by Nick Carter
Annotation
They're a mercenary elite who'll take on any job-the more murderously spectacular the better — if the price is right. But their ultimate purpose isn't wealth; it's power in its most raw and devastating form.
They call themselves the Law of the Lion. Their base is the treacherous jungle of Central America. And they hold no loyalty to any cause but their own. They're the most awesome terror army the world has ever faced — and challenging them on their own turf is like diving into a pool of blood in shark-filled waters.
Only Nick Carter would try it. Only Nick Carter could win.
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Nick CarterOne
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Twenty-One
* * *
Nick Carter
Killmaster
Law of the Lion
Dedicated to the men and women of the Secret Services of the United States of America
One
San Salvador, El Salvador
John Merton set up his equipment in the small, neatly manicured park just beyond the Sheraton El Salvador, at a comfortable distance from the boxlike encroachments of the shantytown and even less formal street camps and cooking fires that had sprung up like mushrooms along the main roads to the central city.
He fiddled with the dial of his ghetto blaster, switching quickly from some piercing rhetoric about the forthcoming elections to a musical lament sung by a man who was complaining that his senorita had lost that lovin' feeling. Moving the dial a bit more toward 88.1 MHz, he got what he really wanted: talk radio that was no part of the ordinary broadcast band. Instead, Merton tuned in on an animated conversation among three men sitting at a sprawling sidewalk cafe about half a block away.
Dressed as a tourist, Merton had comfortable walking shoes, a new white guayabera shirt, and an auto everything camera. The shoeshine kids and the young girls selling packets of gum were swarming over him and that was just fine. Tourist they wanted, tourist they'd get. It gave him just the kind of cover he wanted. The tape cassette in the ghetto blaster was recording the conversation of his quarries, two contra captains wanting to «invest» some American humanitarian relief funds. They were joined by a skinny little guy who was showing them floor plans and a prospectus for a condo in Fort Lauderdale. Of course, if the two illustrious contradores were serious about wanting a completely different kind of climate than the tropics, why here was a splendid deal in Mammoth, California, that included an unlimited lift ticket during ski season.
Merton smiled. This was great equipment and an even greater opportunity to nail two leeches who abused their power to further their own personal fortunes.
It was all going down beautifully and he was getting it. One of the more satisfying pieces of work in some time.
And then a tortured stage whisper sounded behind him. "I've got to talk to you, Merton."
The mention of his name jabbed like a bee sting. Merton turned to see a man in his late forties lurching toward him, the latest in the procession of people wanting to sell the gringo something. Only this shambling, stumbling drunk was no stranger, not really a drunk. His eyes blazed with conviction. "Please."
"You idiot," Merton hissed. "I'm working."
"This is front-rank stuff," the man said. "Worth risking whatever you've got going down."
"Your credibility is all used up, Prentiss."
"I'm not selling this time," Prentiss said, "I'm giving. No strings. This is to buy back my self-respect."
"Your so-called self-respect could get us killed. Now bug off."
"This will show you how serious I am." Prentiss calculated the trajectory, then tossed a small chamois pouch toward Merton. When the pouch landed, two uncut diamonds the size of robin's eggs tumbled forth.
Before Merton could adjust to this development, a well-built man in jeans and a black T-shirt emerged from behind some shrubbery, snapping a modification in place on an AR-15 Colt with well-practiced ease, converting it to the power of an M-16. He, too, had sound equipment — what appeared to be a Walkman with an earplug. "Merton's right, Prentiss. Your self-respect has gotten you killed." He put a short burst in Merton's chest. An equally short burst caught Prentiss in the throat.
While the assailant moved in to scoop up the diamonds, Prentiss managed to trace two letters — LT — in the ground before him, roll over on top of them, and die.
* * *
Covington, Kentucky
Sam Zachary still wasn't sure how much of Sheriff Shelton's good-old-boy routine was real or how far he ought to push the sheriff in order to find out. Big fellow, dressed right out of a Banana Republic catalogue. Flop-brimmed Aussie hat. Right foot wrapped in several yards of beige Ace bandage. Could be an occupation-related wound. But judging by the way the sheriff liked to eat, it could also be old-fashioned gout.
No question about Milner, the general manager of the River View Inn. Aviator-type sunglasses, white tassel loafers, knit shirt complete with tiny alligator, a tennis sweater draped over his shoulders. In all probability he used Grecian Formula to keep the boyish, earnest young jock effect suggested by his razor-cut light brown hair. Zachary almost gagged when he caught the pinky ring with a baby blue stone.
"One more time, just to make sure I get it," Sam Zachary said. "You have no idea where Arriosto's body is now, and no one" — he looked meaningfully at Sheriff Shelton — "no one kept tabs on the little lady?" A tall man with a lean, runner's body, Zachary watched Milner giving him the once-over, checking out Zachary's gabardine twills and the lightweight blazer tailored on Savile Row.
"Miss Crystal," Milner said, wanting to be helpful.
"No one kept tabs on Miss Crystal," Sheriff Shelton said, sounding, Zachary thought, as though he were explaining something to a small child. "No one kept tabs because we all felt she showed great responsibility, calling us in the first place."
Zachary started counting to ten.
"That little lady gave mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and even tried the Heimlich maneuver," Sheriff Shelton continued. "She stuck around until we arrived and pronounced the, uh, the guest dead of apparently natural causes." There was a great, resonant sadness in his voice.
"Is that what you folks call it around here, 'apparently natural causes'? Any tourist who dies in Covington, it's natural?" Zachary stared at Sheriff Shelton. "Hey, I can understand an attitude like that, but the truth in this case is another matter. We'll never know about the cause of death if the body is missing and we can't do an autopsy."
Sam Zachary looked about the deluxe garden suite where Guillermo Arriosto had died. Lots of empty bottles lying around. Good booze. Glenlivet. Stolichnaya. Several brands of beer. Any number of foreign brands as well as Hudephol, a quite acceptable local beer from nearby Cincinnati. Good snacks.
Zachary got up and poked idly about the king-sized bed. He looked up at the round mirror on the ceiling. A large color TV set had a huge placard announcing that you weren't limited to such ordinary fare as dish antenna and cable TV stuff. You could have adult entertainment simply by turning the TV dial to 3 and following the simple instructions.
There was lots of lingerie draped all over the place. Sam Zachary lifted a black stocking. Real silk from the feel of it. Arriosto had liked his pleasures. "Looks like the little lady left in a hurry."
"Actually," Milner said, "she was wearing — she was completely dress
ed when she left. I think Mr. Arriosto brought this and other accouterments with him."
"And you say he paid for everything in cash? No credit cards?"
"All cash," Milner said, nodding. "When he checked in, he told us what his requirements were and I thought a cash transaction would be the best for all of us."
"When he mentioned his, uh, requirements," Zachary said, "did they include this young lady? Miss Crystal?"
Sheriff Shelton stood, gingerly resting his weight on a cane and trying to protect his right foot. The big fellow seemed agile in spite of his problem. "We've been pretty straight with you, Zachary. For my part, I can't help wondering why the Justice Department should be so interested in an apparently natural occurrence. We make no bones about the entertainment available here in Covington. A man runs a successful car dealership in Phoenix and wants to come here and cut loose, we like to see he gets his money's worth. We like to cooperate, but it seems to me the Justice people have no jurisdiction in this — this apparently sad case where a man simply bit off more than he could chew."
Zachary snapped his fingers. "Rats. Sheriff, you've got me, pure and simple. You let me climb out on a limb, and you sawed it off. We have no jurisdiction. But we do have plenty of clout with law enforcement groups who'd be interested in the fact that Miss Crystal — if that's her real name — is only fifteen."
"Sixteen," Milner said. "And the record should also show that Mr. Arriosto got everything he paid for and that we have all his personal belongings."
Yeah, no question about it. Emboldened by the revelation that Zachary had no jurisdiction, Milner was trying to come on feisty, no preppy wimp he, by God. If it ever came down to it, Milner would fall over when he discovered that Zachary didn't even work for the Justice Department. People in the continental U.S. always seemed outraged when they had direct dealings with someone from the Agency.
Well, the hell with it, Zachary thought. He'd had enough of this. He snapped his notebook shut, content with his reading of the facts in the case.
Guillermo Arriosto was supposed to be a car salesman from Phoenix. Supposed to be is right. It didn't matter if he actually sold a car or not.
In reality, he was a military man from Argentina who'd been given a laundered identity by the CIA, whisked out of his country (just in time to avoid some serious legal stuff), and plugged into the good life in the American Southwest.
Sure, Arriosto had a good dealership, and he worked it with some energy. He put that little drawing of an Argentine cowboy on his business card and called himself the Grinning Gaucho.
But the Agency had paid plenty to set it up and structure the business so that Arriosto would net at least fifty, sixty thou a year — Arriosto had insisted on that no matter how the dealership did. And there had been a few unsecured loans for a series of TV ads he'd wanted to run, to get people to start talking about his dealership, Arriosto had said.
Okay, this guy came here to Covington, held a number of private meetings in this suite with a number of unidentified associates, and then, when the meetings were finished and his visitors were gone, he'd sent out for a long-legged sixteen-year-old hooker. After a day with Miss Crystal, Arriosto's heart had given out, or so it seemed if one bought the Covington version.
Sheriff Shelton and Milner had really gone to some lengths to cover their tails on this one, and had sent the body to a small private hospital. Zachary could put the squeeze on them by asking how it was that they had so suddenly become so concerned about a corpse.
What they'd done, Shelton and Milner, was to summon a high-powered forensic man from the medical school in Cincinnati, probably some guy who had his own reasons for coming over the bridge to Covington from time to time, to do the postmortem.
But before the doctor arrived, Arriosto's mortal remains had been snatched by person or persons unknown.
No witnesses. No clues. Just gone with no forwarding address.
Sure, Zachary could make a thing out of questioning the cleaning women, even try to find out which of the bellboys had brought over some of the snacks and drinks. Since Covington was so free-swinging, there might even be a friendly neighborhood pimp who saw something.
But they were all probably wired into the routine in Covington, and had long since learned that it was worth their job not to notice or remember anything except what the customers wanted.
There was no reason to think Shelton and Milner weren't telling the truth. They could have tried a complete cover-up or at least planted a few things to take some of the heat off of them.
Zachary decided to punch it to the manager. 'What you're saying, bottom line, Mr. Milner, is that people with ethnic names can come to Covington, register in a place like this, provided they have enough money, and not have to worry about being rolled."
Milner moved his glasses up on the bridge of his nose by scowling. "You don't have to be so crude," he said.
Zachary still wasn't going to let him off the hook. "As a matter of fact, in my line of work," he said, "I sometimes have to be very crude."
You had to hand it to Milner. Zachary mused. He stood right there and took it, just as though you got nowhere in life if you were too thin-skinned.
"I wonder…" he began.
Zachary lifted a bushy brow, silently telling the guy to go ahead.
"I wonder if you'd tell me where you bought your blazer."
Zachary gave Milner the big Rotary Club pat on the back. "I get all my duds at K-Mart, sport. Thanks for asking."
Two
Even in the off-season months, Paris is an exciting city, with a special luminous look and pulse about it. Nick Carter had his quarry well enough in sight to allow a small portion of his mind to revel in being back in one of the most exciting cities in the world. He also knew from direct experience that Paris could be one of the deadliest cities in the world when he was working.
Perhaps after he'd finished with this man, Nico Sichi, he could manage a few days here for R & R. Then he could keep his mind on the Paris of the songwriters instead of the Paris of the undertaker.
But first the work. This hadn't been an easy assignment.
Not only was Carter following Sichi, but two other professionals were working him, and both were good.
Carter made one of the pros as possible PLO. A man with a hatchet-sharp face, thick brows, and dark, ebony hair that was beginning to recede at the crown, giving the look of an unwanted monk's tonsure. In his forties, he was slightly over medium height, wiry thin with the exception of a gut that had begun to work its way over his waistline.
The professional had a number of outstanding physical features, perhaps too many for the needed anonymity to be a good intelligence agent. His chin was dimpled, his eyes bright blue-white disks, reminding Carter of a dog with cast eyes.
The other professional was definitely Mossad, Lev Abrams, a short, pouter pigeon of a man with curly reddish hair. Neither of the professionals was aware of the other, and Carter was sure they hadn't noticed him. At the moment, all eyes were on Sichi and his activities.
Mustached and dapper in a tan linen suit with paisley tie, Nico Sichi moved purposely to the newly restored Cafe de la Paix, with sidewalk service and a splendid view of the Place de l'Opéra.
At least he had good taste, Carter thought, picking a café Carter himself would have taken for an unhurried view of the city. Place de l'Opéra was more than a large intersection, it was the business, shopping, and theater heart of Paris, complex and ever fascinating as busy men and attractive women from the three different worlds bustled and interacted.
Carter saw a number of banks, noting that the number of Japanese ventures had increased since his last visit. There were tables filled with elegant-looking women who, to judge by the parcels set close at their feet, had been shopping at Aux Trois Quartiers or some of the other big department stores behind the opera house on Boulevard Haussmann.
Sichi sat at a back table near a large planter, gave his order to a waiter, shot the cuffs of his striped
shirt, and crossed his legs with particular attention to the crease of his trousers. He was doing his best to look like one of the brokers who'd come from some of the nearby banks or the huge Paris stock exchange.
Carter was not fooled by the little terrorist's enjoyment of elegant clothing or his seemingly casual manner. A member of the infamous Red Brigade, Sichi had used a bomb-fitted attaché case similar to the one now set before him on the table to blow apart a meeting of Common Market diplomats in Marseille just two days earlier. That had made major newspaper and TV network coverage.
Watching Sichi sip his café espresso and smoke a pungent Balkan Sobrane cigarette, Carter yearned for one of his own specially blended cigarettes, but instead watched patiently, listening to the sounds of high-pitched horns and the explosive Gallic tempers of drivers who attempted to negotiate the various intersections that emptied into the Place de l'Opéra.
Carter's alarm watch shrilled his appointed hour to call his superior, David Hawk, for further instructions.
Keeping his quarry in view, Carter made for a phone booth with push-button dialing, where he encoded a number that connected him half a world away to Washington. DC.
A brisk, businesslike voice answered on the first ring. "Good timing, N3. Let me have your report." Hawk had been expecting him.
Carter could envision his superior, David Hawk, the director of AXE, thumbing an ancient lighter with a huge striking wheel, and applying the flame to one of those mummified-appearing cigars that looked awful and smelled worse.
AXE, a small, highly specialized intelligence-gathering and special action agency, was located on Dupont Circle in Washington, D.C. A cover organization, Amalgamated Press and Wire Services, made an effective front. AXE was entirely separate from the NSC, the CIA, and even the Justice Department. Thanks to David Hawk's background of service, his uncompromising integrity, and his absolute disinterest in playing political games, AXE was able to go where the bureaucracies feared to tread. It was also able to accomplish what the bureaucracies only dreamed about.
