's phone bible with me. I checked the Slave call dates. I was playing poker with Jens in Arizona when he was supposedly talking to the Slaves.
  
  
  Which meant what?
  
  
  That the accident that ended up with Jahns at Aunt Tilly's had been arranged. This Robbie was talking to Jahns ' impostor. That an outsider had entered AX. And the same outsider could touch the Slaves. Not yet...
  
  
  "I told her. "It doesn't mean anything to me."
  
  
  "Do you want me to check it out?"
  
  
  "I'll let you know."
  
  
  Another pause. "You would become a rotten kibbutznik, you know?"
  
  
  "Meaning?"
  
  
  "No, the spirit of cooperation is like with Slaves."
  
  
  “yeah. You're right. At school, I used to run on the track instead of playing soccer. And the only thing you've ever regretted is that you don't get any cheerleaders to go camping. and my teammates."
  
  
  "By the way, it was sent to you by a teammate."
  
  
  "What did you send me?"
  
  
  "Don't worry. It wasn't my idea. His, as they say, obeyed."
  
  
  "Vadim?"
  
  
  "Sparrowhawk. From your boss to my boss. From me to you."
  
  
  "What the hell?"
  
  
  "For going to Syria or Lebanon - or anywhere else that you won't tell me about."
  
  
  "What makes you think her education?"
  
  
  "Come on, Carter. Its just tracked down these numbers to the Fabric and Beirut. And besides, I don't think that
  
  
  Shaitan is hiding five Americans in the middle of Israel. What if you think I'm an idiot? "
  
  
  "What if I need you, buddy? What the hell is this, tailor?"
  
  
  "Hey, shut up. Orders are orders. That "friend" you sent her, arab. Not exactly an agent, but someone who was useful to you. And before you turn your nose away, I think you'll need some help. And arab with papers. Ih sent it to you too. Try to cross these borders like a newly emerged American journalist, and you could just tell them you're a spy."
  
  
  He sighed. Good. Her graceful loser."
  
  
  "It's like hell. I can hear you burning."
  
  
  "Right?"
  
  
  "So this is your move."
  
  
  Good. I'll call you in a day or two. Where would she get us from? To find out what you've learned about Shanda baths." He paused. "I trust that your loyal not-quite-agent will keep you posted on the hack to me."
  
  
  He laughed. "And you said you were a graceful loser."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  I paid for it by check, got a lot of change, and went to the Intercontinental Hotel. I found her a phone booth and settled in.
  
  
  First things first. Carefully. His was supposed to do this the night before, but he wasn't asked to turn on the alarm.
  
  
  "Hello?" Another bossa nova in the background.
  
  
  "Sarah? This is Mackenzie."
  
  
  "Mackenzie!" she said. "I've been thinking about you for a long time."
  
  
  "Do you have any?"
  
  
  "I have one."
  
  
  She paused for a break with two bars. "I think I was stupid."
  
  
  Two more bossa nova bars.
  
  
  "The night before, when you were leaving, she went to the window and stahl watched you leave. It doesn't matter why. Anyway, it's a bad habit, when your taxi pulled away, a car pulled out of the driveway across the street. The black Renault, and suddenly hers, realized that this car had been there for two days and had always been with Hema. Two days - can you hear me, Mackenzie? "
  
  
  "I can hear you, Sarah."
  
  
  "The car left after you left. And it wasn't there."
  
  
  Whatever they were to us, they weren't stupid. They knew that someone would follow the Slave by MISTAKE, and they found a place to find out who. This meant that they didn't know who she was until her father went to visit Sarah. So they didn't know that I had met Youssef or seen Benjamin.
  
  
  Maybe.
  
  
  "Did you see the guy inside?" I asked her.
  
  
  "Well, there were two. Only the driver saw her. Like Jack Armstrong. An All-American boy."
  
  
  "You mean big and blond?"
  
  
  "Is there another one like this?"
  
  
  "So now tell me why all this makes you stupid."
  
  
  She stopped again. "I guess it all made me smart. Its been stupid all this time. I know her now, Mackenzie. About Jack's job. And ... and yours, I guess. I always knew, really. I knew her. and it is simply impossible not to know it. It was too scary to really know. If I knew her, I'd have to worry every time he left the house." Angry self-accusation doesn't make much sense in her voice. "Do you understand, Mackenzie? It was easier to worry about" other women "or yourself. Cute little ones, safe little ones, girlish worries."
  
  
  "Take it easy, Sarah."
  
  
  She took my words and promoted ih. "It wasn't easy. It was hard for both of us." Her voice was bitter. "Oh, of course. She never bothered him. She never asked him any questions. I just made myself a heroine."See how I don't ask you questions? "And sometimes it just came back. I plunged into silence. Oh, that should have made the ego very happy ." My voice was even. "I'm sure you've made ego very happy. As for the rest, he understood. He had to. Do you think he didn't know what you were going through? We know, Sarah. And the way you played it is just about the only way to play it."
  
  
  She was silent for a while. Expensive, long, long-distance silence.
  
  
  The silence broke. "I called to ask a corkscrew."
  
  
  She came out of her trance, just enough to laugh at herself. "You mean you didn't call to listen to my concerns?"
  
  
  "Don't worry about it. I'm glad you talked to me. Now I want to talk about Ted Jens."
  
  
  "A man around the world?"
  
  
  I didn't answer. She said slowly, hesitatingly, painfully, " Ouch."
  
  
  "What does he look like?"
  
  
  "Oh my God, I..."
  
  
  "How could you know? Let's go. Tell me. What he looked like."
  
  
  "Well, sandy hair, blue eyes. He had a pretty strong tan."
  
  
  "Height?"
  
  
  "Average, average build."
  
  
  So far, she's been describing Jens ' Teda.
  
  
  "Anything else?"
  
  
  "Mmm... handsome, I'd say. And well-dressed."
  
  
  "Did he show you any identification?"
  
  
  “yeah. Press card for"World Magazine".
  
  
  World Magazine?
  
  
  Jeans cover-up.
  
  
  He sighed. "Did he ask you any questions? And you emu answered?"
  
  
  "Well, he asked the same thing you did. In a different way. But mostly he wants to know what I know about Jack's work and ego friends. And emu told her the truth. What I told you. I didn't know that. anything."
  
  
  Her father said hey, be careful, but don't lose sleep. He doubted they would bother her any more. It has fulfilled its function-communication with me.
  
  
  I was running out of change and needed to make another call.
  
  
  They said good night to Sarah Lavey.
  
  
  He feeds her a few more coins to the machine and dials the number of Kelly's Nest at home in Beirut. "Jack Kelly" describes a Kelly's Nest. Wild Frenchman-Irishman. Belmondo imitates Errol Flynn. Kelly was also our man in Beirut.
  
  
  He was also in the car when he called her. Judging by the slur in his voice, he didn't interfere with our good night's sleep, our Late Show in Lebanon.
  
  
  I told her that I would do it quickly, and I tried very hard. She was asked by ego to go to Fox Beirut to get a guest list, they are the days when Rabov called. Her also told emu that Ted Jens has a doppelganger. He told emu to telegraph the news to Hawke and make sure that someone hadn't bypassed Damascus. AX would have sent a replacement to Jens, but I didn't risk trusting a replacement. Not if he didn't know who he was, and he didn't know her.
  
  
  "What about Jahns himself?" he advised me. "Maybe we should do an o nen backstory. Find out if there is water running on the bow of the ego boat."
  
  
  “yeah. This is the following. And tell Hawk I'm suggesting that Em use Millie Barnes."
  
  
  "What?"
  
  
  "Millie Barnes. The girl who is studying will be able to ask Jahns questions."
  
  
  Kelly made a pun that shouldn't be repeated.
  
  
  I put the phone down and sat down in the booth. Her, realized that he was angry. He lit a cigarette and took an angry drag on it. Suddenly, he started laughing. In two days, I was deceived, caught, interrupted twice, harassed, more than likely bugged, and in general it served as a telephone exchange for incoming and outgoing bad messages from the Barents Sea. But what made me angry in the end?
  
  
  Kelly's sex pun about Millie.
  
  
  Try to understand it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The tenth chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  ISLAMIC CULTURE.
  
  
  14: 00 tomorrow in the ballroom
  
  
  Guest Lecturer: Dr. Jamil Raad
  
  
  
  
  "Your change?"
  
  
  He looked down from the sign and back at the girl behind the cigarette counter. She handed me a fifty-agorot coin and my pack of eccentric cigarettes. Only in the Middle East and parts of Paris do my crazy gold-tipped stamp sell in the usual hotel tobacco counters. He could have done without the gold tip. Not only do I get approached by middle-aged matrons in designer clothes and young hippie girls with green-painted nails ("Where did you get those cute / cool cigarettes?"), but I also need to watch what I do with my cigarette butts. . They read like a sign that says "Carter was here."
  
  
  He paused in his chair to check his messages. Clare giggled. He continued to look at me shyly and knowingly. When he asked me to be woken up at seven in the morning to "get started", you might have thought I was Robert Benchley ripping off one of his best scenes. He scratched her head and rang the elevator bell.
  
  
  The elevator operator was also in high spirits. He yawned and said, "I can't wait to go to bed," and the giggle meter registered a fat 1000.
  
  
  I checked my door before using the key, and-ho-ho-the door opened while I was gone. Someone got hooked on my special door bait and came to visit behind my back.
  
  
  Did my visitor still visit me?
  
  
  He pulled out his gun, flipped the safety catch, and swung the door open with enough force to smash anyone hiding behind it.
  
  
  She gasped and got up from the bed.
  
  
  Brylev turned it on.
  
  
  The dancer of life?
  
  
  Yes, the dancer of life.
  
  
  "If you don't close the door, I'll catch a cold." She was grinning. No, I'm laughing. On me. Her black hair was disheveled. Hers was still standing in the doorway with the gun. He closed the door. He looked at the gun, then at the girl. She wasn't armed. Except for this body. And that hair. And those eyes.
  
  
  He met her gaze. "I've already had my battle for the day, so if you're planning to frame me, you're too late."
  
  
  She looked at me with genuine bewilderment. "I don't understand it ..."setting up "?"
  
  
  She took the gun and walked over to the bed. Her crouched down. "Me too. So let's say you tell me." She was covering herself with a blanket, looking scared and confused. Big topaz eyes scan my face.
  
  
  He ran a hand over his face. "You work for B'nai Megiddo, don't you?"
  
  
  “no. What makes you talk?"
  
  
  He sighed. "A slap to the jaw, a kick to the shin, and a belly belt are just a few around them. Let's say we start all over again. Who do you work for and why are you here? And I'd better warn her. I also had my Wilhelmina. Today's vampire, so don't try to seduce me with your tender young body."
  
  
  She gave me a long, curious look, her head on one side, chewing on a long fingernail. "You talk a lot," she said slowly. And then another smile, amused, coaxing.
  
  
  Its got up. Good. Up! " and clapped his hands. "Lickety-split. Into your clothes. Out the door. Get out!"
  
  
  She pulled the bedspread higher and smiled wider. "I don't think you understand. Didn't David tell you to wait for me?"
  
  
  "David?"
  
  
  "Benjamin."
  
  
  Putting that together, you get David Benjamin. David-Her-sending-you - teammate-Benjamin.
  
  
  Teammate, tailor. It was a cheerleader.
  
  
  Her studied her. "I think you'd better prove it."
  
  
  She shrugged her shoulders. "Of course."And got up.
  
  
  Not naked. She was wearing a form-fitting dress with a plunging neckline. Turquoise-blue. Forget about the dress. Body... Dear Lord,
  
  
  "Here." She was handing me an envelope. A note from Benjamin. It was no more than six inches away. My blood continued to flow towards him. The letter took it. The first part was what he told me on the phone. And the rest:
  
  
  You will no doubt remember, Miss Kaloud, our secret agent in El Jazzar (or should I say our "uncovered agent"?). She told me that we already strongly advise you to help. Your club chair was set up on a trapdoor, and after you swallowed the last bite of food, the floor planned to swallow you.
  
  
  
  
  That's why she gave me the signal to escape. He looked at the woman in front of me and smiled. "If you want to change your mind about offering your body..."
  
  
  She was suddenly indignant. She came back to my bed, crawled under the covers, but still looked indignant. "Mr. Carter," she said, and she knew immediately that the job was done, " I'm here pretending to be Mrs. Mackenzie because these are my orders. I accept these orders because, as an Arab woman, I despise them as terrorists. And because I want, as a woman, to be free from the tyranny of veils and purdah. These are my reasons. Only political ones. You will kindly keep our relationship political."
  
  
  She plumped up the pillows and pulled up the blanket. "Now," she said,"I want to sleep." She closed her eyes and opened them again. Turn off the holy light, please, on the way out "
  
  
  Her work is the type I leave out for the Martians and some obscure Cubist paintings. "I think," I said slowly, " we'd better take this one more time. This is my room. And the bed you're lying on is my bed, Mrs. Mackenzie. And even if I could get her another room, it wouldn't be mine." It looks right, Mrs. McKenzie, from the point of view of our cover, Mrs. McKenzie, if I go up and run out on a dish like you."
  
  
  She sat up, propped herself up on one elbow, and thought, " Well... you're right." She threw the pillow on the floor and began to pull the blanket off the bed.
  
  
  Her pillow was pushed back. "No matter how we play it, it's going to be a teenager, but I'm damned if I'll spend the night on the floor." Her tie hastily began to loosen. She looked at me with her eyes wide open and looked young. "Me ... I'm warning you, " she said, trying to maintain her tone of warning ... I won't... I don't ... " and finally, she muttered: "I'm a virgin."
  
  
  My hand froze on the knot of my tie. The thing is, I trusted you. Twenty-five-year-old, juicy, sexy, dancing the dance of life, Judah... virgin.
  
  
  I left her my underwear and turned off the remote control. He sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette. "What's your name?" Sl asked her softly.
  
  
  "Layla," she said.
  
  
  "All right, Layla. We will keep our relations strictly political."
  
  
  He tucked her under the covers and gave Nah a quick look. Her back was to me, and her eyes were closed.
  
  
  Politics makes strange companions for trash.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The eleventh chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was almost, but not quite, dawn yet. The hotel lobby was still ablaze with holy smoke, and the night clerk had the expression of a hard day and night. A chaperone in dark green coveralls swung the vacuum cleaner across the floor mat. The ego hum echoed through the empty hall. Correction: the lobby is not completely empty.
  
  
  He had a face like a military recruitment poster. Everyone is blonde, blue-eyed, young and cool. An expensive American suit. But a little lumpy under the arm. For example, where the holster hangs. And a little cool around the eyes. And what exactly he was doing in the lobby, reading the paper at five in the morning. The virgin goddess was in my head, not my ego.
  
  
  I knew who he was. Jack Armstrong, eh
  
  
  An All-American symbol.
  
  
  All I had in mind when I walked around the room was walking around the block for insomnia. Now I decided to take the car and look in the rearview mirror.
  
  
  And, of course, a black Renault. He pulled out of the spot in front of the hotel. All I got was a quick impression of the ego of appearance. Dark-haired and burly. But he didn't look like an Arab, either. Hema were all these steam engines? And what does Al-Shaitan have to do with it?
  
  
  It turned right onto Hayesod Sturt.
  
  
  The Renault turned right onto Hayesod Street.
  
  
  Why were they suddenly chasing me now? No one followed me on the road around Tel Aviv. And yesterday the road behind me was clear. So why now?
  
  
  Because until now the ferret they knew where its going. An American colony. Shanda baths. They were pretty damn sure I was going to the Shand baths, so they decided I'd take her to the morgue from there. Now they didn't know what to expect. So I had a shadow on me.
  
  
  Or was I wearing a killer?
  
  
  He turned again. He turned again.
  
  
  He stopped at the far end of Rambone Sturt, where he could see the still-sleeping city. He left the engine running and pulled out his gun.
  
  
  "Renault" passed mimmo.
  
  
  Not a killer.
  
  
  Not obligatory.
  
  
  A car pulled up from Agron Sturt. Young lovers come to watch the sunrise.
  
  
  It was probably time to leave Jerusalem.
  
  
  If Robbie's contact was still here (if Robbie had had contact here from the beginning), the guy would have seen the shadows and avoided me like the plague. Shadow of a shadow? No need to worry. They were typical small-time mercenaries. Shanda? Shin Bet will check it out. But, most likely, it was a secondary plot. It was wanted by Arab terrorists. I haven't even seen an Arab yet.
  
  
  It was time to leave Jerusalem.
  
  
  I knew exactly where I wanted to go.
  
  
  The corkscrew was, did you know the shadows?
  
  
  I lit a cigarette, turned on the music, and let the sun shine in my face through the window. Her, closed his eyes.
  
  
  And Jacqueline Rain danced in my head.
  
  
  Where did Jacqueline Rain fit in?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  I used a piece of acetate and snapped the lock.
  
  
  She wasn't sleeping.
  
  
  The look on her face when the door opened was a paradox of serene horror. When she saw that it was hers, she sighed and leaned back against the pillows.
  
  
  I told her: "You want to talk."
  
  
  She said, " Oh, thank God."
  
  
  Her lace negligee was thrown off the chair and she sat down. Jacqueline applies her thumb to her lips. "Careful," she whispered, " Bob-he stays in the room, rather the opposite."
  
  
  I told hey I knew I'd checked to see if they were registered together. She asked for a cigarette. It was a rucksack that dropped it. She pushed her blond hair out of her face, her hand shaking slightly. My face is slightly swollen.
  
  
  She blew out the match. "Will you take me with you?"
  
  
  "I doubt it," I said. "But you can try to convince me."
  
  
  She met my gaze and leaned forward slightly, her breasts jutting out from under the green lace dress ...
  
  
  "With logic," I added. "So be true to your pretty chest in place."
  
  
  She pulled up the covers and smiled wryly. "You with all my heart."
  
  
  "I'm covered in my ears. Do you want to talk - or do you want her to leave?"
  
  
  She looked at me and sighed. "Where do I start?"
  
  
  "Who is Lamotte?"
  
  
  "Me... I do not know."
  
  
  "Bye, Jacqueline. It was nice chatting."
  
  
  "No!" she said sharply. "I do not know. I only know what he calls himself."
  
  
  "How long have you known ego?"
  
  
  "About two months."
  
  
  Good. I'll buy her this. Where did you meet?"
  
  
  "In Damascus."
  
  
  "How?"
  
  
  "At a party."
  
  
  "Che at home?"
  
  
  "Not to the house. In the restaurant"
  
  
  "Rest evenings or business evenings?"
  
  
  "I don't understand."
  
  
  "Rest evenings or business evenings?"
  
  
  "I don't understand why you're asking for these details."
  
  
  Because the best way to know if someone is lying is to ask questions like machine-gun bullets. It doesn't matter what the questions are. Speed is important. Only a professional can do it so fast. And only a professional who has been well-rehearsed. Jacqueline Rain, whatever she was, was by no means a professional.
  
  
  "Rest evenings or business evenings?"
  
  
  "Business"
  
  
  "Che?"
  
  
  "Conference of oil workers".
  
  
  "Name the firms that attended the conference."
  
  
  "Trans-Com, Murals, S-Standard, I think. Her ..."
  
  
  "How did you get there?"
  
  
  "I'm with a friend."
  
  
  "What other one?"
  
  
  "A man. Is this really important? Her..."
  
  
  "What other one?"
  
  
  "Ego's name is-ego's name is-Jean Mantle."
  
  
  Lie.
  
  
  "Go ahead."
  
  
  "With what?"
  
  
  "The mantle. More? Or was he your lover?"
  
  
  "Lover". She said in a low voice.
  
  
  "Go ahead."
  
  
  "With what? Oh my God! With what?"
  
  
  "Lamotte. You've abandoned Lamotte's Mantel Owls. So what do you know about Bob Lamotte?"
  
  
  "I told you. Nothing special.Its... I just know he's involved in something bad. It scares me. I want to escape."
  
  
  "So? What's stopping you?"
  
  
  "He... he knows."
  
  
  "How?"
  
  
  Silence. Then: "Him ... he has two men watching me. I pretend I don't know her. But I know her. They're watching. I think they'll kill me if I try to escape. I think they'll kill me if they find out what we're saying."
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  "Go ahead."
  
  
  "What do you want?"
  
  
  "Really. Start at the top. Were you at an oil conference with Hema?"
  
  
  For a moment, I thought she was going to faint. Her body slumped, and her eyelids fluttered.
  
  
  "You might as well tell me. I already know her."
  
  
  She didn't faint. She was just choking on her sobs. She groaned and rolled over to face him.
  
  
  "Jens, Ted. Really? He works for Trans-Com Oil in Damascus. At least that's part of the ego of the job. And you sold the ego diamond earrings." He thought about how Jahns had been interrogated by Millie. Does Millie care about money? It all makes sense now, take it, tailor. "And you almost killed ego, you know."
  
  
  "Not forever! Please!"
  
  
  "You're not too soft to hear about such things. What do you think is going on?"
  
  
  She sat up limply. "Bob only needed the keys to the apartment. He said emu just needed to use Ted's apartment, which no one would know. That we will be rich."
  
  
  "What was he doing in Ted's apartment?"
  
  
  She shook her head. "I wasn't there."
  
  
  "Where was Ted?"
  
  
  "Him ... he was in Beirut"
  
  
  "When did he leave?"
  
  
  "I don't know. Wednesday, I think."
  
  
  "The twelfth?"
  
  
  She shrugged her shoulders. "Probably. I'm thinking."
  
  
  I figured it out. Jahns left Damascus on Wednesday, the twelfth. He went to Beirut and got hit by a car. "Tuesday," he said. So it was Tuesday the eighteenth. It was timed to coincide with the time he appeared in Arizona. The way he said it, he didn't think it was related to AX.
  
  
  That's the only way it was supposed to be.
  
  
  Maybe even related to Fox.
  
  
  Fox was abducted on the fifteenth. About when Lamothe started using Jeans ' apartment.
  
  
  And Robbie started to get excited about the case.
  
  
  And someone knew it was getting hot. "When did Robbie Jackson first call?"
  
  
  She didn't even hesitate for long. "Late one night. Maybe one o'clock in the morning."
  
  
  "And Ted wasn't there."
  
  
  She shook her head.
  
  
  "And Lamotte was."
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  "And you gave em the phone. You said:"Wait a minute, I'll get her Ted." And you put Lamotte on the phone with the Slaves."
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  "And then he asked for the key."
  
  
  Another nod.
  
  
  And after that, Jahns was brief.
  
  
  So Lamotte stayed, answering the Slaves ' calls. Robbie reports on the progress of the investigation.
  
  
  So when Robbie found Shaitan, Lamotte knew about it and told someone. And killed the Slaves.
  
  
  "Another corkscrew. The first day I came here. This is an invitation to take you to a concert. Did Lamotte also think that I would fall into your arms and start whispering state secrets in your ears?"
  
  
  "No," she said slowly. "It was my idea. I told em I thought I could get you to talk about your del. But all her hotel wants is to be alone with you... ask for your help."
  
  
  "And you were planning to tell me some story about hooliganism. A girl in trouble."
  
  
  She closed her eyes. "I'm in trouble."
  
  
  Its got up.
  
  
  Her eyes snapped open, and panic flared. "Please!" she was begging. "You can't just leave me. Ted's alive, and God knows I'm sorry. I'll fix it. I'll help you."
  
  
  "Tokyo Rose said the same thing."
  
  
  "Indeed! I'll be there for her. Her... I'll find out something from Bob and tell you."
  
  
  He took her cigarettes from the bed. I lit one of them and put the backpack in a minute. It looked like he had considered her offer. "You understand," I said, " if your friend Lamotte finds out I've been here and suddenly you ask questions, he's shrewd enough to put it all together. That means you're dead."
  
  
  He went to the door and opened it quietly. There's no one in the hall. The eyes don't look. Sounds of snoring around Lamotte's room. He went in and closed the door. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray by the chair.
  
  
  "All right," I said. "I need information, and I want it tonight."
  
  
  She swallowed hard. "Are you sure Bob won't know you were here?"
  
  
  He raised an eyebrow at her. "I'll never tell."
  
  
  She sighed and nodded.
  
  
  He smiled at her and left.
  
  
  In any case, it worked, and I was fine with it. Maybe, hey, we can get some information. I strongly doubted it, but maybe she could. On the other hand - which is more likely - if Lamothe had been smarter, he would have known I was there.
  
  
  There were two cigarette butts in Jacqueline's room.
  
  
  Gold-tipped eyepieces that can be read as a sign. A sign that says " Carter was here."
  
  
  Her back upstairs and bench press in bed. Layla was there, still sound asleep.
  
  
  Its fucking tired, I didn't care.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The twelfth chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  I dreamed that I was lying somewhere in the desert, surrounded by huge orange stones, and the stones turned into the shape of a devil and began to breathe fire and smoke. He could feel the zest and his own pot, but for some reason he couldn't move. In the other direction, there were purple mountains, cool and shady, and in the distance , a lone rider on a bronze mare. Before me, a smooth stone rose around the ground. It was written on the stone. He squinted to read: "Here lies Nick Carter." I felt something cold on the side of my head. Hers, he shook his head. He didn't move, his eyes opened.
  
  
  Bob Lamotte was me forever. "Something cold" was the muzzle of a gun. Her eyes shifted to the left. The bed was empty. Leila wasn't there.
  
  
  My thoughts went back to the earlier scene. Its standing in the lobby this morning. I'm standing in front of Lamotte's door. By weighing the value of the intrusion. Her, refused it. I ran through the most likely scenario, and decided that the dialog will not be played.
  
  
  Her (my gun pointed candid emu in the head): All right, Lamotte. Tell me who you work for and where I can find her.
  
  
  Lamotte: You'll kill me if I don't, won't you?
  
  
  Her: Voice and all.
  
  
  LAMOTTE: And you'll give me five if I do? I can hardly believe it, Mr. Mackenzie.
  
  
  Her: Take a chance.
  
  
  Lamotte (pulling out a knife from nowhere and stabbing me clumsily in the side): Ugh! Ah!
  
  
  Her: Bang!
  
  
  Not that she was thought of as a Lamotta hero. Men who wear fifty-dollar ties should keep their necks safe. I just thought he'd appreciate the odds. If he hadn't spoken, I would have had to kill my ego. If he spoke, I would have to kill my ego. What could I do? Let ego live to warn Al-Shaitan? They'll move their hideout before I get there, and anything I hit will be a trap. And Lamotte was smart enough to admit it. So instead of giving me any rheumatism - other than maybe the wrong answer - he tried to kill me, and I would have to kill the ego. (This was a scenario with a happy ending.) In any case, I won't get any real information and may kill a valuable clue.
  
  
  So I left Mr. Lamotte thinking I'd do something different with him.
  
  
  Vote and that's it.
  
  
  "Well, you're finally awake, "he said.
  
  
  Lamothe was wearing a thousand dollars, and waves of Zizani surged with egoism. Sarah said he was "quite handsome" - the man who came in and pretended to be Jahns-but he seemed like a spoiled brat to me. The lips are too soft. Dark eyes.
  
  
  "Yeah," I said. "Thank you for the service. It's painful to wake up to a ringing alarm. So, now that its up, what can I offer you?"
  
  
  He smiled. "You can die. I think that will suit me."
  
  
  Hers was laughing. "That would be unwise, Lamotte. First of all, your voice is recorded on tape. You started the car when you opened the door." He began to look around the room. "Uh," I said. "I doubt you'll find it if you watch it all day." He bit his lip. "If you have time to search for so long."
  
  
  He couldn't find the ego, because the ego wasn't there. I know it's uncomfortable, but sometimes I lie.
  
  
  "Now the thing is," he continued calmly, " my friends know a few facts that her ferret has collected so far. Including:"I was looking at him ", the fact of your presence. If you kill me, you're dead. If you let me live, they will let you live, in case you make a mistake and lead us to Satan."
  
  
  Ego's eyes narrowed, trying to read me. The gun didn't move, but it was pointed at my chest. A certain part of me wanted to laugh. The weapon was a Beretta .25 caliber. A James Bond pistol. Of course Lamotte would have a James Bond pistol.
  
  
  He was shaking his head. "I don't think I believe you."
  
  
  "Then why don't you kill me?"
  
  
  "I'm totally ready to do it."
  
  
  "But not before... what? If all you had in mind was murder, you would have shot me before I woke up."
  
  
  He was angry. "I don't like being patronized." He's absurdly annoyed. "Least of all when potential corpses do it. I want you to tell me how much you know. And to whom, if anyone, did you tell."
  
  
  Me: And you'll kill me if I don't, won't you?
  
  
  Lamotte: Voting is all.
  
  
  Me: And you'll let me live if I do? I don't believe it, Mr. Lamotte.
  
  
  LAMOTTE: Snicke...
  
  
  Her (my hand rushes forward with a powerful kick that knocks the Beretta out on ego's arm, my legs swing forward and fall to the floor, my every tribe rises to greet ego's belly, and my hand is like a cleaver on the back of ego's neck while he's still tumbling forward from the blows of life): A Now, what do you want me to know?
  
  
  Lamotte (coming down, but then taking me with him, now on top of me, his hands on my neck and ego belt buckle poking holes in my life): Ugh! Ah!
  
  
  Her: Bang!
  
  
  That stupid bastard took my gun out from under the pillow and stuck it in my jacket pocket. That's all she'd learned when she'd been poking around in his ego pockets.
  
  
  Blood was running down rta's ego, and there was a smudge on the side of his jacket. If he were alive, he would be crazier than hell. Such a good suit is ruined.
  
  
  Ego nudged her body, searched ego's pockets, and found the keys. Everything else on nen didn't matter. Ego I. D. read as I thought. "Robert Lamotte around the Oil Mural". His home address was a street in Damascus.
  
  
  He started to get dressed.
  
  
  The door opened.
  
  
  Layla in a cotton skirt and blouse. Her hair is in pigtails. A small speck of sticky strawberry jam rested happily on her rta. "You're up," she said. "Her hotel didn't want to wake you up, so I went to have breakfast ..."
  
  
  "What happened?" I told her. "You've never seen the body?"
  
  
  She closed the door and leaned against it, her could tell that she was sorry she ate the break ...
  
  
  "Who is he?" she said.
  
  
  "The person who should have stayed alive. We'll get to that later. In the meantime, I want you to do me a favor."
  
  
  Hey asked her for a favor. She went to do it.
  
  
  I put a Do Not Disturb sign on the door and went to Lamotte's room.
  
  
  Two thousand dollars is American money. Fourteen suits, three dozen shirts, and as many ties. A pound and a half of high-quality heroin and a small Gucci leather case with all the accessories for shootouts. Not exactly what Gucci had in mind.
  
  
  Nothing more. No receipts. No emails. No black book with phone numbers. Her, went to the ego phone.
  
  
  "Yes sir?" The cameraman's voice was happy.
  
  
  This is Mr. Lamotte at 628. Her hotel would like to know, please, if I have any messages? "
  
  
  "No, sir," she said. "Just the one you have this morning."
  
  
  "The one from Mr. Pearson?"
  
  
  "No, sir,"she said," from Mr. El Yamaroun."
  
  
  "Ah, yes. This. Its got this. Operator, his hotel would like to know that I might be checking out tonight and I need to write a bill of expenses - do I have a lot of outstanding long-distance calls?"
  
  
  She said I'd have to talk to Hema somewhere else. Now, just a second, sir. Click, click, call.
  
  
  There was only the call that made her to Geneva. Her phone number was written down.
  
  
  I asked her to connect me to an external carrier and called Kelly for a refund.
  
  
  I told Em what I'd learned from Jacqueline. Kelly whistled. "It's almost enough to make me sleep alone." He paused and added: "Almost, I said it."
  
  
  "Did you have a chance to check everything out?"
  
  
  "Yes and no. There's a lot of noise in this place. A certain oil sheikh in Abu Dhabi is taking up the floor and all the time. Guy has four wives, a dozen assistants, and a staff of ego-driven personal servants. own chef ."
  
  
  "So what's it got to do with us?"
  
  
  "Just thought you might want to know why your gas and electricity bill is so high. Don't be so impatient, Carter. What does this have to do with us is that they have security everywhere because the sheikh is in the hall at ihc. And since I can't ask for or buy information, I have to try to steal it, you know? And how to put it all together, stealing the guest list for the week Robbie mentioned, is as difficult as committing a million-dollar heist. All I can tell you from asking around is that there was an oil convention this week. The hotel was packed with American types and lots of Gulf Coast Arab sheikhs ."
  
  
  "What about the hotel staff?"
  
  
  "Nothing interesting. But a full explanation will take several days. And, by the way, what am I looking for? Friend or foe? Robbie called me.
  
  
  Was he a friend of hers to get information, or did he call the suspect to lead them to the case?
  
  
  "Yes, that's right."
  
  
  "Yes, what is it?"
  
  
  "That's exactly the corkscrew."
  
  
  "You're charming, Carter, you know that?"
  
  
  "That's what I was told, Kelly. So I was told."
  
  
  He hung up and went to Lamotte's closet. A large Vuitton suitcase saw her. Luggage two thousand dollars. You couldn't buy yourself a more expensive coffin. Twenty minutes later Lamotte was inside. The memorial service was simple but tasteful. He said, "Bon voyage," and added, " Amen."
  
  
  Layla came back from a shopping trip. She was carrying a large basket of Druze.
  
  
  "Do you have a problem?"
  
  
  She shook her head.
  
  
  He looked at his watch. It was one-thirty. "All right," I said. "Then we'd better go."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The thirteenth chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  More than two hundred people gathered in the ballroom for Dr. Raad's lecture on Islamic culture, filling rows of folding chairs opposite the draped dais with microphones, filling the air with polite coughs and the soft smell of brass.
  
  
  The audience consisted mostly around tourists, mostly Americans, and mostly women. The lecture was supposed to be part of the package, along with a free shuttle service around the airport, a bus tour of the city, and a special night sightseeing tour. There was also a class of high school students and about twenty Arabs, some in suits and white kufiyas, the headdresses of typical Arab men. The rest were hidden, in flowing robes, fuller hats, and dark glasses.
  
  
  And then there was Mackenzie-Layla and her. Only Leila didn't need dark glasses to disguise herself. With a cerro-black veil and a tent-like cloak, she was practically disguised as a roll of cloth.
  
  
  It was the best I could come up with, and it wasn't bad. I remembered the lecture sign in the lobby and sent Leila to buy us outfits and recruit a gang of Arabs in full dress uniforms to cover up.
  
  
  The ability to leave the city without anyone following you.
  
  
  Dr. Jamil Raad answered questions around the room. Raad was a small, sour man with sunken cheeks and short-sighted eyes. Hafiya framed ego's squinted face, ego, and forced him to look through the curtained window.
  
  
  Was Islamic culture Westernized?
  
  
  No. The ego was upgraded. The rheumatism continued. The ladies began to creak on their chairs. It was four o'clock.
  
  
  Waiters appeared at the back of the room, bringing trays of coffee and cakes and placing ihs on the buffet table.
  
  
  The student stood up. Does Raad have a comment on today's abductions?
  
  
  Thunder in the room. He turned to Layla. She shrugged at the folds of her veil.
  
  
  "You mean, her, I believe, five Americans. It's unfortunate, " Raad said. "It's unfortunate. Next?"
  
  
  Hum-hum. Most people don't recognize the territory of the Barents Sea until the evening. The crowd hadn't heard about the kidnappings either.
  
  
  "What Americans?" the woman shouted.
  
  
  "Quiet, please!" Raad hit the dais. "This is a topic that we are not going to discuss here. Now let's get back to cultural issues." It scanned the audience in the culture section. For the most part, this was not the case from the very beginning.
  
  
  The high school student was still standing. Apparently, after losing the battle with acne, he wasn't going to suffer any other defeats. "The Americans," he said, " are five more American millionaires. They were on some annual hunting trip. They're alone in some private cabin in the woods. Ih dostal Al-Shaitan". He looked at Raad. "Or should I tell her that Al-Shaitan released ih."
  
  
  Hum-hum.
  
  
  The child moved on. "They're asking for a hundred million dollars again. One hundred million dollars for each person. And this time, the deadline is ten days."
  
  
  Hum. Ah. Hammer blow.
  
  
  "They still have them, the other four men, don't they?" It was the voice of a middle-aged woman around the crowd. She was suddenly afraid.
  
  
  Hers, too. Nine Americans were targeted, and the net profit was nine hundred million. Correction. Now it was a fat billion. Nine zeros with a one at the head. They already had Fox's money.
  
  
  And I had ten days.
  
  
  The high school student started to answer.
  
  
  Raad slapped the dais with his palm, as if trying to suppress the emotions that were crawling and buzzing around the room. "I think our meeting here has come to an end. Ladies. Gentlemen. I invite you to stay and enjoy a refreshing drink." Raad abruptly left the stage.
  
  
  Her hotel needs to get the hell out of there. Quickly. I grabbed Leila's hand and looked at one of our Arabs around us. He began, like the rest of us, to make his way
  
  
  out the door. Like all of us, he didn't get far.
  
  
  American women swarmed around us. After all, we were real Arabs. A real exotic and barbaric thing. Also currently featured are scoundrels. A woman with curly gray hair and a plastic "Hello, her Irma" sign attached to her sweater gave me an intruder-warning look. Raad was also heading our way. He whispered to Leila to distract him. I couldn't handle being an Arab for the Ra'ad. The doors to the lobby were wide open, and both familiar shadows were looking in. Leila managed to run into Raad. By the time she'd asked him for a thousand pardons - one at a time - Raada had swallowed the circle of tourists.
  
  
  Hello, I was making my way to my place. Her full name seems to have been Hello, his Martha.
  
  
  The room was full of violence and horror. He braced himself for some sort of sneak attack.
  
  
  "I want you to tell me something," she began. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a pamphlet titled " The Great Deeds of Islam, courtesy of Liberty Budget Tours." "Is this a poem about a teaching yacht...?"
  
  
  "Rubai," I said.
  
  
  "The ruby yacht. Its important to know-who is the author?"
  
  
  He nodded and smiled politely, " Hayama."
  
  
  "You!" she blushed. "Oh my God! Francis-you'll never guess who she is here!" Francis smiled and walked towards us. Francis brought Madge and Ada.
  
  
  "Ni gonhala mezoot," her husband said. "Doesn't speak English." He backed away.
  
  
  "Ouch!" Martha looked a little embarrassed. "Well, in that case, tell us something Arabic."
  
  
  Layla has put together our weekend party. They were waiting for me in a group at the door.
  
  
  "Nam gonhala mezoot". Her repeat gibberish. Martha braced herself and grabbed my arm.
  
  
  "Another endpoint) specify gon-holler mezoo. What does that mean now?"
  
  
  "Ah, salud," I smiled. "Ah salud byul jet."
  
  
  Her broke free and walked over to Day.
  
  
  We walked through the lobby of a candid mimmo surveillance spot; seven Arabs, draped in cloth, discussing loudly and hotly. "Ni gonhala mezoot," he'd say as we passed mimmo, and we'd all play this game of the dusty Rover that was waiting in front of the door.
  
  
  Left around the city without a single hint of a tail.
  
  
  I felt very smart for a while.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  "Where are we going now?"
  
  
  Layla and her were alone in the SUV. We were still dressed like Arabs. We were heading north. I turned on the radio and found some strumming Middle Eastern music.
  
  
  "You'll see soon enough."
  
  
  Rheumatism hey, didn't like it. She pursed her lips and looked straight ahead.
  
  
  I turned to see her sitting next to me. She pulled back the veil that covered her face. Her profile was perfect. Open and regal. I watched her for too long and she started to blush. "You will kill us if you don't look at the road," she warned.
  
  
  He smiled at her and turned to look at the road. Her, reached out to change the radio station, and she said, " No, I'm doing this. What do you like?"
  
  
  I said hey, anything that didn't rattle. She found piano music. I told her it was all right.
  
  
  We drove through miles of orange groves, heading north through occupied Jordan, an area known as the West Bank. Palestinians live here. And the Jordanians. And the Israelis. Who owns the entire hotel area, and who should own it - these are the questions they've been asking themselves for twenty-five years in conference rooms, bars, and sometimes war rooms, but all over the hotel, and it's still bearing fruit, just like a couple of years ago. For a thousand years, I know, perhaps, as is always the case with earth, it will outlive all its rivals. Which, in the end, is the entire property of the hotel, and will own them.
  
  
  She reached out and turned off the radio. "Can we talk?"
  
  
  "Of course. What's on your mind?"
  
  
  “no. I mean, maybe we speak Arabic."
  
  
  "Mmm," I said, " I'm a little rusty in nen."
  
  
  "Ni gonhala mezoot," she smiled. "No kidding."
  
  
  "Let's go. Be honest. It was just an act. In fact, I speak Arabic as if it were my native language." He looked at her and smiled. "Native American".
  
  
  So, we spent the next half hour practicing Arabic, and then stopped at a cafe for lunch.
  
  
  It was Arabic coffee - this is kahwa-and it was ordered by Akel po soufragi in plausible Arabic, I thought. If my accent was unblocked, it might pass for a dialect. As a southern drawl might sound to a Yankee. Leila came to the same conclusion. "That's good," she said as the waiter left. "And you look, I think, quite... authentic." She studied my face.
  
  
  Hers, too, was studying her at a small table by candlelight. Eyes like pieces of smoky topaz, large and round, eyes like a living satin skin,
  
  
  and lips that you can trace with your fingers to make sure you don't just imagine ih curves.
  
  
  And then you'll have to hide it all again under the folds of that black veil.
  
  
  "Your color," she said, " isn't bad either. And besides, it's a cause for concern, " she gestured at the length of my body.
  
  
  Her, said; " Virgins shouldn't notice such things."
  
  
  Her face was flushed. "But agents must."
  
  
  The waiter brought a good white wine with a pungent smell. I started thinking about fates. I wondered if this was all part of ih's plan. Her lying naked in the Arizona sun. Did they also train me to be known as an Arab? Even when I was thinking about quitting smoking and - what did Millie say-Stahl philosophize by quoting Omar Khayyam?
  
  
  He raised his mug to Layla. "Drink , because you don't know where you're coming from or why; drink, because you know why you're going and where you're going." He drank his glass.
  
  
  She smiled politely. "Do you like to quote Khayyam?"
  
  
  "Well, it's better than singing' Old Black Magic ' in your ear." She didn't understand. I said, " Never mind." He poured her another glass of wine. "There was a door from which her light switch couldn't be found; there was a curtain through which she couldn't be seen; talked a little for a while, told Me and You a little, and then there was no more of You and Me." bottle. " Yes. I like Khayyama. It's quite beautiful."
  
  
  She pursed her lips. "This is also a very good idea. No more talking about You and Me." She sipped her wine.
  
  
  He lit it. "This was meant as a reflection on mortality, Layla. My assumptions are more direct. In any case, her hotel would like to talk about you. Where are you from? How did you get here?"
  
  
  She smiled. Good. Her name is from Riyadh."
  
  
  "Arabia".
  
  
  “yeah. My father is a merchant. He has a lot of money."
  
  
  "Go ahead."
  
  
  She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm studying at a university in Jeddah. Then I win a scholarship to study in Paris, and after much difficulty, my father lets me go. It's not until six months later that he calls me at home. Back to Arabia." She stopped walking.
  
  
  "And?"
  
  
  "And I still expect to wear a chador. I still drive her car illegally. I don't have permission to get my license." She lowered her eyes. "I'm being married off to a middle-aged merchant. This man already has three wives."
  
  
  We were both silent. She looked up, and hey looked her in the eye, and we were both silent.
  
  
  In the end, he told her :" And the Shabaka. How did you contact them?"
  
  
  Eyes down again. A small shrug. "I'm running away from home. I'm going back to Paris. But this time it's different. I don't have a school or friends on the dell itself. Its trying to be western, but its only lonely. Then I meet her Suleymonov. An Israeli family. They are beautiful to me. They say come with us. Go back to Jerusalem. We'll help you get settled in." She stopped, and her eyes glittered. "You must understand. They were like my family. Or like the family I've always wanted. They were warm, kind and close to each other. They laugh a lot. I tell them I'll come. They fly home, and I tell her I'll join them next week. Only ih gets killed at Lod Airport."
  
  
  "Terrorist attacks".
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  Another silence.
  
  
  "So I'm coming anyway. I go to the government and offer my services."
  
  
  "And they make you a dancer of life?"
  
  
  She smiled a little. “no. I do many other things. But the dance of life was my idea."
  
  
  It was something to think about.
  
  
  Eda came in, and she turned back to her plate, paused, and blushed when nah looked at her. A strange lady. Funny girl. Half of the East, half of the West, and they were on the verge of contradictions.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  The full moon came out. Lover's moon or sniper's moon, depending on how you look at things. We drove the last kilometers in silence and stopped at a moshav, a collective farm called Ein Gedan. The place has changed in ten years, but I haven't found the right road, the right piece of land, and a wooden farmhouse with the word "Lampek"written on it.
  
  
  He bowed to the math major who opened the door. "I beg your pardon, good sir," he said to her in Arabic. He nodded quickly and looked wary. He bowed again and pulled off his handkerchief. Ego's eyebrows shot up.
  
  
  "Nick Carter?"
  
  
  "Were you expecting maybe Mrs. Nussbaum?"
  
  
  Uri Lampek hugged me and started to smile broadly. "You are the messenger of Meshuganer! Come on in." He looked at Layla and then back at me. "I can see that you're still doing heavy tasks."
  
  
  He took us to a small Spartan room, gave us tea, cognac, food; told us that Raisa, his wife, was asleep; yawned and said, is there something urgent or do I just need a bed?
  
  
  He looked at Leila. "Two beds," I said.
  
  
  He shrugged philosophically. "Lucky for you, that's all I have."
  
  
  He led us to a room with bunk beds, said, "Shalom, boy," and left us alone.
  
  
  Hers was the top bunk.
  
  
  Her, closed his eyes.
  
  
  I kept hearing Layla move beneath me.
  
  
  It was driving me crazy that I couldn't see her.
  
  
  He'd go crazy if he saw her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The fourteenth chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  The salient is a part of Syria that Israel occupied in the October war. About ten miles deep and fifteen miles wide, it extends eastward from the Golan Heights. The edge of the ledge was the ceasefire line. Only the fire hasn't died down yet. It was many months after the "end of the war" and the Syrian artillery was still firing and people were dying on both sides, only they just didn't call it a war.
  
  
  Beit Temi) was located four miles east of the line. Four miles inland on the Syrian side. Her hotel is located in Beit Temi. Best of all, I had the leading role of Youssef, and the leading role of Youssef was Beit Temi. Where Ali Mansour, who may or may not have been involved in the abduction, which may or may not have been related to Leonard Fox, may or may not still be living.
  
  
  And that was my best idea.
  
  
  Getting there was also quite doubtful.
  
  
  We've been discussing this topic all morning. Uri, Raisa, Leila and her over a cup of coffee in Lampek's kitchen. My map was spread out on a wooden table, collecting coffee stains and jam from souvenirs.
  
  
  Odin around the world-go back to the south and go to Jordan. No problems. The border with Jordan was in normal operation. From there, we'll go north, cross into Syria - there's a big problem there-and get to Beit Nama through the back door. The task is impossible. Even if these documents lead us to Syria, the ceasefire line will be surrounded by troops and access to the area will be restricted. We would have been turned back onto the road if we hadn't been thrown in jail.
  
  
  Another way is to cross the Heights and enter the ledge on the Israeli side. Not exactly duck soup, either. The Israelis were also watching the traffic. And there was no guarantee that a world correspondent or even an American agent would be able to get through. And even if I get to the front, how do you cross the line of fire?
  
  
  "Very carefully," Uri laughed.
  
  
  "Very useful." Her, grimaced.
  
  
  "I say that we will go the long way. Let's go across the Jordan." Layla was sitting with her legs folded under her, sitting in a yoga-style wooden chair. Jeans, pigtails, and a serious face. "And as soon as we get to Syria, I'll be talking to her."
  
  
  "Great, honey. But what do you say? And what will you say to the Syrian army when they stop us on the road to Beit Nama? the hills?"
  
  
  She gave me a look that some would have considered dirty. Finally, she shrugged. "Good, you won. So we're back to your original question. How do we cross the road in front of the army?"
  
  
  The worst part of that sentence was " we." How I could get it under the Syrian guns and how to do it are two different things.
  
  
  Uri spoke up. Uri could have doubled instead of Ezio Pinza. A large, strong man with a large, strong face, mostly white hair, and a prominent nose. "I can see that you will approach the line from here. I mean, on this side. If it helps." He was talking to me, but he was looking at his wife.
  
  
  Raisa only raised an eyebrow slightly. Raisa is one of those rare faces. Weathered and lined, and every line makes it look more gorgeous. She has a lovely face, a lean but feminine body, and red but graying waist-length hair tied back with a clip at the nape of her neck. If Fate allows me to live to a great old age, I want her for the autumn months of Raisa.
  
  
  "I'll understand," she said, and started to get up. Uri left ee.
  
  
  "Take your time," he said. "Let Nick make the decision first."
  
  
  Its said: "Did I miss something? What is it?"
  
  
  Uri sighed. "There is still a corkscrew in front of the house, how to cross the line."
  
  
  "To hell with it," I said. "I'll cross the line." I don't know how. I just need to do it. Listen-Moses divided the sea, maybe hell divided the Syrians ."
  
  
  Uri turned to Raisa. "Is this person always making such terrible puns?"
  
  
  "I think so," she said. "But we were younger then."
  
  
  Uri chuckled and turned back to me. "Then this is your decision?"
  
  
  "This is my decision. Either way, I'll have problems on the line, but I might as well have a friendly weapon on my back." He turned to Layla. "How would you ...
  
  
  stay on the farm? Her, I'm sure Raisa and Uri ... "
  
  
  Ee target was shaking, strongly denying.
  
  
  "Then let me put it another way. You're going to spend a few days on the farm."
  
  
  She was still shaking. "I've been given my own assignment. I don't have to go there with or without you. It's better for me if I go with you." She looked at me seriously. "And you'll be better off if you come with me.
  
  
  The room fell silent. Raisa watched Uri watch me watch Layla. The part about her own assignment was news. But suddenly it made a very good sense. A quick deal between Yastreb and Vadim. Bosses scratch each other's backs, and I work as an escort service.
  
  
  Uri cleared his throat. "And you, Layla? Do you agree with Nick's plan?"
  
  
  She smiled slowly. "Everything he says will be correct." He looked at her and narrowed his eyes. She looked at me and shrugged.
  
  
  Uri and Raisa exchanged glances. Forty-seven messages back and forth in two seconds of that husband-and-wife look. They both got up and walked out through the rooms. To get "this".
  
  
  He turned to Layla. She was busy cleaning coffee cups, trying not to meet my eyes. As she took the cup at my elbow, her hand lightly touched mine.
  
  
  Uri came back, his hand gripping the "it" tightly. "It" was obviously smaller than a bread box. From the look on Uri's face, "that" wasn't a joke either. "You will guard this with your life, and you will return it to me." He still hadn't unclenched his fist. "This will help you overcome any roadblock in Israel, but I warn you that if the Arabs discover that you have one, you'd rather shoot yourself than let them take you." He opened his hand.
  
  
  Star of David.
  
  
  Her said," I appreciate that gesture, " Uri. But religious medals ... "
  
  
  He stopped me with a laugh. Great big laugh. He twisted the loop at the top of the medal, the one that normally connected the disc to the chain. The upper triangle of a Star popped up, and at the bottom was engraved:
  
  
  '/'
  
  
  
  
  A. Aleph. The first letter of the Hebrew alphabet. A. Aleph. Israeli counterterrorism team.
  
  
  So Uri Lampek is back to work. It was part of the Irgun in ' 46. Demolition expert. A man who wanted an independent Israel and believed in burning the pavement with his back to it. When Ego met her in 1964, he was working with a group to discover the full name. Now that Em was in his fifties, he kept things going at night again.
  
  
  "The voice," he said. "You'll wear this."
  
  
  Her took the medal and put it on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  We left at night. We weren't wearing any costumes yet, but I had Arabic papers, brilliantly forged and weathered, and the star of David Uri around my neck.
  
  
  You could also travel through the Heights at night. Nothing to look at. A flat basalt-black plateau littered with the debris of the three warriors. Twisted, rusty, burnt-out tanks and armoured personnel carrier wreckage strewn like tombstones across rocky fields, along with broken roofless houses, rusty barbed wire and signs saying "Danger!" Mines!
  
  
  However, there are eighteen Israeli farms outside the roads, and Arab farmers are tilling their fields, raising sheep, and fleeing, or even not bothering when the shelling starts. They're all either crazy or just plain human. Or maybe it's the same thing.
  
  
  We were stopped by a guy with an M-16. I showed my World Cup pass to the press, and it allowed us to go on. Just twenty yards later, around a bend in the road, there was a blockade waiting. A tripod-mounted .30-caliber machine gun laughed and pointed at the Rovers.
  
  
  The Israeli lieutenant was polite but firm. At first, he told me that I wasn't in my right mind to go anywhere to the front, that this was a war, whatever we might call it, and that no one could guarantee my safety. I told emu I wasn't here for a picnic. He still said no. Definitely not. Lo. Her ego took her aside and showed her the medal.
  
  
  He returned to the Rover and drove on.
  
  
  We stopped at an Israeli low-lying position, a few hundred yards from the Syrian line. This place was once an Arab village. Now it was just a collection of rubble. Not war damage. Post-war damage. The result of daily Syrian artillery fire across the line.
  
  
  "It's like a weather forecast about the mood of the ih president," an Israeli soldier told me. The ego's name was John Cohen. He came through Chicago. We shared Raisa's sandwiches and coffee, sitting on the three-foot-high stone fence that had once been the wall of the house. "Ten minutes of fire-he just says hello. An hour later, he tells the entire Arab outdoor pool that they can arrange to equip anything they want, except Syria.
  
  
  Syria wants to fight both ways ."
  
  
  "Do you believe that?"
  
  
  He shrugged. "If they do, we'll finish ih off."
  
  
  An Israeli captain approached. The one who took a look at the medal and told me that he would do everything possible to help. Captain Harvey Jacobs was thirty years old. A burly, tired, wiry blond man who taught fine arts at the university when he wasn't called to war, Layla poured Em a thermos of coffee.
  
  
  Jacobs asked me how I was going to cross the line. I didn't have a plan, but when it came up, emu made sure to tell her. There's no point in shooting from both sides.
  
  
  Jacobs ' attitude toward me was cautious. The aleph around my neck gave me an undeniable status, but from an ego point of view, it also meant trouble. Was he going to ask him for moral support, or was he going to ask him for fire support? Jacobs had enough problems without me. I asked him if he would show me on the map where the Syrian guns were located. "Everywhere," he said. "But you want it on the map, I'll show it to you on the map."
  
  
  We passed through the ruined market and walked by moonlight to a special stone building, the tallest in the city, the old police station. It was a great ending to military control, and then a great goal. The entrance had everything that looked worthwhile. A thick double door in a stone plaque with the inscription Gendarmerie de L'ETAT de Syrie and the date-1929, when Syria was under French rule.
  
  
  We went around, not through the door, and down the rubble-strewn stairs to the basement. Into Master Jacobs ' makeshift war room. A chair, a few files, a web-based bare light bulb, a phone that miraculously worked. He pulled out his map, and he slowly filled it with X's and zeros; outposts, roadblocks, command posts, tanks. Tic-tac-toe game for life.
  
  
  He ran a hand over his eyes.
  
  
  "I'm guessing a girl by training fights?" He was leaning over the chair, the overhead light bulb casting forty-watt shadows in the shadows drawn under ego's eyes.
  
  
  Instead of answering, he lit a cigarette and offered em one. He took my cigarette as an answer. He was shaking his head. "In that case, you're really crazy," he said.
  
  
  A soldier appeared in the doorway and stopped when he saw me. Jacobs apologized and said he'd be back. He asked her if I could use her ego phone while Ego was gone. I tried to contact Benjamin from the Lampeck farm, but I couldn't track down Ego. This may be my last chance.
  
  
  Jacobs came back and picked up the phone. He shook the phone three or four times, and then said, " Blum? Jacobs. Listen. Her, I want you to pass on this call..." He looked at me. "Where to?"
  
  
  In " Tel Aviv."
  
  
  "Tel Aviv. Top priority. My permission." He returned the phone to me, proving that she was VIP, and he was very VIP. He left with his soldier.
  
  
  He gave her Benjamin's red phone number, and after ten or fifteen minutes, the quality of static on the phone line changed, and through it, she heard Benjamin say, " Yes?"
  
  
  "Shanda baths," I said. "What did you learn?"
  
  
  "The place is this ... a rag."
  
  
  "A place is what? All I had was static."
  
  
  "A front for drug trafficking. It used to be a warehouse for sending opium. But after the Turkish poppy fields closed-crack-bvuprrip-the boss started trading hash instead. Only local trade.
  
  
  "Who's the boss here?"
  
  
  "Bvup-crack-bvvvupp-st-crack-t-bvup".
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Again?"
  
  
  "All of this?"
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "Terhan Kal-rrip-ccrackle. Doesn't own this place, just manages it"
  
  
  "Is it an ego idea or a guide?"
  
  
  "Probably ego. The house is owned by Regal, Inc. Regal, Inc . is a Swiss corporation - bwup. So we can't track down who the real two are. What about you? Where is crack-t?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I..."
  
  
  "Бвуп-треск-сттт-поппп-жужжание-ззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззззз"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Term.
  
  
  I'm sorry, David. And I would even tell her the truth.
  
  
  Jacobs returned a few minutes later. "Right?" he said.
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. "I'll need a few hours to make a plan."
  
  
  "Mmm," he said. "I just want to warn you. They shoot at anything that moves. I can cover you from where my weapons are in the hall, but I can't risk people coming with you. Not on what should be a suicide trip . "
  
  
  "I asked you to?" He raised an eyebrow at her.
  
  
  "No," he said. "But now I don't have to worry about you."
  
  
  He went back to the Rover and closed his eyes.
  
  
  This won't work. Scarlett O'Hara's battle plan, her gonna worry about myself
  
  
  Tomorrow was here. And I still didn't have any good ideas.
  
  
  Plan one: leave Leila with the captain. Take my chance to do it alone. To hell with the deal between Yastreb and Vadim. If she had been left behind, at least she would still be alive. Which was more than I could guarantee if she came with me.
  
  
  Start plan two: turn around. Go back through Jordan or go up in Lebanon and try to fake it across the Syrian border. But the second plan did not survive the beginning in the same place as before. He wouldn't even go near Beit Nama. Why was this place so close to the line?
  
  
  Plan three: move Beit Nama. Very funny.
  
  
  Plan four-let's go, there should be a four.
  
  
  He started to smile.
  
  
  Plan four.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  Bullets flew. Our heads are missing, but not enough. It was only dawn, and we were easy prey; two Arab figures were running across the field. He leaped on the rock and fired, taking careful aim: Crack!
  
  
  He motioned for Leila to try more footage. Whiz! Boeing! The bullets scattered on the rock where he was hiding. Too close. That made me angry. Her raised rifle and aimed; Crack! A shot whizzed blatantly over Jacobs ' head. Rat-a-tat-tat. He got the message. In the next round, he took aim at me, missing me by a few meters.
  
  
  The Syrian guns haven't started yet. Probably, they were engaged in doping. The Israeli fire was not directed at them. There was a contact point-aha! "two Arab figures running across the field. You idiots! What were they doing? Trying to escape through Israeli borders? Rat-a-tat-tat. Jacobs strikes again. Crack! My shot really went off. Leila stumbled and fell on a rock.
  
  
  "Are you all right?" He whispered it.
  
  
  "Damn it!" she said.
  
  
  "You're fine. Go further."
  
  
  We tried another five yards. Jacobs ' shots were still yards away.
  
  
  And then the Syrians opened fire. But not for us. The plan worked. Israeli guns were now firing at the Syrians, and somewhere in the end, a heavy shot rang out as a 105-millimeter tank rifle eclipsed the Soviet-made T-54. The armies kept each other polite and busy as Layla and I crossed the lines.
  
  
  Suddenly, we ran into a Syrian soldier.
  
  
  "Mann!" he challenged. (Listen, who's coming?)
  
  
  "Aladdin's pool," I smiled. My name. Salaam bowed to her. He frowned. "Imraa?" (A woman?) He shrugged and told em that it was my luggage. He told me to follow him, keeping the ego machine gun pointed at me. He signaled to Leila. He waved it away. "Leave the woman."
  
  
  Now he was entering the Syrian war room. Another stone building. Another piece of rubble. Another chair with another bare light bulb. Another captain, tired and angry. I prayed to the multilingual god of Berlitz that my good Arabic would help me pass.
  
  
  It was chosen by a person. Humble, impatient, a little stupid. Who else but a fool would do what hers did? Spy, vote who. He had to be either a spy or a fool. He was counting on the near-perfect illogicality that almost always condemns the most logical minds to death. It crossed the border roughly, openly; at its rear by Israeli troops. It was such an obvious way to send a spy that no one would believe that an ego enemy would do it. Which, obviously, obviously can't be true. Such illogical logic of war.
  
  
  The soldier at the door took my rifle. He smiled, bowed, and thanked ego again. He bowed again to the Syrian captain and began to chatter, smiling, excited, the words rolling back and forth. Alf shukur - a thousand thanks; I was held by my enemies (adouwe, I remembered her), they kept me in my caria, in my village. Ila hand al-an - still a ferret they held me, but I knocked her emu hair out and took ego musad - I pointed to the rifle that her claimed to have stolen, and then, min fadlaq, please ok Captain, her found her imra and ran over jebel. He continued to bow, smile, and drool.
  
  
  The Syrian captain slowly shook his head. He asked for my identification and shook his head again. He looked at his assistant and said, " What do you think?"
  
  
  The assistant said he thought I was a fool with the basics. Lucky fool. He continued to smile like a fool.
  
  
  They asked me where I was going from here. I told her that I had a kindergarten in Beit Nam. Another one that will help me.
  
  
  The captain waved a disgusted hand. "Then go, you fool. And don't come back."
  
  
  He smiled again and bowed as he left, " Shukran, shukran. Ila-al-lak". Thank you, Captain; thank you, and good-bye.
  
  
  He made his way around the dilapidated building, found Layla,and nodded. She followed me ten paces behind.
  
  
  We passed the first ring of Syrian troops, and he heard her mutter:: "Jid jiddan". You were very good.
  
  
  "No," I told her in English.
  
  
  lucky fool ."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The fifteenth chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fool and ego luck soon part ways. I just made it up, but you can quote me if you want.
  
  
  Through Paris, we were stopped by a traffic guard. Arrogant, cruel son of a bitch, through those who are bad enough as a civilian, but give emu a gun and a soldier's suit and you get a runaway sadist. Em was bored, tired, and hungry for Tom and Jerry-style entertainment.
  
  
  He blocked the road.
  
  
  He bowed, smiled, and said: "Please..."
  
  
  He grinned. "I don't like it." He looked at Layla and grinned, full of black and green teeth. "Do you like her? A woman? Do you like her? " He squeezed past me. "I think I'll see if I like her."
  
  
  I said, "No, you're a pile of manure!" Only I happened to say it in English. He pulled out his stiletto and unfolded it. "Abdel!" he shouted. "I caught a spy!"Her throat was cut by an emu, but it was too late. Abdel came in. With the other three.
  
  
  "Drop the knife!"
  
  
  They held machine guns.
  
  
  A knife dropped her.
  
  
  Odin's circle of soldiers came up to face me. Dark and dark-eyed; ego naked in a turban. He slapped me across the jaw, saying a word that Layla didn't understand. Ego grabbed her and spun her around, crossing her arms over her back. In this position, he stahl is a shield. I still had the gun hidden in my hand. If only I could just ...
  
  
  Forget it. The machine guns shifted to Layla. "Let him go."
  
  
  He released her. He spun around and punched me in the throat. It was strong with rage, and I couldn't break free. It was used by his alenka to knock us both to the ground. We rolled in the stony dust, but our hands were like steel. They stayed on my neck.
  
  
  "Enough!" said the gunner. "Abdel! Let go of the ego!" Abdel paused. Long enough. Ego knocked her off with a punch to the throat. He twisted the dust, gasping for breath. The tool! shorty said. "We're going to have problems. The colonel wants to question all the spies. He doesn't want us to bring emu corpses."
  
  
  He sat on the ground and massaged his neck. Abdel stood up, still trying to catch his breath. He spat and called me pig's gut. The tall soldier cackled sympathetically. "Ah, poor Abdel, don't despair. When the colonel uses his special personal methods, the spy will want you to kill ego now." He smiled a wide green-and-black grin.
  
  
  Oh, yeah. Awesome. "Special methods". He thought of the medal around his neck. No one searched me. No one searched me. I still had the gun - and I still had the medal. First of all, drop the medal. He reached for the clasp.
  
  
  "Up!" the order came in. "Hands up!" I couldn't find the damn clasp! "Up!" This wasn't the time for heroism. His hands were raised. One of the guys put a gun to a rock, came over and tied my hands behind my back. He yanked on the ropes and hauled me to my feet. The guy had a face that looked like a broken plate. Cracked by the sun, wind, and anger. "Now," he said. "Bringing ego to the colonel." It was then that Layla took action. Layla, who was studying, was as quiet as a rock. Suddenly she screamed, " La! La " and ran towards me, tripped and fell. Now she's lying in the dust, sobbing and screaming, " No! No! You are welcome! The soldiers were smiling their tartan smile. The guy on the ropes started pulling me back. Leila got up and ran; sobbing, wild, crazy, she finally threw herself at my feet, grabbing my ankles, kissing my shoes. What the hell was she doing there? Abdel grabbed her and pulled her away. Then he nudged her nose with the gun.
  
  
  "Move!" he said. "Let's go see the colonel. Let's go to the colonel in Beit Nam."
  
  
  Well, I thought, that's one of the best ways to get there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  The Colonel's office was next to the lobby of what used to be the city hotel. He and the ego people took over the ego, and the Rainy season inn combined the worst of it: a brothel, barracks, and an interrogation center.
  
  
  Music drifted around the room down the hall. Loud laughter. The smell of booze. The lobby was filled with local Arabs, some around whom were in custody, mostly by themselves, while soldiers patrolled with gleaming rifles. Layla was taken to a place in the lobby. I have orders for Colonel Kaffir."
  
  
  When I was first brought in, her ego didn't see her. The Colonel's back was to the wall. He leaned over the small mirror, concentrating on squeezing out a pimple. He waved to the guards and continued his work. The barge! Ego's face spilled into the mirror. He sighed with almost sexual pleasure. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. I was sitting on a chair on the opposite side of the room, my hands still tied behind my back. He studied his face in the mirror again, as if he were looking at himself.
  
  
  it was a map of the enemy's camps; the Colonel was considering where to strike next.
  
  
  I looked around. The office was carefully decorated in the great traditions of the Arab world. The walls were covered with dark yellow plaster, hung with gloomy, dusty carpets. Heavy furniture, carved wooden doors and small high stained glass windows. Bars on the windows. There is no way out. The room smelled of dust, urine, and hashish. The office door was slightly ajar. This resulted in a bare plastered digital camera. The only chair. And some kind of free-standing metal contraption. It looked like a giant steel hanger with a thick iron rod placed at right angles at the top. It almost hit the twelve-foot ceiling. The torture machine. "Special methods". This explained the acidic biological smell.
  
  
  The Colonel made his final choice. He swooped down with two dirty fingers and hit him. Bullseye! Locality in Russia completed. He wiped his chin on the cuff of his doublet. He turned around. An olive-colored man with a broad mustache and a sickly, lumpy, pock-marked face.
  
  
  He stood up and looked at me the way people must have looked at him before he became a colonel. He also called me pig's intestines.
  
  
  My speech was ready again. The one who used it on the firing line. The only guy who ever heard me speak English was the guy she killed on the road. Ego killed her because he attacked my woman. Hers was still Bassem Aladin, a stupid, humble, sweet jerk.
  
  
  What is called a "fat chance" in trading!
  
  
  My performance was brilliant and flawless, as always, with one difference. Colonel Kaffir. Kaffir had enjoyed the torture, and Ego wasn't going to be fooled. The war just gave him a legitimate excuse. In peacetime, he probably loitered in the alleys, luring street prostitutes to an exciting death.
  
  
  Kaffir kept telling me to tell him about my mission.
  
  
  I kept telling Kaffir that I didn't have a mission. I was Bassem Aladin, and I didn't have a mission. Emu rheumatism liked it. He was looking at the coat rack like a fat woman looking at a cracked banana. I felt numb with fatigue. I've been tortured before.
  
  
  Kaffir stood up and called for his guards. He opened the outer door of the office and her heard music and laughter and saw Layla sitting in the lobby between a pair of vigilant guns.
  
  
  The guards came in and closed the door. Two unpleasant-looking pieces of beef, wearing a uniform and turban, smelling of beer. Now I've been searched. Fast, but enough. My friend Wilhelmina went there. She sat down on a chair on top of some files, as silent and useless as a paperweight.
  
  
  There was nothing to do. Hands, as they say, were tied. This bought her. What the hell was that? And that medal was still around my neck. Maybe Kaffir will know what it is. Maybe he didn't twist the loop. Hers was at the bottom of a possible barrel.
  
  
  Maybe...
  
  
  Maybe I just got a good idea.
  
  
  They took me back to Kaffir's playroom.
  
  
  They threw me to the floor and untied my hands. The colonel tossed me a rope. He told me to tie my ankles together. "Tight," he said. "Make it tight, or I'll make it tight." He tied her ankles together. Tight fit. I was still wearing my high desert leather boots. The colonel liked my boots, too. A real, sick prick. When he watched her twist the ropes, there were stars in his eyes. He kept his own expression.
  
  
  He began to sweat. He released a lever in the giant coat rack, and the bar at the top slid to the ground. He nodded to his guards. They tied my hands, which is also the rope that bound my feet. His leg bent and touched his toes.
  
  
  They slung the ropes over the rung of the stand and lifted the rung back up to the ceiling. I left her hanging there like a sleeping sloth, like a piece of beef in the butcher's window.
  
  
  And then the medal slid down and turned around and showed its face in the middle of my back.
  
  
  The Colonel saw it. He couldn't miss. "Aha! It's clear. Bassem Aladdin with the Star of David. Very interesting, Bassem Aladdin."
  
  
  There was still a chance. If he didn't find the hidden letter "A", then an ego search for the medal might actually help. It was quite consistent with my good idea.
  
  
  "So a vote on what it is," Bassem Aladdin said. "Star of David!"
  
  
  Kaffir made a sound like a snort and a giggle. "You won't be joking around much soon. Soon you'll be begging me to let you talk. About serious things. For example, about your mission."
  
  
  He pulled out a long leather whip. He turned to the guards. He told them to go.
  
  
  The guards left.
  
  
  The door closed.
  
  
  He prepared for what was coming.
  
  
  The robe was torn from his back.
  
  
  And then there were the eyelashes.
  
  
  Odin.
  
  
  Two.
  
  
  Additionally. Scalding. Burning sensation. Tearing. Starting in my flesh and exploding in my brain.
  
  
  20.
  
  
  30.
  
  
  I stopped counting it.
  
  
  I could feel the blood rolling down my back. Her, saw the blood dripping down my wrists.
  
  
  I thought the colonel had something worse in mind.
  
  
  Her, thought my good idea wasn't so good.
  
  
  I thought I needed some rest.
  
  
  Her, fainted.
  
  
  When I woke up, it was hours later, and it wasn't the gentle slow dawn. My crevice was a small Chicago fire. That bastard rubbed salt into my wounds. Beautiful, biblical torture.
  
  
  I decided I'd had enough of her. Enough for the country, pride and duty.
  
  
  Its broken.
  
  
  She started shouting"Stop!"
  
  
  He said: "This is a locality in Russia. Do you want to tell me about your mission?"
  
  
  "Yes ... yes."
  
  
  "Tell them." He was disappointed. He was still rubbing in the granular fire. "Why were you sent here?"
  
  
  "To... set up a contact. You are welcome! Stop!"
  
  
  He didn't stop. "Contact Hema?"
  
  
  My God, it hurts!
  
  
  "Contact Hema?"
  
  
  "M-Mansur," I said. "Ali Mansour".
  
  
  And where is this person? "
  
  
  "X is here. Beit themes".
  
  
  "Interesting," he said.
  
  
  The fire burned, but it didn't get any hotter.
  
  
  Her, heard him shell into his office.
  
  
  I heard the door open. He called his security detail. I heard him say her name-Ali Mansour.
  
  
  The outer door closed. Shaggy's egos have come close. The playroom door closed behind him.
  
  
  "I think you're going to tell me the whole story now. But first its give you some more motivations. A little motivation to convince you that you're telling the truth." The colonel came up to me and stood in front of me, his lobe throbbing, his eyes glittering. "And this time, I think we will apply pressure somewhere... closer to home."
  
  
  He dropped the whip hand and started to aim.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  When the guards brought Ali Mansour into the office, the colonel was standing with his back to the wall. He bent over the mirror again. He waved to the guards and continued his work. Finally, he turned and looked at Mansur.
  
  
  Mansur's hands were tied behind his back, but he tried to keep a sullen expression on his face. Mansur had a round, almost boyish face. A thick, flat nose. Full, twitching lips. A face of fear, depicting a challenge.
  
  
  Kaffir wasn't going to stand for insubordination.
  
  
  He slapped Mansur across the face with his whip. "So," he said. "You cooperate with spies."
  
  
  Mansour was looking at the door. Looking at the huge piece of raw meat that hung from the crossbar on a giant hanger.
  
  
  Kaffir followed the man's gaze. "Do you want to talk now, or do you want to be convinced?"
  
  
  "No way! That is, yes. I mean, I don't know anything. I have nothing to say. Her loyal friend. Its with the Palestinians. I believe in the Fedayeen. It wouldn't have been Stahl... I don't... Colonel, I ... "
  
  
  "You! You are the guts of a pig! You talked to the Israelis. With American agents. You've compromised a certain plan. The abduction plan. You and your bastard pig brother." Kaffir swung his whip through the air. Mansur groaned and shook his head, his eyes darting back and forth like cockroaches. "No!" he said. "My brother. Not hers. And my brother is dead. Ah! Shaitan kill the ego. Now. You see. This should prove it. If she was betrayed by nu, hers would also be dead."
  
  
  "Then why did that piece of meat who was once an agent tell me that the ego locality of Russia is contacting you?"
  
  
  Mansour was in agony. He kept shaking his head from side to side. "Mine... my brother, he was talking to an American agent. Maybe they think I'm talking too. It wouldn't have been Stahl. Hey, I'll be the first to die. I swear it. Not hers."
  
  
  "Then tell me what you know about your brother."
  
  
  "My brother was a fool. I didn't know that when I told Em about the plan. I told her that there might be a lot of money. My brother wants money to buy guns. When the plan fails, my brother gets angry. He says. he's going to make some money. Next thing I know, Hali is dead. They say he was talking to an American spy. He was waiting in Jerusalem for the spy to pay emu."
  
  
  History was falling into place. Her clenched teeth hurt. Kaffir's uniform creaked on my back. Take that one, the tailor hoped I wasn't still bleeding. Although Mansur might have thought it was someone else's blood. A man's blood is hanging in the playroom. The blood of the real Colonel Kaffir.
  
  
  "What do you mean, when the plan failed? The plan I know about has already been implemented."
  
  
  "The plan is yes. Our participation in nen is not."
  
  
  Its staying
  
  
  it was another Ali who was involved. Not Ali himself. "Your friend," I said. "The one who told you about the plan..."
  
  
  "Ahmed Rafad?"
  
  
  "Where is he now?"
  
  
  "I think in Ramaz. If Shaitan is still there, I think he's with them."
  
  
  "Now you're going to tell me what your brother knew."
  
  
  Mansour looked at me. "He knew - the truth."
  
  
  He was being played with a whip. "Don't tell me the truth." I need to know exactly the story you told emu, so I'll know the story he told the spy. And what makes you so proud of the Emir that you think you were told the truth? Ah! You? Did they tell you the truth? Hmm!"
  
  
  Ego's eyes went to the floor. "Maybe that explains it," he told the carpet.
  
  
  "Eh? What? They say it's a worm."
  
  
  He looked up, and so did his voice. "Perhaps, as you say, Rafad lied to me. Perhaps that's why the ferret is with them, his ego didn't see it."
  
  
  The plan, he said, was to kidnap Fox. Hold the ego in the Syrian village of Ramaz. No, he didn't know which house was in Ramaz. Four people were hired for the work. The other's ego, Rafad, was supposed to fly the plane. "No, not a plane, but..." Mansour began to gesture with his hands. Ego's hands were tied.
  
  
  "By helicopter."
  
  
  "By helicopter," he said. "Same thing, right? Rafad said they would pay em a lot of money. Some in advance, others later. They tell emu to look for other good workers. Don't hire - just annually." Mansour looked scared again. "That's all I know. That's all I know."
  
  
  "And the plan failed?"
  
  
  "Rafad said they changed their minds about hiring. They don't want other people at work."
  
  
  "And who are they?"
  
  
  Mansur shook his head. "I don't think even Rafad knows about this. They only spoke to him on the phone. They said that you consider yourself dangerous to meet. They knew he was flying helicopters. They knew he was loyal. They said that's all they needed for the rest - they sent him a lot of money, and that's all Rafad needed to know ."
  
  
  Her, shoved in the vile eyes, as they said. "I don't believe you. You know who they are. If they didn't tell you, maybe you guessed it." Ego suddenly tugged at her collar. "What were your assumptions?"
  
  
  "Me... I didn't know."
  
  
  "Everyone has guesses. What were yours?"
  
  
  "A... Like Saika. Her, thought they were part of As Saiki. But the papers say they're " Black September.".. I think that might be the case too."
  
  
  Egoist released her and looked at him with his eyes. "C-Colonel, please, my brother couldn't tell the Americans much. He only knew what I told emu. And all these things-its just told you. And-and-telling his brother, he didn't do anything wrong Shaitan told Rafad to recruit, and Rafad said, yes, I can talk to my brother. Hers wasn't a breach of trust. I didn't do anything wrong. Please, Colonel. Will you let me go now?" "
  
  
  "I'm letting you go now... to the other room."
  
  
  Ego's eyes froze. Ego took her to another room. Her ego was on a chair, tied up and gagged him. We both looked at Kaffir's body. The ego target was turned forward and turned to moan. It will be a while before anyone notices it-before they bother to look at its face.
  
  
  And when they do, I'll move on.
  
  
  Maybe.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sixteenth chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  You might want to know how I did it.
  
  
  You have to go back to the scene on the hill, from where the gunners said: "Drop the knife," to where Layla was lying on my feet. The voice brought her back to Hugo. Layla raised her ego when she "tripped and fell" and then shoved the stiletto into my boot.
  
  
  I didn't know how to use it. Or even if I had the opportunity to use it. I didn't even know her when I was in the colonel's office. All I thought when the guards came in was that I wouldn't be able to go visit Ali Mansour. And then an Islamic saying flashed by: "If Muhammad cannot come to the mountain, the forest will come to Muhammad." So I decided that Mansur would come to me. That I would let the colonel go about his business, that after a while I would pretend to be broken, and mention Mansour, and bring ego to me.
  
  
  Otherwise, the story was pure luck. The rest is always luck. Luck is how most people stay alive. Brains, brawn, weapons, and guts add up to only fifty percent. Otherwise, good luck. The luck was that no one searched me with a mimmo gun, that Kaffir liked to see the guy tie himself up, and that the next move was to tie my hands to my ankles. When Kaffir went around the room to arrest Mansur, she grabbed a knife, cut herself, hung there (or upstairs) as if hers was tied up, and when Kaffir came back, his jumped on him, threw a lasso on him, killed and killed him. And the beating, I add, was only done to make the exchange of bodies look legal.
  
  
  After I locked it, Ali Mansura came up to me and called him " the woman." I put my hand to my face, and all I had to do was shout, " Imraa!".]
  
  
  When she was brought in, she was back at the mirror. He even smiled. Her, thinking about articles in medical journals. It was discovered by the world's only cure for acne. Death.
  
  
  The guards left. Her, turned around. Her, looked at Layla, she looked at me, and her eyes turned around chunks of ice in rivers, and then she was in my arms, and the veil fell, and the walls came down, and the lady didn't kiss like a virgin .
  
  
  She stopped just long enough to look me in the eye. "I was thinking - I mean, they were talking there - about Kaffir-oh, oh, what he's doing ..."
  
  
  He nodded to her. "He knows... But it only reached my back. By the way, by the way..." Hers loosened her grip.
  
  
  She stepped back, suddenly playing Clara Barton. "Let me see."
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. "Err. Seeing is not what an emu needs. What he needed was novocaine and aureomycin, and probably stitches and a very good bandage. But seeing is something the emu doesn't need. Let's go. We still have work to do."
  
  
  She looked around. "How do we get out?"
  
  
  "This is the job we need to do. Think of a way to get out, and then do it."
  
  
  She said, " There are jeeps parked up ahead."
  
  
  "Then all we have to do is get to the Jeeps. So all I have to do is pass for Colonel Kaffir in front of all the ego-damned platoons. How many guys are there in the lobby?"
  
  
  "Maybe ten. No more than fifteen, " she bowed her head. "Do you look like Kaffir?"
  
  
  "Just a little bit around the mustache." He explained the distinctive features of Kaffir. "It was more blooming than the park in spring. And it's not my thing that everyone misses. One guy can tell me I'm not a Kaffir, and they'll quickly know that Kaffir is dead. And then....., so are we. "
  
  
  Layla stopped and thought for a moment. "As long as no one is looking at you."
  
  
  "I can always wear a sign that says 'Don't look'."
  
  
  "He could wear a sign that says' Look at me.'"
  
  
  He looked at her and frowned. In the small silence, he heard music. Music drifts around the hall.
  
  
  "Leila - are you thinking about what I'm thinking?"
  
  
  "What do you think I think?"
  
  
  He lightly ran his hand over her robe-covered body. "How will you do that?"
  
  
  "I'm worried about how to do it. You just listen to the right moment. Then you get out and get in the jeep. Go around to the back of the hotel."
  
  
  I doubted her.
  
  
  She said: "You underestimate me. Remember, these men almost never see women. They only see walking bundles of clothes."
  
  
  Hers suddenly looked even more dubious. I told her I didn't underestimate her at all, but I thought she was underestimating these guys if she thought she could shake and shake and just walk away like nothing had happened.
  
  
  She smiled. "Nothing's happened yet." And then, all of a sudden, she walked out the door.
  
  
  The colonel's chair began to be searched. Her ego found the paper and put ih in a minute. Her ego had already taken the gun and holster, my knife was strapped to my sleeve, and she was saved by Wilhelmina and stuffed into his boot. I also had a map of Hertz with coffee stains, jam stains, X's, zeros, and a circle that I had drawn to match the slave trip.
  
  
  Her, looked at the map. The tiny Syrian city of Ramaz has fallen twenty miles within the circle. He started to grin. Despite all the odds that were against me, I could have won maybe a billion dollars. Al-Shaitan camp. The devil's workshop.
  
  
  The sound effects in the lobby have changed. The music was louder, but that wasn't all. Sighs, mumbles, whistles, mumbles, the sound of seventy whistling eyes. Leila, well, strutted through her dance of life in El Jazzar. She waited until the sounds reached a crescendo; then the colonel's door opened and she walked through the crowded lobby, invisible as a fat girl on a Malibu beach.
  
  
  The jeeps ahead were left unattended, and he rode one around them, and Stahl waited, parked behind a clump of palm trees.
  
  
  Five minutes.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  Her plan hadn't worked.
  
  
  I'll have to go there and save Layla.
  
  
  Five more minutes.
  
  
  And then she appeared. Running towards me. She's wearing her own silver sequined suit.
  
  
  She jumped into the jeep. She said. "Come on!"
  
  
  Her car pulled away, and we drove quickly.
  
  
  After half a mile, she began to explain. "I kept going out to the garden every other day and coming back with less and less clothes."
  
  
  
  "And they thought when was the last time you came out...?"
  
  
  She gave me a mischievous look and laughed, tossing her head and letting the wind blow her hair away. He forced his eyes back to the road and drove the Jeep as fast as he could.
  
  
  Leila Kalud. Freud's gold mine. Play on the edge of sex and never come close to the present. He teases himself just like everyone else. He said, " Okay, but now cover yourself. We don't want a thousand eyes on this Jeep."
  
  
  She struggled into the sack-like robe and wrapped the veil around her face. "So where are we going now?" She seemed slightly offended.
  
  
  "A place called Ramaz. Southeast of here."
  
  
  She picked up a map from the seat next to me. She looked up the ego and said, " We'll stop at Ilfydri."
  
  
  He said, " No."
  
  
  She said, " You're bleeding. I know a doctor who lives in Ilfydri. He's on his way."
  
  
  "Can you trust this guy?"
  
  
  She nodded. "Oh, yes."
  
  
  Ilfydri was a small but dense village with low, squat stone houses. The population can be two hundred. We arrived at dusk. The unpaved streets were deserted, but the sound of the hummer was a big deal. Curious faces peeked out from behind windows, stone walls, and alleys.
  
  
  "Here," Layla said. "Dr. Nasr's House". He stopped in front of a white stone box. "I go alone and tell you why we're here."
  
  
  "I think it's hers and I'll go with you."
  
  
  She shrugged her shoulders. "It's all right."
  
  
  Dr. Daoud Nasr answered the knock. A short, thin man, wrinkled and dressed. He noticed the way my Syrian colonel was dressed, and his eyes glittered with quick wariness.
  
  
  "Salaam, my colonel." He bowed slightly.
  
  
  Leila cleared her throat and pushed back her veil. "And no salami for your Layla?"
  
  
  "Ah!" Nasr hugged her. Then he pulled back and put a finger to his lips. "Guests inside. He doesn't say anything else. He looked at me appraisingly. "I was thinking, maybe you came to my office?"
  
  
  Nasr put his arm around my back, his dressing gown covering my bloody jacket. He led us into a small room. A worn rug covered the concrete floor, where two men sat on embroidered pillows. The other two were sitting on a cushion-covered bench that was also built around a stone wall. Kerosene lanterns illuminated the room.
  
  
  "My friends," he announced, "I present to you my good friend, Colonel ..." - he paused, but only for a moment - "Haddura." He interrupted the names of the other guests. Safadi, Nusafa, Tuwayni, Khatib. They are all middle-aged, shrewd men. But no one around them looked at me with the same concern Nasr had all day long.
  
  
  He told them that we had a "private business" and, still holding my hand, led me to a room at the back of the house. Leila disappeared into the kitchen. Unnoticed.
  
  
  The room was a primitive doctor's office. A single cabinet held ego supplies. The room had a sink without running water and a sort of makeshift examination chair; a wooden block with a lumpy mattress. He took off her jacket and blood-soaked shirt. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. "Kaffir," he said, and went to work.
  
  
  He used a sponge filled with liquid and inserted several stitches without anesthesia. He groaned softly. My back can't tell the good guys from the bad guys. As for my nerves, Nasr and Kaffir were villains.
  
  
  He finished his work by smearing some slime on a strip of gauze and wrapping it around my middle like he was wrapping a mummy. He stepped back a little and admired his handiwork. "Now," he said, " if I were you, I think I'd try to get very drunk. The best pain reliever I can give you is aspirin."
  
  
  "I'll take this," I said. "I'll take this."
  
  
  He gave me pills and a bottle of wine. He went out through the rooms for a few minutes, then came back and threw me a clean shirt. "I don't ask Leila's friend any questions, and you'd better not ask me any questions." He doused my jacket with liquid, and the bloodstains began to fade. "From a medical point of view, I advise you to stay here. Drink. Sleep. Let me change in the morning." He quickly looked up from his work at the dry cleaners. "In political terms, you will help me a lot if you stay. In political terms, I am playing a rather difficult game." He said it in French: Un jeu Complqué. "Your presence at my table will help me greatly... before the others."
  
  
  "The others, I understand, are on the other side."
  
  
  "The others,"he said," are the other side."
  
  
  If I read it correctly, my new friend Nasr was a double agent. He raised an eyebrow at her. "Un jeu d'addresse, forward." A skill game.
  
  
  He nodded. "Are you staying?"
  
  
  He nodded to her. "Hi, I'm staying."
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  Lunch was a celebration. We sat on the floor, on embroidered pillows, and ate a rag that we put on the rug. Cups of bean soup, grilled chicken, huge trays of steaming rice. The conversation was political. Straight-forward stuff. Driving Israel into the sea. Return of all the Golan Heights. Reclaiming Gaza and the West Bank to become a home for poor Palestinians.
  
  
  I don't dispute that the Palestinians are poor, and I don't dispute that they got hit. What amuses me is the piety of the Arabs, given ih's main contribution to the overall solution of the Palestinian problem. Consider this: the Gaza Strip and the West Bank were originally reserved for Palestinian states. But Jordan stole the West Bank in ' 48, and Egypt swallowed up the Gaza Strip, and they threw the Palestinians into refugee camps. The Arabs did it, not the Israelis. And the Arabs don't let us out.
  
  
  The Arabs don't even pay for the camps. Eda, housing, education, medicine - everything that is needed to save the lives of refugees-all this is funded by the UN. The U.S. provides $ 25 million a year, and most of the rest comes from around Europe and Japan. The Arab countries, with all their talk and their oil billions, laid out a total of two million dollars. And Russia and China, these great defenders of the unattainable masses, do not contribute anything to Rivne.
  
  
  The idea of the Arabs to help the Palestinians is to buy them a gun and send their egos to Israel.
  
  
  But I told her: "Here, here!" - And yes!" And" For victory " drank a toast to the army and President Assad.
  
  
  And then she was given a toast to Al-Shaitan.
  
  
  Very few people knew about Al-Shaitan. The band I was with was, As Saiqa. The Syrian branch of P. L. O. Because Saika means "lightning" in Syriac. The steam engines at the table didn't fire. They talked a lot, but they weren't fighters. Maybe planners. Strategists. Bombasters. I was wondering what thunder means in Syriac.
  
  
  A man named Safadi - a small, neat mustache, skin the color of a brown paper bag - said he was sure that Al-Shaitan was part of the Jebril General Command, the Lebanese raiders who attacked Israelis in Kiryat Shemonah.
  
  
  Nusafa frowned and shook his head. "Ah! Please disagree, mon ami. This is too subtle for Jebril's mind. I think it's a sign of Havatma." He sent an email to me for confirmation. Hawatmeh heads another Fedayeen group , the National Democratic Front.
  
  
  "I know, but I can't tell you." He lit it. "I'm curious, gentlemen. If the money was yours, how would you spend it?"
  
  
  There were whispers and smiles around the table. Nasr's woman came in with a pot of coffee. A chador - a kind of full - length shawl-was draped over her head, and she held it tightly around her face. She poured coffee, ignoring her presence. Perhaps she was a servant or a robot in a shroud.
  
  
  Tuwayne leaned back, playing with his pepper-and-salt beard. He nodded and narrowed his eyes, rimmed with lines. "I think," he said in a high nasal voice, " I think the money is best spent on the construction of a uranium diffusion plant."
  
  
  Undoubtedly, these guys were planners.
  
  
  "Yes, I think it's very good, isn't it?" He sent a letter to his colleagues. "A factory like this can be built for a billion dollars, and it would be very useful to have an ego."
  
  
  Do-it-yourself nuclear kit.
  
  
  "Yes, but my dear and respected friend," Safadi pursed his mouth, " this is a very long-term plan. And where do we get technical assistance? The Russians will help our government, yes, but the Fedayeen won't. "at least not directly."
  
  
  "Where do we get the uranium, my other friend?" The fourth man, Khatib, " added his voice. He picked up the cup while the Nasra woman filled it, then returned to the kitchen. "No, no, no," Khatib would say. "We need a more urgent plan. If the money was mine, ih would use it to create Fedayeen cadres in every major city in the world. Any country that deals with it doesn't help us - we blow up ih buildings, kidnap ih leaders . This is the only way to get justice." He turned to his master. "Or do you disagree, my conservative other?"
  
  
  Khatib enjoyed watching Nasr. And under the ego's amusement, the eyes wrote trouble. The voice of why Nasr wanted her to be there. Ego "conservatism" was under suspicion.
  
  
  Nasr slowly put down his cup. He looked tired, and more than that, tired. "My dear Khatib. Conservative is not another word for disloyalty. I believe her now, just as we always thought we were turning into our worst enemies when we tried to terrorize the entire globe. We need the help of the rest of the world. fear and hostility can only be aroused by terror ." He turned to me. "But I think my other colonel is tired. He just came back from the front."
  
  
  "No more words for us."
  
  
  Huwayni stood up. The others followed him. "We respect your efforts, Colonel Haddura. Our small business is our own contribution." He bowed. "May Allah be with you. Salam".
  
  
  We exchanged salams and wa-alaikum al-salams, and the four polite, middle-aged terrorists retreated into the dusty night.
  
  
  Nasr led me to a single bedroom. A large, thick mattress on a stone slab, covered with pillows and very clean sheets. He didn't accept any protests. Ego dom was mine. The ego bed was mine. He and the woman's ego will sleep under the stars. It was warm today, wasn't it? No, he won't hear us about any other plan. He would have been insulted. And people would talk if they knew that he didn't give the colonel his house.
  
  
  "Layla?" I told her.
  
  
  Nasr shrugged his shoulders. "She sleeps on the floor in the other room." He raised his hand. "No, you didn't tell me your Western nonsense. She wasn't here today, and hey, we won't have to fight tomorrow.
  
  
  She let emu convince me. In addition, there was a touch of poetic justice in nen. In Jerusalem, she told me to sleep on the floor. He slowly shook his head and thought about how impractical virginity was.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  He must have been asleep for half an hour. Her heard the sound, on the day of the bedroom. A gun grabbed her. Maybe Nasr set me up. ("Sleep," he said. "Asleep." Get drunk.") Or maybe someone got it from the ego of their buddies. ("This Colonel Haddura is a strange guy, isn't he?")
  
  
  The door slowly opened.
  
  
  It was put on the safety catch.
  
  
  "Nick?" she whispered. Her, hit the safety catch.
  
  
  She drifted through the darkened room. She was wrapped in a chador like a blanket. "Layla," I said. "Don't be a fool. His sick man."
  
  
  She walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.
  
  
  The veil fell open. I closed my eyes, but it was too late. My body is already hoping to get to the light porn ee body. "Layla," I said. "You trust me too much."
  
  
  “yeah. "I trust you," she said, " that's enough."
  
  
  Her eyes opened. "Enough?"
  
  
  "That's enough."
  
  
  She ran her fingers over my face, over my neck, over my chest, where the hair stood on end, and began to dance. "Define enough," I told her firmly.
  
  
  Now it was her turn to close her eyes. "Stop wishing... make love to me."
  
  
  My hand seemed to mistletoe my own desire. He cupped her breasts and made us both purr together. "Honey," I breathed, " I'm not going to fight you very hard. Are you sure this is what you really want?"
  
  
  Her neck was arched and her eyes were still closed. "I never did... us, which I wasn't sure about... never."
  
  
  She stirred, and the veil fell to the floor.
  
  
  I think this is everyone's dream. Be the first. Or, as they said in Star Trek,"go where no one else has ever gone before." But, my God, it was cute. This smooth, ripe, incredible body, slowly opening up under my hands, making movements that were not just movements, but admired, surprised the first sensations, reflex pulsations, impatient, intuitive clamping of fingers, fluctuations in the hips, holding your breath. At the last moment, at the edge of the cliff, she let out a lyrical sound. And then she flinched, saying, " All grown-ups."
  
  
  We lay together, and he watched her face and the pulse that pulsed in her throat, hers, followed her body and hers, running his finger along the curve of her lips until she stopped my thumb with her tongue. She opened her eyes and they looked up at me, beaming. She reached out and ran her hand through my hair.
  
  
  And then she whispered the one word she was saying, that she was now a liberated woman.
  
  
  "More," she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The seventeenth chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  There is a Yiddish expression: Drehrd offen December. It means, Uri tells me, at the end of the earth; I don't know where; gone to hell. It was Ramaz. Five miles south of the Border, and a hundred miles from the Israeli front. The last thirty miles went through Nowhere. A city-less, treeless, lava-splattered Nothingness, with a misty sky and quiet dust. The landscape was littered along the road with the rusty hulls of dead tanks, and once with the ruins of an ancient Byzantine citadel.
  
  
  Layla was wrapped up in her Arab lady's court, which now at least had a practical purpose; keeping out the dust and the sun. It wasn't the summer sun yet, it wasn't a pillow-pin to the sky that just casts needles of warmth into your skin. But it was hot enough, and the dust and haze scratched my eyes, even behind Colonel Kaffir's dark glasses.
  
  
  Layla handed me a flask of water. I took it, drank it, and handed it back. She took a sip, then gently moistened her fingers and ran the tips of her cold fingers down my neck. Her, looked at nah
  
  
  and he smiled. Women always want to know if they've " changed." Leila had changed. She got rid of both the hard starch deposits and the Rita-Hayworth-plays-Sadie-Thompson routine. She stopped playing and just played. He took her hand from her neck and kissed it. All over the hotel, and below us it was like brittle clay, and these wheels were crushing it, kicking up dust. The orange stripe is dust.
  
  
  I put my foot down on the pedal, and sped up.
  
  
  The city of Ramaz was hardly a city. More like a small group of buildings. Typical mud-brick huts with flat roofs, some painted blue to ward off evil.
  
  
  The first resident of Ramaz who noticed us on the road was a man in his late eighties. He was hobbling along on a makeshift cane, and when he saw the Jeep, he bowed to the lowly one, and I thought I'd have to save him.
  
  
  Its stopped. He seemed surprised. "Welcome," he intoned, " oh, Honorable Colonel."
  
  
  He held out his hand to Layla and opened the door. "Sit down, old man. I'll give you a ride."
  
  
  He smiled a great toothy smile. "The Colonel does me the honor."
  
  
  Her head bowed. "I'm lucky to be able to help."
  
  
  "May Allah's blessing be upon you." It creaked slowly into the Jeep. I prepared myself and set off on the road to the city.
  
  
  "I'm looking for a house in Ramaz, old man. Perhaps you'll recognize the house I'm looking for."
  
  
  "Inshallah," he said. If God wills it.
  
  
  "There will be a lot of men in the house I'm looking for. Some around them will be Americans. The rest are Arabs."
  
  
  He shook his nutshell face. "There is no such house in Ramaz," he said.
  
  
  "Are you sure, old man? This is very important."
  
  
  "I don't want to offend the colonel, Allah sees fit to leave me my feelings. Wouldn't a person be blind if they didn't know such a house, if such a house existed in Ramazah?"
  
  
  I told emu that I worship the ego of wisdom and the wisdom of Allah. But I didn't give up. Shaitan's headquarters should have been here. Because the middle of Nowhere was the perfect place. And because it was the only place I knew about. Her super-ego asked her if there might be another house where something unusual was going on.
  
  
  The old man looked at me with licorice eyes. "There is nothing unusual under the sun. Everything that happens has happened before. War and peace, learning and oblivion. All things repeat themselves again and again, from error to enlightenment and back to error." He pointed a bony finger at me, and under the sleeves of his loose, ragged robe, something silver glinted on his wrist: "The most unusual thing on earth is a person with a joyful heart."
  
  
  Ah! Perfume of the Arab mind! He cleared his throat. "I bear to contradict you, old man, but this kind of joy is found every day. You only have to ask to find out that this is the case."
  
  
  He looked at my hand on the steering wheel. "The colonel believes that what they call humanity is literally built around good people. But just as accurately as the heavenly holy sun is reflected in the regulations; - identify the colonel's rings, I tell the colonel that it is not so."
  
  
  Kaffir's ring slipped from her finger. "I don't like being contradicted, old man. "I advise you, on pain of my great displeasure, to accept this ring-the symbol of a beggar, but given with joy-and then admit that you underestimate your fellow men." He held out his hand to Layla and handed em the ring. I saw the silver flash on his wrist again.
  
  
  He reluctantly accepted the ring. "I'm only doing this to avoid offending, but maybe my judgment was wrong after all."
  
  
  We started to approach a small blue house. The old man forgave me and said it was the ego of the house. A Jeep pulled up ahead of her and stopped her. He walked out slowly, then turned to face me.
  
  
  "Perhaps while the colonel is passing through Ramaz, he can stop at Kalouris' house." He pointed at the rocky expanse. "Shaftek and Serhan Kalooris' house is the only yellow house in Bhamaz. In this respect, he is the same... unusual."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  It wasn't exactly yellow. Someone tried to paint ego yellow, but they must have used the wrong paint. Huge chunks of flowers were torn off, exposing random patches of rock.
  
  
  The house itself wasn't lit up. Another two-story, sand-colored square was just across the street. The only other object in the desolate landscape was a bough of orange jagged rocks halfway between two houses.
  
  
  My plan was just to score a spot and wasn't going to rush in alone with a gun and a similar line; "You are under arrest." However, he left Leila in a Jeep parked about half a mile off the road. She would have walked the rest of the way.
  
  
  The house across the street seemed completely deserted; the windows weren't closed, the door was open.
  
  
  The half-yellow doma circled her in a wide circle. Ego windows were closed, and behind them were dark joints. There was a small narrow entrance at the back, a sort of miniature stone courtyard, maybe five feet deep and five feet wide, under the roof of the second floor of the house. A warped wooden door stood at the end of the courtyard. I put my ear to it, but I didn't hear anything. Her knock was loud. The Syrian colonel needs information.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  No response. No noise. No, nothing. He pulled out his gun and pushed the door open.
  
  
  It hit the wall and then swayed back and forth. Creak, creak.
  
  
  Nothing more.
  
  
  Her husband came in.
  
  
  Bare floors, bare stone walls, and bare stone benches all around them. Black dirty pot-bellied oven. Kerosene lamp. Four empty beer cans are strewn across the floor. There are a dozen cigarette butts stuck in them. Charred paper matches on the floor.
  
  
  Another room, almost identical. Almost, except for one thing. The bare stone bench was covered in red spots. A large bloodstain the size of a dead person.
  
  
  Another room on the first floor plan. Another pile of beer trash. Another ugly, death-spattered bench.
  
  
  Up the narrow stairs. Two more rooms. Two more bloody murder scenes.
  
  
  And only the sound of the wind through the window, and the creak, creak, creak of the floor below.
  
  
  Tailor take it. Gone. It was a sanctuary in Al-Shaitan so that Jackson and Robbie would be here too. And it wasn't just the orange streak of dust that proved it. This silver flash on the old man's wrist was a standard AX chronometer watch.
  
  
  A stretcher pulled her back, and Sell did. In front of the bench was a small lacquered table covered with rings of beer cans. Also a pack of cigarettes. The Syrian brand. And a matchbox that said: Always luxury-Tel Foxx-congresses, recreation.
  
  
  He swore and threw the matchbox back on the chair. I finished it. Vote and that's it. A road thread. And instead of answers, there were only questions.
  
  
  He lit it and kicked the beer can. It rolled over and showed its holes. Bullet holes. One on each side. On the one hand, and on the other. Ego picked her up and laid her on a chair. We stared at each other.
  
  
  It probably didn't make any difference, but if the canister shot was a missed shot ...
  
  
  I got up and started calculating the trajectories.
  
  
  The massacre occurred in the middle of the night. Everyone here must have been killed on the bench. Caught napping. Around the silenced pistol. So, imagine that I aim at the sleeping guy's head, where the bloodstain is. There's a can of beer on the table. I aim it at the guy, but it hits the jar instead. So, I stand it... where? Her standin ' here, and gawking eyes would go through the jar and land - and voice it. It was pulled by ego around a soft rock. Small-caliber gawking eyes .25. Like Little David. Small, but oh my God.
  
  
  Her, left the house through the front door. And there was a Jeep parked on the road. And Layla was sitting next to him.
  
  
  He moved toward her, angry as hell. "Layla, what's for..."
  
  
  "Nick! Come back!"
  
  
  Crack! The tailor!
  
  
  Arrows on roofs. "Down!" Hey called out to her. The tailor! It's too late. Gawk grazed her leg as she ducked for cover. "Get under the Jeep!" He ran to the rocks. Crackle! The tailor! There were four guys, two on each roof. Her aim was aimed at the shooter across the road. Bullseye! He jerked and fell into the dust. Two bullets bounced off my roof. Its aimed at the other guy and missed Whang! He missed by less than a foot. They all had a height advantage, Wang! I rushed to the closed entrance, bullets kicking up dust on my feet. He dove inside and stopped, panting, just out of ih's reach. For a while.
  
  
  She was waiting for what was coming.
  
  
  Dead silence.
  
  
  Doors creak.
  
  
  No footsteps. No other sound. Ih only heard it in his imagination. Now, " said the map of time and place in my head. Now they have reached the cliff, now they are home, now they are... I sat down on the ground and prepared myself. One, two, three, now. Her, looked out and fired at the same time. Her advertised ego in the center of the ego of a clean white coat, and ducked back in time to miss another hit from that guy, another gun. He was moving from the other side. "Inal abuk!" the gunslinger shouted. My father's curses. He fired again, then dived back into his tiny grotto.
  
  
  "Yallah!" he shouted. Hurry up! Once again, I saw it playing out in my head before it happened. Her made another candid shot into the doorway. The guy on the roof timed his jump to catch it. Midway, from jump to fall.
  
  
  By the time he hit the ground, blood was gushing all over his intestines. Ego finished her off with a quick second shot. Now it was Odin odin. There's only one shooter left. So where the hell was he? The filmstrip in my head showed blank frames. If he was the last guy, what would he do?
  
  
  I looked around the corner and saw him. Click! My gun was empty. He suddenly looked brave. He heard a click and moved forward. He swore loudly, then hurled the useless pistol through the doorway. On the count of four, he peeked around the corner with a winning grin on his sweaty face. Pop! Her shot of him was revealed in a smirk.
  
  
  Kaffir's gun was empty, but Wilhelmina's was not.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The eighteenth chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  I checked her instruments. The guy without a face also had no identification. Arabic, that's all I knew. The face was Arab, like a Saudi.
  
  
  Body number two: roof diver. Another unnamed arab.
  
  
  Body number three: her ego kicked her. The ego checkered headband was gone. He whistled softly to her. It was Jack Armstrong. Big blond guy walking through the hotel lobby. He tanned his skin, but didn't dye his hair. He just walked away, shaking his head.
  
  
  Body number four: in front of the house. My first successful shot knocked ego off the roof. Her headdress was removed. The guy who followed me to the Renault.
  
  
  He walked slowly toward the jeep. Layla was already in the front seat, hers, and he slid into the driver's seat and closed the door.
  
  
  "How's the same level?" I said stupidly.
  
  
  She looked at me curiously. "It hurts, but not as bad as it's supposed to be."
  
  
  He stared ahead at the misty horizon.
  
  
  "Nick?" Her tone was cautious. "What's wrong with you? You look... it's like you're in some kind of trance."
  
  
  He lit it and smoked it all out before he said anything.: "I'm stumped, that's what it is. A million hints, and nothing adds up. It's back to zero."
  
  
  He shrugged and took his bike with him. He turned to Layla. "It's better to let Nasr look at this leg. But I need to make a stop first..."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  She didn't want to waste time on polite obliquity. He burst through the door, gun in hand, and lifted the old man off the floor. "Let's talk," I said.
  
  
  Ego the story was like this:
  
  
  Late one night a few weeks ago, the old man heard a sound in the sky. That woke ego up and he ran to the window. A giant insect, a monstrous mosquito with huge rotating wings. He saw it fall candid from the sky near the yellow house of Kalooris. The old man had seen this creature before. He fell from heaven in the same way. The emu was told that it carries people in its belly, and this, in ego's opinion, is undoubtedly true. Because the brother of Shaftek and Serhan Kalouris and two ih cousins came to the house.
  
  
  And the American?
  
  
  No, not an American.
  
  
  Vote what happened next?
  
  
  Nothing special. My brother left. The cousins stayed.
  
  
  What about the insect?
  
  
  It was still there. Lives on the plains, two miles east of the city.
  
  
  And the second insect? The one who showed up in the middle of the night?
  
  
  He left an hour later.
  
  
  What else happened?
  
  
  The next day, another stranger arrived. Maybe an American.
  
  
  On an insect?
  
  
  By car.
  
  
  He also went to the yellow house. The old man followed, curiosity making ego bold. He looked out the window of the yellow house. Shaftek Kalouris was lying on a bench. Is dead. Then he saw the stranger enter the room. The stranger also saw him at the window. The old man was afraid. The stranger held up a silver bracelet and told the old man not to be afraid. The old man took the bracelet and was not afraid. He and the stranger went upstairs. They found three more bodies upstairs. Serbian Kalooris and cousins.
  
  
  And then?
  
  
  And then the stranger asked a few questions. The old man told em about the insects. Vote and that's it.
  
  
  "Is that all?" Her gun was still pointed at his head.
  
  
  "By the merciful Allah, isn't that enough?"
  
  
  No, it wasn't enough. Not enough to send Slaves to Jerusalem to wire him that he had found the Devil. four dead bodies, and only one of us, Leonard Fox? No. It wasn't enough.
  
  
  But that was all. Robbie was looking at the appliances and beer cans, and he picked up cigarettes and matches. Vote and that's it. It's all. He left the house in a rage and confusion. How you look now, " the old man remarked. But that's all.
  
  
  "Who buried the bodies?"
  
  
  Ego's eyes were heavy with fear.
  
  
  
  "I give you my word, they won't hurt you."
  
  
  He looked from my gun to my face and back again. "Four more people came. The next day. They're still there, staying at Kalouris ' house."
  
  
  "They're staying there," he told the old man.
  
  
  He understood.
  
  
  "Alhamdulila," he said. thank God.
  
  
  Awesome. He was killed by his last four clues.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  I was on the plain by helicopter. Clearly visible. In the open one. He climbed a small aluminum ladder. Car I try, but well-groomed. The gas meter showed that the ego would last for another hundred and fifty miles.
  
  
  He carried Layla to the cab and dragged the ladder back inside.
  
  
  "Can you fly this?" She looked a little scared.
  
  
  He looked annoyed. "Are you going to be the pilot in the back seat?"
  
  
  "I don't understand it." Her voice sounded hurt.
  
  
  I didn't answer. My head was too crowded to find room for words. I found her pedals, the steering wheel on my feet. It's best to check the engine first. It was blocked by wheel bullies and pressed the lever to adjust the height of the tons. I turned on the fuel and pressed the starter. The engine coughed up orange dust. It hissed and finally began to hum. She let go of the mocking rotor, turned the throttle, and the giant rotor blades began to spin like some giant fly swatter. I waited for them to spin up to 200 rpm, then let go of the wheel mocks and increased the speed. Now, just a little more gas and we started climbing. Up up and sideways.
  
  
  Right hand drive.
  
  
  Stay ahead.
  
  
  First stop, Ilfidri.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  Leila was sleeping on the Nasrovs ' bed.
  
  
  She was sleeping on a wide blue cotton nightgown, surrounded by brightly embroidered pillows and sparkling waves of her own black hair. She opened her eyes. She sat down on the bed. She opened her arms and he held her close.
  
  
  "I'm sorry," I whispered.
  
  
  "For what purpose?" she said.
  
  
  "For being somewhere else. Her ..."
  
  
  "Not forever." She applies her thumb to my lips. "I knew from the beginning that you didn't love me. And she knew you were thinking about your job. And everything is fine. Everything is really fine. Her-her hotel wants you to be the first. Or maybe the last one. for a long time. But that's my concern, not yours ." She smiled softly. "I think we're breaking up soon, right?"
  
  
  Her, looked at nah. "Where are you going?"
  
  
  She sighed. "I'll stay here for a few days. I can't dance with a bandaged leg."
  
  
  "A dance?"
  
  
  She nodded. "I came here to work in a Syrian nightclub. A place where army officers gather."
  
  
  Her brow furrowed sharply. "Leila Kalud-do you know what you're doing?"
  
  
  She smiled again. In a broad sense. "No woman can better defend her virtue than a woman who has been doing so for twenty-five years." She continued to smile. "Didn't I even make you keep your distance?"
  
  
  "And you?"
  
  
  "I mean, when she's being asked to do it."
  
  
  He smiled, too. Her said, " And how's my side now?"
  
  
  She wasn't smiling. "A lick would be nice."
  
  
  The licks were nice.
  
  
  She was picked up by a loose blue cotton dress and tugged gently until it disappeared.
  
  
  Great.
  
  
  More pleasant.
  
  
  The most pleasant one.
  
  
  Her round chest pressed against my chest, and her body flowed under mine like a river; a constant, gentle, flowing river. And then her breath came fast and fast, and the river roared and then stopped. Her, felt her tears on my skin.
  
  
  "Are you all right?"
  
  
  She shook her head.
  
  
  "No?"
  
  
  “no. He's not okay. I'm sad, and I'm happy, and I'm scared, and I'm alive, and I'm drowning, and ... and anything but okay."
  
  
  He ran his hand over her nose and the curve of her full lips. She moves, and puts her head on my chest. We lay there for a while.
  
  
  "Layla, why did you wait so long?"
  
  
  "Make love?"
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  She looked down at me. "You don't understand me at all, do you?"
  
  
  Ee stroked her hair. "Not very well."
  
  
  She rolled onto her elbow. "In fact, it's quite simple. She was raised to be a good Muslim. To be everything I knew I wasn't. Meek, obedient, respectful, virtuous, bearer of sons, servant of men. She began to hate all men. Then I was just scared of her. Because to give up means, you know... give up. Because being a woman means... being a woman. Do you understand? »
  
  
  I waited for her for a while. "A little. Maybe, I think. I don't know. Not all men ask for full surrender."
  
  
  "I know," she said, " and this,
  
  
  also problems ."
  
  
  Her, looked at nah. "I don't understand."
  
  
  "I know," she said. "You don't understand."
  
  
  I knew the problem was that I was traveling too lightly to carry a woman's surrender with me. Its just silent.
  
  
  By the time I wanted to talk to her again, she was asleep, curled up in my arms. She must have dozed off. One minute forty-five. And then the pinball machine in my head began to work: click-boom-click; ideas slammed into each other, hit the walls, threw Lamotte back.
  
  
  All of this led to Lamotte somehow. Lamotte, who pretended to be Jahns; who talked to the Slaves. Lamotte, who was waiting for me in Jerusalem.
  
  
  What else did he know about Bob Lamotte?
  
  
  He became addicted to drugs, and called somewhere in Geneva.
  
  
  Geneva.
  
  
  The Shand baths were owned by a Swiss corporation.
  
  
  And Benjamin said Shanda was a front for drugs. Opium before the Turkish fields are closed. It was now a small hash business.
  
  
  Youssef said that Khali Mansour put forward the hash. Hali Mansur, who talked to the Slaves. My brother, Ali, brought me to Ramaz. Was the boss at the Shanda baths a liaison with El Khali?
  
  
  Maybe.
  
  
  Probably not.
  
  
  The boss in Shanda. Ego's name was Terhan Mud-chatter-crackle. Static ripped through Benjamin's sentence. Terhan Mud - ooris? Third brother?
  
  
  Maybe.
  
  
  Maybe not.
  
  
  The thugs I shot on the rooftops in Ramaz - they're the same steamheads who caught me in Jerusalem, watching Sarah's house in Tel Aviv. Something told me they were working for Lamotte, the steam engines that Jacqueline was afraid of.
  
  
  Lamotte. All of this led to Lamotte. Robert Lamotte around the Oil Mural. With a James Bond .25 caliber ego pistol. How to stare at the .25-caliber James Bond gun he found on the floor of the yellow house.
  
  
  Put it all together, and what do you have?
  
  
  Rubbish. Chaos. The pieces fit together and do not form a circle. He fell asleep.
  
  
  Hers was at a plant store. There were cacti, ivy, philodendron, and lemon trees. And orange trees.
  
  
  The salesman came up to me. He was dressed like an Arab, with a headdress and sunglasses covering his face. He was trying to sell me a lemon tree, and he said there were three pots of ivy in it. It sold heavily. "You really should buy," he insisted. "Have you read the last book? Now we are told that plants can talk. Yes, yes, " he assured me. "It's absolutely fantastic." He smiled again. Plants grew on the rta ego.
  
  
  The orange trees were at the back of the store. I told her I was looking for an orange tree. He seemed happy. "An excellent choice," he said. "Oranges, lemons-it's all the same." He followed me back to where the oranges were growing. Her, went up to the tree and cracked it! damn it! bullets were flying from the roof across the road. It was in front of the Kaluris ' house. He was dressed like a colonel. She was shot with rheumatism. Four Arab gunmen fell from a rooftop in slow motion in a nightmare-like fashion. Her, turned around. The Arab vendor was still there. He was standing by an orange tree, smiling broadly. He had a gun in his hand. It was Bob Lamotte.
  
  
  I woke up sweating.
  
  
  Sel candid in the trash and stared at the wall.
  
  
  And then it came to me. What should have been rheumatism. He was there all the time. I told her so myself. "The matchbox was a plant, "he told Benjamin, adding,"What I don't like most about it is that anything I find now might be a plant."
  
  
  Vote and that's it. It was all a plant. A carefully crafted plant. Every detail. From the tales of Mansour el-Khali in Al-Jazzar-plants can talk-all the way to the house in Ramaz. Nothing happened to the house in Ramaz. Except that four plants were killed there. The house was a plant. The whole world was a plant. Smoke curtain, curtain, decoy.
  
  
  Now all the loose ends fell into place. Everything I didn't understand. Why a terrorist group hires people. Why they encouraged empty talk. Because they were creating a false lead, and they wanted the story to spread.
  
  
  The Mansur and Kalooris were innocent liars. They believed that everything they did was real. But ih was used. People are so smart that it's just amazing. People who knew they were dealing with hotheads and hops and knew what to expect. They believed that Khali Mansur would sell out, and they kept in touch with the Slaves to test their theory. They then killed ih both to give the story to Alenka.
  
  
  Only Robbie Jackson realized the truth. On the way back to Bhamaza, he realized this. Just like me. Maybe I didn't finish all the details, but if I'm lucky, I'll have all the answers. Soon.
  
  
  And what about Benjamin?
  
  
  What did he know? He must have known something. He played it too cool and a little shy. And he was Leila Kalud by my side.
  
  
  Hers is the only sl transmission.
  
  
  Its said: "I can smell a rat." He described her as a rat.
  
  
  She looked at me seriously and nodded. “yeah. You're right. Shin Bet " shell on the same trail as the Slaves. They also found bodies in a house in Bhamaza. They also decided that it was... as you say... a plant."
  
  
  "So they baffled me, used me to occupy Al-Shaitan so that they-the Shabak masters-could go out and find the real trail. Thank you very much, Leila. I don't like being used."
  
  
  She just shook her head. "You don't understand."
  
  
  "I make it like a tailor."
  
  
  "Okay, you've partially misunderstood. They also know that Robbie wired AX. So they think he may have found the truth out of the lie. The truth they missed. They thought if you followed Robbie's trail, you might find out ... whatever it is for us. Shin Bet is working hard on this, Nick. Almost every agent,... "
  
  
  "Yes, Yes. If I were Benjamin, I'd do the same. The thing is, it worked."
  
  
  "What do you mean, it worked?"
  
  
  "I mean, I know where Al-Shaitan is in the hall."
  
  
  She looked at me with wide eyes. "What are you doing? Where?"
  
  
  "Uh, honey. The next round is mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The nineteenth chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Breakfast consisted of yogurt, fruit and sweet tea. Nasr and him. By the rules of the ego house, the men ate alone. We were discussing As Saika, the commando group Nasr had infiltrated. More recently, ih activities have been focused on indigenous Syrian Jews. Jews in the ghetto. They are forced by law to live in ghettos, are unable to work, and are under curfew in the streets. We need passports, we need freedoms, we need phone numbers. Attacked on the street, stabbed to death on a whim. If you want to know what happened to anti-Semitism, then in some parts of the Middle East, it is alive and well. Jews can't get into Saudi Arabia, and they can't get out of Syria at all. I could easily understand many things about the Israelites, the real ih Jews a few thousand years ago.
  
  
  Nasra asked her why he was a doppelganger.
  
  
  He looked surprised. "You ask why I'm working as a double agent - I thought we were just discussing that." He picked up a small bunch of grapes. "This part of the world is very ancient. And all over the hotel, and always fed on blood. Read the Bible. It's written in blood. Hebrew, Egyptian, Philistine, Hittite, Syriac, Christian, Roman. And then there was the Bible. author. Muslims. The Turks. The Crusaders. Ah, the Crusaders have shed a lot of blood. In the name of the peace-loving Christ, they shed it." He twirled the grapes in the air. Her tired of eating food grown in blood. Her tired of the endless frenzy of people arguing about good and bad as if they really knew it. You think I think the Israelis are right. I just think that they who want to destroy ih are wrong. He dropped the grapes and began to smile. "And perhaps I am doing my own folly in judging her that way."
  
  
  I told her that I think a man should be the judge. People take pride in saying " I don't make judgments," but some things do need to be judged. Sometimes, if you don't judge, your silence is forgiveness. Or, as someone else who once fought for their beliefs said, " If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem."
  
  
  Nasr shrugged his shoulders. "And the solution creates a new set of problems. Every revolution is a seed - which one? The next revolution! But "- he waved an airy hand - " we all have to make our bet on a perfect world, don't we?" And the fates sometimes conspire, don't they? I helped you, and you helped me. When we are lucky, we believe that God has chosen our side ."
  
  
  "When were we unlucky?"
  
  
  "Ah! Then we know if we have chosen God's side. Meanwhile, your first second visit to me from this business helicopter undoubtedly added to my luck. I wonder if I can still make it for you. "
  
  
  “yeah. You can keep an eye on Leila."
  
  
  "You don't need to ask, my friend. Ah!" Nasr looked over my shoulder. He turned to see Leila standing in the doorway. Nasr stood up. "I think I can do something else. Now I can leave you to say goodbye."
  
  
  Nasr left. Layla started toward me, limping slightly. Hey told her to stop. He picked her up and carried her to the bench. The moment seemed to call for some Hollywood dialogue. Its said: "Someday, Tanya, when the war is over, we will meet on the steps of Leningrad."
  
  
  She said: "What?"
  
  
  He smiled at her. "It doesn't matter."She had her on a bench and sat down next to her. A funny moment when there is nothing to say. What are you saying?
  
  
  She said, " The French have a good word.
  
  
  Говорят à bientôt. Until next time."
  
  
  Ee took her hand. Its said: "Until next time."
  
  
  She kissed my hand. Then she quickly said: "Just go, okay?"
  
  
  There was a moment when my legs wouldn't move. Then he ordered them. Get up. He started talking. She shook her head. “no. Just go away."
  
  
  He was almost at the door.
  
  
  "Nick?"
  
  
  Her, turned around.
  
  
  "Will you tell me where you're going?"
  
  
  Hers was laughing. "You will succeed as a Shabak agent. Of course I'll tell you where I'm going. I'll take her by helicopter and fly away."
  
  
  Where to?"
  
  
  "Where else? To Jerusalem, of course."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  It flew over Jordan and landed on an airstrip outside Jerusalem. It wasn't that easy. I had to speak very, very quickly. From the radio control to the airport tower. Even then, he was confronted with a gun when he opened the door. Given the Syrian colonel's costume, he would have been interrogated anyway if it weren't for Uri's magical Aleph. It worked like a Saint Christopher medal in Hebrew.
  
  
  I went back to my room in the American Colony, showered, shaved, ordered smoked salmon and a bottle of vodka, and got to work.
  
  
  The plane reserved it.
  
  
  I booked her a hotel room.
  
  
  It was her third phone call. I told emu what to take with me, where and when to meet me. It was her fourth phone call. I told emu what to take with me, where and when to meet me.
  
  
  He looked at his watch.
  
  
  He shaved off her mustache.
  
  
  It was cleaned and reloaded by Wilhelmina.
  
  
  Her, dressed in his own clothes.
  
  
  He looked at his watch. It took only about forty minutes.
  
  
  I packed up and waited another half hour.
  
  
  I went out to the yard and ordered a drink. I still had two hours to kill.
  
  
  The drink didn't do anything. She was assigned a passport. Hers was already there, kicking down the door. They were all there. Nine millionaires. And Al-Shaitan. Good old Al S. He should have been right. Because I couldn't afford to make mistakes anymore. I was wrong all the time.
  
  
  Now I had a chance to be completely right.
  
  
  I drank it for it.
  
  
  And her voice. Jacqueline Rain. With a handsome police lieutenant by the hand. The waiter led ih across the terrace mimmo my table. Jacqueline stopped walking.
  
  
  "Well, hello, mister... She was wearing the same blue silk dress, the same blond silk hair, the same silk expression. I wonder what the picture of her in the attic looks like.
  
  
  "Miss... I snapped my fingers. “no. This is Miss Rain."
  
  
  She smiled. "And this is Lieutenant Yablon."
  
  
  We exchanged greetings.
  
  
  Jacqueline said, " Lieutenant Jablon was so well equipped. My other one... he committed suicide. Big shock." She turned to the Apple Tree. "I don't think I would have survived without you." She gave Ego a dazzling smile.
  
  
  "Suicide?" - told her to wonder if they thought Lamothe shot himself and then went into the rack, or went into the rack and then shot himself.
  
  
  “yeah. Ego's body was found on his bed."
  
  
  And she knew exactly who had installed it. Hey nodded gratefully at her. She was getting restless. She turned to her lieutenant. "Well..." she said. The waiter brought me my second drink. He raised his glass. "Le Haim," I said.
  
  
  "Le Haim?" "Yes," she said.
  
  
  "About suicide," I said.
  
  
  The lieutenant looked puzzled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  At five o'clock, he landed in Beirut.
  
  
  Uri was waiting for me at the airport, dressed in a dark spa suit, carrying heavy-looking luggage and a battered plastic bag for an Air France flight. We have stopped some fees.
  
  
  He drummed on his knees as he drove through the city. Beirut is called the Paris of the Middle East. The ego is also called a parasite. A shopping center, a big boutique; it lives off the products of other countries, acts as a giant transit point, a giant import-export office. Strips, clamps, easy money; then, on the other hand, the unstable presence of the Palestinians, a presence that translates into raids across the border, into an excited, agitated left-wing press, into "incidents" against the ruling regime that survives under Palestinian blackmail.
  
  
  My car pulled up to Fox Beirut. I got out and paid while the doorman got a messenger to deliver my luggage. Her, saw Uri walk through the gilded day. He was killed another minute and followed.
  
  
  He walked over to the table. "Mackenzie," I said. "I have a reservation."
  
  
  "Mr. Mackenzie." Clare was dark and good-looking
  
  
  a young man. He was sorting through a stack of pink forms. "Ah, the voice and us. Mr. Mackenzie. Single with a bath." It was signed by the registry. He told me to wait. The desk clerk came and showed me to my room. Uri waited, too. He lit it and looked around the lobby. White marble, tailor take it, everywhere. White carpets with red borders. White sofas and red chairs. White lacquered tables and lamps with red flowers. Two security guards in gray-brown uniforms with .38-caliber holsters protruding from their hips. Two, not three, in plain clothes.
  
  
  And the voice and Kelly. Ten minutes late. Kelly and a battered leather suitcase.
  
  
  The messenger was carrying Uri's bags on a cart. He was filling my bag, ready to go.
  
  
  He walked over to Callie.
  
  
  "Tell me, do you ..."
  
  
  "Of course. And you ..."
  
  
  "Mackenzie's."
  
  
  "Mackenzie. Sure. You're the owl here..."
  
  
  "Yes. Exactly. You too?"
  
  
  "Exactly."
  
  
  Clera was holding out a pen to Kelly. Her, saw him log in: Tom Myers.
  
  
  "How's Maureen?"
  
  
  "She's fine."
  
  
  "And little Tom?"
  
  
  "He bets more every day."
  
  
  "Oh, they're really growing."
  
  
  "Yes, of course."
  
  
  By this point, the desk clerk had called for a porter, luggage storage, and Kelly was on the cart with ours. The doorman said: "Gentlemen?"
  
  
  We smiled and stepped forward. The elevator opened. The messenger pulled into a loaded cart. The doorman followed him. Then there are three of us. The elevator operator started to close the door. A short, fat, middle-aged woman covered in diamonds and gigantic breasts squeezed through the closing doors.
  
  
  "Ten," she said in English, holding up all her plump fingers and flashing the diamonds at five-by-ten.
  
  
  The car started up.
  
  
  "Six," the doorman said, looking at the keys. "Six, and then seven."
  
  
  "Eleven," Kelly said.
  
  
  The cameraman looked at him in surprise. "Impossible, sir. Eleven - private floor. I'm really sorry."
  
  
  "I'm sorry," I said, pulling out my gun. Kelly grabbed the operator from behind by the arms before he could push any alarm buttons, and Uri grabbed Matron around the rta before she could let out a diamond-studded scream.
  
  
  The porter and the round-eyed messenger were startled.
  
  
  Her, pressed the Stop button. The elevator stopped. Kelly cuffed the elevator operator and flashed his .38-caliber police pistol. Uri still had his hand over the woman's mouth. "Lady," I said, " you're screaming and dead. Do you understand?"
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  Uri let go of ee.
  
  
  I pressed six. The elevator started. Just like a woman's mouth. Miles per minute.
  
  
  "If you think you can get away with it, you ... you ... you're wrong as rain. Her, I want you to know that my husband is an important person. My husband will follow you to the ends of the earth. My husband..."
  
  
  Uri put his hand over Ei's mouth again.
  
  
  We reached the sixth floor.
  
  
  Kelly took three sets of keys from the desk clerk. "All right," he said. Fast and quiet. One sound, one gesture, I shoot it. Understand?"
  
  
  All four of them nodded. I told the messenger to leave the luggage. Uri released his arm around the Rta. He muttered slowly: "To the ends of the earth."
  
  
  He opened the door for her. There's no traffic. Kelly shook her keys and bowed. "Room Six Twelve? Come here, madame."
  
  
  They walked down the hall. The elevator door closed behind her. Uri and I dived for our luggage. There were two suits in Kelly's suitcase. Dark blue shirts, slacks, and matching Macy's. Soft gloves. Tin helmets. Two official ID cards. postcards. We undressed and started to change into new clothes. Uri Ego gave her the terrorist medal. "As promised," I said.
  
  
  "Did it help?"
  
  
  "It helped. Did they bring you things?"
  
  
  "Things are right. You gave me a big order, boy. You give me four hours to cross the border and tell me you want to pose as a bomb squad."
  
  
  "Right?"
  
  
  "So... I don't want to rush it yet. He crossed the border disguised as an elder. And what I brought with me, dear, is garbage." He stood in his hairy chest and shorts, pulling on a dark blue shirt.
  
  
  I said, " What kind of trash?"
  
  
  "Junk. TV antenna. A video clip for a typewriter. But don't laugh. Swipe this antenna into the moans, and they'll think it's some weird divining rod."
  
  
  "I wouldn't want to bet my life on it. What else did you bring?"
  
  
  "I don't even remember. So wait a bit. You'll be surprised."
  
  
  Good. I just love surprises."
  
  
  He raised an eyebrow. "Are you complaining?" he said. He dropped his own
  
  
  put your jacket in your suitcase. "Other than your rta and meet your big ideas, what did you bring with you to this party?"
  
  
  "Potato salad".
  
  
  "Fun," he said.
  
  
  A knock on the elevator door.
  
  
  "What's the password?"
  
  
  "Fuck you."
  
  
  He opened the door for her.
  
  
  Kelly was dressed as an elevator operator. He quickly entered and closed the door. Finally, she was formally introduced by Ego Uri as she was strapped into a heavy insulated gillette.
  
  
  "How are our friends?" Kelly said it. "Do you keep ih busy?"
  
  
  "Yeah. You can say that they are all connected."
  
  
  "Poor lady," I said.
  
  
  "Poor husband, you mean."
  
  
  "To the ends of the earth," Uri intoned.
  
  
  Kelly picked up a plastic flight bag. "Is the radio here?"
  
  
  Uri said: "Eight. Sit in the lobby and wait for the signal. After that , you know what to do."
  
  
  Kelly nodded. "Just don't get into trouble in the first ten minutes. Give me time to change and get to the lobby."
  
  
  Its said: "I think you're wonderful just the way you are."
  
  
  He made an obscene gesture.
  
  
  He turned to Uri. "I think you'd better tell me how to signal Kelly."
  
  
  "Yes, Yes. Sure. There's something in your box that looks like a sensor. There are two buttons. Tap the top one and you'll signal Kelly."
  
  
  "And the lower one?"
  
  
  He smiled. "You will signal an outdoor pool."
  
  
  Uri was unpacking two metal boxes. They looked like huge khaki lunch boxes.
  
  
  Kelly shook his head. "You're nuts. Both of you."
  
  
  Uri looked at him. "Are you Mr. Sane? So what are you doing here, Mr. No?"
  
  
  Kelly smiled his Belmondo smile. "It sounded too good for ego to miss. In any case. If Carter's right, this is the greatest kidnapping conspiracy ever, and it's a ferret like Aimee Semple McPherson disappeared. And if he's wrong - and I think he is - well, that alone is worth the price allowed."
  
  
  Uri was sifting through the contents of his box. "The Americans," he sighed. "With your competitive spirit, it's a miracle that you guys won the war."
  
  
  "Now, now. Let's not confuse the spirit of the competition. Eventually, he released Edsel and Diet Cola."
  
  
  Uri handed me a metal box. "And Watergate."
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "And ego is the cure." He turned to Callie. "So what should we expect? I mean, up there."
  
  
  Kelly shrugged. "Trouble."
  
  
  Uri shrugged. "So what's new here?"
  
  
  "Security guards," Kelly said. "I think we'll see the guards when we open the door. There are thirty rooms on each floor." He handed us each a master access key.
  
  
  He looked at Uri. "You take the right side, I'll take the left."
  
  
  He said, " I think we should go together."
  
  
  "Uh-uh. We'll make it most of my way. Also, my way, if one around us is caught, the other still has a chance to signal."
  
  
  Uri lowered his hand to his face. "And suppose they catch us, but they're not Al-Shaitan. Suppose they are exactly as they say they are. Group of sheikhs of po... He turned to Kelly, " how did you say that?"
  
  
  "In Abu Dhabi. And this is one sheikh. Ahmed Sultan el Yamaroun. The other couple are footmen, servants, and wives."
  
  
  "Are the egos of the wife steamy?"
  
  
  "Amazing," I said. "What the hell is this, tailor? Abbott and Costello meet Al Shaitan? Go straight ahead, and him to the left, but Kostya of God, let's go." Her, pressed the button.
  
  
  We set off.
  
  
  11th floor
  
  
  Kelly opened the door.
  
  
  There were two uniformed security guards in the lobby. Official view. But then there were us.
  
  
  "Bomb squad," I said, holding up the card. Her, went out the door. A security guard blocked the way.
  
  
  "Wait," he said. "What is it about?"
  
  
  "Bombs!" He said it quite loudly. "Out of the way." He turned to Uri and nodded. We both started moving in opposite directions. The guards exchanged glances. Kelly closed the elevator door. Odin around the guards started chasing my feet "N-b-but," he said. "We haven't received a word of command from us."
  
  
  "That's not our problem," I said hoarsely. "Someone is putting a bomb in this hotel. If you want to help us, make sure everyone stays in their room." He reached the place where the signposts were passing and looked at the guard. "That's an order," I said. He scratched his nose and backed away.
  
  
  He walked the red-and-white carpet both ways. The door marked "Stairs" was already locked, locked from the inside. I knocked on the last door in line. No response. He pulled out her access key and opened the door.
  
  
  A man was sleeping soundly on top of the bed. There was a first-aid kit on the table next to him. Signs and symbols. . Hypodermic needles. He should have been right.
  
  
  Whoever took the Americans must be here. He walked over to the bed and turned the man over.
  
  
  Harlow Wilts. Millionaire, two cottage motels. I remembered her ego face from the TV footage.
  
  
  The door to the adjoining room was slightly ajar. Behind him, hers, he could hear calls for a soccer game playing on the TV. For making the sounds of soul running and baritoned bars pornographic songs. Wilt's keeper takes a break. He peeked through the crack. On the bed sat an Arab burnous, a checkered headdress, and a .38-caliber pistol.
  
  
  It was. A gold mine. Al-Shaitan hideout. Well done, Albert. That's a great idea. Private pool in a lively hotel. Using the cover of an oil-rich sheikh. Private slaves, private cook. All of this was meant to keep outsiders out. Even the management won't know the truth. But Robbie knows ego, and so does hers. Because once you found out Hema was Al Shaitan, you can freely find out who Al Shaitan is.
  
  
  Good. What's next? Find Uri, find the mastermind, and complete everything.
  
  
  It didn't happen in that order.
  
  
  Her, went out into the hall and hit the security guard.
  
  
  "The Sheikh wants to see you."
  
  
  I wasn't ready to meet the sheikh. I tried playing Bomb Squad a little more. "I'm sorry," I said, " I don't have time." He knocked on the door across the hall. "Police," I shouted. "Open it."
  
  
  "What?" A woman's voice is confused.
  
  
  "Police," he repeated.
  
  
  The guard pulled out his gun.
  
  
  He swung the metal box in his hand, and a piece of ego sticks gouged out the corner of it as the contents of the box spilled across the floor. The guard fell back to groan, his gun firing wildly and lifting the devil - or at least the devil's handmaidens. Four doors opened, four guns pointed, and four thugs, including a wet one who had just sweated, moved toward me. The chances of an attempted shootout were low. Her, trapped in a narrow cul-de-sac hall.
  
  
  "Who?" - repeat the female voice.
  
  
  "Forget it," I said. "April Fool's Day."
  
  
  I went, as the man had said, to the sheikh. Mr. Al-Shaitan himself.
  
  
  It was a Royal suite. In the same room, anyway. A forty-foot room with gilded furniture, damask upholstery, Persian rugs, and Chinese lamps. The predominant color was turquoise-blue. Uri sat on a turquoise chair, flanked by armed Arab sentries. Two other guards were standing at a pair of double doors. They were dressed in dark blue with turquoise headdresses. Yes, sir, the rich do have taste. Who else will have a color-coordinated squad of thugs?
  
  
  My own entourage quickly searched me, found Wilhelmina, and then Hugo. Over the past week, I'd been so completely disarmed that I was beginning to feel like the Venus de Milo. They shoved me into a turquoise chair and placed my bomb next to Uri, on a table about ten feet away. They scooped up the contents from the floor and hurriedly stuffed them into the box. The lid was open, revealing Molly's screws and typewriter rollers, which looked exactly like Molly's screws and typewriter rollers. Something told me that the concert was over.
  
  
  Uri and I shrugged our shoulders. He examined the boxes, then looked at him. He shook his head. No, he wasn't lying to Kelly either.
  
  
  Double doors opened at the far end of the room. The guards stood at attention. One in robes, two in uniforms, and one in the shower with a towel on his belt.
  
  
  Through the door, wearing a silk shirt, a silk headband with a gold agal, and a black poodle under his arm, came the Wizard of Oz, the terrorist leader, Al-Shaitan, Sheikh el-Yamaroun:
  
  
  Leonard Fox.
  
  
  He sat down behind a chair and put the dog on the floor so that legs and Stahl could look from me to Uri, from me to his guards, with a triumphant smile on his thin lips.
  
  
  He sent a letter to the guards, dismissing ih all but the four blue riflemen. He moved the two who had been next to Uri for the day into the hall. Fox was about forty-five, and had been a millionaire for the last twenty years; a billionaire for the last ten. He studied her with pale, almost light green eyes and a thin, sharp, well-coiffed face. It didn't suit my friend. Like a portrait painted by two different artists, the face somehow contradicted itself. His eyes flashed with hungry surprise; his mouth was set in a perpetual irony. A war of fun and obvious delight. Ego's childhood dream of untold wealth had become a child's reality, and somewhere he knew it, but he had ridden his dream like a man riding a tiger, and now, on the mountaintop, he was its prisoner. He looked at Uri, then turned to me.
  
  
  "Well, Mr. Carter. I thought you'd come alone."
  
  
  He sighed. "So you thought I was coming. Well,
  
  
  Did you know I was coming? I didn't even know her until last night. And hers wasn't following me as far as I know her."
  
  
  He picked up a box of pure gold on the table and pulled out a cigarette. My brand. He offered me one. He shook his head. He shrugged and lit it with a gold lighter. "Come on, Carter. I didn't have to chase you. My guard downstairs memorized your face. I had your picture from Tel Aviv. And I've known about your outstanding talents since because the water was polluted."
  
  
  "Izmir".
  
  
  He squinted and blew out a cloud of smoke. "Five years ago. You shut down the Turkish opium network."
  
  
  "Yours?"
  
  
  "Unfortunately. You were very clever. Very smart. Almost as smart as I am." "When she found out that they had sent you to follow the Slaves, I had a moment of real concern. Then he started enjoying it. The idea of having a real opponent. A real test of my mind. Al Shaitan vs. Nick Carter, the only person smart enough to even start figuring out the truth."
  
  
  Uri looked at me admiringly. He shifted in his chair. "You forgot something, Fox. Robbie Jackson saw you first. Or didn't you know that?"
  
  
  He threw back his head and laughed, " Ha!" You really trust it. No, Mr. Carter, or can I call you Nick?" No. This was also part of the bait. We were the one who wired to AX. Not Slaves."
  
  
  She paused. "Compliments, Fox, or can I call you Al?"
  
  
  Her lips ticked again. "Joke all you want, Nick. The joke was on you. The call was part of the plan. A plan to keep AX on the wrong track. Oh, not just AX. I managed to deceive many agents. Shin Bet, Interpol, CIA. They all approached Ramaz very cleverly. Some saw bodies, some just saw blood. But they all left, convinced that they were on the right track. That they had just missed an opportunity to find Al-Shaitan. Then it's time to replace the tracks."
  
  
  "Kill geese that have laid golden goose eggs."
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "Like Hali Mansour."
  
  
  "Like Hali Mansour and ego colleagues. The people he used for his first hints. And, of course, we had to kill one through our agents. To give the impression that I know about Ramaz, he knew too much."
  
  
  "Why Slaves?"
  
  
  He poked his cigarette into the bowl of jade rings. "Let's just say I have an AXE to grind. Another way to humiliate Washington. Another way to slow you all down. If the Slave was dead, you would send another person. Starting all over again is the wrong way to go."
  
  
  "So you can make double fools of us."
  
  
  "Double fools? No. More than twice that, Carter. The first thing Washington did was try to go after Leonard Fox."
  
  
  Uri looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
  
  
  Uri answered. "You remember what happened to Edsel," I muttered.
  
  
  Fox smiled. Tick-end-here you go. "If you're trying to make an analogy with me, you're wrong. Totally wrong. My dreams are not too big and not too rococco. And as for my offer, all egos buy. Leonard Fox is dead. And the Arab terrorists are dead. people's delight ."
  
  
  Uri cleared his throat. "While we're talking about this, what are you dreaming about?"
  
  
  Fox gave Uri a disapproving look. "Perhaps the dreams were a poor choice of words. And my plans are quickly coming to fruition. I've already received half of the ransom. And in case you haven't read the papers, his name is a notice to the participants that none of the victims will be released until all the money is in my hands. Sorry. In the hands of Al-Shaitan ."
  
  
  "And how will you spend it?"
  
  
  "How I always spent ih. In pursuit of a good life. Just think, gentlemen, a billion dollars. Tax-free. I'll build myself a palace, maybe in Arabia. I'll take her four years and five to a splendor unknown to the Western power? I'll get it. Unlimited power. Feudal power. A power that only Eastern princes can wield. Democracy was such a tasteless invention ."
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "Without it, you would still be here... hema? Hema were you when you started? A truck driver, isn't it?"
  
  
  He'd gotten a few friendlier looks in his time. "You're confusing democracy with capitalism, Nick. He owes his happiness to free enterprise. Democracy is a voice that wants to put me in jail. This proves that democracy has its limitations." He suddenly frowned. "But we have a lot to talk about, and I'm sure you gentlemen would like a drink. I know that the hotel would."
  
  
  He rang the bell and a servant appeared. A barefoot man.
  
  
  "Do you understand what I mean?" Fox pointed to the floor. " Democracy has its limitations. You won't find such servants in the States." He quickly ordered and dismissed the person who had removed those metal boxes and placed them on the floor under the table. Out of reach, and now
  
  
  visibility.
  
  
  Nam Uri, we didn't really care about her. Fox was busy spilling his guts, we were both alive and still in good shape, and we knew we'd find a way to contact Kelly. And how could we lose? Fox didn't even know about Kelly. Not to mention our stupid scheme.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The twentieth chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  A servant handed rheumatism a huge brass tray with Polish vodka and baccarat glasses, a mound the size of a soccer ball, around beluga caviar, onions, chopped eggs and slices of grilled cheese sandwich. Fox poured himself an iced vodka. An armed security guard came over and handed us the phone.
  
  
  Fox cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. "The planning started a few months before..." He looked at me quickly. "I assume you want to hear this story. I know that I really want to hear yours. So. As I mentioned earlier, the planning process started several months in advance. I was bored in Bermuda. Safe, but boring. Her man is used to traveling all over the outdoor pool. Travel, adventure, suggestions. This is my life. But suddenly it was restricted to very few places. And my funds were limited. My money was tied up in lawsuits, invested in property, lost to me, really. Her hotel of her freedom. And I needed my own money. I was reading it about Palestinian terrorists and suddenly I thought: and why not? Why not arrange for me to be kidnapped and make it look like the Arabs did it? I had many contacts in the Middle East. I could have hired people to make it look legal. And there are so many Arab extremist groups that no one will know where they came from. So it was invented by Al-Shaitana ."
  
  
  He paused and took a long drink of vodka. "My best base here was the Shanda Baths. I hope you know about my connection with them. Part of the opium network run by her, the money was filtered through Swiss corporations. Shanda was mine... let's just say "an employment agency". Kalurisov, the frontmen, could easily buy me an army of thugs. Pushers who will do everything for a fee. And drug addicts who will do anything for their junk."
  
  
  "Not exactly a reliable company."
  
  
  "Ah! Exactly. But it turned this liability into an asset. Let me continue. First, she was asked by Calorisa to recommend men. At the time, the job was simply to stage my abduction. We went through the list of names, and he got the name el-Khali Mansour. Kalouris knew that el-Khali was connected to a street gang, as well as a brother who lived in Syria. He thought it might make a good blind spot, in case someone started tracking us. But then he said no. Hali Mansour is unreliable. He'd sell us out if the money was right. And then I had a real idea. Let Mansur sell us out. Her, knew that there would be agents on the case, and with unreliable people like Mansour, her could make sure that the agents went the wrong way.
  
  
  Mansour's case was very delicate. It's hard to provoke her ego. Tease the ego to the point of cheating. Vedas of the ego, and then disappoint. But he had to proceed with great care to make sure that he didn't find out even a trace of the truth. So I went through the back door. We started with a man named Ahmed Rafad, and another brother, Hali of Beit Nama. Rafad was on the helicopter that brought me out of Bermuda. But that was later. First, we told Rafad and a few other men to help us hire other workers. By hiring them, they helped spread the auditory wave. The rumors reached everyone's ears. Ears of informants. We also knew that Rafad would recruit his friend Ali. Ali, in turn, will recruit his brother el-Khali ."
  
  
  "And this Market, when provoked, will sell you out."
  
  
  "Exactly."
  
  
  He shook his head and smiled. I think it was Lawrence of Arabia who said: "In the East, they swear that it is better to cross the square from three sides." In this case, Fox had a truly oriental mind, which built an indirect relationship to high art ."
  
  
  He lit it. "Now tell me how Lamotte fit in. And Jahns."
  
  
  Fox scooped up a huge tennis ball of caviar and began to spread ego on toast.
  
  
  To answer both of these questions together, " he took a bite, and a spray of caviar spilled across the table like beads from a broken necklace. He took a sip of vodka to clear his palate." Do not use opium in the middle of the abdomen. No, I don't know who the U.S. agent is, but Lamotte worked for my organization. Damascus compartment. He knew about Jahns. And Lamothe was recruited, depended on me. Not just for heroin, but for a lot of money. Emu needs money to feed another habit "
  
  
  “yeah. He was also a dandy."
  
  
  Fox smiled. “yeah. Absolutely fantastic. When our opium business stopped, Lamotte was scared. He couldn't afford both his chemical habit and his own... a sense of fashion, so to speak. Even on his salary in Oil Murals, which I assure you was quite large. So, Jens. We had some background information about Jens. We knew he was in a restless state.
  
  
  And stress. A woman who also had a fashion sense. How easy it had been for Lamotte to lead her away. In fact, poor Bob wasn't having much fun. The ego taste did not reach the female sex. But men did worse things because of the heroin and the money, so Bob seduced this Jacqueline - and forced her to betray her former lover. At first, we thought about using Jeans as a trickster. But there was some confusion. The rumors that we had agreed to spread in Damascus were instead passed on to the CIA officer. But then-what luck. Welcome to your slave rumors in Tel Aviv."
  
  
  "The rumors that Mansour told El Jazzar..."
  
  
  “yeah. Robbie heard ih and met up with Mansour. Then he tried to call Jahns in Damascus. From there, I think you know what happened. But the Slaves were suspicious. Not Mansour, but Jens / Lamotte. He called here to get Fox to go to Beirut, where the real Jens was staying for his oil conference ... "
  
  
  "And where a black Renault hit an ego on the street."
  
  
  "Mmm. Didn't kill the ego, but it's okay. At least emu never got to talk to the Slaves."
  
  
  "And you were here at the hotel the whole time."
  
  
  "All the time. Even then disguised as an oil sheikh. But you must have already found out something about it."
  
  
  "Yeah. The Council resurrects the guards. I heard they were here to protect the sheikh's money. Money hidden in the hotel vault. It was too bizarre to be true. Gulf sheikhs bring their money to Lebanon, but they deposit ih in banks just like everyone else. So it suddenly dawned on me. What money wouldn't you put in the bank? The ransom money ."
  
  
  "But why her, Nick? After all, I was dead."
  
  
  "Not necessarily. You arrived in Bermuda alive, by plane. The TV cameras showed it. But you left Bermuda in a closed coffin. No one has seen the bodies, except for your" close associates ". And a closed coffin is a good way to get a living person off the island. Now I have a corkscrew. When did you decide to kidnap the others? This wasn't part of the original plan."
  
  
  Fox shrugged. “yeah. You're right again. I came up with an idea while on my own... captivity. I sat in this room these two Sundays, and thought about all the people I didn't like. And I thought to her - ah! If the scheme works once, why doesn't it work again and again. Voila! Al-Shaitan Stahl is a big business. But now I think it's time for you to tell me ... "
  
  
  "How I found out"
  
  
  "How did you know what I hope you'd like to tell me, Nick?"
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. "You know me, Al." He looked at the carpet and then at Uri. Fox and Ego were too far away. He kept both of us at a safe distance and under the threat of double crossfire. He was losing hope of getting to the crates. Only the second plan remained. She could have been talked to death by Fox. If Kelly hadn't received the signal, in another hour, he would still have gone and done his job.
  
  
  She cleared her throat, " How I realized it. I do not know, Fox. Lots of little things. As soon as I realized that Ramaz was a dead end, that it was all fake from start to finish, the other parts started to fall apart. město. Or at least he could see what the other parts were. For example, one of the reasons you have problems with the feds is related to tax evasion. Rumors about meet your Swiss corporations and dodgy deals to clean up dirty money. So where did you get all the dirty money? Not around hotels. It must be something illegal. Something like drugs. And what do you know? The three pieces of my Al Shaitan puzzle all had something to do with drugs. Mansour Lamotte was a drug addict. And Shand's baths were a cover for the ring. Shand baths-owned by a Swiss corporation. This is a Swiss corporation. So Lamotte called Switzerland. A perfect circle. First round.
  
  
  "Now about Lamotte. He was up to his ears in Al-Shaitan. I also thought he shot the guys in Ramaz. Not many terrorists carry 0.25 mm rounds with them. But that wasn't the case. Did Lamothe work with OOP? make sense. But then, many things didn't make sense. Ah, the Americans who kept showing up. And all the money was flashing around. Army commandos are not hired thugs. They are loyal kamikaze haters. The pieces didn't fit - if the puzzle was solved by Al-Shaitan. But to change the name to Leonard Fox ... "
  
  
  Fox nodded slowly. "I was right to think you were a real opponent."
  
  
  Its been playing for more time. "There's one thing I don't understand. You spoke to Lamotte the morning he died. Emu received a call from Sheikh el-Yamaroun. Why did you tell em to support me?"
  
  
  Fox raised an eyebrow. "I'm pretty tired of Mr. Lamotte. And he told me that he thought you might suspect ego of something. And her, thought what better way to keep you in the dark than to make you kill your only real lead."
  
  
  "Did you know I would kill ego?"
  
  
  "Well, I really didn't think emu would be able to kill you. But on the other hand, if he did ... well,
  
  
  He raised his eyebrows again. - Would your story be over or is there anything else?
  
  
  "One more thing. Victims of abduction. It drove me crazy at first. I'm trying to figure out why these are the steam engines. Then her, I thought: well... without a reason. Quirks. But as soon as she started suspecting you, the fist formed a pattern. Wilts, who outbid your bet, in an Italian hotel. The Stol who put you up in his magazine, Thurgood Miles dog food guy is your neighbor, on Long Island. Then imagine five hunters. The location of the cabin was a deep, dark secret. the wives didn't know where it was. The Arab terrorists didn't know. But I remembered reading that your hobby was willingly. That you once belonged to a small, exclusive hunting group."
  
  
  "Very good, Nick. Really good. This article about my interest in hunting must have appeared when-ten years ago? But there's one person you missed. Roger Jefferson."
  
  
  "National parks".
  
  
  "Mmm. My resentment against him began twenty years ago. Moreover. Twenty five. As you say, she was once driven by a truck. National truck. And I had an idea. I went to Detroit and met Roger Jefferson. At that time, he was the head of the cargo transportation division. She was introduced to the emu by a new truck design. A design that would revolutionize your business is revealed. He refused me. Cold. Rudely. Laughing in my face. In fact, I think he only agreed. see me so you can enjoy laughing in my face ."
  
  
  “yeah. Well, you certainly had the last laugh."
  
  
  He smiled. "And they're right. This is the best option. And for the record, Thurgood Miles, the dog food vendor, is on my list not because he was my neighbor, but because of the way ego clinics treat dogs. they just put sick animals to sleep, they sell ih to colleges for vivisection. Barbarism! Inhumane! The ego must be stopped! "
  
  
  "Mmm," I said, thinking of the servant slumped on the floor, thinking of the cheaters killed in Ramaz and the innocent people killed on the beach. Fox wanted dogs to be treated like humans, but he didn't mind treating people like dogs. But as Alice said: "I can't tell you now what the moral of this is, but I'll remember it in a while."
  
  
  We sat in silence for a few minutes. Uri said: "I'm starting to feel like Harpo Marx. Don't you want to ask me something? For example, how did a smart genius like me get into such trouble? Or maybe you can tell me something. are you planning to work with us now? "
  
  
  "Good corkscrew, Mr....?"
  
  
  "Mr. Moto. But you can call me Quasi."
  
  
  Fox smiled. "Great," he said. "Really excellent. Perhaps I should keep both of you at court as court jesters. Tell me, "he was still looking at Uri," what other talents can you recommend to you?"
  
  
  "Talents?" Uri shrugged. "A little song, a little dance. I make her a nice omelette."
  
  
  Fox's eyes froze. "That will be enough! I asked her what you were doing."
  
  
  "Bombs," Uri said. "I make bombs. Like the disks that lie in the drawer at the meet your feet."
  
  
  Fox's eyes widened before narrowing. "You're bluffing," he said.
  
  
  Uri shrugged. "Try me." He looked at his watch. "You have half an hour to make sure I'm lying. Do you think we're going to walk in here, two crazy people alone, without any aces to pull Gemma out of? You think it's over, Mr. Leonard Fox."
  
  
  Fox considered this. He looked under the chair. Ego dog was also under the table. He snapped his fingers and the dog ran out, darting to Fox's knee, jumping up and watching him with dog-like love. Fox picked up Ego and held him in his lap.
  
  
  "All right," he said. "I'll call your bluff. You see, there's nothing keeping me in these hotel rooms. Her Sheikh Ahmed Sultan al-Yamaroun, her friends come and go. But you, on the other hand... " he barked at his guards. "Tie ih to the chairs," he ordered in Arabic. He turned back to us. "And I assure you, gentlemen, if the bomb doesn't kill you in half an hour, I will."
  
  
  Uri started ducking behind the crates. Her got up and silly his ego in the jaw when three guns went off, crack-crack-crack-missing him just because I changed the ego direction.
  
  
  Stupid move. He would never do that. The crates were more than ten feet apart. And in any case, it's not worth dying for. There was no bomb in them, just a remote control. It's not that I don't believe in heroism. I just believe that I will save ih in one or two cases. When you can't lose. And when you have nothing to lose. I haven't figured it out yet, either.
  
  
  Her, I thought that the Fox would take his guard and leave. And somehow, even tied to chairs, the two of us were able to reach the crates and push two buttons. The first one should alert Kelly, who is sitting in the lobby, and start the second one, which in two minutes will cause a noisy explosion in the flight bag. Not a real bomb. Just a big bang. Enough to rip open a plastic bag. Enough to
  
  
  send black smoke billowing through the air. And enough to call the Beirut police, which Kelly will direct to the eleventh floor. An independent police reed.
  
  
  Plan two, the "if-you-don't-hear-from-us-in-an-hour-you'll-still-get-cops" plan, didn't seem to work. Not if Fox kept his word. If the bomb hadn't killed us in half an hour, he would have killed us. The cops will come again, but they'll find our bodies. A beautiful illustration of the Pyrrhic victory. But a lot can happen in half an hour. And there was plenty of time for heroism.
  
  
  We were tied to chairs, our hands to the chair arms, our feet to the ego legs. Uri woke up just as Fox and Ego goons were leaving. Fox poked his head in the door.
  
  
  "Oh, one thing I didn't mention, gentleman. We found your friend sitting in the lobby."
  
  
  He opened the door a little wider. They dropped Kelly on the Persian rug. He was bound hand and foot, his hands were behind his back, and his face was protruding blue and blue bruises.
  
  
  "Now he's telling us," Uri told her.
  
  
  Fox closed the door. We heard him lock it up.
  
  
  "All right," I said. "Vote plan..."
  
  
  They both looked at me as if I really had one.
  
  
  "Apologize," I said. "Gallows humor. Where's the bag, Kelly?"
  
  
  Kelly rolled over with difficulty. "Very well, Pollyanna. This is your good news. They're still in the lobby."
  
  
  "Here's your bad news, Mr. Big," Uri scowled at me. "Even if we can make ego explode, the cops won't know we need to come here. Why did you hit me, you stupid prick? We had the best chances when we were not constrained."
  
  
  "First of all," I was also angry, " what could be better? Considering Kelly's gone."
  
  
  Good. But you didn't know that then."
  
  
  Good. I didn't know it, but it still saved your life."
  
  
  "For half an hour, it was hardly worth the effort."
  
  
  "Do you want to spend your last moments cleaning me up?
  
  
  Or you want to do something about trying to live."
  
  
  "I guess I can always drop you off later."
  
  
  "Then go to the crate and detonate the bomb."
  
  
  Uri headed for the boxes in his chair. It was inch by inch, " Favus?" he said. "Why am I doing this? So that the Beirut police would take a little walk?"
  
  
  I walked over in my chair to Callie, who had a hard time coming up to me. "I don't know why," Uri muttered to her. "Except that Leonard Fox and Ego group of blue thugs won't go any further than the lobby. They will sit there and count for half an hour. Maybe they'll get scared when they see the cops. Run to him. Walk around the hotel. Or maybe they'll bring the cops here sometime. Or maybe they'll think we have bombs everywhere."
  
  
  Uri was still four feet away from the crates.
  
  
  "Tailor, I do not know. Its just saying what I can."
  
  
  "You forgot one thing," Kelly said from a foot away. "Maybe it's just a bad dream."
  
  
  "I like this," I said, tilting my chair so that it fell to the floor. "Now, do you want to try to untie me?"
  
  
  Kelly slowly stood up until his hands were next to mine. He clumsily started grabbing at my ropes. Uri reached the spot next to the desk and threw his chair on the floor. He nudged the open box with his chin. He leaned forward, spilling the contents. The remote fell out and landed next to him. "No!" he said suddenly. "Not yet. We have twenty-three minutes to detonate the bomb. And maybe, as our host likes to say, maybe the explosion will send Fox here. Let's try to relax a little first."
  
  
  Kelly didn't give me anything weaker. Uri glanced at the mess on the floor. "I get it," he said. "I get it, I get it."
  
  
  "You mean what?"
  
  
  "Wire cutters. Her, I remember that I threw the wire cutters. There is only one problem. The wire cutters are in the second drawer. And the damn drawer is too far under the desk. And I can't get there tied to it. He turned his head in our direction. "Hurry up, Kelly. I think I need the luck of the Irish. The Jews ' luck is running out here."
  
  
  Kelly crawled to the table. It was like a football field. Finally, he got there. He used his bound legs as a probe and pushed the box out into clear space.
  
  
  Uri watched. "Oh my God. It's locked."
  
  
  Her voice slowly said, " Where are the keys?"
  
  
  "Forget it. The keys are on a chain around my neck."
  
  
  A long, terrible moment of silence. "Don't worry," I said. "Maybe it's just a bad dream."
  
  
  Another silence. We had ten minutes.
  
  
  "Wait," Uri said. "Your mailbox was also locked
  
  
  . How did you discover the ego? "
  
  
  "I didn't," I said. "I threw the ego at the guard, and he opened up on his own."
  
  
  "Forget it," he said again. "We will never have the leverage to throw this thing away."
  
  
  Good. With the antenna".
  
  
  "What about this?"
  
  
  "Take it."
  
  
  He chuckled. "I see. What now?"
  
  
  "Fish for the box. Take it by the handle. Then try to flip it as hard as you can."
  
  
  "Take the tailor. You can't be so stupid."
  
  
  He did it. It worked. The box hit the edge of a chair, opened, and all the junk spilled onto the floor.
  
  
  "This is a really amazing castle, Uri."
  
  
  "Are you complaining?" he asked.
  
  
  Kelly had already released him.
  
  
  "Ouch!" he said.
  
  
  "Are you complaining?" Kelly asked.
  
  
  We had almost five minutes left. Perfect timing. We send the bag flying. The cops will be here in less than five minutes. We headed for the day. We forgot it was locked.
  
  
  Other topics of the day were not topics that led to the rest of the issue. I found it on Wilhelmina's dresser and tossed my stiletto to Uri Kelly,who was taking a knife out of the kitchen drawer.
  
  
  "Phone!" I told her. "Oh my God, the phone!" I dived for my phone and told the operator to send me a message. When she said "Yes, sir," I heard an explosion.
  
  
  All doors to the hall were locked. And they were all made of unbreakable metal. It's all right. So we'll wait, We can't lose now. We went back to the living room, back to where we started. Uri looked at me. "Do you want to break up or stay together?"
  
  
  We never had to decide.
  
  
  The door flew open and bullets flew. A submachine gun rips through the room. I ducked behind the chair, but felt the bullets burn my leg. Her, shot and hit the shooter in the ego, dressed in blue clothes folding dollar, but two shooters went through the door, spitting bullets everywhere. I shot her once, and they both fell.
  
  
  Wait a second.
  
  
  Its fine, but not that much.
  
  
  A long moment of eerie silence. He looked around the room. Uri was lying in the middle of the carpet, a bullet hole in his padded vest. Kelly's right hand was all red, but he ducked for cover behind the couch.
  
  
  We looked at each other and then at the door.
  
  
  And there was my old friend David Benjamin.
  
  
  He was smiling a damned smile. "Don't worry, ladies. Armee is here."
  
  
  "Go to hell, David."
  
  
  He crawled over to Uri's body. There was blood on my leg. Her ego took a pulse. He was still there. Gillett undid it. This saved the emu's life. Kelly held his bloody hand. "I think I'll find a doctor before it hurts." Kelly walked slowly through the rooms.
  
  
  The Shabak guys were all over the room now. They and the Lebanese cops made quite an interesting combination, taking prisoners. And then the cops came. Beirut Police. Let's talk about strange companions, Shin Bitahon.
  
  
  "Lebanon will use this story for many years to come. They will say:"How can you accuse us of helping the Palestinians? Didn't we once work with the Shin Bet? "By the way," Benjamin added, " we have Leonard Fox. Beirut is happy to give it away. And we will gladly return ego to America."
  
  
  "One corkscrew, David."
  
  
  "How did I get here?"
  
  
  "That's right."
  
  
  "Leila informed me that you were going to Jerusalem. She was alerted to the runway to let me know when you were coming. Then it tracked you down. Well, not exactly surveillance. The army car that first took you to your hotel was ours. the taxi that took you to the airport. The driver saw you getting on a plane bound for Beirut. Then it wasn't so wouldnt be difficult. Remember her checked out the Slaves ' phone calls for you. And one of them was probably Fox Beirut. Al Shaitan was Leonard Fox, but I figured you'd dropped by here and thought you might need a little help from some friends of yours. We have a guy at the Beirut airport-well, we had a guy - now the ego cover is blown . You're turning green, Carter. I'll try to finish it quickly so you can pass out." Where was hers? Oh, yeah. He was waiting for her in the hall. I have three guys with me. We discovered that McKenzie wasn't in the ego room "So where was McKenzie? Some guy went looking for you at the bar. I went to check with the operator. Maybe McKenzie called another roaming service."
  
  
  Good. Don't tell me. You were talking to the cameraman when you called the cops."
  
  
  "Okay, I won't tell you. But so it was. You're very green, Carter. Partly, green and white. I think you're going to pass out."
  
  
  "Dead," I said. And disconnected.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The twenty-first chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hers was lying naked in the sun.
  
  
  On the balcony. I thought about what I would do with a billion dollars. I probably wouldn't have done anything else. What should I do there? Do you have fourteen Bob Lamotte costumes? Is there a palace in Arabia? Nope. Boring. Travel? This is another thing that people do with money. In any case, traveling is what I am passionate about. Travel and adventure. Lots of adventures. Let me tell you about the adventure - it's a shot in the arm. Or a leg.
  
  
  I always imagine this money. Half a billion dollars. Five hundred million. The money they took from the Leonard Fox repository. The ransom money. Five hundred million dollars in the fifties. Do you know how much a is? Ten million dollars. Ten million fifty-dollar bills. Six inches per bill. Five million feet of money. Just under a thousand miles. And the moral is this: happiness that you can't buy. At least not for Fox. It can't even buy an emu bid. First of all, because the money was returned. And secondly, the judge, in a fit of legal farce, set the bid for Fox at one billion dollars.
  
  
  There were no takers.
  
  
  The phone rang. He was lying next to me on the balcony. He looked at his watch. Midday. I poured myself a glass of Polish vodka. I let her phone ring.
  
  
  He kept calling.
  
  
  Ego picked her up.
  
  
  Hawk.
  
  
  "Yes sir."
  
  
  "Do you like it?"
  
  
  "Uh, yes, sir... Did you call to ask if I was okay?"
  
  
  "Not really. How are the beginnings?"
  
  
  He paused. "I can't lie, sir. In a couple of days, everything will be fine."
  
  
  "Well, I'm glad to hear that you can't lie to me. Some people think you're on the critics ' list."
  
  
  I told her: "I can't imagine how these rumors started."
  
  
  "I can't either, Carter. I can't find her either. So let's talk about your next assignment. You completed the Fox case yesterday, so now you should be ready for the next one."
  
  
  "Yes, sir," I said. I wasn't expecting a Nobel Prize, but the weekend... "Go on, sir," I said.
  
  
  "You are currently in Cyprus. I want you to stay there for the next two Sundays. After this time, I want to receive a full report on the exact number of Cyprus trees in Cyprus."
  
  
  "Two Sundays, you said?"
  
  
  “yeah. Two Sundays. I don't need a crappy quick count."
  
  
  I told em that he could definitely count on me.
  
  
  He hung up and took another spoonful of caviar. Where was he? Oh, yeah. Who needs money?
  
  
  Her heard the sound of a key in the day. He grabbed her towel and rolled over. And her voice. I'm standing on the doorstep of a balcony room. She looked at me with wide eyes and ran over to me.
  
  
  She knelt on the mat and looked at me. "I'm going to kill you, Nick Carter! I really think I'm going to kill you!"
  
  
  "Hey. What happened? Aren't you glad to see me?"
  
  
  "Glad to see you? She was scared half to death. I thought you were dying." They woke me up in the middle of the night and said:"Carter is down. You need to fly to Cyprus."
  
  
  He ran a hand through her yellow-pink hair. "Hi, Millie... Hi there."
  
  
  She smiled a beautiful smile for a moment; then her eyes lit up again.
  
  
  "All right," I said, " if you feel better, it's early. Look under the blindfold. Everything is rough there. And the voice, how do you feel about a wounded hero-wounded in the line of defense of your country? Or let me put it another way. So how do you feel about the man who gave you a two-week vacation in Cyprus? "
  
  
  "Vacation?" she said. "Two Sundays?" Then she grimaced. "What was the first date?"
  
  
  She was pulled by ee to lick. "I've missed you, Millie. I really missed your cheeky rta."
  
  
  Let Ay know how much he missed her.
  
  
  "You know what?" she said softly. "I think I believe you."
  
  
  We kissed for the next hour and a half.
  
  
  Finally, she turned and laid her head on my chest. I held a lock of her hair to my lips, inhaled ih perfume, and looked out at the Mediterranean, thinking we'd somehow come full circle.
  
  
  Millie watched me look out to sea. "Thinking of quitting AX again?"
  
  
  "Err. I think this is my destiny."
  
  
  "Too bad. I thought it would be nice for you to come home."
  
  
  He kissed the top of her sweet yellow head. "My dear, she would be called a lousy civilian, but I keep the money that I can arrange to get seriously injured at least once a year. How about this?"
  
  
  She turned and bit my ear.
  
  
  "Hmm," she said. "Promises, Promises."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Carter Nick
  
  
  Doctor Death
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  
  Doctor Death
  
  
  Dedicated to the people of the Secret Services of the United States of America
  
  
  
  
  The first chapter
  
  
  The taxi stopped abruptly at the entrance to Malouche Street. The driver turned his shaven head and blinked bloodshot eyes at me. He smoked too much kif.
  
  
  "Bad news," he growled sullenly. "I'm not going in. You want to enter, you go."
  
  
  Her, chuckled. Even the seasoned Arab inhabitants of Tangier avoided Malouche Street, a narrow, winding, poorly lit and foul-smelling alley in the middle of the Medina, Tangier's version of the Kasbah. But I've seen worse. And I had things to do there. He paid the driver, tipped the emu five dirhams, and got out. He slammed the car into gear and was a hundred yards away before he could light it.
  
  
  "Are you an American? Do you want to have a good time?"
  
  
  Children appeared all over out of nowhere and followed me until her shell. They couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old, dressed in dirty, ragged djellabs, and looked like all the other skinny kids who pop up out of nowhere in Tangier, Casablanca, Damascus, and a dozen other Arab cities.
  
  
  "What do you like? Do you like boys? Girls? Two girls at the same time? Do you like watching the show? A girl and a donkey? You like very small boys. What do you like?"
  
  
  "What I like," he told her firmly, " is to leave it alone. Now get lost."
  
  
  "Do you want kif? Do you want hashish? What do you want? " they shouted urgently. They were still at my heels when I stopped in front of the door, around the unmarked flagstones, and knocked four times. The day panel opened, a mustachioed face peeked out on the nah, and the children scurried away.
  
  
  "Old?" said the expressionless face.
  
  
  "Carter," I said shortly. "Nick Carter. I'm waiting for her."
  
  
  Instantly, the panel slid back, there was a click of locks, and the door opened. He entered a large, low-ceilinged room that at first seemed even darker than the street. The pungent smell of burning hashish filled my nostrils. The harsh screams of Arabic music pierced my ears. On either side of the room, several dozen dark figures stood cross-legged on carpets or leaning back against pillows. Some sipped mint tea, others smoked hashish around a hookah. Ih's attention was focused on the center of the room, and he could understand why. A girl was dancing on the dance floor in the center, lit by the dim purple floodlights. She was wearing only a short bra, semi-transparent harem pants, and a veil. Nah had a curvy body, full breasts, and smooth thighs. Her movements were slow, silky and erotic. Nah smelled like pure sex.
  
  
  "Will you sit, monsieur?" mustachioed asked. Ego's voice was still expressionless, and his eyes didn't seem to move as he spoke. He reluctantly pulled his gaze away from the girl and pointed to a spot against the wall, opposite the day. Standard operating procedure.
  
  
  "Here," I said. "And bring me some mint tea. Boiling water."
  
  
  He disappeared into the gloom. I put it down on a pillow against the wall, waited until my eyes were fully adjusted to the darkness, and then carefully examined the place. I decided that the person who was supposed to meet her had chosen her well. The room was dark enough and the music was loud enough for us to have some privacy. If I'd known the man as well as I thought I did, we'd have needed him. We may also need one of the several exits that you noticed right away. He knew there were others, and he could even guess where. No Tangier club will last long without a few discreet exits in case the police or even less desirable visitors visit.
  
  
  As for entertainment - well, I had no complaints about that either. Her, leaned against the rough clay moan, and looked at the girl. Her hair was jet black and reached to her waist. Slowly, slowly, she swayed in the dark light, to the insistent thud in her stomach. Her target leaned back, then forward, as if she couldn't control what her body wanted, what it needed, what it did. Her jet-black hair brushed one breast, then the other. They covered and then revealed the muscles of life, glistening wetly from the jar. They danced along her ripe thighs like a man's hands slowly plunging her into an erotic fever. Her hands went up, pushing her gorgeous breasts forward as if she was offering ih, offering ih to the entire men's room.
  
  
  "Nickname. Nick Carter."
  
  
  Her, looked up. At first, I didn't recognize the dark-skinned figure in jeans who was sitting directly in front of me. Then he saw the deep-set eyes and the razor-sharp edge of her jaw. Together, they were unmistakable. Remy Saint-Pierre, Odin Poe's five high-ranking employees of the Bureau Deuxieme, the French equivalent of our CIA. And more. Our eyes met for a moment, then we both smiled. He sat down on the pillow next to her
  
  
  
  
  
  "I only have one corkscrew," he told her in a low voice. "Who is your tailor? Tell me so that ego can avoid it."
  
  
  Another flash of a smile flickered across the tense face.
  
  
  "Always witty, mon ami," he replied, just as quietly. "It's been so many ferret years since I last saw you, but you'll know the poignancy immediately when we finally meet again."
  
  
  It's true. It was a long time ago. I didn't actually see her, Remy was with them as David Hawke, my boss and head of operations at AX, assigned me to help the Deuxieme Bureau prevent the assassination of President de Gaulle. Its not a bad way to handle it, if I tell her so. Two would-be assassins were eliminated, President de Gaulle died a natural and peaceful death in his own apartment a few years later, and Remy and I parted in mutual respect.
  
  
  "How else can I have fun, Remy?" I said, pulling out my cigarettes and offering em one.
  
  
  The strong jaw clenched grimly.
  
  
  "I think, mon ami, that I have something to entertain even you, the most effective and deadly spy I have ever known. Unfortunately, it doesn't amuse me at all."
  
  
  He took the cigarette, glanced at its golden tip before putting it in his mouth, and shook his head slightly.
  
  
  "Still monogrammed cigarettes, made to order, I can see her. Your only real pleasure."
  
  
  Ego lit hers, then his own, glancing at the dancer.
  
  
  "Oh, her, ran into a few more people. Of course, strictly in the line of duty. But you didn't send this urgent top - priority call through Hawke - and, I might add, interrupt a nice little vacation-to talk about my cigarettes, mon ami. I suspect that you didn't even invite me here to see this girl trying to make love to all the men in the room at once. Not that I mind her."
  
  
  The Frenchman nodded.
  
  
  "I'm sorry that the occasion for our meeting is not more pleasant, but..."
  
  
  The waiter came over with two steaming glasses of mint tea, and Remy covered his face with the hood of his djellaba. The ego features almost disappeared into the shadows. On the dance floor, the tempo of hard music increased slightly. The girl's movements became heavier, more insistent. He waited for the waiter to dematerialize, as Moroccan waiters do, then spoke softly.
  
  
  "All right, Remy," I said. "Let's do it."
  
  
  Remy took a drag on his cigarette.
  
  
  "As you can see," he said slowly, " I've dyed my skin and I'm wearing Moroccan clothes. This is not the silly masquerade that it might seem. Even in this place, which I consider safe, our enemies may be all around us. . And we don't know, we're not sure who they are. This is the most frightening aspect of this situation. We don't know who they are, and we don't know their motives. We can only guess."
  
  
  He made a pause. He pulled a silver flask out of his jacket and surreptitiously poured some 151-strength Barbadian rum into both of our glasses. Muslims don't drink - or shouldn't - and I wasn't thinking of converting to the ih faith. Remy nodded gratefully, took a sip of tea, and continued.
  
  
  "I'll get straight to the point," he said. "Someone has disappeared. Someone of vital interest to the security of not only France, but the whole of Europe, the United Kingdom, and the United States. In short, someone of interest to the Western world."
  
  
  "A scientist."It was a statement, not a corkscrew. The sudden disappearance of one scientist caused more panic than the defection of a dozen bureaucrats, in whatever country it was.
  
  
  Remy nodded.
  
  
  "Have you ever heard of Fernand Durocher?"
  
  
  He took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette and mentally scanned the AX bio files of French scientific leaders. Fifteen feet away, a dancer was doing her best to distract me. The music was steadily gaining momentum. Her stomach was itching. She was trembling, her body muscles twitching in time to the music, her thighs throbbing.
  
  
  "Dr. Fernand Duroche, Ph. D., member of the Legion of Honor. Born in Alsace in 1914. He graduated first in his class from the École Polytechnique in Paris, 1934. Research in the field of underwater power plants for the French Navy before the German invasion. The French under de Gaulle's leadership until liberation. Post-war work: major advances in computerization for the development of nuclear submarines in the French Navy. Since 1969-Director RENARD, a secret project of the French Navy. During the war, he was known by the code name "Dr. Death" for his experience with explosives, and the ferret's name is still used as a joke due to Duroche's gentle nature ."
  
  
  Remy nodded again. Now ego's eyes were also fixed on the girl. Her trembling breasts glistened wetly in the smoky light. Her eyes were closed as she danced.
  
  
  "You've done your own thing
  
  
  
  
  homework. AX collects information well. Probably too good for me as RENARD's security director. However, this is the person we're talking about."
  
  
  "And the key word in the ego dossier is, of course, 'nuclear, '" I said.
  
  
  "Maybe."
  
  
  He raised an eyebrow at her.
  
  
  "Perhaps?"
  
  
  "There are other keywords as well. For example, " computerization "and" underwater propulsion systems. We don't know which software is correct."
  
  
  "Could it be all of them?" I asked her.
  
  
  "Again, maybe." Remy stirred slightly. Hers, too. A slight uneasiness invaded the room, a growing and almost palpable tension. It was pure sexual tension coming from the girl in the center. Her veil was now down. Only the thin transparent fabric of her harem pants and bra covered her lush breasts with juicy nipples and juicy thighs. Through this material, every man in the room could see the black triangle of her skirt. She moved it hypnotically, gesturing with her hands, inviting, begging for attention.
  
  
  Remy cleared his throat and took another sip of his rum-infused tea.
  
  
  "Let me start at the beginning," he said. "For example, three months ago, Doctor Duroche left RENARD's headquarters in Cassis for his annual three-week vacation. According to his colleagues, he was in high spirits. The project was fast approaching a successful conclusion and, in fact, only a few details remained to be clarified. Duroche was heading to Lake Lucerne in Switzerland, where he intended to spend a boat vacation with an old friend who lived at the Polytechnic University. He packed his bags and on the morning of the twentieth of November kissed his daughter goodbye in... "
  
  
  "I'm a daughter?"
  
  
  "Duroche is a widower. His twenty-three-year-old daughter, Michelle, lives with him and works as a librarian in RENARD. But I'll come back to it later. As I said, Duroche kissed his daughter goodbye at the airport in Marseille. , sel on a plane to Milan that flies to Lucerne. Unfortunately... "
  
  
  "He never showed up," he finished her off for that.
  
  
  Remy nodded. He turned slightly so that the dancer wouldn't come into Ego's line of sight. He couldn't understand why. It didn't help with concentration. She had left the center of the room and was now writhing around the audience, her breasts and thighs lasciviously touching one eager man, then another.
  
  
  "He got on the plane," Remy continued. "We know that. The ego daughter saw it. But he did not pass through customs and immigration control in Lucerne. In fact, he is not listed on the plane around Milan to Lucerne."
  
  
  "So the rapture, if that's the rapture, took place in Milan. Or on a plane around Marseille, " I said thoughtfully.
  
  
  "It would seem so," Remy said. In any case, Ego's daughter received a letter from him two days later. Both Mademoiselle Duroche and our best handwriting experts agree that it was indeed written by Duroche himself. a sudden need for solitude, and he made a spontaneous decision to isolate himself somewhere to "think things through."
  
  
  "Postmark?" I asked, forcing myself not to look at the dancer. It was getting closer. Now low moans were coming from around her throat; the sounds of her torso moving were becoming frantic.
  
  
  "The postmark on the letter was Rome. But that doesn't mean anything, of course."
  
  
  "Less than nothing. Whoever stole the ego could have made the ego write a letter and then mail it from anywhere." He finished it off with rum and tea in one light gulp. "If, that is, he was abducted."
  
  
  "Absolutely fantastic. Of course, despite his brilliant experience of patriotism, we must recognize the possibility of Duroche's defection. If we take the words and tone of the ego letters at face value, this is most likely the case."
  
  
  "Was there more than one letter?"
  
  
  "Three Sundays later, the ego of Michel Duroche's disappearance received another letter. In the nen, again handwritten, Durocher stated that ego was increasingly concerned about the nature of the work he was doing at RENARD, and he decided to spend another six months alone to "consider" whether he wanted to continue it. It was only then that Ego's daughter became truly alarmed - he didn't mention where he was in the courtroom, or when he would be communicating with her again - and decided that it was her duty as a RENARD employee, as well as Ego's daughter, to contact the authorities. I was immediately brought in on the case, but our investigations have found almost nothing of value with these ferrets."
  
  
  "The Russians? The Chinese?" The girl was close to us. I could smell her perfume and musk on her radiant body. Her seen drops bank between her ample breasts. Men reached out to touch her, to grab her nah.
  
  
  
  
  
  "All of our agents are negative about this," Remy said. "So you see, mon ami, we are really facing a blank wall. We don't know if he's with Hema, whether he's in the hall with them on his own volleys or not, and most importantly, we don't know where he is. We do know that with the information in the hands of Fernand Duroche, the RENARD project can be duplicated by Hema anywhere, anywhere the world for just a few million dollars ."
  
  
  "How deadly is it?"
  
  
  "Deadly," Remy said grimly. "Not a hydrogen bomb or a bacteriological war, but a deadly danger in the wrong hands."
  
  
  She was so close now that I could feel her hot breath on my face. Her moans became guttural, demanding, her pelvis moving back and forth in a frenzy, her hands reaching up as if for an invisible lover who was producing ecstatic agony in her flesh; then her thighs parted to receive him. The other men reached for her, their eyes burning with hunger. She eluded them, never losing focus on her own inner convulsions.
  
  
  "And the daughter? Does she also think that Duroche really left on his own to' think things over'?"
  
  
  "You can talk to your daughter yourself," Remy said. "She's in hiding, and I'll bring you to her. That's one of the reasons, mon ami, I asked you to come here to Tangier. The other reason, and the reason why you and AX got her involved , is because of my suspicions. . Call it, as you say, a guess. But who better to infiltrate the RENARD project, find out what it is and how ego can be used, and then kidnap Dr. Duroche or encourage ego to leave? Who...
  
  
  Lizzie leaned in, trying to hear what Remy was saying. The music screamed sharply as the girl in front of us opened her mouth in a silent cry of ecstasy and began to arch her body towards the final spasm. From the corner of her eye, she could see two men moving purposefully across the room. Bouncers? To keep the onlookers in check and prevent the scene from turning into a mass rape scene? Hers, he looked at them cautiously.
  
  
  "...Old friends again-agent's report-vulcan ... " I could hear snatches of the Draw's conversations. Watching the two men come up to lick her, he reached out and took Ego's hand. Inches from nah, the girl's body shook, then finally shuddered.
  
  
  "Remy," I said, " and the tracks..."
  
  
  He started to turn. At that moment, both men dropped their djellabs.
  
  
  "Draw!" Her, shouted. "Down!"
  
  
  It was too late. The low-ceilinged room is filled with the deafening thunder of gunfire from the walls. Remy's body slammed forward with a crash, as if the egos had been smashed into the spine by a giant hammer. A line of bloody holes appeared along ego's back, as if they were tattooed there. The target's ego exploded. The skull split open in an eruption of red blood, gray brains, and white bone fragments. My face was soaked in ego blood, and my hands and shirt were splattered.
  
  
  Now its nothing I could do for a draw. And I didn't have time to mourn him. A split second later, then hit by the first bullets it fell and started rolling. Wilhelmina , my 9mm luger and constant companion, was already in my hand. I lay on my stomach as I grabbed her by a brick pole and returned fire. My first gawk hit home. I saw one of the two men drop his submachine gun and arch his head back, clutching his neck and shouting. Blood spurted down the carotid artery like a high-pressure hose. He fell, still clinging to himself. He was a dead man watching himself die. But the other man was still alive. Even as my second gawk wounded ego's face, he fell to the floor and pushed the body of his still-living friend in front of him. Using ego as a shield, he continued to shoot. Bullets kicked up dust and shards of clay floor inches from my face. Her didn't waste time and ammunition trying to hit the few inches of the shooter's skull that she could see. He turned Wilhelmina up and looked at the three dim light bulbs that were the only source of light in the room. I missed it the first time, swore, then broke the light bulbs. The room was plunged into deep darkness.
  
  
  "Define! You are welcome! Define me!"
  
  
  Amid the deafening chaos and the screams, screams, and gunshots, a woman's voice rang out beside me. He turned his head. It was a dancer. She was a few feet away from me, desperately clinging to a shelf in the doorway to a shelter that wasn't there, her face contorted with horror. In the confusion, her bra was torn off, and her bare breasts were swaying in bright splatters of blood. Blood-Remy Saint-Pierre. He reached out, grabbed her roughly by her long, thick black hair, and dragged her behind a pole.
  
  
  "Don't come down," I growled. "Don't move."
  
  
  She "snuggled up to me. I could feel the soft curves of her body against my gun hand. It held fire for a minute, focusing on the flash of the shooter's weapon. Now he was raking the entire room, drawing a line of fire that would have engulfed me - if I hadn't had cover.
  
  
  
  The room was hell, a nightmare pit of death strewn with corpses, where the still-living trampled on the writhing bodies of the dying, screaming, sliding in pools of blood, tripping over broken and mutilated flesh, falling like bullets. fiercely hit ih on the back or face. A few feet away, a man screamed incessantly, his hands pressed to his stomach. The ego of life was torn apart by bullets, and guts spilled out onto the floor.
  
  
  "Please!" the girl next to me whimpered. "Please! Get us out of here!"
  
  
  "Soon," he snapped. If there's any way to catch this bandit and take ego alive, it's up to her. He put his hand on the pole, took careful aim, and fired. Just to let him know I was still there. If it could make the ego give up its fire-folding tactics in the hope of catching me at random and making the ego search for me in the dark, it could be felt by Hugo, my pencil-thin stiletto nestled comfortably in the ego's suede arm.
  
  
  "Listen up!" the girl next to me suddenly said.
  
  
  He ignored her and fired another shot. The shooting paused for a moment, then resumed. The bandit reloaded. And he still fired at random.
  
  
  "Listen up!" The girl said again, more insistently, pulling on my arm.
  
  
  He turned his head. Somewhere in the distance, over the sharp thud of a gun on the Wall, she heard the distinctive shrill scream of a police car.
  
  
  "Police!" the girl said. "We have to leave now! We must!"
  
  
  The gunslinger must have heard the sound, too. The last shot rang out: bricks splintered against a post and clay rose from the floor uncomfortably close to where we lay, and then there was silence. If you could call this mass of screams, groans, and shakes silence. He grabbed the girl's arm and forced her and himself up. There was no point in hiding. The bandit was long gone.
  
  
  "Back exit,"he said to the girl. "The one that doesn't go out to us on any street. Quickly!"
  
  
  "Over there," she said at once. "Beyond the wall is a tapestry."
  
  
  I couldn't see what she was pointing at in the dark, but Hey took me at my word. Pulling on her arm, she groped her way along the wall through the thicket of human bodies, dead and dying. Hands gripped my legs, my waist. Ih pushed her aside, ignoring the screams around me. I didn't have time to play Florence Nightingale. I didn't have time to be questioned by the Moroccan police.
  
  
  "Under the tapestry," a girl behind me heard her whisper, " there's a wooden peg. You have to pull the ego. Strongly."
  
  
  My hands found the rough wool of a Moroccan tapestry. He tore it off and found a peg under it. My hands were wet and slick from something I knew was blood. The squeal of a police car is now Stahl's lick. Suddenly, it stopped.
  
  
  "Hurry up!" the girl pleaded. "They're outside!"
  
  
  A rough-shaped peg found her and pulled - as if somewhere in a cool, remote part of her mind, she was aware of the fact that for an innocent viewer, the girl seemed to be too worried about leaving her to avoid the police.
  
  
  "Hurry up!" she was begging. "Please!"
  
  
  He pulled her harder. Suddenly you felt a piece of clay wall give way. He rocked back, letting a gust of cool nighttime air sampling into the deadly stench of the room. He pushed the girl through the doorway and followed her. A hand gripped my shoulder desperately from behind, and a body tried to squeeze through the opening in front of me. My right hand swung up and then down in a half-fatal karate kick. I heard her grunt in agony, and her body fell. It was pushed out by ego through the holes with one foot and passed through the hole, putting the section of wall back in place behind him. He paused. Wherever we were, it was pitch-black.
  
  
  "This way," I heard her whisper to the girl next to me. Her hand reached out and found mine. "To your right. Be careful.".
  
  
  I let her hand pull me down the stairs through some narrow tunnel. I had to lower my head. The night air smelled of dust, decay, and mustiness.
  
  
  "This is an outlet for rare medicinal herbs," the girl whispered to me in the dark. "Only two and a few ego friends know about it."
  
  
  "Like two men with guns?"" I suggested it.
  
  
  "People with guns were not friends... now we must crawl. Be careful. The hole is small."
  
  
  I ended up on my stomach, making my way through an opening barely big enough for my body. It was damp and smelly. It didn't take much thinking to realize that we were connected to an old,unused section of the sewer system. But after five stressful minutes, the influx of fresh air sampling increased.
  
  
  
  Ahead of me, the girl suddenly stopped.
  
  
  "Here," she said. "Now you have to push up. Lift the bars."
  
  
  He reached out and felt the rusty iron grate. Hugging her knees, her back went up. It creaked, then rose inch by inch. When the opening was large enough, he motioned for the girl to squeeze through. He reached for it. The radiator grille slid back into place with a muffled clang. I looked around: the big barn, dimly lit from the moonlight outside, the shadows of the cars.
  
  
  "Where are we?"
  
  
  "A few blocks from the club," the girl said. She was breathing heavily. "Abandoned gate garage. We're safe here. Please let me rest for a while."
  
  
  I could have used it as a respite myself. But I had more important things on my mind.
  
  
  "All right," I said. "You are resting. While you're resting, let's say you answer a couple of questions. First, why are you so sure that these armed men were not friends of the master? because the police have arrived? "
  
  
  For a moment, she continued to struggle to catch her breath. Waiting for her.
  
  
  "Rheumatism is your first corkscrew," she said at last, her voice still ragged, " that the gunmen killed Remy St. Pierre. Saint-Pierre was a friend of the owners, and so the gunmen couldn't be friends of the owners."
  
  
  Ee grabbed her by the shoulder.
  
  
  "What do you know about Remy Saint-Pierre?"
  
  
  "Please!" "No!" she exclaimed, twirling. "You're hurting me!"
  
  
  "Answer me! What do you know about Remy Saint-Pierre?"
  
  
  "I-Mr. Carter, I thought you knew her."
  
  
  "I know?" He loosened his grip on her shoulder. "Know what?"
  
  
  "His... His name is Michel Duroche."
  
  
  
  The second chapter
  
  
  He was looking at Nah, still holding her shoulder. She was looking at me intently.
  
  
  "So St. Pierre didn't tell you?"
  
  
  "Saint-Pierre didn't have time to tell me," I said. "The emu got its head blown off just when the story was getting interesting."
  
  
  She shuddered and turned away.
  
  
  "I saw it," she whispered. "It happened inches from my face. It was terrible. I'll have nightmares for the rest of my life. And he was so kind, so comforting. After my father disappeared ..."
  
  
  "If only it were your father," I said. "If you're Michel Duroche."
  
  
  "Ah, I understand her," she said quickly. "It's hard for you to imagine the daughter of Fernand Duroche, an outstanding scientist, performing the du ventre dance in a Moroccan hashish club.
  
  
  "No, not at all," I said. "Actually, this is exactly what Remy St-Pierre would have done. What's the best place to hide you? But that doesn't prove to me that you're Michel Duroche."
  
  
  "And what does it prove to me that you are Nick Carter, the man St. Pierre told me was the most brilliant and deadly spy on four continents?" she asked, her voice growing sharper.
  
  
  He looked at Nah thoughtfully.
  
  
  "I could prove it," I said. "What proof do you need?"
  
  
  "Très bien," she said. "You want to know if she will be met with your identification methods. Very good. Show me the inside of your right elbow."
  
  
  He pulled back the sleeves of his jacket and shirt. She leaned forward to read the AXE identification tattooed on the inside of my elbow, then lifted her head and nodded.
  
  
  "I also know your code name: N3 and your title: Killmaster," she said. "St. Pierre also explained to me, Mr. Carter, that this AXE you work for is the most secret agency in the United States government intelligence system, and that the work it does is too complex and too dirty, even for the CIA."
  
  
  "Beautiful," I said, rolling up my sleeves. "You know how to tell me everything. And what I know about you..."
  
  
  "I am not only the daughter of Fernand Duroche," she said quickly, " but also the librarian of the RENARD Project. I have a Class 2 security clearance that this kind of work requires. If you call RENARD's headquarters, they will give you the means to firmly identify me: three personal questions that only she and RENARD know the answers to."
  
  
  "What about your mom?" I asked her. "Wouldn't she know the answers to some of these questions?"
  
  
  "Without a doubt," the girl replied coldly. "Unless, as you no doubt know, she died sixteen years ago."
  
  
  He chuckled slightly.
  
  
  "You're a very suspicious person, Mr. Carter," she said. "But even you have to understand that apart from adorning myself with tattoos, which I absolutely don't like, I've had few places to hide the evidence of celebrities in a suit that I ..."
  
  
  She gasped
  
  
  
  
  suddenly, Yi threw both of her hands over her bare breasts.
  
  
  «Mon Dieu! I completely forgot..."
  
  
  He grinned again.
  
  
  "I didn't know," I said. He took off his jacket and handed it to Ay. "We have to get out of here, and you'll attract enough attention on the street as it is. I wouldn't want her to start a riot."
  
  
  Even in the dim moonlight that filtered through the dirty windows, I could see her blush as she put on her jacket.
  
  
  "But where can we go?" she asked. "I was sleeping in a small room on the floor above the club that Remy had set up for me with his friends, the owners. She was afraid..."
  
  
  "...That if your father was abducted and didn't cooperate with his captors, you might be next on the list. A hostage to your father's cooperation." Finished it nah.
  
  
  She nodded. "Absolutely fantastic. But we can't go back to the club right now. The police will be there, and the escaped shooter may reappear."
  
  
  He put his hand on her shoulder and led her to the door.
  
  
  "We're not going anywhere near the club, "I assured her. Ego's name is Ahmed, and he owns a bar. She was called by an emu for a few services." I might have added how I saved him a life sentence in a French prison, but not Stahl. "Now he's going to do me some favors in return."
  
  
  "So you really believe that I am Michel Duroche?" she asked. Her voice pleaded.
  
  
  "If not, "I said, looking down at the view between the lapels of my doublet, which had already been greatly improved over the one who now wears it,"you're an interesting replacement."
  
  
  She smiled at me as I opened the door for her and we went in.
  
  
  "I feel better," she said. "I was afraid..."
  
  
  She gasped again. It was more of a muffled cry.
  
  
  "Your face ... your face ..."
  
  
  My mouth tightened. In the bright moonlight, I could imagine what my face, hands, and shirt would look like, covered in blood-Remy St. Pierre. He pulled a clean handkerchief around his pants pocket, soaked his ego in rum flasks, and did what he could. When I finished, I could tell by the look of controlled horror on her face that I still resembled something around the nightmare.
  
  
  "Go," I said, taking her hand. "We both need a hot shower, but it can wait. An army of policemen will be here in a few hours."
  
  
  He took her away from the gate, away from the club. It took me several blocks before I knew exactly where I was. Then he found Zhirana Street and turned straight into a long, winding alley that led to Ahmed's Bar. It smelled like any other Tangier alley, like urine, wet clay, and half-rotted vegetables. The rotting mud houses jutting out on either side of us were dark and silent. It was late. Mimmo only a few people passed us, but those who passed took one quick look and, turning their heads away, quietly ran away. We must have got a disturbing picture: a beautiful and voluptuous long-haired girl dressed only in semi-transparent trousers and a man's jacket, accompanied by a gloomy man whose skin was reeling with human blood. Passers-by instinctively avoided us: we smelled of trouble.
  
  
  So did Ahmed's bar.
  
  
  The Marrakech Lounge was the most chic, expensive and glamorous bar in the Medina. A rich and sophisticated Moroccan businessman liked it, as well as a knowledgeable tourist who did not give us hashish, our invented tourist trap. Ahmed had been saving up to buy it for a long time, and now he used it very carefully. He, of course, paid the police money for protection, just as he paid ih to some other powerful elements on the other side of the law. But he also avoided trouble with the law, making sure the bar didn't become a haven for drug dealers, drug addicts, smugglers, and criminals. Part of securing the ego position was the ego setup: the bar was at the far end of the courtyard. The courtyard had a high wall topped with broken glass driven into the concrete, and a heavy wooden door. There was a buzzer and an intercom system for the day. Customers buzzed, called their names, and were only allowed in if Ahmed knew nu or the person who made ih. Once in the courtyard, they were further scrutinized by Ahmed's sharp gaze. In the case of undesirable ones, they were on the street in record time. When the bar closed in the morning, both the courtyard door and the bar itself were double-locked.
  
  
  The bar was closed. But the door to the courtyard was a few inches ajar.
  
  
  I haven't seen one of them in the six years that Ahmed owned this place.
  
  
  "What happened?" The girl whispered when she saw me hesitate in front of the door.
  
  
  "I don't know," I said. "Maybe nothing. Maybe Ahmed is successfully being inconsiderate and careless. But you can't open this door."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her cautiously peeked out through the crack in the day courtyard. The bar was dark. No sign of movement.
  
  
  "Should we go in?" The girl asked uncertainly.
  
  
  "Come on," I said. "But not across the yard. Not where we are the perfect target for anyone who might be in a bar hidden in the dark while we are in the bright moonlight."
  
  
  "Then how?"
  
  
  Without saying a word to us, she was led by ee on the shoulder down the street. Ahmed also had an escape route, even if her ego wasn't going to use it as an escape route. At least it's not related to jerks in the unused sewer system. We walked to the corner, and he held her up for a moment until he was sure the street was empty, then we turned straight and walked in silence to the third building on the street. The words "Mohammed Franzi" and "Spices and odorous substances" were written in Arabic script on a faded, peeling sign above the door. The door itself was locked around heavy, rusty metal. But I had a key. I've had it for the last six years. It was Ahmed's gift to me at the premiere: a guarantee that I would always have a safe home when I was in Tangier. He used the key, pushed the door open on its well-oiled, silent hinges, and closed it behind us. Next to me, the girl stopped and sniffed.
  
  
  "That smell," she said. "What is that strange smell?"
  
  
  "Spices," I said. "Arab spices. Myrrh, frankincense, hallows, everything you read about in the Bible. And I'm talking about the Bible..."
  
  
  Mimmo barrels of finely ground spices and sacks of incense groped their way to the moaning alcove. There, in an elaborately decorated cloth, were copies of the Koran, the holy book of Islam. A Muslim intruder can rob everything in this place, but he won't touch what I touched him. I opened it to a specific page by changing the weight balance in the niche. Below, and in front of him, part of the floor rolled back.
  
  
  "As for the secret running gain," he told the girl, taking her hand, " this is a valuable leg better than the one we just left."
  
  
  "I'm sorry," the girl said. "God forbid Nick Carter stumble into a secret tourist-class passageway."
  
  
  He smiled to himself. Whether she was the daughter of Fernand Durocher or not, this girl had the guts. She was already half-recovered from an experience that would have left many people in a state of shock for months.
  
  
  "Where are we going?" she whispered behind me.
  
  
  "The passage leads under two houses and an alley," I said, lighting our way down the narrow stone shaft with a pencil flashlight. "It fits ..."
  
  
  We both stopped abruptly. A noisy sound could be heard up ahead, and then embarrassment screeching could be heard.
  
  
  "What is it?" The girl whispered urgently, pressing her warm body against mine again.
  
  
  They listened to her for a moment longer, then urged her on.
  
  
  "Nothing to worry about," I said. "Just rats."
  
  
  "Rats!" She made me stop. "I can't ..."
  
  
  He pulled her forward.
  
  
  "We don't have time for delicacies right now," I said. "If anything, they're more afraid of us than we are of ih."
  
  
  "I doubt it."
  
  
  I didn't answer. The passage ended. We climbed a short, steep stone staircase. Up ahead, moaning, was the stream of a wine barrel five feet in diameter. It was made by a projector beam on it, held a thin beam counterclockwise around the trunk and found the fourth rod from above. Her shoved him. The open stream swung open. The barrel was empty, except for a small cut at the far upper end, which contained several gallons of wine that could be used to fool anyone who suspected the barrel was empty.
  
  
  He turned to the girl. She pressed herself against the wet moan, shivering now in her flimsy suit.
  
  
  "Stay here," I said. "I'll come back for you. If I don't come back, go to the American Embassy. Tell them that you should contact David Hawke at AX. Tell them that, but no more. Don't talk to Hema except Hawk. Do you understand ? "
  
  
  "No," she said quickly. "I'll go with you. I don't want to be here alone."
  
  
  "Forget it," I said shortly. "Only in movies can you get away with me going with you." If there's any problem, you'd be welcome." I ran my finger down her chin and neck. "you're too pretty to walk around with your head off."
  
  
  Before she could protest again, she was sunk into the thread of the barrel and slammed the lid shut behind her. It was instantly apparent that the barrel on the dell itself had been used for wine meals long before the nah dummy was made. The lingering smell clogged my mouth and made my head spin. He waited a moment, calmed down, then crawled to the far end and listened.
  
  
  
  
  I didn't hear her at first. Silence. Then voices at some distance. Or at least sounds that might have been voices. Except that they were distorted, and the almost inhuman quality told me that the distortion wasn't just caused by distance.
  
  
  He hesitated a moment longer, then decided to take the risk. Slowly, carefully, he pressed it down on the end of the barrel. It swung open noiselessly. He crouched down, Wilhelmina ready in his hand.
  
  
  Nothing. Dark. Silence. But in the dim moonlight that filtered through the tiny square window high up in the moans, she could make out the bulky shapes of wine barrels and wooden tiers of pollock wine bottles. Ahmed's wine barrel, which holds the best vintage collection in North Africa, seemed perfectly normal for this hour of the night.
  
  
  Then I heard the sounds again.
  
  
  They weren't pretty.
  
  
  He crawled around the barrel, carefully closing it behind him, and padded across the stone floor to the metal bars that framed the entrance to the wine barrel. I had a key for them, too, and it was silent. The hallway leading up to the stairs to the bar was dark. But there was a dim yellow rectangle of light around the hallway room.
  
  
  And voices.
  
  
  Ih was three. Secondly, now her knowledge is human. She might even recognize the language they were speaking - French. The third-well ego sounds were bestial. Sounds of animal agony.
  
  
  Pressing his body to moan, he moved toward the rectangle of light. The voices grew louder, the animal sounds more agonizing. When he was a few inches away from her, he tilted her head forward and peered through the gap between the door and the jamb.
  
  
  What I saw changed my life. And then he made me grit my teeth in anger.
  
  
  Ahmed was naked, his wrists bound by a meat hook from which he was suspended. The ego torso was a blackened wreck of burned skin, muscle, and nerves. Blood flowed down the RTA's ego and along the hollowed-out craters of its eye sockets. As he watched, one of the two men puffed on his cigar until the tip turned red, then savagely pressed ee k, Ahmed's calculations, to the tender pulp under his arm.
  
  
  Ahmed screamed. Only, he couldn't let out a real scream anymore. Only those gurgling, inhuman sounds hurt.
  
  
  Jean's ego was more fortunate. She was lying on the floor a few feet away from me. Her throat was cut so deep and wide that the target was almost torn from her neck.
  
  
  The tip of the cigar returned to Ahmed's flesh. His body twitched convulsively. He tried not to hear the sounds that were coming out around the rta ego, and not to see the seething blood that was constantly coming out.
  
  
  "You're still being silly, Ahmed," the man with the cigar said. "You think that if you still refuse to talk, we will let you die. But I assure you that you will stay alive and regret being alive - for as long as we wish you would - until you tell us, I want to know."
  
  
  Ahmed said nothing. Hers, I doubt he even heard the man's words. He was worth more licks to death than these people thought.
  
  
  "Alors, Henri," said another in the quick French of a native of Marseille, " can you castrate this abomination?"
  
  
  I've seen enough of her. He took a step back, focused all his energy, and kicked. The door snapped off its hinges and tore into the room. Her father flew out for this. And as the two men turned, my thumb gently pulled Wilhelmina's trigger. A bright red circle appeared on the cigar-smoking man's forehead. He spun around and charged forward. He was a corpse before he hit the floor. I could have gotten rid of the other person in a split second with another bullet, but I had other plans for him. Before Ego's hand could reach the .38-caliber revolver holstered under ego's left arm, Wilhelmina disappeared and Hugo slid into my hand. A bright flash of steel flashed through the air, and Hugo's blade neatly sliced through the tendons of the second man's arm. He screamed, clutching his arm. But he wasn't a coward. Even though his right arm was bloodied and useless, he lunged at me. He deliberately waited until he was only a few inches away before moving to the side. Her ego elbowed him in the skull as his body, now completely out of control, flew mimmo me. The target's ego jerked up sharply as the rest of its body hit the floor. As soon as he fell, he turned her ego face up and pressed two fingers to the exposed sciatic nerve of her bloodstained hand. The scream that erupted around ego's throat almost deafened me.
  
  
  "Who do you work for?" It creaked. "Who sent you?"
  
  
  He stared at me, his eyes wide with pain.
  
  
  "Who sent you?" I demanded again.
  
  
  The terror in his eyes was overwhelming, but he didn't say anything. Her sciatic nerve squeezed again. He screamed, and Ego's eyes rolled back in his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Talk, damn you tailor," I rasped. "What Ahmed felt was pleasure compared to what would happen to you if you didn't speak up. And just remember, Ahmed was my friend."
  
  
  For a moment, he just looked at me. Then, before hers realized what he was doing, his jaws moved quickly and fiercely. I heard a faint crackle. The man's body tensed and his mouth stretched into a smile. Then the body fell, motionless. The faint smell of bitter almonds reached my nostrils.
  
  
  Suicide capsule hidden in ego teeth. "Die before you speak," they said to emu-hema would they be to us - and so he did.
  
  
  Her ego, her body, pushed her away. The faint moans I could still hear from Ahmed came from inside me. Hugo picked her up from the floor and took her body in his left hand, breaking my friend's bonds. Paul's ego laid it, as gently as possible. Ego's breathing was shallow, weak.
  
  
  "Ahmed," I said softly. "Ahmed, another one of mine."
  
  
  He stirred. One hand found my arm. Surprisingly, something like a smile appeared in the tortured, bloody mouth.
  
  
  "Carter," he said. "My friend."
  
  
  "Ahmed, who are they?"
  
  
  "A thought... sent by Saint-Pierre... opened the Moscow gate for them " after the bar closed. Carter... listen..."
  
  
  Ego's voice was getting weaker. He tilted his head to his mouth.
  
  
  "I've been trying to contact you for two weeks... something's going on here... our old friends..."
  
  
  He coughed. Blood trickled from Ego's lips.
  
  
  "Ahmed," I said. "Tell me."
  
  
  "My wife," he whispered. "Is she okay?"
  
  
  Saying emu was pointless.
  
  
  "She's fine," I said. "Just passed out."
  
  
  "A good one... a woman, " he whispered. "I fought like hell. Carter... listen..."
  
  
  Her, bent down to lick.
  
  
  "...Tried... contact you, then Saint-Pierre. Our old friends... bastards... we heard that they kidnapped someone..."
  
  
  "Who was kidnapped?"
  
  
  "I don't know ... but... First I brought ego here, Tangier, then..."
  
  
  Her words were barely legible.
  
  
  "Then where is Ahmed?" urgent asked her. "Where did they take ego from Tangier?"
  
  
  My body spasmed. Ego's hand slid down my arm. The disfigured mouth made a last desperate attempt to speak.
  
  
  "...Leopards... he seemed to be saying. "leopards ... ... pearls..."
  
  
  Then: "Volcano, Carter... volcano..."
  
  
  The ego target fell sideways, and the ego, the body relaxed.
  
  
  Ahmed Julibi, my other friend, is dead.
  
  
  He repaid me for my services. And then some more.
  
  
  And he left me a legacy. A cryptic set of words.
  
  
  Leopards.
  
  
  Pearl.
  
  
  And the same word that Remy Saint-Pierre last uttered on this earth:
  
  
  Volcano.
  
  
  
  The third chapter.
  
  
  When he led the girl through an empty wine barrel to the basement, she was shivering. He could tell from her eyes that it wasn't so much from the cold as from fear.
  
  
  "What happened?" she pleaded, pulling on my hand. "I heard gunshots. Is anyone hurt?"
  
  
  "Four," I said. "Everyone is dead. Two of them were my friends. The others were scum. Scum of a certain type."
  
  
  "A special kind?"
  
  
  He led her down the hall to the room where Ahmed and the woman's ego lay dead beside their tormentors, their murderers. Her hotel, so she can see the kind of people we're dealing with - in case she didn't get enough education, then the club massacre.
  
  
  "Look," I said grimly.
  
  
  She looked inside. Her mouth dropped open and she paled. A moment later, she was halfway down the hall, bent over and gasping for breath.
  
  
  I told her. "See what I meant?"
  
  
  "Who... who are they? Why..."
  
  
  "Two Moroccans are my friends, Ahmed and Ego women. The other two are the people who tortured and killed ih."
  
  
  "But why?" she asked, her face still white with shock. "Who are they? What do they want?"
  
  
  "Shortly before his death, Ahmed told me that he had been trying to contact me for several weeks. He realized that something was happening here in Tangier. Someone was abducted and brought here. Ring any bells. ? "
  
  
  Her eyes widened.
  
  
  "Kidnapped? You mean it could be my father?"
  
  
  "Remy St-Pierre must have thought so. Because when Ahmed couldn't contact me, he contacted Saint-Pierre. No doubt that's why Remy brought you and me here."
  
  
  "To talk to Ahmed?"
  
  
  He nodded to her.
  
  
  "But before Ahmed could talk to hema-either, these two men got to him. They introduced themselves as messengers from Saint-Pierre, which means they knew that Ahmed was trying to contact the Draw. Oni wants to know what Ahmed knew and what - in general-he passed on "
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  "But who were they?"
  
  
  Ee took her hand and led her down the hall. We started up the stairs leading to the bar.
  
  
  "Ahmed called ih' our old friends, '" I said. "But he didn't mean friendly friends. Shortly before his murder, Remy Saint-Pierre used the same words to refer to the people who might have been behind your father's disappearance. He also said something about how these people are in a position to infiltrate RENARD and learn enough about their father to steal the ego at the right moment."
  
  
  The girl stopped walking. "They were also able to find Saint-Pierre and kill ego," she said slowly. "Kill the ego when they could have killed the two of us."
  
  
  He nodded to her. "Inside information is gathered from many sources in the French government. What and who offers it?"
  
  
  Our eyes met.
  
  
  "SLA," she said simply.
  
  
  "Actually. A secret army organization that is engaged in leading an uprising against President de Gaulle, and has tried several times to kill ego. Remy and his were working against them together. Ahmed had a son who worked as de Gaulle's bodyguard, a son who was killed by one of the assassinations. We thwarted these attempts, but did not destroy the SLA. We've always known that. She's very resilient... "
  
  
  "And still the ferret has high-profile supporters," she finished the form.
  
  
  "It's actually happening again."
  
  
  "But what do they want from my father?"
  
  
  "That," I said,"is one of the things we're going to find out."
  
  
  He went up the rest of the stairs, through the bar, and opened the door to Ahmed's living quarters at the back of the house.
  
  
  "But how?" the girl behind me said. "What information do we have? Did your other friend say anything to you before he died?"
  
  
  He stopped in front of the bedroom.
  
  
  "He told me a few things. I'm not going to tell you anything around them. Not yet, anyway."
  
  
  “what? But why?" She was indignant. "It was my father who was abducted, wasn't it? She definitely needs to think..."
  
  
  "I haven't seen any real evidence that you're Duroche's daughter." Her bedroom door swung open. "I'm sure you need to shower and change like I do. Ahmed has a daughter who doesn't go to school in Paris. You should find her clothes in the closet. It might even fit. I don't like what you're wearing right now."
  
  
  She blushed.
  
  
  "The water should be hot," I said. "Ahmed Web has state-of-the-art plumbing in Medina. So have fun. I'll be back in a few minutes."
  
  
  She went inside and closed the door without saying a word to us. Her hit her where she veins - her feminine vanity. He went back to the bar and picked up the phone. Five minutes later, she made three calls: one to France, one to the airline, and one to Hawke. When her husband returned to the bedroom, the bathroom door was still closed and she could hear the shower running. He grabbed one of Ahmed's robes and kicked off his ballet slippers and socks, heading down the hall to another bathroom. The hot shower almost made me feel human again. When he returned to the bedroom this time, the bathroom door was open. The girl found one of Ahmed's daughter's robes and put it on. There was nothing to wear, and what was there just highlighted what wasn't covered up. What wasn't covered was fine.
  
  
  "Nick," she said, " what do we do now? Shouldn't we leave here before someone comes and finds their bodies?"
  
  
  She was sitting on the bed, brushing her long, thick black hair. Her sel is next to her.
  
  
  "Not yet," I said. "I'm waiting for something."
  
  
  "How long do we have to wait?"
  
  
  "Not for long."
  
  
  She looked at me sideways. "I hate waiting," she said. "Maybe we can find a way to speed up time," she said. There was a special tone to her voice, a husky, languid tone. A ton of pure sensuality. Her felt the freshness of her white soft flesh.
  
  
  "How would you like to spend your time?" I asked her.
  
  
  She raised her arms above her head, parting the lush outline of her breasts.
  
  
  She didn't say anything, but looked at me from under lowered lids. Then, in one smooth motion, she pulled back her robes and slowly ran her palm over the velvety skin of her inner thigh to her knee. She lowered her eyes and followed the hand, repeating the movements. "Nick Carter," she said softly. "Of course, a man like you allows himself some of the joys of life."
  
  
  "Such as?" I asked her. He ran a finger along the back of her neck. She shuddered.
  
  
  "Like..." her voice was hoarse now, her eyes closed as she leaned heavily against me, turning to face me. "Such as this ..."
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, with agonizing sensuality, her sharp nails lightly scraped up the skin of my legs. Her mouth snapped forward, and her white teeth bit my lips. Then her tongue curled up to mine. Her breathing was hot and rapid. She was pinned to the bed by ee, and the heavy, full curves of her body merged with mine as she writhed beneath me. Impatiently, she kicked off her robe as hers slid off and our bodies connected.
  
  
  "Oh, Nick!" she gasped. "Oh my God! Nick!"
  
  
  I discovered the secret feminine corners of her body. Her tasted her flesh, rode her crest. It was all wet. Her mouth was as hot as her flesh. It burned everywhere-merging with me. We came together like a whirlwind, her body arching and thrashing to the rhythm of mine. If her dancing was hot, her lovemaking was enough to burn down most of Tangier. I didn't mind the burn. And a few minutes after the fire died down, it flared up again. And again. She was a perfect woman and completely abandoned. Scream with desire and then than satisfaction.
  
  
  All things considered, it was a damn good way to wait for the phone to ring.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The call came at dawn. He freed himself from the impatient, still demanding limbs and walked across the cold stone floor of the bar. The conversation lasted less than two minutes. Then hers, and went back to the bedroom. She looked at me with sleepy but still hungry eyes. She held out her hands to me, her luscious body inviting me to continue the feast.
  
  
  "I said no. "The game is over. I have three questions you need to answer. Answer them correctly, and I'll know you're Michel Duroche."
  
  
  She blinked, then sat up straight.
  
  
  "Ask me," she said, her tone suddenly businesslike.
  
  
  "The first one: What color was your first pet as a child?"
  
  
  "Brown". "No," she said at once. "It was a hamster."
  
  
  "Two: What gift did your father give you for your fifteenth birthday?"
  
  
  “no. He forgot. The next day, he brought me a motorcycle to catch up."
  
  
  He nodded to her.
  
  
  "So far, actually. One more thing. What was the name of your best friend at boarding school when you were twelve?"
  
  
  "You," she said at once. "Because she was English, and always wanted tea after dinner."
  
  
  He lifted her to the edge of the bed.
  
  
  "All right?" she said. "Do you believe me now?"
  
  
  "According to RENARD, this makes you Michel Duroche without any reasonable doubt. And what's good enough for RENARD is good enough for me."
  
  
  She smiled, then yawned and raised her hands above her head.
  
  
  "Time to get dressed," I said. "You and I are going for a plane ride. A man named David Hawke wants to talk to you. And with me."
  
  
  Her eyes were businesslike again. She nodded silently and slid out around the trash. She started going through the clothes in the closet. She swallowed hard, looking at her gorgeous naked body. There are times when being a business secret agent isn't a big deal.
  
  
  "Another corkscrew," I said.
  
  
  She turned. He swallowed again.
  
  
  "How," he asked her, " did the daughter of Fernand Durot learn to perform the most erotic dance of life that I have ever seen in my life? The evil eye?"
  
  
  She smiled. Her voice dropped four octaves.
  
  
  "Oh, no," she said. "Just a talent. Natural talent."
  
  
  I had to agree.
  
  
  
  The fourth chapter
  
  
  Air Maroc has a fast, comfortable and convenient morning trip to Tangier, which arrives in Madrid just in time for a leisurely lunch, and then crosses over for an equally fast, comfortable and convenient afternoon trip to New York via Iberia.
  
  
  Expensive for tourists. Great for business people. Excellent for diplomats.
  
  
  Bad for secret agents.
  
  
  We played this game on a slow, old and shaky trip to Malaga, where we sat around the hot airport for three hours before boarding another slow, vintage and definitely shaky plane to Seville, from where it was a dusty, sweat-soaked evening before we could board the amazing flight to Nice. There, eda improved, and the plane we took the game to Paris was an Air France DC-8. Eda was even better in Paris, if we weren't both too tired to really enjoy it, and the Air France 747 to New York, which we boarded at seven in the morning, was comfortable and punctual. However, by the time we landed at JFK Airport, NY, my adorable hot dancer life had turned into a jaded and irritable little girl who couldn't think or talk - about anything but clean trash and vaults, about what wasn't moving.
  
  
  "You were asleep," she muttered accusingly as we walked down the ramp from the plane to the terminal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Every time the plane took off, you fell asleep like you were turning off a light switch, and you slept like a baby until we landed. It's too efficient. You're not a man, you're a machine."
  
  
  "Acquired talent," I said. "Necessary for survival. If she was dependent on comfortable beds to rest, she would have passed out long ago."
  
  
  "Well, I'm going to pass out for good," she said, " if I can't get into bed. Can't we..."
  
  
  "No," I said firmly. "We can't. First, we need to take care of the luggage."
  
  
  "Ah," she muttered, " take our luggage. Of course."
  
  
  "Don't pick up the phone," I said. "Get rid of excess baggage. Human luggage. Unwanted friends who are too touchingly attached to us."
  
  
  She gave me a puzzled look, but I didn't have time to explain, and there was no place for the crowd gathering to go through immigration anyway. We became part of this crowd, were stamped in our realistic-looking but fake passports, and then we went through customs to record our luggage. A few minutes later, he was in a phone booth and made a coded call to AX headquarters on Dupont Circle, Washington, DC. As she waited for the scrambler to ring, she glanced through the glass-walled kiosks.
  
  
  They were still with us.
  
  
  A Chinese girl who looked very exotic and charming in the Vietnamese dao was apparently engrossed in buying a French fashion magazine at a crowded newsstand. The Frenchman, very courteous in a tailored suit, with pronounced silver streaks in his hair, looked languidly into the distance, as if waiting for a car with a driver.
  
  
  Of course, it wasn't the same Frenchman who went on the trip with us. The man who met us at Tangier Airport was a balding, rumpled little man in an ill-fitting sports shirt and trousers, hiding behind a copy of Paris Match. In Malaga, the ego was replaced by a thug whose face bore witness to an extremely unsuccessful career in the ring or some rough bars. He stayed with us through Seville, then on to Nice, where ego was replaced by the diplomatic character he was watching her now.
  
  
  A Chinese girl picked us up at Tangier Airport and stayed with us every step of the way, not trying to hide the fact that she was following us. She even very deliberately bumped into me while flying around Paris and tried to strike up a conversation. In English. This she couldn't understand. And, to be honest, it bothered me.
  
  
  But the ridiculously roundabout route she took from Tangier to New York gave me what I wanted: a chance to find out if she was following us, and who. He relayed this information to Hawke as he approached the telegraph office. When he finished, there was a pause.
  
  
  "Sir?" I finally said.
  
  
  "Hak hak harurrmunmrnph!" Hawk cleared his throat, thinking. He could almost smell the awful smell of one ego-cheap cigar. Hawka respected her completely, but my admiration didn't extend to his choice of cigars.
  
  
  "Chinese. Have you heard the regional dialect? " he finally asked.
  
  
  "Cantonese. Clean and classic. In English..."
  
  
  He paused.
  
  
  "All right?" Hawk demanded. "Did Nah have a certain accent when she spoke English?"
  
  
  "Mott Sturt," I said dryly. "Maybe Pell."
  
  
  "Hak hak hak," came the sounds. Hawk was thinking. "Harump. So she was born here. New York, Chinatown".
  
  
  "Definitely," I said. More silence. But now I was sure we were on the same page. Being an agent of the Chinese Communists was almost unheard of for ethnic Chinese of American descent. So who was she working for? Hawka asked her.
  
  
  "We can't say for sure," he said slowly. "There are a number of interesting opportunities. But right now we don't have time to check the sl. Just shake ee. And shake the Frenchman. Hey, I want you in Washington by midnight. With a girl. And, Nick..."
  
  
  "Here, sir," I said with difficulty. Outside the kiosk, Michelle, who was leaning against it, closed her eyes and began to glide peacefully across the glass surface like a falling raindrop. Alarmed by her, he reached out with one hand and picked her up. Her eyes opened, and she didn't look grateful at all.
  
  
  "Nick, shake the Frenchman, but don't hurt him."
  
  
  "Don't..." Her stahl gets annoyed. "Sir, it should be SLA."
  
  
  Now Hawke is absurdly annoyed.
  
  
  "Of course, he's an OAS. Our immigration officer at JFK confirmed this a few minutes ago. He is also a French diplomatic official. I started second grade. Newspapers. Publicity isn't exactly what AX thrives on, is it, Nick? So just shake off the ego and the girl in a suitably non-violent and unsightly manner and head here to Washington.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see, sir," I said as cheerfully as I could.
  
  
  There was a click, and the line ended. Hawk didn't like goodbyes. He made another phone call - to an agency that specialized in renting foreign cars for people with somewhat unusual needs-then went out through the kiosks to find that Michelle had discovered that it was safe to sleep standing still. It shocked her.
  
  
  "You," I said, " wake up."
  
  
  "No," she said firmly, but sleepily. "Impossible."
  
  
  "Oh, yes," I said. "It's possible. You're just not trying hard enough."
  
  
  He slapped her across the face. Her eyes widened, her face contorted with rage, and she reached out to grab my eyes. She was being held by ee's hands. I didn't have time to waste on long explanations, so I sincerely said hey.
  
  
  "Did you see what happened to Ahmed and his wife? Do you want this to happen to us? It's safe to say that this will be the case if we can't shake off these two characters that are haunting us. And we can't shake it if I have to spend some of my time dragging sleeping beauty around one place to another.
  
  
  Some of the anger died in her eyes. The resentment remained, but the ego was controlled.
  
  
  "Now," I said, " coffee."
  
  
  We went to the nearest airport coffee shop and had a cup of coffee. And more coffee. And more coffee. Black, with lots of sugar for quick energy. By the time my name - that is, the name on my passport - was called through the paging system, we each had five cups around us. Even so, I ordered her to bring four more with her when we left.
  
  
  A BMW was waiting for us in the parking lot. It's a fairly small car, and Nah doesn't have the flashy Jag or Ferrari sports car type. But the ego's acceleration speed is equal to the speed of a Porsche, and it holds the road like a sedan, Mercedes. In addition, when properly operated, it can accelerate to 135 mph, all at once. This was properly worked on. I knew her. I've ridden nen before. I threw our bags in the trunk and gave the red-haired guy who retrieved the car five dollars to make up for his ego's frustration that he'd come here in such a busy traffic jam that he'd never driven the car above 70 miles per hour.
  
  
  As we were leaving the station for the airport, the Frenchman saw her clearly. He was in a ' 74 brown-and-white Lincoln Continental, driven by a nasty-looking little character with black hair slicked back from his forehead. They came up behind us, a few cars behind.
  
  
  I expected this. What puzzled me was the Chinese woman. When we passed mimmo, she would get into a red Porsche in the parking lot and act like she had all the time in the world. She didn't even look up as we passed. Did she turn us in to someone else, too?
  
  
  Now is the perfect time to find out.
  
  
  "Is your seat belt fastened?" Michel asked her.
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  "Then please keep an eye on the no smoking sign until the flight reaches cruising altitude."
  
  
  Michelle gave me a puzzled look, but hers didn't say anything else, concentrating on refreshing her memory of the car and its controls. By the time we reached the entrance to the Van Wyck Expressway, I felt like I'd been driving it for the last eight hours. I slowed it down, then stopped, waiting for a long enough break in the freeway traffic. About a minute later, several cars behind us circled around us and entered the expressway. Not the Frenchman, and ego the rat buddy, who were now forced to follow us openly.
  
  
  "What are we waiting for?" Michelle asked.
  
  
  "We're waiting," I said,"for this!"
  
  
  Her foot hit the accelerator pedal and flew out onto the expressway. A few seconds later, the odometer read 70. French shell followed us, also accelerating. It should have been there. The break in traffic was large enough for two cars. If he had waited, he would have lost us.
  
  
  "Mon Dieu!" Michelle gasped. "Hema, you're working..."
  
  
  "Just hang in there and enjoy yourself," I said. Now we had more than 70, the Frenchman was right on our tail. In a few more seconds, we'll be climbing up to the roof of the car in front of us. But I wasn't going to wait for those seconds. My eyes carefully scanned the oncoming traffic and it found what I needed. My nachalah pressed the bullying button, then let go of it while her wheel spun, and the car screeched into a two-wheeled U-turn through the divider and into the oncoming lane. In a space sufficient to accommodate only one car.
  
  
  "Mon Dieu!" Michelle gasped again. Out of the corner of her eye, I saw that her face was white. "You're going to kill us!"
  
  
  The Frenchman flew mimmo, still heading for New York. The emu will need another minute or so to find a place to turn around, especially in a car that was made for comfort
  
  
  
  
  and the convenience of driving on long trips, and not for maneuvering.
  
  
  "Just doing my best to keep you awake," Michel told her, then spun the steering wheel again, not bothering to slow down or lower the gear this time, sending the car into South State Boulevard.
  
  
  "I swear to you," Michelle said, " I'll never sleep again. Just slow down."
  
  
  "Soon," I said. Then he glanced in the rearview mirror and swore under his breath. The Frenchman was there. Twenty cars behind, but behind us. Ego little rat buddy was a better driver than hers belongs to them.
  
  
  "Wait," Michel told her. "It's time to get serious."
  
  
  He yanked hard on the steering wheel, skidded into the leftmost lane, inches from the tractor trailer, and then proceeded to further infuriate the driver's ego by slowing down to 30 mph. He walked straight ahead with an indignant blast of the horn. The other cars did the same. The Frenchman was now only two cars behind, with the children in the far left lane. I studied the traffic pattern carefully, alternately increasing speed and slowing down as we approached the traffic light that led to the turnoff to Basely Pond Park. It took over the left lane, dropping to 20 mph when Sergey showed up and saw that it was red.
  
  
  The 200 yards of road open in front of me was clear in my alley. The green saint came on, and her foot hit the gas. By the time we reached the intersection, the BMW was driving a 60. Lincoln shell, just behind us, at almost the same speed. She was allowed by the BMW to drive two-thirds of the way through the intersection without slowing down, then abruptly pulled the steering wheel to the left, switching to a lower gear without braking. BMW spins like a top almost in one place. Michelle and I were thrown hard, but we were pinned down by our seat belts. In less than half a second, my nachalah was back on the accelerator pedal, sending the BMW in the Lincoln's path, less than inches from its radiator, into the intersection. Her stood up taunts, felt the BMW stop abruptly just in time to let one oncoming car pass, then stepped on the gas pedal and sped through the intersection, just in time to let another one pass in the far lane. It could have hit another car or caused an uncontrolled spin and stall, but the BMW accelerated smoothly again when it did-ego the road around the perimeter of the park.
  
  
  "Are you okay?" Michel asked her.
  
  
  She opened her mouth, but couldn't speak. Her, felt her tremble.
  
  
  "Relax," I said, taking one hand off the steering wheel and patting her thigh. "It's getting easier now."
  
  
  Then Lincoln saw her again. It was almost a quarter of a mile back on an empty straight road, but even in the gathering dusk, her distinctive low silhouette could be discerned.
  
  
  This time, her stahl didn't even swear. The rat man must have been a natural driver. He could match my daring tricks with a daredevil for quite some time - in fact, long enough for the police to inevitably stop us. Which I couldn't afford, even if he, with the diplomatic plates, probably could.
  
  
  It's time, he told himself, like Michel, to change the pace.
  
  
  It was allowed by BMW to slow down to a comfortable, legal, 40 mph speed limit. The Lincoln came up. In the rearview mirror, he could see that one of the front fenders was badly smashed, the headlight was off, and the side window was broken. The Frenchman looked shocked. The ego driver had a dazed expression with crazy eyes.
  
  
  They pulled back a few cars and kept up the distance. At the same speed, he drove out onto New York Boulevard. They stayed. Other cars pulled up behind them, five, ten, fifteen. The Frenchman did not attempt to pass.
  
  
  Perhaps they're just trying to follow us to our destination. On the other hand, they may be holding back, waiting until we get to a quiet dark place.
  
  
  Time passed. Valuable time.
  
  
  I decided to give them a slap on the wrist.
  
  
  He drove another two miles and turned right onto Linden Boulevard, heading for the Naval Hospital. Halfway up, the furniture warehouse, unused at night, took up almost a block. Hers stopped in front of him, and Stahl waited. It was the perfect place for an ambush.
  
  
  The Lincoln came within fifty feet.
  
  
  Waiting for her.
  
  
  No one came out.
  
  
  He waited a moment longer, and when the Frenchman and ego driver still hadn't moved, he gave Michelle his instructions. K ee often, even if she was still shaking, she just nodded, her eyes narrowed in readiness.
  
  
  Then he got out of the BMW and walked back to the Lincoln. When his got close enough to peer through the remaining headlight and get into the car, hers watched as the shock on the Frenchman's face gradually turned into an expression of wary wariness as hers approached. Ego the driver, tired of the stunts, just looked surprised and stupid.
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned over the hood of the Lincoln and tapped the windshield with his candid hands in front of the Frenchman's face.
  
  
  "Good evening," I said politely.
  
  
  The driver looked anxiously at the Frenchman. The Frenchman continued to look frank in front of him, anxious, wary, saying nothing.
  
  
  Michelle had to get in the driver's seat now, since my target and body were blocking Po Lincoln's view.
  
  
  "You have a charming two-way radio antenna," I said, smiling politely again.
  
  
  Now Michelle has to put the BMW in gear, still running, while waiting for my next move.
  
  
  "But it's a little rusty in places," he continued. "You really need to replace your ego."
  
  
  And in a split second, Wilhelmina was in my hand, firing. The first gawk tore the radio antenna out of the car and made it spin in midair, the second fired the remaining headlight, and as Michelle turned the BMW into a sharp U-turn, turning on the far holy light as she continued the Lincoln to blind both the Frenchman and the driver, my third and fourth bullets punctured the two tires on the right side of the big sedan.
  
  
  It was the next maneuver he'd been worried about, but Michelle had pulled it off perfectly. A few yards from the Lincoln, she braked Rivnenskaya just enough so that my leap in mid-flight allowed me to grab the open window on the side and hold on to the door. Then it picked up speed again, now the saint went out, kicking around the Lincoln and over the sidewalk where it was parked, hiding my hunched body against the far side of the BMW, until on the sidewalk we reached both ends of the street. . Then the screeching signs went straight again, my body completely obscured from view, and we sped down New York Boulevard, my hands clinging to the door like two leeches.
  
  
  After a quarter of a mile, she stopped. In one smooth motion, she was in the driver's seat, she was in the passenger's seat, and no one around us said a word to us.
  
  
  It was another mile before she spoke.
  
  
  "It was... it's too risky, " she said. "They could have killed you as you approached the ih car. Not counting the danger of your acrobatic jump on that car."
  
  
  "It was a calculated risk," I said. "If they were going to attack us, they wouldn't have just sat there when we pulled up to the curb. As for what you call my acrobatics - if I wasn't willing to take that risk, I'd be ready for retirement. Its not like that yet ."
  
  
  Michelle just shook her head. She still looked shaken. It was turned silently by the wheeler and headed toward Manhattan, moving through the local streets, where you could easily see another tail. But I was pretty sure we'd lost the Frenchman and the ego of our friends. Getting rid of the antenna for ih two-way radio meant that they couldn't send someone else to take ih's place. As for the Chinese woman, I was sure I'd tossed any other ponytail she might put on us.
  
  
  I shook it off at the very beginning. Without difficulty.
  
  
  Too easy.
  
  
  Why did they have to give up so quickly?
  
  
  That bothered me. But now, there was nothing he could do about it. He was just feeding his anxiety in some compartment of his mind, ready to pour out his ego at any moment.
  
  
  In Manhattan, he parked in a busy alley and made a phone call. Fifteen minutes later, a man from around the car agency arrived in a completely unremarkable and very anonymous Ford Galaxy. Completely unremarkable, except for a few changes under the hood that allow you to easily make up to 110. He took the BMW, without expressing any interest or asking permission to perform about my sudden change of car, and drove off, wishing us a good trip.
  
  
  When you were driving and you didn't sleep for more than forty-eight hours, it was as good as it could be on any trip. Michelle was lucky. She was dozing with her head on my shoulder. She was being held up by the Ford at Rivnenskaya five miles an hour over the speed limit and drinking black coffee around the containers until she wanted to shut up.
  
  
  We weren't followed.
  
  
  At ten minutes to midnight, her car was parked a few feet from the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services headquarters, a rather ramshackle ramshackle building on Dupont Circle that masked the AX headquarters.
  
  
  Hawk was waiting in his office.
  
  
  
  The fifth chapter.
  
  
  "Voice and all, sir" - after an hour of it, I closed my account. "The SLA almost certainly has Duroche. Whether he's willing to go with them or not is another matter entirely."
  
  
  "And where he is with the SLA is another story," Hawke added grimly.
  
  
  He nodded to her. Emu had already told her about his tips, three words: Leopards, Pearls, Volcano. I had other thoughts about the meaning of those words, but Hawk was clearly not in the mood to hear them. He took a grim drag on his disgusting cigar, looking over my left shoulder. Ego's sharp face, with its hardened old skin and surprisingly soft blue eyes, had the expression he had when he was thinking hard - and worried. If he was worried, his kids were.
  
  
  Suddenly, as if he had made up his mind, Hawk leaned forward and stubbed out his cigar in a cracked twenty-five-cent ashtray.
  
  
  "Five days," he said.
  
  
  "Sir?" he said.
  
  
  "You have five days in Rivne,"he said coldly and clearly," to find Fernand Duroche and take ego away through the SLA."
  
  
  I watched it. He stared into rheumatism, piercing me with his blue eyes, now as hard as hardened steel.
  
  
  "Five days!" I told her. "Sir, her agent, not a burglar. Based on what I have to work with, it might take me five weeks, and she's only..."
  
  
  "Five days," he said again. Ego's tone of voice meant " no discussion." He pushed his swivel chair hard and spun around so that he was facing away from me, looking out the dirty window. Then he told me.
  
  
  "A few hours before you arrived in New York, we received a message. From Colonel Rambo. I think you're an egomaniac."
  
  
  He remembered her. He slipped out of our hands after the assassination attempt on de Gaulle and went into exile. In Spain, the ego was suspected. But he is still a high-ranking person in the SLA.
  
  
  "Rambo has informed us that the CCA can now turn the US energy crisis into something more than a crisis. A disaster. And if he's telling us the truth, that's a soft way to put it."
  
  
  Hawke's tone was dry and cold. This was always the case when problems were serious.
  
  
  "And what exactly is that power, sir?" I asked her.
  
  
  "According to Rambo," Hawke said, drier and colder than ever, " the SLA can now completely destroy all oil refineries and drilling rigs in the western hemisphere."
  
  
  My jaw dropped, involuntarily.
  
  
  "It seems impossible," I said.
  
  
  Hawk turned to face me again.
  
  
  "Nothing is impossible," he said grimly.
  
  
  We stared at each other through the ego chair in silence for a few moments, each feeling uneasy as we realized exactly what this threat might mean, if it was real. It would be bad enough if the oil rigs were destroyed; it would shut down a significant amount of oil discovered here. But the destruction of the refineries that processed oil not only around the western hemisphere, but also throughout the Arab world, could reduce the supply of oil to the United States by as much as eighty percent.
  
  
  Oil for major industries, for gasoline, for preheated fuel, for reformatting into other forms of energy, such as electricity.
  
  
  The United States as we knew it would stop. Our side will be almost paralyzed.
  
  
  "Could it be a bluff?" I asked her. "Do they have any proof that they can pull this off?"
  
  
  Hawk nodded slowly.
  
  
  "They say that they will present evidence within five days. Evidence that not only can they do this, but even with prior warning, we can't stop ih."
  
  
  "And the proof?"
  
  
  "In five days, the SLA will blow up and completely destroy the Shell refinery off the coast of Curacao. Unless, of course, we can stop ih. And withdraw ih on business."
  
  
  "And if we don't? What's the ih price for keeping them from blowing up everything else?"
  
  
  Hawk slowly pulled another cigar from the breast pocket of his rumpled brown suit.
  
  
  "They didn't inform us about it. However. They state that further communication will continue after they prove what they can do."
  
  
  Em didn't have to go any further. If the SLA truly proved that it could carry out its threat, the demands they could make on the US would be staggering financially, politically and in every other respect.
  
  
  It was blackmail, extortion, on an incredible scale.
  
  
  Hawk and I looked at each other across the ego chair. Her, spoke first. One word.
  
  
  "Duroche," I said.
  
  
  Hawk nodded.
  
  
  "The connection is too strong for a coincidence. The SLA has Duroche. Duroche is a genius specialist in underwater propulsion systems, computerization of these devices and their use with nuclear warheads. Against onshore oil rigs and refineries in this hemisphere. So..."
  
  
  "So Duroche gave them this ability," I finished for him.
  
  
  Hawke clamped the cigar between his teeth and lit it in short, furious puffs before speaking again.
  
  
  "Actually," he said. "And so..."
  
  
  "So I have five days to get Duroche out of the SLA," he finished again.
  
  
  "You have five days to
  
  
  
  
  take Duroche away from the SLA and destroy all the devices he designed for them. And blueprints from them ."
  
  
  So the vote is what it is. Five days.
  
  
  "And Carter," Hawke's voice was still dry and cold, " this is a solo. The SLA warned, state that if we enlist the support of any foreign police or officials, they will immediately destroy all offshore oil rigs and refineries. from Caracas to Miami ."
  
  
  He nodded to her. I figured it out.
  
  
  "You'll have to take the girl with you," he continued, automatically puffing on his cigar. "She can give you an accurate identification of her father. We can't let you get the wrong person out. I don't like to involve her, but..."
  
  
  "What if Duroche doesn't volunteer?"
  
  
  Hawke's eyes narrowed. She already had a history of rheumatism.
  
  
  "Get Duroche out!"he snapped. "Willingly or unwittingly. And if you can't get the ego out..."
  
  
  Emu didn't need to finish. I knew that if I couldn't get Duroche out for whatever reason, I'd have to kill ego.
  
  
  Hers, he hoped Michelle didn't understand.
  
  
  He stood up, then remembered something.
  
  
  "Chinese girl," I said. "Did the computer find out anything about nah?"
  
  
  Hawke's brows rose.
  
  
  "Interesting," he said. "It's interesting because there's nothing particularly interesting about it. There are no Interpol records. There are no reports of involvement in any form of espionage. Her name is Qin Li. Twenty-two years old. I graduated from Vassar very early, top of my class. Graduate work at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. She then went to Hong Kong and worked for a year there, working in the family mail business Import-Export. Just got back to New York a few months ago. It's hard to see how it fits into the picture at the moment."
  
  
  It was interesting. Vote what was bothering me. But now, there was nothing he could do about it. She was returned by Lee Jin to her special little branch in her head.
  
  
  "Any idea where to start?" Hawk asked.
  
  
  Emu said it. He nodded. Cigar ash fell on his jacket, conveniently joining a series of other smears and smudges. Hawke's brilliance didn't extend to wardrobe or grooming.
  
  
  "I'll contact Gonzalez for you if you can use it. He's not the best, but he's knowledgeable about the terrain."
  
  
  Ego thanked her and headed for the door. As her ego was about to close behind her, hers, I heard Hawke say:
  
  
  "Oh, Carter..." He smiled, and his voice softened. "If you can't be careful, be good."
  
  
  Her, chuckled. It was a private joke between us. Only a cautious agent had a chance to survive. Only a good agent survived. Hawk had been more than good in his day. He was the best. He didn't say it right away because it wasn't ego style, but he knew what was in front of me. And he cared.
  
  
  "All right, sir," I said simply, and closed the door.
  
  
  He found Michelle sitting - or rather, slouching-on a chair outside the dreary little room where McLaughlin, N5, spent time with her to take stock. He had already recorded everything she said on tape, and now this tape would be carefully reviewed by several other agents, and then uploaded to the computer for any information that he might have missed. But I didn't have time to wait for the results. He leaned down and blew in her ear. She woke up with a start.
  
  
  "It's travel time again," I said. "Time for a good plane ride."
  
  
  "Oh, no," she moaned. "Should we?"
  
  
  "We have to," I said, helping her up.
  
  
  "Where are we going to go there now? To the North Pole."
  
  
  "No, I told her. "First we'll head upstairs to Special Effects to get our new cover, including passports and ID cards. Then we'll go to Puerto Rico."
  
  
  "Puerto Rico? At least it's warm and sunny."
  
  
  He nodded, leading her down the hall to the elevator.
  
  
  "But why?"
  
  
  "Because,"I said, pressing the elevator button and pulling a fresh pack of cigarettes around my pocket," I understood the meaning of Ahmed's last words."
  
  
  She looked at me questioningly. He put the cigarette in his mouth.
  
  
  "I thought Ahmed said 'leopard'. He didn't say. What he said was " a leper. As in the case of leprosy ."
  
  
  She shuddered. "But how can you be sure?"
  
  
  "Because of the next word. I thought he said " pearl." But in fact, it was La Perla."
  
  
  He lit a match and held it to the cigarette.
  
  
  "I don't understand," Michelle said.
  
  
  "These two words go together," I said. "La Perla is a slum area in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico. There's a leper colony in La Perla. Your father must have been taken from Tangier and hidden in a leper colony."
  
  
  Michelle's eyes widened in horror.
  
  
  "Is my father in a leper colony?"
  
  
  He took a drag on his cigarette. It went out. He lit another match and held it to the tip.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'd say it's the perfect place to hide your ego."
  
  
  Michelle was white.
  
  
  "And we're going to this leper colony?"
  
  
  He nodded, then frowned in exasperation. The cigarette just wouldn't light. He idly looked at the tip.
  
  
  "If we're lucky and he's still here, we might..."
  
  
  Her voice trailed off in mid-sentence. A cold shiver went through me. With her thumb and forefinger, he bit off the end of the cigarette and flicked off the paper and tobacco.
  
  
  "What is it?" Michelle asked.
  
  
  "That's him," I said firmly, holding out my hand. There was a small metal object in the nen. It was shaped like a rod, no more than half an inch long, and smaller in diameter than the cigarette it was hidden in.
  
  
  Michelle leaned down to examine it.
  
  
  "A mistake, to use popular terminology," I said, and I must have sounded disgusted with myself for my carelessness. "Surveillance device. And this is one of the most modern ones. A Corbon-Dodds 438-Y transceiver, it not only picks up and transmits these voices over a mile away, but also emits an electronic signal. which anyone with the appropriate receiving equipment can use to determine our location to within a few feet of us."
  
  
  "You mean," Michelle straightened up with a surprised look, " whoever planted this not only knows where we are, but also heard everything we said?"
  
  
  "Absolutely fantastic," I said. And I knew that was why the Chinese woman hadn't bothered to track us. Not in sight, anyway. She can do this at her leisure, half a mile or so away, all the while listening to our conversation.
  
  
  Including my detailed application to Michelle on where we'll go and why.
  
  
  Michelle looked at me.
  
  
  "OAS," she whispered.
  
  
  "No." Her, shook his head. "I don't think so. We were followed all the way from Tangier to New York by a very pretty Chinese woman. She bumped into me on a plane around Paris. I had a half-empty pack of cigarettes on my shirt. a minute and unopened in the pocket of my doublet. Hey, managed to replace my full pack of cigarettes with your own."
  
  
  And, given that I only smoke my own custom-made cigarettes, with the NC label printed on the filter, it takes a lot of effort to do so. And used quite extensive opportunities.
  
  
  "What do we do now?" Michelle asked.
  
  
  I carefully examined her wiretap. The front half melted from the Savchenko of my match. The complex circuitry was destroyed, and the bug apparently stopped transmitting. The corkscrew was in which car was wiretapped, from the first or the beginning of the second? If it was the former, then there was a good chance that the Chinese woman didn't get enough information to know where we were going. If it was a second one ...
  
  
  He grimaced, then sighed and pressed the bug to the floor with his heel. It gave me a certain amount of emotional satisfaction, but it didn't do anything else.
  
  
  "What we're doing now," Michel informed her as the elevator door opened and we stepped inside, " is fly to Puerto Rico. Quickly."
  
  
  There was nothing else I could do. It brought the Chinese woman back to her own compartment in my mind. Once again.
  
  
  The compartment was quite large.
  
  
  Her hotel wants her to stay in nen.
  
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  
  Mr. Thomas S. Dobbs of Dobbs Plumbing Supplies, Inc., Grand Rapids, Mich., and the ego of a French-Canadian woman, Marie, left the house. the main terminal of the San Juan airport; they were loaded with cameras, snorkeling gear, and all the other equipment needed for an ih vacation in the Caribbean, including a Puerto Rican straw hat that Mr. Dobbs had bought at the terminal immediately upon arrival. They were supposed to have, as Mr. Dobbs told anyone who would listen to ih, "roaring time." They were going to " paint this little old island red." They were going to "turn old San Juan inside out, including the casino."
  
  
  As you might have guessed, they were a couple of typical, moderately unpleasant American tourists.
  
  
  "Taxi! Taxi!" Mr. Dobbs bellowed, waving his arms wildly.
  
  
  Mrs. Dobbs was quieter. She looked a little tired. But she was obviously enjoying the sun and warmth.
  
  
  "Mmmm," she said to her husband, turning her beautiful face up. "Isn't this a beautiful sun? And you can smell so many flowers. Oh, Nick..."
  
  
  Ee grabbed her arm as if to drag her into a taxi that stopped in front of us.
  
  
  "Tom," I muttered without moving my lips. "Not Nick. Tom".
  
  
  "Tom," she said dutifully. "Isn't it beautiful? I just want to put on a bathing suit, lie on a beach somewhere in the sun and listen to the ocean." Then she grimaced. "Besides her, I assume you have other things to do, and you need her to go with you.".
  
  
  "Take the tailor, honey," he bellowed. "That's exactly what we're going to do. Plop down on that beach and get one hell of a tan. We are willing to pay enough for this."
  
  
  The porter finished loading our bags into the booth rack. Hers was outrageously underestimated, making up for it with a hard, hearty slap on the back, and a shout of " Don't throw everything in one place, buddy!" and jumped into the cab next to Michelle, slamming the door so hard that the car's cabin creaked. The driver looked at me irritably.
  
  
  "The San Geronimo Hotel, buddy. That's where we were going. Only the best for Thomas K. Dobbs and the ego of a little wife, " I said. Then sharply and suspiciously: "That's the best part, isn't it? Sometimes these travel agents..."
  
  
  "Yes, senor," the driver said silently, " this is the best. You'll love it there."
  
  
  He was sure that if her ego was made into a public toilet, he would say that this is also the best option.
  
  
  "All right, buddy. You'll get us there quickly, and there's a good tip for you, " I said broadly.
  
  
  "You," the driver replied. "I'll get you there quickly."
  
  
  He leaned back against the seat cushions and took out a cigar from around his jacket pocket, which was usually only slightly less unpleasant than the ones Hawke liked. He could see the driver wincing slightly when he didn't light it.
  
  
  Her, of course, overdid it. Too much pretense. Making sure I'm remembered.
  
  
  And that made sense. A good agent should not overdo it, play out too many things for the ego to remember. Which made me either a very bad agent or a very smart good agent who wouldn't be thought of as an agent at all.
  
  
  "Tom," Michelle said softly, " did you really mean what you said about going to the beach?"
  
  
  "Of course, my dears," he said in a moderate tone. "First we go to the old beach. Then we get dressed, we get some of these Peeny Colazza's or whatever, then we sink our teeth into the biggest fucking restaurant you can find on this island, then we go to their casino and have fun. How does that sound for the first day and night, huh?"
  
  
  "In the dell itself?" Michelle said in the same low voice. "But I thought you were ..."
  
  
  "You thought your old hubby didn't know how to have a good time. I thought he couldn't think of anything but plumbing supplies. Well, hold on to your hat, honey. Beach and booze, dinner and dinner, vote and we will ! "
  
  
  And to Michelle's happy surprise, we went to vote. First, this is what Mr. Thomas S. Dobbs and the woman's ego would do. And secondly, it would be suicidal to keep up my serious business in San Juan until late at night. Lying on a white sand beach with the sun beating down on my body and the sound of the Caribbean surf soothing my ears was a pretty good way to pass the waiting time.
  
  
  "Volume".
  
  
  He rolled over on his side and looked at Michelle. And decided that it wasn't just good, it was... well, name your superlative degree. Anything or everything would do: Michelle's ample breasts were more than filled by the tiny, almost transparent bikini bra she was wearing, her silky skin-her life tapering to the bottom of the bikini, which was little more than two small triangles and a piece of lace, her long, slender legs moving voluptuously in the sand.
  
  
  "Tom," she purred, closing her eyes and raising her face to the sun, " please pour me some suntan oil."
  
  
  "With pleasure."
  
  
  He spread the warm oil on her neck, on her smooth shoulders, on her stomach, and on her thighs. Her flesh moved softly under my hands. Her skin felt warmer, softer. She rolled into life, and I spread the oil over her shoulders again, unzipped her bra, and spread the ego over her back, my hands sliding down her sides, touching her breasts. She sighed, and the sound was more like a groan than a sigh. When it was finished, we lay down side by side, touching each other. We both had our eyes closed, and the aura of sex between us was thick and hot and growing. The bright sun seemed to pull us inexorably together, like a magnet and iron.
  
  
  "Tom, "she finally whispered," I can't take this anymore. Let's go back to our room."
  
  
  Her voice was soft but insistent. I felt the same need. Without saying a word, she was caught in her bra again, lifted to her feet, and led back to the hotel. As we entered the room, she moved a little away from me.
  
  
  "Slowly, Nick," she said in a low, husky voice, her dark eyes looking into mine. "This time I want it to last slowly. May it last forever."
  
  
  My hand went out to her. She caught the ego and pressed the cup against its fullest curve.
  
  
  "Do it forever, dear. I want everything, now, everything."
  
  
  
  
  Under my hand, her sun-heated flesh tightened. I could feel her pulse in my blood. My pulse quickened. Ee pulled her to him, and my open mouth covered hers, my tongue exploring, hard and demanding. She writhed erotically, but slowly, as if to an inaudible drum beat, the tempo of which increased at an unbearably controlled rate.
  
  
  "Can water put out this fire?" I whispered sharply.
  
  
  "Just turn up the flames, dear," she said, immediately understanding what I meant.
  
  
  In one quick motion, he removed her bra and then her bikini bottoms. A sensual smile curved her lips. Her hand pushed my hands away, and her eyes fixed on me with pride and admiration.
  
  
  I felt my own instincts completely take over as I picked her up and carried her to the bathroom. A moment later, we were standing under the searing water of the soul, those wet, steaming bodies pressed together and feeding furiously on each other. It was still slow, but with a blood-hot pace of pure sensual ecstasy, turning into an unbearable, absolute and absolute possession of a man by a woman and a woman by a man.
  
  
  When it finally happened, we both screamed, wordlessly, like the pure instincts we'd briefly become.
  
  
  "Satisfactory?" she murmured as we both recovered a little.
  
  
  "Absolutely fantastic," I said, still trying to focus my eyes and catch my breath.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The rest of the evening was also full and satisfying - or at least it would have been if he really was Thomas K. By Dobbs. We drank pina coladas on the outdoor terrace, where an army of bustling waiters sat while Caribbean adv = β hans colorfulness, as if on demand. When we went inside to eat, the army of waiters turned into a regiment, the menu was three feet long, and the whole place smelled like spent money, like water. Everything that money could buy was available and bought in large quantities.
  
  
  Unfortunately, tropical drink mixes are my idea for the best way to ruin a good rum, and I totally agree with Albert Einstein that a twenty - four-ounce cup is the perfect eda for lions, and only lions. Under more normal circumstances-which I sometimes find hard to imagine - I would have enjoyed a freshly caught concoction or sea urchins fried with garlic and Caribbean spices. But Thomas S. Dobbs would have turned green at the thought of anyone around them, and for now, he was Dobbs. So I persisted in playing ego in the evening, enjoying the sight of Michelle in a sheer dress that would have given any man a lot of pleasure in my place.
  
  
  Later, when we took a taxi to the Caribe Hilton Casino, she was comforted by the loss of a couple of hundred dollars on the AXE-on-the-roulette wheel, which Thomas S. Dobbs would undoubtedly have done. Nick Carter would have done this by playing blackjack at the table and won. Not a huge amount, but, according to the Kolodezny system, a few thousand is not a gamble.
  
  
  Which is exactly what Michelle did.
  
  
  "How much?" I demanded as I took the taxi back to the hotel.
  
  
  "Fourteen hundred. Della was actually fifteen, but I gave her dealer a hundred-dollar chip as a tip."
  
  
  "But I only gave you fifty dollars to play with!"
  
  
  "Of course," she said cheerfully, " but that's all I need. You see, I have this system..."
  
  
  "All right, all right," I said grimly. There was a time when Thomas K. Dobbs had a distinct pain in his backside.
  
  
  But there were times when hers, thinking about our hotel room in San Geronimo, when hers, watching Michelle go naked all over the bathroom, when going back to Nick Carter also had its drawbacks.
  
  
  It's time to get back to Nick Carter.
  
  
  He turned on the TV to drown out those voices if there was a wiretap in the room, and pulled Michelle close.
  
  
  "It's time for work," I said, trying my best to keep my eyes on her neck. "I should be back in four or five hours, at least until morning. In the meantime, stay in the room with the door locked and don't let anyone in, for whatever reason. You know what to do if I don't." I'll be back in the morning."
  
  
  She nodded. We discussed all this before we left Washington. We also discussed corkscrew, whether or not Hey should have a gun. She never fired any kind of weapon. So hey, I didn't get the gun. It wouldn't do me any good anyway, and I don't believe in giving guns to people who don't know how and when to use the ego. What she really got was an imitation diamond ring. The diamond was harmless. There were four prongs on the frame that extended beyond the diamond when the strap was pressed. If someone around these prongs broke through the opponent's skin, they would instantly lose consciousness as a result. The problem was that the enemy had to get close enough for Michel to use the ring. Hers, hoping Hey wouldn't have to use it.
  
  
  
  
  Hers, hoping Hey wouldn't have to use it.
  
  
  I told him that, then resisted the temptation to emphasize my words with a long kiss and left.
  
  
  It was passed through the hotels, as they say in the movies, "back road". Except that getting out through any hotel "way back" is not so wouldnt be easy. First, you need to find your way back. In this case, it was in the front and was a narrow section of the fire escape. Because our room was on the fourteenth floor, and no one in their right mind would have walked fourteen flights of stairs, and hers was fourteen flights of stairs. Then, grateful for a gym session with Walt Hornsby, AX's fitness instructor, he went down two more flights to the basement. There I had to hide behind the stairs until two coveralls-clad hotel employees, telling dirty jokes in Spanish, took out several dozen garbage cans. When they disappeared upstairs, her husband went outside. It was an alley, slightly larger than the alley off the Condado strip. And Gonzalez, who was driving a modest, nondescript red Toyota, was parked no more than fifty feet away. When I climbed into the passenger seat next to him, there was no one in sight.
  
  
  "Welcome to the best taxi service on the island of Puerto Rico," he said cheerfully. "We offer..."
  
  
  "Suggest a quick trip to La Perla," I said, shoving Wilhelmina into my hand and checking my ammunition. "While you're driving, tell me how to get to the leper colony in La Perla."
  
  
  Gonzalez's cheerfulness immediately evaporated. He put the car in gear and drove off, but he didn't look happy. Ego's mustache began to twitch nervously.
  
  
  "This," he said slowly, then after a moment of silence, " is crazy. Driving to La Perla at this time of night is crazy. Going to a leper colony at any time is unwise, but going at this time of night is not only insane, but also possibly suicidal ."
  
  
  "Perhaps," I agreed, rearranging Wilhelmina in the upholstery and making sure Hugo was snug in his suede scabbard.
  
  
  "Are you aware that most of the leper colony hospital is in the hall in the contagious wing?"
  
  
  "I know," I said.
  
  
  "Are you aware that even non-contagious Wing lepers are dangerous because they are desperately poor and have no legal means of raising money?"
  
  
  "I know that too," I said, pressing Pierre to my hip.
  
  
  Gonzalez turned the wheel, steering the Toyota out of Condado and toward Old San Juan.
  
  
  "And my Blue Cross has expired," he said grimly.
  
  
  "You're just a guide," emu told her. "I'm going alone."
  
  
  "But this is even worse!" he said anxiously. "I can't let you go in alone. One man wouldn't stand a chance, not even Nick Carter. I insist on it..."
  
  
  "Forget it," I said shortly.
  
  
  "But..."
  
  
  "Gonzalez, your rank is N7. You know what I have. I'm giving you an order."
  
  
  It subsided, and we spent the rest of the ride in silence. Gonzalez chewed on his mustache. Her glanced in the rearview mirror possible tails. There was no Ih. Ten minutes of twisting twists and turns through small, narrow streets took us past the old governor's mansion and up the hill to the edge of the seaside slum of La Perla. As we drove through it, the Caribbean breeze shook the tin roofs. You could hear the surf crashing against the sea wall, and the smell of decomposing fish, garbage, and small cluttered rooms with no running water. Gonzalez rounded a small square, led the Toyota down an alley that gave him about an inch of clear space on each side, and parked around the corner. The dark street was deserted. Latin music drifted faintly through the windows above us.
  
  
  "Are you determined to do this stupid thing?" Gonzalez asked, his voice full of concern.
  
  
  "There's no other way," I said firmly.
  
  
  Gonzalez sighed.
  
  
  "The leper colony is in the hall at the end of the street. In fact, it is a leprosarium, combining a hospital and a hostel for lepers. It covers an area equivalent to that of a city block and has the shape of a fortress, consisting around one large building with a central courtyard. There is only one entrance and exit. It leads to the offices of the leprosarium. There is one locked door behind it. It leads to the courtyard. From the courtyard, there are three wings: the east wing, which is a hospital, the west wing, which is a hostel for lepers whose condition has stabilized, and the south wing ."
  
  
  Gonzalez turned and stared at me.
  
  
  "In the south wing," he said, " they are lepers who are contagious and are not allowed to go out of the leprosy."
  
  
  He nodded to her. Her, I did my homework on the ugly topic of leprosy. This is a chronic infectious disease that
  
  
  
  
  attacks the skin, organ tissues, and nerves. In its early stages, it produces white patches on the skin, followed by white scaly scabs, putrefactive sores, and nodules. Finally, body parts are literally drained and fall off, causing nightmarish deformities. Thanks to antibiotics developed after the outbreak of World War II, it is now possible to stop the disease at a certain point. But in its early stages, it is still highly contagious.
  
  
  "Do you have what I asked you to bring?"
  
  
  Without a word, Gonzalez climbed into the backseat and handed me a doctor's bag and two sets of identification cards. maps. One of them belonged to Jonathan Miller, MD.The other is to Inspector Miller around the San Juan Customs Department.
  
  
  "The syringes are full," Gonzalez said. "The Odin around them has to knock out an adult male in seconds and keep the ego unconscious for at least eight hours. Carter..."
  
  
  He made a pause. Her, looked at him.
  
  
  "Lepers whose sores have been healed are just as dangerous as infectious ones. They sleep and eat here for free, and they are given medicine. But they don't have the money for other things - cigarettes, rum, gambling - and the few around them can go to work. So, it is well known that they are involved in many shady things. They're ... "
  
  
  He opened the car door for her and got out.
  
  
  "That," I said, " is what I'm counting on. I will also count on you to wait for me on the small square, mimmo of which we passed, until morning. If I'm not out by then, leave. . You know what to do."
  
  
  Gonzalez nodded. Her, turned and walked away before he even put the car in gear.
  
  
  "Buena suerte," her ego heard a small voice say from behind me.
  
  
  Good luck.
  
  
  I need it.
  
  
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  
  The leprosarium was a squat, heavy, ugly building made of crumbling plaster that someone had painted bright red, which made the ego even uglier. It was two stories high, and the windows on each floor were covered with heavy wooden shutters, tightly closed, even in the conditions associated with the Caribbean heat. A bell found it on the side of the wooden door and pulled hard. Inside, he heard a loud metallic clang, then silence. He pulled it again. Another clank. Then shaggy. The door opened a crack, and a thin, sleepy woman's face peered out.
  
  
  "What do you want?" "What is it?" she asked irritably in Spanish.
  
  
  "I'm Doctor Jonathan Miller," I told her emphatically in my somewhat rusty but fluent Spanish. "I'm here to see Patient Diaz."
  
  
  There was supposed to be a patient in the leper colony named Diaz. It was one of the most common names in Puerto Rico.
  
  
  "At this hour, did you come to visit the patient?" the woman said even more irritated.
  
  
  "Its around New York," I said. "I've only been here a few days. I'm doing her a favor for the Diaz family. I don't have any other time. Please let me in, senora. I have to return to my clinic by tomorrow."
  
  
  The woman hesitated.
  
  
  "Senora," I said, putting a sharp note of impatience into my voice, " you are wasting my time. If you won't let me in, call someone around the authorities."
  
  
  "There's no one else here tonight," she said, a note of uncertainty in her voice. She glanced at my doctor's bag. "There are only two nurses on duty at the hospital. We have very few personnel."
  
  
  "The door, senora," I said sharply.
  
  
  Slowly, reluctantly, she opened the door and stepped aside to let me in, then closed and locked it behind me.
  
  
  "Which Diaz exactly do you want? Felipe or Esteban?"
  
  
  "Felipe," I said, looking around the large room filled with ancient filing cabinets and furnished with two rickety metal tables and a few chairs. A strong smell of disinfectant and a faint but distinct smell of decaying human flesh.
  
  
  "Felipe Diaz is in the hall in the west wing with the boxes stabilized. But I can't take you there. It should stay for a day, " the woman said. She went to the desk, opened a drawer, and took out a bunch of keys. "If you want to go, you have to go alone."
  
  
  "Bueno," I said, " I'll go myself.
  
  
  He held out his hand for the keys. The woman held out an ih. He looked down at her hand and stifled a sigh. Only the thumb and forefinger extended out of the palm.
  
  
  The woman caught my eye and smiled.
  
  
  "Nothing of the sort, senor," she said. "My case has stabilized and she is not contagious. Its one of the lucky ones. I only lost a few fingers. With others like Felipe..."
  
  
  She forced herself to take the keys around that hand and moved toward the day in the far moan.
  
  
  "Diaz garbage at twelve, candid money," the woman behind me said as I opened the door for her. "And, senor, be careful not to enter the south wing. There are very contagious cases."
  
  
  He nodded and went out into the courtyard, closing the door behind him. A dim electric bulb barely illuminated the bare, muddy courtyard with a few scrawny palm trees and several rows of benches.
  
  
  
  The windows on this side were open, dark, and he could hear snoring, sighing, coughing, and a few groans. He quickly crossed the courtyard to the west wing, then unlocked the door with a large iron key.
  
  
  The smell hit me like a hammer. It was thick and heavy, smelled of rotting human flesh, smelled like a rotting corpse in the heat. No amount of disinfectant in the world can hide the smell, and I had to fight the wave of nausea that washed over me. When I was sure I wasn't going to get sick, I pulled a pencil flashlight from her pocket and ran it around the darkened room. Rows of bodies lay on bunks, curled up in awkward vaulting positions. Here and there an eye opened and peered cautiously at me. Her made beam on the bed candid opposite, day and quietly passed through the room. The figure on the cot pulled the sheet over her head. From somewhere under the sheet came a muffled snore. He held out his hand and shook one of her shoulders.
  
  
  "Diaz!" I whispered sharply. "Wake up! Diaz!"
  
  
  The figure stirred. Slowly, one hand appeared and pulled down the sheet. The target turned and a face became visible.
  
  
  He swallowed hard. It was the face around the nightmare. There was no nose, and one ear was a rotten lump of flesh. Black gums stared back at me where my upper HP had been depleted. My left arm was a stump, shriveled up below the elbow.
  
  
  "To whom?" Diaz asked hoarsely, looking at me sleepily. "Qué quiere?"
  
  
  He put it on his jacket and clicked on his ID.
  
  
  "Inspector Miller, Customs Department, San Juan," I said. "You're wanted for questioning."
  
  
  The disfigured face looked at me blankly.
  
  
  "Get dressed and go out," I said sharply. "There's no need to wake everyone up here."
  
  
  He still looked uncomprehending, but he slowly pulled off the sheet and stood up. Emu didn't need to put on any clothes. He slept in it. He followed me across the floor and out the door into the courtyard, where he stood blinking at me in the dim light.
  
  
  "I won't waste any time, Diaz," I said. "We have received information that a network of smugglers is operating through the leprosy. On the one hand, contraband goods are stored here. Drugs. And, according to our information, you are in all ears."
  
  
  "To whom?" Diaz said, his startled gaze turning sleepy. "Contraband? I don't know what you're talking about."
  
  
  "There's no point in pretending to be stupid," he snapped. "We know what's going on, and we know you're involved. Are you going to cooperate now, or not?"
  
  
  "But I tell you, I don't know her," Diaz said. "I don't know anything about drugs or contraband here or anywhere else."
  
  
  He glared at him. I didn't like doing what I had to do next, but I did it.
  
  
  "Diaz," I said slowly, " you have a choice. You can either cooperate with us and get out, or I can arrest you right here and now. That means I'll send you to jail. Solitary confinement, of course,since no other prisoner can have a leper. And probably for a long time, since it may take us a long time to solve this case without you. And during that time, we may not be able to provide the medication you don't need to stop your illness."
  
  
  Horror flickered in Diaz's eyes.
  
  
  "No!" he gasped: "You can't do this! I'm going to die! It's terrible! I swear to you, in my mother's grave, I don't know anything about..."
  
  
  "It's your choice, Diaz," I said grimly. "And you'd better do it now."
  
  
  Diaz's battered face was covered in sweat. He shivered.
  
  
  "But I don't know anything!" "What can I do for you if her ..."
  
  
  He made a pause. My nerves tightened. This may be what I was catching.
  
  
  "Wait," he said slowly. "Hold on. Perhaps..."
  
  
  Waiting for her.
  
  
  "A few months ago," he said, " it happened a few months ago. There were strangers here. Not lepers. Not doctors. But they were hiding something, or maybe to someone."
  
  
  "Hiding it, or ego where?" I demanded.
  
  
  "Where no one would look. In the infectious diseases department."
  
  
  "Go," I said.
  
  
  "They left after about a month. Taking everything they were hiding with them. That's all I know, I swear on my mother's honor."
  
  
  "I need more information, Diaz," I said firmly. "Where did they get what they were hiding?"
  
  
  "I do not know, I swear, if I knew her, I would have told you.
  
  
  He made a pause. Ego's eyes were troubled.
  
  
  "Go on," I demanded.
  
  
  "Jorge. Jorge should know. He's a leper, arrested.
  
  
  
  
  , who works as a nurse in the contagious wing. He would have seen everything, perhaps overheard something of value to you. But..."
  
  
  "But what?"
  
  
  "To talk to him, we would have to go to the contagious wing. It's nothing to me. But for you..."
  
  
  Emu didn't need to finish the sentence. He knew her danger. But I also knew what I needed to do.
  
  
  "Can you bring me a sterile robe, gloves, cap, all the outfit?"
  
  
  Diaz nodded.
  
  
  "Do it," her father said. "And fast."
  
  
  He disappeared into the building and reappeared a few minutes later, carrying what I asked for. When I put on my lab coat, cap, surgical mask, and gloves, he pushed a pair of shoes toward me.
  
  
  "You should leave your shoes outside the door. All of these things will be sterilized when you take them off again."
  
  
  I did as he said, then started across the yard, my shoes in my hand.
  
  
  "Can you get the key from the south wing?"I asked her.
  
  
  Diaz smiled a little, ego, missing upper lip turned into a terrible grimace.
  
  
  "It's only locked from the outside, senor," he said. "To keep the lepers away. It's not hard to keep others."
  
  
  Diaz unscrewed the bolt on another heavy wooden door and stepped aside to let me pass first. Abruptly, ego motioned her forward. It was a dark room again, but this time with a light at one end, where a man in white was sitting at a table, propping his head on his hands and sleeping. More rows of cots, awkward figures. But here some were twisted, which hurt. Staccato moans came from both directions. The smell was even worse than in the west wing. Diaz walked down the aisle to the man in white, looked at him carefully, then lifted his head by the hair.
  
  
  "Jorge," he said roughly. "Jorge. Wake up. The senor wants to talk to you."
  
  
  Jorge's eyes opened slightly, he looked at me, out of focus, then ego, the target dropped to his hands. Part of the left wand's ego disappeared, revealing a white bone.
  
  
  "Aiyi," he murmured . And so brave to work with lepers. So beautiful."
  
  
  Diaz looked at me and grimaced.
  
  
  "Drunk," he said. "He uses his salary to get drunk every night."
  
  
  He lifted Jorge's head again and slapped ego roughly on the rotten cheek. Jorge gasped, which hurt. Ego's eyes widened and focused.
  
  
  "You should talk to the senor, Jorge," Diaz said. "He's on the police, customs police."
  
  
  Jorge stared up at me with obvious effort.
  
  
  "Police service? Why?"
  
  
  Her, went outside Diaz and turned over his ID card. at Jorge's.
  
  
  "For information," I said. "Information about who was hiding here, hema, and where they went when they left here."
  
  
  Even though he was drunk, there was a sly look in Jorge's eyes.
  
  
  "No one is hiding here. There are only lepers here. Infectious diseases. Very dangerous. You shouldn't be here."
  
  
  He decided to treat Jorge a little differently from Diaz.
  
  
  "There's a reward for information," he said slowly and clearly, pulling out his wallet. He saw Jorge's eyes widen slightly as he produced five twenty-dollar bills. "One hundred dollars. Paid immediately."
  
  
  "Aye," Jorge said. "I would have lost so much money, but..."
  
  
  "There's nothing to be afraid of. No one will ever know what you told me, except Diaz. And Diaz knows better than to talk."
  
  
  Jorge's eyes were fixed on the money in my hand. Ego pushed her over the chair. Jorge licked his lips, then suddenly grabbed the money.
  
  
  "I do not know who they are," he said quickly, " but they were not Hispanic. Ih was three. They came for one night and locked themselves in an empty room at the back of the wing. More than two. they didn't show up on Sundays. The leper with the arrested patient brought them edu twice a day. It was this leper who sterilized the room overnight before ih arrived. Then one night they left as abruptly as they had come. The leper also disappeared, but we later learned that Ego's body was found a few blocks away. The ego was silenced by the sprouts ."
  
  
  "Do you have any idea where they went from here?" I demanded.
  
  
  Jorge hesitated.
  
  
  "I'm not sure, but I think - twice when the leper entered the room with food, I think she heard one of the men say something about Martinique."
  
  
  Something clicked in my brain.
  
  
  Martinique. Volcano.
  
  
  Suddenly, the door opened for Jorge with a groan. A figure passed through it, dressed like her, in a sterile dressing gown, mask, cap, and all. Jorge half turned, looked, then grinned.
  
  
  "Buenos noches, senorita," he said. Then, I think, some of the intoxication returned to his voice. "Such a beautiful, such a cute little chinita, and she comes to help the lepers. Just arrived."
  
  
  
  
  
  Chinita. Chinese woman.
  
  
  Over the surgical mask, two-lidded Oriental eyes stared openly at me.
  
  
  All-too-familiar Oriental eyes with two lids.
  
  
  "Welcome to the party, Carter," she said.
  
  
  He looked at Nah with a grim expression.
  
  
  "For you, Li Qin,"I said," the game is over."
  
  
  Her, moved toward her. She raised her hand.
  
  
  "Don't make mistakes that you'll regret," she said. "We have..."
  
  
  Her voice trailed off in mid-sentence, and I saw her eyes suddenly widen in fear.
  
  
  "Carter!"Stop it!" she shouted. "Follow you!"
  
  
  Her, turned around. Jorge's bottle missed my skull by a few inches, shattering on the chair in Ego's hand. A split second later, my karate kick hit his ego on the base of his neck and didn't miss. He fell to the floor like a felled log. Even as he was falling, Liz's voice could be heard again. This time it was steady, firm, and deadly calm.
  
  
  "The door," she said. "And, to your left."
  
  
  There were three people at the door of ih. In the dim shadow light, he could see grotesque, misshapen limbs, pitted faces, empty eye sockets, stumps of arms. I could also see the gleam of two knives and a deadly piece of lead pipe as they slowly moved towards me.
  
  
  But it was the figures on the left that sent a chill down my spine. Ih was five, six, maybe more, and they all got up from their beds to slide cautiously toward me.
  
  
  They were lepers with infectious diseases. Ih half-naked bodies were approaching all licks, covered in white ulcerated tumors sticking out horribly around the diseased flesh.
  
  
  Li Qin came over to my side.
  
  
  "Odin Poe will meet your Western philosophers once remarked," she said calmly, almost conversationally, " that the enemy of my enemy is my other. Do you agree?"
  
  
  "For now," I said, " absolutely."
  
  
  "Then let's defend ourselves," she said, and her body bent slightly, her arms sliding forward in what I immediately felt like a classic kung fu ready pose.
  
  
  What happened next happened so fast that I could barely follow it. There was a sudden movement in the group of lepers for the day, and a bright flash of a knife blade flashed through the air. Her, turned to the side. Li Qin didn't move. One of her arms shot up, turned, formed a quick parabola, and the knife moved again in a move-k in math that threw the ego. He let out a scream that ended in a gasp as the blade sliced through ego's neck.
  
  
  In the next instant, the room exploded with chaotic movement. The lepers moved forward in a group and charged at us. My right hand flew out and found something in the stomach of one attacker as his hard fingers pierced forward into the other's solar plexus. The lead pipe whizzed past my shoulder. Hugo was in my hand, and the man with the lead pipe dropped it as the deadly blade sank into the emu's neck. Blood spurted down the carotid artery like a fountain. Beside me, Qin Lie's body moved in a smooth twisting motion, her arms twisting and falling, and her body grotesquely swayed through the air and fell crumpled with her head at an impossible angle.
  
  
  "It's no use, Carter," I heard the hoarse croak of Diaz's voice from somewhere around me in the twilight. "The door is locked from the outside. You'll never get out now. You will become a leper, just like us."
  
  
  Hugo sliced it through the air in front of him, pushing aside two half-naked lepers with his hands.
  
  
  "Your Swedes," Li Qin snapped at her. "Don't let them tear your clothes or touch you. They're trying to infect us."
  
  
  "You're going to rot like us, Carter," came the hoarse croak again. "You and little chinita. Your flesh will fall from..."
  
  
  The scream ended with a gasp as Lee Jin crouched down, spun around, fell backwards, grabbing for movement, and drove Diaz k's body to groan with the force of a catapult. Ego's eyes turned white and then closed as he fell. At the same time, I felt a hand grab my back and heard the sound of vomiting. He spun around, taking the leper by the back with one gloved hand, as Hugo slammed into his solar plexus at an upward angle. It crumpled, and the rta was bleeding. The piece of my sterile dressing gown was still clutched in Ego's hand. Turning around, he saw Li Qin climbing out around another cat squat as the leper's body fell to groan. Her dress was also torn. Our eyes met for a split second, and the same thought must have occurred to us at the same time.
  
  
  "The door," I said.
  
  
  She nodded slightly, and her body became cat-like again. I saw her jump on the chair that Jorge was using.
  
  
  
  
  Then make an impossible flight over the heads of the three attackers and land near the target. Her shell, sincerely behind her, using Hugo to clear the way. When we stood together for a day, we only had a few seconds before the lepers attacked us again.
  
  
  "All together," I snapped. Now!"
  
  
  Our legs went off at the same time, like two battering rams. There was a crackling sound, but the roosters held on. Once again. The crackling was louder. Once again. The door swung around its hinges and we rushed through it into the courtyard, disfigured hands reaching out, grabbing at our clothes, the smell of dying flesh seeping into our nostrils.
  
  
  "The door to the office!" Li Qin heard her shout. "It's open!"
  
  
  I could hear the sound of running feet on the parched ground in the courtyard as the lepers chased us in a group. The surgeons ' robes were getting in the way, and they were rapidly approaching us. I put all my last reserves of energy into a final burst of speed, saw Qin Li do the same behind me, and dashed through the open door to the office. Qin Lie's drawing behind me turned into a blur of speeds when her door slammed shut, violently pressing down on Alenka's approaching wire. For a moment, hers, I felt the door being forced open again. Then suddenly it closed, and he fired into the lock. There was a murmur of voices on the other side of the road, then silence.
  
  
  Li Qin was sitting next to me.
  
  
  "Look," she said, pointing to one around the corners of the room.
  
  
  The woman who had let me in lay in a heap, motionless. It was easy to see why. Her throat was cut from ear to ear. There was a telephone beside her, and the ego wire had been ripped out around the wall.
  
  
  "The lepers who attacked us must have been paid by the SLA," I said. "This woman is clearly not paid. She probably didn't know anything about it. When she heard the melee in the contagious wing, she must have tried to call the police and..."
  
  
  "And made the mistake of leaving the courtyard door open when she did," Li Qin finished for me.
  
  
  He nodded to her.
  
  
  "But there is no guarantee that someone on the leper side did not use the phone to call for SLA reinforcements. And I'm not going to be here when they arrive. We're going to get out of here now. And together. You have to explain something."
  
  
  "Of course," Qin Lie said calmly. "But what about our clothes?"
  
  
  Both of our surgeons ' gowns were torn. The lower part of the Swedes was polluted. It was quite obvious what had to be done.
  
  
  "Striptease," I ordered, adjusting my actions to match my words.
  
  
  "Everything?" Qin Lie asked suspiciously.
  
  
  "That's it," I said. "Unless you want to wake up one day and find your fingers falling off."
  
  
  "But where are we going? Without clothes..."
  
  
  "Someone is waiting for me in the car. Just a few blocks away, " he assured her.
  
  
  Li Qin looked up from unbuttoning her bra.
  
  
  "A few blocks!" she said. "You don't mean we're going to -"
  
  
  He nodded, climbed out of his shorts,and started toward the front door.
  
  
  "Ready?"
  
  
  Li Qin threw away a piece of her panties and looked dubious, but she nodded. Ee grabbed her arm and yanked open the front door.
  
  
  "Let's run!"
  
  
  I like to think that we were the first San Juan players.
  
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  Gonzalez was dozing. When he woke up to my tapping on the window, he found a naked Nick Carter standing arm-in-arm with a beautiful and extremely nude Chinese woman, his jaw dropping on his ballet slippers. For a while, he did nothing but stare. And not at me. Ego couldn't blame her. Li Qin was small, almost tiny, but every inch of her body was mistletoe-perfect proportions. Her jet-black hair fell over her small, firm chest, with its large crown and protruding nipples. Her thighs and legs were smooth, her body pursed and arched. Her face was accentuated by the doll's perfect nose, and when she brought her well-defined lips to the side, her teeth dazzled. It was hard to believe that this girl was a kung fu master - or, better said, a lover-who practiced, could fight any number of men in hand-to-hand combat. Not that he was going to forget it.
  
  
  Her knock on the window came again, knocking Gonzalez out by ego trance gaze.
  
  
  "Gonzalez," I said, " if you don't mind interrupting your physical education class, I'd appreciate it if you'd open the door. And I think ladies would appreciate your jacket."
  
  
  Gonzalez ran to the door handle.
  
  
  "The door," he said. Sure. Door. Jacket. Sure. She would be very happy to give the mistress my door. I mean my jacket."
  
  
  It took a few seconds of confusion, but finally the door opened and Li Qin was covered from shoulder to knee by Gonzalez's jacket. I got it
  
  
  
  
  a raincoat that, given Gonzalez's short stature, barely reached my thighs.
  
  
  "Okay," I said, getting into the backseat with Lee Jin, temporarily putting Wilhelmina and Hugo in the pockets of Pays Gonzalez, and ignoring ego's unspoken but apparently desperate desire to find out what had happened. "Let's get the hell out of here. But we're not going back to the hotel yet. Just take a little ride. This little lady has something to say to me."
  
  
  "Of course," Li Qin said calmly. She rummaged in the pockets of Gonzalez's doublet until she found a pack of cigarettes, offered one to me, and when she refused, lit one for herself and took a deep drag. "Where do I start?"
  
  
  "At the beginning. From the basics. For example, what exactly are you trying to do and why?"
  
  
  Good. But don't you think that the math guy who's driving should look in front of him more often than he looks in the rearview mirror?"
  
  
  "Gonzalez," he said warningly.
  
  
  Gonzalez glanced guiltily back at the road and continued driving at about twenty miles an hour.
  
  
  "Do you know anything about Chinatown?" Qin Li asked.
  
  
  "Does anyone know anything about Chinatown if they're not ethnic Chinese?"
  
  
  "That's a good argument," Qin Lie smiled. "In any case, her daughter is Longyearbyen. Her ego is also an only child. Lung Chin is the head of the Qin family or Qin Clan, if you prefer. It's a big clan, and I don't mind you that it's very rich. He has many different business interests, not only in New York's Chinatown, Hong Kong and Singapore, but also around the outdoor pool. Since my father had no other children, particularly no sons, she was brought up and educated to look after the interests of the Qin Clan, wherever they were and whatever they were to us. Either way, I could have done it."
  
  
  "Including a reasonable constellation of martial arts proficiency today?"
  
  
  "Yes," Qin Lie nodded. "And studying humanities at Vassar. And the study of technology in general at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology."
  
  
  "A well-educated young lady," I said.
  
  
  "I have to be like this. My job at the moment is, well, you can call it, performing at best troubleshooting for the clan. When something goes wrong forever, or there is a threat to the clan's interests, wherever and whatever we are, my job is to step in and fix the situation ."
  
  
  "And what is currently not working smoothly or in the hall under threat?" - I asked, already sure of the answer.
  
  
  "Come on, Carter," she said. "You must have already guessed it. The clan has serious interests in Venezuelan oil. And oil at several other locations in South America, too. And the SLA is threatening to destroy offshore oil rigs and refineries far and wide. coast. Really? "
  
  
  "Very good," I said grimly. "Very well informed. I don't think you want to tell me why you're so well-informed?"
  
  
  "Of course not," she said cheerfully. "More than I can tell you, what's her name, is that you met Michel Duroche in Tangier, and learned it in time to follow you from there. Let's just say that the Qin Clan is big, and it has many ears in many places."
  
  
  "Including electronic tips inserted in cigarettes," her lawyer denied reports that appeared in the media.
  
  
  "Yes," she said dryly. "You were my only clue to the Duroche case. I couldn't risk losing you. And we both know damn well that Fernand Duroche is the key to the whole SLA threat. Anyway, now that we both know where our dear doctor is in the audience. Death was stolen after the ego was hidden in the leper colony ... "
  
  
  "Wait," hers cut in sharply. "Where exactly do you think it was delivered to?"
  
  
  "Come on, Carter. You're playing games with me again, " she said impatiently. "I heard what Jorge said, just as well as you did. Why do you think she flew here and showed up as a nurse as soon as my bug picked up his conversation with Duroche's daughter-just before you smoked out the assembly ego? how did it taste? "
  
  
  "Halyard," I said. "But you didn't answer my corkscrew."
  
  
  Jorge said: "Martinique. Your friend Ahmed's last word was " Volcano." Can I quote his guidebook to you?" The French Caribbean island of Martinique is home to the dormant, probably extinct Mont Pelet volcano. Conclusion: Duroche and OAS headquarters in a hall in or near the Mont Pelet crater in Martinique ."
  
  
  Her silently swore. This girl was good.
  
  
  "All right," I said. "Your detective work is thorough. And you're pretty good at dealing with harsh problems. But now, little grasshopper, it's time for you to give up the general idea. You can represent the public interest. The Qin Clan, but I represent the interests of the United States, not to mention any other oil-producing country in this hemisphere. This is a corkscrew about priority.
  
  
  
  Understand?" "
  
  
  "But that's all," Li Qin said as she threw her cigarette butt out the window. "The interests I serve and the interests you serve do not contradict each other. We both want the same thing-to display the SLA scheme for the assembly. And we both know that we must act equally to free Duroche. Conclusion: it's time to unite ."
  
  
  "Forget it," I said. "You would only make things more difficult."
  
  
  "How did I make it in the leprosy?" Qin Lie asked, glaring at me. "Look, Carter, I can help Della with this, and you know it. Either way, you can't keep me from doing it. She's more than a match for anyone, with Hema you can try to keep me captive, and if you arrested me, it would just be the death of you."
  
  
  I stood there for a minute, looking out the window and thinking. What she said was true. She probably couldn't be deterred by ee from doing this. She was probably sitting there right now, figuring out some obscure way to damage my toenails if I decided to try it. On the other hand, it is possible that she worked for the opposition, despite her rather plausible story, and came to my aid in the leper colony to gain my favor. But even so, it would be better to have her somewhere to keep an eye on her than to let her crawl anywhere out of sight.
  
  
  "Come on, Carter," she said. "Stop sitting around and trying to look unattainable. Is this the case?"
  
  
  "All right," I said. "Consider yourself temporarily hired by AX. But only as long as the ferret, as long as you pull your own alenka."
  
  
  Li Qin batted her eyelashes and looked at me sideways.
  
  
  "Look at an old Chinese proverb," she said in the most husky accent I've heard her use since Charlie Chan.
  
  
  "What is it?" I said.
  
  
  "You can't hold back a good person, because when things are going hard, and when they start acting up, and I'm just starting to fight."
  
  
  "Hmm," I said. "Confucius?"
  
  
  “no. Chinatown High, class 67."
  
  
  He nodded approvingly.
  
  
  "In any case, very deep. But now that we have our culture for the day, it would be nice to discuss how we are going to go to Martinique."
  
  
  Her entire expression changed. It was fully functional and spa-like.
  
  
  "If you read your guidebook well," Hey told her, " you'll know that Martinique is an overseas department of France, just as Hawaii is a state in the United States. This means that the laws and administration are French..."
  
  
  "This means," Li Qin finished for me,"that they can be infiltrated by SLA members."
  
  
  He nodded to her.
  
  
  "This means that we have to enter Martinique without ih being aware of our arrival. This raises the issue of transportation. Michelle and I are traveling undercover, but we can't risk the ego not being there, especially after that incident at the leprosy."
  
  
  Li Jin stroked one side of her face thoughtfully.
  
  
  "Not by air, then," she said.
  
  
  "No," I agreed. "It's a mountainous island. The only place to land is the airport, and we will have to go through customs and immigration control. On the other hand, while there is only one place for an airplane to land, there are hundreds of seats that are relatively small in size. the boat could drop anchor and remain undetected for several days ."
  
  
  "Except that renting a boat would be a good way to let the huge number of people on this island know that we're planning a trip," Li Qin said absently as he lit another Gonzalez cigarette.
  
  
  "I agree," I said. "So we're thinking about renting a boat, not renting one."
  
  
  "Of course, without master's knowledge."
  
  
  "Not until we return the ego with payment for ego constellations today."
  
  
  Li Qin threw the cigarette ash out of the window and looked businesslike.
  
  
  "We'll have to discuss this corkscrew payment issue, Carter," she said. "She's been spending a little too much lately."
  
  
  "I'll talk to the accountant," her husband promised. "In the meantime, we both need to get some sleep. Tonight. Do you know where the yacht berth is in the hall?"
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  "There's a cafe called Puerto Real at the eastern end. I'll meet you there at midnight tomorrow. Do you have a place to stay on these ferrets?"
  
  
  "Of course," she said. "The Qin Clan..."
  
  
  "I know her, I know her. The Qin Clan is a very large clan. Okay, Gonzalez can drop me off at my hotel, then buy you some clothes and take you wherever you want."
  
  
  "All right," she said, tossing her cigarette butt out the window. Carter, about these clothes..."
  
  
  "It will go to my account," he assured her.
  
  
  She smiled.
  
  
  What the hell. It's worth buying one piece of clothing to see how it removes the others.
  
  
  
  
  It was dawn when he entered the San Geronimo apartments again, and Michel was still fast asleep. She wasn't overly dressed, either, not even for the vaults. In fact, all she was wearing was a corner of the sheet that shamefacedly covered about four inches of her thigh. She took a shower, quietly but thoroughly, using a little carbolic soap that he had brought with him specifically for this purpose, and bench-pressed the bed next to her. He was tired. Hers was sleepy. All she wants to do is close her eyes and stop snoring. At least, that's what I thought, until Michelle moved, opened one eye, saw me, and turned to press her ample breasts - so different from Li Qin's small, firm, upturned breasts - against my bare chest.
  
  
  "How did it go?" she murmured, one hand beginning to stroke my back, to the base of my neck.
  
  
  "Apart from fighting a regiment of infectious lepers armed with knives and clubs, there was nothing in it," I replied, starting to explore some interesting terrain with my own hands.
  
  
  "You have to tell me about this," Michelle said hoarsely, her entire body now pressed against me, pressing against me.
  
  
  "I'll do it," I said. And then I didn't say anything else for a while, my lips were busy in a different way.
  
  
  "When will you tell me?" Michelle muttered after a moment.
  
  
  "Later," I said. "Much later."
  
  
  And that was only a few years later. In fact, the day we were lying on the white sand beach again, soaking up some more of the hot Caribbean sun.
  
  
  "But do you really trust this Chinese girl?" Michelle asked as she applied warm suntan oil to my back, flexing the muscles in my shoulders.
  
  
  "Of course not," I said. "That's one of the reasons I prefer to have her so I can keep an eye on her."
  
  
  "I don't like it," Michelle said. "She seems dangerous."
  
  
  "She is," I said.
  
  
  Michelle was silent for a moment.
  
  
  "And you're saying that she stripped naked in front of you?" "What is it?" she asked suddenly.
  
  
  "Strictly in the line of duty," he assured her.
  
  
  "Uh-huh!" she snorted. "I think she's an expert in a few things besides kung fu."
  
  
  Her, chuckled. "It would be interesting to know."
  
  
  "No, as long as she's around, you won't be!" Michelle snapped. "I don't like the idea of her being with us."
  
  
  "You've already told me that," I said.
  
  
  "Well, it's hers, I tell you again," she replied sullenly.
  
  
  And she told me again. When we were still eating those damn Pinha Coladas before dinner. And when we pretended to be lions at lunch. And when we were in a taxi, after lunch, going to the casino.
  
  
  "Look," I finally said. "She's coming with us, that's all. I don't want to hear about it again."
  
  
  Michelle lapsed into a sullen silence, which soon became even more sullen when we walked out of the casino and started playing in the rental car we'd retrieved. I ignored her, focusing all my attention on driving, driving, and the San Juan area until I was sure I'd lost anyone who might be following us. It was almost midnight when I parked my car a few blocks from the yacht dock, and we changed into the jumpsuits and sweaters I'd brought her in my briefcase.
  
  
  "Where will we meet this kung fu champion of yours?" asked Michelle as ee took her hand and led her through the dark, quiet streets to the yacht pool.
  
  
  "In a dirty, dark, totally unsavory slum," her father said cheerfully. "You'll love it."
  
  
  Puerto Real was a real slum. And it was dirty, dark, and completely bad. It was also a place where people went about their business and tried not to stare too hard at strangers. In other words, it was the best meeting place he could think of. He pulled back the full-length curtains that hung over the entrance and looked out into the dark, smoky interior. A long bar of cracked braid stretched across the room, and half a dozen shabby characters were drinking at it, some playing dominoes with the bartender, some just staring off into space. Across from the bar, set up against the crumbling plaster wall, a few rickety tables were occupied by a noisy dice game, a few lonely drinkers, and one drunk who was literally crying in his beer. Everything smelled of stale beer, stale cigarette smoke, and rum. Michelle grimaced in disgust as ee led her to the table.
  
  
  "This is worse than Tangier," she muttered to me. "How long should we wait for this girl?"
  
  
  "Until she shows up," I said. I was just about to go to the bar for a drink when one of the lone drinkers got up from a chair across the room and staggered toward us, carrying a bottle and several glasses. He was obviously drunk, and the emu was out of luck because of the incredibly dirty, paint-splattered coveralls, the torn wool sweater, and the wool hat half covering his face.
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  "Hey, amigos," the drunk man said, leaning over our table. I hate drinking alone."
  
  
  "Leave me alone, buddy. We're..."
  
  
  Her voice trailed off in mid-sentence. A familiar oriental eye winked at me under the cap. He pulled out a chair.
  
  
  "Qin Li," I said, " meet Michel Duroche."
  
  
  "Hello," Qin Lie said, grinning as she slid into a chair.
  
  
  "Good evening," Michelle said. And then in a sweet voice: "What a beautiful outfit you have."
  
  
  "I'm glad you liked it," Qin Lie replied. "But you should have seen the one I had last night. Carter can tell you."
  
  
  Michelle's eyes flashed dangerously. "I'm surprised he even noticed,"she snapped.
  
  
  Li Qin just smiled.
  
  
  "Confucius said," she said, again using her hockey accent, " good things come in small packages."
  
  
  "All right, ladies," I said. - Save the friendly conversation for some other time. We have a job to do, and we have to do it together."
  
  
  Li Qin immediately nodded. Michelle suppressed a look. He picked up the bottle that Li Qin had brought and poured it all into the glasses. Li Qin finished her drink in one light gulp, then sat down, looking at me, waiting. He took a sip and almost exploded.
  
  
  "Oh, my God!" Her gasped. "What is this material?"
  
  
  "New rum," Qin Lie said casually. "A little strong, isn't it?"
  
  
  "Strong!" I told her. "Everything ... All right, look. Let's get to work. We need a boat big enough for the four of us, with enough power to get to Martinique quickly, but not big enough to attract attention and require a deep dive in the water harbor."
  
  
  "Lady's day," Qin Lie said.
  
  
  He looked at Nah questioningly.
  
  
  "It's anchored about a quarter of a mile out of the harbor," she said. "Owned by an American millionaire named Hunter. He hadn't been around him for about three months. Only one person on board to take care of it, and he gets drunk in the city."
  
  
  "You've been busy," I said approvingly.
  
  
  "I'm bored sitting around doing nothing," Qin Lie said. "Anyway, I only get four hours of sleep a night, so I needed something to do, and I still like boats. This beauty, Carter, especially for what we have in mind. It's an eighty-foot brigantine. with a reinforced hull and rigging, three masts, low-lying built for durability in the open and in strong winds. It looks like nen can sleep at least four, maybe more. enter and exit the harbor, at open speed , even under sail. It's a beauty, a true dream ."
  
  
  He nodded to her.
  
  
  "That sounds good."
  
  
  "There is only one problem," Qin Lie added. "The caretaker. When he returns and finds that the boat is missing, he will definitely contact the police."
  
  
  "He won't find the boat missing," I said. "We'll be kind enough to wait for ego. When it arrives, we offer you an emu little trip. Locked in the cabin, of course."
  
  
  "Adding another person we can't trust," Michelle said irritably. Her eyes slid to Li Qin.
  
  
  "It can't be helped," I said. "And we're sitting here for nothing. Let's take a look at the Lady's Day."
  
  
  Its got up. Michelle pushed back her chair, got up, and walked across the bar without looking at Liz. We followed him. After the disgusting atmosphere of the bar, the warm Caribbean night air smelled unusually good. Boats floated around the yacht's pool, their lights flashing. It was a peaceful, pleasant scene. I was hoping it would stay that way until we "borrowed" Lady Day.
  
  
  "Look," Qin Lie said, pulling out a small pair of binoculars from under her sweater. "There."
  
  
  He took the binoculars and made an ego in the indicated direction. After some blurring and some adaptation, "Lady's Day" popped into view. He whistled softly in delight. Just like Qin Lie said, it was so beautiful. Ego's long, smooth lines were unmistakably those of an ocean boat, and a tall mast amidships meant more power under sail. From the way she was walking, I could tell that she could easily anchor in shallow water. Ego examined it a little more than he took the binoculars out of his eyes.
  
  
  "There's only one thing I don't like about this," I said.
  
  
  "What is it?" Li Qin asked, puzzled. You could tell that she fell in love with the boat at first sight. "There's a boat tied to the stern," he told her.
  
  
  "What is it?" Qin Lie said and grabbed the binoculars. She knew very well what I was driving at: if the dinghy was at the boat, the watchman must have returned by now. Li Qin studied Lady's Day for a moment, then lowered the binoculars and shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  "My cousin Hong Fat will lose a couple of chopsticks because of this," she said. "He was supposed to keep an eye on this caretaker and let me know when he was coming back. He's never let me down before."
  
  
  "It may not be the caretaker," her husband denied reports that appeared in the media. "It could be another crew member who arrived to prepare her for the journey. Or even someone with a little theft in mind. Someone who has researched the caretaker's habits as much as you have. In any case, the Lady's Day is also good for our purposes of giving up. We just need to prepare for a new guest on the trip."
  
  
  Li Qin nodded in agreement. Our eyes met. We must have both been thinking the same thing - if there was someone on the Lady's Day, we couldn't let them see us approaching the boat-because the next thing she said was just:
  
  
  "Scuba gear?"
  
  
  "Actually," I said, and turned to Michelle. "Have you ever gone scuba diving?"
  
  
  Michelle glanced at Lisa.
  
  
  "How about you?" she said.
  
  
  "I'm fine," Qin Lie replied.
  
  
  "Well, I wouldn't be so bad myself," Michelle said.
  
  
  I doubted her. If Qin Li had said that she was an experienced mountaineer, I suspect that Michelle would have claimed to have climbed Mount Everest. But I agreed to it.
  
  
  "Good," Li Qin told her. "Scuba gear for three. And a waterproof gun bag."
  
  
  "Of course," she said. "Twenty minutes."
  
  
  And she was gone, disappearing into the darkness like a moving shadow.
  
  
  "Nah has a cousin who can look after the caretaker. She can get scuba gear on request, " Michelle said irritably. "Where does she find all this stuff from?"
  
  
  "The Qin Clan," I said with a serious face, " is a very large clan."
  
  
  And our particular branch of the Qin Clan returned in less than twenty minutes. She was accompanied by a rather fat Chinese man of about nineteen, who was panting heavily as he put on his gear.
  
  
  "The tanks are full," Qin Li said. "I was only able to get one depth gauge, but we can all proceed to the ones who are carrying ego. This is my cousin Hong Fat."
  
  
  "Call me Jim," said Hong Fat. "Listen, you've never left that caretaker's side. Her self is half drunk, just because he sniffed ego breath from ten feet away. And he is sleeping with his head on a chair, sleeping like a drunk child, sincerely at this moment."
  
  
  "We'll just have to take a chance, whoever it is on Lady's Day," I said. "Let's go. We'll get dressed there, on the embankment, behind that pile of cinder blocks."
  
  
  We dragged him to the dock, where we started putting on our wetsuits. They were new and smelled like rubber. He put on his fins, then checked his mask and oxygen supply like the others. Hugo and Wilhelmina entered the waterproof bag along with the deadly little derringer that Li Qin had brought. Pierre continued to sit comfortably on the inside of my thigh under the wetsuit.
  
  
  "Wow," said Hong Fat. " The creatures around the black lagoon are attacking again."
  
  
  "Listen, cousin," Qin Li said, " go back to that bar, and keep an eye on that caretaker, or I'll take your Honda. If it starts coming back to Lady Day, give me a high."
  
  
  Hyun Fat nodded respectfully and rolled off into the darkness.
  
  
  "High?" I told her.
  
  
  "My earring," Qin Lie said curtly. "Electronic receiver. Sometimes it's convenient."
  
  
  "Without a doubt," I said dryly. I checked to see if all three of us were ready, then motioned Liz and Michelle to the edge of the embankment. It was a night of bright moonlight, but I didn't see anyone looking at us.
  
  
  "Follow me," I said. "V-shaped formation. Stay in my depth."
  
  
  They both nodded. He put a mask on his face, turned on the oxygen and went down into the water. A moment later, the three of us were gliding smoothly on our fins through the greenish-black depths of the harbor toward Lady's Day.
  
  
  
  The ninth chapter.
  
  
  Most of the Caribbean is infested with sharks, and the area around San Juan Harbor is no exception, so she was held at the ready by the gun that Li Qin introduced. A casual glance over my shoulder reminds me of Michelle. She moved easily and smoothly on the & nb, which testified to many years of familiarity with diving. Anyway, she was Li Qin's equal, and through the glass of her mask her, thought I could catch a smile of satisfaction in it. However, her father didn't look back. The harbor was crowded with boats, and we had to wade between them and sometimes under them, keeping a close eye on the line, anchors, and even the occasional night line. And, of course, sharks. The water was greenish-black and muddy from the night, but I noticed that from time to time a few tiny fish with the pointed balls of black sea urchins flew from us.
  
  
  
  
  on the sea floor, and once a bulky, surprisingly elegant and fast retreat of squid. He surfaced once, briefly, to determine the direction, then dived again and moved along the bottom. The next time it surfaced, it was to hook on the anchor of "Lady's Day". Seconds later, Michelle's target appeared inches away, then Qin Lie. We all turned off the oxygen and removed the masks from our faces, then huddled together and listened.
  
  
  We haven't had a sound since the Lady's Day.
  
  
  I put a finger to my lips for silence, then pretended to go up first, and they had to wait for the signal to go up. They both nodded in agreement. Her flippers were removed, handed to ih by Li Qin, and began to lift the anchor rope while holding a waterproof bag, swaying as the boat rocked in the waves.
  
  
  There was no one on deck. The mooring light was always on in the stern, but the cabin was dark. He climbed over the railing, pulled Wilhelmina out of the watertight bag, and sat down for a moment in silence on the deck, listening.
  
  
  However, we need sound.
  
  
  He leaned over the railing and motioned for Qin Li and Michelle to join me. Li Qin came out first, quick and agile as a snake. Michelle followed more slowly, but with surprising confidence and ease. By the time I lowered her oxygen tank and mask to the deck, two women were standing next to me, dripping, their fingers working on the seat belts.
  
  
  "Stay here," Michelle whispered to her. "Qin Li and his are going to say hello to the one in the lounge in the cabin."
  
  
  And hopefully asleep, I added mentally.
  
  
  Michelle shook her head violently.
  
  
  "I'm going with..."
  
  
  He grabbed her face with both hands and stared at her intently.
  
  
  "We've been through this before," I whispered to her through gritted teeth. "I said stay here."
  
  
  For a moment, she looked defiantly at Rheumatism. Then her eyes dropped and she nodded almost imperceptibly. He released her face, nodded to Qin Lie, and crawled silently across the deck. On the day of her cabin, he stopped and sat motionless, listening.
  
  
  Nothing. We don't even snore. Even heavy breathing.
  
  
  Li Qin raised her eyebrows questioningly. He nodded to her. She snuggled up to one side of day as her hand gently touched the doorknob.
  
  
  It turned out to be.
  
  
  Slowly, the door opened a crack. In the moonlight that filtered through the portholes, she could see two bunks, cupboards for food and clothing, a chair and a bench.
  
  
  The bunks and bench were empty. The bunks were neatly made.
  
  
  There was no sign of any human presence.
  
  
  He signaled to Li Chin again and carefully, silently slipped through the gap into the day, spinning to avoid anyone who might be on top of it.
  
  
  One for us. Nobody.
  
  
  Behind me, Li Qin pushed open the door to the galley.
  
  
  Empty.
  
  
  And there was no place to hide in the cabin or galley. He stood for a moment, thinking. A lifeboat meant someone was on board. If not in the cabin or galley, then where? Odin's hatch was tightly closed.
  
  
  The same thing was bound to happen to both of us at the same time, because Qin Lie suddenly grabbed my arm and pointed to the bunks. Then she held up two fingers and raised her eyebrows questioningly.
  
  
  She was right. It was too big a boat for two people. He let his eyes drift slowly over every inch of the cabin wall.
  
  
  They stopped at a panel at the far end, behind the galley.
  
  
  After motioning for Lee Jin to cover me from behind, he silently walked over to the panel and began to feel her body. If they were hiding a tricky lock or spring, they were hiding it well. It was carefully pressed down by the stucco ornament around the panel, carefully moving up on one side, up and down on the other side. I had just started working on the lower molding when I heard a creak behind me. He turned and swore under his breath.
  
  
  It wasn't him who worked on it. The panel in which I was supposed to work was on the wall through which we entered the cabin. This panel moved back.
  
  
  And behind him was a tall, thin black man. Nen was wearing a pair of floral pajamas. He was pointing a shotgun. On me.
  
  
  Ego's lips were smiling. Ego eyes were not.
  
  
  "Oh, my God," he gently shook his head. "You guys are silent. I didn't even know what I had at home."
  
  
  Her eyes flickered to Lisa. She was sitting too far away from the shotgun to grab it before it could fire at anyone around us to reach it. And her little derringer was nowhere to be seen. She saw that I was looking at nah and shrugged her shoulders as if in regret.
  
  
  "I'm sorry, Carter," she said ... You know, tailor take it, the truth is that I forgot to take ego
  
  
  
  
  around the bag ."
  
  
  "Great," I said grimly.
  
  
  "Forgot to take out the ego around the bag?" The black man said with feigned surprise. "Forgot to take out what's around the bag? He shook his head again. "You guys are puzzling me.
  
  
  Ego's left hand - the one that didn't have a gun in it - dropped to the table next to him in the stunt crew cabin. He popped something into his mouth and chewed slowly, never taking his eyes off us, just for a second.
  
  
  "Now I'm waiting for her visitors, being friendly. And I really appreciate you entertaining me a little, since I felt a little lonely firing my caretaker for being more devoted to wine than Lady Day. Ego's left hand came down again and put something in the emu's mouth again. It looked suspiciously like a piece of chocolate. "But being mostly a curious cat, she would certainly be interested, I know the purpose of your visit. I mean, would you mind telling me what exactly is going on here? "
  
  
  He glanced at Lisa and shook his head slightly. We were both silent.
  
  
  The man shook his head again. The other chocolate - that was definitely what it was-was being eaten by strong-looking teeth.
  
  
  "Well, I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "I truly believe. Because that means I'll have to make a little visit to the shore, you know? I'll have to talk to the local police for a bit."
  
  
  Her still hadn't said anything. He walked slowly into the cabin where we were standing. He motioned for Lee Jin to retreat even further.
  
  
  "Minor thoughts?" he asked. "Do I hear any other thoughts?"
  
  
  If he could hear my thoughts, he wouldn't be talking to us. He was trying to deal with Michelle, who was already walking down the steps to the cabin on cat legs, Lee's derringer pointed bluntly at the back of the black man's head.
  
  
  "What a pity," he said. "It's really ..."
  
  
  "Don't move!" Michelle said sharply. She slammed the muzzle of the derringer hard into the man's skull. He froze. "Drop the shotgun!"
  
  
  He didn't move an inch. Even the ego's eyeballs didn't move. But neither did ego hands loosen the tricks on the shotgun.
  
  
  "Well, now," he said slowly. "I don't believe I'll do it. I'm kind of attached to that gun, you might say. And my thumb, as if firmly held on the trigger, you can say. If gawking had gone through my head, that finger would have reflexively squeezed the trigger, and your two friends would have ended up decorating the wall."
  
  
  We all froze in silence, pictures of guns, tension, and beating hearts.
  
  
  Suddenly, with incredible speed for someone so tall and lanky, the man fell and spun around. The butt of the gun hit Michelle in the life. She crumpled and gasped. The derringer fell, and in half a second the black man was holding ego in his left hand. But Qin Lie was already on the move. Her right arm shot forward, and her entire body slid forward. The gun flew out of the black man's hands and landed on the bulkhead. A few seconds later, it was in my hands, pointing straight at him.
  
  
  But the derringer, now in ego's hand, was pressed against Michelle's neck, pointing up at her skull. And he held Michelle's body between him and me - and the shotgun and Wilhelmina.
  
  
  He chuckled.
  
  
  "I believe this is a Mexican standoff. Or what about the African-American standoff in this case. Or, not to neglect the little lady, the Sino-American standoff?"
  
  
  He was right. He could hold us still, using Michelle's body as a shield as long as he could stand. But he was also immobilized. To use the ship - to-shore radio, emu would have to free Michelle, which he couldn't do without telling us about nen.
  
  
  I wasn't going to risk Michelle ripping her skull off.
  
  
  And I couldn't risk calling the San Juan police.
  
  
  And it was supposedly not intended that I would shoot innocent American yacht owners.
  
  
  Her decision was made.
  
  
  "Let's talk," I said grimly.
  
  
  "Great, man," he said. The derringer didn't budge an inch.
  
  
  "I understand you're Hunter, the owner of this boat," I said.
  
  
  "It's hers," he said. "Robert F. Hunter. By Robert F. Hunter Enterprises. But my friends call me Sweets. Because I'm a little addicted to sweets."
  
  
  "All right, Hunter," he said slowly and unhurriedly. "I'm going to agree with you because we need your cooperation. My name is Nick Carter, and I work for an agency of the United States Government."
  
  
  The sharp eyes twinkled slightly.
  
  
  "You wouldn't be setting me up now, would you?" drawled Hunter. "Because I don't think Mr. Hawke would bet on anyone impersonating person number one." "Now you won't
  
  
  
  
  
  This time my eyes twinkled.
  
  
  "Tell me about the Hawk." I demanded.
  
  
  "Well, you know, buddy, I have a small import-export business. Along with a small real estate business, a small advertising business, and a couple other businesses. They're doing pretty well. I guess you could say I'm kind of a millionaire, which I think is pretty cool. But I haven't forgotten that it was the good old US A. With all the ego flaws. gave me the opportunity to bake my own bread.So when old Mr. Hawk contacted me a few years ago and asked me to use the services of my export-import office in Ghana to provide emu and OTHERS with a few services, he didn't mind at all. She didn't even mind when Mr. Nick Carter, Hawke's agent, who originally told me they were going to start working, was recalled due to an emergency, somewhere in Southeast Asia, and a second-level person was sent there."
  
  
  I remembered her job. Ghana was important. Southeast Asia was more important. I've never been to Ghana. MacDonald, N5, was sent in my place.
  
  
  "All right," I said. "You know who I am. Now let me tell you what I need."
  
  
  Suddenly, Michelle, who had been sitting there, her eyes glazed, and paralyzed with terror, as well as Hunter's grip, spoke up.
  
  
  "Please, please... the gun..."
  
  
  Hunter glanced at nah and lightly removed the derringer from her head.
  
  
  "Before you tell me what you need," he told me, " how about you let me take a look at a little identification."
  
  
  She was silently stripped of her wetsuit and the emu showed her the tattoo on the inside of her arm. He looked at nah carefully. Then he broke into a broad grin. Derringer was tossed carelessly onto the bunk. Michelle fell to the floor, and I heard a deep sigh of relief.
  
  
  "Killmaster," the Hunter said cruelly, " this is a real treat. A candy hunter and a lady's Day are at your disposal."
  
  
  "Thank you," I said shortly. "Meet my comrades, Li Chin, a Qin Clan troubleshooting specialist with worldwide interests, and Michelle Duroche, daughter of French scientist Fernand Duroche."
  
  
  "This is a pleasure, ladies," Hunter said, bowing to each of them, then put on a pair of pajamas and got out with a small box, which he handed triumphantly. "Try some chocolate. With orange flavor. Made to my order in Perugia, Italy."
  
  
  Michelle just shook her head. Li Qin pulled out a chocolate bar around the box and popped it into her mouth.
  
  
  "Hey," she said. "Not bad."
  
  
  "Let me suggest you guys freshen up a bit," Hunter said as he walked toward the galley. "I have a full soda fountain here. How about a nice ice cream soda or hot fudge ice cream?"
  
  
  Michelle and I shook our heads.
  
  
  "I'll have a soda," Qin Lie said. "Raspberries, if you have any, Hunter."
  
  
  "Call me Candy," he said. "One fresh raspberry soda will do."
  
  
  Sweets was busy with a soda fountain. He glanced at Michelle. She looked shocked, but gradually the color returned to her face. Li Qin, as I expected, didn't move.
  
  
  "Hey, dude," Sweets said, " you don't have to give me more information than you want, but I could probably be a little more helpful if I was a little more knowledgeable in terms of data, that is . "
  
  
  Its already decided on this. My gut - and if an agent can't just make snap decisions based on his gut, he's a dead agent-told me Hunter was right.
  
  
  "Consider yourself a team member," I said. "And since we have no time to waste, this is history."
  
  
  He gave em that, omitting the details he wasn't supposed to know, while Lee Jin sipped her soda contentedly and Sweets single-handedly dug through a truly awful-looking banana spread.
  
  
  "Because the voice is everything," she finished. "We need your boat for a quick trip to Martinique."
  
  
  "You got this," Sweets said quickly, licking the chocolate syrup off one finger. "When are we leaving?"
  
  
  "Now," I said. "How many people in the team are needed for the "Lady's Day"?
  
  
  "Mmm," Sweets said, " has anyone around you ever worked on a team?"
  
  
  "I can handle it," I said.
  
  
  "I played around a bit at the Hong Kong Yacht Club," Li Qin said casually, probably meaning that she was the captain of the regatta winner.
  
  
  "I grew up spending summers on my father's boat on Lake Lucerne," Michelle said immediately.
  
  
  "Well, the Caribbean isn't exactly Lake Lucerne," Sweets said, " but I think the four of us can handle it fine."
  
  
  "Maps?" Li Qin asked as she finished her soda.
  
  
  "In the other cabin," Sweets said. "In the other cabin," Sweets said. He reached into the drawer. "Anyone want a soda mint later?
  
  
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head.
  
  
  "Qin Li, plot a course to the north side of the island, somewhere on the coast in Saint-Pierre," I said. Then to Sweets: "How quiet is your engine?"
  
  
  He grinned and stood up.
  
  
  "Chill out, man," he said. "Even the fish won't know we're going. We'll be off down this harbor before you can say boo." Now, let me bring you some combenizons. These wetsuits aren't too good for water."
  
  
  In less than half an hour we were out of San Juan Harbor and heading south, now under sail and with the engine off, for Martinique.
  
  
  Towards the volcano.
  
  
  
  The tenth chapter
  
  
  From San Juan Harbor to Martinique is about 400 nautical miles. By morning, we were more than forty miles behind us, skirting the west coast of Puerto Rico and entering the open Caribbean Sea. According to Li Qin's calculations, it will take another twenty-four hours before we anchor somewhere north of Saint-Pierre. This meant that we would only have two days to prevent the SLA from destroying the Curacao refinery. It will be difficult. I spent most of my time going through every detail of the available information in my head and developing a detailed plan.
  
  
  The rest of the time, Michelle and I shared the back cabin. There were two bunks, but we only needed one. We have found a good application for this. When it comes to such things, I myself have quite a lot of imagination, but Michelle showed what I have to admit was a creative genius. By the time the first eighteen hours on board were up, he was almost as familiar with and admired every curve of Michelle's body as he was with Wilhelmina's work. Just a lick, and by the end of the day I'd managed to get out of her still-coveted arms, take a shower, and put on the coveralls Sweets had loaned us.
  
  
  "Where are you going?" Michelle asked, stirring voluptuously in the bed.
  
  
  "On deck," I said. "I want to talk to Sweets and Li Qin. And her, I want you to be there too."
  
  
  "Don't worry. I wouldn't think of letting you out of my sight right now," Michelle said, immediately climbing out around the trash and reaching for a pair of jumpsuits and a T - shirt that made her look even less dressed when put on than when she was naked.
  
  
  Her, grinned at the rheumatism and started up the stairs to the deck.
  
  
  "Hello there!"I heard her. Then pounding sounds, grunts, and more "Hi!"sounds.
  
  
  In the stern, under the mainsail, Li Qin and Sweets were doing something like a makeshift marine dojo. Sweets was stripped to the waist, his black skin glistening with sweat in the bright Caribbean sunlight. Li Qin was wearing a suit that her master might not have approved of: a bikini that was so tight that it looked like it was made from a rope. But what was interesting was that Lin's skill in kung fu was pitted against Sweets ' apparently equal skill in karate. Karate is angular, sharp, and uses concentrated bursts of force. Kung fu is linear so that the opponent can't know where you're from. He watched in awe as Qin Lie and Sweets fought, maneuvered, and outnumbered each other to a complete stop. Surrounding the two of them gave Li Chin a slight advantage. But only slightly. However, I decided that Sweets Hunter would be a valuable member of the team both on land and at sea.
  
  
  "Hello, Carter," Qin Li said after she and Sweets bowed solemnly to each other. "Get some air?"
  
  
  "Using the airwaves and conferences," I said. "And that includes you. Sweets".
  
  
  "Sure, mate," Sweets said, wiping his chest with a large towel. "Just let me check the autopilot."
  
  
  A few minutes later, we were all gathered on the manhole cover, bent over a map of Martinique that Li Qin found in a well-equipped map chest. He pointed her out to the coastal town of Saint-Pierre.
  
  
  "It's just a sleepy fishing village now," he told the three of them. "Sparsely populated. Nothing happens. But behind it, a few miles away, in the hall is our Mont Pelet volcano."
  
  
  "Too close for comfort if it was active," Sweets remarked as he unwrapped a chocolate caramel.
  
  
  He nodded to her.
  
  
  For example, at the turn of the century, it was active. At this time, Saint-Pierre was not just a sleepy village. It was the largest city on the island. And one of the busiest and most modern cities in the Caribbean by the pool. In fact, they called ego the Paris of the West Indies. Then Mont Pelet exploded. Saint-Pierre was completely destroyed. More than forty thousand people were killed - the entire population of the city, except for one convict who is in an underground prison. Even today, you can see the ruins of buildings flooded with lava.
  
  
  "But it's quiet now, isn't it?" said Michelle.
  
  
  "Probably quiet, probably just inactive," I said. "Sleeping. It might explode again, given the circumstances.
  
  
  
  
  You never know what happens to volcanoes. The thing is, if you're going to produce and store explosive devices, the Mont Pelet crater, which is huge, would be a good place to do it. Because anyone who thinks of attacking you will hesitate for fear of triggering a volcano."
  
  
  "And if these explosive devices were loaded onto boats, a small sleepy fishing village like Saint-Pierre would be a nice, unobtrusive place to do it," Qin Li remarked.
  
  
  "All right," I said. "So, we will be looking for signs of unusual activity, both inside and around the volcano, as well as on Saint-Pierre. After we find a place to drop anchor where we won't be seen, we'll split up into teams of two. Michel and I will introduce ourselves as tourists and explore Mont Pelet. Li Qin, you and Sweets can pretend to be natives. Do you really speak French? "
  
  
  "Not very well," Qin Lie said. "I speak French quite fluently, but my accent is Southeast Asia. It is better to stick to Spanish and say that I am an emigrant from Cuba. There are a lot of Chinese people there."
  
  
  "And a lot of Negroes," Sweets said, unwrapping another caramel. "We could come to Martinique as plantation workers. I have a great ending for "little machete" somewhere.
  
  
  "All right," I said. "Then you two go inside Saint-Pierre."
  
  
  "What do we do if we find something?" asked Michelle.
  
  
  "There is a restaurant in the capital. Fort de France, which is called La Reine de la Caribe. We will meet there and join forces for action at the end of the day."
  
  
  Sweets looked a little worried.
  
  
  "What kind of restaurant, man?" he asked. "I'm a little picky about my ed."
  
  
  "Martinique has the best eda in the Caribbean," Michelle said. "What else can you expect from a French island?"
  
  
  "Good desserts?" He demanded Candy.
  
  
  "The best," Michelle replied with a distinct tinge of chauvinism.
  
  
  "I do not know about it," Qin Lie said as she stood up and assumed impossible poses. "From what I've heard about French cuisine, you'll be hungry again in half an hour after you've finished eating."
  
  
  Michelle gave Nah a sharp look, started to say something, then, obviously realizing the irony of Li Qin's remark, pursed her lips and turned away.
  
  
  "Look," I said sharply, " the two of you will work together in this team, so you will cooperate, and not be hostile to each other, whether you like it or not. I'm not going to say it again. Now, let's eat and then get some sleep. I'll take her to the first guard."
  
  
  "And hers," said Michelle, cautiously, not looking at Lily, " I'll cook. For the good of all of us."
  
  
  Michelle's Eda was good. Better than good. Even Qin Lie agreed with this. But I don't think anyone around us slept better than restlessly when we were off duty. When dawn broke, the four of us stood at the railing, looking out at the rocky, mountainous, but lush green profile of Martinique outlined against the eastern sky. Near the northern tip of the island, Mont Pelet rose steeply and ominously to the wide, blunt rim of its crater.
  
  
  "An unpleasant type of ant hill, isn't it," Sweets remarked as he handed the wheel to Li Qin.
  
  
  "Not as bad as what might be inside," I said. "Do you have any firepower that you can carry?"
  
  
  Sweet grinned. He pulled a chocolate-covered cherry wrapped in foil around his shirt pocket, unwrapped it, and popped the whole thing into his mouth.
  
  
  "Would you like to take a look at the arsenal?" he asked .
  
  
  Half an hour later, we came on deck, just as Lee Chin anchored in an isolated bay, hidden by a long spit and surrounded by dense jungle vegetation that would have completely obscured the lady's Day from the surface roads. From an impressive weapons crate, Sweets selected a 50-millimeter Lindner Hotel located, a razor-sharp gravity knife that he kept tucked into a belt at the small of his back, and fifteen powerful mini-grenades disguised as beads that he wore around his neck. With ego's torn pants, flapping shirt, and battered straw hat, and the worn but sharp machete he wore on leather straps, no one would accept ego nam o anything but a sugar plantation worker. In the casual but expensive sports shirts and trousers that he had arranged for Michelle and me, we would have been accepted by well-to-do tourists. Wearing overalls, a worn-out T-shirt, a straw hat, a breakfast basket, and a rather modest appearance, Lee Jin looked like a dutiful wife who was just carrying her working husband's lunch.
  
  
  Sweets came up with something else: a two-stroke Honda mini bike that was barely enough for two people. In silence, everyone around us thinking their own thoughts, we tossed her over the side and into the boat. Still in silence, hearing the hoarse screeching of jungle birds all around us, and feeling the smell of the morning sun.
  
  
  
  
  To warm up to the scorching impact at noon, we rowed to the shore. The jungle grew like an impenetrable wall in front of us, but after we had safely tied the boat to a plantation tree and hauled the Honda ashore, Sweets unsheathed his machete and set to work. We followed him slowly as he cleared a path for us. Almost half an hour later, we were standing at the edge of a clearing. Across the field, a few thousand yards away, a smooth-paved road wound toward Saint-Pierre to the south, and Mont Pelet to the northeast.
  
  
  "Look," Michelle said. "Do you see these gullies hundreds of feet wide coming out of the crater of the volcano to the south, where nothing grows? These were lava trails leading to Saint-Pierre."
  
  
  It was an amazing sight. And the type it conjured up was even more terrifying - thousands of tons of rock were blown into the sky, red-hot rivers of lava ate everything in their path, a sudden shower of volcanic ash reduced people and animals to fossils as they stood. But I didn't really have time to play the tourist.
  
  
  "Save your sightseeing for later," I said. "This is where we split up. Michelle and I will take the Honda to explore the crater of the volcano and the approaches to it. Chris, you and Li Qin will have to take a walk in Saint-Pierre. But it's a small island , and you're only a couple of miles away."
  
  
  "Great," Sweets said easily. "I could still use this exercise."
  
  
  "I can always carry him if he gets tired," Qin Lie said.
  
  
  Sweets grinned as he adjusted his Walther and grav boat.
  
  
  Michel signaled to him, grabbed the Honda by the steering wheel, and began to drive it across the field.
  
  
  "Rendezvous tonight at seven, Reine de la Caribe, near the main square of Fort-de-France," he called over her shoulder.
  
  
  Sweets and Li Qin nodded, waved, and headed in the opposite direction. A few minutes later, Michelle was sitting behind me in the Honda, and we were driving slowly as we approached Mont Pelet crater.
  
  
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  
  Seven hours later, we learned two facts. It was a seven-hour drive on dusty dirt roads in bright sunlight, sweat soaking our bodies, dust clogging our mouths, and the sun blinding our eyes. Seven hours of arguments with the police, deliberately false instructions from field workers, sullen denials of information from the city authorities. Seven hours of walking through thickets and volcanic fields, and then lying on my stomach in the same rock fields, trying to see what was happening a few hundred yards away.
  
  
  It was all worth it.
  
  
  As we learned, the volcano's crater was closed to public access. Two officially designated trails from the base to the crater, recommended to tourists for a pleasant two-hour hike, were blocked by high wooden barriers. Each barrier had a gate, behind which stood a uniformed guard who politely but firmly denied access, I say that the paths to the crater were "closed for repairs".
  
  
  The other two paths to the crater were also closed to the public. And they weren't trails. They were well-paved roads, apparently built in the last six months or so. They were on the eastern side of the volcano and were well hidden from the public roads around the base of the volcano, connected to these roads by dirt roads, each of which was closed off by heavy wooden gates-again, with uniformed guards.
  
  
  If you take a long walk, groping your way through the jungle around the base of the volcano, then through the bushes and volcanic rocks, you can see what was moving along these roads to the crater.
  
  
  Trucks. At least once every fifteen minutes. Heavy tented trucks with lifting gates. Empty ones. They were coming from the south, on the Atlantic side of the island, and they were coming fast. They came out through the crater, heading back south, heavy, slow, low.
  
  
  Two guards could be seen at the back of each truck. They were dressed in full combat uniforms, and they had automatic weapons.
  
  
  "Can I explain it to you?" Sweets and Liam asked her, telling them the whole story that night.
  
  
  "You don't have to explain it to this dude," Sweets said. "Letters-OAS, height to Paris. And in the Paris-wide paramilitary operation. And just as obvious."
  
  
  "This is one of the reasons why they made Martinique their base of operations," Qin Li said. "They have friends here in the French administration who are willing to turn a blind eye to all this."
  
  
  "In addition," Michelle added, " this is definitely the perfect place to attack the Curacao oil refinery."
  
  
  His father nodded in agreement and took another sip of his drink.
  
  
  
  We sat at a table in the Reine de la Caribe restaurant and drank local rum punch in tall frosty glasses. It was good, and I was hoping that the lobster lobster-the Caribbean version we ordered for later-would be just as good. And satisfying. I had a feeling that we were going to need a lot of energy reserves in the next twenty-four hours. Sweets and Li Qin, who had managed to pick up more respectable clothes from the market, looked as tired as Michelle and her.
  
  
  "Well," Sweets said, adding two more spoonfuls of sugar to his punch, " you've had a busy day, Carter. But her and my friend here, the Afro-Asian Alliance, as you might call it, have managed to dig out a little bit of what's going on inside of us."
  
  
  "Such as?" I demanded.
  
  
  "For example, St. Pierre is deadlier than East Peoria on a Sunday night in February after snowstorms," Qin Li said. "Fish, fish, and more fish. And fishermen. Fishing. Vote and that's it."
  
  
  "Now we don't have anything against fish," Sweets said. "Actually, we had a very delicious lunch with sweet and sour sauce, but..."
  
  
  "He means sweet and sweet," Li Qin said. "For the first time, her ale dessert as a main course. And some mackerel."
  
  
  "Anyway," Sweets continued with a smile , " we decided that, like you said, it was a small island, so we played this game of one around these routes, these public gatherings, and gave us a little tour of the island to the south seashore."
  
  
  "Mde," ego Li Qin interrupted, causing the ih two to strongly resemble the actions of Matt and Jeff, " we found a solution. If you want action, try Lorraine and Marigot."
  
  
  "Fishing villages on the south coast," I said.
  
  
  "Where the damned fishing takes place," Sweets said, scooping up sugar from the bottom of his drained glass. "Never in my life have I seen so many fishing boats, big and small, sitting idle and not fishing in good fishing weather. And the trucks that come to the harbor to take them some equipment, when it seems to me that many people around them have it, they don't even have engines."
  
  
  "Yachts?" I asked her.
  
  
  "Yachts, speedboats, sloops, brigantines, yachts-everything from a boat to a schooner," Qin Li said.
  
  
  We all sat in silence for a while. The waiter came over and put down baskets of bread and rolls. Outside in the main square, I could hear music and laughter, and the shouts of local voices. Crowds. It had started a while ago and had been growing imperceptibly while we were sitting over drinks. He saw her as Sweets darted to the window.
  
  
  "What's going on over there?" He asked the waiter lazily. To my surprise, he didn't speak French or English, but a fluent Creole native to the French Antilles.
  
  
  "Carnival, monsieur," the waiter said, smiling broadly. "This is Mardi Go, the last day of the holiday before Lent. We have parades, costumes, dances. There's a lot of fun here."
  
  
  "That sounds like fun," Sweets said. "It's a pity that we ..."
  
  
  "There's nothing funny for me with my dad where he's in the gym," Michelle interjected sharply. She turned to me. "Nick, what are we going to do?"
  
  
  He took a sip of his drink. The crowd noise was getting louder, licking. It could be heard by the fluid swaying of a steel drum band, probably imported from Trinidad, and the catchy rhythm of the local Martinique Beguine played on French horns.
  
  
  "No weapons, obviously," I said slowly. "The SLA has a kind of headquarters in Mont Pelet crater. It would be easy to carve out a network of tunnels and walk through the volcanic rock - if you didn't take into account the risk of a volcano exploding again. And I think the SLA is ready to take advantage of even such a chance by making a deal with them."
  
  
  "And you think my father is being held there?" Michelle asked anxiously.
  
  
  He nodded to her.
  
  
  "I think that whatever underwater explosive devices our SLA produces, it is produced there. The ego is then trucked to two ports to load the boat."
  
  
  "Small boats?" Sweets said with slight disbelief. "Tiny boats? Ordinary fishing boats?"
  
  
  "That's what I don't understand yet," I said. I discovered that I needed to speak louder so that I could be heard over the street sounds of the carnival. The parade must be right next to the restaurant right now. "How can you launch an underwater device with an underwater engine from a small boat? And if it isn't powered, how can even an innocent-looking fishing boat get inside the safety row set up at sea, which will by now be installed around Curacao. an oil refinery? But we know that the SLA is loading something onto these boats, and we have to assume that these are explosive devices. Which brings us to our problem ."
  
  
  Suddenly, a hoarse horn sounded outside the window. She caught a glimpse of grinning, shouting, singing faces passing mimmo holding some kind of banner.
  
  
  
  
  "The problem," I continued, " is that if we pull in the fishing boats and we can get the explosive devices out of the assembly line, the headquarters inside the volcano will be warned about the evacuation in a timely manner. Even if not all the equipment, at least the staff needed to build the ego again at a different time and place. And that includes Michelle's father, who is the key to the whole operation."
  
  
  The noise outside rose to a roar. The streets on the other side of the window were packed. I saw a flash of color, and then another. Huge papier-mache masks with birds, fish, strange creatures around Caribbean legends, caricatures of people, all bright, colorful and with exaggerated characteristics, marched mimmo, swaying around from side to side. Some of the figures were life-size, and the people inside them were completely hidden from view. And when they weren't marching, they danced to the insinuating rhythm of the beguine.
  
  
  "On the other hand,"I continued, leaning over the chair so that I could be heard by the others," if we pull the volcano first, HQ will be able to give the boats the order to leave." harbors, these fishing boats will be lost among tens of thousands of others in the Caribbean. With explosive devices already on board ."
  
  
  "And she'd be given a pretty good guess," Qin Li said,"that so close to the countdown of the Curacao attacks, they're probably already armed."
  
  
  "We have to assume that it is," I agreed. "So there's only one thing left for us to do. It's not a big chance, but it's our only chance."
  
  
  Outside, the music was even louder. One of the windows around the entrance door was broken. I heard the waiter curse in exasperation and rush to the front door. He threw it open and began to object to the parade participants. Laughter and shouts rang out from the street.
  
  
  "If I dig you right, buddy," Sweets said slowly, " we'll have to attack the boats and the volcano at the same time."
  
  
  "Impossible!" hissed Michelle.
  
  
  "Amazing," I said dryly, " but not impossible. And, as I just said, it's our only chance. Sweets and Li Qin will manage the boats. Michel, you and I are having a little visit to Mont Pelay."
  
  
  The day suddenly flashed with color. Odin Po Paraders, his entire body covered in a bright green-red fish suit, had pushed the waiter away and was now standing in the doorway. He waved a driftwood-covered hand at his friends on the street, calling out to ih, despite the protests of an outraged waiter.
  
  
  "Hey, buddy," Sweets said. "I have another little idea. Why not ..."
  
  
  "Look out!" Qin Lie said. "They're coming! Wow! What a crazy scene!"
  
  
  Paraders suddenly covered the waiter like a tidal activity, with green and red fish in ih heads. There were giant parrots, sharks with snarling mouths and gleaming teeth, a giant jet-black grotesque half-human / half-bird figure around a Caribbean voodoo legend, a bright pink pig with a huge snout, and what appeared to be dozens of shiny fish heads covered in foil. Now they were dancing wildly around the restaurant, shouting, swaying from side to side. Where the room had been quiet and peaceful before, it was now a mess of people, movements, and hoarse noise.
  
  
  "You know something. "Carter," Li Qin told me as the dancers approached our table, " this can be a lot of fun. And maybe that's all. But for some reason, I don't like it. "
  
  
  Hers, too. And I couldn't say why, and neither could Li Qin. It is this sixth sense that warns any good agent of danger where nothing else can. Her hotel is to immediately lead the four of us through this room away from the crowd. But that was impossible. Papier-mache figures now surrounded our chair, dancing madly around us to the music from the banner.
  
  
  "Dancez!" they began to cry. "Danseuse!"
  
  
  Suddenly, hands were extended and Qin Li and Michelle got to their feet as voices encouraged ih to join the dance. Her, saw Li Qin start twisting his arm and adjusting his alenka in an instinctive kung fu reaction, then like lightning, Sweets ' hand flew out to hold her down.
  
  
  "Cool ih!" he commanded. "These people are gentle, polite and friendly by nature, but ih insults hospitality - including an invitation to dance - and can get ugly!"
  
  
  Michelle, still resisting the hands that were reaching for her, pulled on it, and gave me a startled look.
  
  
  "Candy is the right thing to do." I told her. "Well, the legs are bigger than us, and the last thing we want is a fight involving the police."
  
  
  A moment later, the two women got to their feet and began to jog.
  
  
  
  "Stick with Li Qin," Sweets said. "Don't let her out of your sight. Michelle will take it."
  
  
  We both jumped to our feet and squeezed into the crowd, which was very quickly carrying two women off a chair. He slid between the two fish around the foil and elbowed the black, white, and red rooster away, flapping his wings wildly to the beat of the music, so that it would approach Michelle. The pink pig circled her in dizzying circles, its huge muzzle brushing her face.
  
  
  "Bouvez!" a voice suddenly shouted. Drink! The scream echoed through the room. "Bouvez! Bouvez!"
  
  
  Resolutely trying to stay close to Michelle, I saw money being thrown on the counter and bottles being grabbed. Ihs were tossed in the air across the room, the corks were pulled out, and hands were exchanged.
  
  
  "Bouvez!" a voice shouted in my ear, half deafening me. "Voici! Buvez!"
  
  
  Before I knew it, a bottle was shoved into my hand and pressed to my mouth. To end it, I brought her ego to my lips and took a quick sip. It was pure new rum from the cane fields, rich and sweet, and it burned my throat like sulfuric acid. Resisting the urge to shut my mouth, I managed to grin and pass the bottle of ee to its owner, a silver-gray gull with a long pointed hook for a beak. He put the ego back in my hands. Ego lifted it to his mouth, pretended to take another sip, and handed it to the eager hands of a grinning, toothy shark.
  
  
  Then hers, glanced back in Michelle's direction, and she left.
  
  
  He pushed furiously through the crowd, using his shoulders and elbows to force his way through the nightmarish array of animal, bird, and fish figures.
  
  
  "Michelle!" called her. "Michelle! Answer me!"
  
  
  "The voice!" He heard her faint voice. "Here!"
  
  
  Suddenly, ee saw her. She sat for a day, this time in the arms of a giant rooster. He dragged her out the door. Then, just as suddenly, I felt myself being pushed toward her. All directions of the crowd changed. Just as they burst into the restaurant like a tidal wave of outdoor activity, now they are being swept away again. I let myself be carried among the jostling bodies, smelling the thick smell of blood, my ears drowned out by hoarse screams, shouts of laughter, and the roar of brass horns. Ahead of him, he could see Michelle's long black hair as she was rocked back and forth by her partner, either an animal, bird, or fish.
  
  
  "Bouvez!" a voice shouted in my ear. "Bouvez!"
  
  
  This time it was the bottle that was pushed aside. We were outside now, and I couldn't risk losing sight of Michel, not even for a moment. Candy and Lemon were nowhere to be seen.
  
  
  A sudden volley of explosions reverberated through the music. Her body tensed. Then the sky lit up with flashes and streaks of light. Red, white, green, blue - fountains of the world, waterfalls color. Firework. In special cases. They blinded me for a moment. Then my vision cleared and alarm bells rang throughout my entire body.
  
  
  The crowd split up. Most of it was open, but the branch turned the corner into an alley. And Michelle was part of that offshoot.
  
  
  Hers made its way through the crowd like a bull in the tall grass. When he turned the corner, he found himself on a narrow street that was no better than an alley. Michelle was in the center of the group at the end, and as he watched, cursing her, he saw her being carried off to another corner. Her elbows and shoulders pushed through the crowd of revelers, many of whom were drinking around bottles? smashing bottles on the cobblestones. As its shell expanded, the street grew darker and narrower, until finally the only source of light was the earth-shattering explosions high up in the sky. They cast eerie shadows on the stucco walls of the buildings, on the wrought-iron bars of the windows. He reached the corner and turned, but found himself in another dark alley-like street.
  
  
  Shocked her, realized that it was empty.
  
  
  There was no sign of Michelle.
  
  
  Then suddenly it was no longer empty. There was a stream of bodies, strange masks, and it was surrounded by a circle of fish attack skill value around the foil.
  
  
  A moment of absolute silence suddenly ended with a wheel of sparks exploding into the sky overhead.
  
  
  In the hands of the figures around me, I could see the dull gleam of machete blades, sharpened to a razor's edge.
  
  
  "Ah, monsieur," said one of the characters, " it looks like a fish has caught a fisherman."
  
  
  "The fish," he told her slowly and urgently, " can be eaten for dinner if it doesn't stand apart from the fisherman."
  
  
  "The fish," she growled, " is about to gut the fisherman."
  
  
  The machete blade flashed in ego's hand, and ego's hand swung forward. But it was slower than my hand with Wilhelmina in it. The crack of a bullet echoed through the alley almost immediately after he moved, and he fell, blood gushing through the hole in his foil-wrapped chest and oozing out of the rta.
  
  
  
  The two men behind him moved to either side of me. The second gawk from Wilhelmina hit the one on my left, the ego of life, and he screamed in pain and horror as my right foot kicked the other's groin, causing the ego to instantly fall into fetal position.
  
  
  He barely had time to turn around to see, in the grotesque light of the Roman candle exploding overhead, the bright gleam of a machete blade hissing in the air. I turned and stepped out of the way, and it clattered harmlessly on the cobblestones behind me. Wilhelmina spat again, and another fish figure fell, its skull instantly transformed into an eruption of red blood, gray brain matter, and white bone fragments.
  
  
  But my actions revealed something else. At the other end of the alley, another group of fish figures was slowly approaching me. I was being attacked from both sides, and all escape routes were blocked.
  
  
  In addition, she suddenly became aware of another Roman candle exploding in the sky and lighting up the alley in one direction. Up.
  
  
  Three fish figures were separating themselves from the crowd in front of me, cautiously approaching me, placed as far apart as the alley would allow. Glancing over my shoulder, I realized that the three figures behind me were doing the same. They moved slowly, with a certain rhythm, as if they were performing some deadly ritual dance. Around the crowd behind them, a droning chant rang out. He had a deep, blood-curdling tone of murder.
  
  
  "Tuez... Tuez... Tuez... Tuez..."
  
  
  To kill... To kill... To kill... To kill...
  
  
  He was waiting for her, moving forward and slightly to the side, assessing her progress. They were close enough now that I could see the eyes glittering behind the fish heads around the foil. Unnaturally wide eyes, rolling back, excited. Hot to kill. Nevertheless, it was waiting for him.
  
  
  "Tuez... Tuez... Tuez... Tuez..."
  
  
  The killing dance was getting closer. He could almost feel the man's deadly breath. The machetes began to rise. Waiting for her, sheltering Wilhelmina, my muscles tensed in readiness.
  
  
  "Tuez... Tuez... Tuez... Tuez..."
  
  
  Currently!
  
  
  He leaped up high, using all his strength. My outstretched hands gripped the wrought-iron railing of the balcony above my head, while my legs, clenched together like two clubs, swung in an ominous pendulum arc. There was a wet thud as my ballet slippers slammed into my skull, and then another as they fell back.
  
  
  Then he climbed over the railing and onto the balcony. The machete blade clanged against the railing, thrown by overly impatient, frustrated hands, and then another. A few seconds later Hugo was in my hand, and it hit me down, ripping four fingers off the hand of a man trying to climb up the balcony. The ego scream tore at my ears.
  
  
  Then he leaped up again, grabbing the railing of the balcony for good measure. The singing below became a chaos of furious screams, mixed with the groans and screams of those who had wounded her. Fish costumes were torn aside so that the attackers could climb onto balconies like hers. But by the time I reached the roof, only one had managed to get to the lowest balcony. I jumped over the ledge and squatted down, squinting into the dark darkness of the rooftops around me.
  
  
  Then he gasped.
  
  
  All the houses on either side of me were connected by roofs on the same level. And on the roof of the farthest house, a crowd of costumed figures had gathered.
  
  
  In the middle of the crowd, tightly surrounded by bodies, was Michelle.
  
  
  And a helicopter descended from the sky lit by firecrackers to the crowd.
  
  
  Wilhelmina jumped into my hand, and he lunged forward, ducking quickly. The first railing went over it, jumped to the next roof, and stopped to shoot. A giant pink pig with a huge snout spun around, clapped its hands to its face, and screamed as it fell, spraying blood down its throat.
  
  
  "Nick!" She heard Michelle yell when she saw me. Then: "Back up, Nick! Back! They'll kill you!" They have a submachine gun..."
  
  
  Hers hit the roof just in time. The brutal thud of a gun cut through the night, and the bullets knocked out shards of brick around the chimney, right behind me. He lifted his head and fired. Another figure fell, but the thud of the gun against the Wall continued. The helicopter was flying over the roof, slowly landing. He gritted his teeth and decided to take the risk. In a minute, it would be too late; Michelle would be taken on board the helicopter.
  
  
  My muscles tensed, and he leaped forward.
  
  
  
  
  He ran frantically, zigzagging over the parapets of the roof like a track star. In front of her, she could see the deadly flash of a gunshot against the wall and a helicopter landing on the roof as the door opened from the inside.
  
  
  Then my skull exploded like Mont Pelet itself, my brain lit up, and he felt himself rushing forward.
  
  
  Blackness.
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  
  The twelfth chapter.
  
  
  Something, somewhere, was driving me with an idea. It wasn't a clear idea, but I knew it was very inconvenient. I tried to avoid it for as long as possible. But he kept whining. Finally, I had to admit that I knew what it was.
  
  
  "Eyes," he said. You must open your eyes.
  
  
  I made it. Its not a hotel, but a hotel.
  
  
  The familiar double-lidded eyes in the familiar oriental face stared down at me. They blinked, and then their lips curved in a sparkling smile of relief. Another face, this time black and just as familiar, appeared before my eyes. Also smiling.
  
  
  "Hello, Carter," said Eastern face, " do you always go to bed this early in the evening? I mean, we haven't even had dinner yet."
  
  
  He lifted his head and groaned. Pain shot through my skull until I thought my eyeballs were going to bleed out. His hand touched his skull cautiously, uncertainly. He found a large blindfold.
  
  
  "I feel," he said to her with difficulty,"like a man whose scalp was split by a pistol bullet on the Wall."
  
  
  "It's probably because you're a man who just had your head blown off by a gun bullet hitting the Wall," Li Qin guessed.
  
  
  "Hey, buddy," Sweets said softly, " didn't anyone ever tell you that attacking a person who's firing an automatic weapon can lead to a gunshot?"
  
  
  "They dragged Michelle into the helicopter," I said, sitting down. "I should have tried to stop ih."
  
  
  "Well, that was a good try," Qin Lie said. "I mean, she's never seen a single person try to attack an army before. Especially an army dressed like pigs, roosters, and fish. And she fired at the Wall's gun. When Sweets and I saw the helicopter landing, and we flew up to this roof, and caught a glimpse of you dialing the Light Brigade number, I couldn't believe my eyes at first."
  
  
  "Once she believed her eyes," Sweets said, " she became a pretty fast chick with a blindfold."
  
  
  "It's just a bump, Nick," Qin Lie said. "It'll be fine, except for a headache the size of the Great Wall of China."
  
  
  "In the meantime," I said, " they've captured Michelle. And they left."
  
  
  "Uncomfortable," Sweets sighed. "This is an awkward time to do this."
  
  
  "The worst," I agreed. And that was the worst of it. In fact...
  
  
  Somewhere in the back of my mind, the wheels began to turn.
  
  
  "You're still not thinking about trying to attack the boats and the volcano at the same time, are you?" "Because, all things considered, she should have lived a little longer. And if..."
  
  
  Hey silenced her with a gesture. Leaning on one elbow, he reached into his shirt pocket for cigarettes, pulled out a crumpled one, and lit it. He smoked in silence for a while. And I thought about it. And the more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that I could see things clearly for the first tune.
  
  
  I didn't like the way they looked.
  
  
  But I had one advantage. I was pretty sure the enemies didn't know what I knew.
  
  
  He was going to use this advantage to the best of his ability.
  
  
  He turned back to Lee Chin and Sweets, while pulling out Wilhelmina to reload.
  
  
  "The plan," he told them, " has changed. We'll all end up in a volcano."
  
  
  They nodded.
  
  
  "This is ih headquarters," he said. "I think that's where they took Michelle."
  
  
  "I think they thought so too," Li Qin interjected.
  
  
  "Absolutely fantastic," I said. "And this, of course, would not disappoint ih. But as an added bonus, we'll add a small ingredient that they don't expect."
  
  
  Sweets ' and Liz's eyebrows rose at the same time. Wilhelmina covered it again, trying to ignore the dizzying pain, and began to speak. When I finished, they both stared at me in silence for a while. Then Sweets chuckled slowly. He fished out a chocolate candy bar from his pocket, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth.
  
  
  "I think so," he said. "This is a real live drama. And I always want to be a performer."
  
  
  "Yes, but do you always want to finish in small pieces?" Qin Li asked. Then to me, " Look, Carter, she's a big fan of bold action and drama, but I think there might be some complications if we end up blowing up the whole island to the skies, we might have a few objections. And there's a pretty good chance that we will. Not to mention that we would have skyrocketed ."
  
  
  
  ».
  
  
  "It's a game, of course," I said. "But we only have a few hours left, and this is our only chance."
  
  
  Li Qin pondered silently.
  
  
  "Well," she said finally, " I've always wondered what it's like to play mahjong with TNT. And I don't have anything else to do tonight anyway. Consider me."
  
  
  "Actually," I said. "Let's go. There is no time to lose."
  
  
  Back on the street, making our way through the riotous crowds of fun carnivals, we found a public taxi driving along Fort de France through Saint-Pierre and on to Morne Rouge, the town closest to the volcano. With a generous tip, she forced the driver to drive to Morne Rouge, leaving only the three of us passengers. We rode in silence, everyone around us lost in their own thoughts.
  
  
  At the Morne Rouge ,we went out. Qin Li and I silently felt sorry for Sweets ' hands, our eyes locked and locked. Then we started down the road to the place where the Lady's Day was hidden. He went the other way. Towards Mont Pelet.
  
  
  Liz now only had one earring.
  
  
  Sweets was wearing a different one.
  
  
  In the Lady's Day radio room, I contacted Gonzalez and gave em my instructions, emphasizing ih's urgency. Then we waited for two hours. It was the hardest two hours of the entire operation. But we needed to give Sweets some time to work. And I needed to get a notification from Gonzalez. When I did and heard what he said, adrenaline surged through my body. He turned off the radio and turned to Qin Lie.
  
  
  "Zero hour," I said. "Let's go."
  
  
  Half an hour later we were lying on our stomachs, making our way through the low bushes that bordered the approaches to Mont Pelet crater. In addition to my usual family of Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre, I had an Israeli MKR Sten. This is one of the most remarkable automatic weapons, but made with the ego of high accuracy, low probability of breakage and, most importantly, a silencer that does not reduce the accuracy or rate of fire to any noticeable degree. Li Qin carried the twin egos, both by Sweets ' impressive weapon box.
  
  
  "Wait," I whispered suddenly, pointing at Qin Lie.
  
  
  Less than a hundred yards away, the rim of Mont Pelet crater stood out against the night sky. He held Sweets ' binoculars up to his eyes and scanned them. I already knew from our production trip that day that a ring around a seven-foot-high electrified wire runs through the entire diameter of the ring. What I wanted now was different. When ego found her, she was handed the binoculars to Li Qin and gestured to Ace.
  
  
  "Spotlights," her father said. "Installed doubly, facing opposite directions, in each supporting fence post."
  
  
  "Uh-huh," Li Qin said, shading her eyes with binoculars , " and if anything concerns the fence, they continue."
  
  
  "Actually," I said. "Now let's know a little more."
  
  
  A bush groped for it and found a heavy stick, then crawled another fifty yards, Li Qin behind me. Then he dropped the stick. There was the sound of banging as it hit the wire, the crackle of electricity as current flowed through the dew on it, and two flashlights came on. Only two.
  
  
  "Uh-huh," Qin Lie said. "Floodlights not only illuminate, but also identify the source of interference on the fence."
  
  
  "What followed," I said, flattening myself like Qin Lie, " was an armed guard."
  
  
  As if on cue, two guards with rifles appeared against the sky. We watched with our heads down as they shone their flashlights down the slope and around the fence, and then, apparently deciding that the disturbance was caused by an animal, disappeared.
  
  
  Her, turned to Qin Lie.
  
  
  "How's your acrobatics going tonight?"
  
  
  She looked at me questioningly. Her exactly told hey what we were going to do. She nodded without thinking, and we spent another five minutes crawling along the fence to get away from the area that the guards could now watch before we turned and crawled openly toward it. When we were a few feet away from me, her, turned and nodded to hey. We got up quickly and simultaneously.
  
  
  I whispered sharply.
  
  
  Her right hand was in my clasped hands, her body slid out around them, and she somersaulted in the air and flew over the fence like a fast, almost invisible shadow. Just as fast she was rolling on the ground from the inside, so was her stomach from the other side. All this took no more than three seconds. On the fourth floor, he was already groping for another stick next to him. When I found it, I looked at my watch and waited for the remaining thirty seconds we'd agreed on. Then I quit.
  
  
  Flashlights came on.
  
  
  Stan picked it up on his shoulder, switched it to single action, and pulled the trigger twice.
  
  
  There were two faint cracks on the glass, then a crack, and then darkness again.
  
  
  When the guards ' silhouettes appeared, they stopped, shining their flashlights at the spotlights that had so inexplicably lit up and then gone out.
  
  
  He pulled the trigger on the Wall again.
  
  
  The left guard was shot in the head and fell. And because it was used by a single, rather than continuous fire, he fell forward, onto the fence. Almost - for the lack of sound around my weapon - as if he'd suddenly bent down to examine it. But the guard on the right knew better, and Ego's rifle was already rising to ego's shoulder, turning to find the source of the bullet, when Lisa's sharp whisper came from all around the darkness.
  
  
  "Wait!" she said in French. "Don't move! Her behind you, and a man in front of you. We both have automatic weapons. If you want to live, do as I say."
  
  
  Even in the dim light, I could see the horror on the man's face. He lowered the rifle and waited, apparently trembling.
  
  
  "Call me," said Qin Li in the control room on Friday. "Tell the emu that your partner fell on the fence. Tell the emu to turn off the current. And sound convincingly unhinged!"
  
  
  The man immediately obeyed.
  
  
  "Armand!" he shouted, turning and shouting into the crater. "Owl of God, unlock the current on the fence! Marcel has fallen!"
  
  
  The ego-awful tone was convincing even to me, probably because he was genuinely scared. After a few seconds, the faint hum coming from the electrified wire stopped. The night was quiet except for the crackle of insects and then a distant cry around the crater.
  
  
  "The current is unblocked," the guard said. He was still shaking.
  
  
  "I love you, I love her, I hope it's true," Liam heard her whisper. "Because now you're going to touch it. First, the lower strand. Hold it with your whole hand candid next to the pole."
  
  
  "No!" the man said. "Please! Possible error..."
  
  
  "Do it!" snapped Li Qin.
  
  
  Trembling uncontrollably, his breathing so labored that I could hear him clearly, the man approached the fence. I kept my gun pointed at him, but even though he was now only a few feet away from me, he almost didn't notice how slowly, his face contorted in a twisted agony of fear, he reached down to the lowest wire.
  
  
  "Take this!" Qin Lie's threatening order rang out.
  
  
  The man hesitated a moment longer, then, like a swimmer diving into cold water, he grabbed the wire.
  
  
  Nothing happened. The guard's face relaxed slightly. Her, saw the sweat dripping from her ego chin!
  
  
  "Hold it until I tell you to stop," emu ordered her.
  
  
  He nodded with a numb expression. He walked a few more feet until he reached the wire and pulled a pair of wire cutters around his back pocket. Then, a few inches away from the guard's arm, so that if the power was turned back on while he was working, he would ground the ego with his body - and his life - and cut the lower strand.
  
  
  "Now embrace the next strand," emu ordered her.
  
  
  He obeyed. He cut off the next strand and told emu to move his hand to the next one. We repeated this procedure until all the strands were cut off, then told the guard to step back and stepped over the railing, using the guard's body to shield me from the gaze of anyone looking up around the funnel.
  
  
  "There's no one in sight," Qin Lie said softly.
  
  
  He peered cautiously over the guard's shoulder into the crater. It was, to put it mildly, a fortress. A maze of buildings around cement blocks whose walls seemed to be at least four feet thick, with no windows anywhere. As powerful as the infamous Furhrerbunker, in which Adolf Hitler spent the last days before his suicide. At two points, buildings were built into the crater of the volcano itself. There were three exits, two around them were man-sized doors leading to opposite sides of the outer crater, one around them was big enough for a truck. There was a large road leading around to this point-about the end of the crater.
  
  
  Li Qin was right. There was no one in sight.
  
  
  Her poked a security guard in the life with his gun.
  
  
  "Where are the other guards?" I demanded sharply.
  
  
  "Inside," he said, pointing to two wings with man-sized exits. "The video surveillance system scans the entire crater."
  
  
  "How can they get to the end where we are?" I demanded.
  
  
  "Up here, it's a different track," he said, convincing me that he was telling the truth with a look of horror in his ego eyes. "Scanners are spotlights, and they are activated when they are turned on."
  
  
  
  So for now, we were out of sight. But as soon as we start to descend into the crater, we will be very clearly visible. Her father thought for a moment, then turned around and whispered a few short words to Li Qin, who was currently lying on her stomach nearby. A few minutes later, he took off the cap and jacket of the dead guard and put ih on himself.
  
  
  "Call the man in the control room," I said. to the security guard. "Tell the emu that your partner is early, and you'll bring the ego in."
  
  
  The guard turned and shouted into the crater. He could see her now as one of the exit doors opened and a figure appeared, framed by the light from inside. He waved his hand and shouted something in agreement.
  
  
  "All right, buddy," he said to her security guard. "Now you're going to take me to this control room. And slowly. There will be a cannon behind you from several feet away for the entire ride."
  
  
  Her, I heard the guard swallow. Then, wiping the sweat from his eyes, he dropped the rifle, bent down, and picked me up. He turned so that my Israeli silent Sten was ready and my thumb was still on the trigger. But this time it would have fired automatically.
  
  
  "All right, lifeguard," he said to her guard. "Come on. And when I tell you to leave me, do it quickly."
  
  
  Slowly, he began to descend the slope inside the crater. Her, I could hear Li Qin crawling on her stomach behind us. Down below, through the open door, he could see figures moving in the control room. I counted at least a dozen of them. I also saw her, something interesting. It turned out that there was only one door leading through the control room to the interior of the complex of buildings.
  
  
  "Carter! Look! The road!"
  
  
  He glanced at the direction Li Qin was pointing. At the edge of the volcano, a heavy truck with creaking gears went by on the road leading to a massive steel garage gate as it shifted into downshift on the slope. He stopped at the door. A moment later, the doors swung open soundlessly and the truck entered. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of the open door. Two armed security guards, both white, both with automatic weapons, and two local workers, no doubt hired to carry equipment.
  
  
  No. One local worker.
  
  
  And one Candy Hunter, dressed in perhaps the most shabby clothes he's ever worn in his life. He spoke and laughed in fluent French with Martinique by his side, looking out at the world like a man content to have just landed a well-paying job.
  
  
  Plan your actions on schedule.
  
  
  Next step.
  
  
  We were now less than twenty yards from the open day control room. The guard carrying me was panting and stumbling with fatigue. Good.
  
  
  "Ready, Li Qin?" I asked, clenching my hands into groans.
  
  
  "Voila," she whispered briefly.
  
  
  "Guard, get your friends to help me carry it," emu told her. "Then be prepared to abandon me. And no tricks. Remember, the gun pointed at your back."
  
  
  He nodded imperceptibly and swallowed hard again.
  
  
  "Hi friends, how about a little help?" he bellowed impressively. "Marcel was injured!"
  
  
  Three or four figures entered the doorway and came toward us. A few more people gathered outside the door, looking out curiously. Behind me, I heard a slight click as Lee Jin switched her weapon to automatic fire. My muscles tensed in readiness. Waiting for her. The numbers have increased. They were now only thirty yards away. 20. 10.
  
  
  Currently!
  
  
  "Throw me!" he said to the guard. And moments later her rolling on the ground across the lines of Li Qin's fire, butt Wall, bench press under my chin, ego scope aimed at the group of people in front of me as they started to come under Li Qin's fire. Another fell, spinning with the force of the bullets as my own weapon began to spew fire. It was an instant slaughter: skulls turned into bloody masses all over brains and bones, faces torn off, limbs torn from the torso and dropped into the air. And because of the silencers on the walls, everything happened in an eerie silence, like in an unnamed ballet of mutilation and death, the victims were too fast and too strong to even scream or cry.
  
  
  "The door!" I shouted suddenly. "Shoot at the door!"
  
  
  Her gun lowered the coveralls of the men in front of us, and shot through the door. It was a closure. Then he swore at her. The wall was deserted. I pulled out an empty clip and pulled another full one around my pocket, plunging it into the gun as Qin Li continued firing behind me. The door stopped moving for a moment, and then slowly began to close again, as if someone behind it had been injured but was desperately trying to close the line of defense. He fired another shot and jumped to his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Cover me!" Qin Lie shouted it while simultaneously firing a series of bullets at one of the men around frank in front of me who was trying to get up.
  
  
  Then he ran, crouching, and spat his quiet but deadly fire in front of me. He slammed his shoulder into the door at full speed, then spun around, firing at the room. There was a deafening explosion of shattering glass, and the entire wall of TV screens was reduced to nothing; then, to my left, a single shot was fired at a silenced pistol. It spun around again, and the Wall exploded without a sound. For the first time in a day, a web-like figure shot up with the force of an emu bullet in the chest, then slowly collapsed forward.
  
  
  "Carter!"She was heard shouting outside by Qin Lie. "Another door! More guards!"
  
  
  Hers leaped toward him over the lifeless bodies that were the only occupants of the room. My hand found and flipped the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. From around the corner of the complex of buildings, on the day on the other side of the crater, a huge group of guards came out, ih automatic weapons already clattering. The television monitors told them everything they needed to know-the vulcan raid!
  
  
  "Inside!" Lee Jinwoo shouted as he returned the guards ' fire. "Hurry up!"
  
  
  Bullets splattered the cement block next to the door, kicking up a deadly trail of dust for Li Qin's heels as she furiously charged towards me. He felt a sharp pain in his shoulder and staggered back a step, then saw Qin Li rush out of the doorway, turn around, and slam the steel door behind her, closing the heavy bolts. Wincing at the pain in her shoulder, he groped for the light switch. A moment later, ego found her, and Brylev flooded the room. Li Qin stood up with a smoking gun and looked at me with concern.
  
  
  "You'd better show me that wound, Carter," she said.
  
  
  But I've already seen it for myself. Gawking just grazed my upper bicep. It hurt, but I could still use my arm, and there wasn't much blood.
  
  
  "No time,"he snapped. "Come on!"
  
  
  It moved toward the entrance of the complex, while at the same time pulling out a three-quarter empty clip along the Wall and ramming another full one. The barrel of the gun was hot and smoking, and he just hoped it would keep working.
  
  
  "Where are we going?" Her, heard Qin Lie say from behind me.
  
  
  "Both wings with exits to the crater joined into one central wing, where it was built frankly into the body of volcanic rock. There they kept their most valuable weapons and set up their workshops."
  
  
  "And that's exactly where they expected us to go," Qin Li denied the media reports.
  
  
  "Okay," I said, turning to her and grinning. "And we don't want to disappoint ih, do we?"
  
  
  "Oh, no," Li Qin said, shaking her head solemnly. "Betsy's heaven, no."
  
  
  He slowly opened the inner door with his left hand, Stan at the ready in his right. It led into a long, narrow corridor, bare except for the fluorescent tubes that lined the ceiling. The thick walls around the cement block drowned out all sounds from outside, but the sounds from inside the complex, it acted like a giant echo chamber. And the sounds I heard were exactly what I expected. A foot in heavy combat boots can be heard in the distance. Lots of people coming from both sides.
  
  
  He turned and met Lee Chin's eyes. This was supposed to be the most difficult part of the whole operation.
  
  
  I told her. "Now"
  
  
  We ran down the corridor, side by side, running. The sound of running footsteps, was louder, licks. It came from both the stairs at the end of the corridor and the corridor leading to the left. We were less than twenty feet from the stairs when two heads appeared, moving quickly up the stairs.
  
  
  Her, screamed. "Down!"
  
  
  We fell to the floor at the same time, these Walls simultaneously laid on our shoulders, and a deadly line of bullets flew out around ih mouths. Two bodies were thrown back as if struck by giant fists, blood gushing up as they disappeared down the stairs. The men below must have caught the idea. There were no other values for the attack skill. But he could hear voices coming up the stairs, out of sight. Lots of votes.
  
  
  He could also hear voices coming down the corridor to the left.
  
  
  "Let's frolic a little fishing," Lee Jinwoo told her.
  
  
  She nodded. Side by side, we crawled down the corridor, on our stomachs, our fingers still on the triggers of the Walls. When we reached the turn in the hallway, just a few feet from the stairs ahead of us, he took off the hat he'd taken off the dead guard and pulled it out in front of him for signs.
  
  
  Deafening shots rang out. The hat was torn into ribbons.
  
  
  
  
  "Gee," Qin Lie said. "The army, to our left. The army is before us. The army is behind us. I'm starting to feel really claustrophobic."
  
  
  "It won't be long," I said. "They know they've trapped us."
  
  
  And it wasn't long. When the voice came, he was angry, furious. We killed at least 20 SLA soldiers. But the voice was also controlled.
  
  
  "Carter!" he shouted, and the sound echoed down the corridor around the cement blocks. "Can you hear me?"
  
  
  "No!" shouted her rheumatism. "I read lips. You'll have to go out where I can see you."
  
  
  Lee Chin-chuckled next to me.
  
  
  "Stop the nonsense!" the voice roared, echoing harder than ever. "We've surrounded you! Whatever you are to us, we can blow you to pieces! I urge you and the girl to surrender! Now!"
  
  
  "You mean that if we move, you'll blow us to pieces, but if we surrender, you'll only boil us alive in oil?" The rheumatologist shouted at her.
  
  
  Judging by the muffled growl that followed, he was pretty sure that was exactly what he wanted to do. And more. But again the speaker pulled himself together.
  
  
  "No," he shouted. "You and the girl are guaranteed your safety. But only if you give up now. You're wasting our time."
  
  
  "Wasting their time?" Qin Lie muttered.
  
  
  Her voice shouted again, " How can I believe you?"
  
  
  "I give you my word as an officer and a gentleman!" the voice returned. "Also, let me remind you that you don't have much choice."
  
  
  "Well, Li Qin,"I said softly," are we taking our emu at its word as an officer and a gentleman?"
  
  
  "Well, Carter," Qin Li said, " I have a vague suspicion that he is a private and sneaker. But what the hell. I've always wondered what it's like to be boiled alive in oil."
  
  
  "What the hell," I agreed. Then he shouted, " Okay, I'll take your word for it. We'll throw our automatic weapons in the hallway."
  
  
  We did it. Not very well, but we did it.
  
  
  "Très bien," said a voice. "Now go out where we can see you. Gradually. With your hands folded over your head."
  
  
  We didn't like it either. But we did it. The moment we moved, defenseless, in plain sight and within reach, passed like an eternity, an eternity in which we waited to find out if the bullets would tear us apart or let us live a little longer.
  
  
  Then the moment passed and we were still alive, surrounded by men in the uniforms of French paratroopers. These men, however, wore armbands with the initials OAS on their sleeves. And deadly automatic BARS aimed at our lights from several feet away. The two around them quickly and brutally searched everyone around us, taking Derringer Lisa, Wilhelmina, and Hugo, but no thanks to ego shelter, Pierre.
  
  
  "Bon," said a man who was obviously the ih leader and che voice was negotiating. "I'm Lieutenant Renee Dorson, and I'm not happy to meet you. But I have my orders. You will come with me."
  
  
  He pointed down the stairs in front of us, a .45-caliber pistol in his hand. Rifle barrels poked us from behind, and we started down the stairs, Lieutenant Schell leading the way. Below, there was another bare corridor with fluorescent lighting on the ceiling. We walked in dead silence, broken only by the patter of army boots on cement. At the end of the corridor, there were two a day. Dorson pointed to the one on the left.
  
  
  "Come in," he said. "And remember, you'll always have automatic weapons pointed at you."
  
  
  We went in. It was a large room with polished walnut paneling on the walls around a cement block. The floor was covered with thick Iranian rugs. The furniture was genuine Louis Quatorze. Crystal goblets with gold rims were placed on small tables in front of the sofas. A subdued holy light came from the lamps on the tables and was inserted into the panels. Another man in an OAS uniform sat at an elaborate seventeenth-century desk. He was older than Dorson, with white hair, a pencil-thin white mustache, and a lean, aristocratic face. When Li Jin and I entered the room, he calmly looked up and stood up.
  
  
  "Ah," he said. "Mr. Carter. Miss Qin. "Nice to meet you."
  
  
  But her ego barely heard or saw her. My eyes were drawn to another figure in the room, sitting next to me, sipping a crystal brandy glass.
  
  
  "Allow me to introduce myself," said the man at the table. "I am General Raul Destin, commander of the Western forces of the Secret Army organizations. As for my charming companion, I think you are already acquainted."
  
  
  My gaze never left the woman Irina.
  
  
  "Yes," I said slowly. "I think so. Hi, Michelle."
  
  
  She smiled and took a sip of brandy.
  
  
  
  
  "Bon soir, Nick," she said softly. "Welcome to our headquarters."
  
  
  
  
  The thirteenth chapter.
  
  
  There was a long silence. Finally, Li Qin broke her ego.
  
  
  "See, Carter?" she said. "We should have known. Never trust a woman who doesn't know too much about French cuisine."
  
  
  Michelle's eyes lit up. She nodded to the general.
  
  
  "I want to get rid of this girl!" she said, laughing. "Now! And it hurts!"
  
  
  The General raised his hand and made a reproachful sound.
  
  
  "Now, my dear," he said in Oxford - accented English, " this is hardly going to be hospitable. No. Actually, I think we are very lucky to have Miss Qin as our guest. She is, after all, a representative of a large and influential commercial concern. A concern with many interests in the oil sector. They are unlikely to want these interests destroyed. So I'm sure she will find it beneficial to cooperate with us."
  
  
  "For someone who just lost about twenty soldiers, you're pretty good - natured," I said.
  
  
  "Don't worry about it," the general said calmly. "They were incompetent, so they died. This is one of the best venture soldiers in any army."
  
  
  He turned to the lieutenant.
  
  
  "I take it you've made sure they're unarmed?"
  
  
  He saluted the lieutenant smartly.
  
  
  "Wee, General. Ih was thoroughly searched."
  
  
  The general waved his hand in the direction of the day.
  
  
  "In that case, leave us alone. We need to discuss business."
  
  
  The lieutenant turned abruptly and walked through the doorway, taking his men with him. The door closed softly.
  
  
  "Please, Mr. Carter, Miss Qin," the general said, " have a seat. Would you like to join us for a cognac? That's not bad. Forty years in a barrel. My personal supply."
  
  
  "Spiced with prussic acid?" Li Qin said.
  
  
  The General smiled.
  
  
  "Both of you are much more valuable to me alive than dead," he said, pouring cognac into two crystal glasses and handing ih to us as we played such a game on the couch across from Michelle. "But maybe it's time I explained something to you."
  
  
  "I'm all ears," I said dryly.
  
  
  The General leaned back in his chair and took a slow sip of cognac.
  
  
  "As you may have already realized," he said, " we President de Gaulle, our ego successors, never succeeded in completely destroying the SLA, even after the failure of our attempts to kill the ego and forcibly expel most of our military leaders. Indeed, this forced expulsion simply led to a complete change in our tactics. We decided to set up our organization outside of mainland France, and when we acted again, to attack from outside. Meanwhile, we continued to increase the number of underground sympathizers ' in the government, and increase the number of physiologically active members outside of France. These actions reached their climax some time ago with the acquisition of Mont Pelet as our base, and with the acquisition of Fernand Duroche as our-shall we say , technical consultant?"
  
  
  "The acquisition of Fernand Duroche?" - you can repeat it.
  
  
  The General glanced at Michelle. She shrugged her shoulders.
  
  
  "Tell emu," she said casually. "It doesn't matter now."
  
  
  "I am afraid," said the General, " that M. Duroche has been abducted. Michelle has been secretly supporting our cause for a long time. M. Duroche was absolutely opposed to us. It was necessary to commandeer ego services under duress..."
  
  
  "And the letters he wrote to you, the ones you showed to Remy Saint-Pierre, are fake," he said, not asking her.
  
  
  "Yes," Michelle said. "Just like the letters my father received from me when he was in captivity. Letters telling her that I, too, had been abducted and would be tortured to death if he didn't do as he was asked."
  
  
  "Wow," Qin Li said, " this child is a loving daughter."
  
  
  "There are things more important than family ties," Michelle said coldly.
  
  
  "Indeed, there is," the general agreed. "And with the reluctant help of Fernand Duroche, we are going to achieve these goals. But suppose I let Monsieur Duroche explain in person how we are going to do it."
  
  
  The general picked up the phone on his desk, pressed a button, and gave an order into it. He put down his glass and sipped his brandy. No one spoke. He stole a glance at his watch. A moment later, the door opened and a man entered the room. I tell her I stepped in. I'd say I dragged her in. He fell as if completely defeated, his eyes fixed on the floor. He couldn't help but think about how ironic his old name, Dr. Death, really was.
  
  
  "Duroche," the general said, as if addressing a lower class of servants, " is Nick Carter, an American intelligence agent, and Miss Qin Li, an adviser to a major financial concern. Come here and tell them what it's like when you're young.". They are interested to know what you have developed for us and how it works. Come here and tell them."
  
  
  Duroche, without saying a word to us, came forward and stood in the middle of the room, facing us.
  
  
  "Talk!" the general ordered.
  
  
  Duroche looked up. Ego's eyes met Michelle's. She looked at him coldly. An expression of pain flickered across his face, then disappeared. He squared his shoulders slightly.
  
  
  "Thank you to the woman you thought was your daughter," he said, his voice trembling but clearly enunciating the ego story, " but who is now instead a traitor to both her father and her country, I was blackmailed and forced to work for these scum. I am ashamed to admit that they have made a unique underwater propulsion device for them. It is not more than five feet long and one foot in diameter, and contains more than thirty pounds of TNT. The ego doesn't need to be run around pipes, but the ego can be taken over the side of any ship, and it becomes self-propelled when it reaches a depth of 100 feet. At this time, an autonomous computer programmed for the target sends it on a random course to the target. The ego course is programmed not only to be random, but also to avoid obstacles and stalking devices.
  
  
  Duroche looked at me.
  
  
  "Once this device is up and running," he said, " the ego cannot be stopped. Since the ego course is random, it is impossible to predict it. Because it can avoid obstacles and pursuers, the ego cannot successfully attack. The computer sends the ego to its computer. goal every time. "
  
  
  "This has been confirmed," the general said. "Checked many times."
  
  
  Durocher nodded in disgust.
  
  
  "So, you see, Carter," the general said, waving his brandy glass in a wide gesture, " there's nothing you can do to stop us. In less than two hours, several dozen boats of all sizes and types will leave Martinique. They will leave it. They will be spread across the Caribbean and the South Atlantic. In some cases, they will transfer our weapons to other boats. Then they will be lost among the huge population of Freemasonry, living on small boats. You won't be able to find more ih in a year, let alone a week or so - not to mention the fact that we pull in Curacao, in eight hours - than you could find a few dozen specific grains of sand on a big beach."
  
  
  He paused for effect.
  
  
  "Avoid the drama, General," I said. "State your point of view."
  
  
  He blushed slightly, then corrected himself.
  
  
  "I want to say," he said, " that the Curacao refinery is, for all practical purposes, a wreck. This is to show you what we can do. And what will we do if the United States, let's just say, doesn't cooperate?"
  
  
  "The thing is, General," I said. "Licks to the point. What kind of blackmail?"
  
  
  He blushed again.
  
  
  "Blackmail is not a word that can be used against soldiers fighting for their cause. However. The conditions are as follows: in two days, the United States will recognize Martinique no longer as part of France, but as an independent republic."
  
  
  "With you and your lackeys, no doubt."
  
  
  "Again, I object to your request. But never mind. Yes, the SLA will run Martinique. It will be protected, both by the United States and by its standing as an independent country in the United Nations."
  
  
  "And of course you'll be happy with Martinique," I said sarcastically.
  
  
  The General smiled.
  
  
  "As an independent country, Martinique will send a diplomatic representative to France. For the first time in our country, it will be forced to behave with the SLA in the face of the sun. And soon - soon after that, a situation similar to the revolt of Generalissimo Franco will arise. against the Spanish Republic ."
  
  
  "The French military will go over to the SLA, which has its headquarters in the hall in Martinique, and take over France," I said.
  
  
  "Absolutely fantastic. And after that-well, it's not just the French who sympathize with our cause and our philosophy. Some others..."
  
  
  "No doubt a few Nazis left behind after the start of World War II?"
  
  
  Again the general smiled.
  
  
  "Many maligned individuals who share our desire for a disciplined outdoor pool, an outdoor pool without troublemakers, an outdoor pool in which the highest naturally take their natural place as leaders."
  
  
  "Today is Martinique, tomorrow is the whole world," Qin Lie said in disgust.
  
  
  "Yes!" Michelle exclaimed furiously. "The world is made by the aristocrats of nature, really smart, who will tell the stupid masses what is good for them, and eliminate those who create problems!"
  
  
  "Sieg Heil," I said softly.
  
  
  The General ignored me. Or maybe he just liked the sound of the words.
  
  
  So, Mr. Carter, we come to your personal part of our plan. To the part of him whose bones we haven't let you live until now."
  
  
  
  "It's fun," Qin Lie said. "I kept thinking that you kept the emu alive because you couldn't kill the ego."
  
  
  The General blushed again. He had such fair skin, which works out very quickly and obviously turns red. It must have confused my ego, and I liked it.
  
  
  "Several times you got too close, too fast. It was Michelle's failure. She should have seen that it didn't happen until the right moment."
  
  
  It was Michelle's turn to show embarrassment, but she did so with a shake of her head.
  
  
  "I told you. Those idiot lepers failed in their mission. By the time she found out what had happened, he was working with a Chinese woman, and I didn't have time to get ih together until after the Carnival. When it failed..."
  
  
  The General waved his hand.
  
  
  "It doesn't matter anymore. The important thing is that we managed to trick you into attacking the volcano in hopes of saving Michelle, and now we've captured you and disabled you. We will keep you here until the Curacao oil refinery is destroyed and our weapons are in the hall on the high seas and can't be found. You will then act as a liaison to inform your government of our requirements and our firm ih adoption schedule. Which was your role from the beginning, with Michelle making sure you arrived when we volunteered, not when you did. "
  
  
  Hers, I felt my anger rise. Did those Nazi hooligans expect me to be an ih messenger? Her voice was barely controlled.
  
  
  "There's only one problem, General," I said. "I came here alone. And on their own terms."
  
  
  He waved his hands.
  
  
  "Admittedly, your arrival was more violent than his could have wished for. But like I said, it doesn't matter anymore."
  
  
  "I think so," I said. Then, turning around: "Lee Jin? How does your phone work?"
  
  
  Lee Jin chuckled.
  
  
  "The bells are ringing. It's been ringing for the last three minutes."
  
  
  "Phone number?" the general said.
  
  
  Michelle gasped.
  
  
  "Ee earring!" she said. "It's a transceiver! And nah only has one!"
  
  
  The General jumped up and crossed the room with surprising speed for a man of his own age. He waved his hand and plucked an earring from Liz's earlobe. Her, grimaced. Her ears were pierced and he literally ripped out the earring around her body. A large bloodstain immediately appeared on her earlobe.
  
  
  "Oh," she said calmly.
  
  
  "Where's the other earring?" the general demanded. The tone of welcoming hospitality completely disappeared around the ego voice.
  
  
  "I lent my ego to a friend," Qin Li said. "A guy named Sweets. We like to keep in touch."
  
  
  This time, Michelle's sigh was even sharper.
  
  
  "Black man!" she said. "Hunter! He must have entered the volcano separately!"
  
  
  The General glanced at Nah, then looked back at the shackle transceiver.
  
  
  "It doesn't matter," he said. "If he's in the hall, in the crater, our TV monitors will find the ego. And now I'm going to destroy this charming little tool to cut off your contact with it."
  
  
  "I wouldn't do that, General," I said. "Cut off our communication with it, and the entire island may be blown away by the wind halfway to France."
  
  
  The General stared at me, then, with an obvious effort, relaxed his face into an incredulous smile.
  
  
  "I think you're bluffing, Mr. Carter," he said.
  
  
  He glanced at his watch.
  
  
  "If Sweets Hunter doesn't get a signal on his Rivnenskaya transceiver in two minutes and thirty - one seconds, we'll all have a chance to find out," I said calmly.
  
  
  "A lot can happen during this time," the general said. He went to his desk, picked up the phone, and gave a few orders. General warning. Find the Hunter. Bring the ego here immediately.
  
  
  "It's useless. "General," I said. "This signal meant that Sweets had already found what he wanted."
  
  
  "What?" the general asked.
  
  
  "One on two," I said. "Either armament for your weapons, or ihc."
  
  
  "Computers," said Fernand Duroche, before the general could silence ego.
  
  
  "Duroche," the general said, his teeth clenched in rage,"one more word and I'll use the gun to shut your mouth forever."
  
  
  "It doesn't matter, General, it should have been one or the other," I said. "I knew you would wait until the last minute to add at least one vital element to your weapons to make sure they weren't captured untouched during a surprise raid on the boats. And computers, which are the most important element, should probably be left for last ",
  
  
  The general didn't say anything, but Ego's eyes narrowed. I knew I'd hit the target.
  
  
  "You see, General," I said, "Michel's' rapture ' took place at a very convenient time this evening. Convenient for nah and you if you worked together.
  
  
  
  . Convenient for nah and for you, if you were working together. If you had known we were here in Martinique, you would have known we were in Puerto Rico, and she could have been abducted much earlier. If she wasn't working for you, of course. Since she was working for you, it was convenient to let Ay accompany us until she found out that our plan was to attack you. Then ee was conveniently "kidnapped" to have time to tell you everything ."
  
  
  He reached in a minute, found a cigarette, and lit it.
  
  
  "As soon as I understood it," I continued, " I changed our plans. Lee Jin and I came here to pay you a little visit. We knew it wouldn't come as a surprise, but we don't want you to know that we knew it. That's why we disguised our visit as an attack and then allowed you to capture us."
  
  
  Now the general's eyes were fixed on my face. He gave up any claim that we were bluffing.
  
  
  "You see, if we had just walked in and said we wanted to talk to you, the Candy Hunter wouldn't have been able to pay his little visit any other way. since it would be pointless for one person to try to attack from the outside in the crater alone, they must be inside. Inside, in your computer's storage. Where he is now."
  
  
  "Patua!" Michelle said suddenly. "He speaks Portuguese! Egos could be hired as one around local truck workers!"
  
  
  The General's eyes hardened. Ego's hand flashed toward the phone. But before he could pick up the phone, it rang. Ego's hand paused for a moment, then snatched up the phone.
  
  
  "Kui?" he said curtly. Then ego turned his knuckles white on the instrument, and he listened in silence for a few moments.
  
  
  "Don't do anything," he finally said. "I'll take responsibility."
  
  
  He hung up and turned to me.
  
  
  "Our security guards say that a tall, thin, dark-skinned man killed two people around them, took away ih's automatic weapons, and barricaded himself in a computer vault. It threatens to blow up computers if we attack."
  
  
  "That," I said,"is the general idea."
  
  
  "Impossible," the general said, studying my face and demanding a reaction. "You can disguise yourself as a worker to get inside, yes, but you can't carry explosives. All workers are being searched."
  
  
  "What if the explosives are high-impact grenades disguised as a necklace around the van?" She was asked.
  
  
  "I don't believe you," the general said flatly.
  
  
  "You'll do it," I said, glancing at my watch, " in Rivne in three seconds."
  
  
  "Countdown," Qin Lie said. "Three ... two... one... zero!"
  
  
  The explosion occurred exactly on schedule, as we agreed with Sweets. It wasn't exactly a pound of TNT or even as big as a standard grenade, but within the bunker around the cement block that contained all the force of the explosion, it didn't make much sense to be gigantic. The noise was deafening. And even so far away, we could feel the shockwaves. But what shocked me most was the general's face.
  
  
  "Mon Dieu!" he gasped. "This is crazy..."
  
  
  "This is just the beginning, General," I said calmly. "If Sweets doesn't get a beep from us on his transceiver in another two minutes, he will launch another mini-grenade. They're not big, but they're big enough to blow up a couple of meet your computers."
  
  
  "You can't!" Michelle exclaimed. Her face was white. "You can't! Not inside a volcano! This is..."
  
  
  "This is foolhardy!" said the general. "Any explosion here can cause shockwaves that bring the volcano to life! There may be a strong eruption that will destroy the entire island! Even when we dug our headquarters in the volcanic rock, we didn't use explosives, we used specially soft drills."
  
  
  "One shot every two minutes, General, unless..."
  
  
  "Unless?"
  
  
  "Unless you and all your men put down your weapons, leave the volcano, and surrender to the Fort de France authorities. To the authorities, it could have been added, who were specially selected by the Bureau Deuxieme so as not to sympathize with the SLA."
  
  
  The General's lips curled in a grin.
  
  
  "Absurd!" he said. "Why should we give up? Even if you destroy all the computers here, how did you know that we haven't already equipped some of the weapons from the ready-to-sail boats?"
  
  
  "I don't know," I said. "This is why a special squadron of American aircraft from a base in Puerto Rico is circling over the harbors of Lorrain and Marigo. If even one po boat in this harbor tries to move into the water deep enough to launch one po against your guns, those planes will blow up ih in & nb."
  
  
  "I don't believe it!" - said the general. "That would be a hostile act by the US towards France."
  
  
  
  "This will be an act approved personally by the French President as an emergency measure."
  
  
  The General was silent. He bit his lip and bit it.
  
  
  "You're done, General," I said. "You and the SLA. Give up. If you don't, there will be one explosion every two minutes until all these computers are destroyed - and possibly all of us along with them. This is a risk that we are willing to take. you?"
  
  
  "Mr. Carter?"
  
  
  Her, turned around. Fernand Duroche looked worried.
  
  
  "Mr. Carter," he said, " you must understand that virtually all of -"
  
  
  The general was fast, but I was faster. Ego's hand didn't reach the holster on his hip until hers was running at him. My left shoulder slammed violently into the emu's chest, sending him flying backwards in his chair. As his target hit the floor, my fist touched ego's chin. Out of the corner of her eye, he saw Michelle rise, a sword suddenly flashing in her hand. I slammed my fist into the general's chin again, felt him go limp, and felt the .45-caliber cartridge on his hip.
  
  
  "Stop!" Michelle screamed. "Stop, or I'll cut the emu's throat!"
  
  
  Her, stood in the way of every tribe, holding a 45 pistol in his right hand, and saw this loving daughter with a knife blade pressed against the jugular vein in her father's throat. Li Qin stood a few feet away from them, swaying cautiously, looking for a loophole.
  
  
  "Drop it!" Michelle snarled. "Drop the gun or I'll kill your precious Doctor Death!"
  
  
  And then brylev went out.
  
  
  
  Chapter fourteen.
  
  
  The darkness was absolute, absolute. In the windowless space of the complex of buildings around the cement blocks, not a single ray of light could penetrate from the outside, even at noon. Immediately, my hearing became sharper, more accurate. She could hear Michelle's almost guttural breathing, her father's startled choking sounds, and something like a half-slapping, half-sliding noise as Lee Jin approached her. And suddenly Qin Lie's voice:
  
  
  "Carter! It goes to a day!"
  
  
  He wrapped himself around the chair, gun at the ready, and headed for the door. I was almost there when my hand touched my arm.
  
  
  Michelle hissed, inches from my ear. "I don't know, or ..."
  
  
  The door opened without warning, and the flashlight beam slammed into the room.
  
  
  "General!" a sharp male voice shouted. "Are you all right? There was..."
  
  
  He was pulled on the trigger by forty-five. There was a loud report, and the flashlight fell to the floor. It was picked up by ego and made a beam into the corridor. Michelle was already through the door and running. The .45 raised it and took aim as a deafening burst of automatic weapons rang out around the other end of the room. The bullets slammed into the cement block near my face. He returned to the room, pushed aside the body of the soldier he had just killed, and closed and locked the door.
  
  
  "Duroche!" "Are you there?"
  
  
  "He's here," came Liz's voice from the table. "He's fine. She was knocked out by a knife on her arm."
  
  
  It was made by the beam of a flashlight on the figures of Lisa and Duroshe. Duroche was trembling; his narrow face was white, but his eyes were alert.
  
  
  "Can you tell us where the computer storage room is in the hall?" I asked her.
  
  
  "Of course," he said. "But have you noticed that the air here is already getting bad? The ventilation system is unlocked. Someone must have grown up on the main query switch. If we don't leave the building complex soon..."
  
  
  He was right. The room was already stuffy. It was getting stuffy, stuffy.
  
  
  "Not yet," I said. "Which way to the computer storeroom?"
  
  
  "There's a direct passage from here to the lab and then to the storage areas," Duroshe said, pointing to a door at the far end of the room. "It is only used by the general and ego supreme staff."
  
  
  He bent down and took the .45 caliber from the dead soldier and handed it to Qin Li.
  
  
  "Let's go," I said.
  
  
  It was carefully opened by the door that Durosh pointed out. The corridor beyond was as black as the room and the outer hall. It was made by the "beam" of a flashlight along its entire length. It was empty.
  
  
  "Carter!" said Qin Lie. "Listen up!"
  
  
  A series of loud bangs hit the entire hallway. They were trying to break down the door to the room. At the same time, another explosion came from the direction of the computer storage. I was still behind it. She motioned for Li Qin and Duroche to follow me, and we trotted down the aisle with flashlights in one hand and 45s in the other. I could hear screams, gunshots, and running around the nearby halls and rooms.
  
  
  "Your other one has to stop the explosions!" Duroche shouted behind her. "The danger increases with everyone!"
  
  
  
  
  Ard Durocher shouted from behind me. "The danger increases with everyone!"
  
  
  Another explosion. I thought I could feel the building shaking this time. And the air was worse: dense, cramped. It was harder to breathe.
  
  
  "How much longer?" Duroch called to her.
  
  
  "There! At the end of the corridor!"
  
  
  Just as he said that, a door at the end of the corridor opened and a tall figure dove through it. He had an automatic rifle and fired quickly in the direction he came from. The 45 cartridge in my hand automatically rose and then fell.
  
  
  "Sweets!" Her, screamed.
  
  
  The target of the figure briefly turned in our direction.
  
  
  "Hey, buddy," Sweets heard her shout, and even as he resumed firing, " welcome to the party!"
  
  
  We ran the rest of the hallway and plopped down next to Sweets. He flipped the heavy lab chair in front of him and fired at a group of soldiers hiding behind another table at the far end of the lab.
  
  
  "Computers," I said, panting, trying to breathe.
  
  
  "Went to hell and left," Sweets said, pausing to remove an empty clip and insert a full one. "That last explosion you heard finished off ih. I managed to get the main power switch using this handy little BARU that I borrowed from someone who doesn't need it anymore. he's a storeroom worker and decided to split up."
  
  
  Duroche tugged at my shoulder, pointing to the room at the end of the corridor, the room we'd come out of. Two flashlight beams cut through the darkness. The door must have opened.
  
  
  "I think," I said grimly, " it's time we all broke up."
  
  
  Sweets unleashed another blast in the lab.
  
  
  "Do you have any idea how?" "What is it?" he asked almost casually.
  
  
  Flashlight beams cut through the passageway. Her plucked one by mini-garnet Sweets's ego necklace and threw her candid into the hallway. She flew into the room, and a moment later another explosion rocked the building, nearly knocking us off our feet. There were no more lantern beams.
  
  
  "Mon Dieu!" Durocher gasped. "Volcano..."
  
  
  Ego ignored her, pointing up with his flashlight.
  
  
  "This is the mine," I said. "What is it? Where does this lead?"
  
  
  "A ventilation shaft," Duroche said. "This leads to the roof. If we could..."
  
  
  "We're going to,"he snapped. "Qin Li?"
  
  
  "Time for acrobatics again, huh?" She was panting now, just like the rest of us.
  
  
  Without saying a word to us, he took up a position under the vent shaft opening. A moment later, Qin Lie stood on my shoulders and removed the grating from the shaft. He held out his flashlight and saw her shine it up. Within a few feet of Nah, Sweets was still firing at the lab.
  
  
  "This is not a bad level of rake," Qin Li said. "I think we can do it."
  
  
  "Can you close the bars when we go inside?" I asked her.
  
  
  "Of course."
  
  
  "Then go ahead."
  
  
  Dal hey, another push with his hands, and Li Qin disappeared down the shaft.
  
  
  "All right, Duroche," I said breathlessly.
  
  
  Durocher struggled to climb first onto my clasped hands, then onto my shoulders. Liz's arm poked out around the shaft, and slowly, with a grunt of effort, Durosh was able to climb inside.
  
  
  "Sweets," I said, gasping for air, " are you ready?"
  
  
  "Why not?"he said.
  
  
  He fired one last shot at the lab, rolled quickly around the doorway, and charged toward me, flicking the BAR as he came. Its ready. He leaped up on my shoulders like a big cat, then shot up the shaft. Her BAR aimed at the lab door and pulled the trigger as the two men entered the nah. Ih bodies were knocked back to the lab. She could hear the cry of one around them. I looked up and handed the BAR into Sweets ' waiting hands as the beam of my flashlight lit up the hallway around the room we were in.
  
  
  "Hurry up!" Sweets insisted. "Come on, man!"
  
  
  I bent over, gasping for air, and my target spun around, and he leaped up with all his might. I felt both of Sweets's hands squeeze mine and pull, just as the flashlight beam hit my legs. I stood up with all my strength, every muscle in my body screaming with the effort. There was a deadly thunder of BAR-fire, and he felt a metal cut on his pants. Then he was inside the mine.
  
  
  "Grill," he breathed at once. "Give it to me!"
  
  
  Hands placed the bars in mine. Ego inserted it into the frame, leaving one side open as he tried to undo his belt.
  
  
  I told the others. "Start climbing!"
  
  
  "What do you have there?" Sweets asked as he turned around.
  
  
  
  She was pulled out by Pierre po ego of the shelter and turned on the five-second safety.
  
  
  "Just a little parting gift to our friends downstairs," I said, and threw Pierre out into the corridor, immediately replacing the bars and closing them tightly at the joints. And let's hope they're tight, I thought grimly as I turned and started climbing the shaft after the others.
  
  
  When Pierre left, hers rose about five feet. The explosion wasn't as powerful as Sweets ' mini-grenades, but a moment later, she could hear screams that turned into choked coughs, throat rasps, the horrific sounds of man after man being killed by Pierre's deadly gas.
  
  
  The inflammation of the joints on the grate must have been as dense as I'd hoped, because the air in the shaft was getting better as we went up, and we didn't get a single particle of gas from Hugo into the nah.
  
  
  Three minutes later, we were all lying on the roof around the cement blocks, sucking in the fresh, beautiful, clean night air.
  
  
  "Hey, take a look," Qin Lie suddenly said. She pointed down. "Exits. No one uses them."
  
  
  Duroche nodded.
  
  
  "When the general sent out a warning to detain your friend here, the exits were electronically blocked so that he could not escape. After Mr. Carter's gas bomb went off..."
  
  
  We looked at each other with grim understanding. The doors, which were electronically locked to prevent Sweets from escaping, prevented the OAS forces from escaping Pierre. Since the ventilators weren't working, Pierre's gas was now spreading with deadly efficiency throughout the entire complex of buildings.
  
  
  The OAS headquarters was turned into a crypt, a nightmarish death trap as effective and reliable as the gas chambers that the Nazis used in their concentration camps.
  
  
  "They must have summoned everyone in the buildings to fight Sweets," Qin Li said. "I don't see anyone outside in the crater."
  
  
  Her, looked down, running his eyes over the inside of the crater, and ego edge. Nobody. Except for the entrance to the garage...
  
  
  It was seen by ee at the same time as Duroche.
  
  
  "Michelle! he gasped. "Look! There! At the entrance to the garage!"
  
  
  Two trucks pulled up to the garage entrance. Ego Day was tightly closed, but I suspected that Michelle's hotel might not go to the garage. She was talking to two armed guards around one of the trucks that had accompanied Ego on his way to the crater, gesturing furiously, almost hysterically.
  
  
  "How could she get out?" He demanded Candy.
  
  
  "Emergency exit," Duroche said, looking at his daughter intently, the ego expressions on their faces torn between the obvious joy of being alive and the realization that she had handed over both ego and her country. "A secret exit known only to the general and a few top employees. She must have known, too."
  
  
  "She'll never leave the island," I said. "Even if it does, without the weapons you have developed or the blueprints for them, the SLA will be finished."
  
  
  Duroche turned to me and grabbed my shoulder.
  
  
  "You don't understand, Mr. Carter," he said excitedly. "That's what I was going to tell you when the general tried to shoot me. Not all computers were destroyed."
  
  
  "Which ones?" I snapped. "What do you mean?"
  
  
  "One of the device software is already equipped with a computer and ready to run. It was an emergency. And now it's in the hall on a small boat in the harbor of Saint-Pierre. Not in Lorraine or Marigot, where your planes are on watch. . But to Saint-Pierre."
  
  
  As he said the last words, as if on cue, Michelle and two armed guards climbed into the cab of the truck. He turned around and then began to make a U-turn to exit through the crater. She was silently snatched away by BARU from Sweets, made an ego into the cab of the truck, and pulled the trigger.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  He pulled out an empty clip and looked at Sweets. He shook his head sadly.
  
  
  "Not anymore, man. Vote and that's it."
  
  
  It was BARU who threw it and stood up as the truck with Michelle in nen accelerated, leaving the crater and disappearing behind the rim. My mouth was clenched.
  
  
  "Sweets," I said, " I hope the Lady's Day passes as quickly as you say. Because if we can't get ahead of Michel at the mouth of Saint-Pierre Harbor, Curacao will have one less refinery. . "
  
  
  "Let's try it," Sweets said.
  
  
  Then we scrambled over the roof to the garage and the remaining truck in front of it, two stunned security guards looking up just in time to see ih's chests turn into bloody craters from the gunfire around his right arm.
  
  
  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  The Lady's Day rounded the mouth of St. Pierre Harbor, Sweets on the rudder, at a speed that made me wonder if it was a yacht or a seaplane. Standing next to me in the bow while he struggled with scuba gear, Li Qin surveyed the harbor with a pair of Sweets ' high-powered binoculars.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Look!" she said suddenly, pointing.
  
  
  He picked up the binoculars and looked through them. There was only one boat moving in the harbor. A small sailboat, no more than fifteen feet high and apparently not equipped with an engine, it was moving slowly in a light breeze toward the harbor entrance.
  
  
  "They will never succeed," Qin Lie said. "We'll catch up with ih in a minute."
  
  
  "It's too easy," I muttered, keeping my eyes on the boat. "She has to understand that we will catch up with her. Nah should have another idea."
  
  
  We were close enough then that he could make out figures moving across the deck of the boat. One around the figures was Michelle. She was wearing scuba gear and could be seen gesturing furiously at two guards. They carried a long, thin pipe across the deck.
  
  
  "What's going on?" Qin Lie asked curiously.
  
  
  He turned to the tense, agonized figure of Fernand Duroche.
  
  
  "How heavy is your underwater weapon?"
  
  
  "Let's say fifty pounds," he said. "But what does it matter? They can't run the ego from here. It will just fall to the bottom and stay there. They will have to get out of the harbor to drop the ego even to a depth of several feet before it is just activated and begins to promote itself. "
  
  
  "And we'll catch up with ih long before they reach the harbor entrance," Qin Li said.
  
  
  "Michelle understands that," I said. "That's why she's in scuba gear. She will try to lower the weapon to a depth of three hundred feet."
  
  
  Qin Lie's mouth dropped open.
  
  
  "It's not as impossible as it sounds," I said, adjusting the two remaining air tanks on my back. "She's good underwater, remember? And fifty pounds underwater is nothing like fifty pounds out of the water. Her guess was that she might try something like this."
  
  
  He adjusted the knife on his belt, picked up Sweets ' rifle, and turned to give em instructions. But he saw what was happening, and he beat me to it. He shut down the Lady's Day's engines, and glided along her nose at a distance of no more than fifty feet.
  
  
  Hers went over the side just as Michelle had done, with the Durocher torpedo in her hands.
  
  
  The water was black and muddy. For a moment, he didn't see anything. Then, constantly working her fins through the water, she was spotted by the shallow keel of a sailboat. Her, turned, turned and Stahl looked for Michelle, hoping to see signs of control bubbles on her mask. Nowhere.
  
  
  Then, fifteen feet below me and a little ahead of me, at the bottom of it, Duroshe saw the torpedo. Alone. There's no sign of Michelle anywhere.
  
  
  He twisted and turned desperately, suddenly realizing what was going to happen next. And it came , a long, deadly spear slicing through the water inches from my face. Behind me, she caught a glimpse of Michelle gliding toward the wreckage of an ancient sailing ship.
  
  
  She was going to get rid of me before she swam out with the torpedo to a great depth. Unless I get rid of her first.
  
  
  I didn't have a choice. I followed her.
  
  
  Gun ready, she walked slowly around the wreck. Jagged wooden spars jutted out dangerously on the rotten sides. A couple of fish flew by on my way. He stopped, holding on to a broken mast, then climbed a few feet and looked down.
  
  
  This time, she came from below, the knife in her hand furiously slicing through my life, and then, as hers slid to the side, my face. He sliced through the rotten manhole cover with a knife, leveled his gun, and fired in one motion. The arrow shot forward and sliced through the skin of Michelle's shoulder. She was seen through her mask by the agonizing curvature of the ee rta. I also saw a thin trickle of blood around her shoulder, staining the water.
  
  
  Now this had to be finished quickly. The sharks can attack us at any moment, smelling blood and hungry.
  
  
  He drew the knife around its scabbard and slowly swam forward. Michelle ran her knife through the spars of the sunken ship and lunged at me. Ff the knife ended up cutting into my head. She tried to cut my oxygen tube. Her floated down, then suddenly turned and somersaulted backwards. Hers was suddenly on top of her, and my left hand gripped her knife arm in an iron grip. She struggled to free herself, and for a few moments we rocked back and forth, up and down, in a deadly underwater ballet. We were from mask to mask, our faces only a foot apart. Hers, saw her mouth curl with effort and exertion.
  
  
  And when my sword pierced her up, through her life, and into her chest, I saw her face, which her tac parts were kissing, contorted in agony.
  
  
  
  
  And the body that has made love to her so many times convulses, shudders, and then suddenly goes limp with the onset of death.
  
  
  sheathed her knife, grabbed her body under the armpits, and began to swim slowly upward. When I surfaced around the water, Lady Day was only a few yards away, and I saw Qin Li lowering a rope ladder, gesturing frantically and shouting.
  
  
  Then I heard her shouting, " Sharks, Carter! Sharks!"
  
  
  I didn't have a choice. She was released by Michel's body, ripped the oxygen tank straps from his back, and swam to "Lady's Day" like an Olympic star. I grabbed the rope ladder and pulled myself around the water a few seconds before a row of razor-sharp teeth tore off half of one around my fins.
  
  
  Then he was on deck and saw the two sailboat guards sitting next to Sweets, bound hand and foot, their faces grim with defeat. And to see Fernand Duroche looking over the railing, wide-eyed with horror, into the seething red turmoil as the sharks tore through Michelle's body.
  
  
  Her wearily took off her fins and walked over to him.
  
  
  "I know it's not very convenient,"I said," but she was dead before the sharks hit her."
  
  
  Duroche slowly turned away. Ego's shoulders slumped even more. He shook his head.
  
  
  "Perhaps," he said shakily, " it's better this way. She would have been declared a traitor-tried - sent to prison ..."
  
  
  He nodded silently.
  
  
  "Carter," Qin Lie said softly, " should the authorities know about Michelle? I mean, what's the difference now?"
  
  
  I've been thinking about it.
  
  
  "All right, Duroche, "he finally told her," this is the only thing I can do for you. As far as we know, outdoor pool, your daughter died a heroine fighting for her freedom and for her country against the SLA..."
  
  
  Duroche looked up. The gratitude on his face was almost painful.
  
  
  "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you."
  
  
  Slowly, wearily, but with a certain weary dignity, he walked away and stopped in the stern.
  
  
  "Hey, Carter," Sweets said from behind the wheel, " I just got a little message for you on the radio. From a cat named Gonzalez. He says old Mr. Hawke is flying down from Washington to ask you questions. the French government flew in as part of an army regiment to seize these ships in the harbors of Lorrain and Marigault and get rid of the SLA supporters in the Martinique administration."
  
  
  "Yes," Qin Lie said. "He even said something about a thank-you note from the French government for breaking the spine of the SLA ih takeover plan."
  
  
  Sweets grinned and pointed at the two bound guards.
  
  
  "These SLA people don't seem to have much desire to fight anymore. They surrendered to us the minute Michelle jumped off the boat."
  
  
  "What happened to the torpedo?" Qin Lie asked.
  
  
  "He's over there, about twenty yards away," I said. "Later, when the sharks leave the area, we can pick this up. In the meantime, we're staying here to make sure no one else does."
  
  
  "Look, man," Sweets said, " that was cool, but I'm almost out of fudge. If you guys don't mind, I'll run to the city. "
  
  
  "Take a sailboat," I said. "And while you're doing that, hand these two punks over to the authorities under the SLA."
  
  
  "Mr. Carter?" - said Fernand Dureau.
  
  
  Her, turned around.
  
  
  "I'm grateful to you for saving me, and for..."
  
  
  He nodded to her.
  
  
  "But now I have to go back to my people. The Deuxieme Bureau will want to talk to me."
  
  
  "Let's go with Sweets," I said. "He'll make sure you get to the right people."
  
  
  He nodded, then held out his hand. I shook her, and he turned and walked over to where Sweets was pulling a sailboat nearby.
  
  
  "See you later, buddy," Sweets shouted after two SLA men, Durosh and himself, jumped aboard. "Maybe I'll wait for her for a while and bring old Mr. Hawke with me."
  
  
  "Do it," Qin Lie suggested. "Take your time. Carter and I are very close."
  
  
  "What exactly did you mean by that?" I asked her as the sailboat pulled away.
  
  
  Li Qin came over to lick me. Pricefooty licks.
  
  
  "You see, Carter," she said, " there's a Chinese proverb:"There is time to work and time to play."
  
  
  "Yes?"
  
  
  "Uh-huh." Now she was so close that her small, hard breasts were pressed against my chest. "Now it's time to play."
  
  
  "Yes?" he said. That was all I could say.
  
  
  "I mean, you don't believe all this nonsense about French women being the best mistresses, do you?"
  
  
  "Is there any better?"
  
  
  "Uh-huh. Prices are better for many people. Do you want to know
  
  
  
  
  I told her. "Why not?"
  
  
  I found it out. She was right. I mean, she was right!
  
  
  Thread.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Carter Nick
  
  
  Six bloody summer days
  
  
  
  
  Annotations
  
  
  
  DESERT DEATH TRAP.
  
  
  The American ambassador was killed. President Mendanicke was killed in an "accidental" plane crash. Ego is a beautiful widow in captivity. A ruthless and treacherous man named Abu Osman is plotting to overthrow the new government. And Colonel Mohammed Duza, the head of the secret police, with his murder plans ...
  
  
  He might have let the small North African republic burn in its own bloodbath if it hadn't been for the Kokai, a stolen missile, the deadliest weapon in NATO's nuclear arsenal. Tasks for Killmaster: enter this hell in the desert, alone, find a rocket and destroy it.
  
  
  He didn't have much time. He had SIX BLOODY SUMMER DAYS in Rivne!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 15
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 16
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 17
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 18
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 19
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 20
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 21
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  
  Killmaster
  
  
  Six bloody summer days
  
  
  
  
  
  Dedicated to members of the United States Secret Service
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat down in the boat and listened to the silence. The water glistened golden in the sun. He squinted at its brightness, looking at the conifers gathered by gnome-like conclaves on the lake's edge. Firs and birches rose on the rowing boats. But nothing larger than a mosquito moved within my line of sight. It was unnatural; a combination of such factors. I could have waited for it or started the action. I don't like waiting. What I wanted may also not be pleasant to wait for. My right hand moved smoothly back, my left hand relaxed, and relaxed, and then a forward motion, frank forward and careful with the wrist.
  
  
  There was silence. My left hand began its delicate task. He could feel the sweat on his neck and forehead. The weather didn't suit. It should have been sharp and cool, and the wind ruffled the water. Instead, he saw a small wave and caught the color changes beneath it.
  
  
  My opponent made his move. Deadly fast and accurate, it hit... and he ran. It weighed about three hundred pounds, if it was an ounce, speckled with Arctic coal and full of energy. He kept it to fight. For two days he was haunted by ego. He knew that although the other trout sank deep into the water because of the unseasonable heat, this one liked to go his own way, feeding in the shallow water among the reeds. Her ego saw it. She was driven by an ego, and the ego of independence was something I liked. Maybe he refuted the media reports about me, Nick Carter, who was enjoying a much-needed vacation on a desert lake in Quebec.
  
  
  I knew he was going to be a fighter, but he was big, he was full of guile. Maybe he looks more like a Hawk than a Sump, I thought as he jumped into the boat and tried to break the line. "No such luck, mate," I said. For a moment, it seemed like only two people around us were competing in an empty world. But it couldn't last, any more than silence can.
  
  
  The buzz of a mosquito, but then louder, the complaint turns into familiar nonsense. A speck in the sky was flying candid towards me, and I didn't need a magical reflection in & nb to tell me that it meant saying goodbye to R&R and five more days of fishing at Lake Kloss. The life of a secret agent is never interrupted as much as when he is recovering from the dangers of his profession.
  
  
  But not now, tailor take it! He argued that not all fishing stories have the length of a shark's leg and the width of its belly. I had Keith on the line, and everything else can wait. But that didn't happen.
  
  
  The big RCAF AB-206A bumped into me clumsily, and the push of the ego fans not only churned up the water, but nearly knocked me off my feet. I wasn't amused. He swatted the bloody thing away, and it rolled sideways like an overgrown dragonfly.
  
  
  My opponent sank into confusion. Now he broke the surface and threw it into the water, shaking like a terrier as he tried to throw the hook. He hoped the sight would impress those in the helicopter. It must have been because they sat motionless in the air and rattled loudly while he played with his friend on the line. He jumped on & nb half a dozen times
  
  
  even before her ego brought her closer to the boat. Then it was a difficult task to hold the line taut with your right hand, and stretch the net under it with your left. When fishing, if you want fish, never take your time. You remain calm and calm, well-coordinated; I'm good at some things.
  
  
  It might not have been more than a foot long, but it looked like this. And his color is a rich tan, full of red-brown tones, with a beautiful mottled belly. He was exhausted, but he didn't give up. Even when she was supported by ego in front of his aerial audience, he tried to free himself. He was too free and full of spirit to give up, and I knew I was leaving. Ego kissed her slimy head and threw her back into the water. . He slapped his tail, not in gratitude, but in protest, and then left.
  
  
  He swam to the shore, tied the boat to the dock and collected cabins in his equipment. Then I went out to the end of the panel, and dropped the rope ladder by helicopter, and I climbed up, breathing balsam and pine, saying goodbye to peace and relaxation.
  
  
  Whenever I or any other AX agent is given R&R time, we know that it is borrowed, just like the rest of the time. In my case, he also knew that if there was a need to contact me, RCAF would be used to transmit the message, so it was no surprise that the helicopter flew over the treetops. What really surprised me was that Hawk was waiting inside me.
  
  
  David Hawke is my boss, director and head of operations at AX, the smallest agency in the U.S. government and the deadliest. Our business is global espionage. When it comes to the rough stuff, we pick up responsibility where the CIA and the rest of the guys around intelligence stop. In addition to the president, less than ten officials in the entire bureaucracy know about our existence. This is what Intelligence should be. This is similar to Ben Franklin's axiom: three people can keep a secret if two people around them are dead. We're the only ones left alive, and Hawk is in charge. At first glance, you might think that he is an elderly and not very successful used car salesman. A good cover for the man I consider the most astute cameraman in the deadliest game around.
  
  
  When her father poked his head through the hatch and one of the crew members held out his hand with the bag, she saw Hawk bending over his cupped hands, trying to light his ubiquitous cigar in the draught. By the time he got up and went in, and the trapdoor was closed, he was already sitting with his head thrown back, contentedly sucking smoke and brimstone around the fetid-smelling Brenda, the cigar he cherished.
  
  
  "Nice catch," he said, looking at me sardonically. "Sit down and buckle up so we can get out around this desert paradise."
  
  
  "If I'd known you were coming, I'd have caught two of them, sir," I said, sitting down next to him.
  
  
  The ego-rumpled suit fit the emu like a discarded sack, and there was no doubt that a neatly dressed crewman couldn't understand why there was such VIP treatment for an unkempt old geezer and a good trout fisherman.
  
  
  "Son," came the g? n? rale Hawke, over the heavy snort of the helicopter, " see if you can help the pilot."
  
  
  The commander, Kapralov, hesitated only for a moment. Then, with a curt nod, he moved toward the cockpit. The softness of Hawke's face disappeared with it. Now the thin face had taken on a look that sometimes suggested that someone in the Hawk family tree had been a Sioux or Cheyenne war chief. His expression reflected a pent-up power, full of insight and perception, ready to act.
  
  
  "Sorry for the interruption. We have a DEFCON alert." Hawk used formal words, as if the Scot were spending money.
  
  
  "Global, sir?" He felt a slight tingling sensation on the back of his neck.
  
  
  “no. Worse." As he spoke, the attache's suitcase was on his lap. "This will give you the background." He handed me an AX information folder with a red stripe on the cover designed only for the president's eyes. This was the second attempt. There was a brief summary. It was like an extended scenario of a conversation Hawk and I had no more than a Sunday ago. This did not mean that the AX headquarters in Dupont Circle in the nation's capital was bugged. For the battered cover of Amalgamated Press and Wire Services, we make no mistakes. It also didn't mean that we were clairvoyant, although there are times when it is certain that Hawke has the gift. This simply meant that it was possible to infer from the existing conditions, without using a computer, that there would be certain results. In this case, the result was belated - nuclear theft. It was also the nuclear theft of a new top-secret tactical weapon, which meant that there would be some sensitive diplomatic decisions on the president's part.
  
  
  Cockeye belongs to the SRAM class-a short-range attack missile. This is a type of rocket that we delivered to the Israelis during the Yom Kippur war. This is where the similarity ends. Cockerel is a nuclear bomb,
  
  
  and unlike any other short-range tactical nuclear weapon, its effectiveness is ninety percent. Translated, this means that while other nuclear weapons of the same size and type - whether in Warsaw Pact arsenals, in Beijing bunkers, or in our own - can destroy a city block, Cockeye can destroy a city. An extremely mobile cylindrical object, with a length of rivnenskaya sixteen feet, a weight of less than half a ton and a range of 150 miles, Cockeye is a strong trump card in your defense deck. And it has erased some of the troubling lines from the faces of our leaders and politicians at SHAPE and at the Pentagon.
  
  
  Reading the details of the loss of "Petushka", there was one obvious factor; the expertise of those who performed the operation. It was a smooth, elegant piece of work, and it showed an accurate knowledge of the location of the bunkers at Katzweiler north of Kaiserslauten in Rhineland-Platz, where the missile squadron was stored.
  
  
  There was heavy fog, which was common at this time of year or at 03: 00. There were no survivors in the fifty-man security team, and details of time and movement were collected by the CIDC. They arrived in a truck that was later discovered disguised as an American army six - by-eight. It was assumed that if they hadn't been wearing G. I. clothes, they would have met at least some resistance. Knives were used on three soldiers on duty at the gate, and on the bunker guards. Judging by the bodies of the latter, they thought that the ih killers were the ih rescuers. Two officers, and the rest died in their beds from gas poisoning.
  
  
  Only one nuclear-tipped missile was stolen. Immediate suspicion will be focused on the KGB or the SEPO Chikom using a team of Caucasian Maoists.
  
  
  But not for long. At the same time that the Cockerel was being taken, another theft was taking place a few kilometers to the south in a warehouse in Otterbach. It wasn't the first group that actually stole the Cockerel, but they used the same methods. In this case, the captured object was our latest UAV model-a remote unmanned vehicle-a black box, and all that.
  
  
  UAVs don't cost many legs longer than Cockeye. It has short, stubby wings and can fly at mach 2. Ego main purpose-photo intelligence. But pair Cockeye with a UAV, and you'll have a nuclear missile with a range of 4,200 miles and the ability to kill a million people.
  
  
  "Nuclear blackmail, a vote, and we're in the dell," I said.
  
  
  Hawk chuckled, and she reached for one of her custom-made cigarettes to try and muffle the smell of ego cigar.
  
  
  There was a single paragraph devoted to what could be called a bitter pill:
  
  
  Due to weather and time conditions, as well as the fact that all the personnel involved were eliminated, the theft in Katzweill was detected only at 05: 40, and in Otterbach - until 05: 55. Although USECOM in Hidelberg and SHAPE in Casto were immediately informed of the attack in Otterbach, the US and NATO headquarters were not informed of the disappearance of Cockeye until 07:30 for reasons currently under investigation.
  
  
  
  
  "Why this mess?" I said, looking up.
  
  
  "Someone unhappy with his rank as a brigade commander who thought he could solve everything on his own because he found the truck. It can make a difference."
  
  
  The following evaluation explained why. AX, like all Allied intelligence agencies, made every effort to track down the killers and recover the stolen items. Within 1,500 kilometers of Kaiserlauten, there was not a single truck, train, bus or plane that did not stop and search. All ground transport crossing Western European borders and the borders of the "Iron Curtain" was subjected to double checks. Aerial surveillance using special detection devices has covered the globe. Every agent on the ground from Kirkenes to Khartoum had one locality in Russia-find Petushok. If the buzzer had been turned on to increase the effort during the opening, rather than almost two hours later, it might still have been fishing.
  
  
  AX made a working assumption based on four criteria: 1. No major opposing force conducted this operation. They had their own drones, and stealing Odin as a diversion would be too risky. 2. Thus, the theft of UAVs was just as important for operations as the theft of Cockeye. 3. After the theft, time was the key factor. They who performed the double operation couldn't know how much time they had. This meant an immediate need for shelter or transportation across the area.
  
  
  If they remain in the area, the owners will be under constant disclosure pressure, and their ability to operate will be severely limited. 4. Cockeye and UAVs were most likely delivered around the intended point within the area to the intended point outside it.
  
  
  Studying the movements of all air traffic in the area of action immediately after the theft provides a single clue. A DC-7 propeller-driven cargo plane belonging to the North African People's Medicine Republic took off around the town of Rentstuhl Flugzeugtrager near Kaiserlauten at 05: 00 on the same day.
  
  
  The plane arrived a week early for engine repairs, and Rentstuhl specializes in non-jet aircraft repairs.
  
  
  In the fog, the DC-7 took off with minimal testing. An ego manifest checked by customs the night before showed that the nen was carrying spare engine parts. Parked at the far end of the ramp, the plane was in an isolated position and in the fog ego could not be seen around the tower or administrative building during the critical period.
  
  
  The three-man crew, who looked like NAPR military pilots, arrived for the operation at 04: 00. They presented a flight plan to the Heraklion airport in Athens. At 07:20, Civitavecchia Air Traffic Control was informed that the flight plan had been changed to Polyline-Straight, capital NAGR.
  
  
  Possible conclusion: Cockeye and UAVs were on board the DC-7.
  
  
  "That's pretty subtle, sir," I said, closing the folder.
  
  
  "That was yesterday. She's fatter with them ferrets, and I know what you're thinking - that Ben d'Oka Mendanike of the Republic's North African Folk Medicine would never have dragged himself into anything like this."
  
  
  The voice of what I was thinking.
  
  
  "Well, he's not involved anymore. He's dead." Hawk shook the stump of his cigar and squinted against the setting sun. Also Karl Petersen, our ambassador to NAPR. Both of them are killed after meeting in a secret meeting. Petersen was hit by a truck and Mendanicke in a plane crash in Budan, for example, three hours later, and all this at the same time as the blow to the "Cockerels ".
  
  
  "It could be a coincidence."
  
  
  "Maybe, but do you have any better ideas?" he said grumpily.
  
  
  "No, sir, but aside from Mendanick being unable to plan the theft of nuclear materials, he doesn't have anyone around the rat room ego who can rob the piggy bank. And as we both know, the situation in NAGR is long overdue for a coup by the colonels."
  
  
  He looked at me sharply. "I don't think I'll let you go fishing again. Odin! " He gave a thumbs-up gesture. "Nuke and UAV moved around point A. Two!" Ego index finger raised. "Until something better comes along, this DC-7 web is the damned lead we have. Three! "The other fingers went up - and hers, noticing that he had a long lifeline -" Nick Carter is going to Point B to see if he can find what was taken around point A. Okay?"
  
  
  "More or less. Emu grinned at her, and the sour look was replaced by what might be called an ego-friendly scowl.
  
  
  "It's a challenge, son," he said softly. "I know it's subtle, but there's no time. I don't know what the bastards mean. The oni have captured a new weapon that they know nothing about, and that it can be aimed at Odin around ih cities."
  
  
  The hawk is not around those who are not bothered by anything. Not alone, all around us. Otherwise, he wouldn't be sitting in his seat, and hers wouldn't be sitting next to him. But in the fading afternoon light, the lines of his face seemed deeper, and to the immobility of his ego, there was a glimmer of concern in his pale blue eyes. We had a problem.
  
  
  For me, this is the name of the game I was accused of playing. Get rid of all the "buts", " ifs " and "buts", get rid of the official jargon, and it's just a tailspin of how you proceed.
  
  
  Hawk informed me that we were on our way to Dorval Airport outside of Montreal. There, I'll catch an Air Canada candid fishing trip to Rome and then a "NAA Caravel" to Lamana. It was operated by Ned Cole, chief correspondent for Amalgamated Press and Wire Services-AP&WS. My assignment is to report on the sudden and tragic death of Prime Minister Ben-d'Oka Mendanike. The roof was solid enough. But as a safety net, I also had a second passport, a French one, in the name of Philippa D'Avignon, a hydrologist and water engineer at the European concern RAPCO. Fresh water for, for EXAMPLE, was on par with oil. They had a hell of a lot of both.
  
  
  We didn't have any AX staff to support me. I'd say we're small. My only official contact will be Henry Sutton, a CIA resident and commercial attache at the U.S. Embassy. He was waiting for me because of the ambassador's death, but he didn't know about my real mission. Even in this situation, it is AX's policy to disclose operational data to cooperating intelligence agencies only at the discretion of the field agent.
  
  
  In the beginning, I had two approaches: Mendanike's Pakistani widow, Shema, and the DC-7 crew. A widow, because she might have known the subject of Ambassador Petersen's secret meeting with her late husband and the reason for his sudden flight to Budan. As for the crew of the DC-7, for obvious reasons, he was asked to discuss flight plans with them.
  
  
  As I said, this was a routine procedure. It was Hawk who said,"You don't even have time to find out if Cockeye and UAVs are out there."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For the rest of the trip to the fishing camp, I memorized most of the background material Hawk had given me. This mainly concerned the North African folk medicine of the Republic.
  
  
  Each AX agent has an up-to-date picture of the geopolitical face of the globe. As a Killmaster N3, my knowledge is, of course, extensive and deep. This is how it should be, so that by focusing on the details, its already halfway there.
  
  
  Around all the countries of the Maghreb, NAGR is the poorest. It was created by the UN in the late 50s on the arid part of the former French possessions. As a "newly emerged third world country", its emergence was purely political.
  
  
  Ego capital Lomanaya is a deep-water port, strategically located, and long coveted by the Soviet Union. Admiral N. G. Goroshkov, commander-in-chief of the Russian Foreign Ministry, said in secret testimony before the Central Committee of the Politburo that Polomanaya is the key to controlling the Western Mediterranean. It didn't take a university genius to figure out why.
  
  
  This control was hindered by relations between President NARN Ben d'Oka Mendanika and Washington. It wasn't a relationship held together by good comradeship. The only thing Mendanika liked about the United States was the steady flow of funds. He took ego in one hand, slapping his benefactor's face verbally with each hand. But in exchange for help, he did not give the Soviets the right to bunker in Laman, and was also smart enough to be wary of the ih presence on his territory.
  
  
  There were some parallels with the Tito situation and the Soviet onslaught on the Adriatic ports. The name Mendanike was often associated with the name of the Yugoslav leader. In fact, the thick headline on the Montreal Star banner read: "Mendanike, North African Tito is dead."
  
  
  An Oxford-educated Ceylonese, Mendanike seized power in 1964, overthrowing and killing the old king Faki in a bloody coup. Faki's relative, the Posh Hassan Abu Osman, was not very happy about the transition, and when Washington refused to provide emu with weapons, he went to Beijing. Ego The decade-long guerrilla campaign in the southern sector of the NAPR sand mound around Budan was occasionally mentioned in the press. Osman's influence was small, but like Mustafa Barzani in Iraq, he had no intention of leaving, and his Chinese suppliers were patient.
  
  
  The Mendanike crash killed six of the egos of his closest advisers. In fact, the only remaining member of the ego of the ruling entourage was General Salem Azziz Tasahmed. For hitherto undisclosed reasons, Ego polecat wasn't pulled out by the trash po along with six others to make an unexpected trip on a one-thread ticket to the obituary column.
  
  
  After the news of the disaster, Tasahmed declared himself a marshal and announced that he would lead the interim government. The general was forty, trained at Saint-Cyr, the former French West Point, and had been a colonel during the 1964 coup. He had a woman, Mendanike's sister, and she and Ben were loyal friends to the death. On this occasion, AX Inform stated:
  
  
  Tasakhmed, as is known, has been dealing with a KGB agent, A. V. Sellin, the head of the Malta residency, who was seconded to the leadership since June 1974. Nearby was the Black Sea Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral VS Sysoev.
  
  
  ;
  
  
  As the Star warned, Mendanike's "tragic death" provoked outraged demands from a number of third and fourth world leaders to convene an emergency session of the UN Security Council. Accidental death was not taken into account. The beleaguered CIA was once again a whipping boy, and while there was no sense that the Security Council could trigger the resurrection of a "well-known statesman and defender of peoples' rights," the meeting would provide a broad opportunity to express anger against the US imperialist war.
  
  
  With all the extra experience Hawk gave me, my initial assessment didn't change. The thing is, it was hard. In this situation, all the components of a classic counter-coup inspired by the Soviet Union were present. And the only link between Katzweiler and Lamana was that DC-7 plane that seemed to have taken off on a normal flight, and the only suspicious action was to change the destination midway.
  
  
  By the time we landed in front of the RCAF hangar in Dorval, her car was still waiting for us.
  
  
  changed into a spa suit and assumed the identity of Ned Cole on P & WS. When I'm not on duty, a fully packed travel bag and a special case for the AX attache are left at headquarters for a quick check, and Hawk ih is picked up. Off-duty or on-duty, my Swedish team consists of Wilhelmina, my 9mm luger, Hugo, an arm-mounted stiletto, and Pierre, the walnut-sized gas bomb I usually wear in my jockey shorts. I've been thoroughly searched more times than I can count, and one of the reasons I want to talk about it is because no one thought to search this place.
  
  
  He stood on the field line in the early evening darkness with Hawk as he prepared to board the executive plane that would take Ego back to the capital. There was no longer any need to tell the details of the story.
  
  
  "For estestvenno, the president damn well wants this case wrapped up before it goes public," Hawk said, cupping his hands and lighting another cigar.
  
  
  "I think they are silent for one or two reasons, or maybe both. Wherever they hide us Cockeye, they need time to set up the ego of the UAV and work with avionics. It might be too difficult for them."
  
  
  "What other reason?"
  
  
  "Logistics. If this is blackmail, the requirements must be met, the conditions must be met. It takes time to implement such a plan."
  
  
  "Let's hope that this is enough to give us enough... He mentioned for the first time the reason why he was fishing on a lake in Quebec.
  
  
  "I hate long vacations."
  
  
  "How's the same level?"
  
  
  "Better. At least I have it, and that bastard Tupamaro Stahl is a head shorter."
  
  
  "Hmm." The cigar string glowed red in the cold twilight.
  
  
  "Very good, sir," a voice said from across the plane.
  
  
  "He apologized for leaving you with my fishing gear," I said.
  
  
  "I'll try my luck in Potomac. Goodbye, son." Stay in touch."
  
  
  "The ego hand was like an iron tree."
  
  
  I was taken by car to the airport terminal. During the short ride, her harness was pulled back on. Registration was completed immediately. Security, if you can get past me by giving my Casey attache a cursory look and searching my body like a cake. The Boeing 747 had virtually no payload. Despite the fact that I was traveling in economy class, like any reporter in the Barents Sea, I had three seats that were good for recreation and vaults.
  
  
  While drinking and eating hers, I relaxed, but as Hawk said, it all came down to one thing. The stolen items may be somewhere in the NARR. If they were there, my task was not only to find ih, but also to get rid of the one who advertises ego there. To help me from above will be " satellite and reconnaissance from the SR-71 maolet.
  
  
  Before, truth was stronger than fiction. Now ee's violence price is far ahead of science fiction. TV, movies, and books don't keep up. It became a matter of superiority. And the main reason for the acceleration is that today in Los Angeles, Munich, Rome or Athens, those who kill their fellow human beings too often get away with it. In the good old US, philanthropists worry about the attackers, not the victims. AX works differently. Otherwise, it couldn't work at all. We have an older code. Kill or be killed. Protect what needs to be protected. Loyal to everything that has fallen into the hands of the enemy. I didn't do anything on the dell itself. Only results.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Leonardo da Vinci Airport terminal building in Rime is a long glass-enclosed concave corridor with a bunch of airline counters, express buses and newsstands. The glass faces the field line, and there are descending ramps of multiple entrance gates where major airline planes come together. Less prestigious carriers heading to North Africa and the south and east are loaded from the rear wings of the terminal, which proves that, at least in Rime, despite the newfound influence of Arab oil-producing countries, there is a certain set of differences. still observed.
  
  
  Walking down a wide, densely populated corridor was good for two things-observation and training a recovering leg. Surveillance was more important. From the moment I took off on the Air Canada flight, I knew that I was under surveillance. This is an inner feeling based on long experience. I never argue with that. It was there when she disembarked on the ramp and grew up along with the cappuccino she ordered at Express Barre. It remained firm as he went to the newsstand and bought a Rome Corriere Delia Sera, then sat down in the next chair to look at the headlines. Mendanicke was still the front page. It was reported that there is tension in the country, but under strict control. I decided it was time to go to the men's room and straighten my tie.
  
  
  I noticed it while studying new products from Lamana.
  
  
  He was small and wiry, with a sallow complexion and plain clothes. He could be from anywhere, a typical face in a crowd. I was interested in ego intention, not ego anonymity. Only Hawk and AX central control knew I was in Rime... presumably.
  
  
  In the mirror of the men's room, my face glowered at me. I made a note to remind myself to smile more forever. If I wasn't careful, it would start to look like someone made up a secret agent.
  
  
  There was a fairly constant movement of people exiting around the room, but my little watcher didn't enter. Probably too experienced a pro. When I left her and went down the stairs to the main corridor, he disappeared.
  
  
  There was plenty of time before the flight, but I went to a distant check-in point to see if I could scare her ego away. He didn't show up. Its sel to think about. He was a real spy. The ego goal was probably to confirm my arrival and report it. To whom? I didn't have an answer, but if ego control was alerted, so was hers. Perhaps the advantage was with the opponent, but they made a serious mistake. Ih interest indicated that something had gone wrong in the Hawk's background.
  
  
  I went back to reading the Corriere. It was full of speculation about Mendanike's death and its significance to the GRENADES. The details of the crash matched those provided by Hawke. The plane was making a routine approach to land an ADF runway on the edge of the Buda Oases. Normal in all respects, except that it hit the ground eight miles from both ends of the runway. The plane exploded on impact. This crash was sabotage, but until now ferret no one could explain how the DC-6 flew into the desert sand, with its wheels extended and standard descent speed, at a time when the weather was "clear" between daylight and dark. This ruled out an explosion on board or on another plane that shot down Mendanike. General Tasahmed said a full investigation will be conducted.
  
  
  My fellow travelers began to gather. Mixed audience, mostly Arab, some wearing Western clothing, others not. There were a few non-Arabs. Three of them were French engineers, and two were British heavy equipment salesmen. Given the circumstances, I didn't think ih was a good time to do business. But such things don't seem to bother the Brits.
  
  
  The assembled group paid little attention to the other two, checking their watches from time to time and waiting for the plane to arrive to begin the ritual of check-ins and checks. Then the last battle at the airport in Rhyme, even Arab Airlines began to take security seriously. Wilhelmina and Hugo were in their locked cells, in an attache case. There would be no problem with that, but when only one NAA clerk arrived, a man twenty minutes late with a clipboard under his arm, he realized that the problem was coming from a different source.
  
  
  He spoke first in Arabic, then in bad English, his nasal voice flat and unapologetic.
  
  
  Some of the waiting crowd groaned. The others asked questions. Some began to protest and argue with the attendant, who immediately took a defensive stance.
  
  
  "I say," the larger of the two Englishmen seemed suddenly aware of my presence, " what seems to be the problem? A delay?"
  
  
  "I'm afraid so. He suggests we return at one o'clock in the afternoon."
  
  
  "An hour! But that's not before..."
  
  
  "One hour," sighed the sad-eyed ego companion.
  
  
  As they pondered the bad news, her husband considered calling the Rome number and putting the plane at his disposal. First, it was a spin on whether his squad was worth the risk of a special arrival that would attract attention at a time when suspicions of Laman had become more paranoid than usual. And secondly, there was a corkscrew, whether you set me up for murder. Hers, I figured I'd catch up somehow. In the meantime, I'd like to get some rest. Left her two Brits discussing whether they would eat the beginning of a second breakfast around bloody steaks before they cancelled their reservation, or afterwards.
  
  
  On the second floor of the terminal, there is a so-called temporary hotel in the hall, where you can rent a room-a camera with a bunk bed. Pull the heavy curtains over the windows and you can block out the saints if you want to rest.
  
  
  In the lower tier, I put both pillows under the blanket and let the curtains hang down. Then I went up to the top level and bench press to wait for the development of events.
  
  
  Clare's NAA announced that the three-hour delay was due to a mechanical fault. From her position in the waiting area, she could see our Caravel of field lines below. Luggage was loaded into the lower part of the plane, and the fuel tanker employee refilled the tanks of the JP-4 aircraft. If the plane had mechanical
  
  
  the problem was not visible to us, the mechanics, to us evidence that someone was doing something to fix something. It was a fuzzy situation. I decided to take it personally. Survival in my email business requires a direct relationship. Better to be found out wrong than dead. In the hotel register, I wrote my name to her in large and clear type.
  
  
  He arrived an hour and fifteen minutes later. I could have left the key in the lock and made it harder for the emu, but I didn't want it to be difficult. Take him to the hotel, talk to him. He heard the faint click of switches as his key turned.
  
  
  He climbed down from the bunk and landed soundlessly on the cold marble floor. As the door opened inwards, it was bypassed by its end. A crack appeared. The doorway widened. It didn't seem enough - a Beretta with a bulky silencer. She knows the bony wrist, the shiny blue jacket.
  
  
  The gun coughed twice, and in the dim light the pillows jumped convincingly in rheumatism. Letting the emu continue was a waste of ammunition. Her ego cut her wrist, and when the Beretta hit the floor, it catapulted ego into the room, slamming ego against a two-story bed and kicking the door shut.
  
  
  It was small, but it recovered quickly and was as fast as a venomous dragon. He spun around between the bedposts, spun around, and came at me with a blade in his left hand that looked like a small machete. He sat down with an unfriendly expression on his face. Hugo's stiletto whirled as he groped her, squeezing her ego .
  
  
  He spat, trying to distract me by pushing me into life, and then punched him in the throat. Ego's breathing was ragged, and his yellowish eyes were glazed. She feinted with Hugo, and when he counterattacked, he kicked her in the crotch. He'd avoided most of the blow, but now she was pinned down by ego k moaning. He tried to pull away, intending to crack my skull. Her ego caught my wrist before it could part my hair. Then ego spun her around, his face slamming into the wall, his arm twisted toward ego's neck, Hugo stabbing Ego in the throat. The ego weapon made a pleasant clanging sound as it hit the floor. Ego's breathing was hoarse, as if he had run a very long way and lost a race.
  
  
  "You don't have time to be sorry. Who sent you?" I tried it in four languages, and then raised my hand to the limit. He writhed and gasped. Her blood was spilled with Hugo.
  
  
  "Five more seconds and you're dead," he told her in Italian.
  
  
  Its wrong us in what language. He died in four seconds. He made a sobbing sound, and then hers, felt his ego, his body shudder, his muscles clench as if he was trying to escape from inside. It collapsed, and I had to hold my ego back. He bit the ampoule normally, only it was filled with cyanide. I smelled bitter almonds when I put Ego on the bunk.
  
  
  In the ritual of death, he didn't look any better than he was alive. He didn't have any identification, which is not surprising. That he killed himself to prevent me from forcing the ego to speak proved either a fanatical devotion, or a fear of a more painful death before he spoke - or both.
  
  
  He took her to the bunk and lit a cigarette. Her never spend time thinking about what might have happened if hers had acted differently. I leave the luxury of self-incrimination to the philosopher. Here I had the remains of a small assassin who first checked my arrival and then tried his best to prevent my departure.
  
  
  Somewhere between ego observation and ego final act, someone with significant influence is trying to lure me to jail for murder by ordering a long delay in my planned trip. My would-be assassin's instructions regarding the method by which he could get rid of me must have been flexible. He couldn't have known I was going to take a little rest. He could have done half a dozen other things to pass the time, and all of them would have been in plain sight. This would make it easier for the killer to work and increase the likelihood of his ego being caught. All of this indicated a certain degree of desperation.
  
  
  The attempt also raised serious questions: someone knew it was Nick Carter and not Ned Cole. If this someone was connected to NAPR, why kill me in Rime? Why don't you let me come to Lamana and risk killing me there? The oddity of the answers may be that whoever made my new roommate was not affiliated with NAPR, but with North African Airlines. Since the two were part of the same structure, the kill orders came from outside, but had significant influence within the airlines.
  
  
  I don't know if the body had a wingman in my bunk. In any case, someone will be waiting for a report on the success of the mission. It would be interesting to see what the silence will produce. Left her ego under the covers.With a beretta under the pillow. The Carabinieri would have fun trying to figure this out.
  
  
  Just like Hawk."
  
  
  I sent emu a coded telegram addressed to Mrs. Helen Cole in the District of Columbia. In nen, she was asked to provide all information about the ownership and control of North African Airlines. I also mentioned that it looks like my cover was blown. Then I retired to a restaurant at the airport to try some good Catalans and Bardolino fiascos. Only the waiter noticed me.
  
  
  It was ten minutes to one when her flight returned to the landing zone. The passengers have already been checked, and the mechanical problem has been solved. Two Britons, more flushed but by no means thinner from the delay, blurted about each other as a stern Arab with a red fez searched ih and demanded weapons.
  
  
  My own admission was routine. None of the three male assistants paid more attention to me than anyone else. He passed through the gate and went down the ramp into the afternoon sunlight, trying to be in the middle of the flow of passengers. I didn't think anyone would shoot me from this vantage point, but then I didn't expect it and the admissions committee.
  
  
  The Caravelle's interior was narrow, and the twin seats flanking the gorge were designed for payload rather than comfort. There was room for hand luggage at the bottom, and the upper shelves, reserved only for coats and hats, were crammed with all sorts of goods. Two flight attendants in dark blue uniforms with a short skirt didn't try to impose rules, I know it's useless. The paint was peeling off, just like the beige decor in my head. However, I hoped that the aircraft maintenance would be more professional. He chose a seat in the back. That way, he could check out new arrivals and not have our backs turned to anyone.
  
  
  At 13.20, passengers stopped boarding. Most of the seats were taken. However, the tail ramp remained lowered, and the pilot did not turn on the engines. We were entertained by an Arabic muzak. It is unlikely that we were waiting for another announcement about a mechanical delay. We weren't ready for this. We were waiting for the last passenger to arrive.
  
  
  He came huffing and puffing, stumbling heavily down the stairs, emu helped by the taller po of two flight attendants waiting for ego to meet.
  
  
  I could hear him wheezing in French: "Hurry, hurry, hurry. Everything is in a hurry... Then he saw the flight attendant and switched to Arabic: "As-salam aliqum, binti."
  
  
  "Ca aliqum as-salam, aboui," she replied, smiling as she held out her hand to the emu. And then in French: "No hurry, Doctor."
  
  
  "Ahhh, tell that to your booking desk!" It was loaded with a plastic bag full of wine bottles and a large battered suitcase.
  
  
  The stewardess laughed at him as she emptied his bags, while he panted and protested against the unnatural departure time. The ego of a taxi is stuck in the damned Roman traffic. The least FAO could do is provide the emu with a car, etc., etc.
  
  
  The doctor was a big man with a heavy face. He had a hat for curly, close-cropped gray hair. This, along with ego's iris skin, indicated some black bloodline. Ego's dark blue eyes were an interesting contrast. As the flight attendant was packing Ego's things, he plopped down on the seat next to me, wiping his face with a handkerchief and catching his breath apologetically.
  
  
  I spoke to him in English as the tail ladder went up and locked in place. "Some tough race, huh?"
  
  
  Now he was looking at me with interest. "Ah, English," he said.
  
  
  "Several times they fired at the train station. An American."
  
  
  He spread his meaty arms wide: "American!" He seemed to have made an exciting discovery. "Well, welcome! Welcome!" He held out his hand. "Her Dr. Otto van der Meer for the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations". Ego's accent was more French than Dutch.
  
  
  "Seat belt, Doctor," the flight attendant said.
  
  
  "What's that!" His voice was loud, and he noticed that several passengers looked over and either smiled or waved at the emu.
  
  
  The belt buckled ego's bulging midsection, and he turned his attention back to me as the Caravel moved away from the cushion and began to steer. "So American. RAPKO?"
  
  
  "No, her journalist. My name is Cole."
  
  
  "Ahh, I understand her, journalist. How do you do, Mr. Cole, very nice to meet you." The ego handshake showed that there was something firmer under the girth. "Are you from hema, The New York Times?"
  
  
  “no. AP and WS."
  
  
  "Ah, yes, yes. Very good." He didn't know AP&W, AT&T, and emu didn't care. "I assume you're going to Lamana because of the Prime Minister's death."
  
  
  "This is what my editor suggested."
  
  
  "A terrible thing. I was here in Rime when I heard it."
  
  
  He shook his head. "A sad blow."
  
  
  "Did you know that ego is good?"
  
  
  "Yes, of course."
  
  
  "Do you mind if I combine business with pleasure and ask you a few questions about nen?"
  
  
  He blinked at me. The ego lobe was wide and long, making the lower part of the face appear oddly shortened. "No, no, not at all. Ask me what you like and I'll tell you everything I can."
  
  
  She was taken out of her notebook, and over the next hour, he answered her questions and filled out several pages of information that I already had.
  
  
  The doctor was of the popular opinion that even if Mendanike's death was accidental, which he doubted, the colonel's coup was somewhere in the works.
  
  
  "Colonel-General Tashahmed?"
  
  
  He shrugged. "He would be the most obvious choice."
  
  
  "But where is the coup in this? Mendanike is no more. Won't the succession go to the general?"
  
  
  "The colonel could have been involved in nen. Colonel Mohammed Dusa - Head of the security Service. It is said that he modeled his organization on the Egyptian Mukhabarat."
  
  
  Which was then modeled after the KGB with the help of Soviet advisers. I read it about Duza in my informational materials. They determined that he was Tasahmed's man. "What can he do if the army belongs to Tasahmed?"
  
  
  "The army is not a Mukhabarat," he muttered. Then he sighed, crossing his meaty arms over his chest as he stared at the back of the seat in front of him. "You have to understand something, Mr. Cole. He spent most of his life in Africa. I've seen similar things before. But its an international civil servant. I don't care about politics, they disgust me. jackals compete to see who can be the top jackal. Mendanike may have looked like a windbag, but he wasn't a fool in his homeland. He took care of his people as best he could, and it's hard to say how things will end now that he's gone, but if things go on like this, it will be bloody."
  
  
  The doctor got stuck in his teeth and didn't understand the meaning. "Are you saying that Duza is getting help from outside?"
  
  
  "Well, I don't want to be quoted, but as part of my job, I have to travel around the country a lot, and I'm not blind."
  
  
  "You mean Abu Osman fits in with this?"
  
  
  "Osman!" He looked at me with wide eyes. "Osman is an old reactionary fool, running around in the sand, calling for holy war like a camel shouting about & nb. No, no, it's something else."
  
  
  "I'm not going to play a guessing game, Doctor."
  
  
  "Look, I'm already saying too much. You're a good American journalist, but I really don't know you. I do not know what you will do with my words."
  
  
  "I listen, not quote. This is background information. Whatever you have in mind, I'll still have to check it out."
  
  
  "I mean, Mr. Cole, you might have trouble checking anything. You may not even be allowed to enter the country." It was getting a little harsh.
  
  
  "This is a chance that any journalist should take when their editor says: go away."
  
  
  "Old. Its sure that it is. But now there will be no friendliness towards Americans, especially those who ask questions."
  
  
  "Well, if its going to get the dubious honor of being kicked around this place before I get there, its going to try to speak softly," I said. "You know, of course, about the death of our ambassador?"
  
  
  "Of course, but it doesn't mean anything to people. They only think about the death of their leader. Do you see the connection between them? Well, "he took a deep breath and sighed, a man who had reluctantly made up his mind," Look, I'll say one more thing, and that's enough of this interview. Several people have visited the country in recent months. I know her ih look, because I've seen her, well, in other places. Partisans, mercenaries, commandos-what pleases-several people come at the same time, do not stay in Laman, go to the village. I only see her in the villages. Why should such people come to this place? I ask myself. There's nothing here. Who pays them? Not Mendanicke. So maybe they are tourists on vacation, sitting in a cafe, admiring the view. You know that, Mr. Newsboy. Veneer ". He put a stop to it, spread his hands. "Now you'll excuse me. I need to rest." He threw back his head, threw back the seat, and fell asleep.
  
  
  The ego position was that the person wanted to talk but was reluctant to do so, becoming increasingly reluctant as they continued, until they reached a point where they were upset and dissatisfied with their frankness with an unknown journalist. Either he talked too much, or he was a good actor.
  
  
  In any case, there was no need to tell me about the influx if they didn't think so. The commandos stole nuclear weapons, and while the Middle East from Casablanca to South Yemen was full of them, this could be a lead.
  
  
  When the good doctor woke up,
  
  
  After the nap, he was in a better mood. We had about an hour left, and he advised Emu to talk about his agricultural projects. He spent most of his life in Africa. He had a Belgian father-not a Dutch one-who went to the University of Louvain, but after that his life was devoted to the food problems of the Dark Continent.
  
  
  As the pilot began to descend, van der Meer switched from telling me about the global catastrophe of drought spreading to wearing his seat belt. "Alas, my friend," he said, " customs are never easy here. It can be very difficult for you at this time. Stay with me. I'll make you a FAO writer, how's that?"
  
  
  "I wouldn't want to give you any trouble."
  
  
  He snorted. "It's not a problem for me. They know me well enough."
  
  
  It felt like an opportunity. If it was anything else, he would have found out why. "I appreciate the offer," I said. "I'll follow you."
  
  
  "I assume you don't speak Arabic?"
  
  
  There is always the advantage of muting the language of a hostile country. "This isn't one around my talents," I said.
  
  
  He nodded pontifically. "What about French?"
  
  
  "Un peu."
  
  
  "Well, use it as best you can if you're going to be questioned and questioned." He rolled his eyes.
  
  
  "I'll try, "he said, wondering if I could write an article under the cover of a journalist about why the" liberated " elite of the former French dominions prefer to speak French as a status symbol rather than their native language.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The city of Lomanaya is located on the edge of an ancient crescent-shaped harbor, built before the Romans drove out the Carthaginians. We flew over it and over the dusty metropolis below. It hasn't grown much since my last stop.
  
  
  "Have you been here before?" The doctor asked.
  
  
  "I expected the polyline to be larger." I said it, implying that I didn't.
  
  
  "It must have a reason to grow. The Roman ruins at Portarios were once a tourist attraction. Maybe if we find oil, who knows."
  
  
  The Lamana Airport terminal was a typical yellowish square building with attached wings. Apart from it sat a single large room with a high vaulted roof. Apart from us, there were no other planes on the field line. Along the field line was a platoon of infantry wearing blue-and-white checkered kufiyahs as headdresses. They were equipped with Belgian FN 7.65 submachine guns and backed up by half a dozen conveniently placed French Panhard AML combat vehicles.
  
  
  The platoon compartment was stretched along the sun-baked asphalt. We passed mimmo them, heading for the customs wing of the terminal. One stewardess led the parade, the other brought up the rear. As he helped the doctor deal with the overload, he noticed that the squad looked sloppy, with no bearing or polish, just sullen looks.
  
  
  "I don't like this," the doctor muttered. "Maybe there is already a coup."
  
  
  Douan - "customs" - in any country of the third or fourth world-is a long process. This is one of the best ways to get even. It also reduces unemployment. Give the man a uniform, tell em he's the boss, and you won't have to pay em a lot to keep him on the job. But then two new factors were added - indignation at the loss of a leader and uncertainty. The result was tension and a sense of fear among the new arrivals. Her ego could smell her in the fetid, airless shed that served as a welcome home.
  
  
  The queue moved at a given slowness, the traveler had to present a travel card, passport and an immunization card at separate stations where inspectors were located, trying to cause trouble and delay. Up ahead, the angry voice of an altercation between the three Frenchmen and the interrogators rang out. The trios around Paris were not shy; they were wise in their actions.
  
  
  When it was van der Meer's turn, he greeted the officer behind the counter in Arabic, like a long-lost brother. The brother grunted evasively at rheumatism and waved a heavy hand.
  
  
  When I reached the counter, the doctor switched to French for me. "This person is different. He came across the Rhyme to write about experimental farms."
  
  
  A thick-necked, square-faced clerk waved at the doctor and focused on my paperwork. When he saw the passport, he jerked his head up and stared at me with angry satisfaction. "American!" he spat out in English, a dirty word. Then he growled in Arabic.: "Why did you come here?"
  
  
  «C'est dommage, M'sieu. Je ne comprend pas, " I said, looking into the emu's dirty eyes.
  
  
  "Raison! Raison! " he shouted, drawing attention. "Porquoi êtes-vous ici?" And then, in Arabic, " Son of a dung eater."
  
  
  "How is your famous doctor
  
  
  Van der Meer said: "I stuck to the French." Well done=) to report on what you have achieved by turning the desert into a fertile land. This is good news that should be reported everywhere. Don't you agree, Monsieur Major?" "
  
  
  This ego has been pushed back a bit. The promotion from junior lieutenant didn't hurt. This caused a grunt.
  
  
  "It's something to be proud of." He took it out and handed it to Emu. "You're lucky to have someone like the doctor." I smiled at van der Meer, who was standing in line at the next counter, looking over his shoulder at us with concern.
  
  
  The newly promoted major grunted again as he took a cigarette, impressed by the gold initials. He was holding a lighter. "How long do you plan to stay here?" he snarled, studying my visa, forged by AX.
  
  
  "On Sunday, in-Shalah."
  
  
  "No, not a salvo from Allah, but a salvo from Mustafa." He exhaled a cloud of smoke, pointing at himself.
  
  
  "If you want, I'll put it in the article I'm going to write. Major Mustafa, who welcomed me and gave me the opportunity to tell others about the great things you are doing here." Her father made a big gesture.
  
  
  If he knew it was a hoax, he knew better than to show it. His voice was loud enough for all the other inspectors to hear me. Arabs have a dry sense of humor. They know nothing better than to see the loudmouths around them laughing . However, he felt that at least some people did not like Mustafa.
  
  
  In fact, it was much easier to play with than trout. After passing mimmo to them, checking and punching became more routine. The search of the luggage was thorough, but not thorough enough to disturb Wilhelmina and Hugo. I've only heard myself called a "dirty American spy"twice. By the time my suitcase and bag were awarded the white chalk allowed, its felt like home.
  
  
  Van der Meer was waiting for me, and when we came out of the stuffy seraglio, two Britons who didn't speak French to us, or Arabic to us, were arguing with Mustafa.
  
  
  A porter dropped our luggage in the trunk of a vintage Chevy. The doctor gave us a tip and, with the blessing of Allah, we boarded.
  
  
  "Are you staying at the Lomanai Palace?" My host was sweating profusely.
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  I looked at her on the stage. The terminal on the front looked more human. It was a circular road with a jutting boom for hanger traffic and a gravel road leading through Jebel to the mirage of lakes. In the hot fog to the south, the broken hills were higher, windswept, sun-baked. The hard blue sky was a merciless emitter of the sun.
  
  
  "You won't find that it lives up to its name... the palace". The doctor sighed, leaning back in his seat as he gave the driver instructions. "But it's the best a polyline can offer."
  
  
  "I want to thank you for your help." Hers also sat while the driver tried to push the accelerator pedal through the floor before he completed the signposts to pull off the road.
  
  
  The doctor had no patience for that. "Slow down, sixth son of a camel driver!" He bellowed in Arabic. "Slow down, or I'll report you to security!"
  
  
  The driver looked in the mirror in surprise, lifted his leg, and pouted.
  
  
  "Ah, this is too much." Van der Meer wiped his face with a handkerchief. "It's all so stupid, so wasteful. I'm praising you for the way you behaved. Your French was good."
  
  
  "It could have been worse. They can take my passport."
  
  
  "They'll pick up the ego at the hotel, and God knows when you'll get it back."
  
  
  "You know, maybe I'll go out and write an article about your work. Where can I find you?"
  
  
  "I would be honored." He absurdly looks like he's serious. "If he was staying in the city, he would have invited you to be my guest. But I have to go to Pacar. We have stations there where we grow soybeans and cotton. He should be back tomorrow. Why don't you take my card? If you're still here, give me a call. I will guide you to the main direction of our work, and you can ask me what you like ."
  
  
  "If he's not in jail or I haven't been kicked out, we'll try, Doctor. Do you think there's already been a coup d'etat?"
  
  
  Van der Meer sent a letter to the driver: "Is everything quiet in the city?"
  
  
  "Soldiers and tanks, but everything is quiet."
  
  
  "Wait until they have a funeral. If I were you, Mr. Cole, I wouldn't be leaving the street at this time. Actually, why don't you come with me now? Until everything calms down."
  
  
  "Thank you, but I'm afraid the press won't wait, even at the funeral."
  
  
  Because of complaints about a poorly used engine, a new sound came to her. Her, looked around. Through the gray screen of our dust, another car was rapidly approaching. It was a two-lane road.
  
  
  he knew that if an oncoming driver tried to go around, he would have already turned into the overtaking lane. There was no time for the briefing. He swung himself over the seat, knocked the driver off the steering wheel, and pulled the Chevy hard to the right, then to the left. Her father struggled to stay on the road as the gravel rolled and the tires screeched. There was a single shattering clang of metal on metal as another car flew by mimmo. He was going too fast to stop and pull away.
  
  
  There was no time to look at it, and as he passed mimmo, he didn't slow down. The driver began to howl in rage, as if calling the faithful to prayer. Van der Meer's soundtrack seemed to be stuck in a groove. "My word! My word!"it was all that happened. He handed the wheel back to the driver, feeling better, hoping the near miss was a sign of something more than someone in a killing rush.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctor bade me an anxious farewell at the hotel entrance. He'll send a message as soon as he gets back on Pakara. Making phone calls would be impossible. He hoped I would be careful, etc. etc.
  
  
  As we rode along the Adrian Pelt, skirting the harbor, there was plenty of evidence that General Tasahmed had put his troops on display. As we approached the hotel's dirty white facade, the troops scattered like weeds among the palms and cypresses. Iht only seemed to increase van der Meer's concern for me. "Je vous remercie est, Doctor," I said as I got out of the taxi. "A la prochaine fois. Bon Chance en Pakar".
  
  
  "Wee! Wee!" He stuck his head out of the window, almost losing his hat. "Mon plaisir, a bientôt, a bientôt!"
  
  
  "You place a bet." The driver was never going to forgive me for saving the emu's life, but for baksheesh, who handed it to the emu, brought me my luggage, and it quickly climbed the stone steps to the dark alcove of the hotel lobby.
  
  
  Forty years ago, the Lomanai Palace was the best in terms of what the French colonists themselves had to offer. I try to keep the patina, the coolness remains. But the smell was fresher, and so was the concierge.
  
  
  The pressure of time no longer allowed the luxury of playing games. When he discovered that I could speak French, he got into the habit of not getting a booking request. Unfortunately, all the rooms were booked. He had a moon-like face with spiky black hair and transparent black eyes. The perfume he bathed in matched his ego gestures, as did the ego of the yellow-brown gillette.
  
  
  I was the only one who had arrived at the time, and the lobby was large enough that no one paid any attention to us. She was brought in by a confirmation telex with her left hand, while her right was buttoning up her vest. Then ih brought her closer, partially dragging her ego over the counter.
  
  
  "You have a choice," I said quietly. "You can eat this confirmation of my reservation or give me the key to my room candid now."
  
  
  Perhaps it was the ego expression of the bulging eyes in mine. He indicated that he wasn't hungry. He released her. After cleaning the ruffled feathers, he took out a key.
  
  
  "Merci, bien". He smiled pleasantly.
  
  
  "You must fill out your ID card and leave your passport," he croaked, rubbing his chest.
  
  
  "Later," I said, taking the card. "When I get some sleep."
  
  
  "But, monsieur ...!"
  
  
  I walked away, motioning for the boy to carry my bag.
  
  
  When I need information or a service in a city, I have two sources: taxi drivers and servants. In this case, it was the latter. Ego's name was Ali. He had a pleasant face and blue eyes. He spoke perfect Pidgin French. I knew right away that I had another one.
  
  
  He gave me a knowing look as we walked to the Baroque elevator. "The Master made a bad person an enemy." Ego's face lit up in a wide grin.
  
  
  "I found ego manners bad."
  
  
  "Ego mother was a pig, ego father was a goat. He'll get you into trouble." An ego voice broke out around the ego of life.
  
  
  As we rode up in the stable-sized elevator, Ali gave me his name and told me that the concierge, Aref Lacute, was a police spy, pimp, faggot, and sneaky bastard.
  
  
  "Master has gone too far," Ali said, opening the door to my room.
  
  
  "And even further, Ali." Mimmo followed her into the dimly lit room Lacut had assigned me. Ali turned on the saints, which didn't help much. "If I need a car, do you know where to find it?"
  
  
  He grinned. "Whatever Master wants, Ali can find... and the price won't make you scold me too much."
  
  
  "I want a car that doesn't drive any better than an old camel."
  
  
  "Or a new one," he laughed. "How soon?"
  
  
  "Now would be a good time."
  
  
  "In ten minutes, it's yours."
  
  
  "Is"
  
  
  Is there a back exit?"
  
  
  He gave me a critical look. "Master isn't going to bring trouble?"
  
  
  "Not today. Why are there so many soldiers around?" Her ego noticed the concentration as he took out a fist full of rials around his wallet.
  
  
  "This is the general's doing. Now that the Boss is dead. He'll be the boss."
  
  
  "Was the dead Boss a good person?"
  
  
  "Like any boss," he shrugged.
  
  
  "Will there be any problems?"
  
  
  "Only for those who are against the general."
  
  
  "How much?"
  
  
  "There are rumors that they exist. Some people want the beautiful lady of the dead Master to rule in his place."
  
  
  "What are you saying?"
  
  
  "I'm not saying. I'm listening to her."
  
  
  "How much around that do you need?" Her emu was waving banknotes around.
  
  
  He glanced at me. "Master isn't very smart. I could have robbed you."
  
  
  Emu smiled at her. "I want to hire you. If you deceive me, well, in-ullah."
  
  
  He took what emu needed, then told me how to get to the back exit around the hotel. "Ten minutes," he said, winked at me, and left.
  
  
  He locked the door and closed the blinds on the room's only window. On the dell itself, it was a door that opened directly onto a small balcony. It overlooked flat roofs and the harbor. It also let in fresh air. As he tucked Wilhelmina into his shoulder holster and strapped Hugo to his forearm, he thought of Henry Sutton, the CIA resident. If our positions were reversed, I would have someone at the airport to check my arrival, a driver who would be alert, and a contact here at the hotel to facilitate my entry. There would be a message about the presence of a car. Henry didn't show me much.
  
  
  The hotel's rear entrance opened onto a fetid alley. It was wide enough for a Fiat 1100. Ali and two other cars were waiting for me, the first to receive my blessing, and the second to see how much I would make her ego richer.
  
  
  Ali patted the film of dust on the wing.
  
  
  I liked it better when ego came in and brought it. At least all four cylinders were working. The landlord's day was ruined when he refused to bargain, gave em half of what he called a four-day lease, and drove off down a cul-de-sac, calling on Allah to bless ih both.
  
  
  The polyline looked more like a large park than a city. The French built ego streets in the shape of a fan and intertwined ih with many floral parks, thanks to the acquisition on which the territory was located. A mixture of Moorish architecture and French planning gave Lamana an old-world charm that even its liberators could not erase.
  
  
  I memorized it, the ego of the street, on a helicopter flight to Montreal, and I drove through the narrow traffic heading for the suburbs and the U.S. Embassy on Pepin Street. At the main intersections, armored cars were parked and crews were resting. It was specially driven by mimmo of the Presidential Palace. Ego the ornate gate was draped in black crepe. Through the golden grills, I could see the long, palm-covered road. The layout, exterior and interior were also in my memory. The Palace's defense was no better than at any other point. Perhaps Tasahmed made his troops to impress, not because he expected trouble.
  
  
  The embassy, a small white villa, was located on a long high white wall. The flag on its roof was half-standard. I was pleased to see the Marines standing guard at the gate, and I was even more pleased with ih's serious demeanor. My passport was checked. Fiat checked from the hood to the trunk. Sutton got a call. Rheumatism arrived and I was told where to park and report to the sergeant at the embassy entrance. It all took about two minutes, very polite, but no one missed a trick.
  
  
  The sergeant-major found her outside the door. The ego would be hard to miss. I was glad we were on the same side. He double-checked, and then advised me to take the wide staircase with two branches in my left hand. Room 204 was my destination.
  
  
  I walked up the carpeted stairs to the smell of flowers, the silence of a funeral silence. Silence was not only the measure of the event, but also the hour. It was after five o'clock.
  
  
  He knocked on room 204 and, without waiting for an answer, opened the door and stormed inside. It was a party, and the red-haired woman who'd been waiting for me earlier did something to dampen the flow of steam that had set him up for Sutton. "Elegant" was my first reaction; not the usual secretary, was my second impression.
  
  
  He was right on both counts.
  
  
  "Mr. Cole,"she said, coming up to me," we've been waiting for you."
  
  
  I hadn't expected to see her, but our brief handshake said something good in case of the unexpected. "I came as fast as I could get her."
  
  
  "Ouch." She flinched at my sarcasm, her pale green eyes flashing. Her smile was as subtle as her scent, her hair color was something special, Yates and Kathleen Houlihan all rolled into one. Instead, she was Paula Matthews, assistant and secretary to the missing Henry Sutton. I said, following her into the office.
  
  
  She didn't answer until we were playing a game like this. "Henry-Mr. Sutton-is working on the preparation... regarding the death of the ambassador."
  
  
  "What will this solve?"
  
  
  "Me... I really don't know... Only this can answer why the ego was killed."
  
  
  "There's nothing there?"
  
  
  "No." She shook her head.
  
  
  "When will Sutton be back?"
  
  
  "He thinks by seven."
  
  
  "Did anything come for me?"
  
  
  "Oh, yes, I almost forgot." She handed me an envelope from her chair.
  
  
  "Excuse me."Hawke's coded rheumatism response to my Rome query was brief and gave no real answers: NAA ownership 60% Mendanike, 30% Tasahmed, 10% Shema. If Tasahmed or Shema wanted to kill me, it could definitely be done easier here than in Rime.
  
  
  Paulo glanced at her, noticing that her breasts had increased dramatically against her blouse. "I need your communications office."
  
  
  "What can we do for you?" Her gesture was elegant.
  
  
  "Let's go talk about the connection."
  
  
  Communications and ego chief operator Charlie Neal calmed down a little. The equipment was state-of-the-art, and Neal knew what he was doing. Using a different dummy address, it was encoded by AX-Sp. for Hawke: Need all about FAO by Dr. Otto van der Meer.
  
  
  "I should get rheumatism in half an hour, Charlie." I told her. "You'll let me know."
  
  
  "We'll be in my cabin," Paula informed us both.
  
  
  There were several small staff bungalows on the embassy's walled grounds. Paula informed me that until recently, living in such a home was optional, but terrorist attacks against US employees made it mandatory for all women, especially single women assigned to NAPR, to live in them.
  
  
  "Not a bad idea," I said as we walked down the path to her cottage.
  
  
  "Nen has its advantages, but it's limiting."
  
  
  The surrounding cypress trees gave the place a pleasant sense of privacy, although there was a similar cottage nearby. The red bougainvillea against the white trim added an air of peace as illusory as anything else.
  
  
  "Normally, she would have shared her estate with Hema-to, who she probably couldn't stand, but this time the lack of people paid off." I liked the way she shook her head.
  
  
  There was a small patio behind the even smaller kitchen, so we played this game on nen and had a gin and tonic. "I thought it would be more comfortable here," she said.
  
  
  "I like your judgment. Let me treat myself to one around my indulgences." He offered me his cigarettes.
  
  
  "Hmm... golden letters, how beautiful."
  
  
  "You'll enjoy 24 hours a week. Are you in the same business as Henry?"
  
  
  She nodded as he handed her the lighter.
  
  
  "When does the roof come down?"
  
  
  "There will be problems at the funeral tomorrow. But General Tasahmed has no real opposition."
  
  
  "What happened here before Mendanike and the ambassador died?"
  
  
  She gave me a wary, speculative look. "Maybe you should wait and talk to Mr. Sutton about it."
  
  
  "I don't have time to wait. So that you can know us, let's open up now."
  
  
  Hey, you didn't like my tone. "Look, Mr. Cole ..."
  
  
  "No, listen to me. You have received instructions to cooperate. I like the way you cooperate, but don't tell me anything officially. I need to know, and sincerely now." I looked at nah and felt the sparks.
  
  
  She turned away. I couldn't tell if the blush on Nah's cheeks was because she was trying to tell me to go to hell, or because we were influencing each other. After a moment, her eyes returned to mine, cold and slightly hostile.
  
  
  "There are two things. First, I'm surprised you don't already know. Since August, we have been sending Langley information about the arrival of professional terrorists around various locations..."
  
  
  "Arrival by singles, couples and threes". It was completed by nah. "Corkscrew-where are they?"
  
  
  "We're not sure. They just come and go. We thought the Prime Minister was behind it. Ambassador Petersen wants to discuss this with him."
  
  
  I was sad that van der Meer had more answers than these people. "Are they still coming in?"
  
  
  "Two arrived on the twenty-fourth of Dofara."
  
  
  "Do you feel that Mendanicke brought ih in to increase his pressure against Osman? "
  
  
  
  "We were trying to test the possibility."
  
  
  "What kind of relationship did Ben d have'An eye with the general?"
  
  
  "Kissing cousins".
  
  
  Nah had all the standard answers. "Is there any evidence that they could have stopped kissing, that Tasahmed got rid of Mendanike?"
  
  
  "For estestvenno, this comes to mind. But we have no proof. If Henry can find out the identity of the driver who killed Ambassador Petersen, maybe we can find out, too."
  
  
  He grimaced into his glass. "Where does Colonel Dusa fit in?"
  
  
  "In the general's pocket. He does the dirty work and loves it. When you look at it, you see the scales of a snake."
  
  
  I put down her empty glass. "What was the second point you mentioned?"
  
  
  "It might be nothing. There's a man named Hans Geyer who wants to make contact with Mr. Sutton."
  
  
  "Who is he?"
  
  
  "He's the chief mechanic of North African Airlines."
  
  
  My ears pricked up. "Did he give any indication that he was a hotel?"
  
  
  “no. He must come. I told her we'd call her."
  
  
  In terms of my sexual drive, Mathews Paula Mistletoe is a stunning success. As a CIA operative, or assistant operative, or whatever it was, she reminded me of her missing boss. "Do you know where Geyer is?"
  
  
  "Well, there is only one exhibition stand at the airport. He said he'd be there until eight."
  
  
  Its got up. "Paula, I'm sorry I don't have time to talk about the color of your hair and the smell of vitek. It would be nice to check her ego against the rain. In the meantime, could you ask Henry to meet me at the bar at Lamana Palace at eight and bring rheumatism to my telegram? "
  
  
  When she stood up, her cheeks were flushed again. "Mr. Sutton may have an appointment."
  
  
  "Tell emu to cancel." I put my hands on her shoulders. "And thanks for the drink." He kissed her chastely on the earlobe and walked away, smiling at her puzzled look.
  
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  
  
  
  As it approached the airport, the saint was fading into the sun-baked sky. The field lights were on, and the lighthouse on the tower reflected the heavy red twilight. Now there were three armored cars in front of the entrance instead of two. I knew that the entrance to the airport would also be guarded. I wasn't being followed around the city, and no one was monitoring my access to or from the embassy. It will be a little more difficult ahead of the blockade.
  
  
  He turned off the main access road and onto a short stretch of road leading to the hangars. There were security posts at the end of the road, and a French command jeep AMX and a TT 6 armored personnel carrier were nearby.Some people idled around until they saw me coming. Then they snapped back as if it was he who was the invading force they were waiting for. I was motioned to stop a good fifty feet from the gate.
  
  
  The sergeant led out a four-man squad with the combat force at the ready. The greeting was sharp and in Arabic. Hers was in forbidden territory. What the hell is it, I thought I was doing!
  
  
  My rheumatism was in French. Hers, was a representative of the Paris Aeronautical Society. I had business with Monsieur Guyer, chief mechanic of the Mecanicien des Avions Africque Nord. Was this the wrong place to enter? With this question, she was presented with his official French passport with the proper seal.
  
  
  The sergeant took the document and took it to the security booth, where the two officers were concentrating on flipping through the pages. My four guards looked at me without love. I was waiting for her next step, and I know exactly what it will be.
  
  
  This time the petty officers were accompanied by a lieutenant. He was a little less hostile and addressed the letter to me in French. What was the purpose of my visit? Why was she invited to see Monsieur Geyer?
  
  
  I explained to her that the NAA was having problems with the avionics of its new Fourberge 724C, and I was sent around Paris to fix the problem. Then he confided in the lieutenant and described everything that had happened in technical detail with gestures. I was inspired by her. Finally, he had his fill, handed me back my passport, and waved me through.
  
  
  "Allah is Maak!" He called out and saluted as he passed through the gate. The salute was returned. We were all on the same side. May Allah bless weak security as well.
  
  
  There were only two cars parked in the hangar lot. I expected to meet some extra guards, but there were none. After passing through the perimeter, you were inside. The field lines were a couple of old DC-3s. Inside the hangar was another one with its engines gutted. In addition to the Caravel and several smaller twin-engine planes, there was also a stunning new Gulfstream jet. Under the cab window was an emblem, FOR EXAMPLE. It was undoubtedly Mendanick's version of Air Force One. Why take the DC-6 to Budan?
  
  
  If you had such a fancy plane?
  
  
  Paying attention to different planes as I passed through the interior of the hangar, I didn't notice any moving bodies. It was during the layoff, that was for sure. Along the rear of the hangar was a glass-enclosed office section. Sergey saw her through the window and went to him.
  
  
  Hans Geyer had a mischievous face with sly button-like eyes. Ego bald dome was the color of processed hide. He was short and stocky, with large forearms and large hands covered in fat pits. He had the ability to bow his head like a robin listening to a worm. He looked at me as hers came through the door.
  
  
  "Mr. Geyer?"
  
  
  Ego's voice was rubbed with sandpaper.
  
  
  When hers reached out, he wiped his dirty white coveralls before handing it to Ego. "Do you want to see Mr. Sutton?"
  
  
  He suddenly became alert and looked through the glass partition, then back at me. "You're not Sutton."
  
  
  "Actually. My name is Cole. Mr. Sutton and I know each other."
  
  
  "Hmm." Her, could hear the wheels clicking with ego's heavily furrowed brow. "How did you get here? They have this place buttoned up tighter than a cow's chey-during milking."
  
  
  "I didn't come here to milk."
  
  
  He looked at me for a second, then laughed. "Pretty good. Sit down, Mr. Cole." He pointed to a chair on the other side of the ego-cluttered chair. "I don't think anyone will bother us."
  
  
  He opened a drawer in his chair and took out a bottle of stapled bourbon and some paper cups. "Do you feel normal? No ice?"
  
  
  "You're fine too," I said, nodding at the bottle.
  
  
  "Yes, I travel a bit. Tell me when."
  
  
  I told her, and after we'd passed the applause and lit up our own brands, Hans bowed his head to me and got down to business. "What can I do for you, Mr. Cole?"
  
  
  "I think it's the other way around. You should see us."
  
  
  "What do you do at the embassy, Mr. Cole? I thought I knew everyone there."
  
  
  "I didn't arrive today when. Henry asked me to replace my ego. The people I work for, if I have instructions , don't waste your time. Are we going to do it?"
  
  
  He took a sip around his glass and tilted his head back. "I have some information. But I found that nothing is easy or cheap in this world."
  
  
  "Without arguments. What information? What is the cost?"
  
  
  He laughed. "My God, you're definitely not an Arab! And yes, I know him, you don't have time to waste." He leaned forward, putting his hands on the chair. From the upper world, sweat glistened on its dome. "Okay, because the soul in her is a patriot of her country, its giving you this about a penny. One thousand US dollars to the account and five thousand if I can provide proof."
  
  
  "What good is the first part if you can't produce the second?"
  
  
  "Oh, but I can. It's just that it might take a little time, because everything here is in a terrible state right now. Do you want to restock?"
  
  
  "No, thank you. Let's just say. I'll give you a three-hundred-dollar deposit. If the first part is good, you will get the other seven and a guarantee of five thousand if you produce."
  
  
  He drank the rest of his drink for me, swallowed it, and poured himself another. "I'm reasonable," he said. "Let's look at three hundred."
  
  
  "There is only one thing." He pulled out his wallet. "If I don't think what you have is worth the deposit, I'll have to take the ego back."
  
  
  "Sure, don't sweat it, you'll see."
  
  
  "I also want answers to some of my own questions."
  
  
  "Anything I can do to help." He was beaming as he counted six fifties and tucked an ih into the breast pocket of his coverall. He checked the partition, bowed his head, and lowered his voice. "The Mendanike plane crash was not an accident. I don't know how it happened. The evidence is in the rubble in Budan."
  
  
  "Do you know who did this?"
  
  
  "No, but any fool can make a pretty good guess. Now Tasahmed is number one."
  
  
  "My people won't pay for guesswork. Where is the DC-7?"
  
  
  «DC-7! It was the six that Mendanike and Ego Gang flew." Ego's voice rose. "And they were supposed to be on the Gulfstream, damn it. That was the first thing that warned me. But it was a landing..."
  
  
  "Hans," I said, raising my hand. "Seven, where is the DC-7 belonging to the NAA?"
  
  
  Ego was detained. It was faulty. "In Rufa, at a military base. What the hell is this supposed to do..."
  
  
  "Why is he in the hall in Rufa? Is he usually based there?"
  
  
  "He's in the army for a couple of months."
  
  
  "What about the team's ego?"
  
  
  "Strictly military. Look, aren't you wondering how they got Mendanike?
  
  
  
  It's a hell of a story. This has happened before. The template was the same, the approach was the same. It was a perfect game. It's..."
  
  
  "Were you on duty when Mendanike took off?"
  
  
  "Take the tailor, no! If he had been there, he would still be alive today ... or maybe hers would be dead, too. Khalid was on duty. He was the night supervisor. Only the ego is no longer around, we do not know when, we are at night. I was told I was ill. So I'm trying to tell you something before I get sick, but you want to talk about that damn DC-7. When they took ego out of here, I told her, good riddance! "
  
  
  While it rattled, he conducted a routine check through the glass partition. There was no holy light on the rack, but there was enough light in the dusk to make out the silhouettes of the newcomers. Ih was five. They moved through the sprawling hangar in an extended order. The overhead light switch was a groan behind Hans.
  
  
  "Turn off the saints, quickly!"
  
  
  He got the message through my friend and the fact that he was around long enough to know when to shut up and do as the emu was told.
  
  
  She felt a nasty bronchial cough mixed with the sound of broken glass as her father leaned back in his chair and knelt down. Wilhelmina in hand. In the darkness, I could hear Hans panting.
  
  
  "Is there a back door?"
  
  
  "In the connecting office." Ego's voice trembled.
  
  
  "Get in there and wait. I'll take care of everything here."
  
  
  My words were interrupted by a few more bullets and a couple of ricochets. I didn't want to open fire on a 9mm machine gun and call in the infantry. The attack was completely in vain. There was no need to break the glass windows so that five heroes could capture one unarmed mechanic. The silencers meant they didn't belong to the airport security company. Maybe ih's idea was to scare Hans to death.
  
  
  I heard Hans slip into the office next door. He sat down for a day and waited for Stahl. Not for long. With a clank of his foot, the first of the attackers flew in. Her basest ego, and when he stumbled, hit her ego with the butt of Wilhelmina. As soon as he hit the floor, number two followed. Her ego had lifted her, and he'd made the most of Hugo. He let out an indistinct cry and collapsed on my shoulder. I moved forward, using my ego as a shield, and we came across number three.
  
  
  When she made contact, she was thrown off her shoulder by the emu's knife-slashed body. He was faster and smarter. He slid out of the dead weight and came toward me with a gun, ready to fire. Her ducked candid before the shot, went under ego's arm, and we went down to the hangar floor. It was big and strong, and smelled of desert sweat. It was held by ego with a gun on his wrist. He avoided my knee strikes to the crotch, his left hand trying to grab my throat. In the presence of two more ego buddies, I didn't have time to waste on the art of Greco-Roman wrestling. She let her ego free hand find my throat and tucked Hugo the emu under her arm. It shuddered and began to thrash, and his quickly jumped off it, ready for the other two. Her, heard someone running. I thought it was a good idea and went back through the office door, crouching low.
  
  
  "Hans," I hissed.
  
  
  "Cole!"
  
  
  "Open the door, but stay there."
  
  
  "Don't worry!"
  
  
  A door opened off the back of the hangar. Running feet can mean that our visitors have decided to meet us there. What with the airport lights, the security post lights, and the clarity of the early evening darkness, there was no problem seeing if we had unwanted company. At the moment, we have not detected this.
  
  
  "My car's at the curb," I said. "You're following me. Watch our backs. Let's go."
  
  
  It was a fairly undisguised walk around the back of the hangar " to an empty parking lot. Fiat stood out like a monument to Washington.
  
  
  "Where's your car, Hans?" he asked her.
  
  
  "On the other side of the hangar . Em had to run to keep up with me, and he was out of breath, not just because he was tired. "I parked ego there because there's more shadow, and..."
  
  
  Good. You sit in the back, lie on the floor, and don't move an inch."
  
  
  He didn't argue. It was launched by Fiat, calculating the amounts in two points. If they had chased me, they would have known where my car was parked. If they were not part of the airport security team, they were scouts, which is not a problem for partizan. In any case, they came for Hans, not me.
  
  
  When he reached the security checkpoint, he stopped the car, dimmed the headlights to show his attentiveness, and got out. If the lieutenant and the ego boys had known about the murder squad, she would have known by now.
  
  
  The original four, led by a sergeant, came up to me. "Vive la NAPR, Sergeant," he sang, moving toward them.
  
  
  "Oh, you," the sergeant said
  
  
  .
  
  
  "I'll be back in the morning. Do you want to stamp my passport?"
  
  
  "Tomorrow is a day of prayer and mourning," he growled. "Don't come here."
  
  
  "Oh, right. I understand her."
  
  
  "Get out of here," the sergeant motioned with a hand gesture.
  
  
  He walked slowly back to the car, keeping his eyes on the curved shape of the hangar. Everything is going fine. He smiled, waved to the guards, and started to drive away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After walking around the airport and making sure no one was following us, I finally turned to my hidden passenger.
  
  
  "All right, buddy. Come and join me."
  
  
  He went to the backseat and took a sip, pulling a bottle of bourbon out of his coveralls. "Jesus!" he said, and took a long drink. "Do you want one?" he breathed, holding out the bottle.
  
  
  "I never touch my ego when I'm driving it."
  
  
  "Oh my God, you're something like that, buddy. The voice... "he reached into his breast pocket," take this back. You just saved my life. All I got, all you want , is to do it for free."
  
  
  "Take it easy, Hans." I couldn't help but laugh. "Everyone is on duty. Keep the money for yourself. You'll earn ih."
  
  
  "But the street! Where have you ever learned to act like this!"
  
  
  Why, all my life. Twenty years in Africa and" How long have you been on planes? »
  
  
  Why, all my life. Twenty years in Africa, and before that..."
  
  
  "I think you know that a pilot pipe is different from a turbine. You are a professional in your craft." Its one on its own. Where can I take you, where will you be safe? "
  
  
  "My place. It's got a high wall and a strong gate, and old Dung will bite off a tin goose's ass if I tell her emu."
  
  
  "You're the navigator. Any idea who the unfriendly ones are?"
  
  
  "My God, no! I didn't see her anyway."
  
  
  "Are there any commando units in Tashamed's army?"
  
  
  "Kill me. The only thing I know is that they all wear a blue checkered headdress."
  
  
  That was a point. One of the attackers was wearing a beret, the other two were without a headdress.
  
  
  "Are you sure you don't want to do this? I'll drink it all and then get high."
  
  
  "Just don't get so lost in it that you don't pay attention to what I'm saying. You know that Mendanike's death wasn't an accident. Who else did you say that to?"
  
  
  "No one. Just you."
  
  
  "Is there another reason why someone needs your scalp?"
  
  
  "Kill me?"
  
  
  Then I clicked on chase and stopped the Fiat. Hans was thrown forward against the dashboard, the ego bottle clanking dangerously. Ego coveralls grabbed her and pulled her to face him. "I want to get some answers right now, or you'll go home with a bottle in your mouth. Understand?"
  
  
  He stared at me, speechless this time, eyes wide, mouth open, nodding dumbly. He released him, and we set off again. I waited for him to wake up, then silently offered em a cigarette. He took it just as quietly.
  
  
  "So, who did you tell about your theory about the disaster?"
  
  
  "To Khalid... He was in the hangar when he was on duty. Rumors of a disaster have already arrived. When I asked him why they took a DC-6 instead of a Gulfstream, he said the plane's generator didn't work. I knew he was lying. I checked everything on the Gulf Stream the day before. I also knew he was scared as hell. To scare ego even more and get her to talk, I told emu that I knew how the DC-6 was sabotaged."
  
  
  "And he did?"
  
  
  "Nope."
  
  
  "How did you know it was sabotage?"
  
  
  "As I said, it was like another accident that happened in Africa. The same. Everyone knew it was sabotage, but no one could prove it. Then its proved it. If I can get to Budan, I can prove it. on this one, too ."
  
  
  A siren wailing in the distance gave ambiguous rheumatism. "It could be an ambulance. Let's see what it is for dune buggies." He switched gears for a second and pulled out a Fiat that he hoped was tough.
  
  
  "We're definitely going to get stuck." Hans jumped up and down, looking back and forth.
  
  
  The wheels found some traction as it moved at an angle to the shelter of a low cliff.
  
  
  "They're going awfully fast!"
  
  
  He was hoping to get far enough away from the road to be out of range of the approaching headlights, that is, over a cliff. The wheels began to dig in and roll down. It was useless to fight it. "Wait," I said, turning off the engine and flying out from my side.
  
  
  The whitish color, Fiat, fit perfectly into the desert. Enough so that when mimmo passed a large command car, followed by an ambulance, we were not noticed. A siren wailed in the cold night air. Then they left, and we got up and walked back to the car, and Hans muttered: "What a way to end the day."
  
  
  . Then they left, and we got up and walked back to the car, and Hans muttered: "What a way to end the day."
  
  
  "You can thank Allah that you haven't ended the ego forever."
  
  
  “yeah. How do we get out of here now?"
  
  
  "We'll clean your bottle, and maybe an idea will come up. If not, then I'm sure you're good at pushing cars."
  
  
  After only making a couple of short stops, we were back on the road in ten minutes, and in twenty minutes we reached Hans's villa.
  
  
  The overseas district of Lamana consisted of a section of white-walled Moorish-style houses centered around a park named Lafayette. We did some scouting before entering Hans's domain. Ego's house was in an alley next to the park. We went around the ego twice. There were no cars or streetlights on the street.
  
  
  "And you told Khalid all this?"
  
  
  "Yes, supposedly."
  
  
  "Did you tell anyone else?"
  
  
  "Erica, my daughter, but she didn't say anything."
  
  
  "Now tell me, what else did you do that made someone so upset that they wanted to kill you?"
  
  
  "I'll be damned if I know her. He held out his hand to hold me back. "I do a little smuggling, everyone does it. But that's no reason to kill the guy."
  
  
  "No, they will only take you on their right hand. I believe the plane has the flight logs of this DC-7."
  
  
  “yeah. If it helps, you may have logs of the old engine. You can't go to Rufa."
  
  
  "Security is stricter than here?"
  
  
  "Yes, take the tailor."
  
  
  "You say that the plane was provided to the military. Do you know why?"
  
  
  "Of course. Training of skydivers. Can you tell me why you..."
  
  
  "Where did you perform maintenance, major repairs, and the like?"
  
  
  "We have done everything but the main thing openly here. For this purpose, it was used by Olympic in Athens."
  
  
  "When was his last checkup?"
  
  
  "Oh, it must have been when they took ego. They said they'd sort it out."
  
  
  "Another corkscrew,"I said, turning off the headlights.
  
  
  He jerked abruptly, then turned his head, understanding the message. "Our function! My God, you think they're following us."
  
  
  Her car drove up, and he got out and went to the door in the moan, in which was Judas's window. Her, I heard Fertilizer give a friendly growl. Hans rang the bell, making two short and a long ring. Upper bryliv caught fire.
  
  
  "She must have been worried that she was given to me," he chuckled. "Erica, it's me, honey," he called. "I have another one, so keep Thor."
  
  
  The chain was pulled. The door swung open and I followed him out into the courtyard. In the dim light, I thought she was tall. She was wearing something white and holding a snarling dog. "Thor, stop it!" she said in a hoarse voice.
  
  
  Hans knelt down with his hand on either side of his head, or Toro's hand on his head. "Thor, this is my other one. You treat him like a friend!"
  
  
  He crouched down next to the dog and let it sniff my hand. "Hey, Thor," I said, " you're not the kind of guy you can meet when you need protection."
  
  
  He snorted and started wagging his tail. I stood up and saw Erica looking at me. "My name is Ned Cole. She got a ride home from your father."
  
  
  "Judging by the ego smell, hers, sure he needed it." There was a hint of humor in the rudeness.
  
  
  "That's well said." Hans pushed the bottle out. "Look, I barely fished this out on the surface."
  
  
  We all laughed, and I liked the uninhibited sound of it. "Come on in, Mr. Cole. What happened to your car, Dad?"
  
  
  "Him ... ah... it's broken. Her hotel doesn't waste time fixing it, mostly because Mr. Cole is here ..."
  
  
  "Are you in the aviation business?" She opened the door and waved us through. By the light of it, I could see her better.
  
  
  Nah had her father's miniature nose before trampolining. Besides, she must have treated her mother favorably. Aphrodite in white shorts. Against the cold, she was wearing a blue turtleneck-collared sweater that looked tough enough to hold everything inside. The rest of her dimensions were equal, and when she closed the door and walked past mimmo, she looked as good as walking away as she did going forward. On Della Street itself, barefoot or on horseback, Erika Geyer, with her long and natural dark hair and straight and penetrating blue eyes, was the most desirable sight for any vision.
  
  
  "Can I offer you something?" A faint smile teased me.
  
  
  "Not now, thank you." Her favor was returned.
  
  
  "Hey, honey, has anyone been here? Has anyone called?"
  
  
  "Clean... Kazu let her go home when he came around the clinic. Why are you waiting for company?"
  
  
  "I hope not. I mean, no. But things aren't so good right now and..."
  
  
  "Dr. Rabul said it would be better if I didn't come tomorrow. I think he's stupid
  
  
  and you, too. Don't you agree, Mr. Cole?" "We were still looking at each other.
  
  
  "Well done=) just a stranger, Miss Geyer. But I think things might get out of hand. In any case, it's a good excuse for you to have a day off, isn't it?"
  
  
  "Doc is right. Hey, how about a cold beer and a snack?" I didn't know if Hans was asking me or saying hey.
  
  
  "I'm sorry," I said. "I can't stay." My regret was genuine. "You might be able to take the day off, Hans."
  
  
  "What happened?" Erica said, looking from me to her father.
  
  
  "Now don't look at me like that," he shuddered. "The devil didn't do it to us, did he?"
  
  
  "Not that I know o." Hey winked at her. "I'll check with both of you in the morning. I don't want to leave this car there for too long. She may lose everything she needs."
  
  
  "I'll open the gate and you put her in the courtyard." Hans didn't want her to leave either.
  
  
  "I'll come to breakfast if you invite me." He nodded to Erica.
  
  
  "What's your name?" She tilted her head toward me again, a gesture that mimicked her father's.
  
  
  "I'll take the signature dish at home. At what time?"
  
  
  "When you come, I'll be ready."
  
  
  "A bientôt," he said, holding out his hand. She really didn't want to give up on this handshake.
  
  
  "A bientôt". We both laughed, and Hans looked puzzled.
  
  
  "I'll walk you out," he said.
  
  
  In the car, I gave em some advice. "I'd better tell you everything. If you have friends where you can spend the night, it's not a bad idea. If you stay here, tell either Toro to sharpen his teeth. Do you have a gun?"
  
  
  “yeah. Anyone who tries to climb over this wall will trigger an alarm that will automatically wake the dead. I set it up myself."
  
  
  "See you in the morning, Hans."
  
  
  "Of course. And, hey, thanks for everything, but I haven't earned that loot yet."
  
  
  "Stay free, and you will be."
  
  
  Its gone, I want to stay. I didn't have time to protect ih, and there was a good chance that the goons would come hunting again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Back in the city center, he had a long and not very productive day. With the exception of a direct attempt to shoot me in Rime, I didn't have much more to do than when Hawk pulled me through my idyllic lake house.
  
  
  Almost everything that had happened to the ferret pointed to internal problems for the NARN, but little did it indicate that it had become a haven for nuclear weapons. The car that almost hit Van der Meer and me might have been a lousy driver or a welcoming committee for an unwanted American. So far, Sutton had only offered a girl named Paula, who wasn't a bad offer if you had nothing better to do.
  
  
  Hans ' only suspicious angle of attack was why the numbers and why the place? Rheumatism could lie in the fact that they have to keep everything ready, and what could be better than a field under military control. The numbers could mean that they didn't plan to kill the ego until they got the ego to talk. The influx of mercenaries was the only weak lead. The Hema brought here are partisans and trained somewhere to commit murder. The obvious hema was Tasahmed, but the appearance and mannerisms of the ego soldiers only served to reinforce what the AX files indicated was a lack of professional qualities. Of course, things may be different in Rufa. A dozen Soviet instructors might have done it differently. It looked like visiting Rufa was a priority. The only positive thing about the DC-7 was that it took much longer than necessary to maintain the ego. Put it all in, and you get a nice bunch of riddles.
  
  
  Parking the Fiat in the alley where ego had taken it was useless. Leaving an ego on the street wasn't good either; it was a good way to lose it.
  
  
  Everything in the city was closed, the pedestrian flow was almost as sparse as the traffic of cars and horses. He headed for the central square. Next to the central post office was the Police Commissariat. There were half a dozen cars parked in front of its faded facade. I pulled up next to one of them, a Volkswagen bug that looked no more formal than my own car. The two gendarmes at the entrance to the building gave me a quick glance. It seemed like a good place to park until Ali could put up something better. An ancient Lamanite proverb says ," If you don't want to be noticed, park your camel in a herd of enemies."
  
  
  The hotel's bar was called the Green Room. Green because it was surrounded by antique green curtains. There was no bar, but there was a row of Moroccan chairs of the same age around the hardwood tables. Half a century ago, it was an elegant French salon where gentlemen sniffed their cocaine or sipped Courvoisier cognac .
  
  
  
  Now it was a side bar where the unbeliever could have a drink, because Muslim law had to accept economic realities. Reality was four times more expensive than a regular drink. At least that was one of Henry Sutton's complaints.
  
  
  He might have been spotted by ego at Grand Central Station at five o'clock on a Friday afternoon. They were Tafta, Yale, and probably Harvard Business School. A well-bred face, tall, angular, in ego-driven clothes, a watch, a bracelet, a classic ring, and in this vague manner of bored confidence bordering on self-satisfaction, a kind of wealth is revealed. It was stamped by the State Department. Why exactly the CIA put a label on it, I'll leave it to the experts.
  
  
  The green room was filled with cigar smoke and small clusters of businessmen feeding each other the latest rumors. She was spotted by a couple of Brits among them. Sutton, whose real name was undoubtedly something like Duncan Coldrich Ashforth III, sat alone in a corner, dividing his time between sipping ale and checking his watch.
  
  
  Her sel sat next to him and held out her hand. "Mr. Sutton, this is Ned Cole. I apologized, I was late for her, traffic jams."
  
  
  Momentary surprise gave way to a quick appraisal. "Oh, how are you. We heard you were coming." He was with ih own nonsense. The volume level was strong for the audience, but the audience was busy enough that we could talk in complete privacy.
  
  
  "I'll make some important notes," I said, smiling as I pulled out my pocket notebook. "You will answer a few questions."
  
  
  "I think it would make more sense if we went to the embassy." He had an adenoid voice that matched his ego with a high nose.
  
  
  "I've been to the embassy before, Henry. Her, I heard you were busy. Did they bring You rheumatism my priority than "Me"?
  
  
  "It's in my pocket, but look at this..."
  
  
  "You can pass the ego to me when we go out. Do you have anything to say about the Mendanicke-Petersen meeting?"
  
  
  He looked at me, frustrated, icy. "I don't answer to you, Cole.
  
  
  "You're doing it now, and you better get to it pretty damn fast." He smiled and nodded, making a note on the page. "Your instructions came through the White House, so let's get rid of this shit. What about Petersen?"
  
  
  "Ambassador Petersen," he emphasized the first word, " was a personal friend of mine. I feel personally responsible for the death of my ego.
  
  
  "I don't care." He motioned to the waiter, pointing to Sutton's beer bottle, and held up two fingers. "Save your wounded feelings and tell me the facts." He jotted down another blank space in his notebook, allowing him to catch his breath.
  
  
  "The truck that crashed into the ambassador's car was an unmarked truck." He said it like he was spitting his teeth. "I found this."
  
  
  Her, looked at him. He pouted in frustration, quickly turning into rage.
  
  
  "Drunk driver for you. Did you find out who owns it?"
  
  
  He shook his head. "Not yet."
  
  
  "Is this your only indication of the purpose of the midnight meeting?" My tone was reflected even more deeply in his tanned face.
  
  
  "The meeting was held at 01: 00. We still ferret don't know her goals."
  
  
  "If you had said it from the beginning, we could have saved a minute. As far as she's concerned, Mendanicke didn't respect the ambassador."
  
  
  "He didn't understand the ambassador. The ambassador tried and tried..."
  
  
  "So the nature of the call to Mendanika Petersen was unusual."
  
  
  "Yes, you could say that."
  
  
  "Was it Petersen who spoke to Hema before leaving for the Presidential Palace?"
  
  
  "Only with an ego wife and a Marine. He just told Jean where he was going, and he also told the Marines. The Emu should have picked up its driver. If he had called me..."
  
  
  "You don't have any contacts in the palace?"
  
  
  "Do you think it's easy?"
  
  
  The waiter brought me a beer, and I thought how much of an overkill this kid was. The Federal Reserve agent AX for Section R, stationed in Laman, and her would have received their answers.
  
  
  There's something you'd better know frankly now, " he said when the waiter had left. "We have information that there will be problems here tomorrow. It would be wise to spend the day at the embassy. Things can get really ugly."
  
  
  I took a sip of her beer. "The partisans who came here, who do they belong to?"
  
  
  "I suspect they were introduced to Mendanika for use against the Ottomans in the south."
  
  
  "You're just guessing, aren't you?"
  
  
  Alas, it was true. Ego's eyes narrowed, and he leaned toward me. "Mr. Cole, you are not an employee of my agency. You're on a DVD or some other operation. You may be important at home, but I run the station here, and I have all the information..."
  
  
  Her got up: "I'll go with you," I said, smiling at emu and putting the notebook down in a minute.
  
  
  notepad. He followed me through the rooms and into the hallway of the lobby.
  
  
  "Just one thing," I added as he lumbered along beside me. "I'll probably contact you tomorrow. I need a written report on the ambassador's death with all the details; no guesses, just facts. I need everything you have about mercenaries. I want to know what contacts you have in this city and this country. I want to know what Osman is up to, and -"
  
  
  He stopped. "Now you see, here ...!"
  
  
  "Henry, boy," he finished with a smile, " you do as I say, or I'll send you out of here so fast you won't have time to pack up your dancing ballet slippers. we go to the salon for your home and you can give me my priority from A to Z. You just got one, if your own."
  
  
  He left at full speed, and he trudged to the elevator, thinking that the agency could do better, even in a garden place like this.
  
  
  Earlier it was noted that the concierge Lakuta was replaced by a night man. Emu nodded, and he gave me-I-know-something-you-didn't-know a cold smile. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her poke her head out from behind a potted palm tree. He gave me a quick signal, and he passed the mimmo culture tree, happy to make contact. Maybe my Aladdin will call some edu canteen.
  
  
  "Master!" he hissed as she paused to tie her shoelace, " don't go to your room. There are police pigs in there. Main and ego are cool steamers.
  
  
  "My old friends, ah," I said, " but thank you. I want some place where I can be alone for a while."
  
  
  "Go around the elevator on the second floor."
  
  
  He straightened up, wondering what Ali would do with Henry Sutton's work. Maybe I can get an emu scholarship to Yale.
  
  
  He met me on the second floor and led me to a room similar to my own two floors above. "You'll be safe here, Master," he said.
  
  
  "I'd prefer a full stomach. Can you get me something to eat?"
  
  
  "Couscous?"
  
  
  "Yes, and coffee. By the way, where is the best place to park your car?"
  
  
  He grinned up to his chest. "Maybe in front of the police commissariat?"
  
  
  "Get out of here." The emu's boot aimed it at the rear.
  
  
  He turned away. "Master wouldn't be so stupid."
  
  
  She locked the door behind him and sat down to read the rheumatism book. In total, it turned out to be two zeros. Dr. Otto van der Meer was exactly what he called himself, and the ego was also highly regarded. My mother was a Zulu. Africa was the ego's agricultural center. Satellite and aerial surveys in NAGR yielded nothing.
  
  
  I didn't have a chopper to destroy the rheumatism I had, but I did have a match. I burned it, then washed away my ego and thought of my guests waiting upstairs. I wasn't surprised by the ih arrival. Whether Lacute called them or not. Customs would have passed on the word. I could have avoided it if I'd wanted to. I didn't choose it, but they will have to wait until my inner man is restored.
  
  
  Ah, actually, the couscous was good, and so was the thick black coffee. "Does the owner want a car brought here?" he asked.
  
  
  "Do you think it's safe there?"
  
  
  "I don't think the ego will be stolen." He played openly.
  
  
  "Can you suggest a more private place?"
  
  
  "Yes, when the Teacher brings the ego, I'll show it to the emu."
  
  
  "It can happen a lot later."
  
  
  "Stay in this room tonight, master, and you will sleep in peace. Those at the top will get tired and leave. That pork bubble, Lacute, he brought ih."
  
  
  "Thanks for the tip-off, Ali." It was brought by a few people. "Close your eyes and pick up a pickaxe."
  
  
  "Master doesn't know much about money."
  
  
  "This is more than advice. This is information. You know that the American ambassador was assassinated. I want to know who killed ego."
  
  
  Ego's eyes widened. "You could fill your hand ten times as much as you're holding, and it couldn't give you rheumatism."
  
  
  "Not now, but keep your sharp ears open, and there's no telling what you'll hear."
  
  
  He shook his head. "I don't want them to be cut off."
  
  
  "Listen in silence."
  
  
  If I hear anything from her,you pay me. Not now. You've already paid me twice as much. This isn't fun. You must bargain."
  
  
  When he left, it was unloaded to Wilhelmina, Hugo, and a French passport. Luger went under the mattress, Hugo went to the bathroom, and the passport was in the back of the toilet shelf. It was time to get acquainted with the opposition and, as they say, I wanted to be clean.
  
  
  Her, went to his room, registering the proper surprise in the reception area. The room would be packed with three people. With five, it was almost LIKE.
  
  
  
  The door slammed shut, locked, and I was searched by Odin around the uniformed intruders.
  
  
  While the army steamboats were dressed in khaki, my visitors were dressed in olive green. The colonel, who was sitting in a chair facing me, received my passport from my search engine without taking his eyes off me.
  
  
  "What's going on here!" I managed to get out. "W-who are you?"
  
  
  "Shut up," he said in passable English. "I'll talk to you, and you'll answer." Where have you been?" In the almost full ashtray, it was obvious that he was an impatient waiter.
  
  
  "What do you mean, where have you been?"
  
  
  A short command was given, and the bull to my left hit me in the mouth. He tasted sulfur and blood. Her gasped and tried to look stunned.
  
  
  "I said you'll answer, not stupid questions." The Colonel tapped a fresh cigarette on his silver cigarette case. He had sinewy fingers. They went with the rest of it; a coiled dragon over blackjack. The pliant face was murderously beautiful - thin lips, thin nose, thin eyes. Obsidian eyes; merciless, intelligent, humorless. Judging by his neat uniform, he was fastidious, well-organized, unlike any other military man the ferret had ever seen. In desert garb, he could have played Abd el Krim, in his prime.
  
  
  "Now, where have you been?" "What is it?" he asked.
  
  
  "V... at the US Embassy." He covered her lips with a handkerchief... I was there to pay my respects. Her newspaperman."
  
  
  "We know all about you. Who invited you here?"
  
  
  I shook my head blankly. " N-no one invited me. Her-her just came ... to... write about meet your agricultural projects ."
  
  
  "We're flattered," he breathed in a cloud of smoke, " but you're a liar." He nodded at the pile of meat to my right. I had just enough time to flex my back muscles and take the impact. Even so, the agonizing cough and doubling down wasn't just a game. He fell to his knees, clutching at his life. They pulled me to my feet by my hair. He was sobbing, panting, sinking under his scalp.
  
  
  "What the hell!" Her gasp was weak.
  
  
  "What the hell, tailor, really. Why did you come here?"
  
  
  "Write about the death of the Prime Minister." He pulled it out, pretending to take a sip to help.
  
  
  "And what would you write about it, other than that your smelly CIA method killed the ego?" Ego's voice cracked angrily. "Maybe you're in the CIA! How do I know it's not?"
  
  
  "No, not the CIA!" Her, held out his hand.
  
  
  I didn't see the impact coming from the third person behind me. It was a blow to the neck, and this time it really fell. I had to fight as hard as I could to avoid hitting the Persian eye mat. The easiest way is to pretend to be unconscious. Her voice froze.
  
  
  "Fool!" The colonel barked in Arabic. "You probably broke the emu's neck."
  
  
  "It was only a light blow, sir!"
  
  
  "These Americans can't stand much," he muttered.
  
  
  "Open your face and get some water."
  
  
  The water was pleasant. He stirred and groaned. Getting to his feet again, he tried to rub her neck with one hand and her life with the other.
  
  
  "Listen to me, you uninvited writer of lies" - a hand in my hair pulled my head up so that the colonel would pay proper attention to it - " there is a plane leaving via Lamana at 07: 00 for Cairo. You'll be at the airport at 05: 00, so you'll have plenty of time to spend on nen. If you are not a nen, your stay here will be permanent ."
  
  
  He stood up, and his eyes were even sharper than a razor's. He shook my passport in my face. "I'll keep this, and you can return the ego when you go through customs. Is that clear to you?"
  
  
  He nodded silently.
  
  
  "And if you want to write a story about your pleasant stay here, say that Colonel Mohammed Duza was the person who entertained you the most."
  
  
  He went mimmo me, and the dandy who hit me with a rabbit fist kicked me from behind and pushed me across the room onto the bed.
  
  
  Duza said for a day. "I'll leave her here Ashada to provide your protection. We will show hospitality even to uninvited guests."
  
  
  Apart from my stiff neck and stomach ache, I had nothing to show for rushing towards the lions of the desert. Duzu met her and sensed that he didn't know Nick Carter, only Ned Cole, which meant that he had no role in ordering my murder. He didn't see me as a problem, and that was my point of view. He won't bother me until I go fishing. It was only 21: 00, which meant I had nine hours left. I had a couple more stops on my agenda, and it was time to go. If they turned out to be as dry as the others, she might be able to stage her own coup.
  
  
  Ashad, who was left to watch over me, was the one who did the most damage to me, and from behind. While he sat in the seat vacated by Douza, he entered the cabin designated as the salle de bain and removed the wreckage. Except for her bruised lip, she didn't look much worse than usual.
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ashad watched me with a grin as her father bent down to pick up his handkerchief. "Your mother is Ella dung," he told her in Arabic.
  
  
  He couldn't believe he'd heard me correctly. He got up from his chair with his mouth wide open and his eyes full of rage, and he threw himself in a jump and kicked him in karate. My initials grazed the top of Ego's neck and jaw, and he felt the bones shatter as his head nearly came off. He clambered over the back of a chair, hit the wall, and hit the floor with a clatter that rattled the dishes.
  
  
  For the second time that day, a corpse put her to bed. Then he changed into a black suit and matching shirt with a stand-up collar. Not that he was in mourning, but the color suited the occasion.
  
  
  Before leaving, he went down to his room on the second floor. There I packed up my equipment and handed in my bag and Casey. Around the suitcase, get the most necessary things - an extra two luger clips, one around them incendiary. A special homing device the size of an AX button was attached to her knee. If the need arises, the ego signal will summon a Ranger battalion of 600 men throughout Sixth Fleet. Spare Pierre entered the inner office. Finally, a neatly pressed nylon rope thirty feet long, with its secure attachment, wrapped around my middle like the beginning of a second belt.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He went out through the hotels and down an alley, following similar alleys to the Presidential Palace by the ego north wall. The wall was half a mile long, with security boxes at either end and two in the middle.
  
  
  The guards did not conduct regular patrols. For example, every ten minutes, teams around two people marched in opposite directions, met their compatriots, and returned to base. Although the street running parallel to the moan was mistletoe-streaked upper sanctification, its obvious that getting through the perimeter wasn't too much of a problem. It was only a matter of time. Streetlights illuminated the wall a little. However, the wall was a good twenty feet high and was white. Dressed in black, hers was going to look like a tarantula bearing down on him.
  
  
  Hers waited until the central team had finished their half-hearted patrol, then hers moved out of the ditch where hers had taken cover, running briskly all the way to moan. There were low bushes along the nah, and I settled down in them to prepare the rope.
  
  
  When it was installed, it moved to a point open to the central defense rack. Two passengers were sitting in front of him, talking. I could see the glow of ih cigarettes and hear ih muffled voices. Only if they turn around will they see me.
  
  
  He stood up, checked, and threw. The rope went up, and up again. There was a faint clang as his special device automatically stabbed into the far side. The sound didn't bother the smokers. He pulled on the rope and walked on. I made a note to thank AX Supply ee shoes for field operations. The soles were like magnets.
  
  
  According to the Eastern custom, the top of the wall was strewn with shards of broken glass. He carefully slid off, changed his position, and, breaking the rope, jumped into the park area of the presidential courtyard.
  
  
  In the country's history, there has never been a president, but as soon as it became, for example, due to the senselessness of political propaganda, the name was changed from the Royal Palace to the Presidential Palace. Whatever it was, it was a real estate agent's real estate object. In the darkness, it seemed that he was in the same room as Versailles.
  
  
  Her, headed towards the faint light in the sky that indicated the location of the palace. There were night birds, but there were no us, no guards, no dogs. This is my anchor feeling that Tasahmed actually didn't expect anyone's opposition.
  
  
  He was almost glad to see that the palace itself was under some sort of guard in the hall. This was on par with the boys guarding the outer wall. It went through them like whiskey on cracked ice. My entry point was through another wall, only about ten feet high. It concealed the courtyard, which was closed to all but Shema Mendanike and her ladies, a kind of feminine debauchery in reverse. Hers, he hoped that no one around them would wait for hers to climb onto his protective arm. One side of the courtyard was the wall of the palace, and the drawings clearly indicated that this wing was the Shema's apartment.
  
  
  The courtyard smelled of jasmine. Nen had enclosed walkways and a central fountain. It also had a vine-covered, staircase-like trellis that climbed slowly up the high side of the palace wall to a spot under a window where a dim brylev glowed. How could a traveling agent ignore this?
  
  
  Focusing on nen, it was almost finished by Nick Carter and Douglas Fairbanks in the evening.
  
  
  
  It was all too easy, and I couldn't see her - ego in the dark of a solitary walk. My break was that he didn't see me until I landed in the flower bed.
  
  
  If he had been smarter, he would have waited on the spot until he hit me from behind. Or there was a brass gong, and called for a lot of help. Instead, he stormed off the track barking like a walrus, partly out of permission to perform, partly out of anger.
  
  
  Her saw the flash of a knife in ego's hand and helped the coward get away. Time mattered, and she didn't want to go out with her ego friends. Hugo's flight was short and precise: it penetrated up to the hilt in the vulnerable spot where the throat meets the top of the sternum.
  
  
  He fell, choking on blood, smashing into the flowers. While he was twitching in his last convulsions, I double-checked the yard to make sure we were alone. When he returned, the emu managed to rip Hugo out around his throat. This was the ego's last part of the movement. He wiped the stiletto on ego's shirt and moved on to the barred fence.
  
  
  It was strong enough to hold my alenka. I left the rope on the vines for her and went on like Jack on a Beanstalk.
  
  
  Even before he reached the window, he heard voices: a woman's and a man's. To get to the window, I saw her that I would have to balance on top of the bars, my body pressed against moaning, my hands above my head, reaching for the ledge. It was one of those places with deep recesses, a long sloping windowsill, and a pointed arch. There was nothing to hold on to. The load had to pass through the fingers and feet. The sound of voices convinced me that there was no alternative to using rope. If the nozzle hit the glass or clanged on something, this would be the case. It would have been hard for me.
  
  
  Standing on her toes with Hugo between her teeth, her fingers caught on the ledge. Then I had to pull my chin up, pressing my toes together, making a moan, but not pushing my lower body out. When her chin rested on the ledge, she allowed the emu to take some of the weight, then let go of her right hand and grabbed the inside of the windowsill.
  
  
  The rest was to get into the room without making any noise. It was a casement window opening inwards, and I went through it like a badger trying to get through a mole's tunnel. At the end of it, I saw that the saint was not going around the room he was going to enter, but along another one. A voice from where voices also came.
  
  
  I realized it was her bedroom, and judging by the size of the bed and the faint smell of brass, it was a woman's boudoir. The mirror covering the entire wall caught my reflection and imitated me for a moment.
  
  
  Through the open door, she saw a much larger room, a real royal hall. However, the egos of size and location simply registered when it was seen, the egos of the inhabitants, especially the woman.
  
  
  She was an elf, black-haired, black-eyed, and probably related to the hummingbird. She was wearing a one-piece gold caftan with a lame edge that fastened at the neck. However, in her anger, her chest was accentuated, and the way she moved in quick swirls and darts accentuated the rest of her perfectly built body. "You're a damned liar, Tasahmed," she snapped in French.
  
  
  The AX file about the general needs to be updated. He recovered. Ego's face was too plump, but his other chin started out well, and he started to inflate the shape where it should have been tucked in. He was still a handsome man; tall, light on his feet, with heavy features and a disheveled mustache. His complexion was olive, and there was a hint of gray at the temples.
  
  
  Ego obviously wasn't bothered by Shema Mendanike's manner or words. In fact, he was both surprised and enjoying her movements. "My dear madam,"he smiled," you simply don't understand the nature of the situation."
  
  
  "I understand that well enough." She sat down in front of him, looking up. "You're holding me captive here until you're sure everything's under control!"
  
  
  "You make it sound like some kind of melodrama," he chuckled. "Of course, it should be taken over by the management. Who else could?"
  
  
  "In the dell itself, who else could! You got rid of the old pigeon feathers and...!"
  
  
  He laughed and tried to put his hands on her shoulders. "Madam, this is not the way to talk about your late husband or talk about me. As I have told you many times, I knew nothing about ego flight before I was informed of ego fall. Ego death is in the hands of Allah."
  
  
  "Even if she believed you, what does that have to do with me being held in this place?"
  
  
  "Shema!" He tried to put his hands on Nah again. "I won't delay you in the least. But it's dangerous to leave now, and there's a funeral tomorrow."
  
  
  
  "Today is not the time when she was asked to go to the Pakistani Embassy to deliver the notice to my ancestor. You stopped me from going. Why not?"
  
  
  "Like I said," he sighed, a man who had been ill-used, " for your own protection. We have reason to believe that Ben d'Oka was killed by external forces. We have a clear reason to know that they won't try to kill you, too. Do you think I'll risk a hair of your precious head in that time?" "He reached out to pet her, but she ran away. He started following her.
  
  
  "What external forces?" she grinned.
  
  
  "For example, the CIA. They've been trying to take out Ben d'oc for a long time." He shook his head sadly.
  
  
  "Oni wants to get an ego as much as you do?"
  
  
  "Why are you so unkind to me? I'll do anything for you."
  
  
  "Do you want her to be your first second, third, or fourth wife?"
  
  
  From this ego face turned red. "What should I do to convince you that I am sincere in meeting your best interests?"
  
  
  "Do you really want to know?" She was back in front of him.
  
  
  "Yes." He nodded, looking at nah.
  
  
  "You can order me a car to take me to the Pakistani Embassy."
  
  
  "At this hour, my dear? That's out of the question." And ego's voice hands were on her shoulders. She tried to move away, but he grabbed her.
  
  
  "Let me go, dung man!" she snarled, trying to pull away.
  
  
  When he tightened his grip, she tried to knee ego in the groin, spitting in his face and butting his head. She wasn't going to give up without paint, even if it was too strong for her.
  
  
  Tasahmed picked her up from the floor, and while she struggled, kicked, and cursed, he headed for the bedroom. Her snuggled up to moan on the day. But he wouldn't be able to see me right now if he wasn't dressed in fire truck red and lit up with neon lights.
  
  
  He threw her down on the bed and said something through gritted teeth about the need for understanding. This emu had enough. She released her hand and grabbed him as he tried to pin her down. He swore and swung. She screamed, and he gave hey, two more just in case. She began to sob, not from defeat, but from rage and frustration. I'd heard his kaftan rip when he'd photographed Ego Nah, and now he was muttering furiously in Arabic. The path to paradise was pitted by the reluctant Huris.
  
  
  Physical strength and Alyonka finally overcame the spirit and determination. He pinned her knee between his legs, and parted her thighs. With his left hand, he held her wrists above her head, and with his right, he pulled off his clothes. Nah's only remaining weapon was her hips. She kept pushing ih k towards him, arching her back as she tried to push him away. The movement only served to excite him. She cursed and sobbed, and he was kneeling between her legs when her broke it.
  
  
  He never knew that the ego had hit him, and that was enough. Ego knocked her out by slapping emu's ears with his hands. As he tensed in shock, he put his thumbs to the pressure points on his neck. Then it was necessary to push the ego away and keep the Shema under control.
  
  
  "Flower of the night," he told her in Urdu as he pulled Tasahmed out. "Trust me, her friend."
  
  
  In the dim light, the whiteness of her body was like mercury. At this point, all she could do was suck in a breath and stare at me.
  
  
  "I'm here to help you." It was picked up by the rags of his caftan and tossed to Ay. She didn't seem in a hurry to put it on. She sat there, rubbing her wrists, and I could sympathize with the general's intentions.
  
  
  Finally, she found her tongue and said in British English, " You damned son of a bitch! You damned pig! The dog!"
  
  
  "It wasn't very thoughtful, especially for a general." I said it to her in English.
  
  
  Angrily, she pulled on her caftan. "Who are you? Where are you from and what do you want?"
  
  
  "Her other one. And I want to talk to you."
  
  
  She looked over the edge of the bed. "Did you kill the bastard?"
  
  
  "No, her ego just saved her from suffering for a while."
  
  
  She jumped out of bed. "Misfortune! I'll show her an emu somewhere up there!"
  
  
  I heard her bump her foot. The general's body jerked convulsively. He didn't know how lucky em was to be somewhere else. She slipped into the alcove of her dressing room. "Get out of here while I put something on," she said.
  
  
  Tasahmed took care of her, and she took care of the cover. Her ego used a neckerchief for a blindfold, an ego handkerchief for a gag, and an ego belt to bind ego's wrists. He Stahl is well packed.
  
  
  When her finished, she turned on the overhead holy light, and we looked again for another, another one, on the huge bed. She was wearing a pale blue negligee. It didn't hide what was below. It just made sure you knew it was all there.
  
  
  
  Then Nick Carter's examination was just as thorough.
  
  
  "You're the first American I've met who looked like a man," she said. "Where did you learn to speak Urdu?"
  
  
  He entered the postgraduate program of the Islamabad Institute of Technology. Where did you learn to speak English? "
  
  
  "My father was an English governor who was married to a Pakistani woman, or did no one ever tell you about the Empire? You still haven't answered my questions, ferret - who are you? If I call security, they'll cut your throat!"
  
  
  "Then I won't be able to tell you who I am."
  
  
  She grinned, looking both fake and shy. "And I can't thank you enough for taking that pig off me."
  
  
  "So why don't we sit down and start talking again."
  
  
  "I have to say that I haven't been introduced to a man in my bedroom before. But with them a ferret like we started here." She sat on her side of the bed and motioned for me to sit on mine. "Now start."
  
  
  "I went through that window," I said, " hoping to find you at home."
  
  
  "What did you do, fly through it on your magic carpet?" she snapped. "Don't try to deceive me."
  
  
  "I didn't fly, I didn't climb, and I don't have time to deceive you."
  
  
  "You're one of those damned agents the general was talking about."
  
  
  "I'm the one who wants to ask you a couple of questions. Then I'll get off on my carpet and fly."
  
  
  She got up, went to the window, and leaned out. Her movements emphasized the derriere, to which any poet could write a sonnet.
  
  
  "I'll keep the money, you'll be good for Nanga Parbat," she said, walking back to the bed. "It's a strange occurrence, but I owe you something. What do you want to know?"
  
  
  "Why was your husband in such a hurry to get to Budan in the middle of the night?"
  
  
  "Ha! This madman! He never told me why he was going anywhere. Usually, he would just send me a notification for her to arrive. Em liked to flaunt me so that everyone would think he knew how to choose a wife, a sexy, rich Pakistani who graduated from a London school. Little boys were what emu liked ."
  
  
  "So you didn't have much contact with him, and you didn't see Ego before he left?"
  
  
  She stood up, holding her hands up to her elbows, and began to sing like a hummingbird. "Yes, actually, to speak, his ego saw. For me, this is the only transmission. He was scared. Of course, he was like an old woman, but maybe I should have paid more attention to it then."
  
  
  "Can you remember what he said?"
  
  
  "Of course I can! What do you think, her stupid! He said that if anything happened to him, I should go to my country's embassy and ask Ambassador Abdul Khanna to protect me. I told her:"Why, where are you going? 'He said: "I am edu to Budan to meet Abu Osman." He could understand why he was scared. Posh threatened to castrate Ego, although I do not know if this was possible. Its said: "Why are you going to see this nonentity? He didn't give me rheumatism. He just said something about it being the will of Allah. She was still half asleep and not very happy that she had woken up. Maybe I should have paid more attention to him." "Poor old Ben d'eye, if only he was half as good at it as he was bouncing up and down on the UN podium. Imagine him chasing boys around people when he could have had any woman in the country!"
  
  
  "I honestly don't have that kind of imagination, Shema."
  
  
  She sat on my side of the bed. "You know, her been sleeping in this trash alone for four years!" she said it wasn't my fault, looking at me, the nipples of her breasts trying to break through the web of her negligee. "What's your name?"
  
  
  "Ned ' Cole'.
  
  
  "All right, Edward," she said, reaching for my shoulders. "Now it's my turn, and if we don't attach a thread to four years of emptiness, I'll call security and help him finish you off."
  
  
  You've heard the old saying about the woman who deals with the tiger in the trash. The shema would make her look like a cat. We kissed, and she grabbed my tongue, sucking on my ego with a light tug. When my hands found her breasts, her hands followed me as if they were enraged by my clothes. In her four years of celibacy, she had never forgotten how to unbutton her belt and unbutton her zipper. When he started to reciprocate, she tilted her head back.
  
  
  Her eyes were wide and bright, and her lips were pouty. "You are my guest!" she gasped in Urdu. "In the East, it is customary to entertain your guest. This is my bed, and you are here at my invitation."
  
  
  She pressed me to her back and began to draw wet maps on my body with her lips. Then suddenly she straddled me. With her back arched, her breasts bulging, her knees wrapped around my hips, she grabbed my hands in hers and said: "I'll dance for you."
  
  
  
  He watched her face as she slowly, inch by inch, sank back into place. Her eyes blinked and widened, her lips parted, and she sucked in a breath. Then she began to dance, and all the movements fell on her hips and pelvis. She was being caressed by ee. Ee target got lost while she was trying to make up for four years without love.
  
  
  As she moved up, her laid the thread and further danced and started her own. He lifted her over his head, holding her in the air. Then, when she started to struggle, enraged that I had stopped her sensual gavotte, she was knocked down by her, rolling over to change our position.
  
  
  "No!" she said, starting to struggle. "No, no, no!"
  
  
  After all, hers, was her guest. He rolled backward, easily pulling her on top of him. These tremors became faster, fiercer. We were moving as one now, and her eyes closed as she fell forward, holding back the crest of our last wave.
  
  
  Her gently stepped out from under nah, flipping us both over. Then hers, I looked at nah, feeling her legs close around me. Her fingers dug into my back, her teeth falling on my shoulder as she flinched,"Please!" There was no holding back now. We came together, an ecstatic shiver passing from my body to his.
  
  
  If we could spend the rest of the night together, we could write a new edition of the Kama Sutra. Whatever it was, Tasahmed was returning to the real world.
  
  
  "Why don't you kill the ego?" she said as she lit one for nah around her cigarettes.
  
  
  "If her did that, where would you be?" She knelt down to examine him.
  
  
  "No worse than hers now, Edward."
  
  
  "Oh, much worse, Shema. He doesn't want anything to happen to you. But if anything happens to him here in your rooms-well, it's not worth the risk."
  
  
  It wasn't worth it for another reason. I don't want us dead Tasahmed. Maybe alive. At the same time, if ego asked her in front of Shema, he didn't know what I would get. It will be the cart before the camel. The camel was Osman.
  
  
  He was Mendanike's sworn enemy, and yet Ben-d'The eye went to great lengths to meet him. It seemed logical that Osman would have refused to attend unless he had some prior indication of the purpose of the pau-wah. It also seemed logical that Nick Carter should meet Osman right away before asking questions of Tasahmed. The voice of ages and logic.
  
  
  "Shma, why don't you call the boys and put the general to bed. Tell them that he fainted from excitement." Her gag began to be removed.
  
  
  She giggled. "You think almost as well as you make love. When he's gone, we can spend the rest of the night."
  
  
  She was not informed about the bad conditions in the Barents Sea. He hid in the locker room while two security guards, somewhat puzzled but grinning, escorted the weakened Arab knight back to Ego's house.
  
  
  "Now," she went into the bedroom, tossing aside the robe she'd put on before the general left,"this time we'll have a mirror to show us what we're enjoying." She spread her arms wide and pirouetted naked in front of me, humming again.
  
  
  She was hugged by ee, I know I probably hate myself in the morning. She answered. He applied pressure where it was least expected or desired. She froze for a moment, then went limp. He picked her up and carried her to bed. I laid her down and kissed her goodnight. Then Brylev turned off the light and, after examining the courtyard through the windows, cautiously went out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hawke would say that the time spent with Shema was a dangerous waste. Maybe. But beyond the fun, I needed this wild mix of East and West as an ally, with someone to back him up against Tasahmed if the opportunity arose. However, a lot of time was spent. It was no longer wasted by Ego picking up the Fiat in front of the Police Station and heading to the embassy. When he arrived at the ego gate, his had already started playing.
  
  
  The gate was closed. There was a call and a talking kiosk. Her phone rang in several long bursts. When I didn't have playback, it rang stronger again.
  
  
  This time there was a voice coming from the wall speaker, like a recorded message. "The embassy is closed until 8: 00 p.m., sir."
  
  
  "Is that a Marine guard?" I asked her in the booth.
  
  
  "Yes, sir, these are the body Simms."
  
  
  "Kapralov, do you know what seven-five-three is?"
  
  
  There was a brief pause. "Yes sir." This was more of a tie-in.
  
  
  "Well, that's seven-five-three, and he'd appreciate it if you let me in right away."
  
  
  "Who are you, sir?"
  
  
  "Mr. Sutton can tell you that. That's seven, five, three. I want immediate action, corporals."
  
  
  
  Another minute's pause, and then: "Wait, sir."
  
  
  Her, returned to the car, satisfied that the offer made by AX had turned into a SOP with U.S. embassies and institutions around the outdoor pool. The idea was that with the rise of terrorism and kidnappings, it was necessary that simple identification could be provided at any time in the event of an emergency. For each day, the Washington POST sent a different sequence of numbers. Since the supplier was AX, I always worked with a list that I memorized on two consecutive Sundays.
  
  
  The gate swung open and I entered the lighted entrance area. For the welcoming committee, there were three Marines with M16s and body-worn Simms with .45s .
  
  
  "No, sir, you'll have to go out through the cars," he said, looking at me. "Your ID card, please."
  
  
  "Mr. Sutton will provide this," I said, getting out around the car. "Please take it from him."
  
  
  "He's being contacted." Kapralov quickly examined the car. Emu gave her the keys to the chest. That was the end of the conversation. The Marines watched him light a cigarette and waited for Sutton to shake his ass. This rear end was worth a lot more than Sutton's, but it pissed me off.
  
  
  Paula Matthews was wearing tight tweed trousers and a fur-lined flight jacket to protect herself from the cold. With her Irish setter hair pulled back into a bun and her creamy peach complexion still slightly stained with arch sweat, she would have been a welcome addition to almost any gathering. Even though the three Marines were staring at me, they would have agreed.
  
  
  "Do you know this man, Miss Matthews?" asked Corporal Simms.
  
  
  "Yes, Kapralov." She was a little out of breath and didn't know if she should be in a bad mood. "What's the problem, Mr. Cole?"
  
  
  "Where's Sutton?"
  
  
  "He was very tired, so he asked me..."
  
  
  "I'd like to use your phone, Kapralov."
  
  
  Kapralov was a little shaky. He looked at Paulo and demanded confirmation.
  
  
  Instead, he brought the ego. "This is an order, Kapralov. Open now!" My tone would have gotten the boot camp instructor's approval.
  
  
  "Yes sir!" The three of us walked up to the security post in silence. In the small inner room, he pointed to the phone.
  
  
  He left, and she saw that Paula's face was glowing with her hair. "Look! What do you think..."
  
  
  "What's his number, and don't waste your time throwing a shoe."
  
  
  With clenched fists and sparkling eyes, she looked good enough to take pictures. "Five, zero two, three," she hissed.
  
  
  Her, turned around and dialed the number. It rang too long before Sutton started complaining: "Paula, I told you..."
  
  
  "Sutton, I'll have to use the embassy plane right now. Shake your ass, and alert the team. Then come down here to the gate so that Miss Matthews can go back to bed, where she belongs."
  
  
  I could hear the wires humming as he picked up his teeth. When he spoke, he held it out to me ."The embassy plane is still in the hall in Tunis. Her guess is that he has a carriage with him. Now, if you think..."
  
  
  "I think it will be put in writing and sent to your director at Langley. In the meantime, is there a spare plane?"
  
  
  “no. There is only Convair."
  
  
  "Do you have conditions for a charter?"
  
  
  He snorted sarcastically. "From whom! There are no private sources. We are an embassy. We don't own the country."
  
  
  "I assume that other embassies have planes. Are there no mutual arrangements in case of an emergency?"
  
  
  "To take action, you need an ambassador, and as you know... we don't have an ambassador." He smiled smugly.
  
  
  "Let's put it another way. This is a Red One priority. I need a plane. I need him now. Can you help?"
  
  
  The wires hummed again. "It's a hell of a short time, and in the middle of the night. I'll see what I can do. Call me back in an hour." He hung up.
  
  
  I turned to see Paula studying me with a frown. "Can I help her?" she said.
  
  
  He took out a pencil and paper and began to write. "These are UHF transmission frequencies. Warn your signalmen to monitor ih. I can call her. My code name will be Piper. I'll call her Charlie. Understand?"
  
  
  "Well, where are you going?"
  
  
  "One day we'll sit on your patio and I'll tell you everything."
  
  
  She walked with me to the car. Her, climbed inside. "Will Henry help?" she said.
  
  
  Her, looked at nah. "Go to bed, Paula." He signaled the corporal to turn on the gate switch.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In some missions, breaks travel with you. On others, you take a few on the go. On some you don't get ih.
  
  
  As soon as it turned the corner on Hans Geyer Street. Her, thought he might have some ideas on how to get on a plane to Budan.
  
  
  The headlights illuminated the narrow street. There was a web vending machine parked on nen, open at the Geyer Gate. It was a dirty, official-looking Mercedes. It was driven by mimmo. It was empty, or the driver was asleep in the seat. The latter was unlikely. Its picking up speed and circled the corner. In her mind's eye, she could see Erica in those shorts and turtleneck sweater.
  
  
  I left her a Fiat at parque. There were no pedestrians, not even a stray dog to watch me race down the street that ran parallel to Guyer. I had a rope to climb over the intervening walls and across the grounds of the villa, which was now sitting on a two-story Moorish-style Hanna story. It had a porch with arches and tiles. Brylev was falling through the first-floor windows. How would her hotel us get home, her first went around the house.
  
  
  There were no outside guards. There was only dead Fertilizer. He was shot several times. Between the ego's clenched fangs was an olive-colored chunk. He threw himself into the fray through the window.
  
  
  There was something about this scene that was somewhat reminiscent of the previous one, in which she was played as an unsuspecting Peeping Tom. It had some comic overtones. There was nothing funny about it. Hans Geyer, his face swollen and bloodied, struggled to get away from the ploy of a heavy man in an olive-green uniform, who was half-choking ego with one hand, pressing the blade of a knife to the mechanic's throat.
  
  
  Hans ' efforts were not so much to escape from his captor as to save his daughter. Erica's clothes had been stripped off and were lying on the dining table. Behind Nah, another recognizable olive-green spellcaster stood holding her wrists. Erica's legs hung down on either side of the chair, her ankles secured with rope. At the end of the chair was an ugly son of a bitch. He would have been dressed in olive green, too. Colonel Mohammed Duza directed and directed the small home scene. He was sitting facing the back of a chair, his chin resting on its crest.
  
  
  I leave the philosophy to the philosophers, but I've always thought that the only way to deal with a rapist is to deprive the ego of the ability to rape. In Shema's case, I didn't think it would ever be rape, at least not in the sense that it was supposed to happen here. Erica's mouth was gagged, and every muscle in her body was taut and arched, screaming for release.
  
  
  Her, saw Dusa nod at the thug, heard Hans call out, " Bella for God's sake, I told you everything!"
  
  
  Then Wilhelmina spoke up. Once for an alleged rapist who fell down screaming. Once I made a third eye in the face of Hans's tormentor. Once more, to pay the third math major who was holding Erica's wrists. C) the ability to go in search of your weapon.
  
  
  Douza was on his feet, one hand on his .45. "Freeze, or you're dead!" He ordered the emu in French. "Just give me a reason, Dusa!" He changed his mind. "Raise your hands above your head! Face to groan! " He obeyed.
  
  
  Hans and Erica were shocked. Her "Hans!" switched to English. "Come out! Grab your gun! If he even blinks, shoot him!"
  
  
  Hans moved like a man walking in a dream. I smashed the rest of the glass with Wilhelmina's butt, I want to get inside. By the time I did, Erica was free and gone. The writhing figure lay crumpled on the floor, still covered in its own blood, unconscious or dead.
  
  
  Hans floated on his feet, his eyes still glazed, not quite sure if the nightmare was over. Ego released her from the FN and tapped her on the shoulder. "I bought myself a belt of this bourbon. I'll take care of everything here."
  
  
  He nodded dumbly and staggered out into the kitchen.
  
  
  Duse said it. "Turn around."
  
  
  He came up to me, I want to see if her was who he thought I was. He started to grin as he said, " Vous serez..."
  
  
  Not only did my ego chop backhand remove the smirk and stop the words, but his ego hit the wall with his head, and a red stream flowed from his ego lips.
  
  
  "You will keep quiet," I said, as his momentary shock turned to pent-up rage. "You will answer when someone speaks to you as you instructed. Don't tempt me. I'm on the verge of gutting you. What do you want from these people?"
  
  
  "That damned bastard should know that I knew about the crash." Hans washed his face, held the bottle in his hand, and although he was still breathing like a man who had run too far, his hoarse voice returned to harmony and the glassy look in his eyes disappeared. "Only he didn't trust me when her emu said so. Let me smash that emu bottle in the skull! " He stepped forward, tension written all over his bruised face.
  
  
  "Go see how Erica is doing." Ego grabbed her arm.
  
  
  He suddenly remembered Erica and ran away, calling her name.
  
  
  "Why do you care what he knows about the disaster?"
  
  
  Dusa shrugged. "My job is to take care. If he knows how it happened, then he should know who did it. You will be well informed..."
  
  
  My fist didn't go far. It hurt him. I waited for her until the scoundrel stopped and he came back, then I played her on emu ego, my own record: "I said you'd answer, not make stupid noises. Obviously, he doesn't know who, even if he knows how. Or do you think he will refuse to answer until you let one of your apes meet you and rape your daughter's ego? "
  
  
  Dusa's voice whistled in ego's throat. "It's my job to find out."
  
  
  "Mine too."She was stabbed by luger emu in life and stuck Hugo emu's blade under the chin. "I have very little time, Colonel. You'll have even less if you don't cooperate with you." She was pinned down by ego k moan, neck back, chin turned away from the sharp stiletto. "Why does Mendanika need to see Abu Osman?"
  
  
  Through gritted teeth, shaking his head, he choked: "Before Allah, I swear, I do not know!"
  
  
  Hugo spilled blood. Dusa tried to retreat through the wall. "By the Koran! On my mother's grave!"
  
  
  Her pressure eased a little. "Why does Mendanika need to see Ambassador Petersen?"
  
  
  He shook his head. "I'm just the head of security! I wouldn't have known that!"
  
  
  This time Hugo wasn't just tickling. Duza slammed his head against the wall and screamed. "One more time. Did you tell her why?" This is the only time you'll get it."
  
  
  He crumbled and started babbling, sobbing: "Because! Because! He was afraid of a coup! Because I was afraid that General Tashahmed was going to kill ego!"
  
  
  "And you killed our ambassador."
  
  
  "It was an accident!"
  
  
  "As if the sabotage of the plane was an accident. Tasahmed was afraid that Mendanike would try to make a deal with Osman."
  
  
  "No, no! He shook his head from side to side. "That's why you came here to interrogate Geyer. We talked about how he knew how the accident happened, and..."
  
  
  "Your time is up." Her step back, and he looked into Wilhelmina's face, his eyes wide and black as hers were small. He fell to his knees as if he had heard the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. For some reason, it didn't strike me as soft under fire, but then you never know how much a word is worth in your speech.
  
  
  If what he said was true, or even half true, then not only is his time up, but so is mine. There were no stolen nuclear weapons on this dog, just a bitch of third-rate third-world coup participants. The game was clear enough. Tasahmed made a deal with the Soviet Union. The polyline was the prize, and Mendanike was the sacrificial goat. Mendanicke realized that it didn't really matter who crashed his plane or how... And yet - and yet- " I could have put it all together and notified Hawke to start looking elsewhere, or I could have used her to waste precious time and play ego to the bitter end.
  
  
  "Just stay on your knees," I said when Hans and Erica returned to the room. She was wearing slacks and another turtleneck. She was pale, but her eyes were clear and controlled.
  
  
  "How are you?"
  
  
  Nah had a faint smile on her face. "I'm fine... thank you."
  
  
  "With pleasure. Why don't you go to the other room while we take care of everything here?"
  
  
  The bodies on the floor, alive and dead, looked like the final scene from Hamlet. As a nurse in this part of the world, she has undoubtedly seen her share of dried blood and can't have much mercy on the remains. "I'll fix you the breakfast you were going to have," she said, making her way across the room.
  
  
  "What are you going to do with it?" Hans said, looking at the fallen security chief.
  
  
  "I haven't decided yet whether to shoot the emu in the head or cut the emu's throat."
  
  
  Hans tilted his head toward me, not sure if mistletoe meant it to her. The web reason why I didn't do it was because the Dusa alive might be more useful than the Dusa in paradise. "I came back here to give you a spin," I said.
  
  
  "Buddy," Hans shook his head, " you have a standing invitation to come here at any time of the day or night to ask me anything!"
  
  
  Good. Answer well. I need a plane to take me to Budan right now. Where can I find my ego?"
  
  
  He looked at me, blinked, rubbed his chin, and then, grinning like a Cheshire cat, made a bottle of Douza. "That son of a bitch could have ordered us one. These are two Dakota NAAS sitting on the line, tested and ready to go. The Odin around them must go to ..."
  
  
  "I don't need an ih flight history. Where do we get a team?"
  
  
  "He can order a carriage.
  
  
  all the emu has to do is call customer support. Poor phone service, but at this hour ... "
  
  
  "Get up, Duza."
  
  
  Emu didn't need to be told twice, but I could see that he had regained some of his composure. Ego's eyes flashed again. He began to shake out his uniform.
  
  
  The phone was in the lobby. Nen had white walls and parquet floors. In the dining room, everything was darkened, but here, with the lights on, we all stood out clearly. Dusa looked at me as if he could remember my face, but at the same time forget it.
  
  
  "I'll give you a few minutes," I said. "You keep an eye on them, or we'll leave you to the body and trash collector. You book a plane, you book a team. They will be waiting for you to arrive." He gave em the details while Hans contacted the flights.
  
  
  When we left the house, Hans and I were in the uniform of two of Dusa's men. For a moment, I thought that Hans would ruin the show. He saw what they had done to ego the dog and went after Dooz. The colonel was twice ego's height, but he was no match for an angry mechanic. It was all I could do to get him out while Erica ego calmed him down. Then he put Duza back on his feet and created a sort of marching order. She didn't want him to look so exhausted that he wouldn't pass the test.
  
  
  Hans rode with Duza at his side. Her sel is for the colonel, Erica is next to me. She was silent most of the way, glancing at me from time to time. He reached out and took her hand. She held on tight, her death grip warm and grateful.
  
  
  "Are you feeling all right?"
  
  
  "I'm already fine."
  
  
  "It was useless to leave you behind."
  
  
  "You couldn't leave me."
  
  
  "Have you been to Budan before?"
  
  
  "Parts. I work for the World Health Organization. I visit her regularly, there's a clinic there."
  
  
  Good. Then the trip won't be wasted on you."
  
  
  "It won't be wasted anyway." She picked up the thermos. "Do you want another cup?"
  
  
  "Not now, thank you."
  
  
  Hans was not distracted from driving, and his eyes were not on Dusa. She was asked to put ego in the back with me, but in this case, Erica would be in front. A woman driving in front of a company car at this hour would have attracted attention. Duza knew that he was a finger's breadth away from death. He was either a coward or a good actor. If we were alone, and there was time, she would have realized quickly enough what Hema was. But so far I had to play by touch, and I didn't really like what I was feeling.
  
  
  Duza received phone instructions that he would arrive at the checkpoint gate at approximately 02: 30. Those on duty were informed that there should be no delays. This was not an order that he could depend on. "Let's make sure you know your lines, buddy. When we are stopped, how will you handle it?"
  
  
  "I'll announce who I am..."
  
  
  "In French, not Arabic."
  
  
  "And I'll tell them to let us pass if they don't do it automatically."
  
  
  "Suppose you're asked to get out, around the car?"
  
  
  "I'll stay where I am and ask to see the commander."
  
  
  "Hans, if something goes wrong, I'll shoot her Colonel, what will you do?"
  
  
  "I'll have another drink and check the plane. No, I'll go to the hangar first. We'll jump around that thing at the side entrance, go through the door, and pick up my buggy, where her ego is on the left, on the other side. After that, I'll leave it to you."
  
  
  After that, we will play strictly by ear. Hers, I hoped it wasn't necessary, but because of Dooza's fear, or the ego of a hidden acting talent, it didn't happen.
  
  
  When we approached the gate of the angara checkpoint, we were hit by a blinding brylev. Hans stopped, and Dusa stuck his head out of the window and yelled angrily.
  
  
  We passed through the gate, responding to the salute of the sentries. It couldn't be smoother. Hers, he felt Erica relax, her breath coming in a long sigh. He patted her knee.
  
  
  "When we get to the plane, Erica, you come out around my side, pass mimmo me and get on board. You don't have anything to say to anyone. Duza, you follow her. I'll be right behind her. you go to the rear. The pilot will want to know where we're going." Tell emu that it's in Budana, and that he can send his own flight plan after we take off."
  
  
  Our plane was easy to find. The field lights illuminated the field line, and we could see the two-man flight crew checking out an old DC-3 Dakota. Hans drove up to her, but didn't get out around the car as instructed. Its implemented its own plan
  
  
  Why. In addition to the pilots, there were two other NAA maintenance specialists who performed a last-minute inspection. Even in his ego's ill-fitting shape, Hans thought they would recognize him.
  
  
  Erica quickly got on board. The pilots stretched out in front of Dusa, greeting him. He gave them instructions, and they stood off to the side, waiting for him to come up the steps.
  
  
  I couldn't risk leaving Hans behind, and I certainly couldn't take my eyes off Dusa. He knew that ground fighters couldn't be killed. At the start of the plane, they had to stand with fire extinguishers. They hovered at the plane's entrance like a pair of moths.
  
  
  "Colonel, sir," I said, " you should check to see if this call has been received. Couldn't one of these people have done it?" Her, nodded to the couple. "And the other one can take a look at our rear axle."
  
  
  Duza was a fast learner. He looked at me blankly over his shoulder for a moment, then gave an order.
  
  
  "Sir,"the pilot said," we can contact base operations by radio - and get word of your call."
  
  
  "There's no need. He can use this plane." He pointed at the more rounded one around the two, then climbed aboard. I followed, wondering what I should do next. It was too damn risky. But whatever it was, it got me where it took her, and it kept Dusa alive, and that was number one on the ego list.
  
  
  The pilots followed us, and a few seconds later Hans came in. He activated the cockpit door closing mechanism. After securing his ego, he leaned against it tiredly. "God, both of these characters work for me!"
  
  
  "Do the pilots know you?"
  
  
  “no. They are military by Rufa. When a bastard like that flies, they use military commands."
  
  
  Dakota was the executive type for VIP Persson. The nen had several wide halls running down the sides, a bar, an armchair, reclining chairs, and carpeting.
  
  
  Then the co-pilot poked his head out of the cockpit a day later and said, " No messages for you, sir. Will you fasten your seat belts? We'll take off immediately."
  
  
  After a few seconds, he heard the engine start to hum again, then the engine gasped, coughed, and came to life with a violent flash. "All aboard Budan," Hans said, looking at the bar.
  
  
  Colonel Sel sat across from me, buckling his seat belt, and relaxed. The ego expression on her face was blank enough, but I could see a hint of complacency in her ego eyes.
  
  
  "Dusa, if you didn't sabotage Mendanike's plane, who do you think did it?"
  
  
  "Maybe Mr. Geyer will tell you that," he said, trying to get the game back on track.
  
  
  "I'd be interested to hear your theories," I said. "It's not just a long way to Buda, it's going to be a long way, from the altitude we're going to fly there to the ground. You can choose this route, and we can choose another one."
  
  
  He thought for a moment as the plane stopped and began checking the engine before taking off. "Think about it until we're in the air," I said.
  
  
  It was a different feeling when we took off in an old twin-engine plane. You wondered if this thing would gain enough speed to fly, and then you realized that you were flying.
  
  
  As soon as the engines were shut down, he told Gansu to go ahead and ask the pilot to turn off the upper brylev. "You go with them. When we are about an hour away from landing, I want them to contact Budan so that the security headquarters can be informed that the ih chief is arriving. Emu needs the latest information on Osman's whereabouts, as well as a car waiting at the airport."
  
  
  "You place a bet." Hans stood up with the bottle in his hand.
  
  
  "And you'd better leave it here. You don't want to arouse suspicion and you don't want to start any bad habits."
  
  
  He frowned, looked at the bottle, and put it down. "All right, buddy, whatever you say."
  
  
  "Erica, "I said,"why don't you lie down there and hide?"
  
  
  She smiled at me and stood up. "Yes sir."
  
  
  The Colonel and I sat in the shade with the main saint turned off and only a couple of taillights on. He didn't offer em a cigarette. "Now, let's hear it loud and clear. You swear by the Koran that your boss didn't kill Mendanike. Who did this?"
  
  
  "We suspect external forces."
  
  
  "Don't always tell me stuff about the CIA."
  
  
  "We don't know who. The Soviets, the Chinese, the Israelis."
  
  
  I knew he was lying about the Soviets, which meant he was lying, period. "What are your reasons?"
  
  
  "Since we didn't do it, someone else did. Osman is supported by the Chinese."
  
  
  "Of course. So Mendanike rushes to see Osman, and they shoot down ego before he tells them why."
  
  
  Dusa shrugged. "You asked me who. Nothing special. The accident looked like a normal accident. Your other one said he knew something else
  
  
  
  For estestvenno, we want to know we ... "
  
  
  "What about the mercenaries you brought, the cute boys around South Yemen and other points?"
  
  
  It brought a moment of silence. "These people entered the country on Mendanike's orders. He never said why. We just had instructions to let ih in. This worried General Tasahmed. We..."
  
  
  "Where were those mercenaries hanging out?"
  
  
  "Mostly in Pakara."
  
  
  "What is it?"
  
  
  "This is our country's second largest city. It's not far from the Libyan border."
  
  
  "What they did for excitement."
  
  
  "Nothing. Just hanging out."
  
  
  It was a dragon jar and a bank of lies. All this added to the obvious. The bastard was the head of the execution department, FOR EXAMPLE, but like Tasahmed, he was still more alive and in good shape than dead - at least until I had a chance to talk to Osman.
  
  
  There was a small toilet at the back of the plane. The colonel put it there. To make sure he wasn't moving, the emu tied his arms and legs with a rope around the pants of the uniform he was wearing. In the stripes on the sides of the trousers, a rather light rope turned out. He'd left her ego sitting on the throne, his own pants pulled up to his ankles for safety. Then he stretched out in the living room across from Erica and fell asleep two minutes later.
  
  
  At some point, it wasn't Douza who went to heaven, but Nick Carter. A warm and gentle hand undid my belt. She began to caress and stroke me. She undid the buttons and unzipped it. It spread through my body, and another hand joined it. My chest, my life, all my touch was the subtlest touch of the night's music.
  
  
  I woke her up when her lips and body touched mine. Ee hugged her, surprised to find that she wasn't wearing a sweater, just rounded breasts. Gently probing those tongues, I turned us on our sides, and my hand dropped to find that what was undressed at the top was naked at the bottom. Her husband began to respond with a few pleasantries, and she moaned, nodding her head, and then whispered on my lips, " Oh, yes! Yes!"
  
  
  He would muffle her words with his mouth and let his other hand focus on her chest. My lips also craved ih.
  
  
  "Please!" she gasped as he relaxed her beneath him, feeling her hips find a common rhythm.
  
  
  Her slowly entered nah, her fingers really trying to enter me in nah. "Wonderful!" she gasped.
  
  
  For Nah, it was partly an emotional reaction to what had almost happened, and partly an unspoken but quickly recognizable attraction between us. He'd known that when he'd made love to her, so he wasn't tired. Instead, there was a deep giving and receiving, a rapid reciprocity of punches and counter-punches.
  
  
  It was too good to last, and too urgent for both of us to find a way out. We arrived, she was sobbing with the ecstasy of her orgasm, her knowing that you won't find heaven if you sleep.
  
  
  We are lying in the living room, relaxing and smoking a cigarette. The constant roar of the engines lulled me back to sleep. "You know," she said thoughtfully,"I do not know who you are."
  
  
  "Her education in Budan, traveling on a first-class magic carpet."
  
  
  "But it doesn't really matter," she said, ignoring my rheumatism, " at least not now."
  
  
  "Remind me to introduce myself officially one day."
  
  
  She ruffled my hair and leaned down to kiss me. "I think I like you much better in an informal setting. I like that you're saving me from male rapists, and I like you here in heaven, where no one will bother us."
  
  
  Ee pulled her close. "Maybe you want to repeat the performance."
  
  
  "I would like to repeat the performance." Her hand went up to put out her cigarette.
  
  
  "One good signpost deserves another," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For me, this is the only transmission of the sound of engines changing the height of tons. Early morning light flooded the hut. Erica lay on the living room floor across from me, curled up in her sleep. Her sel, yawned and looked out into the port. We were in an arid dry area, letting clear skies pass, without the thermal haze that would have formed later. The mountains were bare, and there wasn't much green between them. Her, knew that Budan was an exception. It lay in a valley fed by underground catchments, the only real source of water in ten thousand square miles.
  
  
  Hans went out the whole length of the cabin. Despite its shabby appearance, it had clear eyes and a bushy tail over the vista ahead. "We will go," he said, " we will approach the wreck openly. Come forward and I'll show you what happened."
  
  
  "Sit down for a minute," I said. "Has Budan been informed of our estimated arrival time?"
  
  
  "Of course, just like you said."
  
  
  Good. Now take off this uniform and stay here with us."
  
  
  "But I have to ..."
  
  
  "You're seething and listening. This is not an excursion for the pleasure of Hans Geyer."
  
  
  "Yes, I know him, but by chance..."
  
  
  "You can study it as much as you want once I see how things are going. Duza will be with me."
  
  
  "Hey, where is he?"
  
  
  "I powdered my nose. Have you been here before, what is the situation at the airport-escort, hotel and so on?"
  
  
  Erica woke up when he told me everything. There was a web strip "east-west", Tatiana and the terminal building. Since this was an official visit, no permit checks were carried out, and security always consisted only of protecting the terminal. It was just about as I'd imagined it.
  
  
  "I assume there is a guest house or hotel for visitors here."
  
  
  "Of course, Ashbal."
  
  
  "You and Erica will stay there until I come for you."
  
  
  "Wait a minute, buddy, what do you mean, stay?"
  
  
  "When you're not digging through the wreckage or going to jail, and Erica doesn't go to the clinic, you stay there. I do not know how long it will take. Understand?"
  
  
  "Yes, yes, of course, good. I understand you." He was happy again.
  
  
  I heard a gear rattle. "And if you don't get out around that uniform, I'll take it off you."
  
  
  He started talking to Erica, trying to ignore the look in her eyes. "It might take me a day or more, but you'll be fine as long as you stay close to the clinic. Will the Mendanika howl be as intense here as it was in Laman?"
  
  
  "No," Hans said, pulling off his olive green trousers. "There are many sympathizers of Osman here."
  
  
  I got up, thinking it was time for our host to join the crowd. "One more thing: don't bring any weapons. Hide what you have." Its planned to do the same except .45 Douza and Pierre.
  
  
  The security chief wasn't in the best of shape. Ego had a dark complexion that had a choleric tinge to it. Ego's bloodshot eyes glittered. Ego bottom part pouted. He had been sitting on the pot too long.
  
  
  Ego had freed her hands and feet, and he sat there angrily rubbing his wrists. "You can pull on your own pants," I said. "Then you can join us for coffee."
  
  
  There was coffee. Erica took care of that in the small galley ahead. She played a flight attendant and served the crew. Hans didn't have time to recover, his face was pressed against the window.
  
  
  "Hey, come here and take a look! I can see where they entered! Open for a penny, as I said! Great!"
  
  
  I looked out the window and saw that we were going to fly there parallel to the edge of the valley. It looked lush, but the mountains on either side of us were something else. He hoped Osman wasn't far away, or holed up in a cave. Hawk didn't find a fixed time limit for my searches, but every unanswered minute was too long a minute.
  
  
  "Will you see the wreckage?" Hans chuckled.
  
  
  I saw the wreckage. It looked like a small landfill spread out along the flat ground a few miles from the runway, a long black strip littered with burnt and broken airplane parts. It was obvious that no one was collecting ih to investigate. That fact should have meant more to me, but Dusa came out, limping around the booth, still rubbing his wrists, distracting my attention.
  
  
  "Sit here," he pointed, and he gave a hard sel.
  
  
  "Erica, bring some coffee and join us. It must be given a blessing. Hans, you too."
  
  
  "After we land," Duse told her, " you'll give the crew the order to stay on base. Hans, you and Erika will stay on board until the Colonel and I leave. No one will come out around us, around the plane, unless there is a crew. Hans, how about a transport for the two of you? "
  
  
  "There should be fees, but if there's no ego, I can borrow the stationmaster's Jeep. I'll take her to Erica's clinic, and then I'll go to the line."
  
  
  "If you're not in the Ashbal, or you don't come back on board when I'm ready, you'll be left behind."
  
  
  "Well, take it, tailor, I must know when it's coming!"
  
  
  "When it's ready, I'll check it first at Ashbal, then at the clinic, and then here. This is the best thing I can do for you."
  
  
  "What do you need?" Erica asked as the plane slowed in its descent, flaps released, wheels extended to make contact. "Maybe I can help you."
  
  
  "I wish you could, but the colonel volunteered to be my guide." The Colonel sipped his coffee, lowering the lids.
  
  
  The wheels touched, creaked, and we were in Budan. The airport didn't look busy. However, while we were taxiing, it was spotted by half a dozen partizans who were standing in front of the terminal and watching our approach. They were wearing bandoliers and A-47 Kalashnikov assault rifles. There was also an official car parked on the field line.
  
  
  
  "Is it an honorary watchdog or an ordinary watchdog?" Juan told her.
  
  
  "It looks, for example, like a normal one."
  
  
  The pilot turned the plane around, the engines died, the propellers clanged to a stop. Hans opened the door and lowered the trap before the pilots exited all over the cockpit. Duza gave them his instructions. I could see that my co-pilot was puzzled by the fact that Hans and I were no longer wearing the olive green color. "Shape shifting," emu told her, and winked. He got the message, smiled at me, and they left.
  
  
  We play this game on a plane in the quiet of the early morning. She noticed a subtle change in Duza's demeanor. Perhaps the coffee cured him, or he thought he saw a thread of his captivity. He was looking past me over my shoulder across the port, watching some of the other members of the ego honor guard who had made their way onto the flight path.
  
  
  "Les règlec de jeu-rules of the game-Douza, you will play as I order, otherwise the game is over. Don't be nice. You and I are leaving now. You're two steps ahead. go openly to the car and get in the nah. That's all you do. Let's go, now." He stood up with an ego .45 in his hand.
  
  
  She was allowed by emu to watch as I draped my jacket over her arm to hide it. «Apres vous, mon Colonel. Try to keep you two out of trouble, " I said as we left.
  
  
  The honor guard wasn't lined up in proper military order when we approached the car, a Citroen in need of cosmetic repairs. They were standing there, looking at the plane, looking at us, and generally giving the impression of detachment. The Ih uniform was heterogeneous, corresponding only to the ih equipment. They weren't mercenaries, of course, but the alarm bells were ringing as he followed Dusa to the back of the car. They weren't on duty for him, so what were they doing guarding an empty airport? There might have been a case of rheumatism, just as a precaution in view of what was happening. Too bad it was the wrong rheumatism.
  
  
  "Allons". He told the driver and then Duse in English, " Ask him if he brought the requested information."
  
  
  The driver nodded as he pulled out through the circular keyhole that led to the airport. "Contact has been established, sir," he said in French. "I'll take you to meet him. He knows where the posh Hassan Abu Osman is in the audience."
  
  
  Douza leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. He lowered his eyelids again, showing no reaction.
  
  
  "Ask him, how far should we go?"
  
  
  The driver pointed toward the mountains ahead. "Only twenty miles," he said.
  
  
  We were driving through the valley, not Budan alone. Intersections of wheat, cotton, and soybean fields were widely scattered. There were cars like the one at the airport at the intersections. Some of the troops were armed with AK-47s. Others had FN, ih heavier equipment was equally mixed. They made no effort to stop us, and I was willing to admit that they were on their feet like the ih brothers at the airport, because it was the day of Mendanike's funeral, and Tasahmed assured that the ego of coming to power was properly organized. Later, when I had time to think about my conclusion, I wondered what Hawk would say if he were sitting next to me.
  
  
  "Osman will kill you," the colonel said, breaking the silence.
  
  
  "I'm touched that you're concerned."
  
  
  "He hates Americans."
  
  
  "For estestvenno. What will he do to you?"
  
  
  "Besides, you're wasting your time."
  
  
  "If so, I will file a complaint with your office."
  
  
  "This is the person we're going to see, I know her. It's unreliable."
  
  
  "Colonel ... quiet. However, I am sure that our contacts are the best that your services can provide. No doubt old Hassan will hang you by the balls to dry out, but that's your problem."
  
  
  We crossed a narrow valley and started up a winding gravel path, the greenery quickly dissipating. Savchenko started, but we left some humidity, rising in a cloud of dust. The climb was short. We left the signposts, facing a plateau with a stone structure around the edge. It had a high surrounding wall and the look of a 19th-century fortress, with a square center and two massive wings.
  
  
  The driver swerved off the road onto a camel trail, and we hit hey, the wall. There was no one in sight.
  
  
  The driver spoke in Arabic while looking in the mirror. "You're expected, sir."
  
  
  He followed Dooza out through the cars, feeling the hot wind and dust settling in nen. "Go on," I said, letting him hear the click of the .45's trigger.
  
  
  We passed through an arched entrance gate into a wide stone courtyard where nothing grew. This place had windows with slits and a feeling that let's get out of here.
  
  
  "What is the name of our contact?"
  
  
  "
  
  
  "Safed". The Colonel was looking at the stonework. He looked long, stiff, and pale-faced.
  
  
  "Tell em to get his ass out."
  
  
  "Safed, you poor camel thief, "said the colonel,"come out!"
  
  
  Like a naughty child, Safed said nothing, did nothing. The door, a double iron one, remained closed. The wind was blowing around us.
  
  
  "Try again."I told her. The second attempt elicited no more reactions than the first.
  
  
  "See if it's open." Her, watched him approach, I know it all stinks. The wind mocked.
  
  
  Above him, she heard the whisper of a strange sound. When her, turned to face him, she knew of rheumatism. She caught a glimpse of the driver's frozen face and four men with Kalashnikovs at their sides.
  
  
  He fired two shots before everything in my head exploded in a searing wave of flame and took me nowhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At some indeterminate point and place, my target was melted down and forged into a bell. Hers was present at both events. I didn't like this or that. Ih endured it in silence. This is a corkscrew of conditioning. But when some all-powerful bastard started banging the gong on my new dome, he decided to object, especially when the bill was over twelve.
  
  
  I sent a letter to the universe in Urdu, because Shema was the queen of the night, and it seemed quite appropriate. I'll never know if it was the tone of my obscenity, the clang of a gong, or a combination of both that caused me to be vomited out of the darkness of nowhere into the darkness of some place. At this point, all I knew was that I was willing to trade something for what we needed. Then the moment passed, and my brain slowly gathered its strength and began to shake off the blows.
  
  
  Hers lay on a mat surrounded by stinking straw. My hands and feet were tied. My head ached like hell, throbbing as if something wanted to break out. I turned it carefully, which caused a lot of white lights to appear in front of me where there weren't any lights. Then a few more similar experiments of hers, deciding that the worst thing for her was suffering from a mild concussion. The driver didn't shoot me, he just stunned me. My Swedes was not removed. Pierre was there. Things were even worse in Nick Carter's life and time.
  
  
  Something slid down my legs and I knew I had company. A small brawl penetrated through the day's cameras. But even without this, my position did not require studying architecture. The air smelled bad. The rats had previous tenants.
  
  
  After several attempts, I managed to sit up. I dragged my heels along the floor until the stone wall was behind me. When the white lights stopped blinking and the throbbing in my skull slowed to an acceptable level, I checked the ropes holding my wrists in a vise.
  
  
  I just had to relax and wait. Her father came to see Osman. Now hers, decided I had a very good chance of seeing ego. I got the message a little late. If her ego had gotten her earlier, it would have gotten rid of the headache. The boys at the airport, like the boys at the intersections and the meeting committee here, were not Mendanike's or Tasahmed's troops, they belonged to Shiek. Osman occupied Budana, which was upset by the death of Ben d'glaz. The Chinese produce Ak-47s in the same way as the Soviets.
  
  
  He informed her of Dusa's arrival and alerted the reception area. We were taken to the center of Budan because we would obviously have seen signs of what kind of fighting was going on. Instead, we were brought here. The corkscrew question was, why didn't Dusa know Osman's men at the airport? Her too thought I knew of rheumatism. Anyway, my inability to recognize the changing of the guard in Budan before they ferret until I'm trapped might still work better than chasing Osman all over the mountains to give him a tailspin.
  
  
  I was woken up by the clank of a key in the lock and the opening of the door. The dream helped. The numbness in his hands and wrists was more uncomfortable than the throbbing in his chest. I closed my eyes against the glare, felt my hands on my feet, and felt the knife cut the ropes around my ankles.
  
  
  I was lifted to my feet. The world spun. The white flashes turned to bright neon. I sucked in a breath and let a couple of handlers hold me down.
  
  
  He played her ad nauseam all the way down the stone corridor, studying the layout of the room. It wasn't so much, ostensibly, and a lot - half a dozen doors on each side and a security room on the left. I was wondering if Erica and Gansu had been granted a residence permit. There were four dim light fixtures in the wall brackets, and the only way out was a stone staircase that led up at right angles.
  
  
  A right angle led us into a dim foyer.
  
  
  A single saint let through the slotted windows. The best thing to say about this place was that it was cool. There were several doors in the foyer. Her, was ready for the most special. There, my right - hand guard-and he could have used several-pounded on the door with a hairy fist and got the call.
  
  
  They launched me with the intention of putting me face down in front of the crowd. I managed to stay upright. The room was better lit than the foyer, but not by much. In front of me was a chair occupied by three sons of the desert in black-and-white checkered kefir. The one in the center had the face of an old vulture, a hooked nose, closed black eyes, a thin firm mouth, and a sharp chin. There was a strong resemblance between the pair on either side of him. Family portrait-Osman and ego boys. They studied me with all the charm of cobras about to strike.
  
  
  Hassan broke the silence. "Like all Yankee dogs, he stinks!"
  
  
  "Running imperialist dog," intoned the son on the left.
  
  
  "Let's teach the ego some thought reform," suggested another.
  
  
  "If he could talk, what would he say?" Osman's eyes glinted with contempt.
  
  
  The emu replied in Arabic: "Aish, ja kdish, and yunbut al-hashish -' live, yes mules, until the grass grows.'"
  
  
  This drowned out the neighing and shut down the ih in a minute. "So," posh put his hands on the chair,"you speak the language of believers."
  
  
  "In the name of Allah, the Most Merciful, the Most Merciful," he quoted her, " I take refuge with the Lord of men, the King of men, the God of men, from the evil deceitful whisper that whispers in the breast of a man or a genie and a man."
  
  
  They stared at me, then the sons looked at their father for a reaction. "You are reading the Qur'an. Ego's sandpaper voice took on a new and interesting tone.
  
  
  "I have studied your book of the Prophet Muhammad. In case of need, her words give strength."
  
  
  "Let's hear these words." Osman thought that he had it, that I could write a couple of verses well, and that was all.
  
  
  He began it with the opening: "Glory to the Lord of All Things as we depart." Then he moved on to a few verses from "Cows", "The House of Imran", "Trophies" and "Night Journey".
  
  
  Osman stopped me and started throwing out lines from Mary and Ta Ha's books to match her. My ability to respond comes with a photographic memory. After a while, he dropped it and sold it to study me.
  
  
  "As for the dirty rotten imperialist son of the camel dung eater, you know our book well enough. This is all due to you. It may lead you to heaven, but it won't get you out of here. You are a spy , and we cut off the heads of spies. Why did you come here? "
  
  
  "To find you if you are Hassan Abu Othman."
  
  
  His sons looked at him in surprise. He tried to hide a smirk, and they all laughed. "Yes," he said, " glory be to Hasan Abu Othman as he sets out. What do you want from me?"
  
  
  "This is a personal matter."
  
  
  "Ah! Nothing personal from these two assholes. They'll fight over my bones when I die. Why would a Yankee spy want to see me? You want to put me on the throne in Laman? With the help of Allah, I will do it myself ."
  
  
  "I thought you got Mao's help."
  
  
  He let out a giggle, and the boys joined in. "Ah, I will accept what this unbeliever offers, just as I will accept what you offer if I think it's worth it. Anything to offer, Yankee spy?" "Emu had fun.
  
  
  "I was hoping you might have something to offer me."
  
  
  "Oh, don't be afraid of that. Before I publicly execute you, I offer you El Feddana. It will make you cry out for setting off for a quick finish."
  
  
  "I'm talking about something important."
  
  
  He looked at me and grinned again. "Important, hello! Hers, I agree, your life doesn't matter." He tapped the table and shouted ," I want El Feddan! Tell emu to come immediately!"
  
  
  Someone behind me quickly left. "Suppose I can guarantee that you take over the rest of the country," I said.
  
  
  "That would be a guarantee I wouldn't give up on." He spat.
  
  
  "So, after you spit on it, the corkscrew still holds. You have a Budan. Whether you can hold the ego or not is another spin, but you will never get Lamana out of here or Pacar. Tasahmed is not Mendanik. At least not Mendanika. I was ready to make a deal."
  
  
  Osman's eyes flashed. "So he was right. You damned imperialists were watching him. If he were still alive, his ego would have put his head on the square!"
  
  
  "You mean he didn't tell you!" Her pretended amazement, damn well aware of what the rheumatism would be like.
  
  
  Posh and ego son exchanged glances, then looked at me.
  
  
  "You tell me," he said.
  
  
  "Tasahmed planned a coup with Russian support. My government in a row.it convinced Mendanike that he should try to make peace with you and..."
  
  
  Osman let out a mocking yell and slammed the table, " That's why this bag of guts wants to see me to actually make a deal! I told her it was true! This is what made me take Budana. If he was so bad that he had to see me, her, knew I could handle it. He fell like a rotten coconut! "He spat again.
  
  
  Her hotel will join him. Vote and that's it. Rheumatism, which I was pretty sure she was going to get. As for the theft of nuclear weapons, this whole crowd was somewhere else during the Battle of Khartoum. The trouble is, I was like the Chinese Gordon throughout the play, and he ended up hitting the peak.
  
  
  I heard the door open behind me, and Osman's gaze shifted over my shoulder. "El Feddan," he beckoned, " meet your Yankee spy."
  
  
  El Feddan, which means bull, was all of it. He wasn't much taller than I was, but he must have been half my size again, and it was all muscle. He looked more Mongol than Arab. It was an unpleasant face, no matter where he was born. Yellowish eyes, flat nose, rubbery lips. There was no neck, just a muscular pedestal on which the ego gourd of a shaved head rested. Nen was wearing an open jacket, but no one had to guess what was underneath. He ignored me, looking at his boss, waiting for the word to turn me into a yoyo.
  
  
  There was a delay due to extraneous activity. The door swung open again, and he turned to see Erika and Hans being dragged into the room by several members of the Praetorian Guard. An old friend of mine, Mohammed Duza, came in behind them. Her thought was correct. The colonel was either Osman's man in the enemy camp, or Tasahmed's man in Osman's tent... or both. I didn't have time to go into any more details, but I knew I should ask him something, provided I could keep my head down.
  
  
  Erica had a graze under her left eye. She was pale and panting. She looked at me with a mixture of longing and hope.
  
  
  "Hold on, child," he told her in English. She lowered her head and shook it, unable to answer.
  
  
  Hans was handcuffed and barely able to stand. When the curator released him, he fell to his knees.
  
  
  "Who wants ee around you?" he asked his thirsty sons.
  
  
  They both swallowed at the same time, practically drooling. The sly old bastard howled with joy and slammed the table. "You can fight on her bones as you can fight to mine... When I'm done with her!"
  
  
  They both shut up, staring at the chair, wondering how they could have come up with a way to make their egos sick.
  
  
  "So, Colonel, is everything all right?" Osman gave Duza an oily smile.
  
  
  Duza touched his forehead in greeting and walked over to the table. "Can I ask for a favor?"
  
  
  "But ask about it," Osman said.
  
  
  "I want to interrogate ego before the execution."
  
  
  "Hmm." Osman scratched his chin. "I plan to pass the ego on to El Feddan. When he finishes, I don't think this one will be able to answer anything. What about he son of a bitch camel dung on the floor, won't it do?"
  
  
  "Ah, I want to interrogate her ego too."
  
  
  "Well, you'll have to be content with what I have to offer, Colonel. El Feddan needs exercise. Otherwise, he will become dissatisfied." This caused the Bull to burst out laughing, and even give a shout of approval.
  
  
  I told her."If I have to fight this cow udder, at least you'll have enough time to let me use my hands."
  
  
  This was the first time Douza heard me speak Arabic. That wiped away the smirk, and my words didn't do much for El Feddan's sense of humor.
  
  
  "Ah, you'll get your hands," Osman chuckled. "You can use ih for prayer. I'll even see if you have a weapon."
  
  
  "Are you betting, Posh Hassan Abu Othman?" he said to her, knowing that there was never an Arab who wasn't born without a love of gambling. "You want this bull to get me to kill. Why not turn our fight into a killing spree? If I win it, my friends and I will get a safe way back to Lamana."
  
  
  This led to what is called pregnant silence. All eyes were on the target of the person who was looking at me. "Yankee spy, you know," he said, pulling at his chin. "I think you must be a man. I admire a man, even if he is a smelly imperialist. You can die in battle."
  
  
  "And if I win it?"
  
  
  "You won't win, but I don't have any deals with you. If Allah, by some invisible stroke, leaves El Feddana with a bad fate "- he rolled his eyes at the Bull - " then we will see." He stood up and I saw what a stocky old cockerel he was. "Bring ih," he ordered.
  
  
  The battle site was behind the plateau wall, not far from where we'd left the Citroen.
  
  
  
  Several French Jeeps were parked nearby. As many of Osman's entourage as possible were gathered on the rooftops, while the rest, about twenty in all, sat in a semicircle to watch the fun. A chair was brought, and Osman, his sons and Dusa played such a game to them. Erica and her father were forced to sit on the ground.
  
  
  My watch wasn't on, but the sun was around noon, and Savchenko was powerful. Below, on the plain where the green ended, there were swirls of dust. The slope of the naked mountain rose, and she saw a goshawk lazily circling in the thermals. It's a good omen. I needed it when I rubbed her wrists, flexing my fingers to give them some strength back.
  
  
  He watched as El Feddan took off his jacket and exposed his torso. He then removed the cripples to the cheers of the assembled group. Arabic nudist, no less. What he had below was almost as formidable as what was above. It's not exactly an Achilles ' heel, but it belongs to them that it would do him just as much good if I could get close without being crushed to death.
  
  
  Hers, stripped to the waist, to the sound of screams. David and Goliath, but without crackles. Still, Osman wasn't joking about the weapons. Hers, I thought it would be strictly physical contact. It might come to that, but before it did, they threw a thin net around the palm fiber and wrapped an eight-inch knife in it.
  
  
  As a judo or karate fan will tell you, it's not the size that matters. These are speed, coordination, and time. There was little doubt that my opponent had all three of them. As for Nick Carter, let's just say that swordsmanship wasn't at its peak. My right beginnings were not fully restored, then last meeting. My target, though clean, throbbed with fresher air sampling. The sun's glare required conditioning, which didn't happen with a few blinks of the eyelids. It was impossible to maneuver without ego influence. The blade in my hand was familiar enough, but the net wasn't. The way the naked monkey in front of me handled his own reminded me that there was a bullfighter at the other end of the hall.
  
  
  Putting my life on the line is part of my job. In most cases, it's all about instant actions. Sudden contact, relentless rheumatism and no time to reflect. Such a challenge is again something else. Being able to assess what I'm facing adds a certain amount of stimulation. Her knew two things: if her was going to win, his was going to have to do it fast. My best weapon was guile. I had to convince bull and the others that they were going to witness a massacre, not a fight.
  
  
  She was awkwardly picked up by net, " I can't use this!" Osman called her. "I thought it would be a fair fight!"
  
  
  Osman stifled the jeers and shouts. "You're the one who asked to see El Feddan. You have the same weapon as him. The contest is fair before Allah!"
  
  
  Her eyes began to frantically look around for a way to escape. The semicircle turned into a circle. "But-but I can't fight it!" There was a note of pleading and fear in my voice as I held out the knife and the net.
  
  
  Despite the insults of the people, Osman-angrily shouted: "Then die with them, Yankee spy! And he mistook you for a human!"
  
  
  I stepped back, feeling the rough stone under my feet, glad I wasn't barefoot like my opponent, who had nothing but a sour grin on his face. He saw that Erica had covered her face with her hands. Hans put his arm around her and looked at me, pale and helpless.
  
  
  "Finish it, El Feddan!" Osman ordered.
  
  
  In the sudden silence of the crowd, I yell, " No! Please! " was on par with Duza's performance the night before. I didn't have time to catch the ego reaction. He was busy trying to get out through the ring, arms outstretched, trying unsuccessfully to contain the inevitable.
  
  
  Bull came up to me, frozen on his feet, wearing something akin to a Japanese sumo wrestler. In his left hand, he dangled a net; in his right, he held a knife to his hip. Ego's plan was simple enough: entangle me in a net and then marinate me in my own blood.
  
  
  The crowd shouted again, " Kill the ego! Kill the ego! " It stopped leaning back and started moving along the front of the ego. I could feel the saliva hitting my back. Nails raked the ego. He tried not to retreat any further. She didn't want to risk being pushed from behind and knocked out of the counterweights. The sun was beating down, and the sweat was running down.
  
  
  El Feddan confidently pursued me, acting it out for the audience. Gradually, he came closer, his smile frozen, and his yellow eyes stopped moving. She was waiting for signs of selfishness. There is always something, no matter how inconspicuous it is to us. Because he was confident in himself, he telegraphed. And that's when he moved.
  
  
  When it was made in reverse, and circled, and it pulled the net. As soon as the ego net hand started moving, her threw her emu in the face. Reflexive ego's hand went up to block him, and at the same time, he ducked and changed his stance. Its followed the ego movement, using ego loss of counterweights.
  
  
  
  Its sunset under the ego net, baser pushing. Hers drove the blade half an inch into it. Then he swung his arm around to block my lunge. It happened so fast that Osman and company were still trying to figure it out when he turned and lunged at me.
  
  
  After passing mimmo Nim in his lunge, her hit the center of the ring, and when he bumped into me, her jumped out from under the ego pressure and kicked his ego in the back as he passed mimmo.
  
  
  There was a dead silence. It was an ih champion with blood running down his stomach, red drops falling on the rocks, and just to be sure, a cowardly Yankee spy had just kicked his ego in the back. They understood the message, and there were loud shouts of laughter. Now the catcalls were for El Feddan. What is he, a chicken instead of a bull?
  
  
  The Arabs began to make jokes. The crowd knew I'd played my game. They appreciated it. The bull didn't do it, which is exactly what she was asked to do. I didn't manage to catch him by convincing him that I wasn't worth the ego of time. Now my only advantage was that he was so overplayed that he lost his sanity.
  
  
  When he turned to me, the grin was gone, and his yellow eyes lit up. The sweat running down his chest glistened in the sun. He stopped and put the knife between his teeth. He then used his knife hand to smear the blood around the wound all over his chest and face. The meaning escaped me, but I ended it with an ego toilet kick to the groin. He was hit in the thigh, and it felt like I'd hit him with a plow against a stone wall.
  
  
  The crowd was very excited. They knew it would be interesting. I hear Hans yell, "Cut off the emu's head, Ned!" and then I turn off the sound, concentrating on survival.
  
  
  We circled, and he pretended to look for a loophole. He picked up his net and held it in his left hand again. Now, instead of being wide open to attach it, I faced him in a swordsman's crouch, my knife arm half outstretched, the net up and hanging down. I couldn't let out a sigh, but I started taunting him.
  
  
  "Bull! You're not a bull, you're not even a cow-a fat camel skin stuffed with pig dung!"
  
  
  This ego infuriated me. He lunged at the net high and threw it to lowland. I've never seen her move faster. Even though I jumped back, the net caught my right leg, almost tripping me over. At the same time, hers only half-dodged his continuation as he tried to catch my knife hand by grabbing my wrist. Instead, he got my shoulder. My ego's own knife came at me, slicing upward. I felt it hit me in the ribs as I turned to the right and slashed the emu's throat, branding its chest. Then he spun around and hit the emu in the face with the net, freeing its shoulder. Ego's hand was at my throat. Our knives rang and sparkled. He took a step back to get out of my net frank in front of the ego face, and hers broke out around the ego, mind. Then hers, moved to attack, and he jumped back.
  
  
  We didn't do it for long, but it seemed like a very long time. My mouth was a dried-up water hole. His breathing was hot and ragged. The pain in my right leg was similar to the drumming in my head. Hers spilled more blood than he did, but he had even more. He took another step forward, grinning at emu as he brandished the knife.
  
  
  Whether it was pride, the roar of the crowd, or rage at the thought of ego getting beaten up, he charged. It fell on its back, lifted Ego to his feet, and catapulted him over its head. He landed face up in front of Osman, momentarily stunned.
  
  
  The crowd ate it. He lifted himself off the ground, crouching low, clutching at my legs. I leaped over ego's knife, but he was right behind it, and I didn't have time to dodge his swift charge. The ego net is gone, but not the hand that used to hold it. He hit me in the wrist with a knife. The ego blade was back for a killing blow. When the time was up, she gave it her all to earn an extra point.
  
  
  A lot of sensitive body parts. But keep this in mind: if you ever find yourself trapped nearby, there's no more convenient point of contact than your opponent's shin. There's nothing there but bones and nerves. The front of my shoes was strained with a thin metal band, just in case.
  
  
  El Feddan threw back his head and growled as he set off, his knife hand hanging in the middle of his stomach.. In karate, ego cut her wrist, tore out her knife hand, and used the back of it to cut her throat from ear to ear.
  
  
  He fell to his knees, gasping, trying to repair the damage with his hands. Arterial blood gushed out from between ego's fingers. El Feddan fell, his body shuddering, his ego stomping on its heels. Apart from the sonic ego of death, there was absolute silence. Osman watched intently as the ego champion went to heaven.
  
  
  Usually, during bullfighting, a bullfighter who slaughters a bull to death is awarded ears. He thought about it, but then decided that he had used his luck hard enough. Instead, he walked over to the table, wiping the sweat from his eyes, and put the bloody knife in it. "May the ego's thousand houris lead to rest," I said.
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The outcome of the duel shocked old Osman. The ego sons were all in favor of killing me on the spot. He shut up ih. El Feddan lay in a huge pool of his own blood, flies attacking him, buzzards already circling. A ragged company of soldiers sat in silence, waiting for their leader's command. Hans couldn't take his eyes off the dead man, and Erika couldn't take her eyes off me.
  
  
  The sheikh stood up and looked at me. "In-llah, you're a man, a Yankee spy, a big man. If things were different, I could use you. I'll think about it before I decide what to do." He turned to the bearded officer standing with his arms crossed at the end of the chair. "Put ih in the cells!"
  
  
  "What about her?" the right-hand son pointed out.
  
  
  My father ignored him. "Two men in one digital camera, a woman separately."
  
  
  He exhaled it easily. If the ego's reaction had been different, he would have been my hostage, with a knife at the ego's throat. El Feddan's blade caught it, and it buried itself in the back pocket.
  
  
  The troops began to withdraw. The order was given to remove the corpse. Duza stood off to the side, trying to keep his mouth shut. When I was allowed to wear my shirt, I let it hang down the tails that hid the handle of the knife.
  
  
  A six-man security guard surrounded the three of us and led us back into the building.
  
  
  "God, if I live to be stylish,"Hans sighed," I don't expect to see something like this again."
  
  
  "Shut up!" the squad leader said in Arabic.
  
  
  They put Erica in the first candid cell across from the guardhouse. "See you soon, child," I said. "Keep up the mood."
  
  
  "I'll try," she whispered.
  
  
  They put us in the cell I used to occupy. As I suspected, they tied our hands and feet and left us in the stinking darkness.
  
  
  Hans began to mutter.
  
  
  Ego interrupted her. "Like the other man said, shut up, antiquities."
  
  
  He stopped in the middle of shouting.
  
  
  "Now answer me corkscrew, can you fly the DC-3 with me as co-pilot?"
  
  
  "Dakota? Of course, but..."
  
  
  Good. We have things to do." I told emu about the knife, and we maneuvered until we were back to back. As a mechanic, his fingers were deft and confident. He pulled the blade out around my pocket on the first try, and the cords around the palm fiber on my wrists sawed through in a couple of minutes. We had to work quickly for several reasons. If someone suddenly realized that El Feddan's knife was missing, we would quickly have company.
  
  
  "I assume you have a key to the lock, too." Hans hissed.
  
  
  "No, you do. Her, I want you to start screaming."
  
  
  "A dragon?"
  
  
  "This is my boy. Whatever Osman's verdict is, he wants us to be in good shape when he passes it. If we die from snake bites, our leaders will also be dead. At least two around them will come running. I want you to play a game like this, in the corner with your back to moaning, hands behind your back, rope around your ankles. You start yelling and don't stop until they come in. After that, don't move or do anything until I tell you to . Understand?"
  
  
  "Yeah, sure, buddy, whatever you want."
  
  
  "I'll start screaming."
  
  
  Hans said, and from the way he continued, I started to wonder if we were in a pile of snakes. Over her ego screams, I heard the guards approaching.
  
  
  The key was in the lock, the handle was yanked out, and the door swung open. Number one with a loaded AK-47 at the ready, holy ego backs into the camera. At that moment, El Feddan's knife killed ego. I didn't hit the floor until the other man took her by the back. He slammed his ego's head against the wall, spun it around, and broke the emu's neck with a karate kick.
  
  
  "Take off your ih djellabs and put one around them, kefia too," I ordered, quickly scanning the hallway.
  
  
  There was no one in sight, so he started to run. I had a Pierre in one hand and an AK in the other. I didn't want to use ego for obvious reasons. It was Pierre's show. One smell of ego brass, and that was the last smell.
  
  
  When it got to the guardhouse, Odin's jailers started coming out to investigate. He had time to open his mouth. The barrel of a Kalashnikov rifle threw the ego back, and rose to any vocal response. Pierre landed on the open-flap chair where the other three were sitting. He closed the door. There was a faint scratching sound from the other side. It's all.
  
  
  He counted to ten, let the air out around his lungs, and then took a sip. He went in and closed the metal door behind him. Pierre was lying on the floor looking out
  
  
  
  like a walnut. The victim's egos were bigger. The second man who searched it had keys.
  
  
  There were a lot of things about Eric that I liked. First, she could handle it and keep her balance. By the time I got her around the cell and into ours, I gave her a plan and she was ready to move in.
  
  
  "I knew you were coming," was all she said. Then she looked out into the corridor while her djellabu and kufiyah were put on, and we were ready to leave.
  
  
  The plan was simple. I didn't know where Osman was, but Hans and I were going to take Erika around the place as if we had. We walked down the hall and up the stairs, a veritable military escort. Showed her Gansu how to shoot the AK with the safety catch and shoot automatically. Like the Kalashnikov assault rifle on the dell itself is a machine gun.
  
  
  As we approached the entrance, her, noticed that it was much darker than before. When I opened the door a crack, I realized why. The blue sky turned black. We were expecting cloudy weather. Allah was indeed merciful. She was seen by half a dozen soldiers heading for cover in the left wing of the building.
  
  
  "We go down the steps and outright through the gate," I said. "If Citroen doesn't go, we'll try Odin on Jeeps.
  
  
  If there is no transport, we will sail away from the mountain."
  
  
  A loud rumble of thunder made Erica jump.
  
  
  "Sorry we didn't bring an umbrella," her husband smiled. "Let's go before you get hit by the hail."
  
  
  As we walked out the door, the wind whipped around us. I didn't have time to take in the view, but I saw a storm coming down the valley toward us. The sky below was a pale yellow, and the ink above was scattered in jagged streaks of lightning.
  
  
  As we passed through the gate, more people were running in. They gave us curious glances, but they were in too much of a hurry to avoid the impending flood to make it any faster.
  
  
  The Citroen was gone, as were the Jeeps, which meant Osman and company had moved elsewhere. That was good news.
  
  
  Hans said bad things. "How the hell are we going to get out of here?"
  
  
  "This truck." He pointed to a large car coming down the mountain road. By the time he was within hailing distance of her, he saw that the driver was planning to stop and wait out the storm. The sage. The ego truck was an open platform. Exhausted and bruised, he couldn't handle the sheer number of boulders he was carrying.
  
  
  I was waving at him to stop when the thunder started. He gave me a nervous grin as we went through the ritual. "One more," I said,"you will take us to Budan."
  
  
  "No doubt, Captain, when the storm passes."
  
  
  "No, right now. It's very urgent." He signaled Erica to go around the parking lot and get in the car. "That's an order."
  
  
  "But you have Jeeps, over there, behind the wall!" he was gesturing.
  
  
  "Not enough gas." From a vantage point on the road, I saw that we had missed the Jeeps because ih had been brought inside and parked at the end of the building. They were referring to possible harassment.
  
  
  "But... but the storm! " - the driver was indignant. "And there's no room!" he waved his hands.
  
  
  "Are you with Shiek Hasan Abu Osman?" It was picked up by the AK barrel, and the smile faded.
  
  
  "Yes, Yes! Always!"
  
  
  There was thunder, and the wind died down. I felt the first heavy falls. "Hans, go see Erica. When we go down the mountain, let him turn at the first intersection."
  
  
  "Where are you going to be?"
  
  
  "I'll take a much-needed bath in the stone pile. Now go!"
  
  
  By the time he climbed through the back door, the rain had begun to fall. He was sitting in the middle of the rocks when the truck shifted into gear and pulled out onto the road. He knew that in a few minutes visibility would drop to fifty feet or less. He wasn't afraid of me being beaten to death with ice water, but despite the chance of a rearguard, he was willing to accept the punishment.
  
  
  Our escape took no more than five minutes. Thanks to the weather and this truck, everything went smoothly. However, I didn't think we would leave so easily, and I was right.
  
  
  The truck had just passed the first set of signs from the plateau when it heard a siren blaring over the thunder and flood noise.
  
  
  The rain turned into a blinding torrent, punctuated by blinding flashes of lightning. They, who were in the pursuing French jeep, had the advantage of being undercover. I had the advantage of surprise.
  
  
  Our driver was in low gear, moving slowly downhill, and Panar's Jeep pulled up quickly. Hers waited until he wotum-wotum turned around to get ahead of us before hers caused two bursts of ego front wheels. Its got caught in the mud.
  
  
  I noticed a vague smudge on the driver's face, desperately trying to fix it
  
  
  rotating car skid. Then it flew off the road and fell into a rain-swept ditch. In the bright light of lightning, I saw two more men, looking like Jeeps coming at us. The host installed a 50-caliber machine gun.
  
  
  The machine gun opened at the same time as I did. The back door clanged, and the rocks around me started singing with a ricochet. My goal was more direct. The machine gun stopped, but through the rain she could see a second man coming up for the rifle. I followed the driver, and the Kalashnikov clicked empty. I didn't have any spare bullets.
  
  
  Then the second gunman reached for the tires, which gave me a chance to throw the boulder over the trunk door. It was a large beast, and if it hadn't been positioned so that he could use it with a rifle, he would never have picked it up.
  
  
  The Jeep was too close, and the gunner was throwing lead all over the landscape, and the driver was trying to avoid what he must have seen. The ego of the target was no better than a man with a gun. It hit a boulder , and the Panhard literally split in half, throwing the riders out like rag dolls.
  
  
  We weren't in such good shape either. For all his shooting, the gunner managed to hit something, and when he saw him rushing in flight, he probably felt the truck body begin to sway. The driver also felt it and struggled with the skid. I knew that if I let her fall with my burden, I wouldn't need to be buried. Her lost her balance, but jumped to the end of the day trunk. He grabbed it when the truck body overturned and went sideways on the road. No matter how slow we go, Alyonka gives us momentum. There could only be one result.
  
  
  I had one foot overboard when it started to roll over. The tilt gave me the leverage I needed to pull away. He took a backward leap and landed in the mud of a soft shoulder. Even when her hit him, her, saw the van roll over. The sound it made was on par with the load. The cargo, which had weakened on the descent, collapsed in an avalanche. All that mattered was the truck's cab. He was released from the cargo. Either by Allah or the driver doesn't let the emu get out of control. It stopped on the opposite side of the road in a drainage ditch, the water around the creek gushing onto its front wheels.
  
  
  I got out of the mud and ran to him. Out of the corner of her eye, he saw the third Jeep maneuver slowly through the wreckage of its twin. He reached the cab and opened the door. All three of them looked at me blankly. There was no time for conversation. AK grabbed her in Hans's lap.
  
  
  "Hello there!" That was all the emu managed, and it realized when it turned around and demanded a quick cover, it didn't recognize me.
  
  
  Visibility fifty feet? He couldn't have been more than twenty. The rain was my ally. The last Panar moved cautiously through it. They who were there saw the destruction of the second jeep, and the truck crash-at least to the extent that they could see anything in detail. They didn't see me lying in a puddle by the ditch. They crawled past mimmo. I sat up and followed the Jeep's tracks, on the blind side. He stopped not far from the cab.
  
  
  Ih was only two. They came out, AK at the ready. He waited until they were between the taxi and the Jeep before shouting at them.
  
  
  "Drop your weapons! Move and you're dead! " A flash of lightning lore illuminated us in a drenched still life. He waited until the thunder had subsided to tell them more. "Drop your weapons in front of you!"
  
  
  The one on the left did it quickly, hoping to turn around and pin me down. Instead, she was pinned down by ego, and he was on top of his weapon. The man on the right did as the emu was told.
  
  
  "Cross the road and keep going until you reach the valley." I ordered it.
  
  
  He didn't want to do that. "But I'll be swept into the water!"
  
  
  "Make your choice. Quickly!"
  
  
  He went. Her, knew he wouldn't go far, but he would go far enough. I watched him until he disappeared into the rain. Then her, returned to the taxi.
  
  
  The water in the ditch was rising, and its force rocked the bow. He opened the door and said, " Go get out of there before you cross the Falls of Niagara."
  
  
  "My truck! And my truck! " the driver wailed.
  
  
  "Tell your benefactor, Hassan Abu Othman, to buy you a new one. Come on, you two, "he told her in English," we don't want to miss our trip."
  
  
  By the time we got down the mountain, the worst of the storm had passed. Panhard gave us official cover until we were stopped at a checkpoint. We were lucky, because the downpour drove everyone inside. Her father was worried about flooding the road, but it was built with that thought in mind. The drainage pulls on both sides were wide and rough.
  
  
  Both Erica and her father were silent in my presence. Delayed shock with one shock on top of another. If you're not trained to do this, it can turn you into a pumpkin.
  
  
  "It's been a busy day," I said. "You did a great job-there's still one more river to cross."
  
  
  "How do we get this plane out of here?" In his gallabia, Hans looked like something out of the blue, and I had all the appeal of a pile of wet laundry.
  
  
  "We shouldn't have too many problems," I said, not wanting to make them tense up again. "The pilots were taken prisoner. (I didn't add it, and probably got shot). This car is a service car." I tapped him on the steering wheel. "It won't look suspicious when I arrive from her field and park next to the plane. You get up in the cab and start driving. Erica, get on board and relax. I'll get her out of here and take care of the rest."
  
  
  "Did you get what you came here for?" She said this very quietly, looking frank in front of her.
  
  
  The risk of rheumatism was negative. It was all a paper chase. Only one tangible fact came out around this. Duza. As a double or triple ego agent, the interest in Hans Geyer's possible knowledge of the disaster was overly obvious. Yes, bring the ego in for questioning. Shoot the ego, yes. But testing the ego the way he said it was different.
  
  
  "Hans," I said, " what about you, did you get what you came for?"
  
  
  He sel outspoken, coming back to life. "God, yes! I forgot it! Ey was right, ey found it! Her..."
  
  
  "Good, good," I laughed. "Tell me about it when we get out around this garden spot."
  
  
  "But I was always right! I knew damn well how they did it!"
  
  
  Good. The airport is ahead. Now pay attention. Unless I tell you otherwise, even if we are stopped, the plan still stands. Get on board and get the engines running. Do you think you can do it?"
  
  
  "Yes, yes, of course."
  
  
  "Another corkscrew, can Osman deliver anything to bring us down?"
  
  
  "No, there are no fighters here. The best thing they have is weak security."
  
  
  "If things go wrong, don't start climbing until I do."
  
  
  Her window opened. The rain was subsiding, but it was still something stronger than an afternoon shower. "Who is around you, born under the sign of Water?" I told her. "I think she's on our side."
  
  
  "I think so too," Erica said. "Who are you?"
  
  
  "The scorpion."
  
  
  "Not the age of Aquarius." She was smiling faintly.
  
  
  "Your smile is the best sign for everyone... Okay, here we go."
  
  
  We drove in a circle, tires splashing water, hissing on the asphalt. There was no one outside the terminal. He was driving along the path leading to the gate. Across it was a chain around the links. The ego click died away in a thunderclap.
  
  
  The airport tower towered over the terminal. The ego rotating beacon was in action. Probably a couple of cameramen on duty. I turned to the ramp and slowly drove through the mimmo facade of the building, keeping close to the ego ledge so that I wouldn't be seen from above.
  
  
  The glass windows of the terminal were covered in rain glass, but he could see movement behind them. "The place is full of soldiers!" Hans gasped.
  
  
  "No problem, they stay out of the dampness. Remember, we look like we're on the ih side."
  
  
  He went to the end of the building and made signs. Because of the rain, the plane was not under guard, which was another respite for us. He stood alone, waiting.
  
  
  "Hans, if the shooting starts, start the engines and get out of here. Otherwise, wait until I join you in the cockpit."
  
  
  "Give me the gun from the jeep," Erica said, " I can help you."
  
  
  "You can help me in the cab," Hans said.
  
  
  "The cabin door is closed, so it's locked?"
  
  
  "No, there's no outer lock." Hans sighed.
  
  
  It bounced off the side of the building and rose up parallel to the fuselage, but far enough away that the tail could slide past the jeep's mimmo.
  
  
  "All right, friends," he smiled at her. "Let's go back to Lamana. Hans, open the door and come in. Take your time, behave for estestvenno. I'll tell you when, Erica." He allowed the engine to idle.
  
  
  For a moment, watching Hans, I thought he was wrong, I say the cabin door is unlocked. He couldn't open it. Erica sucked in a breath. Then, turning and pulling, he pulled it out. Once inside, he turned the door and gave a thumbs-up.
  
  
  "All right, Erica, go like it was a day's walk in the rain."
  
  
  When she boarded, he was waiting for her, watching the terminal's reaction. If this turned into a shootout, the jeep would use it to divert the chase. The sky cleared over the mountains to the north and west, and the rain turned to drizzle.
  
  
  
  The boys will be out for some air soon.
  
  
  Each plane has external locks for the steering surfaces, so that in a wind like we just had, the alarms, elevator and tail don't come off and the plane doesn't roll over. Ih are called pins, three in the tail section and one on each wing. I was just letting the first one loose when the company arrived.
  
  
  There were three Ihs, and they had AK's ready.
  
  
  "Brothers," I shouted, waving my hand, " can you help?"
  
  
  "We can't fly," replied one around them, and the others laughed.
  
  
  "No, but you can help those who need to. The colonel is in a hurry."
  
  
  By the time they passed, I had my fingers off the tail end. "The wing is there," I lifted the lock, " just move the ego."
  
  
  When they gathered for this purpose, he moved to another wing and removed the alarm. When the tail came around, they had a lock in their hand. "May Allah glorify you," I said, accepting it.
  
  
  "If you were flying into that storm, it would take more than praise for you to set off," said the largest one around them, looking at my wet state.
  
  
  "I flew to nen, but without wings." Her turned up some water through her sleeves, and we all laughed as her turned away from them and headed for the Jeep. A weight dropped on her back. I had one of the AK shoulder loops. Hers was the same with the ego twin, and the third was Nessus in his hand. My last move in the Jeep was to cut off the switch and put the key in a minute.
  
  
  The trio was still at the wing, watching my approach curiously, but not entirely suspiciously.
  
  
  "Brothers," I said, " can someone around you ask the mechanics in the hangar to bring a bottle of fire so we don't fly until we're ready?"
  
  
  They weren't sure of themselves about planes or molotov cocktails, and when one around them started to leave, they all decided to leave.
  
  
  "Ten thousand thanks!" I called as I climbed aboard.
  
  
  Hans had stripped off his Arab suits and was hunched over in the pilot's seat, going through the final cockpit check. Erica sat in the copilot's seat, raising her hand to activate the request switch.
  
  
  "Is everything ready?"
  
  
  "When you are."
  
  
  "Are you tuned to the tower frequency?"
  
  
  "Yes, supposedly."
  
  
  "Give me the microphone and let's get out of here."
  
  
  He brought the ego back. "Charge up," he said to Erica, and the cabin filled with the rising whine of the activator.
  
  
  Ego the right pillar was spinning, and the left pillar was spinning even before the tower came to life. "That is, about the coming of dawn-four-one-five! Report immediately who's on board!"
  
  
  "Budan Tower, this is Colonel Douz's flight." This stopped ego for a second, and when he returned, Hans was already driving.
  
  
  "Four-one-five, we don't have Colonel Duza's flight clearance. Who are you? What is your flight plan?"
  
  
  "Buda Tower, I repeat, I can't hear you."
  
  
  The ego's voice rose into the register: "Return to the flight line and report to the airport team!" and was counting on Osman not having any control tower operators in his menagerie. The person on the console either voluntarily switched sides or saved their neck. In any case, he wasn't at his best. He started to scream. "Come back! Come back!"
  
  
  We were driving along the runway parallel to the runway, moving against the wind. "Hans,"I said, hearing the siren whine of the engines," if you can get this bird to fly in the wrong direction, you don't have to worry about the flight rules."
  
  
  He operated by pushing the throttles all the way up, leaning forward as if the ego movement could lift us off the ground. A voice in the tower shouted: "We'll shoot you! We'll shoot you!"
  
  
  He began to wonder if that would be necessary. The throttles had nowhere else to go. The propellers were low pitched, the mixture was emergency, and the engines were running at full power. But we didn't fly. The palm trees at the edge of the field grew to an incredible height. Erica leaned forward, her hand on the gearshift lever. She stared at her father, who seemed frozen in place. She stood behind them, muffling the desperate voice of the tower operator, unable to hear the gunfire over the roar of the Pratt-Whitney.
  
  
  "Get ready!" Hans snapped. I was sure we hadn't left the ground, but Erika didn't argue, and as she moved, Hans returned the yoke and we began to cling to the treetops. Over the noise of her engines, I could hear them scraping against the belly of the plane.
  
  
  Once in the air, he pushed the fork forward, adjusting the throttle, stands, and mix. Then he sighed. " Man, don't ever beg me to try this again!"
  
  
  Into her microphone, he said, " Budan Tower, this is NAA, four-one-five. Again and again."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 15
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At an altitude of ten thousand feet, we were trapped in a curtain of fog. He pulled the copilot's seat back and took out a cigarette. "Here, buddy," I said,"you've earned your paycheck."
  
  
  Busy setting up autopilot, he gave me a wry smile and said, " It's been a day.
  
  
  "Erica's coffee needs me to help. Is there any other place to land besides Lamana?"
  
  
  "I've been thinking about it." He took a cigarette and held the lighter in his hand. "To the east of the city there is a lot of breadth. They used it for training. Maybe I can put her in there, but then what?"
  
  
  "When we get there, Lick it, I'll arrange transportation."
  
  
  He tilted his head toward me, narrowing his eyes. "She would never have trusted us with that. Anyway, what are you looking for?"
  
  
  "You've been meaning to tell me about the Mendanik disaster for a long time. Now is a good time. How did this happen?"
  
  
  This ego took me by surprise. "Okay, now I'll tell you this, slowly ... in the nose wheel section of the DC-6B, there are six cylinders with CO-2, three on each side, with eleven point six gallons of material each. Well, if you have an engine, cargo or luggage compartment on fire, you run this around the cabin, and all six around them get to work and put out the fire. The system now works automatically. The gas is transferred to any point specified by the pilot through the hoses coming from the cylinders, CO-2 under pressure. Do you know au, CO-2? "
  
  
  "It's odorless. They can't breathe properly. The ego cannot be traced in the bloodstream."
  
  
  "Actually. Breathe enough, it'll kill you, take it tailor. Now, if someone had caused the gas from these SO-2s to end up in the cockpit without the crew knowing about it, the crew would have fallen asleep pretty quickly. Can you hear me? "
  
  
  "I'm holding my breath."
  
  
  "Okay, now this requires some action, because as I said, the system works automatically, and if someone makes a mistake and releases part of this CO-2, the cabin will be unlocked from smoke. Okay, there's a twenty-eight-volt microswitch in the nose wheel section that supplies current to the indicator light in the cockpit, which automatically indicates when the gear is engaged. Now, if you were to run a wire from this switch to an electric solenoid in Cylinder number one in each row, when the switch is triggered, it releases CO-two in both, which automatically starts the other four cylinders. Voting, how the system works, number one goes, they all go. Still following me? "
  
  
  "How do I trigger it?"
  
  
  "Ah, that's the beauty of it. A wire of solenoids is attached to a switch with two leads and a trigger. Any mechanic can make an ego. You attach the ego to the rubber pad of the nose wheel, so that when the gear is lifted and the nose wheel retracts into the body, it hits the switch and triggers the ego."
  
  
  "And when the gear goes down, it triggers."
  
  
  "You got it! But that's not all. When this switch is set, all connections from the cockpit to the fire extinguishing system, with the exception of the connection to the forward cargo bay, must be disabled."
  
  
  "Is this a big job?"
  
  
  “no. Ten minutes with a pair of pliers, and you're done. One person on the front wheel can do all the work in less than twenty minutes."
  
  
  "And when he finished, what do you have?"
  
  
  "You have a reliable way to finish off everyone on the flight deck during approach. The plane takes off, the landing gear turns on, the nose wheel cocks the trigger. The plane is preparing to land, and no matter where, the gear goes down, and when the front wheel goes down, the trigger goes down.
  
  
  The electric charge releases CO-2 on cylinder number one, and the others ignite automatically. That puts about eight gallons of CO-2 in the forward cargo bay. He's in the lounge under the cockpit. It rises through vents that have been shorted, so they don't close automatically. Like you said, you can't smell it. Three minutes after the assembly program came out, the crew is ready."
  
  
  "It looks like you've tried this before."
  
  
  He grinned, nodding. "That's right, we tried it. Only that was after the crash. We tried to prove how there was another accident, but no one listened to us, and we could not get the wreckage. They buried the ego and took it away. under guard. If I could get it ... "
  
  
  "Is the fire extinguishing system in the DC-6 special to him?"
  
  
  "There are others pretty much similar to it, but both planes were DC-6Bs, and when I immediately heard the details, I thought it might be a repeat. This flight was also a secret one, and I definitely liked Mendanike's plane. The weather was clear, everything was normal, and the plane does make a standard approach to land and flies candid into the ground.
  
  
  
  There were three teams of investigators, and the best they could come up with was that maybe the team had fallen asleep. We knew the team and we knew they weren't around to do this, so the couple around us started their own investigation and that's what we came up with."
  
  
  "Have you found evidence that this is how Mendanike crashed?"
  
  
  "Tailor, yes! I had the damn proof! Dusa and those bastards took my ego away from me. The system has four guide valves. Each one has a check valve, you know? It holds things back until you are ready to allow the CO-2 flow. Remove the check valve and all the gas will flow down the line. Its detected by a guide valve for the front cut off. The check valve was missing with it, but not with the other three. These people... He threw up his hands.
  
  
  He leaned back, looking out at the reddish haze. Of course, this was a naive method of sabotage. "When Dusa questioned you, did you admit that you know how the work was done?"
  
  
  "Yes, of course. What else could he have done to her? Erica was..."
  
  
  "But that ego wasn't satisfied."
  
  
  “no. He wants to know who did it. How the hell is her tailor supposed to know that?"
  
  
  "Did he ask you that again today when you were taken away?"
  
  
  “no. I didn't see her, ego, until the ego thugs took me up the mountain."
  
  
  "This is the first crash you've investigated before, did it happen here?"
  
  
  He smiled again. "It was more news than that. This was when he was in the Congo, before he went to Zaire. Hers was in Leopoldville, working for Tansair. That plane's name was Albertine, and a guy named Doug Hammerskjold was her number one passenger. Of course, it should have been earlier than your time. "
  
  
  He didn't respond. He allowed emu to continue rambling. It was my fault for not extracting the information from it sooner. He held out his hand and began to adjust the frequency scale. "Did you tell Duse about the Hammerskjold disaster?"
  
  
  “no... No, I don't think so."
  
  
  He closed his eyes and remembered: Khatangi, a breakaway province in the Congo. Moshe Chombe, ee leader, fights against UN troops. British sore. The Soviet authorities are concerned that Lumumba's ih boy knocked ih off his feet. Khrushchev had come to the UN before and warned Hammarskjold that emu should resign. Hammerskjold went to the Congo to put out a fire. He leaves for a secret meeting with Chombe in Ndola. So did Mendanike, who flew to Osman. The plane crashes on landing. Verdict - no verdict. The cause of the accident was never found. Pilot error was the best thing they could come up with... Until Hans Geyer showed up. Corkscrew: What does ancient history have to do with stolen nuclear rigidity? Rheumatism: Nothing yet.
  
  
  "Are we close enough to connect with friends in Laman?" I told her to adjust her headphones.
  
  
  "Try it. But what do you think of my story?"
  
  
  "You can sell it for a million dollars, but I would wait until I get back to Hoboken. Now give me an estimated time of arrival, and I think you and Erica should plan to spend some time at the embassy until we can transport you to a healthier climate."
  
  
  "Yes, I think it's time to move on, but damn it, that bastard Douza is on the other side."
  
  
  "Don't count on it. Does this runway we're going to land on have a name?"
  
  
  "It used to be called Kilo-Forty, because it's forty kilometers from Rufa."
  
  
  "Okay, estimated time of arrival."
  
  
  "Say 18.30 . Who are you going to call, the Ambassador?"
  
  
  "No, the boss's ego." The microphone picked her up. "Charlie, Charlie, it's Piper, it's Piper. Its a repeat call three times before the static rheumatism returned.
  
  
  Pig Latin is an outdated children's language in which you put the last part of a word in front of it, and then add ai, like, ilkai umbai - kill the bum. It works perfectly where ego constellations are today-unknown. You speak openly - and your message is brief. He was sure that Charlie would still be able to translate.
  
  
  Gave emu twice and got rheumatism, which is the hotel.
  
  
  "Ilokay ortyfay-eeneightay irtythay," I said, " forty kilos, eighteen thirty."
  
  
  Rheumatism was: "Yadingray, oya and out, udley and ear clay-read you loud and clear."
  
  
  "Aren't you so fancy?" sneered Hans. "I didn't use this with them ferret like I was in Ikersna."
  
  
  "Let's hope no one else does, too."
  
  
  That it should be sent instead of where and when as a signal was a call to AX to hand over its file on the Hammerskjold disaster in September 1961. The case is long gone, but I saw it once, on a nen file, and I knew it was in the list. under a special green card that simply meant " Probable homicide." But even her pig Latin couldn't risk it. Douza wanted to know if Hans knew who had blown up Mendanicke's plane. If there were a connection between this accident and the accident almost fifteen years ago,
  
  
  this appearance of the name Hammersheld on an open radio frequency in any form cannot be accidental. In the technique of destroying both planes, there was nothing around Third World countries or unsophisticated methods. This was the first indication that there might be someone in NAPR with technical knowledge-like the one related to the theft of Cockeye and UAVs.
  
  
  "Hans, at the time of the Hammersheld crash, did you have any idea who was behind this?"
  
  
  “no. There were a lot of characters who wanted to get rid of old Doug. The plane was unguarded for a long time before it took off. Any mechanic ..."
  
  
  "Any mechanic could have done it, but someone had to figure it out first. Have you ever seen anyone in Laman that you know from the Congo period?"
  
  
  "If there is, I haven't seen it yet. Of course, that was a long time ago. Hey, where are you going?"
  
  
  "Put in some more coffee and check on Erica."
  
  
  "God, can I have a drink? But I'll settle for coffee."
  
  
  Erika was sitting next to Irina, curled up on a blanket. I started to move away from where she'd been lying on the floor when her arm wrapped around my leg. She opened her eyes and grinned. "She's been asked to come."
  
  
  "You should have pressed the call button."
  
  
  She threw off the blanket. In a bra and a pair of bikini bottoms, she would have cured someone's sore eyes - just for starters. "I want you to do me a favor..."
  
  
  Her, stood and looked at nah. The smile is gone, the voice absurd in my throat. "I don't think we have much time," she said, running her hand up my leg.
  
  
  I've done us both a favor. After all, there wasn't much time. Her own clothes slid out, and she slid around the little one she was wearing. Her gently bench press on the couch, and in a moment of sickness, our bodies became one as we moved together, slowly at first, then even more insistently, until we both shivered in union, bent together ...
  
  
  After I laid her down again, she opened a limp eye and placed her hand on the back of my head. "Do you think its ever gonna find out who you are?"
  
  
  "When we get the chance, I'll tell you." I told her. "Do you want some coffee?"
  
  
  "It'll be good." She chuckled, smacked her lips, and closed her eyes.
  
  
  Her coffee was made.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 16
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As we approached Kilo-Forty, Hans lost altitude and changed course. We entered the hedge, hoping for the dune tops, not only to get away from Rufa's radar control, but also to hide possible visual surveillance.
  
  
  Hans was as good a carrier pigeon as he was a mechanic, because suddenly we were flying over a strip of concrete covered in sand. I noticed her lane after I saw a Land Rover parked nearby. An American flag fluttered from the engine's suspension. Next to him, two people were watching us.
  
  
  She was being watched by Rufa's air traffic controller, and as Hans flew mimmo to check the runway's condition, a familiar voice heard her. It was Dusa, a barely audible voice. He gave his name and callsigns as Twin Disaster. He warned Rufa to track us down and shoot us down if we didn't obey the order to land. If we are taken alive, we will be held until ego arrives.
  
  
  "It can be a little rough," Hans said. "Maybe you should go back and sit with Erica in case those cracks are bigger than they look from here."
  
  
  "Just put it down, buddy, and I'll take care of the mechanism and flaps on your command." He had enough to think about, and I didn't tell em that we might have company.
  
  
  He guided the old bird to the runway with enough power so that it could take off quickly again if it found the runway too torn or misaligned.
  
  
  As we pulled up to a bumpy stop halfway to a blurry runway, he said, " Hans, you're a real pro. Now open the switches and let's get out of here."
  
  
  Erica was already on the day of the cabin, opening the latch when her carapace came down the aisle. "Don't leave anything that belongs to you, dear," I said.
  
  
  "I didn't bring much of it." She smiled at me. "What now?"
  
  
  "Now we're in Eden, not flying."
  
  
  "Anywhere with you," she said, and we opened the door.
  
  
  Sutton was standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching us, followed by the corporeal Simms.
  
  
  "Glad you could do it," I said, jumping down. Her hand was on Erica.
  
  
  "We'd better get moving," he said, looking at nah.
  
  
  When we played such a game in the Land Rover, the saint flared up quickly, which was one of the good things about evening twilight in the desert.
  
  
  "I don't think you were noticed." Sutton turned to face us so that he could examine Erica again.
  
  
  "This is Miss Geyer and Mr. Geyer," I said. "Well, it will need to be placed in the embassy at the moment.
  
  
  
  They might want to get out of here fast. I'll explain it to her later. What is the situation in Laman? "
  
  
  "For example, as we expected, there was a lot of noise at the funeral, a crowd at the embassy. Everything is quieter now. I assume you know that Osman took Budan. Tasahmed makes plans to bring him back. He seems to be firmly in control here."
  
  
  "Is there anything going on outside?"
  
  
  He looked away from Erica. "We don't know anything in common," he said firmly. It was obvious that ego's own headquarters had informed ego, probably because of the he stinks issue he raised about my presence at the scene. But that he knew us and thought of us, I was only interested in one thing. The one who stole the Cockerel and the UAV has not yet announced it publicly.
  
  
  We were driving down what had once been a driveway. At dusk, Corporal pulled the ATV up a steep slope and onto a better road. I asked her. "Kapralov, can you listen to Rufa on this thing?"
  
  
  "Yes, sir. We've been watching them, " he said, his hand moving to the tuning dials on the pedestal receiver. A voice spoke in French and then repeated itself in Arabic, warning the fighters to look out for us south of Lamana.
  
  
  "Looks like you've arrived just in time," Sutton's attempt to dry was slightly damp.
  
  
  At the embassy, it was Paula who took Erica and her father somewhere with hot water and eda. She also informed me that I had received a special invitation to interview Madame Mendanicke at the Presidential Palace tomorrow at four o'clock in the afternoon. It turned out that Shema did not want a return meeting.
  
  
  Then he was alone with Sutton. "You could have told me,"he said, his tone indicating that things would have been different if he had. "Of course, I think finding a Cockerel anywhere within a thousand miles of here is pure nonsense."
  
  
  "Then what's the point of telling you?"
  
  
  "There is absolutely no connection between the death of Ambassador Petersen and the theft," he said. "We have a truck and the police have found the driver. He confessed everything. It was a stupid fucking accident."
  
  
  "Life is full of them, isn't it. Thank you for picking us up." He turned away and went up the stairs, heading for the communications room.
  
  
  Charlie Neal left me alone in the sound-proofed scrambler booth while he went to set up the correct connection. The scrambler is a great invention. It works electronically, turning its words into unintelligible ones, and then spitting out the ih on the other end like new. The scrambler has one drawback. If the ih tracks a third party, the words can be decoded en route using an even simpler electronic device. Thus, a lot of state secrets became known to a lot of people. Counteracting this is the presence of constantly changing code inside the scrambler. This makes controlled translation impossible. At least not yet.
  
  
  AX had such a code, and by giving Charlie Neal a special sequence of sets, he knew that Hawk and hers would be talking privately, albeit for a long time, due to the long pauses required for scrambling.
  
  
  I didn't waste any time saying hello. "Accidents of Hammarskjold". I told her. "Conclusions on motivations and individual involvement".
  
  
  Even through the scrambler, Hawke's voice had the same driving qualities. "The request is being verified. Meanwhile, there are no positive indications from any sources regarding the conduct of the missing equipment. The German press reported rumors of the disappearance. The Bundeswehr and SHAPE denied this. The Kremlin is threatening to release an announcement at 12: 00 GMT tomorrow if the problem persists. it's been decided ."
  
  
  He stopped talking, and I sat there, saying nothing, waiting for him to answer my questions. Much has been written about the theft of nuclear materials - the ego of a growing nation. It was also written that we in the West are so used to terrorist acts that the threat of nuclear blackmail will simply be seen as the next step in the growing scale of violence. It wasn't bought by this.
  
  
  The app made by the Kremlin will be a deadly psychopolitical blow for NATO and the United States. This will cause widespread outrage. And the only thing that decided was the corkscrew about who had the Cockerel and where it was sent. The result could be a nuclear confrontation that makes everything else seem insignificant.
  
  
  Hawke's voice interrupted my scrambler thoughts. "The Court's conclusion about the Hammarskjold disaster was that it was possible sabotage using undetectable gas. No mechanical evidence was found. Suspicion centers on Dr. Cornelius Mertens, a Belgian citizen. Mertens, a long-time KGB officer specializing in technical fields, simultaneously served as a United Nations security service officer. Mertens is not a disciplinarian.
  
  
  He may have acted independently in the Congo. It is reported that he was killed in Egypt during the war of ' 67."
  
  
  When Hawk delivered the report, my hopes were raised. It was closed again. Her, sat with his eyes closed: "How accurate is the ego death report?"
  
  
  Waiting for her. "It is known that he was in the headquarters of the Mukhabarat in Port Said. The building was blown up, there are no survivors. Mertens the ferret wasn't seen with them."
  
  
  It was like a dead end. I had the last ace. "Was Dr. Otto van der Meer in Egypt during the War of' 67?"
  
  
  It was the longest wait. When Hawke spoke again, even on top of the scrambler, the sandpaper was lighter. "Yes to van der Meer. He was there in June. It was reported that he was ill. Then ego's warriors were never seen again until he showed up in Algeria in September."
  
  
  "I'll keep in touch," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 17
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  While I was showering and shaving in Sutton's apartment, the embassy driver returned my Fiat safely. All the emu's questions were answered correctly, but there was no one to ask them.
  
  
  Sutton Hotel is eager to learn everything and be cleansed of past sins. All I got from it was a map of the city. While ee was studying it, the phone rang. It was Paula. Dinner would be ready if we were hungry. I didn't want to give up the pleasure. She was told by Sutton to apologize. Then hers, and left the place. I'm tired of people getting in my way, official or otherwise. When I have a job to do, I prefer to do it alone.
  
  
  Villa van der Meer was located on Flagey Street, a few blocks from the central square. He parked in front of the police station again. Her hotel experience the atmosphere of Lamana the next day, followed by a large funeral. "Quiet" was the appropriate spelling. The troops left. Militia guards lounged in the archway, smoking cigarettes and chatting. They only gave me a glance. Tasahmed seemed to be concerned only with the Shema's anger, and in Budan with Osman's occupation. He wanted to tame the first emu, and he could catch the other one when he was ready.
  
  
  I crossed the park in the dimly lit darkness, and I know that if this craze only leads to soybeans and cotton, I'll have to signal Hawke's failure and leave. That Mertens could be van der Meer's backup was entirely possible. Camouflage and skin painting are not a problem for a professional. You can also get experience in agriculture. Since Africa and the UN were ih joint areas of operations, Mertens could very well have imitated van der Meer, and if van der Meer had died in an accident or at the behest of the Six-Day War, the assumption of ego personalities would have been a real coup on Mertens ' part. No one could have asked for a better cover.
  
  
  Flaghi Street was in darkness, and there was no peace on the van der Meer gate. I had to climb over the wall again. But first, to protect her hands from the broken glass, he put on her coat. It made a good catch. After shaking out his ego, he checked on Wilhelmina and Hugo, delighted that Pierre's twin lived in the house. Then her, jumped up on his haunches.
  
  
  The other side of the wall was just as dark. There was no peace in the villa. It was early to go to bed. The doctor was not at home. There was no one else. The place was locked and shuttered like an Egyptian tomb, and the windows above were sealed as well as below. The silencer, hidden in the inside pocket of her arm, fitted snugly to Wilhelmina. One shot at the back door lock and he was inside.
  
  
  The air was as heavy as darkness. No one had been home for some time. The thin beam of my flash caught furniture, rugs, tapestries, artefacts. It was a large central room dotted with poufs. The dining room adjoined it, then the hall, and then the doctor's office. The voice where it got into the mud.
  
  
  The walls were lined with books, but I was stopped by a massive chair in the center of the room. The beam of my flash played in the papier-mache miniatures. It was not a model of an experimental agricultural station, but a large-scale display of the ruins of Portarius.
  
  
  In the information materials Hawk had given me to study, there was a reference to the ruins. Mendanicke closed ih to viewers four years ago, after accidents during a light and sound show when a column fell and killed a couple in the audience. At the time I read this post, it occurred to me that the incident hardly seemed important enough to close the ruins and thus cut off one of Lamana's few tourist attractions. Now he could blame himself for not dwelling on the moment. It is not known how the Roman chariot races took place on a hot Saturday, not when.
  
  
  He took a chance and switched on the lamp. In the ego glow, Portarius sprawled in all its time-worn splendor. It was a large urban colony founded by descendants of the fall of Carthage.
  
  
  At its peak, the city was home to thirty thousand Roman ih slaves. Now the ego model lay before me-a display of broken walls, columns, and narrow banners - a place full of very ancient ghosts and possibly one very modern nuclear weapon and a booster ego. What a noble place to hide it, climb it, and launch it! The ego could easily be disguised to look like another column or arch. Satellite cameras wouldn't have been able to detect it.
  
  
  There was nothing in our room, nothing on our ornate desk to indicate that archaeology was a hobby of Dr. van der Meer, nee Mertens. Stony had a good map showing that Portarius lay 30 kilometers away-about 18 miles east of Lamana, and that another 60 kilometers south of Portarius lay Pacar. After so much that didn't fit, everything fit perfectly: the Doctor's hand-picked commando team arrived at Lamana two or three at a time, heading for Pacar and then Portarius. A warning bell rang in the center of my thoughts.
  
  
  He switched off the lamp and stood in the dark, listening to the screeching sound - a four-legged one, not a two-legged one. But the ferret wasn't running with them when I got to the den. Her closet door closed at the entrance. Hers was standing at his side, Wilhelmina in her hand. No struggle can be seen through the two shuttered windows in the room. Before I entered from behind, I didn't notice any alarm wiring. However, with a professional like Mertens, he might have stumbled over something that might have prevented the Warsaw Pact.
  
  
  I wasn't in the mood to stand and breathe in the dust and overheated air, waiting for an answer. He went to the nearest window. The doors were metal drawable shutters. They were attached to the rings on both sides by a simple latch. Her luger put in a minute and unzipped ih. Hers allows the bolt to rise, pressing against the ego spring to keep it from spinning. I'm standing with my back to the wall, and I didn't like the situation as hell; it made her the perfect silhouette for shooting practice. The window had a handle, and he turned it almost as soon as he picked up the knuckles. Then it was all over.
  
  
  It wouldn't be Killmaster N3 because of its lack of sensitivity. It was this hidden sensitivity - the fifth, sixth, or seventh sense-that kept me alive. When her voice started to moan, all my senses flashed red. They couldn't save me, but the warning was clear enough, and when suddenly the whole place looked like Kennedy Stadium, NY at kickoff, I knew my instincts were in good shape, even if my future was in doubt.
  
  
  He turned and curled up behind the only available shelter, a majestic palm tree. On the back of her, shot at the two closest sources of the world moan, and then extinguished the closest one on the roof. My marksmanship looked like it was overshadowing the holy web. Ih was too much.
  
  
  A voice boomed through the megaphone in French. "Throw out your gun and face the moan!"
  
  
  Automatic gunfire interrupted the team, splitting the trunk of a palm tree a few feet above my head. The shooting was conducted from the crenellated railing of the villa. It was followed by another queue around the bushes in front of the house. Most of the palm tree is damaged. The third one, this one at the back of the house, tried it. If they don't shoot, the tree will be killed.
  
  
  Oni put me in a box. Even if I could climb over the wall, I'd be waiting for someone. the trap was carefully set up. The only corkscrew question was whether they knew before or after he entered the house that I had come to call.
  
  
  Her got her rheumatism quite quickly. "Monsieur Carter, you will die in a minute if you don't comply!"
  
  
  It really made me obey. Not because I threatened to die if I didn't, but because someone knew who I was. And the only person who should have known about it-in all of NAPR-was Nick Carter.
  
  
  Reluctantly, Wilhelmina tossed her out into the cold air and approached moaning like a man who was sure Votum-votum would run into her.
  
  
  "Put your hands on the wall and bend down!" came the command.
  
  
  I waited for her for a long time, most likely because of the psychological impact it must have had on me, before she was heard by the approaching shaggy. A hand snatched at my hair and yanked at my head. I caught a glimpse of her combat boots and olive green sleeve before the blindfold caught my eye. A hand was expertly caressing my body, searching for a hidden weapon. He didn't find Hugo or Pierre, but he lost her to fight. My hands were pulled back, my wrists bound. Then, with my hands on each side, I was pushed forward. The idea seemed to be to set me on the path of anything that would cause me to trip and bruise my shins. The obstacle courses ended, just as I had expected when I was sitting in the back of the car with my two enemies on each side.
  
  
  Then it stopped.
  
  
  He tilted his head back, inhaling the night air.
  
  
  Then he asked her. "How many miles to Portarius?"
  
  
  "Shut up," one of my guards said.
  
  
  "Far enough for a one - way trip," the front said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 18
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn't mind the one-way trip at all. The window was down, a breeze was blowing from the sky, and somewhere out there an aircraft carrier was patrolling. All I had to do was activate the homing button attached to my right leg behind my knee, and it could be brought in quickly enough by six hundred paratroopers. But for now, he was happy with the game.
  
  
  It was obvious from the start that the theft wasn't planned for the night. Rather, four years of working with them ferret like Mendanick shut down Portarius due to an incident that was not an accident. Perhaps Mertens, posing as van der Meer, convinced Mendanicke that he wanted to use the ruins for some other purpose than the present one. From that moment on, Mertens made his preparations for a triple cover-up of his identity, ruin, and hopeless fortune.
  
  
  The ego ring included agents in Casto and Hidelberg. Otherwise, it would have no way of knowing that while the Rooster's Eye is the deadliest tactical nuclear weapon in the NATO arsenal, it is also the most vulnerable. All other nuclear weapons have a double-key system that effectively protects against such theft.
  
  
  In 1970, rebel elements in the Greek army attempted to seize bunkers near Thessaloniki where tactical nuclear weapons were stored. Ih was stopped by a squadron of Greek Air Force fighters. Even if they conquered with nuclear weapons, they would be useless to them, and would not threaten anyone. They wouldn't have a second key.
  
  
  With Cockeye, everything is different. Ego integrated circuit and avionics are such that anyone who grabs the ego black box and understands ego work can blow it up. For this reason, the "Cockerel" was under special protection. That Mertens was able to hit the guards showed just how agile he and his teammates were.
  
  
  Poor old Mendanike either realized the bitter truth, or turned cold when the Cockerel was on his native land. In desperation, he warned Ambassador Petersen. Although I didn't have all the details, I saw that Duza and Tasahmed were special ops in the deal. Ih's job was to maintain the front and keep the public's attention on nen. Shema wasn't a threat. It was perfect for creating the myth of a counter-coup. Only Hans Geyer was a threat, and it was thanks to her emu that I sat in the backseat of the car, chained up like a chicken, on my way to the glory that once belonged to Rome.
  
  
  After all, it had been a couple of long days. I decided I needed to get some sleep. It was not the rough ground that woke me, but the cold of the night.
  
  
  The car stopped. The voices spoke quickly, in whispers. We moved on. The pounding stopped, and I knew we were going down. The breeze, the noise, had subsided. The echo of the car said that we were in a closed room. We stopped again. This time the engine was turned off. Day opened. More subdued voices, two speaking German, one saying, " Don't waste your time."
  
  
  The guard on my right pushed me to the left. The one on my left was holding me by the collar. I managed to keep from choking. The generator hummed. The metal door clanged. It had the sound of a ship. There was another walk. Its felt the circulation of cool sampling air. Updates have been installed on Portarius.
  
  
  A quick command was heard, and its sel. A hand on my bed collar and a blindfold over my eyes. His eyes blinked in the sudden light, trying to focus.
  
  
  Iht was sitting across the table from me. The pair on either side of the elder looked unfamiliar, and in the dim light, they were more in the shadows than ihk. Also in the shadow behind them was the high tail section of the DC-7. It was an underground city, and I was glad I hadn't gone plane hunting in Rufa. The walls on both sides were metal, but the canopy above was camouflage. No doubt there should be a camouflaged airstrip behind it, but I was wondering why the satellite sensors didn't detect it.
  
  
  "Do you find it impressive?" my master asked.
  
  
  "What do you call it, late Romans or Barbarian brothers?"
  
  
  "I should say I was expecting you earlier," he ignored my comment.
  
  
  "I came as soon as I could, but I think you'll have to discuss the delay with the colonel."
  
  
  He ignored it, too. "You know that you almost lost money to me. I hate losing bets. Isn't that right, Dr. Schroeder?"
  
  
  To his left was Dr. Schroeder, with a round, hard face and a gray crew cut. "Yes," was the ego of rheumatism.
  
  
  
  "Tell me, what is your name, van der Meer or Mertens?"
  
  
  
  "Ha!" he slammed his hand down on the table. "Good! Her told you, her, told you! " he excitedly told his buddies. "And that's one bet I'll win, Dr. Villa. He told her he'd find out."
  
  
  Dr. Villa, a thinner guy with a mustache, chuckled.
  
  
  "You sound like a gambler," I said.
  
  
  "Oh no, I never gamble. I only put it on certain things. Just as I'm betting it on you, Mr. Carter. I really thought you would be here for breakfast."
  
  
  "Well, you had the opportunity to invite me."
  
  
  "Her hotel, but yesterday was too early. You've ruined my day, and it's been really good."
  
  
  "It's better to be thorough."
  
  
  He blinked and tugged at his nose. "As one professional before another, I'm sure you'll agree that this is a trait that really matters. I know my colleagues and can sum up the success of our activities - our mission, " he extended his hand in blessing. "through thoroughness. Isn't that right, gentlemen?"
  
  
  They muttered in rheumatism. "Yes, thoroughness. Do you know, Mr. Carter, why most bank robberies, no matter how well planned, end in failure? A robbery can be perfectly executed, but it's because of something on it! " He gave a thumbs-up lecture, "where the thing falls apart. And the reason, of course, is the inability of real professionals to be thorough in planning - both after and before it." He smiled sweetly. "Do you know how long this operation has been in the planning stage?"
  
  
  "About four years, give or take a couple of months."
  
  
  “great! Great! He addressed the letter to his silent partners, and then turned back to me. "When the first phase was completed, we knew that we were in a critical seventy-two-hour period. The released material should have been delivered here without detection. And once we were here, we had to make sure that it wasn't detected. thoroughness, Mr. Carter ."
  
  
  "I knew there had to be a place for me somewhere."
  
  
  "We knew that there was one organization in the West where we could expect trouble. AX, and AX is Nick Carter. Why, we have a file on you as thick as War and Peace."
  
  
  "I hope this is also readable."
  
  
  "Yes, it's better in some ways." He used his fingers. "The West German BND is a laugh. The CIA lost its operational capability because of exposing and exploiting the idiots they were sending here. MI6 is active in Ulster and Cyprus. The French and Italian SIDS are linked to homegrown terrorists and so on and so forth. Only AX and AX yourself-vote as we read it, and we didn't need a computer to tell us about it."
  
  
  "Can I get up and thank you for your eulogy?"
  
  
  "There's no need for that. Because your organization prides itself on its excellence, we, Mr. Carter, are proud of ourselves as well. Like I said, we've been waiting for you."
  
  
  "If you were waiting for me, why did you try to kill me in Rime?"
  
  
  Mertens frowned, " It was a mistake, and I apologize. Our stationmaster in Rime has been warned to keep an eye on you. Because of his excessive zeal, he misinterpreted his instructions. He didn't have a chance to know that you were playing a role in our organizational plan. Even so, the ego's actions were unforgivable, and the ego is no longer with us. I came by Lamana to join you on your return. So now you understand ."
  
  
  "No, I don't know. If Douza had had his way, he would have returned to Rome via Cairo."
  
  
  "Duza is sometimes a fool. He underestimated your abilities, but trust me, you wouldn't have gone to Cairo, you would have come here. Instead, you went to Budan on a wild goose chase."
  
  
  "You fit the description," I said, watching the frozen grin disappear.
  
  
  "Quite. Well, it's time to move on." He nodded to the guards behind me.
  
  
  As he continued it, he considered pressing the back of his leg against the chair and activating the homing signal. I decided to wait for her for two reasons. He was hoping to use me, which meant that executing the outspoken wasn't part of the plan right now, and he was willing to play along until I saw the Cockerel in the flesh.
  
  
  The guards pulled me to my feet. Mertens and his fellow doctors were similarly dressed in neat green combat uniforms. Ih boots were polished to a high gloss. It looked as if Mertens and Co. were involved in more than just nuclear weapons.
  
  
  The shredder stands a head taller than the other two. The dueling scars on his cheeks, the flat Prussian face-subtract thirty years and you've taken over the SS on the eastern front, restructured it, returned it to the East German Democratic Republic to lead a terrorist squad like that, and then to Africa for the same , and, as my talkative host would say, " and so on further, and so on."
  
  
  The other, Willie, comes from around the same place
  
  
  a wrinkled, narrow, closed face with bright black eyes. He had the air of an avid inquisitor, through those who burn themselves to burn you.
  
  
  "They'd better untie my wrists," I said.
  
  
  "I'm sorry about this, Mr. Carter," Mertens said sadly, " but as I said, we plan carefully, and we plan to keep you as safe as possible. We don't underestimate our abilities."
  
  
  He made a gesture as one of the guards stepped away from me to the metal door and turned its round handle. The door swung open, and I saw a space that gave the impression of a football field with a stadium. The audience was aiming for something finer than pigskin. It was the city's colosseum. We came to what had once been dungeons and cages under the floor of the amphitheater. Only the stone floor and surrounding walls remain of the ancient masonry.
  
  
  There was a moon, and by its light he could see the netted camouflage netting overhead, and above it the circular ruins of the Colosseum itself. In the center of the cleared area of the dungeon was the missing "Cockerel". It was installed on UAVs. They were both sitting on the launch ramp, which was tilted at a very low angle.
  
  
  We started toward the launch ramp. It was the perfect hideout. Our satellite, us SR-71 cameras in space will never notice the ego - at least not until it's launched. This was ironic, of course - here in the ruins was the perfect device for creating ruins.
  
  
  "Well, Mr. Carter, what do you think?" Mertens said.
  
  
  "I'm puzzled."
  
  
  He stopped. "Oh, how's that?"
  
  
  "You talked about thoroughness. Even in the dark, I can see it all around me, even for the snipers you have stationed there. It doesn't make sense."
  
  
  "Really? Do you hear what he says to his comrades? What doesn't make sense?"
  
  
  "What you said about people who plan robberies and then fail to escape, I'd say you made the same mistake."
  
  
  "Would you? Horst, Jose, where did we make a mistake?"
  
  
  "The first mistake," Schroeder said in German,"was to bring the ego here."
  
  
  "Oh, don't start that again," Villa snapped, " just because you're too stupid to understand..."
  
  
  "Jah! I understand it quite well. If it wasn't for my team, this rocket wouldn't be sitting there. If only..."
  
  
  "Your commando! It was her plan to..."
  
  
  "Gentlemen! Gentlemen! " The voice of Mertens solving scientific research problems quarrels. "What is before us is the result of our joint efforts. There is no need to argue and no time. But our guest says that we made a mistake, and I, for example, would like to know where we made a mistake. Tell us, Mr. Carter."
  
  
  Although he couldn't do it at the time, his was ready to press the homing button on the back of his foot. I found what I was sent to find, but all I could do at the moment was look for a way out. "As long as you don't launch this bird," I said, " it's well hidden. As soon as you do, either NAJE or Sixth Fleet will shoot down the sl. You'll be in the bag before you hit the target. "
  
  
  "That's never good, is it? Oh, no. All right, take a good look, Mr. Carter. Her hotel so that you can see that you will be helping her. In the meantime, much remains to be done."
  
  
  They took me back inside, not to the DC-7's handrails, but to a room on the opposite side of the launch pad. I've been to several mission control centers. Its seen, electronic consoles ih guidance systems, ih surveillance telemetry. I've never seen anything more sophisticated than what Mertens and the group have assembled in the bowels of Portarius.
  
  
  There were half a dozen technicians in the room, all in the same elegant uniforms as ih's superiors. Two of them were sitting at the control module, reviewing a checklist. When we walked in, they all took notice, and Schroeder ih moment.
  
  
  "I want you to see it, too." Mertens beamed. "Now we had to adapt our own controls to the Rooster's Eye black box. It's not an easy task, my friend, but thankfully for the talent we've gathered here, we're nearing the countdown."
  
  
  "Andre, I can interrupt her for a moment. I think our guest could use a short briefing. Can we take a look at the target, please?"
  
  
  Andre had colorless eyes and long, flexible fingers. Odin around them pressed two buttons on the panel to his left. An ERX scanning screen with a Mark 7 lock covered the wall. On the nen, the view of the Black Dress was laid out with exceptional clarity. The node in nen was the Crimean Peninsula in the shape of a rhombus. The railway line from Dnepropetrovsk was a shoelace going through Ushko Dzhankoy to Sevastopol.
  
  
  Sevastopol is more than the headquarters of the Soviet Black Sea Fleet, it is in a hall on the southern sea border of the USSR, like Murmansk in the north.
  
  
  Admiral Yegorov may have a hundred more ships in the northern Fleet than Admiral Sysoev in the ego Black Sea Command, which he supplies to the Mediterranean, but with six Krest-class missile cruisers, 50 Kashin destroyers, and almost the same number of Y-class submarines, he won't hesitate.
  
  
  The scanner approached Sevastopol close-up. I don't need it. He was there. It was definitely a target for someone with nuclear ambitions.
  
  
  "Do you recognize this?" Mertens snorted.
  
  
  "Vaguely. Someone told me that the ego radar is impenetrable."
  
  
  "Someone told you wrong. Isn't that right, Andrey?"
  
  
  "Yes sir."
  
  
  "Andre, show our guest the planned course."
  
  
  Andre pressed a few more buttons, and we looked out over the entire Mediterranean region of Lamana to the east, including Italy, Greece, Turkey, and the Black Sea. The green line stretches almost openly to the Ionian Sea between Cythera and Antikythera, between the Peloponnese and Crete. There, the line ran through the Cyclades islands in the Aegean Sea. It ran north of Lemnos and east of Samothrace. It skirted the narrow passage through the Dardenelles and, passing overland south of Alexandropalis, crossed Turkish territory, heading north of Hayabolu, entering the Black Sea near Daglari. From there it went openly to Sevastopol.
  
  
  "Very sincere and to the point," Mertens said. The radar will pick up what the satellite cameras failed to detect. The UAV doesn't move as fast, and that would make it all a waste of time. Isn't that right? "
  
  
  "You have the floor," he said, " I want everything."
  
  
  "Of course, the radar would have picked up our small efforts... if only the emu had something to pick up. Height, Mr. Carter, height. As you have seen, our rocket will move over the water at a short distance from us. We programmed the ego for a constant height of thirty feet. When it crosses the ground, it will follow the contour of the ground, trees, gorges - whatever you want, and the ego height will not change. And, as you well know, the radar won't scan it at such a low trajectory."
  
  
  Sevastopol saw it, ego a narrow estuary, surrounding ego rocks cut by fans-detectors. The curse was that any rocket had to have an angle to its trajectory. "Cockerel", installed on the UAV, did not need this. This was the purpose of ego theft. He could enter practically zero point, open as an arrow.
  
  
  "Have I answered all your questions?" He was beaming again.
  
  
  "All but one. Why are you all so eager to start World War III?"
  
  
  "That's why you're here, Mr. Carter, to prevent this! Think about the sacrifices you will make to all of humanity. Come on, I have something else I want to show you before the program starts. Thank you, Andre. "
  
  
  The control room also had door locks. It was built with explosion protection in mind. In this case, there would be no special need to launch a UAV with a load of JP-4. Merten may have originally planned to raise an intercontinental ballistic missile.
  
  
  They led me out of mission control and down an unlit stone corridor, using flashlights. We climbed an ancient staircase and found ourselves among the ruins. There the moon became our guide. We walked along what should be the main street until we came to a one-story complex of modern construction. While walking, she was noticed by security guards standing on heights.
  
  
  "Well," Mertens said, " I'm sure you'll excuse Dr. Schroeder and Dr. Villa. You'll see ih later, but they have things to do right now, and so do we."
  
  
  I couldn't wait to sit down for one reason. Pressing the back of a chair against her leg could have increased the population of Portarius by six hundred. I usually do my job, but there are no reinforcements. But it was unusual, and Hawk gave me an order. The problem was that I couldn't sit down.
  
  
  No lights were on inside the complex, another sign of planning. Our Samos security cameras are powerful enough to pick up a flea on a golf ball from a couple hundred miles away. In normal mode, the satellite picked up lights in the ruins. In this unusual situation, the photo interpreter will take note and transmit the information.
  
  
  Mertens went down the corridor to his office. There was a chair and a few chairs, but the entire room was a messy pile of parts and pieces of electronic equipment.
  
  
  "I have to apologize for the mess," he said.
  
  
  "You must have been more careful with that Hammarskjold." I said, looking for an empty chair, but I didn't see one.
  
  
  He stared at me for a second, then grinned. He was sitting at his desk, fiddling with his papers.
  
  
  "How many of you are in this thing?" I asked her as I approached the table, preparing to sit down on it. "Or is it a state secret?"
  
  
  
  "There's no secret from you, Mr. Carter." He picked up some papers. "With you, we are fifty-one in Rivne. All of us here are ready to launch. When the dust settles, so to speak, we will move on to the next stage. Now I'm going to read it to you for your participation in the program. You put it on tape, and we'll see it put in safe hands for worldwide broadcasting. You'll be famous." He grinned. The expression on his face reminded me of a hyena looking up from its prey.
  
  
  "People of the World!" he read like a third-rate book: "the organization responsible for the nuclear destruction of the Russian port of Sevastopol is called AX. AX is a special US government spy agency dedicated to assassinating and overthrowing governments. Ego Director and Head of Operations-David Hawke. The theft of the Kokai missile and its launch vehicle, as well as ih guidance, were carried out by Hawk. Hers, Nick Carter, was helping with the mission. I did it in protest. I'll be dead by the time these words are broadcast. I'm responsible for the AX murders.
  
  
  "There is a twofold plan behind this act of nuclear genocide. The People's Republic of China will be responsible for the destruction of Sevastopol. In a possible nuclear war "and subsequent global upheaval, Hawk", with the support of the Pentagon, plans to seize power in the United States. There is no time to give details. My last hope is that my words will be heard everywhere! "
  
  
  "Well," he looked up, the man who had just delivered the keynote speech, " how does that sound?"
  
  
  "Strokes. The grammar isn't too precise either."
  
  
  "Ah, but think about the impact."
  
  
  "It'll be like a broken egg," I said.
  
  
  "More like scrambled eggs, Mr. Carter, or maybe a boiled goose?"
  
  
  "No matter how you give us an ego, no one will buy it."
  
  
  "Ha! Sevastopol is devastated. The world is on the verge of destruction. Just think about the implications of your confirmation in the United States. First, it will show that a secret intelligence unit of the Russian government is responsible for this horror. it will inform the American public about a spy agency that no one knew about. Third, due to the growing lack of public support, this will cause your system to crash! He slammed his fist down on the table, and for a moment there was madness in his bulging eyes.
  
  
  "Oh, I assure you, Mr. Carter, we've thought it all out, we've planned this moment for a long time. You see, in this organization, we all have to strive for the same goals. Can you guess what it is?"
  
  
  "Be present at your own execution."
  
  
  He grinned in spite of himself. "Your country doesn't have the fortitude to execute anyone. Our goal is to destroy your unbearable system. Sow anarchy... and then, with proper support, collect the shards and form the ih correctly." He clenched his fist, and Sergei came back.
  
  
  "Greetings to Caesar." I took a step back and sat down on a chair, but one of the guards pushed me away.
  
  
  He acted as if he hadn't heard me. "What does your Marine Corps say - a few good people? Well, those few are better than anyone else. Each person is a professional in their field, knows what an emu does, how to do it, and for a specific purpose. the goal that deals with matters at the end. I'll show you what I mean."
  
  
  "Tell me, will Tasahmed Odin Po meet your fifty professionals?"
  
  
  "The general is an ally. In exchange for his cooperation, we got rid of Mendanike. The ego prize is NAPR, and ours is to quietly leave at the right time." While it was bubbling, he set up a movie projector and shot film through it. He put the ego on a chair, and he aimed the ego at the wall.
  
  
  "You have no idea how long she's been waiting for you here, Mr. Carter. You're also a professional, but even if you weren't, I'm sure you'd be interested in how we achieved so much knowledge about AX and ourselves. Thoroughness. You'll see the vote."
  
  
  I saw it, but I had to listen to more of it first. "In today's world of medical technology, there is no person who cannot be made to work as it should. However, in some things its quirky. Getting rid of hyperdermia is too easy. I prefer to use physical means to achieve psychological goals."
  
  
  "Do you provide seats for movies?"
  
  
  "Not in this case. I'd rather you get up." Your comfort is not in my best interests." He made a gesture, and the guards turned me so that I was facing the wall that now served as a screen.
  
  
  He flipped the light switch. "I'm sure you'll recognize an old friend," the projector buzzed.
  
  
  He was right. Joe Banks would have recognized her if he'd been disguised as a gorilla. Its number is N-3 in the hierarchy. He was N-6 until he disappeared in Tripoli about four years ago. "Hawk told me that Joe knew something by accident. The accident was fatal.
  
  
  One evening, he left the hotel where he was staying with flea bags and disappeared. No sign of him. And now he knew where the wind had taken ego.
  
  
  Until I saw Merten's film, in which he was featured, my attitude towards him was simply cold-blooded. I'll kill him as soon as I can. Halfway through the ego setting, my teeth clenched so tightly that my jaw muscles were ready to explode. He could feel the sweat on his neck, the taste of bile in his throat, and the white fire burning in every pore.
  
  
  Its never been seen to murder a person to photograph alive. I watched it happen to Joe Banks, pinned like a butterfly to the board. He watched as Mertens guided the two thugs, skinning knives pounding the ego like bloodied grapes. Her, saw Mertensen drooling over Joe's agony.
  
  
  The tape started, but her eyes were closed. I had to think, and I couldn't do that, watching life rip and tear through an old friend. Standing or lying down, he couldn't press the homing button with his hands tied. Trying to get Hugo to release my wrists would take too long and attract the attention of my watchers. I needed to find something solid.
  
  
  Her,I heard Mertens ramble on. "You know, in the end, he agreed to tell us everything - if only we'd shot the ego. You pour salt on the raw flesh, and the pain is very intense."
  
  
  He groaned and tried to stagger back to the table. I didn't have six inches until my assistants put me back in my seat.
  
  
  "Oh, it's upsetting, yes." Mertens sighed. "And, of course, we kept our word. But before we put him out of his misery, he told us enough about AX and Nike Carter, so over time we were able to piece together what we needed to know. Of course, that wasn't the case." Before they ferret, until much later we decided to program you and AX in our operation. So you see. "He turned off the car and turned on brylev.
  
  
  He let his saliva flow out of the rta and collapsed to the floor, taking a blow to the shoulder. As hands were laid on me, hers quickly approached, planning a backflip that would land me on a chair where hers could rest my foot on the ego edge.
  
  
  We don't care. They blocked all movement, holding me tight. They were quite nice. One was Korean and the other was Hispanic. Regardless of their ih geography, they studied the same text. -
  
  
  "My God," Mertens shouted, " I thought you were made of a harder material. Are you worried about being treated the same way? Don't worry, we won't need you in this state of undress. We want you to have a good voice."
  
  
  He walked up to me, and he let his guards do the work by feigning a faint, letting them half drag me down with them.
  
  
  At the end of the corridor, we came back to the ruins and the stone steps leading down. Mertens flipped the switch, and the saint poured down from below, showing the dusty path to death.
  
  
  He did what I was hoping for. He went first. In my mail business is you don't have much trouble, you ih get. I tripped over it, and when I felt the grip on me increase, I threw up my legs, tucked them in, and threw them away. I contacted Merten's back. With a squeal, he crashed down the stairs. The force of my punch tore out my defenses against the counterweights, and we weren't far behind in the fall.
  
  
  I tried to stick my head in, but no hands anyway. Its never reached the bottom. Somewhere between it and the launch point, it went out into deep space, where it was dark, cold, and empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 19
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone was calling my name, but it wasn't really my name. "You've made a mistake," I said, " you'll have to start all over again."
  
  
  "Ned! Ned Cole! Please, please!"
  
  
  "Don't be afraid forever. Try taking a deep breath." I could hear my own voice, but there was a difference in what I thought and what I said. Her struggled to fix it by opening her eyes. Ih closed it again in the bright light. "Just take the knife," I muttered.
  
  
  "Ned! Ned, it's hers, Mathews Paula!"
  
  
  The next time I tried it, I was convinced that she was right. She looked at me with her face and never looked so cute. She was wearing nothing but makeup, and not much of it. It was placed on an ancient stone slab - a sacrificial altar. It was once a torture chamber. The only modern addition was a bright and vibrant consecration.
  
  
  In any light, Paula was a beautiful creature. With her arms thrown back, her breasts protruding, her nipples aroused not from passion but from fear, the curves and joints of her body emphasized, he was quickly dealt with.
  
  
  "Oh, thank God!" she said when she saw me looking at nah.
  
  
  "How long has she been here?" There was a stone pillar in the center of the room. Hers was tied to him not only around his arms and legs, but also around his chest.
  
  
  "Me ... I don't know. When I woke up, you were there ... covered in blood. Her name is ..."
  
  
  The message sounded like the cut of a skinning knife. They were going to do the same thing to her as they did to Joe Banks if I didn't play ball. "How did they get you?"
  
  
  "There was a call. They said you were in an accident, and..."
  
  
  "Why didn't Sutton come?"
  
  
  "Ego ... ego was summoned to meet General Tasahmed at the palace."
  
  
  He shook his head to clear the blurriness, and wished he had. "Paula," I said.
  
  
  "Well, what do we have here?" Colonel Duse had to bend down to enter. Nen was wearing a new uniform with a general's star on the shoulders. "Oh, that's so cute." He walked over and gave Paulo a long, painful look. He reached out and stroked her breasts. I heard her draw in a breath.
  
  
  "Great, really great." He ran his hands down her legs. "A true pureblood. Her excellent thoroughbred rider." She whimpered as he slid a paw between her thighs. "Pure gold," he sighed.
  
  
  "You're not human enough to ride a goat, and the sow will throw you around the paddock," I said, hoping to draw ego to me.
  
  
  It worked. He came up to me with an oily grin. "I'm glad to see you again."
  
  
  I barely had time to tense up when my left side slammed into Nah and my right side slammed into my jaw. I spat blood at him and he started working on me.
  
  
  I didn't pretend that he'd taken me away. But due to the pain and numbness of it, continued to stall for time. It was a difficult way to buy, but it was the only one I had.
  
  
  When he stopped, he was breathing heavily. "The doctor said I wouldn't hurt you too much, but we'll try again when you feel more ready." He turned away from me and went back to Paula.
  
  
  I felt like my wrists had been gripped in a vise for too long, but I could still move my fingers. I spent many hours practicing this exercise in the AX gym with Peter Andrus. Peter wasn't Houdini. The Emu was better. Ego's job was to instruct and train Section N on how to do things that no one else could do, whether tied up, handcuffed, or thrown into a river in a barrel of cement. My fingers began to reach half of Hugo under his shirt.
  
  
  Then the time was up, and Mertens and Villa came in.
  
  
  "Colonel, get your hands off that girl!" Mertens ' head was bandaged, and even with his head down, he could tell that emus weren't worth much better. He was limping when he saw me, blood dripping, apparently cold.
  
  
  "Why the hell not!" he bellowed. "What did you do to him?"
  
  
  He grabbed my hair and pulled me up. I heard him suck in his breath at the sight of me. "Dr. Villa, get some water, get a stimulant! Douza, if..."
  
  
  "I've only softened it up a bit, so he'll be more cooperative."
  
  
  "Get out of here! Get out, get out!"
  
  
  Mertens looked me over again, feeling my folding dollar. Then he walked over to Paula, trembling: "I hope you'll excuse the ego behavior."
  
  
  "I want to get out of here, too, Dr. van der Meer." Paula's voice was shaky, but she wasn't hysterical.
  
  
  "And you, my dear... provided that we can enlist the help of this gentleman."
  
  
  He was polite, this wizard-concerned for her welfare, preparing to skin her alive.
  
  
  Old Man What came back and brought buckets of water for his aching head. He didn't respond. Willa attacked me, lowering my eyelid, checking my skull. "It could have severely damaged the emu," he said. "There's blood in ego's ear and the back of his head where he hit the rock."
  
  
  "But this can't be happening!" Mertens was really wailing.
  
  
  "Or he could have been bluffing."
  
  
  "Yes!" Now they were both standing in front of me. Hers, I heard a match light.
  
  
  "What do you plan to do?"
  
  
  "Test work".
  
  
  The flames seared my cheek and ruffled my hair. It took all of my remaining control to remain limp. The agony was impossible to measure. The flames burned into my flesh. I could smell it burning.
  
  
  "That's enough," Mertens said. "He's really unconscious. I have no desire to cremate ego here."
  
  
  "I'm still not sure. We can try another way, we can start with nah."
  
  
  I didn't see Schroeder enter the room. Ego's guttural voice suddenly rumbled. "Doctor, we have fifteen minutes to start the countdown. We need you."
  
  
  "The launch won't happen until we get what we want here," Mertens said.
  
  
  "But programming is installed, all data is entered."
  
  
  "I know her, I know her. You'll have to wait until I get here."
  
  
  "It can't last long. There is no provision for a delay beyond the set launch time ."
  
  
  "I'll come as soon as I can!"
  
  
  "Jah! I told her your plan with him wasn't working, and it wasn't working." He left muttering.
  
  
  "He's an ass," Mertens sighed, " all he wants to do is blow up Sevastopol."
  
  
  "Let that sadistic Douza attack Nah with a knife, and we'll see if that helps him." Willa was still speaking German, and he hoped Paula Ego wasn't reading it.
  
  
  There was little power in my fingers and less sensation, but it could be detected by the lump on Hugo's hilt. By twisting his hand, he was able to put three fingers on it. Her started trying to ease the ego in the palm of her hand. The pressure was structured to release the band that held the blade firmly on my forearm. But it wasn't released by the time Villa returned to Dusa.
  
  
  "I do not know if you have deduced the ego from the assembly, Colonel," Mertens snapped. "If so, you will be executed. Dr. Villa thinks he might have been bluffing. If so, you're alive. You like the girl so much, you can start with nah."
  
  
  "I don't understand." Duza's voice was low and seething.
  
  
  "It's quite simple. You have experience. Start with her arm or chest, or wherever you want. But get down to business now!"
  
  
  "W-what are you going to do!" Paula's voice was high, almost at its limit. My fingers didn't have the strength to release Hugo.
  
  
  "I've never done this to a woman," Dusa's voice trembled.
  
  
  "You will be here now, or you will die." Mertens ' voice was like a broken wire about to break.
  
  
  He kept his head down, his fingers tensing. All I could hear was her heavy breathing. Paula whimpered, "Please, no!" and then she started screaming.
  
  
  The strap loosened, and the hilt of the Hugo was in my hand. Ego moved it, and the blade sliced through my shirt. Now it was necessary to apply the stiletto to the cords without dropping it. His solutions to research problems jack Paula and focused. Hers was sweating blood, and the blood was making my fingers sticky when hers finally made sure to loosen their bonds.
  
  
  Her gasped. "Wait! Stop!"
  
  
  This led ih to flee.
  
  
  "You were right, Dr. Villa, you were right!" Mertens snorted.
  
  
  "Leave her alone," I muttered.
  
  
  "Of course, of course! We won't touch a single hair of her head if you play your part."
  
  
  Paula fainted. Her left arm was covered in blood. To tell you the truth, if I had to sacrifice her to prevent the launch, I wouldn't say anything, no matter how terrible the scene was.
  
  
  When Douza killed me, he bought her time. Paula bought me some more. One tug and my hands will be free. If my legs were free, I wouldn't be waiting for her. Whatever it was, with three of them around, I had to play along.
  
  
  "Dr. Villa, a tape recorder, please."
  
  
  "Water!" I croaked.
  
  
  "Senor Carter will stop pretending, or the colonel will go back to the girl." I was checking my Sony laptop when Mertens showed me my phone.
  
  
  "Read this both ways," he said, holding the paper in front of my eyes.
  
  
  "I can't read anything without water."
  
  
  There was still some left in the bucket, and Dusa held it while he choked and swallowed.
  
  
  "Now read it, and no tricks," Mertens ordered. He was overwhelmed by the excitement.
  
  
  "What about the girl?"
  
  
  "I give you my word that she won't be touched again." He put his hand to his heart.
  
  
  They won't touch her, they'll shoot her as soon as I get out of the way.
  
  
  "Read Carter! Read it!" The paper trembled in front of my face as Villa raised the microphone to his mouth.
  
  
  They'll kill me as soon as the confession is taped. When they're both around, ih and Hugo can find her. There was only Duza, who was out of reach. Besides ego's own .45-caliber holster, Emu managed to confiscate Wilhelmina, and it got stuck in his belt. If I could get close to him, a Luger would take her and shoot them all.
  
  
  I managed to ruin the confession three times before Villa warned me that if I didn't design it properly, Dusa would start whittling Paulo again.
  
  
  On the fourth take, it was ready. When hers came to the line "I don't have time to give details", hers was going to provide several of his own. I didn't have a chance. When I read it: "There is a double plan behind this act of nuclear genocide," Schroeder poked his head in the aisle and ruined my performance.
  
  
  "Mertens!" he barked in German. "We can't hold back the countdown. You must go immediately!"
  
  
  "In a minute," Mertens squealed. "Now you've ruined everything!"
  
  
  "There's no time to argue. Both of you are needed at once, otherwise we will have to abort."
  
  
  He was gone before Mertens could stamp his foot.
  
  
  "The colonel can
  
  
  take a recording session, Doctor, " Willa suggested, handing the recorder and microphone to Duse as he headed for the doorless entrance.
  
  
  "Good, good! Colonel, start recording from the beginning. Her, I want him alive when I get him back. When his body is found in Stuttgart, I want him to be recognized." He ran away.
  
  
  Paula was conscious again, but her eyes were glazed with shock. Her target was spinning around as if she couldn't figure out what was going on. Dusa grinned at me as he approached, paper in one hand, microphone in the other.
  
  
  I spit on his new uniform. When he reacted by looking down, he snapped the last strand of hair that held my wrists. My hands, freed from the sixth one, spun like springs. I grabbed her by the back of ego's neck with my left hand, and when ego pressed her close, my right hand pushed Hugo in a low and mournful motion.
  
  
  The ego cry was a cry of agonized disbelief. He was trying to pull away from the deadly blade, but now my arm was around his back. Ego's neck is arched, target thrown back, eyes and mouth open As he sets off, his hands trying to grab my wrist.
  
  
  I had no mercy on him. He doesn't deserve anything. Hers gutted him like a fish, from life to brisket, and threw him away. He came down with a meow, pulling up his legs in a fetal position. While he was thrashing around, kicking his heels, trying to hold on to his insides without much success, he cut the rope around them that held my legs. Finally, my hand went to the homing button. Sixth Fleet monitors are picking up my signal.
  
  
  Paula didn't know what was going on, and I didn't have time to tell her. Her eyes were agatha-like as she watched the colonel try to fight his way to heaven. He was still digging through the sea of his own blood and guts as he released her. I saw her faint again, which was not a bad idea under the circumstances.
  
  
  It was picked up by Wilhelmina from the floor, treated to Doosa's Danse Macabre. He also took a .45-caliber pistol from him and found his own incendiary clip in his ego pocket.
  
  
  "Wherever you go, you can travel light," emu told her. He didn't hear me. He was already on his way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 20
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't find her in the Mertens office resort, and I didn't expect her to. The action was on the launch pad. Fifty people will be stationed in the mission control center or stand on the walls, providing security. Those in the control room will be locked up. There will be no chance to stop the launch from there. I needed to get the Cockerel itself.
  
  
  I hadn't gone more than ten feet of the complex, following the main street, when the searchlight on the ledge of the ruins turned on the beam, and a voice shouted at me to stop. He crouched down on the low wall and ran. Sergey tried to follow me. A machine gun thundered, blasting them like bricks.
  
  
  He rounded the corner, cutting out a stone-strewn alley. The lights went out, but I could hear her whistling and running footsteps. In the moonlit darkness, arku spotted her. It went through it and hit the ground for a Doric pole. Mimmo swept past a pair of pursuers. Then he climbed over the back wall, trying to turn back toward the main street again. In the maze of ruins, her progress was too slow. In front of me was a wall higher than the others. Her jumped on nah with a run and, lying on the uneven top, saw a hill. Once I get to it,I'll be more comfortable focusing on the Colosseum.
  
  
  As she crossed the precincts, she came across another spotlight. This time, grenades remained in the center of the fire. I made a note to congratulate the Romans on the solid construction of the ih walls. He ran at Odin around them and avoided the noise and confusion.
  
  
  It turned into a hell of a hide-and-seek game. I couldn't risk returning fire; it would only define me. Until they caught me in their lights and saw me, they couldn't be sure where I was or where I was going. When she was finally seen by the hump on one side of the Colosseum against the sky, she was also seen by the lights flashing along the ego peak. The chase was either ahead of me, or whoever was in charge was smart enough to know that it was useless to chase me through the rubble when the only thing they had to guard was the Rooster and the UAV.
  
  
  However, I knew that it might only be a few minutes before launch, and I had to spend too much time around them to get to the Colosseum amphitheater without being noticed. In the end, he was ambushed. Ih was alerted by a falling rock when she was climbing over the wall. But instead of waiting, they started shooting. It let out a scream, and then, crouching and running, it reached the airlock entrance and dived into the ego tunnel.
  
  
  The three around them followed me. Lowering his hand, he allowed the Duza pistol to end ih's life. The tunnel echoed with the roar of gunfire,
  
  
  
  
  and before the sound died down, he was at the entrance to the amphitheater in the hallway, looking for the star of the show.
  
  
  The camouflage covered it up. He started down the crowded stairs. Almost immediately, a cry of warning rang out. Brylev penetrated from above. Automatic gunfire began to scribble and echo behind me and on three sides. It let out a scream and took the race. After three jumps, he slowed her down and managed to stop her descent before he made the ego too real. He went on all fours to the next aisle. Then it rose again and raced down again.
  
  
  They spotted me, and ih fire tracked me down. Gawk got me in the leg. Another one grazed me, and the splinter hit me, twisting me, almost dropping me. There was a black puddle below. Its oblong shape marked the boundary of what had once been the Colosseum floor. The black one was a camouflage net. Her dove arched over him, then fell candid down.
  
  
  My hands touched politics, bound. I felt it bend under the weight of my jump, and then it started to break. My legs dropped to my sides, ready to take the blow. I didn't expect the net to hold me back, it just might hold me back before I fell. I fall in the standard skydiving style, get down on all fours and roll over. The camouflage concealed what was underneath, but it couldn't obscure the saint passing through it, especially now that it had made a hole in nen. Three powerful beams from above followed me. There were shouted commands and the sounds of soldiers about to shoot. They weren't here to bury Caesar, they were here to bury Nick Carter. And I came here not to fight the lions with my bare hands, but to fight the "Cockerel" and the ego of the LAPD. The latter was my goal. I had a Wilhelmina filled with cartridges of incendiary active substances.
  
  
  Normally, he wouldn't have brought such exotic ammunition with him. Gawking will get the job done without additional fireworks. Except when the target is a UAV, a full JP-4. A standard Luger shell would not ignite the jet fuel.
  
  
  I didn't think about that fact, or how in my profession you learn to assess and prepare for unforeseen circumstances before they are thrown at you. I was busy trying to find enough cover to prove that I was well prepared before the arrows above detected the distance and target.
  
  
  In front of me was a black silhouette of a UAV on the starting line with a "Cockerel" on its back. It was aimed at creating a larger global hell, something the ego creators couldn't even dream of. Beyond this deadly still-life, along the far end of the fence, was a slit of bluish light that marked the viewing window of the Mertens mission Control center.
  
  
  From where her candid lay opposite Mission Control, it was too far away for accurate firing on the Luger. Her, I knew that as soon as I started shooting, I would run into her fire. I had no choice, no time. Her broke out around the cover and threw a candid k UAV. I fired three shots before the saint caught me, and the bullets started flying around. Her fell on a shoulder roll and fired fourth and fifth times on the ground and seventh when her stood up openly.
  
  
  Then I didn't have to shoot again. The UAV burst into a sudden burst of flame. It flared up brightly, making a vicious snorting sound. Hers hit the ground again, and this time, when approached by her lick, hers popped up behind the starting track and headed for the blue light.
  
  
  The beams of searchlights stuck on the burning UAV and lingered. The shooting stopped. Instead, there were multilingual shouts. They all added up to: Run like hell! Its main actions taken. The aforementioned group, experienced terrorists, were strong and well-trained, perfectly suited to hijacking planes, killing hostages, or even stealing nuclear weapons. But that was the end of ih's scientific education. They ran like they'd never run before, because personal spraying wasn't part of the contract.
  
  
  The next two sounds were mechanical. There was the low whine of a UAV turbine starting to spin and the clang of a metal door lock. The door was next to a blue window light, and around it came Dr. Cornelius Mertens. He was muttering like an angry monkey. In the growing glow of flames and drone lights, he looked like one as he scrambled toward the launch pad. Eyes bulging, arms flailing, he passed mimmo me, ignoring us for anything but his rocket. He attacked the flames with his cloak, trying to knock down the ego, the man went berserk.
  
  
  Unable to advance from behind, he ran to the front of the track and climbed up, shaking and ranting. Then ego jack stopped for a second, and when he screamed again, it was a high-pitched scream of terror.
  
  
  I didn't have to move to find out what had happened. I saw him throw his head back, his hands no longer waving, but pressing frankly against the UAV's air intake, trying to break free from the grip of his pride and joy.
  
  
  But that ego wouldn't let go. He said "ego," and as he struggled, begged, and screamed, slowly
  
  
  sucked ego into his turbine until he choked to death with what I guess you could call a Mertenburger. It seemed like an appropriate way for em to leave.
  
  
  Even before he gurgled for the last time, he was going to solve some questions for her. The metal door was open. It led to the entrance to the main door of the control room. It was also open. Through it, I saw the room and its inhabitants. Ih was ten, including Villa and Schroeder. They all stared at their home screen, watching their leader leave in frozen surprise. They kept up with him, and he didn't take the time to wish them a pleasant trip.
  
  
  She was dumped by Pierre at ih Wednesday. Then he closed the door and turned the locking wheel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 21
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The UAV's flames ignited something highly flammable in the camouflage net, and the whole thing flared up instantly but impressively. This gave Huey pilots across the Ranger team more than just an electronic beep.
  
  
  Viewed from Lamana's perspective, this also led to Tasahmed's flight. He knew the launch time. The sudden pyrotechnics signaled that something had gone wrong, and in his ego position, he couldn't ignore it. And under such different circumstances, he wouldn't have made someone else to investigate.
  
  
  He arrived with a squad of twenty men, who were quickly disarmed by the Rangers, but the arrival of the general put the group's commander, a colonel near Bill Moore's supermarket, in what he considered a political position. Ego's orders were to return the stolen goods and go to hell. The ego force was trespassing on sovereign territory. It was necessary to avoid an international incident at all costs. If the emu has to fight to get the Cockerel back, that's one thing, but beyond that, even if it's attacked, it doesn't have to respond.
  
  
  In the first moments of our meeting, under the fan of the commander's helicopter, ego warned her and said that he should be ready for the general's arrival. I knew that if Tasahmed didn't show up, I would take her to Lamana to find him. Whatever it was, the clean-up operation took longer than expected. The physical goal was to take care of Paula-which a couple of medics did neatly-and make sure that Mertens ' commandos either surrendered or continued into the desert. The time required a technical part. With all of Mertens ' fancy electronic games, Moore's technicians had to make sure that Cockeye was also safe.
  
  
  Moore was a firm, unflappable type, taciturn, direct on command - the kind that people would follow him anywhere. The general regained his composure almost completely when he was brought to the colonel on the launch pad.
  
  
  "Who are you, sir? What are your troops doing here?" muttered Tasahmed in French.
  
  
  "Colonel William J. Moore, United States Army"! he answered in English. "We are taking this nuclear missile away from here. It belongs to us."
  
  
  "You're invading! You are an imperialist invasion force! You...! " He switched to English.
  
  
  "General, discuss this with my government. Now, please move further away."
  
  
  "And my fellow countrymen, whom you have slaughtered," he pointed to the neat row of bodies that had been collected and laid out in front of the Mertens mission control center, " I will take this with me, not just with your government!"
  
  
  He walked out through the shadows. "What time is it, Colonel?"
  
  
  "Seven minutes and we're in the air."
  
  
  "The general and his wife are in the fence. I'll go with you."
  
  
  "Seven mines," the colonel said, and walked away to watch the egos slowly remove the "Cockerel" from the burned-out UAV.
  
  
  "Who are you?" Tasahmed studied my ruined face in the arclight.
  
  
  "The man with the gun," I said, letting him feel Wilhelmina's face. "We'll go there with the DC-7 candid now."
  
  
  He didn't argue. Ego sat her down in the chair he'd occupied earlier, and he lifted her onto it, leaning on the luger.
  
  
  "You have two options," I said. "Or you can join this line of friends... or you can ask for asylum."
  
  
  That made Ego stand up straight, his black eyes glittering. "Shelters!"
  
  
  "General, I'm not going to waste my time chatting with you. I have to take the helicopter up. You are just as responsible for what almost happened here as any po will meet your dead friends. While Mertens and the ego boys were nuts, you're not. You have all your own buttons. You played along to get what you wanted. Well, there's something we want. You can give it to us or that's it ." Wilhelmina took it.
  
  
  He licked his lips. "What ... what do you want?"
  
  
  "Two things. Shema Mendanike as the new EVENING, and your plans to let the Soviet navy capture Lamana. Either you run away, and Washington will do it."
  
  
  an official announcement, or Madame Mendanica will have to announce your death."
  
  
  "Me... I need some time to think."
  
  
  "You have an ego, no." Its got up. "We go out the door together, or I go out alone."
  
  
  We got out together as soon as the fan on the command helicopter started spinning.
  
  
  Hers was with Paula. She was sedated and lethargic, but happy to see me. He sat holding her good arm next to the stretcher she was strapped to. "You know," she said, " about a hundred years ago, you said you were going to come and sit on my patio, have a gin and tonic, and tell me what was going on. I don't think we can do that right now. "
  
  
  "Not here. It's too noisy. But I know a place outside of Athens, in Vulagmini, full of roses by the sea, where the wine is dry and the storytelling is good."
  
  
  She sighed uncertainly, " Oh, that sounds good. She would have liked that." Then she giggled, " I wonder what Henry will think?"
  
  
  "We'll send em a postcard," I said. I thought I'd send one to Hawke, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Carter Nick
  
  
  Document Z
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  
  Document Z
  
  
  translated by Lev Shklovsky in memory of his lost son Anton
  
  
  Original name: The Document Z
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  
  
  
  He continued to struggle with his new identity. This is what you feel as an agent, especially if you haven't had time to think about your new cover. Her Nick Carter felt like he hated Greyhound buses, especially at midnight. A half-empty Greyhound bus is the perfect place to explore your identity.
  
  
  But Fred Goodram was used to buses. He's had enough of traveling around the country on these buses, ego battered suitcase and dirty gym bag somewhere in the trunk, a sip of cheap bourbon down ego's throat, stubble on his face, and the remains of twenty-five cheap lunches on his back, rumpled suit. He understood his cover story well enough to know what this Freddy was used to, a cheap parasite who had real problems with them ferrets, how he didn't pay the supplier. But hers still wasn't used to being good old Freddie.
  
  
  Although I couldn't sleep, I didn't have the saint turned on because no one had the world turned on. The passengers consisted of seven sailors each, returning to their unit in Norfolk, and eight civilians, two of them surrounded by soldiers ' wives with smelly, screaming babies who were now sleeping.
  
  
  The cheap suit that AH gave me made me blend in with my surroundings, and it also served as a shelter for Wilhelmina, my Luger, Pierre, the little gas bomb, and Hugo, my stiletto. The only thing the tailor missed was the padding for my buttocks, considering the way he bounced on the bus.
  
  
  David Hawke sent me on a lot of bizarre missions during my career as Killmaster N3, and he was pretty sure he sent me to get me killed. He couldn't remember ever sending me out on a mission with so little reliable information and in such apologetic terms. A tailor, Hawk said he didn't even know if it was a job for Killmaster. And he knew her even less.
  
  
  I was expected to learn more when I arrived in Massawa, and the Ethiopian government contacted me. But between Washington and Massawa, he acted ignorantly.
  
  
  It had started twelve days ago, just as he was about to leave his apartment on Columbus Circle. My reasons for leaving were a blonde named Cynthia, dinner, and an Italian movie. I already liked Cynthia and the restaurant, and he was willing to agree with the film critic's opinion that the film was good. But then the phone rang, and Hawk started ruining my evening. We talked over scrambler, and he told me where to pick up my car keys at Baltimore-Washington International Airport two days later. The movie sucked, the restaurant had a new restaurant, and Cynthia had a cold.
  
  
  Hawk chose Mourdock's restaurant as the meeting point, calculating the time of lunch, the departure time, and the number of minutes it would take me to drive a battered Ford with the engine running at full power to the suburbs of Washington, Montgomery County, Maryland.
  
  
  From the outside, the Mordock looked just like any other restaurant in the mall. There was even a supermarket next door, and a little further on there was a pharmacy. She expected mediocre food, poor layout, and indescribably poor service. The entrance didn't just fail me.
  
  
  Soft background music played, honey strings playing old tunes. The cash register sat on a glass counter full of candy and cigarettes. Signs indicated which credit cards were accepted. On the right was a dressing room, and on the left a door led to the dining room. There was some kind of fake Japanese flower pattern on the walls, a sickly pink color. The blue carpet was worn out, and there was enough light for the waiters to collect their money.
  
  
  The hostess did not suit the situation. She was expecting a waitress, because these restaurants in shopping malls can't afford a head waiter. He even introduced her in advance — a former waitress who knew all the polite phrases, but had absolutely no style. The blonde who came up to me as I entered the foyer was in her mid-thirties, tall and slender but not skinny, and obviously developed . She moved with fluid grace in her light green dress.
  
  
  She asked. — Will you eat Odin, sir ?"
  
  
  "My name is Carter," I said. — I have an appointment with Mr. Hawke."'
  
  
  She looked at the notepad in her left hand, then attached the ego to the counter. "Oh, yes, Mr. Carter. Mr. Hawke is in private office number four. May I have your coat, sir ?"
  
  
  Since the beginning of women's empowerment, one of the funniest things has been that women are trying to assert their identity by giving all of them little jokes that men have traditionally given to women. I've seen girls almost wring their hands when they took off their coats, or almost burn their noses when they lit cigarettes. This woman, however, knew her job - she helped me out of my coat and did it very skillfully. As she held the door open for me, I wondered if eda would be as bad as the wallpaper, or as good as the hostess.
  
  
  But if Hawk had chosen Mourdock's restaurant, I would have had to deal with bad food. Hawk knew a lot of things, but food and drink weren't in his vocabulary.
  
  
  We walked openly until we reached a row of rooms with closed doors. I didn't hear anyone talking, so Hawk must have found a safe enough place to meet me. The girl opened the second door on the right without knocking. I was struck by the smoke of cigar smoke. She was in the right room. The hostess accepted our drink order, Hawk returned my outstretched hand, and he noticed that eda was already ordered. "Isn't there a menu?" I asked her when she was gone.
  
  
  "There's only one dish on the menu," Hawke said. "I don't want to."
  
  
  "Oh, that's why. I guess that's why you chose this restaurant.
  
  
  "I chose this place because it belongs to us, whatever it is." He didn't explain any further.
  
  
  Hawke has always been a taciturn person, which is one of the reasons he heads the US government's AX agency. Talkative people are useless to the secret service. Hawk didn't even tell me why AX owned this restaurant and her ego was the best person in the world. He waited until we had finished our steaks, delicious seasoned cuts of meat, and finished a glass of wine before beginning his speech.
  
  
  "N3, we have a case here that may not exist. I'll tell you everything I know about it, but it's not enough to make a reasonable decision.
  
  
  "Is this the work of a Killmaster?"
  
  
  "That's your business," Hawk told me. He took out a new cigar — if those stinking sticks he smokes can be new at all - and peeled off the wrapper and lit it before continuing.
  
  
  "Technically, this is not a job for AX. We help certain elements in a friendly, neutral government."
  
  
  'Who is it?'
  
  
  "The Ethiopians".
  
  
  I drank her wine — a California burgundy that wasn't good for us, bad for us — and then I said, " I don't know.: "I don't understand, sir." Her, thought the Ethiopians didn't like it when the US secret service was digging in the ih precious desert.
  
  
  "Not usually. But they need our help to find a man named Cesare Borgia.
  
  
  "I thought he died centuries ago."
  
  
  "This guy's real name is Carlo Borgia. Cesare's nickname is a deliberate ruse, an ability to let the outdoor pool know he's a ruthless bastard. We're not even sure he's in Ethiopia. Maybe he's somewhere else. And you should find out now.
  
  
  "Don't the Ethiopians know where he is?"
  
  
  "Not if they're being honest with us," Hawke said. "And the CIA, too. I think both the CIA and the Ethiopians are as puzzled as she is. Here's what we've got on this Borgia guy.
  
  
  Hawk pulled a folder full of Top-secret reports from his briefcase. At the top of one sheet of paper was a label with the letter Z, the last letter of the alphabet, and in AX, which meant only one thing: whatever information this paper contained, it could mean a stream of information. It was an emergency with a capital letter. Hawk scanned the document before speaking.
  
  
  "In the late 1950s, Borgia was a neo-fascist in Italy. As long as he adhered to political activities and legal organizations, he remained very useful. The ego group lured some around these marginal Communists so that the more moderate parties could continue to function normally. But then he discovered the value of political violence. He disappeared through Leghorn just before the Italian police tried to capture him. They tracked ego to Massawa and then Asmara. By 1960, it was gone."
  
  
  "So what has he done recently to interest us?"
  
  
  "Maybe nothing. Maybe something so big that it scares me, " Hawke said. "The Egyptians lost 14 short-and medium-range missiles that they aimed at Israel. And the Israelis lost nine that were meant for Egypt and Syria. Both sides think that the opposite side of ih stole..."
  
  
  "Isn't that right?"
  
  
  "We haven't been able to find any evidence of this. The Russians, apparently, too. They were the first to track down this Borgia, but ih speed and efficiency didn't get us anywhere. The Ih agent disappeared two months ago.
  
  
  — Do you think the Chinese might have something to do with this?
  
  
  "I don't rule it out, Nick. But there is still a possibility that Borgia is working independently. I don't like any of these ideas.
  
  
  — Are you sure he's not a Russian agent?"
  
  
  "Yes, Nick, her name is. They don't want trouble in the Middle East as much as we do. But the misfortune is what these missiles are like. All twenty-three have nuclear warheads.
  
  
  Hawk lit his cigar again. Similar situations have been unavoidable since 1956, when the Suez crisis broke out and America won widespread distrust. If Israelis and Arabs want to shoot each other around conventional weapons every year, that's fine with us and the Russians. We could always intervene again after our tanks and anti-tank weapons had been thoroughly field tested. But nuclear warheads add a new dimension that scares even the Russians."
  
  
  I asked her. — What part of Ethiopia could this Borgia be operating in?"
  
  
  "The Ethiopians think of Danakil," Hawk said.
  
  
  "It's a desert."
  
  
  "A desert like Sinai. This is a wasteland where there is almost nothing, and the Ethiopians do not control the ego. The people who live there don't mind killing strangers. Danakil is surrounded by the territory of Ethiopia, but the ruling Amharic tribes there do not plan to equip an expedition to explore the area. It's a hell of a place.
  
  
  This was a rare app for Hawk, and it made me nervous. Moreover, what I was able to learn about Danakil in the following days did not reassure me. My cover was also bothering me. Fred Goodrum was known as a public works engineer, but all the unions in the Americas blacklisted ego because of payment problems. And now he's booked a Norwegian freighter to Massaua. The Ethiopian government needed people who could build roads.
  
  
  The Greyhound arrived in Norfolk. I found my duffel bag and a battered suitcase, which contained a lot of ammunition for Wilhelmina and a transceiver in a hidden compartment. Then a taxi found her. The driver carefully looked at my appearance, and asked: "Do you have eight dollars?"
  
  
  'Yes. But you drive your car carefully, or I'll sue her for whatever's left of you."
  
  
  He understood my joke. Maybe too much of it let Nick Carter get into my Fred Goodrum mindset, because he didn't give us the sound.
  
  
  He dropped me off at customs and I had no trouble getting through. The truck driver gave me a ride to Hans Skeelmann's.
  
  
  The flight attendant, a tall sandy-haired man named Larsen, was not very happy to see me. This was both because it was two in the morning and because of my appearance. He led me to my cabin. I gave em a tip.
  
  
  "Breakfast is between seven and nine," he said. "You'll find the dining room up the stairs at the back and one deck below."
  
  
  "Where's the toilet?"
  
  
  "Just behind the cabins. A shower, too. Be careful not to shock the ladies.
  
  
  He's gone. He put the gun in the trunk, locked the door, and looked around the small cabin. The web berth was next to a porthole that overlooked the main deck on the port side. This was also the side of the embankment, and the thin curtain did not prevent the bright light from entering. There was a sink against one wall, a combination cabinet and cabinet against the other. I decided to unpack the next morning.
  
  
  AX told me that the passenger list looks fine. THE YOUNG MAN WHO GAVE ME THE INSTRUCTIONS EXPLAINED: "IN ANY CASE, THERE ARE NO KNOWN RUSSIAN OR CHINESE AGENTS ON BOARD. WE DIDN'T HAVE TIME TO CHECK THE CREW THOROUGHLY. SO BE CAREFUL, N3."
  
  
  Everyone told me to be careful, even Hawke. The difficulty was that no one could tell me who or what to watch out for. The saint turned it off and went to bed. I didn't sleep very well.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  The departure of the ship is a noisy affair, but the crew of Hans Skejelman really did everything possible to wake up the passengers. He looked at his watch. Seven o'clock is the time to make a decision. Did Hugo take it, or would Freddie Goodrum hardly be wearing a stiletto? So no solution at all.
  
  
  Hugo kept Wilhelmina and Pierre company in the hidden compartment of the suitcase. The people she met were much more observant than the stewardess had said in the morning.
  
  
  I went ahead and took a shower. Then hers, I went back to my cabin and picked out some clothes. He put on a flannel shirt, work trousers, and a waterproof jacket.
  
  
  Then there was breakfast.
  
  
  The cafeteria was working. There was room for ten people. This meant that the ship didn't carry many passengers. Larsen, the flight attendant, brought me orange juice, scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffee. He was almost done when an elderly couple walked in.
  
  
  They were Englishmen-Harold and Alexander Blok. He had a thin build and the pale face of an accountant. He told me that emu managed to score two lucky goals in the football pool and made a wise investment. Nah had the lavender-scented style of a perpetual housewife, surrounded by women around whom her husband builds a fence to lean on. They looked to be in their mid-fifties, and ih's sudden happiness turned ih into middle-aged partygoers. They were both talkative. "Are you from Norfolk, Mr. Goodrum?" Blok asked.
  
  
  "No, I told her.
  
  
  "We love the south of the United States," he explained.
  
  
  "We love America very much," Mrs. Block interjected. "It's a pity that your government doesn't advertise its tourist attractions better. Two years ago, we were traveling in the West, and places like the Grand Canyon and the Rocky Mountains really impressed us. But the cost is quite high. And also...'
  
  
  She was partially interrupted by her lecture. Like Fred Goodrum, I should have listened to her, but my only contribution to the conversation was an occasional grunt.
  
  
  Fred Goodrum listened because he could get a drink at the expense of these people on the trip. Fred loved the drink, almost as much as he loved receiving dollars. Finally, she set the inevitable tailspin. — What are you doing aboard this ship, Mr. Goodrum?"
  
  
  "Her education in Ethiopia".
  
  
  "For what?"
  
  
  'For work. Her technician. I build roads and drainage systems for it. Something like that.
  
  
  — I find it interesting."
  
  
  "You can always earn something," her father said.
  
  
  The accountant and homemaker might not know too much about road construction, so if they were what they claimed to be, hers was fine. I would have preferred YOU to arrange a trip to Addis Ababa, but KGB agents are monitoring airports. And this cheap mode of transport was more suitable for my cover.
  
  
  Lady Blok's interrogation and monologue were interrupted when another freighter passenger entered the room. The moment she walked through the door, she made me go through all my mental files. Long dark hair, a full figure, a pleasant, if not beautiful face — I remember more than just a police photo. I've seen her completely naked somewhere. But where?
  
  
  "Her Gin Fellini," she said.
  
  
  When she said that, I was able to remember ee.
  
  
  The blocks were introduced. I was introduced, and Gina had a firm, cool handshake. I wanted to rush around the cabin, go to the radio room, and send a furious code message to Hawk. Except that Hawk might be innocent — the CIA can always put an agent on this ship without telling em about it. This won't be the first time they've sent someone to track an AX mission.
  
  
  Mrs. Block went back to her playing-soccer-pool-we-love-to-travel routine. Jean listened politely, but I keep the money, which is no bigger than me. Then select a Block based on questions.
  
  
  'What are you doing?'What is it?' she asked cheerfully.
  
  
  "I'm a freelance journalist," Jean said.
  
  
  "A young creature like you?"
  
  
  "Yes," she finished her coffee. "My father found the boy. And he wasn't going to let a few biological factors trick him into teaching his child how to survive in a man's world. So when I graduated from journalism school, I looked at the vacancies that are available to women, and decided that " one of them is not suitable for me."
  
  
  — Are you for women's emancipation? Mr. Block asked.
  
  
  'No. Just a bone of adventure.
  
  
  She was so shocked by ih's composure that they stopped torturing her for a moment. She looked at me. He decided that the first blow would be worth a thaler.
  
  
  "You look familiar, Miss Fellini," I said. "I don't read much of it, though."
  
  
  "You probably read men's magazines, Mr. Goodrum," she said.
  
  
  'Yes.'
  
  
  "So you saw me there." Publishers assume that men get pleasure from an article written by a woman about adventures alone. And by adding a few photos, I managed to sell a few stories. You might have seen me there.
  
  
  "Maybe," I said.
  
  
  "Magazines?" Mrs. Block said. 'Photo?'
  
  
  'Yes. You know, a reporter takes a bath in Jakarta. A heroine with a bare ass in Rio. Something like that.
  
  
  Now that I remembered all her files, I couldn't decide whether Jean Fellini was a good agent or not. Now that ee had seen her in action, she could imagine the official confusion.
  
  
  The blocks will definitely be remembered further once they survive this shock. But she also made sure they left her alone. It was either a very smart move or a very stupid one. He couldn't figure out what it was.
  
  
  "You may be a historian, Mr. Goodram," Jean said. — Why are you on this freighter?"
  
  
  "Her technician, and I need to build roads in Ethiopia."
  
  
  "Is there a job for you there?"
  
  
  'Yes. Someone will pick me up there when we get to Massaua.
  
  
  "The bad side. Ethiopia. Be careful, they will cut your throat.
  
  
  "I'll be careful," I said.
  
  
  We both had a lot of fun playing this game. Maybe we could fool Blok and who else we might meet on board-maybe; nothing could please me about Fred Goodrum, and on this slow trip to Massaua, but we didn't fool another other for a second. Jin kept her mouth shut, and hers was also well behaved. She had a lot to learn about her mission, and I had my doubts about getting this information from nah voluntarily. Our confrontation should wait until better times.
  
  
  So I excused myself, picked up some paperbacks from the ship's library, and went back to my cabin.
  
  
  Harold Block and she tried out a game of chess on their first two nights at sea. With an emu handicap of a rook and bishop, it was able to stretch the game by about forty-five turn increments before it yawned and brought Matt over. So we stopped playing chess and played a few games of bridge, a game I don't really like. I spent some time trying to figure something out. The blocks seemed more and more like a chatty English couple, innocent and harmless, eager to explore the outdoor pool before finally settling down and boring their less fortunate friends who never made it to Brighton. Jean was the bigger mystery.
  
  
  She recklessly played cards. Either we won hard — we were partners again and again — or she pulled us to a crushing defeat. Each time she took a trick, she played her card with a flick of her wrist, causing it to spin on top of the stack. She always gave me a sultry smile, tilting her head back to push her long black hair out of her bright brown eyes. Her uniform seemed to consist around dark trousers and a baggy sweater, and I wondered what she would wear when we reached tropical and equatorial waters.
  
  
  On the third morning, we woke up to a tropical heat wave. According to the map, in the dining room, we were in a windproof area. We didn't break the speed record. The Hans Skeelman no longer skimmed the cerro-green seas that were off Hatteras and the coast of the United States, but rolled gently through the deep blue waters of the Gulf around Cuba. We were due to arrive in Georgetown that evening. I got up before seven and had breakfast in the mess hall with the officers on duty. The air conditioning wasn't working well enough to make my cabin comfortable.
  
  
  Blocks and Jin aren't finished yet. So I dragged her to a deck chair on the part of the deck reserved for passengers, and Stahl let the sun set on me, burning me on the port side. When I heard it rattle, I looked up and saw Jin dragging another chaise longue across the steel flagstones.
  
  
  "I don't think these English people like the morning sun," she said.
  
  
  "They wait until noon and then go outside," her father said .
  
  
  She was wearing cropped jeans that barely hid the swell of her buttocks, and a bikini top that showed me just how big and firm her breasts were. The ee of the skin where it wasn't covered was evenly tanned. She stretched her long legs out on the chaise longue, kicked off her sandals, and lit a cigarette. "Nick Carter, it's time for us to chat," she said.
  
  
  "I was wondering when you would officially let me know that you know me."
  
  
  "There's a lot that David Hawke didn't tell you."
  
  
  "A lot of what?"
  
  
  "Information about Cesar Borgia. Hawk didn't tell you because he didn't know. Before his death, a KGB officer wrote a message. We managed to intercept the ego. And now they expect me to work in connection with a new KGB officer. But he and I won't know the other one, the other one, until we get to Ethiopia. I'm not entirely sure you're coming back.
  
  
  I asked her. "Can you tell me who it is?"
  
  
  She threw the cigarette overboard. — Don't worry, Fred Goodrum — make sure I use your code name, please. This is the flight attendant.
  
  
  "I didn't believe that the KGB would have used any agents."
  
  
  "They're harmless if they don't bore us to death." Do you realize that this could be my last mission for years to come?
  
  
  'Yeah. Unless you kill your co-worker when you're done.
  
  
  "I'm not a Killmaster. But if you're interested in freelance work, let me know. Pretend that Uncle Sam is here."
  
  
  — What exactly does this Borgia do?"
  
  
  "Later, Fred. Then. We were wrong about our sun-fearing Englishmen.
  
  
  The blocks came out, dragging their horses with them. I had a book with me, but I didn't pretend to read it. Jean reached into the small beach bag in which she kept her photographic materials. She screwed up the telephoto lens on her 35mm digital camera and told us that she would try to take color photos of flying fish in action. This involved leaning over the railing to keep the camera still, an action in which her cut-off pants were pulled tight over her ass in a way that made it seem unlikely that she was wearing anything more than just leather. Even Harold Block braved his wife's confusion and watched.
  
  
  Despite the direction of my gaze, my mind was preoccupied with other things than what Jin had shown us. Larsen, the flight attendant, was a KGB officer. The people in our documentation department turned this case into a cancer. They checked, but did not find that this was a CIA agent whose photos and information we needed to have in our files. Obviously, the CIA was pretty secretive — Gene knew more about the Borgias than she did, probably enough to tell me if we needed him alive or dead.
  
  
  By the time the ship reached Georgetown to spend the night ashore, and before we set out again to circle the cape around Africa, her father decided that Fred Goodrum was too bored and broke to go ashore. The KGB had a case for me — I've never seen his ego, but I've talked to people who have it-and maybe Larsen would have found out about me. Guyana was a good place for Nah to contact another agent, and the disappearance of an American tourist named Gudram would in no way have prevented the Gansu Skeelman from continuing its voyage.
  
  
  — Aren't you going to look around?" Agatha Block asked me.
  
  
  "No, Mrs. Block," I said. "To be honest, I don't like to travel so much. And I'm on my last legs financially. I'm going to Ethiopia to see if I can make some money for her. This is not a pleasure trip.
  
  
  She hurried away, taking her husband with her. I was fine with being bored during meals and bridge, but she wasted no time trying to persuade me to go ashore. Jean, of course, went ashore. It was as much a part of her cover as being on board was a part of mine. We hadn't had a chance to talk about the Borgias yet, and he wondered when exactly we'd get the chance. By lunchtime, everyone was ashore except the captain and second mate, and I ended up explaining to the two officers the Americans ' love of automobiles .
  
  
  Over coffee and brandy, Larsen asked the captain's permission to go ashore.
  
  
  "I do not know, Larsen, you have a passenger..."
  
  
  "That's fine with me," I said. — I don't need anything until breakfast."
  
  
  — You're not going ashore, Mr. Goodram?" Larsen asked.
  
  
  I told her. "Not at all. "To be honest, I can't afford it."
  
  
  "Georgetown is a very dynamic place," he said.
  
  
  This application would be news to local authorities, as swinger tourists simply don't occupy too much space on Guyana's priority list. Larsen wanted her to go ashore, but she didn't dare make me. That night I slept next to Wilhelmina and Hugo.
  
  
  The next day, hers also stayed out of anyone's sight. The precaution was probably useless. Larsen landed to inform Moscow that Nick Carter was on his way to Massaua. If she didn't, it was only because she didn't know who I was. If she did, he couldn't change anything.
  
  
  "Did you find any good stories in Georgetown?" Jin asked him that night during dinner.
  
  
  "This stop was a hell of a waste of time," she said.
  
  
  She was expecting her soft knock on my door that night. It was just after ten o'clock. We went to bed early, probably still tired from last night's walk. Gene let her in. She was wearing white slacks and a white fishnet shirt that was missing her underwear.
  
  
  "I believe Larsen has identified you," she said.
  
  
  "Probably," I said.
  
  
  "He wants to meet me on the aft deck, behind the superstructure. In an hour.'
  
  
  "And you want her to cover for you?"
  
  
  "That's why I wear her white. Our files say you're good with a knife, Fred.
  
  
  "Its coming. Don't look for me. If you see me, you'll ruin everything.
  
  
  'Good.'
  
  
  She opened the door noiselessly and crept barefoot down the hall. Hugo took it out around the suitcase. Then Svyat turned it off in his cabin and waited until just after midnight. Then he disappeared down the corridor, heading for the aft deck. At the back of the corridor, a door leading to the port side of the main deck was open. No one closed it, because the water was calm, and the Hans Skeelmann's overloaded air conditioner might need all the help of the cool night wind.
  
  
  Like most cargo ships that can scan rough waves, the Hans Skejelman was a mess. Tarpaulins lay all over the aft deck for the superstructure. Select several segments of it and place ih around the arrow.
  
  
  Then he sank into it. I hoped Larsen wouldn't decide to use ih as a pillow. Some ships had guards on board. The Hans Skeelmann crew didn't care. Inside, there were passageways leading around the bridge crew quarters, a radio room, an engine room, and a galley. She told them that there was every chance the lookout was asleep and we were on autopilot. But he didn't show up. Larsen arrived in Rivne at one o'clock in the morning. She was still wearing the flight attendant's jacket, a white blur in the night. I saw her fiddling with her left sleeve and guessed that she was hiding a knife there. This was a good place to do it, although I would have preferred the place where I had Hugo. It was held by a stiletto in his hand. Then Jean appeared.
  
  
  It could only follow fragments of iht.
  
  
  "You're playing a double role," she said.
  
  
  Rheumatism was inaudible.
  
  
  "She became aware of ego when he came on board. Moscow doesn't care if he gets to Massaua or not."
  
  
  'I'll do it.'
  
  
  Rheumatism again was prevrtljiv.
  
  
  "No, it's not sex."
  
  
  Ih the quarrel grew fiercer and the voices quieter. Larsen turned her back on me, and I watched as she gradually led Jin to the steel superstructure, hiding from everyone on the bridge. He carefully lifted the tarp and slid out from under it. Almost on all fours, Hugo ready in his hand, he crawled over to them.
  
  
  "I don't work with you," Larsen said.
  
  
  'What do you mean?'
  
  
  "You cheated on me or your superiors. I'll get rid of you first. Then out of the Crankcase. Let's see what the Killmaster thinks about swimming across the ocean.
  
  
  Her hand went to her sleeve. He lunged at Nah and grabbed her by the throat with his left hand, muffling her scream. I hit her in the body with Hugo's stiletto and continued to stab her ego until she went limp in my arms. He dragged her body in his arms to the railing and lifted her up. I heard a splash. He waited tensely.
  
  
  There was no shout from the pier. The engines thundered under my feet as we sped toward Africa.
  
  
  Hugo wiped her gently on his trousers and walked over to Jean, who was leaning against the superstructure.
  
  
  "Thank you, Nick... I mean, Fred."
  
  
  "I couldn't understand it all," her father said. — She said I wouldn't make it to Africa?"
  
  
  "She didn't say that," she said.
  
  
  "I felt that Moscow didn't care if I came to Massaua or not."
  
  
  "Yes, but maybe she didn't write the report."
  
  
  'Perhaps. Nah had a knife up her sleeve.
  
  
  "You're good, Nick. Let's go to your cabin.
  
  
  "All right," I said.
  
  
  He bolted the cabin door and turned to look at Jean. He still expected her to flinch, to express her reaction to Larsen nearly killing her, but she didn't. A sultry smile appeared on her face as she unzipped her pants and took off her ih. Her white T-shirt didn't hide anything, and her nipples tightened as she bent down and pulled the T-shirt over her head.
  
  
  "Let's see if you're as good at fighting as you are with a knife," she said.
  
  
  She quickly undressed, looking at her big breasts and curvy legs. Her hips moved slowly as she shifted her legs. He quickly walked over to her and picked her up, and we hugged. Her skin felt hot, as if she wasn't in the cool night air.
  
  
  "Turn it off, holy one," she whispered.
  
  
  It was done as she said, and bench press next to her in a narrow cage. Her tongue got into my mouth while we were kissing.
  
  
  "Hurry up," she moaned.
  
  
  She was wet and ready, and she exploded into a wild frenzy as she was penetrated by Nah. Her fingernails scratched my skin, and she made weird noises as he exploded his passion inside her. Exhausted, we clung to each other, and the only sounds in our cabin were our breathing, deeper than satisfaction, and the creak of the ship as we moved away from where Larsen had thrown her into the sea.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  At three o'clock, we finally started talking. Our bodies were sweaty, and we lay huddled together in the narrow cabin. Jean used my chest as a pillow and let her fingers play over my body.
  
  
  "There's something wrong with this ship," she said.
  
  
  — It's going too slow, the air conditioning isn't working. And Larsen made disgusting coffee. Is that what you mean?"
  
  
  'No.'
  
  
  He waited for her to explain further.
  
  
  "Nick," she said, "can you tell me what AH said about 'Hans Skeelmann'?"
  
  
  "That he will arrive in Massaua at the right time." And that the passengers are all right.
  
  
  'Yeah. And the teams?
  
  
  "I didn't know about Larsen," I said. "The CIA kept it to itself."
  
  
  — I know why you're so private and secretive. She turned in the cabin. — You think I'm cheating on her ." But this is not the case. It was discovered by three missing missiles.
  
  
  "Full rockets?"
  
  
  — No, but parts for ih assembly. With nuclear warheads.
  
  
  — Where are they?"
  
  
  "In containers on the deck behind the bridge.
  
  
  I asked her. 'Are you sure?'
  
  
  'That's enough.'
  
  
  "And they're heading for the Borgias?"
  
  
  'Yes. Larsen took on too much authority. I suspect that the KGB would rather destroy these missiles than kill Nick Carter."
  
  
  "So we can do the job without Russia's help," I said. "You'd better spend the night here.
  
  
  "And ruin my reputation?"
  
  
  "Otherwise, you'd already be an angel helping God."
  
  
  She laughed and ran her hands over my body again. He returned her caresses. This time, the lovemaking was gentle and slow, a different kind of comfort than our first embrace. If Jean's fears were only half true, we'd be in good shape. But even now, she refused to worry about it.
  
  
  Gene was asleep. But not hers. I was bothered by her corkscrew about what information AH had about the crew . These people guessed that the Hans Skeelmann was an innocent cargo ship with only a few passengers . But sometimes there is intrigue within intrigue, conspiracy within conspiracy, and test balloons released with us by an innocent unsuspecting passenger on board. Perhaps AX had his suspicions about "Hans Skeelmann" and invited me as a catalyst. It was Hawke's way of letting things go on their own. I only met a few crew members. We didn't communicate with passengers. At lunch, Captain Ergensen and I talked about cars. Gaard, my second mate, was listening. The first mate, Mr. Thule, occasionally grunted in greeting and asked for more potatoes, but he didn't seem to care if the passengers were alive or dead. The steward, Mr. Skjorn, left Larsen to take care of us and our Ed, and seemed to prefer to consume his daily calorie intake in peace and quiet . The radio operator, a tall, thin blonde named Birgitte Aronsen, was Swedish and as taciturn as the first officer. When she entered the dining room, it wasn't for a social occasion.
  
  
  Finally he fell into a light sleep, waiting for a shout or someone to come looking for Larsen. He woke up when the first brylev of the morning burst through the porthole. Jean stirred and muttered something.
  
  
  I told her. "Still terrifying suspicions?"
  
  
  She threw off the light blanket and climbed over me.
  
  
  "Let's take a shower," she said.
  
  
  — Do we have to be so visible together?"
  
  
  'In particular. I need that cover. Maybe Larsen was a notorious killer of women.
  
  
  "I doubt it," I said.
  
  
  If Jin thought I could clear Nah of all suspicion, I wouldn't mind. In due course, this locality in Russia will reach a point where it will become a serious obstacle. Then he would have fired her. There was no place for a woman in Danakil, especially him, who could never commit suicide. But until we reach Ethiopia, her hotel will continue to enjoy her company.
  
  
  She was a master of trash. And she was fully aware of the effect her gorgeous body had on men. For the past five years, they've been buying mediocre stories, including nude photos of themselves . He watched her wrap a towel around herself and go into the shower with a long T-shirt in her hands. When we finally finished lathering up and rinsing out the other shower, we had a long shower waiting for us.
  
  
  When we stepped out into the hallway again, hers in slacks and Jean only in her long T-shirt, which didn't hide much at all, we almost bumped into Birgitta Aronsen.
  
  
  "Did you see that, Larsen? — What is it? " she asked me.
  
  
  "No, after lunch," I said.
  
  
  "Me too," Jean said, leaning in and giggling. Miss Aronsen gave us a look that was not very sure, and then passed by mimicking us. Jin and her exchanged glances and walked back to my cabin.
  
  
  "Pick me up around the cabin in ten minutes," she said. — I think we should have breakfast together."
  
  
  'Good.'
  
  
  I put it on, dressed, and tried to decide to carry a gun again. Jean's theory that the Hans Skeelmann was carrying the parts needed to make three intercontinental ballistic missiles, the assumption that I was wise not to use the radio to send a code message. The crew might not have known what they were carrying, since we, who are on board the container ship, have no reason to open the containers.
  
  
  But if you knew her? Do I have to be armed? Unfortunately, Hugo and Wilhelmina, along with Pierre, put it in the secret compartment of my suitcase, where my small transmitter was located, and closed it. On this ship, hers made an honest trip to Ethiopia, or hers was worth a lot more shit than hers could solve with a Luger alone. Alternative weapons were extremely limited.
  
  
  I was also concerned that I never saw anyone around the train drivers. At the very least, she should have been met by one around them in the cafeteria. But Larsen explained to us on the first day at sea: "No one around our passengers has ever seen the drivers, Mrs. Block. They prefer to stay down. This is well... how should I put it in English?.. well, idiosyncrasy." Of course, this corkscrew was set by Agatha Block. Larsen's statement took her on faith. Now I wondered if I was being stupid. In my way of life, a person is always at risk of being killed out of stupidity, but I wasn't going to provide the kind of stupidity that doesn't join my death. He looked down at his suitcase again. I had doublets with me that Wilhelmina could hide in. You should have worn at least a jacket if you wanted to keep the Luger with you undetected. But wearing a camisole on an ordinary cargo ship on a hot day near the equator will arouse suspicion among any honest crew. And he wasn't too convinced of the integrity of this team.
  
  
  Unarmed, he entered the corridor, closed the door of his cabin behind him, and walked a few yards to Jin's cabin. He knocked softly on her door. "Come in," she called.
  
  
  I expected her to be a bit of a mess, but I found a neat place, my luggage neatly hidden under the bunk, and her camera bag in the open wardrobe. Her was wondering if her camera had a .22 caliber pistol in one around the lenses.
  
  
  Jean was wearing a blue T-shirt and cropped jeans. Today she was wearing ballet slippers instead of sandals. One thing was for sure, Nah didn't have a gun.
  
  
  She asked. "Ready for a big breakfast?"
  
  
  "Yes," I said.
  
  
  However, there was no rich breakfast in the dining room. Skjorn, the steward, made scrambled eggs and toast.
  
  
  Ego's coffee was as good as Larsen's, but it wasn't any better.
  
  
  No one around the other officers was present. The blocks, who looked very unhappy, were already sitting at the table. Jean and I were greeted coldly, with the realization that we, as fellow travelers, still existed despite our bad morals.
  
  
  "We can't find Larsen," Skjorn said. "I do not know what happened to her."
  
  
  "Maybe she drank too much bourbon," I tried to say.
  
  
  "She fell overboard," said Agatha Block.
  
  
  "Then someone must have heard it," I said. "There was no bad weather yesterday. And the sea is still very calm.
  
  
  "The lookout must have been asleep," Mrs. Block insisted. "Oh, no, Mrs. Block," Skjorn said quickly, " that can't happen on a ship under Captain Ergensen. Especially when Gaard and Thule are on duty.
  
  
  "Check your whiskey supply," I said again. Her Only smile was Jin smiling along with me.
  
  
  "I'll check it out, Mr. Goodrum," Skjorn said.
  
  
  Mrs. Block's quick retort about the sleeping watcher seemed to confirm my suspicions from last night. The crew switched on autopilot and took a nap when the weather and position allowed. This happens on many merchant ships, which explains why ships sometimes go off course or collide with each other without any navigational explanation.
  
  
  "There's a story here," Jean said.
  
  
  "I think so, Miss Fellini," Skjorn said. — I forgot you were a journalist."
  
  
  "She fell overboard," Mrs. Block said sincerely. "Poor woman."
  
  
  Between ee's final verdict in the Larsen case and her cold attitude toward people who enjoy sex, there was little room to make Mrs. Block a stimulating company. Her husband, who had been sneaking glances at Jin's heavy breasts swaying under the thin fabric, feared a more humane response.
  
  
  After eating, Jin and I returned to her cabin. "I'm sure you know how to handle a camera," she said.
  
  
  'Yes.'
  
  
  "Then, Fred Goodrum, my old passion, you'll like this offer. I'll put a 28mm lens in my camera so you can take a picture of me in this cabin.
  
  
  Jean told me what shutter speed and aperture to choose, and led me from one corner to the other. Completely naked, she posed for me in various parts of the cabin, with an extremely sensual expression on her face. All I had to do was aim, focus, and pull the trigger. When we finished the roll of film, we were back in the trash. Her started to worry about her sexual hunger. As much as I loved her writhing, throbbing body, I had to keep reminding myself that I was on board the Hans Skeelmann on more serious business .
  
  
  "I'm going to ask some questions about Larsen today," she said. "My role as an interrogating journalist. What do you plan to do?'
  
  
  "I'll go on deck and try to rest."
  
  
  I was sprawled out on a chaise longue, my face in shadow, when I heard her move and a man's voice said, " Don't move, Mr. Carter."
  
  
  I pretended not to hear him.
  
  
  — Then if you want to, Mr. Goodrum, don't move.
  
  
  "If I prefer her to what?" I said, recognizing the voice of Gaard, the second mate.
  
  
  "If you'd rather stay alive."
  
  
  Two sailors stood in front of me, both with pistols. Then I saw Gaard, who also had a gun with him.
  
  
  "General Borgia wants you to stay alive," he said.
  
  
  "Who the hell is General Borgia?"
  
  
  "The person you should be hunting for the Ethiopian government."
  
  
  "Gaard, even the Ethiopian government wouldn't hire us General Borgia, us General Grant."
  
  
  "That's enough, Carter. So, you're a Killmaster. You really took care of Larsen. Poor whore — the Russians must have recruited her cheap."
  
  
  "I think you should check the whiskey supply," I said. "Didn't Skjorn give you this message?" He replied in a conversational tone: "It's amazing how a talkative person like this Mrs. Block can sometimes tell the truth. The lookout did indeed sleep last night. The Lookout sleeps almost every night. Not hers. But they simply preferred not to turn the ship over for Larsen. What do we need KGB agents for ?
  
  
  "The Russians will get by."
  
  
  "You're very calm, Carter. Very strong. Your nerves and your body are completely under control. But we're armed, and you're not. This crew is all through Borgia agents, except for the technical crew. They're locked in their own engine room. And certainly not Larsen, whom you kindly eliminated last night. Where's the knife you used?"
  
  
  "Stayed in Larsen's body."
  
  
  "I remember you pulling it out and then wiping away the blood."
  
  
  "Your night vision is poor, Gaard," I said. "It causes hallucinations."
  
  
  'It doesn't matter. Now you don't have that knife. You're very good, Carter. You're better than anyone around us. But you're no better than the three of us with guns. And do we know the guns well, Carter?"
  
  
  "Indeed," I said.
  
  
  "Then get up slowly and walk forward. Don't turn around. Don't try to fight. Although General Borgia wants you alive, your death is unlikely to shake the ego. My job was to find the Borgias and see what he was up to. Hers would have preferred to do it according to my original plan, but at least hers will get to it. Besides, Gaard was absolutely right when he said that he and two ego people knew about guns. One around them with a gun would be too much for me. And they respected me, which made ih doubly wary.
  
  
  The hot tropical sun was reflected in the sky. We went ahead with mimmo-bound containers. The men with guns were in the back. I didn't like it. If I managed to get out, I would have to run a lot to get to my weapon. She took one last look at the ocean before stepping through the upgrade doorway. Most cargo ships have a bridge in the hall at the stern, and I wondered if the Hans Skejelman had been partially converted into a warship, something like the German Q-boats at the beginning of World War II.
  
  
  "Stop," Gaard ordered.
  
  
  He was about ten feet from the radio room. Birgitte Aronsen came out, pointing a gun at my face.
  
  
  "The captain says we should use the storeroom under the boatswain's closet," she said.
  
  
  "It's all ahead of us," Gaard said.
  
  
  'Well?'
  
  
  "Two English passengers can see us. Finally, Carter is now an infirmary patient. Terrible tropical fever. Caught a one-night stand with Miss Fellini.
  
  
  "Patients are being placed in the infirmary," she said.
  
  
  Her, knew what was going to happen, but couldn't help it with her gun pointed blatantly at my navel. And even if she didn't know how to shoot well, it would be damn hard to miss me at this distance. She'll also shoot down Gaard and the other two, but I thought she'd write them off as necessary casualties. I heard shaggy voices behind me. He tried to pull himself together and realized it was useless. Then I saw Sergei explode in front of me, felt pain shoot through my head, and flew into the darkness.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  I woke up with a headache that was no longer fresh, and I had the idea that it would take some time for the loose parts of my body to calm down again. This naked light bulb, shining openly in my eyes, did little to prevent this feeling. He closed his eyes, moaning, trying to figure out who and where she was.
  
  
  'Nickname?'A female voice.
  
  
  "What," I growled.
  
  
  'Nickname?'That insistent voice again.
  
  
  Despite the pain, he opened her eyes. Immediately my eyes fell on the screen door. I remembered her ... Birgitte Aronsen. Ee gun. Someone mentioned a warehouse under the boatswain's closet. Gin was also taken away. I rolled over to my left side and saw her crouch on the balloon of the ship. A bruise under her left eye contorted her face.
  
  
  I asked her. "Who slapped you?"
  
  
  "Gaard." That bastard was too fast for me. He lunged at me and knocked me off my feet before she knew it. Then he gagged me. It's a miracle he didn't break my camera, it was around my neck."
  
  
  "He hit me from behind , Gene. While the radio operator made a gun for me in my life.
  
  
  Two details of her story didn't sound very good. Jean said this remark about her digital camera too casually, as if to avoid any suspicion. And as an agent, Nah had to have some sort of minimum reward for fighting skills. Gaard was a big brute, and he was probably pretty good with his fists, too, but she could still do some damage, and hey, you had to be careful.
  
  
  "Otherwise, your black eye is pretty convincing," I said. "Convincing?" She rubbed the left side of her face with her hand and shivered.
  
  
  It wasn't the desire to argue with her about whether she was completely conscientious about the United States — she would have sworn to it, no doubt, and I couldn't prove my suspicion — that made her struggle to her feet. The small space was rocking harder and faster than the ship's motion would have suggested. I almost threw up. curse. Why didn't Gaard take the drug? The injection goes away after a while, but a blow to the back of the head can cause a concussion that you can enjoy for days, weeks, or months. I was hoping that my injury was temporary.
  
  
  "Nick, are you okay?"
  
  
  Jean's hand slid to my waist. She helped me sit on the steel plates of the ship's bottom and leaned my back against the hull. 'Are you all right?'she confirmed.
  
  
  "This damned ship keeps turning," I said. "Gaard dealt me a terrible blow."
  
  
  She knelt in front of me and looked me in the eye. She took my pulse. Then she looked very carefully at the back of my head. She moaned when she touched the lump.
  
  
  "Hold on tight," she said.
  
  
  I just hoped she didn't find anything broken there.
  
  
  Jean stood up and said: "I'm not very good at first aid, Nick. But I don't believe you have a concussion or a fracture. You just have to be patient for a few days.
  
  
  He looked at his watch. It was after three.
  
  
  I asked her. "Is that all for today?"
  
  
  — If you mean, if this is the day we were caught, then yes.
  
  
  'Good.'
  
  
  'What do we do now?'
  
  
  "I'll move very carefully, if I can move at all, and I hope nothing goes wrong up there."
  
  
  "I'm talking about getting out of here," she said.
  
  
  I asked her. "Do you have any brilliant ideas?"
  
  
  "My camera is a toolbox."
  
  
  "Big tools don't fit in there."
  
  
  "Better than nothing."
  
  
  I asked her. "Oni did they bring us lunch?"
  
  
  She looked surprised. - 'No.'
  
  
  "Let's see if they feed us before we ..."
  
  
  'Good.'
  
  
  She tried several times to start a conversation, but gave up when she noticed that I refused to answer. I sat up, leaning against the metal frame, and pretended to rest. Or maybe he wasn't faking it, since what I was trying to think wasn't helping my headache. So far, we've decided not to discuss our situation with Jin. My dizziness and headaches didn't stop me from exploring our space, and the lack of some essential items made me wonder how long we'd be here.
  
  
  For example, our prison did not have a toilet. Although hers didn't believe that the plumbing went so far below the waterline, hers believed that temporary housing should be equipped with a bucket. Not only would it be easier for us, but it would also be a reasonable sanitary measure for the ship itself. Even though the crew followed the internationally untidy customs of merchant ships, they still kept the Hans Skeelman fairly clean.
  
  
  I also saw that we didn't have enough drinking water. And if the water and buckets didn't show up until midnight, she could pick one of two unpleasant possibilities: either the captain and ego crew weren't going to get Jean and me to the Borgias, or Jean's capture was a sham . I kept thinking that Larsen's murder had blown my cover, which I did at her instigation. Maybe this Jean could use some pressure.
  
  
  Immediately afterwards, I asked her, " Do you think there are any rats on board the Hans Skeelmann?"
  
  
  She asked. "Rats?"
  
  
  There was a hint of fear in her voice. He didn't say anything else. She wanted the thought to flash through her mind for a while.
  
  
  "I didn't see any rats," she said.
  
  
  "Well, probably not," I said soothingly. — I've noticed that the Hans Skeelmann is an unusually clean ship. But if there are rats, they live here, at the bottom of the ship.
  
  
  — How do you know we're at the bottom?"
  
  
  "The curvature of the hull," I said, running my hand over the cool metal plate. "Water movement. Sound.'
  
  
  "It felt like they were carrying me very far down," she said.
  
  
  For ten minutes x, no one around us spoke.
  
  
  — Why did you think of rats?" Gina asked suddenly.
  
  
  "I've analyzed the potential problems we're dealing with here," her husband said. "The rats are part of it, too. If they become aggressive, we can take turns standing guard while the other sleeps. It's always better than being bitten."
  
  
  Jean started. I wondered if she'd compared her shorts and T-shirt to my long trousers and wool shirt. Nah had plenty of meat to eat. And any intelligent rat will grab her velvety skin instead of trying to chew through my thick hide.
  
  
  "Nick," she said quietly, " they didn't say anything more about rats. You are welcome. They scare me.
  
  
  She sat down and sat down next to me. I'll probably find out soon enough which side she's on.
  
  
  At 5: 30 a.m., assuming my watch wasn't broken, they brought me edu. Thule, the first mate, was in charge. Gaard was beside him.
  
  
  Ego's only words were, " You both have your backs to moan if you don't want to die."
  
  
  There were four sailors with him. The Odin around them brought the gun down on our lower bodies. Others threw in blankets and fresh food. Mr. Thule closed the screen door, put in the bolt, and slammed the padlock.
  
  
  "There's enough water for the whole night," he said. — We'll empty it fresh in the morning.
  
  
  He didn't wait for our thanks. While he was there, her didn't say anything, but resolutely leaned against the moan. I didn't know what it would do to me if he underestimated my strength or not, but I couldn't afford to miss a single opportunity. Jean picked up two trays and said: "All with all amenities. They become carefree."
  
  
  "Or confident. Let's not underestimate ih. Gaard told me that Borgia had hired the entire team, except for the motormen.
  
  
  She said. - "Motorists-mechanics?"
  
  
  "That's why we never saw ih at meal times. I couldn't help thinking that there was something strange about this ship, but I couldn't figure out what it was."
  
  
  "I wasn't too smart either, Nick.
  
  
  After we took over, we spread blankets on the steel floor to make a sort of bed. We put the buckets somewhere in the corner in front.
  
  
  "Our stay here makes me appreciate the cabins," I said. "I wonder how these Blocks are doing."
  
  
  Jean frowned. 'You think...'
  
  
  'No. I checked the passengers, but no one told me you were CIA. These Blocks are exactly what they say they are — a couple of annoying English guys who got lucky in the football pool. Even if they suspect something is going on aboard the Hans Skeelman, they still won't open the rta when they disembark in Cape Town. We're on our own, Gene.
  
  
  "And these motormen?"
  
  
  "We can't count on them," her father said. "There are about thirty or forty Borgia men in this brigade. And they have us. They know who I am, right down to my title of Master Assassin. Gaard had missed it when em had had so much fun shutting me down. And hers, assuming they're equally familiar with your career. The only thing I don't understand is why they let us live.
  
  
  "Then my camera..."
  
  
  "Forget about this digital camera thing for now. Our first concern is figuring out what the ih daily routine is like. We still have three or four days to go to Cape Town.
  
  
  Eda was edible: minced onion on toast with potatoes. Obviously, we were on the same ration as the team. Skjorn, the steward, went along with anyone's wishes — probably his own-without providing us with the food we, as passengers, were entitled to and paid for. They didn't eat much gin. I didn't encourage her. She didn't seem to realize how useless I thought she was, even though she'd turned her camera into a toolbox. Its eaten its share and everything it doesn't want. He had to regain his strength. Then her bench press is on the blanket to fall asleep. Jean stretched out next to me, but couldn't find a comfortable position. "I'm hindered by the saints," she said.
  
  
  "The switch is on the other side of the door, about three feet from the latch," I said.
  
  
  "Should I turn off my ego?"
  
  
  "If you can reach it."
  
  
  She slid her slender fingers through the screen, found the light switch, and plunged our neighborhood into darkness. She used the bucket, returned to the bed next to me, and wrapped the blanket around her. Although it wasn't that cold at the bottom of the ship, the humidity quickly turned our skin cold. And the stench all over the hold didn't help our situation either.
  
  
  "I wish we could have used pillows," she said.
  
  
  "Ask for it tomorrow," I said.
  
  
  "Those bastards will just laugh at me."
  
  
  'Perhaps. Or maybe they'll give us pillows. I don't think we're being treated that badly, Jin. The crew could treat us a lot worse if they wanted to.
  
  
  She asked. — Are you thinking of getting out of here?" "The only way we'll get out of here is if someone points a gun at us and says,' Go.' Its just hoping they don't fall on me again. I can still hear her as a ferret in the melody of the bell."
  
  
  "Poor Nick," she said, running her hand gently over my face.
  
  
  Jean snuggled up to me in the dark. Her hips turned gently, and I felt the sultry warmth of her full breasts on my arm. Her hotel sl. A man can't lie next to Jin without thinking about her curvy body. But I knew I needed sleep. Even with the lights off, I could still see flashes of light flashing in front of my eyes. If Jean was right and I didn't have a concussion, I'd be in pretty good shape by morning.
  
  
  She let out her frustration with a loud sigh. Then she lay still.
  
  
  She asked. "Do the rats come when it's dark, Nick?"
  
  
  "Why didn't the saint turn it off?"
  
  
  'Oi.'
  
  
  "And if you don't?"
  
  
  "We won't know this until one around them appears."
  
  
  Jean remained restless. He wondered if her fear of rats was real. She continued to confuse me. Either she was a very successful agent, or she was crazy, and he couldn't figure out who she really was.
  
  
  "Take the tailor, I'd rather worry about nonexistent rats than sleep with light in my eyes," she said. "Good night, Nick."
  
  
  "Good night, Jean."
  
  
  I was only awake for a few minutes. I was going to sleep very lightly, but this blow to the heads prevented me from gathering the necessary composure. He fell into a deep sleep and only woke up when Jin turned on the holy light, just after five in the morning the next day.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  It took me three days to come up with a reasonable plan. By this time, my head is well enough healed, and it doesn't bother me too much, unless someone decides to hit me right in the same spot. Jin decided to confide in her. She spent a lot of time plotting her escape, but to no avail.
  
  
  We were used to our guards showing up three times a day to collect dirty dishes, replace a bucket with a new one, and bring a full pitcher of water. Once they brought us dinner, we could be sure that we would be alone for the rest of the evening. I was especially interested in the door roosters with a grid. Both were firmly attached to the metal rod with three bolts, and three more bolts held the ego firmly against the steel wall. I doubted I could muster the strength to loosen those bolts. But the roosters themselves were similar to what you might find in your own home, held together by a metal pin inserted vertically through the steel rings.
  
  
  I asked her. "Do you have a small, sturdy screwdriver in your digital camera, Jin?"
  
  
  'Yes. And also..."
  
  
  "No," her father said. "We're not going to run."
  
  
  'Why not?'
  
  
  — If the two of us somehow manage to capture this ship and keep Ego afloat until the fleet picks us up, we'll end up not with the Borgias, but with Ego twenty-three more missiles than we are now." I won't even try to get my weapon back, Jin. She staggered to her feet as the Hans Skeelmann ploughed through the waves. "Then why do you need a screwdriver, Nick?"
  
  
  "She was asked to send a message to AX and then lock herself in with you again. Once Washington knows where we are, they will know how to act and what to say to the Ethiopian government."
  
  
  The ship dived again. "You picked a great night to do this," Jean said.
  
  
  — That's one of the reasons ego chose her. It is unlikely that anyone will come to the boatswain's closet for some things right now. And it is unlikely that any noise we make will be heard.
  
  
  "Are we at risk of being washed overboard?"
  
  
  - no. I'll do it for her.'
  
  
  "Where will I get it then?"
  
  
  "Here," I said.
  
  
  She stared at me for a moment. Then she reached out and grabbed my shoulder.
  
  
  "You don't trust me, Nick," she said.
  
  
  "Not in everything," he admitted. "You didn't kill Larsen, Jean. It was hers. Gaard pulled a gun on me, but he knocked you to the ground before you could touch your ego. If anyone sees me tonight, they must die. Fast and quiet. Is this our specialty?
  
  
  'No. She let go of my hand. "I'm just gathering information. How can I help her?'
  
  
  "By sharing your information."
  
  
  'About what?'
  
  
  "When I was brought here, I was unconscious; bound on a stretcher and gagged. But you must have seen where the hatch to this deck is.
  
  
  "We're four decks below the main deck," she said. "In the bow, where the superstructure is on the deck, there is a hatch. A large sunroof and staircase lead to the first second level. The three lower floors have vertical staircases next to the ventilation shafts.
  
  
  I asked her. "Does the main hatch open on the bridge?"
  
  
  'Yes.'
  
  
  "It increases the chance of being caught."
  
  
  She began to dismantle the camera. The screwdrivers in the film reel were small, so I had to use force to loosen the pins in the hinges. The ship dived madly, and the angle at which it dived was exceptionally sharp because we were so far ahead. When the pins came off, Jean held the door in place while ih unscrewed it.
  
  
  When ih was gone, ih pawned our blankets and together we pushed open the screen door. The roosters creaked and then dispersed. We carefully pushed the door open just far enough to let me pass.
  
  
  'What now? Jin asked.
  
  
  He looked at his watch. It was just under nine o'clock.
  
  
  "We're waiting," I said, sliding the door back into place. 'How much?'
  
  
  — Until about ten o'clock, when the clock is already half over, and both the lookout and the attendant are less alert. If I'm not mistaken, Thule is on the bridge. Since Gaard saw her thrown overboard by Larsen, I might have a better chance with Thule up there.
  
  
  "Come to the radio booth before eleven," Jean said. "According to Larsen, Birgitte Aronsen locks her up every night around this time and then goes to the captain's cabin."
  
  
  — Do you have any other useful information?"
  
  
  She thought for a moment. "No, — she said.
  
  
  Boli had closed it behind him, so that a cursory examination would have been unlikely to have detected his position. But if her hotel rushed to them on the way back, all I had to do was turn a little to get them open again. I searched the second deck, but found no weather clothing. So he crawled through the hole in the center of the hatch leading to the main deck and examined part of the boatswain's cabin. Odin had left his old trousers and raincoat in the barrel around the sailors. I took off my pants and ballet slippers and went into tight pants and a jacket.
  
  
  "Hans Skejelman" projectile in bad weather. Every moment the bow was rocking in the waves, and I could hear the water breaking on the forecastle. He rummaged through the storeroom until he found a piece of tarpaulin, which he put on the deck next to the hatch that opened out, and two smaller pieces that could be used as towels. She was also found wearing a raincoat that suited me. He took off his jacket, took off his shirt, and tucked it into his pants and ballet slippers. Then he put his jacket back on.
  
  
  It was extinguished by Brylev. In the pitch darkness, he put his hand on the lever that activated all the hatch locks, and Stahl waited for the Hans Skeelmann to break through the wave and come up again. Then the hatch opened and he slipped inside. With all the speed she could muster, he ran across the wet deck to the forward superstructure.
  
  
  The prow of the ship sank again, and he felt a wall of water rise up behind me. I threw myself into the superstructure and gripped the railing as the outdoor activity hit me. She slapped me against the metal and squeezed the air out around my lungs. The water roared around me, pulling me in and trying to pull me into the dark Atlantic. He gripped the railing desperately, gasping for breath and fighting a wave of dizziness.
  
  
  When the water was up to my ankles, I continued to move along the port side of the ship. He held on to the railing and pressed himself up against the superstructure as best he could lick it. The bridge was three decks high, and it is unlikely that there were officers or sentries there. They'll be in the wheelhouse with the helmsman. And if they hadn't seen her carapace across the deck, they wouldn't have seen me now.
  
  
  The next outdoor activity caught up with me when I finally reached the left-hand ball ramp. He wrapped his arms around the crossbar and hung down. The force of the wave wasn't as strong here, but because I was on board the ship, I was more likely to be dragged overboard. The third outdoor activity hit the deck just as I was about a foot away, and only a small amount of water splashed on my ankles.
  
  
  He leaned against the back wall of the car and let his breathing return to normal. We were close to the equator, so the water wasn't so cold that it would numb your feet. It was won by the first round on the dress. But then there was the second battle-the way back to the boatswain's room. To do this, I first had to enter the radio room, bring out Birgitt Aronsen on the assembly and transmit my message.
  
  
  They were looking at the main deck between two superstructures. Most of it was in the dark, though the rain was pouring down around the rear portholes. I was hoping that if anyone saw me, they'd think I was a crew member just doing my job. He walked to the center of the ship and quickly opened the hatch that led to the corridor that ran the entire length of the bow. The hatch didn't make much noise as it opened and closed, and Hans Skeelmann's creaking and groaning should have drowned out my sounds and movements. He crept forward in silence and listened to the open door of the radio room. I didn't hear her. If the operator was listening to any recordings, they were either set up quietly, or she was wearing headphones. Her, looked inside. She was alone. I walked in, as if I had something to look for in the radio room.
  
  
  Birgitte Aronsen was sitting at the dashboard to my left. She looked up as my hand curved up to her neck. She died before she could scream. His quickly caught body and dragged it away from the key lying in front of her. The loud noise didn't matter if the system wasn't connected to the captain's cabin.
  
  
  Then he turned and carefully closed the door. I checked Birgitta's pulse and eyes to make sure she was dead. Then he shoved his body under the dashboard to avoid tripping over it. A large transmitter was placed against the wall of the right-hand corner. When her ego saw her, she could barely stifle a triumphant exclamation. It had a much larger production capacity than he had thought.
  
  
  I set the frequency, took the key and connected it directly to the transmitter. I didn't have time to figure out how the dashboard works. I was hoping the setup buttons were working relatively well, and whoever we were on duty in Brazil or West Africa — I wasn't sure where we were, but we were definitely within range of one of those listening stations — wasn't sleeping on duty.
  
  
  The code was a simple situation report, meaningless as hell to some enemy agent who would accidentally hack it. It contained about forty phrases, each of which was reduced to several groups around the world literally. My message, preceded and closed by an identification signal, gave me five groups to send. He hoped that the people who had saved it would immediately pass it on to Hawke, because he was the only one who could understand the combination of phrases he had chosen for her.
  
  
  'N3. Caught by the enemy. Continuing the mission. I work with another agent. N3.'
  
  
  He sent the message twice. Then he inserted the key back into the control panel, pulled the transmitter out of the ether, and readjusted the ego to its original wavelength. Nick tiptoed over to her.
  
  
  A voice rang out in the corridor. "Why is the radio room closed?"
  
  
  "Maybe she went to the old man's cabin a little earlier." Laughter. Slamming a hatch, possibly a hatch leading to the main deck. The men spoke Italian.
  
  
  It will take them at least two minutes to reach the aft platform. While he was locked up in the radio room, he might have improvised some misleading tooltips. He pulled Birgitte's body out from under the control panel and stretched her out on her back. He pulled her sweater over her head and tore off her bra. Then he pulled her pants down, ripped the fabric around the zipper, and ripped her panties. Her pants were pulled down on one leg, but allowed them to partially hang down the other. Finally, her legs were parted. Looking at her slender body, he wondered what the captain saw in her. Perhaps only that it was available.
  
  
  An effective investigation will quickly show that Birgitte wasn't killed by some rapist. Professional thoroughness would also reveal some traces of Nick Carter, such as finger prints and possibly hair. But when he saw hers, he slipped out the door and quickly made his way to the hatch , hers, deciding that it was unlikely that the Hans Skeelmann was equipped for such an investigation. I figured the captain would be so upset about what had happened to my lover that he wouldn't check my movements except for a cursory inspection. And it would show that I was locked in my cage.
  
  
  No one shouted or attacked me when I arrived on the main deck. He made his way to the side of the ship and calculated his forward sprint to reach the gangplank if the water caught up with the bow and rushed aft. I just did it. My second attempt joins me wholeheartedly at the front of the upgrade, and again the outdoor activity hit me against the metal, clinging to the railing.
  
  
  I am in good shape, my body is strong and muscular. Since strength and stamina are valuable weapons in my craft, ih kept them in the forefront. But no one can conquer the sea with blunt force alone. He could sit where he was all night, but the sun would rise before the sea calmed down. However, at that moment, I didn't have the energy to move forward. I waited for her with two more waves that hit me on the superstructure. When I tried to calculate the ih time, I realized that I could only get an approximate value of the interval between two water walls overlapping the deck.
  
  
  Until now, ferret bad weather has been my ally. Now, if I don't run ahead and get through the hatch, I might be thrown overboard. And it seemed that it would be on the verge. Her tried to run through mimmo arrows, which was only apparent as a faint black figure, then her could still try to grab onto nah if her hardly manage to do it in one go.
  
  
  The water was rising again, but it was just as fierce and high as the previous one. The bow was just beginning to rise, and the water was running down as it began to move forward, almost falling on the slippery deck. Water splashed into my lap. Then up to the ankles. He picked up his feet and ran forward as fast as he could. It passed the loading boom. The bow of the ship dived-too fast — but I couldn't stop my mad rush and grab the mast.
  
  
  He heard the sucking, thumping sound of water swirling around his nose. I looked up and saw white foam high above me, and then I was out of sight.
  
  
  I ducked forward and prayed that I wouldn't make a mistake and hit the hatch or the metal ledge I needed to pass under. I didn't realize that tons of water were falling on me.
  
  
  My body was almost level now, and only my toes seemed to be touching the deck. I felt my hands touch the steel door of the hatch and gripped the lever that closed the clamps. The water hit my lower body, pinning me to the deck and trying to push me back against the superstructure to throw me overboard. My fingers touched the lever. My left arm slipped, but my right arm held as my wrist spun around and an excruciating pain shot through my arm. For a moment, I thought my shoulder joints would relax.
  
  
  Zubtsov, who covered the waistband of my trousers, undid. Outdoor activities partially ripped my pants off. The water swirled under the awning, hitting salt in my eyes and making me hold what little I had left. My goal-it started to hurt where Gaard hit me, for the first time this evening. If the Hans Skeelmann hadn't quickly lifted her bow to cut through the water, she would have been just a few pieces floating above the forecastle.
  
  
  With incredible slowness, the nose of the cargo ship began to rise again. Water rolled off my face and dripped off my body. My wet pants were tangled around my ankles, so I had to use my hands to pull myself forward, using the hatch handle. In desperation, he threw off the wet cloth. The ship was now rising rapidly, quickly reaching the crest of the bay and preparing to plunge again into a new wall of water.
  
  
  He tried to lift the lever. Nothing happened. Her, realized what was wrong. My alenka on the lever pushed the ego of the price leg tighter than was necessary to close the watertight bulkhead. But knowing why the lever wasn't moving wasn't going to help me much when the next day of active recreation came; I didn't have the strength to withstand another tornado.
  
  
  The Hansa Skeelman was still diving. He turned in a half-turn and slammed his left shoulder into the lever. He went upstairs. He yanked open the hatch, grabbed the edge, and slid inside. My left hand gripped the lever inside. When it fell, I managed to grab the lever. The hatch slammed shut behind me. The water gushed over the deck in front of me as the hatch was vainly locked. My hand was too close to the center of the hatch.
  
  
  I pushed back and spun around, my right hand hitting the lever hard. Water dripped inside as the clamps closed it. My head hit the steel hatch. I groaned as pain shot through my skull. Bright lights flashed on, and he fell heavily against the tarpaulin spread out on the deck. The world turned upside down before my eyes — either from the movement of the ship, or from another blow to the heads. I couldn't say that.
  
  
  While the Hans Skeelman plowed through the water, he half-knelt, half-lay on the canvas tarp, trying not to throw up. My lungs ached as I sucked in air. My left tribe arm was damaged, and I felt like my goal votum votum was going to explode in a blinding, powerful explosion.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  
  
  
  I didn't rest for more than two or three minutes, although it seemed like half an hour. My watch said 10.35, but it might as well be 9.35 or 11.35. He could only guess at the time zone change.
  
  
  Brylev found the light switch and turned it on. Very carefully, she took off the cloak that he had pulled on tightly before leaving this room. After wiping her hands on a piece of canvas, she gently touched her hair. They were still wet around the edges, but dry on top. Ih mixed it up to hide the wet shreds. Then he removed the oilcloth. Her threw it on Holst's and started wiping the body. He made sure it was dry, then rolled the small piece of canvas and oilcloth into a large piece and carried it through the boatswain's cabin. Ego put it in the closet with other things and canvas.
  
  
  Suddenly he heard a beep. She was grabbed by a piece of metal pipe, and quickly turned around. The hatch to the lower deck opened. I cringed to jump when I saw the long hair and dark eyes.
  
  
  'Nickname? Jean said.
  
  
  "You'd better be there," her father said.
  
  
  "Staying down and waiting in this hole was driving me crazy. Did you send a message?
  
  
  'Yes. He pointed to the deck, where several inches of water lapped around.
  
  
  "Don't go any further," her father said. — If we don't go there soon after, there will be no evidence that we ever left our prison last night. Stay away from these stairs for a while.
  
  
  Still naked, he gathered up his ballet slippers, socks, shirt, and wet underpants. He leaned down and let them fall through the hatch on the lower deck. Then he pulled his face back far enough for Jin to see.
  
  
  "Take a rag to wipe your feet. I'll let her down ih through the hole.
  
  
  I waited until I heard her on the stairs. Then he lifted her to the edge of the hatch and carefully slid his feet through the opening. Her, felt the rough cloth wipe away ih.
  
  
  "All right," she said.
  
  
  He quickly descended the ladder, closed the hatch behind him, and turned the handle. When he reached the deck, he looked at Jean. She was sitting next to me, holding a pair of shorts in her hand.
  
  
  "That's all I could find," she said.
  
  
  "Hurry up," I ordered. "Let's go back to our cage."
  
  
  He pulled on his pants, but ignored the rest of his clothes. Jean stopped putting on her wet pants. When we got to our prison, we threw our clothes on the blanket. While her father fumbled with the screen door to get it back in place, Jean rummaged through the lids and pulled out the hinge pins. It took us ten minutes to get the ih back in place.
  
  
  I wiped the back of it with my hand and got my fingers dirty. While he applied dirt to the pins and cocks, Jean reassembled her camera. The next problem is how to explain wet underwear, Gin, and wet jeans.
  
  
  I asked her. "Did you drink as much water as you wanted tonight? She picked up the jug and took a long drink. Then it was rinsed with the salty taste of iso rta. There was still enough water in the nen to wet the corner of the blanket. I threw her underwear and jeans on the wet spot.
  
  
  "The moral of all this is: don't make love in bad weather with your feet next to a jug of water," I said.
  
  
  Her laughter echoed off the steel walls. "Nick," she said, " you're gorgeous. How much time do we have?
  
  
  He looked at his watch. "If they come tonight, they'll be here in half an hour."
  
  
  Jean's hand slid to my waist. She buried her lips in the tangle of hair on my chest. Then she looked at me, and I leaned down to kiss her. Her lips were as warm as the skin of her bare back.
  
  
  "I know how to gather evidence that we were too busy to leave the cage," she said hoarsely. "There will be enough footprints on the blankets."
  
  
  I took off the last of her clothes, and my hands moved up her body, cupping her large breasts. It had another benefit, assuming our captors found Birgitta and carried out their investigation on schedule. When Jean and I were making love, they wouldn't bother us with questions about what exactly happened in the radio room. He still didn't quite trust her. She wanted it to be fast and furious. He deliberately did it slowly and calmly, using his hands and mouth to bring her to a feverish climax. "Hurry up, Nick, before they get here," she kept saying. In less than five minutes we were lying side by side on the covers when the hatch leading to our deck swung open and an armed seaman appeared.
  
  
  "Let me handle this, Nick," Jean whispered.
  
  
  Her, growled his agreement. If she was going to turn me in, she found a way .
  
  
  "They're here," the sailor said to Gaard. "I already told you..."
  
  
  "Is the ship sinking?" Jean shouted, jumping to her feet and grabbing at the netting.
  
  
  Sade stared at her naked body and his jaw dropped. "We're drowning, Nick," she screamed, turning to me. "We're not sinking," Gaard said.
  
  
  She yanked on the net. "Let me out of here," she said. The door shook under the force of her fierce attack. "I don't want to drown if the ship is sinking."
  
  
  "Shut up," Gaard snapped. He looked down at my naked body, partially covered by the blanket, and laughed. "It looks like you were trying to calm the lady down, Carter," he said. "I was trying to calm her down," I said dryly. "Unfortunately, our water jug fell due to this pitching. "if you would be so kind."..
  
  
  "Go to hell," he snapped.
  
  
  "We're drowning," Jean screamed hysterically as tears welled up in her eyes. "Let me out, Mr. Gaard. Her, I'll do anything for you. Let me out."'
  
  
  — Haven't you had enough of what happened tonight?"
  
  
  "Damn nice," Jean said, sobbing even louder. "Fellini, if you don't shut up, I'll have a sailor shoot you in the throat," Gaard said coldly. He looked at me. "How long has this been going on, Carter?"
  
  
  'All night. She would have been fine if you hadn't intervened. I really think you should send the steward down with a shot of whiskey for Gin.
  
  
  "Send the steward down? Do you have any idea what it's like on deck, Carter?
  
  
  "How should I know?"
  
  
  "I'm thinking." He looked around. — I told Captain Ergensen you were safe here. But if someone killed an old man's mistress, you can expect him to go berserk for a while.
  
  
  "Is she an ego lover?"
  
  
  "Birgitte, communications officer."
  
  
  "Skinny woman with a gun," I said.
  
  
  'Yes. And someone raped and killed her last night. I told the captain it wasn't you. You should be glad that this is the case.
  
  
  Gaard and the sailor left. Jean clung to Moan until they closed the hatch, her sobs echoing through the small space. When she turned away from the metal and started to grin, her father looked at Nah with narrowed eyes.
  
  
  "You'd better cry even louder," I whispered. "Maybe they're listening. This is great, but we need to continue for another five minutes."
  
  
  She lasted another four minutes. It was such a good show that I decided that this crazy CIA chick could be trusted.
  
  
  There was nothing to say about what was going to happen, and I didn't like going out of my way , but as long as the Odin around us returned the data, to the United States, we could hit the Borgias.
  
  
  Jean sat on the blanket and looked at me. "Did he say rape, Nick?"
  
  
  "I'll tell you what happened, Gene," I said.
  
  
  Ey told her the whole story, including the contents of the message he sent her.
  
  
  "I didn't think you needed to rape a woman, Nick," she said, running her hand down my leg.
  
  
  We didn't stay in Cape Town that long. Jin and her were in the perfect position to judge that. We were in the anchor bay. Whatever the Gansu Skeelman had to unload in Cape Town, it didn't require any port facilities. So we were anchored in the harbor for six hours and thirteen minutes.
  
  
  However, there were Blocks in the circles of those who left the ship. This occurred to me the next day when Mr. Thule and four sailors came to the Gin and found me. The weather off the Cape of Good Hope was not very pleasant, but the captain apparently decided that we needed to rest on deck.
  
  
  — How about a shower and clean clothes?" Thule told her.
  
  
  "If you want," he said.
  
  
  Only one crewman was on watch when she was showering, and it was clear that Thule thought Jin was a much more dangerous person, as he kept a close eye on her when she was showering. But when I changed her clothes, I didn't have time to pull out Hugo, Wilhelmina, or Pierre's luggage; the people on board the ship were all professionals.
  
  
  At the end of the day, we were escorted to the bridge for questioning by Captain Ergensen. "I'm afraid she suspects you of a terrible crime, Mr. Carter," the captain said.
  
  
  'Mr. Gaard told me something similar last night, " I said.
  
  
  "You are an enemy agent on board," he said. "It only makes sense that I suspect you."
  
  
  'What happened?'I asked her.
  
  
  He looked from Jean to me, and then back to Jean. — You know that, don't you?"
  
  
  Captain Ergensen wants to talk about his experience above. Birgitte Aronsen has been sailing under ego for several years, and ih relationships have already become the butt of jokes among the crew. Jean and hers were strangers to whom he could tell his quiet love for her. In Norfolk, she is a great chemist courting a sailor, and it is this man who is now suspected by Ergensen of murder and rape. "I landed ego in Cape Town," the captain said, finishing his story.
  
  
  "So he ran off to rape someone else," Jean said. 'Not really."The captain's laugh didn't have any humor in it. "General Borgia has connections all over Africa. And what is the life of a Norwegian sailor worth on this dangerous continent?
  
  
  Back in our prison, Jean said to me,"Now an innocent man has been killed all around us."
  
  
  'Innocent? I shrugged my shoulders. "Gene, no one around those who work for the Borgias is in St. Petersburg. I will try to destroy them in every possible way."
  
  
  "I didn't think about it before," she said.
  
  
  Jean was a strange combination of innocence and insight. Even though she'd been an agent for several years, it wasn't often that Ay got to think things through. I wondered if she would be a help or a burden when we met this Borgia. Our deck practice has become a daily routine. A day later, we were allowed to take a shower. And he started playing chess with the captain.
  
  
  One night, when we were back in tropical waters, he sent for me. Jean stayed on the bunk under the boatswain's cabin. He ordered me to be locked up in the ego cabin with him alone.
  
  
  Ego asked her. "You're not taking any chances?"
  
  
  "I'm risking my life against your intelligence, Mr. Carter," he said in his bad English. He took out chess pieces and a board around the box. "General Borgia is very much looking forward to meeting you." What are you going to do, mister?" Carter?
  
  
  'Do what?'
  
  
  "The Americans have never sent an agent for a general before. He knows about your Killmaster rank. Her confident that he would rather recruit you than execute you.
  
  
  "An interesting choice."
  
  
  "You're playing your games with me, mister. Carter. With General Borgia, you won't have time to play games. Think about who you want to serve."
  
  
  The next evening we stopped in the Red Sea when a loader was maneuvering next to the Hans Skeelmann . The front loading boom moved the rockets to the inside of the loader. Jean and I moved into the ego cargo area, which was held at gunpoint by Norwegian sailors in the rear, and at gunpoint in the front by Arabs with rifles stationed in the control room . Gaard accompanied us.
  
  
  He leaned against the wooden railing and watched the Hans Skeelmann sail away . At first, only the port light could see her, but then the light increased, and white brylev saw her in the stern.
  
  
  "I didn't think I'd miss this trough, but I miss it already," I said.
  
  
  Orders were being issued in Arabic behind my back. He didn't show that he understood.
  
  
  "Your ticket money goes to a good cause," Gaard said.
  
  
  "The Borgias?" Jean asked.
  
  
  'Yes. You're going to see him, too.
  
  
  Ego's Italian was terrible, but Ego understood the command. They accompanied us below deck, and we were locked in the cabin. The last thing I saw was a triangular sail rising up. The movement of our ship set us on a course across the sea towards the Ethiopian coast.
  
  
  From snatches of conversation overheard through the wooden walls, he deduced that we were somewhere north of Assab and south of Massaua. We dropped anchor. A group of men came aboard. Rockets were being moved around the deck. Several times she heard the sound of packing boxes being opened.
  
  
  "How safe are these missiles?" I asked her in a whisper in Gin.
  
  
  'I do not know. I've been told that the Borgias don't make detonators for nuclear warheads, and I know they don't have fuel in them.
  
  
  If the sounds he kept hearing were what he thought they were, she Borgia would have created a pretty competent organization . Most people tend to think that rockets are just cylindrical killing machines built around two or three parts. But on the dell itself, they are made up of countless parts, and only a good, very large team led by a rocket specialist can take three apart in one night. They don't make much sense to us, as if the necessary labor force really worked there.
  
  
  The cabin became stuffy. The Eritrean coast of Ethiopia is one of the hottest regions in the world, and the sun was rising fast. A few minutes later, the cabin door was unlocked and opened. Gaard appeared in the doorway, a Russian submachine gun in his hand. Behind him were two sailors with guns. The third sailor carried a bundle of clothes. "You knew where you were going, Carter," Gaard said. "If I could fit your boots, I'd let you waddle through the desert in your slippers."
  
  
  "I knew about Danakil," I said. "Did you take all the desert paraphernalia around my gym bag?"
  
  
  "No, just boots and thick socks. It's the same with Miss Fellini. You will also dress like a native.
  
  
  He nodded to the man with the clothes. The man dropped it on the wooden deck. Another nod from Gaard. He backed away from the cabin. Gaard went to the door. The submachine gun was always aimed at us.
  
  
  "A white man can't change the color of his skin. But if someone finds lions and hyenas eating you, I don't want them to recognize you by your clothes. Everything will be local, except meet your shoes and watch. He went out, slammed the door, and locked it.
  
  
  "Are we doing what he says, Nick?" Jin asked.
  
  
  "Do you know an alternative where they don't shoot us right away?"
  
  
  We started to undress. This wasn't his first time wearing Arab clothing, and he knew that these clumsy-looking robes were far more practical than anything we see in the Western world. The brown fabric was rough to the touch, and the oxygen-depleted cabin was uncomfortably hot. She took off her headdress for a moment.
  
  
  — What do I do with this veil?" Jin asked.
  
  
  "Shut up," Ay advised her. "And keep your outer clothing tight to your body. Most of the men here are Muslim. They take the symbols of female chastity seriously."
  
  
  Gaard came back and ordered us off the boat. I put on my headdress and we went upstairs. The sun shone on the blue waters of the small bay where we had anchored, and the desert sands stretched away to the west. We went down a rope ladder to the small boat. And soon we were brought ashore.
  
  
  Jin glanced back at the cars. It didn't happen. "Come on," Gaard said.
  
  
  We walked three kilometers deep. Twice we passed roads, ruts on the sand and rocks of large trucks. They didn't look too busy, but whenever we approached, Gaard ordered us to stop and sent people with binoculars to check for approaching vehicles. The terrain was mostly bare sand, but the desert was riddled with hills and ravines surrounded by rocks. After passing the second road, we turned north and entered one around narrow gorges. There we joined a camel train.
  
  
  About seventy-five camels were hidden among the rocks. Each had a rider. The men spoke a jumble of languages. The only language he recognized was Arabic. I have also heard some Arabic-related languages, possibly Somali dialects. It was not difficult to see the responsible men. They were dressed differently. And many were sitting in the shade of the rocks without their hats on. Their skin was light brown. They were of medium height and wore high wavy hairstyles. Most of them had split earlobes and a collection of bracelets. I didn't have much information for this assignment, but the people around me warned me about the Danakils, a people named after the desert they were working on. The forked earlobes were memories of the first-plan enemy they had killed; the bracelets were trophies for so many enemies the warrior had defeated.
  
  
  "More than a hundred camels are already heading inland," Gaard said.
  
  
  "You've made some progress," was my comment. "Get the plague," was the ego of rheumatism.
  
  
  Ego reaction of me it is free. He studied the scene for a moment, then realized why the Norwegian assistant had reacted so irritated. Gaard was an extra on this trip, a sailor who was out of place in the desert. He rose from the rock where he had been sitting as a wiry, grinning Danakil approached. "Ego, the real name isn't Luigi, but you can't say ego's real name."
  
  
  If Gaard saw it as a challenge, he wasn't going to answer. I have a talent for languages, combined with enough common sense to know when to pretend I don't understand anything.
  
  
  Danakil stared fixedly at Gaard. With his left hand, he gestured for Gaard to put the gun away. The great sailor started to protest, but then changed his mind. Danakil turned to us.
  
  
  "Carter," he said, pointing at me. "Fellini". He looked at Jean.
  
  
  "Yes," I said.
  
  
  Egoism was no better than Gaard's. But not only that, many people are worse.
  
  
  "I am the commander of your caravan. Edema in three caravans. What do you want to ask?'
  
  
  I asked her. 'What's next?'
  
  
  "A few days. The camels are carrying our water and supplies for General Borgia. All men and women are going. There is nothing in this desert but my people and death. No water if you're not Danakil. Do you understand that?'
  
  
  'Yes.'
  
  
  'Good.'
  
  
  "Luigi, this man is dangerous," Gaard said. "He's a professional assassin. If we don't...
  
  
  — Do you think he didn't kill a lot of people?" Luigi touched the bracelets on his wrist. He remained impassive, looking at me. "Do you kill your opposite number with a gun, Carter?"
  
  
  'Yes. And a knife. And with your hands.
  
  
  Luigi smiled. "You and I could have killed each other on this trip, Carter. But this is wrong. General Borgia wants to meet you. And you are surrounded by people who protect you from the enemies of Danakil. Do you know anything about this desert?
  
  
  "I know something about it.
  
  
  'Good.'
  
  
  He's gone. Egomaniac counted it. If it hadn't been missed by one, there would have been fourteen on nen. He doubted it was a local record, but it was a better warning than Luigi could have put into words.
  
  
  Late in the morning, about a third of the group formed a caravan and set off. While watching ih leave, she admired the organization. The Danakili were effective. They quickly lined up the camels with ih riders, brought the captives and extra men to the middle, and left, scanning the area with their eyes, although they were still in the shelter of the gorge. Even the camel drivers understood the military precision of the formation. They don't argue about whether kuda ih put ih leaders. The men guarding the prisoners did not shout or be angry, but allowed themselves quiet commands that were executed quickly. The prisoners themselves were extremely interested in me.
  
  
  Some were broken up, although the heavier parts were removed. Some around them were women, most around them were dark-skinned again. Ethiopia, as a civilized country seeking the approval of the twentieth-century world, officially does not tolerate slavery. Unfortunately, the new traditions have not yet fully penetrated some residents of the vast country of Africa. From time to time, the governments of East African and Asian countries around the Indian Ocean launch strikes against slave traders, but no government official will think to anger them or stand in their way. The human meat merchants maintain private armies, and it will be many centuries before the custom of one man enslaving another is eradicated.
  
  
  "Are these girls slaves?" Jin asked quietly.
  
  
  'Yes.'
  
  
  She smiled bitterly. "Once, when she was a teenager, we girls went to see a silent movie. Nen showed a crowd of scantily clad women being sold at auction. We all giggled and talked about how terrible it was to be in such an auction. But everyone around us had their own fantasies about themselves in this situation. Do you think I'm really going to live out this fantasy, Nick?
  
  
  "I doubt it," I said.
  
  
  'Why not?'
  
  
  "Because you're a professional agent. I don't think you'd be lucky enough to be the wife of a warchief. The Borgias want to know what we both know, and the bastard is probably ruthless.
  
  
  "Thank you," she said. "You know exactly how to make someone laugh."
  
  
  — Why don't you two shut up?" Gaard said.
  
  
  "Why don't you keep your face under the camel's hoof," emu Jin replied.
  
  
  Voting what I liked about Jin — ee for her fighting instincts was completely consistent with her lack of common sense. Gaard let out an indignant roar that must have startled any camel in the area, leapt to his feet, and swung his fist to knock her off the cliff we were sitting on.
  
  
  Ego grabbed her by the arm, threw his alenka forward, twisted her hip and shoulder, and threw ego on her back.
  
  
  "Now you really messed up," her Jin muttered. Several Danakils ran up to us. When they saw Gaard lying on the floor, some of them laughed. A quick chatter informed me that the few people who had seen me throw Gaard to the ground had reported it to the others.
  
  
  Gaard rose slowly to his feet. "Carter," he said,"I'm going to kill you."
  
  
  It was Luigi who saw her, standing in a circle around us. I was wondering what the Danakils were up to. Gaard might have wanted to kill me, but I wasn't going to kill ego. He wouldn't have dared. And that restriction wouldn't make the fight any easier.
  
  
  He was tall, at least five feet, and a good twenty pounds heavier than I was. If the emu managed to hit me with its huge fists, or if it caught me, it was completely confused. He came up to me, holding up his hands. Gaard was a braggart, strong enough to hit a rowdy sailor on command, but easy prey for Agent AH if he used his training properly.
  
  
  Gaard attacked. I took a step to the side and immediately kicked him with my right foot when I changed my position. The long desert robe hindered me, so my lunge didn't knock Ego nog off. Slowing down because of the clothes, my leg grazed Gaard only superficially in the diaphragm, causing only a growl as he staggered slightly. I dove to the ground and rolled, sharp rocks digging into my back. When her stood up again, his staggered, and I felt hands behind me pushing me back into the center of the circle, in front of Danakil.
  
  
  He attacked again. She blocked the ego wild attack with her right forearm, turned so that the ego kick passed mimmo me, and caught the ego with a left kick between the ego's eyes. He growled, shaking his head. Ego's left kick caught me in the ribs, and he gasped as pain shot through my body.
  
  
  Gaard attacked again, swinging his fists. Her ducked under ego's arms and placed both of Emu Life's arms and ribcage . Her, I felt my ego's big fists land on my back. Stepping back, another ego left parried it and managed to get its left fist caught in the emu's chin. The impact made ego rise, but he didn't want to fall. Her threw all his alenka on the right hand, which did not hit him was open in the fold dollar. Gaard fell.
  
  
  Behind me, an Arabic voice said, " Kill this scumbag."
  
  
  Slowly, Gaard rolled over and stood in the path of each tribe. He walked over to aim his heavy desert emu boot under her chin. He reached for the pistol on his belt. It should have been close, but I thought he was going to shoot before ego got him.
  
  
  A brown-clad figure flashed by from the left. The butt of the rifle knocked the submachine gun out of Gaard's hands. The rifle rose again and landed with a crash on Gaard's chest, pinning ego to the ground.
  
  
  "Stop," Luigi said. He turned the rifle and aimed it at the fallen Gaard.
  
  
  Strong hands grabbed me from behind and pinned me to my body. I didn't resist.
  
  
  "Him... Gaard began.
  
  
  "I saw it," Luigi said. "My people saw it."
  
  
  He poked Gaard with the muzzle of his gun. 'Get up. You're leaving with the next caravan.
  
  
  Gaard obeyed. He raised his gun. The Danakils were still all around us. He shot me a nasty look and holstered his weapon. Four danakils accompanied him as he left with clumsy steps.
  
  
  Luigi nodded. The men who were holding me let me go. Luigi pointed the rifle at the rock Jean was sitting on and her sel. "You say you killed people with your own hands, Carter," he said. — Why didn't you kill Gaard?"
  
  
  — I was afraid you wouldn't like it."
  
  
  "I would love that. He who commands at sea does not command in the desert. Carter, you're not going to try to kill me.
  
  
  He was absurdly very convinced, and I agreed with him.
  
  
  The beginning of the second caravan left by early afternoon. We slept in the canyon that night. Twice he woke up and saw the natives standing guard .
  
  
  The next day we headed west.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  
  
  
  I've never seen her, Luigi with a compass, though I've seen him study the stars at night. He didn't even seem to have a crude sextant. Apparently, he was so familiar with the starry sky that he could understand our position. Or maybe he followed a trail he could read. If that was the case, he could immediately go and get a wizard's diploma. Much of East Danakil is a vast expanse of sand and is so hostile to life that entire rivers disappear and evaporate into salt pools.
  
  
  We made good progress, despite the intense heat and occasional sandstorms that forced us to pull on our rough clothes and huddle together. Although Eto was only a prisoner, and therefore didn't know about the actual progress of the caravan, eto understood why Luigi was making us hurry. The people drank little water, and the camels did not drink at all.
  
  
  On the fourth day of our journey, as we were passing through a desert entirely covered with sand, not interrupted by rock formations, a crowd of shouting and shouting Danakils appeared on the sand embankment to our right, and they started firing their guns at us.
  
  
  The driver behind me cursed loudly and threw his animal to the ground. I quickly made sure that the camel stayed between me and the attackers. He envied these capricious beasts not only because they smelled so bad, but also because they seemed to enjoy biting anyone who got too close to them. But now they thought a camel bite was less serious than gawking around a rifle.
  
  
  All the horsemen had already lowered their camels to the ground and were taking their guns off their shoulders. Hiding in the sand by the camel's rump, he estimated the attacking force at fifteen or twenty men. We had twenty-five teamsters and six guards, as well as four women and two male prisoners. Bullets pelted sand in my face, and he recoiled. He was behind a rather fat camel, and the bullets couldn't have passed through so easily. I thought of Wilhelmina somewhere on board the Hans Skeelmann and wished she had been with me. Several of the attackers were within range of the Luger.
  
  
  At least two of the men around our Danakil guards fell, along with several of the teamsters. The surprise attack has nullified our advantage in numbers. If Luigi and the ego guys can't do some damage quickly, we'll be in big trouble. Fortunately, the sand ridge was only on our right. If anyone was on the other side, we would have died in the crossfire.
  
  
  A camel nearby screamed in agony as it was hit by gawk. Ego's outstretched hooves split the drover's skull. He began to doubt the safety of his own sanctuary. Then my camel growled, either out of fear or out of sympathy for the wounded camel. The driver stood up. Cursing, he fired at the old M1 rifle he had in his possession. Suddenly, he threw his arms wide, staggered back, and collapsed to the ground.
  
  
  Hers crawled up to him. Blood flowed through the holes in ego's throat. I heard the screams of women, and two more men fell to my right... Gawk passed mimmo my elbows an inch away.
  
  
  "Forever interfere," I muttered. He grabbed the driver's M1 rifle and crawled back around the camel's rump. I'm lying there, shot by Danakila, who was running down the hill. He dived forward. He took aim at the other attacker. The gun clicked. A gawk whizzed over my head.
  
  
  I reacted immediately and quickly crawled back to the dead driver, the sand soaking into my clothes. Ego's ammo belt got tangled in Ego's brown clothes, and I had to turn it twice to free it. At this point, us one gawk didn't approach me. He quickly came across a new magazine of ammo and turned to engage in a firefight.
  
  
  About a dozen of the attackers were still on their feet , but at least we fired enough bullets to stop ih's first attack. Standing or kneeling on the sandy slope, they shot at us. He knelt down and picked a target. She was shot once. I saw the man flinch, but apparently it didn't kill her ego. Cursing the ML as the worst military weapon po had ever created, her ego adjusted its aim slightly to the right and fired again .
  
  
  He lowered the rifle. He was too far away to see their expressions, but I thought he looked confused. Taking careful aim, he fired again . He fell headfirst into the sand, kicked a few times, and froze.
  
  
  A tall warrior to the left of the line of attackers leapt to his feet and began firing in my direction. Her, thought that ego aiming must be terrible, us one gawk didn't pass even close to me, but then my camel screamed. He tried to get to his feet when gawking shattered some of the weight on his back. It was moved to the heads of the caravan, so as not to be in the way of a frightened animal. Bullets whipped up the sand around the next camel, and sudden shouts from both sides of the caravan told me that the attacking warriors were trying to make our camels run. Seven or eight camels were already on their feet, running back and forth, trampling the defenders. The scouts dropped their weapons and ran toward them. Two men, shot by bandits, fell again.
  
  
  He ran forward to the caravan until he reached the prisoners, where he found an open space for shooting. The attackers were now valuable leg licks, and when she rushed into life to take aim, her realized that we were going to lose. The tall warrior on the left in the enemy formation seemed to be the ih leader. It took me two shots to knock him down.
  
  
  The danakil guard on my left shouted something, stood up, and fired into the approaching line. Another bandit fell. Then the guard also fell. I had three shots left. She was shot at by one of the attackers.
  
  
  He looked around. I couldn't remember where I'd dropped her M1 rounds. But somewhere, while dodging camels, it must have been dropped by ih. She was grabbed by the fallen guard's rifle. It was a Lee-Enfield, a good shotgun, but an old one. Hoping that he would still shoot well, it was made by the ego of the approaching attackers who approached us. Another fell, wounded in life at close range.
  
  
  A series of shots rang out to my left, and two more attackers fell. Only four or five remained in the formation, but they were closing fast. My gun clicked. Empty. "Take the tailor," I shouted.
  
  
  Danakil shot me from ten feet away. Still, the emu didn't manage to hit me. He quickly turned the shotgun and hit the emu in the face with the butt. As he fell, he hit her again, shattering both the wooden butt and ego's skull.
  
  
  He wore a sword at his belt. Ego's rifle dropped too far away from him to reach nah as the next brown-clad assailant approached. He grabbed a knife and crouched down to confront the attacking bandit. He raised his gun high, and he ducked under ego's fierce kick. The sand was a poor support, so the knife blow to the stomach that had intended it only grazed the emu's ribs.
  
  
  He screamed as he flew past mimmo me. Her father turned quickly to run after him. A few more shots rang out around us, followed by the screams and growls of warriors in hand-to-hand combat. My opponent dropped his rifle and drew his knife.
  
  
  A smile creased Ego's face as he realized I wasn't Danakil. Ego bracelets glittered in the sun. There was an all-out war raging around us, but the universe shrank to both of us.
  
  
  He recklessly stepped forward, holding the knife in front of him. Ducking, he drew back. The crooked blade bothered me. The handle felt wrong. If Hugo had been with me, I would have attacked the man with confidence, but the stiletto was still aboard that damned Norwegian freighter.
  
  
  He continued to step back, feigning fear and confusion, and pretending to be partially mesmerized by the swinging blade. Danakil was now completely ecstatic and didn't pay any attention to what I was doing with my own hands. He was totally focused on sticking the knife in my life. I crouched down deeper and deeper, stepping back, letting my knees take the strain of my hunched position. When the distance between us was right, he quickly lowered his left hand to the ground, scooped up some sand, and threw it into the emu's eyes.
  
  
  He knew the old trick, of course, but he probably didn't think I knew it. The tip of the ego blade slid off its trajectory as it grazed my face. Her quickly leaped forward, raised his left arm under the ego's right arm to parry the blade, and slashed with his own blade. The ego of life was completely severed. He screamed.
  
  
  Danakil staggered back, blood spurting down the torn man's ego. With his outstretched left hand, Ego slashed at her with a knife. He dropped his gun, and it came up again and hit his ego, folding up the dollar. My weapon may be clumsy, but the ego of the deceased two made sure that the blade was very sharp.
  
  
  My opponent fell to the ground. I dove into him and twisted the knife in his chest until he stopped. Her, jumped up and looked around. A group of men in brown robes sat around me. Ours? Or an attacking group?
  
  
  "Drop that knife, Carter," Luigi said, pushing the other men aside.
  
  
  Her gun dropped.
  
  
  He bent down, picked up ego, and said, " Few people can kill Danakil so easily, Carter."
  
  
  I told her. "Who says it's easy, Luigi? — Did we win the battle?"
  
  
  'They're dead.'A shot rang out. "Or almost. Help them collect water.
  
  
  We went from man to man, taking each flask. The enemies, still breathing, were killed by a laughing Danakil Luigi headshot. I thought that some of them could still be cured to serve as slaves, but I didn't take that thought to my guards.
  
  
  When we got back to the wagon and put down the water bottles, many of which were made from animal skins, one of the teamsters said something and motioned me forward. He followed her to where the other prisoners were gathered.
  
  
  "I want you to see her, Carter," Luigi said. — You can tell the Borgias how it happened."
  
  
  Jin lying on his own rough clothes. Someone had cut open her underwear and exposed her body. The small, revealing hole under her left breast was still bleeding.
  
  
  "It was in the beginning with paint," the woman said in Arabic.
  
  
  Hey answered her, in the same language. "Gawk at who?"
  
  
  "From the desert," she said.
  
  
  Jean took her pulse. She was dead. Hey closed her eyes and pulled her clothes on. It was ridiculous, but she still didn't know if she was a good agent or not. All I knew was that it might have been her best travel story, "Her Like a Slave in the Ethiopian Desert," if she had lived long enough to write ego. Its got up.
  
  
  Luigi said to me in Arabic, " Gaard claimed that she was your woman. Is it true?'
  
  
  'Yes.'
  
  
  — There's no one left alive for your family to move in. Whoever killed her is now as dead as she is, Carter.
  
  
  "Yes," he said again.
  
  
  I was wondering what happened to her camera.
  
  
  "You speak Arabic," Luigi said calmly. — But that won't help you make friends with the Afars."
  
  
  "The Afars?
  
  
  'My people. The people of Danakil.
  
  
  "Right now, Luigi,"I said," I don't need your people so much as my friends."
  
  
  'I understand her. You can bury her. I will bury it for my people."
  
  
  The caravan regrouped, but it took all day to bury the dead, including Jean, and figure out which camels could make it the rest of the way to the Borgia camp. Four camels went out of control and disappeared into the desert, and nine or more were dead or too badly injured to continue. We were left with twelve camels and ten drivers. Two of the four surviving Danakils each acted as teamsters, leaving Luigi and another warrior as guards. We didn't find the attackers ' camels.
  
  
  While listening to the discussion between Luigi and the teamsters, I noticed that the attackers had done me a favor. He asked. "What were the missing camels carrying?"
  
  
  "Two people around them were carrying water. But many around our pitchers are broken. With the water we took from the enemy and the few jars and skins we have left, the few around us should be able to reach the well alive."
  
  
  "All right," he said. "Load water and eda on the first camel."
  
  
  I was sitting in the shade of one of our big camels, trying to figure out how to find Jin's cell. I probably shouldn't have kept it anyway, even if he had found it, but somehow I was hoping Luigi would let me keep it for sentimental reasons. As a devout Muslim, he was convinced of the inferiority of women, but as someone who lived in a cruel world where death can always hide behind another sand dune, he could appreciate the feeling that a man felt for his very talented partner.
  
  
  How valuable were digital camera tools? He was still convinced that Jean had a lens somewhere with a single-shot .22-caliber pistol. She didn't tell me everything about her assignment, just as Hey didn't tell her everything about his. Of course, this lens was probably still on board the Hans Skeelmann. Then I saw her as one of the teamsters was driving with this camera. Forget about this idea, solved it. It wasn't worth risking Luigi's suspicions.
  
  
  The men worked hard to move the cargo, and after about an hour, Luigi motioned for me to help. He worked like a horse, and at least three times, when no one was looking, he managed to hide electronic parts that had slipped out of cracked boxes under the sand. I also managed to crack a few chests during the overload process. And it seemed damned unlikely that Cesare Borgia would have all three of his mini-rockets ready, as he hoped.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  
  
  Three days later, almost without water, we found ourselves in a completely different country. There were many rocky hills. Low plants grew. The smirks on the faces of the teamsters and guards told me that we were getting close to & nb. It wasn't an easy journey. We lost two more camels. They lay down on the sand and refused to get up, even after ih was unloaded.
  
  
  "Don't waste bullets on them," Luigi said. "Just pass the water to other animals."
  
  
  The pool is small and the water is muddy. It was nothing more than a hole in the rocks with small bushes around it. Mistletoe water has an alkaline taste. However, the desert wisdom of the teamsters said that it was safe to drink, and as far as I know, it is the most delicious water in the world. For the first part of the journey, we were on strict rations, and for the last three days we were given even less water, so we were practically dehydrated.
  
  
  Our camels drank greedily, quickly lowering the pool level. Apparently, there was an underground spring that kept up with the evaporation and seeped into the surrounding ground. The thirsty camels fascinated me, and I realized that the desert tribes lived in a kind of symbiosis with them. It seemed almost impossible that any land animal could swallow so much water without becoming swollen and dying. The teamsters fed ih, made sure that the cargo was comfortable for them and firmly tied.
  
  
  "We'll camp here tonight, Carter," Luigi told me. "Tomorrow morning, when the well is full again, we will fill the water skins."
  
  
  I asked her. "What if someone else wants water?"
  
  
  He was laughing. 'Lions?'
  
  
  "Or people."
  
  
  He tapped the gun. "If there's a lot of ih, Carter, we'll give you another shotgun."
  
  
  Last night we lit two bonfires: one for the teamsters, the Danakil guards, and the prisoners, and the other for Luigi and anyone else he wanted to invite. He invited me.
  
  
  "We'll be at the Borgias in two days, Carter," he said.
  
  
  I asked her. "Who is the Borgia?"
  
  
  — Don't you know that?"
  
  
  "Just a rumor."
  
  
  "Rumors". He spat into the fire. These rumors, these stories that the caravan drivers tell about General Borgia, are not good. He came to our country many years ago. We could have killed him, but some of the tribesmen asked us to see nen as different, and treat him accordingly. The Borgias promised us riches and slaves if we would help emu. So we helped emu.
  
  
  I asked her. "Do you have any riches now?"
  
  
  'Yes. Such wealth. He pointed to the caravan. The screams of the women reached us from another campfire. I stared into the darkness that separated us. Three female slaves were forced to undress, and the men seized ih. Several fights broke out . He looked back at Luigi. He ignored what was happening there.
  
  
  "They're slaves," he said. "That's what we have them for. General Borgia has brought many people here, some even whiter than you. And they need women. This is Borgia wealth.
  
  
  — And you don't like it?"
  
  
  "A warrior loves his people, his weapons, and his camels. My people have lived on this land longer than you can say. We know that there is no place for many of the people that Borgia brought with him. And while we have always defended our country against the Amharic Christians from the north, we do not want to fight against those who have these strange weapons that the Borgias are building. Why did you board Gaard's ship?"
  
  
  "To find out who the Borgias are."
  
  
  "Vote what's going on." Luigi laughed mirthlessly. "Other men tried to find out. Some of them joined the general. The others are dead. I hope you will join him.
  
  
  I didn't answer.
  
  
  "Isn't that right?"
  
  
  "No, Luigi," I said. — You're right to be wary of self-planning. At some point, the Borgia enemies will find the ego and destroy it. They will also kill those who fight alongside the Borgias."
  
  
  'My people?'
  
  
  'Yes.'
  
  
  He spat into the fire again. "In my father's time, people who called themselves Italians came here. They had strange weapons with them, including planes and bombs. In the mountains, the Amharic Christians did it, in the south, the Gauls did it. But the Afars resisted. The Italians entered the desert and died. It has always been so. If outsiders invade Danakil, they will die.
  
  
  At another fire, three women were tied to pegs in the ground, and the Danakils agreed on the procedure for rape. Luigi waved me away. He went to the designated spot, next to another slave I couldn't understand, and curled up in his outer clothing. That night, she woke up three times. Once when two women screamed at the same time, once when a lion coughed, and once for no apparent reason. And Luigi was always awake.
  
  
  The Borgia main camp had four slave quarters, one for women and three for men. They were surrounded by barbed wire and lay in narrow gorges among rocky hills. The tents set up by the bushes and springs were intended for the chiefs and their people. A group of Danakils came running to meet our caravan. They started talking to Luigi. Ih language I'm speechless here. But from Luigi's gestures and Ego's occasional glances at me, I guessed he was describing a fight. A group of guards quickly joins me in one around the slave camps. They opened the gate and ordered me in.
  
  
  "You must be the American one," said a British voice to my right. Her, turned around. A man with one leg on crutches came up to me. He held out his hand.
  
  
  "Nick Carter," I said.
  
  
  "Edward Smith," he said. "Rumor has it that you were in the CIA, or some kind of spy ring. What happened to that woman who was engaged to you?
  
  
  "She's dead," I said, describing the attack on the camp. "Bloodthirsty bastards, those Danakils," he said. "I was captured five years ago. I was working as a consultant for the Ethiopian army patrol when we encountered a group of Borgia people. That's when I lost my leg. Her only survivor. The Borgias seem to be having fun keeping me alive and letting me do all the dirty work.
  
  
  Edward Smith struck me as extremely fake. Everything he said might be true, but ego, the fake English tour stank too much. Still, it could be very useful.
  
  
  — I don't think there's any point in all the houses around admitting that I'm a spy, " I said. "They expect me to find out what this Borgia is up to."
  
  
  "He's planning to take over the whole fucking world," Smith laughed. — He'll tell you about it soon. How did they get you?
  
  
  — I was on board some wild barge going down the Norfolk River to Massaua. While he was on deck, enjoying himself and congratulating himself on his cover, the first second mate and a group of men with guns appeared. He couldn't resist at all. With them is ferret, her prisoner.
  
  
  "Any idea how you were discovered?"
  
  
  'Yes. I pretended to think about it for a moment, to decide how much I could trust Smythe with her. "I was a KGB agent on board. He killed her, but only after she told someone he apparently knew who she was. "The second mate says he saw me kill this man, but I doubt it.
  
  
  "That must be Gaard, that boastful Norwegian," Smythe said. "By the way, Carter, this isn't a KGB operation. If the Russians knew about this place, they would be just as happy to wipe it out as your government. A few weeks ago, we had a Russian spy until he made General Borgia very unhappy. Smith took me around the camp, introducing me to several Amharic and other European prisoners — two Germans, a Swede, and a Czech. They all came to Danakil, believing that ih had hired the Borgias, and ended up as slaves.
  
  
  "That sounds delicious," he said to Smythe.
  
  
  "Yes, as long as you remain a loyal servant who won't fail us with a single order."
  
  
  After lunch, I had a chance to meet the Borgias. I didn't get any idea about nen intentionally. The only photos I saw of her were taken a few years ago, and they showed a skinny political adman with empty eyes. The man sitting on the thick carpet in the big tent wasn't exactly a thin, hollow-eyed man. He was tanned by the sun, and his eyes were almost lifeless.
  
  
  "Sit down, Carter," he said invitingly. Her sel was on the other side of the low table where he was sitting. He released the two armed Danakils who had brought me here around the camp. At the same time, he placed the pistol hanging from his belt in an easily accessible place. "I've heard some interesting stories about you," he said.
  
  
  "Are they true?"
  
  
  "You can always trust Luigi, Carter. He assured me that you were instrumental in the safe arrival of our last caravan. So maybe I owe you one.
  
  
  "I saved my life," I said. "Those bandits weren't interested in saving me."
  
  
  "Absolutely fantastic. Wine?'
  
  
  "Please," I said. I tried not to laugh as he carefully poured the wine with his left hand and passed the mug across the chair. He almost spilled the red liquid because he was staring at me so intently.
  
  
  "Gaard says you're very dangerous, even though he says you didn't kill the signalman. Is that true, Carter?"
  
  
  'No.'
  
  
  "I think so too. He raised his shoulders. "But it doesn't matter. Why did you come here?"
  
  
  "The Ethiopian government has come to us for help," I said.
  
  
  — Do you work together with the KGB?
  
  
  'No. Although hers, I understand that they are equally interested in you.
  
  
  "Actually," he said. "Just like the Chinese. What is the reason for this interest, Carter?
  
  
  "Twenty-three rockets."
  
  
  "Well, you're so talkative. Your Russian colleague refused to tell me anything."
  
  
  He laughed. "I think you know where these missiles are. I even want to tell you why I was sent here - why do you need them? Why did you add three Minuteman rockets to your shopping list?
  
  
  "Forget about the minutemen," he ordered.
  
  
  Borgia poured me some wine and poured himself another glass. He asked. "Have you ever heard of Prester John?"
  
  
  "The legendary emperor who ruled Ethiopia in the Middle Ages."
  
  
  "You're getting closer to the truth, Carter. But Prester John is not a legend, and neither is the Queen of Sheba. These two Ethiopians are thanks to extensive enough myths to make ih believe that they are the best people in all of Africa. They will be happy to inform you that this is a web-based African country that has never known a European prescribed. Of course, at the end of the last century, the British frolicked here a little, and the Italians were here in the 1930s, but such unpleasant facts are conveniently forgotten. And they are eager to crown a new prester John."
  
  
  I told her. "You?"
  
  
  'Yes, me.'
  
  
  If Borgia was crazy, he wasn't completely stupid. Plus he had nuclear missiles. So I decided to treat him like a sane math major.
  
  
  Ego asked her. "You don't think the Ethiopian government will object?"
  
  
  'Yes. But they can't control Danakil. And that's why they went to America. And then comes N3, Nick Carter. Killmaster on AX. And where are you now, Carter?"
  
  
  "I'm doing my job. "I should have known what you were up to.
  
  
  "Then I'll simplify your task, Carter," he said. "I want to rule all of East Africa. Prester John Stahl is a legend because he surrounded himself with the best troops in all of Northeast Africa and stopped the encroachment of Islam. He surrounded himself with the best warriors of the modern world. Have you seen my men?
  
  
  "The Danakils," I said.
  
  
  "They don't have any fear. They just need a leader and a modern weapon."
  
  
  — Are they the bandits who attacked the caravan and prevented you from taking their three Minutemen, also Danakils?"
  
  
  "Renegades," he said angrily. "And these three Minutemen are being rounded up, Carter. I have some of the best rocket specialists in the world working for me. And soon the name Cesare Borgia will become a household name all over the world."
  
  
  — I thought your name was Carlo Borgia."
  
  
  "Carlo Borgia was exiled across Italy, a decadent democracy that equally decadent communists were eager to embrace. Carlo Borgia was a young fool who tried to get the working class to vote for his greatness and tried to defeat criminal politicians in his own voter manipulation. Italy expelled Carlo Borgia. So Italy will be among the first countries to send ambassadors to Cesare Borgia."
  
  
  "There was a church behind the real Cesare's father," I said.
  
  
  "Don't say anything more about the original Cesar," he said. "At school, they laughed and joked with me. "'Your father is married to your mother, Cesare'?" . "Where is Lucrezia ? »
  
  
  Her, I saw him sit down. "The voice of Lucretius," he said, ringing the bell.
  
  
  The tent's bait screen opened, and a young Amharic woman walked in. She was almost five feet tall, and ee Swedes only had to show off her proud body. Under the Islamic danakil, she wore a chador, and now she was wearing only a long skirt. Her brown breasts were large and firm, and her thin mistletoe skirt had long slits at the sides that exposed her muscular legs.
  
  
  "This is Maryam," he said. "Miriam, bring us some more wine."
  
  
  "Yes, General Borgia," she said in plain Italian.
  
  
  When she was gone, Borgia said:: "Her father and uncle are leaders of the Coptic Church. They influence the government. So as long as she's my hostage, the Ethiopians won't do anything against me.
  
  
  Maryam came back and handed Borgia another open bottle of red wine.
  
  
  "Maryam," he said, " Mr. Carter is an American. He came here at the request of the Ethiopian Government.
  
  
  'Is that true?'What is it?' she asked in English.
  
  
  'Yes.'
  
  
  "He spoke Italian," Borgia shouted. 'Mr. Carter will be our guest for a few days, " he told Miriam. "Maybe he'll live long enough to see your father and uncle celebrate our wedding."
  
  
  — I've already told you that they don't want this.
  
  
  "They will if they want to see you alive again."
  
  
  "I'm already dead to them."
  
  
  - For estestvenno. That's why Carter, our hard-working American, is here. That's why we're not worried about the Ethiopian troops."
  
  
  He sent it to Maryam. I was wondering why he bothered to show it to me.
  
  
  "I'm not stupid, Carter," he said. Until my empire is recognized by the Ethiopian government, the Americans will remain my enemies. Just like the Russians. So I don't exclude you.
  
  
  — I will remain your prisoner?"
  
  
  'At this point in time. The Danakils track everything that moves in the desert. We'll talk again in a few days. There are a few other details you haven't told me.
  
  
  He clapped his hands. Two guards led me back to the slave camp.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  
  
  
  I spent the next two days studying camp life. Just after sunrise, the slaves were fed breakfast, and then they disappeared into the work squads guarded by the Danakil warriors. He stayed in the camp with a few other men . Then he saw a group of Amharic men pacing up and down the dusty, rocky valley. If Borgia had bribed the relevant Ethiopian officials, he could have obtained the information by hacking into me by intercepting Larsen's message. Her, knew that the flight attendant had been identified, and he guessed that the ego message from Georgetown to Russia had betrayed me, but now he realized that they knew I was an AX agent before her, boarded the Hans Skeelman . It all depends on what Hawke told the Ethiopian government and how well security was secured.
  
  
  On my first full day at camp, Edward Smith visited me openly before lunch. He was accompanied by Danakil with a submachine gun, and a dark-skinned slave carrying a bundle of clothes.
  
  
  "Come on, Carter," Smythe said. "General Borgia wants you to wash your face and put on Western clothes."
  
  
  We came to a rusty metal tank. The water in nen wasn't clean, but I managed to wash away most of the desert dirt. Then he put on khaki trousers and a shirt, and put a braided helmet on his head.
  
  
  "I feel a lot better about myself," he told Smythe.
  
  
  — Will you join the Borgias?" Smith asked.
  
  
  "He says he can't give me a chance in this."
  
  
  "Too bad, Carter. Borgia may be a crazy Italian, but he's also very smart. The ego plan is clever enough to succeed.
  
  
  "Are you with him?"
  
  
  "Maybe — if he gives me a chance."
  
  
  The drive back from baqom gave me a new perspective on the camp. In a short time, they managed to make the ego almost completely invisible with air sampling. And one small detail was missing, or rather twenty-three details. Where were those damned missiles? That's why I didn't know my bearings very well, but it seemed that we were on a high plateau, much higher than the Danakil Desert itself. Maybe these missiles were hidden somewhere in the hills.
  
  
  If I want to escape around this camp, I have to do it before the Borgias question me. I had a feeling that this KGB agent had succumbed to torture. But even now, he couldn't think of a way to make his move. Not when the camp was guarded by Danakil warriors, and at night the only way to escape was during the general chaos. The slaves didn't immediately look like they had the morale to start a rebellion. What if her escaped around the camp? I didn't even know where I was. He could go northeast to the Ethiopian Highlands and hope to meet civilization. But it's more than likely that I would have met the Danakil village if the desert hadn't hit me earlier. With no wires to guide me through the desert, I wandered blind and thirsty.
  
  
  She was still pondering a minimal escape plan when the next evening sel Czech Vasili Pachek was next to me.
  
  
  'Do you speak German?'What is it?' he asked in that language.
  
  
  'Yes.'
  
  
  "All right." He looked around. "That damned Vyacheslav Smith isn't spying for Khem. I have to show it to you tomorrow."
  
  
  'Tomorrow?'
  
  
  'Yes. Along with General Borgia and Maryam. And with my clumsy team of helpers, the Danakils and Somalis. Are you in the CIA, Mr. Carter?"
  
  
  "No, but you're close," I said.
  
  
  "It's good that you're not in the KGB. As far as I'm concerned, I'd rather be with the Borgias than the KGB. I managed to escape when they, the Russians, captured Prague with their tanks. Her, thought the Borgias were aiming their missiles at Moscow. But then her discovered that he was aiming for the whole world. And instead of being an ego lieutenant, her ego is now a slave.
  
  
  He stood up and rubbed his legs as if his ego muscles were straining. When he was done with that, he carefully scanned his surroundings for any enemy eyes.
  
  
  When he sat down again, he calmly said, " Your thorough inspection must have a reason. Its ready to go.'
  
  
  "Maybe there won't be a problem tomorrow. At least not today. If you're a secret agent, you have to be good with guns. Yes?'
  
  
  "Yes," I said.
  
  
  He nodded. "When morning comes and the guards are few and there is ih malo, you will help me when the battle begins. Do you know that the Danakils fight only to kill?
  
  
  "They attacked the caravan he came with."
  
  
  "In the caravan were the controls of three Minuteman missiles. Maybe we won't sleep in camp tomorrow. Take this.'
  
  
  He was gone before he could hide the thin curved blade between his clothes. Vasil Pachek even considered taping the weapon to my skin.
  
  
  Borgia rode a camel. As well as the four guards who accompanied us. Maryam, Pachek, the two ego helpers, and she went walking. It took us all morning and part of the day to reach the break of low hills.
  
  
  Beyond it, a small river glistened. The village of Danakil lies on sand and rocks by the water. The local nobles rode up to us , and he and the Borgias exchanged lavish greetings in their native language.
  
  
  "Who is the chief?" Maryam asked her.
  
  
  "He manages people who work for the Borgias. He thinks he's going to be very personable in the new Borgia court.
  
  
  I didn't tell hey that the leader has a very good chance that the ego, the wish, will come true. Even if we managed to escape tonight or tonight, I wasn't surprised by the chance we had in the desert. And with his nuclear missiles, Borgia could simply carry out his international blackmail.
  
  
  She was asked by sl. - " Why are you with me?"
  
  
  "I must become a Borgia wife, even though I am now his ego slave. Because of my family, my presence here makes a huge impression on this small village. And tonight will be a drunken night.
  
  
  — Are you participating too?"
  
  
  "No, — she said. "As a slave, she could provide entertainment, but the Borgias can't afford to ruin my future in the eyes of these men."
  
  
  Borgia and the chief exchanged a ritual drink with a cup. There was a lot of laughter before Borgia returned to our group.
  
  
  "Rockets, Packs," he said.
  
  
  At Pachek's direction, Danakila and the Somalis removed some rocks and boulders in front of the cave.
  
  
  "This is one cave at twenty — sixth," Borgia told me. "In the near future, the three largest ones will also be filled in."
  
  
  I've been thinking about it. The rocket he showed us was placed in a truck, ready to be taken out. It was a Russian model with a power reserve of eight to eleven hundred kilometers. Its launch pad and everything around it will be burned at launch.
  
  
  'Show Mr. Carter how her CAR works, Packer,' Borgia ordered.
  
  
  The Czech expert got confused in the detailed description, pointing to various switches and buttons on the control panel. He took it very seriously and sometimes got lost in loud curses when the two ego masters did stupid things. And it happened sometimes. Too late, I thought. Even uneducated tribesmen can learn to follow orders and flip switches on command.
  
  
  Her father tried his best to look impressed. I loudly shouted that the Borgia plans were monstrous and insane when Pachek told me that this missile would hit oil refineries in Israel.
  
  
  Borgia laughed at my horror.
  
  
  "Tell Em what else they're targeting, Pachek," he said. 'Cairo. Athens. Baghdad. Damascus. Main cities. The Middle East, Mr. Carter, if the world denies General Borgia the ego of the lands.
  
  
  "And one missile was aimed at Addis Ababa-Abeba if the Ethiopians refused to capitulate," Borgia added.
  
  
  Maryam stared at him, her eyes wide with fear or anger. "Maybe you can prevent the launch of this rocket, Maryam," he said. "Pack, close it again."
  
  
  He sat on a rock and tried to look suitably desperate as Packer led his assistants to camouflage the rocket's hiding place. He wondered if all those missiles were useless, too.
  
  
  "What do you think, Carter?" Borgia asked.
  
  
  "That you'd have to have a hell of a lot of influence to get hold of these things." According to our reports, they were stolen, and us the Egyptian, us the Israeli government did not know what had happened."
  
  
  "His hotel wants you to think so, too," he said.
  
  
  — So you have connections in both countries.
  
  
  "That's a tricky conclusion, mister. Carter.
  
  
  I asked her. - "How do you get the necessary funds?"
  
  
  "What's this for a corkscrew?"
  
  
  "Very logical. You are absolutely right, Borgia, that you think we know very little about you. But we knew that your political skirmishes in Italy were not entirely unprofitable for you. But you soon had to disappear via Leghorn, so you must have run out of money long ago. Now you have the money and people you need to build your own missile base in the middle of the Ethiopian desert."
  
  
  "Have you lost me?"
  
  
  "We heard you were in Africa."
  
  
  "But you shouldn't have followed me?"
  
  
  "It was wrong, and we won't make that mistake again," I said.
  
  
  "It's too late, mister. Carter. Tomorrow we'll talk about your future. If you weren't so damn dangerous, a lot of the chiefs in the area would want to have a white slave."
  
  
  Pachek and the two ego men finished disguising the rocket. The guards surrounded us and took us to a small hut near the village. They pushed us in there and told us not to create any problems. Maryam was waiting for our daughter at the door. We need large bowls of hot food.
  
  
  "We eat with our hands," she said.
  
  
  Sl asked her, " What's going on?'
  
  
  "The Borgias are going to a party. And only two warriors will remain here.
  
  
  After we took over, Maryam again passed the bowls outside to one of the guards. He growled something and she stepped outside. We heard loud noises, occasional gunshots, and sometimes volleys around the village.
  
  
  — Have you seen camels?" Arfat de Somalie asked in Italian. "Yes," I said.
  
  
  "We must have women," he told us.
  
  
  'Why?'
  
  
  "Because they're women. I know her from camels.
  
  
  "Let him steal the camels for us," he suggested to Pachek. Saifa Danakil looked angry. Pachek kept asking him what was wrong, but he just cursed.
  
  
  Maryam said: "You put a Somali in a situation of danger and trust. Then why shouldn't Danakil object to it?
  
  
  "I expect they won't forget the tribal feuds when we try to escape," I said.
  
  
  'Of course not. Somalis and Danakils do not consider each other equal. And they both hate my people, who are called Ethiopia by the law of ancient conquest."
  
  
  "Only the po Danakilov wire can take us through the desert," Pachek said.
  
  
  "For God's sake, tell that Saifa before he gets mad and ruins our whole plan," I said. Packer sat down next to Saifa. Danakil spoke very little Italian, and it took the Czech a long time to get the message across. Saifa finally understood. He turned to me.
  
  
  "I will be your guide, no matter how lousy these camels that this Somali steals are," he said.
  
  
  — How long do we have to wait?" Packer asked.
  
  
  "Until midnight," Maryam said. 'When they're full of food and drink. Then ih is easy to kill. Hey, I hear you're a warrior, Mr. Carter?
  
  
  "If we run away together, call me Nick," I suggested.
  
  
  "Vassily isn't a warrior, Nick. We depend on you. While we waited, I tried to find out a little more. He pointed Vasil Pachek to a quiet spot at the back of the hut. We also spoke with a friend in broken German.
  
  
  Ego asked her. "All missiles are as useless as mine, what did you show me?"
  
  
  "Four of these short-range missiles have their own portable launchers," he said. "I have two of them under my control, so they will be harmless in the sea."
  
  
  "What about the others?"
  
  
  "They belong to the Germans. I'm sorry, Carter, but I don't trust the Germans. Her Czech. But the other missiles — whoever controls them, it doesn't matter — will self-destruct at the moment of launch and not cause much damage.
  
  
  — So the big Borgia threat with these missiles isn't real?"
  
  
  "I was hoping you'd see this, Mr. Carter."
  
  
  It was moved by Alenka and I felt the band holding the blade on the inside of my thigh tighten. "We may not all get out alive," I said.
  
  
  "Maybe no one," Pachek said.
  
  
  "Okay, listen up. If you manage to get to the U.S. Embassy, go inside. Find the responsible secretary there. Tell the emu that you have a message from N3 for AX. N3. AH. Did you remember that?"
  
  
  It repeats my code and the name of my secret service. — What should I tell them?"
  
  
  — What you just told me.
  
  
  Couldn't think of anything better to pass the time, his bench press off the floor to get some sleep. If we were going to steal camels for most of the night and fight our way through villages with drunken Danakils, then I might as well get some rest.
  
  
  About fifteen minutes after her bench press, she woke up again. Maryam was sprawled out beside me.
  
  
  She asked. 'Is it good?'
  
  
  "Yes," I said, trying not to touch her.
  
  
  He fell asleep again.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  
  
  
  Around midnight, he woke up again. Maryam is still lying next to me with her eyes open.
  
  
  She asked. "Is it time?"
  
  
  'Yes.'
  
  
  Saifa straightened up as he pulled out his knife. He drew a similar weapon around the folds of his shirt and grinned in the darkness of the hut. In one respect, we chose a bad night for our escape, as the moon was high and full.
  
  
  Saifu let her pass first. Carefully, he parted the branches that served as screens. I stood there until the ego's hand came back and pulled me forward.
  
  
  He slipped noiselessly through the curtain. He followed, carefully setting the branches in place so they wouldn't rustle. The two sentries guarding the doorway sat with their backs to us, their heads bowed. Next to them were three large mugs. It was made in them by a knife.
  
  
  Saifa walked to my left as we moved forward. He matched my gait as they walked carefully over the packed earth that separated us from the two guards. No sooner had we reached them than the rough surface of the hotel creaked under my boot, and the right-hand sentry moved. He dove forward, wrapped his left hand around ego's throat to stifle a scream, and swung. Her turned weapon into a calf's ego in the form of a heart. He collapsed forward. He pulled out his gun, turned around, and saw Saifa doing the same to another guard. "I'll get a gun," Saifa whispered, and disappeared into the darkness before hers could say anything.
  
  
  Then Arfat appeared in the doorway of the hut and ran silently toward the herd of camels. He seemed to know where he was going and didn't even try to follow him.
  
  
  He knelt in front of the two dead guards. One of them had an Israeli machine gun. The other had both a Lee-Enfield and an old Smith & Wesson. 38. I dismantled her ammunition and asked her to give the rifle to Pachek.
  
  
  "I've never held a gun before," he said.
  
  
  "Maryam?" He whispered it.
  
  
  "Give me the gun," she said. "I can shoot if I know how to charge the ego."
  
  
  He quickly showed her how and where to load the Lee-Enfield. .Smith & Wesson 38 gave it to Pachek. "It's not hard," I said. "But when you get close to your goal, just aim for life and pull the trigger."
  
  
  I saw movement in the shadows to her left. Her husband turned quickly, raising his gun, but Maryam said, " I don't know.: "This is our fellow Danakila."
  
  
  A moment later, Saifa was at our side, rifle in hand, pistol at his belt.
  
  
  "I can kill a lot of people," he boasted.
  
  
  "No," said Pasek. "Let's run to your people."
  
  
  "Only the chief's house has sentri," said Danakil. "Come on," I muttered, and went to the camel pen.
  
  
  Saifa's information solved my problem. If the Borgias can kill her, there's a chance that the ego organization will fall apart. But I wasn't close enough to him to be absolutely sure. I didn't know what positions free Europeans held in the ego camp. Her also didn't know how strong the ego of the Ethiopian organization was. The only way to kill ego was if I managed to escape around a village full of angry, hungover Danakils, but that seemed extremely unlikely.
  
  
  And it belongs to them that someone as important as the Borgias, to get such a welcome as that day, he will sleep in the chief's house or somewhere nearby, in the guest house. And Saifa said there were sentries there. So while killing the Borgias might end the thread of my mission, I rejected that possibility.
  
  
  The information he received was more important. Either Packer or she had to get to the U.S. Embassy. Once AX finds out where the Borgias have hidden most of their missiles, that most around them are useless, and where the hall is encamped, there will always be a way to put an ego thread to nuclear blackmail. We could even share our information with the Russians, who were just as concerned about the Middle East as we were.
  
  
  We reach the camel pen. Next to the hole that Arfat had closed with thick iron wire, Danakil lay dead. Five camels were standing next to a small hut, and a Somali man was busy saddling the camels.
  
  
  "Identify the emu," Pachek told Saifa.
  
  
  "They're bad camels," he growled. "Somalis don't know anything about camels.
  
  
  Maryam, Packer, and her searched the hut for all available water skins and canned goods. She would have been much happier if we could have found more, but we didn't have time to go out for food.
  
  
  "We are ready," Arafat said. "They're camels."
  
  
  Then I decided to ask the Somali why he insisted on taking the camels. My experience with these animals was limited, but I'd never noticed before that one gender was preferable to the other. Both camels and camels had exceptional stamina and an incredibly bad temper.
  
  
  We were almost out of town when a gunman started shooting. As the bullets whizzed past us, a submachine gun grabbed her and spun her around in the high saddle. He saw the flash of gunfire and fired back. I didn't expect to hit anything, since the camel's gait makes it completely impossible, but the shooting stopped.
  
  
  "Hurry up," said Packer.
  
  
  "You don't have to tell me that," I said. "Tell those damned beasts to run faster."
  
  
  Arfat chose good animals, so that Saifa nas would think about the level of intelligence of Somalis. The camel is not exactly the fastest animal in the world, and if there were horses in the village, they would definitely overtake us. But the camels keep a steady pace, like a ship escaping the first waves of a hurricane, and if you don't get seasick or crash, oni will get you where you need to go, at the right time. Two hours after we left the village, we passed through low hills and sandy strips along the rivers. Saifa then gestured to us to go to & nb.
  
  
  "Let the camels drink as much as they want," he said. "Fill each vessel with water and sing very much yourself."
  
  
  "Why don't we go further down the river?" Packer asked. "We'll just go upstream, and that's exactly the direction we want to go."
  
  
  "The river people there are ih friends." Saifa pointed to the village behind us, and the fact that we had just escaped. "They're not my friends. They're looking for us along the river. We'll go to the desert.
  
  
  "He's right," Pacheku told her. He turned to our guide, Danakil. — Do we have enough water and food?"
  
  
  "No," he said. "But maybe we'll find something." Or people who have it. He tapped the gun.
  
  
  "When I came here, we swam across the river on a raft," Pachek said. "It's not a long trip, and..."
  
  
  "The desert," I said, ending the discussion. "Vasili, start filling the wineskins. If the Borgia has openly taken you on the river, then ego connections in the river are quite safe for him.
  
  
  "I didn't think about it before," he said.
  
  
  -"The desert," said Arfat, " the desert is a very good place to live.
  
  
  He and Saifah tried to outdo each other in camel handling and desert knowledge. I was happy that ih tribal differences were expressed in this way, since we all benefited from it. But I was wondering how explosive the Danakil-Somalian combination would become when we ran out of food and drink. And I was worried about Saifa's attitude when we entered the ego tribe's territory. Perhaps he will continue to think of us as comrades, but perhaps he will also decide to think of us as invaders, such perfect victims for the resulting few new bracelets.
  
  
  We crossed the river and ran into the night. I could see that we were swollen to the northeast, because as night fell the dark hills to the west began to fade. For a moment, he doubted Saifa's wisdom. He doesn't think the desert is a hostile environment, but the others around us would be helpless there.
  
  
  Then her, told himself that the plan made sense. By choosing the worst area of the desert, we avoided villages or settlements with small or extensive communications, which allowed us to reach Tigray Province in the north and thus pass through the Borgia spheres of influence. No wonder Saifa said to take a lot of water. Until we move west, we will remain in a barren, burning desert.
  
  
  It was late afternoon when Saifa finally gave the order to stop. The dusty sand formed a sort of hollow in the desert, the entrance to which was only through a narrow gorge to the east. It was big enough for ten camels, and for us. He stretched his legs and drank a small portion of water. In another hour, the dunes will give shade. Shadow. She was silently cursed by Edward Smythe with his Western-style ego. He would have liked to trade his helmet for native clothing. On the final leg of our journey, I came to see resources, people, and animals that weren't here. I drank some more water and wondered how we were going to survive this trip. "Should we put up a guard?" Saifu asked her.
  
  
  'Yes. The Borgia Afars are after us. They have strong camels and a lot of people. The wind didn't erase our tracks in one day. She and the Somali are not on duty at all when. You and Pachek can't see the sun.
  
  
  "Then we'll be on night duty," I said.
  
  
  'Good.'
  
  
  Too tired to eat, he watched as Saifa climbed to the top of the highest dune, burrowing into the sand to explore the area unnoticed. His bench press was lying in the shade of his camel and fell asleep. I woke up to Arfat shaking my shoulder from side to side. The sun has set.
  
  
  "Now wait," he said. "Eat some food."
  
  
  He spoke a Somali dialect that is close to the Arabic that his father spoke to him. "Sleep, Arfat," I said. "I'll get something to eat when I'm on guard."
  
  
  I found her a can of beef. I had to step over a sleeping Pachek to get to the food. The Czech was in his late fifties and in poor physical condition. He wondered how many days he would endure, how long he would live. From his lab in Prague to the Ethiopian desert was a chasm. Pachek must have had a very good reason to run away from the Russians. I should have known more about it.
  
  
  When I realized that what little I knew about Pachek had almost made Ego my old friend, she almost laughed. Maryam was an Amharic, the beautiful daughter and niece of high-ranking Coptic dignitaries. That's all I knew about her. Arfat, a Somali, was a good camel thief. He trusted Saifa with his life simply because he was a Danakil. He opened the jar and looked down at the dune. Saifa and Arfat made their way to the top of the mountain, and she struggled to keep her balance on the dangerously quick sand slope below. There were stars in the sky, and the clear desert night seemed almost cold, then the terrible heat of the day.
  
  
  At the top of her sel and started eating. The meat was salty. We had no fire. There was another group in the hills to the west of us, more confident of their survival than we were, and they were clearly not expecting an attack. Ih the fire was small. But it burned there like a bright beacon in the dark. And hers, hoping it would lead the Borgia people astray.
  
  
  From above me came the sound of a jet plane. She saw the flashing lights of the plane, and ego estimated the height at about two and a half thousand meters. At least the Borgias didn't have planes or helicopters. Her, thought the Ethiopians couldn't detect the Borgias with air sampling. And that thought stuck in my head as I watched it.
  
  
  When Pachek changed me and her, discovered that Maryam was still awake, he asked her about it.
  
  
  "He has money," she said. "When I get back, some people will have big problems. I know her ih names. The Borgias are all about showing off when they want to impress a woman.
  
  
  — How is the political situation in Ethiopia, Maryam? — I thought you had a stable government."
  
  
  "The lion of Judas is an old, proud man, Nick. Young people, his sons and grandsons can growl and threaten, but the old lion remains the leader of the room. Sometimes there are conspiracies, but the Lion of Judas remains in power. They who don't actually serve the emu feel ego revenge."
  
  
  "What happens when a Lion dies?"
  
  
  "Then comes a new Lion, an Amharic chief. "Maybe someone is over the ego race, maybe not. This is not a foregone conclusion. That wasn't important either. Everything I knew about Ethiopia corresponded to the national character the Borgias had given me about it. They prided themselves on being the only African country not colonized by Europe. They once lost a brief war with the British, which resulted in the emperor committing suicide. Shortly before the outbreak of World War II, they suffered at the hands of the Italians when they learned too late that the powers of the League of Nations did not extend as far as they claimed. But they were never a client state. What the Borgias would have done to settle in the desert was an internal problem for Ethiopia. And any European or American who got involved in this was a big idiot. Maryam put her hand on my back and flexed the muscles under my shirt.
  
  
  "You are as tall as the men of my people," she said.
  
  
  "You're big too, Maryam," he told her.
  
  
  "Too big to be pretty?"
  
  
  He sighed softly. "You can intimidate a short man, but a reasonable person knows that your height is part of your beauty," I said. "Even if your features are hidden under a veil."
  
  
  She raised her hand and tore off the veil.
  
  
  "At home," she said, " I dress Western. But among the Danakils, who are followers of the Prophet, I wear a veil as a sign of my chastity. Even a small Somali whose chicken bones I break with one hand might think that my face is an invitation to rape."
  
  
  "Poor Arfat," I said. "Saifa assumes that she doesn't know anything about camels. Packer orders the emu in all directions. And you mock the ego of growth. Why doesn't anyone like him?
  
  
  "He's Somali. He's a thief.
  
  
  "He chose good camels for us."
  
  
  "Of course," she said. — I didn't say he was a bad thief. She just said that all Somalis are thieves."
  
  
  He smiled at her in the dark. There was enough historical evidence of the hatred that finally turned Ethiopia into a loose federation of tribes, rather than a cohesive nation. Maryam belonged to the traditionally ruling caste of Christian warriors who held off the Muslim Horde revolt during the Middle Ages, which lasted longer than the dark Ages of Europe. More recent memories of Europe have made me a little more tolerant of the tension among the Ethiopians in our group.
  
  
  Pachek, a Czech, refused to trust any German, so we didn't have reliable data on the operational status of all twenty-three missiles.
  
  
  "The Borgias are also a small man," Maryam said. "He wants to marry me. "I thought you said all the little people were afraid of me?"
  
  
  — Why did he want to marry you?"
  
  
  "My father is powerful. The power that an emu can give her. She paused. "Nick, this is a dangerous journey. We won't all survive.
  
  
  — Do you have any special talent for knowing such things?"
  
  
  'Her woman. According to my father and uncle, only men have such talents.
  
  
  — Where are you going back, Maryam?"
  
  
  "To my parents, I'm ashamed. But it's always better than the Borgias. It's better to be a bad Amharic than a married Muslim. Her didn't lose her honor in the desert. But who would believe me?
  
  
  "Her," I said.
  
  
  She rested her head on my shoulder. "I'm going to lose this, Nick. But not today. Not with others who are wary, watchful, and envious. "I'm not going to bring us back to the marriage, us back to the man, Nick."
  
  
  We spread out our beds, the rough blankets stolen by the Somalis, to throw ih over the camel saddles, side by side. Maryam fell asleep with her head on my shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  
  
  
  The Borgia men attacked us while Pachek was on duty. Ego warning screams woke me up. Then I heard short shots of a .38 caliber. The response was a volley of at least two submachine guns and several rifles. She was grabbed by her submachine gun.
  
  
  Three of the attackers ran down the dune, shooting and stumbling. He picked up the gun and started shooting. When they came down, no one around them stood up.
  
  
  Maryam's rifle clattered next to me. A gawk whizzed over my head. Arfat and Saifa joined in and opened fire at the same time. The main part of our attackers ' active recreation went through a gorge in the sand dunes. Since they were so close to each other, it was a mistake. We easily shot ih.
  
  
  As quickly as it had begun, the noise stopped again. Its looked around in the pit for other purposes. Odin was lying on the ground around our camels, kicking. The others were making noises as they struggled to free themselves from the ropes .
  
  
  "Camels! I shouted. "To the camels, Arfat."
  
  
  The Somali ran towards them.
  
  
  "I can watch over there," Saifa said, pointing to the chasm where the main attack was coming from. "You'll look for Pachek."
  
  
  Danakil ran recklessly toward the bodies scattered there in the moonlight. He approached the three men he'd shot more carefully. A cry of fear and pain came from the direction of the ravine. He looked around. Saifa aimed the rifle at the writhing body.
  
  
  He turned away again before the gun went off. She began to examine the three laid by me. Around them, Odin was dead, but the other two were still breathing, even though they were seriously injured.
  
  
  IH grabbed her weapon and threw her in the direction of the camp. Then her, climbed the dune.
  
  
  A gunshot rang out behind me. He turned quickly, raising his rifle. Maryam was sitting over the man. As he watched, she walked over to the other, still breathing, and put a rifle bullet in the emu's head. Then she joined me on the slope.
  
  
  She said. "What's so good about prisoners?"
  
  
  — I was going to leave ih there.
  
  
  "So they can tell the Borgias when and where we left?" She laughed. "They're here to kill us, Nick. Not to capture us.
  
  
  I continued up the sand dune with Maryam behind me. Vasily was almost at the top. Her ego turned her over and wiped the sand off her face. Blood dripped from his rta. His chest and life were riddled with bullet holes. Her ego laid back in the sand and looked up; her gaze looked down. The first thing I saw was a body halfway up the hill. So, Pachek managed to shoot at least one person. He wondered if he'd fallen asleep on watch, or if he hadn't noticed ih approaching. I looked across the moonlit desert at the ih camels. Ih didn't see her.
  
  
  They must have come with camels. The car would have heard him. I continued to scan the area, keeping low so that my silhouette wouldn't be visible in the moonlight. Then she saw camels in the dark shadows of one of the sand dunes. Two men were standing nearby; ih's agitated movements indicated that ih was beginning to worry about what had happened in the bowl on the other side. They were between me and the chasm leading to the pool, so this place did not allow them to see Saifa ruthlessly exterminating ih allies.
  
  
  He very carefully took up a firing position and took aim. But I wasn't careful enough. Odin around the men shouted and aimed at me. He fired a quick shot and missed, but Ego's aim was so distorted that Ego just gawked and picked up the sand. A few camels began to worry. Then the second man jumped on the camel. This time, I had more time to aim properly. It was shot by ego, and then the animal disappeared into the desert. A dark shape appeared across the chasm, gawking at the sand next to my face. I couldn't shoot through the panicked camels. And after a short time, they all went off into the desert, bouncing without riders. I saw a flash of metal and heard a scream.
  
  
  The man stood up. The other remained where it was. Maryam crawled beside me at the top of the dune. It was held by a submachine gun at the ready.
  
  
  "This is Saifa," she said.
  
  
  'Are you sure?'
  
  
  'Yes.'
  
  
  — You have damn good eyes."
  
  
  We stood up. Danakil waved at us.
  
  
  "Go tell Arfat not to shoot anyone," Maryam told her.
  
  
  — That won't be necessary. A real Somali hides with camels." He slid down the dune and joined Saifa.
  
  
  "Nice work with that knife," I said.
  
  
  "We killed nu," he said, putting a friendly arm around my shoulder. "They grabbed me when Odin around them attacked me from behind and kicked him in the heads. But these Afars are not warriors. Even the woman killed a few. He laughed happily.
  
  
  "And Harfat?" Didn't he kill a few too?
  
  
  "Somali? Maybe he killed ih out of fear. He looked around in the darkness. "What if they had a radio right now?" Maybe they called the Borgias before we killed them. She was found by something on the man's back. I think it's the radio.
  
  
  "We'll see," I said.
  
  
  He led me to the dead body. He looked into the open backpack the man was carrying. Nen had a field radio station with a fairly long range.
  
  
  "It's a radio," I said.
  
  
  He fired at the transceiver. Her, watching the pieces fly apart as the bullets tore through her insides. Hers, turned to yell at Saifa to stop, but before hers could say anything, his gun was empty. He threw it away .
  
  
  "Now they can't find us, "he said."No one will use this radio to find us anymore."
  
  
  "No one,"I said. Then he made his way over the corpses to our camels.
  
  
  Now that Pachek was dead, he was between this Somali and this Danakil. He lost his composure. I should have told this stupid desert bandit what he'd just done, but it wouldn't have helped. It was my fault. If he had first explained to Saifa that he could have used this radio to summon someone to save us, he wouldn't have destroyed the ego. Her had to think like these people across the desert if her hotel survived.
  
  
  "Bad news, Nick," Maryam said when we got back to camp. "The camel that moored the most food is dead. Ego cargo, including a lot of water, was damaged. The water runs down into the sand. The Somali is trying to save what he can."
  
  
  'What? Saifa said.
  
  
  She explained it slowly to em in Italian.
  
  
  "Maybe the Borgia people had water."
  
  
  There were ten ihs in total. Pasek killed one. She was shot by three men coming down the hill. And four more in the canyon. The other two were dead bodies left behind with the camels. We could have handled such a force majeure situation pretty well, although ih's reckless attack made it much easier for us. I thought I was beginning to understand something about the Danakil mind. At least if Saifa and Luigi were typical examples of this. They had nothing but contempt for anyone who didn't belong to their own tribe.
  
  
  Our group consisted of two white men, an Amharic woman, a Somali woman, and a Danakil from the enemy tribe. The Borgia men didn't feel the need to encircle and besiege us while they were calling for help on their walkie-talkies.
  
  
  Only the three around them had canteens with them. And they were half-empty. Apparently, most of the ih water was left on the camels — camels now roaming freely somewhere in the desert.
  
  
  "We have to get out of here," Saifa told me.
  
  
  'Yes. Maybe they used the radio before they attacked us. I went to the Harpath. "Like the other camels?"
  
  
  "All right," he said.
  
  
  We played such a game and went into the night. Saifa and Arfat kept their eyes fixed on the desert, and as the sun rose, they scanned the horizon behind us for signs of pursuit. I looked at it, too, though I didn't expect to see anything that they, the desert people, hadn't seen. Our escape seemed to have gone unnoticed.
  
  
  "How far does the Borgia influence extend?" asked Maryam. "We have to go out today or tomorrow. If the leader becomes too powerful, or the ego of the domain becomes too large, it will be known in Addis Ababa-King. They don't know about the Borgias. At least, I don't think so to her.
  
  
  I was concerned about the state of our water supply. Strong Savchenko dried us up. We were rationing the water so much that I always felt sand in my throat. He felt dizzy and feverish. When we stopped that day, Saifu asked her about the problem.
  
  
  "We need water for another four days," he said. — But in two days, we can go to the mountains and try to find her. We can also find people with guns.
  
  
  "Our water is not a problem," Arfat said.
  
  
  Danakil ignored him.
  
  
  Ego asked her. — Do you know where we can find water?"
  
  
  'No. But I know where the milk is. Look.'
  
  
  Arfat went to his camel and took the empty skin from the saddle. He examined the bag carefully to make sure it was still intact. Then he took a few steps back and began to study the camels. He walked over to one around them and started talking to him. The beast recoiled from him.
  
  
  "If he makes the beast run away, the emu will have to run," Saifa said.
  
  
  Arfat continued to speak. The camel almost seemed to understand. She took a few more steps and hesitated, a big mangy beast almost stunned by the small figure approaching her. Her neck came out and I thought she was going to bite or spit. Since our escape, he had been fighting his mount constantly, and the four bites on my leg reminded me that the beast was winning.
  
  
  Arfat continued to speak softly. The camel came up to him, sniffed, and waited for him to pet her. Slowly, he snuggled up to her and turned her sideways to face him. As he continued to speak, he turned into a large beast and grabbed the udder. The camel moved its alenka.
  
  
  "They're Danakil animals," Maryam said. "Ih probably never got milked."
  
  
  "It will be an ego death," Saifa said.
  
  
  "I wish to God it wasn't so," I said, suddenly angry at the constant ethnic slurs. "If he doesn't succeed, we will all die."
  
  
  Danakil kept his mouth shut. He looked at Arfat. He was very slow and tried to persuade the camel to give the emu some milk. Her, saw ego's hand slide around her nipple as he used his other hand to set the bag in place. The camel broke away and left.
  
  
  For a moment Arfat stood perfectly still, knowing that any sudden movement would send the beast flying across the sand, causing at least one around us to die in the desert.
  
  
  Maryam, Saifa, and him tried to stay still for a while. Looking at the camel, I realized that nature did not create her for easy access to women's milk. You can just sit down with a cow, and even a layman will still find a large bag hanging there. A goat is harder to milk, but it's nothing compared to a camel. Just another camel — or a Somali one-is crazy enough to even think about it.
  
  
  He went back to the camel and pressed the bag to her shoulder. Again, the process was repeated to make the ugly beast turn ego on its side so that it could snatch her into life. He squeezed her nipple again. The camel made a soft, singsong sound, then fell silent. Arfat milked quickly, occasionally letting out a trickle, which only then disappeared into the sand. Finally, he got down from the camel, patted her gently on the torso, and turned to us with a big smile on his face.
  
  
  The leather skin was swollen with milk. Arfat drank heavily and greedily, and came up to me.
  
  
  "Good milk," he said. 'Try it.'
  
  
  The wineskin picked it up and held it to Ego's lips.
  
  
  "Somalis are raised on camel milk," says Saifa. "They go out by themselves through the camel's door."
  
  
  Arfat screamed in anger and reached for the knife at his belt. He quickly handed the bag to Maryam and grabbed both men. I didn't have the sense to step between them, but I caught ih off guard and managed to push both men to the ground with her hands. Her, lowered the machine gun on them, stand over them.
  
  
  "That's enough," I said.
  
  
  They glared at each other.
  
  
  "What do you think about ed and drinking for us, other than this camel milk?"
  
  
  He didn't answer.
  
  
  And to her Harp, he said: "Can you make up?"
  
  
  "He insulted me," Arfat said.
  
  
  "You both hurt my feelings," I shouted.
  
  
  They stared at my gun.
  
  
  I chose my words carefully and spoke slowly in Italian so that they would both understand. "If you two want to kill the other person, I can't stop you," I said. — I can't guard you day and night with a rifle until we're safe." I know that you are traditionally enemies of each other. But remember one thing: if one around you dies, if one around us dies, we all die.
  
  
  'Why? Saifa said.
  
  
  "Only Arfat can provide us with food. Only you can lead us across the desert.
  
  
  'And you? Arfat asked.
  
  
  "If I die, the Borgias will soon rule over the entire desert and a much larger land. He will search for you especially hard, because you were the ego's enemies and slaves to the ego. And only Maryam can warn her people in time so that they can provide weapons to kill the ego."
  
  
  They were silent for a moment. Saifa then moved his alenka and sheathed his sword. He rolled away from me and stood up. "You are the leader of the warriors. If you say it's true, then I believe you. I will not insult this Somali again."
  
  
  "All right," I said. He looked at Arfat. "Forget the grudge and put your knife away."
  
  
  He put the knife away and slowly stood up. I didn't like the look on their faces, but she didn't dare shoot him. I didn't know how to milk a camel.
  
  
  "This isn't very good, Nick," Maryam said, handing me the bag. "But it's nutritious."
  
  
  He took a deep breath and lifted the bag to his lips again. I almost threw up at the smell. Goat's milk tasted like honey in comparison. It smelled rancid, and he doubted that homogenizing, pasteurizing, and chilling it would make it more palatable. Some clots were floating in the nen, and I wasn't sure if it was cream, fat, or debris around the bag itself. The milk is also tasteless. He handed it to Saifa and took another breath of fresh air. He drank, looked at us with disgust, and returned the ego to the Somali. Arfat got drunk and laughed.
  
  
  "A person can live forever in camel's milk," he said. "A long life isn't worth it," emu told her.
  
  
  "It was first served with camel milk," Maryam told me.
  
  
  "Don't you drink ego in Ethiopia?"
  
  
  — You're one of the leaders of your people, Nick. Don't the poor people around you have food that you never eat?
  
  
  He couldn't remember ever seeing a pig's head and rump in his Columbus Circle apartment. And there was no bran on the menu of my favorite restaurant, either.
  
  
  "Indeed," I said.
  
  
  We played that saddle game again and rode both ends of the day. Shortly before sunset, we reached a vast salt marsh-like plain. Saifa dismounted and removed the bundles from his saddlebags.
  
  
  "If we observe, no one will be able to surprise us here," he said.
  
  
  Shortly after midnight, when Arfat and Saifa were not his, but were keeping watch on a small island far away from them, Maryam came to me. She looked around at the vast stretch of sand that was now almost beautiful in the soft moonlight.
  
  
  "I want you, Nick," she said.
  
  
  She had already removed her veil. Now she had shed her long skirt and spread it out on the sand, her smooth brown skin glistening in the moonlight. Her body consisted around twists and turns, hollows and shadows.
  
  
  She was warm and full of desire as we wrapped our arms around each other and slowly lowered ourselves onto her skirt. We kissed, gently at first, then more passionately.
  
  
  He ran his hands over her fantastic body and lingered ih on her delicious breasts. Her nipples hardened under my fingers. She reacted awkwardly, as if she didn't quite know how to please me. At first, she just ran her hands down my bare back. Then, as I let my hands slide from her breasts down her flat, hard stomach to the wet hollow between her thighs, she began to caress my entire body with her hands.
  
  
  Her slowly rolled over Nah and let her weight hang on for a while.
  
  
  "Yes," she said. Now.'
  
  
  Its penetrated nah and faced a moment of resistance. She let out a small cry, and then began to move her hips assiduously.
  
  
  Slowly, she increased her rhythm, reacting to my movements. I didn't think she would still be a virgin.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  
  
  
  Three days later, when our water supply was almost exhausted and the eda was completely over, we headed west towards the low rocky hills of Tigray Province. Shortly before sunset, Saifa discovered a small well. We drank carefully, then filled our water skins. The camels showed their usual thirst before grazing under the sparse greenery.
  
  
  "This is a bad place," Safai said.
  
  
  'Why?'
  
  
  "My people live down there." He pointed to the vast expanse of desert. — We'll reach the city in two days. Then we're safe. Lots of water, but there are bad people in the area."
  
  
  Since we hadn't received any very nutritious whine in the last few days, other than camel milk, we quickly got tired. He spent the first watch of the night there, while the others slept. Saifa woke up around ten o'clock and sat down next to me on a large boulder. — Are you going to sleep now?" — No, " he said. "I'll watch for a few hours, and then I'll wake up this Somali."
  
  
  He hobbled her back to our camp. Maryam was lying peacefully next to the camel, and he decided not to disturb her. I found some grass by the well and stretched out on the spot. The world seemed to spin around me for a moment, but then it seemed to fall asleep.
  
  
  I was awakened by the nervous movement of two camels. I felt something strange, but I couldn't tell. I had to live with camels and my own unwashed body for so long that my sense of smell was blunted. Then I heard her cough, growl.
  
  
  He turned his head to the right. The dark form swerved away from me. Stahl's air smelled stronger when her identified sound was like normal breathing. I remembered reading somewhere that lions stink horribly in the iso rta, but I didn't think I'd ever experience that sweet-smelling breath up close.
  
  
  The submachine gun lay to my left. He couldn't turn around, grab the ego, and lift it above his body to aim at the lion. Or he could roll over, jump, pick up the gun, and release the safety catch in one motion. But the lion still had the advantage. He could jump on top of me and start biting me before I could get a good aim.
  
  
  "Nick, when you wake up, he's lying very still," Maryam said softly.
  
  
  Lev raised his head and looked in her direction.
  
  
  "He has a round table," Saifa said.
  
  
  "What does that mean?"
  
  
  "That he's not hungry." A flat-bellied lion wants to eat and attacks. But this one just took over.
  
  
  From my vantage point, I couldn't verify what I was seeing, Danakil, but I could see that my newfound acquaintance was a male with a long, disheveled mane. He tried to remember everything he knew about lions. It wasn't too much. I've certainly never heard of Saifa's theory that you have to look at a lion's belly to make sure it's flat. It seemed to me that anyone who was so close to a lion to study the ego belly would probably be able to take a closer look at the ego's digestive processes from the inside out.
  
  
  Maryam said to lie still. The lion also stood motionless, only waving its tail. This detail bothered me. I've seen a lot of cats waiting patiently for a bird or mouse, and their intentions were revealed only by the involuntary movement of their tails. I wondered if this big cat would be able to put out a paw and stab me at the slightest movement on my part. Maryam's advice seemed very sensible to me.
  
  
  Then I remembered something else-scavenger lions. For example, they drive vultures away from a rotting carcass so that they can easily eat. If I lay still, this lion might decide to drag me off to my next meal in the desert.
  
  
  He stirred and coughed. I was covered by an outdoor activity unpleasant smell iso rta. My nerves were on edge, and he fought the urge to grab the machine gun.
  
  
  Very slowly, the lion turned his body so that it was parallel to mine . Her, looked at his life. It looked rather round, if that really meant anything. Lev turned to look at me again. Then, he slowly walked towards the well. At first her eyes squinted as it passed mimmo of my head. Lev walked very slowly, either not knowing whether to eat or drink. I waited until he was almost at the water's edge before I decided it was time to pick up the machine gun. With all the strength of his will, he waited another minute until the lion was actually leaning over the water. There, he looked around the camp again. I didn't hear any sounds or movements from Maryam and Saifa. Satisfied that the emu was safe, the lion lowered its head and began drinking noisily. I was wondering how I would react the next time I saw a kitten drooling in a saucer of milk. Slowly, her left hand extended, and Stahl rummaged in the ground until he found the cold steel of a submachine gun. Her ego immediately took her. I had to look away from the lion to do this, but I could still hear him drinking.
  
  
  He held the gun so that he could roll over to the left, turn off the safety catch, and take a classic lying position in one smooth motion. It was impossible to perform this maneuver without disturbing the lion, but I felt that this was a chance to gain the upper hand. The weapon had a full magazine, so if the lion had even moved its tail, it would have been shot out in a burst. A sustained salvo would definitely hit something vital.
  
  
  He rolled over and took aim. Maryam gasped loudly when the lion raised its head.
  
  
  "Don't shoot," Saifa said.
  
  
  I didn't answer. Whether to shoot or not depends on the animal itself. If he'd started drinking again, Stahl wouldn't have shot him. If he hadn't gone to Maryam and Saifah, not for the camels, when he went out around the camp, she wouldn't have stahl shoot him. And if he hadn't turned to look at me again, she wouldn't have been able to shoot him. To this extent, he was willing to accept this compromise.
  
  
  There were at least two good reasons why Saifa said not to shoot. He didn't trust the people who lived in this part of the country, and the shooting might draw ih's attention. Another reason was licks: shots could make the lion angry. No matter how well a person shoots us, there is always a chance that he will miss, even under the most favorable circumstances under other circumstances. And attracting with their brilliant pedagogical abilities, the conditions were not too good.
  
  
  Sergey is deceptive. The moon, though full, had almost set. And leo fit in perfectly with the ego environment. Once hers was in the prone position, hers remained in that position, and Stahl waited to see what the lion would do.
  
  
  Lev drank some more water. Satisfied, he raised his head and growled. The camels howled in fear.
  
  
  "Lion," Arfat shouted from his post. "In the lion camp."
  
  
  "It's been a long time," Maryam said.
  
  
  This loud conversation seemed to upset Lev. He looked at Maryam, at the camels, and then at the place where the Harpath should have been. The gun tightened its grip on her and increased the pressure with the index finger of his right hand. Just a little more and I'll shoot.
  
  
  The lion moved slowly to the left, away from us. He seemed to fade into the night, and his ego quickly lost sight of him.
  
  
  Two minutes later, Saifa said, " He's gone."
  
  
  Its got up. "Now I want to know how the hell he got into this camp," I bellowed.
  
  
  Arfat met me halfway through our camp and ego boulder.
  
  
  "The lion came from a different direction that I didn't look at," he said.
  
  
  "Or were you asleep?"
  
  
  'No. I just didn't see this lion.
  
  
  "Go back to camp and get some sleep," I said. "I'm not sleeping. This beast has been breathing in my face for a long time.
  
  
  "So he wasn't hungry," he said.
  
  
  I wanted to turn and kick Arfat with my boot. But I managed to pull myself together. Even if the Somali hadn't fallen asleep, it was pure carelessness on his part not to notice this lion. Or this "omission" was deliberate. I haven't forgotten the look on Ego's face when ego separated her from Saifa.
  
  
  Shortly after noon the next day, we stopped at another well for a short rest. The presence of water made me feel much better, although I was so hungry that I would have greedily devoured a piece of meat cut from one of our own camels. I'd lost about fifteen pounds during our trip through the desert, and I'd had to tighten my belt to the last hole. But otherwise, hers felt pretty strong. Hers, of course, was able to survive the day that was given to us from the city.
  
  
  — Do you think there is a police station in the city? Maryam asked her. "It should be there. Let me talk to them, Nick. I know how to talk to them.
  
  
  'Good. It should reach Addis Ababa-Abeba or Asmara as soon as possible."
  
  
  We had just left the well when we reached the top of the slope and came across a group of three Danakils. Although they were also surprised, they reacted faster than we did. They started shooting. Arfat screamed and fell from his camel.
  
  
  By that time, I already had a vending machine. Saifa and Maryam also started shooting. A minute later, three of our opponents were on the ground. He looked at Maryam. She was laughing. Then Saifa slowly slid down from the saddle.
  
  
  He jumped down from the camel and ran towards it. He'd been shot in the shoulder, but as far as she could tell, the wound wasn't too deep for gawking eyes to damage any vital organ. I washed her hole with water and bandaged it. Maryam knelt before the Harp.
  
  
  "He's dead," she said, coming back to stand beside me.
  
  
  "That's too bad," I said. "He saved us with his camel's milk."
  
  
  — And he almost killed us — especially you-because you didn't warn us about this lion in time."
  
  
  "Arfat fell asleep. He was brave, but not strong enough for this journey.
  
  
  "Was he asleep?" Maryam laughed softly. "Nick, I told you never to trust Somalis. He hated you for not letting em fight that Danakil.
  
  
  "Maybe," I said. "But it doesn't matter.
  
  
  Saifa blinked, slowly regaining consciousness. I expected him to groan, but he shifted his gaze to me and remained stoically calm.
  
  
  He asked. "How badly was she hurt?"
  
  
  "Maybe your shoulder is broken." It didn't hit anything inside, but the gawking is still there."
  
  
  — We need to get out of here, " he said, straightening up.
  
  
  "Not until I put a sling on you," emu told her.
  
  
  We left behind the bodies of the three attackers and Arfat. Hers, hoping that the big room of hungry lions would pass mimmo before ihk aroused suspicion.
  
  
  We walked until nightfall. Danakil, in great pain but still alert, told us to set up camp in the wadi.
  
  
  "We are maybe two hours away from the city," he said. — We're going there tomorrow. There will be no fire tonight.
  
  
  "You'll sleep," emu told her.
  
  
  — You're supposed to protect us.
  
  
  'I'll do it.'
  
  
  He tied the camels to some sparse bushes so they could eat. They seemed to be able to eat almost anything, and I wondered if they could even digest rocks. I was very proud of myself-her staff was quite adept at handling these beasts, and I would tell Hawk about my newfound talent and ask ego to bring ego into my case.
  
  
  He chose a good spot on a low hill and started looking. Maryam came and sat down next to me.
  
  
  "I think we'll get my people, Nick," she said.
  
  
  — Did you think otherwise when we left?"
  
  
  'Yes. But I'd rather die than marry a Borgia.
  
  
  He hugged her and stroked her big breasts. "We can't tonight," she said. "We have to keep an eye on Saifa."
  
  
  "I know," I said.
  
  
  "Wait until I can dress like a Christian. Women in Islam must hide their faces, but they are allowed to bare their breasts. They have strange customs.
  
  
  "I like it when your breasts are exposed," I said.
  
  
  "I'm glad I got an education," she said.
  
  
  I tried to link her comment to our conversation, but couldn't. 'Why?'
  
  
  "Ethiopia has changed, Nick. A few years ago, in my parents ' childhood, a kidnapped girl like her would have had to live with shame if she couldn't prove her virginity. Now it is no longer necessary to enter into an agreed marriage. My father guarantees me a job in the government. My father and uncle can arrange it for me without hindrance. Then life will be the same as in Western countries."
  
  
  — You could have come back a virgin if you hadn't slept with me, " I said.
  
  
  "I didn't want to come back a virgin, Nick." She stood up. "Wake me up when you're tired." Try to stay up all night. I can see her at night as well as you can, and although I'm not a very good shot, I can always call out when danger threatens."
  
  
  "All right," I said.
  
  
  Another piece of the puzzle fell into place as he watched her disappear into the darkness in her white skirt. Maryam mentioned the importance of her virginity when we first made love, and she was momentarily afraid that she would regret sleeping with me once we got the Amharic Highlands. However, she was thinking ahead. Maryam was a brave woman and deserved all the happiness she could get. I wouldn't want her people to mistreat her for any reason. He was also happy to have such an influential mistress. The escape from the Danakil was a wild guess, and I wouldn't have believed in nah until I saw trucks and uniformed men and unarmed civilians walking peacefully through the streets.
  
  
  But escaping the Borgias wasn't the end of my mission. It was just a chance to face new challenges. I didn't have any identification documents with me. Gaard took my papers. When he reached the embassy in Addis Ababa-King or Asmara, he could identify himself by showing the maths officer there and his axe tattoo. He had to know everything. But what if it doesn't? Would he then consider it real?
  
  
  What about the Ethiopian government? In ih her request went for the Borgias. Now he knew roughly where he was and what he was doing. Moreover, I didn't have any evidence that the ego vulnerability was in deactivated rockets. If ego had killed her, he's in the village of Danakil, my work for HIM would have been finished. But it didn't kill him. And he had no idea what the Ethiopians wanted .
  
  
  Maryam was well connected. It would guarantee safety for me. It was moved by Alenka and forced himself to stay alert. If I fall asleep, we may never reach civilization again.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  
  
  
  Two hours after sunrise, Saifa led us to a well-marked path leading to a village that we could clearly see in the distance. He was weak and feverish, and from time to time she saw him swaying in the saddle. Before leaving, her ego examined her wound around the camp and saw that it was inflamed. Gawk, bone splinters and splinters should be removed quickly.
  
  
  I asked her. "Can you stay in the saddle? "I'll carry you?"
  
  
  "You've already saved my life," he said. "Nick, I was just hoping for one thing.
  
  
  'For what?'
  
  
  "So that you can let me kill this Somali."
  
  
  "Before you die, you will kill many enemies," emu told her.
  
  
  "Yes, Nick. But I'll never make that trip again. People will start telling stories about what we did to you. Pachek died in our first plan camp. The Somali was not a warrior. And the only other person was a woman. How many did we kill?
  
  
  "I've lost count," I said. "Thirteen, I think."
  
  
  "Now we have to find a place to get rid of our weapons. We don't need it in the city.
  
  
  The camels went their own way, along the trail. When we reached an area of large boulders, she was stopped by her camel. "Let's hide our weapons among the rocks," I said. "All right," Saifa said.
  
  
  Maryam and I took Ego's gun, the ammunition he was carrying, and unfastened the gun from his belt. He scrambled over the boulders until he found a crevice. He put both rifles and pistols in there, then stared at his car.
  
  
  I'd feel naked if I didn't have an ego anymore, but we couldn't afford to drive into town brandishing guns. We would like friends, not another massacre. Maryam rode on one side of him, and hers on the other. He didn't want ego to be carried to the police station, and continued only his pride.
  
  
  "Miriam," he said in English, " can you persuade the police to take care of this man?"
  
  
  'I do not know. On behalf of my father, I will beg ih to call a doctor immediately. I'll tell her that he's the main witness to a capital crime.
  
  
  "And after all that Saifa did for us, she didn't want him to lose his arm."
  
  
  "I understand, Nick," she said. "But it will take some effort to convince the police who she is. They should prepare a report. They should tell their superiors our names. But they will refuse to rush their actions if they see an Amharic woman dressed like a Muslim."
  
  
  Judging by the clothes, this was a Muslim city, I thought. We went straight to the police station. Two men in khaki uniforms with open holsters ran out. Maryam started speaking in Amharic, and he heard my name being used fluently. He was glad to see that they were careful with the injured Saifa. Odin around them led me to the digital camera, pushed me inside, and closed the door.
  
  
  "Are you an American?" he asked in bad English.
  
  
  'Yes. My name is Nick Carter.
  
  
  — Do you have any identification?"
  
  
  'No.'
  
  
  'Wait here.'
  
  
  Afraid of offending him, she stifled a laugh. I was wondering where I thought I was going.
  
  
  There was a worn-out army blanket in the corner of the cell. Hers, I hoped there weren't too many pests. He had been sleeping very lightly for the past few days, constantly looking for the slightest sign of danger . But since her could only wait for the actions of others, her decided to doze off. It is unlikely that marauding Danakils will storm the prison. The power of the Borgias did not extend so far north. He fell back on his bunk and was asleep in a minute.
  
  
  She was awakened by the insistent sound of a voice. 'Mr. Mr. Carter Carter, G. Carter.
  
  
  He opened his eyes and looked at his watch. I got a little over two hours of sleep. Her husband felt a little better, even though he was hungry enough to eat the camel's tail still attached to the animal.
  
  
  'Mr. Carter, please come with me, " said the policeman who had taken me to the cell.
  
  
  "I'm coming," I said, getting up and scratching myself.
  
  
  He led me down a corridor and into a walled prison courtyard. The prisoner threw wood on the fire, over which was a tub of hot water. The policeman shouted an order. The prisoner poured hot water into the tub and added cold water.
  
  
  "There's some soap, mister. Carter, " the cop said to me. "And we found your clothes."
  
  
  He took off his dirty khaki trousers and washed well. I enjoyed the hot water and the feel of soap on my skin. The prisoner handed me a large cotton towel, and I lazily dried myself, enjoying the scorching sun on my bare skin. In the dog clothes, Irina found her clean trousers, short in the legs only a few cm, clean socks and a clean shirt.
  
  
  The policeman fumbled in his pocket for a razor blade. The prisoner brought a bowl of water and placed a small mirror on the bench. I had to squat down to see my face in the mirror, but then shaving it felt like a completely different person. "Please come with me, mister. Carter, " the officer said.
  
  
  He led me back to the prison and took me to a private room somewhere in the hall, next to the guardhouse. Maryam and the clerk were sitting there. There was a steaming bowl of food on the table in front of them. Maryam was now wearing a long dress that covered most of her body.
  
  
  'Mr. Carter, her warden of this prison, " the man said in Arabic, standing up and extending his hand. "And after you eat, we'll go to Asmara."
  
  
  He pointed me to a seat next to Maryam and Stahl to give orders to the little fat woman. She quickly brought me a loaf of bread and a bowl of food. Its not stahl asking questions about its composition and started eating. It was warm and full of hearty cuts of meat — lamb, I optimistically decided — floating in fat.
  
  
  The bread was fresh and delicious. Edu washed it down with bitter tea.
  
  
  "I think you're someone important," Maryam said softly to her.
  
  
  "No, it's you," she told me. "It all started when the police called your name on the radio."
  
  
  He turned to the commander. "Like Danakil, who was with us?"
  
  
  — He's in the local clinic right now. The doctor prescribed emu antibiotics. He will survive.'
  
  
  'Good.'
  
  
  The commander cleared his throat. 'Mr. Carter, where did you leave your weapon?"
  
  
  I told her. "What weapon?"
  
  
  He smiled. "No one passes through Danakil without a weapon. Your other one was shot. The shooting apparently occurred outside of my jurisdiction, and I understand that you were working on behalf of the government. I only ask my corkscrew so that the weapon does not fall into the hands of members of the tribe that you have reason to dislike.
  
  
  Hers, I thought. — I don't know if I can accurately describe this hideout. It took us about twenty minutes to reach the city from here, as the camels were walking slowly. There were rocks...
  
  
  'Good. He laughed. — You're a good judge of scenery, mister. Carter. Every Danakil who comes to the city keeps their weapons there. It can only be in one place.
  
  
  After dinner, the commander escorted us to the jeep and shook our hands. Ego thanked her for her kindness. "It's my duty," he said.
  
  
  "Ethiopia needs people who know their duty as well as you do," Emu Maryam said.
  
  
  It sounded a little corny, like a comment from a movie. But, the rheumatism commander told me enough about Maryam's status. He straightened up and smiled, like a loyal servant who has been complimented by his hostess. Her understood that her position was secured by her family, and her only hope was that her male members wouldn't feel that her association with me brought shame on that family.
  
  
  Two cops held the jeep's door open and helped us into the backseat. Then we took a dirt road that seemed to follow a depression between two small mountain ranges. For the first ten miles, we encountered only one vehicle, an old Land Rover at best, which seemed to be following a rather curious course. Our driver swore and honked his horn. We passed so close that Maryam, who was sitting on the left, could easily touch him.
  
  
  Three kilometers away, we made our way through a camel caravan. I do not know how the driver did it, because my eyes were closed. When we had covered twenty kilometers, the dirt road became a little heavier, and the driver pulled out of the jeep an extra ten kilometers of speed. We passed other cars. Before reaching a fairly large city, we made a steep signpost in front of an old Italian helicopter. Ego the driver shouted loudly. We drove out into the field and stopped next to the helicopter.
  
  
  The pilot, an army officer, jumped out and saluted.
  
  
  He said.- ' Mr. Carter?
  
  
  'Yes.'
  
  
  "I must take you to Asmara as soon as possible."
  
  
  Five minutes later we were in the air. The device made so much noise that any conversation was impossible. Maryam rested her head on my shoulder and closed her eyes. It seemed to her that as soon as we got to Asmara, I would find out who was responsible for all this haste.
  
  
  The helicopter landed at the government airport. A brown van with official signs on the side was speeding toward us even before the propeller blades came to a complete stop. Her, saw a senior army officer come out one day later. Brylev peered into the bright sunlight. If I'm not mistaken...
  
  
  Hawk ran up to me as I was about to descend from the helicopter and turned to help me down from here. Ego power was strong, and for a moment I thought I saw a look of relief in ego's eyes as we greeted each other.
  
  
  I asked her. — What are you doing in Asmara, sir ?" "If it's Asmara."
  
  
  "The captain of the Hans Skeelmann reports that you are dead, N3," Hawk said. "All hell broke loose."
  
  
  "Captain Ergensen probably thought I was dead," I said. — The entire ego-damned crew, except for the people around the engine room, belongs to the Borgia gang. I take it the ship is no longer in Massaua?"
  
  
  'No. The local authorities had no reason to detain him. How are the other two?"
  
  
  "What other two?"
  
  
  "Gene Fellini," Hawke said. "A CIA agent . I knew she was on board, but I wasn't sure I wanted you to work together yet.
  
  
  "We joined forces to kill a KGB agent named Larsen. She was a steward on board Hans Skejelman. We were captured together. Later, Gina was shot in the chest on her way from the Red House to the Borgia headquarters.
  
  
  "And the other one?"
  
  
  "Who else?"
  
  
  "Ego's name is Gaard..."
  
  
  "The second mate began. That bastard is in the Borgia camp. At least he was when we left. But what is the story that we are dead?
  
  
  "The ability to explain why you didn't make it to Massaua," Hawk said. — The captain claimed that all three of you died of bubonic plague. As a security measure, he buried all three of you in the sea. It was a story that the Ethiopian authorities couldn't help but approve of. That's why they were allowed to leave the harbor again. Nick, you will be the first AX agent to die of bubonic plague.
  
  
  He seemed a little disappointed that I hadn't created a new problem for the typists at headquarters, and he might have said something sarcastic if Maryam and the Ethiopian general hadn't come up to us at that time. They spoke Amharic, and I got the impression that this man was an old friend of mine.
  
  
  "General Sahele, this is Nick Carter," Hawke said.
  
  
  The General and I felt sorry for each other's hands. He was a perfect example of an Amharic noble, about five feet tall, with thick black hair that was just beginning to turn gray.
  
  
  'Mr. Carter, I've known Maryam since she was born. Thank you for bringing her back safely, and I also thank you on behalf of the family."
  
  
  Ego English had a perfect school accent, and I guessed that he was educated in England.
  
  
  "General Sahel," I said, " I can't take credit for her return. We went back together. She kept watch, rode a camel, and fired rifles like a well-trained soldier. We both owe our lives to Saifa, Danakil, who escaped with us.
  
  
  "If you escaped from the Borgias, you may have to keep running." Sahele turned to Hawke. "Miriam gave me several names for the egos of allies serving in our government. I wish she'd known a few days earlier.
  
  
  'What happened? Hawka asked her.
  
  
  "As soon as you escaped, if you understood the sequence correctly, Borgia made his move," Hawk said. "The Ego ultimatum came four days ago."
  
  
  "It wasn't immediately after we escaped," I said. "He must have been waiting for the ego patrol to bring us back."
  
  
  "The patrol we killed?" Maryam asked.
  
  
  "Yes," I said.
  
  
  "You know the ego requirements?" General Sahele asked.
  
  
  "I think the emu needs half of East Africa," I said. — Did he threaten to use his missiles?"
  
  
  "Including three minutemen," Hawk said. "They were on board the Hans Skeelmann. Jean Fellini was like that at the time.
  
  
  I asked her. "When will he start shooting?"
  
  
  'Tomorrow night. And earlier, if we want to attack him.
  
  
  "I think you should convince ego to use these missiles, sir," Hawke told him. "They're especially minutemen." General Sahele's mouth dropped open. He stared at me. Hawke looked puzzled for a moment, then a faint smile appeared on his face . "What do you know that we don't, N3?"
  
  
  "At least half of the Borgia missiles are dangerous only to the people who launch them. I doubt he's even dug up the Minuteman operating system around the sand, or even knows it's missing. It has hidden its missiles so well because it doesn't have proper launchers. Odin by the ego of the best people, and probably the only tech he had, escaped with us. Vasily Pachek could provide you with a full technical report. But unfortunately, he was killed by a Borgia patrol when they attacked us at night, then escaped. On the Borgia side are a bunch of damn cool Danakil warriors armed with automatic weapons. That's the whole ego threat.
  
  
  "Are you sure, mister?" Carter? General Sahele asked.
  
  
  'Yes. Pachek worked on these rockets. Borgia tricked ego, so Pachek went out of his way to sabotage the whole plan. The Borgias must have been counting on the desert to kill us, because as soon as Pachek or her went through nah to uncover the facts, everyone would know that the whole ego threat was nothing but a balloon.
  
  
  "He doesn't know what Pachek knew," Maryam said. "He really thinks these missiles will work."
  
  
  "So much the worse for him," General Sahele said. He turned back to me and put a big hand on my shoulder.
  
  
  — How would you like to spend the night at the hotel and then return to Borgia headquarters, Mr. Carter?"
  
  
  I asked her. "How do we get there?"
  
  
  "With my helicopter." You will command a number of fifty of the best warriors in Africa.
  
  
  "I couldn't imagine a better place. I just hope I can find this place again."
  
  
  "Show me the map," Maryam said softly. "I know exactly where we were."
  
  
  General Sahele led us to his staff car and we set off for the military camp. He apologized twice for the lack of air conditioning in the car. I couldn't convince him that I liked the fresh mountain air.
  
  
  While Maryam and the General bent over the map, Hawk and I exchanged information.
  
  
  Ego asked her. "Didn't YOU get my message?"
  
  
  "Yes, but the code you used requires careful interpretation. When the Hans Skeelmann anchored in Massaua and the false death certificates were presented, we were convinced that your message meant that the ship belonged to the Borgias. It always takes a few days before you realize that you are dealing with a fake holding company , even if it is based in a friendly country like Norway. Besides, we didn't know if you were still alive or Miss Fellini, and we couldn't figure out how you sent your message.
  
  
  He paused, waiting. He told emu about his escape around the cage under the boatswain's cabin and how he had locked it up again afterward. He laughed softly.
  
  
  "Nice work, Nick," he said softly. "Your message gave us the necessary time. Right now, the Ethiopians and their African allies are tracking down " Hans Skeelman." This issue has also improved cooperation between us and Russia, as well as between the two world Powers and the third world. In any case, it's more than I thought. But if this boat goes to the Atlantic Ocean, it will be prey for the naval forces of NATO countries."
  
  
  'Mr. Carter, can you help us out for a moment? General Sahele asked.
  
  
  He crossed the room and examined the topographical map of Danakil. Maryam had already found the Borgia headquarters.
  
  
  "Is this area suitable for a helicopter attack?" General Sahele asked.
  
  
  "It depends on the number of people and the firepower you have at your disposal." He pointed to a point upstream, a second point downstream, and a third point in the low hills. "If you put people in those three points,"I said," then you can erase this village of Danakil from the map."
  
  
  "We also have two gunboats," Sahele said.
  
  
  "Put one by the Borgia camp," I said. - Then it will drive the ego of the people into the arms of your troops ' welcome. It does not have a large combat-ready force, and for the most part it depends on slave labor."
  
  
  This consultation was only a courtesy, as General Sahele already knew how to use his troops. Nick Carter was going to join the trip, and if the American agent was impressed with the fighting qualities of the Ethiopian troops, so much the better.
  
  
  No one had mentioned missiles before, and Hawk and I didn't have a solution to this problem. But that was the main reason why he agreed to accompany government troops on an ih mission if they attacked Borgia headquarters. Her job is to make sure these nuclear missiles don't fall into the wrong hands.
  
  
  "Nick, have you been sleeping lately?" Hawk asked.
  
  
  "This morning, a few hours in jail."
  
  
  "Today, too, will not be up to vaults," General Sahele said. — We leave at three in the morning and attack the Borgia camp just after sunrise. Flying through the mountains in the dark is dangerous, but we need to deal with the Borgias before anyone can warn ego.
  
  
  — I'll go to bed early, " I promised.
  
  
  "You can go to the hotel now," Hawk said. "By the way, the local authorities ordered Gansu Skeelman to leave all your belongings behind. You'll find ih in your room.
  
  
  'Make her feel like a VIP.'
  
  
  "The news they brought you is important for the Ethiopian government," General Sahele said.
  
  
  The atmosphere was becoming official, the general shook my hand and ordered the driver to take very good care of me. Hawk was probably going to stay with the general for a while, so of course he stressed that my things were in the hotel. Because if the Hans Skeelmann's crew hadn't found the hidden compartment in my suitcase, Wilhelmina would have accompanied me tomorrow.
  
  
  I thought how nice it would be to introduce her to Gaard or the Borgias.
  
  
  Despite the formalities, Maryam managed to get close to me and whisper, " See you later, Nick. It will cost me some intrigue, but I will stay at your hotel.
  
  
  I asked her. — How about we have dinner together tonight?"
  
  
  — I'll come to your room at seven."
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  
  
  
  As I was getting dressed for dinner, a glitch found her: the Swedish book Hawk had sent to the hotel was intended to cover me as Fred Goodrum, a drunk and slacker who went to Ethiopia to escape his past sins. For a moment, he was worried about how Maryam and I would look when we entered the restaurant, but then he told her to go to hell. Ethiopia was full of Europeans, and many around them were making a lot of money. As I waited for her to see Maryam enter my room, I thought about what the General had heard from me, and what Hawk had heard. When two people work together for as long as Hawke and hers, they don't necessarily need words to convey an idea or warnings. Facial expressions, silences, changes in mood-all this can say as much as a long speech. Hers was exactly what Pachek had told me in Danakil. The Czech told me that he is absolutely certain that half of the Borgia missiles are not working properly. General Sahele immediately guessed that they were all missiles. Hawke isn't here. Hers was by no means certain that Hawke understood the risk of attacking the Borgias, but hers was certain that he did.
  
  
  Since her shell is with Ethiopian troops, her hoped ih attack plan will take into account how to defuse the nuclear warheads. General Sahela had to attack so quickly with his troops that the Borgia men would not have been able to extract the rockets around the caves and put ih in the launch position. Pachek sabotaged only half of it — and Pachek didn't trust the German engineers working on the other half. Now is not the time to trust people I don't know.
  
  
  Maryam heard a soft knock on the door. She was dressed in Western clothes, which I didn't really like. But no matter how you looked at nah, she was still beautiful. Her pale blue dress clung to her body, accentuating her olive-brown skin. Her high heels made her look taller than eighty-five. Her jewelry was expensive and modest – a gold cross on a heavy chain and a bracelet around precious gold. Since I didn't know her at all Asmara, I asked her to choose a restaurant. The fact that I was dressed like a beggar wasn't a disadvantage at all. The owner himself served us in a quiet corner. The taste was tough but perfectly seasoned, and the wine was Italian. Whenever his hotel offered a compliment to the owner, he pointed out the honor he felt in serving the archbishop's daughter. Every new mention of Maryam's family made me think about how difficult it would be if I wanted to leave Ethiopia. As if guessing my thoughts, Maryam said: "I told General Sahela that I was raped in the Borgia camp by several men, mostly Danakils and Somalis."
  
  
  'Why? I asked, even though I already knew rheumatism.
  
  
  "Then he wouldn't have worried about me coming to you, Nick.
  
  
  There were many more questions to ask, but I kept my mouth shut. Maryam had very strong ideas about her future, as she had already seen in the desert. She wasn't going to go home and wait for her father and uncles to concoct a marriage to whitewash a disgraced woman with a high position in the Coptic Church. And I probably didn't want to be the mistress of some rich Amharic hey, you, either. While we sipped wine and finished our meal with cups of strong Ethiopian coffee, I listened to her chatter about her plans to find a job. Nah may have had an overly romantic idea of a working woman, but her desire to do it herself, rather than return to the local form of Purdah that all wealthy Amharic women lived in , seemed very reasonable to me. Even if I hadn't seen her in action in the desert, her ambition to be a person would have already earned my respect.
  
  
  We went back to the hotel and collected our key. Klera turned his head cautiously as we walked together to the elevator. Maryam pressed the button for my floor.
  
  
  As the elevator slowly ascended, she asked me, " Nick, what about those rockets that Packer didn't sabotage. Will they work?'
  
  
  "No one knows," I said.
  
  
  "So you're in danger tomorrow?"
  
  
  'Yes. Together with General Sahel.
  
  
  I waited for her to answer. She didn't do it. Not until we got to my room. He opened the door and checked the bathroom out of habit before taking off his jacket. Maryam gasped when she saw Wilhelmina and Hugo.
  
  
  — You thought we were in danger tonight?" she asked.
  
  
  "I didn't know," I said. — You weren't kidnapped in the middle of Danakil. But they found you in the city. You and Sahel both talked about traitors in the government. I realized too late that the Hans Skeelman belongs to the Borgias.
  
  
  "I hope you kill your ego tomorrow, Nick."
  
  
  "That would solve a lot of problems," I admitted.
  
  
  He put his luger and stiletto down on the nightstand, and Maryam sat down on the only chair in the room. The hotel was functional, very sterile. I've never seen her anywhere, no sign or flyer advertising "room service". There was a bed, a chair, a small commodore, a nightstand, and a bathroom. I couldn't tell if Maryam was reacting, sitting motionless in her chair, trying to pull a blue dress over her crossed legs, to the empty room, to my weapon, or to what might happen the next day.
  
  
  "Nick," she said softly. "I didn't use you."
  
  
  'I know that.'
  
  
  "When his came to you in the desert, hers was enough of this. And tonight I will stay in your room for our pleasure - for both of us. I lied to General Sahel because I was afraid he would try to destroy you. He's a powerful man, Nick. And he hates all Westerners, Europeans and Americans. He learned to hate ih at Sandhurst.
  
  
  "I heard an ego-British accent," I said.
  
  
  "Apparently the emu wasn't very pleasant in England."
  
  
  "I wish she could go back to the desert, Maryam."
  
  
  She laughed softly, a sudden change of mood. "But you're not, Nick," she said, standing up. — And if I did, I'd be a slave again." At least we'll be here tonight. She unbuttoned her dress and quickly left. Then she walked across the room and sat down on the bed. He leaned down on the other side and hugged her. Our kiss began slowly and gently with a teasing exploration. But when our lips met, she pulled me to her, and her hands gripped my shoulders.
  
  
  "We don't need to look at the sand dunes tonight," I whispered.
  
  
  Maryam collapsed back on the bed. When we kissed again, I put my hands on her chest. Her panties were warm from her body.
  
  
  In the desert, she was a fearful virgin. But today, she was a woman who always knew exactly what she wanted and intended to enjoy every moment, including the safety of the room with the door closed. By the time we were both naked, hers was ready. No one around us turned to look at the saint, and he seemed to enjoy showing me his body as much as I admired it.
  
  
  Stretched out on the bed, her tanned skin looked as smooth as it felt. Her large breasts lay wide on her torso. She slowly spread her legs. She turned her hips, letting him enter her warm body. We tried to start slowly and move towards the climax, but it was a futile effort for both of us. She writhed and clung to me, and now that we were alone, she moaned weakly and screamed as we climaxed together.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 15
  
  
  
  
  General Sahele invited me to inspect the ego station at a small military airfield. They looked belligerent and raw. Most of the people around them were from Amharic tribes, and he guessed that they had been chosen to solve a specific problem in Ethiopia. They represented the predominant Coptic Christian culture and would have gladly attacked the Danakil settlement.
  
  
  The military operation itself was absurdly simple. The general's helicopter observed her from air sampling as three d-day ego units surrounded the village of Danakil. Then we headed for the Borgia headquarters, and after a twenty-minute flight, we were over the camp.
  
  
  A stream of Amharic flowed over the radio. General Sahele took the microphone and gave a series of orders.
  
  
  "They are withdrawing missiles," he said. "We'll give them a nasty surprise."
  
  
  Three fighter jets attacked the enemy from the sky, spewing rockets and napalm. They were followed by six bombers. He watched as clouds of smoke billowed from two Borgia missile bases, one to the north between the camp and the village of Danakil, and one to the south of his camp. A series of napalm attacks dispersed the camp's fighters, who began firing at our helicopters. A loud explosion somewhere to the south caused our helicopter to rock violently.
  
  
  "I hope these idiots don't get anything wrong," I said.
  
  
  "A nuclear explosion will surely kill us," the general said to Sahel with a grudging laugh, " but it is always better to explode here, where there is nothing but sand, camels and danakils, than somewhere in an important city in the Middle East.'
  
  
  It wasn't a nuclear explosion. The General ordered us to be placed in the Borgia camp. One of the gunboats fired at the last of the resistance, who were holed up in a rocky trench in another place.
  
  
  "Beware of murderers," he warned, drawing his pistol from its holster.
  
  
  He took off her jacket and snatched Wilhelmina out. The General looked at the luger in my hand and smiled. He pointed to the stiletto in its scabbard.
  
  
  "You're always ready for a fight, mister. Carter, " he said. And we had a great fight. As we were walking towards the Borgia tent, we were shot at by a small group hidden in the rocks near the women's camp. We dove to the ground and returned fire.
  
  
  - General Sahele that he shouted to the radio operator on his own. Moments later, a small squad of ego troops entered the area from the south side of the valley and began throwing hand grenades at the rocks. Odin around the enemies rushed at us. Ego shot her with a gun. That was my only shot that day. The soldiers threw a few more hand grenades at the rocks, and then ran in that direction. In a matter of seconds, the battle was over.
  
  
  "A simple operation," General Sahele said, standing up and taking off his uniform. — Let's find this self-proclaimed Borgia General, Mr. Carter.
  
  
  We checked the tent. We searched the entire camp. Although we found many dead Danakils and a few dead Europeans, there was no sign of General Borgia. There were no egos and environments of a handful of prisoners.
  
  
  "It will take us at least a few hours to get the Danakils to talk," General Sahele said.
  
  
  While the government forces tried to convince the Borgia people that it was better to surrender, he wandered around the area. The slaves were freed and then gathered together again under the guard of about a dozen soldiers. When he saw two Germans with whom he was in the camp, he asked the officer on duty for permission to talk to them.
  
  
  'I do not know ..
  
  
  "Talk to General Sahele," I said.
  
  
  He sent a messenger to the general, which was wasted another fifteen minutes. This allowed me to talk to the Germans.
  
  
  "Where's the Borgias?" ih asked her.
  
  
  "He left a few days after you," said one around them. "How are The Packs?"
  
  
  'He's dead. Where did the Borgias go?
  
  
  'I do not know. He and Luigi formed a camel caravan. Gaard went with them.
  
  
  That's all I want to know, but General Sahele spent the rest of the day torturing the Danakils and getting their confirmation.
  
  
  "So the Borgias are at sea," the general said. "The ego is no longer on Ethiopian soil."
  
  
  "That doesn't mean it's no longer an Ethiopian problem," I guessed.
  
  
  "We are a neutral country that does not have a large fleet. — What do you think we can do?"
  
  
  "Nothing," I said. "Your people and your country's air force have done an excellent job. We can't swim to the Borgia ship and sink the ego all by ourselves. And I suspect that the Hans Skeelman is now out of range of Ethiopian fighters. We'll have to leave it to our superiors when we get back to Asmara.
  
  
  Outwardly, he remained calm, though privately he cursed the delay caused by General Saheles ' pride. The sooner I can inform Hawke of the Borgia's escape, the sooner he can start plotting the destruction of the Hans Skeelman . But I couldn't discuss this problem in an open radio link. And the constellations today will not hurt General Saheles ' pride. In fact, any action on my part would have angered him. He was the boss here, and he enjoyed his position.
  
  
  "For the sake of our own sanity," Hawk said when hers returned to Asmara that evening, " let's assume that the Borgias don't have their own damn fleet and that they're in the hall aboard the Hans Skeelmann . It is located in a hall in the Atlantic Ocean, on the high seas and away from trade routes. It is followed by an aircraft carrier and four destroyers. Two Russian submarines are covering the African coast.
  
  
  "I have a feeling that the Hans Skeelman is armed," I said. And I told Hawke about the two separate superstructures, pointing out that there seemed to be a lot of places under the deck for which I had no explanation.
  
  
  "75mm guns." He nodded, "I was busy collecting data from them ferrets as you left Norfolk."
  
  
  "How can we make sure the Borgias are on board?"
  
  
  "You can ask the survivors if there are any," he said.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 16
  
  
  
  
  I was expecting Hawke to send me back to Washington and announce that the Russian settlement had been completed. The Borgia headquarters was nothing but rubble and a lot of corpses, and although General Sahele's army had no chance of killing Borgia himself, they thought they knew where he was in the hall. The only thing that Nick Carter did to a large extent in Ethiopia was save Maryam, which gave me great pleasure personally, but was not a reason for the Ethiopian government to keep me there. So I was very surprised when Hawk found me an apartment and told me to buy her better clothes in Asmara.
  
  
  — Then what am I supposed to do here?"
  
  
  — Are you sure the Borgias are on Hans Skeelman ?"
  
  
  'No.'
  
  
  'And it's gone. It's too easy, too easy for this team. This is not right. Then we have problems with these missiles. Even if it was an allied country, we would still have problems with ih returning, but Ethiopia turned out to be a neutral country. Why do you think General Sahel won't let you look further into the desert?
  
  
  "Two reasons — he hates white people in general and me in particular, and he thought he might be hiding something there."
  
  
  "Ethiopia is one hell of a delicate issue," Hawke said. "Some of these missiles are officially Egyptian, others are Israeli. Because of internal pressure from Muslims, Ethiopia is leaning towards Egypt. But the Ethiopians are not at all interested in increasing the armaments of both countries. As a result, they don't know what to do with these missiles. So you're stuck in Asmara. Your habit of finding women on every mission is finally starting to pay off."
  
  
  "By giving me an excuse to stay here?"
  
  
  'Yes. And I'll give you another official reason — they're the three Minuteman missiles you worked so hard to sabotage.
  
  
  Hawk returned to Washington and left me in Asmara. Waiting is part of my job, and often you don't know what you're waiting for. However, in this case, he didn't know at all if anything would happen at the end of this wait.
  
  
  General Sahele completely ignored me, and if it wasn't for Maryam, I would have been very bored. Asmara is not such an exciting city.
  
  
  My contact was an officer of the American consul. Ten days after Hawke left, he showed up and gave me a long report. It took me two hours to decipher it, and when I finished it, I realized that someone had made a serious tactical mistake.
  
  
  The Navy found the Hans Skeelmann somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, far beyond the shipping lanes, somewhere between Africa and South America, just above the equator. Strike group Po of the aircraft carrier and four destroyers approached, while the Hans Skeelmann defended herself. The Ego 75-mm cannon did not offer much resistance, and is. No survivors and a hell of a lot of wreckage. There were a lot of sharks in the area, so they couldn't find a single body. This meant that we still didn't know if Borgia was alive or dead.
  
  
  General Sahele paid me a visit the next day. He received his own copy of the report. He refused my offer of a drink, sat down on the couch, and took the conversation with him.
  
  
  "At least one of our targets was not on board this ship," he said.
  
  
  "The Borgias?" In the report that received it, there was no certainty about this."
  
  
  "I don't know about the Borgias, mister. Carter. Maryam gave me a few names of the supposed friends ' egos when you came out on Danakila.
  
  
  Intelligence is not my specialty. And he's not in a position to trust most of our intelligence apparatus. But I believe in the reports of some agents. Unnoticed, they observed several generals and politicians. And they saw that one of these officers had secret meetings with a big white man.
  
  
  "From what little I saw of the Borgia camp, there was only one tall white man," I said, " assuming your agent was talking about someone taller than me." And this is Gaard. Are you saying that ego wasn't on board the Hans Skeelmann?"
  
  
  "Your fleet failed its mission," Sahele told me.
  
  
  'Perhaps. But these 75-mm guns apparently made boarding impossible."
  
  
  — What are you going to do now, mister?" Carter?
  
  
  — What I'm going to do depends on your government, General. I am ordered to remain in Asmara until you decide how to dismantle these missiles to prevent ih from re-entering the Borgia constellation today, if he is still alive. As you know, three of them were stolen across the United States. It's almost certain that Odin's nam around these three doesn't work, but her hotel would still take ihk home."
  
  
  "Those damned missiles," General Sahele said hotly.
  
  
  The ego impulse was waiting for her to explain. General Sahel and her will never be friends. The experience at Sandhurst has turned the ego against every white English-speaking person. Now we had a problem with Maryam. His guess was that he saw me as a very bad influence on nah. And yet her trusted sense of ego is frequent. He has sworn loyalty to the interests of Ethiopia, and as long as these interests coincide with the interests of Israel, he will be a reliable ally.
  
  
  'Mr. Carter, "he said," Ethiopia has no interest in becoming a nuclear power. We can't afford the problems involved."
  
  
  "This is a corkscrew problem that only Ethiopians should solve, General," I said. "I am not here to interfere with your sovereignty. But if you need a nuclear capability, you can start with these missiles. However, I will have to ask you to return these three Minutemen.
  
  
  'Mr. "Carter," he said, " has heard very often in the last few days that we have become a nuclear power. When you have rockets, you also need a target that you can use ih against. Israelis and Egyptians aim rockets, one at the other. You threaten the Russians and vice versa. There are tribes in Ethiopia who can aim these missiles at each other. But I remain opposed to it, even if the supporters would not have been associated with the Borgias in the past."
  
  
  "Perhaps the best solution is to return the missiles to the countries where they were stolen, General."
  
  
  'Not really. The Egyptians would gladly have taken their own, but they would have been alarmed by such a hostile act as returning the rockets to the Israelis. Your government has offered to give all ih to you. But the Egyptians won't like it either.
  
  
  "You don't seem to please everyone, General. Look on the bright side of saving these missiles. They will be obsolete in twenty years.
  
  
  "I know," he said. "Since you plan to stay in Asmara for a while, I can visit you again to discuss how this problem can become a secret."
  
  
  He's gone. Then he went to the consulate and made up a coded telegram for Hawke. Her job is to know how long it will take to get the missile specialists to Ethiopia. General Sahele did not say that the missiles were not dangerous, but he would not be so concerned about safe missiles.
  
  
  Two nights later, Maryam suggested that they go to a nightclub together in Asmara. She got a job in a government agency — her job had something to do with the archives, and Sahele got her there - and a female colleague recommended this place. He didn't expect any trouble, but I still had Wilhelmina, Hugo, and Pierre with me.
  
  
  The club showed all the bad sides of Western culture. There was a rock band that wasn't too good, and they served too expensive Zhirinovsky drinks. Sometimes it seems to me that rock ' n ' roll has become the main export product of the Americas. If we received all the royalties just for ego ideas and styles, we would never have a balance of payments deficit again. Maryam and I left after two hours of noise.
  
  
  It was a cool evening, a typical mountain night. When we got out, around the club, her, vainly wanted fees. The doorman who might have called had already gone home. But fortunately, a horse and cart were parked in front of the club, with wooden benches placed one opposite the other. Maryam and I played this game, and gave the driver the address of their apartment. The coachman looked at me blankly. Repeat her address in Italian.
  
  
  He said. "You, signor."
  
  
  Maryam leaned against me to my left as the carriage pulled away. The evening seemed doubly quiet after the club noise and hoofbeats outside were so steady that I almost fell asleep. Maryam seemed to relax. But not hers. He was trying to solve a little riddle.
  
  
  English is a very common second language in Ethiopian schools. Asmara is a fairly cosmopolitan city, where taxi drivers, hotel staff, shopkeepers, waiters, bartenders, prostitutes and other employees of service companies usually speak two languages. There was nothing sinister about the fact that our driver didn't speak English, but it was unusual enough to make me wary.
  
  
  Sometimes a series of incoherent events and circumstances, which in themselves may seem quite harmless, can serve as a warning of hidden danger. The fact that I overlooked such a pattern on board the Hans Skeelmann caused me to get hit on target. And he wasn't going to make the same mistake again . She was soon discovered by a second incorrect part. During my stay in Asmara, I explored the area, partly with Maryam, and the rest on my own to reduce the waiting time. Although she didn't know much about the city, he was beginning to suspect that the coachman was driving in the wrong direction to get to my apartment.
  
  
  "I don't think he's taking us home," Maryam said softly. "Maybe he doesn't understand Italian."
  
  
  She said something in the local dialect. The driver answered and turned to gesture with his hands. She spoke again. He gave a second explanation, and again hoped to continue driving.
  
  
  "He says he's taking a shortcut," Maryam told me. — I've heard that before, " I said, unbuckling Wilhelmina's shoulder holster.
  
  
  My incredulous tone seemed to reach the driver, even though he didn't seem to understand English-if he did — and he turned quickly and fumbled in his pocket.
  
  
  She was shot in the head by an emu. He half fell off the seat. The gun he was trying to pull out clattered to the street. The sight of my Luger startled the horse, and its force of pressure on the reins sent it racing.
  
  
  "Wait," Maryam said to her.
  
  
  He slid the pistol back into its holster, leaped forward, and kicked the driver out of the seat. He was on the street, and the left wheel hit him. He grabbed the reins and tried not to pull too hard, so that the horse wouldn't rear up and overturn the cart, but so hard that the animal would feel the pressure of the bit. We swayed unsteadily, still off balance from leaping over the body of the dead coachman.
  
  
  The reins got tangled, and he tried to untangle them as we raced down the street. Several pedestrians scurried to the side, and I prayed that we wouldn't see the same car. The part of the city we were in seemed completely deserted, with only a few cars parked at the side of the road. The horse looked too weak to reach that speed, but at that moment it looked like it could win the Grand National.
  
  
  Finally, he untied the reins and began to push a little harder. He made sure that the pressure was even on both sides.
  
  
  The carriage had a high center of gravity, and if the horse suddenly jerked, Maryam and I would fly out around the carriage. Her blood pressure gradually increased. The horse began to walk more slowly. Her, talked to her.
  
  
  "Calm down, boy," I said. "Go quietly."
  
  
  I doubted that she understood English, the driver spoke the local dialect, but maybe my calm, gentle tone would calm him down. I couldn't tell if the animal was a stallion or a mare. This wasn't the time to check, either.
  
  
  The horse was almost under control when Maryam heard it shout. 'Nickname. A car is following us very fast.
  
  
  "How close?"
  
  
  "A few blocks away. But it's coming very fast.
  
  
  He yanked on the reins. The horse reared and the cart swayed. Then the horse came down again and tried to run again. I yanked it again, my shoulder muscles straining to stop the animal. It reared up again, causing the carriage to tilt backwards.
  
  
  "Jump," Maryam called to her.
  
  
  He let go of the reins and jumped over the front wheel. It rolled out on the road, rubbed every tribe and tore the jacket. I staggered to my feet, leaning against the building, and looked back to see if Maryam had done it. She stood ten feet away from me.
  
  
  The horse, released from the reins, began to run again. The cart overturned and the animal fell. It kicked and whinnied wildly. The car was rushing toward us; it was going too fast even for an Ethiopian driver who wanted to die.
  
  
  Maryam ran up to me and said, " Nick, the car..."
  
  
  "Find the porch," I said.
  
  
  We ran down the street, trying to find a gap between the houses that turned out to be warehouses. But there wasn't one of us that a man could squeeze through. Then we came to the entrance to the basement. Maryam led her down the stairs. At the bottom, we pressed up against the building. We were just below street level. The car's headlights began to illuminate the area. She heard the tires creak as they braked.
  
  
  "Hush," I whispered, trying to regain my normal breathing.
  
  
  Maryam squeezed my left hand and then stepped back so that I had room for my weapon.
  
  
  The car door slammed. The second one. Third. The engine continued to run. At least three, and possibly more than four passengers.
  
  
  "Find ih," the man ordered in bad Italian.
  
  
  Even without that hideous accent, Gaard's voice would have recognized her. Ego had been waiting for her from the moment the coachman pulled out his gun, and had been hoping to meet Ego from the moment Sahele told me he was in Ethiopia. This time the gun was in my hand.
  
  
  "No, in a cart. The accent was that of an Ethiopian.
  
  
  "They should be here somewhere," Gaard said. "Tell Joe to turn off the damn engine so we can hear ih." Maryam tugged at my arm. She tried the door behind us, and it was open. I was tempted to run that way, but I didn't dare. Ih's conversation seemed to suggest that our pursuers thought we were injured, so maybe I managed to catch ih off guard and turn the odds in our favor. She wished Maryam had a gun. I'd already seen her in the Danakil, how well she could fight.
  
  
  She turned to reach into her pants and take Pierre off her hip. The bomb contained a fairly new type of nerve agent that could put a person out of action for several hours. The data that was provided to AX agents when these new gas bombs were released contains warnings that they are very dangerous. I didn't have any preferences about the outcome as I climbed the stairs that were almost folded in half.
  
  
  More votes. The engine stopped abruptly. Then the door opened. In an upright position, he threw it with Pierre's left hand, correcting the distance at the last moment.
  
  
  The bomb hit its target and exploded near the left corner of the car. He glanced back at the car's headlights. He shot her and saw the man fall. Then someone opened fire, possibly Gaard, around the car.
  
  
  I ducked as bullets bounced off the stone wall above us.
  
  
  "To the building," Maryam told her.
  
  
  We quickly entered the basement. Tall stacks of boxes surrounded us in the dark. We walked on in total darkness. Another burst of gunfire rang out on the street, and glass shattered. Shaggy thumped on the floor above. "Night watchman," Maryam murmured to her. "I hope he calls the police."
  
  
  "Perhaps we'll be safer if he doesn't," she said softly. "We never know which side they'll take." Shaggy thundered down the stairs. Maryam made her way between two piles of crates and we sat down.
  
  
  Then we heard the sound of heavy boots on the sidewalk outside.
  
  
  Gaard ?
  
  
  The two men met between the rows of crates. They both fired. Gaard had just walked through the door. The night watchman was between him and us. The night watchman fired the first shot, but made the fatal mistake of missing. Gaard opened fire on the submachine gun, and I could almost see the bullets slamming into the night watchman's body as he dropped the flashlight and fell to the ground.
  
  
  Gaard stopped firing. He jumped into the aisle, lowered Wilhelmina to the level of life, and fired once. Then it fell to the ground.
  
  
  Gaard answered. Ego's submachine gun fired another burst, then clicked empty. The bullets passed over my head. Her flashlight shot at ego again, and he heard Gaard fall to the ground.
  
  
  He shifted it to Wilhelmina's left hand and took Hugo in his right, then ran to Gaard. He was laid up for a day. He was still breathing, but ego's breathing was weak and uneven.
  
  
  Her said, "' Mary come out. It's not dangerous. We went out the door and up the stairs to the street. We saw the figures of curious people who carefully kept a little apart. It was Wilhelmina who kept it in plain sight. No one would attack a man with a gun, especially after a shootout.
  
  
  "Ready to run?" Maryam asked her.
  
  
  "Yes," she said. "We need to find a phone number and inform General Sahela."
  
  
  We raced through dark alleys and winding alleys. After a while, she put away her gun and stiletto, and focused on keeping up with Maryam. Finally, we found a street full of cafes. We stopped and smoothed our clothes. Then we went inside.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 17
  
  
  
  
  We didn't choose the best place. During our escape from where Gaard and the ego people ambushed us, we came to a rather harsh area. And now we were in a cafe that probably served as a gathering place for prostitutes. The girls, most of whom were dressed in light summer dresses that could withstand the coolness of the evening, loitered around the room, showing off their charm. When we entered, they looked at Maryam. Even they, the women who were busy with a few male visitors in the room, stopped talking so that people wouldn't be rude to strangers who entered ih territory.
  
  
  For ih, the hostility was also less obvious, something typically Ethiopian. General Sahele explained everything perfectly to me. Instead of enemies abroad, the Ethiopians had tribes eager to cut each other's throats.
  
  
  Maryam was an Amharic, a member of the traditional ruling class. The prostitutes in this bar were all around other tribes. So Maryam angered ih in two ways. She could have been just another whore wandering around the ih lands, and she reminded them hema they weren't and hema they couldn't become because of their origins. He unbuttoned her jacket. If visitors to this cafe see Wilhelmina wearing a shoulder holster, they may remember to suppress their hostility. Maryam assessed the situation as quickly as he did, and said softly, " I don't know.: "Watch your back, Nick. And get ready to fight. "All right," I said. He leaned against the bar and asked the bartender, " Can I use your phone?"
  
  
  "There's a phone a few blocks away," he said.
  
  
  He opened his jacket a little wider.
  
  
  "I don't want to walk a few blocks and look for a pay phone," I said.
  
  
  Maryam said something angrily in the local dialect. Whatever she said to us, the man on the two chairs in the bar didn't seem to understand. He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a knife. It was pulled out by Wilhelmina and Ego face. He fell to the ground and groaned, blood streaming from the rta.
  
  
  "Phone," he denied the media reports to her bartender.
  
  
  "He's behind me."
  
  
  My jump over the bar surprised ego. It also prevented him from taking his gun, which he kept next to the beer pump. With his left hand, he firmly gripped ego's right hand and began to push ego towards the back of the bar.
  
  
  "Don't do anything stupid," I said. "If you take the gun, I'll kill you."
  
  
  Maryam also ducked behind the counter, her skirt flying up to reveal her long legs. She grabbed the bartender's gun and held her ego up over the bar so the hookers and pimps could see. She spoke briefly and firmly, and I didn't need an official translation to understand that she was delivering an inspiring sermon on the virtues of sitting down calmly, drinking your drink calmly, and not interfering.
  
  
  The bartender led us to the phone. Ego held her while Maryam called General Sahela. She told him where we'd been and what had happened. Then she handed the phone to the bartender. She never realized what Sahele was saying to the businessman, but it scared ego even more than Maryam and I managed to awaken with our exploits. As we waited, no customers approached the bar, and the bartender was literally kissing the floor when Sahele came in fifteen minutes later with some of the most fearsome-looking and tallest soldiers.
  
  
  "Good evening, mister." Carter, " the general said. "Miriam gave me a brief report on your activities. I think my agent was quite right in identifying Gaard.
  
  
  "Her nam didn't doubt it for a moment," I said. "Inefficient people won't last long under your command.
  
  
  — I suggest that Maryam accompany you." I will contact the relevant people to ensure that the events of this evening remain unpublished. Let me talk to these criminals.
  
  
  General Sahel's threats were probably unnecessary. The bar and ego clientele represented a criminal element that rarely, if ever, gets involved in espionage activities. When these little scoundrels get involved for some reason, the thugs always get the brunt of it. The bartender, customers, and prostitutes should be smart enough to never talk about it again, even among themselves. Sahele took us to his private quarters at a military base near Asmara. Maryam and I sat in the cozy living room and waited for him to finish a series of phone calls in the other room. There was nothing for us to do but talk and drink. The draftee who provided us with drinks was also very effective as an escort. And she also suspected that the general was advertising ego in the living room for this reason. When the general finally comes to question us, I'll have to stop the damn dog of hostility from him, which is what he still has from his ego days on Sandrust, from overwhelming me.
  
  
  Only four hours later, around three o'clock in the morning, General Sahele entered the room and dismissed the conscript. After making sure that all the servants had gone to bed, he poured himself a drink and sat down in a straight-backed chair. The ego split remained perfectly straight.
  
  
  — Do you still believe that Borgia wasn't on board the ship that sank your fleet, mister?" Carter? - he asked.
  
  
  Hers, he shrugged. — We're just imaginary. The question of corkscrew is whether I think Gaard acted on his own initiative. Since I see her in Gaard as nothing more than a not very smart Ivanov, I don't have any rheumatism in this corkscrew. They both stayed here .
  
  
  "Then where are the Borgias?"
  
  
  "Somewhere in Ethiopia," I said. "Given the circumstances, I don't think I'd want to look for her myself." And I don't think such searches will be met with open arms."
  
  
  "Of course not," Sahele said. 'Mr. Carter, you're less and less welcome in this country. Gaard died on the operating table without regaining consciousness. This means another missed opportunity to find out where the Borgias are currently hiding.
  
  
  — You'll have to do something about these missiles, General. This is what attracts unfavorable elements to your countries."
  
  
  "No, mister. Carter, you're the one who's going to do something about it. At the moment, rather delicate negotiations are underway. We give you permission to steal ih. Such an unkind act, of course, makes you persona non grata in Ethiopia, but it is a small price to pay to put a thread on the threat they pose."
  
  
  Sahel had a shark-like grin on his face.
  
  
  Your country has or will have an aircraft carrier off the coast of Ethiopia. As reported by the embassy to deliver technicians to the country. The missiles remain in the desert, and the nuclear warheads are delivered to America. Creating missiles requires a fairly simple technology, only nuclear warheads make ih dangerous. This plan requires treason on my part, but no one will know about this theft until it is committed, and I will put all the blame on the Americans."
  
  
  "Do you control the troops that ih guards?"
  
  
  "Yes," he said. "They were moved far into the desert. Smart idea, isn't it?
  
  
  Very clever, I said, controlling my voice to show no emotion. "Your plan meets a number of needs that legally benefit all participants. And if you think that not being able to return to Ethiopia is a small price to pay, then so be it .
  
  
  "The General... Maryam began.
  
  
  "Save your words, Maryam," the general said to Sahel. "I think you know that Mr. Carter is primarily loyal to his country, not you.
  
  
  "I know that. And that's why I respect her ego, " she said angrily.
  
  
  Sahele frowned. He wondered if he was vain enough to undermine this plan and disrupt the security of his country on a whim. Then he stood up stony-faced and dismissed us.
  
  
  "The final details will be agreed within the next few days. Enjoy the hospitality of Ethiopia for now, Mr. Carter.
  
  
  Its got up. "I enjoy the greatest hospitality that Ethiopia has to offer, General."
  
  
  The driver drove us back to my apartment. There, when we were alone again, Maryam expressed her anger.
  
  
  "Nick," she said. "How can the Sahel be so cruel?"
  
  
  — He doesn't want you to be his lover anymore?"
  
  
  'Not anymore.'
  
  
  "He is convinced that he is doing the right thing. And people are most cruel when they understand virtue in their own way.
  
  
  Five days later, we took care of every detail, except how to get my clothes out of Asmara when I was gone. And this problem didn't bother me. Hawk could replace her, or pick her up as soon as I put her on the carrier.
  
  
  General Sahel informed me that he would personally escort me to Asmara at six o'clock the next morning. This gave Maryam and I our last night together. Hey called her when she finished work and asked her where she wanted to go. "We have nowhere to go," she said. "Come to my house, Nick.
  
  
  She made a light gesture and deliberately didn't turn the conversation to the topic of my impending farewell. After dinner, she handed the trays to the sink and pointed to the plush sofa in the living room.
  
  
  "Nick," she said, " I don't have to tell you, but the general arranged for me to work for our intelligence agency. In this regard, I have to make numerous trips to visit our embassies and consulates."
  
  
  "You'll do a good job," I said.
  
  
  "Maybe we'll meet face to face someday."
  
  
  "I hope not, but no one around us can control it."
  
  
  — I suppose not. Will you excuse me, Nick?" She went into the bedroom. He picked up a cigarette from the ivory box on the table. Maybe she went into the bedroom to cry. Considering what we'd all been through together, I was amazed that I'd never seen Maryam faint or cry. There were many reasons for joy — in Danakil, when it seemed that we might not survive hunger or thirst, or that we would be killed by the enemy tribes of Danakil; that night she offered me her virginity; that night in my hotel room, when her farewell was said to General Sahel he attacked from the headquarters-apartment The Borgias; he at night, in the private chambers of the Sahel, when he triumphantly announced that I would be declared persona non grata in Ethiopia; and, of course, tonight.
  
  
  Miriam seemed to be spending too much time on what she was doing, so I thought back to the few weeks I'd known her. Getting to know many women, many of whom were very beautiful around me, was part of my profession, but I could think of very few who were as stressed out as this tall Amharic girl. But no matter how many times we see her, I will always remember her as a little slave, hidden and bare-chested, proud and surrounded by desert sand.
  
  
  The bedroom door opened. I looked over there. For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating. Maryam entered the room like a slave. Then I smelled the sweet light shining on her body, and I knew that this was real, and that she must have somehow read or guessed my secret desires. And now she was convinced that they had been fulfilled on this last night.
  
  
  Two details were different from my first memory of Maryam: we weren't in the desert, and it wasn't veiled. She was wearing only a white skirt of almost spider-like fabric, hung with beads. It didn't hide anything and showed off every glide of muscle as she gracefully walked across the carpet.
  
  
  "That's how it all started, Nick," she said.
  
  
  "Not exactly, Maryam. The Borgias wouldn't like to dress you up like that."
  
  
  "Do you want a soft drink?"
  
  
  — I want you,"I said, holding out my hand.
  
  
  She stepped back with a smile and said, " Islamic women used to say soaked their husbands before going to bed with them. "Then do it," I said, returning her smile.
  
  
  She went to the kitchen. He heard the sound of a bottle being opened and the slam of the refrigerator door. A moment later, she returned with a silver tray with a glass on nen. She handed me the tray with a slight half-bow so that the foggy glass could take it.
  
  
  "Where's your glass, Maryam?" I told her.
  
  
  "Islamic women don't drink, Nick. Alcoholic beverages are forbidden for a good Muslim."
  
  
  — Then how did those Danakils get so drunk last night that we ran all over the village's ih?"
  
  
  "According to Danakil, the Qur'an says not to drink wine," she said. — And they weren't drinking wine, they were drinking local moonshine." They have a very flexible faith."
  
  
  She was given a sweet drink while she sat in the center of the room and waited. Maryam was an Ethiopian, it was so easy. Tall, proud, regal-no wonder the Amharic tribes managed to stay away from European colonial powers in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, under the yoke of European colonial powers.
  
  
  I asked her. "'Why are you dressing like a slave today, Maryam?' Because I knew that was what you wanted. You once said that you would like us to go back to the desert. And I've seen your face, that slight look of disgust, when you unbutton her bra or take off her panties. Her, I want you to be happy.'
  
  
  He drained his glass. She picked it up, put it on a tray, and handed it to ih. He pointed to the couch next to me. Almost hesitantly, she sank back into the soft pillows. We hugged one more, then another. Her, felt her hands loosen my tie and my shirt unbuttoned. She pushed my clothes away until hers, too, was bare to the waist. Her skin was hot on my skin as she pressed her big hard breasts against my chest. We slowly share the other with the other. For a moment, he thought that Maryam was replaying the situation in the desert by spreading her skirt on the floor or carpet. But when she unbuckled her belt and dropped her clothes, she almost immediately got up and went to the bedroom.
  
  
  Once again, he admired her straight back, firm buttocks, and long legs as she walked across the room.
  
  
  A dim saint entered the bedroom. The bed was already thrown back. Smiling, Maryam lay back and spread her arms. He sank into her warm embrace and snuggled up to her. Then I was in her, and we got so carried away that we had one thought about the universe, then another thought about each other, and we both tried to forget that this was going to be the last night.
  
  
  But we couldn't do it, and this realization gave an extra dimension to our passion, a new strength and tenderness that took it to new heights.
  
  
  At five o'clock we were still awake. Maryam hugged me tightly, and for a moment I thought she was going to cry. She looked the other way. Then she looked back into my eyes, fighting back tears.
  
  
  "I won't get up, Nick," she said. — I understand why you have to go. I don't understand why you can't come back. Thank you for everything.'
  
  
  "Thank you, Maryam," he told her.
  
  
  He got up and dressed. He didn't kiss her again, and he didn't say anything else. There was nothing else to say.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 18
  
  
  
  
  Even if I had had enough time when I was leaving Maryam, I still wouldn't have packed her suitcase. The only luggage I needed was Wilhelmina and Hugo. I didn't know who might be watching my apartment, but I didn't want the Borgia people to have time to set up a network of watchers and chase me south. As much as I enjoyed poking fun at that maniacal bastard who named himself after a ruthless Renaissance pope, I realized that my main task was to get those nuclear warheads out of Ethiopia. Sahele jumped into the car as soon as he pulled up to the curb, and he wasted no time in driving. Today he drove the car himself.
  
  
  "Our journey will take all day," the general said. "Get some rest."
  
  
  I slept for a while and then woke up. General Sahele drove well, and maneuvered deftly between all the animals and old vehicles that we encountered or passed on our way just to the south.
  
  
  Although in Ethiopia, roads are better than railways, airplanes are much preferable . He didn't explain why he'd decided to go, and I wasn't about to question his wisdom.
  
  
  He spent most of the trip talking about his days at Sandhurst, his admiration and hatred for the British. I had a feeling that he was trying to make me feel guilty about being white. On his monologue was his goal.
  
  
  "Maryam will be happier with an Amharic man," he said.
  
  
  "Much happier,"I agreed.
  
  
  — Don't you love her?"
  
  
  I respect her, " I said, choosing my words carefully. "You know who it is, General.
  
  
  "You're a spy."
  
  
  "And that's why I avoid constant contact with women."
  
  
  "I'm only helping you because Ethiopia can't afford to become a nuclear power."
  
  
  General Sahele amused me. He was a good man with a strong sense of personal frequentness, but an emu would never survive in the world of espionage. He didn't understand and did. And now that my world has merged with the ego of the official world, he has betrayed ego by showing a low opinion of secret agents. Emu was hurt that the ego army couldn't win the fighting without me... or someone like me.
  
  
  We spent the night visiting the general's relatives. I haven't seen her, only one woman. Our host, also a military man, spoke to me briefly, but I was asked to stay in my room until we were ready to leave. And that moment of departure came an hour before sunrise.
  
  
  General Sahele took us to a small airport.
  
  
  "The pilot can be trusted," he said. "Use the radio to call your people."
  
  
  He settled into the communications bay at the rear of the helicopter and contacted the carrier as the engines warmed up.
  
  
  "The missiles were delivered deep into the desert," the Sahel general said. There are no troops to guard ih. When your people get there, I'll go to it. Then you will leave for Ethiopia, and I would not advise you to return. In time, I will make an inspection trip and officially discover that there are no more nuclear warheads. There will be a lot of excitement, and then someone finds out that the spy Nick Carter was in Asmara and suddenly disappeared. Then someone else will remember that at the same time, an American aircraft carrier was off the coast of Ethiopia. The Russians will spy and discover that the nuclear warheads are in the United States. They will tell us, and I will rant about it and curse America for its unreliability. Do you understand, Mr. Carter?
  
  
  "Yes," I said.
  
  
  US units were already in the air, fifteen naval helicopters already invading Ethiopia. No one would have known if General Sahele had kept his promise. He was sure that after the embassy had reported that they had made their way inland and taken the nuclear warheads on board, the return trip to the aircraft carrier was not at all risky, except for a few technical defects. Twenty-three different nuclear devices provided a very strong guarantee against treason. The Ih equipment had withstood the Borgia camp attack well, but that didn't mean it would survive a helicopter crash.
  
  
  I didn't believe Sahele was planning treason. He devised an excellent plan to get nuclear warheads out of the country and get me out of Ethiopia, putting me in a position of guilt that would have made me persona non grata. The General really wanted it — it was an ego-driven way to separate Maryam and me. Unless he had deceived a lot of people, including Hawke, he had helped me out of the firm belief that membership in the Nuclear Association would do Ethiopia no good.
  
  
  The very fact that such aid had to be provided in secret meant that the other strong point required these nuclear warheads to remain in Ethiopia. I could only hope that General Sahele had outsmarted the other side. They were the ones who could have shot down the military as reported by the embassy and followed us.
  
  
  We passed over three camel caravans heading east. They brought back memories that I didn't particularly like. He also wondered if the Ethiopians had taken any action against the Danakils, who supported the Borgias but were not in the village, in the camp at the time of the attack. General Sahele's current mood prevented me from satisfying my curiosity. A corkscrew in this direction, he can interpret as interference in internal affairs.
  
  
  We started to lose altitude. He looked down and saw the sun shining from the rockets lined up in neat rows. The large tractors that ih had towed around the Borgia headquarters into the desert were gone. They must have been fired through the air, because all the tracks seemed to go in one direction only.
  
  
  "How long will it take your unit to get here, Mr. Carter? General Sahele asked.
  
  
  "One minute Twenty," emu told her.
  
  
  He shouted an order to the pilot. We hovered over the area just west of the rockets and began to descend. "There is no reason to waste fuel," the general said. The helicopter hit the ground. The general took a rifle from the shelf and motioned for me to take one. He convinced himself that the rifle he had chosen had a full magazine.
  
  
  "Let's take a look at ih," he said, popping out a day later to the right of the helicopter.
  
  
  I was just about to follow him when the submachine guns opened up. Bullets riddled the side of the helicopter as it dived back inside. General Sahele staggered and grabbed the edge of the helicopter's floor. He leaned down and quickly sucked in the ego. The helicopter rocked as the propellers spun again. More bullets hit us, and he felt the whoosh of a bullet through the open door. "Up," he called to her pilot.
  
  
  He sped up, and we took off into the air. Then the propellers went full blast and we were out of range. She knelt before General Sahele.
  
  
  "Take ih across Ethiopia," he said weakly.
  
  
  "Yes, General.
  
  
  "They don't belong here. Do you hear...'
  
  
  He coughed up blood and died before he could finish his sentence.
  
  
  I went ahead to direct the helicopter and told em that the general was dead.
  
  
  "I'll take ego to the hospital," the pilot said.
  
  
  "No, we're staying here.
  
  
  "I'm taking General Sahele to the hospital," he said, reaching for the pistol in his belt.
  
  
  My right fist caught him under the jaw. Ego pulled her out of the pilot's seat and took control of the helicopter. It was an American plane that he had met at the AH airport about five or six years ago. I didn't fly very well, but I had enough experience to go in big circles until the Americans arrived. I let go of the controls for a moment to take the Colt 45 from the pilot's holster and make sure that the chamber is gawking and the safety catch is snapped. Then it continued to spin in a circle.
  
  
  We were being watched, and as I flew east of the missiles, I could clearly see the army.
  
  
  The pilot started moving. He opened his eyes and stared at me. He tried to stand up.
  
  
  "Sit down," I said, holding the Colt 45 in ego's direction.
  
  
  "You attacked me," he said.
  
  
  "We'll stay in the air until my men get here," I said. "If you were flying in circles like I told you before, he wouldn't have attacked you." I decided to appeal to her ego loyalty. "General Sahele's last order was to move these nuclear warheads across Ethiopia... and we can't do that if we fly back to the mountains."
  
  
  I entered the air pit by helicopter, and it took me both hands to get my ego under control again. When he looked back again, the pilot was up and staggering toward the gun rack. If he hadn't let the helicopter jump unintentionally, he would have had a chance to grab a gun and shoot me. He took careful aim and shot him through every tribe.
  
  
  He staggered instead of falling. The helicopter dived again. The pilot tripped over the body of General Sahele and fell through the open door. She didn't want that to happen. He should have lived to tell his superiors about the missiles hidden in the Danakil . It was now very likely that the Ethiopians would blame me for General Sahel's death. He picked up the microphone to call out to the approaching Americans.
  
  
  I asked her. — Are there any armed men with you?"
  
  
  "Twelve," came rheumatism.
  
  
  — It's not enough, but it needs to be done. Here's the problem. I reported it to the people guarding the rockets .
  
  
  "Twelve Marines," the unit commander said. "First we will land them by helicopter with them on board. You'll be able to see us in about three minutes.
  
  
  "Great," I said. — I'll land openly in front of you.
  
  
  Twelve Marines - we were only outnumbered by one to two.
  
  
  ***********
  
  
  She was helped by helicopter just before the Marines arrived . It was a risky maneuver, but by landing on the side of the missiles, I hoped to track down Danakilov, who was ambushing us. It landed about a hundred yards away in the open desert. He jumped out and ran away from the helicopter.
  
  
  The hot sun burned my body. I heard the thunder of gunfire and bullets crashing into an Ethiopian helicopter. Then there was an explosion; I was pierced by a scorching Savchenko as gawking punched through the fuel tank and set it on fire. He had already given up on the idea of crawling away, gripped his guns tightly and raced away across the sand, trying to be as small as possible.
  
  
  I ducked behind a low dune as the bullets sank into the sand and flew over my head. I took the first rifle and took a prone firing position. About ten times danakilov shot at me in the desert. Ten more were still carrying rockets. He returned fire and killed two of them before my rifle was empty.
  
  
  The second rifle was half empty, and another danakil fell as they plunged into the sand. They began to approach me, taking cover from the fire of the others. He moved to the other side of the dune and managed to take down another opponent before the second rifle's head ran out of ammunition.
  
  
  They were already very close, and very soon one of them would shoot me down. He began to think that he had miscalculated when the US Navy Embassy appeared in the sky and the Marines opened fire. The fight ended in five minutes. I didn't have time to take another shot. A Marine sergeant slowly walked across the sand toward me. He saluted and said: "Master. Carter?
  
  
  "Actually, Sarge," I said. 'Just in time. A minute later, and you should have missed the pleasure of saving me.
  
  
  "Hema were they?"
  
  
  Danakils. Have you ever heard of it?
  
  
  "No, sir."
  
  
  "Oni are the second best fighters in the world."
  
  
  A grin split ego's face. "Who are the best, sir ?"
  
  
  "US Marines," I said.
  
  
  He pointed to the burning Ethiopian helicopter. — Was anyone else with you, sir ?"
  
  
  'One person. But he was already dead. How soon can we get rocket specialists here?
  
  
  The lieutenant, who had experience with nuclear weapons, commanded a squad of twenty technicians. He had a lot of questions, but ego silenced her.
  
  
  "It's a long story, Commander," I said. "You're not authorized to listen to all of this, and you won't like the part I'm going to tell you."
  
  
  "What's that, mister?" Carter? "No," he said .
  
  
  "That this desert is teeming with people who think killing enemies is more fun than playing soccer. We have twelve Marines. And I've seen thirty or forty of these Danakils together.
  
  
  He understood the situation. The men immediately began dismantling the nuclear warheads. They were dismantling five nuclear warheads and loading ih into a helicopter when several shots rang out from the eastern side of the missiles. The Marines immediately joined in the fight as soon as he came out through the shadows on one side, where he was sitting, and pulled Wilhelmina out. The sound of more gunshots waited for her, but the ego never came. Then one of the sailors came running across the sand toward me.
  
  
  Mr. Carter, " he said breathlessly. — Can you come now?" Some maniac wants to blow up the rockets.
  
  
  I followed him across the sand. We reached the top of a low dune, and a fat white man with a box in his hands saw her. He was standing next to one of the Russian-made missiles stolen from the Egyptians. That night, in Saheles ' apartment, I guessed it: Cesare Borgia was still somewhere in Ethiopia.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 19
  
  
  
  
  Hers was about fifteen yards from the Borgia. A light shot from Wilhelmina. Unfortunately, I couldn't afford to take that shot. He didn't need an explanation for the small box Borgia held in his hand, especially when he saw the wires leading from the box to the nuclear warhead. It was a stunningly simple weapon. Conventional explosions trigger nuclear warheads. Electrical impulses cause ordinary explosions. All the Borgias had to do was push a button or flip a switch, and the largest and most powerful nuclear explosion in history would occur in the Danakil sands, with Nick Carter at the epicenter. "Put the gun down, mister . Carter, " Borgia shouted.
  
  
  Luger dropped her in the sand. At that moment, I wanted to do two things. One of them was to kill the Borgias. It was another matter not to anger the unit commander. If he hadn't sent a messenger to me, I might have found a way to find out all about the Borgias and kill ego.
  
  
  "Come to me very slowly," Borgia ordered.
  
  
  Did he know about Hugo? He thought about his previous contacts with the Borgia people. Gaard had seen her killed by Larsen aboard the Hans Skeelmann, and if he'd had excellent end-of-war night vision , he would have seen her stabbed by his ego. However, when he captured me, he was unarmed, and the Hans Skeelmann detectives were unable to find Hugo in my luggage. Of course, he had also been unarmed in the Borgia camp, and when he returned, he was behind a company of Ethiopian inspection troops. Six nights ago in Asmara, when Gaard and his henchmen attacked me, all she used was a pistol and a gas bomb. Hugo remained in his scabbard. So even if Borgia intelligence was working fine, it's likely that he thought the only knife he'd ever used was at the bottom of the Atlantic.
  
  
  Well, I was ready to use my ego. And how would her ego use her now? Borgia kept his right index finger on the button. He was close enough now to count the wires. The two around them were running from the crate to the head of the rocket, which stretched out behind the Borgias to my right and left, like some futuristic dragon basking in the sun. I wondered how much Borgia would allow me to become another lick.
  
  
  "Stop it, mister. Carter, " he said.
  
  
  Three meters. Its stopped. It was almost noon, and the hot sun was searing my feet through the soles of the heavy boots and thick socks I was wearing.
  
  
  Borgia stopped shouting. He glared at me. He said, " Mr. Carter, take two careful steps to the right.
  
  
  He obeyed her. My body no longer blocked the view of the sailors and Marines. I was hoping that no one behind me would be heroic. Most Marines are snipers with a rifle. No doubt one around them could have felled the Borgias with a rocket, but a convulsive movement of the ego finger would have flipped the switch and blown us all up. "Get ready for you all to leave," he told them. "I want you all in helicopters, and in the air in five minutes."
  
  
  The Borgias have gone mad. I always thought ego was crazy with them ferrets, as I felt he changed his name from Carlo to Cesare. But now I had proof. It had no weapons other than a detonator attached to a nuclear warhead.
  
  
  There was no way he could have killed me. The only way he could have killed me was by blowing up a rocket, which would have killed himself. He called me in to let her stahl witness the ego of the last act, the ego of the wild, the suicides in the atomic bomb explosion.
  
  
  But did he understand his own futility? It wasn't just the sun and hot sand that made the water flow through my body . I had three or even four minutes to get inside this madman's mind, learn his ego plans, and figure out a way to neutralize him. Even if he had forced me to strip naked and lie down on the sand for life after the sailors and Marines had disappeared, even if he had snatched Hugo and held ego inches away from my body, it was very unlikely that he would have been able to defeat Killmaster. He had to deal with it quickly. "With these friends of yours in the Ethiopian government, it would be much wiser for you to try to survive rather than harass us like this," he said in a controlled tone. — You can still fight us later.
  
  
  "My friends are scared," he said. "They're fools. They didn't know that I had prepared an ambush for you and your operetta general in Danakil.
  
  
  "You definitely have a lot of contacts among the Danakils," I said.
  
  
  She didn't want the Borgia to suddenly come to his senses. He didn't expect the Danakils to lose the battle today. It belongs to them that they could destroy the Marines by ambushing him for the Sahel and me. But Odin on the ego of the people was too impatient and fired the moment the general appeared. Now the Borgias had no choice. Once it knows this, it will flip a switch and send an electric current through the wires leading to the nuclear warhead.
  
  
  Wires? He was quickly examined by ih. I was hoping they would save my life.
  
  
  Her analysis of the Borgia biography and character was discouragingly slow. A political adman in Italy, a college student whose training was mostly academic and theoretical, a brilliant leader who knew how to handle politicians and the military, a self-proclaimed commander-in-chief who left the dirty work to people like Vasyl Pachek... why did the Borgias have the skill to properly connect this detonator? Her ego found a vulnerable spot.
  
  
  The wires ended in metal clips, like those that are attached with a screw. The Borgias just put ih on a nuclear warhead. It was examined by ih as carefully as possible. The odin that was connected to the top contact point was only attached to the tips. The slightest pull on the wire will break the circuit and make detonation impossible. All I had to do was stand up so that he could grab the wires before he flipped the switch. He took a step forward.
  
  
  "Stay where you are," Borgia shouted.
  
  
  The helicopter engines roared as the combat team prepared to withdraw.
  
  
  "I'm sorry," I said softly. "I have a cramp in my leg. There was so little room in that damn Ethiopian helicopter that I could barely even stretch out to get comfortable."
  
  
  "Come here so I can keep an eye on you."
  
  
  He took a few steps to the left until he almost touched the atomic warhead. The Borgias aren't the only ones watching me when they can get a better look at me and the departing people. This meant that he knew that ego connections were bad. I wondered if this knowledge would help me or hinder me.
  
  
  I almost had to shout to be heard over the noise of the helicopter fleet. "Do you remember Maryam, Borgia?"
  
  
  "I'll get her back," he bluffed. "They'll give it back to me, or they'll wipe this whole godforsaken country off the map."
  
  
  "It's a little damaged," I said, quietly apologizing for nah.
  
  
  "What do you mean, mister?" Carter?
  
  
  "She was my mistress with them ferrets as we escaped around your camp."
  
  
  Men like the Borgias suffer from the misconception that every woman is private property. A normal man would rape or try to seduce such a beautiful slave. In any case, he definitely wouldn't try to make it a symbol of his hopes that one day he would rule over Ethiopia. He stopped thinking of her as a woman with her own desires and needs . And that's why my comment made him angry. It was only for a short time that he briefly lost his attention to the current circumstances.
  
  
  He took a step toward me, holding the black box with the detonator in his right hand and holding his finger about three-quarters of an inch out of the switch. It might not have been exactly what I needed, but it was all I was going to get. Her, dived forward.
  
  
  He instinctively raised his left arm to block my attack. The time to act was up when he realized I was diving at the wires, not at him.
  
  
  My hands found ih. Her ih just yanked. The top wire, which identified it as the weakest, broke away from the contact point of the nuclear warhead.
  
  
  I heard Borgia cursing behind me. Her, turned to deal with him. Pointlessly, he flipped the switch several times. He grabbed the only thread that was still attached and yanked it; it also came off. The Borgias now had nothing in their hands but a detonator connected to the sands of the Danakil Desert. As reported by the embassy took off and swung over our heads. I was hoping someone would come by, because if I stayed here alone, I'd have a real problem. He had survived the Danakil crossing once, but the chances of doing so first or second were slim.
  
  
  Borgia stopped trying to make contact with the switch, and people didn't stare rudely at me. Hugo calmly drew it from its scabbard.
  
  
  "Carter, you bastard," he said fiercely.
  
  
  I had nothing more to say to the Borgias. When Hawke sent me on this mission the day we had an appointment at a restaurant in suburban Washington, he said he didn't know if it was Killmaster's job or not. This solution was part of my assignment. The Borgias had too many important contacts in Ethiopia.
  
  
  Now that General Sahele was dead, I didn't know what kind of trouble he could cause again. Besides, emu liked detonating things like nuclear warheads too much to see nen as a useful citizen.
  
  
  Her, walked up to him, Hugo aimed the emu at folding the dollar. He threw a useless detonator at me. I ducked, but the movement prevented me from taking aim. Borgia tried to run across the loose sand, but he had too little support. With his left hand, ego grabbed her by the collar and threw her to the ground. Each tribe's weapon caught the emu in the throat as it fell on top of him, and the stiletto plunged into the emu's chest.
  
  
  He stood up and waved his hands. Two more helicopters took off. Then one of them suddenly turned around. It landed on the sand a few yards away, and a Marine sergeant jumped out of it.
  
  
  "I see you've neutralized the ego, sir," he said.
  
  
  'Yes.'
  
  
  He turned to the helicopter and shouted. "Inform the commander before he fully exits through the radio contact zones."
  
  
  — Was this commander in the air with the first helicopter, Sergeant?"
  
  
  'Sec.'
  
  
  "It's still a great story for the aircraft carrier canteen tonight."
  
  
  The ego smile perfectly expressed my feelings.
  
  
  Lieutenant Commander William K. Shadwell didn't love me with all his heart. Like most soldiers, he didn't know much about AX. And the fact that he knew that didn't reassure him. And my opinion of nen ego made me even less happy. She had to put that aside while engineers continued to dismantle the nuclear warheads and load ih aboard helicopters. We had a long and very unpleasant conversation.
  
  
  "I admit that I made some serious mistakes, Mr. Carter," he said at last.
  
  
  "Keep admitting that, Commander," I suggested. "Leaving on the second helicopter is cowardly. It's an accusation, and he's almost out of his mind to make an ego charge."
  
  
  To begin with, the second time he left, he did better. He sat down behind the last helicopter to take off, along with me. We circled the area, now illuminated by the setting sun. Nuclear warheads were in other helicopters, and some of the planes should already be safe on the carrier. Until now, the ferret Ethiopian forces have not launched an investigation into our violation of IH airspace. And it seemed to her that the Sahel's orders would apply to both ends of our mission. The rockets lay in the desert like a piece of fallen, petrified forest. And they would have been there for a long time if no one had found ih.
  
  
  'Mr. "Carter," Commander Shadwell said, " who was this Borgia?"
  
  
  "A talented madman. He wants to become the emperor of East Africa and start World War III. The nuclear warheads collected by your people were aimed at Cairo, Damascus, and Tel Aviv.
  
  
  "He was definitely crazy. He was ready to blow us all up. A single nuclear warhead would be enough, but a chain reaction would cover this entire part of the world in radioactive fallout."
  
  
  We were halfway across the Red Sea when Shadwell asked another spin: Carter, why can't these Ethiopians keep their nuclear warheads?
  
  
  He looked at the sand, now barely visible in the twilight. He thought of camel caravans making their way through the Danakil desert . Then he thought of Maryam.
  
  
  "They have better things," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About the book:
  
  
  The disappearance of rockets around Egypt and Israel has sparked recriminations between the two countries. But AX, the President's uniformed intelligence service, has reliable information pointing in a different direction, to Ethiopia's Danakil, Odin around the last regions of the world, where a traitorous Italian calling himself General "Cesare Borgia" was engaged in nefarious activities. A man without remorse, on the way to power. Tracking down and destroying the Borgias in this heavily armed city, in a desert area full of quicksand, was an almost impossible task even for Carter. But the need to dismantle nuclear weapons that could well trigger World War III is worth the effort, even at the cost of heavy casualties... Carter's only partner was Maryam, the beautiful daughter of an Ethiopian dignitary.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  
  Contract in Kathmandu
  
  
  translated by Lev Shklovsky in memory of his lost son Anton
  
  
  Original title The Kathmandu Contract
  
  
  
  
  The first chapter
  
  
  He was faster and more agile than he had imagined. And he was deadly. In one hand, he held a sturdy wooden club the size of a sledgehammer, capable of splitting my skull into hundreds of bloody fragments. A human bone already breaks under eight-and-a-half pounds of pressure, and a man wielding a club can easily apply three times that force.
  
  
  Needless to say, I wasn't going to let that happen.
  
  
  My feet skidded on the smooth floor as he lunged forward to attack. He lashed out, swinging the bat, intending to break my ribcage . I answered it the way I was taught, the way I practiced it over and over again with great pain and effort. My body moved instinctively; the action was almost a reflex. He jerked to the right, out of reach of the baton that was swinging slowly in the air. I could hear it whistling in the air, but I wasn't going to stand there aimlessly until I felt it hit me in the ribs, crushing my bones and muscles with the agonizing force of a steamroller. He blocked the attack by slapping his hands and forearms against the opponent's arm. My callused hand slammed into the man's elbow. My other hand touched ego's shoulder.
  
  
  For a moment, he was paralyzed. Then he tried to step back and hit the bat again. But now my reaction time was better than my ego. Ei dove forward before he could use his weapon, grabbing ego's sleeve and pulling him close. Ego hot breath
  
  
  it slid down my face as I lifted my other hand. It was supposed to be the final blow, the brutal blow of my hand that finally mastered it a week ago.
  
  
  She was asked to raise her hand for a sharp kick with her heel to the ego's chin. But before I could move, he grabbed my leg and hooked his foot around my ankle. With one quick flick of my ego, the target leaned back, out of reach of my hand, and we were both on the floor. He reached for the bat, trying to get hold of the deadly weapon.
  
  
  My opponent was panting, almost out of breath, trying to knock me down. But I don't move. He pressed his knees against the inside of his ego wrists with all his weight behind them, causing excruciating pain at the right points of ego pressure in his hands. The bones of the wrist are important if you want to kill someone, and my knees have paralyzed the ego of the Rivnenskaya hand enough to be snatched away by Bidu's weakened subterfuge.
  
  
  It was pressed against Bid ego's neck. Ego's face turned red when her bumped into his adam's apple, and threatened to crush emu's windpipe. But then I heard him slap his hand on the well-polished hardwood floor.
  
  
  It was the sign he'd been waiting for.
  
  
  He immediately recoiled and stood up. He bowed from the waist down, helped his opponent up from the floor, and watched as he bowed too. He turned to adjust his to-bok, the prescribed dress over the rough white fabric. The shirt was buttoned with an impressive black belt of the seventh step. It would be rude if he cleaned up his clothes without turning his back on me. I waited for him to turn back to face me. Then he put his hand on my shoulder and nodded, smiling approvingly.
  
  
  "It's not like you're getting better and more agile every day, Joo-Mok," my instructor said with a grin.
  
  
  In Ego's native Korea, the name meant " Fist." He was pleased with the compliment, because he was the best martial artist in our government and couldn't afford to use his ego's help. And Master Joyoung wasn't the type to be lavish with praise. He wasn't in a hurry to give compliments unless he felt they were truly deserved.
  
  
  "My skill is your skill, Kwang-Chan-nim," I replied, using the correct term for the position of instructor.
  
  
  "Your kind words are very generous, my other." After that, we both fell silent, clenching our fists and bringing the ih to our chests in the classic Chariot of Mental and Physical Concentration, a pose of total and total attention.
  
  
  "Kwang-jang-nim kyo kyung-no," Her snapped, turning to bow to the man next to me. He was the most sophisticated human machine she'd ever seen.
  
  
  He returned my bow and led me to the exit of po dojang, the well-equipped gym where we spent most of the day. At the end of the day, we both turned and bowed. This simple ritual showed both the mutual respect of the master and the student, and the respect for the gym as an educational institution. Although it may seem strange, all the civilized niceties that surround such a brutal activity are an integral part of Keng-do and the Korean form of karate, taekwondo.
  
  
  "Thank you again, Master Joen," I said. He nodded, excused himself, and disappeared through the side door that led to Ego's office. Her carapace was walking down the hall to the showers when a man came around the corner and blocked my path.
  
  
  "You stink like a goat, Carter," he said with a good-natured laugh. But there seemed to be a hint of unspoken concern in the smile.
  
  
  It wasn't easy to ignore selfishness or a stinky cigar. But she wasn't joking, because Hawk was now looking at me with cold and almost calculating determination. As Director and Chief of Operations of the AH , the most secretive and deadly branch of American intelligence, ego was not to be taken lightly. So she was fed a reverent silence.
  
  
  — You know me well, don't you?"
  
  
  A dirty, black, stinking cigar dangled between ego's lips, and a gnawed thread was held between ego's teeth. He spoke with deadly earnestness, and I found myself moving my head up and down as if I had suddenly run out of words.
  
  
  -"How do you know me, sir?" he said at last.
  
  
  "It's all too real," he said. He was looking mimmo at me, his eyes on a distant point. "How are your beginnings?" "What is it?" he asked after a moment.
  
  
  When I was on a mission in New Delhi, I was hit in the thigh with a stiletto that looked like my own precious Hugo. But the wound had healed well, and apart from a slight limp that would soon disappear, he was in pretty good shape. "It's nothing to worry about... just a schrammler that you can add to the list. But otherwise I'm fine.
  
  
  "I was hoping to hear that," my boss replied. Hawk pulled out a half-chewed iso rta cigar and began pacing back and forth on his feet. He let out a breath of nervous tension; uneasiness, even when he tried to make a joke and told me how hard it was to get a good havena these days. But I knew that cigars were the last thing on his mind.
  
  
  — How bad is it this time, sir ?" I heard her in my corkscrew. He didn't even seem surprised that I'd read his mind. "As bad as it gets for us," he said thoughtfully. - But... this is not the place to talk about it. Take a shower first, and then come to my office in, say, half an hour. Is that enough to clean up a little?
  
  
  "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
  
  
  Like I said, Rivnen was at Hawke's office twenty minutes later. Ego's mood worsened, and lines of excitement and worry appeared at the corners of rta's ego and now wrinkled forehead. He looked at his watch, pointed to a chair, and put his hands on the chair. Pushing aside a crystal ashtray filled with no less than six butts of his favorite smelly cigars, Hawk looked up and gave me a tired, worried smile.
  
  
  — What do you know about Senator Golfield?"
  
  
  Her ego didn't ask her to repeat the name, but neither did it relax and collapse into a chair. "Let's start with the fact that he is one of the most respected people in the government. He is also the head of the powerful Armed Forces Committee. This is largely due to the size of our budget, if I remember it correctly. Last year, he was re-elected for a third term. Quite an impressive thing, if you think about it. Something like sixty-seven percent of the votes cast. The voters ' egos completely ignored party interests. They're just Golfield hotels... and they got the ego.
  
  
  "I'm glad you're still taking the time to read the papers," Hawk replied. "But one thing you haven't read yet, Nick, is that Golfield is in trouble, big trouble."
  
  
  He leaned forward in his chair. National security wasn't for AI . If I had to deal with Golfield's problems, it would only be because the senator's problems had spread all over the outdoor pool. But I had no idea what kind of trouble the senator was going to get into. The president called me yesterday at no particular time, and what he had to tell me wasn't very good. Look, I'll play it straight with you, because I think you already know why I want to talk to you.
  
  
  If the White House were calling, Golfield's concerns would obviously pose a threat to international security and world order. So I nodded, kept my mouth shut, and waited.
  
  
  "Golfield is a widower. You may have read this too. My wife died in a car accident early last year. A senseless tragedy, compounded by the fact that she left not only her husband, but also two children. Twins, a boy and a girl. I'm expecting her personally, Nick, although it has nothing to do with this operation. His ego also knew his wife. I loved her very much and still miss her terribly. Hers also dated the Golfield kids. Decent, sensible kids that any man can be proud of.
  
  
  He stopped abruptly, looked down at his hands, and examined his fingernails; a yellow nicotine stain ran one at a time down the ego of his index fingers. I didn't say anything, waiting for him to tell me what was going on.
  
  
  "Well, you've been kidnapped, Nick," Hawk said suddenly. 'Both of them. A boy and a girl.
  
  
  "Kidnapped ? Where...? What happened?'
  
  
  "The children were having a rest with a group. A teacher and a few students are around the school here in Washington that they attend. They were in Greece five days ago. Then the senator received a message. He added in a whisper ," And the president, too."
  
  
  — Where were they at that moment?"
  
  
  "In Athens," he said. — But that doesn't mean anything, because nu isn't in Athens anymore, Nick. Somehow they were smuggled through the countries, although we still don't know how that was done. But ih is no longer in Greece.
  
  
  "So where are they?"
  
  
  'In Nepal.'
  
  
  He let me make sense of it, and even when I thought about it, it was hard to believe. 'Nepal?'- repeat it. I had an image of snow-capped peaks, hippies.
  
  
  Nothing else, nothing at all. - Why, Kostya of God, should I take you there?
  
  
  "To help finance the revolution, that's why," he said. Voice why did the president ask you to connect AH. Because Nepal is still a monarchy. The king has absolute power. - yes... "There is an elected government, the law, but the king has retained almost complete and total control over the country. Now, as you know, Nepal is a wedge, a buffer zone. It may be small, not much bigger than North Carolina, but that doesn't detract from its importance, especially if it's a small country in the middle of a showdown between China and India. And at this point, the king is benevolent to the west.
  
  
  "But not the revolutionaries in Nepal."
  
  
  'Actually. A successful leftist revolution there in Nepal would close the buffer zone, and possibly lead to the political annexation of the area by Beijing. You know what happened to Tibet. Well, the same political scenario, and the same political feuds, could have been just as successfully implemented in Nepal. And if Nepal falls to Beijing, we don't know what will happen to India or the entire continent."
  
  
  — And what do the Golfield children have to do with it?" I asked, even though I knew rheumatism before I even asked corkscrew.
  
  
  Ih will be given for diamonds worth one million dollars. Vote on what they should do about it, N3, " he said. He leaned back in his chair and slammed his fist down on the table. "One million if Golfield ever wants to see his kids again... that is, alive. One million that we don't want to pay if it's up to us. So I settled on the classic buyout option. Pay the kidnappers ' wages, and China will take Nepal as if nothing had happened. No ransom payments, and Golfield only has two very dead children.
  
  
  — And you want me to give it to them, don't you?"
  
  
  "And I gave it back," he said. 'Understood?'
  
  
  "Bring it... and pick up..."
  
  
  "Not just the diamonds, but the Senator's two children. Voting how the president wants it to be done is very simple."
  
  
  There was nothing easy about the task. Not at all.
  
  
  "It won't be so easy," I said.
  
  
  "Voice why are you here, N3." He smiled wearily, reached out, and pressed the intercom button with one finger. "You can ask the senator to come in," he told the secretary. — You'd better hear it firsthand. Then you'll be less likely to make a mistake, Nick. There was no denying that Senator Golfield had made an impression... His face was square and sharply defined, but it was no longer the face of a man who exuded confidence and determination. He looked pale and haggard as he entered the office. He dropped into a chair and allowed Hawke to introduce himself.
  
  
  "They're just kids, teenagers," he muttered. "I can't stand that people can just kidnap children, kill them, and not worry about it. And they really thought the Black September movement was inhumane. They found a couple of hostages... at my expense.
  
  
  At the expense of all of us, he thought to himself.
  
  
  Golfield looked in my direction and shook his head sadly. — You were highly recommended to me, Mr. Carter. Hawk says you're the only one who can handle it.
  
  
  "Thank you for trusting me, Senator," I said. — But can I ask him what about what, before you tell me exactly what happened?"
  
  
  'Of course.'
  
  
  "Why didn't you contact the Nepalese government? Why all this secrecy? Why the silence? Maybe it's a silly corkscrew, but I thought it was the right corkscrew.
  
  
  "It's not a stupid spin, Mr. Carter," the senator replied. He pulled a white, crumpled envelope from the pocket of his doublet. Given the state of the paper, I didn't realize that many people had already studied it.
  
  
  He gave it to me, and it examined it carefully. The nen had a Greek postmark, and it was sent around Athens. Inside was a carbon-copy sheet, without watermarks, neatly folded three times. "Machine writing," I said. "Oh, they're very professional, Mr. Carter. Almost frightening, " the senator muttered darkly.
  
  
  The letter had the following content:
  
  
  SENATOR: GINNY AND MARK ARE STILL ALIVE. BUT NOT IN ATHENS. IN NEPAL, THEY ARE IN GOOD HEALTH. YOU HAVE TO PAY US ONE MILLION USD TO SEE IH AGAIN. BUT NOT IN CASH. PAYMENT MUST BE MADE IN DIAMONDS. WE WILL NOTIFY YOU OF THE CONTRACT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. DON'T TRY TO FIND THE CHILDREN. IF THE NEPALESE GOVERNMENT IS NOTIFIED, THEY WILL BE KILLED. THE DIAMONDS SHOULD BE HERE ON THE 27TH OF THIS MONTH. NOT LATER OR THE CHILDREN WILL BE KILLED. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO MAKE CONTACT. WE WILL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING TO YOU IN TIME.
  
  
  "That's two Sundays from now," Hawke said. "For two Sundays before buying these shiny things and going to Kathmandu."
  
  
  I asked her. "Why Kathmandu? Why not another city?"
  
  
  "I didn't see her yesterday, I was talking to my daughter," the senator replied. "The call was traced to Kathmandu's main telegraph office, which also serves the entire country. Even homes with private telephones are not equipped for long-distance calls."
  
  
  — What did she tell you?"
  
  
  "Very little, I'm sorry to say. They wouldn't let you talk to me for more than a minute or so. But it confirmed everything you just read. She told me they were desperate. And she told me what the money was for.
  
  
  "Yes," Hawk told me they were here because of you. Anything else?'
  
  
  "Nothing," he said. "She and Mark are safe... that is, as long as necessary. And she's terrified, Carter. God, this kid is scared.
  
  
  — I don't blame her, " I muttered. "It's not the most pleasant experience for someone who is... How old do you say your children are, Senator Golfield?"
  
  
  "Sixteen, turned two months ago." He folded his hands in his lap and tried to hold on, but I saw that he was shaking and couldn't control his emotions. "I followed ih's instructions exactly," he said at last. "I had no idea that international security was at stake until I was told why the children were being held for ransom. But now that there is a possibility that Nepal will become a satellite state of Beijing..."
  
  
  "...it is imperative that the revolutionaries are stopped, " Ego Hawke interrupted.
  
  
  "Exactly," Golfield said.
  
  
  "And the million dollars?"
  
  
  "The president has already taken care of that," Hawke told me. "So my job right now is to buy the rough diamonds and deliver ih by the twenty-seventh of this month, get the Senator's two children to safety, and then return the stones," I said. "It doesn't give me much time."
  
  
  "We don't have a choice," Hawk said grimly. "You think you can handle it?"
  
  
  — I'll do my best, sir . But something else... I looked at Hawke, who had a fresh cigar between his thin, pursed lips. "How exactly do I get these diamonds through customs at the borders I don't cross?"
  
  
  "Contraband." he answered. He fixed his gaze on me.
  
  
  "Contraband, sir ? He nodded. "But there are a few things that can be arranged..."
  
  
  I was interrupted by Hawke's monotone voice . "The White House does not want any other governments to be involved in this special operation. This should be completely our business and completely secret. If we tell anyone else, especially the Nepalese Government, that we are going to ship $ 1 million worth of diamonds to that country, we will probably need some explanation. We just don't have time to come up with a reasonable story."
  
  
  Senator Golfield pressed his fingers to his temples. "And who knows where these partizan agents or informants are? If he even thinks the Nepalese government got wind of this Della, then my kids might... He sighed. "You're right about that," I said. "There's a chance I'll be under surveillance once they know the diamonds are on their way."
  
  
  "To make sure you follow ih's instructions," Hawke added. "Which means that no one else knows about this ransom."
  
  
  "Contraband..." I knew that this could lead to huge complications.
  
  
  — It's the only way, Nick. That's the only way we can get the diamonds there, in such a short time, and keep it all a secret.
  
  
  Senator Golfield stood up, thanking us for taking on our assignments. Ego's hand was firm, and the fierce look in ego's eyes betrayed what he must have felt inside.
  
  
  When he was gone, her mother turned to Hawk. He was already working on a script in which I will play the main role. "You get a bank check, Nick. Something that you can turn into a million dollars in Swiss francs."
  
  
  — I suppose I should start working immediately, sir ?"
  
  
  'Tomorrow. He pulled out a yellow notepad around the drawer, a chair, and examined it carefully. "But before you go to Amsterdam, go to your dentist."
  
  
  "Sir ?"
  
  
  "Your own dentist is enough. It has been tested and does not pose a security risk. However, don't tell the emu any more about the work you want them to do.
  
  
  I enjoyed listening to the part that I had time to sort out. I still had a lot to come up with when situations arose.
  
  
  Hawk finished his briefing and rose from his seat. — I'm counting on you, Nick. The President, and I must say Golfield, look forward to the success of this mission.
  
  
  There was still a lot to sort out before her, taking a trip to Amsterdam.
  
  
  Among other things, there was that visit to my dentist where I was known as: Nick Carter.
  
  
  But not like: Carter, Nick, Killmaster N3.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  Everyone received their orders.
  
  
  It was the easiest thing for Golfield. As soon as he received the message from the kidnappers, emu was told that the courier would be a certain Nicholas Carter from the ego of his own office. We don't want to take any chances. I usually pretend to be an employee of Amalgamated Press and Wire Services, but Hawk didn't think that would work as a cover, especially when I was so far away from home.
  
  
  AH's orders were much more direct. The White House wants the Russian settlement to pass without a hitch. If something goes wrong, if something goes wrong, Hawk will incur the president's concerns.
  
  
  My orders were already given to me on a gold tray during my briefing at Hawke's office. Just before he was about to take a taxi to the airport, he packed everything back up. "Nick, it's up to you," Hawke said. "No revolution. No dead children. No missing diamonds.
  
  
  All I could do was nod. It was, to put it mildly, an unpleasant situation that involved a lot of careful but hasty planning, which may have been one of the many reasons she'd spent the previous day visiting her dentist, Burton Chalier.
  
  
  "Nick, you're not serious..." he said.
  
  
  And he said, " Bert, do me a favor and don't ask me anything." Believe me, there is a reason for my madness. Also, how long have we known each other?
  
  
  'Professionally? Five years.'
  
  
  "Seven," he corrected her. "So, if I ask you for a special crown for one around my lower molars, what will you do?"
  
  
  He sighed and shrugged, giving me a tired dentist's smile. "Then I'll put on a special crown without asking what it's for."
  
  
  "You're a good guy, Burton Chalier," I said. Then he leaned back in his chair and opened his mouth.
  
  
  Chalier went to work without another word.
  
  
  I was glad that he trusted me, because without Ego's special experience, my locality in Russia would have started with the wrong foot or rather with the wrong tooth. These things review my thoughts as she is sold on a Boeing 747 fishing trip to Schiphol, Amsterdam. When the flight attendant returned with my double whiskey and water, I let my eyes wander over her body, felt her with a hungry gaze, then looked at all the people who worked in the top-secret laboratories of the AH . They are unsurpassed heroes, because without ih knowledge and skills, Russia's own locality would never have started properly. At that moment, a canvas suitcase with the most beautiful double bottom ever created by human hands was snuggled in the belly of the airliner. Without this cleverly hidden cut, I would never have been able to get Wilhelmina's luger through the less sophisticated electronic equipment of the airport, not to mention my other two favorites, Hugo's stiletto and Pierre's diminutive rigidity.
  
  
  Still, it was a strange feeling out there, thousands of feet above the Atlantic, without the three valuable companions I was so used to. He didn't fasten the shoulder holster that usually held the Luger. The suede scabbard usually worn on a stiletto wasn't strapped to my forearm. And there was no metal thing that didn't rub against my thigh: the little gas bomb that I affectionately nicknamed Pierre.
  
  
  The next six hours will be the easiest of all, because by the time I arrive in Amsterdam, I won't have time to relax, sit with a glass in my hand, and let my mind and eyes wander a little.
  
  
  At this point, they were trying to get rid of the adorable thing in a denim skirt and brown suede vest. He knew her type. But I knew this from the bustling streets of Hong Kong, the more seedy gambling establishments of Macau, the much more dangerous but equally busy central streets of Manila, Singapore, and Taipei. As far as I could tell, she was Eurasian, with incredibly long, straight black hair and the most voluptuous body this side of the Tropic of Cancer.
  
  
  She was sitting two seats down in a row of three people, leaning toward the window; her thin shoulders hunched, her eyes on the book she was holding with both slender hands. It couldn't be helped. "Shall I tell you what happens on page one-thirteen?" I said it with a smirk, hoping that she would answer.
  
  
  She looked up, ignoring the smirk, and said with more confusion and restraint than I expected: "Forgive? I didn't hear what you said.
  
  
  "I asked her if I could tell you what's going on on page one-thirteen."
  
  
  "Not forever," she said. "It's already on the page..." and she looked down at her book, forty. That would be unfair.
  
  
  Nah had no trace of an accent. Her voice was absurdly Central American, although outwardly there were many signs of the mysterious East. "Want a drink?" I asked, introducing myself. "Thank you," she said. "My name is Andrea. Andrea Ewen, Mr. Carter.
  
  
  "Nick," he corrected her automatically.
  
  
  "All right, Nick. She looked at me warily, curiously, and a little amused. "I'd like a cup of wine for her."
  
  
  "White or red".
  
  
  "White," she said. "Red wine affects your teeth." She pulled her lips back for a moment, and her first glance showed that she had never touched red wine in all her more than twenty years.
  
  
  "I have a dentist who would give a lot to work on such a beautiful mouth."
  
  
  — This can be explained in different ways.
  
  
  "Take what you like best," he told her with a smile and called the stewardess.
  
  
  By the time dinner was served, a considerably relaxed Andrea had switched places and was now sitting openly next to me. She was a freelance journalist and was on her way to Amsterdam to write a series of articles about the drug problem in that city's youth circles. She graduated two years ago. Now she felt ready to face whatever might happen . 'All? I asked, trying to ignore the gray matter that was supposed to be steak on my plate. "You like to ask questions, don't you, Nick?" she said, not so much as a corkscrew as a statement.
  
  
  "Depends on who we are."
  
  
  She looked up at me with her deep dark eyes and smiled broadly. But when she looked down at her plate, the smile faded and tucci flickered across her eyes.
  
  
  "I think the next drinks will be fine, Miss Yuen," I said.
  
  
  "Andrea," she corrected me.
  
  
  So there was nothing strange about the fact that we were driving along Schiphol to the city in the same taxi. And when Andrea suggested the Embassy Hotel, which she said was located in the city center at a reasonable price, I didn't have to think twice before accepting her offer. But since there was such a thing as" too close to my neck to feel good", I made sure that we checked into two different rooms. Then I went through the hall. The hotel was located on Herengracht. Prices are much more anonymous than the Hilton on Apollo. The Ambassador Hotel was fully equipped, without the ostentatious tinsel that American tourists like to see.
  
  
  Every time I visit Amsterdam, I try to eat it in a Bali restaurant. Ih the signature dish is the rice chair. We were just in time, and despite the time difference we both felt, there wasn't a more pleasant way to spend the rest of the evening.
  
  
  Andrea began to talk. She talked about her childhood, her Chinese father, her American mother. She was the prototype of the girl next door, only slightly more civilized than her Midwestern background suggested . And the longer I stared at Nah sitting across from me at the table, the more she went to the hotel and beyond. This was probably my last day off for a while, and his hotel made the most of it.
  
  
  Outside the restaurant, she was hailed a taxi that passed through the Leidsestraat. Andrea leaned on me, stifled a yawn, and closed her eyes. "You meet the nicest people when you travel," she said. "It was a beautiful evening, Nick."
  
  
  — This is not a stream yet — - her husband denied the reports that appeared in the media.
  
  
  AH had already sent her a telegram to tell them where she was staying, but when we got back to the hotel, there were no letters waiting for me at the counter. If Clare looked a little curious (and a little jealous, I can imagine), he hardly noticed her. I had only one thing on my mind at the moment, and Andrea didn't need to be coaxed to join me in my room for a final glass of brandy.
  
  
  "Just let me fix it," she said; the old sentence , which, however, came out around her full, moist lips, didn't make much sense in a completely new way.
  
  
  And she was true to her word. As soon as I undressed and tried to put on a comfortable terry-cloth robe, she knocked softly on my room door. Everything that hey didn't need to see, Wilhelmina, Hugo, and Pierre, were all hidden away. Her father checked the room one last time before opening the door for her.
  
  
  "Hers, I thought I was brave," she said in her black silk dress that hung to the floor. The nightgown was transparent. Her small, firm breasts pressed warmly against me as she was pulled into ee's arms. I jumped out and slammed the door. With her free hand, he locked it, and after a moment carefully lowered her onto the bed.
  
  
  She moved beneath me, her tongue sticking out from under soft and hungry lips. She's not a school girl anymore, and I'm not a schoolboy. I could feel her long fingernails drawing intricate patterns on my back. Her tongue bit into my mouth as she ran her hands up her thighs, I want to explore her.
  
  
  "Slowly, slowly, Nick," she whispered. "Plenty of time."
  
  
  But my impatience got the better of me, and when she reached out and unbuttoned my robe, she didn't wait any longer. The robe lay forgotten on the floor next to the bed. In the soft yellow light, her skin looked tawny, smooth and supple. I couldn't stop admiring her as she stretched out and spread her legs to allow my eyes to admire the soft fur between her thighs. Her face was buried in nah, turning to let hey, all ya know. Everything, except that then my name would appear the designation N3.
  
  
  The glow faded from her pelt. Now only the dial of my travel alarm clock glowed. I saw her in the darkened room, telling her what time it was. Three hours. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the near-total darkness. Then, slowly and noiselessly, he slid off the bed and stood up. Her, looked down at nah. Her face turned to me, and she raised her hand to her lips like a small fist, like a withered flower. She looked like a child, defenseless. I hoped she wouldn't disappoint me.
  
  
  The key to her room found her, where she'd dropped her ego on the floor. He looked back at Nah. Andrea's breathing was deep and even, and there was no sign that she was pretending to be asleep or innocent. But something was gnawing at the back of my mind, a sixth sense of heightened awareness that was robbing me of the peace my body so desperately needed.
  
  
  Its been too long in this spy craft. Time and time again, he was forced to make decisions and take risks. It's the same tonight, and as I walk through the rooms, I ask her to make sure that my animal instincts don't take the place of my common sense.
  
  
  The hallway was deserted, the thick plush carpet muffling my shaggy footsteps. The key slid smoothly into the lock. He turned the handle and went inside. She left her suitcase on the bed, wide open, revealing a pile of clothes and toiletries. Her Gucci shoulder bag sat like a trophy in the wooden cabinet by the bed. He undid its buckle and rummaged through its contents. I asked her for Andrea's passport, hoping it would confirm everything she'd told me.
  
  
  But that wasn't the case.
  
  
  The next morning we made love again. But the sweet, pleasant tingle he'd felt last night was gone. The sun was already high in a metallic blue sky when I walked around the hotel, still without the evidence I thought I needed. Maybe she was just like Hey, they said, an ordinary mixed-blood American. But until her passport was seen, hers wasn't going to be half as trusting and half as trusting as last night.
  
  
  If Andrea noticed the change in mood, she didn't show it. I was very sorry, I was terribly sorry, but I wasn't on vacation, and there was still too much to do to worry about her grievances.
  
  
  Immediately after a hearty breakfast, she arrived at Credit Suisse. Not many people just show up with a million-dollar check. As soon as I announced my intentions, I was greeted on the red carpet. Mr. van Zuiden, one of the directors, showed me to his private office. Half an hour later, he personally counted out just over three million Swiss francs.
  
  
  "I hope you're all right, Mr. Carter," he said afterwards.
  
  
  I assured him that I couldn't have been more pleased. Then he lit it up with a Virginia with the initials NC stamped on the filter. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to help me with another small matter," I said.
  
  
  "What is it about, Mr. Carter?"
  
  
  He let the smoke escape around the corner of the rta. "Diamonds," I said with a big smile.
  
  
  Van Zuiden gave me all the information I needed. Even though Amsterdam and Antwerp are two of the largest diamond centers in Europe, it allows you to shop without attracting too much attention. As far as I knew, I was already being watched by one or more Sherpa agents.
  
  
  In fact, I had a vague and unsettling feeling that I was being watched when her husband left through the bank a few moments later. He stopped to admire the display case. Not so much because I wanted something, but because the reflection of the window glass gave me the opportunity to explore the other side of the street. Someone seemed to hesitate in front of the coffee, his face hidden in shadow. When I reached the corner, I jerked my head around, but all I saw were people shopping and people going to work.
  
  
  Still, the feeling didn't go away when he pulled up to the Grand Central Station a little later. The traffic on Damrak was too heavy to see if my car was being followed. Once I got to the station, it was easier to blend in with the crowd. I bought her a return ticket to The Hague, which is about a fifty-minute train ride. The trip was uneventful. My pursuer, if my imagination hadn't played tricks on me, must have been lost somewhere between the bank and Grand Central Station.
  
  
  Not far from the Mauritshuis, one of the best small museums in all of Europe, I found the winding narrow street I wanted. Hooistraat 17 was a small and nameless house, slightly wider than the typical canal houses of Amsterdam.
  
  
  The bell rang for her, and Stahl waited, scanning the street to dispel the last doubt that my arrival in The Hague had gone unnoticed. But Hooistraat was deserted, and after a few moments the door opened and he saw a man with a flushed, bright red face, clutching a jewelry magnifying glass in one hand and leaning against the wall with the other.
  
  
  "Good afternoon," I said. Mr. van Zuiden at Credit Suisse thought we could run a business.'
  
  
  "The van de Heuvel class," he said, not bothering to invite me in. — What business are you planning, sir ?"..
  
  
  "Carter," I said. Nicholas Carter. Her hotel would buy some rough stones. Almazova Street.
  
  
  The words hung in the air like a bubble. But eventually the bubble burst, and he said, " Actually. Actually. The ego accent was heavy, but understandable. "This way, please."
  
  
  He closed and locked the door behind us.
  
  
  Van de Heuvel led me down a dimly lit corridor. At the end, he opened a heavy steel door. Instantly, her eyes narrowed, momentarily blinded by the bright sunlight pouring into the perfectly square room. It was an ego study, an ego big shelter. As he closed the door behind us, my eyes took a quick look around.
  
  
  "Take a chair, Mr. Carter," he said, pointing to a chair that stood next to a wooden chair covered with a long black velvet tablecloth. The chair was almost directly under the huge window, through which the sun was streaming down; the only correct place to judge the quality of diamonds.
  
  
  Before Klaas van de Heuvel could say anything, he reached into his inner pocket and found the soothing Wilhelmina holster. Then he took out a ten-fold jewelry magnifying glass and placed it on the chair. Van de Heuvel's round, broad face had the faintest hint of a smile.
  
  
  "I see you're not an amateur, Mr. Carter," he murmured approvingly.
  
  
  "You won't be able to afford it these days," I replied. The Killmaster rating included much more than just knowledge of weapons, karate, and the ability to outsmart an opponent. You should have specialized in many things, including gems. "I'm here to turn three million Swiss francs into raw stones. And I need stones weighing no more than fifty carats."
  
  
  "I am sure I can be of service to you," my host replied without the slightest hesitation.
  
  
  If van de Heuvel was surprised, there was no expression of ego on their faces, and no trace of that confusion. Around the metal cabinet directly opposite where he'd been sitting, he took out a platter lined with the same velvet as the one on the table. In total, there were six packages of stones on nen. I'm not saying our words, he handed me the first one.
  
  
  The diamonds were wrapped in tissue paper. He carefully removed the package and held his breath. The bright colors of the rainbow flickered before my eyes, shooting sparks of trapped fire. The stones seemed to be of excellent quality, but I couldn't know for sure until I looked at them through a magnifying glass.
  
  
  Her hotel only has the highest quality diamonds, as ih may have to resell them on the open market. If they were originally of poor quality, AH would never be able to recover his $ 1 million investment. So she took her time, inserted a magnifying glass in her right eye, and took one around the stones. Holding the ego between his thumb and forefinger, he looked at it through the magnifying glass. He turned the large rough stone over in his hand and saw that it was as perfect as it looked to the naked eye. The stone was a suitable color, without the slightest hint of yellowness, which would not diminish the ego's value. There were no defects, except for a small deposit along one side. But otherwise the magnifying glass didn't reveal us fans, us inclusions, us bubbles, us clouds, us other specks.
  
  
  So I did it more than twenty times, choosing only them, stones that had absolute purity and white color. Some had carbon stains that penetrated so deep inside that they marred the perfection. Others had crystal bands, and more than one had unsightly smokes that any experienced diamond buyer can avoid.
  
  
  Finally, an hour later, I had a collection of stones weighing just under six hundred carats.
  
  
  Van de Heuvel asked when it was finished. "Are you satisfied with your choice, mister?" Carter?
  
  
  "They don't look bad," I said. He took out a wad of Swiss francs from an inside pocket.
  
  
  Van de Heuvel continued to adhere strictly to business etiquette. He calculated the total value of the jewelry and presented me with the bill. This was just under the three million francs that he had brought her around Amsterdam. When the reckoning was over, he bowed. "Ghlikh was atzlaha," he said. These are two Yiddish words used by a diamond merchant to make a purchase decision and link the person to their word. Thank you, Mr. Van de Heuvel." "You've been very helpful."
  
  
  "That's what she's here for, Mr. Carter. He smiled enigmatically and led me to the door.
  
  
  The diamonds were usually stored in an aluminum tube, similar to the one used in cigars, which was not tightly closed. As I stepped into Hooistraat Street, I barely heard her as Klaas van de Heuvel closed the front door behind me. The sun was already low in a cloudless sky. Dusk was coming soon, so I hurried her through the deserted streets, I want to get to the train station and return to Amsterdam.
  
  
  There are about three trains an hour to Amsterdam, so I didn't have to hurry. But as dusk fell, my confusion deepened. I didn't see her, though, and a damp, cold wind was blowing at me from the northeast. He turned up the collar of his coat and picked up the pace, more alert and careful than ever. I had a million dollars ' worth of diamonds. And there were still many thousands of miles ahead of them to reach the kingdom of Nepal. The last thing I wanted was to lose my ransom, the ransom that the Sherpas used to buy weapons to start their revolution.
  
  
  Shaggy echoed behind me as he hurried toward the station. He looked back and saw only the hunched figure of an old woman, weighed down by the weight of an overloaded shopping bag. Behind them lay a deserted alley lined with trees, only lengthening shadows that cast their strange shapes on the asphalt. Don't be a fool, he told himself.
  
  
  But something felt wrong, something I couldn't understand. If I was being followed, the person who was following me was invisible. Still, he wasn't going to be distracted until I got to Amsterdam and put the stones in the hotel safe. Only then would she be allowed the temporary luxury of breathing a sigh of relief.
  
  
  The ten-minute walk from Hoostrat to the train station was over before he knew it. The train was due in five minutes, and he waited patiently on the platform, trying to stay out of the growing rush-hour crowd. I was still on my guard, but my constantly moving eyes picked up nothing that seemed even a little suspicious, nothing that could cause even the slightest alarm. He looked along the platform, saw the train approaching, and smiled to himself.
  
  
  No one knows who you are or where you've been, she told herself, her eyes fixed on the approaching train. Sparks flew off the tracks like multicolored flashes of diamonds in diamonds. He crossed his arms over his chest and felt the comforting bulge of the aluminum tube. Then hers, I felt someone touch my pockets, a sly, furtive hand appearing around me out of nowhere.
  
  
  The moment the deafening sound of a train rang out in my ears, I threw her left leg back. A backstab, or dy-it-cha-ki, was supposed to break the kneecap of someone trying to roll up my pockets behind my back. But before anyone could hit her, I was pushed forward by a pair of strong hands. He staggered and screamed, trying to stay upright. The woman screamed, and the thin air scratched at her, but nothing else. Her, landed on the tracks with a terrible crash as the train rolled down the tracks, thousands of tons of irons and steel ready to roll me out like a pancake.
  
  
  In a very bloody pancake.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  I didn't have time to think.
  
  
  He was acting on instinct. With all the strength I had left, I rolled sideways into the narrow space between the platform and the rail. The roar and wild whistle of the train filled my ears. He pressed his back against the edge of the platform and closed his eyes. One speeding car after another sped by mimmo me. I was surrounded by hot sparks, and the stinking wind, like the hot breath of the hellhound itself, raced down my cheeks until I thought my skin was going to burn votum votum.
  
  
  Then there was a high-pitched screech of brakes. Immediately after, the screams of the women rang out in the air, like the screams of terrified jungle animals. When I opened her eyes again-shutting out her ih from dust and sparks — I stared at the single wheels around the wagons. Very slowly, they began to turn again, so that after a few moments the commuter train began to reverse.
  
  
  You did it, Carter, I thought. So stay calm, catch your breath, and think about what your next move should be. She had been in dangerous situations before, but this time she was being licked to death more than ever. It's one thing for a leaden angry gawk to fly past mimmo's head, and quite another when a whole train, a locomotive with fifteen cars, thunders over you with a vote-vote. If it weren't for this narrow space between the platform and the rails, the Killmaster N3 would no longer exist. Then my body would be strewn across the tracks in a pile of tiny bits of skin, bone, and shattered brain matter.
  
  
  Suddenly it was light again. He cautiously raised his head and saw a dozen frightened and incredulous eyes. The stationmaster, the conductor, and the passengers all seemed relieved at the same time. He stood up, trembling. Shvedov's shirt was torn open, and her body was covered in bruises and pain, as if she had suffered one of the worst beatings of her life. But I had survived, and the diamonds were still safe in the specially constructed holster that I had strapped to the inside of her arm, much like the suede scabbard that Hugo was always on the lookout for. The aluminum case fit snugly in its holster, and no pickpocket could ever find it, with or without the help of a rattling train.
  
  
  The conductor said quickly in Dutch, " How are you?"
  
  
  'Excellent.'In English its, added: "I feel good. Thank you.'
  
  
  'What happened?'What is it?' he asked, reaching out and helping me up onto the platform.
  
  
  Something told me to shut up about it. "I lost my balance," I said. "An accident." If it was up to me, I wouldn't want the police to get involved.
  
  
  "According to this lady, immediately after you fell, a man ran across the platform," the driver said. He pointed at the middle-aged woman next to him, who was just staring with a chalk-white face and a grim expression.
  
  
  "I — I tripped, that's all," I said.
  
  
  "Then you should be more careful from now on, sir," the stationmaster said, a clear warning in his voice.
  
  
  "Yes, I'll keep an eye on it. It was an accident, a vote, and that's it — repeat it.
  
  
  The conductor returned to the front car, and the train slowly returned to its original position. The crowd of passengers continued to stare at me, but their inquisitive, curious eyes were much kinder than the train that had just nearly killed me. When the day opened, her sel and eyes were fixed on her lap. A few minutes later, we were gliding through the outskirts of The Hague and heading back to Amsterdam.
  
  
  The hour-long drive gave me plenty of time to think things through. He had no way of knowing if the assailant might be related to the Sherpas. He or she, for that matter, might have been an ordinary pickpocket who mistook me for a rich American business traveler. Another possibility was that ih sent Van de Heuvel to return the diamonds and put three million Swiss francs in his pocket. But van Zuiden, around the bank, assured me that van de Heuvel was extremely reliable. He doubted that he had the time and intention to come up with such an insidious double game. No, it had to be someone else, even though I didn't have the slightest clue about the ego of the individual. A man or woman disguised as a man escapes across the platform. That was all I had to assume. And it wasn't so much, ostensibly.
  
  
  He couldn't help but wonder if the Sherpas would have decided to approach the senator for an additional ransom once they got their hands on the rough diamonds. If that's the case, they have nothing to lose in my death... as long as they have these diamonds. And if this person wasn't sent by the Sherpas, then it could have been someone else who worked for him, or someone who managed to infiltrate the revolutionary organization. But there was still no way to know which solution was right, where it went. It looked like a key in a pocket, but there were no locks to try it on. At least one thing I was sure of: Amsterdam was no longer safe for me, and the sooner I got out of it, the better. I decided to arrange for her to continue the trip the next morning.
  
  
  But before I do that, I'll first find out how the playful and uninhibited Eurasian girl spent her day. She could very well visit The Hague. And that wouldn't be a coincidence, I thought.
  
  
  Besides, it wasn't a very happy thought. Not at all.
  
  
  I left my room key on her desk. There he was waiting for me with a message. He unfolded a square sheet of paper and read: How about you come to my room for a drink at five o'clock? Andrea.
  
  
  Of course, I thought, hoping she'd show me an American passport. It's also a fascinating story about how she spent the day. So I went upstairs, locked myself in my room, and stood in the hot shower for almost thirty minutes. That, shaving, and changing my clothes got me back on track. I left her the diamonds in the hotel safe because it was too risky to keep ih in the room. He wasn't going to take any more chances if he could do something about it.
  
  
  Wilhelmina's luger was not damaged, despite the fall that made it. He checked it before slipping it back into the holster he was wearing under his jacket. Then, with one last look in the mirror, he walked her around the room and made sure to lock the door behind him. I walked down the hall, hoping that Andrea Ewen would be able to give me all the answers I thought I needed.
  
  
  But before I reached her room, I realized I was out of cigarettes. I didn't have much time, so I took the elevator down to the lobby to look for a vending machine.
  
  
  There the manager found me while she was putting a few guilders and quarters in a hungry slot machine. As soon as I pressed the button of my choice, annoyed that I had just smoked the last of my special cigarettes, he tapped me on the shoulder. "Ah, Mr. Carter," he said.
  
  
  'What's the matter? I asked, putting down my pack of cigarettes. "To find you here." I just called your room, but I didn't get an answer. There is a phone call for you. If you want, you can talk at the stands.
  
  
  I wondered if it was a Hawk to give me my final instructions. Senator Golfield may have contacted the kidnappers and given them information that will change my plans completely. He turned his back on the cashier and picked up the phone. "Hello, this is Carter," I said, expecting to hear the thin, tinny version of my boss's booming voice. Instead, the one on the other end of the line absurdly looked like it was genuinely around the corner.
  
  
  'Nickname?'she said. "this is Andrea. I've been trying to contact you all day.
  
  
  'What do you mean?' I said it, ignoring what struck me as an unfortunate coincidence. 'All day? "I thought I was going upstairs to have a drink in your room?"
  
  
  "From where?" she said.
  
  
  — In your room here at the hotel. Where are you calling from?'
  
  
  "Van de Dam," she said. "I've never written anything about drinking. She was asked to ask you if we'd like to have dinner together, but that's all.
  
  
  "Didn't you leave a message for me on the table?"
  
  
  'Message?'she confirmed, raising her voice. 'No, of course not. She was here all day, chatting with the boys and girls at the Paradiso in Weteringschans. I have enough material for my first article. Speaking of drug use...
  
  
  "Listen," I said quickly. "Stay put. See you at Dam Square in two hours. If I'm not here by seven, you'll go alone. I still have some arrangements to make here at the hotel.
  
  
  — You sound so mysterious." Can I help you?"
  
  
  "No, I told her. Then I changed my mind. "Yes, there is something. Where's your passport?
  
  
  'My passport?'
  
  
  'Actually.'
  
  
  — I passed the ego test on the counter. What happened?'
  
  
  Nothing, I told her with great relief. "But I'll see you at seven." At least , that's what I hoped .
  
  
  When I hung up, I knew I'd finally get the contact that had been eluding me all day. Whoever followed me to Credit Suisse obviously succeeded in The Hague as well. Now they were having a more intimate party in Andrea Ewen's room. A meeting that he hoped would answer many questions.
  
  
  When she was alone in the elevator, she took out Wilhelmina's holster. Luge shoots are very reliable, so there was no need to make last-minute corrections. In addition, the trigger has been modified so that the force is different from the others. It would probably take very little time. Gawk will shoot out the moment I apply pressure. But I didn't want to use it if I didn't have to. The dead don't talk. I needed answers, not bodies.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  The locked door protected not the chastity of the lady, but the anonymity of the murderer. On the day of Andrea's room, she held her breath and Stahl waited, listening for the slightest sound.
  
  
  There was no ego.
  
  
  The elevator rumbled down the hall. He felt a slight irritation and moved Alenka from one foot to the other. Wilhelmina took my hand. Nah has a good weight distribution, you might say a good figure, and she felt even and confident when she was pressed with her finger on a very sensitive trigger. Whoever was waiting for us inside, ego wasn't there to pin a medal on me. But hers, of course, wouldn't have given them the decision to put a bullet in my thunder. "Andrea," I said, and knocked softly on the door. "It's hers... Nicholas... Nicholas Carter."
  
  
  Instead of answering, shaggy heard her: too heavy for a woman and too cautious to become overly optimistic. But I was as careful as possible. Her back pressed against the moaning hallway as the key turned in the lock. After a few moments, the doorknob came down and the door swung open. All that burst out around the room was a swath of white world. It was now or never.
  
  
  Either my head was blown off, or whoever was inside was smart enough to know that a dead Nick Carter would mean a million missing diamonds. I hoped they weren't half as stupid as I thought they were. Wilhelmina pointed to the chest of a burly Dutchman with a flaxen head.
  
  
  Ego's thumbs were tucked into the waistband of his baggy pants, but there was an Aster sticking out of his back. 32 as opposed to the smooth, deadly trunk of Wilhelmina. The Astra is striking because it's only a few yards away in the hall, and it also had the advantage of a twelve-centimeter silencer, ready to muffle a shot, even the heaviest bullet, if they were on the verge of instant death. "Good evening, Mr. Carter," the Dutchman said in a thick guttural accent. — I see you're ready for anything." But there's no reason to discuss things in the hallway like a bitch of common thieves.
  
  
  He didn't say a word to us, just kept his index finger on the trigger. When I entered Andrea's room, I felt a sense of desecration at the presence of these grim-faced people. The man with the Astra was Asian, with a full moon face and jet-black hair. Unlike his companion, there was nothing stupid or feeble-minded about his gaze, which was so intent and devious. When the door closed behind us, he made an almost imperceptible movement of his head.
  
  
  "I'm glad you joined us for a drink, Mr. Carter," he said. He spoke English as quickly and accurately as the people of Bombay and New Delhi. But he wasn't an Indian. More like a Chinese with enough blood in his features to conjure up images of snow-capped peaks and small Buddhist temples.
  
  
  "I do my best to please people."
  
  
  "I was hoping so, "the Asian replied, the Astra still pointed blatantly at my chest.
  
  
  "What are we waiting for, Koenvar?" The Dutchman barked at his accomplice.
  
  
  The name was Nepali, which answered the first of my many questions. But no one seemed very interested in answering the rest of the questions.
  
  
  "We'll wait for Mr. Carter to get the diamonds out," Koenvar said openly, his face a blank mask, cold and expressionless.
  
  
  "Diamonds?" - repeat it.
  
  
  "You heard ego," the Dutchman said, now nervous and less confident. It only had fleshy fists, no wonder the emu was uncomfortable. "That's right, Mr. Carter," Koenvar said. "It would save me a lot of time... and it would cause you a lot of inconvenience if you just pulled out the stones so he could complete this deal and leave."
  
  
  I asked her. — Which way is it?"
  
  
  Ego's face broke into a smile. It was the worst thing he could do. Ego fangs were sawn to the point of daggers: stills from the third-rate horror film " The Oriental Count Dracula."
  
  
  "Come on, Mr. Carter," Koenvar said. — You don't want to die for just a few diamonds, do you?" Her confident that a good Senator Golfield will be able to raise more funds to eventually buy out the children. So let's avoid unnecessary bloodshed.
  
  
  Rheumatism on the other corkscrew. He knew that his emissary was Golfield. But if he was a Sherpa emissary, some important aspects of the agreement were overlooked, including the Golfield children. If it was handed over by ih now, the Sherpas could demand more and more diamonds. And if he wasn't a Sherpa, I didn't think it would be easy for me to explain to desperate revolutionaries that the ransom was stolen by a fat Dutchman and a half-Nepalese who looked very much like a vampire.
  
  
  I had to get ih to talk for a while. — And if I don't give it to them, they have standards; - identify the data that you think I have, what then?
  
  
  Koenvar smiled again, slowly getting to his feet. His body was narrow and sinewy. Ego the cat's movements reminded me of Master Tsyoen, my karate instructor.
  
  
  'What then? He tapped the barrel of the Astra with one finger. "This delightful tool is equipped with five ultra-fast cartridges. If I pull the trigger, half of the area around you will be blown away by the day, leaving your feet in place. Do you understand?'
  
  
  "Great," I said.
  
  
  — So let's stop arguing. Rocks, please.
  
  
  "Who sent you?"
  
  
  "What difference does it make to you, Mr. Carter?
  
  
  Ego's voice and all of ego's mood darkened with growing determination, and ego's finger slid nervously over the trigger.
  
  
  "You win," I said, thinking to myself: "You're a bigger bastard than you ever knew." Wilhelmina put it down and reached for his jacket with his free hand, as if trying to get the diamonds around the inside pocket.
  
  
  Like it or not, there will be no more answers. As Koenvar leveled his revolver at me, he made a quick flick of his wrist, so that in a split second I had Hugo in my hand and he fell to his knees. It capsized as the Astra spewed explosive fire. Gawking was a long shot, but Hugo had hit the bull's-eye, there was no doubt about that.
  
  
  The Dutchman lunged at me, shuddering, making one convulsive movement after another. My throw was hard and deadly. Hugo stuck out along the ego of the heart like a pin holding a butterfly pinned to paper. With both hands, linen gol tried to pull out the hairpin, but blood was already gushing out of him in a geyser, pouring red foam in front of the shirt bubbles.
  
  
  He collapsed like a rag doll that had lost its stuffing, his eyes turning inward as if they were hitting an unappetizing and bloodied cash register. But Koenvar wasn't interested at all. He pulled the trigger again, and I heard the hiss of a red-hot bullet burning its way almost through the sleeve of my doublet.
  
  
  The little man was nervous, especially since I didn't want to use Wilhelmina. She was still being asked to stay alive because I knew that he could provide me with a lot more information while the ego language was still being used than if she was knocked out by the entire ego speech center by the ego RTA . He was safe behind the bed for a while. Koenvar crawled forward, moving with precise movements across the old, warped floor. "
  
  
  Begged her. "Compromise, Koenvar, let's make a deal!
  
  
  He didn't answer and let his Astra speak for him. The fake Walther spat again, and the mirror beside the bed shattered into hundreds of sharp shards. Hers would shatter into as many pieces as I got under the ego's line of fire. So I had no choice but to bring Wilhelmina into action. Aiming along its smooth, blue-black barrel, he pulled the trigger. Just behind Koenvar, less than two inches above Ego's head, a hole appeared in the groan.
  
  
  He ducked and slid behind the dressing table, trying to get closer to her. He was afraid to use Wilhelmina again; they were afraid that the hotel staff would hear what was going on in this grand and respectable establishment. But now Koenvar looked startled, and inwardly drew conclusions. For the third time in as many minutes, the Astra whined with infernal persistence, and the Wilhelmina flew out around my arms.
  
  
  "Here, berry diamonds!"
  
  
  I begged her, wondering if he was so desperate and greedy to believe in me a second time.
  
  
  He trusted me.
  
  
  Slowly and trembling, he got up and walked towards him with a very heavy gait. He had the gun pointed at my chest. "Raise your hands," he said, not out of breath.
  
  
  Coming closer, I did it, as I was told. But when Koenvar reached for my jacket, I want to explore so much more than just the expensive silk lining, her left hand hit him and squeezed his fingers . around the ego's wrist, pushing the Astra's brain away from my chest and sending the ego toward the ground.
  
  
  He let out a surprised growl, and the weapon slid out of Ego's fingers. Then he tried to pull away, narrowly missing the effect of so-nal-chi-ki, a knife-hilt blow that should have shattered the emu's larynx. But hers didn't go any further than a glancing side kick to the ego's muscular neck.
  
  
  Then it was Koenvar's turn to surprise me. When her ego kicked her in the groin, he jerked back and made one of the fastest jumps she'd ever seen.
  
  
  I jerked my head back so that the toe of my ego boot was touching the air sample, not my neck and chin. In any case, he had lost the advantage of his Astra. But on the dell'emu itself, that wasn't necessary. Koenvar was equally adept with his hands and feet, and he struck again, this time with a backward kick. If he'd hit me, if he hadn't turned around at the last minute, Nick Carter's spleen would have been like a sack of peas. But again, it missed its target. I raised my hand, and my hand became a deadly and blinding two-fingered spear. Ego's eye touched hers, and he let out a strangled cry of pain.
  
  
  Then he slammed his knee down and hit me right on the tip of my chin. I thought I heard bones crunch as her father leaned back, shook his head, and tried to regain his balance. Koenvar was already at the door, apparently intending to postpone the session until the second visit, rather than deal with me immediately and permanently. A few moments later, he was gone for the day, the panicked rhythm of running echoing in my ears. Her, ducked into the hallway.
  
  
  It was deserted.
  
  
  'Impossible. She cursed softly to herself. The hallway was suddenly quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Hers ran down the row from side to side. But Koenvar was gone.
  
  
  How the man had disappeared without a trace remained a mystery. Ego connections and motivations remained a strange series of unanswered questions. But I could be absolutely certain of one thing: Koenvar would be back, whether I liked it or not.
  
  
  It was hard for me to knock all day asking if I could search her rooms. In any case, no one was interested in the noise coming through Andrea's rooms, even though she knew that most of the hotel guests were already sitting at countless tables around the city before dinner. So he went back to her room and quietly closed the door behind him.
  
  
  The Dutchman lay crumpled on the floor like a used paper handkerchief, and the room smelled of rancid blood, gunpowder, and fear. He opened the window that overlooked Herengracht and hoped the stench of water would dispel the more palpable smells of violence and death.
  
  
  If he could have done anything about it, Andrea wouldn't have known anything out of the ordinary had happened. But first I needed to get rid of this body.
  
  
  Of course, the man's clothes had Dutch labels on them. But ego's pockets were empty except for a pack of cigarettes and a few guilders. He didn't have anything to identify it with, and he suspected that Koenvar had hired this guy here in Amsterdam.
  
  
  "Stupid bastard," I whispered, looking down at the blood-soaked front of ego's shirt. With one hand, he held her ego body pinned to the floor as he pulled Hugo out of the ego-less body. Darkening blood trickled down his chest. Ego's skin had already taken on a faded, sickly green sheen, and my wet pants and bloodless appearance almost made me regret the futility of ego's death. He didn't gain anything from it. Koenvar wasn't interested in what had happened to him.
  
  
  But now, even that lifeless body had to disappear. Her saw a fire door at the end of the corridor and started dragging the man's body towards the door, ignoring the red after left by the man on the floor. As soon as the body is gone, I'll clean up the mess. It wasn't something to leave for a maid. Luckily, no one came out into the hallway when ego dragged her to the fire station. Ego opened it and pulled it out.
  
  
  Ten minutes later, he was lying on the roof of the Embassy Hotel on a pile of old clothes. They'll find the ego there, but probably long after I leave Amsterdam. He sleeps well, I thought bitterly. Then he went back and slipped back into Andrea's room.
  
  
  I had to clean up all this blood without such a miracle detergent. So I just used soap and water to get rid of the worst stains. Hers even made it not so bad, ostensibly bad considering the floor was like a battlefield. Then he replaced the broken mirror with one for his room. Finally, he pulled the dressing table up to the bullet hole in her groan, put Koenvar's Astra in her pocket, and examined Wilhelmina carefully.
  
  
  The stare from the Astra only grazed her and bounced off the special long high-pressure barrel. I checked it with my Bomar visor, and was glad that it was still in such good condition. I've had Wilhelmina for a lot more years than she is, I want to know, or I can remember. And I didn't want to lose it, especially now, when the Russian locality has barely moved off the ground.
  
  
  He straightened her tie and ran a comb through her hair before crossing the room. The departure looked good. Not very well, you'll remember, but I didn't think Andrea Ewen would notice it either, except for the furniture being moved. Besides, there was no way she could have known that a certain person had died here.
  
  
  He closed the door behind him and took the elevator down to the foyer. I still had plenty of time to go to Dam Square, pick her up, and get something to eat together. I hope the rest of the evening was quiet and peaceful. And without incident.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  "You know —" she said,"you're worth a lot more than yesterday's rice chairs."
  
  
  — So you still like Indian eda?"
  
  
  "I prefer you, Carter," Andrea said.
  
  
  "That's always nice to hear," I muttered. He rolled onto his back and reached for a cigarette. Andrea crawls on top of me, and puts her head on my chest. "It's a pity that I don't have to leave today at any time."
  
  
  She asked. 'Why?'
  
  
  "Business agreements.
  
  
  "What kind of business is this?"
  
  
  'None of your business. I laughed and hoped she would understand.
  
  
  She did it. In fact, she seemed quite content with her position, her skin still wet and pink from the aurora borealis of our lovemaking. She kept me up half the night, but spending the night with her was much nicer than, say, Coenvar or his damn companion.
  
  
  "Where are you going next, or am I not allowed to know?" Andrea's expression darkened.
  
  
  "Everything points east," I said. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and turned to face her. My hands roamed up and down her smooth, satiny skin. It was a Chinese doll, all pink and porcelain; wit and beauty neatly packed, as a gift. I couldn't resist unpacking it all one more time to admire the contents. Suddenly, her tongue was all over the place, and before she knew what was going on, her hard bench press was on top of her, digging deep into her treasure chest.
  
  
  "Are you going to go back to Paradiso for more interviews?" he asked an hour later, when she came out to her liking. "Maybe this is a good idea," Andrea said as Ay wiped her back, wavering in the sight of the soft curves of her buttocks. "That's where most hang out around them to make contact... or, more accurately, make a deal. And they don't mind talking to me while they're in their own environment."
  
  
  "I can take you in a taxi if I'm going to buy plane tickets."
  
  
  'Excellent. It saves me a lot of time, " she said. — But won't you have breakfast before you leave?"
  
  
  "Just coffee."
  
  
  After all the violence and surprises of the previous night, the last breakfast in Amsterdam was the best stimulant he could have imagined. Just sitting there, across from Andrea, over a steaming cup of coffee, made me love her so much that I was almost afraid. Without nah, it would be much more lonely. But that wasn't how my life worked, and there was nothing he could do about it. So it was Andrea Ewen who tried to throw it around his head when he got dressed and hugged her, maybe for the last time.
  
  
  She didn't look too happy herself. — Will you stop by Amsterdam again on your way back? — What is it? " she asked as we waited for the elevator.
  
  
  "I'm not sure," I said, " so I can't promise you anything. But if I come back here and you're still here..."
  
  
  "Then we'll have rice tables to celebrate again," Andrea said with a smirk that she seemed to be struggling to keep in place. Then she pressed a finger to my lips, and quickly shifted her gaze.
  
  
  Exiting around the hotel, we entered the brightly lit holy of a bright, auspicious spring morning inside. The air was radiant and smelled of adventure and excitement. Andrea clung to my arm as if she was afraid of losing me. Suddenly, halfway down the sidewalk, she seemed to stumble. She stumbled, and ee grabbed her to keep her from falling. Then he saw a bright red flower blooming on her shoulder.
  
  
  "Nick, please... — What is it? " she began. Then her eyes closed and she collapsed on top of me like a dead weight.
  
  
  I didn't have time to waste. Ee dragged her into a parked car and scanned the rooftops all over Herengracht. Something metallic glinted in the bright morning sunlight, and fierce gunfire rang out overhead.
  
  
  The doorman saw her fall. He ran down the street when she did, shouting at him to hide because there was a sniper on one of the posts across the street.
  
  
  "Call an ambulance," I shouted. "She was shot." He looked at Andrea. Her eyes were still closed, and the blush had faded from her face. Her breathing was ragged now, and blood continued to flow from the nasty wound on her shoulder.
  
  
  At this point, he could do little more than try to get to the other side of the street. I had no doubt that this was my other po Nepal and that the ego goal was not as clear as he had hoped. I wasn't going to let him slip away from me again, not with Andrea's blood on his hands and maybe even her life to answer for.
  
  
  The narrow Peña Bridge was the only way to get to the other side of the canal. He kept as low as possible, though he was still an easy target. Behind me, I heard the double sound of an ambulance siren rushing toward the Embassy Hotel ; that and the furious shouts of the rapidly gathering crowd. He sped across the bridge and made it safely to the other side. Someone shouted a warning as another gawk hit the sidewalk to my left, sending chunks of paving stones flying into the air.
  
  
  A moment later, he ran up the stairs of the Grand house. Fortunately, the door was open. It was an office building, and it didn't take me long to get to the top floor. The door leading to the roof was locked from the inside, which meant that Koenvar, or perhaps one of the local assassins he'd hired, hadn't used the house to gain access to the row of flat roofs.
  
  
  Wilhelmina snuggled into my hand, and I felt warm and comforted. He pulled back the bolt and opened the door as quietly as possible. The Sun Saint surged in, along with the ambulance's blaring siren, across the canal in front of the embassy hotel.
  
  
  Come on, you bastard, show yourself, I thought, climbing out onto the flat, paved roof. At that exact moment, gawk punched through a brick chimney less than half a meter away. He plopped down on the roof and began to crawl forward. There was no sign of Koenvar, though he knew which direction the shot had come from. He's seen me, but I haven't found him yet. I didn't really like my vulnerability, but there wasn't much I could do until I caught it along the shiny black trunk of my Wilhelmina.
  
  
  Then I heard the sound I'd been waiting for, the sound of footsteps running frank behind me. He crouched down and peered around the end of the chimney. It was indeed a Koenvar, dressed all in black, lithe and elusive as a jaguar. Wilhelmina picked it up, took aim, and fired...
  
  
  But this cocky bastard didn't even hold back. It looked as if the gawking had grazed the ego's skull, but Koenvar didn't even reflexively raise his hand to the heads.
  
  
  I went after him and stayed as close to him as I could lick. He was carrying a 12-round Mossberg, the standard rifle of many American police stations. But he obviously made some adjustments to it, since the ammunition he used was more like an M-70 mortar round.
  
  
  Koenvar slid behind a ledge across two roofs. Ego Mossberg glinted in the light, and then the sound was like a steel plug: pvok, to my left. He dove back, but his ego accuracy wasn't half as good as his ego karate skills. At that moment, he could only be happy about it.
  
  
  It was Wilhelmina who pulled the trigger. Her staccato voice was immediately followed by a groan of sudden spasmodic pain. My blood boiled as I realized that one of my bullets had finally hit its mark. Koenvar reached for his hand, trying to stop the blood. He raised the Mossberg to his cheek. But with only one hand left in action, Gawk passed mimmo and ricocheted from one roof to another in a series of violent explosions.
  
  
  Then, he ran again like a black panther, trying to hide. I jumped up and ran after him, my finger gripping Wilhelmina's trigger tightly. Koenvar was fast, but more than that, he was incredibly agile. When another shot was fired, the man jumped between two houses and disappeared behind a short charred pipe. When I reached the end of the roof, Ego and Mossberg were nowhere to be seen. He backed up, took the lead, and jumped. For a moment, she imagined a badly crushed, disfigured Nick Carter on the street below. My beginnings slipped off the end. It was thrown forward by Alyonka to get a better grip on the roof. The tiles rattled and hit the street below with the sound of machine-gun fire. But I got there just in time to see my quarry disappear through a galvanized door that no doubt led to the street below.
  
  
  In less than twenty seconds, hers was already up for the day, but Koenvar wasn't stupid to us, he wasn't careless to us. He carefully locked the door from the inside. He ran back across the roof, ducked, and peered over the gable. I had a great view of the entire street. The ambulance had already left. Instead, three Volkswagen Beetles with the Amsterdam Police logo were parked in front of the hotel.
  
  
  But there was no sign of Koenvar, nothing to indicate that less than five minutes ago he had been hiding on the roof to shoot me.
  
  
  Unseen and gone, Koenvar was more dangerous than anything else in the world. She was sure that he was still somewhere in the house, unable to make a dash for the street, and would eventually deem it safe, so she crawled back and examined the other end of the roof. The back of the building opened onto a narrow cul-de-sac. Koenvar had nowhere else to go, either.
  
  
  Where was he then?
  
  
  There was no way to find out except to open the door and search the house. Gawk walked through the door and lock like it was a buttered cake. A moment later, he secretly and silently descended the stairs, taking two steps at a time. A bright red bloodstain told me that Cohen had taken the same route less than two minutes ago. Hers, knew he was bleeding like a bull when he nearly lost his balance in the foreground on landing and slipped in a pool of darkening blood.
  
  
  I went down the stairs to the next landing and couldn't hear anything but my own breathing. He wasn't in the mood for games. When a door swung open at the dark end of the corridor, he turned quickly and kept his finger on the trigger just in time. An old man with steel-rimmed glasses looked out. He glanced at the weapon, blinked his short-sighted eyes, and threw up his hands in a gesture of utter and utter horror.
  
  
  "Please.".. no, no. Please, " he wailed. 'Please. Not yet.'
  
  
  He lowered his Luger and motioned the emu to silence. Still trembling, he stepped back and hid behind the door. Then there was a thud, followed by the sound of running feet. I shot her back and waited, I don't know what to expect. But before she could say or do anything, she was confronted by three Amsterdam police officers.
  
  
  'Hands up! Don't move! Odina barked in Dutch around the men.
  
  
  I did what I was told.
  
  
  "You don't understand," I tried to say.
  
  
  "We understand that the woman may die," the police officer replied.
  
  
  "But I'm looking for someone like you, a sniper."
  
  
  It took me a lot of talking to explain to them that Cohenvar and I were two different people. Even then, I knew I was wasting precious time, because the Asian now had a chance to find a safe haven.
  
  
  They finally understood me. Two men rushed back to the street, and a third policeman accompanied me to search the entire house. But for the first and second time in a few days, Koenvar was gone. Finally, he climbed the stairs and returned to the roof, cursing his bad luck. Then he saw something on the broken wall that he hadn't noticed ten minutes ago. He bent down and picked it up. It was an empty matchbox with a very special inscription. On the front of the paper was printed:
  
  
  Cabin Restaurant, 11/897 Ason Tole,
  
  
  Kathmandu
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  
  
  
  I had a lot to explain.
  
  
  "What kind of relationship did you have with Miss Yuen?"
  
  
  'Have you been before?'I said, annoyed that my investigator was treating me like a common criminal. He was sitting on a straight wooden chair in a small, gloomy room at the Marnixstraat police station. All around me are posters that say "detected," and in front of me is the motionless face of Inspector Sean.
  
  
  "There is, since she is still alive... at least not yet, " he said.
  
  
  At least they told me something, very little, but something about Andrea's condition. When I got back to the embassy, the police were waiting for me outside the hotel. They were all too eager to transfer me to headquarters, not for a friendly conversation. Now that the sniper was gone, they weren't going to let me go without getting a few answers first.
  
  
  "And also, what else can you say? Shen repeated, leaning so far that I could tell he was ale for breakfast.
  
  
  — What is it?" I asked, trying to control my growing anger. If the police hadn't broken into the canal house at all, I might have been able to stop Koenvar. Then her ego could have cornered her before it escaped. But now he was gone, and there wasn't much he could do about it.
  
  
  "What is your relationship with Miss Yuen?"
  
  
  "I met her on the plane to Amsterdam, that's all," I said. "We were just friends, Inspector.
  
  
  "There's nothing ordinary about attempted murder, Mr. Carter," he said. He stopped to light a cigarette, but didn't bother to offer it to me. "And how did you get into this country with a banned weapon? Firearms must be declared at customs. But there's nothing in the customs books about it, Mr. Carter. Nothing like that.'
  
  
  "I hadn't thought of that," I said, frowning. I don't even need to use my phone. Just wait for her, call the embassy, and then they'll contact Hawk again and sort out this mess for me without wasting us a day. Just like now, I never got out of Amsterdam the way I planned. The longer I was held, the more time I lost, and the more difficult my locality in Russia became. But I wasn't going to stick it up Shen's nose and tell em why I had a luger with me and why someone tried to shoot me that morning.
  
  
  It was already noon, but the inspector didn't seem interested in having lunch for either of us. Shen hovered around me like a trapped tiger in a cage, hands behind his back, a cigarette dangling between his thick lips. "You're making my life very difficult, Mr. Carter," he said. — You seem to know a lot more about this Della than you do about her." And I'm not happy about it at all."
  
  
  "Simple," I said, shrugging.
  
  
  "We don't have enough regret."
  
  
  "This is the best I can give. I work at home, Senator around the United States, and so I call you to diplomatic immunity..."
  
  
  "While her what?" he asked in a commanding tone.
  
  
  I didn't want to go through with it, so I kept my mouth shut and kept my eyes down. What a mess, I thought. As much as I don't have enough problems, I now have to deal with the Dutch police as well.
  
  
  Meanwhile, he had no idea what had happened to Andrea, where she had been taken, what treatment she was currently receiving, or if her condition was critical. "Look, Shawn, all you have to do is make one phone call and you won't have anything to do with this whole thing. Then you don't have to worry anymore."
  
  
  "Really, too?" He grinned, as if he didn't take my word for it.
  
  
  "Yes, it's true," I said, gritting my teeth. "Take the tailor, man. Use your brain. How could I have shot the girl if I was right next to her when it happened?"
  
  
  "I'm not accusing you of shooting Ms. Yuen," he said. "I'm only interested in information. But you can use your phone. One phone call and that's it.
  
  
  One phone call changed everything.
  
  
  At four o'clock in the afternoon, Wilhelmina returned to her seat, safe and sound, in my shoulder holster. Hers was also in its place, heading to the hospital to see how Andrea was doing.
  
  
  Shen didn't want to let me go without further questions. But the White House can exert some pressure, especially in NATO countries. And finally, the president, and of course the hotel, so that there would be an international incident in the media that could ruin my last cover. Koenvar knew that Golfield had sent me. Who helped Em with this information is a mystery, whether I liked it or not. What he didn't seem to know was that I was also N3, and I was tasked with not only delivering diamonds, but also preventing a dangerous revolution.
  
  
  On the way to the hospital, she stopped at the Ambassador Hotel. When Inspector Sean left her office, he had no intention of doing so, but after reading the events of this morning, he made a quick decision. Two police cars were still parked outside. Its passed unnoticed. A brief moment at the table, and then into my room. Before leaving her, he splashed some water on his face, quickly changed into another jacket, and ran a comb through his hair. A few people were waiting for a taxi in front of the hotel, so I went down the canal to catch a taxi that was heading to the hotel.
  
  
  He gave the driver the name of the hospital that Sean said Andrea had been taken to, and tried to put the worst out of his head during the ride. According to the police, she was in very poor condition, and as far as I could tell, I was responsible for her condition. She took a bullet meant for me.
  
  
  Well, one thing was clear: I'm not leaving Amsterdam today until I've grown a pair of wings.
  
  
  "I'm looking for Miss Andrea Yuen," he told the doorman at the hospital.
  
  
  He knew immediately that I spoke English, but it didn't bother him. For many people in the Netherlands, English is a kind of second language. He ran a finger down the patient list, then looked up with one of the least amused expressions he'd seen her wear in days. "I'm sorry, but the patient is not allowed visitors. Ee status... how can I tell if her condition is very serious?
  
  
  "Extremely critical."
  
  
  "Yes, in this situation."
  
  
  "Is her doctor free?" She'd like to talk to him, if possible, " I said. "You see, I'm leaving Amsterdam in the morning, and I need to see her before I leave."
  
  
  "No one is allowed with her now," the doorman replied. — She's in a coma with them ferrets, just like they brought her in this morning. But I'll call Dr. Boutense, her attending physician. Maybe he can talk to you.
  
  
  Butens was a friendly man in his forties. He met me in the waiting room on the ground floor, but insisted that ego take her to ego's office on the fourth floor of the hospital.
  
  
  "Are you still Miss Yuens...?"
  
  
  "A good one," I said. — How serious is her condition, Doctor?"
  
  
  "Very serious, I'm afraid. Gawking is stuck in the upper lobe of the left lung. Luckily for Nah, it didn't hit the artery. If that had happened, she would have died in a matter of minutes.
  
  
  'And also?'
  
  
  He gestured me into his office and showed me a chair. "As a result of this," he continued, " she lost a significant amount of blood due to internal bleeding. We'll operate on her in the morning. But it will be very difficult... and a very dangerous case, sir ...
  
  
  "Carter, Nicholas Carter," I said, sinking into the chair next to the desk.
  
  
  Hautens pushed an ashtray toward me. He lit it and blew a nervous cloud of smoke into the room. "Her hotel should pay the medical bills here before leaving the country," Emu finally told her. "That would be very nice," he said frankly. "Of course, we weren't able to discuss this aspect of the situation with Miss Yuen, as she was in a coma with them ferrets when she was brought in, you know." Her, realized that Koenvar had almost killed her. And that didn't make me happy at all. Right now, all I could do was make sure that her bills were paid and that she knew how to contact me... if she survives the operation. Gave much more. Butens, the number of the American Embassy. I would have contacted them myself, too. I have a contingency fund in AH for such emergencies, and since Andrea was one of the most innocent bystanders, hers, I knew I wouldn't have a problem covering hospital expenses through the service. Hers would have also sent a message leaving ee at the embassy, although his had no idea if I would be able to drop her off in Amsterdam to start a second time on my way back to America.
  
  
  Everything was still in a vacuum. Andrea's fortune, the success or failure of my mission, the lives of Jeannie and Brand Golfields, the Nepalese Revolution, and then Koenwar.
  
  
  Who hired ego? There was still the possibility that, despite my doubts, he was a Sherpa after all. And if so, something might happen to the Golfield children. Something he didn't want to think about. Hey, God, I wish I knew the answers. But until I got to Kathmandu and the Hut restaurant, I groped around in the dark. So I put out my cigarette and got up tired. Dr. Boutense held out his hand and promised to take my message to Andrea as soon as she regained consciousness.
  
  
  "What are her chances, Doctor?" - I asked her, I stand for a day.
  
  
  He turned away and stared at his clipped fingernails. Finally, he looked back at me. "Not very good, Mr. Carter," he admitted. "It will be... how do you say it in America? Be on the edge? Yes, her, I think that's an expression. He'll stay on the edge until we can safely remove the bullet. And then... He shrugged and looked down again.
  
  
  "And then what?" I told myself softly. He closed the door and walked down the corridor to the row of elevators. Whatever happened to us over the next few days, she was determined to use microphones and speakers to settle the score with the treacherous and elusive Koenvar. And it wasn't an empty threat or just a silent wish. It was a promise. Fact.
  
  
  He couldn't believe it, but the police were still hanging around the hotel.
  
  
  Don't they have anything else to do, too? I thought as I paid the taxi driver and walked to the hotel. But there were three white Volkswagen trucks parked in the driveway, and a strangely quiet crowd of people. I pushed my way through the crowd to the revolving door, but was stopped by a policeman standing openly in front of the entrance.
  
  
  "No one is allowed in, sir," he said in Dutch.
  
  
  "I'm staying at a hotel," I said. "What's going on, Officer?"
  
  
  He lowered his voice, though what he was trying to say quickly became clear to me. The bottom line is that less than an hour ago, someone tried to blow up the hotel safe. The manager was slightly injured, and the doorman was badly injured by the explosion. Two men were seen running from the scene of the explosion, although by the time the police and ambulance arrived, they had managed to escape.
  
  
  "Ah, Mr. Carter... I thought I would meet you sooner or later."
  
  
  He looked over his shoulder and frowned. Inspector Sean broke away from the crowd and put a hand on my shoulder. It wasn't the friendliest gesture he could have imagined.
  
  
  — What can I do for you, Sean?" I said, trying to stay calm.
  
  
  "I'm very curious that these difficulties are haunting you, Mr. Carter," he said with a hint of arrogance on his lips. "First, a sniper shot at you this morning. Then an explosion occurs in your hotel. Very interesting. And very bad. I hope that you are planning to leave the Netherlands soon. It seems to me that you will bring a well-known one with you... let's say a nuisance... wherever you'd like us to go.
  
  
  "I don't know what you're talking about, Sean," I said. "I went to the Wilhelmina Gasthuis Hotel to see how Miss Yuen was doing."
  
  
  — What about yours?".. a girlfriend? he asked. The sound of ego's voice left nothing to the imagination.
  
  
  "My girlfriend," I said, " is very bad. "In the morning, nah has an operation."
  
  
  "Where will you be tomorrow morning, if I may ask, Mr. Carter?"
  
  
  "Out of the country, Inspector. And if you'll excuse me now, I have a lot of packing to do. She was asked to turn around, but he still had his hand on my shoulder. "We're watching you, Mr. Carter," he said before withdrawing his hand. "And very carefully, I can add it, what would the Russian Foreign Ministry think of us?"
  
  
  "Is that a warning, Inspector?" Or a threat?
  
  
  "I'll leave it to you, Mr. Carter," Sean replied. "I leave its interpretation to your discretion."
  
  
  He moved away, and I finally managed to enter through the revolving door. I couldn't believe my eyes.
  
  
  The lobby was a disaster area.
  
  
  If it was thrown aside by a crowd of terrified guests trying to unsubscribe, everything around the chairs was completely destroyed. There was nothing to indicate that things had gone smoothly less than an hour ago.
  
  
  The hotel administration will be happy to hear I'm leaving, I thought, tapping the button next to the elevator with my finger. The elevator seemed to take several hours to reach the lobby. A moment later, he saw her and ran down the hall to his room.
  
  
  I expected the worst, and that's exactly what I found. The bed was turned upside down, the mattress ripped open on all sides like a mutilated corpse. All the drawers were pulled out, and ih contents were scattered on the floor. Shvedov, which she had hung in her closet, was scattered all over the room.
  
  
  He closed the door behind him and went into the bathroom, half expecting to find some message in the bathroom ... the medicine cabinet mirror, scrawled in the most melodramatic ink imaginable, blood. But there was nothing: we had leads, we had hastily written warnings.
  
  
  Very carefully, he ran Hugo's blade along the edge of the cabinet and slowly pulled Ego around the recess in the tile groan. Finally, when it was all loosened up enough, he put the stiletto back in its scabbard, and then carefully took out a small metal box.
  
  
  For the first time that day, I found myself smiling. A diamond-shaped aluminum tube was taped to the back wall of the rectangular hole, which was not smeared. He removed the tape and unscrewed the cap from the sleeve. Bright flashes of light flashed before me like a beacon of peace. Diamonds sparkled in all the colors of the rainbow, hundreds of carats, raw, natural beauty. The effect was hypnotic. He continued to stare at the stones for a while, as if they were sacred. Then he shoved the cigar-shaped mouthpiece into its width, and replaced the first-aid kit. You're not stupid, Koenvar, I thought. But you're not a genius either.
  
  
  My decision to make a short hotel stop before going to the hospital was even more sensible than I could have imagined at the time. And at that moment, I didn't ask the manager to open the safe for me, because I thought that Koenvar ego would blow up. However, her father knew that he had to be as careful as possible. He had plenty of time to come to the conclusion that I had put the stones in the vault, and it seemed to me that I knew where best to put ih.
  
  
  So he carefully placed the stones in the medicine cabinet before heading to the hospital to check on Andrea's condition. I think she was happy, and a dark grin crossed my lips as I rearranged her room. Koenvar ruined my suitcase, but he didn't find the clever empty space that the engineers at AH had made for me. I just hoped the customs officers here were just as blind. Because if that wasn't the case... well, I probably would have had to prepare to talk to Inspector Sean again.
  
  
  After putting her things back together, he sat her down on the edge of the bed and picked up the phone. The conversation took about twenty minutes. And when the time came, his voice exploded in my ears, a bark as vicious as the impact of a large-caliber bullet. "What the hell is going on, N3?" shouted Hawk.
  
  
  "Difficulties, complications," I said as quietly as I could.
  
  
  "Well, any idiot can tell me that," he snapped. "My red phone hasn't been silent all day."
  
  
  The red phone was an ego "hotline" with the White House, and it didn't feel so wouldnt be lucky. He took a deep breath and entered him, so to speak, in the neck. He told Hawk what had happened from the beginning.
  
  
  "Who is this woman who was almost shot?" he asked when he explained to her what had happened in the last thirty-six hours.
  
  
  "A friend... I muttered.
  
  
  "A friend... My backside, Carter, " he shouted. I didn't send you on a trip to pick up a whore and ruin everything..."
  
  
  — I know, sir .
  
  
  "Then show a little more discretion in the future. And don't blame me for my mood, Carter. But today its very angry from all sides. It looks like these guys in Beijing are now going to hold their annual maneuver on the border with Nepal. Sherpas should be in heaven with their friends less than six miles from the border.
  
  
  "What is my locality in Russia..."
  
  
  "It's all the more urgent," he said. "Well, Nick. What about..."
  
  
  "They tried to break into the hotel safe an hour or so ago.
  
  
  'And also?'
  
  
  "It's all right, sir . I'm leaving by plane tomorrow as soon as I buy a ticket."
  
  
  "Because you want to hear it." Look, Golfield's been contacted again. He told them you were on your way. They told him to leave a message for you at-I heard him rummaging through some papers — the Camp Hotel, 307 Maroahiti, near Kathmandu's Durbar Square. As far as I understand it, it's a hippie place in the city center. So...'
  
  
  "Keep your eyes open," he finished.
  
  
  'That's right.'
  
  
  — He should be in Kathmandu by tomorrow night. The flight takes from twelve to fourteen hours. Then if you have any further instructions for me, sir, I'll stop at the Intercontinental."
  
  
  'Alone?'
  
  
  — Yes, sir."
  
  
  "That's what she wants to hear," he said, chuckling softly. — Besides, when you get back, you'll have plenty of time for such activities.
  
  
  "Thank you, sir."
  
  
  "Have a nice trip, Nick." Was she pretty, by the way?"
  
  
  'Very good.'
  
  
  'Its just as I thought.'
  
  
  After hanging up the phone, they decided to have dinner at the hotel instead of somewhere on the street. Now that the opponent had resorted to harshness for the last time, it was impossible to predict what other tricks he had up his sleeve. First, I had a job to do. The only way to complete this was to leave Amsterdam. .. alive...
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  
  
  
  There was only one way to get from Amsterdam to Kathmandu — via Kabul, the isolated capital of Afghanistan. I know that, he's already booked rooms at the Intercontinental, like Hawke said. The only thing I needed to take care of was my plane ticket.
  
  
  The next morning, she had a very heavy breakfast as a precaution. The maid brought a tray of eggs, various types of Dutch cheese, ham, four slices of buttered toast, jam, and sweet rolls. I ate everything she put in front of me and washed it down with two glasses of ice-cold milk. Any mother will be proud to have such a son. I didn't drink her coffee. Anyway, hers felt pretty good, and that was exactly what her hotel was like.
  
  
  When the tray was removed, he continued to dress. Her sneaked around the hotel through the back door. I had no intention of giving Koenvar another chance to target me like he did the day before. The KLM building was located on Museum Square, about a fifteen-minute walk from the hotel. The gables glittered in the bright sunlight, but there was no us, no glint of metal, no reflection from the barrel of a sniper rifle. However, he continued to monitor the environment. Carelessness would have meant certain death, because I was sure that Koenvar had not left for the city and was not going to give up after all the efforts he had made to get the regulations; - identify .
  
  
  However, the beauty of the day was not disturbed by anything other than my concerns about Andrea Yuen's condition. At the moment when her carapace hit the Spiegelstraat, my thoughts continued to revolve around the operation that was currently being carried out in Wilhelmina Gastuis .
  
  
  And somewhere in the city, Koenvar was waiting for me. If only he knew where...
  
  
  She was booked by KLM for the Amsterdam-Tehran-Kabul flight, which took off at half past two on the same day. Due to the time difference in the east, I won't arrive in Kabul until the next morning. But if I don't get on this flight, I'll be stuck in Amsterdam on both ends of Sundays. So I booked my tickets and took a taxi back to the hotel.
  
  
  The manager was standing behind a makeshift counter with a blindfold over one eye and one arm in a sling. If looks could kill, he'd be dead in two seconds. "I don't need to tell you, Mr. Carter," he said, taking my money, " that you won't be welcome at the hotel if you ever return to Amsterdam."
  
  
  "I didn't expect anything else," he told her with a hard smile. Then her husband went upstairs to continue packing.
  
  
  I thought it would be better to go straight to Schiphol than to kill time at the hotel, so I prepared everything for her to leave. I used the back exit again and went around the hotel through the alley at the back. So far, so good, I thought.
  
  
  There were no footsteps behind me, no shadows that came alive for a moment of sickness. The alley smelled of untidy garbage, but Koenvar didn't want to hide behind trash cans to mow me down with his shooting. The sound of traffic ahead lured me in that direction and dulled my senses. I hurried in that direction, wanting to plop down in the back of a taxi and disappear into the noisy crowd of Schiphol.
  
  
  For a while, everything seemed to be going according to plan, without a hitch. No one even looked at me when a taxi hailed her and closed the door behind them.
  
  
  "To Schiphol, please," he said to the driver, a curly-haired young math major who had both hands on the steering wheel and both eyes on the rearview mirror.
  
  
  'An Englishman?'What is it?' he asked as we joined the heavy traffic.
  
  
  "The American".
  
  
  "Great," he said. — Then we speak English." I need practice; I'll be going to America soon. Are you leaving Amsterdam today?
  
  
  Thank God, I thought. Then out loud: "Yes, today is not when." I say, he kept his eyes on the cars and trucks behind us. "Are traffic jams always like this?"
  
  
  'Not always. But I'll take the back roads, " he said, turning around the next traffic light. That's when I realized that someone else had this brilliant idea. But he decided to keep his mouth shut until he was sure we were being followed. It was very similar to this, because when my driver turned left, the driver of the dark blue Renault did the same seemingly innocuous maneuver. It was not possible to say who was driving the car. The sun shone in the emu's eyes, and the windshield was just a glowing surface that effectively hid the face, and ego, and personality. If it wasn't Koenvar, it was someone who worked for him, because after four turns in a row, the blue Renault was still behind us, whether I liked it or not. He crouched down and leaned toward the driver. "I'm sorry to cause you so much trouble," I said. "What kind of trouble?" he said with a laugh. "I travel ten times to and from Schiphol with passengers. No problem, trust me.
  
  
  "I doubt you're on a haunted passenger ride," I said.
  
  
  'Why not?'
  
  
  "We are being watched. Stalked. Look in the rearview mirror. See that blue Renault?
  
  
  'So what? the driver said, still unimpressed. — He's been following us since Rosengracht Street.
  
  
  "You're kidding, man," he said in perfect American. "What the hell is this, tailor?" I thought the emu would be fine in San Francisco.
  
  
  "A dangerous joke," he told her, with a laugh that had no humor in it. "If you lose that bum, you'll earn fifty guilders."
  
  
  The driver must have spent a lot of time with American hippies, because he nodded and said, " Shit, man. You're cool.'Then he stepped on the accelerator and we shot forward.
  
  
  It passed the next signpost on less than four wheels, but Renault wasn't going to give up so quickly. He screeched around the corner and chased us down a narrow cobbled street not far from the center of town. I looked around, but I couldn't see who was driving.
  
  
  The diamonds were not kept in the safe. They were also not glued to the medicine cabinet. She had to get rid of Kohenwar or whoever was driving the Renault, otherwise things could get very nasty for United States foreign policy and Indian security, not to mention Golfield's two children. "Is he still behind us?" The driver asked with a hint of nervousness in his voice.
  
  
  "Take the tailor, he's still behind us," I snapped. — Can't you go a little faster?"
  
  
  — I'm trying, man. It's not Formula 1, if you know what I mean."
  
  
  "Yes, her, I know what you mean. And it's not fun. I kept as low as I could, keeping my eyes on the Renault speeding through the streets behind us. My driver zigzagged as if he were entering the harbor on a clipper ship, but that only gave us a twenty-to thirty-yard advantage.
  
  
  The taxi driver's neck was taut as a spring, and raindrops were dripping down the collar of his shirt. Faster, faster, I thought. Well, let's go. But the boy did everything he could. Why the police hadn't come for us yet wasn't something Ferret had time to think about, because at that moment the Renault crashed into the back of the taxi. The driver lost control, darted up the sidewalk, missed a large display case by an inch, and then found himself back in the middle of the street.
  
  
  "This is starting to drive me crazy, man," he yelled, yanking on the steering wheel.
  
  
  "Drop me off at the next corner," Rheumatism barked at her, thinking it would be better for me to go alone and walk. She gripped the edge of the front seat with all her strength as the Renault slammed into us for the second time. We lost the fender, taillight and part of the bumper. The driver twisted the steering wheel as if playing roulette, trying to make a dangerous U-turn in the hope of getting rid of the Renault forever and dumping it. We were back in the city center and driving from the airport, not to it. He checked his watch. It was five minutes past ten.
  
  
  The narrow, winding streets described in tourist brochures flowed by on both sides. Untidy houses with fancy windows, colorful shop windows — all this was part of the uninvited decor.
  
  
  "Where the hell are we, tailor?" Her screamed it out, completely disoriented. "Seawall," he said. ego's voice was now high and boisterous.
  
  
  'Where?'
  
  
  "Zideik, Zideik," he shouted. "In the red light district. And her voice drops you off. I'm not James Bond, man, " he added, cursing loudly as he tried to cross the bridge, which is only meant for bicyclists and pedestrians, but not cars.
  
  
  It was a big mistake.
  
  
  The Renault was coming at us like an angry bull, determined to finish what it had started. Before reaching the middle of the bridge, the taxi went into a treacherous tailspin as a result of Renault's push from behind. We went into a tailspin and there was nothing we could do about it.
  
  
  "We're falling, take the tailor," the taxi driver yelled, struggling to regain control of the car.
  
  
  He couldn't.
  
  
  The next thing I knew, we were in the middle of a canal.
  
  
  I caught a glimpse of the clear blue sky, the stone facades of seventeenth-century canal houses,the weathered wrought-iron railing of the bridge. Then we hit the water, still at a speed close to 40 miles. I held her head between my knees, and the car bumped into the oily waves lapping around us. Fortunately, the windows were closed and the car seemed to be floating. If it were otherwise, it would be much worse for us.
  
  
  The driver hit his head on the steering wheel and lost consciousness. Her, leaned forward and turned off the engine just as gawking eyes shattered the windshield and shards of glass rained down on the front seat. I got blood in my eyes as the driver pushed her and squeezed again. Another gawk completed the job, and there was nothing left of the windshield but a few sharp shards around the edges.
  
  
  Koenvara still hadn't seen her, but I wasn't going to sit around waiting for someone to catch us. And one last meeting with the police will mean that my problems are far from over, especially if Sean gets wind of this latest incident. So I avoided the line of fire as much as I could and tried to think things through. I was sure that at any moment I would hear the sound of a police siren. But after that, all he heard was a sharp pop as another gawk went through the roof of the taxi. I had to take action, no matter how dangerous it was for us.
  
  
  If he opened the door, the car would instantly fill with water. She didn't want the taxi driver's life to be on my conscience while he was unconscious in the front seat. So I rolled down the window and hoped for the best. The briefcase would float for at least a few minutes, as the enclosed compartment served as a sort of reservoir for air sampling. He was the first to fall through the windows. He tossed some money into the front seat and slid back to the window. Then my head and shoulders, and then the rest of my body, took the same route as my briefcase.
  
  
  Koenvar - still, I wasn't sure if it was the one behind the wheel of the Renault, but apparently he didn't notice, since there were no shots fired as he got out around the car. It was still dangerous and difficult, but I got over it and prepared to take an ice bath. Then a plunge followed, and he hit the water like a child jumping into a cold pond.
  
  
  It was just as cold as I expected.
  
  
  Shvedov pulled me down, but I grabbed the handle of my briefcase and swam toward the bridge. Several passersby leaned over the railing and watched my progress, shouting words of encouragement as if they were spectators at a swimming competition. But that wasn't what she wanted at all, the crowd would surely attract the attention of a curious policeman.
  
  
  The brickwork of the bridge was overgrown and slippery. He was trying to find something to hold on to, something to pull himself up to. At that moment, she heard the sirens wail, just as she had feared. Every second was precious, because if the police caught me before I could catch my plane and escape, Koenvar would be the winner of the skirmish again. So I climbed up, which wouldn't be so easy given the briefcase I had under my arm.
  
  
  Then he noticed something he hadn't noticed before, an old rusty ladder against the fortress wall on the other side of the bridge. He sank back into the dark water. I struggled through the oily water and debris, half blinded by the blood still dripping into my eyes. Her voice finally reached the bottom of the stairs. After that, it took me just over two minutes to get back on land.
  
  
  Of course, the Volkswagen of the Amsterdam police was parked in the middle of the bridge. The crowd of passersby increased. People shouted and pointed at the floating taxi on the lower part of the bridge, where it should have been. Odin was already swimming around the officers in the direction of the taxi. He ran, not going to sit and wait for an invitation to the police station.
  
  
  Hers was soaked to the skin. The first thing I needed to do was get some dry clothes, so I looked around for a sign that said "Laundry".
  
  
  But instead of finding this, or something similar and equally effective, he found the killer hiding in the shadows of the houses, out of sight of the police.
  
  
  Fortunately, ego saw it before he saw me. If it were the other way around, things would become much more complicated than the ferret has been up to now. It was someone other than Koenvar: another one of the ego comrades. This one looked like a muscular ex-sailor, with cauliflower ears, a broken nose, and an S&W Model 10. A revolver . I didn't want to argue with number 38, so I ducked out on the porch of a house by the canal.
  
  
  - Are you looking for someone in particular? a voice suddenly whispered in my ear, followed by a wet tongue flickering.
  
  
  He turned around and found himself face-to-face with a young woman with lots of rouge and a light wig. She bared her teeth in laughter and clicked her tongue as she beckoned me on to the dark porch. I'd forgotten what it was like to stack a dollar in the red light district, but now I remembered it, and a different plan began to form in my head.
  
  
  'How much? I asked without wasting any more time. It was 11: 03 in the morning. My plane took off at 1: 30. The ticket clearly stated a warning that passengers must be at the airport at least an hour before departure. So it would be on the edge, there was no doubt about that.
  
  
  "Thirty guilders for you.".. without further ado, " she said without hesitation. My wet, Swedes and sigh in my heads, obviously, hey, didn't do anything.
  
  
  "I'll give you fifty if you do something for me."
  
  
  "It depends," she replied, like a true professional.
  
  
  He beckoned her to the edge of the porch and pointed at Coenvar's accomplice, the S&W ego revolver sticking out from under his rough wool doublet. "Do you see that man with the broken nose and the bruised face?
  
  
  — You don't mean the three of us, do you?" she said with obvious interest or obvious disgust, because her expression was still incomprehensible.
  
  
  Hers, he shook his head. — I just want you to go talk to him, distract him until I disappear." Do you understand?' He wiped the blood from his face. She immediately understood and said: "Of course, for seventy-five guilders."
  
  
  "A hundred to make sure you're doing a good job." In any case, distract the ego's attention.
  
  
  She took it almost as a personal insult. But money has changed it radically. She stuffed the money into her bra as if she'd taken a candy bar from a child. Swaying her hips defiantly, she stepped outside, ready to play her part to the fullest. If this little trick hadn't worked, I really would have had my hands full, because Wilhelmina was just as wet as hers. As long as it was wet, it was useless. There was no time to take it apart, wipe it dry, and then put it back together.
  
  
  I had to rely on my ingenuity, my bare hands, and perhaps, if necessary, Hugo. But I didn't want to use anything around this if it's up to me. As long as my God-given gift plays its part well in these hundreds of balls, all I'll have to do is find a self-service laundry.
  
  
  I went to the corner of the porch and watched her walk down the street, ready to play her part.
  
  
  At first, it seemed that Koenvar's accomplice wouldn't fall for it. He said something in Dutch, the words too far away for ih to understand. But the ego actions spoke in equally clear language, and a little later they made everything very clear to me. I saw him push her away with a rough, unfriendly push. Fortunately, she was brave and wasn't going to let herself be pushed away. She ran her fingers up and down ego's back and stood in front of him, blocking his view. I've been waiting for this. He sprinted off the porch, not stopping until he reached the safety of the alley across the street.
  
  
  Everything should have gone well.
  
  
  But that wasn't the case.
  
  
  He was halfway down the street when a hoarse car horn caught Ivanov's attention. He glanced over his shoulder, despite the prostitutes ' best efforts to keep their attention focused on his luscious and arousing body. Our eyes met, and a moment later he reached into his jacket for his Smith & Wesson.
  
  
  She didn't have to wait for some fireworks display, an ego demonstration of deadly shooting.
  
  
  This time, the proximity of the police gave me a slight advantage. Koenvar's henchman kept his finger under control; he wasn't going to shoot when the police were so close. But it must have bothered him a lot, because he ran after me, his ego-booming shaggy echoing alarmingly in my ears. I was already in the alley when the first muffled shot rang out, whizzing an inch over my head. He threw himself flat on the ground, but he didn't fire Guo a second time. He risked his shot, and I guessed that now he was afraid of making another miss.
  
  
  "Get up," he hissed through clenched teeth in English, as if he'd borrowed the style around some of George Formby's movies. But he didn't look at all like a midget in baggy clothes. I got to my feet, feeling my body tense for the first act.
  
  
  The moan I heard a few moments later was like music to my ears. The S & W revolver slammed loudly into the cobblestones. It was cha-ki's sideways kick that sent my left hand flying into the emu's solar plexus. He doubled over in sudden, intense pain, and gave her a series of emu punches, this time to the crotch.
  
  
  She must have been used by emu crotch, because ego's face turned as white as snow. He staggered, threw his hands over his groin, and fell to the cobbles like a pile of old dirt. Next came cha-gi's simple but perfectly executed move, a head-on punch that landed with crushing force on his neck. The neck vertebrae weren't broken yet, but it was pretty damn close.
  
  
  "You're hard to knock off your leg, other one," I said, continuing the exercise with a sudden kick to the ego heads. It was beautiful. All the facial bones seemed to be broken, and his face turned a bright purple color. He made the mistake of covering his broken jaw with his hands and leaving his kidneys exposed. This was very attractive for the next blow, and then green, bile-like vomit poured down the bloodied rta.
  
  
  For such a powerful dude, he didn't do much to protect himself. I shouldn't have been so conceited, because right after that, he grabbed my ankle, grabbed nah, and dragged me to the ground . But not for long, if I still have something to say about it. The moment my legs folded in half under me, I lowered her hand like a scythe. The end of my hand landed on the bridge of his nose. The internal structure of the nose, the nasal bone, the bridge of the nose itself turned into a bloody mass. Blood gushed into the emu's face, blinding him. In any case, it didn't look too fresh, but it surpassed everything.
  
  
  He groaned miserably, but I didn't feel sorry for him. He would have killed me, and he's been trying to do it since the moment she got in the taxi. Now it was up to her to finish the job he'd started and go about her own business.
  
  
  All I had to do was punch him under the chin, which he did in the blink of an eye. A pitiful moan, the last groan he let out, put him out of his misery. The neck vertebrae snapped in two, and the villain fell dead.
  
  
  Panting, he stood up. It wasn't pleasant, " he said. But my swim in the big one wasn't so pleasant either. Ego, tongue protruding over a bloodied rta. Part of the face's ego turned to bloody jelly. Where there had once been a complex structure around the bones and flesh, there was now nothing but raw ruby-red flesh, similar to the inside of a fig.
  
  
  Hers staggered back, my briefcase pinned against me. I'll need more than a laundromat to wash the blood off my hands and the smell of death off my clothes.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  
  
  It was now 11: 17. It took me about fourteen minutes to end my ego life, from start to finish. When I reached the corner of the alley, the whore called after me. Her face went white as chalk when she saw the dead man in the middle of the alley.
  
  
  "Never mind," he shouted, and disappeared from sight.
  
  
  Three blocks later, and about three minutes later, she was found by a laundromat. Money speaks all languages, and within a few minutes her was wrapped in an itchy wool blanket and my Swedes were dry. He was able to wash the blood off her face. The cuts were numerous, but superficial. I combed her hair forward to cover most of it, and hoped it would heal as quickly as usual. But that was ultimately my last concern.
  
  
  I had to go to the airport and go through customs. It was as unpleasant as thinking about Coenvar, thinking about the success or failure of Andrea's operation.
  
  
  'How much?'
  
  
  I asked the owner of the laundry when he came into the back room to see me do it. "Ten minutes, one minute fifteen. "I do what I can," he said.
  
  
  — Do you have a phone number?"
  
  
  'What?'
  
  
  'Phone number?'repeat it, trying not to growl when I noticed that my patience was running out.
  
  
  "Yes, yes, of course. The sound in ego's voice betrayed ego's unspoken fear. He pointed behind me, where the antique black device was half hidden under a pile of unwashed clothes. He stayed where he was, completely representing the complacency of the Dutch.
  
  
  She put her hand on the receiver and looked at him. My expression betrayed everything. He looked at my wounded earlobe, my body wrapped in a blanket, and quickly disappeared behind a pair of curtains that very effectively divided the store into two parts.
  
  
  Then he called information, got Wilhelmina Gasthuis's number, and checked his watch. It was 11:27 on my Rolex.
  
  
  "Wilhelmina Gastuis ," said the voice on the other end of the line.
  
  
  "Yes, I'm calling her about Miss Andrea Yuen. Hey, they had surgery this morning.
  
  
  "Just a moment, please," the woman on the other end of the line replied. "I'll check it out."
  
  
  He reached thoughtlessly for a cigarette and felt nothing but chest hair and the scratchy wool blanket. He smiled wearily to himself. As soon as I got her on this fishing trip, I'd be fine, I thought, but in the meantime, it seemed like this woman couldn't go back to the phone forever.
  
  
  "I'm sorry I kept you waiting," she said at last. - But it's still too early to talk about the result.
  
  
  "To find out what the result is?"
  
  
  "Miss Yuen's surgery results," she replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "She's still a ferret out of anesthesia."
  
  
  — Can you connect me to Dr. Boutense?" It is very important. Otherwise, she wouldn't have bothered you.
  
  
  "I'll see what I can do for you," she said, her voice promising only a minimum of effort. So I'm back to waiting for Stahl. It was now 11: 31.
  
  
  "Hello, Dr. Butens, this is Carter," he said hurriedly after a few minutes. Nicholas Carter. No, I didn't talk to you yesterday, not when, if you remember.
  
  
  "Oh, yes, of course," he said, as affectionately and affably as he had the day before.
  
  
  'How does she do it?'
  
  
  The silence is so thick that you can cut it with a knife. 'Hi? Dr. Boutens?
  
  
  "Yes, she's still here, Mr. Carter," he said, a hint of weariness in his voice. "This morning we were able to extract the bullet. But it is impossible to say for sure whether she will recover. You have to believe me when I tell you that it's too early to say anything for sure.
  
  
  — When can you do it?" I asked, feeling my morale plummet to a new low.
  
  
  'Maybe tonight. Tomorrow morning at most. We did what we could..."
  
  
  "I don't doubt it, Doctor. Thank you for everything, and I'm sure Miss Yuen has children."
  
  
  "If you could call me tomorrow," he began.
  
  
  Ego interrupted," I don't think I can do this, Dr. Boutens. Its leaving for Amsterdam. He automatically glanced at his watch for the hundredth time. — I'm leaving in a little less than two hours. But you're delivering my message, aren't you?
  
  
  - For estestvenno. I'm sorry I can't let you know... Better news, Mr. Carter.
  
  
  "I'm sorry too."
  
  
  My ballet slippers were still wet, but there was nothing I could do about it. Otherwise, at least, everything was dry and more or less presentable. I packed my suitcase again, thanked the business owner, and found myself back on the street.
  
  
  If you need a taxi, you will never find the ego. I hurried her back through Zuidijk to the Nieuwmarkt. In a minute or two, I had a taxi ready to take me to Schiphol.
  
  
  It was now 11: 53.
  
  
  — How long is it to get to Schiphol? I asked her driver.
  
  
  "About twenty minutes."
  
  
  The only vehicle following us, at best, was a truck. Her, thought she deserved a little rest now. But when I sat down, my stomach rumbled. Despite the heavy breakfast, it was a clear sign that I needed something to eat. If not... But no, I wouldn't be sitting around thinking about it if it was up to me.
  
  
  But the traffic jams on the way to Schiphol did little to improve my state of mind. He was nervous and tense and tried to look away from the clock, but to no avail. In ten minutes it would all be over, and in the meantime there was nothing to do but look straight ahead and hope that my happiness would continue.
  
  
  Thankfully, that was fine.
  
  
  The clock at the airport jumped to 12:29 as he put his suitcase through customs and took a deep breath. "Just in time, sir," the airline employee said as he took my ticket and weighed my suitcase.
  
  
  "Tell me something," I said with a tired smile. "Do I still have time to call someone and get something to eat?"
  
  
  "I'm afraid you'll need to go through customs right now, but there are phones and a buffet in the departure hall."
  
  
  'Thank you. I'll remember that for her. Otherwise, my stomach would have refuted the media reports about me.
  
  
  Take him to the hotel, talk to Hawk when I have time. But more importantly, he had to supplement his breakfast with something hearty, something that was pleasant and heavy on the stomach until lunch was served on the plane. He already felt a slight nausea coming from his hunger. The plan that devised it seems to have failed, despite all the precautions I took.
  
  
  But first I had to deal with customs... nausea, fatigue, whatever.
  
  
  I felt like an expat arriving on Ellis Island and faced with fences, roads, and more characters than her hotel read. It was like Radio City during the holidays , with hundreds of people lining up to watch the show. Dutch customs. It was hard to stand it when my stomach protested loudly and my skin turned the color of green cheese. However, I had no choice but to go through a series of checks.
  
  
  "Your passport, please," a neatly dressed clerk said after a moment.
  
  
  He was very polite, and he smiled as patiently as he could. I'm not a very good player, but I don't think I conveyed my smirk or lack of a performance permission flag very well when I found myself looking openly into Inspector Sean's surprised eyes.
  
  
  "So we meet again," I said, tapping the brim of my nonexistent hat in mock reverence.
  
  
  "Right in the dell, Mr. Carter, "he said, as professionally as the hooker at the Zedike a few hours ago.
  
  
  "Well, it's a small world," I continued, trying hard not to smile self-consciously.
  
  
  "Not exactly," he said with satisfaction. "Actually, that's how I arranged it for her."
  
  
  "Oh, kind of like a farewell yahoo for one po to greet your favorite tourists, isn't it?"
  
  
  "Not exactly, Mr. Carter. But I'm sure you won't mind answering a few questions. The ego voice didn't let me know what it wanted from me next.
  
  
  "If I don't miss my plane, Inspector," I said. "But I don't think I have much to say if you don't want my honest opinion on the issues surrounding soybean production or the United States presidential election."
  
  
  Unconcerned and not amused, he put a hand on my shoulder and pointed to two uniformed men who were within earshot.
  
  
  "Listen, Sean," I said as two burly customs officers approached me . "What's really going on in the dell?"
  
  
  "Well, Mr. Carter,"he said, as complacently as ever," some of my people reported a rather strange incident this morning."
  
  
  — So what does this have to do with me?"
  
  
  "Maybe nothing. But also... maybe that's all, " he said. "Of course, you don't remember setting sail this morning near Zeydijk, do you?"
  
  
  'What?'I told her, trying my best not to make too much sense, as convincingly as possible, even though sweat was starting to form around my collar and my nausea was tripling, if not more. "On Gelders Kade in & nb found a car. Taxi. The driver said he picked up a man on Herengracht, an American, who wanted to take Ego to Schiphol.
  
  
  'And then?'
  
  
  — And you are an American who had a room on the Herengracht, that is, until this morning. Moreover, the passenger's description that he gave is correct."
  
  
  "What's right?"
  
  
  "Well, you're Mr. Carter, of course," he said. "Then we have that case with the mutilated body that we found, not far from the crash site."
  
  
  — You don't want to blame me for this, do you?" I said as aggrievedly as I could.
  
  
  "Of course not, Mr. Carter," Sean assured me with barely disguised sarcasm and a vicious and emotionless voice. "How can you think that? I only suggest that you accompany these two, gentlemen... He gestured with one hand at the two customs officers standing next to him. "Do exactly as they say."
  
  
  I've dealt with the vanity of people like politicians and financiers before, like a small fish in a big pond, but never with such stubborn law enforcement officers. You mean something, believe me.
  
  
  "If that's your last word.".. I began.
  
  
  "Actually," he said shortly. Then he spoke quickly to the two customs officers and a helpless and unhappy Nick Carter.
  
  
  I was escorted to a small private room not far from where I had been picked up. My suitcase arrived in a minute.
  
  
  The two customs officers looked like two former prize wrestlers, though he wasn't going to tell us what to do with them. There was a chair in the room, a chair. Nothing more. It was brightly lit. I took a chair, even though it wasn't offered to me, and put my hands in my lap and tried to forget my miserable situation.
  
  
  Shen played not only an evil game, but also a dangerous one.
  
  
  All of Western Europe will suffer if China invades Nepal. Back then, there was no telling what this might mean for the entire Western world. Unfortunately, Sean's world was much smaller and limited only to the city limits of Amsterdam. Ego's gaze extended a little further than the Ijsselmeer to the north and the residential ghetto of Beilmermeer to the south. De Zeedijk was then somewhere in the middle, in the center of its jurisdiction.
  
  
  The only thing that surprised me was that he didn't interfere. Not that I would have liked it otherwise, but I found it odd that after all he'd gone to great lengths to find me, he'd now backed off and left the dirty work to others. Perhaps these were customs regulations, but I didn't have much time to think about it, because at that moment I was asked for the key to open the briefcase.
  
  
  The moment of truth has arrived.
  
  
  The briefcase itself was still wet, but the two intrepid and taciturn customs officers didn't seem to mind. One kept his beady eyes on me, as if he was afraid I might try to escape, while the other opened his briefcase and took out everything inside. You can say that he did it carefully, as he carefully folded the clothes again, making sure that there was nothing in them, in the sense of contraband.
  
  
  This went on for about ten minutes, until everything I had packed in the upper visible space of the suitcase was found and searched. He sat on a straight wooden chair, watching the entire performance with a blank and unperturbed expression. But when the customs officer ran his curious fingers along the edges of the canvas covering, he forgot about his nausea and involuntarily leaned forward slightly in his seat.
  
  
  He knew what he was doing, even though I tried not to let Em know by the disinterested expression on his face. For a moment, it seemed that everything would end without further difficulties, but my optimism was premature. There was a faint but clearly audible click. The inspector spoke quickly to his partner, who was standing next to him as he continued to film what at first appeared to be the bottom . If he had picked up the suitcase from the chair, the difference in color would have given a clear indication, but the suitcase remained in place, and she forced herself to sit still, nervously glued to her seat.
  
  
  The internal mechanism clicked loudly again, and then there was one of the noisiest sighs ever heard on this side of the Atlantic. The man's eyes lit up like a sword of righteousness as two fingers gripped the bottom and pulled it out. The hidden compartment was no longer hidden. But imagine ih's disappointment when he found that he was only looking at the next canvas.
  
  
  The trunk space that was now open was completely empty; there was nothing in it like weapons or raw gems, much less Almazov. Congratulations, she smiled to herself. The work of the AH technicians was even more beautiful than you thought. Not only did they take the trouble to make a secret compartment, but they also made it so that there were two places in the bulwark, and not one, as the customs officers now thought.
  
  
  If they had looked further, I have no doubt that they would have found a hidden mechanism by which to open the last compartment. I hid Wilhelmina, Hugo, and Pierre there, along with a few other things for my safety. But I didn't put the diamonds in my briefcase because I wasn't going to risk ih being discovered.
  
  
  Disappointed, the inspector closed the bottom. The ego, the silence, the silence of the partner's ego, bothered me. It seemed to me that I was far from free, whether I liked it or not. My Swedes and toiletries were carefully put back together and finally closed again. She was asked to get up from her seat, hiding a sense of relief when the person who was actually conducting the investigation gestured me to my seat.
  
  
  "Please undress, Mr. Carter," he said after whispering to his partner. "For what?"
  
  
  "Inspector Sean has reason to believe that you haven't been entirely honest with him. Please do as you're told "— he glanced at his watch — " or you'll miss your flight." Nothing could have angered me more. But it was useless to argue with them. They were in charge, not hers.
  
  
  So I got up and took off my jacket. A dark blazer was followed by a dark blue tie and a dark blue shirt made in Egypt. Then came a crocodile leather belt with a handmade gold buckle, a gift from the young girl whose life she had saved a few months earlier on a business trip to New Delhi. I unzipped it and took off my trousers using a light worsted yarn made at my direction by the Paisley-Fitzhigh company in London.
  
  
  When she took off her shoes, Odin po customs officers said: "They are wet, as if that was the only reason to arrest me.
  
  
  "My feet are sweaty," I said grimly, taking off my socks and tucking my thumbs into the waistband of my underpants.
  
  
  "Please —" he continued — "this too," forcing me to stand naked while each piece of clothing was examined and reviewed.
  
  
  They couldn't find anything but fluff around my pockets and change. But they weren't going to give up yet. The complete humiliation came a few minutes later, when she realized how a person must have felt when they were forced to bend down and spread their buttocks. Then my teeth were examined as if I were a horse sold to the highest bidder.
  
  
  They didn't find what they wanted, and hers went to more effort to hide it from ih's inquisitive eyes than they could have imagined.
  
  
  By the time they were done with it, I was so dizzy that I could barely stand on my feet. "You don't look too good, Mr. Carter," one of the customs officers said with a smile that he tried to ignore.
  
  
  "It's because of your wonderful Dutch hospitality," I said. "Can I get her dressed now, gentlemen?"
  
  
  'Of course. We won't detain you any longer. Unfortunately, I didn't get to see Sean's face when he heard the bad news. But it's a game, I think. Besides, I was too busy stuffing myself with croquettes while waiting for me to be ferried to the other side of the ocean to worry about a disappointed and unpleasant inspector. I had ten minutes to land. After everything I went through, I was careful not to miss my plane.
  
  
  When I was finally put through to Hawk, she was quickly briefed by ego on the latest developments. "I can't believe the Sherpas are behind this," he said after her told Emu what had happened to them the ferret as his made the mistake of getting up from the trash in the morning. They won't get anything by killing you, Nick. By the way, did you succeed?..
  
  
  "Just now," I said. "But I succeeded. They're safe.
  
  
  'Excellent.'And you could see him smiling at his desk three thousand miles away.
  
  
  "The point is," I continued, " that Koenvar would rather have him eliminated than fulfill the deal. And it bothers me. Do you think the Nepalese government might find out about this and sent Koenwar to intercept me? If the Russian locality does not fail, the Sherpas will receive all the money needed to purchase the equipment. At least that's what they think .
  
  
  "Sounds pretty far-fetched if you ask me," he replied. "Although anything is possible in this type of business."
  
  
  "Tell me something else," I said quietly.
  
  
  "The important thing is that you've managed, at least so far ferret. I'll see if I can think of anything that might help you." To begin with, the political situation there is rather uncertain. I have several contacts who could shed some light on what happened. I'll squeeze out some information. It just takes time, a vote, and that's it.
  
  
  "It's one of the things we're missing a little bit," I said.
  
  
  — You're doing great, Nick. Everyone in the world trusts me, " my boss replied, a rare compliment that didn't go unnoticed. — The thing is, I've heard something about some sort of feud in the king's house, some kind of bloodthirsty feud. We'll have to dig a little deeper, but maybe this will help us understand what the difficulty is.
  
  
  At that moment, I heard my race being called on the speakerphone.
  
  
  I had to end the call. My mouth was still full of food, and my nausea was temporarily gone.
  
  
  "I will contact you again when I arrive in Kabul. But if you can find anything, I'd appreciate it, sir ." Someone will go to great lengths to get to me before the Sherpas do. And she'd like to know why.
  
  
  'And who.'
  
  
  "I think so, too," I said.
  
  
  "I will use all the channels at my disposal, "he said... how's the girl who was shot?"
  
  
  "Hey, they had surgery this morning," I said.
  
  
  'So what?'
  
  
  "They won't know what her chances are until tomorrow morning."
  
  
  'I'm sorry to hear that. But I'm sure you did everything you could for Nah, " he said. — I'll talk to you, N3. Make sure you get there safely.
  
  
  "Thank you, sir."
  
  
  Sean was noticeably absent from the crowd of farewells as her ticket was formed, received her boarding pass, and walked through the tunnel to the plane. But I liked it the most. The earlier we got off the ground, the earlier he left Amsterdam, the more I liked him.
  
  
  Furthermore, her father was still hungry.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  
  
  
  Long before the Elburz Mountains rose like a pearly dawn, she was toasted by her dentist, Burton Chalier. Without the ego of the means, the ego of the experience, my village in Russia would have collapsed before his eyes, and with it the fate of two children and the future of an isolated, mountain-surrounded kingdom.
  
  
  My terrible hunger was expected, and so was my nausea. But now that the physical discomfort has passed and my face has regained its color, it seems to feel a little more like itself, rather than like it was swallowed by something it shouldn't have been, as it happened.
  
  
  He ran his tongue over the special gold crown that the dentist had put on me before leaving Washington. Schalier carefully attached the prong to one around the lower molars. Pressed into the gums, it really wasn't visible, which was already proven by the examination of my rta in Schiphol. This hook was used to attach a nylon thread, also called a fishing line. On the other side, a thread running from the esophagus to the stomach was attached to a chemically resistant tube.
  
  
  The whole design reminded me of a set of nesting dolls. In each doll there is a smaller doll, and so on ad infinitum. In my case, you had me, and in me you had my digestive tract, of which my stomach was a part, and in that stomach was a tube, and in that tube were rough diamonds.
  
  
  The reason I had such a big breakfast that I was so dizzy When I arrived in Schiphol, I had to keep my stomach juice working all the time. If I had swallowed it on an empty stomach, the subsequent secretion of enzymes along with the hydrochloric acid released during digestion would have caused me a stomach ache that could easily have felled an elephant. Along with all the food I could digest, I took a healthy dose of cleansing pills that the pharmaceutical department of AX labs gave me. The tube was flexible enough to allow food to enter the stomach. It wasn't the most pleasant operation, but then again, my work is never particularly subtle or refined. Now he took another anti-nausea pill, congratulating himself on the success of my venture. At least as long as it lasted.
  
  
  I'd had the diamonds in my stomach since the previous morning, when I'd walked around the Embibi Hotel to book a ticket. They can stay there almost indefinitely as long as he took drugs and continued to eat heavily. This was confirmed by the flight attendant, who admired what she considered a healthy, male appetite.
  
  
  Satisfied that everything was going according to plan, he turned to the window and watched the sun rise. The "No smoking" sign just flashed as the pilot was preparing to land in Tehran. Below me lay the snow-capped Elburz Mountain range. Even more impressive was Demavend, a volcanic peak that rose almost 5,700 meters above the sky.
  
  
  But I wouldn't have time for tourist trips. My destination, though not the last, was further east, for example, 1,800 miles of rough and truly impassable terrain. Kabul, once the desert-like isolated stronghold of the great general Babur, who founded the Mongol Empire, seemed to be waiting for me somewhere beyond this dawn.
  
  
  Sheep grazed on the mountainsides between strips of snow, and smoke billowed around the crooked chimneys of small stone houses. Then, sandwiched between barren and barren mountains, there was the view of a city that captured the imagination of people with them ferret as Alexander the Great annexed ancient Bactria to his empire. Now Kabul looked small and insignificant. It didn't seem important out there on the bare hills.
  
  
  Times have changed. Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, and Babur were all names in history textbooks, characters in exciting movies. But they left their after in a proud and independent nation. However, Afghanistan was now part of the twentieth century, its history was a series of tourist attractions, and its former glory days were long forgotten.
  
  
  If her stahl was sentimental, it wasn't because he'd had too much to drink. Just seeing her, so many dreams shattered in the twilight of those barren and barren hills, that I felt somehow touched that Stahl was witnessing the last pages of a violent and bloody drama.
  
  
  It was 6: 23 in the morning.
  
  
  Perhaps it was precisely because of the early hour that the customs officers did not search my belongings with meticulousness and method.
  
  
  "What is the purpose of your visit?".
  
  
  'Leave.'
  
  
  "How long will you be staying here?"
  
  
  "A day or two, three," I lied, thinking that less than twenty-four hours would be a slap in the face for the fledgling travel industry.
  
  
  'Where are you staying?'
  
  
  "To the Intercontinental."
  
  
  "Next," the officer said, stamping my passport and turning his attention to the man standing in line behind me.
  
  
  It was a refreshing change, as you can imagine. I was ready to strip naked and felt great that no one cared about my presence here, about the contents of my suitcase, not to mention my stomach. Outside the customs office, an impatient crowd of Afghan taxi drivers waited for their desired customer. But first I exchanged a little money, thinking that 45 Afghani per dollar is a good rate, especially since there was almost no black money market, as in Nepal. "Taxi, sir ?" A short, dark-haired young man excitedly said as his friend walked away from the exchange office. It was laid by Afghani in a minute, and he jumped up like a jumping frog. "I have a nice American car. Chevrolet. Takes you everywhere, sir .
  
  
  "How far is it to the Intercontinental?" I asked, surprised by the ego's enthusiasm and display of energy. "Ninety Afghani," he said quickly.
  
  
  Immediately, another voice said, " Seventy-five."
  
  
  "Seventy," the driver said irritably, turning angrily to an elderly math major in a rich brocade vest and Astrakhan hat who appeared from behind. "Sixty-five."
  
  
  "Fifty," the young man exclaimed, apparently cornered. "Sold out," I said with a grin. Ego made her carry my luggage and followed him through the arrivals hall.
  
  
  Chevrolet, to put it mildly, has seen better days. But the hotel was no more than a fifteen-to twenty-minute walk away. However, I felt a bit at a disadvantage as I didn't have the time to study a detailed map of the area. I have never been to Kabul, although a few years ago I participated in some rather delicate "negotiations" near Herat, near the Turkmen Republic and the border with Russia.
  
  
  I left my suitcase with her when the driver got behind the wheel.
  
  
  "What time is it to get to the hotel?"
  
  
  "Half an hour," he said. Aziza is a very good driver.
  
  
  "I put myself in your hands, Aziz," he told her with a laugh that was immediately followed by a yawn. Her little sleep on the plane, and the hopes of a warm bed seemed too good to be true.
  
  
  There was no movement, except for a few donkey carts. But otherwise the road, built with the help of the Americans, was empty. In the rearview mirror of the battered old Chevy, I saw Aziz staring at me. Ego's eyes were a startlingly blue color. Legend has it that the blue — eyed Afghans are direct descendants of the warriors of Iskander the Great, son of Alexander the Great.
  
  
  When Aziz asked her if there was any truth to the story, he didn't seem to understand what I was saying. He didn't seem to know much about the city.
  
  
  A sign reading "Intercontinental Hotel - 5 miles "with an arrow pointing to the right flew mimmo, and Aziz did not take his foot off the accelerator. He drove past the mimmo exit, and something told me that it wasn't an innocent mistake or that it was an accident. He lowered the suitcase to her feet and managed to grab Wilhelmina and her two friends, Hugo and Pierre, without arousing Aziz's suspicions.
  
  
  The luger was dry now, but I didn't even know if it was working until I checked. But if he wasn't ready to handle something yet, two ego assistants were ready to help me.
  
  
  At this point, her no longer doubted that trouble would come. Aziza didn't take me to a hotel, much to the delight of a hot shower and a trash can. I was convinced that what he had in store for me would be much harder to digest, and I adjusted to the danger that now awaited me.
  
  
  Coenvar's absence from Amsterdam the previous morning can only mean one thing. He left Amsterdam and got to Kabul before I did. Without a doubt, he chose the long way through Istanbul, Beirut and Rawalpindi. There was such a route, but it was avoided by ego because of the risk of boarding and disembarking from three different planes and passing security checks at three airports. Cohenvar obviously cared less about customs than I did.
  
  
  She could very easily have pinned Wilhelmina's head to Aziz's neck and asked ego to turn around and take me to the Intercontinental Hotel. But her task is to get to the bottom of things and get them, answers that have so far eluded me like a ferret. Koenvar had all the information I needed, and he was willing to take any risk to get ego to talk.
  
  
  Besides, we still had some things to sort out, whether he was aware of it or not. For all I knew, Andrea might have died. Her sam was nearing the end of his career in Amsterdam. Her mission is to make sure that Koenvar will not be able to interfere with the success of my mission. And if that meant killing the ego, then I was ready. So I leaned back in my chair and kept my eyes on the road, wondering how our meeting had been arranged.
  
  
  In less than ten minutes, he knows her.
  
  
  A roadblock was set up a few hundred meters in front of us. There were two men standing on either side of the wooden barrier, though we were still too far away to see who Koenvar was around them.
  
  
  "What's going on, Aziz?" - I asked her to play the role of a stupid tourist.
  
  
  Instead of answering me, he drew my attention to Asamayi and Sherdarwaza, two mountains that were part of the Hindu Kush Mountain range and could be seen from almost anywhere in Kabul.
  
  
  "Why is there a roadblock?"
  
  
  I insisted, and he slowly took his foot off the accelerator.
  
  
  He shrugged as the two men's faces became visible through the dusty windshield. I easily recognized the moon-shaped features of my Nepalese opponent, the agile and secretive Koenwar. He was wearing a white turban and a scrawl that reached to his knees, but there was no denying a shrewd expression of selfishness on his face. The other man looked to me like a real Afghan, no doubt hired in Kabul, like Aziz, for this particular operation.
  
  
  "They want us to get out, around the car," Aziz said, unable to hide his nervousness.
  
  
  'Why?' I told her this while procrastinating, preparing everything I needed.
  
  
  "Border guards, government patrols," he said with a shrug.
  
  
  "Then go out and talk to them," I told her in a tone that indicated I wasn't in the mood to play games.
  
  
  Aziz did as the emu was told. He got out through the cars and walked slowly towards Koenvar. The Asian didn't lower his face, as if he was afraid that his ego would be recognized. But it was too late. In no way has he regained his anonymity. A few moments later, my accomplice walked up to the Chevy, tapped on the window, and motioned for me to get out and join them.
  
  
  It was Pierre, not her, who came out.
  
  
  It's time to flip the switch, for both Pierre and Coenvar. He opened the door for her, as if obeying ih's order, but instead of going out, as they doubtless hoped and even expected, he threw her in the direction of Koenvar. He slammed the door shut again, just as a pungent, burning cloud of gas exploded in the center. Ih surprise was just as sudden. A mixture of concentrated tear gas and non-lethal chemicals swirled around them, thick and suffocating. A shot rang out, but at random, because Nam Cohenwar, our ego accomplice can't see more than an inch in front of him .
  
  
  Gas was a distraction, not an end in itself. Temporarily blinded, the three stunned men staggered in circles, scratching their eyes. Aziza, who had received his share of gas, lost his balance and rolled down the slope to the side of the road. If he was smart, he would lie low and not risk his life anymore. At any moment, the wind could turn around and blow the gas in all directions. I couldn't wait any longer. Hers, jumped out of the Chevy before they realized what had happened. But I didn't want to shoot, didn't want to kill Koenvar until he gave me the information I needed.
  
  
  A pair of hands slammed into my diaphragm. Without thinking about it, he doubled over, trying to get some air samples into his deflated lungs. Between the gas and the pain, Wilhelmina somehow slipped out around my fingers. The same pair of hands grabbed me and pulled me to my sweaty body.
  
  
  The assailant cursed under his breath, unwittingly implying that he wasn't a Koenwar, and that was all I wanted to know. The moment the Afghan held me in a double Nelson, squeezed her hands and pressed ih to her forehead, trying to ease the pressure of the dead trick's ego. The ego power was amazing, and the pain increased until my nerves screamed and my neck vertebrae were on the verge of breaking.
  
  
  "I have a Cohen -" he began .
  
  
  The sentence was never finished.
  
  
  Her foot was thrown back, and the heel of my shoe hit his ego in the shin. The sudden impact made him growl in surprise. The ego power weakened, and it gave me just the small amount of space I needed to be completely free. Her left foot slid between the ego leg, and inserted every tribe's right into the hollow of the weirdos ' egos. At the same time, I managed to grab ego's pants and pull him along, causing ego to hit my thigh and plop to the ground.
  
  
  He jerked and stuck out his leg in cha-gi's kick, which immediately led to an angry sound . broken ribs. The Afghan was howling like a wounded dog. He screamed and crossed his arms over his chest as an expression of undisguised horror crossed his face. He wasted no time and kicked him again to finish the job. A gurgling sound escaped the ego of the warped rta. The gas slowly dissipated, but not yet my anger. He was sure that one of Ego's lungs had been punctured, and the broken bone was digging deeper and deeper into ego's chest.
  
  
  She was about to bend down to deliver the final blow, but Koenvar grabbed me by the waist from behind and pulled me back. We rolled down the road and landed on an embankment a few inches from the trench where Aziz was waiting, no doubt trembling with fear. Donkey dust is in my mouth, eyes, and ears. I didn't see her again as Koenvar pressed both thumbs to my windpipe.
  
  
  "Diamonds," he breathed, shaking me as if he was sure they would fly out around my throat.
  
  
  Kicking like a wild horse, her ego tried to shake it off. He put his knees on my crotch and slammed them between my legs again and again. Blinded by the dust and pain, her mind reacted instinctively, no longer able to think clearly. All I remembered was letting his hand land on his collarbone with all the remaining strength.
  
  
  Ego's fingers lost their grip, but he was much stronger and more tenacious than she'd first thought. He clung to me as if his life depended on it, both hands gripping my neck. He put all his Taekwondo skills back into action and tried to elbow ego in the butt. Pala-kopp-chi-ki had convinced ego that I wasn't going to beg for mercy. It was a crushing blow that caused the ego to let go of its stranglehold. A terrible crimson stain covered Mock's ego like the mark of Cain.
  
  
  He took a deep breath, shifted, and tried to get up again. At the same time, with a flick of my wrist, Hugo was safely in my hand. The stiletto blade glinted in the early light. The tear gas had dissipated, and now I could see my opponent as clearly and accurately as I needed to. Stiletto sunset under the ego karakul fur coat. A moment later, Hugo cut through the air. I had no intention of giving Emu the opportunity to demonstrate his skill with firearms again.
  
  
  He couldn't remember which ego hand Wilhelmina's gawking had hit, so he aimed for the upper thigh, a long, narrow tailor's muscle. If the stiletto strikes, Koenvar will not be able to walk. Unfortunately, the knee-length fur coat prevented Hugo from showing his full potential. The stiletto bit into the edge of the thick, billowing fur coat, and Koenvar pulled out his ego again, hissing like a cobra.
  
  
  Since Wilhelmina was nowhere to be seen, I was left with only my hands. He stepped back, trying to reach a level surface. But Koenvar kept pushing me, licking and licking, to the edge of the road, no doubt hoping that I would lose my balance and tumble into the ditch. It was a drainage channel, judging by the putrid stench that hung in the air and filled my nostrils with the putrid smell of rot and garbage.
  
  
  "Give me the diamonds, Carter," Koenvar said flatly. Ego's chest heaved up and down as he tried to catch his breath. "Then all our troubles will be over."
  
  
  "Forget it," I said, shaking my head and keeping both eyes on Hugo in case Cohenvar suddenly sent ego flying.
  
  
  "You really annoy me, Carter."
  
  
  "Those are the game's flaws," I replied, forced to take a dangerous step back as he approached to kill me. "Who do you work for, Koenvar? Who pays you for your time?
  
  
  Instead of answering me, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a revolver . 45, American Colt. He pointed the gun at me. "This one is loaded with expansive bullets," he told me. — Do you know how much damage a gawk like that can do, Carter?"
  
  
  "They don't hit the target," I said.
  
  
  'That's right. And he grinned, showing the sharp, sawn tips of his incisors. This time, I was less amused by the dental ingenuity behind it. "They get stuck and make a very big hole in, say, the body. Your body, Carter. It would be quite unfortunate if you had to face the action of this type of ammunition... a product of American ingenuity, by the way.
  
  
  He had a knife, and he had a Colt. 45. I had two arms, two legs, and a black belt in karate. But now that hers was only a few feet away from the end of the shallow ravine, hers didn't seem very comfortable. If I lose my balance and end up in a ditch, Koenvar will have plenty of time to kill me.
  
  
  I couldn't let that happen.
  
  
  "If you kill me, you'll never find the diamonds," I said, trying to save a few more seconds of precious time.
  
  
  "My client gave me strict instructions. If I don't return with the stones, you won't be allowed to roam freely anymore. So, as you can see, Carter, I don't care; it's either one or the other.
  
  
  So I finally knew something. Koenvar was just a mercenary working for someone else. But he still didn't know who this other party was. In any case, I waited for her as long as I dared. At any moment, a dead and very bloody Nick Carter could end up in a stinking drainage ditch. At any moment, it could become another piece of garbage that would contribute to the dirty, acrid stench. "He's driving a car that's not coming here, he won't like this checkpoint. "Koenvar," I said.
  
  
  'What car? At the same time, he made the mistake of glancing nervously over his shoulder.
  
  
  He couldn't look away for more than a second, but that was the second I needed. Everything that Master Zhang had taught me, I now put it into practice and hit it accurately in a jump in the ego hand with a pistol. The sole of my shoe hit the Colt 45, and before Koenvar knew exactly what was happening, the Colt hit the ground. The car didn't come at all, but the deception worked better than he'd hoped it would. Koenvar had taken the bait, and now ego was ready to grab her and kill her, just as he'd tried to do to me.
  
  
  Even more agile than ever, the wiry little Asian bared his teeth in a snort of rage. Hugo's stiletto glinted menacingly in the sunlight. Then Koenvar lunged forward, trying to throw me over the shoulder and into the ditch. He held up his hand as if he was going to use it. He spun around as my fist whizzed through the air. The moment his gaze landed on her, my primordial lunged forward with all the strength she could muster. When my nachah touched ego's wrist, the bone split as if it had been crushed by a sledgehammer.
  
  
  To see this expression of the permission to perform flag first, and then the pain, was one of the most pleasant moments in the world. Ego's knife hand went limp, but he hadn't given up yet. Koenvar quickly grabbed Hugo with his other hand before the stiletto could fall. He let out a sharp cry and lunged at me, cutting the air with his stiletto. Her stance was taken by imi-chum so-ki, which allowed me to free my leg for a series of terrible, crushing forward kicks. Again and again he kicked, aiming first at the ego's solar plexus, then at the spleen, and finally at the chin.
  
  
  Koenvar tried to throw me a sideways high kick. Ego grabbed her by the leg and yanked her toward him, throwing her to the dry, scorched ground. Her stepped around him, holding ego's knife hand so that Hugo writhed like a helpless convulsing dragon, and threw himself at ego.
  
  
  I pressed down on his elbow with all the strength of my forearm. G-loe-ki, literally destroyed the bone structure of the ego of the hand. "Ahn-nyong ha-epa-ni-ka?" Her, shouted at him, asking how he felt now that he was screaming like a young pig and trying to break free.
  
  
  But it was in vain.
  
  
  "What's the matter, Koenvar?" Don't feel like it anymore?
  
  
  A torrent of Nepalese curses ensued as she slapped each tribe and ego on the tailbone, and he continued to scream what hurt. There were bits of bone sticking out of his ego wrist. A maroon stain quickly spread across the sleeve of the astrakhan fur coat.
  
  
  Ego's fingers clenched convulsively, and Hugo fell to the road. A moment later, he took the stiletto in his hand and made Koenvar's ego throat.
  
  
  "Who sent you?"
  
  
  He could see the fear in the ego's narrowed eyes, the pain evident in the way he bit his lip to keep from screaming, to express the excruciating pain he must have felt. When he didn't answer, he pressed the tip of her stiletto against Ego's throat. A small drop of blood appeared.
  
  
  "Her... I won't tell her, " he breathed.
  
  
  "Whatever," I said. Ego pinned her down and let Hugo slide into ego's jacket sleeve. When the sleeve was completely cut, he could see the damage ego had done to her elbow. It was a complex fracture, as part of the bone was sticking out in the joint of the arm. The sleeve of ego's shirt was soaked in blood.
  
  
  "I — I won't talk," he said again.
  
  
  No doctor could put the ego arm together and make it work. "Do you want to die now or later, Koenvar?"
  
  
  I told her. "Tell me who you work for and you'll be released."
  
  
  — On... Nara - " he began. Then he pursed his lips again and shook his head.
  
  
  "Nara what?" I asked sharply, pressing Hugo to my throat again.
  
  
  "No, I won't tell her that, Carter," he hissed.
  
  
  "In that case, Koenvar, I won't waste any more time on you. And when he said that, it was with a quick and perhaps merciful flick of the wrist that he laid the thread of ego for a sadistic career. Hugo made a faint semicircle from ear to ear. The flesh ripped open like soft paper; then the neck muscle, followed immediately by the carotid artery. As hot streams of blood gushed into my face, Cohenvar made one last gurgling sound. His entire body shook as he went through the death throes. He was still bleeding like a bull in the slaughterhouse when he slowly lowered ego to the floor and wiped his dirty, bloodied hands on ego's coat.
  
  
  "This is Andrea," he said aloud. He turned and walked over to his partner. But the Afghan was just as dead as Koenwar, his face purple and mottled from the slow choking of a punctured lung.
  
  
  I wouldn't get any additional information to us from one around them. "Aziz," I shouted. "Come up here if you value your life."
  
  
  The little man crawled up the side of a shallow ravine. Ego's face was white as chalk.
  
  
  "Please, please don't kill Aziz," he pleaded in a plaintive, wailing voice. Aziz didn't know. Aziz got the money to bring you here. That's all.'
  
  
  'When?'
  
  
  'Last night.That... this man, " and he pointed with a trembling hand at Koenvar's lifeless body. "He gave me money to meet you on the plane and bring you here. He says you stole something that belongs to emu. I don't know her anymore.
  
  
  — You won't tell anyone about this, will you?" He shook his head violently. — I'm not saying anything, Mr. American. We were never here, you and Aziz. We've never seen this place before. Yes? Yes?'
  
  
  "Exactly," I said. If at all possible, her ego doesn't want to kill her. He was young, stupid, and thirsty. But I don't think he knew what he was getting himself into when he accepted Koenvar's undeniably lucrative offer. "Let me put these lamps somewhere else and we'll go."
  
  
  He did as the emu was told.
  
  
  The wooden barrier that served as a roadblock ended in a drainage ditch, where the limp and mutilated corpses of Koenwar and his Afghan accomplice followed. Wearing a single-sleeve karakul fur coat, the Nepalese assassin was floating face down on a muddy stream of garbage. Finally, he was in his place.
  
  
  "I'll take you to your hotel for free," Aziz muttered as we walked back to the car.
  
  
  It was the wrong time and place. But there was nothing I could do. Suddenly hers laughed, and he laughed harder than ever before.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  
  
  
  The camp hotel on Maroehichi was a place to avoid at all costs.
  
  
  I went in and out of the lice-infested lobby as quickly as I could, taking the scrap of paper that Clare had given me when I'd introduced myself. I went openly to Durbar Square, a few blocks away. Feeling tense, her sel is in front of the Talijoe Bhavani temple, openly in the shadow of a statue of Hanuman, the Hindu monkey god. The furry deity didn't have any information for me, any advice for us, but the note did.
  
  
  It was strictly to the point and openly to the point . I was supposed to meet my Sherpa contact at the Hut restaurant on Ason Tol. I had to wear a white breast scarf to be recognized. They'll take care of the rest. Strange, I thought. Koenwar knew who she was, but the sherpa apparently had no idea what a Golfield courier would look like.
  
  
  It made everything Hawk had said to me earlier that morning clear as crystal through proverbs. — Do you know anything about Schuette or Nara?" I asked her, my boss, when I was finally put through to him at the post office near my hotel.
  
  
  "You can read minds, N3. That's exactly what I was going to tell you," Hawke replied, his voice a weak and hard echo of the ego of his usual domineering tone. "Do you remember what I told you about the royal house rift?
  
  
  'You mean...'
  
  
  'That's right. We have learned of a feud between the king's advisors and a so-called prince named Bal Narayan. You might call Narayan something of an international playboy. Mistletoe spent some time sailing a yacht in Cannes and dealing with a bunch of these elite members, the usual social parasites.
  
  
  — But how did he know about the Sherpa operation?"
  
  
  "We can only guess at that," Hawk said. — I can't help you with that. I know that Narayan has a reputation for being a rather dubious businessman. Do you remember that little problem you solved for us in Calcutta last year?
  
  
  'Yes. What about it?'
  
  
  "He had to deal with it... until everything went wrong ... He seems to have his fingers in a lot of explosive things, if you know what I'm saying.
  
  
  "You're safe.'
  
  
  "Is everything okay?" — Did you get there without any problems?
  
  
  "As simple as possible, although my arrival in Kabul did not go unnoticed," emu told her. "But the hardware took care of all that. Narayan was now alone.
  
  
  "I didn't expect anything else from you, Nick," Hawke said with a good — natured laugh, followed immediately by a hoarse, raspy cough. He smoked too much, but he didn't want to hear it from me. Some things are best left unsaid, such as that cigars stink. "But keep one thing in mind," he continued. "First, make sure these kids are safe. Then you go back and finish what needs to be done.
  
  
  "I won't forget it," Ego assured her.
  
  
  "Because you want to hear it." I'll send you a telegram when I find out more. I don't really trust these phone connections. He knew where to contact me, so there was nothing to do but say hello to him.
  
  
  Now, in the shadow of the grinning monkey god, its time to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. At some point, Narayan became aware of the abduction of children by Sherpas. He hired Koenwar to get the diamonds before I had the chance to bring ih to the country. He also ordered his mercenary to kill me if I didn't hand over these stones. Obviously, he did not seek to start this revolution. As a member of the royal family, connected to the king by blood, Narayan had nothing to gain and everything to lose, since the throne was overthrown, the monarchy was crushed, and the entire territory of the hotel, a, was presented with the territory of China, territory on a silver platter.
  
  
  See how I put her together the puzzle pieces that were part of my mission to Kathmandu. But I still didn't have a ready solution. In the first place, he didn't know how Narayan became aware of the Sherpas ' plans. Moreover, he didn't know what he would try to do, what his next move would be if he discovered that Koenwar would only return to Nepal in a wooden box. According to the message I received at the Camp Hotel, I won't see my contact again until the following evening. I decided to make the most of my free time and went straight to the metropolitan library. To begin with, it is necessary to study all the existing photos of the Prince of royal blood. Secondly, I needed to get acquainted with the topography of the area, as I had a rather strong feeling that my activities would not be limited to Kathmandu. The more he knew about the environment, the better prepared he was to face the sherpa... hema would he or she have us.
  
  
  Everywhere we went, I saw it, printed ads: "Posh restaurant". Chinese, Tibetan, Nepalese and Western tables. Special offer for gymnastics: hashish cake, hashish cigarettes and hashish are available at the reception. Then use smaller letters: "The Beatles ! The Rolling Stones! Jazz! Last shots. As well as the establishment in Kabul where she had spent a few days before made the mistake of booking a wiry hotel, the inn was also a hippie destination.
  
  
  The salon was small, dimly lit, almost as dirty as the Camp Hotel, but definitely much more popular. Rough tables and chairs lined the wall, as well as benches. And on the benches sat the strangest gathering of American and European tourists I'd ever seen. I could hear her accents from Brooklyn to the far south. There were Australians, a few Welshmen, girls from New Zealand, and a few French women. It's like the Grand Hotel Himalaya, where everyone is stoned like monkeys.
  
  
  I had a seat and a glass of beer, and I liked everything. Everyone around me seemed about to smash their heads in, and as soon as the target hit the chair, the host ran up to it, lifted the culprit's face, and gave the emu a few slaps to get the ego to come back to fetch. "This isn't a hotel," they kept saying. 'There is. drink. But not a hotel, " he said, but a trot like some comic Dickensian innkeeper.
  
  
  But there was nothing comical about the situation, as far as I could tell. He wore his white breast scarf as prominently as possible, kept his eyes on the day and waited as patiently and calmly as possible. The sherpa was five minutes late, but I knew my contact would arrive at the right time. Meanwhile, a fair-haired American woman of about eighteen or nineteen shot me an unconcealed glance from across the room. Underneath her exotic outfit and her dreamy eyes, Nah had everything she needed, a rising star comfortable and well, there was no doubt about that. And when, with a little wave, she got up and came over to me, I didn't feel annoyed at all.
  
  
  'Can I have it?'What is it?' she asked, pointing to the empty seat next to me. - For estestvenno. I nodded and saw her collapse on the couch.
  
  
  "It doesn't look like a place you don't visit," she said, taking a large bite of one of the restaurant's many highly publicized hashish snacks.
  
  
  "Isn't that right?"
  
  
  "Just look around?"
  
  
  'Not really.'
  
  
  — You look completely ordinary." Not bourgeois or anything like that, just. Like some cop . Is that so?'
  
  
  'Her? A policeman ? Her father slapped his chest and laughed. 'Not really.'
  
  
  "That's good, because this shit here —" pointing to what's left of her lollipop, " is perfectly legal."
  
  
  "I said something to her, miss...
  
  
  "Ma'am," she corrected me. "And my name is Dixie." A moment later, she puts her hand on my hip. I only know her because she was high. Her fingers began to move as if they had a mind of their own. I gently pushed her hand away and kindly let Ay know that I wasn't interested, without trying to explain to Ay that if it had gone any further, she wouldn't have found the object of her sexual desires, but the gas grenade - Pierre. .
  
  
  "It's not pleasant. She started giggling and I saw that my hands were full of her.
  
  
  But before I could say anything, I noticed that a young Nepalese man in his twenties had taken the open seat across from me. He was dressed in Western style and mistletoe, an easily forgettable appearance, regular features, and a modest manner. He didn't say a word to us, but reached across the chair and pulled out a white handkerchief from his breast pocket. He shoved his hands under the chair and after a moment returned the pocket handkerchief, now folded neatly like a linen envelope.
  
  
  He unfolded his handkerchief and stared at the greenish-gray cover of his American passport. When her ego opened, her name was neatly typed: Virginia Hope Golfield. On the next page, an attractive, smiling American woman looked up at me. I closed it with my passport and put it in my inner pocket.
  
  
  "Just a moment," he told her at his discretion to the contact. The young man was silent and staring when her father got up and kindly helped Dixie to her feet.
  
  
  She asked. 'Where are we going? She started giggling again. "Just go back to your seat," I said, leading her away from the chair.
  
  
  'But why? I like you. You're a hot guy, and I'm looking forward to seeing you."
  
  
  At least she knew what she wanted, which most people didn't. — You're an awfully delicious piece." But I have other things to do, so be a nice girl. Maybe I'll call on you tomorrow.
  
  
  She was frowning and sulking like a spoiled child, apparently used to getting her own way. But she wasn't whining.
  
  
  When he returned to the table, the young sherpa was still waiting patiently, like a Buddha.
  
  
  "Are you Mr. Carter?"
  
  
  He nodded and took another sip of his beer.
  
  
  "My name is Hack. You ..."'
  
  
  "Yes," I said, filling the silence. — Do you have this girl and her brother?"
  
  
  "Safe and sound," he replied.
  
  
  She was asked to get up from her seat, but Rana motioned for me to sit down again.
  
  
  "I must explain to you the course of events that we are following, Carter," he said. — So there won't be any confusion. Do you understand?'
  
  
  'Continue. Her entire attention span.'
  
  
  'Excuse me?'
  
  
  — I said, come on, I'm listening to her. I was in a bad mood, to put it mildly. I didn't really like doing business in such a remote corner, and I didn't really like the nature of our business. And more than anything else, my stomach was starting to bother me again. The sooner I spit out the diamonds and get the Senator kids back, the better I'll feel."
  
  
  The Wound's explanation was short and clear. I will be blindfolded and brought to the point where I will receive two children in exchange for rough diamonds. As blunt as it may seem to us, I wasn't going to take any chances or trust Rana just because of the ego of a friendly face . As far as she was concerned, he might be working for the mysterious Bala Narayan, rather than the equally elusive organization known as the Sherpa. "So it is, Carter," he concluded. "We give you the children, and you give them to us for ransom. And everyone is happy. Yes?'
  
  
  Not exactly, I thought, when I said, " That sounds good, Sir. But Bal Narayan told me to meet him here — and hers, he emphasized, as he stared at his Rolex for a long time. "In about an hour." How do you explain the change in scheduling?
  
  
  "Bal Narayan," he exclaimed, barely able to contain his voice. "What right does he have to do this?"
  
  
  "I don't have the faintest idea," he told her flatly.
  
  
  My sarcasm seemed to pass mimmo him. "This isn't a plan, Narayana," Chop continued, not even for a moment suspecting that my story was a bluff; the story he was using to find out if he was working for the Sherpas or not, if he was a substitute for a real courier. "Canti took care of the equipment in every detail. I do not know what Narayan is up to, but Kanti will not like it at all. It was wrong of me to interfere in the Sherpas ' affairs."
  
  
  "Who is this Kanti, if I may ask her?"
  
  
  "We have to go, Carter," Ranu said, looking confidently at his watch. He stood up quickly. "The car is waiting."
  
  
  Well, I thought, with every step you take, you'll learn something new. Narayan and the Sherpa seemed to know each other well, although I would like to know who Kanti was. And she would like them to know that Narayan cheated .
  
  
  But I decided to keep my disclosure to myself until it served my interests and not anyone else's. I was pleased to learn that Rana wasn't hired by the prince, so I followed him around the restaurant. We walked down Ason Tole, a cul-de-sac-like street, toward the bazaar. It was getting dark, but the square was still full of merchants and tourists. He pointed to an old Fiat parked in front of the tattoo parlor.
  
  
  "Then you, Carter," he said, holding the back door open for me.
  
  
  I slid into the backseat and suddenly felt the cold, hard barrel of the revolver pressing against my neck. Given its size, it looked like a Beretta. Not that I wasn't afraid . 22. On the contrary. No matter how small and light they are to us, they are extremely strong, especially at close range.
  
  
  "Prasad is just taking the necessary precautions, Carter," Rani explained when he was about to comment on the unfriendly nature of the situation he was feeling. Then he got behind the wheel.
  
  
  Prasad, as young as my partner, finally removed the gun from the back of my head. "Kanti won't like it very much if something goes wrong," he denied the media reports to me.
  
  
  "Nothing can go wrong," Ego assured Hack. "Isn't that right, Carter?"
  
  
  "Absolutely," I said with a grin.
  
  
  Prasad gave me what turned out to be a black hood and told me to pull the ego over my head and sit on the floor. I had no choice, so I did as I was told. The main thing was explained to me before I left Washington. I heard her as Hawke once again denied the media reports that I'll get the kids out before her, I'll do something else. The image of Senator Golfield's frightened and sad face when Ego met her in Hawke's office was clearly etched into my mind.
  
  
  I saw her then, very little.
  
  
  The shadow was almost opaque, and the fabric was so dense that it almost did not let the brylev through. I was armed, thanks to Prasad and Rana for not bothering to search me. But I was none other than Nicholas Carter, a member of Senator Gall's staff...
  
  
  In ihc, N3, Killmaster, didn't even exist. And that's exactly how it was called .
  
  
  With an asthmatic cough, a slight jump, and a rattle, the Fiat pulled away. Even though I couldn't use my eyes anymore, I still had both ears, and he focused on every beep he could get. Still, I wasn't in what you might call an enviable position. Of course, there was a chance that somewhere along the way, Prasad would use his Beretta to kill me, hoping to get the diamonds and force the Senator to pay the ransom again. In any case, I had Wilhelmina, dry and active, ready to do her job. And if the luger didn't come in handy, nah, Pierre and Hugo could have done it.
  
  
  "Don't be afraid of the gun, Carter," Ranu said, as if he could read my mind. Sherpas are not interested in senseless violence. A million dollars ' worth of raw stones already serve our purpose perfectly. We don't want to bother you any more after the exchange takes place.
  
  
  "That's good to hear,"I said," because all Senator Golfield cares about is the health of the children's egos."
  
  
  "They were treated well," Prasad said. "You will find ih in excellent health."
  
  
  "And in a good mood," Hack added with a cruel laugh.
  
  
  "It sounds good... that's encouraging."
  
  
  "Besides," she continued, " the senator is a firm believer in personal freedom, isn't he?"
  
  
  "All our senators."
  
  
  She laughed softly to herself. "We are going to use the money, not for violence, but to save the entire Nepalese people, who have been enslaved for so many hundreds of years. The king is a despot, corrupt and tyrannical. Do you know how he holds complete control over the entire country in his hands? He is the inventor of what we here call the Panjayat system of democracy."
  
  
  "And that means?"
  
  
  "So it's a web-based form of democracy based on the decisions of one person: the king," she said, not trying to hide the bitterness that crept into her voice.
  
  
  As for me, hey was allowed to continue talking, even though I was listening for sounds from outside the car that might help me later reconstruct the route we were currently on.
  
  
  I asked her. "And Prince Narayan?"
  
  
  She exchanged a few words with Rana before answering my corkscrew. "People are used to the king. As in England, the monarchy can be good and bring victory. If all goes well, Narayan will be the new king once we take over the government...
  
  
  "Along with Beijing," I said with satisfaction. 'Don't forget this.'
  
  
  "You don't know anything about us, Carter," he snapped. "Talking about these things is a waste of time."
  
  
  So the Narayan Hotel is going to be king, I thought. I still didn't believe it, because if Prasad was telling the truth, the prince would be the last person in the world who would want me dead. Unless, of course, he set both sides of the other against the other. But one thing was clear: there was much more going on here than the usual competition. Pricesnoughts more.
  
  
  Meanwhile, Prasad's silence made it much easier for me to focus on what was happening around me. We were driving along a road that was no longer commonly referred to as "bumpy." As far as he could tell, there were no turns. Beyond, the temple bells rang softly and muffled. Then the saint visibly faded, and I wondered if we were going to heaven through some tunnel. I wasn't sure, but when less than a minute later the light seeping through the hood increased again, I heard the sound of water nearby. The sound of a stream or even a waterfall. Five minutes of silence, then the soft lowing of cattle. The surface of the road gradually leveled out, and from time to time a pebble bounced off the bottom of the car with a sharp metallic sound.
  
  
  He counted three hundred and twenty seconds before the cows ' bellowing was no longer audible. From the wound, I hit the brake with my foot, and we stopped abruptly, apparently in the middle of the road. "Wait here," he said, coming out. Rusty cocks crunched, and shaggy's lungs echoed in the darkness.
  
  
  Now he heard other, strange sounds. When the hood was finally removed, her immediate reaction was that the Sherpas weren't going to take unnecessary risks. They were professionals down to the smallest detail. They took precautions to further conceal the location of the exchange. They threw blankets over the car, and Hans looked ominous from the dashboard. Prasad's face lit up with a reddish glow. He tightened his grip on the beretta and pointed it at me without saying a word.
  
  
  "It's a lovely evening for a trip," I said. Nothing broke that mask of determination, not even a small smile.
  
  
  — You were good company, "I continued, looking at the beretta pointed at my chest.
  
  
  The door opened and two shivering teenagers, blindfolded, were pushed into the front seat. Then the door slammed shut again, but not before I could see the flat dirt road and the terraced mountainside.
  
  
  It took me a little over a minute to identify the newcomers . Golfield gave me a picture of his two children, and I knew from the first glance that Ginny and Mark had joined us in the car. The girl turned out to be even more attractive than in the passport photo. As for her brother Mark, the resemblance to his father was almost uncanny.
  
  
  "Don't talk," Prasad snapped, though the twins didn't dare say our words. The Beretta was now darting back and forth, pointing first at me and then at the two terrified children.
  
  
  The car door opened again, this time to admit a dazzlingly beautiful Nepalese woman in her mid-thirties. Even her spacious army, Swedes, standard partisan, Swedes all over the world, couldn't hide her slender, voluptuous body, and the haughty charm that radiated from her eyes was very obvious.
  
  
  She said. "Are you Carter?"
  
  
  He nodded to her.
  
  
  "Her Canty."
  
  
  "The Sherpa brain?"
  
  
  "Not the brain, Carter. The soul of a Sherpa, " she replied with a cold gaze. — But that's not your concern. You have diamonds, of course?"
  
  
  - For estestvenno.
  
  
  "Very good," she said. — Then we can get down to business.
  
  
  I told her. "What guarantee do I have that you won't kill us all on the spot as soon as I hand over the diamonds?"
  
  
  Her hotel doesn't sound too professional, as they still consider themselves my average office worker. But at the same time, he definitely couldn't take Canty's word for it.
  
  
  'Security?'she confirmed. "We've come this far, Carter. We won't have to kill anyone if you give us the diamonds as agreed. Do you understand?'
  
  
  I understood her very well, but I thought she would understand the gun much better. So I took it, nodded my head, and reached into my jacket. Instead of a neat bundle of diamonds, the luger Wilhelmina pulled it out. Luger caught the ruby saint on the dashboard. For a moment, it seemed to glow like coal. Prasad stiffened as he pulled Wilhelmina out. — Didn't you search Carter?" Ego Canti asked.
  
  
  The young man lowered his eyes and shook his head with a clear sense of self-loathing and humiliation.
  
  
  "It doesn't matter," Canty said without flinching. She turned to me, ignoring the gun pointed Hey blatantly at folding the dollar. "If you shoot, Carter, Prasad will kill the children. Understood?'
  
  
  "Great," I said. "But it's my confidence that I told her about. Okay, I take it you need diamonds right now?
  
  
  She nodded and waited in absolute calm. The last woman of this caliber he encountered was Princess Elektra. And if he knew people as well as I thought he did, Canti would be just as tricky and difficult an opponent. But right now, he had to play by her rules, not his own. With her finger on the trigger, her free hand snatched out the diamonds. The nylon thread had come loose from the fastener. Very slowly, so as not to throw up, she began removing the wire and a tube containing a fortune of raw stones. To say that the three Sherpas were surprised is to greatly understate ih's reaction. Ih's eyes widened noticeably as the nylon thread lengthened and the tube slowly moved up my esophagus. The operation had to be done very carefully. One wrong move, one clumsy finger gesture, and the diamonds would be floating in the contents of my stomach again. The hardest part was when they reached my throat. He opened his mouth as wide as he could, suppressing the urge to vomit, then pulled out the tube.
  
  
  "Very clever," Canti said, her eyes shining as Ay handed her a wet, glittering quiver. "And the diamonds in this tube?"
  
  
  "To the last stone," I said.
  
  
  'Good. You did everything you could for us, Carter. If you can wait a minute, please.
  
  
  She opened the door, spoke in rapid Nepali, and handed the phone to a third person waiting outside the car. She was still being held by Wilhelmina at the ready, even though right now she was the last person in the world to use her. Not right now, anyway. A few minutes passed before the door opened again and a man's voice announced that the stones were real and of the highest quality.
  
  
  The twins still didn't say a word to us. It was an easy kill for Prasad if he got nervous and pulled the trigger. But gradually, when the diamonds were in the hands of the Sherpas, Rana's partner relaxed.
  
  
  I asked her. "We're going back to Kathmandu now, aren't we?
  
  
  "Yes, of course," Canty said. "Prasad will wear a blindfold and Rana will drive the car. The Senator was very polite, Carter. Please convey our appreciation to emu.
  
  
  "All he wants is the ego of two kids. That's more than enough, Canty.
  
  
  "And all the Sherpas need is diamonds. Since we have them, you have children. Fair trade, right?
  
  
  "Sure," I said as she opened the door and slipped around the car.
  
  
  "Have a nice trip to America," was the last thing she said before slamming the door again.
  
  
  Prasad put a black hood over my head. Only now she was being held by Wilhelmina for ego's sake with a narrow back. He didn't seem to mind, and he wasn't going to change that. After another coughing fit, the Fiat rattled down the road.
  
  
  "Are you all right?" The twins asked her.
  
  
  "Well, thank you, Mr. Carter," Mark Golfield replied.
  
  
  "Don't talk," Prasad said sharply, and it was the most nervous voice she'd ever heard.
  
  
  "Don't worry, child," I replied, grinning under the hood. This time, the darkness was almost comfortable. And in less than half an hour, the Sherpas had completed their half of the deal and landed us safely on the outskirts of the city. The bad thing was that I wasn't going to keep my word, even though Canty had kept hers. These were the disadvantages of the game.
  
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  
  
  
  The US Embassy hall is just a block away from Ratna Park and Bagh Bazaar, close to the city center. Right after Rana let us out around the car, Ginny and the Golfields ' Brand took her there, safe and sound. The kids were shocked, of course, but a good night's sleep, a phone call from their father, and a hearty American breakfast the next morning worked wonders. When I went to see them the next day, it was like seeing ih for the first time. Ginny's mood lightened, and Mark couldn't wait to tell me everything that had happened since ih was abducted in Athens almost two Sundays ago.
  
  
  A USAF plane took off from Dhaka to pick up ih and return it to Washington. But before they left, her hotel wanted to get as much information from them as they could remember. Mark explained how ih was caught in Athens, put on a small private jet in the middle of the night and whisked away across the country. But since both he and Ginny were blindfolded during ih's long, grueling journey, he couldn't tell me much about the Sherpa hideout.
  
  
  "It looks like a cave, Mr. Carter, but that's all I can tell you," he said, taking another bite of the grilled cheese sandwich.
  
  
  I drank her coffee and listened intently. "Why the cave, Mark?"
  
  
  -"Well," he said hesitantly, " put us in some sort of prison... a niche .
  
  
  But the walls were carved and rather damp when you touched them...
  
  
  "And it was slippery," Ginny interrupted, " like we were underground." And the floor of the cell was just mud. Without cement and other things. And the world was almost gone. No sunlight, I mean. Just a few bare ceiling lights. And it looked like it was also carved into the rock.
  
  
  — How many people have you seen?"
  
  
  "Maybe a dozen or so."
  
  
  "No, sister, well, there were a few more than ten of them," Mark said. "Maybe twice as much."
  
  
  "All Nepalese?"
  
  
  "I don't think so," the senator's son continued. "I'm not sure, but I think there were a few Chinese people there. At least that's what they've been waiting for. But the truth is, Mr. Carter, we were so scared that we don't remember much.
  
  
  "Well, at least you don't have to be afraid now," I said, grinning. — You'll be back in Washington in twenty-four hours. And I'll tell you one thing: your father will be overjoyed to see you safely off the plane.
  
  
  I didn't want to ask her any more questions. They've been through quite a lot, and I don't think they could have told me the value of many more. The details of the ih abduction were not as important as the location of the Sherpa headquarters. Rana left us near Shiva Cigar Mountain and the nearby village of Buddhanikantha, just north of downtown Kathmandu. According to information I received through libraries, o Shiva-sigara was located in the Sundarijal area, famous for its waterfalls, rapids and mountain scenery. It was a popular picnic spot for residents of the surrounding area. Or maybe, just maybe, it was both Kanti's favorite spot and the partizan sl.
  
  
  The waterfall had heard it the night before, and there might be tunnels and caves in these mountains. In any case, it was a start, a push in the right direction. And when hers, talking to Hawk after breakfast at the embassy, hers, knew I had no choice but to explore the area as quickly as possible. What he had to tell me was as simple and insidious as possible. A concentration of troops was reported on the Chinese side of Nepal's northern border. What once looked like a military exercise turned out to be a harbinger of a full-scale attack, in other words, an invasion. "She only became aware of this since yesterday," Hawke explained. — But I didn't want to do anything until you got the kids out of there safely." Now, I have no choice but to pass the information to the king.
  
  
  "In this case, we will never return the diamonds," her emu denied the media reports.
  
  
  — Well, what do you want me to do, Nick?" All of Beijing is waiting for the first Sherpa characters. They send their people out so fast that they don't need a welcome committee anymore.
  
  
  From what Prasad said to me, I got the feeling that the Sherpas would like to see Nepale remain in Nepalese hands. "They don't take that risk," I said. — Because they are all staunch nationalists. They may depend on China's help, but I don't believe they are ready for open intervention right now. Not yet, anyway.
  
  
  — So what do you suggest?"
  
  
  "Give me another twenty-four hours, sir . That's all I ask of him. If it hasn't been returned yet, you can tell the government whatever you want. In the meantime, let them put their troops on the border to... For example, an attempt will be made to transport a transport with weapons across the border. Tell them everything, but let me deal with the Sherpas. The last thing we want is a revolution. You know that as well as she does.
  
  
  "Twenty-four hours?" "What is it?" he asked.
  
  
  'One day. Just vote, " I said. "Without money, the Sherpas will not have the funds to cover the cost of weapons. Then they will be completely bankrupt , and I don't think China will send its troops to Nepal to invade the country if it finds out that its allies have been completely defeated.
  
  
  "Do I need to remind you what happened in Tibet?" Hard as ever, I thought. — I know, sir . But Nepal still has its independence, its sovereignty. The Chinese never consider this country their own. So the situation is completely different."
  
  
  — I'm not sure I agree with you, Nick. But I'll give you twelve hours, not twenty-four. I don't want to take any more chances. And if I don't hear from you by then, I'll have no choice but to pass on all the information we've gathered to King Mahendra. We just can't take any chances, that's all.
  
  
  It was 10:37 a.m. and Killmaster N3 had a job to do. There was no doubt about it.
  
  
  The car would attract too much attention, especially if the Sherpas were watching the road. Besides, Avis and Hertz haven't infiltrated here yet. Maybe next year. But I only had twelve hours, not twelve months. So I rented a bike from a small, run-down shop near Durbarplane. There were old women selling thin green vegetables and equally green cuts of meat, and barefooted boys of nine or ten who tugged at my arm and said: Good. Exchange money? I'm on the right track.
  
  
  I had as many Nepali rupees as I needed. "Tomorrow," I told her. "We'll get busy when you're here tomorrow," as the car pulled away from the busy square and the sun rose into a blue, cloudless sky. Twelve o'clock, I thought. Bullshit, but it didn't give me that much time.
  
  
  So I had to work fast.
  
  
  Kathmandu was a weak spot in the south when it reached the foot of Mount Shivapuri, say twelve kilometers from the city. Behind me, low rolling mountainsides with green terraces seemed to prepare the eye for the jagged snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas. They towered like a series of monuments, sharp, arrogant, demanding that ih be noticed. Her get off the bike and went walking to the top of the hill. It was passed by mimmo of the Vishnu statue. The Hindu deity lay on the quarter formed by the rings of the snake Shesha. He didn't look too light and happy either.
  
  
  It was ten minutes to one-thirty, and it was moving along a bumpy road on the other side of Mount Shivapoeri, not far from where Rana had dropped us off around the car the night before. I had no reason to believe that they had gone, which is also the road, when they drove us back from that point. But since I didn't have anything to start with, this hill seemed like a good starting point.
  
  
  I stopped to get my bearings and wondered what the prince, Bal Narayan, was up to when the diamonds were delivered to the Sherpas. The diamonds were obviously more important to him than the Nepalese throne, which seemed to indicate that he did not believe in the ultimate success of Kanti's revolutionary intentions. The dirty game he played with her will stand me in good stead once I find her at partizan headquarters.
  
  
  This, of course, was the biggest problem.
  
  
  The road split at the bottom of the hill. The path that schell took straight ahead seemed to plunge into the valley, while the left-hand road wound into the mountains. I chose the latter, hoping to quickly find the tunnel and waterfall I thought I'd heard her use last night. There were more turns on the road than she'd expected. He couldn't remember making so many turns before. Just as the road was about to turn and turn back, it suddenly turned to the horizon like a straight line . The road was straight as an ambulance. The mountains loomed ahead, and the terrain around me was rough and dense. It took me longer than she expected, and he suspected that Rana had taken a few wrong turns. But it also had to take into account the fact that I wasn't driving a car. Despite my best efforts, I didn't go faster than twenty-five kilometers per hour.
  
  
  He got it out, got a flask, and stopped at the curb to drink it. The faint but insistent tinkling of bells could be heard from afar.
  
  
  A moment later, he was back on his bike and pedaling in the same direction. Then, five minutes later, a tunnel cut at the bottom of the hill found her. On the other side of the ego, the water was as clear and clear as the guidebooks promised. It was Sundarijal and beyond... When mimmo Falls passed, the sky was still. The air was cool, moist, and fragrant, but I couldn't hear her, not even the cry of a bird; so I slowed down and Stahl scanned the hills in search of any sign of danger, perhaps a Sherpa patrol. Of course, they were nearby to preserve their camp and their organization's resources. However, I didn't think it was unlikely that they would make themselves known if they felt threatened in the presence of a stranger. But so far there was no movement between the trees, and no footsteps in the undergrowth.
  
  
  Five minutes later, a herd of cows looked up and followed me down the road with their sad brown eyes. They stopped chewing to express their displeasure with deep grunts that grew fainter as the road continued to drag on and the gravel of the road surface dissolved into smooth asphalt. He looked at his watch when the mooing was no longer audible. The night before, she had counted five minutes and twenty seconds before the hack clicked on bullying. Now I let my Rolex watch do the calculations while I convert the speed difference. I was sure that I would reach the place where the Sherpas decided to conduct their business.
  
  
  All the signs were there, that's for sure. Then I got out, put my bike on the rack, and looked around a little more clearly. It was in the middle of a clearing with a hilly terrace on one side and a steep slope with thorny bushes on the other. There were two pairs of tire tracks; one went back to Kathmandu, the other on a flat road. The twins mentioned a cave. In all likelihood, it would have been camouflaged and would undoubtedly be somewhere in the surrounding hills, invisible to prying and inquisitive eyes.
  
  
  It was nearly two o'clock when her bike left her on the side of the road. I don't want to risk theft or exposure, it was covered by ego with branches that he was able to cut from the thorn bushes. No one passing mimmo on a motorcycle or in a car will detect it on a bicycle. Satisfied that my escape routes would remain intact until I was ready to return to Kathmandu, they put Hugo back in his suede scabbard and set off. The tire tracks were dim, making ih difficult to track. Hers was left on the side of the road to be as inconspicuous as possible.
  
  
  Clearly that wasn't enough.
  
  
  Only the M-16 rifle has the sound of a fighter jet flying over your head. The exceptionally fast speed of a small-caliber bullet has made this modern carbine the preferred weapon for jungle warfare. Unfortunately, the Sherpas seemed to know the value and benefits of such weapons. Instead of the old M1 or even the M-14, I was being chased with highly developed weapons. And at long range, the Wilhelmina was no match for a thirty-shot carbine.
  
  
  He lay on his stomach as bullets whizzed through the trees. Someone saw me and wasn't going to let me go without paint. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air, and hot M-16 bullets fell to the ground like rabbit droppings. I didn't move, but pressed my stomach firmly against the hard, packed earth and waited for the shooting to stop.
  
  
  But that didn't happen.
  
  
  A few seconds later, another magazine was fired. Branches flew through the air as the bullets let out a mad, sickening thunder. The crackle of automatic weapons drowned out the sound of my breathing. I kept my head down and thought for a second, until I could hear the blood pounding in my temples with a loud and steady rhythm.
  
  
  The moment the shooting stopped, her husband leapt to his feet and backed away into the safety of the dense undergrowth. Less than thirty seconds later, the carbine resumed its booming fire. The bullets didn't get any closer, but they didn't go any further. To find the Sherpa patrol, I had to make a big loop to get out from the other side of the armed group. Until now, ferret hadn't been able to find out how many men there were, which made things a little more complicated, if not pure suicide. But if partizan hadn't seen her, he wouldn't have known his chances at all, and he wouldn't have been able to find ih shelter at all.
  
  
  Now, if I hit one of those deadly M-16 bullets, the diamonds will be almost lost. So I kept as low as I could and started crawling through the bushes. There was no way to avoid the needle-sharp spikes that tore through my sleeves and shins. The branches were in my share, reopening the newly healed wounds; the cuts I'd received in Amsterdam, a gift from double player Narayan's graduation.
  
  
  The sound of bullets faded away like the chorus of a song you can't forget. He crouched down and peered out from behind the bushes. He saw something dark and indistinct moving through the undergrowth. The sound of twigs snapping grew louder, and he tensed for the inevitable, whatever it was.
  
  
  At the same time, it was one for the partisan with the sharp end of a metal bayonet strapped to the barrel of an ego carbine. He had an old British Mk V jungle carbine, which meant that there was at least one other man hiding in the woods, ready to mow me down with a bloody burst. I couldn't find out if the Nepalese revolutionary was covered up. But in the current situation, I couldn't wait for an unequivocal answer of "yes" or "no".
  
  
  It was then that he discovered me in the undergrowth. I didn't have time to introduce myself, formally or informally. With a wild yell, the man lunged at me, his bayonet pointed straight ahead, glinting in the soft, mottled light. He was useless to me dead. And her dead Sam was even less useful. So there wasn't much he could do about it under other circumstances. The choice was his. I just needed to accept things as they were. And they came pretty quickly and fatally.
  
  
  Long before the partisan could show me how good he was with the bayonet, her, got up and took Hugo in his hand. Baring his teeth, he pounced on it, drops of water forming on his forehead and rolling down his tanned cheeks. The blade of the bayonet touched the strap of my watch, and hers darted to the side, moving slowly around it.
  
  
  Her, screamed. "Where's Canty?"
  
  
  He didn't understand English and wasn't going to be distracted. He was too busy keeping me on the edge of the bayonet, and didn't bother to answer. Her, saw ego's thumb slide gently to the trigger of ego's automatic weapon. Hugo tucked it into his belt and dove forward, trying to disarm him. Together we tried our best to grab another dom, another gun, and hers was trying to point it at the sky.
  
  
  If ever there was a time to put your tie-quarter knowledge into practice, it's now.
  
  
  A side-kick to every tribe, and the ego of the beginnings bent under him like a broken branch. The man howled in pain and anger, and fought desperately to keep his rifle. But I wasn't going to let that happen. Then we were both on our knees, swaying as if caught in a cyclone. A steady stream of Nepalese curses poured from Ego's lips. I wasn't going to ask her for a literal translation.
  
  
  He clenched his fists and hit his ego in the stomach with a fast and furious msm-jung-ji-lo-gi. It was a blow that broke Emu's ribs and sternum, and his body collapsed like a puppet whose strings suddenly snapped. The forest fighter's grip loosened, and in that split second, she had the carbine firmly gripped in both hands, the razor-sharp bayonet blade pressed against her ego's protruding Adam's apple.
  
  
  'Where is she?'
  
  
  Like a fish in & nb, he was still trying to get air sampling into his lungs. The color drained from her ego cheeks, and her skin turned gray and painful.
  
  
  "Where's Canty?" - repeat it.
  
  
  One ego hand twitched. He saw the blade of the knife before he plunged the bayonet into it. The jungle fighter didn't have time to use his knife. It fell out around his hands, and a wild and confused look appeared in ego's eyes. Then they became dead and empty, like two glass balls. He stepped aside and released her, blood spurting from the nasty bayonet wound in her throat.
  
  
  It wasn't as glib as Koenvar's death, but it was just as effective. The web annoyance was that the rebel could no longer tell me what I wanted to know. Somewhere in the surrounding hills, the cave was used as the headquarters of a fanatical group of Nepalese revolutionaries. He had to find this cave and the diamonds, and then get out through Nepal
  
  
  .
  
  
  There was blood on the glass of my watch. Ego rubbed it and checked the time. It was 2: 27 in the morning. I had until 10:30 p.m. to keep my promise to Hawke and the White House. But where do I start? It was the most difficult spin I'd had to ask myself in the last few days. He had no idea where to start looking, where the cache might be.
  
  
  One thing I knew for sure: I had to move on, no matter what.
  
  
  She was forced to make her way through the bushes, following the road that the dead rebel had taken less than ten minutes ago. The spikes were infernal, but not as insidious as the two M-16 carbines suddenly aimed at my scratched and bloody body.
  
  
  "How are you guys doing?" I said without moving any further. "Are you specifically looking for someone?" No one laughed.
  
  
  No one even smiled.
  
  
  But at least he'd found his guides. I hope she was worth more to them alive than dead, riddled with bullets or bayonets. The choice was up to them, whether I liked it or not.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  
  
  
  "Canty," was the next thing that came out of my mouth from the rta. It was as if Ali Baba had shouted: "Sesame, open up." The moment he mentioned her name, the two guerrillas chose to ignore the very bloodied, lifeless body still visible in the dense undergrowth behind me. "Take me to Canty," he said. "She knows who hers is." If it works, they'll take me outright to their hideout. If it didn't work, I suspected that in five or ten years ' time someone would come across my remains, whatever was left of them.
  
  
  Like ih's lifeless comrade-in-arms, Nam Odin around the men didn't understand a single word of our English. She repeated what she had said in Nepali, glad that she had taken the time to refresh her memory of the language. I struggled with a rough translation into the healing-Burmese dialect, which was also spoken by this group of natives, until they finally understood what I meant. Kanti was Kanti in every language that tried it, and they finally understood.
  
  
  The tallest and leanest of the two armed men made a sign to me, contenting himself with sticking the white tip of his bayonet between my shoulder blades. He forced me to walk through the medium-high undergrowth until we reached a rough path that slowly meandered into the hills like a dragon.
  
  
  This time, her full intention was to follow ih's rules, not hers. I'll be taken to Canty's and, with any luck, hopefully the diamonds as well. The bayonet was enough to play according to the ih game plan. But if it didn't endanger the return of the precious stones, he wouldn't hesitate to put Master Chun's teachings into practice.
  
  
  So I played a quiet, obedient prisoner and did exactly what was expected of me. What exactly would happen when we reached the cave, assuming I hadn't been bayoneted before, was unpredictable. And what is possible in the middle of the Nepalese jungle is also open to speculation. We were now climbing a steep and rocky path up the hill. My calfskin ballet slippers weren't made for the mountains, but it's always better than going barefoot. As her father gripped the stocky stump for extra support, he heard something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up instantly. This sound belied the media reports of me gnashing teeth, and he froze in place. Two of my "wires" stopped their march to be the first to laugh at my obvious display of fear, and stepped back, allowing the wild boar to make its way through the dense and almost impenetrable undergrowth.
  
  
  It wasn't so much fear as surprise that hit her. But I thought it would be better if they now considered me worth a lot less than ih. In addition to this, ih's apparent lack of interest in the death of his comrade could easily be interpreted as a general low morale in Sherpa sympathizer circles. If so, it would greatly facilitate my mission.
  
  
  A revolutionary organization that is tormented by internal dissidents is a revolutionary organization that is doomed to failure. Her, hoped that this, plus the supporters of Narayan's graduation, could be a fatal blow for the Sherpas. But until I had a chance to face Kanti, I had to do what my guards told me to do.
  
  
  Less frightened than they had been ten minutes ago, they visibly relaxed as we made our way upstairs. continue on our way. The forest surrounded us on both sides, a thick green blanket that soaked up the day's haze like a sponge. The more I got used to my surroundings, the less fearful my mind became. Now he could hear birds singing and a few small animals prowling in the undergrowth. But we, the boar, and our deer were not able to break through the dense undergrowth, and the bayonet still stuck in my back; enough incentive for me to continue along the path strewn with loose stones.
  
  
  The Sherpa hideout was so cleverly hidden that I might not have noticed it at all if I had followed the same path alone. The cave entrance that Mark and Ginny Golfield were talking about was masked by a movable screen around the foliage; so cleverly designed that at first glance it looked like nothing more than part of the surrounding vegetation. Upon closer inspection, and only after one of the men removed the foliage, she saw a wooden structure under a false facade. It was a grid around light, flexible balsa or bamboo stakes connected by green vines.
  
  
  The moment the screen was pushed aside, a dozen bats flew out into the cold mountain air, chirping. The tip of the worn bayonet pressed harder against my back, and he stepped forward, through the shadows, into the dark passage of the underground passage.
  
  
  The opening in the mountainside was high enough for anyone to walk openly. The entrance itself was a natural gate that opened into a stone-walled tunnel, which almost immediately began to descend slightly. A few hundred meters ahead of her, he saw a faint glow, probably from a light bulb. Odin around the men who were on patrol shouted in a voice that immediately returned with a deep rumbling echo. He ran forward, no doubt to inform Canty of my unexpected arrival.
  
  
  It was calculated by our descent; two full minutes at a brisk pace, perhaps half at a run. The tunnel floor was made of the same hard, packed earth that Ginny had mentioned earlier. Numerous footprints were visible; all of this indicates significant activity that engaged in what appears to be a mistletoe spot at Sherpa headquarters.
  
  
  They must have had their own generator, because at the end of the tunnel, a powerful lamp was burning under the ceiling. He then opened his eyes wide in astonishment and stared in disbelief at the wooden crates and crates stacked on both sides. They had enough weapons in the cave to blow up all of Kathmandu, if not half of Nepal. The Sherpas turned the cavern's space into an armory, a repository of weapons for death and destruction. Most of the wooden boxes were marked with red Chinese characters. Some, not many, were marked with Cyrillic letters, with large CCCP letters.
  
  
  Why they needed to make money from rough diamonds was no longer as clear as it used to be. Unless those gems have already been exchanged for this arsenal. From what I could tell at first glance, they had enough equipment, ammunition, personal weapons, hand grenades, machine guns, carbines to make a successful revolutionary coup.
  
  
  Surrounded by all these weapons was Kanti, the soul of the Sherpas. Standing next to her were two men whose uniforms and faces left no doubt that they were Chinese. They turned out to be military advisers dressed in combat uniforms and armed with regular Red Army rifles. Prasad and Rana were also there, taking inventory of the armor stored in the cave.
  
  
  Canty looked up as I was pushed forward and exposed under a powerful lamp. Odin around my guides explained to me what had happened. She listened with a thoughtful expression on her face; then she slowly got up, walked around the chair, and stood in front of me.
  
  
  Even in this bright light, she was more beautiful than he remembered. Also more arrogant. I didn't have any speeches, but I knew I wanted to say hey, and that Bal Narayan wasn't very nice to her.
  
  
  But before she could even nod in acknowledgment, Odin around the Chinese advisors noticed me and hiccupped in surprise. He moved around the chair to get a closer look at me. Then he turned to Kanti and said, first in Mandarin, which Mao had supported for many years, and then in Nepali, " Do you know who this man is? Do you have any ideas, Comrade Canti?
  
  
  I'm translating it into my native language now, but the thing is, he was just as excited as a spectator at a football match when a central striker doesn't score a penalty. His face lit up as he looked from me to the Sherpa leader and back again.
  
  
  "This is Nicholas Carter," she said in English, as if letting me know what had happened, not realizing that I was speaking both Mandarin and Nepali. — He works for Golfield, the senator we dealt with. I told you all this, Lu Tian. Why are you so surprised? Comrade Lu Tien's command of English was nowhere near as impressive as my command of Mandarin. But still managed to clarify. "This man, Canty... — No, " he said. "This man works for the imperialist intelligence service. †
  
  
  "He works as a U.S. senator," she replied. Lu Tian shook his head, indicating that he strongly disagreed with her. "No, it's a lie," he said, loud and vindictive.
  
  
  She asked. — What do you mean by lying?"
  
  
  "This is a lie, because I saw a picture of this man, this Nicholas Carter, in Beijing. He works for a very secret spy organization of the imperialist, capitalist regime and is trained to overthrow the people's republics all over the outdoor pool. Ego's name isn't Nicholas Carter, but N3, Killmaster.
  
  
  He turned slightly, but Canty was beginning to understand what the Chinese adviser was trying to tell her. She looked back at me, her expression changing dramatically. What was once an expression of confused interest has now completely turned into an expression of permission to perform flag, which has grown into bewilderment, and finally into an expression of rapidly growing anger.
  
  
  — This.".. Is it true what he says, Carter?" — What is it? " she asked me as I stood with my arms at my sides and the bayonet not between my shoulder blades. Prasad and Rana stopped what they were doing and came over to Lick, less surprised to see me than she expected.
  
  
  'Well? Canty asked. "Answer me, Carter." Is this true or false?
  
  
  "Of course, this is a lie. I do not know what he is talking about to his friend. Its ordinary citizen. Senator Golfield hired her, " Rivnensky said calmly. Lu Tian slammed his fist down on the table. "Lies," he shouted. "This man, this Carter, N3, has been an enemy of the People's Republic of China for years. He must be killed as an enemy of all freedom-loving workers around the world." He reached for his revolver, and he took an involuntary step back, away from the circle of light.
  
  
  "Well, wait a minute, buddy," he told her in Chinese. "Your memory is a little muddled. You're confusing me with Hema.
  
  
  Canty reaches out and puts her hand on Lu Tien's revolver. "We'll have plenty of time to kill him, if he's really the person you think he is," she told emu. "Besides," I hastened to add, " if you were a spy, would you give her diamonds to you so willingly, Canty?" But if he was a harmless government official, he wouldn't speak Mandarin, Nepali, or healing-Burmese. Fortunately, this bothered her less than Lu Tien's heated accusations.
  
  
  "Maybe not," she said after a moment's silence and thoughtful hesitation. "But why are you here, Carter?" how did you get this found a place?
  
  
  I've never had a chance to explain it.
  
  
  Lu Tian rushed forward, his face and entire body shaking with rage. He grabbed me with two trembling hands. "You're a murderer," he shouted. "You killed the head of the CLAW . You killed our peace-loving agents in Cuba and Albania. You killed freedom-loving communist workers in Guinea, travel, photos, music, Taipei."
  
  
  The ego outburst was somewhat melodramatic, but unfortunately, the ego heartbreaking, loud, theatrical relics seemed to make a big impression on Canty, which was undoubtedly Lu Tien's intention.
  
  
  She asked. "Are you sure this is the same person known as N3?"
  
  
  "Let the memory of our dear comrade Mao fade immediately if it's not true," Lu Tian replied so seriously that he would almost make everyone cry.
  
  
  "Search ego for weapons," Canty snapped.
  
  
  My security guard soon got it over with, and got rid of Wilhelmina and Hugo. Pierre, however, stayed where he was, snuggling up nicely on the inside of my thigh. Through restraint, delicacy, or common carelessness, they completely overlooked the small but very effective gas bomb.
  
  
  "You came back for the diamonds, didn't you, Carter?" she said right after that.
  
  
  Even with my hands tied tightly behind my back with a thick hemp rope, I tried to maintain my outward composure. "I have come here to tell you what I know about one of your fellow soldiers, Prince Bale Narayana," I said loudly, outright indignation replacing Lu Tien's fanatical rage.
  
  
  "Bal Narayan?" She tilted her head and studied me with her narrow almond-shaped eyes. "Right, the heir apparent to the throne," I said. "Your loyal ally."
  
  
  "What's wrong with him?"
  
  
  "He's tricking you with them ferrets like he came to Amsterdam to buy diamonds," I said. Slowly, step by step, he told her the story from the beginning. She listened intently as Ey told her about what had happened in Holland, the attempts on my life, and how Koenvar and his two accomplices were working to get their hands on the rough stones .
  
  
  He immediately thought of Andrea again, but this wasn't the right time to be upset about it. Koenwar got his proper flow, and if it was up to me, Bal Narayan would have gone the same bloody and brutal way. Finally, he told her about his meeting in Kabul, the deaths of the two hitmen, and Koenwar's last words.
  
  
  When he finished, she quickly turned to Ran, who was standing next to her. — Where is Narayan now?" — What is it? " she asked impatiently. "He's... he's at the airport, Canty, just like you said," Rani muttered, sensing that she wasn't in the mood for jokes.
  
  
  "He's flying to Beijing in an hour to deliver the diamonds."
  
  
  "The last place he's going is Beijing," I said. — He's leaving across the country, and this is the last time you'll see him; this prince and the diamonds, Canty.
  
  
  "If you're lying, Carter," she said, " it's Lu Tian who can do whatever the emu wants with you." In the meantime, I believe your story. She ordered Prasad and Rana to go to the airport and intercept the prince, assuming they would be there in time before he left the country.
  
  
  "Tell em that there's been a change in plans and I need to talk to him immediately."
  
  
  Prasad was already halfway down the tunnel. "And if he is.".. - Hack started.
  
  
  "He's got the diamonds," she said, waving an exasperated hand.
  
  
  "You take ego here. Is that clear?"
  
  
  -"Yes, Canty," he said, submissively and reverently to the very end. He rushed after Prasad, and he could only hope that they would catch Narayan's Graduation before he slipped away. There were not many flights to Kathmandu. I hope the ego gets caught in time. If not, I'd have to keep looking, no matter where it took me. And it all depends on whether I can get away from Canty, Lu Tien, and the dozen or so Partizans I saw around the central underground space that served as the rebel headquarters and ammunition depot.
  
  
  As soon as Prasad and Rana went to intercept Narayan's Graduation, Kanti ordered two of her men to take me to the cell, which turned out to be the same one where the twins were confined. Lu Tian continued to speak silently to me, using all the banal terms. But Canty seemed more interested in finding out if the prince had handed her over than in executing me immediately. At the moment, she was more interested in keeping me alive, at least until Bal Narayan returned to the cave to answer all her questions.
  
  
  Meanwhile, I was led down a narrow corridor that led around a central room. The lamps hung from the natural ceiling at regular intervals, but the dark room that was now my final destination was not at all impressive. Dark, dank, and shut off from the outside world by a heavy locked door, my cell was little more than a groaning alcove. My two escorts seemed to take sadistic pleasure in throwing me inside. He landed hard and cold on the hard floor of the cell, badly shaken but unharmed. A few moments later, the door slammed shut, the bolts slid across it, and ih's laughter seeped through the iron bars. He listened to ih retreating footsteps, the echo of ih excited voices. Then there was silence, punctuated by the sound of my own breathing.
  
  
  "For God's sake, how are you going to get out of here, Carter?"
  
  
  I haven't had the faintest idea yet.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  
  
  
  Its not Houdini.
  
  
  He tried to free his hands so that there was some room in the ropes around his wrists. But the more she fiddled with these knots, the tighter they got. The circulation in my fingers was already poor. My hands were numb. They were cold and tingling, and he knew that very soon they would stop feeling at all. He leaned against the hard stone wall of his cell, trying to get his bearings and collect his thoughts. But there was nothing to open in the damp, moldy cave where I'd been thrown like a sack of potatoes. Two meters long, two meters wide, and the ceiling was too high; there was little comfort in my digital cell, just a few sharp rocky ledges that made it almost impossible for me to lean against one around the walls without feeling one around those stone spikes stick into my back.
  
  
  It was then that I realized why pessimism was never my strong suit.
  
  
  Carefully, so as not to injure his wrists, he began to rub his hands in the ropes back and forth on the sharp rocks. It was harder to get a strong rope to one of the rough ledges than it looked at first glance. And I cut my skin more often than I cut my rope. Even my knuckles bumped against the sharp edges. But I wasn't going to give up. My wrists began to burn from the continued chafing, but I kept walking, trying to listen to the slow but steady crunch of threads as the rope gradually wore off, as did most of my hide.
  
  
  They hadn't taken my watch, but there was no way to know how long he'd been locked up. I estimated that no more than thirty-five minutes of the ferret's presence had passed before the heavy barred door slammed shut behind me with a loud, ominous bang. It will be dusk soon. I had until 10:30 to finish what I started. It was going to be a lot harder than she'd first thought. If Lu Tian didn't know me, things might have turned out differently. But the Chinese advisor was so stubborn that Canty wasn't going to treat me like a commoner after my Beijing friend told hey that I was none other than the famous N3 master assassin po AH.
  
  
  So I continued to rub my handcuffed wrists against the rocks, resting only until the muscles in my arms began to twitch. And that's only for a minute or two. I didn't have the luxury of relaxing a little, because the fate of an entire country was at stake.
  
  
  The fibers of the rope gave way only with the greatest effort. The strands were thicker than hers, he'd thought, and it seemed like an eternity before his hands were free, before he could finally tear the last of the frayed strands apart. My hands were no longer bound, but the skin on the inside of my wrists was raw and bloody. Around the white breastplate I had with me, she made two makeshift cuffs. She had torn strips of cordoned cloth tied around her wrists to stop the bleeding and keep the wounds as clean as possible. It wasn't much, but otherwise the blood would have made my hands slippery, and I just felt like I was going to need all the strength and power I was capable of.
  
  
  The dial of my Rolex lit up. Even in the dim light, you could tell what time it was. I saw her at a sad 4: 31, trying to figure out what my next move would be. I didn't have too many options, and I certainly couldn't use Pierre, supposedly not exactly locked up in his digital camera. And until I opened that door, there wasn't much I could do about it.
  
  
  Except for the moans.
  
  
  Maybe it will work, maybe it won't. The odds were pretty even, despite it being a widely used ploy. However, I had a feeling that something was better than nothing. As an experienced actor, he conjured up the image of a cramp, moved the sensation to the area of life, and held his hands behind his back as if they were still tied there. I started moaning and rolling back and forth, hoping that sooner or later my screams would attract the attention of one of my guards. Thanks to the natural echo effect in the hallway, the sound spread, and in less than a minute, he heard sharp shaggy sounds on the other side of the wall. A face peered questioningly into the camera, neatly separated by three iron bars. She knows a man who stuck a bayonet in my back more than once before.
  
  
  Her, groaning rolled on the digital camera, apparently bent over than hurt. 'What is it?'What is it?' he asked in Nepali.
  
  
  "Cramps. Her sick, " I managed, hoping my vocabulary wouldn't fail me now that hers was so close to success. My words of physical anguish continued to echo in my digital camera. For a moment, he thought he'd failed. The man moved away from the door, and their egos were no longer visible in the dim light. Then she heard the creak of a key in the lock, and congratulated herself, continuing to pour out many heartbreaking audibly. A crack in the yellow light penetrated the cell just as my unsuspecting benefactor opened the heavy door. There he stood, holding the carbine in both rough, weather-beaten hands.
  
  
  'What's wrong with you?'he asked again, studying me carefully, as if he was afraid I was fooling his ego.
  
  
  — I'm sick, " I whispered. 'I need to go to the bathroom.'
  
  
  Emu thought it was very funny and made the mistake of going up to lick a little. I couldn't risk anyone else coming, because having to crush two men at the same time wouldn't make it any easier for me. As I continued to remember everything Master Joyoung had taught me, not forgetting to focus my power on the very moment of impact, hers, I felt myself clench, ready to shoot like a tailor around a box, around a box the moment the lid slammed.
  
  
  In this case, the cover was purely metaphysical. It was like a back door leading inside of me.
  
  
  "Sick," I muttered again, beckoning the guard to lick again.
  
  
  "I'll get you -" he began.
  
  
  And before he could show his willingness to trust me with it, he leapt to his feet and hit him with all his might. My swinging leg caught the ego carbine, sending it spinning in the air. The guard screamed in disbelief, as if he still didn't believe that my hands were no longer tied, that I wasn't sick, and that my right leg was level, not kicking in the fiercest emu punch of my life. Now it's the ego's turn to bend, which hurts. Another moan escaped ego's lips. Then he was on his knees, just like her and the hotel.
  
  
  He was scratching at the dirty floor of the cell with his carbine, which was less than a foot away, but he would never touch it again. Hers, leapt high into the air, and my outstretched beginnings grated against ego's chin. The sound was like a billiard ball hitting. The guard's target was tilted back at a strange and unnatural angle. A few moments later, a thick stream of blood gushed out of the rta, adorning the chin with a glittering fiery red ribbon.
  
  
  He had a broken jaw, but there was no reason to kill a man as long as he was unconscious and not in the way. A quick, merciful slap to the back of the neck set the thread straight. He collapsed forward, his face covered in a pool of his own blood.
  
  
  Her silently crept up to the door, and quietly closed it. He took off the rebel's shirt. He was completely unconscious and had no idea who or what ego hit. He used one sleeve of his shirt as a support and tied it tightly around the ego of the bloodied rta's ego. The rest of his khaki shirt was quickly used to tie emu's hands behind his back. I think it will be some time before he regains consciousness. And if that happened, he would no longer be able to defend himself or rush to the aid of his fellow rebels.
  
  
  But there were still a few people left to interfere with. Despite my practice in karate, martial arts still have their limits. Especially if you're outnumbered. Now I was not only far outnumbered, but time was against me. Darkness fell outside the cave. If it wasn't for the moon, it would be doubly difficult to move around the steep and rocky terrain. I needed to find my way back to the road, to my bike, and to the U.S. Embassy in Kathmandu. And all this had to be done before 10: 30 that evening. But before I could even think of leaving Sherpa headquarters, I had to wait for Prasad and Rana to return with Bal Narayan. If the ego hadn't been caught before it took off on the plane, then my problems would have become not only a little more complicated, but perhaps even impossible.
  
  
  So everything was still up in the air: one big question mark. The carbine that had fallen to the floor of the cell was loaded and ready for use. He pulled the safety catch, slipped out the door, and closed it quietly behind him. The corridor was deserted; the bare lamps swayed slowly back and forth on the air current in the underground chambers and corridors. The ominous shadows crossed and parted again as she neared the groans to the outer cave where the Sherpas kept their ammunition.
  
  
  But he didn't go far.
  
  
  Someone was rushing down the narrow corridor toward me. Her back pressed against the moan, he held his breath and Stahl waited. The shaggy sounds grew louder, a rapid and almost impatient thud. An oval face framed by short black hair, a lithe, taut body, and Canty passed mimmo me, no doubt heading for my cell. If he were to use the carbine now, the shot would undoubtedly alarm all the rebels. I had my hands full, too busy, so I picked her up with a walnut quarter carbine, intending to land on the back of her head.
  
  
  But again, I didn't get very far.
  
  
  With a sharp screeching sound, she spun around with a quick swing of her foot. The side of her steel-bound boot touched my knee, and all I could do was keep my balance. "You're very stupid, Nicholas Carter," she said with a grin. "And very careless. Did you think I couldn't protect myself?
  
  
  — To tell you the truth, I wasn't sure, " I said, rushing forward as the bayonet grazed her arm. Canty was fast, and many people were faster than anyone would have thought. She was just as skilled in martial arts as hers, plus the advantage of being lighter, which allowed her to react to her legs faster and more economically.
  
  
  She turned her body to the side and kicked forward again. This time, she missed me and hit the carbine with all her weight, concentrating on the sole of her foot. It was as if someone on top of me had pulled a gun around my arms.
  
  
  "Now we are immediately rested," she said. She didn't even breathe any faster as she tried to keep her distance while I prepared for the defensive stance, dyit-koe-bi, a stance that kept my center of gravity firmly on my hips, allowing me to kick both sideways and without swaying. punches to parry.
  
  
  Canty took the next step. Cold-blooded and rather surprised by what was happening, she allowed her left leg to shoot out like lightning as he tried to throw himself to the side. But her timing was perfect, and her reflexes were just as fast, if not faster, than mine. Ee whoop-cha-gi hit me squarely under the diaphragm, and the impact made me stagger back, groaning in pain. She wasted no time, and then came up with an elaborate paion-sjon-koot ji-ro-ki. This was the most effective and dangerous hand attack. If she does it right, my spleen will be nothing but pink pulp.
  
  
  But I wasn't going to let that happen until my leg had a say in the event. He was parried with a side kick. My liquid and blood beginnings in the air in a high arc. The sole of my foot hit her in the chest, and she slammed into the wall behind Nah, shaking her head as if trying to shake cobwebs off her head.
  
  
  He tried to throw a side kick again, this time targeting the vulnerable lower part of her chin. The side of her frozen forearm landed on my shin with all the force and hardness of a hammer. Her, I felt the pain creep up my legs. He dodged her, ignoring her sly and disdainful grin. "You're a fool, Carter," she said with a chuckle. "Why would you think her soul was a Sherpa if it wasn't for this ability?"
  
  
  "This kind of ability" meant that she was probably my match in martial arts. "First of all, Nick. Then determination. Then concentration. You need to constantly think about these things in order for your AI to work in your favor. On a good day, it can save your life. He heard Master-Chaeyoung speak in his head, took a deep breath, and flexed his life muscles. I saw Canti's left hand approach me in slow motion, in a graceful arc, a move that would have taken me out of the way if it had landed as well as it was executed.
  
  
  A high-pitched "Ap!" escaped my lips as I ducked, sidestepped, and returned before she could regain her balance. Ki-ai is a type of intense concentration that leads not only to an adrenaline rush of confidence, but also to a feeling of incredible strength and physical capabilities. By practicing this technique, he was able to dodge Kanti's crushing kidney punch and attack with a series of fast, slicing hands. The end of my callused hand landed in the hollow of my neck and shoulder. She moaned and leaned back, but not before I managed to summon all my Ki-ai power and let my hand land on the bridge of her nose. The bone split with a sharp sound, and thick trickles of blood ran down her mouth and chin.
  
  
  It was clear that Canty was suffering. It was also clear that she wasn't half as bold and beautiful as she had been five minutes earlier. But it was still able to kill me if I didn't disarm it sooner.
  
  
  The excruciating pain only seemed to spur her on, like a thorn in her side. "Now I'll order her to kill you, Lu Tien," she hissed. "And slowly. Yes, a very slow death for you, Carter.
  
  
  I didn't answer, but continued to exhale heavily to keep my diaphragm muscles tight. My mind recorded the next action a few seconds before my body took action. The effectiveness of a karate kick can be measured by the speed at which it is performed. Her right leg jerked forward, followed by a furious hiss of "Up!" The explosive sound of my foot whizzing through the air momentarily knocked the counterweights out of the Canty.
  
  
  She tried to grab my leg, intending to flip it so that hers landed on the floor. But this time it was too fast for nah. She missed by a few inches when all my focus, focused on the outstretched leg, hit her ribcage .
  
  
  The animal's cry of pain rang through the air like a cry for help. Wounded, blood still streaming around her face, Canty clutched her broken ribs with both hands and backed away, trying to reach both ends of the corridor. If I succeed, I'll be right back where I started.
  
  
  She couldn't move fast now that I'd managed to break a few ribs. It wasn't about wanting to hurt her. It was just Canty or her. Self-preservation corkscrew. And self-preservation is always more important than anything else. I hurried after her when a rebel squad heard her cries for help and came running, a steady stream of armed men blocking the tunnel's flow and preventing me from escaping. Just in time, ee grabbed him by the arm and managed to pull him towards him as some of the people around him raised their weapons and prepared to shoot.
  
  
  Canty was kicking and struggling, cursing like a dragoon. But in her position, she was no match for my strength, my determination. He was being held by a struggling, bloodied human shield, holding her close, in front of him. "If you shoot her now, she'll be dead," I shouted.
  
  
  The effect of these words reminded me of a living picture. Everyone froze in place. You could hear ten distinct sounds of human breathing. Canty was still kicking and struggling. But this time it won't go anywhere until I say it, give the order.
  
  
  With one free hand, he reached into his dirty trousers and pulled Pierre out. The gas bomb was my only hope, and he intended to use it now. Due to the isolation of the caves, there was little chance that the gas would rise quickly. Gas is trapped in tunnels and passageways for some time.
  
  
  Prasad and Rana hadn't returned with their burden yet, but I couldn't wait for ih to get back around the airport, especially since my life was literally in danger. Cliche or not, that's exactly what was happening. "Tell them to back off," Canti warned her, moving slowly toward the central room.
  
  
  "Kill me first," she screamed. — But don't let the emu escape.
  
  
  "You're a devil on wheels, aren't you?" It was so tight that I wouldn't have hesitated to rip out the bone around the joint socket in the foreground if I made a wrong move on its side. She knew it, too, because as her pain increased, so did her willingness to follow my orders. "Tell them to step back and let us pass," he continued. I won't get any better until we get to the ammunition depot. I already had a vague idea of what to do, but it could only be done if I was sure that I could enter the corridor that led to the forest.
  
  
  "Don't listen," she shouted. But Nah didn't have the strength left. Exhausted with unbearable pain, Canty fell into my arms, crying bitterly; but she wept without visible signs of malva.
  
  
  "He will kill you," Odin's voice said over her phone. "It doesn't matter," she said.
  
  
  Lu Tian then raised his automatic pistol, satisfied only that the emu would manage to take me down no matter what happened to Canty. The moment the gun rose from his hips, he threw us both forward and threw Pierre forward through the tunnel. A gunshot rang out, gawking eyes hit the rock above my head, and then a gas bomb exploded in a dense alkaline cloud.
  
  
  There was a chorus of alarmed screams, almost instantly drowned out by another chorus, this time a hoarse, choked cough. Blinded by the corrosive gas, the partisans began to run in different directions, trying to get away from the burning tear gas. It bothered me almost as much, but I had to make sure I reached both ends of the tunnel, otherwise there would be nothing but certain death.
  
  
  Canty had brought it with him as protection against further attacks. She went limp like a dead weight in my arms, half-conscious, more than painful. Every time she coughed, she imagined a piece of broken rib sinking deeper into her lungs. If Nah didn't have a pulmonary hemorrhage right now, then in a few minutes she would have felt like she was drowning and couldn't get any air samples into her oxygen-deprived lungs.
  
  
  Keeping my head as low as possible means that people will be confused and blinded by the thick, choking smoke. It was a risk I just had to take, because I had no other choice. When Canty snuggled up to me, I stumbled and ran. Another shot rang out, but it hit the walls of the narrow, smoky tunnel.
  
  
  She saw piles of wooden crates, a rough wooden chair and Hugo and Wilhelmina exactly where ih had left the rebels after the search. Her, went to the table, grabbed two of my loyal friends, and then managed to get to the wooden crates before Lu Tian and Ego compatriots or any of the rebel po could stop me. The men staggered around, scratching at their eyes, unable to see. A quick blow to Canty's neck, and it saved her from suffering, at least for a moment. I hope that if she had come to her senses, I would have been long gone.
  
  
  My thumb tightened, and Wilhelmina spat out fire furiously. Lu Tien's Chinese pal was almost literally nailed to a moan as blood gushed down the gruesome hole that was now suddenly blooming on his cheek. Ego hands a pendulum, as if trying to fly. Then he sank down on the rocky moan.
  
  
  The boxes were marked so that it knew what to look for and what to avoid. But in the meantime, the tear gas was running out, and the demoralized Nepalese rebels were once again trying to put an end to my short-lived persecution.
  
  
  The crates served as valuable cover, though Lu Tian, now that Canty was out of the line, suddenly stopped firing. "You're going to kill us all," he shouted, stopping the Sherpas ' shots, and one of the wooden crates began to open it. "One crazy gawk and the whole cave will fall on us," he shouted, first in Mandarin and then in Nepali. The ego's essence of rude, disturbing words could be translated into any language.
  
  
  You read my mind, buddy, I thought as I finally managed to crack open one of the tightly nailed lids on one of the crates. The contents weren't neatly wrapped in tissue paper like the expensive Zhirinovsky square gifts, but hand grenades had much more power than an orange or lemon.
  
  
  It was 5: 17 in the morning.
  
  
  Too early for a six o'clock report, I thought, pulling out the pin one at a time and throwing it blatantly at Lou Tien and Ego's gang of fanatical freedom fighters. Then there was no time to think, it all depends on the speed. Her, ran to the tunnel, her ran like he'd never run before. It took me at least sixty seconds to get around the cave. But long before she felt the pleasure of the cool night wind on her face, Gawk hit me in the calf, and suddenly threw me to my knees. He started to crawl forward when a hand grenade exploded.
  
  
  A sphere of blinding fire, the agonized screams of human torches; and chunks of rock and stone rained down on my head.
  
  
  I didn't think I'd be on the six o'clock news. Not today, anyway.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  
  
  
  What saved me was that I was already out of the central room and in the tunnel.
  
  
  When the hand grenade exploded, igniting all the ammunition crates, like other hand grenades, the interior of the Sherpa headquarters probably resembled Dresden during major bombings. Canty never found out what had hit her. In any case, she died without feeling the flames burning her alive, without realizing that all her beautiful plans and political intrigues had come to naught.
  
  
  And if one section of the tunnel hadn't collapsed and nearly buried me under the falling rubble, Stahl himself would have been another victim. But the explosion destroyed the corridor leading to the large room. He was still struggling to free himself when a second explosion began to sweep through the honeycomb of corridors.
  
  
  No one else screamed, not anymore.
  
  
  The gawk that hit me went through the fleshy part of my left shin, missing the bones by a hair's breadth. He was still bleeding, but at least he didn't feel like a human torch. It took me a good five or ten minutes to get free. I smelled the zest of the locked fire and tried to get around the tunnel as fast as I could before the whole roof collapsed on me.
  
  
  What might take sixty seconds has turned into almost ten minutes. Because of the fallen pieces of rock and the bloody hole in his leg, he wasn't in any shape to sprint. But when hers, felt the breeze of the green forest brush my cheeks, and looked up at the sparkling starry sky, hers thought it deserved a little rest.
  
  
  He sat down on the ground and took a deep breath. Behind me, a cloud of smoke billowed from the entrance to what had once been a well-hidden rebel hideout. Now it was nothing but a collection of coals and rocks. But my locality in Russia was far from complete. I still had work to do, regardless of the bullet wound. I didn't need a bandage so much as stitches, but there was only one thing I could do when I got back to Kathmandu. And before I went back to the city, it was up to me to find out what had happened to Rana, Prasad, and the runaway Bal Narayan.
  
  
  But first, he had to try to stop the blood that was already flowing freely around the wound. Shirt sleeves are pretty darn useful when you're in a tight spot. He took off her jacket or what was left of it, then her shirt and cut one sleeve with a stiletto. Then he tied a strip of cloth around her injured leg. After a few seconds, the bandage was distributed. Bandaging too tightly put me at risk of gangrene, so I had to be content with how it was done until I had a chance to look at it.
  
  
  Walking was a challenge now, but since I'd dealt with crippled legs before, last time in India, if memory serves, I managed to pull myself up and make it to the steep, rocky path that led down to the road. It was only a matter of time before the authorities were mobilized after the explosion, but I hoped they wouldn't rush to the scene of the "accident". The presence of police or government forces will deter the wound and ego group. And right now, he definitely couldn't use it.
  
  
  My Rolex lit up " at 6: 01 a.m. when I got to the road. With less than five hours left before I remembered Hawke's order, I still had a lot to do. What bothered me was that Rana wasn't able to return to the cave. He had three hours, and the only explanation he could find was that Bal Narayan wasn't in too much of a hurry to cancel his plane reservation and obey Kanti's orders.
  
  
  I put myself on my bike, on the side of the road. There was a crescent moon, but at least it wasn't pitch black ; there was enough light to see for several hundred yards. Three more shots and Wilhelmina would be empty. I had to use her very sparingly, and continue to rely on Hugo to lay the groundwork for what Wilhelmina might well start.
  
  
  There was no point in driving back to Kathmandu. Prasad and Rana obeyed Kanti unconditionally. Even if they don't manage to get Narayan's Graduation, they will definitely return to the cave at some point. How long it would take was anyone's guess. It was also getting colder. He turned up the collar of his doublet, re-tied the bandage on his leg, and sat down in the bushes.
  
  
  After that, all I could do was wait and hope that my vigil would be rewarded until 10: 30 a.m., when the Hawk deadline arrived.
  
  
  He sat like a Buddha, cross-legged, and diligently showed the same amount of patience. It was about seven when thunder heard her, which immediately caught my attention. It was a battered old Fiat, its headlights sliding down the empty road. Her bends Wilhelmina on the rear wheel. He pulled the trigger and heard Rana yell as he struggled to control the car . The explosion forced ego to push the bullying button, and the car stopped about fifteen meters away from me . I saw two dark figures, two silhouettes in the backseat. If I'd been lucky, one shadow would have been someone I only knew from newspaper photos and had never seen in person before .
  
  
  But it was already too dark, and hers was still too far away to identify him accurately.
  
  
  Lizzie ducked and crept up on her, just as the car door swung open and someone slid out into the shadows. "Narayana, wait," Prasada heard her shout, his voice cracking with panic.
  
  
  But Narayan listened only to his own greed. "Wait for us," he shouted in Nepali as the crouching figure ran to the side of the road for safety in the dense, impenetrable forest.
  
  
  The Prince was caught in a sudden crossfire from both sides. Prasad fired a split second later, just as Wilhelmina fired her bullet into the darkness. Two consecutive shots thwarted the greedy Nepalese prince's plans. Narayan let out a heart-rending scream and staggered in my direction. He was already halfway to Nirvana, or wherever he was, when he finally got there. "Drop the gun," he said, now more interested in Prasad than in Narayan spouting blood, and unable to interfere any further with what he thought was her final chapter of his mission. Wilhelmina was even more convincing than my angry voice. Prasad let the beretta slip through the ego of his fingers. It hit the asphalt with a dull thud. Rana was now standing by the car, looking in disbelief at the shocking body of Narayan me, bloodied but very much alive.
  
  
  "So we've met again, Carter," he said sarcastically.
  
  
  "A wound, actually," I said. "Where are the diamonds? And where have you been for so long?
  
  
  "This is only about Kanti," Prasad said with a grim face, though Wilhelmina's attention was drawn to his figure.
  
  
  She gave a low, humorless laugh. "Canty's gone," I said. "There are no Sherpas anymore. And the cave is gone.
  
  
  — What is it about?" Hack asked.
  
  
  "Best I can think of," I said. "Look over there."Its alone above the tree line, in thick black clouds hidden behind the moon. A heavy column of ash and smoke was clearly visible from where we were standing.
  
  
  — He's got them... Narayan's, " Prasad said, shaking violently. For the first time since I first knew him, he was scared. And when Wilhelmina pointed it out, Ego couldn't blame her either.
  
  
  "Bring ih to me." Quickly' - My tone left nothing to the imagination.
  
  
  Ran walked over to the fallen prince and reached into ego's jacket. Her, turned around and made the gun open in the center of ego's chest.
  
  
  "That would be very stupid of you, Rana," Ego warned her. "Not to say it's stupid."
  
  
  "Canty was wrong to trust you," he said. Ego's hand slid back and hung limp. I didn't need a magnifying glass to see that he was scared, that he was shaking now that he knew I wasn't in the mood for games.
  
  
  "Maybe, but there's nothing you can do for nah right now," I said. "Believe me, I have no desire to kill you. You're young and stupid, but who knows... maybe someday you'll find meaning in your life. So do us all a favor and give me these diamonds.
  
  
  "I'll get nu," Prasad said. — Then you'll let us go?" Yes?'
  
  
  "Once you change this tire for me, both of you can go anywhere.
  
  
  He bent over Narayana's body. The Prince was still alive, at least physically. In his mind's eye, he'd already walked away from us five minutes and two bullets earlier.
  
  
  "He didn't want to give ih to us before," he whispered in English as he found the tube in which it transported the diamonds from one end of the earth to the other. "He said we were liars."
  
  
  "Liar," he corrected her.
  
  
  "Yes, it's all a lie." He stood up and handed me a plastic pipe.
  
  
  It took Rivnenskaya a minute to realize that all the stones on the narrow flexible tube were still intact.
  
  
  Rana had already started changing the tire. She was authorized by Prasad to help em, and Wilhelmina was kept ready in case one of these unfortunate revolutionaries decided that em didn't like my orders. Fully aware that I would not hesitate to pull the trigger and send ih in the same direction that Bal Prince Narayan had already gone, they did as they were told, and this time they kept quiet.
  
  
  When they finished, it was 7:52 in the morning.
  
  
  "Now for the bike," I said, watching them closely until he was in the back of the car. "And finally, your revolver, hack."
  
  
  "You're a decent man," he said, feigning laughter, and laughed as he handed over his own . 38 American Detective Special, abandoned on the road.
  
  
  "Carefully, but compassionately," I said. — And I think now is the time to break up." You didn't think so?
  
  
  Prasad didn't even wait for Rani to make a decision. Without a backward glance, or even a second's hesitation, he disappeared like a skittish colt. The sound of ego's light running footsteps seemed to tear a wound out of his daze. He ran after it, leaving me with the scion of the Nepalese royal family. The only thing that upset me was that they both forgot to say goodbye to me and the prince.
  
  
  She was dragged by Narayana's limp and lifeless body to the side of the road. Ego pockets turned out to be a veritable storehouse of extremely trivial things. Nothing worth seeing except a box of matches. Not surprisingly, the text on nen was already familiar: Prichal Restaurant, 11/897. Ason Tole. Kathmandu.
  
  
  Blood froth covered ego's thin and cruel lips. Death's face was set in anger and anger. He worked almost as hard as she did, and almost succeeded. Two bullets passed through the thread of all ego, selfish dreams. Now he wasn't even worth remembering.
  
  
  Using the same clipped branches that had previously hidden the tree, he made what looked like a funeral pyre. But she never bothered to throw a match in a pile of leaves. The tree was probably still too green, not yet ready to burst into golden, orange, and blood-red flames.
  
  
  So he left her ego there, unseen and disguised, as long as it pleased the gods. He hobbled her to the Fiat and put her in the front seat. It was 8: 13 in the morning. I'll meet Hawke's deadline, and I'll even have some time left.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 15
  
  
  
  
  Hers was still limping, and even with aluminum crutches, as he walked down the hospital's gleaming white hallway. Kathmandu Stahl is a memoir, and Nepal is a vision around the explorer's journal. The Sherpas were relegated to the pages of Asian history as dead as Bal Prince Narayan, as lifeless as the assassin we once knew as Koenwara.
  
  
  What I couldn't finish, King Mahendra's troops did. The last guerrillas were gathered near the Chinese border town of Mustang, near Annapoerna. A partisan organization-continues to exist. But I don't think it would be unrealistic to think that no other women and men in Nepal have dreamed of greater political freedom, though hopefully in a less violent way.
  
  
  I discussed all this with Hawk before I left the Himalayan Kingdom. The White House said a series of high-level talks between the Secretary of State and the King of Nepal will follow along with significant relief efforts. Perhaps it would be possible to find some kind of state structure that would give people more chances to say what they want to say, and most of the entire legislative process.
  
  
  But I am too much of a realist not to know that even if the Nepalese throne had even greater democratic freedom, there would always be a danger of Chinese interference. The threat of revolution will probably always hang over the country like a bloody Chinese sword of Damocles.
  
  
  And if that were to happen, anything I could have prepared wouldn't really matter. But at that moment, all my attention was no longer focused on Nepal, but on the beautiful young woman who does not have a clue about mistletoe that I was going to pay her a visit. The door to Andrea's room was closed. Her father knocked softly and opened the door.
  
  
  She was sitting on the bed, flipping through a fashion magazine. The moment she saw me, the color returned to her cheeks, and a smile made the corners of her mouth curl up in obvious and undisguised pleasure.
  
  
  "Nick... what... I mean, when... how...", she muttered, not believing that I was actually there, and that I was much more substantial than in the dream.
  
  
  "All in good time," I promised. He walked over to the bed and gently pressed his lips to hers. When hers receded, she was still smiling, and I was glad to be back in Amsterdam, and to the Wilhelmina Gasthuis hospital, before flying back to Washington. — I was told you could get out of here in two Sundays, maybe sooner. How are you feeling, Andrey?
  
  
  "Better, Nick. Prices are better for many people. And to my hotel to thank you for what you did... I mean the bills."
  
  
  "I have much better novelties," I said, pulling up a chair so I could put my foot on it. The wound was already healing, but it took Sundays before her fully recovered."Did you mention Senator Golfield when you mentioned her?"
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  "Well, he told me to tell you that as soon as you're well enough, you'll have a job waiting for you in Washington as one of the ego administrative assistants. I'd say it pays a lot better than freelance journalism. And Golfield is not around those who judge people by their appearance, but only by their abilities.
  
  
  "How are you doing?" — What is it? " she asked with a laugh.
  
  
  "That depends on who I meet, Miss Yuen."
  
  
  "And you're staying, Nick?" Not for long.
  
  
  "Maybe I'll stay a little longer."
  
  
  We were both laughing like two little kids. Nepal was just a routine in my life; danger and bloodshed are part of my past. Don't look back, Carter, he thought to himself, because there's always more to come, and it's just around the corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  About the book:
  
  
  How to smuggle a million dollars worth of raw almazov across Amsterdam to Nepal, how to then use ih as a currency to buy back the senator's abducted children, how to take ih back and take it out of the whole country again? Very simple!
  
  
  But there's more:
  
  
  The Sherpas, a bunch of professional revolutionaries with ee Kanti's terrible inventions, are the typical "spirit" of the revolution, as beautiful as it is deadly, with her "kung fu hands" relentlessly listening to the painful commands of her brain.
  
  
  Koenvar, a murderer under any other circumstances. Koenwar can sneak like a forest cat and kill as fast as she can.
  
  
  Ball Narayan, international playboy, member of the royal family. He was around those people who sell everything and everyone to kostya for their own wealth.
  
  
  Nick Carter, aka N3, Master Assassin Carter, who must learn the new language of death to survive...
  
  
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Новые книги авторов СИ, вышедшие из печати:
О.Болдырева "Крадуш. Чужие души" М.Николаев "Вторжение на Землю"

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