SEVENTEEN
Antonio Zimbatti was young and handsome with an ath-
lete's six-foot-two body. He had brown curly hair, brown
eyes, and by virtue of being a Zimbatti, he was rich.
All of these things made him very attractive to women.
He was also the only one of the four Zimbatti brothers who
was still single, and Antonio intended to live his life that
way.
The girl across from him was eighteen years old and
very beautiful. She was five feet tall with high, proud, and
round breasts, a snug waist and a lavish behind. All of her
attributes were currently being shown off in a simple cotton
dress that was cut a bit low and tight in the front.
Tony Zimbatti didn't know her name. He hadn't even
asked for it. He had bought her five drinks and for the last
hour talked all around the subject that was most on his
mind. Now he leaned forward and came directly to the
point.
"That dress is very tight."
She giggled. "I know."
"Is there anything under it?"
She giggled some more. "Just me. J never wear under-
wear. The way I'm built there's no need. I guess I'm
lucky."
"I'm the one who's lucky." He eyed the mounds of flesh
pushing up so provocatively from the top of the dress and
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thought up one more question: Didn't that long tendril of
hair nestling in the cleft of her bosom tickle?
He decided not to ask it. Instead he asked the big ques-
tion, the one that had been on his mind since he had seen
her walk into the Astoria.
"Why don't we drive over to my place for a quiet
"Just a drink?" She batted her eyelashes so hard one of
them came loose.
"Well, no. I thought that after the drink we could hop
into bed."
"Oh, dear, do you think I'm that kind of a girl?"
"Yes, I do. Aren't you?"
The giggle was almost a hiccup. "Yes."
Tony threw some bills on the table and took her arm. He
could almost hear the eyeballs move as they followed her
movement under the dress.
'Ihe maitre d' almost tripped opening the door. "Good
night, Signor Zimbatti, good night."
Tony passed him a huge bill and guided the girl with his
hand on one solid hip. "Arrivederci, Fonzo, arrivederci.
That's my car just down the street, the white one."
"The Lamborghini?"
"Nothing is too good for my ladies to ride in."
He patted her ass ...
She giggled . ..
And with a thunderous roar the car disappeared in a
bright ball of orange flame.
The blast blew both of them to the pavement. Tony
Zimbatti was knocked sprawling and for a tense moment he
lay protecting his head with his arms from the shards of
flying glass from a nearby window.
The sound wave rolled down the street, faded, and was
replaced by another sound, and his stunned ears finally
recognized the shouts and cries of many pople. One of
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them was the giggler. She was screaming and running
down the street as fast as her tight skirt would let her.
Hands helped him to his feet. "Signor Zimbatti, are you
all right?" It was the doorman from the club.
"Yes, yes, but look at my car..
"Signore, I was running after you. nere is a call for
you in the club."
"A what?"
"Telephone, signore—an emergency."
"Christ."
With one last impassioned look back at what was left of
his hundred-and-fifty-million-lire automobile, Tony fol-
lowed the man back into the club.
"Yes, yes!" he barked into the phone.
"Is this Tony Zimbatti?" The voice was husky and femi-
nine with a strong accent he couldn't spot.
"Yeah, who's this?"
"Too bad, Tony. It was a beautiful car.. ."
He went rigid, his hands shaking. "Who the hell is
"I suggest you call Bruno, Tony, and tell him about the
fate of your car. And while you're at it, remind him of the
ten telephone numbers.... "
"Listen, you bitch e"
But the woman had already hung up.
Quickly Tony dialed a number and his brother's groggy
voice answered, "Hello..
"Bruno, Tony. They just blew up my fucking car."
"My Lamborghini. They just blew up my fucking
hundred-and-fifty-mil car!"
"Who, for Chrissake?"
"I don't know who the hell who! Some broad. And
what's this shit about ten telephone numtxrs?"
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The house was cement bl(xk, one of a hundred or more
just like it off the Monza motorway north of Milan.
There was nothing about the exterior to distinguish it
from its neighbors. But the interior was all its own.
It served as a wire service and collection point for street
dope dealers and gambling for all of northem Italy and a
great deal of southern France.
They were waiting a block up the alley from the rear
door of the building. Reela was tkhind the wheel with
Carter in front tBide her. Louis Corot was in the rear.
Both of the men had Ingram machine pistols fitted with
suppression silencers slung over their shoulders.
"There go the two wire men," Corot said as two men
climbed into a small Fiat and drove away.
"Okay," Carter said, "three cars left. What have we
Reela consulted the thick sheaf of typewritten pages
Carter had gotten in Sicily. By now they had started calling
the papers the "Zimbatti bible."
"Four. The guy who lives in the upstairs apartment.
He's like an around-the-clock guard. The bookkeeper and
two of the couriers. They're probably done counting by
now. They'll most likely sacking."
"Get ready," Carter said.
Reela started the car. Ten minutes later a man emerged
carrying two sacks.
"That's one of the couriers," she said.
"Go!" Carter hissed.
ne car was beside him before he knew it. And before
he could react, two men wearing ski masks were prodding
him with machine pistols.
"One twitch, little man, and you're dead," Carter
growled.
"You two crazy? This is a Zimbatti layout."
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161
"We know what it is. Knock on the door. Tell them you
forgot your keys."
When the man didn't move at once, Corot prodded him
toward the door.
"Crazy, you're crazy."
"Knock."
He did. A gutteral growl came from the other side. The
man hesitated. Both Carter and Corot twisted the muzzles
of the machine pistols into his sides.
"It's me, Santone. I forgot my fuckin' car keys."
As the door 01kned, Carter planted a shoulder in San-
tone's back. The man, moneybags still in hand, went
sprawling on the floor inside. Carter and Corot were right
behind him.
The surprise was complete. The second courier was just
hefting two more loaded moneybags. The little book-
keqxr, complete with green eyeshade, was closing his
books to call it a night. The guard had opened the door. He
stocxi by it now, his mouth gaping open.
ne second courier was the first to understand. His hand
disappeared under his coat.
"Don't touch it," Carter ordered. 'Olf you do, I'll cut you
in half. All of you, move into a line against the wall. Put
your hands on your heads."
When they hesitated, Caner put a quick burst into a
computer unit on a stand just to the left of the
The screen exploded, a few sparks flew, and the machine
skittered across the floor until the plug was pulled from its
outlet.
"Do it," Carter said.
"Against the wall, the position," Corot added.
All four men complied. Corot went down the line re-
lieving them of their hardware. At the same time Carter
moved to the desk. He took the two account books the
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bookkeeper had been working with and shoved them under
his belt in the small of his back.
"Clean." Corot said, dropping the guns and knives he
had collected into a wastebasket.
"Turn around," Carter barked. "Keep your hands on
your heads and your legs spread. You, bookkeeper.. ."
"Bastard pricks," the man hissed.
"Aren't we all," Carter said dryly. "Where's the safe?"
"No safe," the man replied.
Carter sprayed the board Roor inches from the man's
feet. "Bullshit! Those four bags are the week's take. Some-
where you've kept out next week's operating capital."
"Over there, behind that mirror on the wall." The little
bookkeeper was no hero.
"Open it."
He crossed the room and swung a large mirror outward.
It turned on hinges and revealed a wall safe. The man re-
luctantly spun the dial back and forth until the heavy door
of the safe clicked open. Carter emptied it while Corot kept
watch on the four men.
The safe yielded a cashbox and a file of records. Carter
thumbed through the records, shoved a few of them into
his pockets, and pushed the rest aside. He picked up the
box and grinned as he opened it.
Besides a great deal of cash it was stuffed with bearer
bonds of large denominations.
Don Pepe's intelligence was right on the mark. The
Zimbattis used the bearer bonds to get their profits out of
the country and into Swiss banks.
Carter dumped the contents on the floor, tossed the box
to the side, and again leveled his Ingram at the four men.
"You know what to do."
"Yeah," Corot said, a ICX)k of disgust on his face.
The contents of the four large moneybags joined the pile
on the floor. Corot liberally sprinkled the whole with a
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163
squirt can of lighter fluid. Only when Corot took a cheap
lighter from his pocket did the four men gasp as one.
"What the hell
"You guys are nuts .. w"
"You do that, you won't hide anywhere in the world."
gnat's millions ... millions "
Only the bookkeeper was quiet, staring at Carter's eyes
behind the ski mask.
The Killmaster shut them up with another burst into the
"Bum it."
With a of pain on his face Corot thumbed the
lighter and dropped it on the pile. The effect was one of
instant, whooshing flame, and in seconds the whole pile
was orange. It took only a few minutes and the pile of
money was smoldering ashes.
The courier, Santone, was actually coring. The other
three were stunned.
Carter spoke as he and Corot backed to the door. "Call
Bruno. Tell him everything that has here tonight,
and tell him to use the list of phone numbers tomorrow at
noon. Tell him that if he doesn't, tomorrow night will be
even worse. You got that?"
Silence, with all four of them staring in shock at the pile
of ashes.
Carter shouted. "You got that?"
"Si, si, capisco."
Corot grabbed the wastebasket of hardware and they
were out the door. The doors of the car were barely shut
when the rear end of the sedan was fishtailing down the
alley.
Seconds later they were on the Monza highway with
Reela's foot on the floor.
In the back seat Corot was groaning. "Jesus, Jesus, all
that money.. G"
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Carter laughed. "All for a good cause, Louis, all for a
good cause."
' That's what you say."
"Do we still go after Pietro?" Recla asked.
"Oh, yeah," Carter said, checking his watch. "We
should have just about enough time."
Pietro Zimbatti sighed with satisfaction. Already he had
made love twice like a bull this night. And he knew that he
would do it once more before he left.
He looked at the girl, Gabriella, as she sat on the edge
of the bed brushing her hair. She was a whiner, a money-
grubbing little tart. But God, what an enticing creature she
was. She was unlike any of the others. With her, he felt
like a master sculptor creating a magnificent work of art
with the help of a model willing to follow his every direc-
tion. His every whim.
He had never exirrienced such abandon. Such freedom.
Such a willingness to learn. Such a desire to please him.
For the price of a car, a flat, and a huge allowance, of
course.
He ran his hand down her dark, sheer gown. She was
naked beneath it and the touch of her soft, silky skin imme-
diately aroused his lust for the third time.
"No, Pietro, I'm tired," she whined.
"Yes," he said, pulling the gown down.
"No, dammit," she yelled as he put a hand over a
breast. He began to massage it slowly, a circular motion,
saw the color in her eyes deepen instantly. "No," she re-
peated, but her voice had gone breathy.
"Yes." He smiled down at her, continuing to rub. She
formed the word no again with her lips and her head moved
from side to side, protesting herself more than his hand. He
let go of her wrist and put both hands on her breasts now. He
rubbed slowly, saw her stomach draw in, push out.





165
'Goddamn, goddamn," she breathed. Her hands
reached, clutched at him as he continued rubbing her
breasts. "Do it," she gasped, "come on, do it."
His smile was cold triumph as he shed his robe, moved
over her, felt her rise to him at once, spasmodic wildness
enveloping her. He was rough with her, harsh, yet she
stayed with him, l*gging for more and still more. She was
something sFEcial, all right, something special, better than
any of the others.
And then she screamed.
Pietro was yanked to his feet, and the girl, tape slapped
over her mouth, was alongside him.
There were two of them, big men, with ski masks over
their faces.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Shut up."
"You know who I am?"
One of them planted his fist in Pietro's belly clear to the
wrist. He gasped, almost vomited, and fell to the floor.
They forced him to stand. His arms were placed around
the girl's waist and his wrists were handcuffed together.
The girl's wrists were handcuffed behind his waist.
Then they were being shoved down the back stairs of
the apartment house and bundled into the back seat of a
car. A woman was driving, but she had a scarf pulled for-
ward over her face.
"What are you doing?"
"Taking you home, Pietro. Don't you always go home
about four in the morning?"
"But I'm naked she's naked."
'That's right, Pietro."
The girl blubbered behind her gag. Pietro Zimbatti
cursed, pleaded, and did some whining on his own.
Eventually one of the men slapped a thick piece of tape
over his mouth as well.
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Ihey drove along the bank of the Naviglio River and
eventually turned off into the Alzaia Naviglio
Grande section of the city.
Pietro now saw what they meant to do and sweat broke
out all over his body. He tried to scream at them again
when he saw the huge, familiar wrought-iron gate with his
initials in gold leaf atop it.
Pietro and his mistress, still naked, were pulled from the
car. One of Pietro's ankles was handcuffed to the girl's,
then another set of cuffs bound his wrist to the iron grille of
the gate.
"No, oh, dear Mother of God, no, not naked," he
yelped, but no sound came through the gag.
One of the men leaned close to his ear. "Bruno is proba-
bly trying to call a family conference right now. When you
see him, Pietro, remind him again about the ten telephone
numbers. You'll do that, won't you?"
As the car drove away Pietro almost wished they had
killed him.
It was almost dawn when the telephone rang beside the
huge canopied bed. A thick arm came from beneath the
quilt and patted the other side of the bed.
"Bastard, no-good bastard," the woman hissed in a
voice that rasped like a file.
She rolled her heavy legs over the side of the bed and
grunted her pasta-bloated body upright. When she reached
her husband's side of the bed she yanked the phone from
its cradle.
"Signora Zimbatti?"
"Si, si, si... "
"Your husband, Pietro, needs your help right away. He's
at the front gate."
The line went dead.
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Maria Zimbatti stared at the instnment for a moment,
dropped it back on its cradle, and lumbered to the terrace
windows. She threw open the tall windows and stepped out
onto the terrace.
It was light now, with more than enough illumination to
see the two bodies at the gate.
"Nudo," she whis1Ered, and then started screaming
curses down at her husband.










EIGHTEEN
It was chaos in the study of Bruno Zimbatti.
Pietro, his face flaming, paced the room, his arms wav-
ing wildly. "Nudo, they handcuffed the bitch and me to-
gether to my own gate .. u"
Antonio sat, his face in his hands. "My car. I'll kill the
bastards!"
Carlo sat stone-faced, adding figures on a hand-held
calculator. Now and- then he would murmur a loud curse
and slap the palm of his hand on the table before him.
Bruno was shouting into his private telephone. The mo-
ment he hung up, his brothers descended on the desk.
"Anything?" Pietro shouted.
'Two men and a woman," Carlo said, adding, "foreign
—they should easy to find."
"Shut up, all of you," Bruno said.
"It's the Sicilians," Antonio said. "It's Don Pepe, I
know it!"
"Shut up!" Bruno yelled again, pounding the desk with
"It ain't Don Carlo, how much gone
his own fist.
from the country house?"
'Cash," Carlo replied, "about two hundred million.
Probably another two hundred mil in the bearer bonds."
'lhere," Bruno said. 4' You think if Don Pepe does this,
he's gonna burn four hundred million lire? Never! No, this
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is something we've never seen before. Whoever these
ple are, they got no rules we know about."
"Any of our people got a line on 'em?" Pietro asked.
"Nothing," Bruno replied. "They're trying to make u
look like a bunch of idiots, and they're doing it."
"Well, what the hell are we going to do?" Antoni
growled.
"For right now," Bruno said calmly, "we're gonna fin
out just what the hell they want."
He smoothed the parEr containing the ten telepho
numbers in front of him on the desk, and reached for th
phone.
About a mile from the sprawling estate of Bruno Zi
batti, Louis Corot leaned back in a climbing belt and du
the climbing spurs into the B)le for comfort.
lhe digital circuit finder in his hand glowed. He dial
the number of the phone booth where Carter was waiting.
"Yeah?"
"I'm wired up to every phone coming out of the house,
Corot said. "Your line will be o;xn. It won't ring, it wil
just click. Keep them talking for at least two minutes."
"You're sure that thing will work?" Carter asked.
"I'm sure," Corot chuckled. "Once the call is co
pleted, I can dial back in and tap every incoming and out
going conversation on Bruno's hot line."
The digital face on the box in Corot's left hand began
read numbers.
"Here we go," he murmured. "Hang up and get ready!'
'Ihe telephone clicked. Carter flipped away his cigarett
and closed the accordian door of the booth.
"Yes?"
Bruno Zimbatti's voice was a growl. "Who the hell
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171
"It's not who we are, Bruno," Carter replied, "it's what
we want."
"All right, all right, what the hell do you want?"
"You're bankrolling Drago Vain."
"I don't know what the hell—
"Don't bullshit rne, Bruno, I don't have time for it.
Where's Vain?"
A long pause. "I don't know. He moves, all the time."
"But you can reach him." Another pause, shorter. "But
you can reach him, for emergencies."
"Yes."
'Good," Carter said. '61 want you to set up a meet."
the hell for?"
"Because you and your brothers are backing out of the
deal, and I want Drago Vain."
"Just a minute."
Through Bruno's hand over the phone Carter could hear
mumbled conversation. Then the man was back on the
line.
"What's our guarantee that if we deliver Vain you'll get
out of our hair?"
"My word, Bruno," Carter said with a harsh laugh.
' •What about it?"
Another short conference. "All right, I'll call you back
in two hours."
"Just go through the list of numbers again, Bruno,"
Carter said, and hung up.
He waited a full minute and picked up the phone. "You
"Yeah," Corot replied, and gave Carter the number of
Bruno Zimbatti's private line.
It was the lunch hour, and the small trattoria near
Milan's central telephone exchange was full of people,
noise, and tobacco smoke.
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YA big girl with a pretty face, a deep bosom, and long
hair sat in a rear booth. Nervously, she twisted a glass of
wine, and almost jumped out of her skin when a leather-
coated, corpulent man slid into the booth opposite her.
"You got them?" he said.
She nodded and slid a slip of across the table.
"All ten of them are pay phones. The lcxations are there."
The man passed Over an envelope with a smile. "You
did good, Rosa. Now go back to work and forget every-
thing."
lhe woman slid from the booth and practically ran to
the door.
The corpulent man moved to a pay phone on the wall by
the bar. He dialed, and Bruno Zimbatti's voice answered at
once.
"Yeah?"
"I got all ten of 'em."
"Gimme," Bruno growled. "I'll get 'em covered."
Carter slouched behind the wheel of the car, his eyes
scanning the street. He spotted all three of them the minute
they moved into place. They weren't good. 'Ihey stood like
robots watching the telephone booth.
Carter started the car and slid from the parking space.
He drove a mile across the city and slowed by a booth at
the entrance to the Sforza Castle parking lot.
There were three of them here as well, in separate cars,
their eyes glued to the booth. He checked two more loca-
tions before driving to the Hotel Leonardo da Vinci. Reela
awaited him in the dining room.
'They got the numtErs," Carter replied with. a chuckle.
"What shall we have for lunch? I'm famished."
An hour later, over espresso, Caner checked his watch.
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173
He wrote Bruno Zimbatti's private number on a slip of
paper and slid it across the table.
"Use the phone in the lobby."
Bruno grabbed the phone on the first ring. "Yeah?"
"Stupid, Bruno, very stupid. So you got the numbers.
And we've got your number. One more lesson, tonight.
We'll call again. In the meantime, Bruno, do yourself a
favor. Hustle up Drago Vain."
The phone clicked. Bruno Zimbatti sat staring at the
instrument in his hand.
"Did they get 'em?"
"Who is it?"
"Carlo," Bruno barked, "find that bastard Vain. I don't
give a damn where he is!"
ne Mundo Toy Company was located in a desolate area
in the western suburbs of Milan. The dolls made here were
shipped all over the world. Every fifth shipment into the
port of New York contained heroin stuffed into the pro-
tmding bellies of organ grinders.
Ihe office building fronted the factory itself behind a
high chain link fence. Two uniformed security guards
manned the front gate.
At five o'clock sharp, the factory workers filed out a
rear gate that was closed and locked behind them. When
this was done, the two guards on the rear gate entered the
factory. There, in a small room, they monitored a televi-
Sion security system with cameras that constantly scanned
the perimeter of the fence.
By five-thirty, only the four guards, the manager,
Adolfo Camelli, and his secretary, Anita LaSala, were still
on the premises.
Reela Zahedi, in a blond wig, slightly darkened eye-
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glasses, and a severely cut business suit, presented her card
to the gate guards. She announced that she had an appoint*
ment with Signor Camelli.
She was buzzed through, and entered the office build-
ing.
Anita LaSala was a middle-aged woman with suspicious
eyes. She accepted Reela's card and studied it.
"One moment," she said, and disappeared through the
door behind her.
The card Reela had given the secretary presented her as
the representative of a huge French toy distributor in Paris.
The Mundo Toy Company didn't want or need any more
French outlets, but it the company manager not
to turn away business blatantly. It might give the author-
ities a reason to question the company's activities.
Signor LaSala retumed immediately with a frown on he
face. Her bos« would most likely talk to this woman for an
hour, and she would be late for her dinner.
"Signore Camelli will see you. Right through there."
Camelli's office was a large barrackslike room with
solid furniture. grimy. wire-meshed windows, and several
old filing cabinets. A large, detailed map of Europe w
thumbtacked to one wall. The man who got up from
the desk was of average height, middle-aged and solidl
built. His stiff, iron-gray hair was cut short, and althoug
he was smiling politely, his flat gray eyes were as cold
two chips of granite. His fleshy face was as smooth an
had the same flush as a baby's bottom.
He walked around the desk and held out a hand that w
more suitable for handling a heavy uuck's steering whee
than a pencil..
Reela ignored the hand and drew a • silenced Bere
from her purse. "You have two choices, Signor Camelli: d
as I say and live, or raise an alarm and die."
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175
Fifteen minutes after Reela entered Camelli's office, a
Volvo sedan pulled up at the front gate. On orders from the
manager, the two men in the Volvo were admitted to the
office.
Inside the office, they found the manager and the secre-
tary sitting side by side on a sofa, shaking with fear.
Carter and Louis Corot barely paused. ney moved on
into the factory, through the warehouse sections, and into
the video security area.
ne two guards never had a chance. They were over-
powered and handcuffed back-to-back before they realized
they were under siege.
From the video room they were taken to a rear loading
dock, where they were placed in a van with tape over their
mouths.
"You take the right side, I'll take the left," Carter said.
For the next half hour they worked in tandem through
the warehouse and factory. In all, they planted incendiary
bombs with timers in twenty-three locations throughout the
building.
Ihis done, they returned to the main office.
"Signor Camelli, call the front gate guards on your in-
tercom. Tell them to lock up the front gate and come in
here at once."
The man had no choice.
The two guards, the manager, and the secretary joined
their comrades in the van.
"Reela, you drive the van," Carter said. "Follow us."
Carter and Corot moved back through the warehouse
and the factory, setting the timers. Minutes later they were
on a secondary road north, with the van right behind them.
By the time the Mundo Toy Company erupted in flame,
the van had tren parked in the middle of a field and the
Volvo was pulling up in front of the villa.
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Bruno Zimbatti's hands were shaking and his lower lip
was quivering when he put down the phone.
"What is it?" Carlo asked anxiously.
"Jesus, Bruno, you look sick," Pietro added.
"Mundo ."
"What about Mundo?" Antonio said.
'They burned it... they burned it to the ground."
"Jesus!" Carlo shouted. "A whole shipment, a whole
damn shipment!"
The decanter of wine rattled against the glass as Bruno
poured. "That's it, Carlo," he whispered. "No more. I
don't care how much that deal with Vain is worth. We give
the bastard away, that's it."
At precisely midnight, the telephone jangled on Bruno's
desk. He looked at his three brothers and then picked it up.
"Yeah?"
"Talk to me, Bruno."
"Carlo set up a meet with Vain, tomorrow night."
"In Sardinia, our old family place, about thirty miles
north of Cagliari."
"That's good, Bruno. Who's supposed to make the
"Carlo."
"You tell Carlo to be in Genoa tomorrow night, the
lounge of the Excelsior Hotel. Alone, Bruno, at seven
sharp."
"No fucking way.. ."
"Seven sharp, Bruno, and alone. If Carlo d(Bn't show,
you know what goes up next? Your house, Bruno. And we
don't give a shit if you're in it."
The line went dead and Bruno stared into space. The
brothers shouted questions at him until, at last, he held up
his hand for silence.
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177
"Carlo, there's no problem, right? Vain don't know
what's going on. He'll be there?"
"Sure, he'll be there. I told him nothin', like you said."
"Good, Carlo. Because you're going with them."
"Going with them?" the man cried. "Bruno, are you
crazy? I'm not gonna put my ass—
Bruno Zimbatti slapped his brother so hard his body
made a complete turn before he fell to one knee.
"You're going with them, Carlo. And you'd better pray
you got this Drago Vain in your pocket like you say you
do."











NINETEEN
The ashtray in front of Carlo Zimbatti was practi-
cally full of cigarette butts. He was on his second drink.
It was seven-thirty, and he had tRen jumping out of his
skin every time someone came near him for the last half
hour.
He was about to order a third drink, when a bellman
appeared at his elbow. "Signor Zimbatti?"
"Yes."
"A phone call at the desk."
He had something like this. They wouldn't
show themselves, not right away.
He tossed some bills on the bar and followed the bell-
man to the desk.
' 'This is Zimbatti," he murmured into the receiver.
"Drive to the Piazza San Matteo. Leave your car there
and walk to the San Lorenzo monument."
"What then?"
'lhere is a phone booth across from the monument, at
the head of the Via Connore." The line went dead.
Zimbatti exited the hotel, his hands sweating, his eyes
searching. He had to look carefully, but he saw them, two
of his best men a half block away in a taxi, one as the
driver, and one in the rear.
Bruno had said alone.
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Bullshit on that. Carlo meant to get them himself. He
wasn't about to trot along without them for a meeting with
Drago Vain.
Louis Corot stood in the darkened room above
the square. Directly below him, the San Lorenzo mon-
ument shone dully in the spillover from two street-
lights.
He watched as Carlo Zimbatti walked into the square.
The man hesitated near the monument and then walked
quickly around it.
Corot lifted a walkie-talkie to his lips. "Nick?"
"Yeah."
"He's here."
"Any sign of a tail?"
"Not yet. Wait... a taxi just pulled into a slot a block
away and killed its lights."
'Could be something. Watch it," Carter growled.
"l'm ready, Nick."
"Okay," Carter said. "I'm making the call."
Corot kept the walkie-talkie on his lips. Zimbatti practi-
cally dived for the phone when it rang.
"All right," Corot said, "he's headed down the
Via San Lorenzo toward the port. Nick, the taxi's mov-
ing."
'That's it," Carter said. "Everybody move!"
The taxi oozed behind Carlo Zimbatti, keeping a three-
block distance. They paid no attention to a paint-streaked
old Seat parked across the street a block away facing in
their direction.
Inside the Seat, Carter waited, the motor idling. From
low in the front ceat he watched Zimbatti walk by. The
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181
Killmaster smiled at the pinched look on the man's face
His eyes moved to the taxi as it neared. The driver was
short, a small, squat figure behind the wheel. The one in
the rear was sallow with pockmarked skin. Carter could see
him clearly as he leaned over the seat.
lhe taxi was twenty feet away when Carter slid the little
car into gear. He tromped the accelerator and braced him-
self against the steering wheel.
The driver of the taxi tried to veer away.
It was no good.
The Seat struck the taxi head-on, and Carter rolled out
of the door. The driver was out cold, the windshield shat-
tered where his head had collided against it.
The one in the rear was trying to unscramble himself
from the floorboards. Carter opened the door and yanked
him out by his ankles.
He heard the man scream and saw him try to reach into
his jacket with his right hand. Carter kicked him in the
elbow and then came down on his belly with both feet.
Ihe man was writhing on the street as Carter sprinted
away toward the flashing taillights of the Volvo.
Reela had the door open. Caner dived into the front seat
and the rear tires screamed.
He came up and looked in the back. Carlo Zimbatti sat,
his eyes flashing hatred, as Louis Corot ground the muzzle
of a Beretta into his ear.
"Stupid, Carlo," the Killmaster growled low. "Very stu-
pid."
The plane and pilot were the same duo that had flown
them out of Greece. And just as before, the pilot saw nor
heard nothing.
A black Mercedes sedan awaited them at the airport in
Cagliari, Sardinia. Zimbatti was bundled into the rear
tween Carter and Corot. Reela drove.
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A map was placed on Zimbatti's lap, and Carter held a
penlight.
"You give directions, Carlo, and I want a complete
layout of the old homestead. And if there's one tree out of
place when we get there, you, my friend, are a dead man."











TWENTY
It was simple, but Carter knew it would be effective.
"She's your girlfriend, Carlo. She'll go in with you.
You'll explain that she to Cyprus when the shooting is
over. She'll be your contact there, your eyes and ears.
That's why she has to be in on this meeting, close to you,
very close. Got that?"
Zimbatti nodded mutely.
"Inside, you stall. You want everything clear to Vain.
That's what this meeting is for. If Vain gets a hint that
anything is wrong, you get it first."
Reela lifted a small Derringer from her purse. It had a
huge bore. "It fires a single shotgun shell," she said with a
smile.
"Be a good boy, Carlo, and you might live through this
night," Carter said. "Take off, Reela."
Carter and Corot watched until the taillights disaprEared
and then they melted into the trees beside the road. They
moved in a long arc, always toward the old compound, but
wide of it. lhey came up two hundred yards behind the
farm, and moved in from tree to tree.
"Go!" Carter whispered.
Corot moved on around the circle as quietly as a cat. If
Carter knew Drago Vain, the bulk of his people would be
on the outside, making sure no one could get to their
leader.
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When he was sure Louis Corot was in place, Carter
moved forward again.
He heard the two guards seconds before he saw them
patrolling, their machine pistols slung over their shoulders.
One of them was smoking, and they stopped together to
chat for a moment while he watched them. He saw them
move apart again, noted carefully just how far each man
went. He crawled forward, then waited again till their
backs were turned, and slipped quickly around the comer
of the house.
He waited, counting the paces, his stiletto ready.
In a moment, the first man passed him. He reached out
with one hand for the collar of the jacket, and drove the
knife deep into the neck with the other, pulling the body in
quickly and lowering it silently to the ground.
He counted the paces again seven of them now.
He heard the guard say casually, "Hey, Darby, where
did you get to?" and he slipped out from under cover and
threw himself along the ground. He rolled over and su•uck
upward with the stiletto as he shot out a foot to trip his
adversary and bring him down onto the blade.
He was on his feet again in a flash, dragging the two
bodies quickly under cover. He looked up at the stars and
knew that his stalk had taken twenty minutes,
He kept low as he moved around to the front. He met no
other guards, and retraced his steps to the rear.
In the courtyard, he found Corot.
"Two on my side," Caner murmured.
"Same on my side," Corot said. 'There's one on the
roof in front."
"Leave him for now," Carter said. "Let's get inside."
"No," Corot said, ' 'you go in from the rear. I'll back
you up from the front, just in case."
Carter nodded and Corot moved into the shadows. The
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rear of the house was dark, the only light coming from one
side and the front.
His rubber soles made no sound. He appeared as a
deeper shadow mounting the steps. The door was locked
but easily picked.
Beyond it was a kitchen, old, with a stone fireplace
occupying one comer. Carter crossed the stone floor and
crouched in the doorway leading to a dimly lit hall.
Voices, low, to his right. He moved forward. He was
nearly to the door when there was a shout and a loud blast.
Carter hit the door with his shoulder and it splintered
inward. He rolled and came up with the Beretta in both
hands.
The room was sparsely furnished, a few chairs and a
single table. On the table was a kerosene lamp sending out
a stark white pool of light. Directly beneath, in the pool of
light and his own blood with half his chest blown away,
was Carlo Zimbatti.
In a corner, in shadows, Carter saw two pairs of legs.
"Reela?" he called, hunkering against the wall out of the
light.
Her voice, when it came, was gagging. "I shot the bas-
tard, Nick."
S Carter? Is that you, Carter?"
"Yeah, Drago, it's nr."
"You don't give up, do you, bastard."
"Not with assholes like you, I don't."
"I suppose my people outside are dead," Vain said.
ne words were scarcely out of his mouth when there
was the sound of Corot's Beretta and then the thud of a
falling body.
'They are now," Carter growled, sliding his body to the
right. The room erupted with sound, and a slug hit the wall
a foot above his head.
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NICK CARTER
"Can't see you, Carter, but I can hear you. Who you got
on the outside. How many?"
"Enough."
Drago Vain laughed. "Enough? Maybe. But I've got the
bitch. You must have really busted some balls to get Bruno
to set this up."
"A few," Caner said. "Why don't you just hang it up,
Drago? You're done."
"And what will you do, huh? Arrest me? Bullshit,
Carter. You want my head. How many does he have out-
side, lady?"
There was a muffled curse and then a throttled scream
as Vain did something to Reela to make her answer.
"One," Carter said, "there's one man out there."
"Call him in."
'SNO way," Carter replied.
"Call him in or I'll kill her," Vain growled.
"No, you won't," Carter said. "She's your only way
out."
A chuckle. 'S You're right. God, you've been a pain in
the ass, Caner. But then I you always will be,
until I kill you."
"Or I kill you, Drago."
"Yeah, one way or the other. I'm going out, Carter. Tell
your man to shoot me or back off. He shoots me, I'll shoot
her. Take your choice."
"Louis!" Carter yelled.
"Yeah!" came a shout from somewhere in the front
yard.
"Back off. Vain's coming out."
"Merde," the other man hissed.
"Do it."
Carter saw the legs moving toward the door. He lifted
the Beretta, but a shot was imrx)ssible. He couldn't tell
where Reela's body ended and Vain's began.
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187
"I'm going out," Vain said, "and she goes with me. And
so do you. You'll take me out of this house, and you'll
drive us to where I want to go. Then you can have her. A
fair exchange ... my life for hers. All right?"
Carter said nothing.
"You have to trust me," Vain said. "And you've won
anyway. I concede that. Once I give you the woman, you
can do what you like. But as far as she and I are con-
cerned, this is a stalemate. If I live, she lives. You try to
kill me, and she dies. Now, toss your gun forward and get
into the light where I can see you."
"No," Carter said.
"Try to be rational," Vain said, and his voice was de-
tached, cool. "I can't kill you today. I need you as much as
you need the woman. But later I will kill you. I promise
you. Now, put down your gun. Stick it forward where I can
see it. I mean it, Carter. If you won't, I'll shoot the broad
and take my chances."
Carter slid the Beretta across the floor.
Now call off your hound."
' Corot, we're coming out," Carter shouted. "Don't
S hoot t
"Very good," Vain said, and pushed Reela forward to
the door.
Carter up to meet them, and moved into the door-
way, blocking their view of Corot.
"Take us out," Vain hissed, "or she'll suffer: And you
will suffer after her. That wouldn't be as good as getting
away, but it would be good enough.." Suddenly the voice
lost its detachment. "I'd enjoy that ... making you watch
what happens to her, then doing the same to you."
Carter opened the door and stepped through. He tumed
and backed away as Vain, holding Reela close to his body,
followed.
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lhe light was behind them now, illuminating them
clearly.
"Reela... Carter said.
"Yes," came the choked reply.
"Watch your heels on these steps."
"I'll u-y," she said.
"Damn," Vain chortled, "you're a reg'lar Sir Walter,
ain't ya? Let's go, girlie ... "
It was the last thing Drago Vain ever said.
Reela came down on the instep of his right foot with her
right heel, a thousand pounds per square inch of painful
power.
Carter dropped to his belly and reached forward in the
same move. He Reela's ankles and yanked her for-
ward. She was only halfway down Vain's body when Louis
Corot's Beretta exploded twice.
Carter looked up.
What was left of Vain's face showed intense astonish*
ment. Then he turned and fell against the wall. As he slid
downward, his face left a dark smear on the rcxks.
Ihe villa was located on a high cliff above the sea.
Glass enclosed three-quarters of it on the Mediterranean
side, providing a panoramic view that reached from San
Remo, Italy, on the left, clear past Monaco, to the twin-
kling lights of Nice on the right.
lhe interior of the villa was an impressive montage
highlighted by European art, French antique furniture,
signed stained-glass windows, and imported Italian marble
everywhere.
Carter guided Reela through a huge entryway into the
villa's guest room. The party was in full swing. Laughter,
the tinkling sound of ice in glasses, and muted music from
a small band struck them like a wave from the sea.
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Soft light seeped from hidden fixtures to filter through
the rarefied air and illuminate fifty or sixty people.
In a quick pass around the room with his trained eyes,
Carter spotted a very successful fashion designer, and the
latest American tennis sensation. His partner was a petite
redhead with mammoth breasts that seemed determined to
escape her dress as she danced.
And in the far end of the room, languishing on a chaise,
surrounded by a bevy of beauties, was Louis Corot.
He spotted Carter and Reela, bounced to his feet, and
came over. "Nice little sublet, hub?"
Carter laughed and shook his head. "You'll spend every
dime you made within a month, Louis."
"Ain't that how it's done, my friend?" the other man
replied, and grinned.
Reela leaned forward and whispered. "Do any of these
people know how you came into your wealth?"
"Hell, no," he roared. "I'm still in the 'antiquities' busi-
ness down in Rome. Say, how about the scene in Milan?"
"What scene?" Carter said.
"You mean you haven't seen a paper?"
Carter and Reela exchanged looks. They had spent the
last three days at the Hotel de Paris in Monaco ... without
leaving the bedroom.
"Or a television?" Corot added.
"No," Carter said. "What's up?'
"Come this way," Corot said, turning on his heel.
He led them down a long hall and into a study. He lifted
a newspaper from the desktop and turned it toward them.
Carter scanned the story quickly. It didn't take long to
digest. The previous evening, in Milan, three prominent
businessmen had died in the fiery explosion of their limou-
sine.
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All Milan was discussing the deaths of the Zimba
brothers ... Bruno, Antonio, and Pietro.
In a way, Carter knew he had set it up by weakenin
them.
The old man, Don Pepe, in Sicily, had fulfilled his ven
detta.








(203 of 212)
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DON'T MISS THE NEXT NEW
NICK CARTER SPY THRILLER
SINGAPORE SLING
Before heading for the old building, he had eaten his
evening meal in a café run by an aged Chinese. The man
had been attracted to an American who could speak his
tongue.
"What brings you to our city, younger brother?" the an-
cient gentleman asked, keeping his eyes on his help while
he rested his tired feet.
"I'm an architect back home. I my vacations
looking at old buildings."
"We have many old buildings. What do you want to
see?" the old man asked. He was small, very thin, but very
bright. Nothing escaped him. He knew what was
ing in every comer of his establishment while talking to the
stranger.
"I design penal institutions back home."
The old man rolled his tongue around the literal transla-
tion. "I know not the word."
"Prisons. I design jails."
*'Ah. We have many jails. Much theft. Too much dope
trading. Bad. Very bad."
Carter smiled to himself at the hypocrisy. The old man
was an opium user himself. He had all the signs. He even
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NICK CARTER
smelled of the last pipe he'd smoked. "I hear that drug
smuggling is a hanging offense."
The old man was wary. As a user, he could be pulled in
and sent to the scaffold. His only safety lay in the number
of his people who were as addicted as he. The police could
not take them all, so they left the users and went after the
dealers. "You have heard right, younger brother," he fi-
nally said. "You look more like a policeman than an archi-
tect. How do I know you are not trying to trap an old
"I have no traps, older brother. I simply observe. Where
is the jail they keep the condemned?" He tossed in the
question casually.
"Not many condemned right now. The dealers are lying
low. If anyone is awaiting the hangman, he will be in the
Justice Building." The old man smiled for the first time,
revealing teeth blackened by the smoke of many pipes.
They were mostly stumps, most uneven, some missing.
The parchment skin of his face wrinkled as he went on.
"Poor devils. What are they to do? We have used the
powder and paste for hundreds of years. Smugglers are
fourth and fifth generation. Are they to become fishermen
or panderers?"
"l hear even foreigners are condemned to death," Carter
added as he finished off the last of his coffee.
"I am told that two are in the basement cells of the
Justice Building now," the old man said. He suddenly
looked weary. A frown creased his ancient face. "But you
will excuse me. Business is a tireless master."
That had been a couple of hours earlier. Carter had been
watching the building since then. Police cars had brought
in prisoners. He had seen no one leave who was not in
uniform. It was late, too late for court appearances and the
work of lawyers.
Carter had mulled over the situation carefully. He
NICK CARTER
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193
couldn't go in blasting. The had to be as clean as
he could make it. Howard Schmidt's latest invention rested
on the seat beside him. 'Ihe nerve gas was obviously the
answer, but it, too, presented problems. He could hold his
breath longer than most people, at least four minutes. That
was all right for him, but what about the prisoners? How
big were they? Could he carry them both out? He decided
on a soft probe first.
Carter circled the building quietly. Fortunately, it stood
alone with an empty lot between it and its neighbors on
both sides. The weed-covered lots were tring prepared for
an expansion to the old building.
A small parking lot at the back held only three cars. A
dim bulb shone over a small door, the only opening at the
rear. Carter it a crack and peered down the length
of a deserted hall.
With the agility of a night-stalking creature, he slipped
inside and descended to the first basement, taking the nar-
row stairway two steps at a time.
"What are you doing ... ? ' a voice behind him started
to say.
Carter swung without hesitation and chopped the lone
guard on the side of the neck. The man went down hard.
Carter dragged him to a door nearby and shoved him in
among the brooms and mops. A mobile laundry hamper
took up the rest of the space.
Carter found no cells on that floor, but he did find a
small elevator at the end of the hall. There was no way he
was going to use the elevator now, but it might be useful
later.
He took the stairs to the next lower level, making a
mental note of every detail as he went, including the vent-
ing system.
The second basement contained a group of small storage
offices, a closet identical to the one on the above, and
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one long row of cells. A guard was watching television, his
back to Carter.
The Killmaster crept up slowly, his black sneakers mak-
ing no noise on the painted cement floor. He grasped the
guard in a choke hold and held him immobile. Since most
of the population was Chinese, he whispered in the man's
ear in Mandarin, "Where are the two Americans?"
"I don't ... understand," the man choked out in Canton-
cse.
Carter repeated the question in the guard's language.
'VIhey are in the last cell to the right. They—" he
started to say as Carter cut him off, rendering him uncon-
scious.
The man from AXE deposited the unconscious guard in
the closet directly below the one he'd used upstairs. The
guard had no keys. Despite the decrepit appearance of the
jail, all doors were controlled electronically from a control
room.
He ran along the hall to the last cell. "Where is the
control room?" he asked the two dejected Americans with-
out preliminaries.
He must have looked like an apparition. "Hawk sen
me," he hissed at them. "You know the layout of thi
place?"
"Pan of the job," the smaller of the two said.
"Where the hell's the control room for the cell doors?"
"Main floor. Second door to the right."
"I'm going to take you out. Stay as close to the cell
as you can," Carter said, taking off at a run, not waiting fo
an answer. There was no point in telling them he migh
have to use the gas. He had the lay of the land now. H
could handle it.
The two flights of stairs to the back door were scaled i
seconds. He slipped around to the front, keeping to
shadows.
NICK CARTER
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195
ne cylinder would be useful after all. He took it from
the car and it to his belt. He unraveled a long thin
wire from around his waist and attached a grappling hook
that he unfolded from a pocketknife that resembled a
Swedish army knife.
It took him two attempts and more noise than he in-
tended tEfore the small grappling hook caught and held.
He donned gloves and pulled himself up the wire, hand
over hand.
The roof was flat, A relatively modern rooftop air con-
ditioner hummed quietly to one side. One of the two large
fans alongside the unit was circulating air down below.
enle simplest task was releasing the gas and leaving the
cylinder up the air intake. The more diffi-
cult one was to get in and then escape detection while
transporting two inert
Carter decided not to waste time trying to find a way in
from the roof. He rappelled down the side of the building
in seconds and was at the front door ready to move in when
two officers entered in front of him, reporting for duty.
Too many variables, he said to himselE He hadn't
checked on the time factors for the nerve gas. Schmidt said
it would last for several hours, but how long would it take
for it to take effect? He couldn't allow for people entering
the building. His best bet was to get in fast, then use the
elevator and the back door on his way out. He took two
minutes to move his car to the rear parking lot, then glided,
catlike, around to the front door.
No one was in sight. Carter took in several lungsful of
air, expelling each, building up a high concentration of
oxygen in his blood. Through long practice and the use of
yoga techniques, he was capable of holding his breath for
four minutes. Once, trapped in a submarine, fighting for
his life, he had extended his limit to five minutes but had
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blacked out at that point. lhere was no way he could allow
himself to black out today.
Carter crept in past the brightly lit front entrance and
down the hall to the control room. On the way he passed
the two officers he'd seen enter. They had made it only a
few feet inside the door. He didn't stop. Every fraction of a
second was precious.
Two men were over the control panel. *Ihe
panel's instructions were in German. The guards had du-
plicated them using Chinese characters. German was no
problem for the Killmaster. He pulled the guards aside and
found a switch that controlled the cells in the second base-
ment and threw it. He left one of the guard's bodies
drooped over it.
He took the elevator to the second basement. It was
painfully slow. He checked his Rolex. A minute and a half
had passed already. The door slid open to reveal two more
guards on the floor, one toppled over on the other. Carter
found the closet where he'd left the guard earlier, pulled
out the laundry basket, a canvas affair with a metal frame
over four sturdy casters, and wheeled it down the hall to
the last cell.
Two and a half minutes.
As he worked, he thought the agents were an unlikely
team, one so much smaller than the other, almost like a
boy. He tossed the inert frame of the big man on the bottom
and eased the smaller one on top of him. He covered them
both with a soiled sheet, a precaution that was more pre-
vention than necessity, and had them to the elevator before
the third minute was up.
The elevator crawled to the main floor slowly. Carter
was beginning to feel uncomfortable, small black and
green spots floating before his eyes from time to time.
At last the elevator on the main floor. He pushed
the cart toward the rear of the building, the casters playing
NICK CARTER
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197
tricks with him, the cart bouncing off the walls, first one
side, then the other.
He came to the end of the hall and found a hallway
crossing like a T. Which way? He turned left and soon
found himself trappd at a dead end. Three times he had to
stop and shove bodies out of the way.
Carter reversed his path and took the other end of the T.
After twenty feet it turned sharply to the right and he was
faced with a set of double doors. They were locked. He
whipped out his Luger and shattered the lock. It took three
rounds before the door gave way to a powerful kick from
his right foot.
Four and a half minutes.
Carter was feeling the pressure build, threatening to pop
his ears if he didn't release it. He exhaled, careful not to
take in any of the gas. His vision was blurred and his ac-
tions slowed.
He reached the door and pushed the cart out into the
night air just as his knees started to buckle. As the door
closed behind them, he took a long breath, drawing the
fresh air deep within his lungs.
He still wasn't out of danger He struggled to his feet on
rubtrry knees and pushed the cart to his car. He opened the
car door, threw aside the sheet, and lifted out the first AXE
agent.
He had just placed the smaller body on the back seat
when someone shouted from the other side of the lot. He
grabbed for the other agent and had him half in the car
when he felt two slugs tear into the flesh of his burden,
followed by the sound of two shots.
Carter dropped the agent, whipped out his own gun, and
crouched beside die car, offering as little target as possible.
Two officers appeared out of the darkness, their guns
raised. The Killmaster one with a leg shot. The
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other spun around and a 9mm bullet in one
shoulder.
Carter kicked their guns to one side in the darkness as
they lay moaning on the asphalt. He clubbed them sense-
less and left them to be found. There was no need to kill
officers doing their duty, but he couldn't afford to be rec-
ognized or have them register the license of his car as he
sped away.
The big agent was dead. Carter left him, with regrets,
and scrambled into the car. Within seconds he was blocks
from the Justice Building headed for the highway back to
Singapore, two hundred miles away.
—from SINGAPORE SLING
A New Nick Carter Spy Thriller
From Jove in February 1990