by Nick Carter
Annotation
Possessing a unique method of killing, the master criminal has a way to eliminate the entire British government. He won’t do it if the price is right.
* * *
Nick Carter
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
* * *
Nick Carter
Assault on England
Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Service of the United States of America
Prologue
It was one of those days for Henry Wellsey, Britain's 55-year-old Chancellor of the Exchequer. It started at breakfast when his wife brought up the subject of a holiday again.
"You must have a proper holiday, you haven't had one in over a year. Weekends at Bayberry Hall simply don't count…"
Bayberry Hall, his mother's estate in Yorkshire, didn't count for much with Milicent anyway, he knew.
"You want someplace warm and relaxing. Spain, perhaps, or Italy. Or Yugoslavia… they say the Dalmatian Coast is marvelous."
"They'd probably say I was defecting," Wellsey said dryly, sipping his cocoa.
"Don't be absurd," his wife snapped. "Now don't try and put me off, Henry. You must see about a holiday. I warn you, if you don't, I'll speak to the Prime Minister myself!"
She would too, Wellsey thought glumly, sitting in the back of his Rolls 30 minutes later, and the P.M. was not in a holiday mood. It wasn't going to improve either. There was a special cabinet meeting that morning at the Prime Minister's residence and Wellsey was going to be late. A gray Jaguar and a lorry, arguing — fatally — over the right of way, had the London-bound traffic all tied up. It was liable to be another hour before the police cleared the accident scene.
Wellsey didn't miss all of the cabinet meeting; it dragged on through lunch. The Chancellor left Number 10 Downing Street feeling frustrated, as he so often did lately. International issues always seemed to take precedence over domestic ones. On impulse, he stopped at Cook's for some travel brochures. Maybe Milicent was right; maybe it was time for a holiday.
Back at his office, he'd just settled down at his desk when his secretary came in with the mail.
"Could you bring me some tea, Miss Tanner? I know it's a bit early but…"
"Certainly, sir." Miss Tanner, not too young, not too pretty but efficient, smiled.
Wellsey picked up the top letter and a letter opener — he liked to open his mail himself — but he put them down again and took out the brochures he'd collected at Cook's instead. He leaned back in his chair, studying them. Spain… the Costa Brava… Very nice, he understood, and not crowded at this rime of year, the man at Cook's had said. Italy… Rome… Venice… sinking into the sea supposedly. He shook his head. "Tour the Greek Islands." Now, that was a thought. He'd been to Athens but never to the islands. Mykonos… Lelos… Rhodes… Lovely…
The last thing Henry Wellsey saw in this world was the smiling face of a pretty young Greek girl holding an armful of red, red roses. The high-powered 7mm rifle bullet that entered the back of his head at the base of the skull made a fairly neat entry hole, considering it had to pass through the closed window first, but it smashed on through bone and tissue and when it exited, Wellsey's face disintegrated.
He slumped forward, his blood blending with the red of the roses of Rhodes.
Miss Tanner came in with the tea and found him and could not stop screaming…
One
The night was sticky-hot and airless on the Luxor docks. On one side loomed the wharf buildings, squatting heavily in the blackness. On the other, the Nile slipped soundlessly by on its journey to Cairo and the sea. Beyond the river stretched the desert, a lighter strip between the oily black water and the star-pocked sky.
Waiting on that desolate black waterfront I touched Wilhelmina, the 9mm Luger I carry in a special shoulder holster, to reassure myself. A crawly feeling at the back of my neck warned me I might need her tonight.
I was there on Hawk's orders to contact a small-time smuggler and gambler named Augie Fergus. Fergus had sent a wire from Luxor to the Prime Minister of England saying he had information for sale that might shed light on the brutal assassination of Britain's Chancellor of the Exchequer, Henry Wellsey. Since the British didn't have an agent in the area at the moment, Hawk had volunteered my services.
Fergus had told me on the phone that he would meet me on the docks at midnight. I glanced at my watch; it was already fifteen minutes past. That alone was enough to make me wary, and I was thinking about leaving when I heard a sound in the darkness.
I glanced quickly at a small door leading into the warehouse behind me. It had opened and now a man came out. He was of medium height and growing bald. He wore a grey suit that looked like it had been slept in for a week. But the thing about him that I noticed immediately was his eyes. They were opened wide, bloodshot, and darted furtively left and right, missing nothing. I'd seen those eyes before, on hundreds of men. They were the eyes of someone frightened out of his wits, of someone a step ahead of death.
"Carter?" he whispered, afraid that the night would hear him.
I nodded.
He swung the door wider and motioned me inside. As I entered he pulled a string and the room was flooded with light from a naked bulb that hung from the ceiling. It was a small room, and the only furniture in it was a cracked, stained washstand in the corner and a soiled mattress on the floor. Strewn about were crumpled newspapers and empty brown bags. The heady aroma of garlic and onions permeated the air.
Augie Fergus withdrew a pint bottle of liquor from his jacket pocket and with trembling hands managed to uncap it and drink long, and hard. When he finished, he had calmed down somewhat.
"The information, Fergus," I said impatiently. "What is it?"
"Not so fast," he countered. "Not until I get 5,000 pounds and a private flight to Khartoum. When I get there safely, you'll get your bloody information."
I thought about it, but not for long. Five thousand pounds is a damn cheap price to pay for what he had to offer. I could have London wire the British consulate in Luxor instructing them to give me the money. And hiring a private plane wouldn't be too hard. I agreed to his terms, but warned him what would happen to him if he tried anything funny.
"It's on the up-and-up, mate," he whined.
"Okay," I said. "I'll have the money tomorrow afternoon. I'll fly you out then."
Fergus shook; his head. "Tomorrow night, this time. 'Ell, the whole bloody city's crawling with bastards after me. In broad daylight I'll be spotted."
"Who's after you, Fergus, and why?"
"None of your business," he shot back. "It's got nothing to do with the killing in London. It's personal. Just be here tomorrow night with the money and a way out of here."
"If that's the way you want it…" I shrugged and turned to leave.
"Carter," Fergus called out as I reached the door, "one more thing. If anything should happen to me, go to the Grand Hotel bar in Tangiers. Someone will contact you there with the information."
"How will I know him?"
"Don't worry/ he said, "my person will know you. Just hand over the money and you'll get what you want."
I nodded and left.
I had to wait until morning for the telegraph office to open. When it did, I wired London for the money. Three hours later I got my reply. The consulate had been instructed to release 5,000 pounds to me. After collecting the money I reserved a charter plane at the airport. There were still eight hours left before my meeting with Fergus. I returned to my room, showered, ordered a gin a
nd tonic. Then I went to sleep.
I was awakened by my alarm clock at eight in the evening. I dressed, gathered up the attaché case of money and took a cab to Fergus' hideout.
This time the door was opened by a stranger. He was a short, rather thin Arab wearing a white tropical suit and a red fez.
He said nothing to me but grinned and motioned toward the open door with his left hand; his right, I noted, was stuck in his jacket pocket.
Another man came out, a large heavy Arab wearing the traditional desert garb of kaffiyeh, robe and sandals.
"Mr. Carter?" he said. "Mr. Nick Carter?"
I had not used a cover name with Augie; there had seemed little point. "That's right," I said.
"You have come to meet Augie Fergus."
He wasn't asking, he was telling. I squinted, trying to see better in the darkness. "Right again," I said, watching the thin man with his hand in his pocket. "Where is he?"
The fat man smiled. "He is here, Mr. Carter. You will see him. In the meantime, let us introduce ourselves. I am Omar ben Ayoub." He watched me closely, obviously expecting some reaction. "And this is my associate, Gasim."
"If Fergus is here," I said, ignoring the introductions, "where is he?"
Ayoub, in turn, ignored my question. "You would assist Augie Fergus in cheating his colleagues, would you, Mr. Carter? You would help him leave Luxor without paying his debts."
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," I snapped at him. "But I want to see Augie and I want to see him now."
Ayoub's smile disappeared. "All right, Mr. Carter," he said grimly. "You shall see him."
He snapped his fingers and two more Arabs appeared in the black doorway, big husky men in western suits. They were dragging something, the limp body of a man. They dragged it to within a few feet of me and dropped it unceremoniously on the dock.
"Augie Fergus," Ayoub said, satisfaction in his smooth voice.
I looked down at the corpse at my feet, my face expressionless, my stomach tight. It was Fergus, all right. He had been killed with a knife, or some other sharp instrument, and it had happened slowly. The body was badly mutilated.
"Augie found out what happens to those who do not deal scrupulously with Omar ben Ayoub. And now, Mr. Carter, you will find out." Ayoub nodded at the two big men who had dumped Fergus at my feet and suddenly they had knives in their hands, the long wicked-looking kind the Bedouins of the desert carry. I thought of Hugo, the pencil-thin stiletto strapped to my right forearm. But Hugo couldn't do me much good at the moment. Besides the two muscle boys, Ayoub's skinny buddy, Gasim, had that lump in his jacket pocket pointed at me.
The two knife men moved in. One of them was a bit heavier than the other and slower moving, but he came in first. I figured they weren't out to kill me with the first cut. They wanted me to die slowly, like Augie.
Number One came in, swinging the knife at my belly. I jerked back a step and the knife razored through my jacket. I had no time to go for Wilhelmina. The big man swiped at me, again putting his weight behind it. I stepped to one side and punched a short jab into his neck as he went by.
He grunted and whirled back toward me angrily. The second knife man had hovered just a few feet away. Now, with a sudden burst of speed, he came in on my left. He swung his knife low, toward my rib cage. I turned toward him and caught the knife arm, turned the wrist downward and in, at the same time dropping to one knee and throwing the man over my shoulder. He went flying, hitting the dock hard at his buddy's feet, narrowly missing knocking him down.
The first bull dodged, then charged, holding his knife straight out in front of him. I heard Ayoub shout: "Get him; Get him!" in Arabic, and then the bull was on me, the knife stabbing toward my abdomen. I brought the edge of my hand down hard on the outstretched knife-arm as I twisted away from the thrust and heard bone snap. The bull screamed and the knife clattered to the dock. As the man plummeted past me, I chopped at his thick neck and felt vertebrae crunch under the impact. He slammed face down on the dock.
"Kill him! Kill him!" Ayoub was screaming now. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Gasim had pulled the gun out of his jacket and was aiming it at me.
The slug missed my head by inches and almost hit the second knife man as he came in. I grabbed his knife arm, twisted, and we went down together.
We hit the dock next to the corpse of Augie Fergus. We rolled onto and over the body, wrestling for the knife, Gasim dancing around us awkwardly, trying to get a shot off, but afraid to fire because he might hit the wrong man.
"Shoot! Shoot!" Ayoub shrieked at him.
I had to do something fast. The Jenifer was on top of me now. I squeezed my knee up, rammed it into his groin. He bellowed, fell to one side. I smashed a fist into his face as he fell. Gasim had stopped dancing now and was aiming carefully at my head.
I flexed my right forearm in a way I had practiced hundreds of times and Hugo slipped into my hand. The knife man was getting up and I hurled Hugo at him. The stiletto turned over once and buried itself in the Arab's throat. As Hugo left my hand I did a quick roll; Gasim's shot splintered wood where my head had been.
I rolled a second time as Gasim fired again. I came up, reaching for the Luger in my jacket.
My first shot missed Gasim's head by inches, but the second slammed into his chest, spinning him into the wall of the warehouse behind him. His gun went flying.
I turned and saw that Ayoub had decided to make a run for it. I didn't want to shoot; I wanted to find out what he knew about Augie Fergus, so I sprinted after him, dived for him headlong.
We went down, hitting the dock together. Unluckily we landed near an iron bar some workman had left on the dock. Ayoub grabbed at it desperately, swung it at me. He meant to crush my skull but the blow glanced off my neck and shoulder. It was enough, though, to knock Wilhelmina out of my grasp and send rockets of pain shooting up my arm.
Ayoub was back on his feet, still holding the iron bar. Wilhelmina had landed somewhere near the edge of the dock. I stumbled over there, spotted the Luger and bent to retrieve it.
But Ayoub, moving surprisingly fast for a fat man, charged me with the bar. He was going to end it once and for all — I could see it in his eyes. I couldn't bring Wilhelmina up in time, Ayoub was moving too fast. As he swung the bar, I stepped aside and let him move on past me. The next minute he was in mid-air over the black water and then he splashed into the Nile.
He came up sputtering. The current was taking him and he thrashed around wildly. Obviously he couldn't swim. His head went under but he came up again, choking. The kaffiyehed head went under once more. Only a few bubbles rose to the surface this time, then the river was tranquil again.
I walked back up the dock to reclaim Hugo. Both of the muscle boys were dead, but Gasim wasn't — I heard him groan. I slipped Hugo back into his sheath and, holding Wilhelmina loosely at my side, advanced cautiously to where Gasim lay near the wall of the warehouse.
When I saw the man's condition, I holstered the Luger and squatted beside him. He stared up at me with glazed eyes.
"What was Augie Fergus to you and Ayoub?" I asked. "If you don't want me to leave you to die, you'd better talk." He was dead already but didn't know it.
He groaned, moving his head from side to side in pain. "Fergus," he gasped, "smuggled… ancient treasures… out of country for us. He was overheard… say… intended leave without paying Ayoub… last consignment. Some… American was to fly him… Khartoum… private plane. Ayoub thought you… that man."
He coughed and appeared about ready to give up. I propped his head up. "And what about the information Fergus had for the British government?" I asked. "Was Ayoub in on that?"
Gasim's glazed eyes searched for mine. "British government?"
I saw no point in being coy about things now. "Yes, the telegram Augie sent the Prime Minister. The information he had about the assassination of Henry Wellsey. Was Ayoub to profit from that?"
"I know nothing… of this," Gasim
gasped. "Neither… did Ayoub."
Suddenly he stiffened in my hands, then went limp. He was dead.
I lowered his head and knelt there for a moment in the blackness. By accident I had gotten mixed up in one of Augie Fergus's shady deals — had, ironically, almost gotten myself killed — and I still didn't know anything about the assassination. It was possible, of course, that Ayoub had known something without telling Gasim. But it didn't matter now one way or the other. Both Augie and Ayoub were beyond further explanation or conniving.
* * *
The next day I took a United Arab Airlines flight to Cairo and grabbed the next jet to Tangier. I arrived in Tangier and first took a room at the Grand Hotel, in the Medina, which Fergus had mentioned. I had lunch in a nearby restaurant, mechoui and a Stork Pils beers, then returned to the hotel bar.
I was sipping a Pernod, standing beside a barstool with my back to the dark-mustached bartender, when the girl came in. She was young, dressed in a black sheath and high-heeled sandals. Long straight dark hair fell over her shoulders. She was beautiful the way only young Arabian girls can be beautiful: a dark, earthy beauty with a hint of mystery. She walked in a way that made a man want to reach out and touch her, a hips-undulating, breasts-moving, sensual walk that made an erotic but not vulgar display of her body. I watched as she moved past me, avoiding my eyes, leaving a faint scent of musky perfume in the air. She sat on a barstool about halfway down the bar and ordered a sherry. After the bartender had served her, he moved down to me.
"Every day she comes in like this," he said, noticing my admiring glance. "She orders one drink — just the one — and then she leaves."
"She's lovely," I said. "Do you know her name?"
"It is Hadiya — in Arabic it means 'gift, " he said, smiling through his mustache. "She dances at the Miramar Hotel. Shall I introduce you?"
I picked up my Pernod. "Thanks," I said, "but I'll go it solo."
