by Nick Carter
Amani chuckled. "A wise move." He turned to Carter. "Do we still have an agreement?"
"We do," Carter replied. "I'll get you anywhere you want to go — for a price, and the certain introductions you mentioned."
"Good. I'll need to make some phone calls tonight, and probably send a few cables tomorrow morning."
"The phone is there."
"No. I'll need a clean pay phone of my choosing — and complete privacy."
Carter shook his head. "That means you'll have to go out. That could be dangerous."
"I'll have to risk it," the Italian replied and then grinned. "Until I am sure the both of you can be trusted."
"So be it," Carter said with a shrug, rising and moving across the room. He came back with a small case and opened it. "Carlotta will give you a haircut… a very short haircut. There is a black wig in here, and other basics to alter your appearance. I assume you don't mind if Carlotta trails you at a distance, in case there is trouble?"
"Of course not," Amani said. "But I think it will be myself — Amani — who will soon be creating the trouble!"
* * *
Jason Henry waited, slouched against a window of the cafe. When he spotted the Fiat, he motioned with his head and twirled an index finger one revolution by his ear.
Carter understood, and continued on. He made the turn at the Porte de Clichy, and swung around the large block of the Cimetiere Parisien des Batignolles. When he came down Boulevard Berthier again, Henry awaited him on the curb.
He rolled into the passenger seat before the Fiat had even stopped, and Carter was going again before the door slammed.
"Where are we going?"
"Take the road toward Clichy, and I'll tell you what to do after that."
They drove into the Clichy suburb, and Henry directed him into smaller and smaller streets until they were on a narrow country road. Finally they stopped in front of a locked gate in a long stone wall.
Henry got out of the car, took a key from his jacket pocket, and opened the gate.
"Where are we?" Carter asked.
"At the far end of Clichy. The house belongs to a friend. Had lunch?"
"No."
"Good."
Back in the car, they rolled through the gate and along a graveled drive that wound through a park filled with flower beds, lawns, and huge trees.
Eventually they came to an esplanade bordered by a low stone wall. Beyond the wall lay a second immense lawn.
"Your friend must employ a lot of gardeners," Carter commented.
"Several," Henry said and chuckled. "Turn here."
The chateau was huge, with a red tiled roof, a broad terrace, and a private lake in the rear.
They scrambled from the car, and Carter followed Henry into a marble-floored, tapestry-hung entrance hall.
"Jason, you are back! Luncheon is ready on the terrace!"
Henry's friend was tall and willowy, with a face and figure that could have stepped directly off the cover of Vogue or Elle.
"Celeste, I'd like you to meet my friend, Monsieur Carter."
"Welcome to Château Rombouard, Monsieur Carter." The woman smiled warmly. "Are you, too, in the export business?"
"Non, mademoiselle," Carter said, returning the smile. "I am merely a salesman of insurance."
"No matter. Any friend of Jason's is always welcome."
She turned to Henry. "Take Monsieur Carter to the terrace,mon chèr. I will have luncheon served immediately."
As she wafted away. Carter put it all together. "Countess Celeste Rombouard," he murmured with a low whistle. "You travel in some pretty classy circles!"
Henry shrugged. "It pays, in a foreign country, to have powerful local friends."
"Lovely lady."
"She manages to keep me warm on cold nights. Come along."
Lunch was delightful food and chitchat, but Carter was glad when it was over.
"I'll leave the two of you to brandy and business," the countess said. She pecked Henry on the cheek and disappeared.
He lit a cigar and motioned Carter to follow him. They walked to the middle of the huge rear lawn and sat in a flower-bedecked gazebo.
"I got the whole story, Carter. You got a tiger by the tail."
"Yeah, I think I do," Carter agreed. "But if I can find out where this meeting is, and get something substantial on who's there and why, you can imagine the lever."
"I sure as hell can. Are you sure Amani won't cross you when the time comes?"
"No, but it's a chance I'll have to take."
Henry nodded and sipped some of his brandy before he spoke again. "I've done a little checking on my own. In my business, you know most of the people who crawl through sewers."
"I suppose you do," Carter replied wryly.
"Word's out from Italy that Palmori and his bunch are mad and scared as hell. The Liberta factions split into two armed camps the minute it hit the papers that Amani was sprung."
"We figured on that."
"It won't be long before they'll figure he's in France, and probably Paris. They'll have a contract out on him… and probably on you, too."
"And Carlotta," Carter added. "She was supposed to use Palmori's money to get the other Liberta members out, not us."
"How does she fit?"
"Italian SID."
"That figures." Henry paused, his clear eyes boring into Carter's face. "I'll give you three days in Paris before the guns start coming out of the woodwork."
"Hopefully we won't be here that long. That's where you come in."
"Where to?"
"I don't know yet. And I won't until Amani gets it all together. He starts making his phone calls this afternoon."
"My first thought is still to get the hell out of this."
Carter shrugged. "Your choice, but I can sweeten the pot."
"With Uncle Sam's money or Amani's?"
"Amani's."
Henry finished his brandy and took a long pull on his cigar. "Then I'm in. The number I gave you is here at the château. "You still have it?"
"Yes."
He stood. "Keep me posted."
"I will."
Celeste Rombouard met them at the front door. "Ah, Monsieur Carter, you must leave us so soon?"
"Yes, I'm afraid I must, Countess," Carter said. "The lunch was excellent."
"Merci," she replied with a graceful nod, then placed her hand lightly on his arm. "We are planning a small get-together this weekend — a few passe nobles, some politicians, an American millionaire or two. It will be wonderful laughs. Please come!"
Carter hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "I'm terribly sorry, Countess, but I fear I will be abroad… on business."
She threw up her hands in mock despair. "Ah, business is such a bore! I keep telling Jason to retire, but he says he doesn't want to be a gigolo and live on my money!"
Carter grinned. "Perhaps, Countess, if our business goes well, Monsieur Henry will be able to retire on his own money."
* * *
Nick Carter drove leisurely back to Paris. Carlotta was playing Italian mama when he arrived at the apartment, in the kitchen, elbow-deep in pasta.
He heard the shower running in the bath.
"Amani?"
She nodded. "It's the second shower he's taken since we got back. He says it's necessary to get the scum of Montferrato off his skin."
"He's a many-sided old man," Carter mused.
"He's a revolutionary terrorist with an ego that will allow him to do anything," Carlotta said icily. "I see only one side of him. I've seen his victims."
"Touché. How went the afternoon?"
"Well, I think. He made four calls, each lasting at least fifteen minutes. From the amount of coins I saw him drop, at least three of them were out of the country.
"What was his mood after the last one?"
"Absolutely jovial. We had a drink and lunch, and he treated me like a long-lost daughter."
"Then he trusts you?"
"Completely
, I think. But then he should. I laid the groundwork well."
"Did he mention…?"
"…when we leave?" It was as if she read Carter's thoughts. "Yes, the day after tomorrow."
"But not where?"
"No. But I've warned him that if the distance is great, extra tanks must be installed on the plane. We must know ahead of time."
"Ah, Kashmir, my friend!"
Carter turned. Amani was lumbering through the living room, vigorously rubbing his now much shorter gray hair with a towel.
"Amani," Carter said.
"I want you to get me a number of flight maps. The list is there, on the phone table. Ah, Carlotta, pasta! Tonight we feast!"
Carter read the list: Switzerland, France, Italy, Spain, North Africa.
My God, Carter thought, it could be anywhere.
* * *
Pietro Amani had wasted no time recementing his control over the Liberta.
The next morning's Paris dailies, as well as the International Herald Tribune, carried the story of Nicolo Palmori's assassination. It had taken place in a cellar under a cafe and apartment house in Florence.
Nordo Compari and two underlings had been killed along with him.
After reading the accounts, Carlotta had a single, terse comment. "That leaves Pocky, Wombo, and Sophia Palmori… all of them more dangerous than the old man himself."
"And with revenge added to their bloodlust," Carter said, "they'll be even deadlier."
A half hour later, Amani emerged from the inner sanctum of his bedroom and beamed over the news stories.
"Retribution is sweet" was his only comment.
Carlotta retreated to the kitchen. Carter steeled himself.
"If we re leaving tomorrow night, Amani, I'm going to need some information today."
"You will have it. First, here are the cables I want you to send this morning."
Carter took them, gave them a quick read, and nodded noncommittally.
They were gobbledygook; all resembled letters of no consequence to friends or old family members. They were signed "Father," and their destinations were Bern, Rome, Frankfurt, and Cordoba.
"I'll get them off right away," Carter said. "I hope the one to Switzerland is my money."
"It is," Amani replied. "The account number is encoded within the text of the cable."
Carter was surprised. Amani's fingers still reached a lot farther than the boys in the AXE think tank had surmised.
"What else?"
"Signore Henry's plane is still hangered in Orleans?"
Carter nodded. "A private — very private — strip just south of the town."
"Excellent."
The old man smoothed a large piece of onion skin between them.
It was an intricately drawn flight plan from Orleans to X. It had altitudes, distance, approximate flight time, and codes for international clearance.
The only problem was X. There were no identifying landmarks, or names of cities or villages, to give Carter a hint as to the direction in which they'd be flying.
"What about coordinates and landing facilities?" Carter ventured.
The old man's smile was impish, with one eye blinked shut. "I will give you those when we are safely in the air."
"You're a careful man, Amani," Carter said.
"Very. I was lax and trusting just once in my life. It cost me the years in Montferrato. I won't be so foolish again."
Carter shrugged. "It's your party. I'll need seed money today."
"I called in a letter of withdrawal to my Geneva bank. You can pick the funds up anytime today at Credit Suisse here in Paris."
"Under the DuBain name?"
"Yes."
Eric DuBain was on the new passport Carter had picked up the previous evening, courtesy of the Paris AXE office. He also had acquired passports under new names for Carlotta and Amani.
"That's it then. I'll get to Henry."
"And I'll make my final calls."
Amani retreated to the bedroom, and Carter joined Carlotta in the kitchen.
"Watch him like a hawk. He's a smart old bird, and there's no telling what he might try to pull."
"I will."
"If anyone — I mean anyone — gets close enough to pass him something, or even whisper to him, get a picture!"
"You can count on it."
"I'm ready!" Amani called from the living room.
"Good luck," Carter murmured as Carlotta moved through the kitchen door.
They were barely out the door, when Carter was at the phone, dialing.
"Oui?" It was Celeste Rombouard's musical voice.
"Countess, I would like to speak to Jason, please."
"Ah, Monsieur Carter, I recognize your voice. It is like basso at the opera! Jason is sleeping at the moment. Is it important?"
"It is."
"Then I shall awaken him. One moment."
It was about five minutes before Jason Henry's raspy, sleep-filled voice came on the line. "Yeah?"
"How'd you do?" Carter asked.
"Cars and guns are ready. The plane is set. All I need to know about are the tanks and clearances. Also, I should file a flight plan for Customs by tonight. Where the hell are we going?"
"That's still in the dark." Carter sighed heavily. "I need to see you this afternoon. Where can we meet?"
"Call you back in two minutes."
The connection was broken. Carter got a fresh cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. They were both half gone when the phone rang again.
"Yeah?"
"There's an alley called Bedouins Row, off rue Germain in Pigalle. Do you know it?"
"No, but I'll find it."
"At the end of the alley is an erotica shop. Go through the rear curtains and up the stairs. It's a whorehouse. Her name is Madame Zola. Use the DuBain name."
"Got it."
"An hour?"
"Make it an hour and a half. I have to pick up the loot."
Carter hung up and moved into Amani's bedroom. It took him five minutes to find the flight maps, and another five to J learn nothing from them.
The rest of the room revealed nothing. If Amani made notes, they were either in his head or on his person.
He dressed quickly and drove the Fiat toward the Champs-Élysées.
The Swiss tellers carefully scrutinized the amount of the draft and his passport, and then gave an audible sigh as they passed it back.
It hurt them to give out money.
"How would you like it, monsieur… a draft?"
"Cash."
"Cash, monsieur?" The man's face was pained.
"Cash, all kinds of bills."
"That will be a large amount… bulk, monsieur…"
"I have a briefcase."
When it was full, Carter asked to be directed to the rear exit of the bank. "I'm sure you understand."
"Oui, monsieur."
Carter exited the bank and walked the few blocks to the Etoile metro station. He took the Number 2 line and got off at Pigalle. Once he located rue Germain, he bypassed it and walked all the way around a six-block stretch, entering from the other end.
Because of his pace — fast, slow, fast, slow, with a lot of window shopping and a pause for an ice — he was positive that, if he had picked up a tail, he had also lost it.
The alley was just that, wide enough for two people to pass, and dark as night in the middle of the day.
A couple of seedy-looking pimp types working dexterously with fingernail clippers gave him a hard once-over as he went into the garish shop.
The clerk, looking tike a graduate student at the Sorbonne. looked up, nodded, and went back to his textbook.
Carter perused nude women, nude men, nude men and women, and a few magazine covers for about five minutes, and then headed for the rear curtain.
"Monsieur?"
"Madame Zola."
"Oui, monsieur."
Carter spotted the man's hand hit a button under the counter, then went on through the curtain.
/> The stairs were lighted by a series of bright red bulbs.
The French, he thought, are wonderful. They believe in tradition.
A steel door opened just as his foot hit the top step.
"Monsieur?"
"Madame Zola?"
"Oui."
"I am DuBain."
"Come this way."
She was very wide and easy to follow. They moved down a hallway lined with doors both open and closed. Carter could hear mewling, cooing, and an occasional groan of either passion or desperation from behind the closed doors.
"Monsieur Jason is in the S&M suite, right here." She opened a door and stepped aside. "Go right in!"
Carter did, and the door closed behind him.
There were a lot of chains and leather on the walls, garish red carpet and drapes, and a huge circular bed with a black leather spread.
In the center of the bed was Jason Henry with a bottle of wine and a plate of cheese.
"Well," Carter said, looking around, "this is depressing."
"Glad you like it," Henry said, rolling off the bed and seating himself in one half of what looked like an iron maiden. "Now, what have we got?"
Carter handed over the flight plan. Henry smoothed it out and produced a navigational computer and his own charts of Europe.
Carter took a seat in the other half of the torture device and lit a cigarette.
A half hour later he asked, "Well?"
"Tough."
Carter continued to chain-smoke and helped himself to a few slugs from the wine bottle. Twenty minutes later, Henry got up and paced, rubbing his eyes.
"This is going to take some time. There's a continuous sex show at the end of the hall…"
"I'll wait here."
It was another hour before Henry turned the charts and Amani's carefully drawn flight plan around and revealed his findings.
"All right," he said, wetting his throat with a fast swig from the wine bottle. "We've got five ways to go, based on flight time and fuel, along with his altitude designations. I'm assuming Italy's out. Both of you are too hot there."
"Good assumption," Carter said.
"Germany's out; the mountains there don't have the altitude indicated on his flight plan. And England's out, even if he were trying to trick us by asking for more gas than he needs."
