by Nick Carter
The girl turned to look at me as I sat down beside her. Her eyes, big and black, were even lovelier close up, but at the moment aloof and wary. "May I buy you a drink?" I asked.
"Why?" she said coolly.
"Because you remind me of five memorable days I spent in Lebanon," I said, "and because it pleases me to be near you."
She looked into my eyes and studied my face for a long moment. "All right," she said suddenly. "You remind me of three lovely days in Gibraltar."
We laughed then together, and her laugh was musical. We exchanged names and some small talk about Tangier, and then the bartender showed up.
"A call for you."
I groaned inwardly. It was Hawk, I knew. His plane must have arrived early. I asked Hadiya to wait for me and excused myself. I took the call in the lobby, for privacy.
"Nick?" The voice was brisk, businesslike, with just a hint of a New England accent.
"Yes, sir. I hope you had a good flight."
"The girls were pretty, but the food was terrible," Hawk grated. I pictured his lean, impatient face, capped by thick graying hair, as he sweated in the Tangier airport telephone booth. "I have only a few hours between flights, Nick, so kiss the girl goodbye, whoever she is, and meet me at the Djenina Restaurant for an early dinner in exactly… one hour and a half."
I acknowledged and the phone clicked in my ear. I stood there for a moment, wondering what Hawk had up his sleeve for me now and whether it would be a follow-up to the Luxor business. Then I returned to the girl. "I have to leave," I said. "Business."
"Oh," she said, pouting prettily.
"But I think I'll catch the floor show at the Miramar tonight," I said. "If it's at all possible."
"I would like that, Mr. Carter." She smiled at me.
I drew back. "I told you my first name, not my last."
"Augie Fergus told me you'd be here," she said.
"How the hell did…"
Her face grew solemn. "Augie called me yesterday afternoon from Luxor. He described you, then said if anything happened to him, I should give you a photograph he keeps in his suitcase in our room."
Somehow, the thought of this beautiful thing belonging to Augie Fergus took me by surprise, and I must have registered it. I opened my mouth to say something, but she cut me short.
"Something has gone wrong, then?" she asked.
I gave her the details. She took it all passively, then said, "It must have happened while he was on the telephone."
"What must have happened?" I asked.
"When he was killed. He was saying, 'Tell Cartel that… when the line went dead."
"That's all he managed to say?"
She shook her head up and down.
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing."
"I've got the money here," I patted the attaché case at my side. "Give me the photograph."
"It's in my room," she said. "Meet me tonight, after the show. I'll give it to you then."
"Now I know I'll catch the show," I said.
"Do that," she smiled, then slid off her barstool and walked out.
* * *
I walked to the Djenina Restaurant in the Casbah. Most of my meetings with Hawk were at his offices in the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services building on DuPont Circle in Washington. Rarely did we confer outside of Washington or New York, rarer still outside of the U.S. Hawk had no love for junkets about the globe and ventured abroad only on matters of the most extreme urgency. He apparently had classified his Johannesburg visit — and our Tangier meeting — as urgent.
Hawk arrived a short time after me and we took an outside table. He looked almost English, in a tweed jacket and gray trousers. His face was lined and looked tired and his spare frame seemed even slimmer than usual.
"Bad luck at Luxor, Nick. Damned bad luck. But maybe you'll get something from the girl." He pulled a long brown cigar from his jacket, stuck it into his mouth and chewed down on it without lighting it. "You probably haven't seen it in the papers yet but there's been another assassination in London." He removed the cigar from his mouth and watched my reaction.
"Another government official?" I asked.
"You might say so. This time it's Percy Dumbarton, Britain's Minister of Defence."
I whistled and stared out across the narrow cobble-stoned street, through the slow traffic of robed Arabs and donkey carts to the crumbling old buildings across the way. I started to comment, but just then the waiter returned to take our order. I ordered the Moroccan chicken couscous, and Hawk stuck to steak. Then the waiter was gone again.
"Dumbarton," Hawk continued not waiting for my response, "was one of England's most able leaders. The killer left another note, and it's clear now that the threat in the first note was no idle one."
"You haven't filled me in on that," I reminded him. Hawk reached into his pocket again and handed me two pieces of paper. "Here. I've typed out what the two notes said. Top one's the first one."
I read: "This is to prove we mean business. To prevent the death of other cabinet members, the British government must arrange to pay to us the sum of ten million pounds within the fortnight. Another execution will occur each fortnight until payment is made and the sum will increase by two million pounds after each succeeding death.
"The British government will save important lives, considerable anguish and millions of pounds sterling by immediate capitulation to our demand. When that inescapable decision is reached, a white flag must be flown below the Union Jack atop Parliament. At that signal, a further note will be delivered advising method of payment."
I looked up at Hawk. "Interesting," I said. Then I read the second note, the original of which had been found at the scene of the second assassination:
"You were warned but you did not take us seriously. Now your Minister of Defence is dead, and our demand has risen to twelve million pounds. Is the government of Britain too proud to capitulate? Let us hope not. We will watch for the white flag."
I shook my head slowly. "What do the British make of it?" I asked.
"They don't know what to make of it, N3," Hawk said grimly. "They're literally running around in circles. These were particularly bloody murders and panic is growing in high places. There is talk that even the Queen isn't safe. It's the biggest thing in years. It could literally destroy the British government if they don't find out what it's all about."
The waiter was back with the food. Hawk attacked the steak eagerly, talking as he ate.
"At first they thought it might be one of the international crime syndicates. Or maybe even an ex-con, recently released, with a grudge against official London. Now they think it may be the Russians."
I was skeptical. "Really?"
"It may not be as farfetched as it sounds. The Russians are at odds, bitterly, with several of Britain's top leaders. Dumbarton was one of them. They might be trying to effect a change of government in London — the direct way. It's been done before."
Hawk finished his steak and leaned back. "Maybe Russia is more edgy than we think," he continued. "Dumbarton was pushing the development of a fighter aircraft that would make a MIG look like Von Richtofen's Fokker DR-1. He was also pressing for a bacterial arsenal. British intelligence points to the language of the notes — the repetitive use of 'we' and 'us, the fact that the note paper is the same kind used by a Russian sub-agent in another matter. And, lastly, to the fact that Boris Novosty, who recently showed up in London, has now mysteriously dropped out of sight."
"He's one of KGB's best," I said thoughtfully.
Hawk nodded.
"And that's why you're here. The chief of SOE's Select Missions group and the Prime Minister got together and decided that since you're already in on this thing through Augie Fergus, and especially because Novosty and his people have never seen you, it would be nice if I loaned you to them for a while."
"And thus ends another brief but glorious holiday," I said. "I just wish I had been able to get something from Fergus."
"He may not have had anything," Hawk said. "The most they could find out about the poor devil is that he served as a commando quite a few years back and then went downhill from there. Of course, he might have done some sub-agent work for the Commies and overheard something. At any rate, that's irrelevant now. The British need all the help they can get to crack this. I'm sorry, Nick, that you seem to get all the nasty ones, but that goes along with being so good at what you do."
I acknowledged the compliment. "Thanks. When do I leave?"
"Early tomorrow morning. It's the first flight out." He grinned. "You'll have time to see her again tonight, I should think."
I grinned back. "I was counting on it."
The Mirimar Hotel was a pre-colonial vintage building that managed to retain its european flavor. The club was located at the rear of the lobby. I took a table and ordered a scotch on the rocks. When the waiter left with my order, I scanned the surroundings. The room was dimly lit, with most of the illumination coming from the candles which sat atop each table. The clientele was mainly Europeans in Tangier on holiday, with a smattering of modernized Arabs in western garb sipping Turkish coffee, talking animatedly among themselves.
Just as my drink arrived, the lights dimmed and the show began. The first act was a French singer who went through several numbers bemoaning the heartache of lost loves. She was followed by a procession of belly dancers whose talent was more worthy of Eighth Avenue in New York than the Mid-East.
Finally Hadiya was announced, and a respectful hush settled over the room. The musicians struck up a beat, and Hadiya slid onto the stage from the wings.
She was dressed in the standard belly dancer's costume, but that was as far standard as she was. From the onset it was evident that she was head and shoulders above the average belly dancer. Her abdominal muscles quivered with a control that must have taken years to perfect. Her breasts shook as if they had a mind of their own, and even her arm movements betrayed a grace that was from long ago, when belly dancing was an art rather than the bastardized striptease that it has been relegated to in recent years.
She swirled on bare feet, her body responding to the tempo of the musicians, rising passionately on the upbeats, slowing seductively on the downs. About me I could hear the labored breathing of the male customers as they bent forward to get a better view of her. The few female onlookers glared at her with envy, all the while studying her every movement, trying to copy them for the moment when they could use them in privacy, with their men.
Toward the end of the act the music grew fiercer, but Hadiya kept pace with it, perspiration dripping down her face, following the taut muscles of her neck and disappearing into the deep valley separating her breasts. She reached her peak with a final crescendo of drums, then fell to her knees, her body bent at the waist.
For a minute an awed silence hovered over the room, then, as one, every member of the audience burst into wild applause. Several men stood up, their hands working like pistons — me included. Hadiya acknowledged the applause, then modestly scampered offstage. The hand-clapping gradually subsided, and as if on cue, a collective murmur issued from the customers, each tongue reliving every movement of her act.
I called for my check, paid the waiter and made my way backstage. I was halted in the wings by a burly bouncer who restrained me by placing his meaty hands on my chest. I brushed his hand aside and continued toward the door which, I assumed, was Hadiya's.
I felt the bouncer's heavy hand on my shoulder as I knocked. I was just about to make an argument out of it when Hadiya emerged.
"It's all right, Kassim," she said, and the grip on my body relaxed. I walked into the dressing room, shutting out the fat Arab.
Hadiya disappeared behind a curtain, changed to street clothing, then walked out the door. When we reached the street, she hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of her apartment as I settled in next to her.
Hadiya's place was on the top floor of an old, well-kept building in the silversmiths' quarter, overlooking the sea. She opened the door, let me pass, then followed me in and locked it. Light from the full moon poured through the window. I scanned the living room for traces of Fergus. There were none. It was a female's habitat through and through.
Hadiya poured herself a snifter of brandy, handed me one and sat in the only armchair in the room. I sank into the couch and regarded her over the rim of my glass.
Finally I said, "The photograph Fergus said you should give me?"
She reached into the folds of her dress, and from a pocket pulled the picture. She handed it to me. I studied it. It was an old photograph, faded with time. There were 20 men in it, all wearing desert battle dress, all arranged in a formal group pose of four rows.
"It is Fergus' old commando unit," Hadiya said. "He's in the second row, second from the left. It was taken in 1942, in Cairo."
I turned it to the back, hoping to find something written there. All it bore was the name of the photographer. Whatever Fergus wanted to tell me was in that picture, probably concerning one of the men.
"Tell me about Fergus," I said.
She sipped her brandy. "I don't know anything… about his business, I mean. He was arrested several times for smuggling gold. Once he was questioned by the police about something to do with hashish — I think it was selling it. Other than that, he visited me once, maybe twice, a year. Sometimes he brought me money. Other times he borrowed money from me."
"The suitcase where the photo came from? What else is in it?"
"Nothing," she said. "Just a few old clothes."
I got up, entered the bedroom. The suitcase lay open on her bed. I rummaged through it, finding nothing but a few changes of men's clothes and an old, moth-eaten wedding dress.
"It was my mother's," Hadiya said behind me as I held it up.
I turned to her, questioning her with my eyes.
"It was my mother's wedding dress," she repeated. "She was Fergus' wife."
"His what?"
"His wife. She married him when I was four. Fergus was my stepfather."
Then, for the first time, she betrayed emotion at Fergus' death. Tears flooded her eyes and she buried her head on my chest, her hands clutching my arms. I soothed her the best I could, assuring her that everything would be all right. The tears subsided gradually, and she managed to say, "He was good to me, Nick. He was like my own father. He may have been a bad man, but to me he was good. After my mother died, when I was 10, he cared for me like I was his own daughter."
I nodded, understanding.
We were still standing very close to each other, and suddenly I was aware of a new, different feeling. Hadiya's breasts were pressed against me and I could smell the warm, sweet scent of her hair. My arms moved around her body. I kissed her hard, my tongue snaking into her mouth, exploring it, meeting and entwining with her tongue.
Hadiya reached around behind her and unfastened the buttons of the dress she was wearing. It slipped to her feet. Underneath she wore only tiny sheer black bikini panties that clung to her bronze curves. Her bare breasts which had so excited the tourists at the Miramar a short time earlier thrust outward, full and free, their brown tips erect.
I fumbled for a moment with my own clothing, and then found myself beside that warm, exciting body on the bed. Hadiya's dark eyes glowed softly in the dimness of the room. Her arms pulled me to her and her hands moved down my back.
I kissed her, and now her tongue flicked into my mouth and explored it while her hands caressed me. I laid a row of kisses along her shoulders, moved down to those swelling breasts and finally down across the rise of her belly to the navel that had held a small artificial gem during her dance at the hotel. I lingered at the navel, caressed it with my tongue, and a low moan escaped her.
Her thighs gripped me, and I sought the depths between them. We united with a soft gasp from her. And then those hips that did magic things in the dance began moving in response to my measured thrust. The torrent built inside us. The wild hips thrust and quiver
ed with a primitive rhythm, reaching out for me.
She raised her legs high above my shoulders and I gripped her buttocks with both hands. She moaned as she moved in perfect unison with my thrusts, deeper and deeper, harder and harder, trying to lose myself inside her. Hadiya's hips kept moving with me for a long time, but then she arched her back, her fingers raking my arms, a sharp scream coming from her throat. I shuddered, heard myself make a strange animal sound, and collapsed atop her. I was covered with perspiration. I moved off Hadiya. My head sank into the pillow and I dropped off into satisfied sleep.
* * *
I was wakened by a tugging at my shoulder. I bolted upright to confront a terrified girl.
"Someone's at the door," Hadiya hissed in my ear.
I reached for Wilhelmina, but it was too late. The door burst open and a man charged in. He threw a shot my way. T rolled off the bed, landed on the floor. I grasped the night lamp and flung it, then leaped. I hit him just as he was raising his gun to fire again. The palm of my hand swept upward and caught him under his chin. His neck snapped backward with a crack which echoed off the walls of the room.
I reached for the wall switch, turned it on, and looked at the body before me. The man was obviously dying. Then I glanced at Hadiya. A crimson red blotch was spreading below her left breast. She had taken the shot meant for me.
I lifted her head in my hands. Pink bubbles trickled through her lips, then she shivered and was still.
The man on the floor muttered a groan. I went to him. "Who sent you?" I shook his arm.
"Ayoub," he coughed, "my brother…" and he died.
I fished through his pockets, found only a stub from a United Arab Airlines flight. If he was Ayoub's brother, it was natural for him to track me down. Blood vendettas are a part of life in this part of the world. I had killed his brother, and it was his duty to kill me. It was all so damned stupid, and Hadiya was dead because of it.
Two
My BOAC flight 631 arrived at London Airport at 11:05 of a sunny morning the next day. No one met me because Hawk had not wanted a reception of any kind. I was to hire a taxi, like any other visitor, and ask the driver to take me to the British Travel Association offices at 64 St. James Street. There I would see a man called Brutus. Brutus, his real identity a well-guarded secret, was Hawk's opposite number in London. He was the head of Special Operations Executive's Select Missions Division. He would give me specific instructions regarding the assignment.
