Nick Carter

Dr. Death

Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America

One

The cab jolted to a sudden stop at the entrance to Rue Maloush. The driver turned his shaved head toward me and blinked his bloodshot eyes. He’d been smoking too much kif.

“Bad street,” he growled sullenly. “I don’t go in. You want to go in, you walk.”

I grinned. Even hardened Arab residents of Tangier avoided the Rue Maloush, a narrow, twisting, badly lit and worse smelling alley in the middle of the medina, Tangier’s version of a casbah. But I’d seen worse. And I had business there. I paid the driver, threw him a five-dirham tip, and got out. He slammed the car into gear and was a hundred yards away before I had time to light a cigarette.

“You American? You want to have good time?”

The kids popped out of nowhere and followed me as I walked. They were no more than eight or nine years old, dressed in filthy, ragged djellabas, and looked like all the other scrawny kids that pop out of nowhere in Tangier, Casablanca, Damascus, and a dozen other Arab cities.

“What you like? You like boys? Girls? Two girls at same time? You like to see show? Girl and donkey? You like very young boy. What you like?”

“What I like,” I said firmly, “is to be left alone. Now beat it.”

“You want kif? You want hashish? What you want?” they clamored insistently. They were still hanging at my heels when I stopped in front of an unmarked slab-wood door and knocked four times. A panel in the door opened, a thickly mustachioed face peered out, and the kids scampered away.

“Old?” said the face, without expression.

“Carter,” I said tersely. “Nick Carter. I’m expected.”

The panel slid back instantly, there was a clicking of locks, and the door opened. I walked into a large, low-ceilinged room which at first seemed to be even darker than the street. The acrid smell of burning hashish hit my nostrils. The harsh, wailing sounds of Arab music ripped into my ears. Spread around the sides of the room, seated cross-legged on rugs or leaning back on cushions, were several dozen shadowy figures. Some were sipping mint tea, others were smoking hashish from water pipes. Their attention was riveted to the center of the room, and I could see why. On the dance floor in the center, lit by dim purple floodlights, a girl was dancing. She was dressed only in a skimpy bra, translucent harem pants, and a veil. Her body was lush, full breasts and sleek thighs. Her movements were slow, silky, and erotic. She gave off an odor of pure sex.

“You will be seated, Monsieur?” the man with the mustache asked. His voice was still expressionless, and his eyes didn’t seem to move when he talked. I pulled my eyes away from the girl — with reluctance — and pointed to a spot against the wall, facing the door. Standard Operating Procedure.

“There,” I said. “And bring me some mint tea. Boiling.”

He faded into the semi-darkness. I sat down on a cushion against the wall, waited for my eyes to completely adjust to the dark, and gave the place a close inspection. I decided that the man I was supposed to meet hadn’t chosen badly. The room was dark enough, and the music loud enough, to give us privacy. If I knew this man as well as I thought I did, we’d need it. And we also might need one of the several exits I had spotted immediately. I knew there were others, and I could even make an educated guess as to where. No Tangier club lasts long without a few discreet exits, in case of a visit by police or even less desirable callers.

As for the entertainment — well, I had no complaints on that score, either. I leaned back against the rough clay wall and watched the girl. Her hair was jet black and reached to her waist. Slowly, slowly, she swayed in the murky light, to the insistent, gut-thumping of the oud. Her head fell back, then forward, as if she had no control over what her body wanted, needed, to do. The jet-black hair brushed against one breast, then the other. It covered, then uncovered, the muscles of her belly, glistening damply with sweat. It danced along her ripe thighs, like the hands of a man slowly caressing her into erotic fever. Her arms raised, pushing forward the magnificent breasts, as if she were offering them, offering them to the entire room of men.

“Nick. Nick Carter.”

I glanced up. At first I didn’t recognize the dark-skinned, djellaba-clad figure who stood over me. Then I saw the deep-set eyes and the razor-sharp ridge of the jaw. Together, they were unmistakable. Remy St. Pierre, one of the five top men of the Deuxieme Bureau, the French equivalent of our CIA. And a friend. For a moment our eyes locked, then we both smiled. He sat down on the cushion beside me.

“I’ve got only one question,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Who’s your tailor? Tell me so I can avoid him.”

Another flicker of a smile crossed the tense face.

“Always the wisecrack, mon ami,” he responded, equally quietly. “So many years since I have last seen you, but you have immediately the wisecrack when we finally meet again.”

It was true. It had been quite a while. In fact, I hadn’t seen Remy since David Hawk, my boss and operations chief of AXE, had assigned me to help the Deuxieme Bureau prevent the assassination of President De Gaulle. I hadn’t done badly on that one, if I do say so myself. Two potential assassins had been disposed of, President De Gaulle had died naturally and peacefully in his own bed a few years later, and Remy and I had parted with mutual respect.

“How else can I keep myself amused, Remy?” I said, pulling out my cigarettes and offering him one.

The strong jaw tightened grimly.

“I think, mon ami, that I have something to keep even you, the most efficient and deadly spy I have ever known, amused for awhile. Unfortunately, it does not amuse me at all.”

He took a cigarette, glanced at its gold tip before putting it into his mouth, and shook his head slightly.

“Still the custom-made monogrammed cigarettes, I see. Your only real indulgence.”

I lit his cigarette, then my own, flicking a glance at the dancer as I did so.

“Oh, I run across a few others. Strictly in the line of duty, of course. But you didn’t send that Urgent Top-Priority call through Hawk — and, I might add, interrupt a pleasant little vacation — to talk about my cigarettes, mon ami. I suspect you didn’t even ask me here to watch that girl attempt to make love to every man in the room simultaneously. Not that I mind.”

The Frenchman nodded.

“I regret that the occasion of our meeting is not more pleasant, but—”

The waiter arrived with two steaming glasses of mint tea, and Remy pulled the hood of his djellaba further over his face. His features all but disappeared into the shadow. On the dance floor, the tempo of the harsh music had increased slightly. The girl’s movements were becoming harder, more insistent. I waited for the waiter to dematerialize, as Moroccan waiters do, then spoke softly.

“All right, Remy,” I said. “Let’s have it.”

Remy took a puff on his cigarette.

“As you see,” he began slowly, “I have dyed my skin and am wearing Moroccan clothes. This is not the foolish masquerade it might appear. Even in this place, which I believe to be safe, our enemies may be around us. And we do not know, we are not sure, who they are. That is the most frightening aspect of this situation. We do not know who they are and we do not know their motives. We can only guess.”

He paused. I pulled a silver flask from my jacket and discreetly poured stiff belts of 151-proof Barbados rum into both our glasses. Moslems don’t drink — or aren’t supposed to — and I wasn’t thinking of converting to the faith. Remy nodded gratefully, took a gulp of his tea, then continued.

“I will come directly to the point,” he said. “Someone has disappeared. Someone of vital interest to the security of not only France, but of all Europe, Britain, and the United States. In short, someone of interest to the western world.”

“A scientist.” It was a statement, not a question. The unexpected disappearance of one scientist caused more panic than the defection of a dozen bureaucrats, no matter what the country.

Remy nodded.

“Have you ever heard of Fernand Duroche?”

I took a thoughtful puff on my cigarette and did a mental run-through of the AXE bio-files on French scientific leaders. Fifteen feet away, the dancer was doing her best to distract me. The music was steadily increasing in tempo. I could feel the oud in my belly. The girl was quivering, her belly muscles contracting in rhythm to the music, her thighs pulsing.

“Dr. Fernand Duroche, Ph.D. Legion d’Honneur. Born in Alsace, 1914. Graduated first in class, Ecole Polytechnique, Paris, 1934. Research in underwater propulsion devices for the French Navy until the German invasion. Fought with Free French under De Gaulle through the liberation. Postwar work: Major achievements in the field of computerization for nuclear submarine development in the French Navy. Since 1969, Director of RENARD, top-secret French Navy project. Codenamed Dr. Death during war for lethal expertise with explosives. Name still used as joke in view of Duroche’s meek personality.”

Remy nodded again. Now his eyes were on the girl, too. Her quivering breasts gleamed wetly in the smoky light. Her eyes had become hooded as she danced.

“You have done your homework. AXE gathers its information well. Perhaps a little too well for my own comfort, as security director of RENARD. Nevertheless, that is the man we are concerned with.”

“And the key word in his dossier is, of course, ‘nuclear’,” I said.

“Perhaps.”

I raised one eyebrow.

“Perhaps?”

“There are other key words. Such as ‘computerization’ and ‘underwater propulsion devices’. Which of them is the right one, we do not know.”

“Could it be all of them?” I asked.

“Again, perhaps.” Remy stirred slightly. So did I. A subtle restlessness was invading the room, a growing and almost palpable tension. It was pure sexual tension, emanating from the girl in the center. Her veil was dropped now. Only the thin, gauzy material of the harem pants and bra covered the rich breasts with their pouring nipples and the luscious thighs. Through that material every man in the room could see the black triangle of her sex. She moved it hypnotically, her hands gesturing in front of it, inviting, begging attention.

Remy cleared his throat and took another gulp of the rum-laced tea.

“Let me begin at the beginning,” he said. “Approximately three months ago, Dr. Duroche left the RENARD headquarters at Cassis for his annual three-week vacation. According to his co-workers, he was in an exhilarated mood. The project was moving rapidly toward a successful completion and, in fact, only a few details remained to be ironed out. Duroche’s destination was Lake Lucerne, in Switzerland, where he intended to spend a boating holiday with an old friend from his days at the Polytechnique. He packed his bags, and, on the morning of November twentieth, kissed his daughter goodbye at the...”

“His daughter?”

“Duroche is a widower. His twenty-three-year-old daughter, Michelle, lives with him, and is librarian at RENARD. But I will return to her later. As I said, Duroche kissed his daughter goodbye at the airport in Marseilles, boarded a plane for Milan, with connections to Lucerne. Unfortunately—”

“He never arrived,” I finished for him.

Remy nodded. He turned slightly to avoid having the dancer in his line of vision. I could see why. She was no aid to concentration. She had left the center of the floor and was writhing through the onlookers now, breasts and thighs brushing voluptuously against one eager man, then another.

“He boarded the plane,” Remy continued. “We know that. His daughter saw him do so. But he did not go through customs and immigration at Lucerne. In fact, he is not listed as being aboard the plane from Milan to Lucerne.”

“So the kidnapping, if it is kidnapping, took place in Milan. Or aboard the plane from Marseilles,” I said thoughtfully.

“It would seem so,” said Remy. “In any event, his daughter received a letter from him two days later. Both Mademoiselle Duroche and our best handwriting experts agree that it was indeed written by Duroche himself. In the letter Duroche stated that once on the plane, he had been seized by a sudden need for solitude, and had made a spur of the moment decision to isolate himself somewhere to ‘think things over’.”

“Postmark?” I asked, forcing myself not to look at the dancer. She was getting nearer. Low moans came from her throat now; her torso movements were becoming frantic.

“The postmark on the letter was Rome. But that, of course, means nothing.”

“Less than nothing. Whoever kidnapped him could have forced him to write the letter, then mailed it from anywhere they chose.” I finished my rum and tea in one easy swallow. “If, that is, he was kidnapped.”

“Exactly. Of course, in spite of his brilliant record of patriotism, we must face the possibility that Duroche has defected. If we take the words and tone of his letters at face value, that is most likely.”

“There was more than one letter?”

“Three weeks after his disappearance, Michelle Duroche received another letter. In it, again in his handwriting, Duroche stated that he was increasingly disturbed about the nature of the work being done at RENARD, and had decided to spend another six months in solitude to ‘think over’ whether he wanted to continue. It was only then that his daughter became truly alarmed — he did not state in the letter where he was, or state when he would communicate with her again — and decided it was her duty as an employee of RENARD, as well as his daughter, to contact the authorities. I was brought into the case immediately, but since then our investigations have turned up virtually nothing of value.”

“The Russians? The Chinese?” The girl was close to us. I could smell the perfume and the muskiness of her gleaming body. I could see the drops of sweat between her lush breasts. Men were reaching out to touch her, to grab for her.

“All our agents give negative on that,” said Remy. “So you see, mon ami, we are truly facing a blank wall. We do not know who he is with, whether he is with them of his own will or not and, most important, we do not know where he is. What we do know is that with the information within Fernand Duroche’s head, project RENARD can be duplicated by anyone, anywhere in the world, for only a few million dollars.”

“How deadly is it?”

“Deadly,” said Remy somberly. “Not a hydrogen bomb or bacteriological warfare, but in the wrong hands, deadly.”

Now the girl was so close I could feel her hot breath on my face. Her moans were becoming guttural, demanding, her pelvis moved back and forth in a frenzy, her arms reaching up as if to the invisible lover who was producing the ecstatic agony in her flesh; then her thighs spread to receive him. More men reached out for her, their eyes blazing with hunger. She eluded them, never losing her concentration on her own inward convulsions.

“And the daughter? Does she think it possible that Duroche might really have gone off alone to ‘think things over’?”

“You will speak to the daughter yourself,” said Remy. “She is in hiding, and I will bring you to her. That is one reason, mon ami, I have asked you to come here to Tangier. Another reason, and the reason I have involved you and AXE, is a suspicion I have. Call it, how do you say, a hunch. But who could best have infiltrated project RENARD, become aware of what it was and how it could be used — then kidnap Dr. Duroche, or encourage him to defect? Who—”

I leaned closer, straining to hear Remy’s words. The music was screaming harshly as the girl in front of us, her mouth open in a silent scream of ecstasy, began to arch her body toward one final spasm. From the corner of my eye, I could see two men moving purposefully across the room. Bouncers? To keep the onlookers in control and prevent the scene from becoming one of mass rape? I eyed them warily.

“—old friends again — agent’s report — the volcano—” Disconnected snatches of Remy’s talk came across to me. Watching the two men move closer, I reached over and put my hand on his arm. Inches away, the girl’s body quivered, then, at last, convulsed.

“Remy,” I said, “keep your eye on—”

He started to turn. At that moment, both men whipped aside their djellabas.

“Remy!” I shouted. “Down!”

It was too late. In the low-ceilinged room, the brutal chatter of Sten guns was deafening. Remy’s body slammed forward as if he had been smashed in the spine with a gigantic hammer. A line of bloody holes appeared along his back as if they had been tattooed there. His head exploded. The skull splintered into an eruption of red blood, gray brains, and white slivers of bone. Instantly, my face was soaked with his blood, my hands and shirt splattered.

There was nothing I could do for Remy now. And I didn’t have time to mourn him. A split second after the first bullets hit, I had flattened myself and started to roll. Wimelmina — my 9mm Luger and ever-present companion — was already in my hand. Flat on my belly, I snaked behind a brick pillar and returned fire. My first bullet hit home. I saw one of the two men drop his gun and arch his head back, clawing at his neck, shrieking. Blood spurted from his carotid artery as if it had been a high-pressure hose. He dropped, still clawing at himself. He was a dead man, watching himself die. But the other man was still very much alive. Even as my second bullet nicked his face, he dropped to the floor and wrenched his still-living friend’s body in front of him. Using it as a shield, he continued to fire. Bullets kicked up dust and splinters of clay floor inches from my face. I didn’t waste time and ammunition trying to hit the few inches of the gunman’s skull that I could see. I turned Wilhelmina upward and sighted at the three dim bulbs which were the room’s only source of light. I missed the first one, cursed, then scored three bulls-eyes. The room was plunged into thick darkness.

“Help! Please! Help me!”

Out of the deafening chaos of screams, shouts, and gunfire, a woman’s voice sounded near me. I turned my head. It was the dancer. She was a few feet away, clawing desperately at the floor for shelter that wasn’t there, her face contorted with terror. In the confusion her bra had been ripped away, and her naked breasts were splattered with bright splashes of blood. Remy St. Pierre’s blood. I reached out one hand, grabbed her roughly by her long, thick black hair, and dragged her behind the pillar.

“Stay down,” I growled. “Don’t move.”

She huddled against me. I could feel the soft curves of her body against my gun arm. I held my fire for a minute, zeroing in on the flashes from the gunman’s weapon. He was spraying the whole room now, laying down a line of fire that would have to include me — if I hadn’t had cover. The room had become a hell-hole, a nightmare death pit littered with corpses, in which the still-living trampled screaming over the writhing bodies of the dying, slipping in pools of blood, tripping over smashed and mutilated flesh, falling themselves as bullets slammed savagely into their backs or faces. A few feet away, one man shrieked continuously, pressing his hands to his abdomen. His belly had been ripped open by bullets, and his guts were spilling out onto the floor.

“Please!” whimpered the girl next to me. “Please! Get us out of here!”

“Soon,” I snapped. If there was any possibility of getting that gunman, and getting him alive, I wanted it. I steadied my hand against the pillar, sighted carefully, and squeezed off a shot. Just to let him know I was still there. If I could get him to abandon his tactic of laying down a sheet of fire in hopes of getting me at random, and force him to come looking for me in the dark — I could feel Hugo, my pencil-thin stiletto nestling comfortably in his chamois case on my arm.

“Listen!” the girl next to me said suddenly.

I ignored her, and squeezed off another shot. The firing halted for a moment, then resumed. The gunman had reloaded. And he was still firing at random.

“Listen!” the girl said again, more urgently, tugging at my arm.

I turned my head. Somewhere in the distance, over the brutal chatter of the Sten gun, I heard the distinctive piercing squawk of a police car.

“Police!” said the girl. “We must leave now! We must!”

The gunman must have heard the sound, too. There was one final burst, splintering bricks on the pillar and kicking up clay from the floor uncomfortably close to where we lay, and then silence. If you could call that charnel-house of screams, moans, and flailing bodies silence. I grabbed the girl by the arm and pulled her and myself up to a half-crouch. There was no use hanging around for the post-mortems. The gunman would be long gone.

“A back exit,” I snapped to the girl. “One that doesn’t let out onto any street. Fast!”

“Over there,” she said instantly. “Behind the wall tapestry.”

I couldn’t see what she was pointing to in the dark, but I took her word for it. Pulling her by the arm I groped my way along the wall, through an underbrush of human bodies, dead and dying. Hands clutched at my legs, my waist. I shoved them aside, ignoring the wailing cries all around me. I didn’t have time to play Florence Nightingale. I didn’t have time to be questioned by the Moroccan police.

“Under the tapestry,” I heard the girl whisper behind me, “there is a wooden peg. You must pull it. Hard.”

My hands found the rough wool of a Moroccan tapestry. I ripped it aside and felt under it for the peg. My hands were wet and slippery with something I knew was blood. The squawking of the police car was closer now. Suddenly, it stopped.

“Hurry!” implored the girl. “They are outside!”

I found the crudely shaped peg and pulled — as somewhere in a coolly remote part of my mind I registered the fact that, for an innocent bystander, the girl seemed a little too anxious to avoid the police.

“Hurry!” she begged. “Please!”

I pulled harder. Suddenly, I felt a section of the clay wall give. It swung back, letting a gust of cool night air into the death-stench of the room. I pushed the girl into the opening and followed her. From behind, a hand clutched desperately at my shoulder, and a body tried to push its way into the opening in front of me. My right hand swung up, and then down, in a semi-lethal karate chop. I heard an agonized grunt, and the body fell. I pushed it out of the opening with one foot and went through, shouldering the wall-section back into place behind me. I paused. Wherever we were, it was pitch black.

“This way,” I heard the girl whisper near me. Her hand reached out and found mine. “To your right. Be careful. There are steps.”

I let her hand pull me along, down a flight of steps and through some sort of narrow tunnel. I had to keep my head down. There was a smell of dust, decay, and age mingling with the night air.

“This exit is rarely used,” the girl whispered to me in the darkness. “It is known only by the owner and a few of his friends.”

“Like the two men with Sten guns?” I suggested.

“The men with the guns were not friends. But — now we must crawl. Be careful. The opening is not large.”

I found myself on my belly, wriggling through a passage just barely big enough for my body. It was damp and it stank. It didn’t take much figuring for me to realize we had connected with an old, unused section of the sewer system. But five strenuous minutes later, the flow of fresh air had increased. Ahead of me, the girl stopped suddenly.

“Here,” she said. “Now you must push upward. Move the grating.”

I reached up and felt a rusty iron grate. Bracing my knees under me, I heaved upward with my back. It groaned, then moved up, inch by painful inch. When the opening was large enough, I motioned for the girl to squeeze through. I climbed after her. The grating dropped back into place with a muffled clang. I glanced about me: A large shed, dimly lit from the moonlight outside, shadows of machinery.

“Where are we?”

“Several blocks away from the club,” said the girl. She was panting heavily. “An unused machinery shed for the port. We are safe here. Please, let me rest a moment.”

I could have used a breather myself. But I had more pressing things on my mind.

“Okay,” I said. “You rest. And while you rest, suppose you answer a couple of questions. One, why are you so certain those gunmen weren’t friends of the owner? And two, why were you so hot to get away from that place before the police arrived?”

She continued struggling to catch her breath for a moment. I waited.

“The answer to your first question,” she said finally, her voice still broken, “is that the gunmen killed Remy St. Pierre. St. Pierre was a friend of the owners, and therefore the gunmen could not also be friends of the owners.”

I grabbed her by the shoulder.

“What do you know about Remy St. Pierre?”

“Please!” she cried, twisting about. “You’re hurting me!”

“Answer me! What do you know about Remy St. Pierre?”

“I— Mr. Carter, I thought you knew.”

“Knew?” I loosened my grip on her shoulder. “Knew what?”

“I–I am Michelle Duroche.”

Two

I stared at her, still holding her shoulder. She was watching me intently.

“St. Pierre did not tell you, then?”

“St. Pierre didn’t have time to tell me,” I said. “His head was blown off just when the story was getting interesting.”

She shuddered and turned away.

“I saw,” she whispered. “It happened inches from my face. It was horrible. I will have nightmares about it for the rest of my life. And he had been so kind, so comforting. After my father disappeared—”

“If it was your father,” I said. “If you are Michelle Duroche.”

“Oh, I understand,” she said quickly. “It is difficult for you to conceive of the daughter of Fernand Duroche, the eminent scientist, performing the dance-du-ventre in a Moroccan hashish club. But—”

“No. Not at all,” I said. “In fact, it’s just the kind of thing Remy St. Pierre would have arranged. What better place to hide you? But that still doesn’t prove to me that you’re Michelle Duroche.”

“And what proves to me that you are Nick Carter, the man St. Pierre described to me as the most brilliant and deadly spy on four continents?” she asked, her voice growing sharper.

I eyed her speculatively.

“I might be able to prove it,” I said. “What kind of proof do you want?”

“Très bien,” she said. “You wish to learn if I know of your means of identification. Very well. Show me the inner side of your right elbow.”

I pushed back the sleeves of my jacket and shirt. She leaned forward to read the AXE identification tattooed on my inner elbow, then lifted her head and nodded.

“I also know your code name: N3; and your title: Killmaster,” she said. “St. Pierre also explained to me, Mr. Carter, that this AXE which you work for is the most highly secret agency in the United States government intelligence system, and that the jobs it takes on are too tough and too dirty for even the CIA.”

“Beautiful,” I said, rolling down my sleeves. “You know all about me. And what I know about you—”

“I am not only the daughter of Fernand Duroche,” she said quickly, “but also librarian for project RENARD. I have the Class 2 security clearance which such a job demands. If you place a call to the RENARD headquarters they will give you a means of firmly identifying me: Three personal questions to which only I, and RENARD, know the answers.”

“What about your mother?” I asked. “Wouldn’t she know the answers to some of those questions too?”

“No doubt,” said the girl coolly. “If, as you undoubtedly know, she had not been dead for the last sixteen years.”

I grinned slightly.

“You are a very suspicious man, Mr. Carter,” she said. “But even you must realize that, short of decorating myself with tattoos, which doesn’t appeal to me at all, I had few places to conceal identity cards in the costume which I—”

She gasped suddenly and flung both arms over her naked breasts.

“Mon Dieu! I had completely forgotten—”

I grinned again.

“I hadn’t,” I said. I pulled off my jacket and handed it to her. “We have to get out of here, and you’re going to attract enough attention in the street as it is. I wouldn’t want to start a riot.”

Even in the dim moonlight that filtered through the dirty windows, I could see her blush as she twisted into the jacket.

“But where can we go?” she asked. “I was sleeping in a small room on the floor above the club, which Remy had arranged for me with his friends, the owners. He was afraid—”

“—that if your father was kidnapped, and he didn’t cooperate with his kidnappers, you might be next on the list. A hostage for your father’s cooperation.” I finished for her.

She nodded. “Exactly. But we cannot return to the club now. There will be police, and the gunman who escaped might come again.”

I put my hand on her shoulder and guided her toward the door.

“We aren’t going anywhere near the club,” I assured her. “I have a friend. His name is Akhmed and he owns a bar. I’ve done him a few favors.” Like saving him from a life-term in a French jail, I could have added, but didn’t. “Now he’s going to do me a few.”

“Then you do believe that I am Michelle Duroche?” she asked. Her voice was pleading.

“If you’re not,” I said, looking down at the view between the lapels of my jacket, which was highly improved on its present wearer, “you’re an interesting substitute.”

She smiled, looking up at me as I opened the door and we went through.

“I feel better,” she said. “I was afraid...”

She gasped again. It was more of a muffled shriek.

“Your face... your face—”

My mouth tightened. In the full glare of moonlight, I could imagine what my face, hands, and shirt must look like, splattered and smeared with Remy St. Pierre’s blood. I pulled a clean handkerchief from a pants pocket, dampened it with rum from my flask, and did the best I could to clean up. When I’d finished I could tell from the look of controlled horror on her face that I still resembled something out of a nightmare.

“Come on,” I said, taking her arm. “We both need a hot shower, but that’ll have to wait. In a few hours there’ll be an army of cops around here.”

I guided her away from the port area, away from the vicinity of the club. It took me a few blocks before I knew exactly where I was. Then I found the Rue Zhirana, and turned right, into a long, twisting alley which led toward Akhmed’s bar. It smelled like any other Tangier alley, of urine, damp clay, and half-rotten vegetables. The decaying clay houses pressing in on either side of us were dark and silent. It was late. Only a few people passed us, but those who did took one quick look and averted their heads, scurrying away quietly. We must have made a disturbing picture: A beautiful and voluptuous long-haired girl dressed only in translucent harem pants and a man’s jacket, accompanied by a grim-faced man whose skin was streaked by human blood. Passersby avoided us instinctively: We had the smell of bad trouble on us.

So did Akhmed’s bar.

The Marrakesh Lounge was the most posh, expensive, glamorous bar in the medina. It catered to the rich, sophisticated Moroccan businessman, and to the knowledgeable tourist who wanted neither a hashish dive nor a phonied-up tourist trap. Akhmed had saved his money for a long time to buy it, and now he ran it very carefully. He paid his protection money to the police, of course, just as he paid it to certain other powerful elements on the other side of the law. But he also kept out of trouble with the law by making sure that the bar didn’t become a hangout for dope dealers, junkies, smugglers, and criminals. Part of ensuring his position consisted of his set-up: The bar was on the far side of a courtyard. The courtyard had a high wall topped with broken glass set into the concrete and a heavy wooden door. Beside the door was a buzzer and an intercom. Customers buzzed, gave their names, and were admitted only if Akhmed knew them, or the person who had referred them. Once in the courtyard, they were subjected to a further perusal by Akhmed’s keen eyes. If unwelcome, they found themselves on the street in record time. When the bar closed, toward morning, both the courtyard door and the bar door itself were double-locked.

The bar was closed now. But the courtyard door was open, standing a few inches ajar.

I hadn’t seen it like that in the six years that Akhmed had owned the place.

“What’s wrong?” the girl whispered, when she saw me hesitate before the door.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Maybe nothing. Maybe Akhmed’s just getting sloppy and careless with success. But this door shouldn’t be open.”

I peered cautiously through the crack in the door into the courtyard. The bar itself was dark. There was no sign of movement.

“Should we go in?” the girl asked uncertainly.

“We’ll go in,” I said. “But not through the courtyard. Not where we make perfect targets for anybody who might be in the bar, hidden in the dark, while we’re in bright moonlight.”

“Then how?”

Without speaking, I guided her by the shoulder, down the street. Akhmed had an emergency exit too, even if I didn’t intend to use it as an exit. At least it didn’t involve squirming through an unused sewer. We went to the corner, I held the girl back for a moment while I made sure the street was empty, then we turned right and walked silently to the third building on the street. The words Mohammed Franzi, Spices and Incense were written in Arabic script on a faded, peeling sign over the door. The door itself, of heavy, rusting metal, was locked. But I had the key. I’d had it for the past six years. It was Akhmed’s opening-night gift to me: The guarantee I’d always have a safe house when I was in Tangier. I used the key, pushed open the door on it’s well-oiled, silent hinges, and closed it behind us. Beside me, the girl paused, and sniffed.

“That smell,” she said. “What is that strange smell?”

“Spices,” I said. “Arabic spices. Myrrh, frankincense, alloes, all the ones you read about in the Bible. And speaking of bibles—”

I groped my way past barrels of finely powdered spices and burlap sacks full of incense, to a niche in the wall. There, on an elaborately decorated cloth, lay a copy of the Koran, the sacred book of Islam. A Moslem intruder might rob everything in the place, but he wouldn’t touch that I touched it. I opened it to a certain page, changing the balance of weight on the niche. Below and in front of it, a section of the floor slid back.

“As secret passages go,” I said to the girl, taking her by her hand, “this is a lot more first-class than the one we just left.”

“I apologize,” said the girl. “God forbid Nick Carter should encounter a tourist-class secret passage.”

I smiled inwardly. Whether she was Fernand Duroche’s daughter or not, this girl had guts. She was already half-recovered from an experience that would have sent a lot of people into a state of shock for months.

“Where are we going?” she whispered behind me.

“The passageway leads under two houses and an alley,” I said, lighting our way along the narrow stone shaft with a pencil flashlight. “It comes up—”

We both halted abruptly. There was a scurrying sound ahead, then a confusion of squealing noises.

“What is it?” the girl whispered urgently, again pressing her warm body against me.

I listened another moment, then urged her on.

“Nothing to worry about,” I said. “Just rats.”

“Rats!” She pulled me to a halt. “I can’t—”

I pulled her forward.

“We don’t have time for delicacy now,” I said. “Anyway, they’re more afraid of us than we are of them.”

“That I doubt.”

I didn’t answer. The passage had ended. We climbed a short, steep flight of stone steps. Ahead, in the wall, was one end of a wine barrel, five feet in diameter. I aimed the beam of the pencil light at it, moved the slender beam in a counter-clockwise direction around the barrel, and found the fourth stave from the top. I pushed it in. The exposed end swung open. The barrel was empty except for a small compartment at the top far end, which contained a few gallons of wine which could be drawn to deceive anyone who suspected the barrel was a dummy.

I turned to the girl. She was pressed against the damp wall, shivering now in her flimsy costume.

“You stay here,” I said. “I’ll be back for you. If I’m not back, go to the American Embassy. Tell them you must contact David Hawk at AXE. Tell them that, but no more. Talk to no one but Hawk. Do you understand?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I’m going with you. I don’t want to stay here alone.”

“Forget it,” I said tersely. “It’s only in the movies that you can get away with that I’m going with you line. If there’s any trouble in there, you’d just be in the way. Anyway,” I ran one finger down her chin and neck, “you’re far too beautiful to be walking around with your head blown off.”

Before she could protest again I had climbed into the end of the barrel and swung the lid shut after me. Instantly, it became obvious that the barrel had actually been used for storing wine a long time before it had been made into a dummy. The residual fumes gagged me and made my head reel. I waited a moment, steadied myself, then crawled to the far end and listened.

At first I heard nothing. Silence. Then, some distance away, voices. Or at least, sounds that might have been voices. Except that they were distorted, and the almost inhuman quality told me that the distortion wasn’t caused merely by distance.

I hesitated for another moment, then decided to take a chance. Slowly, gently, I pushed against the butt end of the barrel. Silently, it swung open. I crouched with Wilhelmina in my hand at the ready.

Nothing. Darkness. Silence. But by the dim shaft of moonlight that came in through a tiny square window set high in the wall, I could make out the bulky shapes of wine barrels and the wooden tiers of the wine-bottle racks. Akhmed’s wine cellar, housing the best collection of vintage wines in North Africa, seemed in perfectly normal condition for this hour of night.

Then I heard the sounds again.

They weren’t pretty.

I crept out of the barrel, shutting it carefully behind me, and padded across the stone floor to the metal bars that lined the entrance to the wine cellar. I had a key for those, too, and I used it in silence. The hallway beyond, leading to the stairs to the bar, was dark. But from a room off that hall came a dim, yellow rectangle of light.

And the voices.

There were three. Two, I could recognize now as human. I could even recognize the language they were speaking — French. The third — well, its sounds were animal. The sounds of an animal in agony.

Pressing my body against the wall, I moved toward the rectangle of light. The voices grew louder, the animal sounds more tormented. When I was a few inches from the door I leaned my head forward and peered through the opening between door and doorjamb.

What I saw wrenched my stomach. And then made me clench my teeth with anger.

Akhmed was naked, his wrists were bound together around a meat hook from which he was suspended. His torso was a blackened ruin of scorched skin, muscles, and nerves. Blood ran from his mouth and from the gouged-out craters of his eye sockets. As I watched, one of the two men puffed at a cigar until its tip was glowing red, then brutally pressed it to Akhmed’s side, to the tender flesh under the armpit.

Akhmed screamed. Only he couldn’t manage a real scream anymore. Only those gurgling, inhuman sounds of pain beyond pain.

His wife had been luckier. She lay a few feet away. Her throat had been slit so deeply and widely that her head was nearly severed from her neck.

The cigar-tip was applied to Akhmed’s flesh again. His body twitched convulsively. I tried not to hear the sounds that came from his mouth, or see the bubbling blood that came out at the same time.

“You are still being foolish, Akhmed,” the man with the cigar said. “You think that if you still refuse to speak, we will let you die. But I assure you, you will remain alive — and be sorry that you are alive — for as long as we wish you to — until you tell us what we wish to know.”

Akhmed said nothing. I doubt if he even heard the man’s words. He was a lot closer to death than these men realized.

“Alors, Henri,” said the other, in the drawling French of one born in Marseilles, “shall we castrate this filth?”

I’d seen enough. I took one step backward, concentrated all my energies, and kicked. The door exploded from its hinges and hurtled forward into the room. I was right behind it. Even as the two men turned, my finger was gently squeezing Wilhelmina’s trigger. A bright circle of red appeared in the forehead of the man with the cigar. He spun around, then plummeted forward. He was a corpse before he hit the floor. I could have disposed of the other man a split second later with another bullet, but I had other plans for him. Before his hand could reach the .38 revolver holstered under his left arm, Wilhelmina had disappeared, and Hugo was sliding into my hand. There was a bright flash of steel blade flickering through the air, and Hugo’s point sliced neatly through the tendons of the second man’s gun arm. He screamed, clawing at his arm. But he was no coward. Even with his right arm hanging bloodied and useless, he hurled himself at me. I deliberately waited until he was only inches away before I stepped aside. My elbow tapped his skull as his body, now totally out of control, hurtled past me. His head snapped up as the rest of his body slammed point blank to the floor. He was hardly down before I had rolled him over, face up, and pressed two fingers on the exposed sciatic nerve of his bloodied arm. The scream that came from his throat almost deafened me.

“Who do you work for?” I gritted. “Who sent you?”

He stared up at me, his eyes wide with pain.

“Who sent you?” I demanded again.

The terror in his eyes was overwhelming, but he said nothing. I pressed the sciatic nerve again. He shrieked, and his eyes rolled upward.

“Talk, damn you,” I gritted. “What Akhmed felt was pleasure compared to what’s going to happen to you if you don’t talk. And just remember, Akhmed was my friend.”

For an instant he simply stared up at me. Then, before I realized what he was doing, his jaws moved swiftly and violently. I heard a faint splintering sound. The man’s body stiffened, and his mouth stretched into a rictus of a smile. Then the body slumped, inert. A faint smell of bitter almonds came to my nostrils.

A suicide capsule, hidden in his teeth. Die before you talk, they had told him — whoever they were — and he had done just that.

I pushed his body aside. The faint moans I could still hear coming from Akhmed were tearing at my guts. I retrieved Hugo from the floor, and, cradling his body in my left arm, cut my friend’s bonds. I laid him on the floor as gently as possible. His breathing was shallow, weak.

“Akhmed,” I said softly. “Akhmed, my friend.”

He stirred. One hand fumbled for and found my arm. Incredibly, something like a smile appeared on the tortured, bloodied mouth.

“Carter,” he said. “My... friend.”

“Akhmed, who were they?”

“Thought — sent by St. Pierre — opened gate for them after bar closed. Carter... listen—”

His voice was getting weaker. I bent my head to his mouth.

“Trying to reach you for two weeks... something going on here... our old friends—”

He coughed. A trickle of blood slid from his lips.

“Akhmed,” I said. “Tell me.”

“My wife,” he whispered. “Is she all right?”

There was no point in telling him.

“She’s okay,” I said. “Just knocked unconscious.”

“Good... woman,” he whispered. “Fought like hell. Carter... listen—”

I bent closer.

“—tried... contact you, then St. Pierre. Our old friends... the bastards... heard they’d kidnapped somebody—”

“Kidnapped who?”

“Don’t know... but... brought him first here, Tangier, then—”

I could hardly distinguish the words.

“Then where, Akhmed?” I asked urgently. “Where did they take him after Tangier?”

A spasm seized his body. His hand scrabbled along my arm. The mutilated mouth made a last desperate effort to speak.

“—leopards—” he seemed to say. “—leopards... pearl—”

Then: “The volcano, Carter... volcano—”

His head fell to one side, and his body relaxed.

Akhmed Djoulibi, my friend, was dead.

He had repaid my favors. And then some.

And he’d left me with a legacy. An enigmatic set of words.

Leopards.

Pearl.

And, the same word that Remy St. Pierre had last spoken on this earth:

Volcano.

Three

When I brought the girl through the dummy wine barrel and into the cellar, she was shivering. I could tell from her eyes that it was as much from fear as from cold.

“What happened?” she pleaded, pulling at my arm. “I heard shots. Is anyone hurt?”

“Four,” I said. “All dead. Two were my friends. The others were scum. Scum of a particular kind.”

“A particular kind?”

I guided her down the hall, to the room where Akhmed and his wife lay dead alongside their torturers, their murderers. I wanted her to see what kind of people we were dealing with — just in case she hadn’t been sufficiently educated by the massacre in the club.

“Look,” I said grimly.

She looked inside. Her mouth fell open and she went white. An instant later she was halfway down the hall, bent over, gagging.

“See what I mean?” I said.

“Who... who are they? Why—”

“The two Moroccans are my friends, Akhmed and his wife. The other two are the men who tortured and killed them.”

“But why?” she asked, her face still white with shock. “Who are they? What did they want?”

“Just before he died, Akhmed told me that he’d been trying to get in touch with me for several weeks. He’d gotten wind of something going on here in Tangier. Somebody had been kidnapped, and brought here. Ring any bells?”

Her eyes widened.

“Kidnapped? You mean — it might be my father?”

“Remy St. Pierre must have thought so. Because when Akhmed couldn’t contact me, he got in touch with St. Pierre. Which is undoubtedly why Remy brought you and me here.”

“To talk to Akhmed?”

I nodded.

“But before Akhmed could talk to anybody, these two men got to him. They posed as being messengers from St. Pierre, which means they knew Akhmed had been trying to contact Remy. They wanted to find out how much Akhmed knew, and what — if anything — he’d passed on.”

“But who were they?”

I took her by the arm and guided her down the hall. We started up the stairs that led to the bar.

“Akhmed referred to them as ‘our old friends’,” I said. “But he didn’t mean friendly friends. Just before he was killed, Remy St. Pierre used those same words to refer to the people who might be behind the disappearance of your father. He also said something about these people being in a position to infiltrate RENARD, and to know enough about your father to kidnap him at the right moment.”

The girl stopped. “They also were able to find St. Pierre and kill him,” she said slowly. “Kill him at a time when they might have been able to kill the two of us also.”

I nodded. “Inside information from a lot of sources in the French government. What, and who, does that suggest?”

Our gazes met.

“OAS,” she said simply.

“Right. The Secret Army Organization that had led a revolt against President De Gaulle and tried several times to assassinate him. Remy and I worked against them together. Akhmed had a son working as bodyguard for De Gaulle, a son who was killed in one of the assassination attempts. We foiled those attempts, but we didn’t destroy the OAS. We’ve always known that. It’s very much alive—”

“And still has highly placed sympathizers,” she finished for me.

“Right again.”

“But what would they want with my father?”

“That,” I said, “is one of the things we’re going to find out.”

I climbed the rest of the stairs, went through the bar, and opened the door to Akhmed’s living quarters in the rear.

“But — how?” said the girl, in back of me. “What information do we have? Did your friend tell you anything before he died?”

I stopped in front of a bedroom.

“He told me several things. I’m not going to tell you any of them. Not for now, anyway.”

“What? But why?” Her tone grew indignant. “It’s my father who has been kidnapped, isn’t it? I should certainly think—”

“I’ve seen no real proof that you are Duroche’s daughter.” I threw open the door to the bedroom. “I’m sure that you need a shower and a change of clothes just as much as I do. Akhmed has a daughter, going to school in Paris. You should find some of her clothes in the closet. They might even fit. Not that I don’t like what you’re wearing.”

She flushed.

“The water should be hot,” I said. “Akhmed has the only modern plumbing in the medina. So have fun. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

She went inside and closed the door without a word. I’d hit her where she lived — her feminine vanity. I went back into the bar and picked up the telephone. Five minutes later, I’d made three calls: One to France, one to an airline, and one to Hawk. When I got back to the bedroom, the bathroom door was still closed and I could hear the shower running. I grabbed one of Akhmed’s robes and, kicking off my shoes and socks, padded down the hall to the other bathroom. The hot sting of the shower almost made me feel human again. When I got back to the bedroom this time, the bathroom door was open. The girl had found one of Akhmed’s daughter’s robes and was wearing it. There wasn’t much to wear, and what there was merely emphasized what wasn’t covered. What wasn’t covered was nice.

“Nick,” she said, “what do we do now? Shouldn’t we get out of here before someone comes and finds those bodies?”

She was sitting on the bed, combing out her long, thick black hair. I sat down beside her.

“Not yet,” I said. “I’m waiting for something.”

“How long will we have to wait?”

“Not long.”

She shot a sidelong glance at me. “I hate waiting,” she said. “Perhaps we can find a way to make the time go more quickly,” she said. There was a peculiar tone in her voice, a husky, languorous tone. A tone of pure sensuality. I could smell the freshness of her white, soft flesh.

“How would you like to pass the time?” I asked.

She raised her arms above her head, pushing forward the voluptuous outlines of her breasts.

She said nothing, but looked at me from under her lowered eyelids. Then, in one fluid movement, she brushed aside her robe and slowly ran her palm down the velvety skin of her inner thigh, down to her knee. She dropped her eyes to follow her hand as she repeated the movement. “Nick Carter,” she said softly. “Surely a man such as you allows himself some pleasures in life.”

“Such as?” I asked. I ran one finger down the back of her neck. She shivered.

“Such as—” her voice was husky now, her eyes closing as she leaned heavily against me, turning her face toward mine. “Such as this—”

Slowly, with excruciating sensuality, her sharp nails lightly scratched upward along the skin of my legs. Her mouth darted forward and her white teeth nipped at my lips. Then her tongue curled outward, toward mine. Her breath was hot, fast. I pressed her backwards onto the bed, and the heavy, full curves of her body molded to mine as she writhed underneath me. Impatiently, she pushed off her robe as I slid from mine, and our bodies came together.

“Oh Nick!” she gasped. “My God! Nick!”

Secret female places of her body opened to me. I tasted her flesh, rode on her crest. She was moist all over. Her mouth was as hot as her flesh. She was burning, everywhere — merging with me. We came together like a whirlwind, her body arching and tossing in rhythm to mine. If her dancing had been torrid, her lovemaking was enough to burn down most of Tangier. I didn’t mind being burned this way. And minutes after the fire had died down, it sprang up again. And again. She was a total woman, and totally abandoned. Screaming with desire then fulfillment.

It was, all things considered, one hell of a nice way to wait for a telephone call.

The call came with dawn. I disentangled myself from eager, still-demanding limbs and walked along the cold stone floor into the bar. The conversation took less than two minutes. Then I went back into the bedroom. She watched me come in with drowsy, but still hungry eyes. She held out her arms to me, her luscious body inviting me to continue the feast.

“No,” I said. “Playtime is over. I have three questions for you to answer. Answer them correctly, and I’ll know you’re Michelle Duroche.”

She blinked, then sat up straight.

“Ask,” she said, her tone suddenly all business.

“One: What was the color of your first childhood pet?”

“Brown.” she said promptly. “It was a hamster.”

“Two: What gift did your father give you on your fifteenth birthday?”

“None. He forgot. The next day, he brought me a motorbike to make up for it.”

I nodded.

“Correct so far. One more. What was the nickname of your best friend at boarding school when you were twelve?”

“Tee,” she said immediately. “Because she was English, and always wanted tea in the afternoon.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Well?” she said. “Do you believe me now?”

“According to RENARD, that establishes you as Michelle Duroche beyond any reasonable doubt. And what’s good enough for RENARD is good enough for me.”

She smiled, then yawned and stretched her arms above her head.

“Time to get dressed,” I said. “You and I are going to take a little plane ride. A man named David Hawk wants to talk to you. And to me.”

Her eyes became businesslike again. She nodded silently and slipped out of bed. She began looking through the clothes in the closet. I swallowed hard, watching her voluptuous nude body. There are times when being a businesslike secret agent isn’t easy.

“One more question,” I said.

She turned. I swallowed again.

“How,” I asked, “did the daughter of Fernand Duroche learn to do the most erotic belly-dance I’ve ever seen in my life? Lessons?”

She smiled. Her voice dropped four octaves.

“Oh no,” she said. “Just talent. Natural talent.”

I had to agree.

Four

Air Maroc has a fast, comfortable, convenient morning flight from Tangier that arrives in Madrid just in time for a leisurely lunch, before connecting with an equally fast, comfortable and convenient afternoon flight to New York via Iberia.

Fine for tourists. Wonderful for businessmen. Superb for diplomats.

Bad for secret agents.

We boarded a slow, ancient, and rickety flight to Malaga, where we sat around the hot airport for three hours before boarding another slow, ancient, and definitely wobbly plane for Seville, where it was a dusty, sweat-soaked evening before we could board a stomach-lurching, ear-popping flight to Nice. There the food improved, and the plane we boarded for Paris was an Air France DC-8. In Paris, the food was even better, if we both hadn’t been too tired to really enjoy it; and the Air France 747 for New York that we boarded at seven in the morning was both comfortable and punctual. Still, by the time we touched down at JFK, my charming hot-blooded belly-dancer had turned into an exhausted and irritable little girl who couldn’t think — or talk — about anything but a clean bed and sleep, on something that wasn’t moving.

“You slept,” she mumbled accusingly as we walked down the ramp from the plane into the terminal. “Every time the plane took off you fell asleep as if you’d turned off a switch, and you slept like a baby until we landed. It’s too efficient. It isn’t human.”

“An acquired talent,” I said. “Necessary for survival. If I depended on comfortable beds for rest, I’d have collapsed permanently a long time ago.”

“Well, I am going to collapse permanently right now,” she said, “unless I can get into a bed. Can’t we—”

“No,” I said firmly. “We can’t. First, we have to take care of baggage.”

“Ah,” she mumbled, “pick up our baggage. Of course.”

“Not pick up,” I said. “Get rid of. Excess baggage. Human baggage. Unwanted friends who have become all too touchingly attached to us.”

She stared at me, puzzled, but I didn’t have time to explain, and the crowd now gathering to go through Immigration was no place to do it anyway. We became a part of that crowd, had our realistic looking but phony passports stamped, and then plodded through Customs to have our luggage chalked. A few minutes later I was in a phone booth placing a coded call to AXE headquarters, on Dupont Circle, Washington, D.C. As I was waiting for the call to go through on the scrambler, I glanced through the glass walls of the booth.

They were still with us.

The Chinese girl, looking very exotic and glamorous in a Vietnamese dao, was apparently engrossed in buying a French fashion magazine at the crowded newsstand. The Frenchman, very suave in his tailored suit, with distinguished silver streaks in his hair, was staring into the distance in a languid pose, as if waiting for his chauffered car.

It wasn’t the same Frenchman who had begun the trip with us, of course. The one who’d picked us up at the Tangier airport had been a balding, rumpled little man in badly matched sports shirt and slacks, hiding behind a copy of Paris Match. In Malaga, he’d been replaced by a goon whose face bore evidence of a highly unsuccessful career in the ring, or some rough bars. He’d stayed with us through Seville, right into Nice, where he’d been replaced by the diplomatic looking character I was now watching.

The Chinese girl had picked us up in the Tangier airport and stayed with us every lap of the way, making no attempt to disguise the fact she was tailing us. She even bumped into me very deliberately on the flight from Paris and tried to start a conversation. In English. She was the one I couldn’t figure out. And frankly, she was the one who worried me.

But the ridiculously circuitous route I’d plotted from Tangier to New York had given me what I wanted: The chance to find out if we were being tailed, and by whom. I relayed this information to Hawk when he came on the wire. When I had finished there was a moment’s silence.

“Sir?” I said finally.

“Hak hak harurrmunmrnph!” Hawk cleared his throat while he thought. I could almost smell the horrible reek of one of his cheap cigars. I respected Hawk totally, but my admiration didn’t extend to his choice of cigars.

“Chinese. Did you get the regional dialect?” he asked finally.

“Cantonese. Pure and classic. In English—”

I paused.

“Well?” Hawk demanded. “She had a definite accent when she spoke English?”

“Mott Street,” I said dryly. “Maybe Pell.”

“Hak hak hak,” came the sounds. Hawk was thinking. “Harump. She was born here, then. New York, Chinatown.”

“Definitely,” I said. More silence. But now I was sure we were thinking on the same wavelength. It was almost unheard-of for an American-born ethnic Chinese to be an agent for the Chinese Communists. So who was she working for? I asked Hawk.

“We can’t say definitely,” he said slowly. “There are a number of interesting possibilities. But we don’t have time to check her out now. Just shake her. And shake the Frenchman. I want you in Washington by midnight. With the girl. And, Nick—”

“Here, sir,” I said with difficulty. Outside the booth, Michelle, who was propped against it, had closed her eyes and begun to slide peacefully down the glass surface very much like a falling raindrop. Alarmed, I reached out one arm and pulled her upright. Her eyes opened, and she didn’t look at all grateful.

“Nick, shake the Frenchman, but don’t hurt him.”

“Don’t—” I was tired. I became irritated. “Sir, he has to be OAS.”

Now Hawk sounded irritated.

“Of course he’s OAS. Our man at immigration in JFK confirmed that several minutes ago. He also happens to be a French diplomatic official. Grade Two. And the last thing we need right now is a diplomatic incident and some nice little stories in the newspapers. Publicity is not exactly what AXE thrives on, is it, Nick? So just shake him and the girl in a suitably non-violent, unspectacular manner and get down here to Washington. Clear?”

“Clear, sir,” I said, as cheerfully as possible.

There was a click, and the line went dead. Hawk didn’t like goodbyes. I made one other call — to an agency that specialized in foreign car rentals to people with somewhat unusual demands — then went outside the booth to find that Michelle had discovered that it was possible to sleep soundly standing up. I shook her.

“You,” I said, “are going to wake up.”

“No,” she said, firmly but sleepily. “Pas possible.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “It’s possible. You just aren’t trying hard enough.”

And I slapped her. Her eyes flew open, her face contorted with rage, and she reached up to claw at my eyes. I held her hands. I didn’t have time to waste on long explanations, so I gave it to her straight.

“Did you see what happened to Akhmed and his wife? Would you like that to happen to us? It’s a pretty safe bet it will, if we can’t shake these two characters who’re following us. And we can’t shake them if I have to spend part of my time hauling a sleeping beauty around from one place to another. Got it?”

Some of the anger died from her eyes. Resentment remained, but it was controlled.

“And now,” I said, “coffee.”

We went into a nearby airport coffee shop and drank coffee. And more coffee. And more coffee. Black, with plenty of sugar for fast energy. By the time my name — that is, the name on my passport — was called out over the paging system, we’d each had five cups. Even so, I ordered four more to take with us when we left.

The BMW was waiting for us in the parking lot. It’s a fairly small car, and it doesn’t have the flashy sporting look of a Jag or a Ferrari. But its rate of acceleration equals that of a Porsche, and it holds the road like a Mercedes sedan. Also, when it’s been properly worked on, it can do better than 135 mph on the straightaway. This one had been properly worked on. I knew. I’d driven it before. I threw our bags in the trunk and gave the red-haired kid who’d delivered the car five bucks to make up for his disappointment at having come here in such heavy traffic that he’d never got the car above 70 mph.

As we pulled out of the airport parking lot I got a clear glimpse of the Frenchman. He was in a brown and white 74 Lincoln Continental, driven by a ratty-looking little character with black hair slicked straight back from his forehead. They pulled in back of us, several cars behind.

I had expected that. What puzzled me was the Chinese girl. She was getting into a red Porsche in the parking lot as we passed, and she was acting like she had all the time in the world. She didn’t even look up as we passed. Had she turned us over to another tail?

Now was as good a time as any to find out.

“Safety belt fastened?” I asked Michelle.

She nodded.

“Then please observe the no-smoking sign until this flight reaches its cruising altitude.”

Michelle looked at me with a puzzled expression, but I said nothing more, concentrating on refreshing my memory of the feel of the car and its controls. By the time we were at the entrance to the Van Wyck Expressway I felt like I’d been driving it for the last eight hours. I slowed the car down, then stopped, waiting for a large enough break in the expressway traffic. After a minute or so, several of the cars in back of us pulled around us and went onto the expressway. Not the Frenchman and his ratty-looking pal, who were now forced to pull directly behind us.

“What are we waiting for?” asked Michelle.

“We are waiting for,” I said, “this!”

I slammed my foot down on the accelerator and spun out onto the expressway. Within seconds, the odometer read 70. The Frenchman was right behind us, also accelerating. He had to be. The break in the traffic was just big enough for two cars. If he’d waited, he’d have lost us.

“Mon Dieu!” gasped Michelle. “What are you—”

“Just hang on and enjoy yourself,” I said. We were doing over 70 now, the Frenchman right on our tail. And in another few seconds, we’d be climbing the roof of the car in front of us. But I didn’t intend to wait those seconds. My eyes scanned the oncoming traffic, and I found what I needed. My foot hit the brake, then released it, as I spun the wheel, and sent the car in a screeching two-wheeled U-turn across the divider and into the oncoming traffic. Into a space big enough for only one car.

“Mon Dieu!” Michelle gasped again. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her face was white. “You will kill us!”

The Frenchman had hurtled past still going toward New York City. It would take him another minute or so to find a place for his U-turn, especially in a car that’s made for comfort and easy handling on long drives, rather than for maneuvering.

“Just doing my best to keep you awake,” I told Michelle, then spun the wheel once more, without bothering to brake or down-shift this time, sending the car onto Southern State Parkway.

“I swear to you,” Michelle said, “I’ll never sleep again. Just slow down.”

“Soon,” I said. Then glanced in the rearview mirror and cursed silently. The Frenchman was there. Twenty car lengths behind, but there in back of us. His ratty little pal was a better driver than I’d given him credit for.

“Hang on,” I told Michelle. “It’s time to get serious.”

I pulled hard on the wheel, shot over to the extreme left lane, inches ahead of a tractor trailer, then proceeded to further infuriate its driver by slowing to 30 mph. He passed on the right, with an outraged blast of horn. Other cars proceeded to do the same. Now the Frenchman was only two car lengths behind, also in the extreme left lane. I scanned the traffic pattern, alternately speeding up and slowing down as we approached the red light for the turnoff to Baisley Pond Park. I hugged the left lane, slowing down to 20 miles an hour as the light came into view and I saw it was red.

The 200 yards of road directly ahead of me were clear in my lane. The light turned green and I slammed my foot on the gas. By the time we hit the intersection, the BMW was doing 60. The Lincoln was right behind, at almost the same speed. I let the BMW get two-thirds of the way through the intersection without slackening my speed, then pulled hard left on the wheel, down-shifting without braking. The BMW spun like a top, virtually in one place. My body and Michelle’s were flung violently, but held against the safety belts. In less than half a second, my foot was on the accelerator again, sending the BMW across the path of the Lincoln, less than inches from its radiator, and into the intersection. I stood on the brake, felt the BMW slamming to a halt just in time to miss one oncoming car, then hammered down the accelerator and shot across the intersection just in time to miss another in the far lane. It could have torn another car apart, or sent it into uncontrollable spins and stalls, but the BMW accelerated smoothly again as I pointed it up the park’s perimeter road.

“You okay?” I asked Michelle.

She opened her mouth, but couldn’t speak. I could feel her trembling.

“Relax,” I said, taking one hand from the wheel to pat her thigh. “It gets easier now.”

And then I saw the Lincoln again. It was almost a quarter mile back down the dead-straight road, but even in the thickening twilight I could make out its distinctive low silhouette.

This time I didn’t even bother to curse. The ratty little man was obviously a natural-born driver. He could match me daredevil stunt for daredevil stunt for quite awhile — long enough, in fact, to make it inevitable that the police would stop us. Which I couldn’t afford even if he, with diplomatic plates, probably could.

“It’s time,” I said, as much to myself as Michelle, “for a change of pace.”

I let the BMW slow to a comfortable, legal, 40 miles an hour. The Lincoln approached. In the rearview mirror I could see that one front fender was badly bashed, the headlight out, and a side window smashed. The Frenchman looked to be in a state of shock. His driver had a stunned, wild-eyed expression.

They pulled up a few car lengths behind, and held the distance. I swung off onto New York Boulevard at the same speed. They stayed behind. Other cars came up behind and passed, five, ten, fifteen. The Frenchman made no effort to pass.

They might be simply trying to follow us to our destination. On the other hand, they might be holding back, waiting for a quiet, dark place to attack us.

Time was passing. Valuable time.

I decided to call their hand.

I went another two miles and took a right turn onto Linden Boulevard, going toward the Naval Hospital. Halfway there, a furniture warehouse, unused at night, took up almost a block. I pulled up in front of it and waited. It was an ideal place for an ambush.

The Lincoln pulled up fifty feet in back.

I waited.

No one got out.

I waited another moment, and when the Frenchman and his driver still didn’t make a move, I gave Michelle her instructions. To her credit, even if she was still trembling, she simply nodded, her eyes sharpening with readiness.

Then I got out of the BMW and strolled back toward the Lincoln. When I got close enough to see over the remaining headlight’s beam, and into the car, I watched the look of shock on the Frenchman’s face gradually fade into an expression of wary alertness as I came nearer. His driver, coming down from his trick-driving high, simply looked surprised and stupid.

I leaned over the hood of the Lincoln and tapped on the windshield, directly in front of the Frenchman’s face.

“Good evening,” I said politely.

The driver glanced uneasily at the Frenchman. The Frenchman continued to look straight ahead, uneasy, wary, saying nothing.

Michelle should be sliding into the driver’s seat now, as my head and body obstructed the view from the Lincoln.

“That’s a fascinating two-way radio aerial you have here,” I said, again smiling politely.

Michelle should now be putting the still-idling BMW into gear, waiting for my next move.

“But it’s getting a little rusty in spots,” I continued. “You really should have it replaced.”

And a split-second later Wilhelmina was in my hand and firing. The first bullet ripped the radio aerial off the car and sent it spinning into the air, the second shot out the remaining headlight, and, as Michelle sent the BMW into a screeching U-turn, flicking on her high beams as she bore down on the Lincoln to blind both the Frenchman and the driver, my third and fourth bullets shot out the two tires on the right side of the big sedan.

It was the next maneuver I was worried about, but Michelle handled it beautifully. Barely yards away from the Lincoln she braked just enough so that my flying leap enabled me to grab through the open window on her side and hang on to the inside of the door. Then she was accelerating again, lights out now, in a swerve around the Lincoln and up over the curb it was parked against, hiding my crouching body at the far side of the BMW until, on the sidewalk, we reached the end of the street. Then, again, a screeching right turn, my body completely blocked from view, and we were tearing up New York Boulevard, my hands clinging to my precarious hold like twin leeches.

A quarter mile further she slowed to a stop. In one smooth movement, I was in the driver’s seat, she in the passenger seat, neither of us saying a word.

It was another mile before she spoke.

“That was — too risky,” she said. “They might have killed you when you came up to their car. Aside from the danger of your acrobatic leap onto this car.”

“It was a calculated risk,” I said. “If they had wanted to attack us, they wouldn’t have just sat there when we pulled over to the curb. As for what you call my acrobatics — if I weren’t ready to take risks like that I’d be ready for retirement. Which I’m not.”

Michelle simply shook her head. She still looked shaken. I silently spun the wheel and headed toward Manhattan, going by local streets where it would be easy to spot another tail. But I was fairly sure we’d lost the Frenchman and his friends. Getting rid of the aerial for their two-way radio meant they couldn’t send for someone else to take over. As for the Chinese girl, I was certain I had shaken any other tail she might have put on us.

Shaken it at the very beginning. Easily.

Too easily.

Why should she have given up so soon?

It made me uneasy. But there was nothing I could do about it now. I simply stored my uneasiness in a compartment of my mind, ready to trot it out any time.

In Manhattan I parked on a busy side street and made a telephone call. Fifteen minutes later, a man from the car agency arrived with a totally unremarkable and highly anonymous Ford Galaxy. Totally unremarkable, that is, except for a few changes under the hood that let it do up to 110 without difficulty. He picked up the BMW, expressing no interest or surprise at my sudden switch of cars, and left, wishing us a good trip.

It was as good as any trip can be when you’re driving, and you haven’t slept for over forty-eight hours. Michelle was lucky. She dozed, her head on my shoulder. I kept the Ford at exactly five miles an hour over the speed limit, and sipped black coffee from containers until I wanted to gag.

We weren’t tailed.

At ten minutes to midnight, I parked the car a few feet from the headquarters of the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services, the rather shabby, run-down building on Dupont Circle which disguised the headquarters of AXE.

Hawk was waiting in his office.

Five

“And so that’s about it, sir,” I wound up my account an hour later. “The OAS almost certainly have Duroche. Whether he’s with them willingly or not is another story.”

“And where he is with the OAS is still another story,” Hawk added grimly.

I nodded. I had already told him of my clues, the three words: Leopards, Pearl, Volcano. I had some more thoughts on the meaning of those words, but Hawk obviously wasn’t in a mood to hear them now. He puffed somberly on his obnoxious cigar for a moment, staring into space somewhere over my left shoulder. His sharp-featured face, with the toughened old skin, and the surprisingly soft blue eyes, had the expression it wore when he was thinking hard — and was worried. Not only was Hawk a tough old bird, he was a smart one. If he was worried, so was I.

Suddenly, as if he had decided something, Hawk leaned forward and ground his cigar into a pulpy mess in a cracked twenty-five-cent ashtray.

“Five days,” he said.

“Sir?” I said.

“You have exactly five days,” he said coldly and clearly, “to find Fernand Duroche and get him away from the OAS.”

I stared. He stared back, piercing me with those blue eyes, now grown hard as hammered steel.

“Five days!” I said. “Sir, I’m an agent, not a magician. From what I have to work with, it might take me five weeks, and then only—”

“Five days,” he said again. The tone of his voice meant “no discussion.” He gave his swivel chair a sharp nudge, and spun around so that he was facing away from me, staring out the dirty window. Then he told me.

“A few hours before you arrived in New York, we received a communication. From a Colonel Rambeau. I believe you remember him.”

I did. He’d slipped out of our hands after his attempted assassination of De Gaulle and gone into exile. To Spain, it was suspected. But still a top man in the OAS.

“Rambeau has informed us that the OAS now has the power to turn the U.S. energy crisis into more than a crisis. A catastrophe. And if he’s telling us the truth, catastrophe would be a mild way of putting it.”

Hawk’s tone was dry and cold. It always was when the trouble was bad.

“And exactly what is that power, sir?” I asked.

“According to Rambeau,” Hawk said, drier and colder than ever, “the OAS now has the power to totally destroy every off-shore oil refinery and oil drilling rig in the western hemisphere.”

My jaw dropped, in spite of myself.

“That sounds impossible,” I said.

Hawk spun around to face me again.

“Nothing,” he said grimly, “is impossible.”

We faced each other across his desk in silence for a few moments, each uncomfortably aware of exactly what that threat could mean, if it was real. It would be bad enough if the oil drilling rigs were destroyed; that would cut off a substantial amount of oil right there. But the destruction of the refineries, which processed oil not only from the western hemisphere, but from the Arab countries as well, might cut down the supply of oil in the U.S. by as much as eighty percent.

Oil for essential industries, for gasoline, for heating, for transformation into other forms of energy, such as electricity.

The United States, as we knew it, would grind to a halt. Our country would be virtually paralyzed.

“Could it be a bluff?” I asked. “Do they offer any proof they can pull it off?”

Hawk nodded slowly.

“They claim that they will offer proof in five days. Proof that not only can they do it, but that even with advance warning, we can’t stop them.”

“And the proof?”

“In five days, the OAS will blow up and totally destroy the Shell Oil refinery off the coast of Curaçao. Unless, of course, we can stop them. And put them out of business.”

“And if we don’t? What’s their price for not blowing up all the others?”

Hawk slowly drew another cigar from the breast pocket of his rumpled brown suit.

“They haven’t informed us of that. Yet. They state there will be further communication after they’ve proved what they can do.”

He didn’t have to go further. If the OAS did prove they could make good on their threat, the demands they could make on the U.S. would be staggering financially, politically, and in every other way.

It was blackmail — extortion, if you please — on an undreamed-of scale.

Hawk and I looked at each other across his desk. I spoke first. One word.

“Duroche,” I said.

Hawk nodded.

“The connections are too strong for coincidence. The OAS have Duroche. Duroche is a specialist — a genius — in underwater propulsion devices, the computerization of those devices, and their use with nuclear warheads. The OAS claim the ability to destroy every off-shore oil rig and refinery in this Hemisphere. Therefore—”

“Therefore, Duroche gave them this ability,” I finished for him.

Hawk rammed his cigar between his teeth and lit it in short fierce puffs before speaking again.

“Correct,” he said. “And therefore—”

“Therefore, I have five days to get Duroche away from the OAS,” I finished again.

“You have five days to get Duroche away from the OAS and destroy whatever devices he’s developed for them. And the blueprints for them.”

There it was. Five days.

“And Carter,” Hawk’s voice was still dry and cold, “this is a solo. The OAS have warned that if we enlist the cooperation of any foreign police or officials at all, they will immediately destroy every off-shore oil rig and refinery from Caracas to Miami.”

I nodded. That figured.

“You’ll have to take the girl with you,” he went on, puffing mechanically at the cigar. “She can give you positive identification of her father. We can’t have you bringing out the wrong man. I don’t like to involve her, but—”

“What if Duroche won’t come willingly?”

Hawk’s eyes narrowed. I knew the answer already.

“Bring Duroche out!” he snapped. “Willingly or unwillingly. And if you can’t bring him out—”

He didn’t have to finish. I knew that if I couldn’t bring Duroche out, for whatever reason, I would have to kill him.

I hoped Michelle didn’t realize that.

I stood up, then remembered something.

“The Chinese girl,” I said. “Did the computer turn up anything on her?”

Hawk’s eyebrows went up.

“Interesting,” he said. “That is, interesting because there’s nothing particularly interesting on her. No Interpol record. No reported involvement in any form of espionage. Her name’s Li Chin. Twenty-two years old. Graduated very young from Vassar, top of her class. Graduate work at M.I.T. Then she went out to Hong Kong and spent a year there working in the family Import-Export business. Just returned to New York a few months ago. Hard to see how she fits into the picture, at this point.”

It was. That was what was bothering me. But there was nothing I could do about it now. I returned Li Chin to her special little compartment in my mind.

“Any idea where to start?” asked Hawk.

I told him. He nodded. A cigar ash dropped to his suit jacket, comfortably joining a number of other smears and stains. Hawk’s brilliance didn’t extend to wardrobe or its care.

“I’ll contact Gonzalez for you, in case you can use him. He’s not the best, but he’s knowledgeable about the area.”

I thanked him and headed for the door. Just as I was about to close it behind me, I heard Hawk say:

“And, Carter—” I turned. He smiled and his voice softened a trace. “If you can’t be careful, be good.”

I grinned. It was a private joke between us. Only a careful agent had a chance to survive. Only a good agent did survive. In his day, Hawk had been more than good. He’d been the best. He didn’t come right out with it, because it wasn’t his style, but he knew what was in front of me. And he cared.

“Right, sir,” I said simply, and closed the door.

I found Michelle sitting — slumping, to be more accurate — in a chair outside the drab little room used by McLaughlin, an N5, for debriefing her. He already would have put everything she said onto tape, and now that tape would be gone over meticulously by several other agents, then fed into a computer for any information I might have missed. But I didn’t have time to hang around for the results. I leaned over and blew into her ear. She came awake with a jolt.

“Travel time again,” I said. “Time for a nice plane ride.”

“Oh non,” she moaned. “Do we have to?”

“We do,” I said, helping her to her feet.

“Where are we going now? To the North Pole.”

“No,” I said. “First we’re going upstairs to Special Effects for our new covers, including some passports and I.D.’s. Then we’re going to Puerto Rico.”

“Puerto Rico? At least it’s warm and sunny there.”

I nodded, leading her down the hall toward the elevator.

“But why?”

“Because,” I said, tapping the button for the elevator and pulling a fresh pack of cigarettes out of my pocket, “I’ve figured out the meaning of those last words of Akhmed’s.”

She looked at me questioningly. I put a cigarette into my mouth.

“I thought Akhmed said ‘leopard’. He didn’t. What he said was ‘leper’. As in leprosy.”

She shuddered. “But how can you be sure?”

“Because of the next word. I thought he said ‘pearl’. But it was actually ‘La Perla’.”

I lit a match and held it to my cigarette.

“I don’t understand,” said Michelle.

“The two go together,” I said. “La Perla is a slum section in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico. There’s a leper colony in La Perla. Your father must have been taken from Tangier and hidden in the leper colony.”

Michelle’s eyes widened with horror.

“My father — in a leper colony?”

I puffed on my cigarette. It had gone out. I lit another match and held it to the tip.

“An ideal place to hide him, I’d say.”

Michelle was white.

“And we are going to this leper colony?”

I nodded, then frowned in irritation. The cigarette just wouldn’t light. I looked idly at the tip.

“If we’re lucky, and he’s still there, we can—”

I stopped dead in mid-sentence. A cold shiver went through me. With thumb and forefinger I pinched off the tip of my cigarette and shredded off the paper and tobacco.

“What is it?” asked Michelle.

“It’s this,” I said flatly, holding out the palm of my hand. In it was a small metallic object. It was shaped like a rod, no more than a half-inch long, and smaller in diameter than the cigarette it had been hidden in.

Michelle bent closer to examine it.

“A bug, to use the popular terminology,” I said, and the self-disgust I felt at my carelessness must have shown in my voice. “A surveillance device. And this is one of the most advanced. A Corbon-Dodds 438-U Trans-ceiver. It not only picks up and transmits our voices over a range of more than a mile, but it also emits an electronic signal which anyone with the proper receiving equipment can use to determine our position to within a few feet.”

“You mean,” Michelle straightened up, looking startled, “whoever planted that not only knows where we are, but heard everything we’ve been saying?”

“Exactly,” I replied. And that, I knew, was why the Chinese girl hadn’t bothered to tail us. Not within sight, anyway. She could do it at her leisure, from a half-mile or so away, all the while getting an earful of our conversation.

Including my detailed statement to Michelle as to where we were going and why.

Michelle looked at me.

“OAS,” she half-whispered.

“No.” I shook my head. “I don’t think so. We were tailed all the way from Tangier to New York by a very good-looking Chinese girl. She bumped into me on the plane from Paris. I had a half-empty pack of cigarettes in my shirt pocket, and an unopened one in the pocket of my jacket. She managed to substitute her pack for my full one.”

And, considering that I smoke only my own custom-made cigarettes, with the initial NC printed on the filter, she had gone to a lot of trouble to do so. And had the use of some pretty extensive facilities.

“What do we do now?” Michelle asked.

I examined the bug closely. The front half had melted from the heat of my match. The complex micro-circuits were destroyed, and the bug had obviously stopped transmitting. The question was, which match had done it, the first or the second? If it had been the first, there was a good chance the Chinese girl hadn’t gotten enough information to know where we were going. If it had been the second—

I grimaced, then sighed and ground the bug to a deformed metal mess beneath my heel. It gave me a certain amount of emotional satisfaction, but didn’t accomplish much else.

“What we do now,” I informed Michelle, as the elevator door opened and we stepped inside, “is to get down to Puerto Rico. Fast.”

There wasn’t much else I could do. Again I returned the Chinese girl to her own particular compartment in my mind. Again.

It was getting to be a pretty big compartment.

I wished to God she’d stay inside it.

Six

Mr. Thomas C. Dobbs, of Dobbs Plumbing Supplies, Inc., Grand Rapids, Michigan, and his French-Canadian born wife, Marie, emerged from the. main terminal at San Juan airport; they were laden down with cameras, snorkel gear, all the other equipment necessary for their Caribbean vacation, including a floppy straw hat with Puerto Rico woven across it which Mr. Dobbs had purchased in the terminal immediately upon arrival. They were going to have, as Mr. Dobbs put it to anybody who would listen, a “roaring time.” They were going to “paint this little old island red.” They were going to “turn little old San Juan inside out, and that includes those casinos.”

They were, as anybody could tell, a pair of typical, moderately obnoxious, American tourists.

“Cab! Cab!” bellowed Mr. Dobbs, waving his arms madly.

Mrs. Dobbs was quieter. She looked a little tired. But she was obviously enjoying the sun and warmth.

“Ummm,” she remarked to her husband, turning her attractive face upward. “Isn’t that sun beautiful? And you can smell so many flowers. Oh, Nick—”

I grabbed her arm, as if to usher her into the cab which had pulled up in front of us.

“Tom,” I muttered, without moving my lips. “Not Nick. Tom.”

“Tom,” she repeated dutifully. “Isn’t it beautiful, though? I just want to put on my bathing suit and lie on a beach somewhere in the sun and listen to the ocean.” Then she grimaced. “Except, I suppose you have other things to do, and you need me to go with you.”

“Hell yes, sweetie,” I bellowed. “That’s exactly what we’re gonna do. Flop ourselves down on that beach and get one hell of a tan. We’re paying enough for it.”

The porter finished loading our bags into the trunk of the cab. I under-tipped him outrageously, making up for it with a brutally hearty slap on the back and a shouted “Don’t spend it all in one place, pal!” and jumped into the cab beside Michelle, slamming the door hard enough to make the cab’s body rattle. The driver looked at me with irritation.

“San Geronimo Hotel, buddy. That’s where were going. Only the best for Thomas C. Dobbs and his little wife,” I said. Then, sharply, a shade suspiciously: “That is the best, isn’t it? Sometimes these travel agents—”

“Sí, Señor,” the driver said tonelessly, “that is the best. You will like it there.”

I was certain that if I’d directed him to a public toilet he’d have said that was the best too.

“Okay, buddy. You get us there fast and there’s a good tip in it for you,” I said expansively.

“Sí,” the driver replied. “I get you there fast.”

I settled back against the seat cushions, extracting from my jacket pocket a cigar only a little less obnoxious than those favored by Hawk. I could see the driver gag slightly as I lit it.

I was overdoing it, of course. Putting on too much of an act. Making sure I’d be remembered.

And that was the point. A good agent wasn’t supposed to overdo it and put on too much of an act and be remembered. Which made me either a very bad agent, or a very smart good agent, who wouldn’t be thought of as an agent at all.

“Tom,” said Michelle, in a low voice, “did you really mean what you said about going to the beach?”

“I sure did, sweetie,” I said, in moderate tones. “First, we hit the old beach. Then we get dressed, have us a few of those Peeny Colazza’s, or whatever they are, then we sink our teeth into the biggest damn steak this island can find, then we hit those casinos and clean a few of them out. How’s that sound for the first day and night, hunh?”

“Really?” said Michelle, in the same low voice. “But I thought you—”

“You thought your old hubby didn’t know how to have a good time. Thought he couldn’t think about anything but plumbing supplies. Well, hang on to your hat, sweetie. Beach and booze, dinner and dice, here we come!”

And there we went, to Michelle’s delighted surprise. For one thing, that’s what Mr. Thomas C. Dobbs and wife would have done. And for another thing, it would have been suicide to approach my serious business in San Juan before late night anyway. Lying on a white sand beach, with the sun hot on my body, the crashing of Caribbean surf soothing in my ears, was a pretty good way to pass the waiting time.

“Tom.”

I rolled over on my side and glanced at Michelle. And decided this wasn’t just pretty good, it was — well, name your superlative. Any or all could apply, with Michelle’s lush breasts more than filling out the tiny, almost sheer bikini bra she wore, the silken skin of her belly tapering to a bikini bottom which was little more than two little triangles and a piece of string, the long, shapely legs stirring voluptuously against the sand.

“Tom,” she purred, eyes closed, face upturned to the sun, “put some suntan oil on me, please.”

“With pleasure.”

I spread the warm oil over her neck, down her sleek shoulders, across her belly, and down her thighs. Her flesh stirred gently under my hands. Her skin grew warmer, softer. She rolled over onto her belly, and I spread the oil over shoulders again, unhooked her bra, and spread it over her back, my hands sliding down along her sides, brushing her breasts. She sighed, with a sound closer to a moan than a sigh. When I finished, we lay side by side, our bodies touching. We both had our eyes closed, and the aura of sex between us was thick, hot, and growing. The blazing sun seemed to be pulling us together like magnet and iron, inexorably.

“Tom,” she whispered finally, “I can’t stand it anymore. Let’s go back to our room.”

Her voice was soft but urgent. I felt the same urgency. Without a word I hooked her bra again, pulled her to her feet and led her back to the hotel. When we got into the room she pulled slightly away from me.

“Slowly, Nick,” she said, her voice low, husky, her dark eyes burning into mine. “This time I want it slowly. Make it last forever.”

My hand reached out toward her. She caught it and held it cupped against her fullest curve.

“Make it be forever, darling. I want all of you, now, everything.”

Under my hand, her sun-hot flesh stiffened. I could feel the blood pulse. The pulse quickened. I pulled her to me and my open mouth covered hers, my tongue exploring, hard and demanding. She writhed erotically, but slowly, as if to an unheard drumbeat whose tempo was increasing at an unbearably controlled rate.

“Can water put out that fire?” I whispered harshly.

“Only increase the flames, darling,” she said, immediately realizing what I had in mind.

With one rapid movement I slipped her bra from her, then her bikini bottom. A sensual smile curled her lips. Her hand pushed off my trunks, and her eyes riveted on me in pride and admiration.

I felt my own instincts take over completely as I picked her up and carried her into the bathroom. An instant later we were standing under the scalding water of the shower, our sopping, steaming bodies clasped to each other and feeding furiously on each other. It was still slow, but with the blood-heat tempo of pure sensual ecstasy, increasing to the unbearable, the absolute and utter possession of male by female and female by male.

When it finally happened, we both screamed, wordless as the pure instincts we had briefly become.

“Satisfactory?” she murmured, when we had both recovered a little.

“Absolutely,” I said, still trying to focus my eyes and catch my breath.

The rest of the evening was complete and satisfactory, too — or would have been if Yd really been Thomas C. Dobbs. We drank Pina Coladas on an open terrace, manned by an army of scurrying waiters, while the Caribbean sunset put on a Technicolor spectacular as if on demand. When we went inside to eat, the army of waiters became a regiment, the menu was three feet long, and the whole place reeked of money being spent like water. Whatever money could buy was available and being bought, in quantity.

Unfortunately, tropical drink concoctions are my idea of the best way to spoil good rum, and I heartily agree with Albert Einstein that a twenty-four-ounce steak is ideal food for lions, and lions alone. Under more normal circumstances — which I sometimes find hard to imagine — I’d have enjoyed a just-caught “conk,” or sea urchins fried in garlic and Caribbean spices. But Thomas C. Dobbs would have turned green at the thought of either one, and for the moment I was Dobbs. So I doggedly Dobbsed it through the evening, consoling myself with the sight of Michelle in a see-through gown which gave every male in the place 20–20 vision on the spot.

Later, when we took a cab to the casino of the Caribe Hilton, I consoled myself with losing a couple of hundred dollars of AXe’s money on the roulette wheel, which is what Thomas C. Dobbs would undoubtedly have done. What Nick Carter would have done would have been to play at the Blackjack table and win. Not a gigantic sum, but, with the Carter system, a few thousand for the sport of it.

Which is what Michelle did.

“How much?” I demanded, going back to the hotel in the taxi.

“Fourteen hundred. Actually, it was fifteen, but I gave the dealer a hundred-dollar chip as a tip.”

“But I only gave you fifty dollars to play with!”

“Of course,” she said cheerfully, “but that’s all I need. You see, I have this system—”

“All right, all right,” I said gloomily. There were times when being Thomas C. Dobbs was a distinct pain in the posterior.

But there were also times, I reflected back at our suite in the San Geronimo as I watched Michelle emerge nude from the bathroom, when changing back to Nick Carter had its disadvantages too.

And it was time to change back to Nick Carter.

I turned up the television to cover our voices if the room were bugged, and drew Michelle closer to it.

“It’s time for business,” I said, trying hard to keep my eyes above her neck. “I should be back in four or five hours, at least before morning. In the meantime, stay in the room with the door locked, and don’t let anybody in, for any reason. You know what to do if I don’t get back by morning.”

She nodded. We’d discussed all that before leaving Washington. We’d also discussed the question of whether she should have a gun. She’d never fired a gun of any kind. Therefore, she didn’t get a gun. It would have done her no good, in any case, and I don’t believe in giving guns to people who don’t know how — and when — to use them. What she did get was an imitation diamond ring. The diamond was harmless. Its setting had four prongs which, when the band was pressed, extended just beyond the diamond. If anyone of those prongs punctured the skin of an enemy, the result was an instantly unconscious enemy. The trouble was, the enemy had to get close enough for Michelle to use the ring. I hoped she wouldn’t have to use it.

I told her so, then resisted the temptation to emphasize my meaning with a long kiss, and left.

I went out the hotel by, as they say in the movies, “the back way.” Except that going out any hotel by “the back way” isn’t all that easy. First, you have to find the back way. In this case, it turned out to be in the front, and consisted of a narrow flight of fire stairs. Since our suite was on the fourteenth floor, and nobody in his right mind would have walked down fourteen flights, I walked down fourteen flights. Then, grateful for my gym sessions with Walt Hornsbee, the AXE fitness instructor, I walked down two more flights to the subbasement. There I had to conceal myself behind the stairway until two dungaree-clad hotel employees, telling dirty jokes in Spanish, carried out several dozen garbage cans. When they disappeared upstairs, I let myself out into the street. It was a side street, little more than an alley off the Condado strip. And Gonzalez, sitting behind the wheel of a modest, nondescript, red Toyota, was parked no more than fifty feet away. There was no one else in sight as I climbed into the passenger seat beside him.

“Welcome to the best taxi service on the island of Puerto Rico,” he said cheerfully. “We offer—”

“Offer a fast ride to La Perla,” I said, sliding Wilhelmina into my hand and checking my ammo. “And while you’re driving, tell me how to get to the leper colony in La Perla.”

Gonzalez’ cheerfulness vanished immediately. He put the car into gear and moved off, but he didn’t look happy about it. His mustache began to twitch nervously.

“This,” he said slowly, after a few minutes of silence, “is an act of madness. To go to La Perla at this time of night is insanity. To go to the leper colony at any time is unwise, but to go at this time of night is not only insane, but possibly suicidal.”

“Possibly,” I agreed, reholstering Wilhelmina and checking to make sure that Hugo was snug in his chamois sheath.

“Are you aware that a large section of the leper colony hospital is in the contagious wing?”

“I am aware,” I said.

“Are you aware that even the lepers in the non-contagious wing are dangerous, since they are desperately poor and have few legitimate ways of obtaining money?”

“I am aware of that, too,” I said, adjusting Pierre against my upper thigh.

Gonzalez spun the wheel, guiding the Toyota off the Condado, and toward Old San Juan.

“And my Blue Cross has expired,” he said gloomily.

“You’re just the guide,” I told him. “I’m going in alone.”

“But that is even worse!” he said in alarm. “I cannot possibly let you go in alone. One man would not have a chance, not even Nick Carter. I insist—”

“Forget it,” I said tersely.

“But—”

“Gonzalez, your rank is N7. You know what mine is. I’m giving you an order.”

He subsided, and we spent the rest of the ride in silence. Gonzalez chewed on his mustache. I kept one eye on the rearview mirror for possible tails. There weren’t any. Ten minutes of twisting and turning through small, narrow streets brought us past the old governor’s mansion, and down a hillside road to the fringes of the seaside slum called La Perla. As we moved through it, tin roofs rattled in the Caribbean breeze. You could hear surf breaking against the sea-wall and smell decaying fish, garbage, and small, cluttered rooms without indoor plumbing. Gonzalez skirted a small square, navigated the Toyota through an alley that gave it about an inch clearance on either side, and parked around the corner. The darkened street was deserted. Latin music came faintly from a window above us.

“You are determined to do this foolish thing?” Gonzalez asked, his voice thick with anxiety.

“There’s no other way,” I responded flatly.

Gonzalez sighed.

“The leper colony is at the end of the street. It is a leprosarium, really, a combination hospital and hostel for lepers. It occupies a space equivalent to a city block, and is shaped like a fortress, consisting of one large building with a central courtyard. There is only one entrance and exit. It leads into the offices of the leprosarium. Beyond this there is one locked door. It leads into the courtyard. Off the courtyard there are three wings: the east wing, which is the hospital, the west wing, which is a dormitory for lepers whose condition is stabilized, and the south wing.”

Gonzalez turned and looked at me hard.

“The south wing,” he said, “houses those lepers who are contagious and who are not allowed out of the leprosarium.”

I nodded. I’d done some homework on the ugly subject of leprosy. It is a chronic, infectious disease that attacks the skin, the body tissues, and the nerves. In its early stages it produces white spots on the skin, then white scaly scabs, putrescent ulcers, and nodules. Finally, parts of the body literally waste away and fall off, producing nightmarish deformities. Thanks to antibiotics developed after the Second World War, it’s now possible to arrest the disease at a certain point. But in its early stages, it is still highly contagious.

“Do you have what I asked you to bring?”

Wordlessly, Gonzalez reached into the back seat and handed me a doctor’s bag and two sets of I.D. cards. One was for a Jonathan Miller, M.D. The other was for an Inspector Miller of the San Juan Customs Bureau.

“The syringes are full,” said Gonzalez. “One of them should knock out a grown man within seconds and keep him out for a minimum of eight hours. Carter—”

He paused. I looked at him.

“The lepers whose cases have been arrested are quite as dangerous as the contagious ones. They sleep and eat here free, and are given medication. But they have no money for other things — cigarettes, rum, gambling — and few of them are able to work. So, it is well known that they are involved in many shady things. They—”

I opened the door of the car and got out.

“That,” I said, “is what I’m counting on. I’ll also be counting on you to wait for me in that little square we passed until morning. If I’m not out by then, leave. Contact Hawk. You know the drill.”

Gonzalez nodded. I turned and walked away before he even had the car in gear.

“Buena suerte,” I heard him call softly behind me.

Good luck.

I’d need it.

Seven

The leprosarium was a squat, heavy, ugly building of crumbling stucco, which someone had painted a vivid red that made it even uglier. It was two stories high, and the windows on each story were covered with heavy wooden shutters, closed tight even in the Caribbean heat. I found a bell pull to one side of the wooden door and pulled hard. I heard a loud metallic clanging inside, then silence. I pulled again. More clanking. Then footsteps. The door opened a crack, and a thin, sleepy female face peered out.

“What do you want?” she asked irritably, in Spanish.

“I am Dr. Jonathan Miller,” I replied crisply, in my somewhat rusty, but reasonably fluent Spanish. “I am here to see the patient Diaz.”

There had to be a patient named Diaz in the leprosarium. It was one of the most common names in Puerto Rico.

“At this hour you come to see a patient?” the woman said, even more irritably.

“I am from New York,” I said. “I am here only a few days. I am doing a favor for Diaz’ family. I have no other time. Kindly let me in, Señora. I must be back at my clinic by tomorrow.”

The woman hesitated.

“Señora,” I said, putting a sharp edge of impatience in my voice, “you are wasting my time. If you will not let me in, call someone in authority.”

“There is no one else here at night,” she said, a note of uncertainty creeping into her voice. She glanced down at my doctor’s bag. “Only two nurses, on duty in the hospital. We are badly understaffed.”

“The door, Señora,” I said brusquely.

Slowly, reluctantly, she opened the door and stood aside to let me in, then closed and bolted it behind me.

“Which Diaz is it you want? Felipe, or Esteban?”

“Felipe,” I said, glancing around a large room lined with ancient filing cabinets and furnished with two rickety metal desks and a few chairs. There was a strong odor of disinfectant, and underneath it, a faint but distinct odor of decaying human flesh.

“Felipe Diaz is in the west wing, with the stabilized cases. But I cannot take you there. I must stay by the door,” the woman said. She moved to a desk and opened a drawer, taking out a ring of keys. “If you want to go you must go by yourself.”

“Bueno,” I said, “I will go myself.”

I held out my hand for the keys. The woman extended them. I looked down at her hand and suppressed a gasp. Only a thumb and an inch of forefinger extended from the palm.

The woman caught my look and smiled.

“It is nothing, Señor.” she said. “My case is stabilized and I am not infectious. I am one of the lucky ones. With me, it was only a few fingers. With others, like Felipe—”

I forced myself to take the keys from that hand, then moved toward the door in the far wall.

“Diaz is in bed twelve, just opposite the door,” the woman said behind me, as I opened the door. “And, Señor, be careful not to enter the south wing. The cases there are highly contagious.”

I nodded and moved out into the courtyard, shutting the door behind me. A dim electric bulb barely illuminated a barren dirt yard with a few scraggly palms and some rows of benches. The windows on this side were open, dark, and I could hear snores, sighs, coughs, and a few moans. I crossed the yard quickly toward the west wing, then unlocked the door with the big iron key.

The smell hit me like a hammer. It was thick and heavy, the smell of rotting human flesh, the smell a decomposing corpse gives off in heat. No disinfectant in the world could cover that smell, and I had to fight off the wave of nausea that swept over me. When I was sure I wasn’t going to be sick I pulled a pencil flashlight from my pocket and swept the beam along the darkened room. Rows of bodies lying on cots, twisted into the awkward positions of sleep. Here and there an eye flicked open and regarded me warily. I directed the beam at the bed directly opposite the door, and moved quietly across the room. The figure on the cot had the sheet pulled up over its head. A gargled snore came from somewhere under the sheet. I put out a hand and shook one shoulder.

“Diaz!” I whispered sharply. “Wake up! Diaz!”

The figure stirred. Slowly, one arm emerged and pulled down the sheet. The head turned and the face came into view.

I swallowed hard. It was a face from a nightmare. The nose was gone, and one ear was no more than a rotten crumple of flesh. Black gums stared at me where the upper hp had wasted away. The left arm was a stump, shriveled below the elbow.

“Como?” Diaz asked in a hoarse croak, staring at me sleepily. “Qué quiere?”

I reached into my jacket and flipped an I.D. card at him.

“Inspector Miller, San Juan Customs Bureau,” I said. “You’re wanted for questioning.”

The ruined face regarded me uncomprehendingly.

“Put on your clothes and come outside,” I said sharply. “There’s no need to wake up everyone in here.”

He still looked uncomprehending, but he slowly threw off the sheet and stood up. He didn’t need to put on his clothes. He was sleeping in them. He followed me across the floor and out the door into the courtyard, where he stood blinking at me in the semi-darkness.

“I won’t waste any time, Diaz,” I said. “We’ve received information that a smuggling ring is operating through the leprosarium. Storing smuggled goods here, for one thing. Drugs. And according to our information, you’re up to your neck in the whole thing.”

“Como?” said Diaz, a startled look replacing the sleepy one. “Smuggling? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“There’s no use in playing dumb,” I snapped. “We know what’s going on and we know you’re involved. Now are you going to cooperate or not?”

“But I tell you, I don’t know nothing,” Diaz protested. “I don’t know nothing about drugs or smuggling here or anywhere.”

I bored into him with my eyes. I didn’t like to do what I had to do next, but I did it.

“Diaz,” I said slowly, “you have a choice. You can either cooperate with us and go free, or I can arrest you right here and now. That means I put you in jail. In solitary confinement, of course, since the other prisoners can’t have a leper among them. And probably for a long time, since it may take us a long time to crack this case without you. And during that time, it will probably be impossible for us to provide the medication you need to keep your disease arrested.”

A look of terror crept into Diaz’ eyes.

“No!” he gasped, “You can’t do that! I’ll die! Horribly! I swear to you on my mother’s grave, I know nothing of—”

“It’s your choice, Diaz,” I said grimly. “And you’d better make it now.”

Diaz’ ruined face had become coated with sweat. He began to tremble.

“But I know nothing!” he pleaded. “How can I help you if I—”

He paused. My nerves tensed. This could be what I was fishing for.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “Wait. Perhaps—”

I waited.

“Several months ago,” he said, “it happened several months ago. Some strangers were here. Not lepers. Not doctors. But they were hiding something, or maybe someone.”

“Hiding it, or him, where?” I demanded.

“Where no one would look. In the infectious section.”

“Go on,” I said.

“They left, after about a month. Taking with them whatever they had been hiding. That is all I know, I swear to you on the honor of my mother.”

“I need more information than that, Diaz,” I said in a hard voice. “Where did they take what they had been hiding?”

“I don’t know, I swear it If I knew I would tell you. But—”

He paused. An uneasy look came into his eyes.

“Go on,” I demanded.

“Jorge. Jorge would know. He is a leper with an arrested case, who works as a male nurse in the contagious wing. He would have seen everything, perhaps overheard something of value to you. But—”

“But what?”

“In order to talk to him, we would have to go into the contagious wing. For me, it is nothing. But for you—”

He didn’t have to finish the sentence. I knew the danger. But I also knew what I had to do.

“Can you get me a sterile smock, gloves, cap, the whole outfit?”

Diaz nodded.

“Do it,” I said tersely. “And fast.”

He disappeared inside the building, and reappeared a few minutes later carrying what I had asked for. When I had put on the smock, cap, surgeon’s mask, and gloves, he pushed a pair of shoes at me.

“You must leave your own shoes outside the door. All these things will be sterilized when you have taken them off again.”

I did as he said, then started across the courtyard, holding my own shoes in my hand.

“Can you get a key to the south wing?” I asked.

Diaz smiled slightly, his missing upper lip turning it into a horrible grimace.

“It is only locked from the outside, Señor,” he said. “To keep the lepers in. There is no difficulty in keeping others out.”

Diaz drew the bolt on another heavy wooden door, and stepped aside to allow me to go first. I brusquely motioned for him to go ahead. Again, the darkened room, but this time with a light at one end, where a man in white sat at a table, his head on his arms, sleeping. Again, the rows of cots, the sleep-awkward figures. But here, some were twisting in pain. Moans came brokenly from here and there. The odor was even worse than in the west wing. Diaz went down the aisle to the man in white, looked at him closely, then lifted his head by the hair.

“Jorge,” he said roughly. “Jorge. Wake. The Señor wishes to speak with you.”

Jorge’s eyes opened slightly, he looked up at me in an out-of-focus way, then his head fell back on his arms. Part of his left cheek was gone, exposing the white bone.

“Aiee,” he mumbled. “So pretty. And so brave, to come to work with lepers. So pretty.”

Diaz looked at me and grimaced.

“Drunk,” he said. “He uses his pay to get drunk every night.”

He lifted Jorge’s head again, and slapped him roughly across the rotted cheek. Jorge gasped in pain. His eyes flew open and focused.

“You must talk to the Señor, Jorge,” said Diaz. “He is from the policia, the Customs police.”

Jorge stared at me, keeping his head up with an obvious effort.

“Policia? What for?”

I moved beyond Diaz and flipped my I.D. at Jorge.

“For information,” I said. “Information about who was being hidden here, by whom, and where they went when they left here.”

In spite of his drunkenness, a crafty look crept into Jorge’s eyes.

“Nobody hidden here. Just lepers here. Contagious. Very dangerous. You shouldn’t be here.”

I decided to handle Jorge a little differently than Diaz.

“There’s a reward for the information,” I said, slowly and clearly, pulling out my wallet. I saw Jorge’s eyes widen slightly as I extracted five twenty-dollar bills. “One hundred dollars. Paid immediately.”

“Aiee,” Jorge said. “I would like to have so much money, but—”

“There is nothing to fear. No one will ever know you told me except Diaz. And Diaz knows better than to talk.”

Jorge’s eyes were fastened to the money in my hand. I slid it across the table. Jorge licked his lips, then suddenly snatched the money.

“I do not know who they were,” he said rapidly, “but they were not Latinos. There were three of them. They came in one night and locked themselves into an empty room at the back of the wing. For more than two weeks they did not emerge. A leper with an arrested case brought them food twice a day. It was also this leper who had sterilized the room the night before they arrived. Then, one night, they left as suddenly as they had come. The leper disappeared also, but later we heard that his body was found a few blocks away. He had been strangled.”

“Did you get any idea of where they went from here?” I demanded.

Jorge hesitated.

“I am not sure, but I think — twice, when the leper went into the room with food, I think I heard one of the men say something about Martinique.”

Something clicked in my brain.

Martinique. The volcano.

Suddenly a door opened in the wall beyond Jorge. Through it stepped a figure clad as I was, in sterile gown, mask, cap, and all the rest. Jorge half-turned, looked, then grinned.

“Buenos noches, Señorita,” he said. Then, to me, some of the drunkenness coming back into his voice. “So pretty, such a pretty little chinita, and she comes to help the lepers. Just arrived today.”

Chinita. Chinese girl.

Over the surgical mask, double-lidded Oriental eyes looked straight at me.

All too familiar double-lidded Oriental eyes.

“Welcome to the party, Carter,” she said.

I stared at her grimly.

“For you, Li Chin,” I said, “the party is over.”

I moved toward her. She held up one hand.

“Don’t make a mistake you’ll regret,” she said. “We have—”

Her voice died in mid-sentence, and I saw her eyes widen suddenly in alarm.

“Carter!” she shouted. “Behind you!”

I spun. Jorge’s bottle missed my skull by inches, shattering on the table in his hand. My karate chop slammed toward the base of his neck a split second later, and it didn’t miss. He toppled to the floor like a felled log. Even as he was falling, I heard Li Chin’s voice again. This time it was flat, hard, and deadly calm.

“The door,” she said. “And to your left.”

There were three of them at the door. In the dim, shadowy light, I could see grotesque, misshapen limbs, faces with features eaten away, empty eye-sockets, stumps of arms. I could also see the glint of two knives, and the deadly bulk of a length of lead pipe as they moved slowly toward me.

But it was the figures on the left that sent a cold chill down my spine. There were five, six, maybe more, and they had all arisen from beds, to slide warily in my direction.

They were lepers with contagious cases. And their half-naked bodies moved ever closer, scaled with white, ulcerous swellings protruding horribly from sick flesh.

Li Chin had moved to my side.

“One of your western philosophers once remarked,” she said calmly, almost conversationally, “that my enemy’s enemy is my friend. Do you agree?”

“For the moment,” I said, “absolutely.”

“Then let us defend ourselves,” she said, and her body moved into a slight crouch, the hands sliding out in front of her in what I instantly recognized as the classic Kung Fu position of readiness.

What happened next happened so fast that my eyes could barely follow it. There was a sudden movement in the group of lepers by the door, and the bright flash of a knife blade flickered through the air. I spun out of the way. Li Chin didn’t move. One of her hands darted upward, twisted, made a swift parabola, and the knife was again in motion — toward the man who had thrown it. He gave a scream that ended in a choke as the blade skewered him through the neck.

The next instant the room exploded in a chaotic blur of movement. The lepers moved forward in a group and hurled themselves at us. My right foot shot out to find its mark in the belly of one attacker as I stabbed forward with rigid fingers the solar plexus of another. The lead pipe whooshed past my shoulder. Hugo was in my hand, and the man with the lead pipe dropped it as the lethal blade sliced into his neck. Blood spurted from the carotid artery like a fountain. Beside me, Li Chin’s body moved in a smooth, snaking motion, her arms twisting and dropping, and a body tumbled grotesquely through the air to fall crumpled, the head at an impossible angle.

“It’s no use, Carter,” I heard the hoarse croak of Diaz’ voice come from somewhere in the semi-dark. “The door is locked from the outside. You will never get out now. You will become a leper as we are.”

I sliced Hugo through the air in front of me, forcing back two half-naked lepers with reaching hands.

“Your clothes,” I snapped to Li Chin. “Don’t let them rip your clothes and touch you. They’re trying to infect us.”

“You are going to rot away as we have, Carter,” came the hoarse croak again. “You and the little chinita. Your flesh will drop from—”

The croak ended in a gasp as Li Chin crouched, spun, fell back with a grasping motion, and sent Diaz’ body hurtling against the wall with the force of a catapult. His eyes went white, and then closed as he fell. At the same moment, I felt a hand clawing at my back, and heard a tearing sound. I whirled, straight-arming the leper back with one gloved hand as Hugo sliced in at an upward angle toward his solar plexus. He crumpled, blood running from his mouth. A piece of my sterile gown was still clutched in his hand. Turning, I caught sight of Li Chin twisting out of another catlike crouch, the body of a leper tumbling toward the wall. Her gown had been ripped, too. For a fraction of a second our eyes met, and the same thought must have occurred to us simultaneously.

“The door,” I said.

She nodded slightly, and her body once again became that of a cat. I saw her leap onto the desk Jorge had been using, then perform an impossible flight over the heads of three attackers to land near the door. I was right behind her, using Hugo to clear the way. When we stood together at the door, we had barely seconds before the lepers would be on us again.

“Together!” I snapped. “Now!”

Our feet shot out simultaneously, like twin battering rams. There was a cracking sound, but the hinges held. Again. The cracking sound was louder. Again. The door shot from its hinges and we were sprinting over it, out into the courtyard, disfigured hands reaching out for us, brushing our gowns, the odor of dying flesh close in our nostrils.

“The door to the office!” I heard Li Chin shout. “It’s open!”

I could hear the thud of running feet on the parched earth of the courtyard as the lepers pursued us in a group. We were hampered by our surgeons gowns and they were closing in on us fast. I put every last reserve of energy into a final burst of speed, saw Li Chin do the same inches behind me, and hurled myself through the open door into the office. Li Chin’s figure was a blur of speed behind me as I swung the door shut, pressing brutally against the weight of oncoming bodies. For an instant I felt that the door was being forced open again. Then, suddenly, it was closed and I was shooting the bolt. On the other side of the door was a clamor of voices, then silence.

Li Chin stood beside me.

“Look,” she said, pointing to one corner of the room.

The woman who had admitted me lay crumpled in a heap, motionless. It was easy to see why. Her throat had been slit from ear to ear. Beside her lay a telephone set, its wire wrenched from the wall.

“The lepers who attacked us must have been paid off by the OAS,” I said. “This woman apparently wasn’t paid off. She may have known nothing about it. When she heard the melee in the contagious wing, she must have tried to phone for the police, and—”

“And made the mistake of leaving the door to the courtyard open when she did,” Li Chin finished for me.

I nodded.

“But there’s no guarantee one of the lepers didn’t use the phone to call for OAS reinforcements. And I have no intention of being here when they arrive. We’re going to get out of here now. And together. You’ve got some explaining to do.”

“Of course,” said Li Chin calmly. “But what about our clothes?”

Both of our surgeons gowns had been ripped. The clothes underneath were contaminated. It was pretty obvious what had to be done.

“Strip,” I ordered, suiting my actions to my words.

“Everything?” asked Li Chin, looking a little suspicious.

“Everything,” I said. “Unless you’d like to wake up one day to find your fingers falling off.”

“But where will we go? Without clothes—”

“There’s somebody waiting for me in a car. Just a few blocks away,” I reassured her.

Li Chin looked up from unstrapping her bra.

“A few blocks!” she said. “You don’t mean we’re going to—”

I nodded, stepping out of my shorts and moving toward the front door.

“Ready?”

Li Chin, tossing aside a wisp of panties, looked dubious, but she nodded. I grabbed her by the hand and flung open the front door.

“Go!”

I like to think we were San Juan’s first streakers.

Eight

Gonzalez had been dozing. When he woke, at my rapping on the window, to find a naked Nick Carter standing hand-in-hand with a beautiful and extremely naked Chinese girl, his jaw dropped to his shoes. For a moment he did nothing but stare. And not at me. I couldn’t really blame him. Li Chin was small, almost tiny, but every inch of her body was in perfect proportion. Jet black hair fell down to her small, firm breasts, with the large aureole and erect nipples. Her thighs and legs were sleek, the belly lean and curving. Her face was punctuated by a perfect little doll’s nose, and when she drew aside finely defined lips, her teeth dazzled. It was hard to believe this girl was a Kung Fu master — or should I say mistress — who could take on any number of men in unarmed combat. Not that I had any intention of forgetting it.

I rapped on the window again, startling Gonzalez out of his trancelike stare.

“Gonzalez,” I said, “if you don’t mind interrupting your study of physical culture, I’d appreciate your unlocking the door. And I think the lady would appreciate your jacket.”

Gonzalez scrambled for the door handle.

“Door,” he said. “Yes. Of course. Door. Jacket. Of course. I’d be most happy to give the lady my door. I mean my jacket.”

It took a few seconds of confusion, but finally the door did get opened, and Li Chin was covered from shoulders to knees by Gonzalez’ jacket. I got a raincoat which, Gonzalez not being particularly tall, put up a courageous struggle to reach my thighs.

“All right,” I said, settling into the back seat with Li Chin, settling Wilhelmina and Hugo temporarily into the pockets of Gonzalez’ raincoat and ignoring his unspoken but obviously desperate desire to find out what had happened. “Let’s get the hell out of here. But not back to the hotel yet. Just drive around for awhile. This little lady has a few things to tell me.”

“Sure,” said Li Chin, calmly. She rummaged in Gonzalez’ jacket pockets until she found a pack of cigarettes, offered one to me, and when I declined lit one for herself and took a deep drag. “Where should I begin?”

“At the beginning. With basics. Such as, exactly what are you trying to do and why?”

“Okay. But don’t you think the man who’s driving should look in front of him more often than he looks in the rearview mirror?”

“Gonzalez,” I said warningly.

Gonzalez glanced guiltily back at the road, and continued to drive at a speed of about twenty miles an hour.

“Do you know anything about Chinatown?” asked Li Chin.

“Does anybody know anything about Chinatown if they’re not ethnic Chinese?”

“A good point,” smiled Li Chin. “Anyway, I’m the daughter of Lung Chin. I’m also his only child. Lung Chin is head of the Chin family, or the Chin clan, if you like. It’s a big clan, and I don’t mind telling you that it’s a very wealthy one. With a lot of different business interests, not only in New York’s Chinatown, Hong Kong, and Singapore, but scattered all around the world. Since my father didn’t have any other children, specifically, any sons, I was raised and educated to look out for the interests of the Chin clan, wherever they might be and whatever they might be. In any way I might have to.”

“Including a judicious use of the mastery of the martial arts?”

“Yes,” Li Chin nodded. “And a study of the humanities at Vassar. And a study of technology in general at M.I.T.”

“A widely educated young lady,” I remarked.

“I have to be. My job at this point is, well, you might call it a troubleshooter for the clan. When something’s not running smoothly, or there’s a threat against the clan’s interests, wherever and whatever, my job is to jump in and straighten things out.”

“And what isn’t running smoothly, or is threatened, at this point?” I asked, already sure of the answer.

“Oh come on, Carter,” she said. “You must have guessed that by now. The clan has heavy interests in Venezuelan oil. And oil in a few other spots off South America, too. And the OAS is threatening to destroy off-shore oil rigs and oil refineries all up and down the coast. Right?”

“Very good,” I said grimly. “Very well informed. I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me how you’re so well informed?”

“Of course not,” she said cheerfully. “Any more than I can tell you how I learned you’d met up with Michelle Duroche in Tangier, and learned it in time to tail you from there. Let’s just say the Chin clan is a big one, and it has a lot of ears in a lot of places.”

“Including electronic ears inserted into cigarettes,” I reminded her.

“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “You were my only clue to the whereabouts of Duroche. I couldn’t risk losing you. And we both know damned well that Fernand Duroche is the key to the whole OAS threat. Anyway, now that we both know where our dear Dr. Death was taken after he’d been hidden in the leprosarium—”

“Hold it,” I broke in sharply. “Exactly where do you think he was taken?”

“Oh come on, Carter. You’re playing games with me again,” she said impatiently. “I heard what Jorge said as well as you did. Why do you think I flew down here and volunteered as a nurse as soon as my bug picked up your conversation with Duroche’s daughter — just before you smoked it out of commission. By the way, how did it taste?”

“Foul,” I said. “But you haven’t answered my question.”

“Jorge said ‘Martinique’. Your friend Akhmed’s last word was Volcano. Shall I recite the guidebook to you? ‘The French Caribbean island of Martinique is the home of the dormant, probably extinct, volcano, Mont Pelee’. Conclusion: Duroche, and the OAS, are now headquartered in or near the crater of Mont Pelee, in Martinique.”

I cursed silently. This girl was good.

“All right,” I said. “Your detective work is thorough. And you don’t do too badly in the rough-and-tumble department. But now, little grasshopper, the time has come for you to bow out of the picture. You may represent the interests of the Chin clan, but I represent the interests of the United States, to say nothing of every other oil producing country in this hemisphere. It’s a question of priorities. Get the picture?”

“But that’s just it,” Li Chin said, tossing her cigarette butt out the window. “The interests I serve and the interests you serve aren’t in conflict. We both want the same thing — to put the OAS scheme out of commission. And we both know we have to go about it in the same way, by getting hold of Duroche. Conclusion: the time has come for us to team up.”

“Forget it,” I said. “You’d just complicate things.”

“Like I did back at the leprosarium?” Li Chin asked, looking at me archly. “Listen, Carter, I can be a help on this thing and you know it. There’s no way you can keep me out of it anyway. I’m more than a match for anyone you could get to try to keep me prisoner, and if you had me arrested it would just implicate you.”

I stared out the window for a minute, thinking. What she said was true. There probably wasn’t any way I could keep her out of it. She was probably sitting there right now devising some obscure way to bug my toenails, should I decide to try. Then again, it was possible she was working for the opposition, in spite of her fairly plausible story, and had come to my aid at the leprosarium just to get in my good graces. But even so, it might be better to have her where I could keep an eye on her, rather than slithering around somewhere out of sight.

“Come on, Carter,” she said. “Stop sitting there trying to look inscrutable. Is it a deal?”

“All right,” I said. “Consider yourself temporarily recruited by AXE. But only as long as you pull your own weight.”

Li Chin batted her eyelashes and looked at me sideways.

“Consider the old Chinese proverb,” she said, in the hokiest accent I’d heard since Charlie Chan.

“What’s that?” I said, playing straight man.

“You can’t keep a good man down, because when the going gets tough, the tough get going, and I have just begun to fight.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “Confucius?”

“No. Chinatown High, class of ’67.”

I nodded approvingly.

“Very profound, in any case. But now that we’ve had our culture for the day, I’d like to discuss how we’re going to travel to Martinique.”

Her whole expression changed. She was all business.

“If you read your guidebook well,” I told her, “you know that Martinique is an overseas departmente of France, like Hawaii is a state in the United States. Which means that the law and administration are French—”

“Which means,” Li Chin finished for me, “that they may be infiltrated by OAS members.”

I nodded.

“Which means that we have to enter Martinique without their knowing we’ve arrived. Which brings up the problem of transportation. Michelle and I are traveling under cover identities, but we can’t take the risk that they’ve been blown, especially after that incident at the leprosarium.”

Li Chin stroked one side of her face thoughtfully.

“Not by air, then,” she said.

“No,” I agreed. “It’s a mountainous island. The only place to land is the airport, and we’d have to go through Customs and Immigration. On the other hand, while there’s only one place to land a plane, there are hundreds of places a relatively small boat could anchor and remain unobserved for a few days.”

“Except that chartering a boat would be a good way to let an awful lot of people on this island know we were planning a trip,” said Li Chin absently, lighting up another one of Gonzalez’ cigarettes.

“Agreed,” I said. “So we think in terms of borrowing a boat, rather than chartering one.”

“Without the owner’s knowledge, of course.”

“Not until we’ve returned it, with a fee for its use.”

Li Chin flipped cigarette ash out the window and looked businesslike.

“We’ll have to discuss that fee thing, Carter,” she said. “I’ve been going a little overboard on my expense account lately.”

“I’ll take it up with my accountant,” I promised her. “Meanwhile, we both need some sleep. Tonight. Do you know where the yacht basin is?”

She nodded.

“At the eastern tip, there’s a cafe called the Puerto Real. I’ll meet you there tomorrow at midnight. Do you have a place to stay until then?”

“Of course,” she said. “The Chin clan—”

“I know, I know. The Chin clan is a very big clan. All right, Gonzalez can drop me near my hotel, then buy you some clothes, and drive you to where you want to go.”

“Okay,” she said, flipping the cigarette butt out the window. “But. Carter, about those clothes—”

“They’ll go on my expense account,” I assured her.

She smiled.

Well, what the hell. It was worth buying some clothes, to have seen her take the others off.

It was daybreak by the time I let myself into the San Geronimo suite again, and Michelle was still soundly asleep. She wasn’t exactly overdressed, either, even for sleeping. All she was wearing, in fact, was the corner of the sheet, which modestly covered about four inches of her thigh. I showered quietly, but thoroughly, using some carbolic soap I’d brought along for just that purpose, and slid into bed beside her. I was tired. I was sleepy. All I wanted was to close my eyes and snore heartily. At least, that’s what I thought until Michelle stirred, opened one eye, saw me, and immediately rolled over to press her lush breasts — so different from Li Chin’s small, firm, up-tilting ones — against my bare chest.

“How did it go?” she murmured, one hand beginning to stroke my back, up toward the base of my neck.

“Aside from battling a regiment of contagious lepers, armed with knives and clubs, there was nothing to it,” I responded, my own hands beginning an exploration of some interesting terrain.

“You must tell me about it,” Michelle said huskily, her entire body now pressing to mine, molding itself against me.

“I will,” I said. And then didn’t say anything more for a while, my lips being occupied in a different fashion.

“When will you tell me?” Michelle murmured, in a minute.

“Later,” I said. “Much later.”

And it was much later. That afternoon, in fact, as we once again lay on the white sand beach, soaking up some more of the hot Caribbean sun.

“But do you really trust this Chinese girl?” Michelle asked, spreading warm suntan oil over my back, kneading the muscles of my shoulders.

“Of course not,” I said. “Which is one of the reasons I’d rather have her where I can keep an eye on her.”

“I don’t like it,” Michelle said. “She sounds dangerous.”

“She is,” I said.

Michelle was silent for a moment.

“And you say she stripped naked in front of you?” she demanded suddenly.

“Strictly in the line of duty,” I reassured her.

“Hunh!” she snorted. “It sounds to me like she’s an expert in a few things besides Kung Fu.”

I grinned. “It might be interesting to find out.”

“Not while I’m around you won’t!” Michelle snapped. “I don’t like the idea of having her with us.”

“You’ve already told me that,” I said.

“Well, I’m telling you again,” she responded sulkily.

And she did tell me again. While we were having more of those damned Piña Coladas before dinner. And while we were pretending to be lions during dinner. And while we were in the cab after dinner, driving to the casino.

“Look,” I said finally. “She’s coming with us and that’s that. I don’t want to hear about it again.”

Michelle subsided into a sulky silence, which grew even sulkier as we left the casino and got into the rented car I’d had delivered. I ignored her, concentrating all my facilities on driving in, through, and around San Juan, until I was sure I had lost anyone who might be tailing us. It was almost midnight by the time I parked the car several blocks from the yacht basin, and we changed into the dungarees and sweaters I’d brought along in a briefcase.

“Where do we meet this Kung Fu champion of yours?” Michelle asked, as I took her arm and propelled her through darkened, silent streets toward the yacht basin.

“In a dirty, dark, thoroughly disreputable dive,” I told her cheerfully. “You’ll love it.”

The Puerto Real was a dive. And it was dirty, dark, and thoroughly disreputable. It was also a place where people minded their own business, and made very certain not to look too closely at strangers. In other words, it was the best meeting place I could think of. I brushed aside the bead curtains which hung over the entry and stared into the dingy, smoky interior. A long bar made of cracked tile ran the length of the room, and half a dozen seedy looking characters were drinking at it, some playing dominoes with the bartender, some just staring into space. Across from the bar, set against the crumbling stucco wall, some rickety tables hosted a noisy dice game, a few solitary drinkers, and one drunk who was literally crying in his beer. The whole place smelled of stale beer, stale cigarette smoke, and rum-laden breaths. Michelle grimaced with disgust as I led her to a table.

“This is worse than Tangier,” she muttered to me. “How long do we have to wait for that girl?”

“Until she shows up,” I said. I was just about to go to the bar for drinks when one of the solitary drinkers got up from a table at the other end of the room and half staggered toward us, carrying a bottle and some glasses. A drunk, obviously, and down on his luck, from the incredibly dirty, paint-stained dungarees, the ripped wool sweater, and the wool cap which half hid the face.

“Hey, amigos,” the drunk said, leaning over our table, “lesh have a drink together. Hate to drink alone.”

“Beat it, buddy. We—”

I stopped in mid-sentence. Under the cap, one familiar Oriental eye was winking at me. I pulled out a chair.

“Li Chin,” I said, “meet Michelle Duroche.”

“Hi,” said Li Chin, grinning, as she slid into the chair.

“Good evening,” said Michelle. And then, in a voice dripping with sweetness, “What a lovely outfit you have.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Li Chin replied. “But you should have seen the one I had last night. Carter can tell you.”

Michelle’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I’m surprised he even noticed,” she lashed out.

Li Chin just smiled.

“Confucius say,” she said, putting on the hokey accent again, “good things come in small packages.”

“All right, ladies,” I cut in. “Save the friendly conversation for some other time. We have work to do, and we have to do it together.”

Li Chin immediately nodded. Michelle suppressed her glare. I took the bottle Li Chin had brought, and poured drinks all around. Li Chin drank hers in one easy swallow, then sat looking at me, waiting. I took a sip of mine and almost exploded.

“Good God!” I gasped. “What is this stuff?”

“New rum,” said Li Chin casually. “Kind of raw, isn’t it?”

“Raw!” I said. “It’s... all right, look. Down to work. What we need is a boat big enough for the four of us, with enough power to get us to Martinique fast, but not big enough to attract a lot of attention and require a deep-water harbor.”

“The Lady Day,” said Li Chin.

I looked at her questioningly.

“It’s anchored about a quarter mile out in the harbor,” she said. “Owned by an American millionaire name of Hunter. He hasn’t been near it in about three months. Just one man aboard, to take care of it, and he’s in town getting drunk.”

“You’ve kept busy,” I said approvingly.

“Sitting around bores me,” said Li Chin. “Anyway, I only sleep four hours a night, so I had to have something to do, and I happen to like boats anyway. This one is a beauty, Carter, especially for what we have in mind. It’s an eighty-foot brigantine with reinforced hull and rigging, three masts, built low for strength on open water and in high winds. Looks like it sleeps at least four, maybe more. And the harbor master here says it packs a twelve hundred-horsepower engine, not just for getting in and out of harbor, but for speed on the open water, even under sail. It’s a beauty, a real dream.”

I nodded.

“It sounds good.”

“There’s only one problem,” added Li Chin. “The caretaker. When he comes back, and finds the boat gone, he’s bound to go for the police.”

“He won’t find the boat gone,” I said. “We’ll have the courtesy to wait for him. When he arrives, we’ll treat him to a little trip. Locked in a cabin, of course.”

“Adding another person we can’t trust,” Michelle said, annoyed. Her eyes swept over Li Chin.

“It can’t be helped,” I said. “And we’re wasting time sitting here. Let’s take a look at the Lady Day.”

I stood up. Michelle pushed back her chair, stood, and stalked out of the bar without looking at Li Chin. We followed. After the foul atmosphere of the bar, the warm Caribbean night air smelled extraordinarily good. Across the yacht basin, boats rode in the gentle waves, their lights blinking. It was a peaceful, pleasant scene. I hoped it would remain like that while we “borrowed” the Lady Day.

“Look,” said Li Chin, pulling small binoculars out from under her sweater. “There.”

I took the binoculars and pointed them in the direction she was indicating. After a moment of blurryness and some adjusting, the Lady Day jumped into view. I whistled softly in admiration. It was just as much of a beauty as Li Chin had said. Its long, sleek lines were unmistakably those of an ocean-going boat, and the tall mast midships meant plenty of power under sail. From the way it rode I could tell it could easily take a shallow anchorage. I studied it a moment more, than took the binoculars from my eyes.

“There’s only one thing I don’t like about it,” I said.

“What’s that?” asked Li Chin, looking puzzled. I could tell she’d fallen in love with the boat on first sight.

“It’s got a dinghy roped to it’s stern,” I said.

“What?” said Li Chin, and grabbed the binoculars. She knew very well what I was getting at: If the dinghy was at the boat, the watchman must have already returned. Li Chin studied the Lady Day for a moment, then lowered the binoculars, shaking her head.

“My cousin Hong Fat is going to lose a couple of chopsticks over this,” she said. “He was supposed to keep an eye on that watchman and tell me when he returned. He’s never failed me before.”

“It might not be the watchman,” I reminded her. “It might be another member of the crew, come to ready her for a voyage. Or even somebody with a little larceny in mind. Someone who’s studied the habits of the watchman just as you have. In any case, the Lady Day is too good for our purposes to give up. We’ll just have to be prepared for another guest on the trip.”

Li Chin nodded in agreement. Our eyes met. We must have both been thinking the same thing — if there was someone on the Lady Day we couldn’t afford to let him see us approaching in a dinghy — because the next thing she said was simply:

“Scuba gear?”

“Right,” I said, then turned to Michelle. “Have you ever done any scuba diving?”

Michelle glanced at Li Chin.

“What about you?” she said.

“I’m okay,” Li Chin answered.

“Well, I’m not too bad myself,” said Michelle.

I was dubious. If Li Chin had said she was an expert mountain climber, I suspect Michelle would have claimed to have conquered Mount Everest. But I went along with it.

“All right,” I told Li Chin. “Scuba gear for three. And a watertight bag for weapons.”

“Of course,” she said. “Twenty minutes.”

And she was gone, fading into the darkness like a moving shadow.

“She has a cousin who can watch the watchman. She can get scuba gear on demand,” Michelle said irritably. “Where does she find all these things?”

“The Chin clan,” I said, straight-faced, “is a very big clan.”

And our particular branch of the Chin clan was back in less than twenty minutes. She was accompanied by a rather stout Chinese boy of about nineteen, who puffed with effort as he set down the gear.

“The tanks are full,” said Li Chin. “I could only get one depth gauge, but we can all follow the one who’s wearing it. This is my cousin, Hong Fat.”

“Call me Jim,” said Hong Fat. “Listen, I never left that watchman’s side. I’m half clobbered myself, just from smelling his breath from ten feet away. And he’s conked out with his head on a table sleeping like a drunken baby right this minute.”

“We’ll just have to take our chances on whoever’s on the Lady Day,” I said. “Come on. We’ll suit up down there on the quay, behind that pile of cinderblocks.”

We lugged the gear down onto the quay, stripped, and started struggling into wet-suits. They were new, and smelled of rubber. I put on my fins, then tested my mask and oxygen as the others did the same. Hugo and Wilhelmina went into the watertight bag, along with a deadly-looking little derringer which Li Chin produced. Pierre continued to nestle comfortably along my inner thigh, under the wet suit.

“Wow,” said Hong Fat. “The creatures from the black lagoon strike again.”

“Listen, cousin,” said Li Chin, “you get back to that bar and keep eyeballing that watchman, or I’ll take away your Honda. If he starts to head back to the Lady Day, give me a buzz.”

Hong Fat nodded respectfully, and trundled off into the darkness.

“A buzz?” I said.

“My earring,” Li Chin said tersely. “Electronic receiver. Handy, sometimes.”

“No doubt,” I said drily. I checked to see that all three of us were ready, then motioned Li Chin and Michelle forward to the edge of the quay. It was a night of bright moonlight, but I could see no one watching us.

“Follow behind me,” I said. “V formation. Stay at my depth.”

They both nodded. I slipped the mask over my face, turned on the oxygen, and lowered myself into the water. A moment later the three of us were gliding smoothly, fin-propelled, through the greenish-black depths of the harbor, toward the Lady Day.

Nine

Most of the Caribbean is shark-infested, and the area around San Juan harbor is no exception, so I kept the spear gun Li Chin had provided at the ready. An occasional glance over my shoulder reassured me about Michelle. She was moving through the water effortlessly, with a smooth strength that showed years of familiarity with diving. If anything, she was a match for Li Chin, and through the glass of her mask I thought I could detect a smile of satisfaction at this. I didn’t glance back often, though. The harbor was crowded with boats, and we had to thread our way among, and sometimes under them, keeping careful watch for lines, anchors, even an occasional overnight fishing line. And, of course, sharks. The water was greenish black, and murky with night, but I glimpsed an occasional school of tiny fish fluttering away from us, the spiky balls of black sea urchins on the sea’s bottom, and once, the bulky, surprisingly graceful and fast retreat of a squid. I surfaced once, briefly, for direction, then dove again and moved along close to the bottom. The next time I surfaced, it was to cling to the anchor line of the Lady Day. Seconds later, and inches away, Michelle’s head popped up, then Li Chin’s. We all turned off oxygen and slipped our masks from faces, then clung there in a huddled group, listening.

There was no sound from the Lady Day.

I put my finger to my lips for silence, then pantomimed that I would go up first, and they were to wait until I signaled. Both nodded in agreement. I pulled off my flippers, handed them to Li Chin, and started hand over hand up the anchorage rope, the watertight bag gripped between my teeth, swaying as the boat swayed in the swells.

There was no one on deck. The mooring light glowed steadily aft, but the cabin was dark. I pulled myself over the rail, extracted Wilhelmina from the watertight bag, and crouched silently on the deck for a moment, listening.

Still, no sound.

I leaned back over the rail and motioned for Li Chin and Michelle to join me. Li Chin came up first, as fast and agile as an acrobat. Michelle came after her, slower, but with surprising sureness and ease. By the time I had lowered my oxygen tank and mask to the deck, the two women stood dripping beside me, their fingers working at the tank harnesses.

“You stay here,” I whispered to Michelle. “Li Chin and I are going to say hello to whoever’s in the cabin.”

And, I hope, asleep, I added mentally.

Michelle shook her head violently.

“I’m coming with—”

I grabbed her face in both hands and stared at her hard.

“We’ve been through this before,” I whispered, through gritted teeth. “I said stay here.”

She glared back defiantly for a moment. Then her eyes dropped and she gave a barely perceptible nod. I released her face, motioned to Li Chin, and crept silently forward across the deck. At the door to the cabin I stopped, and crouched motionless, listening.

Nothing. Not even a snore. Not even heavy breathing.

Li Chin raised her eyebrows at me questioningly. I nodded. She flattened herself to one side of the door as I cautiously tried the door handle.

It turned.

Slowly, I pushed the door open a crack. In the moonlight that came through the portholes, I could see two bunks, storage cabinets, a table, and a bench.

The bunks and the bench were empty. The bunks were neatly made up.

There was no sign of any human presence.

I motioned again to Li Chin, and cautiously, silently, slid through the crack in the door, spinning to avoid anyone who might be behind it.

No one.

Li Chin behind me, I pushed back the door to the galley.

Empty.

And there was no further place in the cabin or galley where anyone could hide. I stood for a moment, thinking. The dinghy meant someone was aboard. If not in cabin or galley, where? The one hatch had been tightly battened.

The same thing must have occurred to both of us simultaneously, because Li Chin suddenly grabbed my arm and gestured toward the bunks. Then she held up two fingers, and raised her eyebrows questioningly.

She was right. It was far too big a boat to sleep only two people. I let my eyes move slowly over every inch of the cabin wall.

They stopped at a panel in the far end, beyond the galley.

Motioning to Li Chin to cover me from behind, I padded silently to the panel, and began to feel its edges. If they concealed a trick lock or spring, they concealed it well. I gently pressed the ornamental molding around the panel, working my way carefully up one side, over the top, and down the other side. I was just starting on the bottom molding when I heard a creaking sound behind me. I turned, and cursed inwardly.

I had been working on the wrong panel. The panel I should have been working on was the one beside the door through which we’d entered the cabin. That panel had slid back.

And behind it stood a tall, lean black man. He was wearing flowered pajamas. He was pointing a shotgun. At me.

His lips were smiling. His eyes weren’t.

“My, my,” he shook his head gently. “You folks sure are quiet. I hardly knew I had visitors at all.”

I shot a glance at Li Chin. She was standing too far from the shotgun to grab it before it could blast one of us to kingdom come. And her little derringer was nowhere in sight. She saw me looking at her, and shrugged as though with regret.

“Sorry, Carter,” she said. “I... well... you know, damnit, the truth of the matter is, I forgot to take it out of the bag.”

“Great,” I said grimly.

“Forgot to take it out of the bag?” the black man said in mock wonderment. “Forgot to take what out of the bag? The cat?” He shook his head again. “You folks puzzle me. You sure do.”

His left hand — the one that wasn’t holding the shotgun — moved down to a table by his side, in the cabin beyond the trick panel. He popped something into his mouth and chewed leisurely, his eyes never leaving us a second.

“Now, I dig visitors, being a friendly kind of cat myself. And I sure appreciate your making a little call on me, being as I was feeling kind of lonely, having fired my watchman for being more dedicated to the sauce than to the Lady Day.” His left hand descended again, and again popped something into his mouth. It looked suspiciously like a piece of chocolate. “But, being basically a curious kind of cat, I sure would dig knowing the purpose of your visit. I mean, could you lay a little information on me as to exactly what the scene is here?”

I glanced at Li Chin and shook my head slightly. We both remained silent.

The man shook his head again. Another chocolate — that was definitely what they were — was chomped down onto by strong looking teeth.

“Well, I sure am sorry to hear that,” he said. “I genuinely am. Because that means I’ll have to make a little call on the ship-to-shore, you dig? Have to have a little conversation with the local constabulary.”

I still said nothing. He moved slowly, his eyes alert, into the cabin where we stood. He motioned Li Chin to back up still further.

“Second thoughts?” he asked. “Do I hear any second thoughts?”

If he could have heard my thoughts, he wouldn’t have been talking to us. He would have been trying to deal with Michelle — who was coming down the steps into the cabin on cat feet, Li Chin’s derringer pointed square at the back of the black man’s skull.

“Well, that’s a pity,” he said. “That’s truly a—”

“Don’t move!” snapped Michelle. She slammed the nozzle of the derringer hard against the man’s skull. He froze. “Drop the shotgun!”

He didn’t move an inch. Not even his eyeballs. But his hands didn’t loosen their grip on the shotgun, either.

“Well, now,” he said slowly. “I don’t believe I’ll do that. I’m sort of attached to this shotgun, you might say. And my finger is sort of tight on the trigger, you might say. You might even say that if some mean dude were to put a bullet through my head, that finger would tighten on the trigger through reflex action, and your two friends would find themselves decorating the wall.”

We all stood frozen in silence, a tableau of guns, tension, and pounding hearts.

Suddenly, in a blur of astonishing speed for one so tall and gangly, the man dropped and whirled. The stock of the shotgun caught Michelle in her belly. She crumpled and gasped. The derringer dropped, and the black man had it in his left hand half a second later. But Li Chin was already on the move. Her right foot shot forward as her whole body slid forward. The shotgun sailed from the black man’s grasp and landed against a bulkhead. Seconds later it was in my hands, pointed squarely at him.

But the derringer, now in his hand, was jammed against Michelle’s neck, pointing upward toward her skull. And he held Michelle’s body between himself and me — and the shotgun and Wilhelmina.

He chuckled.

“A Mexican standoff, I do believe. Or how about, an Afro-American standoff, in this case. Or, not to neglect the little lady, a Chinese-American standoff?”

He was right. He could keep us immobilized, using Michelle’s body as a shield, for as long as he could stand up. But he was immobilized too. In order to use the ship-to-shore radio, he would have to release Michelle, which he couldn’t do without giving us the drop on him.

I wasn’t about to risk getting Michelle’s skull blown off.

And I couldn’t risk having the San Juan police called in.

And I certainly wasn’t supposed to go around shooting innocent American yacht owners, for that matter.

I made my decision.

“Let’s talk,” I said grimly.

“Groovy, man,” he said. The derringer didn’t move an inch.

“I take it you’re Hunter, the owner of this yacht,” I said.

“That’s me,” he said. “Robert F. Hunter. Of Robert F. Hunter Enterprises. But my friends call me Sweets. Cause I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth.”

“All right, Hunter,” I said slowly and deliberately. “I’m going to level with you, because we need your cooperation. My name is Nick Carter, and I work for an agency of the United States Government.”

The keen eyes flickered slightly.

“Now, you wouldn’t be putting me on, would you man?” Hunter drawled. “Because I don’t think ol’ Mr. Hawk would appreciate somebody going around impersonating his Number One man.”

This time, my eyes flickered.

“Tell me about Hawk.” I demanded.

“Well, you see, man, I’ve got a little import-export business. Along with a little real estate business, and a little advertising business, and a couple of other businesses. They don’t do too bad. In fact, I guess you could say I’m kind of a millionaire, which I think is a pretty groovy kind of thing to be. But I haven’t forgotten that it was the good old U.S. of A., with all its faults, that gave me the opportunity to make my bread. So when old Mr. Hawk contacted me a few years ago and asked me to use my import-export office in Ghana to do him and AXE a few favors, I didn’t mind at all. I didn’t even mind when Mr. Nick Carter, the agent Hawk had originally told me was going to be put on the job, was called off on an emergency somewhere in Southeast Asia, and a second-string man sent in.”

I remembered the job. Ghana had been important. Southeast Asia had been more important. I’d never gotten to Ghana. MacDonald, an N5, had been sent in my place.

“All right,” I said. “You know who I am. Now let me tell you what I need.”

Suddenly, Michelle, who had been standing glassy-eyed and paralyzed with terror, as well as Hunter’s grip, spoke.

“Please, please... the gun—”

Hunter glanced at her, and withdrew the derringer slightly from her head.

“Before you tell me what you need,” he said to me, “how about letting me eyeball a little identification.”

Silently, I peeled off the wet suit, and showed him the tattoo on my inner arm. He looked at it carefully. Then broke into a big grin. The derringer was tossed casually onto the bunk. Michelle sank to the floor, and I heard a deep sigh of relief.

“Killmaster,” said Hunter effusively, “it’s a real pleasure. Sweets Hunter and the Lady Day are at your command.”

“Thanks,” I said curtly. “Meet my companions, Li Chin, troubleshooter for the Chin clan, with worldwide interests, and Michelle Duroche, daughter of the French scientist Fernand Duroche.”

“It’s a pleasure, ladies,” said Hunter, bowing to each, then digging into his pajama pocket and coming out with a small box, which he offered with a flourish. “Have a chocolate. Orange-flavored. Made to my order in Perugia, Italy.”

Michelle silently shook her head. Li Chin plucked a chocolate from the box and popped it into her mouth.

“Hey,” she said. “Not bad.”

“Lemme offer you folks a little refreshment,” said Hunter, going toward the galley. “I’ve got a complete soda-fountain here. How about a nice ice-cream soda, or a hot-fudge sundae?”

Michelle and I shook our heads.

“I’ll have a soda,” said Li Chin. “Raspberry, if you’ve got it, Hunter.”

“Call me Sweets,” he said. “One fresh raspberry soda, coming up.”

Sweets busied himself at the soda-fountain. I glanced at Michelle. She looked shaken, but gradually the color was coming back into her face. Li Chin, as I had expected, hadn’t turned a hair.

“Hey, man,” said Sweets, “you don’t have to give me any more information than you want to, but I could probably be of a little more assistance if I were a little more hip, data-wise, that is.”

I had already made my decision about that. My intuition — and if an agent can’t often make snap decisions based on his intuition, he’s a dead agent — told me Hunter was straight.

“Consider yourself a member of the team,” I said. “And since we don’t have any time to waste, here’s the story.”

I gave it to him, leaving out the details he didn’t have to know, while Li Chin sipped contentedly on her soda and Sweets himself dug into a truly horrible-looking banana split.

“So that’s it,” I finished. “We need your boat for a fast trip to Martinique.”

“You’ve got it,” said Sweets promptly, licking chocolate syrup off one finger. “When do we leave?”

“Now,” I said. “How much of a crew does the Lady Day need?”

“Umm,” said Sweets, “any of you folk ever crew before?”

“I can handle it,” I said.

“I messed around a little at the Hong Kong yacht club,” said Li Chin, casually, probably meaning she’d captained a regatta winner.

“I was brought up spending summers on my father’s boat on Lake Lucerne,” Michelle said immediately.

“Well, the Caribbean ain’t exactly Lake Lucerne,” said Sweets, “But I think the four of us can handle it okay.”

“Charts?” asked Li Chin, finishing her soda.

“In the other cabin,” said Sweets. He reached into a drawer. “After-soda mint, anybody?”

I shook my head.

“Li Chin, chart a course to the north side of the island, somewhere on the coast beyond St. Pierre,” I said. Then to Sweets: “How quiet is your engine?”

He grinned and stood up.

“Cool it, man,” he said. “Even the fish won’t know we’re coming. Well be out of this harbor before you can say boo. Now let me get you folks some threads. Those wetsuits aren’t too groovy out of the water.”

Less than half an hour later we were out of San Juan harbor and heading south, now under sail and with the engine off, toward Martinique.

Toward the volcano.

Ten

It’s roughly 400 nautical miles from San Juan Harbor to Martinique. By morning we had put over forty of those miles behind us, sailing round the western coast of Puerto Rico out into the open Caribbean. By Li Chin’s reckoning, it would take another twenty-four hours before we dropped anchor somewhere north of St. Pierre. That meant we would have only two days to prevent the OAS from destroying the Curaçao refinery. It was going to be tight. I spent most of my time going over every detail of the available information in my head, and working out a detailed plan.

The rest of my time, Michelle and I shared in the far cabin. It had two bunks but we needed only one. We put that one to good use. I have a fairly imaginative mind myself when it comes to such things, but Michelle showed what I have to admit was creative genius. By the time the first eighteen hours on board was up, I was almost as familiar with — and more admiring of — every curve of Michelle’s flesh than I was with the workings of Wilhelmina. It wasn’t until late afternoon that I managed to disentangle myself from her still-desirous arms, shower, and put on a pair of the dungarees Sweets had loaned us.

“Where are you going?” asked Michelle, stirring voluptuously in bed.

“On deck,” I said. “I want to have a word with Sweets and Li Chin. And I want you there, too.”

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t think of letting you out of my sight now,” said Michelle, rolling immediately out of bed and reaching for a pair of dungarees and tee-shirt which, when put on, made her look even less dressed than when she had nothing on.

I grinned in reply and started up the stairs to the deck.

“Hai!” I heard. Then thumping noises, grunting, and again, “Hai!”

Aft, under the mainsail, Li Chin and Sweets were working out, in a sort of improvised sea-going dojo. Sweets was stripped to the waist, his ebony skin gleaming with sweat in the glaring Caribbean sunlight. Li Chin was wearing a costume her master might not have approved of: a bikini so skimpy it seemed to be made of string. But what was interesting was to see Li Chin’s mastery of Kung Fu pitted against what was obviously Sweets’ equal mastery of karate. Karate is angular, abrupt, with a use of concentrated bursts of force. Kung Fu is linear, designed to make it impossible for an opponent to know where you’re coming from. I watched admiringly as Li Chin and Sweets battled, maneuvered, and out-balanced each other to a standstill. Of the two, I gave Li Chin a slight edge. But only a slight one. Sweets Hunter, I decided, was going to be a valuable member of the team, on land as well as sea.

“Hi, Carter,” said Li Chin, after she and Sweets had bowed ceremoniously to each other. “Come up for air?”

“For air and a conference,” I said. “And that includes you. Sweets.”

“Sure thing, man,” said Sweets, wiping his chest with a large towel. “Just let me check the auto pilot.”

A few minutes later we were all gathered on the hatch cover, bending over a map of Martinique Li Chin had found in the well-equipped charts chest. I pointed to the coastal town of St. Pierre.

“It’s just a sleepy little fishing village now,” I told the three of them. “Underpopulated. Nothing happening. But behind it, a few miles away, is our volcano, Mont Pelee.”

“A little too close for comfort, if it were active,” remarked Sweets; unwrapping a chocolate caramel.

I nodded.

Around the turn of the century, it was active. At that time, St. Pierre wasn’t just a sleepy little village. It was the biggest city on the island. And one of the busiest, most sophisticated cities in the Caribbean. In fact, they called it the Paris of the West Indies. Then Mont Pelee exploded. St. Pierre was totally destroyed. Over forty thousand people — the entire population of the city, except for one convict being held in an underground jail cell — were wiped out. Even today you can see the ruins of buildings inundated by lava.

“But now it is extinct, no?” said Michelle.

“Probably extinct, possibly only dormant,” I answered. “Sleeping. Capable of exploding again, given the right circumstances. With volcanoes, you never know. The point is, if you were going to produce and store highly explosive devices, the crater of Mont Pelee, which is huge, would be a good place to do so. Because anyone thinking of attacking you would hesitate, for fear of setting off the volcano.”

“And if those explosive devices were to be loaded onto boats, a sleepy little fishing village like St. Pierre would be a nice, unobtrusive place to do it,” remarked Li Chin.

“Right,” I agreed. “So what we’re going to be looking for is signs of unusual activity both in and around the volcano, and in St. Pierre. After we’ve found a place to drop anchor where we won’t be seen, we’ll split up into teams of two. Michelle and I will pose as tourists and check out Mont Pelee. Li Chin, you and Sweets can pose as natives. You do speak French?”

“Not so well,” said Li Chin. “I’m pretty fluent in French, but my accent is Southeast Asia. Better stick to Spanish, and say I’m an emigre from Cuba. Plenty of Chinese there.”

“Plenty of blacks, too,” observed Sweets, unwrapping another caramel. “We could have come to Martinique as plantation workers. I’ve got a groovy little machete around somewhere.”

“Good,” I said. “Then you two check out St. Pierre.”

“What do we do if we find something?” asked Michelle.

“There’s a restaurant in the capital. Fort de France, called La Reine de la Caribe. We’ll meet there and join forces for action at the end of the day.”

Sweets looked a little anxious.

“What kind of a restaurant, man?” he asked. “I’m a little particular about my food.”

“Martinique has the best food in the Caribbean,” said Michelle. “What else would you expect from an island that is French?”

“Good desserts?” demanded Sweets.

“The best,” replied Michelle, with a definite touch of chauvinism.

“I don’t know about that,” said Li Chin, standing up and flexing her body into some impossible positions. “From what I hear about French food, you’re hungry again a half hour after you finish eating.”

Michelle shot her a sharp glance, started to say something, then, apparently realizing the irony of Li Chin’s remark, clamped her lips tight and looked away.

“Look,” I said sharply, “the two of you are going to be working together in this team, so you’ll be cooperative and non-hostile to each other whether you like it or not. I’m not going to say that again. Now let’s eat, and then get some sleep. I’ll take the first watch.”

“And I,” said Michelle, carefully not looking at Li Chin, “will cook. For the benefit of all of us.”

Michelle’s food was good. Better than good. Even Li Chin agreed to that. But I don’t think any of us slept better than fitfully when we were off watch. When dawn broke, all four of us stood at the rail, staring at the craggy, mountainous, yet lushly green profile of the island of Martinique outlined against the eastern sky. Near the northern tip of the island, Mont Pelee rose steep and ominous, toward the wide, blunt snout of its crater.

“Nasty lookin’ ant hill, ain’t it,” Sweets remarked, after turning the wheel over to Li Chin.

“Not half as nasty as what may be inside it,” I responded. “Do you have any firepower you can carry?”

Sweets grinned. He pulled a foil-wrapped chocolate-covered cherry out of his shirt pocket, unwrapped it, and plopped it whole into his mouth.

“Care to eyeball the armory?” he asked.

Half an hour later we emerged on deck just as Li Chin dropped anchor in an isolated cove, hidden by a spit of land from the sea, and surrounded by thick jungle vegetation which would hide the Lady Day from land roads. From an impressive weapons case, Sweets had selected a .50 mm Walther, a razor-sharp gravity-blade knife which he kept under his belt in the small of his back, and fifteen high-impact mini-grenades, disguised as beads, which he wore in a chain around his neck. With his tattered pants, flapping shirt, and battered straw hat, plus the worn but sharp machete he carried by a leather thong, no one would take him for anything but a sugar-plantation worker. With the casual but expensive looking sport shirts and slacks he furnished Michelle and myself, we would be taken for well-off tourists. Li Chin, in dungarees, worn tee-shirt, straw hat, carrying a lunch basket, and looking suitably humble, would appear to be a dutiful wife taking her working husband his lunch.

Sweets had come up with something else, too: a Honda two-stroke mini-bike, just barely big enough for two. In silence, each of us thinking his or her own thoughts, we manhandled it over the side and into the dinghy. Still in silence, hearing the raucous screeching of jungle birds around us, and feeling the morning sun begin to heat toward the blistering impact it would have at mid-day, we rowed toward the shore. The jungle vegetation rose in front of us like an impassable wall, but after we had tied the dinghy securely to a plantation tree and hoisted the Honda ashore, Sweets unsheathed his machete and set to work. We came in back of him, slowly, as he cleared a path for us. Almost half an hour later we stood on the edge of a clearing. Across a field, a few thousand yards away, a smoothly paved road snaked toward St. Pierre to the south, and, to the northeast stood Mont Pelee.

“Look,” said Michelle. “Do you see those gulleys, hundreds of feet wide, running from the crater of the volcano south where nothing grows? Those were the paths of the lava, running toward St. Pierre.”

It was an awesome sight. And the sight it conjured up in imagination was even more awesome — thousands of tons of stone blown skyward, the fiery molten rivers of lava eating away everything in their paths, the sudden downpour of volcanic ash petrifying man and beast into fossils as they stood. But I had no time to play the tourist for real.

“Save the sightseeing for later,” I said. “This is where we split up. Michelle and I will take the Honda to check out the crater to the volcano, and its approaches. Sweets, you and Li Chin will have to hoof it to St. Pierre. But this is a small island, and you don’t have more than a couple of miles to go.”

“Right on,” said Sweets easily. “I could use the exercise anyway.”

“I can always carry him if he gets tired,” said Li Chin.

Sweets chuckled, adjusting his Walther and the gravity-blade knife.

I motioned to Michelle, grabbed the Honda by its handlebars, and started pushing it across the field.

“Rendezvous tonight at seven, the Reine de la Caribe, just off the main square in Fort de France,” I called back over my shoulder.

Sweets and Li Chin nodded, waved, and set off in the opposite direction. A few minutes later Michelle was seated in back of me on the Honda and we were chugging slowly on the approach to the crater of Mont Pelee.

Eleven

Seven hours later we had learned two facts. It had been seven hours of chugging along dusty dirt roads, in the full blast of the sun, sweat soaking our bodies, dust choking our mouths, the sun blinding our eyes. Seven hours of arguments with police, deliberate misdirections from field workers, sullen refusals of information from town officials. Seven hours of walking through scrub and across volcanic rock fields, and then lying on our bellies in those same rock fields, trying to see what was going on several hundred yards away.

It had all been worth it.

The crater of the volcano, we had learned, was closed to public access. The two officially marked paths from the base to the crater, recommended for tourists as a pleasant two-hour hike, had been barred by high wooden barriers. Each barrier had a gate manned by a uniformed guard, who politely but firmly denied access, saying the paths to the crater were “closed for maintenance work.”

The other two paths to the crater weren’t open to the public, either. And they weren’t paths. They were well-surfaced roads, obviously put down in the last six months or so. They were on the eastern side of the volcano, and well-hidden from the public roads around the volcano’s base, connected to those roads by dirt roads, each of which was barred by heavy wooden gates — again, with uniformed guards.

If you went the long way round, on foot, groping your way through jungle vegetation around the volcano’s base, then through scrub and over volcanic rock, you could get a glimpse of what was traveling on those roads to the crater.

Trucks. At least one every fifteen minutes. Heavy canvas-covered trucks with liftgates. Empty. They came from the south, the Atlantic side of the island, and were coming fast. They emerged from the crater going back to the south, heavy-laden, slow, riding low.

In the back of each truck, you could see two guards. They were dressed in full battle dress, and they were carrying automatic weapons.

“Shall I spell it out for you?” I asked Sweets and Li Chin, after telling them the whole story that evening.

“No need to spell it out for this dude,” said Sweets. “The letters are OAS, a mile high. And in a paramilitary operation a mile wide. And just as obvious.”

“Which is one of the reasons they made Martinique their base of operations,” said Li Chin. “They’ve got some friends in the French administration here who are willing to turn a blind eye to the whole thing.”

“And also,” put in Michelle, “it is obviously an ideal spot from which to launch an attack on the refinery off Curaçao.”

I nodded in agreement, and took another sip of my drink. We were sitting around a table in the Reine de la Caribe, drinking tall, frosty glasses of the local rum punch. It was good, and I hoped that the langouste — the Caribbean version of lobster — we had ordered for later would be just as good. And nourishing. I had a feeling we were going to need plenty of energy reserves in the next twenty-four hours. Sweets and Li Chin, who had managed to pick up some more respectable clothes in the market, looked just as fatigued as Michelle and I.

“Well,” said Sweets, adding another two spoonfuls of sugar to his punch, “you had a busy day, Carter. But me and my friend here, the Afro-Asian alliance you might call it, managed to dig a little bit of what’s going down ourselves.”

“Such as?” I demanded.

“Such as, St. Pierre is deader than East Peoria on a Sunday night in February after a blizzard,” said Li Chin. “Fish, fish, and more fish. And fishermen. Fishing. That’s it.”

“Now, we don’t have anything against fish,” said Sweets. “In fact, we had a real tasty one for lunch, in a sort of sweet and sour sauce. But—”

“He means sweet and sweet,” said Li Chin. “First time I’ve ever had dessert as a main course. And mackerel, yet.”

“Anyway,” went on Sweets with a smile, “we figured that, like you said, it was a small island, so we hopped one of those jitneys, those public taxis, and took us a little tour across the island to the south coast.”

“Where,” broke in Li Chin, making the two of them begin to strongly resemble a Mutt and Jeff act, “we found the action. If you want action, try Lorrain and Marigot.”

“Fishing villages on the south coast,” I said.

“Where there’s damned little fishing going on,” said Sweets, spooning up sugar from the bottom of his drained glass. “Never in all my life have I seen so many fishing boats, big and little, sitting around not fishing in good fishing weather. And trucks visiting the harbor, to carry some kind of machinery out to them, when it looks to me like a lot of them don’t even have engines.”

“Yachts?” I asked.

“Yachts, skiffs, sloops, brigantines, yawls — everything from a rowboat to a schooner,” said Li Chin.

We all sat in silence for a moment. The waiter came and put down baskets of bread and rolls. From outside in the main square, there was a sound of music and laughter, cries of native voices. Crowds. It had begun some time ago, and been increasing imperceptibly as we sat over our drinks. I saw Sweets’ eye flick toward the windows.

“What’s going on out there?” he asked the waiter idly. To my surprise, he spoke not in French or English, but in fluent Creole patois, the native language of the French Antilles.

“Carnival, m’sieur,” said the waiter, smiling broadly. “It is the Mardi Gras, the last day of feasting before Lent. We have the parades, the costumes, the dancing. There is much gaiety.”

“Sounds like fun,” said Sweets. “Too bad we—”

“Nothing is fun for me with my father where he is,” Michelle broke in sharply. She turned to me. “Nick, what are we going to do?”

I took a sip of my drink. The noise of crowds was getting louder, closer. I could hear the liquid bobble of a steel drum band, probably imported from Trinidad, and the catchy rhythm of the native Martiniquais beguine, played on horns.

“The basic setup is obvious,” I said slowly. “The OAS have some sort of headquarters inside the crater of Mont Pelee. It would be easy to carve a network of tunnels and chambers out of the volcanic rock — as long as you disregarded the danger of setting off the volcano again. And I think the OAS are willing to take even that kind of chance with the deal they have going for them.”

“And you think my father is being held there?” Michelle asked anxiously.

I nodded.

“I think that whatever kind of underwater explosive device the OAS is producing is being made there. Then trucked down to the two ports to be loaded aboard boats.”

“Small boats?” said Sweets with mild incredulity. “Tiny boats? Regular fishing boats?”

“That’s what I don’t understand yet,” I admitted. I found that I had to talk louder, to be heard above the street sounds of the carnival. The parade must be very close to the restaurant now. “How could any propelled underwater device be launched from a small boat? And if it isn’t propelled, how can even an innocent-looking fishing boat get inside the sea-installed security cordon which by now will have been set up around the Curaçao refinery? But we know that the OAS is loading something onto those boats, and we have to assume it’s the explosive devices. Which brings us to our problem.”

A raucous blare of horns sounded directly outside the window. I caught a glimpse of grinning, shouting, singing faces marching past, holding some kind of a banner.

“The problem,” I continued, “is that if we hit the fishing boats, and manage to disable the explosive devices, the headquarters inside the crater will be warned in time to evacuate. Even if not all the machinery, at least the personnel needed to build it again at some other time and in some other place. And that includes Michelle’s father, who is the key to the whole operation.”

The noise from outside had risen to a roar now. The streets on the other side of the window were jammed. I saw a flash of color, and then another. Enormous papier-mache masks of birds, fish, weird creatures from Caribbean legends, caricatures of humans, all vividly colorful and with exaggerated characteristics, were marching past, swaying from side to side. Some of the figures were life-sized, with the people inside them completely hidden from view. And when they didn’t march, they danced, to the insinuating beat of the beguine.

“On the other hand,” I continued, leaning across the table to make myself audible to the others, “if we hit the volcano first, the headquarters may be able to get word to the boats to set sail. Once they’re out of the harbor, those fishing boats will be lost among the tens of thousands of others in the Caribbean. With the explosive devices already aboard them.”

“And I’d give a pretty good guess,” said Li Chin, “at this close to countdown for the Curaçao attack, they’re probably already armed.”

“We have to assume they are,” I agreed. “So there’s only one thing for us to do. It’s not much of a chance, but it’s our only chance.”

There was an even louder outburst of music outside. One of the window panes in the front door shattered. I heard the waiter swear with annoyance and rush to the front door. He flung it open and began to remonstrate with the paraders. Laughter and more shouts came from the street.

“If I dig you right, man,” said Sweets slowly, “we’re gonna have to attack the boats and the volcano simultaneously.”

“Impossible!” Michelle hissed.

“Improbable,” I said dryly, “but not impossible. And, as I just said, our only chance. Sweets and Li Chin will handle the boats. Michelle, you and I will pay a little visit to Mont Pelee.”

There was a sudden burst of color at the door. One of the paraders, his entire body covered by a brilliant green and red fish costume, had brushed aside the waiter and now stood inside the door. He was waving one fin-covered hand to his friends on the street, beckoning them, in spite of the now-outraged waiter’s protests.

“Hey, man,” said Sweets. “I’ve got another little idea. Why don’t—”

“Look!” said Li Chin. “They’re coming in! Wow! What a crazy scene!”

The paraders had suddenly swept over the waiter like a tidal wave, the green and red fish at their head. There were giant parrots, sharks with grinning mouths and shining teeth, a giant coal-black grotesque figure of half-man half-bird, out of Caribbean Voodoo legend, a vividly pink pig with an oversized snout, and dozens, it seemed, of foil-covered shining fish-heads. They were dancing wildly through the restaurant now, shouting, swaying from side to side. Where before the room had been quiet and calm, it was now a crowded chaos of bodies and movement and raucous noise.

“You know something. Carter,” Li Chin said to me as the dancers came toward our table, “this could just be a lot of fun. And maybe that’s all it is. But for some reason, I don’t like it.”

I didn’t either. And I couldn’t have said why, any more than Li Chin could. It was just that sixth sense that warns any good agent of danger where nothing else can. What I wanted was to get the four of us out of that room and away from that crowd immediately. But it was impossible. The papier-mache figures had surrounded our table now, dancing madly around us to the music from the streets.

“Dansez!” they started to cry. “Dansez!”

Suddenly, arms reached out, and Li Chin and Michelle were being tugged to their feet, as voices urged them to join the dance. I saw Li Chin begin to twist her arm and adjust her weight in an instinctive Kung Fu reaction, then, like lightning, Sweets’ hand darted out to restrain her.

“Cool it!” he commanded. “These folks are gentle and polite and friendly by nature, but offend their hospitality — and that includes an invitation to dance — and they could turn ugly!”

Michelle, still resisting the hands that reached for her, tugged at her, shot a frightened glance at me.

“Sweets is right.” I said. “There’s a lot more of them than us, and the last thing we want is a brawl that will bring in the police.”

An instant later the two women had been pulled to their feet and were being jogged madly about.

“Stick to Li Chin,” I snapped to Sweets. “Don’t let her out of your sight. I’ll take Michelle.”

We both sprang to our feet and edged into the crowd which was rapidly bearing the two women away from the table. I slipped between a couple of foil fish and elbowed aside a black, white, and red rooster, flapping its wings wildly in time to the music, to come behind Michelle. She was being whirled in dizzy circles by the pink pig, its oversized snout bumping against her face.

“Buvez!” a voice suddenly cried. Drink! And the cry was caught up all over the room. “Buvez! Buvez!”

Jostling determinedly to keep near Michelle, I saw money being flung down on the bar, and bottles snatched up. They were flung in the air across the room, the corks pulled, and passed from hand to hand.

“Buvez!” a voice shouted in my ear, half deafening me. “Voici! Buvez!”

Before I knew it, a bottle was thrust into my hand, and pushed toward my mouth. To get it over with, I raised it to my lips, and took a fast swallow. It was the clear new rum of the cane fields, greasy and sweet, and it burned down my throat like sulphuric acid. Suppressing the urge to gag, I managed a grin, and passed the bottle back to its owner, a silver-gray seagull with a long pointed hook for a beak. He pressed it back into my hands. I raised it to my mouth, pretended to take another swallow, and passed it on to the eager hands of a grinning, toothy shark.

Then I glanced back in Michelle’s direction, and she was gone.

I pushed furiously into the crowd, using my shoulders and elbows, digging a path through a nightmarish assortment of animal, bird and fish figures.

“Michelle!” I called. “Michelle! Answer me!”

“Here!” I heard her faint voice. “Over here!”

Suddenly, I caught sight of her. She was near the door, this time in the embrace of the giant rooster. And he was dancing her out the door. Then, just as suddenly, I felt myself being forced toward the door. The entire direction of the crowd had changed. Just as they had swept into the restaurant like a tidal wave, now they were sweeping back out. I let myself be borne along among jostling bodies, smelling thick odors of sweat, my ears deafened with hoarse cries, screams of laughter, and the bellowing brass of horns. Up ahead, I could see Michelle’s long black hair as she was being swayed from side to side by her partner, now an animal, now a bird, now a fish.

“Buvez!” a voice cried in my ear. “Buvez!”

This time I thrust the bottle aside. We were in the street now, and I couldn’t risk losing sight of Michelle even for an instant. Sweets and Li Chin were nowhere to be seen.

A sudden volley of explosions shattered its way through the music. I tensed. Then the sky lit up with flashes and streamers of light. Red, white, green, blue — fountains of light, waterfalls of color. Fireworks. On a grand scale. They blinded me for a moment. Then my vision cleared, and a jangle of alarm sounded throughout my whole body.

The crowd had split up. The greater part had continued straight ahead, but an off-shoot had turned the corner into a side street. And Michelle was among that offshoot.

I plowed through the crowd like a bull through tall grass. When I got around the corner I found myself in a street so narrow it was little better than an alley. Michelle was in the center of a group at the end of it, and as I watched, cursing, I saw her borne around another corner. I elbowed and shouldered my way through knots of revelers, many of them drinking from bottles, then? smashing the bottles to the paving stones. The street got darker and narrower as I went along, until finally the only illumination came from the shattering explosions of light high above in the black sky. They cast eerie shadows on the stucco walls of buildings, the wrought-iron grills of windows. I reached the corner and turned, only to find myself in still another dark alley-like street.

With a shock, I realized it was empty.

There was no sign of Michelle.

Then, suddenly, it was no longer empty. There was a rush of bodies, of weird-looking masks, and I was surrounded by a circle of foil fish heads.

A moment of absolute silence ended abruptly with the explosion of a wheel of sparks in the sky above.

In the hands of the figures around me I could see the dull gleam of machete blades, sharpened to a razor edge.

“Ah, m’sieur,” said one of the figures, “it seems the fish have caught the fisherman.”

“The fish,” I said, slow and hard, “are going to be eaten for dinner, if they don’t stand away from the fisherman.”

“The fish,” snarled the figure, “are going to gut the fisherman.”

The machete blade flashed in his hand, as his arm slashed forward. But he was slower than my hand, with Wilhelmina in it. The crack of the bullet echoed in the alley almost as soon as he had moved, and he fell, blood spurting through the hole in his foil-wrapped chest, seeping out of his mouth. The two men behind him moved in on either side of me. A second bullet from Wilhelmina caught the one on my left in his guts, and he screamed in pain and horror, as my right leg shot out in a Kensai kick to the other’s groin, making him collapse instantly into a fetal position.

I turned barely in time to see, by the grotesque light of a Roman Candle exploding above, the bright flicker of a machete blade hissing through the air. I twisted and side-stepped, and it clanged harmlessly to the paving stones in back of me. Wilhelmina spat once again and another of the fish figures fell, his skull an instant eruption of red blood, gray brain matter, and white chips of bone.

But my twisting had revealed something else. At the other end of the alley, another group of fish figures was slowly advancing toward me. I was being attacked from both sides, and every path of escape was blocked.

Except, I suddenly realized as another Roman Candle exploded in the sky and lit the alley, one way. Up.

Three fish figures were detaching themselves from the crowd in front of me, moving warily toward me, spaced as far apart as the alley would allow. A glance over my shoulder showed me that three figures behind me were doing the same. They moved slowly, in a sort of rhythm, as if performing some kind of deadly ritualistic dance. From the crowds behind them, a humming chant began to rise. It had the deep, spine-chilling tone of murder.

“Tuez... Tuez... Tuez... Tuez...”

Kill... Kill... Kill... Kill...

I waited, moving forward and slightly to the side, gauging their advance. They were close enough now so I could see eyes gleaming in back of the foil fish heads. Unnaturally wide eyes, rolling, fevered. Hot to kill. Still, I waited.

“Tuez... Tuez... Tuez... Tuez...”

The dance of murder came ever closer. I could almost feel kill-fevered breaths on my face. The machetes began to lift. I waited, holstering Wilhelmina, my muscles tensing in readiness.

“Tuez... Tuez... Tuez... Tuez...”

Now!

I sprang upward, high, using every ounce of my strength. My reaching hands grasped the wrought-iron rail of a balcony overhead, as my feet, held close together like twin clubs, swung in a vicious pendulum arc. There was a sodden clonk as my shoes smashed into a skull, and then another as they swung back.

Then I was flipping myself upward, over the railing and onto the balcony. A machete blade clanged against the railing, thrown from over-eager, frustrated hands, and then another. Seconds later, Hugo was in my hand, I slashed downward, severing four fingers from the hand of a man trying to climb onto the balcony. His scream was ear-splitting.

Then I was springing upward once again, grasping the railing of the balcony above me. The chant below had broken into a chaos of furious shouts, intermingled with moans and shrieks from the ones I had wounded. Fish costumes were being torn aside, to enable the attackers to climb the balconies as I had. But by the time I reached the roof, only one had managed to gain the lowest balcony. I swung myself over the ledge and crouched, squinting into the shadowy darkness of the rooftops around me.

Then I gasped.

The houses on either side of me all had connecting rooftops at the same level. And on the rooftop of the furthest house was a crowd of costumed figures.

In the middle of the crowd, tightly enclosed by bodies, was Michelle.

And descending toward the crowd, from the firecracker-lit sky, was a helicopter.

Wilhelmina jumped into my hand, and I launched myself forward, running in a low, fast crouch. I cleared the first parapet, jumped onto the next roof, and paused to snap off a shot. The giant pink pig with the oversized snout spun, clasped his hands to his face and gave a scream gargled with spurting blood as he fell.

“Nick!” I heard Michelle scream as she caught sight of me. Then: “Get back, Nick! Get back! They’ll kill you! They have automatic—”

I slammed myself to the rooftop just in time. The brutal chatter of a Sten gun cut through the night, and bullets chipped bits of brick from a chimney just in back of me. I raised my head and squeezed off a shot. Another figure fell, but the chatter of the Sten gun continued. The helicopter was just above the roof now, settling slowly to a landing. I gritted my teeth, then decided to take a desperate chance. In another minute it would be too late; Michelle would be taken aboard the helicopter.

My muscles tensed, and I sprang forward. I ran desperately, zigzagging, hurdling the roof parapets like a track star. In front of me, I could see the deadly flashes from the Sten gun and the helicopter settling on the roof, its door being opened from within.

Then my skull exploded like Mont Pelee itself, my brain was on fire, and I felt myself pitching forward.

Blackness.

Silence.

Nothing.

Twelve

Something, somewhere, was nagging me with an idea. It wasn’t a clear idea, but I knew it was a very unpleasant one. I tried to avoid it as long as possible. But it kept on nagging. Finally, I had to admit I knew what it was.

Eyes, it said. You have to open your eyes.

I did. I didn’t want to, but I did.

Familiar double-lidded eyes, in a familiar Oriental face, stared down at me. They blinked, then the mouth curved upward in a wholly scrutable smile of relief. Another face, this one black, and just as familiar, came into vision. Also smiling.

“Hey, Carter,” the Oriental face said, “do you always go to sleep this early in the evening? I mean, we didn’t even eat dinner yet.”

I raised my head and groaned. Pains shot through my skull until I thought my eyeballs were going to pop out. Gingerly, tentatively, I reached hand to skull. It encountered a large bandage.

“I feel,” I said, with difficulty, “like a man who’s had his scalp parted by a bullet from a Sten gun.”

“Probably because you’re a man who’s just had his scalp parted by a bullet from a Sten gun,” suggested Li Chin.

“Hey, man,” said Sweets mildly, “didn’t anybody ever tell you that charging a man firing an automatic weapon can get you shot?”

“They were taking Michelle into the helicopter,” I said, squirming to a sitting position. “I had to try to stop them.”

“Well, it was a nice try,” said Li Chin. “I mean, I’ve never seen one man try to charge an army before. Especially an army dressed up as pigs and roosters and fish. And firing a Sten gun. When Sweets and I saw that helicopter coming in to land, and came up on this roof here and got a glimpse of you pulling your Charge of the Light Brigade number, I couldn’t believe my eyes at first.”

“Once she did believe her eyes,” said Sweets, “she was a pretty fast chick with a bandage.”

“It’s just a nick, Nick,” said Li Chin. “You’ll be okay, aside from a headache the size of the Great Wall.”

“Meanwhile,” I said, “they got Michelle. And they got away.”

“Inconvenient,” sighed Sweets. “A real inconvenient time for that to happen.”

“The worst,” I agreed. And it was the worst. In fact—

Somewhere in the back of my mind, wheels began to turn.

“You’re not still thinking of trying to attack the boats and the volcano simultaneously, are you?” asked Li Chin. “Because, all things considered, I’d like to live a little longer. And, if—”

I motioned for her to be silent. Propping myself up on one elbow, I reached into my shirt pocket for cigarettes, dug out a crumpled one, and lit it. I smoked in silence for awhile. And thought. And the longer I thought, the more convinced I was that I was seeing things clearly for the first tune.

I didn’t like the way they looked.

But I had one advantage. I was fairly certain the opposition didn’t know that I knew.

I was going to play that advantage for all it was worth.

I turned back to Li Chin and Sweets, simultaneously plucking out Wilhelmina for reloading.

“The plan,” I told them, “has changed. We all hit the volcano.”

Sweets nodded.

“That’s their headquarters,” he said. “Seems to me that’s where they’d take Michelle.”

“It seems to me that’s also the way they’d figure we’d figure,” put in Li Chin.

“Exactly,” I said. “And I certainly wouldn’t want to disappoint them. But just as an extra bonus, we’re going to throw in a little ingredient they won’t be expecting.”

Sweets’ and Li Chin’s eyebrows rose at the same time. I reholstered Wilhelmina, trying to ignore the thundering ache in my head, and began to talk. When I had finished, both of them looked at me in silence for a moment. Then Sweets gave a slow grin. He fished a chocolate caramel from his pocket, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth.

“I dig it,” he said. “It’s got real, live drama. And I always did want to be a performer.”

“Yeah, but did you always want to end up in little bitty pieces?” asked Li Chin. Then, to me: “Listen, Carter, I’m all for daring action and drama, but I think there might be a few objections if we ended up blowing this whole island sky-high. And there’s a pretty good probability we’ll do just that. To say nothing of the fact we’d go sky-high with it.”

“It’s a gamble, of course,” I said. “But we only have a few hours left, and it’s our only chance.”

Li Chin considered in silence.

“Oh well,” she said finally, “I always wondered what it would be like to play Mah Jong with TNT. And I don’t have anything else to do tonight anyway. Count me in.”

“Right,” I said. “Let’s go. There’s no time to waste.”

Back on the street, threading our way through riotous crowds of carnival merrymakers, we found a public cab running the route from Fort de France, through St. Pierre, and on to Morne Rouge, the town nearest the volcano. With a heavy tip I persuaded the driver to start for Morne Rouge with only the three of us for passengers. We made the trip in silence, each of us engrossed in private thought.

At Morne Rouge, we got out. Li Chin and I shook hands in silence with Sweets, our eyes meeting and locking. Then we started up the road toward where the Lady Day was hidden. He took another road. Toward Mont Pelee.

Now Li Chin had only one earring.

Sweets was wearing the other.

In the radio room of the Lady Day I contacted Gonzalez and gave him my instructions, emphasizing their urgency. Then, for two hours, we waited. It was the hardest two hours of the whole operation. But we had to give Sweets time to work. And I had to hear from Gonzalez. When I did and heard what he said, the adrenalin flooded through my body. I flipped the radio switch to off and turned to Li Chin.

“Zero hour,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Half an hour later we were on our bellies, snaking through the short scrub vegetation that lined the approaches to the crater of Mont Pelee. Aside from my usual family of Wilhelmina, Hugo, and Pierre, I was carrying an Israeli MKR Sten. It’s one of the most remarkable automatic weapons yet made for it’s high accuracy, low rate of breakdown, and, most remarkable of all, its silencer that doesn’t impair accuracy or rate of fire to any appreciable degree. Li Chin carried its twin, both of them from Sweets’ impressive weapon case.

“Hold it,” I whispered suddenly, gesturing to Li Chin.

Less than a hundred yards away, the rim of Mont Pelee’s crater was outlined against the night sky. I raised a pair of Sweets’ binoculars to my eyes and scanned it. I already knew, from our field trip that afternoon, that a ring of electrified wire, seven feet high, ran the entire diameter of the ring. What I was looking for now was something else. When I found it, I handed the binoculars to Li Chin and gestured for her to look.

“Floodlights,” I said tersely. “Mounted in twins, facing opposite directions, on each supporting pole of the fence.”

“Unh hunh,” said Li Chin, binoculars to her eyes, “and if anything touches the fence, they go on.”

“Right,” I said. “Now let’s find out a little more.”

I groped in the scrub and found a heavy stick, then crawled another fifty yards, Li Chin behind me. Then I threw the stick. There was a ponging sound as it hit the wire, a crackle of electricity as current flowed through the dew-moisture on it, and two floodlights went on. Only two.

“Unh hunh,” said Li Chin. “The floodlights not only illuminate but also pinpoint the source of the disturbance on the fence.”

“Followed,” I said, flattening myself as Li Chin did the same, “by the appearance of armed guards.”

As if on cue, two guards carrying rifles appeared, silhouetted against the sky. We watched, heads down, as they shone flashlights down the incline, and around the fence, and then, apparently deciding the disturbance had been created by an animal, disappeared.

I turned to Li Chin.

“How’s your acrobatics tonight?”

She looked at me questioningly. I told her exactly what we were going to do. She nodded without hesitation, and we spent another five minutes crawling along parallel to the fence, to get away from the section the guards might now be keeping an eye on, before we turned and crawled directly toward it. When we were a few feet away, I turned and nodded to her. We stood up swiftly and simultaneously.

“Hoop-la!” I whispered sharply.

Her right foot was in my linked fingers, her body was springing up from them, and she was somersaulting through the air and over the fence, like a swift, almost unseen shadow. Just as quickly, she was rolling to the ground on the inside, as I went on my belly on the other side. The whole thing couldn’t have taken more than three seconds. In the fourth, I was already groping at my side for another stick. When I found it I glanced at my watch and waited the rest of the thirty seconds we’d agreed on. Then I threw it.

The floodlights snapped on.

I raised the Sten to my shoulder, switched it to single action, and pulled the trigger twice.

There were two faint cracks as the glass went, then a sputtering crackle, and darkness again.

When the silhouetted figures of the guards appeared they paused, shining flashlights toward the floodlights which had just so inexplicably gone on, then off.

Again, I squeezed the trigger of the Sten.

The left guard fell, shot through the head. And, because I had used single rather than continuous fire, he pitched forward, onto the fence. Almost — in the lack of any sound from my weapon — as if he had suddenly bent over to inspect it. But the guard on the right knew better, and his rifle was already rising to his shoulder, swiveling to pinpoint the source of the bullet, when Li Chin’s sharp whisper came out of the darkness at him.

“Hold it!” she snapped in French. “Don’t move! I’m in back of you and there’s a man in front of you. We both have automatic weapons. If you want to live, do what I say.”

Even in the dim light, I could see the terror on the man’s face. He lowered his rifle and stood waiting, visibly trembling.

“Call out to the man in the control unit,” said Li Chin. “Tell him your partner has fallen onto the fence. Tell him to shut off the current. And sound convincingly upset!”

The man complied immediately.

“Armand!” he cried, turning and shouting down into the crater. “For the love of God, shut off the current on the fence! Marcel has fallen!”

His tone of terror was convincing even to me, probably because he was genuinely terrified. Within seconds, the faint hum which had arisen from the electrified wire ceased. The night was silent except for the trilling of insects, and then, a distant shout from within the crater.

“The current is off,” said the guard. He was still trembling.

“For your sake, I hope it is,” I heard Li Chin whisper. “Because you’re now going to touch it. The bottom strand first. Hold it with your whole hand, right next to the pole.”

“No!” the man said. “Please! There could be a mistake—”

“Do it!” snapped Li Chin.

Trembling uncontrollably, his breathing so labored I could hear it plainly, the man advanced to the fence. I kept my gun trained on him, but even though he was now only feet away he hardly noticed as, slowly, his face contorted into a twisted agony of fear, he reached his hand down toward the lowest strand of wire.

“Take it!” came Li Chin’s threatening command.

The man hesitated another instant, then, like a swimmer diving into cold water, grabbed the wire.

Nothing happened. The guard’s face relaxed slightly. I could see sweat dripping from his chin!

“Keep on holding it until I tell you to stop,” I commanded him.

He nodded, his expression that of numbness. I snaked another few feet, until I could reach the wire, and withdrew a pair of wire cutters from my back pocket. Then, a few inches further along from the guard’s hand, so that if the current were turned back on while I was working, he would ground it with his body — and with his life — I cut the bottom strand.

“Now put your hand around the next strand,” I ordered him.

He obeyed. I cut the next strand, and told him to move his hand to the next. I repeated the procedure until all the strands were cut, then told the guard to stand back, and stepped through onto the other side of the fence, using the guard’s body to shield me from the sight of anyone looking up from tie crater.

“No one in sight down there,” I heard Li Chin say softly.

I peered cautiously over the guard’s shoulder, down into the crater. It was, to put it mildly, a fortress. A labyrinth of cement-block buildings, whose walls looked to be at least four feet thick, and without windows anywhere. As strong as the notorious Furhrerbunker, in which Adolf Hitler had spent the last days before his much unlamented suicide. At two points the buildings were set into the crater of the volcano itself. There were three exits, two of them man-sized doors leading to opposite sides of the outside crater, one of them a door large enough for a truck. To this door ran a large road, coming from over the rim of the crater.

Li Chin was right. There was no one in sight.

I poked the guard in his belly with my gun.

“Where are the rest of the guards?” I demanded harshly.

“Inside,” he said, pointing to the two wings with man-sized exits. “Closed circuit television scans the whole crater.”

“How could it reach the rim, where we are?” I demanded.

“Up here, it’s a different circuit,” he said, convincing me he was telling the truth by the terror in his eyes. “The scanners are m the floodlights, and are activated when the floodlights go on.”

So for the moment, we were out of sight. But once we started to descend into the crater we would be very much in sight. I thought for a moment, then turned and whispered a few curt words to Li Chin, who was lying on her belly nearby. A few minutes later I had stripped the dead guard of his cap and jacket, and put them on myself.

“Call out to the man in the control house,” I told the guard. “Tell him your partner’s hurt and you’re bringing him in.”

The guard turned and shouted down into the crater. Now I could see one of the exit doors open and a figure appear, framed by the light from within. He waved, and shouted something in assent.

“All right, buddy,” I told the guard. “You are now going to carry me down to that control room. And slowly. There’ll be a gun trained at your back from a few feet away the entire trip.”

I could hear the guard swallow. Then, wiping the sweat from his eyes, he dropped his rifle, bent down, and picked me up in his arms. I twisted so that my Israeli silent Sten was gripped at the ready, finger still on the trigger. But this time, I flicked it to automatic fire.

“All right, lifesaver,” I told the guard. “Let’s go. And when I tell you to drop me, do it fast.”

Slowly, he started down the incline inside the crater. I could hear Li Chin snaking along on her belly behind us. Below, through the open door, I could see figures moving about in the control room. I counted at least a dozen. I also saw something else interesting. There appeared to be only one door leading from the control room to the interior of the building complex.

“Carter! Look! The road!”

I glanced in the direction Li Chin was indicating. Over the rim of the volcano, on the road leading to the massive steel garage doors, came a heavy truck, gears grinding as it downshifted on the incline. It rolled to a stop at the doors. An instant later the doors swung soundlessly back, and the truck entered. As it did, I caught a glimpse of the open back. Two armed guards, both white, both carrying automatic weapons, and two native laborers, undoubtedly recruited to carry machinery.

No. One native laborer.

And one Sweets Hunter, dressed in what were probably the shabbiest clothes he’d ever worn in his life. Talking and laughing in fluent patois with the Martiniquais next to him, looking for all the world like a man delighted to have just landed a good-paying job.

Plan proceeding according to schedule.

Next step.

We were now less than a hundred yards from the open door of the control room. The guard carrying me was panting heavily, starting to stumble with fatigue. Good.

“Ready, Li Chin?” I asked, my hands tightening on the Sten.

“Ready,” came her curt whisper.

“Guard, call out to your friends for help in carrying me,” I told him. “Then get ready to drop me. And no tricks. Remember the gun aimed at your back.”

He nodded imperceptibly and swallowed hard again.

“Hey, pals, how about a little help here?” he bellowed impressively. “Marcel’s been hurt!”

Three or four figures came through the doorway and started toward us. Several others grouped behind the doorway, peering out in curiosity. Behind me, I could hear the slight click, as Li Chin switched her weapon to automatic fire. My muscles tensed with readiness. I waited. The figures advanced. Now they were only thirty yards away. Twenty. Ten.

Now!

“Drop me!” I snapped to the guard. And instants later I was rolling on the ground, out of the line of Li Chin’s fire, the Sten’s stock tucking under my chin, its sights zeroing in on the group of men in front of me as they began to fall under Li Chin’s fire. More fell, spinning with the force of the bullets, as my own gun began to spit fire. It was instant carnage, skulls erupting into bloody masses of brains and bone, faces ripped away, limbs exploded from torsos and sent tumbling into the air. And, because of the silencers on the Stens, it was all happening in an eerie quiet, like a music-less ballet of mutilation and death, with the victims being hit too quickly and too thoroughly for them even to be able to scream or cry out.

“The door!” I shouted suddenly. “Get the door!”

I swung my gun over the bodies of the men in front of us, and sprayed fire at the door. It was closing. Then I cursed. The Sten was empty. I ejected the empty clip and yanked another full one from my pocket, ramming it into the gun as behind me Li Chin continued to fire. For a moment the door stopped moving, and then, slowly, it started to close again, as if someone behind it was wounded, but trying desperately to close the line of defense. I fired off another round, then sprang to my feet.

“Cover me!” I shouted to Li Chin, simultaneously ripping a line of bullets into one of the men just in front of me who was trying to rise.

Then I was running, crouched, the Sten spitting its silent but deadly fire in front of me. I hit the door with my shoulder at full running force, then spun, spraying the room. There was a deafening explosion of shattering glass, as an entire wall of TV screens splintered into nothingness; then, to my left, a single non-silenced shot from a handgun. I spun again, the Sten blasting silently. From behind the door a single figure jerked upward with the force of bullets hitting his chest, then slowly slumped forward.

“Carter!” I heard Li Chin cry from outside. “The other door! More guards!”

I jumped for the door, over the lifeless bodies who were the room’s only other occupants. My hand found and flipped the light switch, pitching the room into darkness. Around the corner of the building complex, from the door on the other side of the crater, came a massed group of guards, their automatic weapons already chattering. The TV monitors had told them all they had to know — attack on the volcano!

“Inside!” I cried to Li Chin, returning the guards’ fire. “Hurry!”

Bullets spattered on the cement-block alongside the door, puffed up a deadly trail of dust at Li Chin’s heels as she dashed furiously toward me. I felt a slicing pain through my shoulder and staggered back a step, then saw Li Chin leap through the doorway, pivot, and slam the steel door shut behind her, throwing home the heavy bolts. Wincing from the pain in my shoulder, I fumbled for the light switch. An instant later I found it and the room was flooded with light. Li Chin stood, her gun smoking, regarding me with concern.

“You’d better let me see that wound, Carter,” she said.

But I’d already seen it myself. The bullet had just grazed the flesh of my upper bicep. It was painful, but I could still use the arm, and there was little blood.

“No time,” I snapped. “Come on!”

I moved toward the door to the inside of the complex, at the same time ejecting the three-quarter empty clip from the Sten and ramming in another full one. The barrel of the gun was red-hot, smoking, and I only hoped it would continue to function.

“Which way do we go?” I heard Li Chin say behind me.

“Both wings with exits into the crater joined at one central wing, where it was built directly into the body of volcanic rock. That’s where they’d store the most valuable weapons and have their workshops.”

“And that’s where they’d be expecting us to go,” reminded Li Chin.

“Right,” I said, turning to her and grinning. “And we don’t want to disappoint them, do we?”

“Oh, no,” said Li Chin, shaking her head solemnly. “Heavens to Betsy, no.”

I opened the interior door slowly with my left hand, the Sten at the ready in my right. It led into a long, narrow corridor, bare except for fluorescent tubing along the ceiling. The thick cement-block walls muffled all sound from the outside, but on sounds from inside the complex it acted like a gigantic echo chamber. And the sounds I heard then were exactly the ones I had been expecting. In the distance, the sound of running feet in heavy combat boots. A lot of feet, and coming from two directions.

I turned and my eyes met Li Chin’s. This was going to be the trickiest part of the whole operation.

“Now!” I said.

We went down the corridor side by side, at a run. The rattle of running feet was louder, nearer. It was coming both from the stairs at the end of the corridor and the corridor which led off to the left. We were less than twenty feet from the stairs when two heads appeared, coming fast up the stairs.

“Down!” I shouted.

We hit the floor at the same time, our Stens coming to our shoulders at the same time, and a deadly line of bullets spit from their mouths. The two bodies were smashed backward as if hit with gigantic fists, blood spurting upward as they disappeared down the stairs below them. The men below must have gotten the idea. No other heads made an appearance. But I could hear voices coming from the stairs, out of sight. A lot of voices.

I could also hear voices coming from the corridor off to the left.

“Let’s have a little fishing expedition,” I said to Li Chin.

She nodded. Side by side we snaked down the corridor on our bellies, fingers still on the triggers of the Stens. When we reached the turn in the corridor, only a few feet away from the stairs ahead of us, I took off the hat I’d taken away from the dead guard and slid it out in front of me, beyond the turn.

The blast of gunfire was deafening. The hat was torn to ribbons.

“Gee,” said Li Chin. “Troops to the left of us. Troops in front of us. Troops in back of us. I’m beginning to feel downright claustrophobic.”

“It won’t be long now,” I said. “They know they’ve got us trapped.”

And it wasn’t long. When the voice came it was angry, furious. We’d killed at least 20 OAS soldiers. But the voice was also controlled.

“Carter!” it shouted, the sound echoing in the cement block corridor. “Can you hear me?”

“No!” I shouted back. “I’m a lip reader. You’ll have to come out where I can see you.”

Li Chin grinned beside me.

“Stop the foolishness!” bellowed the voice, echoing more than ever. “We have you surrounded! Any way you try to go, we can blast you to pieces! I’m calling on you and the girl to surrender! Now!”

“You mean, if we move you’ll blast us to pieces, but if we surrender you’ll only boil us alive in oil?” I shouted back.

From the half-stifled growl that came next, I was sure that was what he would have liked to have done. And more. But again, the speaker controlled himself.

“No,” he shouted. “You and the girl are guaranteed your safety. But only if you surrender now. You are wasting our time.”

“Wasting their time?” Li Chin murmured.

I called out again: “How can I believe you?”

“I give you my word as an officer and a gentleman!” the voice came back. “Also, let me remind you, you have little choice.”

“Well, Li Chin,” I said softly, “shall we take his word as an officer and a gentleman?”

“Well, Carter,” said Li Chin, “I’ve got a sneaking suspicion he’s an enlisted man and a cad. But what the heck. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be boiled alive in oil.”

“What the heck,” I agreed. Then, shouting: “All right, I’ll take your word. We’re sliding our automatic weapons out into the corridor.”

We did it. Not happily, but we did it.

“Très bien,” the voice came. “Now come out where we can see you. Slowly. Hands clasped over your heads.”

We weren’t happy about that, either. But we did it. The moment when we moved, defenseless, into full view and range, passed like an eternity, an eternity in which we waited to learn whether we would be torn apart by bullets, or allowed to live a little longer.

Then the moment was over and we were still alive, surrounded by men in the uniform of the French Paratroops. These men, however, had bands around their sleeves with the initials OAS. And deadly automatic BARs, trained at our bodies from a few feet away. Two of them swiftly and brutally frisked each of us, getting Li Chin’s derringer, and Wilhelmina and Hugo, but not, thanks to his hiding place, Pierre.

“Bon,” said the man who was obviously their leader, and whose voice had conducted the negotiations. “I am Lieutenant Rene Dorson, and I am not pleased to make your acquaintance at all. But I have my orders. You will come with me.”

He gestured down the stairs in front of us with the .45 in his hand. Rifle barrels prodded us from behind, and we started down the steps, the lieutenant preceding us. At the bottom there was another bare corridor, with the fluorescent lighting along the ceiling. We marched along in dead silence, broken only by the scuffling of combat boots on cement. At the end of the corridor there were two doors. Dorson gestured to the one on the left.

“Enter,” he said. “And remember, there will be automatic weapons trained on you at all times.”

We entered. It was a large room, with polished walnut paneling over the cement-block walls. Thick Iranian carpets covered the floor. The furniture was authentic Louis Quatorze. The goblets set out on small tables in front of the couches were crystal with gold rims. Subdued lighting came from lamps on the tables, and set into the paneling. Sitting behind an elaborate seventeenth-century desk was another man in the OAS uniform. He was older than Dorson, with white hair, a pencil-thin white moustache, and lean, aristocratic features. As Li Chin and I came into the room, he looked up calmly, then rose.

“Ah,” he said. “Mr. Carter. Miss Chin. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

But I hardly heard him or saw him. My eyes were riveted to the other figure in the room, sitting on a couch and sipping from a crystal snifter of brandy.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the man behind the desk. “I am General Raoul Destin, Commanding Officer of the Western Forces, Organisation Armee Secret. As for my charming companion, I believe you are already acquainted.”

My eyes never left the woman on the couch.

“Yes,” I said slowly. “I believe we are. Hello, Michelle.”

She smiled, and took a sip of brandy.

“Bon soir, Nick,” she said softly. “Welcome to our headquarters.”

Thirteen

There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Li Chin broke it.

“See, Carter?” she said. “We should have known. Never trust a woman who knows too much about French cooking.”

Michelle’s eyes blazed. She whipped her head to the general.

“I want that girl disposed of!” she said viciously. “Now! And painfully!”

The general held up his hand and made a reproving sound.

“Now, now, my dear,” he said, in Oxford-accented English, “that hardly would be hospitable. No. In fact, I think we are quite fortunate to have Miss Chin as our guest. She is, after all, the representative of a large and powerful business concern. A concern with many interests in oil. They would hardly care to have those interests destroyed. So I’m sure that she’ll find it to her advantage to cooperate with us.”

“For a man who’s just lost about twenty of his troops, you’re pretty genial,” I said.

“Do not trouble yourself on that score,” said the general calmly. “They were incompetent, therefore they died. It is one of the risks of being a soldier in any army.”

He turned to the lieutenant.

“I take it you have made sure they are unarmed?”

The lieutenant made a brisk salute.

“Oui, man General. They were thoroughly searched.”

The general waved his arm at the door.

“In that case, leave us. We have business to discuss.”

The lieutenant executed a clean about-face and went through the doorway, taking his men with him. The door closed quietly.

“Please, Mr. Carter, Miss Chin,” said the general, “sit down. Won’t you join us in a cognac? It’s rather good. Forty years in the cask. My private stock.”

“Seasoned with prussic acid?” said Li Chin.

The general smiled.

“Both of you are far more valuable to me alive than dead,” he said, pouring out cognac into two crystal snifters and handing them to us as we sat down on a couch opposite Michelle. “But perhaps it is time for me to explain a few things to you.”

“I’m all ears,” I said dryly.

The general leaned back in his chair and took a slow, savoring sip of his cognac.

“As you have probably realized by now,” he said, “neither President De Gaulle nor his successors ever managed to completely destroy the OAS, even after the failure of our assassination attempts against him and the forced exile of most of our military leaders. Indeed, that forced exile simply led to a complete change of tactics on our part. We decided to build up our organization outside of mainland France, and when we acted once again, to attack from the outside. Meantime, we continued to increase the number of underground sympathizers within the government, and to increase the number of active members outside France. These activities came to a head some time ago, with the acquisition of Mont Pelee as our base, and the acquisition of Fernand Duroche as our — shall we say, technical advisor?”

“The acquisition of Fernand Duroche?” I repeated dryly.

The general glanced at Michelle. She shrugged.

“Tell him,” she said casually. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“m’sieur Duroche was, I am afraid,” said the general, “kidnapped. Michelle had long been a sympathizer of our cause in secret. m’sieur Duroche was strongly opposed to us. It was necessary to requisition his services under duress.”

“And the letters he wrote to you, which you showed to Remy St. Pierre — fakes,” I said, rather than asked.

“Yes,” Michelle said. “As were the letters which my father received from me while he was in captivity. Letters in which I said I too had been kidnapped, and would be tortured to death unless he did as he was asked.”

“Wow,” said Li Chin, “this kid is some loving daughter.”

“There are some things which are more important than family ties,” said Michelle coldly.

“Indeed, there are,” agreed the general. “And with the reluctant help of Fernand Duroche, we are going to achieve those things. But suppose I let m’sieur Duroche personally explain precisely how we shall achieve those things.”

The general picked up a phone on his desk, pushed a button, and snapped an order into it. He put it down and sipped at his cognac. No one spoke. I glanced covertly at my watch. After a moment the door opened, and a man stepped into the room. I say stepped. I should say shuffled. He was slumped over as if totally defeated, his eyes on the floor. I couldn’t help thinking how ironic his old name, Dr. Death, really was.

“Duroche,” said the general, as if addressing a lower order of servant, “this is Nick Carter, an American intelligence agent, and Miss Li Chin, advisor to a large financial concern. They are interested in learning what you have developed for us, and how it works. Come over here and tell them.”

Duroche shuffled forward without a word, to stand in the middle of the room, facing us.

“Talk!” snapped the general.

Duroche raised his head. His eyes met Michelle’s. She stared coldly back at him. A look of anguish came over his face, then faded. He squared his shoulders slightly.

“Thanks to the woman I thought was my daughter,” he said, his voice trembling but clear with his recital, “but who is instead a traitor to both her father and her country, I have been blackmailed into working for these scum. I have produced for them, I admit with shame, a unique underwater propulsion device. It is no more than five feet long, and one foot in diameter, containing over thirty pounds of TNT. It need not be fired from tubes, but can be dropped over the side of any craft, and becomes self-propelled when it reaches a depth of one hundred feet. At that time, a self-contained computer, programmed for the target, sends it on a random course to target. Its course is programmed not only to be random, but to avoid obstacles and pursuing devices.”

Duroche looked at me.

“Once this device is launched,” he said, “it is impossible to stop it. Because its course is random, it cannot be predicted. Because it can avoid obstacles and pursuers, it cannot be successfully attacked. The computer sends it to its target every time.”

“It has been tested,” said the general. “Tested many times.”

Duroche nodded in unhappy agreement.

“So you see, Carter,” said the general, waving his cognac snifter expansively, “there is nothing you can do to stop us. In less than two hours, a few dozen boats of all sizes and types will leave Martinique. They will scatter throughout the Caribbean and the South Atlantic. In some cases they will transfer our weapons to other boats. Then they will become lost in the vast small-boat population of the seas. You could no more find them in a year, let alone a week or so — let alone before we strike Curaçao in eight hours — than you could find a few dozen particular grains of sand on a large beach.”

He paused for effect.

“Skip the dramatics, General,” I said. “Make your point.”

He flushed slightly, then recovered.

“My point,” he said, “is that the Curaçao refinery is for all practical purposes, rubble. That is to show you what we can do. And what we will do, unless the United States, shall we say, cooperates.”

“The point, General,” I said. “Come to the point. What’s the blackmail?”

He flushed again.

“Blackmail is not a word to use about soldiers fighting for their cause. Nevertheless. The terms are these: The United States will, in two days, acknowledge Martinique as no longer a part of France, but an independent republic.”

“With you and your flunkies in charge, no doubt.”

“Again, I object to your terminology. But no matter. Yes, the OAS will govern Martinique. It will be protected both by the United States, and by its position as an independent country in the United Nations.”

“And, of course, you’ll be satisfied with Martinique,” I said sarcastically.

The general smiled.

“As an independent country, Martinique will send a diplomatic representative to France. For the first time, our native land will be forced to deal with the OAS as equals. And soon — soon after that, a situation analogous to that of Generalissimo Franco’s revolt against the Spanish Republic will arise.”

“The French military will come over to the side of the OAS, headquartered in Martinique, and take over France,” I said.

“Exactly. And after that — well, it is not only Frenchmen who sympathize with our cause and our philosophy. Certain others—”

“A few Nazis left over from the Second World War, no doubt?”

Again, the general smiled.

“Much maligned individuals, who share our desire for a disciplined world, a world without troublemakers, a world in which the naturally superior take their natural place as leaders.”

“Today, Martinique, tomorrow, the world,” said Li Chin, with disgust.

“Yes!” cried Michelle fiercely. “A world ruled by the aristocrats of nature, the truly intelligent, who will tell the stupid masses what is good for them, and eliminate those who would make trouble!”

“Sieg Heil,” I said softly.

The general ignored me. Or maybe he just liked the sound of the words.

“So, Mr. Carter, we come to your personal part in our plan. The part for which we have left you alive so far.”

“That’s funny,” said Li Chin. “I kept getting the feeling you’d kept him alive so far because you weren’t able to kill him.”

The general flushed again. He had the kind of fair complexion that flushes very obviously and very rapidly. It must have embarrassed him, and I enjoyed that.

“Several times you were getting too close too fast. That was Michelle’s failure. She was supposed to see that didn’t happen until the appropriate moment.”

It was Michelle’s turn to show embarrassment, but she did it with a toss of her head.

“I told you. Those idiot lepers failed in their assignment. By the time I learned what had happened he was working with the Chinese girl, and I never found a chance to get them together until the Carnival. When that failed—”

The general waved his hand.

“It no longer matters. What matters is that we succeeded in tricking you into attacking the volcano in hopes of rescuing Michelle, and have now captured you and rendered you harmless. We will hold you here until the Curaçao refinery has been destroyed, and our weapons are well out to sea and undiscoverable. Then you will act as liaison to inform your government of our demands, and our firm timetable for their acceptance. Which was to be your role all along, with Michelle making sure you arrived when we wished, rather than when you did.”

I felt anger coming to a boil within me. These Nazi hoodlums expected me to act as their messenger boy? It was with difficulty that I kept my voice low.

“There’s only one trouble, General,” I said. “I have arrived. And on my own terms.”

He waved his hands.

“Admittedly, your arrival was more violent than I could have wished. But, as I said, it no longer matters.”

“I think it does,” I said. Then, turning: “Li Chin? How’s the telephone working?”

Li Chin grinned.

“Bells are ringing. Have been for the last three minutes.”

“Telephone?” said the general.

Michelle gasped.

“Her earring!” she said. “It’s a trans-ceiver! And she only has one!”

The general was on his feet and across the room with remarkable speed for a man of his age. He lashed out his hand and whipped the earring from Li Chin’s ear lobe. I winced. Her ears were pierced, and he had literally torn the earring from her flesh. A wide stain of blood immediately appeared on her lobe.

“Ouch,” she said calmly.

“Where is the other earring?” demanded the general. The tone of affable hospitality had completely vanished from his voice.

“I loaned it to a friend of mine,” said Li Chin. “A guy named Sweets. We like to keep in touch.”

This time, Michelle’s gasp was even sharper.

“The black man!” she said. “Hunter! He must have entered the volcano separately!”

The general shot a glance at her, then looked back down at the earring trans-ceiver.

“No matter,” he said. “If he is within the crater, our television monitors will find him. And I will now destroy this fascinating little instrument, to cut off your contact with him.”

“I wouldn’t do that, General,” I said. “Cut off our contact with him and this entire island may be blown halfway to France.”

The general stared at me, then, with an obvious effort, relaxed his features into an unbelieving smile.

“I believe you are bluffing, Mr. Carter,” he said.

I glanced at my watch.

“If Sweets Hunter doesn’t get a signal on his trans-ceiver in exactly two minutes and thirty-one seconds, we’ll all have a chance to find out,” I said calmly.

“Much can happen in that time,” said the general. He strode to his desk, picked up the telephone, and barked out a series of orders. General Alert. Find Hunter. Bring him here immediately.

“It’s no use. General,” I said. “That signal meant that Sweets has already found what he was looking for.”

“Which is?” asked the general.

“One of two things,” I said. “Either the armament for your weapons or their computers.”

“The computers,” said Fernand Duroche, before the general could silence him.

“Duroche,” said the general, gritting his teeth in fury, “one more word and I will use the pistol at my hip to close your mouth forever.”

“It doesn’t matter, General, it had to be one or the other,” I said. “I knew that you would wait until the last minute to add at least one vital element to your weapons, in order to make sure they weren’t seized intact by a surprise raid on the boats. And the computers, being the most important element, are the likely choice to leave until last,”

The general said nothing, but his eyes narrowed. I knew I had hit home.

“You see, General,” I said, “the ‘kidnapping’ of Michelle this evening happened at just a little too convenient a time. Convenient for her and you, if you were working together. If you knew we were here in Martinique, you must have known we were in Puerto Rico, and she could have been kidnapped much earlier. If she hadn’t been working for you, that is. Because she was working for you, it was convenient to let her accompany us until she knew that our plans were to attack you. Then, she was conveniently ‘kidnapped’ in time to tell you everything.”

I reached into my pocket, found my cigarettes, and lit one.

“Once I realized that,” I went on, “I changed our plans. Li Chin and I came here to pay you a little visit. We knew it wouldn’t come as a surprise, but we didn’t want you to know that we knew. That’s why we disguised our visit in the form of an attack, and then let you capture us.”

Now the general’s eyes were riveted to my face. He had given up all pretense of believing we were bluffing.

“You see, if we had just walked in and said we wanted to talk to you, Sweets Hunter wouldn’t have been able to make his own little visit in another manner. Michelle would have wondered where he was right away and probably guessed that since it wouldn’t make sense to have one man alone try to attack from outside in the crater, he must be inside. Inside in your computer storage room. Where he is right now.”

“Patois!” Michelle said suddenly. “He speaks patois! He could have been hired as one of the native laborers for the trucks!”

The general’s eyes hardened. His hand flashed out toward the telephone. But before he could pick it up, it rang. His hand hovered for an instant, then snatched at the receiver.

“Qui?” he said curtly. Then his knuckles went white on the instrument and he listened in silence for several moments.

“Do nothing,” he said finally. “I will take charge myself.”

He replaced the receiver and turned to me.

“Our guards say that a tall, thin black man has killed two of their number, taken their automatic weapons, and barricaded himself in the computer storage room. He threatens to blow up the computers if we attack.”

“That,” I said, “is the general idea.”

“Impossible,” said the general, studying my face for reactions. “Possible to disguise himself as a laborer to gain entrance, yes, but impossible to smuggle in explosives. All laborers are searched.”

“What if the explosives are high-impact mini-grenades, disguised as a necklace of beads?” I asked.

“I don’t believe you,” the general said flatly.

“You will,” I said, glancing at my watch, “in exactly three seconds.”

“Countdown,” said Li Chin. “Three... two... one... zero!”

The blast came exactly on schedule, as we had agreed with Sweets. It wasn’t exactly a pound of TNT, or even as big as that produced by a standard grenade, but in the confines of the cement-block bunker, which held the entire force of the explosion in, it sounded gigantic. The noise was deafening. And even this far away, we could feel the shock waves. The biggest shock, however, came on the face of the general.

“Mon Dieu!” he gasped. “This is insanity—”

“That’s only the beginning, General,” I said calmly. “If Sweets doesn’t get a buzz from us on his trans-ceiver in another two minutes, he sets off another mini-grenade. They aren’t big, but one’s big enough to blow up a couple of your computers.”

“You can’t!” Michelle cried. Her face was white. “You mustn’t! Not inside the volcano! It’s—”

“It’s insanity!” said the general. “Any blast in here can set off shock waves that would revive the volcano! There could be a major eruption which would destroy the whole island! Even when we dug out our headquarters in the volcanic rock we didn’t use explosives, we used specially cushioned drills.”

“One blast every two minutes, General, unless—”

“Unless?”

“Unless you and all your men lay down your arms, evacuate the volcano, and surrender to authorities in Fort de France. Authorities, I might add, who have been specially picked by the Deuxieme Bureau to be without OAS sympathies.”

The general curled his lips in a sneer.

“Absurd!” he said. “Why should we surrender? Even if you should destroy all the computers here, how do you know that we have not equipped some of the weapons already, on the boats ready for sailing?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s why a special squadron of U.S. planes from the base on Puerto Rico is circling outside the Lorrain and Marigot harbors. If even one of the boats in that harbor tries to move to water deep enough to launch one of your weapons, those planes will blast it out of the water.”

“I don’t believe it!” the general said. “That would be a hostile act by the U.S. toward France.”

“It would be an act approved by the president of France personally, as an emergency measure.”

The general was silent. He bit his lip and chewed on it.

“You’re finished, General,” I said. “You and the OAS. Surrender. If you don’t, there’ll be one blast every two minutes until all those computers are destroyed — and maybe all of us along with them. It’s a risk we’re willing to take. Are you?”

“Mr. Carter?”

I turned. Fernand Duroche was looking worried.

“Mr. Carter,” he said, “you must understand that one of the—”

The general was fast, but I was faster. His hand hadn’t gone halfway to the holster on his hip before I had launched myself at him in a running dive. My left shoulder slammed furiously into his chest, and he hurtled over backward in the chair. As his head hit the floor my fist connected with his chin. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Michelle rise, a knife suddenly flashing in her hand. I smashed my fist against the general’s chin again, felt him go limp, and fumbled for the .45 at his hip.

“Stop!” Michelle screamed. “Stop or I’ll cut his throat!”

I pulled myself to one knee, the .45 in my right hand, to see that loving daughter with the knife blade pressed to the jugular vein in her father’s throat. Li Chin stood a few feet away, swaying warily, looking for an opening.

“Drop it!” Michelle snarled. “Drop the gun or I’ll kill your precious Dr. Death!”

And then the lights went out.

Fourteen

The darkness was total, absolute. In the windowless confines of the cement-block building complex no light could have filtered in from outside even at midday. Immediately, my hearing became sharper, more focused. I could detect Michelle’s almost guttural panting, frightened strangling noises from her father, and a sort of half padding, half sliding noise as Li Chin moved closer to her. Then, suddenly, Li Chin’s voice:

“Carter! She’s going for the door!”

I wheeled around the desk, gun at the ready, and made for the door. I was almost there when my hand brushed an arm.

“Stay back!” Michelle hissed, a few inches from my ear. “Stay back, or—”

The door opened without warning, and the beam of a flashlight cut into the room.

“General!” a man’s harsh voice cried out. “Are you all right? There’s been—”

I squeezed the trigger of the forty-five. There was an echoing blast, and the flashlight tumbled to the floor. I scooped it up and flicked its beam toward the hallway. Michelle was already through the door and running. I raised the .45 and was sighting when a deafening rattle of automatic rifle fire broke out from the other end of the hall. Bullets smashed into the cement-block near my face. I pulled back into the room, kicked the body of the soldier I had just killed out of the way, and closed and locked the door.

“Duroche!” I snapped. “Are you there?”

“He’s here,” came Li Chin’s voice. “He’s okay. I knocked the knife out of her hand.”

I swung the beam of the flashlight onto the figures of Li Chin and Duroche. Duroche was trembling; his narrow face was white, but his eyes were alert.

“Can you tell us where the computer storage room is?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “But have you noticed that the air in here is already becoming bad? The ventilator system is off. Someone must have cut the main power switch. If we don’t leave the building complex soon—”

He was right. The room was already stuffy. It was becoming close, stifling.

“Not yet,” I said. “Which way to the computer storage room?”

“There is a direct passage from here to the laboratories, and beyond that, the storage rooms,” Duroche said, pointing to a door at the far end of the room. “It is used only by the general and his top staff.”

I bent down and took the dead soldier’s .45, handing it to Li Chin.

“Let’s go,” I said.

Cautiously, I opened the door that Duroche had indicated. The passageway beyond it was as pitch black as the room and the outer hall. I aimed the beam of the flashlight down its length. It was deserted.

“Carter!” said Li Chin. “Listen!”

A series of loud thumps from the other hallway. They were trying to break down the door to the room. At the same time, another blast came from the direction of the computer storage room. Sweets was still at it. I motioned Li Chin and Duroche to follow me, and we set out along the passageway at a trot, flashlight in one hand, .45 in the other. I could hear shouts, gunshots, and running feet from nearby halls and rooms.

“Your friend must stop the explosions!” I heard Duroche shout behind me. “The danger is increasing with every one!”

Another blast. I thought I could feel the building tremble this time. And the air was worse: thick, close. It was harder to breathe.

“How much further?” I shouted back to Duroche.

“There! At the end of the hallway!”

Almost as he said it, a door at the end of the hallway opened and a tall figure dove through it. He had an automatic rifle, and was firing rapidly in the direction from which he had come. The .45 in my hand came up automatically, and then dropped.

“Sweets!” I shouted.

The figure’s head turned briefly in our direction.

“Hey, man,” I heard Sweets’ shout, even as he resumed firing, “welcome to the party!”

We ran the rest of the passageway and flopped down beside Sweets. He had overturned a heavy lab table in front of him and was shooting at a group of soldiers huddled behind another table at the far end of the laboratory.

“The computers,” I said, panting, struggling to breathe.

“Smashed to hell and gone,” said Sweets, pausing to eject an empty clip and insert a full one. “That last blast you heard finished them off. I managed to get the main power switch with this handy little BAR I borrowed from somebody who didn’t need it anymore anyway. Being dead, I mean. Then I got tired of being cooped up in that storage room and decided to split.”

Duroche tugged at my shoulder, pointing to the room at the end of the passageway, the room we had come from. Two flashlight beams were slicing through the darkness. The door must have given way.

“I think,” I said grimly, “it’s time for all of us to split.”

Sweets fired off another blast into the laboratory.

“You got any ideas as to how?” he asked, almost casually.

Flashlight beams cut down the passageway. I wrenched one of Sweets’ mini-grenades from his necklace, and lobbed it directly down the hall. It rolled into the room, and, an instant later, the building was rocked by another blast, almost knocking us over. There were no more flashlight beams.

“Mon Dieu!” gasped Duroche. “The volcano—”

I ignored him, pointing upward with my flashlight.

“That shaft there,” I said. “What is it? Where does it lead?”

“Ventilator shaft,” said Duroche. “It leads to the roof. If we could—”

“We’re going to,” I snapped. “Li Chin?”

“Acrobatics time again, hunh?” She was panting now, like the rest of us.

Wordlessly, I positioned myself beneath the ventilator shaft opening. An instant later Li Chin was standing on my shoulders, removing the grill to the shaft. I handed her my flashlight and could see her shine it upward. A few feet away, Sweets continued to fire blasts into the laboratory.

“It’s not a bad level of incline,” said Li Chin. “I think we can make it.”

“Can you close the grill after we get inside?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“Then let’s go.”

I gave her another boost with my hands, and Li Chin disappeared into the shaft.

“All right, Duroche,” I said, struggling for breath, “now you.”

With difficulty, Duroche climbed first onto my clasped hands, then onto my shoulders. Li Chin’s arm reached down out of the shaft, and slowly, Duroche grunting with effort, was helped up inside.

“Sweets,” I said, gulping for air, “you ready?”

“Why not?” he said.

He fired one final blast into the laboratory, rolled rapidly out of the doorway, and dashed toward me, flipping me the BAR as he came. I braced myself. He sprang onto my shoulders like a big cat, then swiftly up into the shaft. I leveled the BAR at the laboratory door and squeezed the trigger just as two men came through it. Their bodies were smashed back into the laboratory. I could hear one of them screaming. I glanced upward and flipped the BAR into Sweets’ waiting hands just as a flashlight beam cut down the passageway from the room we had been in.

“Now!” Sweets urged. “Come on, man!”

I bent at the knees, gasping for air, my head beginning to reel, and sprang upward with all my strength. I felt Sweets’ two hands clasp mine and pull, just as the flashlight beam lit on my legs. I hauled myself up, struggling, every muscle in my body screaming with effort. There was a deadly chatter of BAR fire, and I felt metal slice through my pants legs. Then I was up, inside the shaft.

“The grill,” I gasped immediately. “Give it to me!”

Someone’s hands put the grill into mine. I slid it down into its frame, leaving one side open, fumbling to unbuckle my belt.

“Start climbing!” I told the others.

“What’s that you got there?” asked Sweets, as he turned.

I pulled Pierre out from his hiding place and triggered the five-second fuse.

“Just a little parting gift for our friends below,” I said, and dropped Pierre down into the passageway, immediately slamming the grill down into place, and flipping its shutters closed tight. And let’s hope they are tight, I thought grimly as I turned and began to scramble up the shaft after the others.

I had gotten about five feet when Pierre went off. The blast wasn’t as powerful as Sweets’ mini-grenades, but an instant later I could hear screams that were choked into strangled coughs, the gargled, horrible death-sounds of man after man being felled by Pierre’s lethal gas.

The shutters on the grill must have been just as tight as I had hoped they would be, because the air in the shaft got ever better as we climbed upward, with none of the gasses from Hugo entering it.

Three minutes later we were all lying on the cement-block roof, sucking fresh, beautiful, clean night air into our lungs.

“Hey, look,” Li Chin said suddenly. She was pointing downward. “The exits. Nobody’s using them.”

Duroche nodded.

“When the general sent out that alert to capture your friend here, the exits were electronically locked, to make sure he couldn’t escape. After Mr. Carter’s gas bomb went off—”

We looked at one another with grim understanding. The doors that had been electronically locked to prevent Sweets from escaping had prevented the OAS forces from escaping from Pierre. With the ventilators not working, Pierre’s gas was now spreading with deadly efficiency throughout the entire complex of buildings.

The OAS headquarters had been turned into a charnel house, a nightmare deathtrap as efficient and escape-proof as the gas chambers the Nazi’s had used in their concentration camps.

“They must have called just about everybody into the buildings to fight Sweets,” said Li Chin. “I don’t see anybody outside in the crater.”

I peered down, running my eyes around the inside of the crater, and along its rim. Nobody. Except at the entrance to the garage...

I saw her at the same moment Duroche did.

“Michelle!” he gasped. “Look! There! At the garage entrance!”

There were two trucks pulled up to the garage entrance. Its doors were firmly shut, but I had a hunch it wasn’t into the garage that Michelle wanted to go. She was talking to the two armed guards from one of the trucks, who had accompanied it on its trip into the crater, gesturing furiously, almost hysterically.

“How could she have gotten out?” demanded Sweets.

“An emergency exit,” said Duroche, staring at his daughter fixedly, his expression torn between obvious joy that she was alive, and the knowledge she had betrayed both him and her country. “A secret exit, known only to the general and a few top staff. She must have known also.”

“She’ll never get off the island,” I said. “Even if she does, without the weapons you developed or the blueprints for them, the OAS is finished.”

Duroche turned to me, grabbing my shoulder.

“You don’t understand, Mr. Carter,” he said excitedly. “That is what I was about to tell you when the general tried to shoot me. Not all the computers were destroyed.”

“What?” I snapped. “What do you mean?”

“One of the weapons is already equipped with a computer, and ready to be launched. It was the emergency one. And it is now on a small boat in the harbor at St. Pierre. Not Lorrain or Marigot, where your planes keep watch. But St. Pierre.”

As he said the last words, as if on cue, Michelle and the two armed guards climbed into the cab of the truck. It reversed, and then started to make a U-turn, to head out of the crater. I snatched the BAR from Sweets without a word, pointed it at the cab of the truck, and squeezed the trigger.

Nothing.

I yanked out the empty clip and looked at Sweets. He shook his head mournfully.

“No more, man. That’s it.”

I threw down the BAR and stood up as the truck with Michelle in it accelerated up the road out of the crater and disappeared over the rim. My mouth was tight.

“Sweets,” I said, “I hope the Lady Day moves as fast as you say it can. Because if we can’t beat Michelle to the mouth of the St. Pierre harbor, there’s going to be one less oil refinery off Curaçao.”

“Let’s give it a try,” said Sweets.

Then we were scrambling over the roof, toward the garage and the remaining truck in front of it, two startled guards looking up only in time to have their chests blown into bloody craters by the .45 blasting from my right hand.

Fifteen

The Lady Day rounded the mouth of the St. Pierre harbor, Sweets at the helm, at a speed which made me wonder whether it was a yacht or a hydroplane. Standing beside me in the bow, while I struggled into scuba gear, Li Chin swept the harbor with a pair of Sweets’ high-powered binoculars.

“Look!” she said suddenly, pointing.

I took the binoculars and peered through them. Only one boat was moving in the harbor. A small sailboat, no more than fifteen feet, and apparently not equipped with an engine, it was tacking slowly in the light breeze toward the mouth of the harbor.

“They’ll never make it,” said Li Chin. “We’ll be all over them in another minute.”

“It’s too easy,” I muttered, keeping my eyes on the boat. “She must realize we’ll overtake them. She must have some other idea.”

Then we were near enough for me to make out figures moving on the deck of the boat. One of the figures was Michelle. She was in scuba gear, and I could see her gesturing furiously to the two guards. They were carrying a long, thin tube across the deck.

“What’s going on?” Li Chin asked curiously.

I turned to the tense, anguished figure of Fernand Duroche.

“How heavy is your underwater weapon?”

“Approximately fifty pounds,” he said. “But what does it matter? They cannot launch it from here. It would simply fall to the bottom and stay there. They would have to get outside the harbor, to drop it to at least a depth of one hundred feet before it would self-activate and propel itself.”

“And we’ll overtake them long before they get to the mouth of the harbor,” said Li Chin.

“Michelle realizes it,” I said. “That’s why she’s in scuba gear. She’s going to try to swim the weapon out to a depth of a hundred feet.”

Li Chin’s jaw dropped.

“It’s not as impossible as it sounds,” I said, adjusting the only two remaining air tanks on my back. “She’s good underwater, remember? And fifty pounds underwater is nothing like fifty pounds out of water. I had a hunch she might try something like this.”

I adjusted the knife at my belt, picked up Sweets’ speargun, and turned to give him instructions. But he had seen what was going on and was ahead of me. He cut back on the engines of the Lady Day and slid across her bow no more than fifty feet away.

I went over the side just as Michelle did, the Duroche torpedo cradled in her arms.

The water was black, murky. For a moment I couldn’t see anything. Then, as I worked my fins steadily, slicing through the water, I caught sight of the shallow keel of the sailboat. I curved, turned, and looked for Michelle, hoping for a sign of the telltale bubbles from her mask. Nowhere.

Then, fifteen feet below me and slightly ahead, on the bottom, I caught sight of the Duroche torpedo. Alone. No Michelle.

I curved and turned frantically, suddenly realizing what would come next. And it came — the long, deadly spear slicing through the water inches from my face. Behind me, I caught a glimpse of Michelle slipping behind the sunken wreck of an ancient sailing ship.

She was going to dispose of me before swimming the torpedo out to deep water. Unless I disposed of her first.

I didn’t have any choice. I went after her.

Speargun at the ready, I moved slowly around the sunken ship. Jagged wooden spars jutted out dangerously from its rotted sides. A school of small fish flittered across my path. I stopped, holding on to a broken mast, then rose a few feet and looked down.

She came from below this time, the knife in her hand slicing furiously at my belly, then, when I slid aside, at my face. I jack-knifed around a rotted hatch cover, leveled my speargun, and fired in one movement. The shaft shot forward and sliced through the skin of Michelle’s shoulder. I saw, through her mask, the agonized twisting of her mouth. I also saw the thin stream of blood from her shoulder coloring the water.

It had to be finished quickly now. The sharks would be on us at any minute, drawn to the blood and ravenous.

I unsheathed my knife and swam slowly forward. Michelle jack-knifed around a spar of the sunken ship, then darted forward at me. Her knife sliced viciously in the direction of my head. She was trying to cut my oxygen line. I swam downward, then made a sudden turn and a corkscrewing back flip. I was suddenly on top of her, and my left hand grabbed her knife hand in an iron grip. She struggled to free herself, and for several moments we swayed back and forth, up and down, in a deadly underwater ballet. We were mask to mask, our faces only a foot apart. I could see her mouth twist with effort and tension.

And when my knife came to stab upward, through her belly and into her chest, I saw that face I had kissed so often distort in agony. And the body I had made love to so many times writhe convulsively, shudder, and then suddenly go limp with the passivity of death.

I sheathed my knife, grabbed her body under the arms, and started to swim slowly upward. When I broke the surface of the water, the Lady Day was only a few yards away, and I saw Li Chin lowering a rope ladder, gesturing frantically, shouting.

Then I heard what she was shouting: “Sharks, Carter! Sharks!”

I had no choice. I let go of Michelle’s body, wrenched the oxygen tank harness off my back, and swam for the Lady Day like an Olympic star. I grabbed hold of the rope ladder and yanked myself out of the water bare seconds before a row of razor-sharp teeth took away half of one of my fins.

Then I was on deck, seeing the two guards from the sailboat sitting near Sweets, tied hand and foot, their faces sullen with defeat. And seeing Fernand Duroche staring over the rail, wide-eyed with horror, at the boiling red turmoil where the sharks were ripping apart Michelle’s body.

Wearily, I pulled off my fins and walked over to him.

“I know it’s small comfort,” I said, “but she was dead before the sharks hit her.”

Duroche slowly turned away. His shoulders slumped even further. He shook his head.

“Perhaps,” he said brokenly, “it is best. She would have been proclaimed a traitor — tried — sent to prison...”

I nodded silently.

“Carter,” said Li Chin softly, “do the authorities have to know about Michelle? I mean, what difference does it make now?”

I thought about it.

“All right, Duroche,” I said finally, “that’s one thing I can do for you. As far as the world is going to know, your daughter died a heroine, fighting for your freedom, and for her country, against the OAS.”

Duroche looked up. The gratitude on his face was almost painful.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

Slowly, wearily, but with a certain tired dignity, he walked away, to stand by himself in the stern.

“Hey, Carter,” said Sweets, from the helm, “I just got a little message for you on the radio. From a cat named Gonzalez. He says old Mr. Hawk is flying down from Washington to debrief you. He also says the French Government has flown in an Army regiment to take over those ships in the Lorrain and Marigot harbors, and to get rid of the OAS sympathizers in the Martinique administration.”

“Yeah,” said Li Chin. “He was even saying something about a letter of gratitude from the French Government for breaking the back of the OAS and their takeover scheme.”

Sweets chuckled and gestured toward the two bound guards.

“These particular OAS men don’t have much fight left in them. They surrendered to us the minute Michelle jumped off the boat.”

“What happened to the torpedo?” asked Li Chin.

“It’s down there, about twenty yards away,” I said. “Later, when the sharks have left the area, we can bring it up. Until then, we stay right here to make sure nobody else does.”

“Well look, man,” said Sweets, “this has been a groove and all, but I’ve just about run out of my supply of fudge. If you folks don’t mind, I’m going to run into town.”

“Take the sailboat,” I said. “And while you’re at it, turn these two OAS punks over to the authorities.”

“Mr. Carter?” said Fernand Duroche.

I turned.

“I am grateful to you for rescuing me, and for—”

I nodded.

“But now, I should return to my own people. The Deuxieme Bureau will want to talk with me.”

“Go with Sweets,” I said. “He’ll make sure you get to the right people.”

He nodded, then held out his hand. I shook it, and he turned and walked to where Sweets was hauling the sailboat alongside.

“See you later, man,” called out Sweets, after the two OAS men, and Duroche and himself, had jumped aboard. “Maybe I’ll wait around a bit and bring back old Mr. Hawk with me.”

“You do that,” suggested Li Chin. “Don’t hurry. Carter and I have plenty to do.”

“Exactly what did you mean by that?” I asked, when the sailboat had pulled away.

Li Chin moved closer to me. Much closer.

“Well, you see, Carter,” she said, “there’s an old Chinese proverb that goes, ‘There’s a time to work, and a time to play’.”

“Yes?”

“Un-hunh.” She was so close now that her small, firm breasts were pressing against my chest. “And now’s the time to play.”

“Yes?” I said. It was about all I could say.

“I mean, you don’t believe all that junk about French women being the best lovers, do you?”

“Are there better?”

“Un-hunh. Much better. Want to find out?”

“Why not?” I said.

I found out. She was right. I mean, she was right!

Content

Nick Carter
Dr. Death

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