by Nick Carter
It was clear, detailed. "Where did you get this?" Zachary asked.
"An American stealth plane made a patterned flyover of this area for us, no questions asked. When we got the prints, we used a line-reduction printing and here it is, instant map, as accurate and recent as you can get."
Carter took the map and read appreciatively. "Some of these features are representations of buildings or camouflage configurations. This is going to make our lives a good deal easier." Using the Mossad map, Carter made rough copies for the others, giving the proper compass orientation and grids.
Zachary was amazed. "I probably couldn't get one of these if I asked for it, and I work for them."
"Let's get moving," Carter said. He established reconnaissance areas for each of them, and assigned check-in times and signals. Then he and Zachary took their things to the car.
Rachel Porat and Margo Huerta were still working under cover identities. Margo still had the guise of a volunteer at the arts center. Rachel was a new arrival on the bus, presumably there for the festival activity. It was now up to each woman to get away on her own without being noticed.
Carter and Zachary loaded the car and headed out the long circular drive, honking to some persons they recognized, heading for all intents and purposes back to Belmopan.
After about three miles of travel down the road, Carter found an area of jungle and overhang that suited his purpose for safely storing the car. He pulled over, removed the necessary equipment, and began to work. He and Zachary put in nearly an hour, erecting a suitable hiding place. They both knew that a car left by the side of the road in country like this would be considered abandoned or fair game. What was left in good faith could very well be missing in a country where there are not many big opportunities.
Each man rigged himself to carry as much equipment as possible, fashioning the equivalents of field packs. Zachary shared some of his water purifying pills with Carter.
The two men had a final cigarette from Carter's case, then turned and melted into the jungle. They were on their way to find Lex Talionis.
Eighteen
After a fast march of over an hour, Nick Carter reached the point on his grid maps where he believed the hospital setup of Dr. Charles Smith was located. Now he began fanning out in circles, looking for traces of roads, utility lines or outbuildings for generators or propane gas containers.
The path, when he found it, was quite sophisticated, made of ground-up saplings and vines. It led Carter to a large building the size of an airplane hangar at a small airport, no great shakes in construction, but sturdy for the job. There were rib and truss beams forming an arc, mounted on top of a large square. Mounted on the outside of the large building were four large air conditioners. A quarter mile or so from the large building was a cinder-block building of about a hundred square feet. Carter had no trouble getting a look inside. His suspicions were confirmed: in it were three large generators and several drums of fuel.
There were only two signs on the large building, private and no unauthorized admission. There were no indications of guards or campsites. As he circled closer, Carter did find a construction that convinced him Dr. Smith liked fresh flowers. A small greenhouse flourished in the tropical growth. Moving in for a closer look, Carter saw an interesting assortment of fuscias, begonias, and bright, cheery asters.
Poking closer to the main building, Carter got a look in a window and saw what was probably a nurse's quarters. At the next level of window, he saw what he had hoped to discover: a small room, well appointed with a hospital bed. Lying in the bed was a man whose face was swathed in bandages. Something familiar about the man tugged at Carter. It was Bud Gonder, the young student from the infirmary and the bomb explosion. Dr. Charles Smith apparently couldn't resist the challenge of giving people different appearances.
There were two other recovery rooms, but each was empty at the moment.
Carter did a quick tour around the building and saw nothing to spoil his earlier assessment about any kind of security system. He looked carefully for electronic alarms, found none, and decided he was going to take his chances by mounting the small four-step tier to the building and stepping inside.
He'd been in dozens of similar buildings, the walls painted in institutional colors and the lobby filled with regulation furniture. A series of doors led to small storage rooms, a nurse's lounge, and a small library with a computer hookup for data base research. A slightly larger door led to an impressive wood-paneled office about twenty feet square. There was a large mahogany desk, teak shelves, and a number of pre-Columbian artifacts. On the desk were several boxes of Cuban cigars. There were also a few large boxes of granola bars. Anticipating the hunger that would soon be on him, Carter took two bars.
Carter guessed this luxurious enclave was Dr. Charles Smith's office when he was in residence. It had the look, the smell, and the tone of a man who thought well of himself and wanted all his outward accoutrements to reflect the fact.
Next to the office was a small, deluxe room with wood paneling, some first-rate graphics on the walls, a water bed, and an expensive stereo system with large, boxy speakers. Without spending too much time checking out meaningless details, Carter saw that there was a large modular shower and a full-length triple mirror. Dr. Smith traveled in style.
The thing Carter wanted to see next was down at the end of the hall, another large room, probably the same twenty-by-twenty dimension as Smith's office. This was the operating room, a first-class setup with a bank of overhead mercury vapor lamps, an adjustable table, long banks of X-ray readers, a huge autoclave for sterilizing instruments, a large wooden cabinet with several drawers, and, finally, a huge glass cabinet filled with an array of knives, saws, drills, chisels, and other surgical tools. Lit by fluorescent wall fixtures for the times when the mercury vapors were not on, the room was a well-organized, efficient operating room.
Carter wondered if the Grinning Gaucho hadn't had his identity laundered in this very room.
The sound of nurses talking from a nearby room caused Carter to duck toward the door, but there he was met by the diminutive, cigar-smoking doctor, dressed now in stone-washed denims and running shoes. "The curiosity got to you, right?" he said.
Carter decided to tough it out by saying nothing.
"I can promise you, there will be little or no pain at any time." He began to scan Carter's face. "It's a shame to do any work on a face like yours. You've got classic features. Good bones. Well, come on over here and let's get started."
"I think you have the wrong idea," Carter said.
The doctor became irate. "I think you have the wrong idea." He pulled the cigar from his mouth and heaved it forcefully. "Dammit, you'd think they'd do some kind of a briefing first." He stared at Carter. "You think I'm just going to sedate you and start cutting, right, fellow? Jeez, gimme a break. I take something like six hundred different measurements, some within a tenth of a millimeter. Then I build a topography — here, I'll show you." He moved to the large wooden cabinet and opened it, removing what looked to Carter like a death mask.
"It's called a moulage," the doctor said, extending a plaster cast toward Carter. "We're talking exquisite detail here, so don't go backing away like I was going to start cutting you right now. Hell, you can't know it, but you're getting the best. I give you features you'd never dream of." He studied Carter for a few moments. "I can fix it so your jaw will never pop again. You'll be free of that, you understand."
"Those casts are all of people you worked on?"
"Damned right," the doctor said. "Thai's just responsibility to keep track. Those bozos in the CIA are scared stiff someone is going to find my records and then everyone will recognize you." He snorted. "Hell, when I'm through with you, no one will recognize you."
Carter edged toward the door. "Thanks, but I think there's been a misunderstanding."
"I'm telling you," the doctor said, "you're doing the misunderstanding. I just want to measure you first. Don't even think about
surgery for a week or so. Now, be reasonable. Let's get on with the measurements."
Carter backed toward the door.
"That tears it," the doctor said. "Bruno! Marvin! I got a stubborn one here. Doesn't want to be measured."
The door opened and two men entered, both well over six four. One of them was black, his head shaven clean, a Puerto Vallarta T-shirt looking incongruous on his enormous frame. The other was a prototype of a wide receiver, blond, powerful, fast. They came at Carter. "Easy does it, buddy," the black guy said and extended his hand. "Doc here just wants to take some measurements with a small little ruler."
He feinted at Carter, who did not take the bait at all. "Let's cut this nonsense right now," Carter said.
"Hey, buddy, you let the doc measure you and we got no problems," the black guy said, reaching quickly for Carter and getting his hand. The Killmaster spun away, bumping the big blond off-balance. Carter danced back toward the black, elbowed him in the gut, and dropped into a crouch to take the charge from the blond.
Carter sidestepped that, tripped the blond, and was at the door. Both men were stunned with surprise. The black started at Carter again, driving him back against the blond, who got Carter in a bear hug, but Carter immediately shot his feet into the black guy's chest, dropping him and spinning away from the blond.
"I don't want to have to do this," Carter said.
The blond guy was out to save face. All seriousness now, he reached for Carter, who got a hand on the sleeve of his smock, tugged, and brought him to his knees with a crash. Frustrated, the blond got to his feet with some fancy gymnastics and came at Carter.
"What the hell is this?" the doctor shouted. "From now on, they're all going to sign releases before they come to me. I've had it with this skittishness."
The blond threw a punch at Carter who caught it in his left hand, squeezed, twisted, and wrenched the man to the floor with a hard slam.
Carter was out of the room, down the steps, and out into the jungle as quickly as possible, the irate voice of Dr. Charles Smith bawling at the two goons.
Using his copy of the Mossad map, Carter oriented himself and set off at an angle across the vast expanse of jungle on the far side of the Center for the Arts. He moved at a fast pace for nearly an hour before he paused for a cigarette.
A nearby stream ran high with fresh water. He drank his fill, then immersed his canteen. Coming back to his compass heading, Carter began to notice a thinning of the forest and his instincts began to play on him. Without knowing why at first, he began a Crosshatch pattern, putting in a good deal of time to cover very little territory, but as he rounded the next bend, he saw the fruits of his instinctive labors. Before him, curling out of the forest, was a well-graded road.
Heading in a northeasterly direction, Carter followed the road, having to duck quickly off the side of the road when a Jeep with two armed men drove by. About ten minutes later another vehicle appeared, a classic VW bug that had been converted into a Baja buggy, complete with thick-tread tires, a long looping antenna, and halide lights for running in the darkness off the beaten path.
There was no longer any question about it: the Killmaster knew he was coming closer to the real quarry.
A half hour later another vehicle passed, pausing to scan the sides of the road. This one, a large-bed Toyota pickup, was relatively new and smeared with camouflage. Two men rode in the cab, and an armed man sat in the bed with an automatic weapon.
Carter couldn't tell if they were merely on patrol or specifically looking for him, but after more time had elapsed he began to hear a steady, droning sound in the distance.
The droning appeared to come closer, then ebb. Carter couldn't figure out what it was until he mounted a small hillock and the afternoon breeze brought him the sound, clear, unhampered. It was someone broadcasting a message through a battery-powered bull horn.
A mile down the road on Carter's right was a small pathway. The area was definitely filled with signs of life now, and Carter knew that every step he took was bringing him into the middle of things. He took the pathway and there, in a clearing, were two added traces that an army was in residence. On one side of the clearing was a firing range, with bunkers, sandbags, and targets. On the other was a fitness range, with ropes for swinging, a crawling range, and an obstacle course made from old tires and empty barrels. Someone was interested in military training, military discipline. Carter made a quick sweep through the firing range. There were some casings from the older, more conventional rifles, but there were even more spent casings from automatic weapons.
The droning sound of the bull horn came closer, and overhead, Carter heard the unmistakable sound of a chopper flying a search pattern.
A half mile down the road, Carter ducked into the bushes in time to avoid being spotted by a Jeep. Unlike the other vehicles he'd seen, this one was almost new and had a logo stenciled on the side door. LT, the logo read.
Lex Talionis.
Carter had arrived.
He approached a rise in the road and saw that he had now come to a point where there was an intersection running in an east-west direction. There were also indications of more foot trails.
One particular trail was well packed, topped with gravel. Carter decided to try it, starting out just as another vehicle with a bull horn came by. The words were in English, but he could still not make them out.
At the end of the dirt path, Carter saw two armed guards seated in a small hut, one reading a wrestling magazine, the other trimming his fingernails with a knife. Carter spotted a powerful transceiver in the foreground. These men might not inspire military respect, but they were out there, they were armed, and they had the ability to communicate with at least one other source.
It took Nick Carter another hour of stealthy moving through the thinning jungle to see what was so important.
Climbing nearly a quarter mile in altitude, Carter stood at the side of an outcropping and looked down at a large reservoir. It was man-made, the roads packed and graded. No more than three feet over the surface of the reservoir were a series of camouflage nets, making it all but impossible for the water to be seen from above. Carter paused to check the Mossad map. Detailed and sophisticated as it was, it had fooled the camera. Lex Talionis was apparently equipped with all the essentials for survival and for avoiding detection.
As Carter dropped back down to the intersection, he became aware of the sound of the bull horn blasting its message.
Pausing to listen, he could pick out an occasional word as the Jeep came rumbling closer."…amnesty… guest… hospitality… we will take no hostile action…"
The pounding, thwacking sound of a chopper beat through the jungle. Carter could hear it flying search patterns at a low altitude. Another of the VW Baja buggies came careening down the road, oversize tires biting into the dirt. The driver was young, but seated in front, holding a Kalashnikov at port arms, an older man in uniform looked battle-weary from all the wars he'd been in and not from any one in particular.
Carter listened to the message a bit longer, trying to piece more of it together. At first he'd thought it was merely some propaganda for a group of locals, but then he'd begun to realize that the message was for him. The people with the bull horn were calling him by name! Then he heard other names being mentioned: Chepe Munoz and Sam Zachary.
The voice on the bull horn was careful about the way it explained things. Nothing like "we have your comrades." This was tactful and friendly.
"Mr. Nick Carter, we invite you to join us. We have nothing to hide. Your friends have taken our hospitality. You may keep your weapons if you wish. That is not an issue. We merely wish to make you a gentlemanly offer."
Carter continued toward where he believed he would find the main concentration of LT.
The bullhorn persisted for nearly an hour, and with the chopper running its search pattern. Carter found it necessary to stay off the road, paralleling its course and keeping cover.
Nearly an hour later,
the LT people resorted to another stratagem. As Carter hid off the main road, a Jeep moved slowly along. With the exception of the driver, who wore a holster at his waist, none of the other passengers was armed. It was the persons sitting in back who most interested Carter.
Smoking a cigar and looking comfortable in the deepening afternoon was Chepe Munoz. Sitting next to him, waving away the fumes, was Sam Zachary. Neither man looked to be under the slightest duress.
Zachary motioned the driver to a halt and took up the bull horn. He identified himself and asked Carter to come forth. "They'll even let us have a hostage," Zachary said. "I'm convinced they're only interested in talk right now."
Carter did not like the idea of giving up an advantage, not when he was getting so close to the mark. Not when Bezeidenhout was likely to suspect they'd been responsible for the loss of so much money in the form of the Japanese investment bankers.
"Strictly on the up-and-up, Carter. If you come in, we can meet Bezeidenhout within the hour."
Carter was close enough to hear Zachary and Munoz talking.
"I say we can stand here and offer things until doomsday, but Nick Carter won't give up an advantage," Zachary said.
"So what do we do? These pendejos won't wait all year, compadre. And they said they wanted to talk to him, too."
"We take them at their word and talk to them." Zachary said. "We get all the information we can, and then we use our opportunities."
"And Carter?"
Zachary spoke with admiration. "Surely you realize by now that all Carter ever does is use his opportunities."
Zachary motioned the driver on and the jeep sped along into the lengthening afternoon.
Carter took a swig of water from his canteen and kept moving. He trusted Zachary and Munoz, but they had their approaches and he had his. There was no question in his mind that he, too, would see Piet Bezeidenhout, but on his terms.
Nineteen
