Шкловский Лев Переводчик. Strike Of The Hawk

Шкловский Лев Переводчик
Strike Of The Hawk

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STTUKE OF HAWK

telephone call? I had no time to ponder.

' 'Elaine:" I called out.

No answer.

Just as a man and a woman appeared at the main

chattering in French, I ducked back into the t*droom to find

out why the woman didn't respond.

My answer was there on the floor, in a widening of

blood.

Elaine Withers was dead, three bullet wounds in her chest,

neck and head.

Even in death, she was t*autiful.

I threw a t*dspread over her body and went back into the

sitting room. People were flocked around the door, so I

waved the Luger at them and waded through.

At the elevator, the clerk from the desk saw me and called

out: "What

"Just call the police," I replied as I stepped onto the little

cage. "Maytr they can figure it all out."

As the elevator descended, I through the grating at

the desk clerk. He was grinning.

"1 already called the police, Monsieur Carter," he said,

emphasizing my real name. "Don't you think you should

stay and talk with them?"

I shook my head and saved my breath. I was almost out of

voice range anyhow. But that grin had told me everything.

the desk clerk would spill his guts to the Paris police

and I would a hunted man by both sides of the law.

But to hell with that. I had bigger things to worry about.

Obviously, Cronin and his people were not bashful about

striking, hard and quick. The only reason they had not yet hit

David Hawk, I figured, was because he was in Washington

and it would be difficult to get away with it there.

When I left the George Cinq, I took to alleys, which are

plentiful in Paris, and found a small hotel near Avenue Victor

Hugo. I used another phony name, knowing that Paris police

would receive a copy of the hotel's register and would

looking for both Carson and Carter.

I had just lain back on the hard little trd to a quiet

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NICK CARTER

mourning of the beautiful Elaine WithersDiane Northrup

when there was a knock on the door. I got up. Luger in hand.

An envelope slid under the door and by the time I looked out

into the hallway, the messenger had vanished. The message

was from Hawk. I could tell because he used the failsafe

code—virtually uncrackable without the key, which only

two people in the world knew, Hawk and me, Deciphered, it

read:

"It has been confirmed that Mr. Snyder has gone bank-

rupt. He is in to settle an old debt. Urgent you go

there."

That was AXE language for this: "Snyder is a turncoat;

he's in St(Xkholm to kill our agent there. Stop him."

It was imperative that I get to Sweden to warn James

Lobell.

If I could get out of France.

Chapter Seven

The big DCIO dipped its port wing as we approached the

city and I looked down at the sparkling islands that make up

Stockholm. I have never seen the lovely brick and granite

city without thinking of Venice. The thirteen islands that

make up St(Xkholm seem to glitter like stones in an ocean,

and water is everywhere—even serving as streets in low-

lying areas.

Thousands of boats were moving up and down between the

busy islands, serving as taxis and commercial vehicles. And

the many bridges and wide streets were filled with people, on

foot and in cars and trucks.

The wing leveled off and the jet streaked off to the north,

on the edge of Lake Mälaren, to land at an airstrip that is no

more than a giant clearing in a forest of pines.

It all seemed so peaceful, yet I knew that Cronin's men-—

perhaps even Cronin himselß--would be there in force. Once

they disposed of James Lobell, they would move, in a pack,

to another læation to eliminate another AXE agent.

Unless I stomxd them.

Under most conditions, one AXE agent does not contact

another agent directly. That is, we never meet in the flesh.

The closest I usually come to other agents is through tele.

phone calls if I cannot learn what I need to learn from them

through the computer bank in Washington.

This was an extraordinary situation.

I left the airport, waited until dark and went to James

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NICK CARITR

Lobell's apartment on Staden Island, the heart of Stock-

holm's old city. He lived in a third-floor flat in a quaint old

gabled house that was at least three hundred years old, on a

narrow street only a few hundred yards from the water.

"Hey, Nick," he said, spreading his arms as he greeted

me at the door, "l haven't seen you in ten years. What in

thunder brings our old veteran out to see me?"

"Let's get inside and I'll tell you," I said, looking past

him into the apartment to make certain he hadn 't already been

invaded by Cronin's men.

"What are you looking for, old buddy?" he asked as we

moved inside and he closed the ' •Broads or

Lobell was not a new agent, so he should have known that I

would not pay him a visit for broads or booze. It was obvi(.11s

to me that his loud greeting and convivial comments were a

cover. I gazed around the room, inspecting it, and noticed

that one window was slightly open.

Lobell followed my gaze and put a finger to his lips,

shushing any comment I might make about the window.

' 'Let me get a jacket from the he said loudly.

We'll have to go down the street for a drink. I'm fresh out."

"I don't want a drink," I said, uncertain of what he

planned to do. I •thought we should check out that open

window immediately.

"Of course you do," he said, gripping my arm and guid-

ing me back to the door. He winked, a grim wink. S S You must

have had a weary trip up here. You need a drink. Come

along, old buddy. I know just the place to go."

I didn't protest. We walked down the three flights to the

street and James Lobell chatted loudly and amiably as we

headed down toward the water. When we were two blocks

away, he ducked into an alley and pulled me after him. His

voice came in a hoarse whisrrr.

' 'You came at a good time, Nick. Somebody has tren

watching me for days. Just before you arrived, I heard them

on the fire escape. When I heard the window being jimmied,

I sat and waited. When you kncxked, I had my gun in my

hand, ready to blast them to hell. What in the world is going

on?"

I told him about Robert Cronin and Dave Snyder, and

about Elaine Wither's part in the project. He smiled when I

mentioned her name, but frowned when I told him that she

had been shot during an assault on me. I told him how Hawk

had warrrd me, via the computer, that he, Lobell, also was in

rouble.

"Okay," he said finally. ' 'What do we do next?"

' 'That's easy," I said. ' 'The hunted become the hunters.

Let's circle back and watch who is probably right now

breaking into your apartment. When they leave, we can

follow."

He nodded and led the way to an alley behind his apart-

ment building. We separated then to avoid being caught in a

trap. I found refuge in a hedge and settled down with my

Luger in my hand to watch his apartment.

The apartment was dark, but I saw a flickering light

from the window. Flashlight. Someone was in there search-

ing through Lobell's belongings. I saw movement below the

fire escape and saw Lobell creqing up behind several gar-

bage cans.

In twenty minutes, the light went off and the window to

Lobell's apartment opened wide. Two dark figures came out

and down the fire escape. When they rounded the corner and

entered the alley, I crouched lower to let them pass. They

went silently, moving across the rough cobblestones like

two-legged deer.

Lobell came out from behind the cans and motioned for

me. We went to the big garage across the alley and got into

his car. As we came out ofthe alley, we saw the men get into

a small green Volvo.

*'Okay," Lobell said. "Now, all we have to do is make

sure they don't spot us."

We cmised all over the small island, then crossed the

bridge to the mainland, near the Parliament building. As we

gained speed through the more modern section of the city,

NICK CARTHR

54 NICK CARTER

Lobel! filled me in on what had been happening. "I just came off an assignment two weeks ago in Libya," he said. "Mostly in the Tobruk area. You know, they're still talking there about an American spy who killed a dozen alleged syndicate men and left two city blocks in flames. You wouldn't know about that, would you?" "No more than you," I lied. "Anyway," he said and chuckled, "when 1 got back, my apartment had been ransacked. The next day, when I went down la the telephone exchange to make my report, I was followed. As time went by, more tails were put on me and once I was stopped in an alley near my apartment by two men who said they wanted directions. They didn't need direc-tions. 1 could tell by their accent that they were native Stockholmers." "What did they want, then?" "To get a closer look at me, I suppose. I gave wrong directions just to see their expressions. They didn't disap-point me. They knew the directions were wrong when a stranger would not have known the difference." He was silent . we tumed a corner, crossed another bridge onto Kungsholmen Island. We passed huge factories and warehouses in this industrial section. The streets were eerily deserted. "Earlier today," Lobel! went on, "I decided to call their bet. I went to a pawn shop and bought a lot of junk and had the pawn broker wrap it in dark paper. When I sneaked the box into the apartment, their curiosity got the better of them, so they came snooping closer. That was when you showed Lobell slowed m the Volvo turned into the driveway of is ball bearing factory. He stopped and we slumped in the front seat, wailing. "No sense going in diere," he said. "This is only a deco)) stop. They'll change cars before going to their hideout." After a long silence, broken only by the clattering distant machines and the hooting of boats on the eternally. busy Norrstrom, Lobel! spoke.

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STRIKE OF THE HAWK 55

"Nick, you really think they'll get to Hawk?" "Highly possible," I replied. "They're taking a lot of time and that means they're being very careful and deliber-ate. AndCronin not only has hired gunmen on his payroll, he has the active support of both the Mafia and the Corse. That makes for an almost unbeatable combination." Lobel! whistled and shook his head in dismay. "My God, what will happen to us? To AXE?" "If their plan works. Hawk and most AXE agents will die. The government will appoint a new leader, but the new man won't have many people to lead after awhile. Their plan is to nip us all off, you know." "So," James Lobell said, letting out a full breath and sighing in the dark car. "That means we have to stop them before they get to Hawk." "Right. Look sharp, my friend, here they come." A limousine eased out of the factory driveway and we hunched lower in the seat. The limo turned toward us and we both gripped our pistols, waiting for an assault. But the big car moved on past. Lobel! waited ten seconds, then started his engine. He made a 1J-mm and followed the limousine, slowly. After another hour's drive, the limousine finally stopped at a small hotel on the island of Ostermalm, on a quiet, mostly residential street. Lobell turned off the main street a block past the hotel and parked on a dark street. "Want to hit them now?" he asked. "No. We don't know what we would be hitting. Let's stake them out a few days." Three days later, on a Saturday night, we were ready to hit them. We knew. During our surveillance, we had spotted Robert Cronin and Dave Snyder leaving and entering the little hotel with a bodyguard. Lobel! had even gone into the hotel lobby and reported back that Cronin's men had virtually taken over the place. "This is their headquarters," he said. "They have the top floor for the leaders, and the other two floors for their damned army of thugs."

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56 NICK CARTER

"So we take a calculated risk in hitting it," I said. "Even if we come out of it with our lives, we may force them to speed up their plans to hit Hawk." We agreed that the risk was a necessary one. And so, on Saturday night when the thugs would be relaxed and drinking heavily, we decided to make a two-men assault on the hotel. We rigged a thin nylon escape line from the top of the hotek to a nearby apartment building. Beyond that building was the river, with plenty of boats for escape. And Lobel' arrangeth for a water taxi to be on hand at the breakwall alongside the river. We had only to get out of the hotel alive and make it to the. boat. We were figuring that Cronin would not be prepared fog, water pursuit, so we would exact our pound of flesh, eliminating both Cronin and the turncoat agent, then disap-pear into the cool Swedish night. The attack plan was simple but Napoleonic in concept. We depended wholly on surprise. And, since Osteemalm was primarily residential, we were far from police headquarters, so would not have to fear immediate police interference. We had no intention of attacking Cronies army; we wanted only to hit the top floor where the leaders were living, then take off. lames Lobell went up first. I waited in the alley until he signaled from the roof that all was quiet and that our escape line, attached just after nightfall, was still intact. When I reached the roof, Lobell was crouching in darkness behind an air vent. I joined him and we located the lean-to shed that contained the door and stairway to the top floor belowus. It was so quiet up there that I began to suspect a hap. The had on the back of my neck raised up, tickling my skin. ii.. "We can't go in that way," I whispered. "Danger signs are lighting my body up like a pinball machine." "I know what you mean," he replied. "I feel it too." I didn't want to abort the task, but I also knew that my

STRIKE OF THE HAWK 51

I warning instinct was almost infallible. It had saved my skin innumerable times. All right, Jim," I said. "Let's take the fire escape down to the top floor. It should dump as out into the main corridor. We can strike from there." Slowly and quietly, we crawled across the dark roof to the 1. fire escape. At the top floor, we jimmied the window and entered the empty corridor. As soon as we were inside, we heard hoarse voices from down the hall. I moved along the dim corridor and Lobell followed.• Another hallway led off to the right, at the end of which were six men standing outside an exit door. It was the door leading to the roof. My danger signs had been accurate. We would have been killed as soon as we opened the door from the roof. Sweat collected under my arms and around my neck, although the corridor was cool. There was a tactical decision to be made. If we attacked the men huddled around the door to the roof, our main quarry—Cronin and Snyder—would be Iwarned. They would get away. However, if we attacked the bedrooms, the thugs would immediately respond and come right down our throats. But what the hell. I had gone into even worse situations alone. This time, I had mother agent to cover my flanks. "You stay here," I whispered to Lobell . "I'm going to hit one of the bedrooms. As soon as our friends here move, start pumping lead into them. It'll be like shooting . . "Yeah," i he whispered tightly. "Like shooting rabbits n a wire cage.' I grinned. "Something like that." I eased back up the main corridor and picked a door at random. Checking to see that Lobell was ready, I raised my right foot and whacked the door, hard, right beside the doorknob. The door crashed open and I mw three men sitting in easy chairs. As soon as I opened fire with Wilhelmina, the lights went out and gunshots sounded in the room. Bullets whizzed past

STRIKE OF THE HAWK 57

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58 NICK CARTER

me and thunked into the door. I tossed in a gas bomb and moved swiftly to the nextdoor. Before I could kick it in. I heard Lobell's powerful Luger open up, followed appropriately by screams and the chatter-ing of automatic weapons. Then came a tremendous explosion and a flash of fire . down the corridor. Lobell had blown all six men away with a hand grenade. I didn't have to kick in the second door. At the moment I felt the concussive pressure from the grenade, the door opened. A heavy man in a black suit stared open-mouthed at me. I put a bullet smack into that open mouth. The man clutched his throat and stumbled back Mtn the room, knock-ing over furniture and lamps. Another rushed out of the bedroom and I dropped him with a single bullet between the eyes. The suite contained only the two men, neither of them Cronin or Snyder. so I dashed out into the corridor again, just in time to see a burly man open a door down the way, directly behind James Lobel'. Lobel! was at the main stairway door, pumping bullets from an automatic pistol he apparently had taken from a dead thug. The man came out of the room, his automatic pistol at the ready. He came slowly, quietly, sneaking up behind the unsuspecting Lobell. I ran down the corridor and the man turned to face me just as I reached him. I flexed a muscle in my right arm and Hugo leaped into my hand. The little knife sank into the man's soft belly and I ripped it up and in, hard. He went down without a sound and I caught his machine pistol in the an. "Behind you, Nick!" Lobell yelled, turning, but still firing away. I whnled just as two men took aim on my head with shotguns. I whipped the pistol up and fired without aiming. • The gun chanced and the men were cut almost in two. I'

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turned back to Lobell, who had thrown away the machine

pistol and was preparing to launch another grenade.

"What the hell is so interesting down those stairs?" I

yelled as I reached his side.

"l think the goddam reserves are trying to come up," he

said as he backed away from the open door. "Stay back until

after that one pops."

On his last word, the grenade went off. The floor bucked

under us and two more men, obviously awakened by the

furor, stumbled drunkenly out of a room down the hallway. I

took careful aim and squeezed the trigger of the automatic

weapon. They fell like rag dolls.

SSLet's get up to the before they reach it from the

outside?' I said.

"What about Cronin and Snyder?"

"We have to forget them this time. They're not here.

Somebody warned these bastards or they wouldn't have been

waiting for us. My bet is that Cronin and Snyder, plus all

their lieutenants, are holed up on another island, waiting for

word that we've been scalped. Let's go."

We made it safely to the roof and started across to where

our line was attached. I still had the automatic pistol, but I

knew that it was about empty. Just as I was hoping that we

wouldn't meet any more of the enemy, two men stepped out

from behind an air vent.

I leaped behind another vent, but Lobell attacked with a

flying tackle. He caught both men and they all three tumbled

in a heap on the dark roof.

I moved up swiftly and, while the men were huffing and

cursing trying to free themselves from Lobell, I went to work

with the stiletto.

Half sick, weary and still frightened, I stood up and wiped

blood from the little knife.

' 'Pretty damned messy,'" I said to Lobell who was getting

up slowly, "but it saves ammunition."

S 'And you're going to need it," he said.

Even as he spoke, he commenced firing past me. I turned

and fired as five men burst out onto the roof and started

NICK CARTER

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NICK CARTER

toward us. We cut them down in three seconds flat.

hope to God that's all of them," Lobell said as we ran

across the roof to our escape line. "l don't relish the idea of

being pot shot while I'm swinging out over the street."

"Nor do I."

We quickly attached our shiny little pulleys to the line and

leaped from the roof, one after the other. As I sailed through

the cool, dark air, I heard the racket of automatic weapon fire

tEhind me.

But we made it unscathed. On the other side Of the apart-

ment building, we found the fire escape, ran down it to the

water's edge and leaped into the waiting water taxi.

"I was just about to get out of here," the boatman said.

' g What the hell was all that noise back there?"

Government business, I cracked, flashing my gold card

at him. I didn't have to tell him which government.

' 'Oh," he said. He revved up the engine and pulled out

into the river. We headed toward the glittering lights of

Norrmalm, the island where most of the city's businesses and

theaters were located. I settled back on a soft seat, lit up a

gold-embossed cigarette and smoked to settle my nerves.

They were leaping about like kittens on an electric chair.

James Lobell situated himself comfortably beside me, the

cool wind tossing his blond hair into a bright halo about his

head.

' 'Now that we've got all this adrenalin flowing," he said

with a chuckle, "let's not waste it on a drink."

"What do you have in mind?"

"l know a couple of young ladies who aren't doing any-

thing tonight. Okay?"

"Okay."

It was a good idea. Not only would we get laid, but we

would have a safe place to spend the night. Either

was welcome.

We scored on both counts.

The morning was clear and crisp, almost brittle with vivid

blue skies and sharp sunlight over the water. Kristen moved

in the trd beside me and I gazed at her sharp, clear features.

She was classic Scandanavian, with eyes as blue as the

Swedish sky , hair as soft and golden as the sunlight, and skin

as crystal clear and unflawed as the calm waters of the

Norrstrom.

And she was as good in as she lcx)ked.

But all good things come to an end, especially in my

business. I wanted to in and check on Hawk at the

same time. I swung my legs out of bed and began to dress.

Kristen awoke.

"Where are you going?" she asked in Swedish.

"I'm going for a walk," I said.

"I've heard of people who eat and run," Kristen said,

feigning a pout, "but this beats them all."

I patted her face and kissed her full red lips. "Don't worry.

I'll back after a brisk walk along the river. Wait for me."

"All right," she said, sleepy again. She tumed over and

was almost instantly asleep—the rewards of being a pretty

girl not involved in governrnent work.

James Lobell and Alyss were still asleep in her trdroom

when I checked.

At the corner, I found a telephone blÅ)th and checked my

digital watch to calculate the time in Washington. It was 7:04

in Stockholm, so it had to be around midnight in the eastern

seaboard of the States. The computer would be awake. I

dialed and waited.

"Report," the computer voice crackled over mild static.

"No report," I said. ' 'A check. N3 in Stockholm."

"One moment please."

It was a quick moment. "We did not call, but it is well that

you called us. The nameless person is hospitalized."

My nerves went suddenly tense and the hair rose tingling

on my neck. I almost blurted out Hawk's name. He was in the

hospital? My Gcxi, why? I forced calm into my voice.

"Please expand," I said, adopting the impersonal tone of

the computer.

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NICK CARTER

€ 'An explosive device," the voice said. "Planted in his

automobile."

S *When and where?"

' 'At precisely 10:22 p.m. yesterday, just outside his of-

fice."

g 'Is he all right?"

"Critical."

' 'Where is he?"

"In the hospital," the computer said, sounding almost

cranky.

"Which one?"

"You are being extravagant."

"Sorry," I said, knowing that I had blundered—that it

would be extremely dangerous to have that information re-

peated over long distance telephone. ' 'Anything else?"

"Yes, you are to remain in Europe to find those responsi-

ble and you are to dispose of them in the usual manner. That

is all."

There was a click. The line was dead, I wanted to get to

Washington as soon as possible, but I knew it would be

fruitless. Hawk would be in a military hospital under tight

security conditions.

As I stepped from the telephone booth, my mind reeling

from the impact of the crashing news from the computer,

certain truths became self-evident.

Cronin, obviously, was behind the murder attempt on

David Hawk, and he did it in retaliation for our evening raid

on his stronghold, As we had feared, Lobell and I had

speeded up his plans to kill Hawk and start the destruction of

AXE. Fortunately, the speeding up caused them to blunder.

Hawk was still alive.

And another truth came to me as I walked up the street

toward the apartment of the lovely Kristen and Alyss.

Dave Synder, Agent N22, knew that I would immediately

contact Washington and learn about the attempt on Hawk's

life, learn that the killing had begun. And I knew also that, as

I walked along the sun-drenched street in the crisp morning

air, Dave Snyder and probably Robert Cronin were watching

STRIKE OF THE HAWK

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STRIKE OF THE HAWK

ingry mom years, sari, I stept the naby parinens, and.

knew that I was next on the list.

The bullet could come at any time.

Chapter Eight

For the next three days we were both the hunters and the

hunted.

On the first day, Lobell and I were leaving his flat when six

mercenaries, well armed and anxious to earn their pay from

Cronin, launched an attack from across the street.

The first bullet slammed inte the seat of Lobell's car just as

we were getting in. I hit the sidewalk on my stomach, but

Lobell was caught on the street side of the car. Bullets

whanged and clattered on and around the car.

"Open fire, Nick," Lobell yelled above the crash and

boom of gunfire. "Cover me so I can get the hell out of

here."

I raised from the sidewalk and leaned against the side of

the car. As I was hoisting Wilhelmina to the hood, I saw a

tongue of flame from the roof of the apartment building.

I squeezed, the Luger boomed three times and a man came

sailing down, screaming bloody murder. By the time he hit

the sidewalk, I had spotted another gunman and was blazing

away while Lobell skittered to safety, right beside me. Some

safety. Bullets surrounded us like a veil of falling lead.

But our assailants' eagerness was their downfall. Instead

of shooting for the car's fuel tank to blow up our shield-and

perhaps us as well—the five remaining gunmen started dash-

ing across the street in a frontal attack.

"You take the left flank, I'll take the right, " I murmured

to Lobell.

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"Check."

We leaned against the car, took careful aim and began

pumping lead. Two men fell instantly, two ducked behind

parked cars and one charged ahead, his machine pistol chat-

tering like a nest of ground squirrels.

I caught the charging man with a single shot, smack in the

throat, and he did a weird death dance in the middle of the

street.

Up and down the normally quiet residential street, people

were yelling and running for cover. We had brought terror,

and they were responding as might be expected. In the

distance, a police siren wailed.

"Let's clear out," I said. "We can't afford to get tied up

with the cops right now."

' 'Or at anytime," Lobell commented.

He the car door and dived in head first. When he

was behind the wheel, I pumped two more shots at the car

where the men were hiding, and started to get in. Lobell held

a hand grenade out to me.

"Bounce it off the building across the street," he said.

pulled the pin and lobbed the grenade over the top of the

parked car. It struck the building and landed on the sidewalk,

out of sight. Lobell started the car and I jumped in. As we

pulled away from the curbing, the grenade went off.

Two men screamed, but their screams were cut off by twin

explosions as the grenade and the carboth went up in shatter-

ing bits.

Later that night, after cniising the streets without drawing

any fire, we headed toward the apartment of Kristen and

Alyss. umen we neared their building, a small dark car eased

up trhind us.

"Oh my God," Lobell said as he squinted into the rear-

view mirror. "Now, they know about the girls. We don't

have a safe place in the whole lousy city."

"Including the one we're in right now," I said.

We lost the tail with a few quick turns and kept on driving

until we were in open countryside, tEyond the airport. Lobell

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NICK CARTER

pulled in at a small inn where we got a room and settled in the

cocktail lounge to plan our next move.

We knew that Cronin and Snyder had fled the city, but we

had no idea where they had gone. They could in any of a

hundred places I knew about---or a thousand I didn't.

Only one thing was certain: even though they had failed to

liquidate David Hawk, they were proceeding with their plan

to kill AXE agents, starting with me-—and, of course,

Lotrll. They had left gunmen in Stockholm to eliminate us,

and we were methodically killing off those gunmen.

I knew, though, that we were merely skirting around the

edges of Cronin's real plan. We were literally and figura-

tively wanda•ing around in the while the enemy

was taking over the city. In this case, we were playing cat and

mouse in Stockholm while Cronin and Snyder were proceed-

ing with their grand scheme to eliminate AXE and to gain a

monopoly on worldwide illegal drug traffic.

It wasn't until the third day, however, that I could do

anything but play cat and mouse. On that day, we took a

hostage. He was a wiry little thug named Lenny Shales, and

he could not stand pain.

Shales had been left with another man to guard Lobell's

apartment. We knew the apartment was being guarded, but

we had to go back there to get ammunition Lobell had stashed

in the wall of a bedroom closet. We couldn't get provisions

through regular channels because Cronin's men had bombed

the Amalgamated Press office on Staden.

Lenny Shales had gotten drunk on Lobell's well-stocked

whiskey cabinet and had passed out on the couch. When we

drew his partner out and shot him on the fire escape, we had

only to throw Shales into the shower, under icy water, and

then fill him up with coffee. Then, we drove him back to the

inn near the airport for questioning.

Lenny sat in the chair, his hands tied to the wooden arms.

His weasel eyes looked fearfully around the room, which we

had darkened for effect. One lamp was lit, and it shone

brightly in Lenny's scared face.

After a few preliminary questions which determined that

STRIKE OF •n-IE HAWK

Cronin and Snyder, who had hired him, were out of Stock-

holm, I went right for the meat.

"Okay, Lenny, now tell me where they are right now.

Where's their permanent hideout?"

He shook his head and went paler. "Jeez, I don't know

that. Hell, they'd never tell me such a thing.

"For your sake,'

" I said calmly,

"I hope they did tell you

such a thing and that you aren't going to be stubborn about

passing it along.

'I don't know where they are," he cried. Lobell moved up

to break his nose with the edge of his hand. Lenny Shales

opened his mouth to scream,

but Lobell stuffed a pair of

rolled socks into it. What came out was a pitiful squeal and a

grunt of pain. Lobell removed the sock.

Still he wouldn't talk. Lobell grew impatient.

'I brought along an eyepiece, " Lobell said. "Why don't

we pass up the bone-breaking session and get right to it."

Lenny Shales went stark white when Lobell mentioned

using the eyepiece. A simple device invented in Italy at the

turn of the century, the eyepiece consists of a leather strap

that fits around the head, covering one eye. The strap has a

hole in it, just over the eye. To this hole is attached a metal

cup with a needle screw through its center.

When the strap is in place, the needle screw can be turned

slowly until it pierces the eye; then, if necessary, the brain.

"All right," I said. "Put it over his left eye first. If that

doesn't make him gabby, we'll go to the right eye."

"No," Lenny shrieked before Lobell shoved the sock

back into his mouth. He squirmed in the chair, trying to break

the nylon rope that held him. Sweat poured down his face and

neck. He was wild-eyed. Even I felt a tremor shake my body

as I contemplated the wickedness and the pain of the

eyepiece.

Lobell methodically took the device from a small black

case and spread it out on the table in front of Lenny Shales.

He checked the buckle, then turned the screw to make certain

it worked. All the while, Lenny watched every move he

made. We were giving him plenty of time to consider what

T »

NICK CARTER

would happen once the eyepiece was in place.

Our deliberation paid off. Lenny began to nod his head

furiously and to motion for us to remove the rolled sock from

his mouth. He was ready to talk. I breathed easier.

"I'll give you everything I know," Lenny said in a burst of

anxious breath when Lobell removed the sock.

"It ain't

much, but it's all I have."

'Start talking," Lobell said.

"They could be in one of three places," Lenny Shales

began,

"but I can't guarantee it."

"Don't play games with us, punk, " Lobell said, jangling

the eyepiece in front of Lenny's eyes. "I'll take only a few

seconds to put this in place.

"I ain't playing games," Lenny said, shuddering as he

looked at the torture device. "Nobody knows for sure. Mr.

Cronin never says in advance what he's going to do or where

he's going. But I know they're getting ready to ship out about

six tons of heroin and there are only three places where they

could have that much stored without government interfer-

ence."

"Okay, we'll have to settle for that. Where are the ship-

ping points?"

He named Tobruk, Libya, where heroin was collected and

other drugs were manufactured in a factory I had blown up a

few months ago; Bodrum, Turkey, another collection and

manufacturing point, and Patrai, Greece. The latter was a

remote resort town, so I doubted if Cronin would have the

manufacturing facilities-or the safety-that the two other

locations offered.

That narrowed it to Tobruk and Bodrum. Since I had

blown up the pharmaceutical factory in Tobruk, I was con-

vinced that Cronin and Snyder would be shipping the im-

mense stash of heroin from the port city in Turkey. That is,

until Lenny came up with his second bit of information.

"My guess is that they went to Bodrum in Turkey, " he

said, talking like a well-oiled mechanical doll now. "I think

that's the new-world headquarters."

STRIKE OF THE HAWK

' 'Why, because the factory in Tobruk has been de-

stroyed?" I asked.

s Oh, the factory there wasn't completely destroyed,"

Lenny said. "Only part of it was gutted, but they got it rebuilt

in a hurry. figure they're using the Turkish place for

headquarters because we got orders to go there for safety

after we completed our assignments."

I thought about Bodrum and Tobruk. It seemed obvious to

me that Cronin had set up some kind of sanctuary for his men

in Bodrum, probably some well-guarded safehouse. But

knew that he also had his own yacht basin near Tobruk, in a

tiny fishing village. And the villagers there protected him,

fcy a price. Tobruk was the more logical place from which to

ship heroin, because of the yacht basin and trcause it was

easier to pay off Libyan officials.

And, logic told me, if Cronin was having his men make a

beeline for Bodrum, Turkey, after completing their kill as-

signments, he wouldn't be there. He wchlldn•t have his men

stream into his own parlor, so to speak.

No, my guess now was that Cronin was splitting up the

danger. He had set up sanctuary for his paid gunmen in

Turkey, but he was operating independently out of Libya.

And that was where I had to go.

I pulled James Lot*ll to the side of the rcx)ln to discuss

He would go to Turkey to pick off as many of

Cronin's men as possible, while I would go to Tobruk, not

only to kill Cronin and Snyder, but also to expose the largest

shipment of illegal heroin ever assembled in one place.

Lenny Shales, we would let him go. He would head directly

for Bodrum, Turkey, to warn the others, thinking that we

both would be coming there. His warning wouldn't help

Lobell, but it might give me the edge in Tobruk.

To further throw Cronin and his people off guard, I de-

cided against going directly to Tobruk. I needed new cover

papers anyway, so I went to the one person who could get

them for me in a hurry.

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

Raina Missou opened the door and her golden face broke

into a wide, happy smile.

"Oh Nick," she said in her mellow, sing-song voice,

' 'how in the world did you get here? They still have the Army

and the Air Force out for you."

I slid into the rc»m and closed the door. "It's nice to know

that somebody wants me," I said with a grin. ' 'I need another

favor."

She smiled and came into my arms. After a long, sweet

kiss, she backed away and shook her head. "You're impos-

sible. But you still haven't told me how you got here."

I said. "I commandeered a submarine and

"Easy,"

landed off the coast just before dawn. Nobody saw me."

I was telling the truth and I knew that she wouldn't believe

me. I wanted it that way.

"I'm so glad you're still all right," she said, kissing me

again. "l heard through the grapevine that three American

agents were killed and I was certain that you were one of

them."

"When did you hear that?"

"Just last night."

It was dangerous for me to go out on the streets again, but I

couldn't make the call fromher apartment. And I had to make

the call. Raina went with me to the telephone exchange and

watched for the military while I called the Washington of-

fice.

Yes, three AXE agents had been killed, presumably by

Cronin 's men, during the past 24 hours. Our men in London,

Rome and Frankfurt had been riddled with bullets and

dumped on the steps of American embassies.

Back in Raina's apartment, we made plans for a hasty

departure to Tobruk. Raina had found a new source for illegal

identification papers and could whip up a new batch for me

by the following morning. Although the military was still

searching for me, the search efforts were minimal. I was

ready to try the airport again, unless I wanted to wait a few

more days and try overland transportation.

I couldn't wait.

STRIKE OF THE

Cronin had apparently stepped up his plans to murder all

AXE agents. nie only way to stop the vicious plan was to

stop the man behind it. It was imperative that I get to the

factory in Tobruk as soon as possible.

The night with Raina was very special—and very produc-

tive. When I had been with her last, I had been less than

whole, with the bullet wound in my side. Now, I was healthy

and without pain.

We made love with all the strength and vigor we pos-

sessed. Then we slept while the world with all its troubles

seemed far away.

But it was waiting for me when dawn came.

Things went so smoothly at the airport that I couldn't

believe that I had been involved in a bloody gunfight there

only a few days trfore. Military people filled the streets and

concourse, but there were no high-ranking officers. I wasn't

recognized in my dark gray suit, so went directly through

customs to the plane, a gigantic 747.

When we landed at Tobruk, I gazed out at the wine-

colored tarmac and at the low, sprawling wings of the termi-

nal. nere were no military people around and this lulled me

into a sense of well-being. Even as I walked down the long

corridor to baggage claim and customs, I sensed no danger.

But, as I reached the main doorway, with my suitcase in

my hand and my mind convinced that I had nearly reached

my destination safely, I heard the crack and thunder of a

familiar voice:

"Hold it right there, Carter. I want to give you a proper

welcome to Tobruk."

It was Dave Snyder, Agent N22.

As I spun around, I flexed the muscles in my right arm and

snapped Hugo into my hand. But Snyder was expecting such

a move. He was twenty feet behind me, his Luger drawn. He

hit the deck and squeezed off two shots.

The twin explosions ripped through the concourse. People

screamed. I jumped back against a stone pillar, reaching for

my own Luger. A police whistle sounded, but I was already

+ 110%

NICK CARIFR

committed to a firefight. I whipped out Wilhelmina just as

Snyder rolled behind a cluster of suitcases.

I leaped behind the pillar and fired three times into the

suitcases. More screamed and the police whistles

multiplied and became louder.

I was preparing to fire again when Snyder threw a large

suitcase toward me. Even as I ducked to one side, I saw him

leap over the flight counter and slip through the little port

where luggage was fed through on a conveyor belt to a back

room. I fired twice at Snyder's retreating back, but I knew as

I shot that he had got away.

Even Erfore I could wonder how he knew that I could be at

the Tobruk airport, police swooped down on me. Officers

disarmed me and held me as a tall, handsome Fezzan strode

up to me. He wore a neat, crisp khaki uniform, his chest

bedecked with gaily-colored medals, and he carried a short

riding crop which he slapped against his right thigh.

"Monsieur Carter, we have been expecting you, ' " he said

in excellent French. "I really don't know how you expected

to get away with it."

"Get away with what?" I asked.

The big Fezzan policeman laughed and slapped his thigh

with the riding crop.

"Really, monsieur," he said amiably, have heard that

Americans have considerable gall, but you are the prize-

winner. You come here for evil purposes and feel quite at

home shooting up our people in an airport, hardly before your

feet are accustomed to our soil. I cannot t*lieve that—

"Evil purposes?" I asked. "What evil purposes?"

He kept the smile, but did not laugh. "We have received

unimpeachable information," he said slowly, "that you

have come to Libya to assassinate our king. I am puzzled as

to how you knew that he is in Tobruk and not in the capital,

Bengasi."

I shook my head and grinned. Surely, Cronin and his men

wouldn't use the same old chestnut ofa story they had used to

get me in trouble in Morocco. And surely the Libyans

wouldn't believe him, as the Moroccans had.

know nothing about your king," I assured the police-

man. ' 'And I certainly didn't come here to do him harm.

Monsieur . . . "

"Faichel," he said. "Emir Faichel, lieutenant in the

King's Security Force."

"Monsieur Faichel," I said, "this is all a grave mistake. I

have reason to believe that an international ring of drug

rddlers is 0Frating out of a factory in Tobruk. I came only

to find out for myself."

He nodded, slapped his thigh with the crop. "l see," he

said slowly. "And you came with a gun and a knife, just to

see if dmg peddlers were operating out of a factory here? By

the way, Monsieur Carter, how did you get past airport

security with such weapons?"

I grinned at him. "Airport security is pretty sloppy in this

part of the world."

It was the wrong thing to say. His expression now was

tight and lethal. He tumed, slapped his thigh loudly with the

crop and barked commands.

' 'Take him to the car and search him thoroughly. We will

see how he lies after a time in jail. Take him now!"

The men hustled me out of the building and to a small,

hidden parking lot near the terminal building. There, they

found my gas bomb, leaving me without any defenses. Then

I was shoved into a small black car, blindfolded and driven

away from the airport.

After what seemed hours in the stuffy car, I was

marched—still blindfolded—into a cool but foul-smelling

building. I soon learned why it was cool and why it smelled

so bad.

It was the central jail for political prisoners, housed in a

granite building right on the waterfront. I was led down five

sets of stairs, where the air was even cooler and ranker, and

shoved into a cell. When I heard the door clank shut, I took

off the blindfold. The men who had brought me were walking

away into the dusky light of the cellblock.

"Hey, wait a minute," I yelled. "There's a terrible

mistake."

+ 110%

NICK CARIN

My protest was met with harsh laughter, the dripping of

water and the scrambling sound of tiny feet. I turned toward

the scrambling sound and saw two huge fat rats on a metal

girder above my head. Their eyes were gleaming redly and, if

I didn't know better, I would have sworn that their faces were

wide with grins.

I had the terrible premonition at that moment that would

spend the rest of my life looking at those grinning rat faces.

Chapter Nine

The best that can be said about the jail in Tobruk is that

have been in worse places. ne rats, I quickly learned, were

to be the least of my problems. Cockroaches the size and

ferocity of rabid mice shuffled across the floor, ceiling and

walls around the clock. Dampness and cold chilled me to the

bone and I cc*lld not sleep on the steel slab that served as a

cot. ne food, rotting and maggoty, was tolerable only

because it came once a day and there was so little of it. Ihe

guard who brought it was either a mute, or the most dedicated

of fiends. He never spoke or answered questions, and some-

times he would slide the tray of food in so violently that half

my rations would slop onto the filthy floor. The other cells

were empty, so I did not hear another human voice during the

long days and nights.

At least, there was ample time to think and, gradually, I

pieced together a semblance of order in recent events. I

realized that Dave Snyder could not have known that I would

be arriving in Tobruk unless he had been tipped off. Only two

rEople knew that I was heading for Libya.

One was James Lobell and I refused to believe that he also

had become a counter-agent. For one thing, he had plenty of

opportunity to kill me when we were fighting side by side in

Stockholm. It couldn't be Lobell.

The second was Raina Missou who had arranged papers

and transportation for me from Casablanca. She had helped

me a number of times in the past, so I found it difficult to

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

believe that she was the spy divulging my plans. But there

was still the mystery of why the Moroccan military JEOP!e

were waiting for me at the Casablanca airport.

As for Cronin and Snyder, I felt immeasurably frustrated

at being unable to stop them. For the moment, I was out of the

picture, barely surviving in the miserable steel-barred cell

deep inside the granite waterfront jail.

If I didn't die from exposure, the rotten would kill

me. If I survived those, I might die from infection caused by

rat bites. All in all, my situation was deteriorating with

galloping speed. I had developed a wicked cough and knew

that I was only a step away from pneumonia.

As for matters on the outside, I was tortured by thoughts of

what might be happening. Even if Hawk were recovering

from his injuries in the bomb blast to his automobile, death

was waiting for him as scx)n as he was back on the street.

There was also the matter of AXE agents being picked off

one by one. Cronin had failed with me and Lobell (at least, I

hoped Lobell was still alive), but his men had killed agents in

London, Rome and Frankfurt. Were others tRing murdered

and dumped on American embassy steps while I fought the

cold and the rats?

It was a very distinct possibility.

And there was the matter of the six tons of heroin being

packaged and prepared in the factcry on Tobruk's southern

perimeter. Within the next couple of weeks, Cronin's yachts

would sail out into the Mediterranean to make deliveries all

through southern Europe and the Middle East. From there,

the heroin, cut down and possibly laced with strychnine,

would find its way into the of every major capitol of

the free world. And it would bring to Cronin's coffers mil-

lions of dollars to be used forGod-knew-what evil purposes.

Just as I was reaching the point of utter despair, I heard

doors opening down the dark corridor, and the sound of many

footsteps. It wasn't time for the daily maggot-infested slop to

be thrown into my cell.

They were coming either to question me, or to kill me.

The same four burly cops who had brought me here ap-

peared at the cell door and it. Without words, but

with much gagging on the foul, stifling air, the four dragged

me up the comdor to the stairs.

On an floor, the guards off my wet, rotting

clothes and pushed me into a cold shower. When I was

reasonably clean, they rnade me dress in a suit of oversized

khaki clothes and a pair of Army boots. I was taken then to a

small, warm interrogation

After a half-hour wait, an Army major and two soldiers

entered. The soldiers carried Russian-made Volshik automa-

tic pistols. I knew the weapon well. It fired .45 caliber shells

at a rate of twenty bullets a second. One burst could cut a man

in half.

' am Major Dieter Senussi," the shM, squat officer said

in a dull, unemotional voice. "l have orders to take you tothe

commandant of the King's Security Force at Fort Siwa. You

will come with us and you will make no trouble. Is that

clear?" The major handed me a pen and shoved a sheet of

palEr across the small desk. W*This is a form stating that you

have been well treated in our holding facility, and that your

valuables have t*en returned to you. Sign it and we will leave

immediately."

I wanted to argue on all counts, but I knew it would be

useless. I signed the damn form and was surprised as hell

when he gave me my watch and my solid gold card.

"May I ask the significance of the gold card?" the major

asked. ' 'It is blank."

"A lucky token, that's all." I said, shrugging. I certainly

couldn't tell him that the card contained a great deal of

information about me, written so small on the gold surface

that it could be seen only through an electron microscope.

He nÜed. "Let us dQart."

ne night air was like a warm tonic after more than a week

in the wet, frigid cell in the jail's dungeon. Although I was

half starved, I felt the rejuvenating effect of the fresh air and

took in several deep breaths. Then I coughed violently and

th(llght I was going to choke.

We entered a jeep just outside die jail, only it wasn't really

CK CARTH

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+ 110%

NICK CARTua

a jeep. It was a Russian-made Courscur, almost an exact

replica of the American jeep. It had a 20mm cannon mounted

in the center, to be fired from the back seat, and a .50 caliber

machine gun on its ho«xi. Alongside the docrs were H)uches

holding hand grenades and spare ammuntiion, plus automa-

tic rifles strapped to the side of the vehicle. My hands itched

with anticipation and I yearned to get my hands on just one of

those weapons. The major apparently read my mind.

*'You will sit straight and keep your hands in your lap,"

Major Senussi snapped as he climbed in and sat beside me in

the rear seat. "If you so much as move a hand to pick your

nose, the sergeant in the front passenger seat has orders to

empty his machine pistol into your body. Is that under-

stood?"

I coughed, mostly for effect, and nodded again. He

seemed satisfied and leaned back in the seat, barking an order

in Arabic to the driver.

The jeep lurched forward and soon left the waterfront area.

We skirted the downtown section of the quaint old port city,

but I caught quick glimpses of the old Arab quarters where

men did business the way their great-great-grandfathers had

done—by barter—and the gleaming new business section

where computers were used to determine the latest price of

oil and other commodities on the world market. In ten min-

utes, we were in the desert.

The warm desert wind streamed over the windshield and

bathed my face and shoulders in a welcoming, soothing

balm. My mind began to work and I wished that I could

exercise the kinks out of my aching muscles or just quit

coughing. I knew that the major was not taking me to Fort

Siwa. He and his two soldiers had orders to take me far into

the desert, execute me and to bury me in the sand. I was

certain enough of that to know that I had to do something.

The major provided me with an entree into my plan. He

took a familiar packet from his breast pocket and started to

light up a cigarette. In the backlight from the headlights, I

could see the gold-embossed monogram: NC.

STRIKE OF

• Tese are fine cigarettes, Monsieur Carter," the major

said as he puffed contentedly. 'Where do you buy them? I

f(hlnd only six extra packs in your suitcase and I'm almost

out."

"It's a special Turkish blend," I said, yearning for one of

my cigarettes. '€1 have them made for me."

Major Senussi grinned. "Pity there won't be more," he

said, holding the cigarette up to look at it.

"Yes," I replied. "A damned pity. Of course, I could

give you the name of my supplier. You could cable for them

in Ankara."

' 'Gocxi idea," the major entlused. "Here, I'll give you

someüling to write the supplier's name on." He snapped his

fingers and the soldier with the gun put down his weapon and

rumrnaged in a glove compartment for and pen.

In that moment, I knew I had an excellent opportunity to

make my move. But the majcr was watching me, holding his

right hand on his holstered pistol. I would have to wait for a

better opportunity.

I wrote slowly in the moving vehicle while the major and

the solder watched closely. When I had written the supplier's

name, address and cable code, I held the paper up so that the

wind caught it. I let lc»se just before the major's hand was

ready to close on it. The paper flew off into the night. I cursed

as though I were disgusted.

"I'll write it again," I said with a friendly voice. S 'This

time, I won't be so careless."

We were far from now, beyond the lights that

reflected on the clouds txhind us. When the soldier passed

back another piece of parxr, I pretended that it was difficult

to see what I was doing.

"Put a light on the Major Senussi ordered. The

soldier reached down at his feet and brought up a flashlight.

He turned it on and I could see the paper vividly. Still, I wrote

slowly, watching the soldier and the major from the comers

of my eyes.

When I had finished writing, I noticed that the major's

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

hands were both reaching for the and the soldier was

still holding the flashlight, his weapon leaning against the

seat.

It was now or never.

I threw the paper and pen into the major's face and then

the flashlight out of the soldier's hand. It flew into

the air and out of the jeep. Before the men could gather their

senses, I stood up and leaped sideways, knowing that I could

break my legs—-or my neck—when I landed on the macadam

highway. I rolled myself into a ball as I sailed through the air

and landed on my rump on the soft berm as the jeep hurtled on

through the night, brakes squealing.

The landing knocked the breath out of me, but adrenalin

was flowing rapidly through my body. I rocked to my feet

and ran straight across the desen toward dark shadows of

craggy rcxk formations. I stumbled and panted in the warm

sand, but made it to the by the time the jeep had stopped

and turned to sweep the desert with its headlights.

I was no more than two hundred feet from the jeep, but I

could hear Major Senussi's voice clearly on the desert air.

"Stay with the jeep, driver," he said crisply. ' 'We'll fan

out and get him. He can't go far because he's too weak."

AhJ but that's your big problem and my advantage, I

thought as the major and the soldier climbed from the idling

jeep. I don't intend to go far. I intend to wait for you.

Ihe major took the right flank, the soldier the left. I moved

slowly to intercept the soldier. When I was directly in his

path, I lay behind a log-like formation and waited.

I could hear his footsteps in the sand, his breath panting

from the effort of desert walking. As I lay waiting, I found a

large stone in the sand and cupped it in my hand. When the

soldier reached the far edge of rocks, I threw the stone as hard

as I coald toward the major far to my right. The soldier turned

at the sound. At that moment, the major fired his pistol.

Now.

I brought the soldier down by the legs and slid one hand

over his mouth and the other around his neck. I squeezed with

all the strength left in me.

STRIKE OF HAWK

Without a sound, the soldier died in my hands. The major,

recovered from his little scare, was probing among the rocks

not a hundred feet away. The jeep's headlights revealed his

short, squat frame as he crouched behind a rcxk.

I aimed the soldier's Volshik automatic pistol at the major.

He made an excellent stationary target. But the soldier in the

jæp would get away. I needed that jeep.

While the major stalked empty rtxks, I retraced my steps

in the dark sand until I was only a few feet from him. As he

stepped through an opening between two I came up

him. I gripped his mouth with one hand and jammed

the automatic pistol into the small ofhis back. He dropped his

pistol and stood silently trembling as I hissed:

"Call the driver. Tell him to come here."

ne major shook his head and tried to break loose, but I

tightened my grip, feeling my strength begin to ebb. If the

major resisted much longer, I would have no choice but to

shoot and lose the jeep.

"Call him or I'll pull the gcxidamn trigger, " I ordered. He

nodded and I parted my fingers around his mouth so that he

could speak.

"Artesi!" he called out. "Come here. I need you."

Because of the burning headlights, we couldn't see the

soldier in the jeep. We waited, then the soldier came around

in front of the Courscur jeep. He stood with his automatic

pistol at the ready and peered into the desert.

"What is the trouble, Major Senussi?" he called out.

I jammed the gun into the majM's back until he almost

squealed from the pain. He played it safe.

"Come over here," he yelled back. need you."

' 'Yes sir."

Sweat flowed down my face and soaked my shirt. My

hands were wet and greasy from sweat, but I held the major

and the gun tightly, knowing that my strength would not last

more than a few seconds.

felt my strength going, my hands slipping away from the

major's head. Major Senussi sensed my growing weakness

and started to turn. I didn't have a choice then. I could not

+ 110%

NICK CARTFR

wait for the soldier to come closer. I was about to lose

everything for lack of another ounce of energy.

Reluctantly, I pulled the trigger and the burst from the

machine pistol literally tore the major's body from my grasp.

He flew away from me, let out one gurgling scream and

crumpled to the dark earth. The soldier stopFd in his tracks,

fifty feet away. I fired and he went down.

Hunger gnawed at me like a persistent mouse. I searched

the jeep, but found nothing but weapons and extra clothing. I

stumbled back across the sand and searched the three dead

soldiers, finding only a tin of American K-rations on the

driver and a small candy bar on the major. I also found two

fresh packs of my special cigarettes.

I glanced quickly at my watch. It was 11:20 p.m.

Before eating, I drove the jeep off the highway then turned

off the lights and engine. I settled down near the body of the

driver and ate the K-rations and candy bar. Thirst was my

next problem, so I drained water from the jeep's radiator to

drink. It was foul, but it was wet.

nen, with renewed strength, I pulled the bodies of the

soldiers and the major behind the formation of rocks where I

dressed in the major's uniform. With a farewell salute, I

headed the north again, toward Tobruk.

But I was not going to Tobruk, not just yet. A few miles

south of the port city, I left the highway and smack out

northwest, in the general direction of Damah. I rode across

the trackless sand, smoking one cigarette after the other—in

nicotine heaven now that I had my own special fags back.

Strangely, the smoke seemed to ease my cough.

On the coast, perhaps twenty miles west of Tobruk, I

parked and gazed out across the dark Mediterranean. It was

12:30 a.m. Straight north across the (Nean was Athens,

Greece, where AXE kept a central message station. I had

already planned to use the jeep's radio to get in touch with the

station to find out what had been going on during my week-

long incarceration in the Tobruk jail, but now was reluctant

to send out a beam. For the moment, nobody in the world

knew where I was. But one radio message, picked up by the

wrong Exople, could quickly change that.

I stood on the beach for a half-hour, trying to decide

whether to radio the station. My desire to find out the latest

about David Hawk—whether he was recuperating or whether

he had been hit again by Cronin's people—was so strong that

I knew I would make the call. But the risk was so great that I

delayed as long as possible, breathing in the clean salt air of

the ocean, gathering strength.

Even though I had eaten the food taken from the men who

had been ordered to kill me, it wasn't enough. was still

hungry from long days of near starvation. There would be

time, though, to stop on the way to Cronin's factory on the

southern edge of Tobruk. For now, I had to find out about

Hawk—and about what might be happening to other AXE

agents.

I was also damned curious to find out what Lobell was

doing. If he had gone to Bodrum, Turkey, as we had agreed,

he might well be dead. We both knew that he would be

walking into a virtual hornets' nest there.

Finally I turned on the jeep's radio, shifted to transmitting

and took up the microphone. I dialed the frequency of the

AXE station in Athens and pressed the mike button.

"N3 calling Athens," I said. "N3 calling Athens. Come

in Athens."

' 'Athens here," a crisp male voice crackled above the low

roar of the Mediterranean. "What is your code?"

I gave my radio code name and the voice came back,

friendly now, and asked what I wanted.

'Require information on condition of nameless person,' ' I

said, gazing at the sky and wondering how many military

aircraft were picking up this conversation.

"Recovering well," came the reply.

"Is he still hospitalized?"

There was a brief silence. ' 'Negative," the voice said.

'He is recovering at safehouse, according to latest report. "

"Thank you," I said and breathed easier knowing that

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NICK CARTER

Hawk was safe. g 'Require info on N36. Latest data."

After another brief silence, the voice came back with

dismal news:

S'N36 killed in Bodrum, Turkey, during raid on enemy."

' 'Any details on that?" I asked.

"Yes. Very strange report. N36 attacked enemy safe-

house a week ago and was shot rerratedly. Immediately af-

terwards, safehouse and all occupants were blown up by

mysterious explosion. Authorities have not learned source of

explosion, but conjecture is that house was shelled by

offshore battery of some kind. That is all, N3. Can you give

location and descritx current involvement?"

"Negative on that," I said. I shut down the radio and sat

for a long time in the jep, staring out over the dark cxean.

Lobell was dead. He had tren dead at least a week, and was

dead all the time I was in jail. nat confirmed that he had not

the counterspy ratting on my activities to Cronin. nat

left Raina Missou. And I grieved for both of them.

Chapter Ten

Much of the city slept. It was precisely 2:24 a.m. when I

eased the Courscur-type jeep to a stop on a low hill just above

Cronin's pharmaceutical factcry on the southern edge of

Tobruk. Stars dotted the black sky and light from the distant

Arab section gave the impression of a false dawn. Directly

behind me, wide of a tiny suburban development

stretched across rolling hills.

The houses were all dark; the were sound asleep.

Once again, though, they were about to be rudely awakened.

Carefully and methodically, I attached the heavy

magazine to the 20mm cannon mounted in the jeep's center.

The magazine held ten shiny brass cartridges and copper-

sheathed shells. Each shell, properly placed, could blow up

the average-sized house. I had situated the jeep so that the

shells would pour into the center of the factory. I had set the

brakes on tre jeep so that the recoil would not send me rolling

back down the hill.

Next I loaded the .50 caliber machine gun with a I ,000-

cartridge belt and put three extra belts on the seat beside me.

Across my lap was a Volshik automatic pistol, with a reserve

pistol between the seats. The major's .45 caliber automatic

pistol was jammed into my trousers.

Also on the seat beside me were a dozen Russian-made

hand grenades. In the back, in case I needed it, was a Russian

mortar with fifteen shells. nese weapons were for backup;

the machine gun and cannon were far more accurate, and the

hand grenades were only for closeup work.

NICK CARTER

It was 2:32 when I was ready. I sat in the jeep and sighted

the cannon on a small ventilator housing in the center of the

factory's roof. A light burned in the office, on the corner of

the building nearest me, but I had the machine gun aimed at

that spot, When the big gun commenced firing, men would

come running out of that office.

I would kill those men and destroy their cars parked on a

small lot near the office.

Even though I was ready, I waited, planning what I would

do after the assault. There were two possibilities.

One, I would return to the remote beach between Tobruk

and Darnah and radio for a submarine pickup. There was a

good chance that my call would not be honored, or that my

call would be picked up by Libyan military personnel. Either

way, I would die on that beach.

Two, I would flee the area, circle the city, abandon the

jeep and find a cheap hotel. I was wearing the major's

uniform, so would have to dispose of that before trying to

check into a hotel, no matter how cheap. Several hours had

passed since I had killed the major and the two soldiers on the

road to Fort Siwa: Chances were excellent that the whole

Libyan Army was out looking for me.

Neither plan was very good, but I had no other.

There was also an excellent chance that Cronin and Snyder

both were inside the factory just below me. It wasn't likely

that they would be in the city, holed up in a hotel, while their

incredibly valuable cache of heroin was out at the factory.

No, 1 knew my enemies well. They wouldn't trust all that

white gold to underlings.

They were in the factory, sleeping peacefully, believing

that I was still rotting away in the stinking jail up on the

waterfront.

Now I was ready and I put away all thoughts of anything

except the coming battle. If I died in the effort, so be it. Time

was running along and I couldn't wait until dawn's light to

give the enemy a better chance of escaping

I held my breath and squeezed the trigger of the 20mm

cannon.

STRIKE OF THE HAWK

There was a thunderous boom and the entire jeep bucked

under me as the shell whooshed away in the night.

Bull's-eye!

The first shell hit the ventilator in the center of the roof and

a really tremendous explosion ripped through the quiet night.

A tongue of flame spurted skyward and I squeezed the trigger

again.

The second shell rammed in right on top of the first and the

explosion seemed even greater. Swiftly, I adjusted the can-

non's sight and squeezed the trigger again.

The whole center of the factory was in flames now. The

light in the corner office became brighter and lights snapped

on in adjacent windows.

I fired two more shells from the cannon, then gripped the

mounted machine gun. I closed one eye and aimed at the door

of the little office.

They didn't disappoint me.

Just as the fourth cannon shell burst near the center of the

building, the office door opened and two men raced out,

firing automatic pistols into the night. They didn't see me on

the knoll above them.

I gripped the firing butt and squeezed the trigger. The big

machine gun burped and rattled and bucked. The two men

went down as fiery tracer bullets cut them in two.

While the first two men were writhing on the ground, not

thirty feet from their dark cars, two others came out and,

holding their pistols at the ready, began looking around

frantically to spot their attacker.

I squeezed the trigger again, bright bullets creased the

night and the men went down, firing their weapons at the sky.

Then, I took a few seconds out to readjust the aim of the

cannon. I fired two more shells at the near corner of the

factory, then raked the office and adjacent windows with the

machine gun.

The roof of the factory was on fire now and the fire was

spreading, inside and out. Light from internal fires shot from

all the windows and I could see the shadows of men running

about inside.

NICK CARTER

"Scurry, little rats," I hissed through my teeth. "Scurry

around and collect your valuable drugs while death waits for

you outside."

As though someone down there had heard me, four men

came bursting out of the office, making a beeline for the cars.

Grinning, I fired the big machine gun and swept the entire

parking lot with flaming bullets.

The men began to scramble and writhe as the bullets tore

into their flesh. I moved the gun slightly and poured a

withering blast into the line of cars.

One by one, their gas tanks ignited and exploded.

God, I was having the time of my life.

But it was all too good to last. Just as I had fired the entire

magazine from the cannon and was attaching another, I heard

the chatter of machine pistols behind me. I turned, surprised

and frightened, to see two men on the roof of a house only

fifty yards below the knoll.

Quickly, I swung the machine gun about and poured

bullets into the house. In that moment, however, someone at

the factory opened up with a heavy machine gun. The

copper-plated bullets whanged against the jeep and sang

around my ears.

If I had not decided to get out of there, the bullets made up

my mind for me. The virtual hail of lead and copper con-

vinced me that it was no place for a growing spy.

Ducking my head as hardware flew over me, I started up

the Russian jeep, released the brakes and rammed the vehicle

into four-wheel drive. With one hand on the steering wheel

and the other working the cannon and the machine gun,

alternately, I swooped down off the knoll blasting away at the

factory and the men swarming out of it.

My brief attack down the hill took a devastating toll of

Cronin's forces. Halfway down, the big machine gun from

the factory stopped chattering at the same time a 20mm shell

blew the hell out of the southeast corner. I knew that I had

knocked out the gun. But there was ample fire from the many

hand weapons scattered around the factory.

At the base of the hill, though, I saw bodies scattered

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STRIKE OF THE HAWK

everywhere and knew that the jeep's machine gun had not

been slapping bullets harmlessly off inanimate objects. I

couldn't count the dead, there were so many of them.

I veered the jeep to the left just before reaching the line of

parked cars. It was a dangerous turning, but a necessary one.

If I had gone straight, I would have run into heavier fire. But

turning sideways exposed a weak point to the men firing from

the bright factory windows.

As I streaked along behind the parked cars, I started

lobbing hand grenades at the men with guns. As the grenades

began to explode and men to scream, I considered it only

partial payment for what happened to James Lobell. The men

were lucky that Lobell wasn't with me. If he were, he would

rain hand grenades on them!

The jeep quickly reached the northern part of the factory

grounds. Ahead was the city-and freedom.

But I couldn't leave just then. I spun the jeep around and

emptied the cannon's magazine into the burning factory.

Then, for good measure, I raked the factory with the

machine gun in one long, continuous burst.

Only then did I head north again and speed away from the

scene, leaving the factory a fiery shambles and Cronin's men

a wasteland of twisted and grotesque bodies.

My only sadness, except for memories of Lobell, was that

I had not seen Cronin or Snyder during my attack on the

factory. Those slippery bastards had a special knack of avoid-

ing my sting.

But the time would come.

I reached the main high way linking the suburb to the main

part of the city, and sped along it for two miles, until I was

among rows of low factories and skinny houses. Behind me,

the sky was bright with the reflected glow of the burning

pharmaceutical plant. I could hear low explosions, as though

petrol tanks were exploding in the factory. And, far to the

north where the city was beginning to awaken, there was the

lonesome wail of police sirens.

After another two blocks, I got off the main high way and

sped across the southern perimeter of the city to the coastal

NICK CARTER

highway. When I reached that long, curving stretch

macadam that circumnavigated the city and cut the desert in

two, all the way to the Mediterranean, I settled down to an

easy cruising of about sixty miles an hour.

As I drove along, I reloaded the cannon and the machine

gun. I had not touched the Volshik machine pistols, but I

replenished my supply of ready hand grenades by taking

several more from the side pouches and placing them on the

seat, within easy reach.

Now, I thought, I'm ready for their pursuit.

But I had not reckoned with the Libyan Armed Forces.

After all, not more than six hours ago, I had escaped by

killing my three captors—three sterling representatives of the

Libyan Army—-and I was still wearing the uniform of the

dead major. They would be out in force, looking for me.

As I sailed northward on the dark highway and left the

lights of the city, I saw tiny lights ahead on the highway. It

looked as though several vehicles were pulled up in a tight

cluster, blocking the way. I cut my headlights and slowed to

thirty miles an hour, then stopped. I took the major's binocu-

lars from a bracket on the dashboard and surveyed the road

ahead.

Four military vehicles, including an armored car, were

spread across the road a mile ahead. Their headlights were

off, but their parking lights twinkled in the warm desert air.

And there were squat, silent figures moving about among the

vehicles.

Roadblock.

Somehow, I had to get through that roadblock. It was not

possible for me to hide out in Tobruk. I had no friends there,

no one to help me disappear from the prying eyes and guns of

either Cronin or the Libyan military. I had to make it to the

coast-undetected—-and to radio for help. I hoped I would

get that help in the form of a submarine or perhaps even a

destroyer.

But there was no way to run the roadblock and escape

beyond it without pursuit from the military. I could not

possibly kill all the men waiting for me up ahead. The

STRIKE OF THE HAWK

survivors would hound me until all of us were dead.

Even if I crippled all four vehicles on the road, the soldiers

would radio for help and a new roadblock would be estab-

lished between me and the coast. In fact, there probably was

at least one more roadblock beyond this one.

Although it went against my grain to avoid a firefight, I

decided that discretion, as the sages say, is the better part of

valor. I rammed the jeep into four-wheel drive and eased off

the highway onto the dark desert floor. I struck off westerly,

lights off, my eyes on the men at the roadblock to make

certain I was not spotted.

I drove two miles to the west before turning north again. I

found a narrow dirt road there and headed once again for the

sea. I passed low huts of sleeping villagers and rumbled up

and down sand dunes and rock formations. It was slow

going, but at least I was moving forward, away from the

pursuing thugs from the ruined factory.

And that was a satisfaction, knowing that I had truly ruined

the drug factory this time. Before, I thought I had blown it to

hell, but I had only destroyed a part of it. Cronin had rebuilt.

This time, though, the lethal cannon on the jeep had de-

stroyed much of it and set the balance on fire. Only a miracle

could save the factory from total destruction. When I had

fled, there was not even a hint of aid from the local fire

department.

As for the six tons of heroin, perhaps I would never know

if the drug had been salvaged. Perhaps a part of it already was

being loaded on trucks to be taken out of the country. And, I

thought with a chuckle, perhaps all six tons of it are burning

with a bright blue flame back there in the factory.

Such thoughts threaded their way through my mind as I

rumbled along the dirt road toward the ocean. But the main

thought was escape. I would have to find a quiet cove to hide

the jeep while I sent a radio message for help and then waited

for that help. That should be easy, because the northern coast

between Tobruk and Darnah was riddled with small, quiet

coves hidden by stark cliffs of sandstone.

As I topped a high knoll and could smell the salt air of the

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NICK CARTER

Mediterranean, I gave silent thanks to the military for setting

up the roadblock that shuttled me off the main highway.

Cronin and his men would use that highway to pursue me.

But now I was reaching the ocean on a remote country road

There were many such roads along the coast, so it could take

my enemies days to find out which one I took. By then, I

would be safely on my way aboard a U.S. Navy vessel of

some kind.

The first sign of big trouble came as I eased the jeep up a

high bank and saw the dark, flat ocean far in the distance. The

jeep engine sputtered.

"Come on, baby," I said aloud, pumping the gas pedal

furiously. "Don't give out on me now.

The engine sputtered again and died. I looked down at the

fuel gauge and knew that the engine would not start again.

The tank was empty.

Well, what the hell, I thought. The beach is only a mile or

two ahead. I can hoof it the rest of the way.

As I climbed from the jeep and began to assemble a small

arsenal from the weapons on the seat, I heard the laboring

engines of more vehicles coming up behind. Fortunately, the

jeep had stalled on top of a high bank. I had an excellent view

of the road south. I whipped up the binoculars and scanned

the horizon.

Two jeeps and an armed personnel carrier moved along the

twisting road, single file, their lights off. At first, I thought

the Army had found me, but as I examined the vehicles more

closely I could see that they were not manned by military

people. There were no insignias on the jeeps or the personnel

carrier. And the man sitting high on the personnel carrier

behind the massive machine gun wore an ordinary felt hat.

Cronin!

But my God, how had they tracked me?

It was now 4:18 a.m. I had attacked the factory at 2:41

a.m., less than two hours ago. And here were Cronin and his

men, fully armed in undamaged military vehicles, hot on my

trail. AndI couldn't even move the jeep off the road to hide it.

However, I could leave the jeep and head across the sand

STRIKE OF

THE HAWK

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STRIKE OF THE HAWK

dunes on foot. By taking an oblique path from the road, I

could reach the ocean in another half hour. But what then? I

had no way to radio for help.

And, since the jeep was out of gas, my firepower was sadly

diminished. I could swivel the machine gun to fire on my

pursuers, but the cannon was stationary. It would only fire

forward-and that meant the empty sea, not the vulnerable

rear area.

Okay, so we fight with what we have.

I swung the big machine gun around and sighted on the

moving column back down the road. A jeep was leading the

pack, with the personnel carrier and machine gun right be-

hind. Fifty yards behind that was the other jeep, probably

carrying Cronin and Snyder, keeping well back from the line

of fire.

If I waited and struck the rear jeep first, I might kill the

leaders of the wolfpack, but I would not knock out the big

machine gun. And, in a firefight, that was their most formid-

able weapon. I wanted to hit Cronin's jeep first, but knew

that I would pay too dear a price for that delightful treat.

Then I remembered the mortar. I lifted it from its pouch on

the door and set it up on the seat beside me. I aimed it as best I

could and dropped a shell into it.

Just as it popped and whooshed through the air, I swung

the big machine gun around, aimed for the men atop the

personnel carrier and squeezed the trigger. The stuttering

burst rent the night air like a huge knife tearing up canvas.

Fiery tracer bullets coursed through the hot dark air.

The man in the felt hat let out a scream and literally flew

off the top of the personnel carrier. His hat tumbled over and

over in the air. But the mortar shell went far wide of the mark

and exploded harmlessly on the desert, twenty yards to the

left of the vehicle.

All three vehicles stopped, but I continued to pour in the

fire. I raked the front jeep, then the rear one.

And then came the big surprise.

I saw the ball of flame from the front of the personnel

carrier even before I heard the ear-shattering boom. A can-

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NICK CARTER

non, bigger than the one I had pointed toward the harmless

ocean, had gone off, splitting the desert air like the crack of

an earthquake tremor.

I heard the evil whoosh of the shell as it passed overhead,

then felt the concussion as it exploded a hundred feet behind

me, at the base of the knoll on which I sat.

Even as I cursed the foul luck that gave Cronin such

superior fire power, the flame and the boom came again.

This time, the shell did not pass overhead. It struck the

earth not twenty feet in front of me (and behind my stalled

jeep). The explosion lifted the lightweight little Russian jeep

off the earth and dropped it like a rock. I felt the impact deep

in my vital organs. My jaw went slack and my mouth fell

open, and my head felt as though it would split like an

overripe melon.

Then, a virtual deluge of dirt and rocks and fragmented

metal rained on me from the sky.

Before I could recover from the shock and sound of that

tremendous blast, the air was filled with the husky chattering

of the machine gun on top of the personnel carrier. Another

man had taken the place of the first.

Hot bullets plunked into the jeep and sailed past me. One

streaked between my right arm and my side, tearing at the

khaki uniform and sending up the odor of burning cloth.

I bailed out of the jeep. I leaped backward and did a flip in

the air. I landed on my knees in the soft sand and something

slammed into my head, knocking me half unconscious. It

was a hunk of metal from the jeep, torn out of the side like a

piece of meat ripped out and spat away by a giant.

As I scrambled back toward the jeep to get an automatic

pistol and some hand grenades, the big cannon boomed

again. The shell hit just on the other side of the jeep and the

impact lifted the jeep on its side.

God, it was tumbling over on me!

I reversed my movements and made a flying leap away

from the jeep. I barely made it, and the jeep crunched down

on its top, right at my feet. Strewn around me on the sand

were a half-dozen hand grenades. I snatched one up and, just

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STRIKE OF THE HAWK

E OF THE HAWK

as a man came over the rise firing from the hip with a

machine pistol, I pulled the pin on the grenade and lobbed it.

The explosion and his scream came simultaneously, and

he disappeared in a grimy cloud of fire and dirt.

I had my finger in the ring of another grenade when

something hit me-hard—in the back of the head, and the

world was a kaleidoscope of murderous color.

Chapter Eleven

Sounds came first.

There was the soft roar of the surf, not far from where I lay

There was the clinking of metal utensils on dishes. There

were low voices whispering. There were the gleeful cries of

children playing in the distance.

Then came the smells. Of fish and saltwater and wet sand.

Of cooking food and of nearby outdoor toilets and of clothes

worn too long without washing.

I opened my eyes and saw the rays of early sun slanting

through the open window. I was on a hard little cot in a

cramped room of a cottage. From the sounds and smells, I

knew that I was in a fishing village somewhere on the coast.

From the angle of the sun's rays, I knew that it was dawn, but

not which dawn. Had days passed, or had I been out only a

couple of hours?

The pain in the back of my head was intense, but it was

almost matched by shooting arrows of pain through my

shoulders, chest and legs. I wanted to run my hands over my

body to find out why I hurt so much-and in so many

places —but I had the sensation that I was being watched.

I didn't want them to know that I was awake until my mind

was functioning far better than it was. I felt fuzzy.

I closed my eyes and used a kind of biofeedback to deter-

mine the extent of damage to my body. I sent messages to

each part of my body, mentally searching for bullet wounds

and broken bones.

The information came back and I was grateful. No bullet

wounds. No broken bones. There were numerous bruises, as

though I had been struck and slammed about, but nothing

appeared to be serious. I would be sore for days, if I had that

long to live.

My mind reviewed the scene on the road south of the coast,

and I knew that I had been outgunned by Cronin and his men.

If only I could have turned the jeep around to use the 20mm

cannon, I might have knocked out the personnel carrier

before their cannon blew me out of the jeep.

1 pretended to awaken, slowly. Sure enough, someone was

in the room, watching me closely. A small dark Arab fisher-

man stood up in the corner when I began to move my hands.

He opened a door and called out in Arabic.

'He is awake now, Meester Cronin."

The little man disappeared through the open doorway

which was immediately filled by the imposing figure of a

large, portly man with gray hair and a gray mustache.

"We meet at last, Mr. Carter,

, " Robert Cronin said, smil-

ing down at me. He came into the room and sat on a stool

beside the cot.

He was not what I had expected. Where I had expected a

fairly young and dapper man in impeccably proper clothes,

Cronin was almost the antithesis. His body was flabby and

his clothes were almost shabby, although they had once been

impeccable. His round face was highlighted by a red, bulb-

ous nose, the inescapable sign of too much whiskey.

"Yeah," I said.

"We finally meet. Where are we?"

'In the village of Isir, thirty miles east of Bengasi. Why do

you want to know? Are you planning a small shopping trip

into the city?"

"Something like that."

me for allong time. His yes, it clasped hand pandapared a.

looked squinty and evil.

'You've caused me a great deal of trouble and cost me a

lot of money," he said without rancor. 'We shall have to

repay you for all that."

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NICK CARTER

"How will you repay me?" I asked. "With a twenty-

dollar funeral?"

He laughed and his entire body shook and jiggled like a

tattered Santa Claus.

"Oh, we can do much better than that," he said through

his mirthless laughter. "I have a yacht ready, anchored a

hundred yards offshore. We're making a little voyage to

Palermo, Sicily, but I think you may find it to your liking to

stop on the way."

"To stop?" I asked, knowing full well what he meant.

"There's noplace to stop between here and Sicily.

He laughed again, with even less mirth. "I didn't say you

would stop on land," he said, grinning with suppressed glee.

"We're taking you to a very special funeral. Your hearse will

be a million-dollar yacht. Your cemetery will be the entire

Mediterranean. That, Mr. Carter, is several notches above a

twenty-dollar funeral, don't you agree?"

"It sounds perfectly lovely, Cronin," I agreed, "but it

hasn't happened yet."

"Oh, but it will. When we are fifty miles at sea, you will

lighten our load considerably. We salvaged all of our valu-

able merchandise before my factory burned to the ground in

Tobruk. So we will still have that load to carry on to Sicily.

But we will enjoy that small chore, as we will enjoy seeing

you make a brief detour to the bottom of the ocean."

I felt defeated then. I would mind dying, of course, but I

could have faced it more easily if I had known that I had

destroyed the six tons of heroin stashed in the Tobruk fac-

tory.

"Don't be so disappointed," Cronin said, laughing dryly

again. "We'll have a delightful trip for the first fifty miles.

Why, we'll have a party going all the time, and you'll have

the wonderful companionship of an old and dear friend."

"Sure,

" I said. 'You mean Snyder, of course."

"Of course,'

" he said with a wide smile. He snapped his

fingers and Dave Snyder, Agent N22, entered the room. He

looked slightly sheepish, but tried to cover it with a scowl.

"Good morning, N3" he said. "Have a good sleep?"

T »

"Up yours, you filthy bastard."

Snyder grinned, but his eyes narrowed and glinted with

anger.

"Easy, Nick," he said, his voice tight and lethal. 'We

could just as easily bury you right here, you know."

"I know, but that still wouldn't change things. You'll be a

filthy bastard all your life, no matter what happens to me."

Snyder grunted and rubbed his whiskered chin with his

right hand.

"If you had any sense,

" he said almost haugh-

tily, "you would have thrown in with us a long time ago. Just

because you risk your life for peanuts is no reason why I

should."

"So your life is worth more than mine," I retorted. 'How

much are you getting to risk it? It better be plenty because you

aren't long for this world, chum."

He laughed, but it was a tight, forced laugh. "It is plenty,

and it's going to be plenty more when we get to Palermo and

start unloading our latest treasure. Too bad you won't b

here to see me become fabulously wealthy.

"Don't count on me not being there, " I said. "Better still,

don't count on you being there. A lot can happen in a four-

hundred mile sea voyage."

'Yes," he said, nodding and grinning. "A lot can happen

in that long a voyage. Unfortunately, you'll only be around

for the first fifty miles. There's nobody to help you, Nick.

We've made certain of that."

'Just how many of your former comrades have you helped

kill?"' I asked.

He shrugged. 'They knew the risks," he said.

"How many?"

"Ouite a number,'

," Snyder said. "Of course, you learned

about the men in London, Rome and Frankfurt, right?"

I nodded.

"While you were unconscious, several others went the

same route. We took care of AXE people in Athens, Istanbul,

Berlin, Paris, Vienna, Madrid, Lisbon, Oslo, Cairo and

Bern. And, of course, the Stockholm guy, your friend

Lobell, got it when he attacked our people in Turkey."

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100

NICK CARTER

"And a bunch of your people also got it during that raid in

Turkey, " I said, grinning in spite of the hurt at learning of the

death of so many of our agents.

"True,

," he said "but we have plenty of people to spare.

Besides, we'll get even with the people responsible for blow-

ing up our Turkish facility and killing so many of our crack

agents."

"How can you get even," I asked, "when you don't even

know who did it?"

He grinned and Robert Cronin grinned along with him.

'We have many ways of learning what we need to learn.

You'd be surprised at how well we're organized."

I wasn't in the least surprised. Cronin and Snyder had

known virtually every move I had made since receiving the

assignment from Hawk to stop the plan to destroy AXE.

Somehow, Raina Missou figured in their plans—I was con-

vinced of that. But I wouldn't let them know that I suspected

her. I was still hopeful of coming out alive. I would take care

of Raina myself.

"I suppose I would be surprised," I lied. 'I don't suppose

you could tell me how you knew my every move, sometimes

even before I made it."

Both men laughed. Cronin couldn't stop until he went into

a coughing fit. Snyder leaned over and stared directly into my

face.

"Hawk helped us," he said, breaking into laughter again.

"What the hell do you mean by that?" I demanded. I sat

up on the cot and Snyder, still grinning, backed away a few

feet. "Don't tell me Hawk is on your payroll."

"Hardly, Mister Carter," Cronin said,

still coughing

sporadically. "But he inadvertently made it possible for us to

keep track of you. Oh, we still needed agents to tell us of your

future plans, but we were able to keep track of

you

everywhere you moved."

'But how?"

Snyder leaned forward again and tapped the dark dial of

the digital watch Hawk had given me several months ago.

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STRIKE OF THE HAWK

101

"Your beloved leader put an electronic bug in that

watch, " he said. "He put one in a watch he gave me, as well

as watches he gave to other AXE agents. I discovered mine

after I joined up with Mr. Cronin and we found out that all the

electronic devices worked on the same frequency. We

merely tuned in on that frequency. You and other AXE

agents have been walking signals, telling us exactly where

you were at all times."

"You mean Hawk was using these watches to spy on us?"

"Precisely," Snyder said. "I suppose his rationale would

be that he needed to keep track of you so he could help you

when you most needed it. That would be his rationale, but the

truth is that he was spying on you. You couldn't make a move

without him knowing it.

I grinned, for the first time.

"What is so funny, Mr. Carter?" Cronin asked.

"If what you say is true, then Hawk knows where I am

right now. He's out there waiting for you to make your

move." I nodded toward the ocean.

"Hardly," Cronin said. 'While you were conveniently

unconscious back on the coast road, one of our experts

removed the device from your watch. You no longer are a

walking beacon, Mr. Carter. We no longer have use of that

device because you are in our hands. As for Hawk, even if he

knew where you were, he'd be helpless. We've wiped out

just about every AXE agent within a thousand miles of

here."

Suddenly, I felt very much alone. Lobell was gone and

Hawk was helpless. As for Raina Missou, I began to feel

guilty for the way I had concluded so readily that she had

been tipping off Cronin about my movements. They had kept

track of me through the electronic device in my digital watch,

and through repeated checks with the AXE computer bank in

Washington.

As for the Libyan military, help from that quarter would

result in my death by firing squad. Some help.

I couldn't even pretend to be a traitor and join up with

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NICK CARTER

Cronin and his men. They had virtually castrated AXE, the

only threat to their plans, so they didn't need additional

firepower.

"All right," I said with a deep sigh. "It looks as though

I've come to the end of a long career. Why don't you shoot

me now and get it over with?"

'"And cheat us of the fun we plan to have at sea?" Cronin

said, sputtering with laughter. "Oh, Mr. Carter, some of our

people have waited an awfully long time to see the great Nick

Carter walk the gangplank, stripped and beaten. They want

to get a whack at you and then watch the sharks and other fish

tear you to bits in the crystal clear waters of the Mediterra-

nean. No, you'll be with us for a time, yet. Don't be so

anxious to die. You can't imagine how much pleasure you're

going to give all of us during the early part of our long sea

voyage. Just you rest easy now. We embark shortly after

lunch.

I went to the small window and looked out at the beach.

Just outside were several armed goons patrolling back and

forth. They were watching me like a hawk, so to speak. On

the beach were stacks of wooden crates, and fishing boats

were plying the water back and forth to a gleaming white

yacht anchored well offshore. The fishing boats were hauling

the cratesdoubtless filled with heroin-to the yacht.

It looked as though Cronin had hired—or forced—-the

entire population of the fishing village of Isir to help ready his

yacht for departure. The heroin must have been brought up

from the factory in trucks so that the remote village could be

used as a point of embarkation. That was smart. A yacht

leaving Tobruk would probably be searched. When Cronin's

yacht had left Tobruk it had not carried illegal cargo and so

had been allowed to go to sea. Apparently, there were no

checkpoint ports between Isir and Palermo-and the officials

in Palermo would have been paid off.

I rubbed the back of my neck and felt every pain in my

body bob to the surface as I stood watching the happy

fishermen work at loading heroin aboard the big white yacht.

Intrepid, was painted in big white letters on its side.

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103

The boat was flying an Italian flag which flapped in the

morning sunlight. The scene outside was almost peaceful,

but I knew it would explode into violence if I tried to make a

run for it.

No, I would keep my place for now, waiting for the first

opportunity to escape. I estimated the speed of the yacht at

about six miles an hour. We would make fifty miles in just

over eight hours. That meant that about 8:30 p.m., I would

take my last walk, running the gauntlet between rows of

whip-wielding thugs to a gangplank, and then into the open

sea.

The minutes went by slowly and the sun crept higher in the

North African sky. Heat built to the sweltering point in the

little shack, so I peeled away the major's shirt and trousers.

By noon, the yacht was fully loaded and there were no

more crates on the beach. My guards still patrolled outside

the shack, and the boats were drawn up on the sand where

they baked in the stifling heat. A lovely young brown girl

entered the shack with a tray of food and sat near the door

watching me eat. I was still hungry from my long fast in the

Tobruk jail, so I didn't care that the food was foul, or that the

girl-dressed in a tattered wrap that barely covered her ample

breasts and wide loins—was watching me closely. Finally,

though, my curiosity got the better of me.

"Can you speak English?" I asked. Shc cocked her head

and smiled at me, but said nothing. I asked her if she spoke

French, but she still didn't reply. Finally, I tried out my rusty

Arabic. She nodded and replied in, of all things, a kind of

pidgin Russian.

At first, I was surprised, then I recalled that Russia had had

thousands of military and technical advisers in Libya for

many years. Apparently, some of the more adventuresome

Soviets had found their way to this remote village.

'Can you tell me what is happening out there?" I asked in

Russian.

"Why doesn't the white yacht leave?"

She laughed and tipped her hand in a drinking gesture.

«'The men fill up with white drink vodka," she said. "Would

104

NICK CARTER

you like some vodka? Plenty for everybody."

So they were turning the whole thing into a party. Well, I

could do with a stiff drink to help ease the pain of my bruises.

''Sure. Why don't I just go with you and join the party?"

"No, " she said, getting up. "I bring vodka here. We have

party alone. Right?"

I nodded and smiled. She darted from the room and came

back shortly with a bottle of the potent clear whiskey. I

toasted her health, then she toasted mine. We laughed and

drank and I began to feel almost human. But I was careful not

to drink much. If the others were having a party, perhaps they

would all get drunk and become sloppy in their guarding of

me. It was a slim chance, but I had no others at the moment.

The girl's name was Ansai. She had black hair, deep

brown eyes and the most sensuous mouth I had seen in a long

time. Her skin was pale brown. After three drinks, I felt

mellow enough to forget about my aches, so began to look at

the girl with aroused interest. She seemed more than willing

to welcome my advances.

But my interest was more than sexual. I was fascinated by

the Russian influence I had seen so far in Libya. First there

were the Russian weapons, then the Russian-made jeep.

Now came this girl who spoke a patois of Russian and Arabic

and English. And the Russians had been involved in Libyan

affairs for many years, beginning as far back as 1970 when

Russia provided the military with tanks and weapons. Five

years later, Russia sold more than a billion dollars worth of

advanced military weapons to the tiny Arab country.

I was eager to learn if Soviet influence still applied in

Libya and if somehow Cronin and his big drug deal had any

Soviet implications. It certainly would explain why he was

able to get away with so much without government interven-

tion.

But first things first.

'Who sent you here?" I asked Ansai

"Village head man," she said with a sweet smile. "Mees-

ter Cronin, he talk with head man and say you need company

STRIKE OF THE HAWK

105

because come big delay in go-boat. I come see you, bring

food, then bring white drink vodka."

"Okay, company," I said reaching over to put my hand

behind her head and draw her close.

"Let's have that party

you mentioned."

"Oh swell," she said with a chirping giggle. "I like party

for drink and have ball."

I took the lithe little woman into my arms and kissed her

noting for the first time that she was freshly bathed and

perfumed. I thanked God that it wasn't Russian perfume. She

returned the kiss, hungrily, and pressed her body against

mine. We lay back on the cot and her hand went between my

thighs to massage the hardness there.

"Fells great,

" I said.

"Don't stop."

"Feels hard," she said and giggled again. "I'm not stop

until you say so."

The dress pulled away easily, since it was tied with only

one knot just below her breasts. I opened the bodice and

kissed her breasts and felt giddy from the sensuous

perfume-and, of course, the vodka. But I was far from

inebriated or incapacitated. And the girl was ripe and ready.

We moved together and her strong young hands massaged

my back and soothed the many aches there. In fact, I felt no

aches at all, except the ache of need. It seemed years since I

had been with Raina back in Casablanca.

Ansai was as good as Raina. She rose to meet me and

guided me to the warm wetness of her sex. We came together

smoothly and, very soon, the hot little shack was almost

reverberating with our furious activity on the cot.

When it was done, I lay back and felt total relief. My aches

and pains seemed to have disappeared far over the ocean's

calm surface, leaving me with a contentment and a laziness

that were most welcome.

"You like Ansai?" the girl asked, kissing the tip of my

chin.

"Oh yes, " I said, meaning it. "I like you very much. Are

you coming on the white boat with us?"

106

NICK CARTER

She dropped her head and her fine, bright smile faded

"No," she said. "I don't go on white boat. They say you

will go far away and not come back. Men in stiff suits take

you to distant land."

Suddenly, I was not so contented. "Ansai, what do you

mean, 'men in stiff suits take you to distant land"?"'

"Russians,"

she said. "You don't know about Rus-

sians?"

'What about the Russians?"

She shrugged and began tying her dress back in place. I

took her soft shoulders in my hands and peered into her pretty

face.

'What about the Russians, Ansai?"

"They come in big boat, I hear head man say. They meet

white boat, say, fifty miles out in ocean and come take you on

big boat to go to distant land. You not know all this? You not

like to go to Russia?"

A myriad pieces fell into place right then. All along, I had

thought that Cronin's men were lousy shots but they hadn't

been out to kill me at all. Cronin realized that I was a valuable

commodity—he was going to turn me over to the Russians

for a price! I wondered if the Russians were involved with the

six tons of heroin as well.

The biggest question now, though, was how I would

escape before boarding the Intrepid.

T »

Chapter Twelve

As soon as Ansai left the hot little room, Cronin, Snyder

and two armed goons came in.

"It's half past one,'

" Cronin said jovially. 'We had an

unavoidable delay, Mr. Carter, but we're ready to go now.

Are you prepared for your final voyage?"

"I'm ready," I said with undisguised bitterness. "Are you

ready to sell your soul to the devil?"

Both Cronin and Snyder looked puzzled, but Cronin re-

covered nicely with a hearty laugh.

"My dear fellow, I sold out to the devil many years ago. I

don't understand your remark, but then I don't need to. You

are my prisoner, not the other way around. Come, the yacht

is waiting."

They marched me from the shack and through a crowd of

men, women and children waiting near the beach. I saw

Ansai standing beside a gnarled little man, presumably her

father or the village head man. She smiled and waved to me. I

started to wave back, but one of Cronin's goons whacked me

across the forearm with his machine pistol. I noticed that it

was a Volshik, but that didn't mean anything in particular.

The damned country was full of those Russian babies, it

seemed.

Arab fishermen rowed us out to the Intrepid and I was

hoisted aboard by two burly thugs with machine pistols slung

over their shoulders. I turned for a last look at the Libyan

shore before I was hustled below to a cramped room that had

107

108

NICK CARTER

obviously been used to store cleaning supplies. I could not

lay down in the room—and it smelled of ammonia Janitor in a

Drum.

We had been at sea two hours when the door opened and I

was taken on deck. I could scarcely believe my eyes when I

came up. There were a dozen goons on deck and all of them

were sloshed on vodka. They were also very friendly. One

came up to me and patted me on the behind.

"Ah, our hotshot guest," he said, breathing pure vodka at

me.

"Glad you could join the party."

"Get away from me, sucker, or I'll break your fucking

head open.

He laughed, waving a bottle in one hand and his machine

pistol in the other.

"My, but the fish still has his teeth," he roared. "Hey,

Jonah, let's get him down and pull his goddamn teeth."

'That'll be enough," Cronin's voice craked over the

laughter. "Come back here, Mr. Carter. Sit and enjoy the

soft sea breezes. And have something to eat and drink if you

wish."

Cronin, Snyder and two stiff-necked blond men I had not

seen before were sitting in deck chairs near the stern of the

yacht. Along the stern, on enormous white cushions, was a

beautiful woman in a bathing suit. She looked as though she

had never been in the water, and never would. Her face was

heavily made up so that she would have looked far better in

an evening gown instead of a bathing suit. I tagged her and

the two men as Russians.

Russia stuck out all over them.

The goons released me and I walked across the deck and

fell into a chair. My legs were still wobbly from being

confined in the cleaning locker. As I sat, I glanced at the sea

alongside the boat and guessed our speed at more than 10

knots an hour. We should be at the rendezvous point in about

three more hours at this rate. I checked my digital watch and

saw that it was 4:14. It would still be daylight when we met

the Russian ship, but darkness wouldn't be far off.

T »

109

I figured out another point then. The delay had been

because of the Russian vessel. If we had left the beach

earlier, we would have had to rendezvous with the Russians

long before dark. The Russians wanted darkness to cover

their departure after I was taken aboard.

Everybody waited for the Russians.

Ansai had been dead right about what was to happen to me,

but I was curious as to why Cronin had invented that bit of

fiction about dropping me at sea and going on to Palermo to

sell the heroin. I knew the answer, or thought I did. He and

Snyder knew how I felt about the way of life in Russia. If they

had told me their plan, they figured I might try to escape,

even if it meant certain death for me.

But I did know their plan and I would certainly try to

escape. But I would not knowingly commit suicide, even to

avoid being sold to the Soviets.

"I'll have that drink," I said as I gazed at Cronin, Snyder

and the two stiff-necked men beside them. "And," I added

with a wicked grin, "I'd like to buy a drink for the little lady

back there."

Cronin and Snyder laughed, but the two blond men saw no

humor in my remark. They acted as though the woman did

not exist certainly not there within a few feet of them, and

in a bathing suit. While drinks were poured, though, Cronin

acknowledged her presence.

"This is Mrs. Tolksen,

" he said. Then, he introduced the

two men, but I didn't even catch their names, much less

_remember them.

"We're giving them a lift, in a manner of

speaking. You might say that they wore out their welcome in

Libya."

"Funny, " I said, taking a deep draught of the vodka to kill

the aches in my body once more. "They don't look Sicil-

ian."

Cronin began laughing again and the laughter grew until

he was in the middle of a coughing fit.

"My good fellow, " he said, slapping me on the shoulder

so hard that pains shot up into my head,

"we aren't taking

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NICK CARTER

110

NICK CARTER

them to Palermo. But I see that I am merely arousing your

curiosity, so I'll let it drop there. You'll soon learn where

everyone is going."

"I already know," I said, deciding that I didn't want to

leave with these jerks thinking I was totally stupid. I raised

my glass in a toast.

"Here's to a long and happy life in the

mother country. Prosit!"

The two blond men nearly swallowed their glasses, but the

woman merely smiled through her sunglasses.

• She raised her glass.

'Prosit," she said in a deep, husky, almost manly voice.

And that was the only word she spoke during the entire

voyage.

"I should have known you would learn our little secret,"

Cronin said with his usual joviality. "But it doesn't really

matter. You aren't going anywhere, Nick Carter. That is,

until we meet our friends in about three hours. Pity we aren't

going to make you walk the gangplank. I talked about that so

much that I could almost see it happening. I would dearly

love to see you naked and trembling up there, waiting to

become fishbait. But, alas, you have value to us."

"How much?' I demanded.

"Aha, you think your beloved Hawk would like to bargain

for your hide? I doubt it, Mr. Carter. We have already spread

the word that you are going willingly. As far as Hawk knows,

you are the traitor to his cause, not Snyder."

"Sure," I said. I tipped my glass, but did not drink. I kept

the vodka, burning, in my mouth until nobody was looking,

then spat it onto the deck.

Robert Cronin was a smart and able cookie, but he was

letting his joy corrupt one major tenet of racketeering. He

was allowing his people to drink too much. Whiskey doesn't

mix with business, or anything worth while, and these galoots

had been slugging down vodka since at least daybreak.

And I also noticed that, although a sumptuous buffet was

set up on the starboard deck, virtually nobody was eating. So

much booze on an empty stomach spelled double trouble. I

kept on slugging at my drink and spitting in onto the already

T »

STRIKE OF THE HAWK

111

wet deck. The wind was coming up and the sea spray was

wetting us all down.

And the dozen goons aboard the Intrepid were getting

drunker by the minute.

'You certainly can hold your liquor, Nick. " Dave Snyder

said after the first hour. "At first, I thought you were faking

it, but your glass just keeps getting empty."

Cronin and Snyder laughed, but the Russians just stared. I

smiled and waved my glass for a refill, but I was thinking: If

you weren't so goddamn drunk, traitor, you'd see that I've

been spitting this crap all over your shoes. They're damned

near as drunk as you are.

But I kept silent and kept on taking in vodka and waiting

for an opportunity to let it slide to the deck. My mouth,

though was getting numb as hell. But I let a little vodka go

into my stomach every now and then. It seemed to provide

strength, and it sure as hell provided courage. False courage

or not, I needed all I could get.

When the time was right, I was going to turn myself into

fishbait. I figured my chances in the open sea were better than

they would be once I was taken aboard a Russian vessel. I

have spent time in Russian prisons. I wanted no more of that.

The conversation turned then to wealth and what it could

do for a man in the free world. The Russians took no part in

the discussion, but they listened intently. The woman called

Mrs. Tolksen sat smiling enigmatically, hiding behind her

sunglasses, rearranging her luscious body on the soft cush-

ions every now and then. I wondered how she would be in

bed, and decided that she would be damned good. I had

honestly figured that Ansai, in the little Libyan village,

would be my last piece of tail on earth, but things were

looking better. Even if I didn't excape and had to go to

Russia, there was a chance that, someday, at some time I

would be able to shack up with this glamorous number. Hell,

perhaps she was assigned to be my guide while in the mother-

land.

"In about four or five years," Cronin said to the usmiling

puppets in their stiff suits, "I should be as rich as Howard

112

NICK CARTER

Hughes was before he died. I know I'll be a billionaire by

then. The only question is, will I have two or three billion

dollars? I think I'll shoot for three billion. How does that

sound, Mr. Snyder?"

"Tremendous," Snyder said thickly. "A man just can't

have too much money.

"Correct," Cronin said, grinning at the mirthless bastards

from Russia.

"With three billion, I can own half of Con-

gress. Instead of building airplanes or buying nightclubs, I'll

invest in pure power. I'll buy leaders and, before you know

it, the whole country will belong to me.

"And after that,

" Snyder said, waving his glass and

sloshing vodka on his already soused shoes,

"comes the

whole fuckin' world."

'Please, Mr. Snyder," Cronin said, clucking his tongue

admonishingly. 'There is a lady present."

"And I got my best girl's picture in my wallet," I said,

feigning drunkenness.

Cronin laughed until he nearly choked himself coughing. I

didn't know that old Army chestnut of a joke could still get

laughs like that. But whiskey can bring miracles sometimes.

Dusk came swiftly over the ocean, turning the crystal

waters murky. It started just after six and grew so fast that we

seemed to be heading into it. Actually, we were heading

northwesterly, almost into the teeth of the setting sun.

I calculated the time and our speed and reasoned that the

time was drawing near when we should catch sight of the

Russian ship. I had no idea what kind of ship would come. It

would probably be a gigantic fishing trawler, though. Not

even the Russians would send a warship out to pick up illegal

passengers and (probably) drugs. Or perhaps I only hoped it

would be a trawler, knowing that escape from a warship

would be virtually impossible.

For the past couple of hours, watching the men around me

get drunk, vomit over the sides, sleep it off and get up to

drink again, I had been rattling my brain to think of an escape

plan. I had given up on the idea of ditching at sea. If the

sharks didn't get me, distance would. I would drown before I

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STRIKE OF THE HAWK

113

swam two miles in my present condition. At best, I could

hope for only six miles-and we were more than forty miles

from the nearest land.

My best bet was to make Cronin and the others think I had

gone overboard to the sea's mercy rather than face a life of

prison in Russia. The yacht was big and, if I could go over the

side and somehow get back aboard unnoticed, I would hide

out while Cronin's men searched the open sea for me. And I

knew just where to hide—in that cramped little janitor's

closet where nobody in his right mind would stay willingly.

Men had been going to the side to vomit overboard all

afternoon, so I knew nobody would be suspicious if I did the

same—-or pretended to. From that undignified position, it

would be a simple matter to flip overboard. From that point, I

would be at the mercy of the sea and my own wits.

I would take my chances on that.

Now, all I had to do was wait for a better chance. I was

almost the focal point, sitting there with the two Russians,

Cronin, Snyder and the mysterious Mrs. Tolksen watching

me. I also figured on waiting for a bit more dusk; it would be

easier to pull off what I planned if the drunken gunmen

aboard had the further disadvantage of poor visibility.

But dusk was coming slowly now as the sun seemed to

hang like a big red ball over the western horizon. Soon the

Russian ship would loom on the northern horizon and then it

might be too late to try my gambit. No, I didn't need the

added firepower of frantic Russians—who would be dead

sober-to foul things up

So I waited and sipped more vodka and spat it silently onto

Dave Snyder's wet shoes and gazed at the lovely white skin

of the Russian woman named Mrs. Tolksen. And listened to

Cronin's grandiose chatter about wealth and power and

world control. I could say one thing for the chubby and jovial

crook: he didn't dream small dreams.

My opportunity came just as the sun was dipping into the

sea, and it was better than I had hoped for.

Dave Snyder, slightly green from so much vodka and

motion, got up and went to the side. He heaved his cookies

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NICK CARTER

into the ocean, then stumbled back along the deck, past the

buffet table where rich foods were tempting my empty

stomach, and sat in a deck chair, his head in his hands.

Cronin and the Russians watched him, shaking their heads

and clucking their tongues at the weakness of the man.

Hell, they hadn't seen anything yet.

I waited perhaps ten minutes, then made an urping sound

deep in my chest.

"S'cuse me," I said thickly.

I got up, pleased that my actions brought a laugh from

Cronin and a chuckle from the lovely Mrs. Tolksen. I hit the

rail like a ramrod and bent double over the side, hiding my

face from the onlookers. I made puking sounds and laughter

rose behind me. Even the Russians were laughing now.

And then I pushed with my feet.

I heard a yell on deck, then the water came up and I hit in a

straight dive. Just before I entered the water, I sucked in

enough air to sustain me. I was going much deeper than an

ordinary falling drunk might go.

I swam hard, knowing that bullets would soon come after

• me. I went straight down, feeling my lungs begin to hurt from

the pressure.

When I was well below the keel of the yacht, I flipped over

and swam horizontally, directly under the boat which had

already cut its engines.

I had counted on that. I had no desire to be cut to bits by the

twin screws that drove the Intrepid.

The momentum of the boat carried it past me and, when I

came up, I was well to the stern. I swam silently, listening to

the chattering of automatic weapons on the starboard side.

The goons were shooting up the ocean near where I had gone

over the side.

I reached the stern and clung to the rudder until I got my

breath and strength back. Then, working swiftly, I yanked

off my belt and wrapped it around the rudder, tying it so that,

when the engines started up again, the boat would not be able

to do anything but cruise around in a wide circle.

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STRIKE OR THE TAUN

115

It might take them hours to figure out what the hell was

wrong.

Then, I eased along the port side, clutching at portholes

and the dock bolster to keep from falling back into the ocean.

I reached midships and raised up to check the deck. It was

empty. Everyone was on the starboard bow ogling the empty

sea, looking for my presumably riddled body.

But I was wrong. Not everybody was up there.

Dave Snyder,

the turncoat, came up a hatchway, still

green around the gills and wondering why the engines had

stopped.

I was on the deck so quickly that I marveled that I didn't

strain a muscle getting there. Snyder turned just as I leaped at

him. Sick as he was, he was still quick, from years of training

with AXE.

I hit him with my body and we both tumbled to the deck.

The impact carried us dangerously close to the gunwales, but

I grabbed a cable running along under the main railing. With

my left hand, I searched for Snyder's throat.

With a grunt and a superhuman effort, he thrust his body

upward and broke my grip on the cable. My hand slashed out

and caught him alongside the head just as the fingers of my

left hand found his throat.

Snyder almost panicked then. Knowing that I would soon

squeeze the life out of him, he thrashed and let out a loud

roar. Thankfully, the roar coincided with the chattering burst

of an automatic pistol as someone on the bow took an angry

shot at the dark sea-and he hoped my floating body.

Snyder's thrashing, though, was his undoing.

We slipped under the cable and over the gunwale, and

plunked in a single splash back into the ocean.

Down, down, down we went, clutching at each other,

slashing, punching in slow motion in the water.

We were down there for what seemed an eternity. I be-

came convinced, utterly and irrevocably, that I would die

then. I made up my mind that Dave Snyder, Agent N22,

turncoat and traitor, would die with me.

116

NICK CARTER

But slowly, we rose in the water and bobbed to the surface.

I took a deep and welcome breath and ducked under again,

pulling Snyder with me. And then I found his throat with my

fingers.

He kicked out at me, but the kick went harmlessly past my

legs and churned the dark water. I held on, waiting for him to

stop thrashing, but he seemed to possess nine lives. The

thrashing went on and on, and we were sinking slowly into

the deep Mediterranean.

When I felt that I could no longer endure the struggle, the

worst happened. My lungs were on fire and I had to let out the

foul air that filled them.

When my breath went, we began to sink more rapidly. I

gritted my teeth and squeezed as hard as I could.

But Snyder kept on thrashing.

And we both kept on sinking, faster and faster.

In a moment of panic, I almost let go to save myself. But

years of training held me there with my deathgrip on the

enemy.

Besides, I owed a hell of a lot to a lot of people, especially

James Lobell.

Even if I died in the effort, I would kill this son of a bitch

for him.

T »

Chapter Thirteen

We must have been forty feet beneath the surface of the

Mediterranean before I realized that I had to take a very big

gamble or prepare myself for a suffocating death. I had both

hands around Dave Snyder's neck, squeezing hard, but he

was still struggling.

Somehow, I had to put him away for good.

I risked taking my right hand from his throat. I gripped his

left shoulder and spun him around in the water. At the same

instant, I released the grip of my left hand, then closed both

hands about his head in a twisting lock.

I jerked swiftly and could not hear his neck snap as the

bones broke, but I knew that the twisting had been fatal.

Snyder went limp in my hands.

For good measure, I held on another few seconds, then

released the turncoat agent. His body slid slowly down, past

my own, and I began swimming frantically toward the sur-

face.

At least, I hoped it was toward the surface.

Sharp pains rippled through my chest and shoulders and

arms. The pains came from too much exertion and too little

oxygen. My lungs were bursting and cells in my muscles

were dying by the millions. My heart was slapping away like

an out-of-control jackhammer, but my extremeties felt numb

and cold as though they were not getting any blood at all.

In all my years with AXE, I have faced death on so many

occasions that I've lost count. And I have been in worse fixes

117

118

NICK CARTER

than I was at that moment, although I could not recall exactly

when. Never, though, has my life passed before my eyes, as

they say.

On the contrary, I could not remember anything of my life

as I swam feebly through the dark water, aching for air and

resisting the temptation to just open my mouth and take what

came.

Although I was convinced that, this time, there was no

way out of my predicament, I did not think about my past

life, or even of death. I could think only of how marvelous it

would be to take a good deep breath of fresh air.

I would have welcomed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation

from a shark!

When I finally broke the surface of the calm ocean, I was

nearly unconscious. I gasped several times, taking in small

gulps of air and thrashing the water to keep from sinking

again. Then, I realized that I was nearing a state of panic.

I calmed my nerves and began to tread water and breathe

normally. And I took time to look around me.

There, a hundred yards to my left, was the Intrepid,

cruising around in a circle. I remembered that I had tied the

rudder so that it couldn't do anything but circle. Cronin's

skipper had turned on running lights, so I was able to tread

water and follow the yacht's course.

I realized that, if I waited where I was, the yacht would

circle to within a few yards of me. I swam directly into its

projected path, hoping to let it slide past in the darkness and

to catch hold as it went by. If I missed, I would take the risk of

being chewed up by the twin propellers.

After what I had been through, it was a rather paltry risk.

As I waited, I half expected to see Snyder's body come

bobbing to the surface. But he had expelled all the air from

his lungs, the same as I had. I knew that he would continue to

sink, only to rise when his body began to decay and swell up

with gasses.

Snyder would never cause me trouble again. Lobell had

received partial payment for his life. I had to get aboard that

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TIE NE

119

damned yacht and make certain that my friend from Sweden

would receive payment in full. Cronin's death just might

satisfy the debt, but I doubted it.

The Intrepid approached, coming so fast in its tight circle

that the boat listed to its port side, and I swam back a few feet

so that I could be on its starboard side. I could hear the big

engines throbbing and, above that, voices of men as they ran

back and forth on the decks trying to spot me in the dark

water. I could hear Cronin's voice, far from jovial now,

haranguing the skipper about the jammed rudder. As tired

and aching as I was, I chuckled out loud

The boat came closer and I timed its speed at an even ten

knots an hour. Miraculously, my digital watch was still

working after all its time under water.

I had no idea what I would do once I caught hold of the

boat, but I had no other choice. My desire to kill Cronin and

finish at least a part of the job was high, but I was driven by

another desire. The yacht seemed to be the only floating

object within fifty miles and I could tread water only so long.

Dangerous or not, I had to get aboard.

Fortunately, Cronin and all his men were on the port side

of the yacht, searching the water inside the wide circle the

boat was making. As the boat slipped past, I reached up and

grabbed the thick docking bolster.

My hands slipped off and I was bumped harshly back into

the water.

I came up spitting water and grabbed at anything I could

catch. My right hand closed over a chrome cleat at the stern,

but my feet were dangling in the water, dangerously close to

the churning propellers. I pulled hard, trying to lift myself

up, but my strength was almost gone.

I felt the swiftly-churning water on my legs and that gave

me all the incentive I needed to try harder. The whirling

screw of the starboard engine was about to amputate both my

legs, and possibly other important items of my anatomy.

With the last ounce of my strength, I heaved myself up

until my chest was hard against the bulging gunwale and my

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120

NICK CARTER

right foot had a hold on the bolster. I clung there for a few

minutes, trying to regain enough strength to heave myself

onto the deck of the Intrepid.

Then, as the yacht swept around to the west and headed

southwest, I thought I saw the silhouette of something excep-

tionally large and imposing about a mile due west. But the

eyes deceive you at night on the open sea. I could have seen a

low cloud, or I could have seen nothing at all.

The distraction was enough to set off my danger instinct. I

suddenly knew that, tired as I was, I had to get away from the

circling yacht and trust my own recources in the open sea.

Reluctantly, but hastily, I loosened my grip on the cleat

and plunked backward into the ocean. I began swimming

away from the churning wake of the yacht.

When there was about a hundred yards' distance between

me and the boat, a most incredible thing happened.

Brilliant lights, seeming to emanate from a high, broad

tower, lit up the entire section of ocean. The gleaming white

yacht was the focal point of the lights. I could see the boat's

silhouette, see men running up and down its decks like frantic

ghosts.

And then a voice, heavy and metallic and sounding like the

crack of doom, filled the air:

"Cut your engines and throw away your guns."

There seemed to be a deep silence for the next few sec-

onds, then the voice boomed again over a loudspeaker behind

the bank of blinding lights.

"Ahoy, Intrepid. Cut your engines. Throw your guns

overboard. You have ten seconds to comply."

The answer came swiftly. I heard the chattering of automa-

tic weapons, then the shattering of glass. Four lights in the

incredible bank of lights went out.

Whatever was out there did not frighten Cronin and his

men. They were shooting at it, although it was obviously

bigger and far more ominous than the yacht.

I waited to see what would happen next, but didn't have to

wait long.

From behind the bank of lights came two long tongues of

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121

orange flame, followed immediately by the crashing thunder

of naval guns.

One shell landed just short of the yacht and sent up

tremendous geyser. The concussion nearly blew me out of

the water and I felt my stomach, chest and groin go numb.

The second shell hit paydirt.

The shattering explosion was ear-splitting. The Intrepid

sat motionless for a moment, silhouetted against the stark

lights. Then, it seemed to fly apart from the center, shooting

fiery embers and dark fragments of wood and steel and glass

and human flesh into the air above the ocean.

This second explosion, when the boat went up in a billow-

ing mushroom cloud, knocked out my hearing altogether and

nearly crushed my chest.

I went under and tumbled over and over in the water as

wave after wave hit me like spurting lava.

My lungs took in water and I coughed violently as I broke

the surface again. And then the coughing stopped and I felt

myself losing consciousness. Once again for me, the world

went blank.

The dream returned and I was walking down a sunny street

into a soft, washing breeze. My feet were moving, but they

were not touching the sidewalk. I felt very good and a sense

of well-being seemed to emanate from the sunlight and fresh,

warm air.

And I knew why the dream kept recurring.

My subsconscious was telling me to get the hell out of the

espionage racket, to find a quiet place in the country, to take

long, safe walks down sunny streetsto live happily ever

after.

But, even as I began to awaken, my mind was on my

business.

All I could think of as I came around was that six tons of

heroin, representing many millions of dollars in street

sales—plus many millions of agonies for the people who

made the buys had been blown to smithereens and were

now a permanent part of the blue Mediterranean. It didn't

122

NICK CARTER

matter to me that Cronin and his cronies had also been blown

to bits, or that Snyder the turncoat was feeding the fish on the

bottom of the sea.

They all were destined for death the minute they made the

decision to get rich from the miseries of other people on this

sometimes unsavory planet.

I was still thinking of the lost heroin, and its effect on the

sea life near where the yacht had been blow up, when I

opened my eyes and recognized the familiar surroundings of

a ship's hospital. A Navy corpsman smiled down at me.

"Glad to see you awake, sir,

" he said.

"You need to get

something solid in that stomach of yours."

As if on cue, my stomach rolled and lurched with hunger. I

saw the tube then, leading from a suspended bottle to a

bandage on my right wrist. They had been feeding me in-

tra venously.

"How long have I been here?" I asked, my voice still a bit

shaky.

"Couple of days. You're aboard the USS Alabama."

I nodded, although I had not known which American

warship had picked me up. Then, I remembered the bright

lights and the horrendous explosion that had sent me tum-

bling head over heels in the water.

"Are you the guys that blew the Intrepid out of the

water?'

"Yep. We're also the guys that shelled a factory in Turkey

a few days ago."

"I figured that," I said. "A good friend of mine was killed

during that shelling."

The corpsman shook his head. "No, he was dead before

we commenced firing. I heard that the captain and a special

guest aboard talked with him by radio when we heard shoot-

ing on the shore. He was mortally wounded and told us to

fire. When his radio went dead and the skipper couldn't

establish contact again, the ship opened fire.

I opened my mouth to ask about the special guest, but the

corpsman stopped me.

"No more talking until after you eat."

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STRIKE OE THE TAUN

123

He raised the head of the bed and plunked a tray of food on

my lap. I ate ravenously, unaware even of what I was putting

into my mouth. It was far better than the usual Navy chow.

As I ate, the corpsman chatted.

"That special guest with the captain wants to talk to you as

soon as you're able,

' he said.

"He's a heavyset man with a

tweed jacket and a big black cigar. I guess you know him,

right?'

"Right," I replied through a mouthful of food. "You

might as well let him know now. I'm as able as I'll ever be."

The corpsman shifted from foot to foot, acting a bit un-

easy.

"There's also a woman aboard and she has been waiting

right outside the whole time you've been in sick bay. She

begged me to let her see you as soon as you woke up."

"Do you know her name?"

He shook his head. "She came aboard one night when we

were laying off the coast of Morocco. I think it was Casa-

blanca. She had kind of golden skin and..

'Raina Missou!" I said, feeling considerably better than I

had felt for some time. "Hell, sailor, let her in."

He still shifted nervously. 'I don't know, sir. The captain

said I was to let him know right away. I think the man in the

tweed jacket wants to talk to you first. But the woman is so

damned beautiful, and so insistent."

"Look, it's all right. The woman is an old friend. Let her

in for a few minutes and we won't tell a soul about it. Okay?"

"I don't know. If the captain ever got wind of it, he'd—"

"He won't get wind of it," I said, anxious to see Raina and

to apologize for ever suspecting that she was one of Cronin's

people, or had reported my movements to him or to anyone

else. The bug planted in my digital watch proved that Snyder

was the one that had been tracking my movements. Raina

was innocent, but I had been ready to head back to Casa-

blanca and kill her, based on suspicion alone.

"All right," the corpsman said.

"I can let you have five

minutes alone, then I'll have to ask the woman to leave so I

can report to the captain that you're awake. You have to

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124

NICK CARTER

promise not to tell him or his guest that I let the woman in to

see you."

I held up my right hand. "Scout's honor," I said, smiling

in anticipation of seeing the beautiful Raina Missou. "No-

body will ever know.

The corpsman nodded and smiled. He went out and I heard

him talking to someone in the doorway. The door closed and

Raina came up beside the bed. She was smiling and her

golden skin and lovely figure were like a beacon in the night.

Her rich perfume filled the antiseptic hospital room and I felt

warm and horny all the way down to my toes.

"How are you, lover man?" Raina said in her lovely,

delicate sing-song voice.

"Just great," I said. "How are you, Raina?"

She smiled and bent down to kiss me. Then, she stood

above me, the smile fading from her face as lines hardened

around her eyes and mouth.

'You seem to have a hundred lives, Nick Carter, " she

said in a strange, flat voice. There was no sing-song quality

to it now. "But I think you've used up the last one.

"What are you talking about, Raina?" Danger signals

jangled in my head, but even the signals seemed to sense that

it was too late.

Raina backed away and pulled a small revolver from

between her full breasts.

"Raina, what's this all about?"

She smiled crookedly and leveled the gun at my head.

"Remember the safehouse you attacked on Corsica sev-

eral weeks ago when you were fighting an organization

called NOTCH?"'

"Yes, sure, I remember it."

"Everyone in that house died from poison gas you some-

how managed to put into the ventilation system.

I nodded. "I had guessed that," I said, 'but this is the first

time I've received any confirmation. How do you know

about that?"

'My father was one of the last twelve NOTCH leaders in

the sub-basement of that house,'

" she said. 'You and I met a

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125

long time ago, Nick, but only because my father wanted me

to get to know you and to keep him informed of your ac-

tivities. He was a top man in the NOTCH syndicate and you

all but destroyed it. You killed him. And, my lover friend, I

am going to kill you."

I gazed incredulously at Raina Missou as she stood not five

feet from me with the little pistol raised in one golden hand. I

had to force myself to remain calm, and it sure as hell wasn't

easy.

"Raina, you've had plenty of chances to kill me since I

destroyed that syndicate—and your father, as you say. Why

did you help me so many times when you carried such a

grudge?"

She smiled the crooked smile again. Cronin was my

father's worst enemy for years," she said easily.

"I was

helping you because I knew you would kill Cronin. Once that

was done, I would get my own revenge."

"But how did you arrange to be here with Hawk, on an

American battleship?"

"That was easy, " she said. 'I contacted your agent in

Rabat and he put me in direct touch with your boss. I told the

man with the smelly cigars how I had helped you in Casa-

blanca and that I was in love with you. When he said that he

was on the way to help you, I begged to come along."

I almost chuckled, thinking of Hawk and how he might

react when a girl like Raina Missou came on strong. But my

musings were brief; I was in one hell of a lot of trouble.

"Raina,

" I said, using a soft and easy approach with her,

"you don't want to get revenge like this. As soon as you fire

that little popgun, they'll kill you, you know."

"I know. I'm ready for it."

"No you aren't. Nobody is. Raina, put down the gun and

let's forget this whole thing. Nobody knows that your father

was a member of NOTCH. We can take you back to Casa-

blanca and you can go on with your life there. You-"

"No dice, Nick,

" she said. 'You didn't kill the syndicate

bosses. A couple of them are alive and they know that my

father had been stealing from them over the years. He stashed

176

126

NICK CARTER

his fortune away in Switzerland and I'm the only one who

knows where it is. The syndicate wants me. After they get the

information they need, they'll kill me. You see, Nick, I had

to get out of Casablanca when I did and I used you and your

boss to achieve two purposes. I got away from the syndicate

and I now have a chance to avenge my father's death. You

can't beat that, especially when I'm already marked for

death."

"Raina, we can help you, protect you."

She shook her head and her long, dark hair bounced on her

shoulders and trailed down to the smooth golden cleavage.

God, she was beautiful.

She was also lethal.

"The corpsman said I had five minutes with you," Raina

said, gripping the pistol more tightly. "The time is about up.

I plan to shoot as soon as someone opens the door."

I knew then that it was useless to talk to the girl. Appar-

ently, she had been quite close to her father, whose name I

didn't even know, and she was dead set on revenge.

I couldn't let the corpsman open that door and have her

blow a hole in my head.

Slowly, I worked my left hand under the tray the corpsman

had placed on my lap. Under my breath, I counted to three.

On the count, I flipped the tray and sent it flying toward

Raina.

She fired.

The bullet struck the tray and ricocheted off the ceiling. At

that precise moment, the door opened and two big Marine

MPs rushed in and grabbed Raina.

Right behind them was David Hawk, puffing viciously on

a black cigar. His right arm was in a sling. As the Marines

dragged Raina's sagging, sobbing body out of the room,

Hawk eyed me with a kind of contempt.

"I'm ashamed of you, N3," he snapped as he pulled a

chair up beside my bed and sat in it. He put a tape recorder on

his lap and held the microphone in his hand. "After all these

years, you still trust women too much."

T »

STRIKE OF THE HAWK

197

127

"That's true, sir," I said, feeling weak from the close call with death. "Women are my weakness." I didn't point out that women apparently were his weak-. ness also or he would not have let Raina Missou talk him into bringing her along. I felt bad about Raina. I had once sus-pected her, then had felt guilty about that suspicion. In my own way, I had loved her. It was painful seeing her dragged away by Marine guards, seeing her broken in spirit. And then I realized that Hawk had not succumbed to Rain's charms. He apparently knew about her all along, but figured that I had gone soft on her. The only way to prove to me that she was an enemy was to bring her along and let her confront me. Christ, what a way to prove a point. I could have died and the truth would not have helped me a damned bit. But that's the way Hawk works. "Yes," he said. "Women are your weakness. Remember that the next time you meet someone like Raina M155011. N3, I've been chasing all around the world cleaning up after you. I had to strike in Turkey and again here in the middle of the Mediterranean. I don't like to get involved this way. I expect my agents to handle things a bit better." "Yes, sir," I said, "but you have to admit that this situation was different. We've never had an enemy try so diligently to kill you and all our agents. Not even Killmaster could have handled this case alone." "And why not?" I shrugged and suddenly felt very sleepy. I also felt nau-seous from the swirling cigar smoke in the little room. "I think the corpsman put something in my food to make awe sleep," I muttered, closing my eyes and wanting very much to drift away to dreamland. "He did," Hawk said crisply. "You'll sleep for at least another 24 hours. By that time, we'll be in Italy where I can get a plane back home. There's a great deal to be done, N3. We have to recruit and train a lot of new agents. They pretty much ripped us to pieces as an organization."

K CARTER

128 NICK CARTER

"Yes, sir," 1 mumbled, feeling heavy sleep wash over me like a soft, warm wave. "Meanwhile. I need some information from you. I know where you have been. but I don't know everything you've done." I perked up a little just then. "By the way, sir," I said. "How did you know that I was in Libya and on board the Intrepid? Cronin found the tracking device you put in my digital watch." "They found one of them," Hawk said "The one I wanted them to find. I had a second one, disguised as a battery, embedded in the works. Any more questions?" I felt the wave of sleep again, but I did have another question. Even in my groggy state, I remembered that Cronin had planned to meet with a Russian ship and to sell me to the Russians. And I remembered the two stiff-necked blond men and the glamorous-looking Mrs. Tolksen who presuma-bly were blown up with the yacht. "Sir, I don't think you know this," I said, stifling another yawn, "but Cronin's yacht was supposed to rendezvous with a Soviet ship. They were going to sell me—and probably the heroin—to the Russkies." "I assumed all that," Hawk said, "when I saw the big trawler. It arrived just after we hauled you aboard." "So there was a ship," I said. "I'm sure glad you got there first. I wouldn't want to be on that trawler, heading for the mother country." "You wouldn't be heading there," Hawk said. "You would be an the bottom of the Mediterranean." "Se? Do you mean that . . ." "Let's just say that there was an accident at sea," Hawk said firmly. "Now, anymore questions?" "No, sir," I said, feeling an irrepressible wave of sleep again. "I just want to sleep and . . .•' I drifted into sleep, but Hawk's crackling voice jolted me awake. "You can sleep later, N3" he snapped. "Right now, you have things to put on record." "Please, sir," I mumbled, straining to keep my eyes open,

STRIKF OF THE mew/

^ l v 129 I (139of 292)

— 110%

STRIKE OF THE HAWK 129

and to keep from vomiting from the sickening cigar smoke. "I just want to sleep." I heard the click as David Hawk turned on the tape re-corder, then heard the crisp, cool, authoritative—and quite familiar—command:

PT e I 49 Ei) >>

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