by Nick Carter
NICK CARTER
The Omega Terror
Copyright Notice
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Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the
United States of America
The Omega Terror
I can handle a fight . . . a knife . . . a gun. I even tangled with a lethal bulldozer in a dark alleyway the other night. But Dr Zeno’s weapon was something else. Just thinking about it made my blood turn to ice.
That’s why I was in Tangier. If I didn’t find him, he would get me - one way or another. I would be destroyed with my fellow Americans when he let his ‘omega mutation’ loose on the U.S. —
Maybe Zeno had a price - something to keep him from selling out to the enemy - something to hold back those deadly little bugs. That’s what I thought at first - until I found myself in his grip. Then I knew there was only one payment he wanted from me - the last I’d ever make . . . .
Table of Contents
Copyright Notice
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
ONE
Nobody was supposed to know I was in Madrid, and I tried to make sure nobody did. I wasn’t expecting attention, but it didn’t hurt to be careful. I was meeting Hawk in less than an hour and couldn’t take the chance of leading anyone to him.
After dinner I walked back to the Hotel Nacional instead of taking a taxi. I looked over my should der a couple of times but couldn’t spot anyone suspicious. At the hotel I asked the desk clerk if there had been any inquiries for me, as a double check for safety. The clerk’s reply was negative, so I took an elevator to the fifth floor and went to my room.
I was just about to insert the key into the lock when I noticed that somebody was already inside.
I had left a fine coating of powder on the knob of the door before I went out, and that powder had been disturbed by the grasp of a hand. There were probably prints on the knob somewhere, but in my job I rarely have time for following that line of identification. Things move too fast for detective work.
Looking up and down the corridor, I saw that I was alone. I drew the 9mm Luger, the gun I called Wilhelmina, from its holster, and started to try the door. I stopped and glanced at the overhead corridor light just a few feet away. There was a straight chair beside a table not far from the light. I got the chair, put it underneath the fixture, and climbed onto it. I reached up, removed a couple of < screws, the protective glass, and the bulb. The corridor was plunged into darkness.
Back at the door, I turned the knob slowly. As I suspected, the door was unlocked. I twisted carefully so that there would be no noise. Wilhemina was snugged in my right hand as I shoved the door open a few inches.
It was black inside. I listened for a moment and heard nothing. I opened the door a few more inches, then slipped quickly into the room.
There was still no evidence that anybody was in the place. No movement, no sound. My eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, and I could make out black hulks of furniture and a dim light from a curtained window. I eased the door shut behind me.
It was possible that a maid had come into the room during my absence. Or that there had been an intruder, but he had looked around and left. Still, I couldn’t take any of that for granted.
I had a small suite, and I was now in the sitting room. There was a bedroom and a bath at either end. I moved to the bathroom first, the Luger poised in front of me. If anybody was still here, he would kill to protect his identity.
There was no one in the bath. That left only the bedroom. I went cautiously across the sitting room to the bedroom door. On the way there, I stopped again. The room was in perfect order, except for one thing. The Madrid newspaper I had left on the small sofa had been moved. Only about six inches, but it had been moved.
I went on to the partially open bedroom door. If there was someone still here, this was where he had to be. When I got to the door, I reached carefully inside with my left hand, snapped on the bedroom light and slammed the door open all the way.
The bed was slightly mussed, but there was no-body on it. Then I heard a sound from the corner to my right.
I whirled in a lightning movement, my finger tightening on the trigger of the Luger. I stopped the squeeze just in time. My jaw dropped open slightly as I focused on the girl sitting in the overstuffed chair.
Her eyes opened slowly and, when she saw the gun, they popped wide. She was very awake now. I set my jaw hard.
“You just damn near got yourself killed,” I said. I lowered the luger and looked around the rest of the room to make sure she was alone. She was.
“I hope you’re not angry with me, Senor Price,” the girl said. “The bellboy, he . . .” her voice trailed off.
I almost laughed with relief. The enterprising bellboy of the Hotel Nacional seemed to have decided tired, lonely Bob Price, the alias I was wearing, could use company tonight. I would be properly grateful in the morning for his thoughtful surprise. I wondered how he got away with it in puritanical Spain.
I turned to the girl. There was genuine fear on her face and her eyes watched the gun warily. I bolstered the automatic, moving closer to her and softening my voice.
“Look. I’m sorry, I’m just not interested. You’ll have to leave.”
She was a good looking little piece, and I could have become very interested, given half a chance. But it was late, and David Hawk was expecting me. He had flown to Madrid especially to brief me on my next assignment.
A long leg dangled from under her coat as the girl reclined in the chair, and she swung it slowly. She knew all the moves, and I’d bet she’d be great in bed.
I smiled in spite of myself. “What’s your name?”
“Maria,” she said.
I reached down, pulled her to her feet, and she came just to my shoulder. “You’re a very pretty girl, Maria, but as I said before, I’ll have to look you up some other time.” I gave her a gentle shove towards the door.
But she wasn’t having it. She moved to the center of the room and, as I watched, unbelted the coat and opened it wide, revealing a beautiful, naked body.
“Are you sure you’re not interested?” She smiled.
I watched as she walked toward me. Every curve was sleek, every inch of flesh was smooth, taut, and supple. It made a man hungry. My mouth went slightly dry when she reached me, still holding the coat wide open. Then she dropped it to the floor and pressed herself against me.
I swallowed hard as she entwined her arms around my neck. I touched her waist and wished I hadn’t. Just the touch set a fire in me. I knew I had to end this idiotic game, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. While I hesitated, she placed her mouth on mine.
The taste of her was delicious. With more will power than I thought I had, I pushed her away, reached down, and grabbed at her coat while I could still think straight. I draped the coat on her and she reluctantly pushed her arms through the sleeves. I tied it at the waist.
“Now get out of here,” I said huskily.
She looked up at me with one last appeal. “Are you sure?”
“Jesus,” I mumbled. “Of course I’m not sure. Just go.”
She smiled, knowing she had gotten to me. “All right, Mr
. Price. Don’t forget me when you are in Madrid again. You promised.”
“I won’t forget, Maria,” I said.
She turned and left the suite.
I sat down heavily on the bed, loosening my tie. I tried to keep myself from thinking of how Maria would have looked on the bed. Damn Hawk, damn AXE, damn me. I needed a cold shower.
I undressed quickly and moved across the main room of the suite to the bath. When I got in there,« I saw that the door of the medicine chest was open slightly. I was sure I’d closed it before I left earlier. And it was difficult to imagine why Maria would have nosed around in there.
I opened the chest door cautiously. Apparently there was no booby trap. Then I saw the note taped to the inside of the door. There was a message scrawled on it I didn’t think Maria had written it because the scrawl was very masculine:
Get out of Madrid. If you don’t, you will die.
Something tightened inside my gut. Obviously, I’d had two visitors that evening.
TWO
I was about fifteen minutes late for my appointment with Hawk, and he had chewed three dead cigars down to stubs while he paced the floor waiting for me.
“I’m glad you could make it,” he said sardonically after he admitted me to the rather squalid hotel room.
I suppressed a small grin. Hawk was in one of his moods. “Good to see you again, sir,” I told him, “Sorry about the delay. I had a small problem.”
“The Russians?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.” I told him about the message scrawled on the note.
He grunted. “I know Madrid is not the safest place for you at the moment, but it was convenient for both of us right now, and I had to speak with you quickly.”
He turned and moved to a small, rickety table on which were spread several official-looking papers. He sat down and shuffled the papers absently while I slumped onto a straight chair near him.
“I think you’ve heard me refer to an American defector named Damon Zeno,” Hawk began.
“A research microbiologist,” I said. “You figured he was doing some work for the Russians a while back.”
“That’s right,” Hawk said quietly. “But now he’s on the Chinese payroll. They set up a research lab for him in Morocco, and he’s been doing work on a tropical bug called bilharzia. Are you up on your tropical diseases?”
“It’s a flatworm,” I said. “A parasite that eats away at a man from inside. You pick it up in water, as I recall. Has Dr. Z done something to this bug?”
Hawk stared at the remains of his cigar. “Zeno took the bug apart to see what made it tick. And he found out. Our informant tells us that he’s developed a mutation of the normal flatworm, an almost indestructable strain of bilharzia. He calls it the Omega Mutation. Since Omega is the last letter in the Greek alphabet, we figure Zeno took the designation from his own last name.
“At any rate, if what we’ve learned is correct, the Omega Mutation is particularly virulent, and it multiplies at an almost unbelievable rate. It resists all known drugs, antidotes, and water purifiers currently in use.”
I uttered a low whistle. “And you think Zeno means to use this bug against the U.S.?”
“He’s admitted as much. America is to be the proving ground for any effective biological weapon he’s developed. A handful of enemy agents could easily infect our lakes and streams. Even after we learned of the bug’s presence, we could do little about it. Within days—not months or weeks— within days of contamination, most of us would have contracted the disease. In another few days, we’d be dead.”
“I guess I go visit Zeno in Morocco,” I said.
Hawk fiddled with the cigar again. “Yes. We believe the L5 man who runs the operation, by the name of Li Yuen, has personal ties with a couple of Moroccan generals who still have aspirations for a leftist coup. He may have made a deal with them; we don’t know yet. In fact, we don’t even know exactly where the lab is located.”
I shook my head. There was no advantage to being AXE’s Number One man except for the pay, and a man had to be a fool to do what I did for any amount of money. “I suppose time is of the essence?”
“As usual. We think Zeno is just about ready to make a final report to Peking. When he does, he will undoubtedly send the results of his experiments along with it. I’ve made reservations for you on a flight to Tangier tomorrow morning. You’ll meet Delacroix, our informant there. If you can bring Zeno back to us, do so. If not . . . .” Hawk paused. “Kill him.”
I grimaced. “I’m glad you haven’t set my goals too high.”
“I promise you a good rest when this one is over, Nick,” Hawk said, moving his thin-lipped month into a small grin. Sitting there across the table from me, he looked more like a Connecticut farmer than a powerful intelligence chief.
“I may get a longer one than I want,” I said, returning the grin.
THREE
Iberia Airlines flight 541 arrived in Tangier late the next morning. As soon as I stepped off the plane, I noticed that it was warmer than in Madrid. The air terminal was a fairly modern one, and the uniformed Moroccan girls at the desks were friendly. There was a reservation booth for hotels, and I arranged for a room at the Velasquez Palace, in the French Quarter.
On the balmy ride into town, along a tree-lined but dusty road, I reflected on the note I had found in my room. Did the Russians leave it to let me know they were on AXE’s trail? Or was it a message from the Chicoms? Maybe, the Chinese L5 had gotten wind of AXE’s renewed interest in the Omega experiments, and an agent was trying to frighten us off until Zeno got his report to Peking.
The Velasquez Palace sat on a hill overlooking the harbor and Straits of Gibraltar and the med-ina section of Tangier, with its crammed-together ancient buildings and narrow streets. Tangier was a sparkling white-washed city set against the greenery of the hills behind it and the cobalt blue of the Straits. It had been a center of trade for over a thousand years, the meeting place of European and Asian commerce where Berbers and Bedouins mixed with merchants from every corner of the world. Smuggling and shady deals had flourished in the narrow streets of the medina and casbah until new laws were passed just after the Second World War.
When I called Delacroix from my hotel room, a young woman answered. The voice was filled with emotion as soon as I asked for André Delacroix.
“This is his real estate agent?” she asked, using the identification code that Delacroix had been given.
“Yes, that’s right,” I said.
There was a short pause. “My uncle has met with an accident. Perhaps we can meet to discuss the matters you wanted to take up with him.”
That was one of the problems with this kind of work. No matter how carefully you planned, an unknown factor was always being thrown at you. I hesitated before I spoke.
“Mr. Delacroix is unable to see me?” I asked.
Her voice was trembling slightly. “Quite un-able.” She spoke with a French accent.
“All right. Where would you like to meet to discuss the matter?”
Another slight pause. “Meet me at the Cafe Tingis, in the medina. I will be wearing a green dress. Can you be there by noon?”
“Yes, noon,” I said.
And then the phone was dead.
As I left my European-style hotel, a boy in a beige djellaba and a brown fez tried to sell me a taxi tour, which I declined. I walked along the Rue Velasquez to the Boulevard Pasteur and made a right to the Place de France. A couple of blocks later I entered the medina through an ancient archway.
As soon as you step into the medina you sense the chaos. The narrow streets are crowded with robed Moroccans. It is all winding streets and overhanging balconies and dark doorways leading to shops that sell brass and leather goods of all kinds of exotic things. As I moved along toward the Little Socco, oriental music assailed my ears from a shop somehwere, and strange but fascinating odors reached my nostrils. Veiled women wearing gray kaftans stood and spoke together in hushed whispers,
and two American hippies stood in front of a dilapidated hotel, arguing with the proprietor about the cost of the room.
The Cafe Tingis sat at the end of the Little Socco. It was a large place inside, but nobody ever sat there except Moroccans. Outside on the sidewalk were tables with a wrought-iron railing in front of them to separate the patrons from the masses of humanity.
I found Delacroix’s niece seated at a table next to the railing. She had long straight, flaming red hair and wore a green dress that showed plenty of long white thigh. But she seemed completely un-aware of how beautiful she looked. Her face was tense with worry and fear.
“Gabrielle Delacroix?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered, relief starting to show on her face. “And you are the Mr. Carter that my uncle was supposed to meet?”
“That’s right.”
When the waiter came, Gabrielle ordered a Moroccan mint tea, and I ordered a coffee. After he was gone, she turned large green eyes on me.
“My uncle is—dead,” she said.
I had guessed as much from the way she talked on the phone. But hearing her say it gave me a small empty feeling in my chest. I did not speak for a moment.
“They killed him,” she said, tears forming in her eyes.
Hearing the grief in her voice I stopped feeling sorry for myself and tried to comfort her. Placing my hand on hers, I said, “I’m sorry.”
“We were quite close,” she told me, dabbing at her eyes with a small lace handkerchief. “He came to see me regularly after my father died and I was all alone.”
“When did it happen?” I asked.
“A couple of days ago. He was buried earlier this morning. The police think the killer was a burglar.”
“Did you tell them otherwise?”
“No. I decided to do nothing until you tried to contact him. He told me about AXE and a little about the Omega project”
“You’ve done the right thing,” I told her.
She tried a smile.
