Circle of Scorpions

by Nick Carter

  Annotation

  Nick Carter knows that the KGB has called a meeting of all the world's terrorists. It's a party he wants to crash: the only problem is, he doesn't know where or when. But espionage has its own deadly etiquette, and with the help of a beautiful double agent and a blackmarket death-merchant, N3 proves that there are ways to get invited to even the most exclusive (and most dangerous) affairs…

  * * *

  Nick CarterOne

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  Fifteen

  * * *

  Nick Carter

  Killmaster

  Circle of Scorpions

  Dedicated to the men of the Secret Services of the United States of America

  One

  It was exactly five-thirty when Nick Carter walked into the Oak Room of Manhattan's Plaza Hotel.

  His date was for five o'clock, but she was still at the bar, waiting, an empty stool on either side of her.

  She wore a green dress that had been cut from just enough material to cover the full curves of her body. As he approached, Carter noticed that her fiery red hair had been brushed into a theatrical kind of upsweep.

  He smiled. The coiffure had been his suggestion.

  Talon-tipped fingers were wrapped around a Manhattan.

  "Hi." He brushed his lips across her cheek and then did the same to the back of her hand.

  "Nick, I was beginning to wonder."

  "Sorry I'm late. You know us tycoons."

  Carter settled himself on the stool beside her as the bartender appeared in front of him with a wide grin on his face.

  "The usual, sir?"

  "Yeah," Carter said with a nod, and ten seconds later he was toasting the voluptuous redhead with a Chivas, neat except for a single cube.

  "To us, Naomi."

  "To another wonderful evening." She turned to him and smiled. Her generous mouth had a much too generous coat of brilliant lipstick. "Do you realize that it's been two whole weeks since we met, right here?"

  "They've flown by," he replied in a husky whisper. "But more important than the past is the future… tonight."

  "Well see," she purred, lashes fluttering.

  Yeah, Carter thought, I can't wait much longer, and neither can David Hawk and AXE!

  Just that morning, the head of America's supersecret service had called the Killmaster back to Washington for a briefing.

  "How much longer, N3?"

  "I think — I hope — tonight's the night. Is Garrett ready?"

  "Ready and waiting. He's been cooling his heels in New York for a week."

  Carter had felt a wave of heat pass over his eyes. He had been taking Naomi Bartinelli out every night for the past two weeks.

  Object: Seduction, to put himself and Al Garrett — AXE's resident electronics and computer genius — inside her apartment.

  "I'm doing my best, sir. The woman likes to play hard-to-get."

  Hawk had smiled. "According to your file, Nick, it usually doesn't take more than three evenings, four at the most."

  Carter allowed his lips to form a smile. "Not every woman is in such a tricky business, sir. I've got to get her confidence — make her think that it's only her many charms that I'm after."

  Now, looking at those charms encased in the skintight, silky dress, Carter emitted a low chuckle.

  "What's so funny?"

  "Just thinking how lovely and… desirable you look," he replied casually, warmly. "Ready for another drink?"

  She upended the glass between her crimson lips. "Now I am."

  Carter crooked a finger and the bartender was back, still grinning.

  "Two more," Carter said.

  They both fell silent as they watched the bartender scurry to mix the drinks. When he returned, their legs touched as they reached for them.

  The electricity was immediate.

  "What shall it be, Naomi? Dinner? Or should we just skip to the dessert?"

  "Let's have dinner first." She smiled. There was a slight space between her incisors that marred an otherwise beautiful set of teeth. "I'm starved.

  "So am I," he grinned, "but not for dinner."

  "I told you, Nick," she said, her soft brown eyes sparkling from the drinks. "I like to be seduced. And seduction starts with dinner."

  "Okay. Here?"

  "How about someplace more romantic?"

  "How about a little French place on the East Side? The food's great, the waiters do everything but shine your shoes, and the candlelight is so romantic you can't see who you're eating with unless you smile."

  She glanced down at the dress. "Do you think I'm dressed well enough?"

  "You look nice enough to go anyplace," he replied, waiting for a bolt of lightning to come through the ceiling for telling such a lie.

  She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Well, if you say so."

  Carter sipped his second drink slowly, watching her. He tried not to let his gaze linger too long at her neckline, where an interesting battle of containment ensued every time she breathed in and lifted the glass to her lips at the same time.

  He decided it to be a true test of his imagination to picture what she would look like if she were sitting there with her breasts completely liberated.

  She finished her drink and touched his arm. "I'm ready to go anytime you are."

  * * *

  The restaurant was small, cozy, and as dim as Carter had remembered. It was owned by a Swede with an Italian wife, but they did have a French chef.

  Nothing had changed since the last time Carter had dined there except the prices. They had tripled.

  There were the same red velvet drapes covering the walls, the same copies of paintings from the Louvre in ornate gold frames, and the same omnipresent waiters.

  Even before Carter's eyes could become accustomed to the subdued lighting, Naomi Bartinelli's presence stood out in the room as though a spotlight were being played on her. As the maître d' seated them opposite one another at one of the more secluded and intimate tables, he could see the woman as one would see a torch on a dark night. Her flaming red hair piled high on the top of her head was like a beacon, and the bright green dress against her white skin stood out in contrast with the basic red decor of the room.

  "Would you care to order drinks, sir?" the man asked in a hushed voice that was in keeping with the general tone of the room.

  Carter ordered, and when the drinks came he made an elaborate production of ordering dinner in fluent French.

  Naomi Bartinelli was impressed. She was supposed to be.

  "I didn't know you spoke French."

  "Ah, my dear, there are many things I do that you do not know about. I have a lot of business in France, as well as in several other countries."

  She sighed and sipped her drink. "I contact people in France, Germany, and Spain all the time, but I never get to go there."

  "Oh? Just what kind of business are you in? You've never mentioned it."

  She shrugged. "I play with computers. I… well, let's just say I relay things."

  "Is your office here in the city?"

  She nodded. "I work out of my apartment. It's more convenient, and…"

  "And…?"

  "Nothing," she said, again shrugging her shoulders as a cloud passed across her eyes.

  Carter didn't push it. He knew exactly what she did, who she did it for, and why she worked out of her apartment; it was more private.

  And privacy, for both Naomi and her clients, was very important.

&
nbsp; Her clients included gunrunners and smugglers, and underworld lawyers who wanted to stash or launder money abroad. She handled contracts for anything from a hit to a hijack abroad, or something simple like a message between shady friends who didn't want to use conventional — and tapable — means of communication.

  For instance, if a terrorist group wanted to purchase a few hundred rifles, they would look up a broker. The broker would put the word out via Naomi's computer to the world's arms thieves. An available list would come back, and she would relay it.

  If a deal were arranged, Naomi could also set up the buy and the place of delivery, and, by using certain codes, insure that the two parties could make the exchange in safety.

  It was a neat little operation, requiring a very bright brain in computer systems and a knowledge of worldwide crime to set up.

  For all of her lack of taste and class, Naomi Bartinelli did have such a brain. It was only after weeks of probing that AXE had found her Achilles' heel.

  She worked very hard. Trusting no one, she usually had to stay in her apartment near the computers twenty-four hours a day.

  Naomi Bartinelli was a very lonely woman.

  "Would you like a cigarette?"

  "I don't smoke, remember?"

  Carter smiled. "Dear me, Naomi, you limit your drinks, you watch your diet, you rarely go out and never entertain, and you don't smoke. Don't you have any vices?"

  "I guess not," she said demurely. She then leaned toward him confidentially, her giant breasts threatening to escape their confinement. "I am in a strange business. Let's just say that if I were a gadfly around town, my clients would frown on it."

  I'll bet they would, Carter thought, but he managed to keep a straight face.

  "I do hope, Naomi, that you have at least one vice. A man can only wait so long, you know."

  He could see a slight blush come into her face and then grow. He watched as the rosy hue of embarrassment crept down her neck and infused the wealth of flesh above the bodice of her dress.

  Carter fought hard to keep from staring at the hypnotizing phenomenon. He had never seen a woman's breasts blush before.

  He decided to push it. "Well?"

  "I think," she said haltingly, "that the wait is over."

  "Wonderful."

  Thankfully the waiter made another appearance, making further comment unnecessary.

  The food came, and along with it the wine steward. Carter kept up the act by discussing a choice of wine at great length with the sommelier. He finally decided on a relatively modest Pommard 67.

  Both of them ate heartily, Naomi because of her size. Carter because he needed the food to offset the effect the drinks were beginning to have on him. He had a lot to do this particular evening, and he didn't want to handicap himself.

  He checked his watch as they finished dessert and coffee. It was just past ten, time to get down to business.

  The restaurant had served its purpose. He had charmed her and wined her and dined her like the cosmopolitan businessman he appeared to be.

  "Naomi, will you excuse me for a moment? I must make a call… business."

  "Of course."

  He found a pay phone near the lounges and dialed the number from memory.

  Al Garrett picked up on the first ring.

  "It's me. Tonight's the night."

  "Christ, it's about time!"

  "All good things come to those who wait, Al."

  "You can say that. At least you're gonna get laid."

  "God, you're vulgar. Have you got your gear ready?"

  "Hell, yes. When?"

  "We're leaving here in about ten minutes. Wait at your hotel until about midnight, then come over."

  "Same signal?"

  "Right… lights on and off twice."

  "You're sure about the dog?" Garrett asked, a tremor in his voice.

  Carter chuckled. "Let's hope I am."

  "Damn you, Carter."

  "Bye, Al."

  * * *

  They cabbed it uptown to 85th Street and her apartment. It was a twenty story highrise, with a doorman and television security in the hallways and elevators.

  That was nothing compared to the three locks on her door and the alarm system she shut off just inside the little entryway. But Carter knew there was still another piece of security Naomi used to guard the secrets of her little business.

  He stood, all one hundred and fifty pounds of him, about five feet from Carter, his lips curled back over shiny teeth.

  "My," Carter said and swallowed, "what a beautiful Doberman."

  "His name is Gordo. Don't worry, he wouldn't touch anybody while I'm in the apartment."

  "And when you're not?"

  "He's trained to kill." She said it almost as an afterthought.

  Gordo was the big reason that Carter had been forced to play Casanova to obtain the information they needed. The AXE break-in boys had figured out how to breach nearly all the security without Naomi Bartinelli knowing they had been there.

  Gordo the Doberman had been the stumbling block.

  "Go on in, Nick, it's all right."

  "You're sure?"

  "Of course," she giggled. "Give me your coat."

  He did, and approached Gordo. "Would you mind telling him to cover up his teeth?"

  "Gordo."

  Amazing. The stump of a tail started to wag, and the tongue lolled out to do a number on Carter's hand. His fingers were dripping by the time Naomi moved in behind him and molded her big body against his back.

  Carter turned around, and she shifted a little on her toes to bring her lips to his.

  She didn't have to lift far.

  Her tongue forced its way between his lips, and the wealth of her breasts pressed hotly against his chest.

  The fire started building within his body immediately, but it was matched by the sudden knowledge that all her caution and shyness had been thrown to the winds.

  "You don't fool around once you make up your mind, do you, Naomi."

  "No. I've been waiting too long."

  "Where's the bedroom?"

  "There."

  "And the bar?"

  "There."

  "Why don't you just slip off your… shoes, prop a pillow against the headboard, and get comfortable?" he suggested casually. "I'll fix the drinks. What would you like?"

  "Just a Perrier and lime for me," she said, then pecked him again on the lips. "I don't want to dull my senses."

  With a little laugh she was gone, and Carter headed for the bar. Gordo trailed along with him, watchful, but he was rubbing Carter's leg, and the tail was now going like crazy.

  "Nice Gordo, nice doggie."

  The tongue soaked his hand again.

  Carter checked out the apartment while he poured and mixed. He had got a glance into the bedroom where Naomi had gone. It wasn't tiny, but it wasn't large enough to be the master suite either.

  The small bar served as a room divider between a dining alcove and a large sunken living room. There were two exits on the opposite side of the living room, one with louvered doors and one at the end of a short hall.

  Carter guessed kitchen and master bedroom suite.

  Behind that second door would be Naomi Bartinelli's office, and the computers.

  The dog padded at his heels as he walked down the hall and into the first bedroom.

  She was exactly as Carter had suggested, propped against the headboard with her head on a pillow and her shoes off. He had thought that maybe, just maybe, she would have overcome all her shyness and stripped.

  But she hadn't. Instead, she lay there looking more like an overgrown, frightened teenager than a widowed woman of around thirty.

  Thankfully. Gordo flopped at the foot of the bed, and Carter handed Naomi the Perrier.

  "To tonight," he toasted.

  "Yes."

  Carter watched her drink over the rim of his own glass. Fully a third of the sparkling liquid went down her throat.

  That was good.


  The depressant he had put in the drink would take almost an hour to work slowly through her system. Her drowsiness would feel natural, and most of it she would attribute to the sex.

  "I guess you can see that I'm a little nervous. I can't hide my feelings very well."

  Carter stared down at her upturned face, the full lips parted invitingly. The dim light of a single lamp had softened the coarseness of her full face and made it almost pretty. He could see the flush in her cheeks, and her eyes had a look of innocence and vulnerability.

  "There's no rush," he said, setting his glass on the night table and sliding onto the bed beside her.

  She drank again, gulping another third of the laced Perrier in her nervousness.

  Then, breathing a bit rapidly, she put aside the glass and turned to him in open anticipation.

  "I've got so damn little to offer a man, really… just my body."

  Carter experienced a sudden rush of compassion for this buxom woman.

  But then he remembered that she was the daughter of one hood and the widow of another. She ran an international information business that dealt in death and terrorism as if they were commodities like toothpaste or breakfast cereal.

  And she knew damned well what she was doing.

  "There are a lot of women, Naomi, who would give anything to have a body like yours," Carter murmured softly.

  "Yeah, I know," she sighed. "They should have the trouble this body has gotten me into."

  He reached out to her, and she came quickly into his arms. Her body felt massive, both solid and soft, both firm and pliable. The lips were warm and full as well as moist and easily parted.

  He could not help but contrast this quivering, yielding woman in his arms with the hellcat she would become if she knew the real reason he was in her bed and she was in his arms.

  He let his lips linger at length and then, when he lifted them from hers, a low, mewling sound came from her throat.

  "Nice, so nice."

  "It'll get better," he growled, her body starting to do things to his.

  He slid his head down, resting it on the soft exposure of her breasts, cupping them to pillow his face. He felt the spark of desire being kindled in him as she reached behind herself and unzipped her dress to the waist.