by Nick Carter
"There are ways to make you talk," Samadhi said.
"Bribes?" Carter suggested, smiling.
"If I thought that would be effective."
"Torture?" Carter continued.
"As a last resort. But first we eat." The PLO operative called sharply in slangy Arabic. Moments later, the door opened and the man Carter had seen stirring the lamb stew entered carrying a tray with two steaming bowls, a pile of fresh-baked pita bread, a bowl of diced green chiles, and a single large pot of beans with sliced onions.
Samadhi urged Carter to chose his own serving to avoid any suspicion. When Carter slid a bowl in front of him, Samadhi began working the remaining bowl and the beans, eating quickly for a few moments, once again attempting to show Carter that none of the portions was tainted with any chemical or drug.
"You have to understand something about us, Carter. Our frustrations increase exponentially as each generation of youngsters comes to us, wanting to win the honorable way, through justice. But as you can see, justice is at best a concept for the classroom — and at that the classrooms of the highly privileged"
"You often fight among yourselves," Carter reminded him.
Abdul Samadhi nodded thoughtfully. "It is true. I try to explain to some of our younger ones. Just as violence and terrorism are options, so are negotiation and conciliation. But it is so easy to be violent when you are desperate, Carter. And what they cannot see is that they are walking on a two-way street. They use violence and terrorism as weapons, but they are blinded to the fact that it is ever so easy to use violence and terrorism against them. Then no one has gained and both sides have dug their heels in a bit deeper."
"I don't think you brought us here to discuss the Golan Heights," Carter said, beginning to realize how hungry he was. He started to eat the savory lamb, thinking how Samadhi was probably once a man of great honor and integrity in his home area. If he'd been born in any of a dozen other countries or locales, even those poorer than where he actually was born, Samadhi would have been another kind of leader — a man respected and followed. A teacher instead of a terrorist.
"You say we are opportunists and fight among ourselves," the PLO operative observed, it is all true. I believe there have been studies in your country, studies that significantly use laboratory rats or street people because they are equally desperate. The studies show that the oppressed, the desperate, the needy will frequently engage one another in violence when the medium of their freedom or salvation is within their grasp."
"I've conducted some studies of my own," Carter said. "Remember, I was present when your lot took out Nino Sichi."
Samadhi's light blue eyes flashed with amusement. "Such righteous indignation and moral posturing, Carter. My studies show that your country tried, as you put it, to take out Fidel Castro. My studies show your country successfully took out President Aliunde of Chile."
The PLO operative took several mouthfuls of stew, chewing reflectively. "If we had time, Carter, I would enjoy playing chess with you and discussing politics. The chess would probably be the purer of the pursuits because the moment we started in on politics, you'd point to so-called Marxist leanings in my arguments and then you would completely tune me out as the implacable foe of Western democracy." He daubed at his chin with a napkin, consulted his watch, and smiled at a thought that came to him.
"I can tell you that the people who gave you the essence of your precious Westernized democracy were scoundrels and pragmatists, demonstrably addicted to violence." He set his eating utensils down with a look of finality, smiled again, his light blue eyes flashing, and leaned across the table. "Yes, we did indeed remove that little worm, Sichi. You probably know better than I that he had a cynical eye and a hand in every pocket. He tried to betray us over a large matter. Many of us in the PLO have come to conclude that we must strengthen our cause by allying ourselves with the power. We must take the kind of overview our oppressors are unwilling to take. Even if, as the saying goes, politics makes for strange bedfellows, we must learn to reassess who our enemies are and with whom it is more provident for us to align ourselves."
His face seemed to lose the easygoing affability of the past moments and freeze into an intensity that had violence and determination. "It is time to be forthcoming, Carter. Tell me what you know about Lex Talionis."
Carter tried to push away a wave of heaviness that came, no doubt, from the amount of stew he'd eaten. But he felt a sudden surge of adrenaline when he heard a scream from the next room.
"Yes, right on time," Abdul Samadhi said. "You will hear that sound quite often unless you begin to give me information."
Carter waved his hand impatiently. "Forget it. That gambit won't work. Suppose she's with you. I sit here and spill all the beans while she files her nails, reads a magazine, and lets out a blood-curdling yell now and then. Sorry to disappoint you."
Samadhi exploded with impatience. He moved at Carter, thinking to lead him to the door, but Carter's instincts were too fast for thought. He danced behind Samadhi, his left hand catching him under the elbow, his right applying fulcrum force and suddenly the PLO man was wrenched painfully to the floor. Samadhi sat cradling his injured wrist, swearing bitterly.
"You terrorists are all pretty good at the first strike," Carter growled, "but if someone strikes back and one of you gets hurt, it's suddenly not fair»
For a moment Carter thought Samadhi had lost control — a bad thing for any fighter to do. He saw the man trying to calm himself. Before Samadhi was completely ready, he spoke.
"Fair? You talk to me of fair?" A scowl of determination twisted his face. He rose, dusted himself off, then spoke to Carter with ironic politeness. "Please, sir, come with me. I'll show you what's fair." He moved to the door, indicating for Carter to follow. "Fair, my dear sir, is a concept that applies to the man who has the most guns."
Samadhi showed Carter a chilling sight He opened the door and shoved Carter into the next room.
Margo Huerta was spread-eagled on a cot, wrists and ankles firmly tied to the four sides. One of the PLO had a twelve-volt battery and a device that appeared to Carter to use the ignition coil of an automobile. A ground wire from the battery and a lead from the coil were being applied to the skin between the toes of Margo's right foot. A faint crackling sound issued forth and Carter caught the scent of burning flesh. Margo strained against her bonds and let out another yell of the sort Carter had heard in the other room.
"Do you still think she's with us, Carter?"
Samadhi pushed Carter back into the next room, kicked the door shut, and pounded on the table. As if in response, another cry came from Margo Huerta. "For God's sake, Carter!" she screamed. "Tell them what they want to know!"
Carter sank to a chair, aware that for the past few moments his head was growing heavier. "Still don't believe you, Samadhi," he said. "Not convinced that contraption of yours is anything more than a bunch of wires."
Margo screamed again and Carter found himself having to fight to keep his eyes open.
"How did you do it?" he asked.
"The pita bread." Samadhi stood over him now. "You were concerned with the stew. It was easy to serve you pita bread with some additional ingredients. Listen to me, Carter. That is all real. If you were not so drowsy now, I'd show you firsthand. But your mind knows the truth. The Huerta woman is in real pain and you are the instrument. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know."
Carter felt the heaviness tumbling down upon him like a collapsing house of cards.
"What is Lex Talionis, Carter?"
The Killmaster had had several sessions with his psychologist friend, Ira Wein, in learning techniques to avoid such types of questioning. Wein had instructed him to focus his mind on some poem from his student days, something as juvenile as possible.
Chances were good that even if he'd been drugged with scopolamine or other so-called truth drugs, he'd repeat the poem over and over again, causing his questioners to think he'd reverted to a time in his youth
from which they could not budge him.
"They ask you questions to get your mind on the subject of interest to them." Wein had told him. "The trick is for you to get your mind on anything else but where they want it, understand?"
"Tell me about Lex Talionis, Carter."
Carter got off a few stanzas of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" before Samadhi began shaking and slapping him. In the background, he was again aware of Margo screaming.
He mustn't think of that screaming.
Focus on something else.
Focus on that flapping sound in the distance, whatever it was. The flapping noise that seemed to remind Carter of someone beating a rug with rapid, steady strokes. That increasing sound that suddenly seemed to make Abdul Samadhi angry enough that he began swearing and pushing Carter around.
"Lex Talionis, Carter. Tell me what you know."
"Organization to get revenge," Carter responded against his will.
Then the kindly image of Ira Wein came to him and he began to rock with laughter, although he didn't know why.
He saw the entrance to a large black cave and in his mind's eye, he entered it.
Everything was dark for a time, but someone was setting off fireworks and there was a good deal of activity with people shouting, and the stew was burning in the next room.
After a time, Carter realized he wasn't smelling burning stew at all but rather the distinctive smell of weapons being discharged. There was at least one muffled report nearby, and in his sleep-clouded mind, Carter tried to rouse himself to action.
He sank to the floor, tried to push himself to a sitting position, and collapsed again.
He was working on pure instinct and coordination now. He fought his way to a sitting position and tried to focus his watery eyes.
He was aware of a rather large presence carrying him to a cot and setting him on top of it.
Then the activities began to recede again and Carter no longer had the ability to fight it.
Eight
Nick Carter's head felt as though it had been stuffed with the small plastic chips used to insulate shipping cartons. He tentatively flexed his hands, finding them stiff and numb. A tortured sound appeared to come from outside, but Carter quickly realized it had been the sound of his own groan. His head was tender to the touch and his mouth seemed dry and thick.
"Here, try this, Carter," a sympathetic voice said, handing him a clay drinking cup. "Go ahead, it's rather sweet well water."
Carter drank gratefully, then turned to regard his companion. "Who…?" he began, but stopped when it came out sounding like a barking seal.
"Zachary. Sam Zachary. CIA. Sorry we couldn't get here any sooner. Some horrendous winds developed and they naturally slowed us down. But I don't think any serious harm's been done."
Carter heard a burst of automatic fire from the near distance.
"We've got your friends hemmed in up toward the draw."
"We?"
"Two associates of mine and a lad who's interested in meeting you. Cuban, but he spends a good deal of time with us."
"The woman?" Carter asked.
"She had a bad scare, but she's all right." Zachary poured more water for Carter, then poured two cups of coffee from a stainless steel Thermos on the table. "I might be able to scrounge up some sugar, but if you like your coffee with milk, you're out of luck."
"I'll take it any way I can get it," Carter said, accepting the hot, steaming mug from Zachary and guiding it to his lips with both hands. The robust flavor immediately cheered him. "This is Jamaican blue mountain."
Zachary nodded. "Coffee is such a vile concoction that you might as well drink the best if you drink it at all."
Carter sipped appreciatively, watching the CIA man, an agreeable sort, slightly taller than himself. Hand-tailored blazer, sturdy twill chinos, and a crisply laundered cotton shirt in muted stripes. "I know you from somewhere."
"I should think so." Zachary said. "I saw you briefly about two years ago at a David Hawk meeting to discuss ethics in intelligence gathering, but more recently" — Zachary reached into his pocket, removed a convincing false mustache, and plastered it on his upper lip — "the Green Angels, at your service."
The driver of the chicken truck?"
"Ah, yes. Chepe Munoz. Good man. Wanted to meet you and — well, you know the drill in this business. Now, as the saying goes, you owe him one."
By now Carter was taking larger sips of Zachary's excellent coffee and (he fogginess in his head was beginning to recede. "It makes sense now. All that business with the kicking and (humping was a blind to let you put beepers on both vehicles. Then you tracked us with choppers."
"You have to admit, Carter, it worked. It would have been even sooner if not for that damned wind. I keep telling them to buy us the Hueys. A nice, substantial chopper. So what do they do? They have to get these little pipsqueak AF-sixes." Zachary shook his head. "Everyone's so damned cost-conscious since Cap Weinberger got caught with those expensive ashtrays and toilet seats."
Carter lowered his voice. "I'm not sure we can trust Margo Huerta."
Two exchanges of automatic weapons fire, one distant, the other considerably closer, punctuated his comment.
"Why not? Why wouldn't you trust her?"
"I think she's a radical groupie. But that's a possible cover for some other things."
Zachary smiled. "I know for a fact she propositioned Chepe Munoz, and I've seen her at some conspicuously liberal parties, but we don't have anything of value in our field reports to suggest anything fishy."
"Just a hunch, so far." Carter finished his coffee, feeling measurably better. He got tentatively to his feet, did a few slow torso stretches, and allowed Zachary to pour more coffee.
"I almost feel I can cope again," Carter said.
Zachary smiled. "Excellent. We'd better give the others a hand. We can talk later."
The CIA operative led Carter outside, where two AF-6 choppers were moored. Zachary tossed Carter an FN-FAL, which Carter checked quickly and with respect. It was an excellent weapon. He fired a burst, liked the placement.
"We got one of the PLOs when we came in," Zachary said, "but there are four left and we'd very much like to get our hands on the leader."
"Abdul Samadhi."
Zachary beamed. "You're sure?"
Carter nodded.
"We thought it might be him, but we lost him between Paris and here. Yes, we'd definitely like to have a few words with him."
As they started up the draw, Carter could see two of Zachary's colleagues, nicely positioned behind clumps of rock. "Munoz is further up and to your left."
One of Carter's captors appeared suddenly and sprayed a blast, drawing return fire. Carter watched another Palestinian scrabble up a segment of rock, take a hard leap, then disappear. Carter thought he saw a grenade launcher. They would have to be careful about letting the PLO get close to the choppers.
Zachary and Carter quickly agreed on assignments and moved off into position. As he broke into a running crouch, Carter noticed Margo Huerta, protected by a small boulder, smoking a cigarette, hugging her knees to her chest. She waved a vulgar gesture to Carter. "You still think I set this up, you pig."
Carter's response was blunted by a stitching of shots directed at Sam Zachary, who zigzagged into his assigned position. Now a spray of shots forced the Killmaster down, but he took the chance after waiting a few moments and broke for the protective cover of a large tree stump.
A thumping sound warned Carter that the grenade launcher had been tired.
The blast from the explosion felt like hands being clapped over both ears. A spray of debris erupted between Carter and Zachary. Up ahead, the bearlike man in camouflage trousers and a blue sweat shirt took a risk, but made it pay off. He broke from cover and angled toward the position of the grenade launcher, opened another stitching of fire across the face of the rocks, scrambled up an outcropping, paused, took deliberate aim, and squeezed a short burst. "The unmistakable sound
of a hit came. A man yowled, staggered forward, and fell.
Wanting to contribute more than backup to his rescuers, Carter took off at a crouch, slamming a new ammo clip into place and doing a side roll on his good shoulder when one of the PLO opened up on him, and got to another portion of the outcropping. He took a spring up toward a new plateau and, as he'd suspected, bought himself a clear shot.
His burst caught the man who'd been driving the Toyota earlier. Chepe Muñoz, the bearlike man in the camouflage trousers, gave Carter a high sign of appreciation and motioned him forward. Both men were angling toward a gully that alternately rose and fell.
After about five minutes of running and probing. Munoz let out a loud curse in Spanish and started back at a run toward the choppers, calling after one of Zachary "s assistants.
After a hurried conference. Munoz and Zachary's assistant tired up one of the choppers, gained altitude quickly, and moved off along the fault line of the ravine.
"Samadhi probably grew up in terrain just like this," Zachary said. "We account for all the others now but him, and he's the one we want, dammit."
Zachary drew some water from the well, took it inside the building, and put it on to boil. From his war chest he brought forth a battery-powered coffee grinder and enough of the Jamaican beans for another Thermos full of the pungent brew.
"I don't think we've seen anything like the last of him," Carter said. "I get my best results when I back off for a while. Samadhi's had his early rounds, but we'll get him. Meanwhile, why don't you brief me on your aims in all this."
The CIA man nodded at Carter's wisdom. When the coffee was brewed, he brought Carter up to date. "I was brought in on this play of yours because we've apparently been burned for a good deal of cash lately." Responding to Carter's raised eyebrows. Zachary continued. "Someone's nicked us for over a million and it's been heading down this way and father south."
