Earthfire North

by Nick Carter

  Looking now at Ziegler made her stomach turn. But her mother's story came back to her although she wanted to bury it.

  At first he had used chains and whips on her mother. And then cigarette burns and finally even a soldering iron between her toes, in her armpits, in her anus, and on the lips of her vagina. The pain was so terrible, her mother remembered with tears in her eyes, but it was nothing compared to what came later.

  He began to change, her mother said, slowly and subtly at first. He used to tie her up, but one time he forgot, and she struck out blindly, hitting him in the face.

  He reared back, and she was certain that she would die that instant, but he was smiling. He had enjoyed it.

  A few weeks later the same thing happened again, and this time she scratched him. He seemed to be in ecstasy.

  During the months that followed, the transformation came faster and faster until at last she was handcuffing him, whipping him, and even urinating on him. At one point she was even cutting him with a knife.

  The terrible thing about it, her mother remembered, was that by then she had been his prisoner for more than two years. She could have easily killed him during one of those sessions, but she had been changed so much by him that she merely did as he asked. She tortured him, abused him, kicked and screamed at him; it was the only way he could get sexual satisfaction.

  Nothing had changed.

  "Get down on your hands and knees, you swine," Roberta hissed. She meant it, and Ziegler loved it.

  He got to his knees and bowed his head. "You must forgive me, my dear. The telephone…"

  Roberta kicked him in the chest, sending him staggering backward, off-balance.

  He grinned. "You're a feisty whore… I like that! More!"

  Roberta reared back and kicked him in the chest again, just beneath his left breast. The air went out of him, and he fell back on the floor behind the desk.

  She advanced on him as he began to laugh, long and low, the sound totally devoid of humor. He was some kind of a monster.

  "What do you want now, Herr Ziegler?" she snapped.

  He laughed louder. "Delicious, "he said. "Oh… God, it's so delicious. You're so much like your mother, my dear. So much… you'll never know."

  Roberta's heart froze. Her knees suddenly felt weak, and she felt very obscene standing over Ziegler in the costume she was wearing.

  He knew! Oh, God, he had known all along! He had waited for just this moment.

  She reached down and quickly pulled the knife from her boot, but Ziegler had sat up, and he grabbed her right ankle with a meaty paw and jerked it out from under her.

  She fell back, banging her shoulder on the edge of the desk, losing her grip on the knife. It went clattering across the floor, and Ziegler was on her.

  "You want to hurt me, my dear?" he asked, breathing heavily. "That can be arranged. But later. I think first we'll have to soften you up a bit. Maybe take a month or two. Who knows, maybe it'll take eighteen months like with your mother the whore."

  She struggled out of his grasp and scrambled backward across the floor to where the knife lay. But the office door burst open at that moment, and four guards, all of them armed, their weapons at the ready, came in.

  One of them yanked Roberta to her feet, while the others helped Ziegler up.

  He came to where she stood, and without warning reached out with the little knife and cut her bra so it fell from her body.

  She struggled wildly. "Hold her," Ziegler barked. A second guard came over, and together with the other one they held Roberta still. Her stomach was churning. Oh. Nick, she thought. She had been such a fool.

  Ziegler pulled off her panties, her boots, and the mesh nylons, leaving her nude.

  "Nice?" he asked his guards. They were all leering at her.

  "Your orders are simple, gentlemen," Ziegler said. "Take this whore over to Barracks B and teach her just what fine, strong men you are." He smiled at Roberta. "I certainly don't want her killed, nor do I want her damaged… too badly. Just have a little fun, that's all."

  Twelve

  The flames from the burning barracks were already beginning to die down when Carter made it to the motor pool area. He crouched just behind the large maintenance garage as he listened and watched for the sign of a guard or guards.

  He didn't think anyone would be here. Everyone would be back by the barracks or by the reactor site. Yet he didn't want to be caught again as he had been back at the trailer.

  Ziegler had been a lot smarter than Carter had given him credit for being. The explosion at the barracks, instead of being a diversion, had caused Ziegler's men to concentrate on the vulnerable reactor. A barracks could be replaced. If the reactor core was destroyed, the project would be all but finished.

  After he had gotten away from the trailer, Carter had seen dozens, perhaps even a hundred or more men all heading toward the reactor site. It would be difficult now, if not impossible to get close. But he had to try.

  He bolstered his Luger and pulled out his stiletto, then, keeping low, raced away from the building toward a line of a half-dozen jeeps and several heavy-duty trucks parked near the gas pumps.

  He jumped up on the running board of one of the trucks, got in behind the wheel, and ducked under the dashboard. He pulled out his penlight and shined it up on the wires around the ignition switch In less than a minute he had hot-wired the truck, and it started up with a roar.

  He sat up, pulling the pack around, and opened it up on the seat next to him. He pulled out the plastique, and working quickly but very carefully, he inserted the timer into the lump of claylike explosive. He set this one beside him, then took the second plastique brick and detonator out, and inserted the detonator into the explosive.

  He jumped out of the truck, went around to the gas pumps, and molded the brick against the base of the center one. He set the timer for sixty seconds, raced back to the truck, put it in gear, and ground away from the motor pool.

  As he came around the comer of the big maintenance building, he slammed the truck into second gear and accelerated up the rough construction road toward the reactor area half a mile away.

  There were a lot of lights shining around the scaffolding and tall cement forms. The core building itself, along with the supports, was completely bathed in spotlights. As he drove he could pick out dozens of troops ringing the building.

  He flipped on his lights, pulled his hard hat low, and jammed the accelerator pedal to the floor, the big truck bucking and swaying over the deeply rutted dirt track. The gas pumps blew with a tremendous flash.

  There were a half-dozen medics around the fallen troops behind the barracks, which was still burning, and they looked up for just a moment as Carter passed but immediately went back to what they were doing.

  Carter cranked down the window on his side as he swung back up toward the reactor building, and with one hand set the timer for ninety seconds.

  He was going to have one pass at this, and that was it. He didn't think much of his chances for success, but he just couldn't lei it go.

  The detonator was ticking as he closed in on the reactor building. Four guards came out from behind some scaffolding, and they began to wave for Carter to stop. He swung a little further left so that he would come even closer to the core support.

  The guards raised their weapons at the last moment and started firing, the windshield shattering as Carter ducked down.

  Then he was past them. He straightened up and tossed the plastique out the window with all his might, but it fell short.

  He just caught a glimpse of the package lying on the ground as he came around the main reactor building, made a wide turn on two wheels, and headed directly for the main gate.

  He was counting out loud to ninety. He was off. At eighty-four the night sky behind him was split with a tremendous explosion.

  The damage he had done here tonight would keep them busy for a little while. But he failed to destroy the core. There'd have to be another time… one way
or the other.

  Carter got the impression that there were no guards on duty, and that the main gate had been unlocked, when without stopping or even slowing down he crashed out to the dirt road that led down to the highway. But then he was past and careening away from the huge compound, already making plans for his second attempt. He and Roberta would have to get away from the hotel they were staying at, of course. Ziegler would have his people crawling all over town by morning. The man would stop at nothing, Carter was sure.

  He made it down to the highway a few minutes later and checked his rearview mirror to make sure no one was following him. Then he turned left toward Reykjavik and accelerated smoothly through the gears.

  He took off the hard hat and tossed it aside, then lit a cigarette. For just a moment he had the ugly thought that Roberta might have tried something tonight on her own. She had acted strangely on the way out, and earlier in the day, when he had been watching the harbor, he had looked up once to find that she had left the room. She had been out shopping… but for what?

  But he dismissed the thought. She wanted Ziegler — although she wouldn't explain to him exactly why — but he didn't think she wanted him so badly she'd jeopardize this mission. She was more of a professional than that.

  He settled back for the long ride into the city, his mind slowly going over everything that had happened so far on this strange operation. He thought back as well to Lydia Coatsworth. Even now, after all that had gone on, he found it nearly impossible to believe she was dead. And he had to admit to himself that he had really felt very deeply about her. Perhaps too deeply for a man in his occupation.

  There was virtually no traffic on the highway until he came within a few miles of Reykjavik itself, and then there was only an occasional car or truck, and one bus.

  He parked the big truck outside a heavy equipment service center, pulled off the coveralls, and then walked a mile and a half up to the Sudurlandsbraut, near the sports grounds, where he hitched a ride with a truck driver returning to the Telephone and Telegraphic office.

  The man said something to Carter in Icelandic, but when he realized that Carter was an American he drove the rest of the way in dark silence. Like many Icelanders, he did not care for Americans. Although there were treaties between the two countries, outlining fishing rights, as well as allowing American military bases here, Icelanders mistrusted America's interests. Too many other countries had been swallowed, economically, by the giant to the south, and in the process had lost their national identities. Icelanders did not want that happening here.

  He dropped Carter off downtown, then hurried way down the street and around the corner. Carter walked the two blocks to his hotel, went in the back way, took the stairs up, and knocked on his door.

  "Roberta?" he called out softly. There was no answer, so he knocked a little louder. She had to be back by now, he thought, unless…

  He pulled out his stiletto and picked the lock. The room was dark. He flipped on the light, half expecting to see evidence of a search, but nothing had been disturbed.

  Locking the door behind him, he crossed the room and looked into the bathroom. Roberta had not been back. Damnit, she was still out there.

  He turned and was about to leave when the corner of an envelope sticking out from beneath his pillow caught his eye. Even before he opened it he knew what it was: Roberta's explanation of why she wasn't there.

  It was that, but it was much more than he expected. She had written him a lengthy letter that began by asking him to forgive her and please understand why she was doing what she was doing.

  He poured himself a stiff drink as he read Roberta's account of what had happened to her mother during the war.

  "So you see, Nick darling, I must kill him in the same way he caused the death of my mother's spirit," she concluded.

  She was still out there.

  He finished his drink, stuffed the letter into his pocket, and threw open the door but stopped short, the barrel of a.357 magnum poking him in the chest, a giant of a man with blue eyes and blond hair standing there. Behind him was another giant of a man and Thorstein Josepsson.

  "I was wondering when I'd run into you again," Carter said.

  "I told you to stay away, Mr. Angus McDonald, or Nick Carter, or whoever you really are. I told you not to become involved in our politics."

  "So now you're going to kill me?"

  "Not I," Josepsson said. "Not unless you force us to do it. But there is someone who would very much like to speak with you."

  The second giant stepped forward and quickly frisked Carter, finding his Luger but neither Hugo nor Pierre. He pocketed the weapon after first removing its clip and the shell from the chamber.

  "I would rather you come peacefully with us," Josepsson said. "If you would choose otherwise, of course, we could break a limb or two, and take you out on a stretcher."

  "I can't argue with firepower," Carter said. "Besides, I'm curious about who would like to see me."

  They walked down the corridor together, Josepsson in the lead, used the rear stairs, and went outside to a large Mercedes limousine. A driver was waiting for them. Josepsson got in the front seat, and Carter was sandwiched in the back between his two guards. From the expression on their faces, he was sure they'd just as soon kill him here and now as look at him.

  Rounding the hotel, they headed southwest to a section of large, lovely homes set back in the hills. Each home had a view of the city and of the ocean beyond. It was spectacular.

  The sun was just beginning to come up when the driver pulled through an electrically-controlled gate and drove slowly up a long, curving driveway. He parked behind a very large three-story red-brick home, almost large enough to be considered a mansion.

  Josepsson got out first. "Bring him into the study. I'll see if the general has returned yet," he said, and he disappeared into the house.

  One of the guards got out of the car, then reached in, grabbed Carter by the collar, and yanked him out of the back seat. The other giant got out behind him. They went up the porch, into the house, and down a short corridor into a much larger, much wider hallway, where they directed him through a set of double doors into a large, book-lined study.

  They shoved him into an easy chair, then they both stepped back toward the door, folded their arms over their chests, and watched him.

  "Lovely weather we've been having, isn't it?" Carter said, looking around the room. Behind him, curtains covered what he assumed to be large windows or possibly even French doors. Aside from the door they had come through, another much narrower door led off to the side. A private exit to the rest of the house, perhaps? "What?" Carter looked back at the guards. "Cat got your tongues? Pity."

  "Large does not mean stupid, Mr. Carter of the U.S. intelligence service," one of them said. His accented English was definitely Oxford.

  "Mind if I stretch my legs?" Carter asked, starting to get up.

  The moment you lose contact with that chair, you are a dead man," the guard said.

  Carter slumped back. "I see."

  Josepsson came in a minute or two later; he seemed flustered.

  "What have you done, you madman?" he shouted. He hurried across the room and slapped Carter's face.

  Carter reached out and grabbed the man by the throat and pulled him down. It had been too quick for the two guards.

  They started forward.

  "Another step and I break his neck," Carter shouted.

  Both men hesitated.

  Josepsson's face was turning red. He was struggling, but to no avail.

  "Back to the door," Carter said. "I'll kill him otherwise. Long before you could reach me, I'd break his neck."

  They stepped back after a moment, and Carter got to his feet, pushing the Icelander back.

  "Who do you work for?" Carter asked the two guards.

  Their eyes narrowed. "Mr. Josepsson."

  "You're his personal bodyguards?" Carter asked. "Is that it?"

  "No… we work for the I
celandic Internal Security Division."

  "What about Ziegler?"

  "What about him?"

  "Do you take orders from him?"

  "Of course not," one of the guards said.

  Carter looked at Josepsson. He was probably making a very large mistake, but he could not fight an entire country. He suspected, as did Hawk, that Josepsson had either been blackmailed by Ziegler or had been completely taken in by the man. Now that they had come this far, it was too late for Josepsson to get out.

  Carter let him go and shoved him back. Then he sat down and crossed his legs.

  The guards had leaped forward, their guns at the ready, but Josepsson held them back.

  "Very good," Carter said. "Now why don't we all sit down and have a nice little chat. There is a lot I have to tell you."

  "What are you doing here, Mr. Carter?" Josepsson asked, rubbing his neck. He stepped back and leaned against the desk.

  "A cigarette," Carter said, carefully digging out his pack and his lighter. The guards watched his every movement. When he had it lit, he looked at Josepsson. "I came up here originally to find out what happened to a very dear friend of mine."

  "Dr. Coatsworth."

  "Yes. Ziegler's people — your people — killed her."

  Josepsson winced. "I had nothing to do with it."

  "I came up here this time to destroy your nuclear generator and processing plant."

  "Did your government send you?" Josepsson snarled. There was little love lost between most Icelanders and the U.S.

  "No," Carter said. Any AXE mission anywhere in the world was always denied. It was one of the ways in which the agency was kept sacrosanct.

  "Then why… what have you got against…"

  "Your friend General Ziegler is building more than a nuclear power plant. He's also building a spent fuel reprocessing plant."

  "Yes, to make new fuel rods."

  Carter shook his head. "No. The reprocessing plant will make nuclear bomb material."

  Thai's insanity," Josepsson shouted, straightening up.