Circle of Scorpions

by Nick Carter

  * * *

  Nothing new on the place of safekeeping, but I'm getting closer. I can't wait to be with you again.

  * * *

  Carter paused, felt a tug at his groin in memory of when they were last together, and then continued to read.

  Amani and I have discussed our plans of departure when the time comes. I think it will work out well.

  The next afternoon, the purse was empty. Carter sighed. Now it was a waiting game.

  He removed the glasses from his eyes and rubbed the burn from them.

  The thin wail of reed pipes, the beat of drums, and the sounds of cymbals in the popping fingers of belly dancers wafted up to his ears.

  There was sound and movement everywhere. Acetylene flares were already being lit on many of the stalls in anticipation of the coming darkness.

  And men he saw her.

  She was moving through the crowded square like a tall, raven-haired goddess in a lightweight white cotton dress. She paused only a moment in front of the snake charmer's mat and reached into her purse.

  Carter held his breath.

  Then a bright red and gold scarf settled over her hair, and Carter sighed with relief.

  It was the signal.

  The meetings were over and the agreements had been signed. She had the information.

  It was all over, and it was time to go.

  Instead of nodding to the youthful pickpocket, Henry swiveled his head and threw a glance at the turbaned Conjuror, who was already going into his act next door.

  Carlotta moved on to stand in the first row in front of the stage, and Carter screwed the glasses tighter to his eyes.

  The Conjuror started his spiel. His eyes in the gaunt, bearded face under the gaily colored turban seemed to rake the crowd. Then, after an interminable lime, they fell on Carlotta.

  He was off the stage in an instant and tugging her forward. She pulled back, shaking her head and looking around at the crowd in embarrassment.

  Carter could see the magician's lips moving rapidly, urging her to join in the fun. He gestured to the crowd for them to add encouragement.

  They did, with exuberant chatter and applause.

  Carlotta capitulated.

  The magician guided her to a large, upright box at the rear of the stage and placed her, standing, inside. Nervously, she looked out at the crowd as the man began his mumbo jumbo.

  He walked around the box, twirled it for the crowd, and then banged it to show that it was solid.

  Then the door was closed and locked. A huge black curtain was draped over the box, and the Conjuror was again going through his gestures and incantations.

  Carter shifted his glasses.

  Henry and the snake charmer had already packed up. Carrying a huge straw basket between them, they were quickly making their way through the crowd.

  He moved the glasses to the other side of the stage. A donkey cart of canvas-covered straw was already moving through the stalls.

  The Conjuror gave the box one last final spin, and two assistants lifted the black curtain. The donkey cart was just passing behind the stage as the box was being unlocked.

  Carter was already going down to street level when the door opened and a dark-skinned, scantily clad dancer stepped from the box, her belly rippling and the cymbals on her fingers jangling.

  * * *

  Carter cracked the door of the room when he heard the grunting on the stairs. When Henry's head appeared above the landing, he yanked it all the way open and darted into the hall.

  "Any trouble with the switch?"

  "Not a bit. Give us a hand!"

  Carter helped them into the room with the basket. The snake charmer disappeared back down the hall, just on the outside chance that they had been sported.

  Henry closed and locked the door as Carter lifted the lid on the basket.

  "Oh, God," Carlotta moaned. "I could hear the snakes in there crawling around under the false bottom! Have you got a drink?"

  "I sure have," Carter said, giving her a quick kiss on the lips and pouring her a whiskey.

  She downed it in one swallow and held out the glass for another.

  "What have you got for me?" he asked as he refilled the glass.

  She stepped from the basket and moved to the bed, where she dumped the contents of her purse. From the mess, she selected a lipstick tube and pulled it apart. From one end of it came a tiny roll of paper.

  "Here is a list of everybody there… their names, aliases, and the approximate times of their departures tomorrow. I was only able to get about half of the methods and routes."

  Carter took the paper and hugged her. "It will do." He passed the paper to Henry. "You know what to do with that?"

  "I sure as hell do."

  Carter turned back to Carlotta. "Now, my dark-haired Italian beauty, what else have you got for me?"

  "It's a jeweler's shop dealing in very expensive, high-class gems. Here's the address."

  Carter memorized the address, burned the paper, and turned to Jason Henry.

  "You know what to do from here on, Jason. Take good care of her. Now it's my own ball game."

  "Nick, does this mean…?"

  She had grasped him by the shoulders and spun him around.

  "It means, Carlotta, that I won't see you until sometime late tomorrow afternoon. But you can do something special for me."

  "What?"

  He leaned forward until his lips were right at her ear. "Be bathed, perfumed… and naked."

  With a chuckle, he grabbed a dun-colored djellaba and a pair of sandals from the bed, and was out the door before she could reply.

  * * *

  It was around ten o'clock when Carter reached the new part of town. He had shuffled all the way from the small hotel in the Medina and moved through the crowded souks to make sure he had not been followed.

  Beneath the dun-colored djellaba that covered him from the top of his dark head to the sandals was the package of material that Henry had procured days before.

  The shop Carter sought was on an old street in the new part of the city. It was one that was going through the transition from cheap and run-down to quaint and prosperous.

  The street held a few teenage boys on the prowl and a few prostitutes trying to get the boys interested. The traffic was disturbed by a sudden light rain that had just begun to fall from a heavily overcast sky.

  Carter moved to within two doors of the shop, and had stepped back into the shadow of a doorway to light a cigarette, when he spotted a patrol car approaching. He pulled the hood of his djellaba up against the rain and slid to a sitting position as the car came abreast.

  The eyes of the two policemen combed the street from side to side through the rain-streaked windows. A spotlight flicked on, and Carter tightened himself into a ball and lowered his chin into the robe.

  The spotlight swept by, paused, then returned. Carter felt a cold, hard knot forming in his stomach as the glaring light bathed him, shining through his closed eyelids. His breath came in quick gasps. It was common knowledge that the police would stop and sometimes search loiterers in the area for drugs.

  With what Carter had concealed under his clothes, there was no way he could stand a search. If the car stopped and they got out, he had already decided that he would have to make a run for it and come back later.

  The car's engine muttered throatily as it idled, then the spotlight winked off and the car moved forward again. The cops were evidently reluctant to get out in the rain for what appeared to be a beggar sleeping in a doorway.

  Carter uncurled from his crouch and crossed the street to another doorway opposite the building housing the shop. Through the rain he spotted the tiny, darkened mouth of an alley on the far side of the shop. He waited for two cars and a pedestrian to pass, then he moved across the street and into the alley.

  All of the first-floor windows were protected by heavy steel bars, and the windows adjacent to the fire escape on the rear of the building had shutters of heavy w
ire mesh that were locked on the inside.

  He climbed up the fire escape to the roof, then scaled over the parapet and walked slowly across the roof, peering around in the dim light. There was a shedlike structure in the middle of the roof, with a door in one side. It was evidently the access to the stairway leading downward, but the door was of heavy metal construction and locked from the inside.

  Kneeling in front of the door, Carter opened his djellaba and men his shirt. From around his middle, beneath the shirt, he unwrapped a wormlike rope of magnesium plastic. Dividing it into two equal lengths, he wrapped the protruding door hinges with the plastic and sheltered a match in his hands to light it. It sputtered, caught, then began burning with a glaring white light, illuminating the building with a blinding, flickering glow.

  Carter shielded his eyes from the light, looking worriedly around at the adjoining buildings in case someone could spot the intense illumination. No lights showed at any windows, and suddenly the magnesium flickered out.

  The door sagged toward him as he edged his fingers into the crack at the top and tugged. He gently slipped it out of the frame and braced himself against the heavy weight. When it was safely lying on the roof, he went down the steps. At the bottom, there was a landing and another door. He froze in his tracks when he saw light coming from around the cracks in the door.

  Was the light coming from around the door just a night light?

  Carter knelt and put his ear to the door, listening intently. Moments passed, and the only sound was the drumming of his own heart. He turned the knob and pushed. The door opened, and he rolled into the room, doing a 360° turn before coming back to his feet.

  The room was empty. A small lamp burned brightly beside a cluttered desk.

  Quickly, Carter produced a canvas bag and went through the office. Other than simple personal articles of some value and some cash, very little else went into the bag.

  The second floor was more productive. He went through the showcases, taking only the articles of value that would interest a professional thief. Everything on the second floor was factory-made, such as standard rings, necklaces, brooches, and watches.

  The first floor was another showroom of locked cases, and a comfortable lounge where clients could enjoy a drink or a buffet while selecting their purchases or ordering a specific item.

  Through curtains in the rear he found another, smaller room that appeared to be no more than storage space.

  Carter guessed there was more.

  Behind a ceiling-high set of crates, he found a trapdoor. From here on he would be flying blind. It only stood to reason that the real goodies were somewhere in the basement. Everything of value in Marrakesh was stored somewhere below street level.

  The basement seemed to consist of only a storage room. Then, in the light of his flashlight, Carter noticed a thick bundle of wires in the comer of the stairwell ceiling. Carefully, he traced them. They disappeared through the wall in a corner behind a pile of Bedouin antiques, adjacent to a strong, heavy door not unlike the one he had blown on the roof.

  Another rope of magnesium plastic was pressed into service, and two minutes later he was in the goodie vault.

  Raw gold, gems, and two trays of antique coins and assorted jewelry went into the bag. Then he pulled a stethoscope from under the djellaba and went to work on the real object of his search: an eighteen-inch Bennington minivault built into the four-by-four concrete section of the wall.

  Carter had guessed as much. If the vault-within-a-vault hadn't been a Bennington, he was sure it would be a one-unit, self-contained safe of similar indestructible construction.

  It was only the German firm of Bennington that did a large security business in Morocco.

  To crack this one would take more magnesium and other chemical explosives than Carter could have carried. And then there would be a good chance that the room would be in shambles, the concrete would be rubble, and the hingeless, seamless tank of the small vault itself would be lying on the floor, completely intact.

  Besides, Carter thought as he went to work with the stethoscope and his talented fingers, his aim wasn't to burglarize the safe for the purpose of theft.

  It took nearly four hours before he heard the twelfth and final tumbler roll into place with a barely perceptible click. By the time he tugged the door open, his fingers were numb, his senses were raw, and his whole body was bathed in sweat.

  Only one sweep across the shiny steel interior and he found what he was looking for amid velvet cases of priceless gems.

  The box was made of steel, with a double combination lock. Compared to the safe lock he had just conquered, these two were child's play.

  He lifted the lid with bated breath, then sighed in relief.

  They were all there, carefully filed and indexed by a master sheet. He didn't know a few of the Russian designations, but most he did.

  Carefully, he rigged a light with a special high-intensity bulb above one of the gem trays, and then he began to spread the documents.

  He photographed a set at a time and very carefully replaced them in the folder.

  The photography took another hour, but the time was worth it.

  When he was through, he made sure that he had left no trace that he had been inside the vault proper. When this was done, he relocked the door, reset the timer, and returned to the first floor.

  At the rear of the building there was a heavy steel door that gave access to and from the alley. He felt above the door with his fingers until he found the wire connecting the trip to the burglar alarm. With two wire-connected alligator clips, he bypassed the breaker and then attached one end of a large spool of twine to the wire.

  Satisfied, he unlocked the bolts and chains that secured the door. He gently eased open the door, and sighed at the silence.

  He had found and shorted the right wire.

  The alley was still and quiet, with only the sound of the rain pattering down and the gurgle of water in the gutters and drainspouts.

  When his bag of loot was safely rolled and secured to his belt under the djellaba, he stepped through the door into the alley.

  Carefully, he moved toward the street, playing out the twine behind him. The area in front of the building was deserted, and the rain was falling harder now. Carter went on across the street, then yanked at the twine.

  The alarm filled the rain-sodden night air instantly.

  He quickly rolled the twine as he walked. By the time he reached the corner, it was a neat ball in his hand. He shoved it into his pocket and turned onto a more heavily traveled street, glowing yellow with the light from cafes.

  He spotted the dark, official-looking car — a Renault with diplomatic plates — a block in front of him.

  He shuffled toward it and darted into the passenger seat before the young driver was even alert to his presence.

  "Ashbum?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'm Carter. Let's go!"

  The car roared to life, and they were speeding toward the northwest sector of the city.

  "How long a drive to Casablanca?"

  "About two hours. I might be able to make it in an hour and a half this time of night."

  "Make it in an hour and a half. Does your radio work?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Phone ahead," Carter said, crawling into the backseat, "and have somebody get someone in a photo lab ready to go."

  "I take it then, sir, that we've got them?"

  "Son, we've got them by the balls. Wake me on the outskirts of Casablanca!"

  "Yes, sir!" the young man whooped. "May I be the first, sir, to congratulate you?"

  Carter didn't hear a word the young foreign officer said.

  He was already sound asleep.

  Fifteen

  At precisely noon, Ronald W. Hatfield, vice chairman of the American legation in Casablanca, Morocco, sat down in a well-padded chair in an outer office of the legation of the U.S.S.R. in Casablanca.

  He waited fifteen minutes before a stock
y blond woman in a skirt and blouse that somehow looked like a uniform emerged from behind two tall teakwood doors.

  "Chairman Hatfield?"

  "Yes."

  "Comrade Chairman Zalenkov will see you now."

  "Thank you."

  Hatfield moved easily through the doors and was warmly greeted by Igor Zalenkov.

  "Ronald, it's been two weeks since tennis. How about Saturday?"

  "Marvelous, Iggy. Lunch first?"

  "I am sure I can make it. The Foreign Club?"

  "That would be fine, Iggy."

  The two men had known each other for three years. They often played tennis together and, with their wives, dined in the finer restaurants of Casablanca and Rabat.

  "Well, Ronald, what can I do for you?"

  "I'm afraid this one is distressing. Comrade Chairman. »

  "Ahh, real business," the Russian said, accepting the sheaf of papers being passed across the desk.

  He perused them for five minutes, and when he looked up again, clouds covered his face.

  "I assume there are several copies?"

  "There are," Hatfield said. "A full set should be in Washington within the hour. We could, if necessary, have them at the U.N. by morning, New York time."

  "I see. Will you excuse me?"

  "Of course."

  Ronald W. Hatfield smoked a small cigar while he waited. It didn't burn far down before Zalenkov was back in the office.

  "I presume you have demands?"

  Hatfield handed him a typed list.

  "I have to say these are impossible," the Russian replied after a quick perusal.

  "Of course you do. But, Igor, I do suggest that you get back on your code machine while I'm here."

  Zalenkov nodded and exited the office again.

  Hatfield was just extinguishing the cigar when he returned.

  "Yes?"

  "Agreement."

  "Complete?"

  "In every detail."

  Hatfield snapped his briefcase shut, shook hands, and moved to the door.

  "Ah, Chairman Hatfield…?"