Blood Of The Falcon

by Nick Carter - [Killmaster 222]

  "What about Greer?" Carter asked. "Where does he fit in?"

  "That asshole? He doesn't know which end is up. That's why Hodler wanted you of fed. He was afraid that the Company had finally sent somebody who knew what he was doing."

  "I want Hodler. Where is he?"

  "I don't know, I swear it!" Wooten cried. "I don't know when he's coming back from meeting the big boss. They've got an airstrip somewhere out in the desert. That's all I know. Even if you burn me, I couldn't tell you any more."

  "All right, I'll do that," Carter said. He made a few close passes with the flame, while Wooten writhed, sobbing, rolling on the ground.

  If he wasn't telling the truth, he was giving an Academy Award performance.

  The lights of the oncoming vehicle could be seen from a long, long way off in this wide flat space. Carter had plenty of time to get Wooten to the far side of the car, out of sight from the road.

  "If these are some of your buddies, Wooten, the first bullet belongs to you," Carter snarled. "And just so you don't die too quickly, you'll get it in the belly."

  The oncoming vehicle slowed as its lights picked out the limo. Carter stood holding Wilhelmina out of sight behind his back.

  A rugged Land-Rover halted in front of him, driven by members of the Al Khobaiq Home Guard, a Bedouin unit presumably loyal to the throne.

  Two soldiers jumped out, rifles at the ready, while a third opened the passenger side door for a young man in his early thirties with the air of command.

  He was chunky, with a quizzical mouth half-hidden by a drooping mustache. His ghutra was silk, the head covering's expensive fabric denoting his royal status while contrasting with his custom-tailored European suit.

  Carter recognized him from photos included by Hawk at the final briefing back in Beirut. He slipped his gun back in the holster.

  "Prince Hasan, I presume?"

  "Indeed, yes! And you must be the elusive Mr. Fletcher. Or, rather, Mr. Carter. It gives me great pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. I confess that when your driver ran us off the road, I feared we had seen the last of you. I was already composing my note of regret to your government."

  Prince Hasan took in the miserable figure of Wooten, reeking of cleaning fluid, filthy, in pain, nursing his bullet-shattered ankle as he slumped dismally against the limo.

  Prince Hasan grinned. "I see you have the situation well in hand."

  Eleven

  Every country has its share of architectural follies, and Al Khobaiq was no exception. A quarter-century ago, an eccentric member of the Jalubi royal family built a palace high on a hill overlooking scrub-covered eastern flatlands and the first rolling dunes of the western desert. The eccentric ended his days as a madman, screaming his lungs out in a padded cell. After passing through many owners, his white elephant of a palace now housed the Crescent Club.

  Rumor had it that the palace was still owned by the royal family, who craved the pleasures it offered as much as any of their subjects. Leasing it to a syndicate of middlemen, they collected its revenues and partook of its delights while keeping their hands clean.

  Certainly its owners had clout. A new road branched off the coastal highway, going inland for miles to connect with the mountain palace. The Crescent Club did a bang-up business. Carter saw more vehicular traffic on its access road than he had seen anywhere else in Al Khobaiq.

  Ferrying the Killmaster to the club was Fawwaz, Prince Hasan's younger brother. Hasan's connections to the emir were too well known; a public figure reputed to head the secret police, Hasan's appearance might scare off Hodler from surfacing at the club.

  Hasan was delighted to get his hands on Wooten. "So, here is the villain who wrecked my beautiful car!"

  "Take good care of him," Carter said. "If my plan doesn't pan out, maybe we can use him as a lure to flush Hodler out from wherever he's holed up."

  "Don't worry, I will take very good care of him," the prince promised. "I have just the place for this bad boy."

  The prince's car had been wrecked, but not its two-way radio. Hasan had sent a message to Road Post 58, which dispatched a unit in the Land-Rover to pick him up. The unit then cruised the highway until they came upon Carter and Wooten.

  After conferring on a plan of action with the Killmaster, Hasan and his men took Wooten to Road Post 58 while Fawwaz drove Carter to the club in the gray limo.

  Surrounding the hilltop palace was an eight-foot-high concrete wall whose main gates were thrown wide open to accommodate the steady stream of long, luxurious automobiles delivering well-heeled, well-turned-out patrons to the club.

  The sentries manning the gates were fierce-looking men, armed with rifles and daggers stuck in their belts. But security procedures were minimal, and Carter's car was waved through, into the central courtyard.

  A circular drive allowed vehicles to drop their charges off at the club's main entrance. Many cars were parked off to one side, their drivers idling and smoking while waiting for their masters' return.

  And so Nick Carter came to Al Khobaiq's gilded palace of sin.

  The main building was a bizarre hybrid, cross-pollinating Moorish motifs with vintage Las Vegas glitz, garishly rendered in poured concrete, glass, and stressed steel. The fantastic creation had been built the hard way, with money squeezed out of the impoverished land prior to the discovery of the Zubeir oil dome.

  Branching off on either side of the central structure were long, rectangular, two-story wings. Their ground floors were blank, windowless. The arched windows of the upper floors were barred by ornate wrought-iron grilles through which could occasionally be glimpsed the indistinct figures of the rooms' occupants.

  These wings housed the so-called pleasure gardens, stocked with male and female slaves. Slavery is prohibited by man's law, but not by the Koran. Officially outlawed through the emirate, the age-old custom was still alive and flourishing.

  Fawwaz's English was not as good as Carter's Arabic, but he managed to wish the Killmaster luck. Carter shook his hand, said good-bye, climbed out of the car, and watched the gray limo circle the drive and exit the grounds.

  Eager patrons streamed across the plaza, under a portico, and into the palace. Carter joined them.

  Inside, his nostrils detected a multiplicity of scents: roasting lamb, butter, spices, tobacco, incense, perfume, sweat. Noise racketed off the walls. Heat seethed.

  The clientele was a mixed bag, fairly evenly divided between the Khobaiqi elite and affluent foreigners. The Crescent Club thrived — despite its flouting of Islamic and civil law — because the power structure wanted it that way. It looked as if a fair number of them were here tonight.

  Carter prowled restlessly, integrating himself into the scene, getting a sense of it. As he always did when entering a place for the first time, he sought and memorized the location of exits, halls, and stairways. If trouble broke — when it broke — there would be no time to waste in searching for a way out.

  Easing his way through the milling crowd in the grand front hall, he made his way to the main room, the club proper.

  Some customs are universal. Slipping the attendant in charge of seating a handful of rivals bought Carter a table which, while not in a prime location, was as good as any allocated to a single fellow, as opposed to a big-spending party.

  Carter surveyed the mingling of Middle Eastern and Western pleasure seekers. There were government officials, oil men, dealers and traders, buyers and sellers. Here sat a trio of Egyptians clad in conservative business suits, their heads crowned by red fezzes. There sat white-bearded sheiks from the interior, guarded by scowling desert tribesmen.

  Female patrons were few and far between. Arabia was above all else a man's world. What few females there were, were European or American, sleekly expensive playthings plying their age-old trade in the emirate as the toys of powerful potentates. Carter wondered how many of them would conclude their Khobaiqi sojourn by being sold as slaves and shipped off to some sheik's harem in the great desert. M
ore than a few, he decided.

  Many of the patrons drank from porcelain teacups, but the crowd's roaring clamor suggested that they were fueled by something more high-octane than tea.

  Raising his voice to be overheard by the waiter, Carter asked if it was possible to get a drink.

  Indeed, it was possible. His whiskey was served to him in a teacup, outwardly observing the proprieties. It was watered-down, weak, and expensive, but it was authentic enough.

  An intensive scan of the surroundings turned up no sign of Hodler. The towering East German would stand out in any crowd.

  Carter faced front to watch the floor show. Big speakers pumped in loud European disco-pop that had been popular ten years ago. But what the music lacked in interest was more than made up for by the live entertainment.

  On the raised stage, a trio of girls writhed like flames in a high wind. They were voluptuous in the extreme, as their scanty costumes of sequined bras, G-strings, and filmy scarves revealed to the satisfaction of all concerned. Gold glitter dusted their sweating bodies, sparkling under the spotlights.

  Spinning individually, the trio wove around each other in a kind of intricate belly-dancing minuet. Despite their near nudity, their faces were veiled below their come-hither eyes. Their caressing movements as they glidingly intertwined said that these lovelies were more than platonically fond of each other.

  Heat, smoke, and noise filled the space. The dancers played to a most appreciative audience, who clapped and stomped and roared their approval.

  As the music reached a crescendo, so did the action. These dancers had every part of their anatomy under control, with melon breasts, rounded bellies, taut thighs, and ripe buttocks all gyrating to the beat of a different drummer at the same time.

  This was no striptease, though by the number's climax they had shed their glittering halters and all veils but the ones masking their faces. Heaving breasts sent dark nipples swirling in opposite directions, buttocks clenched and unclenched, heavy hips bumped and grinded, miming the thrusting movements of sex.

  As the music peaked, the three graces shuddered, each flying high in her own individual orbit, paroxysming with orgasmic shudders as the sound suddenly ceased and the stage blacked out.

  After a heartbeat's stunned pause, the walls shook as the spectators cried out in one many-throated voice.

  The sweat beading Carter's face had nothing to do with the temperature. That was some performance!

  When the lights came back up on the stage, the dancers were gone. Carter noted that they had not been so carried away by simulated passion as to forget to collect the veils and garments they shed in the dance.

  Waiters circulated, taking and dispensing orders. Carter stopped one of the fast-moving young men with a fistful of riyals.

  The Killmaster surprised the waiter by speaking to him in Arabic. "When does Sultana dance?"

  The waiter looked grieved. "Alas, Sultana dances no more. But there are many other fine performers who would delight in staging a private exhibition of their skills for a generous gentleman."

  "No doubt, but my heart was set on Sultana."

  "Alas, that is not possible."

  Carter passed him more riyals, which rapidly vanished. "All things are possible for the right price."

  The waiter shook his head. "Sultana's master is a most jealous man."

  "Who might that fortunate fellow be?"

  "A foreign devil of an unbeliever — begging your pardon, sir. But he is an evil man, a white-haired giant."

  "Where does he keep this pearl beyond price?"

  "There."

  Ranged along both of the room's long walls flanking the stage were balconies subdivided into rows of private boxes whose intricate screens and sliding doors could be opened to watch the stage, or shut for more intimate pursuits.

  The waiter's pointing finger indicated a box at stage left.

  "Sultana is there?" Carter asked.

  "Please accept this small token of my appreciation." Carter slipped some folded riyals into the waiter's breast pocket. His pleasure at the gratuity was offset by his dismay at Carter's recklessness. "Beware, stranger! Her master is absent, but he has set his dogs to guarding his property!"

  "Dogs can be scattered by a few well-placed kicks."

  "But these are evil men — killers!"

  "Thank you again, you have been so very helpful." Carter glided past the waiter, who sadly shook his head at such rashness.

  A steep flight of narrow wooden stairs rose to the gallery. Carter climbed them.

  A turbaned guard stood behind a screen with brawny arms folded, blocking the entrance to the box holding Sultana and her two watchdogs. He stood half a head taller than Carter. His mean face was designed for scowling, while his muscular physique was built for violence.

  "I have a message for Sultana," Carter said.

  "I will see that she gets it."

  "A message meant for her ears alone."

  "Begone, dog."

  Carter tried the easy way first. "I have a message for you, too." He held out a handful of riyals.

  Taking the bribe, the guard crumpled the bills and threw them to the floor. "Go away, little man."

  Carter feinted, as if trying to slip past him. The guard grabbed a handful of Carter's shirt front, tearing it.

  Carter draped his right hand over the guard's, as if patting it. Instead, he applied a claw hold that wedged the guard's fingers together in such a way that nerves were ground between the bones. An agonizing submission hold.

  The guard was tough. He didn't scream, only vented a gasping groan. But he found it impossible to resist the Killmaster's punishing grip as his hand was twisted downward.

  The guard's rolling eyes bulged as he dropped to his knees. That put him in position for Carter's front snap kick, which took him square in the belly. A hard, taut belly, it was softened up by that kick.

  Carter finished him off with a brutal, chopping strike to the nerve junction behind the angle of his jaw. The blow rocketed the guard off to slumberland.

  Carter wasn't even breathing hard, though he did break a bit of sweat while dragging the unconscious guard off to one side, propping him against the wall.

  Pausing to straighten his bow tie and tuck in his shirt, he pushed back the sliding panel and entered the box, closing the door behind him.

  Sultana reclined on a divan, Arab fashion. Not even the dark hooded garment wrapping her could disguise the allure of her statuesque physique. Above the veil, her eyes were almond-shaped, expressive, kohl-rimmed. She looked dreadfully bored, until her languid glance fastened on the figure of the Killmaster.

  Her watchdogs' reaction was more animated.

  Abdullah was burly, well muscled, with a graying goatee. Missab was long, bony, and full-bearded. Both sat drinking at an octagonal table.

  Abdullah was the boss, or perhaps the only one of the pair who spoke English. His frown at the interruption deepened into a scowl at the sight of this brash Yankee with his go-to-hell grin.

  "What are you doing in here?" Abdullah demanded.

  "I have a message for the lady."

  Sultana looked nonplussed, or at least her eyes did, all that Carter could see of her face. He liked what he saw. He decided he'd like to see more of her, a whole lot more.

  First, though, there was the little matter of her guardians to take care of.

  Abdullah was obviously vexed. "How did you get past the guard?" Raising his voice to carry outside the box, he called, "Kizar! Kizar! Where is that fool?"

  "I'm afraid your man is lying down on the job," Carter said.

  Abdullah was the boss, all right. He threw Missab a dark, intent look of command, but Missab was already pushing back his chair to rise.

  Carter swatted Missab with a blistering backfist that splashed his nose over half his face. The blow would have knocked him out of his chair, except that Carter caught him by the hair and yanked his head forward, slamming his face against the table edge.

 
; The bottle on the table skittered, teetering on the edge. Carter let go of Missab. His hand was a blur of motion as it shot out, righting the bottle.

  Missab, his crushed face a mask of blood, slid off his chair and dropped under the table.

  Abdullah stood up, his hairy hand darting for his jacket pocket, reaching for a pistol. His draw never got started. His hand was still plunging into his pocket when Carter unleashed a front snap kick to the groin that mashed Abdullah's testicles to jelly.

  Abdullah purpled. He took his hand out of his pocket, grabbed his crotch with both hands, and folded. He knelt on the floor, mouth gaping like a netted fish sucking for air.

  Carter bent down, reached into Abdullah's pocket, and came up with a small pearl-handled pistol. He kept it, not wanting it, but only so he could dispose of it later. He used Abdullah's jacket to wipe his hand clear of Missab's hair oil.

  Sultana's dark eyes were practically round. She stopped lounging, and sat up. Her veil billowed softly as she said, with no little admiration, "You are insane!"

  He spoke to her in her own tongue. "We have a saying in my country: Faint heart ne'er won fair lady."

  Carter thought he saw a smile under the veil. "You think to win me, then?" she said.

  "Not yet, but I'm working on it."

  "You are amusing if nothing else, whoever you are. And just who are you?"

  "A friend."

  Wariness crept into her eyes. "All men want to be Sultana's friend."

  Carter indicated Abdullah and Missab. "Those two weren't very friendly."

  "They are no friends of mine." Dark suspicion clouded her face, as if she had smelled something rotten. "Is this a trick, then? Has he sent you, to test me?"

  "Who?"

  "My 'protector. " She spat the word as if it were a vile oath.

  "No." Carter smiled. "I said I had a message for you. Here it is. I have heard that you are very beautiful. I have come to see for myself. Not that I doubt the accounts of your beauty. But I wish to see it for myself."