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They call him Reguiba. Moroccan death merchant extraordinaire. With an army of desert jackals who live to kill-and kill to live-he's got the manpower, the hardware and the petrodollars to pull any job… no matter how bloody.
His target: American allies in the Middle East. His goal: the total breakdown of Western alliances. His biggest obstacle: Agent N3 — Nick Carter!
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Nick CarterOne
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Nick Carter
Killmaster
Blood Of The Falcon
Dedicated to the men and women of the Secret Service of the United States of America
One
One hot morning in early June, the Melina rode at anchor a mile out from the Israeli coast. The freighter was a floating bomb manned by a crew of killers.
The prospect of getting off the ship failed to cheer veteran terrorist Bassam Abu-Bakir. The only way to leave was by boat, and the thirty-two-year-old Palestinian, a born landlubber, loathed all things nautical. Throughout this trip he'd suffered from seasickness. Even now, he felt poorly.
Soon he'd feel worse. Much worse.
Hasim teased him. "Abu-Bakir, why so glum? The great day is here at last. Your heart should rejoice in gladness!"
"My heart will rejoice when it's safely back on dry land, and not before. Inshallah," Abu-Bakir added, "if God wills it."
Hasim nodded. "Our fate rests in the hands of Allah. If we are destined to die at sea, so be it. If not, then nothing can harm us. In any case, whatever is written shall come to pass."
"What a comfort you are." Abu-Bakir spat over the rail, into the sea.
Young Hasim was classified as a demolitions "expert." That meant only that he could rig a simple bomb without blowing himself up.
The Melina could blow without help from Hasim or anybody else. Stored in the central cargo hold were four tons of C-4-type plastique explosives bought in Cyprus at a bargain price. Too late, the load was found to be dangerously unstable. Since then, most of the crew lived in fear that some slight jarring impact would trigger a chain reaction in the cargo, blasting the ship to kingdom come.
The situation didn't bother Hasim at all. A Lebanese Shiite, he was there on loan from his local branch of the Islamic Jihad group. Compared to his home turf in the shooting gallery of the Bekaa Valley, this sea voyage was a pleasure cruise.
Being somewhat of a joker, Hasim enjoyed needling the dour Abu-Bakir. He nudged the Palestinian. "Hey, here comes your pal, Solano!"
Abu-Bakir bristled. "What? Where…?"
Following Hasim's gaze, Abu-Bakir set eyes on Solano, a man he very much wanted dead. His face darkened and his scowl deepened.
Hasim went on, "How fortunate that you two are together in the same squad! You're such good friends, I know you couldn't bear to be parted."
Abu-Bakir was totally unamused.
"If you and the Italian fight the enemy half as hard as you fight each other, the Zionists will be pushed into the sea in no time."
"Had I the time, Hasim, I would show you what I think of your humor."
Hasim giggled.
Solano and Vernex approached the ready area at the rail, hand-carrying their meager personal gear.
Pierre-Michel Vernex was once a graduate student and still looked the part. A pallid Swiss, he had carroty hair, turnip-colored flesh, and a pear-shaped body. In times past, he deconstructed philosophical tracts with scholarly logic. Now he deconstructed capitalist society with the tools of terror.
A string of successful bank robberies and abductions of high-ranking NATO personnel marked Giacomo Solano as a fast-rising star of the political underworld. High risk for high pay was his formula for the good life. Gifted with a cruelly handsome face and fine physique, he seemed more playboy than master criminal.
Anarchist, bomber, assassin — whatever else he might be, it was clear that Solano was a bit of a dandy. As always, his sleek black hair was carefully brushed back, his beard neatly trimmed. He wore a jaunty yachting cap, navy blue nylon windbreaker, white open-neck shirt, beige chino pants, and deck shoes with no socks.
Vernex snorted. "You look like a bourgeois banker set for a day of boating."
"Just because this is an ugly business, it doesn't mean I have to dress ugly," Solano said.
Earlier in the voyage, Abu-Bakir sneered at Solano for what he considered an unmanly concern with neatness and good grooming, and even openly referred to him as "the powderpuff." His derision lasted right up to the Great Dolphin Massacre and its aftermath, following which his contempt was transformed to hot, raw hatred.
No one knew what prodigious self-control it now took Abu-Bakir to turn his back on the newcomers and deliberately ignore them.
Solano was not so easily put off. "Good morning, Hasim."
Hasim smiled, nodded.
"And a very good morning to you, Abu-Bakir."
The Palestinian responded by grinding his bad teeth in impotent rage.
Solano put down his bag, stretched, went to the rail, and swallowed a few lungfuls of fresh air. "Ah, that's good! What a pleasure it will be to finally get off this stinking tub of a ship! I'm sure you agree, Abu-Bakir. Not too talkative today, are you? What's the matter, my friend? Cat got your tongue?"
Solano pretended to study the sprawling blue seascape. "Hmmmm, I don't see any dolphins today…"
That did it. Unsure of the Palestinian's reaction to the taunt, a no-longer-grinning Hasim joined Vernex in moving quickly to the side, out of the potential line of fire.
Self-restraint didn't wear well on Abu-Bakir. His face twitched. His hands shook from the struggle of stifling his murderous urges.
Trembling with tight-lipped rage, Abu-Bakir stalked off, Hasim trailing him by a few paces.
Vernex let out the breath he'd been holding. "You live dangerously, Solano."
Solano's broad grin flashed dazzling white teeth in a deeply tanned face. "Our comrade in arms doesn't like me so well, eh?"
"You are very stupid to provoke him."
"I caught the bastard machine-gunning dolphins for target practice, so I knocked him down. What of it?"
"You took his gun away from him and threatened to use it on him if he did it again," Vernex reminded the Italian.
"That was a promise, not a threat. Besides, Abu-Bakir is an extremist. Subtlety is wasted on him," Solano said. "Anyway, I like dolphins. Such beautiful creatures! You know, it's bad luck to kill them."
"It's worse luck to cross Abu-Bakir. He'd as soon kill you as look at you."
"So why doesn't he try?"
"The only thing that stops him from shooting you is that a stray slug could set off the explosives."
"The only thing? I wonder…"
"Once we're off the ship — beware," Vernex warned.
"I can take care of myself. But I thank you for the concern."
"I'm concerned with anything that might adversely affect our mission."
"You're a dedicated man, Vernex."
"True. Dedicated to the cause of world socialist revolution."
"Me, I'm dedicated to the holy cause of Solano."
"Your cynicism is disgusting," Vernex muttered.
"But my shooting is first rate," Solano said. "That's why I'm here."
Along came the hulking man-mountain known only as "Elias."
"Ah, the
re you are! I have been looking for you guys."
Elias resembled nothing so much as a bear waddling on its hind legs. An apt comparison, since a single swipe from either of his big, clumsy hands could cave in a man's face or smash his skull. He belonged to ETA-Militar, the ultraviolent Basque separatist army. He was a long way from his mountain home in the Pyrenees, but terror makes strange bedfellows. When told by his commanders that he was being loaned out to their comrades in the international terrorist network, Elias obeyed without a murmur.
Elias, Abu-Bakir, Solano, Vernex. The four members of the operation's Rocket Attack Squad.
"Our boat's loaded," Elias said. "Time to go." He looked around for the missing team member. "Where's Abu-Bakir?"
* * *
Abu-Bakir angrily stalked the ways of the ship's superstructure. He ran into Driss, the slave of Mokhtar. The collision sent Driss sprawling.
"Fool!" Abu-Bakir barked. "Why don't you watch where you're going!" Fighting the urge to strike the smaller man, he strode away.
Nimble Driss hopped up from the deck plates, chased Abu-Bakir, caught and held him to the sleeve. "He wants you."
"Who?"
Driss snorted. "You know who."
Abu-Bakir knew who, all right, but he was in no mood to be trifled with, not even by the operation's leader. "Tell your master I'm too busy to chat. I have to go blow up a Zionist oil dump."
"You think he doesn't know that?" Driss let go of Abu-Bakir's sleeve. Without another word, he turned and walked away.
After a pause for second thoughts, Abu-Bakir raced after him. "Wait! Where are you going?"
"To tell Mokhtar you refuse his summons."
"Don't be so hasty. Of course I will see him. Where is he?"
"Follow me," the slave commanded.
Abu-Bakir obeyed. Driss led him up a steep metal stairway into the ship's upper works, along a starboard gangway, around a corner, through a dark corridor, around another corner into blinding daylight, down a narrow aisle, around yet another blind corner, and into an alcove roofed over by a green-striped deck awning.
There stood Mokhtar, sudden, unexpected. Abu-Bakir stopped short to keep from stumbling into the man.
Mokhtar made a sign to his slave. Driss vanished.
Mokhtar was balding, wide-faced, with a black mustache and goatee. His age was indeterminate. He could have been a dissipated forty or a vigorous sixty. He wore a rumpled brown pin-striped Western business suit and brown wing-tip shoes. A long-sleeved gray shirt was buttoned up to the collar. He wore no tie.
Stuffed butt-forward in the top of his trousers was a revolver, a Spanish copy of a Smith & Wesson.38. He preferred a rifle, with which he was a championship marksman, but handguns were a necessary evil. Especially when working in close quarters, as for example on board the Melina.
Knives were necessary too. He wore a flat-bladed throwing knife sheathed between his shoulder blades, out of sight but within easy reach.
Immune to the midday heat, his taut flesh was dry as dust. So was his voice as he said, "You recall our little talk, Abu-Bakir?"
"Yes."
Abu-Bakir recalled it all too well. The dolphin incident occurred on the first day out from port, before the volatile cargo put an end to shipboard horseplay. During the fracas, Solano got his hands on Abu-Bakir's AK-47, his trusty Kalashnikov automatic rifle. Before returning it, Solano removed the weapon's magazine and tossed it overboard.
Mokhtar had intercepted the Palestinian while he was hunting high and low for a loaded clip to empty into Solano. "The Italian is needed for now. Do him harm, and you must answer to my master."
"I answer to no man!" Abu-Bakir had declared. "My master is Allah alone!"
"My master is Reguiba."
That had unnerved Abu-Bakir. "R-Reguiba?"
Mokhtar had permitted himself a thin smile at the other's evident distress. "You know that name — Reguiba? You have heard of the man who bears that name?"
"I… yes. I have heard of him."
"Then a word to the wise will suffice. And that word is Reguiba," Mokhtar had concluded, dismissing him.
Abu-Bakir had heard and obeyed. That was the sole reason why Solano was still alive.
But now, under the green-striped awning, Mokhtar took a different tack. "We must have another little talk. I have given much thought to a certain matter."
"Yes?"
"When your mission is done — and only then — it would be well if the man Solano was no more."
Abu-Bakir was cautious. "This is Reguiba's wish?"
"Reguiba does not concern himself with such trifles. He demands only that your raid succeed. This is my wish. And, no doubt, your fond desire."
"To be sure." Exulting, Abu-Bakir nodded his head rapidly. "A thousand thanks, Mokhtar!" An idea struck him. "And what of the other two unbelievers, the giant and the Swiss?"
"What of them? As you say, they are only unbelievers. Do what you will, but I remind you that one can escape the hunters more easily than three. Is that not so?"
"Indeed!"
Mokhtar raised a hand in ritual benediction. "Now go forth and kill, Bassam Abu-Bakir! And may the blessings of the Prophet be upon you."
"As you command." Abu-Bakir salaamed as he withdrew from Mokhtar's presence, visions of murder dancing brightly in his head.
Two
The accommodation ladder stood at the ship's starboard quarter. Specially installed for the mission, its bright yellow metal scaffolding contrasted with the black, rusted hull like a brand-new fire escape slapped on a condemned building. At its base bobbed a floating platform dock. Moored to the dock were twin powerboats, sleekly streamlined high-performance jobs.
The boats had made the trip riding piggyback on the ship. When the Melina dropped anchor off Tel Aviv, they were hoisted out of their afterdeck berths and lowered into the sea, a nerve-racking job for crane operator and crew alike, considering the cargo's vulnerability to sudden shocks.
Now the boats were in the water, ready to go. One was reserved for the Rocket Attack Squad. The other was the getaway boat, slated for use when the crew abandoned ship. It didn't take a genius to see that the launch lacked the capacity to carry off all the members of the ship's skeleton crew, but everybody figured that it was the other guy who'd get it in the neck when the time came.
Gorgias, the first mate, bossed a pair of sailors who did all the work of getting the boats squared away.
When the quartet of rocketeers assembled on the platform dock, Gorgias sidled over to them. Casting a twisted glance toward the ship's upper works, he hissed, "What's Captain Farmingdale up to now?"
"The last I saw of him, he was on the bridge, busy minding his own business," Solano replied. "The captain doesn't care to be associated with the likes of us."
"That's good for you. It's not safe to be near him."
"Why not?"
"His bad luck can rub off on you. You are well rid of him. I cannot wait until I am."
Solano chuckled. "Still holding to your pet theory?"
"It's no theory; it's a fact. I know!" Gorgias was a dark, squat, strong man laid low by obsessive fear. Fear not of the cargo, but of the captain. The first mate looked ill, with clammy gray flesh and black circles ringing his haunted eyes.
"Ask any sailor who's ever shipped out with him, and they'll tell you the same — the ones who came back to port, that is. Captain Farmingdale is a jinx. A Jonah!"
Insurance companies are well aware of the phenomenon of persons labeled "accident prones," luckless individuals who through no fault of their own are dogged by catastrophe. Seamen call such persons "Jonahs," after the biblical prophet, the original hard-luck mariner.
A crewman stood at the top of the ladder, shouting down. "Hey, Gorgias! The captain wants to see you!"
Muttering darkly, the first mate threw up his hands in despair — or perhaps resignation — and hurried to the bridge.
Vernex snickered. "Jonahs and jinxes — what utter tripe! Trust a sailor to swallow
such imbecilic drivel! Even so, let's be off. Why stay here any longer than necessary?"
The four men clambered aboard one of the boats. A pair of stylish bucket seats faced the control console. Solano took the wheel and Vernex sat beside him. Elias and Abu-Bakir sat aft, facing one another. Heavy-duty weapons wrapped in waterproof bags were piled between them on the bottom of the boat.
Abu-Bakir enjoyed the strategic advantage of being behind Solano's back. He delighted in having his fully loaded AK-47 slung across his shoulder. But he hated giving up the solidity of the ship for the insecurity of this comparatively tiny craft bobbing on the big blue sea. By steadily staring at his feet and nowhere else, he stabilized his nausea.
Solano fired her up. Twin engines turned over like a dream, purring with smooth power. Needles flipped to their marks on the gauges and dials.
"She's a beauty!" Solano said.
The powerboat's advanced design and curvilinear gullwing hull identified her as a Superbo Mark V, a top-of-the-line vessel not so much built as lovingly handcrafted by the world-renowned Genoese boatyards of the Agnelli family. She could make the fastest patrol boat look like the proverbial slow boat to China by comparison.
The mooring lines were untied. The boat shoved off, slowly steering clear of the Melina.
"Look." Elias pointed out a solitary figure standing at the ship's stern rail, silently seeing them off. "Mokhtar."
Vernex waved to him. His fluttering arm trailed off limply as he realized Mokhtar hadn't the slightest intention of returning the farewell salute.
Vernex shrugged and settled into his seat. "A strange sort of fellow."
Abu-Bakir could not resist a little anticipatory gloating. "He is deep… very deep. Deeper than you could ever dream. And his master is deeper still."
"Oh? And who might that be?" Vernex asked. "I think we'd all like to know the identity of the mysterious employer who recruited us for this job."
Had he given away too much? Abu-Bakir wondered. He decided to play it cagey. "Mokhtar's master? Why, none other than God, of course. Allah is the master of all men."
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