Law of the Lion

by Nick Carter

  Hawk was AXE's founder, rarely left Washington these days, and even more rarely left his glass-walled penthouse office atop the Amalgamated building. Carter was his top man in the field, designated N3 and licensed to kill in the service of his government.

  "The subject is about three hundred yards from me," Carter reported. "He's drinking coffee and reading a copy of Le Figaro."

  Hawk grunted. "I'd have thought him for a Le Monde man, myself. What else?"

  In the background, Carter could hear the steady drone of professional voices. In his office. Hawk frequently watched an elaborate monitoring screen bringing him TV news feeds from the Amalgamated Press dish antennas not far from his penthouse. Hawk was always close to major news sources as vital stories broke in the world. But he was even closer to sources of information many a top reporter would kill for.

  "The subject has two tails in addition to me," Carter said. "One is possibly the PLO operative, Abdul Samadhi — I'm not certain yet — and the other is definitely Mossad, an operative named Lev Abrams. The PLO guy definitely doesn't know about Abrams, and Abrams doesn't know about the PLO man."

  "What's your judgment, Nick? Are either of them killers?"

  "Both," Carter said. "If I anticipate your next question, I'd say to put your money on Abrams as the tougher of the two. The Palestinian seems desperate. In a contest, that would blow his edge."

  "I'm tempted to give you a few more days to see how this develops." Hawk said, and Carter could almost feel his superior relent on a decision he'd already made. "But something vital is breaking, and I need you here to deal with it. If our suspicions are correct, this could become one of the most unholy alliances in recent times. I've booked you on the SST from Orly to Toronto at six-thirty your time. A private jet will take you from Toronto to Phoenix. If you can neutralize your quarry without making a scene, and do a thorough body search, you are authorized to do so. We prefer him dead, but it is not acceptable for you to miss the SST flight. Clear?"

  "Perfectly," Carter said, noting that the Arab who was also on Sichi's tail crossed the busy multiple intersection and positioned himself not more than a hundred yards from Sichi.

  Lev Abrams, the other professional tracking Sichi, now stood in a small coffee bar sipping an espresso. Carter still believed Abrams was unaware of the PLO man.

  "I'll have some details in the private jet for you to read on the way to Phoenix," Hawk continued. "Meanwhile, here's some information to begin thinking about."

  Carter clicked his mind into the right gear, using a technique given him by Ira Wein, a psychologist friend. The technique was a clever mixture of hypnosis and visualization, allowing Carter to see his mind as the modem attachment of a computer. "Ready and waiting," Carter said.

  Hawk's voice, gruff and hardbitten, set forth the facts. Carter, with a near photographic memory tuned to openness and receptivity, took it all in. "We start with Guy Prentiss, a twenty-year man with the CIA. Good operative, but no stomach for the bureaucracy and paperwork. He set up as a freelance double, passing information both ways and having the satisfaction of injecting subtle sabotages into both sides. He made a good deal on the side and actually donated most of it to worthwhile causes. Mother Teresa. Greenpeace. Amnesty. As you've probably learned by now, things in our profession don't work that way. You can't buy out of betrayals with conscience money."

  "Prentiss got caught up in ideologies?" Carter asked.

  "Worse. He was pulled into a massive cocaine sting where he unwittingly betrayed friends on both sides." Hawk continued to relate how Prentiss, determined to redeem his conscience, had begun tracking something he considered to be of major consequence. He'd died trying to give it over to someone he trusted completely.

  While he was being killed, Guy Prentiss had drawn a circle with the letters LT in it.

  Hawk fired up his cold cigar and brought in a new piece of the puzzle. "We have some reports that promise to be most embarrassing to our friends in the Agency. Guillermo Arriosto, an auto dealer in Phoenix, Arizona, who called himself the Grinning Gaucho, died in Covington, Kentucky, of an apparent heart attack. Our information indicates that Arriosto was working on something rather large, global, and explosive."

  Listening intently, Carter picked up more of the vital details: Arriosto had been relocated to Phoenix five years earlier with a laundered identity. His real name was Hector Cardenas. He'd been a colonel in the Argentine army. All official records showed Cardenas was dead, killed by leftist guerrillas before he could be brought to trial by the current Argentine administration.

  "My theory," Hawk said, "is that the CIA was behind the theft of the body. I've been nudging them about it the past few hours."

  "How did they respond to your probing, sir?"

  "They were sensitive. I'll say this for them, they admitted it looked bad for them, but they denied any complicity."

  "All the same, sir, it looks as though they couldn't stand the possibility that the results of the autopsy would be made public, showing their boy hadn't really been dead when he was supposed to be," Carter suggested.

  "Exactly." Hawk paused to apply more flame to his cigar. "I also believe that Arriosto-Cardenas, now convincingly dead, was about to pull a fast one on his former benefactors, and they may have begun to get wind of it."

  "And you think it has something to do with those initials?"

  "Part of your assignment, Nick, is to make that connection for us or rule it out."

  "And the rest of my assignment?"

  Hawk filled Carter in on Miss Crystal. "No doubt about it, the Grinning Gaucho preferred them young. We even have information that his tastes brought him considerable trouble in Ciudad Juarez. The point is, Miss Crystal disappeared — gone from Covington without a trace. But get this — an older, champagne-blond version of Miss Crystal, possibly an older sister, has been in Phoenix the past two nights, working the bars Arriosto was known to frequent."

  Carter's concentration was broken by a series of low-key hand signals from the Arab. The movements struck Carter as a combination of the hand language used by the deaf and the signs used by the independent bet takers at English racetracks.

  "Something's just been cued. There's a scenario in progress," Carter said. "The PLO type just called the signals to set it in motion."

  Hawk wasn't flapped. "Get to Phoenix. Find this Miss Crystal look-alike and the connection, if any, with LT Check in from Toronto."

  He ended the call as a well-orchestrated scenario unfolded in front of Carter:

  Sichi's coffee was jostled by a woman dressed as an American tourist.

  As Sichi rose to avoid being splattered, the «tourist» took his briefcase and tossed a small parcel at Sichi's feet.

  A minivan paused at the curb and disgorged a group of Japanese tourists, who stepped goggle-eyed and bewildered into the bright afternoon sun.

  The driver of the minivan got out, apparently to take a stretch. Without making a big thing about it, the guide, a man in ill-fitting gray pants and a baggy blazer, pushed some of the tourists out of the way. He produced a Ruger Mini 14 and began to blast Sichi, catching the terrorist completely by surprise.

  Not to be outdone, the driver leveled a Tech-9 at the woman dressed as a tourist, and filled her chest with hollow tips that made a popping sound on contact.

  By their subsequent posture and gestures, both men were now clearly providing cover and a means of getaway for the Arab, who moved quickly, picked up the attaché case Sichi had carried, and reached for the small parcel the lady «tourist» had tossed at Sichi's feet. The contents spilled and the Arab went after them. Even from where he stood, Carter could tell there were some first-rate uncut diamonds there.

  It was all very neat and fast. The Japanese tourists, terrified and screaming, scattered in all directions.

  Abrams, the Mossad man, bolted the moment the shooting began, scurrying across the busy street and disappearing into a row of modernistic stores and boutiques located within a large arcade.


  The operation on Sichi had been so well orchestrated that Carter couldn't even manage Hawk's request for a body search. A number of individuals were already grouped around Sichi and the woman. There was nothing for it now but to get Abrams.

  Moving quickly past the Place de l'Opéra and the pale pink and green colors of the large nineteenth-century opera house that always reminded Carter of a large, elaborately iced cake, Lev Abrams pushed vigorously toward Boulevard de la Madeleine, looking for all the world like a tourist on a brisk stroll.

  Keeping a respectable distance between them, Carter watched Abrams stop at a newsstand, using the opportunity to see if there were any follow-up to the shooting he should be aware of. The Mossad man continued toward Place de la Madeleine and Carter formulated a plan, as intricate as a chess gambit, that would allow him to intersect Abrams either on the Boulevard des Capucines near the Olympia Music Hall, or at nearby Fauchon, one of the most elegant stores for food and cooking utensils in the sprawl of Paris.

  Either site would be good. There was little chance of being seen, little likelihood that what Carter planned would draw more than passing attention from the Parisians.

  After he'd bought a paper, Abrams began to pick up the tempo of his stride. A short man with thinning sandy-red hair, the Israeli appeared top-heavy. His shoulders were large and square, his legs seemingly short and skinny. His sudden burst of speed caused Carter to miss the connection he'd planned at the Olympia.

  Very well, Fauchon it was.

  By some fast maneuvering through the back streets, Carter arranged to pass Lev Abrams as he approached from the opposite direction. Drawing abreast of the Mossad operative, Carter pretended to be interested in a display in a shop window. His hand moved casually to Wilhelmina. Luck was with him: there were only a handful of people on the street.

  Carter showed the passing Abrams a glimpse of the Luger.

  The Mossad man stopped, perplexed and nervous.

  "There's enough muzzle velocity here to leave a large hole at this range," Carter said in Hebrew. "That's surely enough reason for you to hold your hands out in front of you."

  Abrams began to perspire. Being stopped like this so soon after the shooting was having an effect on his adrenals. "You're not Israeli," he said in English.

  "Just wanted to make sure you understood me," Carter said, leading him to a roll-down metallic shop front of a brasserie that wouldn't be open until the evening. "Why were you following Sichi?"

  The Mossad man shuddered involuntarily. "I don't know what you're talking about. If this is a holdup…"

  "Not in the conventional sense," Carter said, casually replacing Wilhelmina in her holster. "I want information and since I don't have much time, I'm afraid I can't be overly polite about asking for it."

  Abrams gave himself a few moments to recover from the chase, then lit a Gitane cigarette, blowing the pungent smoke out in a harsh rasp. "What do you want?"

  "Why was the Mossad so interested in Sichi?"

  Abrams glowered contempt at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I don't have time for this, Abrams." The Israeli couldn't disguise the shock on his face at the sound of his name. "Just believe me when I tell you we're on the same side. If you share with me, I'll see that you get my findings on LT."

  Abrams took a last drag on his cigarette and crushed the butt under his heel. The mention of the initials had hit a nerve. "Okay," he said at last. "Okay. Law of the lion."

  "I lost you, Abrams," Carter said curtly.

  "LT, you fool — lex talionis. Means law of the lion. Lex Talionis is a paramilitary group wanting to be their own law."

  "That's a new bunch, no?" Carter asked. "I never heard of them."

  The little Mossad man nodded. "We've had only one report on them. From South Africa, of all places. Not from my sector. I don't like to work with those people, those Afrikaners. I've been at this game long enough so that I don't have to take assignments relating to South Africa." His voice was edged with disgust.

  Carter waited while the Mossad man lit another cigarette. "Sichi," he said. "Why were you on him?"

  "To see if I could find out who he was dealing with. We had word he was betraying his people, the Red Brigade, by selling a cache of arms meant for them. He'd bought the arms in Marseille, and was here to sell them elsewhere."

  "Any ideas?" Carter asked.

  "You saw it go down. He had all the bills of lading and shipping materials in that briefcase. My guess is that Sichi was selling the arms to Lex Talionis."

  "Who do you think it was who got him?"

  "You must be new in this business if you don't recognize the Red Brigade." Abrams replied.

  "I've been around long enough to recognize Abdul Samadhi from the PLO," Carter said, ignoring the jibe.

  "Those two in the minivan were Red Brigade." Lev Abrams said, but Carter could see he was intrigued.

  "You could be wrong about that," Carter suggested.

  Abrams shrugged.

  "There was a third spectator. Someone else was interested besides you and me," Carter said. Abrams blinked nervously. "In other words," Carter pressed, "your group hasn't a positive make on Abdul Samadhi."

  Grudgingly, Abrams nodded. "Maybe he isn't important."

  "Maybe," Carter agreed. "On the other hand, why would they let someone who wasn't experienced tail this operation?" He let that sink in, then pounced. "Why would they trust such a person to tail you?"

  "You'll let me know if you find out anything?"

  "Ah," Carter said. "I see I've raised some doubts in your mind. Yes, I believe in professional courtesy among colleagues. As soon as I get a line on Lex Talionis. I'll get you a briefing."

  Carter exchanged contact information with the Mossad man, then hailed a taxi. He had an SST to catch.

  Three

  Phoenix, Arizona

  Of all the spots on Hawk's list of places frequented by Arriosto, the Happy Breed seemed the most desperate to make a statement. It was in a glitzy, upscale neighborhood on Speedway. Lots of fern bars and expensive boutiques. The decor was high-tech. All the waitresses were at least six feet tall, their bodies pitched into the inviting postures spike heels forced on them. They wore black leotards, black mesh hose with seams, rhinestone chokers and anklets.

  The bar menu was an expensive selection of imported beers, the house liquor the best brands. Appetizers were either Japanese or California nouvelle cuisine, and the cheapest mineral water on the menu was three dollars. The three-piece combo was all acoustic, the sounds a step away from Muzak. Even the cigarette smoke had a tinge of yuppie ambience and expensive conviviality.

  Carter sat at the bar long enough to get the layout and see which of the waitresses best served his purpose. Dressed to fit in with the clientele, he wore a muted Madras shirt with long sleeves, light gray slacks, and plain black loafers. He finished his beer and approached a waitress whose movements were practiced and economical and who made no attempts to hide the traces of gray flecking her long dark hair. Her name tag read BOBBIE.

  Carter extended a twenty. "I'd like to sit at your station the moment you've got an opening."

  Bobbie's hazel eyes flickered over him like a laser verifying an American Express card. "Some men see my gray hair, they think I'm desperate for favors," she said, ignoring the twenty. "All I do is serve drinks and food."

  "That's exactly why I want to sit at your station." He dropped the twenty on her tray.

  "I get it — you want me to scout for you. I don't do that, either."

  Carter smiled. "Maybe I already understand that and want to drink alone."

  Bobbie sighed and led Carter to a small table, then set a cocktail napkin before him. "If you'd wanted to drink alone, you wouldn't be here. I want to know what you expect for your twenty."

  "Information," Carter said. He carefully showed Bobbie the photo of the Miss Crystal look-alike.

  Bobbie narrowed her eyes. "Something isn't right about this photo."

&nbs
p; Carter nodded. "I have that feeling too. If she comes in while I'm here, will you let me know?"

  "You're a pro," Bobbie said. "Notice I didn't say cop. Okay. She comes in, I let you know."

  Carter ordered another beer, lit a cigarette, and sat back, prepared for a long wait.

  He tried the technique that had worked for him so many times: get a handle on someone's personality by absorbing as much background as possible and trying to hi the character to the background.

  Apparently this place, the New Breed, had a style that touched the late Guillermo Arriosto, a man who might have been a relocated Argentine military man with a love of violence and a taste for young girls. A man who'd been content to let this part of the world see him as the Grinning Gaucho, a seller of four-wheel-drive, off-road, and specialty vehicles.

  A few moments later Bobbie appeared, set his beer before him, and gave him change for the twenty. "Over there," she said, inclining her chin toward an area just to the right of the small bandstand. "In the green dress."

  Carter looked at the change. "That was supposed to be for you."

  "On the house," Bobbie said. "If you ever decide you're looking for something special and personal, you'll know where to find me." She gave a toss of that handsome, silver-streaked ebony hair and headed back to the bar.

  No question about it, the woman in the green dress was the same one in Hawk's picture. Below medium height, a runner's rangy body, with hardly an ounce of spare fat. She wore a tight shiny green dress with a low scoop in front and an even more tantalizing vee in the back, crisscrossed with narrow laces. High heels with straps wrapped around the ankles emphasized her slender, muscular legs. Her hair was a champagne blond. Large, bright green earrings emphasized the angular shapeliness of her face. Carter looked closely, wondering what it was that he and Bobbie had seen in the photo that didn't ring true.

  The blonde had some guy in tow, coming in and joining her a few moments after she'd been seated; he'd probably let her go in while he parked the car.