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TERMS OF VENGEANCE
3
Summa was to supply them with prorEr travel and
dress."
"Such as 2"
"One will be traveling as a rich Lebanese trader from
Beirut, another as an imam from the Sinai. A third poses as
a schoolteacher from France. He is traveling with a woman
B)Sing as his wife."
Carter nodded. "It sounds good. Do they all have good
"Excellent," she replied firmly.
"And you trust your Summa contact?"
Her lovely lips curved slightly. "As much as we can
trust any Arab. He is a Palestinian, but greedy. He needs a
corridor across Israel to bring his goods to Haifa and the
sea. Because of this he helps us."
S'Let's hope his greed remains his prime mover."
"If anything had occurred last night, I would have heard
this morning."
"Let's hope so," Carter said, then stood up. "It's a long
lunch?"
time until they arrive .
She stood, obviously gathering herself to leave. "I have
much to do. Security is difficult here in Amman. I will ring
you the moment they are in the safe house." Without an-
other word, she stalked to the door and left.
Carter's actions after she was gone seemed unconscious.
He moved with the precise-somnambulism of habit in every
motion. With automatic he pulled a chair to the
window. He sat and lit a cigarette, staring down at the
bustle of A1 Hashimi Street.
There was nothing in his face to show what he was
thinking: Too many PLO ears left in Jordan. This meeting
is going to be a disaster.
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"The American James Bond!"—The New ,York Times
NICKCARTER
TERMS VENGEANCE
A summit of world leaders could bring lasting peace to the
Middle East. And it's Nick Carter's mission to insure the safety
of the participants.
But Ja'il Rahman, a deadly assassin for a radical PLO splinter
group, has pledged a bloody campaign of terror. He's set his cross
hairs on the gathering heads of state in a violent conspiracy that
stretches from Jordan to Luxembourg.
War is one bullet away as Agent N3 unravels an international web
of lethal intrigue Soon it's the Killmaster against a murderous
fanatic in the center of a terrorist blood storm. ..
Tommy's Booksho
Triq il-Lampuki, St. Paul's Bay, Malta.
Tel.: 574236
Price of Book
Refund on Return
/V.c7L7z —
This book must be returned in a similar conditio
to that purchased for full refund to be honoured.
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PART ONE
ONE
August 1966——Jordan
Outside, the morning heat had already descended on Jor-
dan's capital, Amman. The modem chaos of buses, taxis,
and business bustle didn't invade the tenth-floor suite of
the Philadelphia Hotel where Nick Carter added ice to three
fingers of scotch and sat facing his visitor.
*'Drink?" Carter asked.
"No, thank you."
The woman who faced Carter was beautiful in the
darkly mysterious way most Middle Eastern women were
beautiful. She was young, not more than twenty-five, with
a slender, compact figure that was curiously rigid as she sat
in a chair leaning toward him.
It was the first time Carter had met her in person, but
they had been in constant communication for the last three
weeks.
The only name he knew her by was Darva. She was an
agent of Mossad, Israeli intelligence. Together, they had
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NICK CARTER
been setting up a meeting between Jordan's King Husseil
and three representatives of the Israeli government.
It was tricky, very touch and go.
Hussein, tired of the Palestine Liberation Organization'
use of Jordan as a jumping-off point for raids into Israel
had broken with the PLO.
There was only one very big hitch. Hussein couldn't ge
rid of the PLO, nor could he stop their raids. Israel wa
sending three men to negotiate with Hussein and offe
Israeli aid to do just that.
"I assume everything is ready from this end?"
The pupils of her eyes were contracted and cloudy be
neath heavy black lashes, and they stared into Carter's fac
with a fixed intensity that, in his opinion, wasn't quit
sane.
But he could forgive her that. An Israeli agent hoppin
from Tel Aviv to Damascus to Amman—and then runnin
illegally around Jordan—would have to be a little nuts.
"As far as it can be," Carter replied, sipping his drink
"Hussein has agreed to every aspect of the meeting. A cz
will pick you and the three gentlemen up at the safe hous
outside the city at midnight."
"And he has guaranteed their safety as long as they ar
in the palace?"
"Completely." And then he shrugged. "Of course, ou.
side the palace .. c."
She drew herself stiffly erect in the deep chair, nervou
fingers weaving together in her lap. 'That is the chance
all take stepping across the frontier into an Arab country."
Carter nodded. "I know. Where are they now?!
She checked a thin watch on her wrist. "'Ihey arrived
the village of Summa under cover of darkness late Ia
night and caught the first bus to Amman this mornint
Ihey should be well on the road by now. Our contact
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TERMS OF VENGEANCE
3
Summa was to supply them with proErr travel and
dress."
'*Such as.. v?"
'One will traveling as a rich Lebanese trader from
Beirut, another as an imam from the Sinai. A third B)ses as
a schoolteacher from France. He is traveling with a woman
psing as his wife."
Carter nodded. "It sounds good. Do they all have good
"Excellent," she replied firmly.
"And you trust your Summa contact?"
Her lovely lips curved slightly. "As much as we can
trust any Arab. He is a Palestinian, but greedy. He needs a
corridor across Israel to bring his goods to Haifa and the
sea. Because of this he helps us."
"Let's hope his greed remains his prime mover."
"If anything had occurred last night, I would have heard
this morning."
"Leet's hope so," Carter said, then stood up. "It's a long
time until they arrive ... lunch?"
She stood, obviously gathering herself to leave. "l have
much to do. Security is difficult here in Amman. I will ring
you the moment they are in the safe house." Without an-
other word, she stalked to the door and left.
Carter's actions after she was. gone seemed unconscious.
He moved with the precise-somnambulism of habit in every
motion. With automatic smoothness he pulled a chair to the
window. He sat and lit a cigarette, staring down at the
bustle of A1 Hashimi Street.
There was nothing in his face to show what he was
thinking: Too many PLO ears left in Jordan. This meeting
is going to be a disaster.
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NICK CARTER
A handsome youth of eight, his olive skin and smoke
gray eyes blending well with the sable darkness of his curl
hair, stared broodingly out the bus window at the rocky
peaks of the El Sat mountains. In the distance the Ian
leveled out to the valley of the river Jordan, one of th
most fertile areas in the world.
Nearby he saw shepherds in dun-colored djellabas urg
ing camels around drawing wells and herding flocks o
sheep toward heavier patches of grass, much the same as
their ancestors had done two thousand years before. Theil
clothing against the terrain rendered them nearly invisibl
to all but the keenest and most knowledgeable eye.
The boy had such an eye.
Beside the boy sat his mother, a beautiful young wom
with eyes black as a raven's feather: The similarity of th
boy's and woman's aristocratic features could attest to theil
kinship. She was a tall woman with a fine nose and a firm
sculpted chin. Those who knew the myriad tribes of thi
Middle East could spot her heritage at a glance. Her bear
ing and stature were almost regal. She was a Druse, an
there were shadows of her ferocious forebears in the flasl
of her eyes and the set of her chin.
When mother and son spoke, it was in Arabic. But the
could converse equally well in French, Spanish, Greek, o
Italian.
At the moment/ both of them were more interested i
the conversation around them than in speaking to eac
other. The mixture of humanity that populated the bu
talked of only one thing, the same thing that all of Jordal
talked about: war.
The talk wasn't foreign to the boy. He heard the sam
diverse points of view discussed constantly in his father'
house. His father, Omar, and his uncle, Abu, were brothe
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TERMS OF VENGEANCE
5
only in blood. They differed radically in most every way,
but particularly on the issue of Palestine.
His Uncle Abu was a boisterous giant of a man who
would fly into wild rages at the mention of anything
Israeli. He was a wealthy merchant trader who had made
his fortune buying cheap from the ignorant peasants of the
interior and selling high in the coastal markets. He viewed
Palestine as his own
The tX)Y's father, while equal to his brother in size, was
far different in disB)sition. He was a quiet, thoughtful man
who deplored violence and preached a love of the people
and the land rather than a rape of it. Omar Rahman had
accepted defeat, and the Israelis.
The war that raged within and without his family con-
fused the boy.
His eyes moved from the scene outside the window to
his fellow passengers.
A young, recently married couple occupied the seat in
front Of him. They in French. The girl had shared
some fruit with him earlier, and had marveled at his strik-
ing gray eyes as well as his French. The young
woman's husband was like the boy's father, soft-spoken
with a charming smile. He was to a teacher in Amman,
and he hoped that all his students were as quick and bright
as the boy who, at eight, so charmed his wife.
The boy didn't blush. He had heard similar compliments
all his young life. He accepted it.
Across the aisle sat a bearded and robed man who
emanated the same brand of proud composure as his
mother. Only this man, unlike his mother, smothered his
regal bearing with arrogance. This man was Obviously im-
portant, obviously rich, obviously Arab, and most eager to
let everyone around him know it.
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NICK CARTER
When asked his name by the boy, he had proclaimed
"Cåid Haj of Beirut!" as if he were royalty and practically
one with Allah Himself.
The boy almost believed him.
Feeling and restless from the long ride, the boy
to stretch his legs. At that instant, the driver cried out
and applied the full force of his leg and foot to the brakes.
The bus slid to a gravel-crunching halt, pitching the boy
forward the length of the aisle. The driver nearly trampled
him as he threw orm the door and lealEd, cursing, to the
With the other occupants of the bus babbling in chaos,
the boy pulled himself up and looked out the broad, mud-
streaked front window. He found himself confronted with a
makeshift barricade surrounded by armed men; machine
guns displayed with pride. The bus driver was chattering
and pointing as a few of the men entered the vehicle,
knocking the back in their haste.
He sat startled in the driver's seat as the men walked
slowly up the aisle. They paused at each seat, loudly inter-
rogating the frightened cmupants. When they reached the
far rear of the bus they started back, only to stop abruptly
in the center.
Roughly, they yanked Caid Haj and the French couple
from their seats and shoved them forward. Ihe young
woman smiled as she passed him. Her husband lost,
but he also smiled and winked assurance that everything
would be all right.
Caid Haj blustered, threatened, and then screamed in
real fear as a rifle butt in his back prorrlled him from the
bus into the roadside dust.
The pany congregated just outside the door. The boy
sat, mesmerized, as he listened to the halting, multilingual
conversations. He followed it all' He had as fine an ear for
TERMS OF VENGEANCE
7
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TERMS OF VENGEANCE
7
dialects as he did for languages. He recognized the rebels
as Palestinians, and shivered.
He heard his mother's voice calling to him, and then the
shuffle of her sandals as she moved forward in the aisle.
He didn't answer her. The goings-on outside the bus were
t(X) fascinating.
The PLO leader, a tall, angular man with a black-
face, was loudly questioning Caid Haj.
His only reply was more blustering.
A scar, running from the rebel leader's left earlobe to
the point of his chin, suddenly seemed to glow white in his
otherwise dark face. With an oath, he smashed the palm of
his hand into Caid Haj's face. Blood spurted in its wake,
and even before the robed man could cry out in pain, his
assailant's boot had found his testicles.
Caid Haj writhed on the ground. The young bride of the
ran to hjs side. She had barely droprk.d to
her knees when she found herself raised and slammed, with
a jarring thud, against the side of the bus.
Her husband came to life. He cursed the rebel and
rushed toward him, only to suffer the pain of a badly
mashed nose. He joined his wife against the bus and was
quickly followed by Caid Haj, his hands grasping his groin
in pain.
The rebel leader stepped back, calmly lit a cigarette,
and began the interrogation all over again.
As he listened to the man, Caid Haj's demeanor
changed, the expression in his eyes altering from fear to a
hard intensity as he drew himself to his full height and spat
on the ground in the front of his tormentors.
Then, from under his robes, he drew a pistol. He fired
once; and a red splotch appeared on the dirty white haik of
the machine-gun-wielding man nearest him.
Without a sound the man pitched forward, and Caid Haj
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NICK CARTER
swung his gun toward the leader. But before he could fire
again, the air was filled with the staccato chatter of gun-
fire.
The bursts not only found their intended victims, but
rimEd into the bus as well. People tumbled into the aisle or
curled up, hands over their heads, in their €eats. Everyone,
man and woman alike, was screaming. One man, bearded
and dressed in the robes of an imam, half crawled and half
ran to the rear of the bus and clawed at the emergency
door.
At his ear the boy heard a tiny groan in a voice he
recognized. He turned just as his mother fell, the whole
right sleeve of her white djellaba stained crimson.
The boy was frozen in both mind and body. He couldn't
think or move. It was as though he were an outsider, objec-
tively observing mass murder. Beside the door he could see
the torn and bloody bodies of the French schoolteacher, his
lovely young wife, and Caid Haj of Beirut. They were
grotesquely sprawled across each other as if they had em-
braced one another even as they embraced death.
Fearful, screaming, wriggling bodies filled the aisle, but
no one else seemed wounded. Only his mother who lay,
unmoving, at his feet.
The PLO leader, his face a dark mask of emotionless
calm, leaped into the bus. The machine pistol in his hand
roared, and the imam in the rear his last as the
bullets tore his spine to shreds.
Then, just as calmly, the man slung his weapon and
knelt tEside the fallen woman. The boy watched, impas-
sive, as a knife in the man's hand. He rolled the
woman to her back, and raised the knife.
The screamed.
"Pig!" he shouted, and threw his small body at the PLO
leader's head.
TERMS OF VENGEANCE
9
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TERMS OF VENGEANCE
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The man turned at the shouted cry just in time to take
the full force of the boy's butting skull in his face.
Stunned, caught off guard, he fell backward. The knife
sliprrd from his grasp and clattered against the steel floor.
The tX)Y's knees hit and then his hands, one of them
over the hilt of the knife. Without even looking down, he
grasped and folded it into both his hands. Crawling for-
ward on his knees, still screaming "Pig! Pig! Dirty pig! "
he raised the gleaming blade high atX)ve his head.
The leader, blood coursing from his ruptured nose into
both his eyes, barely managed to roll to his side. He was
able to save himself from a killing thrust, but not from
injury.
The blade passed through the bicep of his left arm and
was saved from entering his body by a rib. Realization that
the blow was not a mortal one registered through the haze
of the boy's fury. He withdrew the knife and raised if for a
second thrust, this time at the man's neck.
But he wasn't quick enough. Again the man rolled, this
time into the boy's body. The hand at the end of his long,
sinewy arm was flat out as it landed against the side of the
boy's head.
The youth tumbled but, like a spring, came to his feet.
Now to the haze of fury clouding his eyes was added a loss
of equilibrium caused by the stunning blow on his ear. He
could barely see the man climbing to his feet before him.
But still he tried. From the height of his own knees he
brought the knife up, underhand, toward the rebel's ex-
posed belly.
But it wasn't to
His thrust was blæked. He scarcely felt the fist in his
own tElly before the air left his lungs and pain shot
through his whole body from the floorboard gearshift in his
back.
NICK CARTER
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NICK CARTER
Blackness enveloped him but he fought it off. His eyes
opened but he couldn't move. The bus was silent save for
his own raspy attempts at breathing and the sound of some-
one shredding fabric.
The man was ripping Olrn his mother's djellaba, and
then the dress she wore beneath it. Suddenly his mother
was naked to her waist. The brown skin of her right breast
looked pale next to the seeping blocxi.
Gently, his face, even with the bleeding nose, returning
to calm detachment, the leader cut her djellaba into
strips. He cleaned the wound and then bound it. He then
took a cushion from a seat and placed it under her head.
"The wound is not deep. The bullet passed between her
arrn and her side." He spoke as if he were assuring himself
as much as the still cowering people hovering at his
shoulder.
Then, taking the knife, he stood and moved forward
toward the Much to the boy's surprise, he saw the
man's face change expression for the first time since the
affair had begun.
He was smiling. It was a cruel smile made slightly gro-
tesque by the drying blood, but nevertheless it was a smile.
"Are you all right, little warrior?"
"My back hurts."
The man turned him over and probed with sensitive
fingers. Then he lifted him effortlessly into a seat. "A
bruise. You will live to fight more battles." Using the
knifes he striprEd away his own sleeve and began binding
his arm. "And, luckily, so will I."
"I went for your heart."
"How well I know, little one, and you almost suc-
ceeded. You are very brave."
•me boy managed to gather enough spit in his dry mouth
to make a ball, but his aim was poor. He missed the rebel's
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TERMS OF VENGEANCE
11
face and hit his shoulder. "Son of a whore!" the boy
hissed.
Instead of anger, the rebel's lips curled into a wider
smile. "You curse as well as you fight. Your name?"
"Ja'il Rahman," the boy said proudly.
The man's face changed. His eyes narrowed and darted
to the woman on the floor before he spoke again. "You are
of the Rahman clan of Summa?"
"My father is Omar and my uncle is Abu."
Suddenly the man pressed the knife into the boy's hand.
His eyes fell. The hilt of the knife was inlaid with tiny
jewels shaping the star and crescent of Islam.
The man leaned close to the boy's ear. "Should you ever
need a friend, little warrior, just show the knife to anyone
and you will be taken to Hassan A1-Chir." He jumped from
the bus. "You, driver, return to Summa and tell all who
will listen that Hassan A1-Chir has killed the Jews who
drove us from our homeland! And if more come to con-
spire with Jordan's king against us, they too will die!"
Then the man, Hassan A1-Chir, was gone. The driver
reappeared in his seat and the ancient bus roared to life.
They managed to turn around on the narrow road, and as
they moved off, a young woman, not more than fourteen,
jumped on the front bumper and shouted at them through
the windshield.
"A warning and lesson to you all! There is no Israel!
Palestine is ours!"
Through the dust the could see the rebels, mounted
now and already riding single file up into the craggy hills.
The three bodies were merely a pile in the roadside dust.
The young teacher's blood oozed just like that of Caid Haj.
His pretty young wife's lay across the imam's in the
dust.
Four dead. Jews?
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NICK CARTER
The boy, Ja'il Rahman, was even more confused.
He looked down at the knife in his hand.
Little did he know that, in less than twenty-four hours,
he would be witness to much more killing.
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Two
Carter ate in his room and smoked and paced. At last,
shortly after eleven, the telephone rang.
It was the woman, Darva.
'*It was a trap, an ambush. Hassan A1-Chir led it."
The Killmaster felt a lump of lead hit the bottom of his
gut. "All three of them?"
"Yes, and the girl. I have seen the bodies on the Amman
road. I am going to Summa. Retaliation has already been
planned. I am going to find the Rahman pig and get my
own revenge."
Carter had lived too long on the edge himself not to
recognize a touch of insanity in the voice of another. He
recognized it now in the voice of this woman, and he
didn't like it. Finding and killing the man who had fingered
the three Israeli emissaries was one thing; how it was done
was another.
"Wait," he said. "Let me get to the king. This could be
the incident that would move the government of Jordan to
action without negotiation."
'There is no time," Darva replied, the manic edge clear
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NICK CARTER
in her voice. "You are out of it now, Carter. Go home."
'Ihe phone went dead in his hand. Carter dropFd it and
forced his mind to make a rapid decision.
A raid now on any Jordanian village would give the
PLO the leverage they needed to convince the ottrr Arab
leaders to put pressure on King Hussein to rnount an attack
on Israel.
Quickly, with wasted motion. Carter nwved. He
changed into dark clothes and slid his arms into a shoulder
rig housing the 9mm Luger he affectionately called Wil-
helmina. Hugo, a deadly six-inch stiletto, was already in
the chamois sheath on his right forearm.
Over it all he pulled a dark gray djellaba and wrapped a
hata around his head. The scant contents of his traveling
bag he left. He knew he wouldn't coming back, but it
didn't matter. The clothing was without and theat
was nothing else in the bag to identify him as an Anrrican,
let alone an agent of AXE.
He could almcxst sense the tension on the street. Word of
the killings must have already reached Amman. And if it
had leaked that the victims were Israelis, the t»pulace
would be tense waiting for Israeli retaliation.
He walked for several blocks until he found what he
wanted: a motorcycle shop. Darva had said that she had
seen the bcxlies on the road. Ihat meant that she was al-
ready halfway to Summa. A mototvycle would allow
Carter to save time on desolate back roads impassable to an
automobile.
Picking the rear of the shop was child's play. ln-
side. he found a B)werful BMW gassed and ready to go.
Minutes later he was maring toward the curtskirts of
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TERMS OF VENGEANCE
15
The car slid to a halt and the motor was cut immedi-
ately. In the rear, the woman leaned forward between the
two men in the front bucket seats.
"That is the house of Rahman. Yani, take the rear. Meir,
you go in the front with me."
The two men exchanged puzzled glances. The woman
was their superior, but what she was proposing could well
suicide. The area of Summa they were in was com-
pletely controlled by PLO underground.
"Darva, are you sure that this raid has the go-ahead?"
"Do you doubt my order?" she hissed. "Let's go!" She
slid from the car and moved toward the house in shadows.
Even with the doubts in their minds, both men were
trained to obey. They left the car and followed, flicking off
the safeties on the Uzi submachine guns they held.
Ja'il Rahman lay awake in his his eyes wide, his
mind full of the day's events.
Upon their return, his uncle Abu had peppered them
with questions. The more his mother answered, the more
ashen his uncle's face had become.
'They told me they were only going to capture them!
Hassan A1-Chir promised me there would no killing
The had listened, wide-eyed, until hismother and
father realized he was in the room. He was hustled off to
trd, but through a crack in his door he continued to listen
to their conversation.
"They will come, Abu," his father said. "You must
hide."
"See what your greed and your treachery has brought
upn our heads, Abu Rahman!" His mother's voice was
bitter.
"Silence!" his father snapped. "What is done is done.
Abu, you must not be here if they come."
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NICK CARTER
s The PLO will guard me. I have done them a service."
"Perhaps, but I would rather have them guard you
somewhere else," his father said dryly. "You can stay in the
cellar of Salamel until we are sure it is safe. I will send
word."
Ja'il heard his father shuffle from the rcx)m, and then his
mother's voice.
"You are a pig, Abu."
"Be quiet, woman!"
'*You play the PLO and the Israelis against each other
and endanger us all."
"I do what I must do. Here, take this pistol. You may
need it."
His uncle stole away into the night, and minutes later
someone from the camp of Hassan A1-Chir arrived to
watch over them.
Now Ja'il could hear his father and their guard talking
in hushed tones in the room directly below him. The boy
slid his. hand beneath his pillow and curled his fingers
around the jeweled hilt of the dagger given him by Hassan
A1-Chir.
His father had said Hassan A1-Chir was a madman, a
wanton killer using a war to satisfy his own bloodlust.
His uncle said A1-Chir was a great man, a freedom
fighter.
His mother said they should all move to Paris, and then
she went to bed.
Suddenly Ja'il heard the crash of glass in the front of the
house, At the same time, gunfire erupted amid screams of
agony.
Instinctively, he clutched the dagger and rushed from his
tiny loft. At the top of the ladder leading into the large
room of the house, he froze.
The PLO guard and another manwere sprawled in the
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TERMS OF VENGEANCE
17
kitchen doorway, blood puddling beneath them. His father
was on his knees in the middle of the room, clutching his
side.
A man, all in black, crouched at the broken front win-
dow, staring out, a gun in his hands.
And by the door stood a wild-eyed woman, also in
black and training a submachine gun on his father.
"You are Rahman!" the woman screamed.
"l am Omar Rahman."
"Where is Abu Rahman?"
"I do not know."
"You lie!" the woman said, her voice now a hysterical
screech.
"Abu is my brother," his father said, crawling painfully
to his feet.
The woman lowered the muzzle of the Uzi and fired.
The bullets tore across the floor and into Omar Rahman's
legs.
Ja'il screamed out as his father fell, but it was nothing
compared to the ear-splitting shriek of his mother as she
entered from her bedroom, a raised pistol in her hand.
Through the mist of tears in the boy's eyes he saw the
pistol buck and spit flame again and again. The body of the
black-clad man at the window seemed to be on strings as
he danced backward into the wall and slowly sank to the
leaving a wide smear of red on the plaster.
And then the Uzi in the woman's hand was chattering.
Ja'il saw his mother stagger, clutch her bloody middle, and
fall.
The boy went wild. He from his JRrch and ran
blindly toward the woman. Before she could bring the Uzi
around, Ja'il buried the dagger's blade into her belly.
She crashed against the wall, freeing the blade. He
lunged again, but the snout of the Uzi came around, strik-
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NICK CARTER
ing him in the side and knocking him into the open door.
C'Run, Ja'il, run... now!"
It was his father's voice. The boy stared at his father,
his mother, and at the rest of the carnage.
"Run, Ja'il!"
Suddenly the Uzi barked again, shattering the door-
frame behind him and riddling his back with painful
splinters.
He ran headlong into the street. He had gone only a few
steps when a man in a dark djellaba riding a huge black
motorcycle was in his path.
"No, Darva, no!" the man shouted in English.
Ja'il looked over his shoulder. The woman had stag-
gered through the door and fallen. But she was coming up
on one knee and raising the gun.
"Get on!" the man barked in Arabic as the bullets
slammed into the sidewalk behind him.
Ja'il was stunned, frozen. Then a powerful arm was
lifting him and he was settled into the saddle behind the
"Hang on!"
The machine roared and the rear tire screamed as they
lurched forward.
Ja'il looped his arms around the man's waist and locked
his fingers tightly as more bullets from the Uzi chased
them down the dusty street.
Gently, Carter turned the boy onto his stomach. He was
wearing only a pair of shorts and the shirt to a pair of
pajamas. The back of the pajama top was torn to shreds
and bloody. Carefully, using Hugo, Carter cut it away.
No single wound was serious, but he could count over
fifty splinters of various sizes in the boy's back.
In the light of false dawn, he went to work with the
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TERMS OF VENGEANCE
19
stiletto, easing the splinters out one by one. It was good
that the boy had passed out. The removal of several of the
more deeply embedded ones would have caused excruciat-
ing pain if he were conscious.
This done, the Killmaster tore his djellaba in half. He
soaked it in a trickling stream nearby and bathed the cuts.
Because of the amount of bleeding, there was little chance
of infection.
Tearing the other half of the djellaba into snips, he
made a grass poultice and covered the boy's back. He was
just finishing the last binding when he realized that the boy
had awakened.
One cold gray eye was staring at him from between
long, blue-black lashes.
"You repair my body in order to torture it?"
"Why would I want to torture you?"
"To find where my uncle Abu hides. That is why they
came... to find my uncle. Are you a Jew?"
Carter was somewhat taken aback. The boy was calm
considering the situation, and he spke in a cold, detached
way.
am American."
• 'An American Jew? America is full of Jews."
Carter sighed. "l am an American who works for my
government. My name is Carter, Nick Carter, and you can
trust me. I mean you no harm."
The boy sat up. Though the pain in his back had to be
severe, he barely winced.
"That is my knife."
Caner mced down at the jeweled dagger he had taken
from the boy's hand and stuck in his belt. He pulled it out
and handed it to the boy.
"What is your name?"
"Ja'il. I am the son of Omar Rahman."
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NICK CARTER
Now the picture was a little clearer. Carter managed to
keep-his face expressionless when he spke again.
' *Tell me what happened ... everything."
Ja'il sat, staring directly into Carter's eyes. It was as if
he were reliving everything before he could speak of it.
And when he did speak, it was in the same calm, detached
voice.
Carter noted that, even relating the worst of the details,
the boy's face did not change nor did he shed a single tear.
Shock, the Killmaster guessed, or worse.
From the boy's description, Carter surmised that it had
been a total on both sides. If Darva's wound had
been as the boy remembered, she had probably bled to
death.
"Why?" Ja'il asked.
"Why?" Carter don't think you would un-
derstand."
am wise for my years. My father has told me so,
often. Why?"
Again Carter took a deep breath and tried to explain. He
told the boy the real identities of those he had seen on the
bus. He explained what he guessed had been his uncle's
part in it.
' 'And the woman? Well, Ja'il, all I can say about the
woman is that she went a little mad."
'Then it is as my mother said. All this was caused by
my uncle's greed and treachery."
"I'm afraid it goes far beyond that."
"No matter. I will have to kill my uncle."
The words jerked Carter's head up: It was in the youth's
eyes, in the set of his young jaw.
He meant every word he said.
"Right now, you're in no shalE to kill anyone," Carter
said, standing. "Where do you have family?"
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TERMS OF VENGEANCE
"I have no family."
21
"Then I'll take you with me. I'm going north into Leba-
non, Beirut. There are Irople there who—
"No."
Ja'il stood. He gazed around him and then faced Carter.
' Tese are the caves of Modor. There is the road to Leba-
non, but you should not go that way. Those hills are alive
with the men of Hassan A1-Chir. They would stop you and
kill you. Go south, cross the frontier into Israel, there. It is
the safer way to Lebanon."
"And you, Ja'il, what will you do?"
"I will survive."
"Ja'il how old are you?"
"A lifetime older than I was at this time yesterday." He
moved to the mouth of the cave, for a few moments
staring out over the valley and the river Jordan, and then
turned back to face Carter. "You have saved my life, Nick
Carter, American. I thank you."
"Listen, son ... "
"Good-bye, Nick Carter. Be careful as you ride. Stop
for no one." He turned and started walking down the hill-
side.
Carter moved to the edge of the cave and watched.
In the remnants of the djellaba, the shorts, and barefoot,
his small, frail body was the most pathetic figure Carter
had ever seen.
But he didn't call out or try to stop him. He knew it
would be useless just from the way the boy walked, his
shoulders squared, his head straight forward and his chin
high. He watched until the small figure disappeared in the
rocks and the rising heat haze.
I will survive.
And somehow Carter knew he would.
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PART Two
THREE
The bar was in the Nazaret su•tion of Valencia, near the
port. There was nothing ornate or pretentious about it. It
had the usual long counter, the mirror and array of bottles
behind it, and about thirty tables.
Carter slid onto one of the barstcx)ls at exactly nine
o'clock. Because of the early hour there were few cus-
tomers: two more men at the bar, a few couples, and the
usual array of hookers, as well as three secretary types.
Carter guessed that the secretary types were on the hunt,
moonlighting. A little flat-back time for extra income
wasn't frowned on in Spain.
"Senor?" The bartender was a chubby little man with
bland eyes, a mustache, and ring-around-the-collar.
"Whiskey, double, no ice."
"S(, seior."
While the bartender poured, Carter cnsed women',
face after face, and gave up.
"The contact is a woman," AXE Madrid had said.
22
TERMS OF VENGEANCE
23
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23
'Once you're in Valencia and set up, go to a flamenco bar
called Los Quatros Palomas at exactly nine the night before
the party."
"Ikscription?" Carter had asked.
"None. All we have is a name... Ynez."
None of the women he currently perused in the bar
looked like she would be Ynez.
The whiskey came just as a small spotlight hit the stage
at the end of the room. A dark-eyed young woman stepped
into it, carrying a guitar. She was slim and supple as a
reed, with jet-black hair pulled back from her face. She
was wearing a blouse and a ruffled flamenco skirt
that was weighted so it swirled around her as she moved.
"Is that the show?" Carter asked.
"Oh, no, seöor. The flamenco starts at eleven. This girl
plays until then."
Carter and sipped his whiskey. The girl played
very well. He had a hard time taking his eyes from her
when more customers entered.
She finished her first set in a half hour and stood to solid
applause, considering the small amount of people in the
place.
"Muchas gracias. Ynez thanks you all."
She was looking right at Carter when she said it. She
left the stage, and minutes later reappeared in the a
dark shawl around her shoulders. As she passed Carter, she
gave him one more quick look.
"Another, seöor?" the bartender asked.
"No, thanks. I think I'll get some air."
The bartender sighed deeply and swabbed the bar.
sefior, that one will do you no good. She has a
A very mean
'Keep the change,"' Carter chuckled. "I'm not
interested ... too young."
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NICK CARTER
Carter was aware of the disappointed on the bar-
tender's face as he walked out the door. He probably got a
cut from the B girls and the secretaries.
The dead end was to the left, trside the water. Carter
fished a cigarette from his pocket and headed that way. He
was in the deepest part of the shadows when she joined
hini.
"Do you have another of those?"
'They are Zelos, Turkish, very strong."
"l don't mind."
She took one of the cigarettes. Carter snapped his
lighter and held the flame steady.
She looked even younger up close and the face was
more striking, clean, and although not pretty, it was some-
how strong, intelligent, and well poised.
"You are
"Carter. Nick Carter."
"And you have proof?"
He flipped his wallet and the lighter again. The way she
studied his credentials told him that she knew what to look
for.
"Good. You have access to Senor Araujo's gala as a
guest."
"I do. But from what I hear, his galas generally turn out
to be expatriate orgies."
She chuckled, but not with a lot of mirth. 'ThiS is true.
Sefior Vincente Araujo has a weakness for American
widows and wives. I assume you do not attend alone?"
"No," Carter drawled, "I'll be the escort of Monique
Leveque, She is—
"A gossip writer for Paris Jet Set. I know, I have read
some of her articles. The woman is with sex."
Carter .managed to suppress a smile. If you only knew,
he thought.
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25
She rummaged in the pocket of her skirt as she spoke
again. "You have the money, in cash?"
'SThree hundred and fifty thousand, in cash, and two
passports. All they need are photographs."
"Here," she said, handing him a folded slip of paper.
"This is theÆoor plan of the house. At exactly midnight,
slip away. The door to the wine cellar will marked and
unl(xked. At the bottom, just under the stairs, there are
three wine casks. The center one is marked Moulney '47.
the cask is empty and the top is unsealed. Put the money in
there and leave."
C' Your man is not very trusting."
"He cannot afford to be. Betraying Hassan A1-Chir is
writing one's own death warrant."
"Three hundred and fifty thousand is a lot of money."
Her head jerked up, the innocent features now in a
grimace of fear. "A list of all of Hassan A1-Chir's world-
wide terrorist nets and" narnes, addresses,
and pictures—is worth ten times that much."
"I h01E so," Carter replied, 4 'but I would like to know
who I'm paying."
"You are paying a man who has been a courier for Al-
Chir for years. Every name on the list is active and accu-
rate."
They both fell silent, the only sound the lapping of the
water against the jetty and some far-off lonesome fog-
horns.
At last she fliPIEd her cigarette into the water and spoke
again. "After you put the money in the cask, rejoin the
party. At three o'clock, and not tEfore, you should be able
to slip away again."
"And then?'
. She paused uncertainly, and then contin-
"And then .
ued. "And then there is no more. Wecrawl into a hole and
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NICK CARTER
you have the power to bring a madman to ground."
"IS that why your friend is betraying A1-Chir? Because
he is a madman?"
' That is one of many reasons, but the main one. Even
Arafat and most of the Palestinians would like some kind
of peace now. Not A1-Chir. He makes war only because he
is obsessed with the power and glory it gives him. That is
why only the most rabid of fanatics follow him."
She tumed and started away. Carter fell in step beside
her: "You know I could be of more solid help if you and he
would let me."
"No. We have planned this for months. It is the safest
way. That is why you must follow the instructions for the
exchange to the letter."
She turned into the door of the bar and Carter continued
on up the street. It took five minutes to find a prowling
taxi.
"Saler Sol, porfavor."
"M, seior." The taxi rxked ahead and Carter spotted
the driver looking at him in the rearview. "It is good you
leave down here early, sefior. The Nazaret is no good place
for tourist late in the night,"
"I'm not a tourist," Carter. growled. "I'm a secret
agent."
The driver laughed.
The Killmaster closed the door of Suite 804 behind him
and Monique Leveque met him halfway down the steps
into the sunken sitting rcK)m. She kissed him on the mouth,
then reached up and rubbed some of her lipstick from the
comer of his lip.
*'Thank God you are back, Nicky, I was dying of Ione-
someness." Abruptly, she came into his arms, flattening
her well-endowed chest against him. "Did you spy good?"
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"I'm a travel writer, remember?"
27
"Of course you are, and I am still a virgin. Do you want
a drink?"
"Yeah."
He watched the play of her thighs as she moved toward
the bar. She wore a green robe of some satiny material that
danced along with every muscle.
"Your tryst was successful?"
"It was," Carter said, shrugging from his jacket and the
shoulder rig. "Are we still on for the orgy tomorrow
"Mais oui. Vincente loves to look down the front of my
dress even though I am not a rich American expatriate
widow. Here."
She pressed the glass of good scotch into his hand, and
her bcxly followed.
"I h0ÆE you are in the mood for love," she purred, nib-
bling on his ear.
"We made love this afternoon."
"So? We made love this morning and last night. You
should not keep score, Nicky. It takes the fun out of it."
"You're a nymphomaniac."
s 'I know. Everyone should have a purpose in life."
Carter gave up and laughed aloud. Monique was truly a
joy to be around.
She had given up a promising career as a nightclub
singer when she decided it was silly telling gossip reporters
about her wild life and then having them get paid to write
it. Particularly when she found out that some of them got
paid as well or better than she did for much less work.
At last they unglued themselves and Carter slipped to
the sofa. Monique sat just across, her slender ankles to-
gether, her scent sharp with femininity. She perched, drink
to her lips, as if this were the moment that made her daye
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"I'm a travel writer, remember?"
27
"Of course you are, and I am still a virgin. Do you want
a drink?"
"Yeah."
He watched the play of her thighs as she moved toward
the bar. She wore a green robe of some satiny material that
danced along with every muscle.
"Your tryst was successful?"
"It was," Carter said, shrugging from his jacket and the
shoulder rig. "Are we still on for the orgy tomorrow
"Mais oui. Vincente loves to look down the front of my
dress even though I am not a rich American expatriate
widow. Here."
She pressed the glass of good scotch into his hand, and
her bcxly followed.
"I h0ÆE you are in the mood for love," she purred, nib-
bling on his ear.
"We made love this afternoon."
"So? We made love this morning and last night. You
should not keep score, Nicky. It takes the fun out of it."
"You're a nymphomaniac."
s 'I know. Everyone should have a purpose in life."
Carter gave up and laughed aloud. Monique was truly a
joy to be around.
She had given up a promising career as a nightclub
singer when she decided it was silly telling gossip reporters
about her wild life and then having them get paid to write
it. Particularly when she found out that some of them got
paid as well or better than she did for much less work.
At last they unglued themselves and Carter slipped to
the sofa. Monique sat just across, her slender ankles to-
gether, her scent sharp with femininity. She perched, drink
to her lips, as if this were the moment that made her daye
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"Was she beautiful?"
"The woman you saw tonight."
"How did you know it was a woman?"
"Her perfume is on that pieceof paper in your breast
pocket."
Carter chuckled. "You should be the spy."
"Never, I detest violence! And, speaking of vio-
She picked up the shoulder rig and the Luger
lence . e"
with just the tips of her fingers and headed for the bed-
room. "Do you mind if I hang this loathsome thing out of
It wasn't a question, so Carter didn't answer. Instead he
concentrated on her beauty of movement.
"I think Monique Leveque can help us on this one. You
know her, Carter?"
"Met her only once. "
"She has a lot of contacts, done some damned fine
intelligence-gathering for French internal security."
Carter knew the story. About two years earlier, Monique
had overheard talk of an arms smuggling deal into Mar-
seille and passed it on to the SDECE in Paris. After that
she had just continued to pass along information, and now
and then do an active turn.
Carter hadn't known her well when she had met his
plane in Madrid a week before. They had talked and
laughed over lunch without her asking—or him offering—
what the real story of the mission constituted.
By three o'clock that afternoon they had been in bed,
together. With Monique, the last week had practically been
a vacation.
Now, tonight, began the real work.
"Nicky, darling, do you want to eat out?" she called
from the
"I suppose so. Don't call me darling."
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"Why not?"
29
'*It makes me sound like one of your jet-set gigolos."
Tomorrow night, with any' luck, Caner would have the
worldwide terrorist network of Hassan A1-Chir in his
pocket. And while antiterrorist squads broke up the net,
Carter would go after A1-Chir himself.
The girl had been right. A1-Chir was a madman. And
Carter would, in this case, be only too happy to exercise
the designation his agency had given him and that Monique
Leveque knew nothing about: Killmaster.
"Nicholas ... dear.. ."
Carter grunted to his feet and crossed to the bedroom
door. "Yeah?"
"Are you sure you want to go out to eat?"
She lay on the bed, her ankles crossed, her hands be-
hind her head, her martini on her belly.
She was stark naked.
"Not particularly."
Carter was naked himself by the time he reached the bed
and slipped in beside her.
Her breasts were roundly shaped, mature, the right a bit
fuller than the left. Large dark nipples wrinkled themselves
erect. In the dim light he could see her soft, dark triangle,
the flat sheaths of muscle above it promising more than the
usual sensations.
"You want me?" she murmured.
"You're going to spill your martini."
She cupped her breasts with both hands, an offering.
ice
Carter wanted to smile but matched her seriousness.
"Nice," he replied, his body tightening.
Suddenly she reached out and ran her finger down his
chest. She moved closer, kissing him on the neck, gliding
her tongue around his ear.
His hands found her solid thighs, massaging them,
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slowly sliding up to her hips and resting there.
Then-she was above him, her hands all over his body.
"You know what?"
"What?" he growled.
"No one who ever saw you naked with all these scars
would believe that you're a travel writer, cheri."
"Then," Carter said, trying to roll her over, "we'll keep
it just between ourselves."
She held her position above him. "No," she murmured,
"let me. 'i'
She slid down the tEd and placed her lips on his belly.
He was pushing up against her now, but she teased him.
And then she wasn't teasing anymore and Carter was
gritting his teeth to retain control.
It was going to be a long night. And he didn't mind at
all.
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FOUR
"Nice quiet little party," Carter said wryly as he maneu-
vered the rented Audi into a narrow space and killed the
engine.
Monique Leveque chortled throatily with her beautiful
head thrown back. "Oui, Cheri, just like the last night of
carnival in Rio! Shall we, as you Americans say, dive in?"
' 'Let's."
Carter moved around to the passenger side of the Audi
and helped her out. She was ravishingly sexy in a figure-
fitting, practically backless, low-cut black gown with nar-
row rhinestone straps. The dress made the whole a packet
of superfemininity, displaying every curve and lots of skin.
"Aren't you slightly underdressed?" Carter grinned.
"Ah, Nicky, wait until you see the women at this party!"
They paused for a second at the seawall. Behind them,
soft moonlight caressed the rolling sea. 'Above them, a
hundred steps up, Vincente Araujo's grand villa sprawled
across the hillside. Between them and the house were ter-
raced gardens blazing with color and scent. The walls of
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NICK CARTER
the villa that weren't glass were draped with
bougainvillaea, and every window blazed with light.
"Nice little pad," Carter quipped.
"He bought it when prices were right, during Franco."
The music of a pase doble and loud laughter hit them
through the open doors of the marbled patio leading into
the house.
"You know the scene," Carter whispered from the side
of his mouth as they moved into a huge of milling
people and glowing chandeliers. "Introduce me around and
then let me float."
"Monique, my darling, at last you've arrived... the
party can now begin!"
"Our host," Monique whispered, and from
Carter's side into the arms of Rudolph Valentino had he
lived to see sixty.
Vincente Araujo was still Latin-lover-good-looking,
with gray hair smoothed back, a square,
jaw, and a deep booming voice, He was dressed in a thou-
sand-dollar tuxedo with real diamond studs.
He kissed Monique all over, patted her fanny, and
turned to Carter. "Ah, Monique's latest amour."
"This is Nick, darling. Nick, Vincente Araujo."
"How do you do?"
The man was good. He hardly winced as Carter came
just short of breaking his hand.
"I'll do better with a fresh drink. Have fun, both of you.
And, Monique be sure to write scandalous things about
me and the party!"
He moved away and they mingled. The ratio was about
four women to every man, and Carter met most of them
without any names registering. Only one, a tall blonde on
the long side of forty with more of her out of a dress than
in it, made him blink.
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33
Monique intrcxiuced her as Nora Pembrook. They chat-
ted inanely for a minute or two and parted, with Nora pat-
ting Carter's butt on the way by.
"Very healthy lady," he commented. "I thilü she likes
"Don't get your hopes up," Monique chuckled. "She did
that to get to me. Actually, anything over eighteen she
throws back. Oh, excuse me, darling, I see someone who
just the center of a scandal. Later."
She moved off and Carter milled, his eyes taking in the
one by one. Nary a one of them looked like a Middle
Eastern terrorist.
"A ca*, sefior?"
A white-jacketed waiter was waving a tray of toothpick-
srrared mouthfuls under Carter's nose.
"Uh ... sure... " Carter's hand wavered over the tray.
"Eel on the left, squid on the right."
"Uh, no, thanks," Carter said. "But where's the bar? I'd
like something a little stronger than champagne."
The waiter smiled. "You are American. There are ham
sandwiches on the buffet, there. The bar is opposite."
"Thanks." He headed for the bar. "Scotch whiskey, no
"Si, senor."
By the time Carter got his drink he sensed someone just
him and to his right, staring. He turned to face a
dark-haired young man with movie-star-type looks and a
build that in the Olympics.
' 'Pardon me for staring, but haven't we met before?"
"I don't think so," Carter said, "and I rarely forget a
face."
The man ruxided and extended his hand. 'CJerald Ray-
mond. Perhaps it was a long time ago, or I am mistaken."
Carter took the hand. The grip was firm, radiating an
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NICK CARTER
intense pwer from just the touch. That same power was in
the inan's chilly eyes as they bored into Carter's.
"Nick Carter."
"Ah, an American. I wouldn't have known," he said,
switching to English. "Your Spanish is excellent."
"As is your English."
Raymond nodded. "My father was English, my mother
Israeli. I was born in Tel Aviv."
So much, Carter thought, for Gerald Raymond being his
terrorist turncoat.
But still, he was thus far the only man at the party who
had shown any interest in Carter.
"l pride myself on accents," the Killmaster said. "Ox-
'*Cambridge," the other man said with a smile. "But I
speak several languages and I'm afraid it dilutes the ac-
cent."
Carter was about to say more, when a chunky woman
with too mucil blond hair for her age oozed onto Ray-
mond's arm.
"Gerry, baby, this friggin' party's like a deflated blimp.
Come dance with me." Her voice was husky with booze
and her accent was sloppy Long Island.
"Elvira Wertz... Nick Carter."
The husky-voiced woman Carter over and dis-
missed him. "Hi. Let's dance, Gerry, honey."
"Excuse us," Raymond said, and then whispered in
passing, "duty calls."
Carter watched the unlikely pair move into the center of
the room, where Elvira enve101Ed the young man like an
octopus swallows its prey.
To each his own, Carter thought, and went in search of
Monique Leveque.
He found her in a circle around a very drunk young
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woman doing a terrible imitation of a flamenco dance.
"Monique ... "
"Ah, Nick, just in time. Daphne is about to go into her
little act. She does it at every party."
"Monique, that matinee idol dancing with the mini-
blimp... "
"Gerald Raymond," she replied. "The mini-blimp, as
you call her, is Elvira Wertz. Her husband is Wertz Plas-
tics. He gives her a fortune to stay out of the country and
his sight."
"Odd couple. What about him?"
"English, pps up every once in a while at parties like
this all over the world." She shrugged. "That's it."
he in fat, rich women?"
"Nicky, with his He can have any woman he
wants."
"Then he has money?"
"I suppose," she said and shrugged. "At least he moves
around a lot, and in these circles. Ihat takes money."
"I thought you knew everything atX)ut everyone."
"Only the scandalous ones, darling. Oh, look, Daphne
is reaching her l*ak."
Carter turned back to the center of the circle. Daphne
had dropped the top of her dress to bare two very large,
very full breasts. She was currently in the of slith-
ering her dress down over her hips, to the urgings of the
men were being by the women to urge Daphne.
Cater checked his watch. It was three minutes to twelve.
Practically the whole room had joined Daphne's circle.
It was a time to slip away.
The door was where it was supposed to be. Carter found
the top step in the darkness and closed the door
him. Using a he descended into the cavemous
wine cellar trneath the villa. Racks of bottles and huge
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casks seemed to go on forever. Just one sweep across one
rack and he could see that the vintage and vineyard of that
rack would have fed a small Third-World country for a
year.
The three casks were in place. Carter twisted the lid
from the center one and found it empty. Quickly, he pulled
his shirt from his pants and unfastened the money belt from
his middle. The smell from the cask brought a smile to his
lips as he dropped the belt.
He might be able, later, to find out who his man was by
the smell that would stick after handling the belt.
At the top of the stairs he opened the door a crack and
peered through. As soon as a buxom maid balancing a tray
passed, he slipped out.
The party in the main room was now in full swing.
Daphne was au naturel except for a pair of spike heels
that dug into the priceless veneer of a seventeenth-century
tabletop on which she danced. Vincente Araujo didn't
seem to mind. He stood as close to the twirling nude body
as he could get, and smiled benignly.
Carter slipped to Monique's side in the circle. "What
does she do for an ending?"
"One of two things," Monique said. "Throw up or pass
out."
"Amusing," Carter groaned, checking the crowd. 'The
party seems to have thinned out."
"Not really," the woman said, and chuckled. "There are
fourteen bedrooms on the second and third floors. At this
moment I rather imagine all of them are occupied. Oops,
there she goes,"
Carter looked. Daphne had swooned off the table into
the arms of two men. They laid her out gently on a nearby
sofa, and headed for the bar to freshen their drinks. The
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other members of the audience drifted away in search of
something new to amuse them.
"Let's get some air," Carter said.
Monique slid her arm under his jacket and around his
waist. "You're thinner."
He nodded. "It's done. I just hope Uncle Sam hasn't
been taken."
The Killmaster tried not to be obvious as he checked his
watch every fifteen minutes. It was just a little after one
o'clock, and he was bored. He had a feeling Monique felt
the same way, and it would be nearly two hours before he
could collect the papers.
They were sitting in the rear gardens just beneath the
patio, listening to the music from inside. Carter was about
to make a trip into the house and the bathroom, when all
hell broke loose.
It was a dull and growing roar, and then the full burst of
the explosion.
Carter whirled to see glass spray from the cellar win-
dows, and then smoke spiral out and rise in the night sky
like a graceful dancer.
Then everyone was on his feet, running outside in
panic. People were pouring from the house to the patio.
From the screams and shouts, Carter guessed they Were
also fleeing the house from the front doors and side exits.
"Nick, what is it?" Monique asked, gripping his arm.
"I'd guess a bomb."
"Mon Dieu . i"
"Stay clear but keep your eyes open. Try to see if any-
one leaves in a hurry."
He ran up the steps and across the patio. At the doors he
had to fight the mass of people trying to get out. At last he
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made it and sprinted toward the kitchen area.
He- yanked the door to the wine cellar. Heat,
smoke, and dust struck his face.
The buxom maid suddenly in the hallway,
screaming. Carter grabbed her by the shoulders and shook
her until she quieted.
"Listen," he hissed; "find your patrön. Have him call
the Guardia. Do you understand?"
She nodded dumbly.
"Then hurry! Run!"
She scurried away, and Carter went down what was left
of the stairs. There was no need for light. Through the
smoke and dust, a sharp flame was growing where the
three wine casks had been.
Hurriedly, Carter raced around the walls until he found a
fire extinguisher. Thankfully it worked, and in minutes the
flame was out.
Then, using his penlight, he searched through the chaos.
It didn't take long.
From what clothing was left on the mangled corpse, he
could guess that it was the waiter. A quick perusal told him
as much as he needed to know.
The bomber had taken the money and planted the
explosive device in the cask, the detonator triggered to the
lid. When the waiter had lifted it, boom.
Carter could find no scraps of or a packet.
Quickly he scoured the rest of the cellar, and found out
why.
There was a door at the far side of the cellar away from
the blast. It was open, as was the second door above,
which was level with the ground.
The bomber had obviously taken the money tElt,
planted his device, and waited until the waiter came down.
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After the explosion, he had gathered the papers and made
his escape.
The Killmaster went up the steps and emerged in a
small garden beside the house. There were two gravel
paths, one leading around toward the rear, and one to the
side entrance leading to the kitchen.
Carter checked that door and found it unlocked.
Chances were that in the aftermath of the explosion
no one would have seen him, even if he had escaped
through the kitchen.
Carter took the second path back to the tabled area in
the rear of the house tEneath the patio.
People were milling around, stunned and
He found Monique. "Has anyone called the Guardia?"
"Yes," she said, "they are on the way. Was
"Yeah," Carter growled, "he's in pieces. Has anyone
tried to leave?"
"Good Lord, yes. Half the guests raced for their cars
right away."
"Shit. Here are the keys to the Audi. Stick around here
and try to make a mental note of who's left and their reac-
tions. Also, stay close to the Guardia officer and note what
they find."
"I'm going to break some very bad news to to a lady
named Ynez."
He moved away quickly through the gardens. Just as he
reached the outer perimeter wall of the gardens, hooting
sirens and flashing blue lights went screaming by.
When he was sure that they passed, Carter
scaled the wall and to the other side.
For the next ten minutes he jogged until he could safely
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double back to the beach road.
Orice there, he walked calmly until he found a taxi.
The bar and the tables of I os Quatros Palomas were
jammed. Carter shouldered his way to a place near the
stage, where he sipped a drink until he could catch her eye.
Just his presence told her worlds. Her eyes opened wide
and her face drained of color. Her trained fingers went to
stone on the guitar, bringing a glowering look from the
male singer at her side and the woman dancing.
Carter rolled his eyes to the door.
Ynez nodded, and he made his way through the crowd.
Outside, the night was much as it had been before, damp,
foggy, with the sounds of the water lapping eerily against
the pier.
Five minutes later he heard the music stop, and shortly
after that the sound of her heels on the walk.
Then she was there, her lower lip trembling as she
stared up at him, clutching the shawl around her shoulders.
"He's dead?"
Carter nodded. 'SA bomb. Probably one of A1-Chir's
people was at the party. lhere was nothing I could do."
He fell in step beside the girl and they walked in silence
toward the dead end and the iron railing.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I have a feeling it would not have
haplEned except for me."
Ynez shook her head impatiently. "No," she said in a
breathless way, "it would have even if we had
gotten the money and disappeared. They would have found
us. I think he knew that."
"Who was he?"
"His real name was Yusef Modina. We met at university
in Beirut." She clenched the damp iron guardrail and bit
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her lip. "l didn't know until a few months ago that he was
involved with A1-Chir. I was one of the other reasons he
wanted out."
She wept for a moment, quietly, and Carter kept his
mouth shut until she had dried her eyes. He handed her a
cigarette and lit one himself.
"If you don't want to talk about it, I won't press you.
But you might still be a great help."
She nodded brusquely. "Why not? But I am afraid I
know very little."
"Also, you are probably in a great deal of danger your-
self."
She turned toward him, letting the light fall across her
face. It was a very young, very unhappy face.
"I think not," she said slowly. "Not now. They didn't
know about me. Yusef saw to that."
Caner didn't answer for a moment. He didn't agree with
her. He guessed that Yusef had been fingered through her
without her even knowing about it. "l would like to take
you someplace where men who know how to make you
remember could ask you questions."
"You think I might know something and not realize it?"
"Yes. And then, if you wish, I can have you sent any-
where in the world where you think you would safe."
She thought for a moment. "I have an uncle in England.
My mother was English. She met my father while she was
a student in Barcelona."
' 'Then England it is. What do you say?"
Ynez turned her eyes, glistening with tears in the green
light, up at him and bit her lower lip ever so slightly. Her
mouth was full and sensitive, and more than a little sen-
sual.
"Yusef truly believed in the Palestinian cause. He said it
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was men like A1-Chir who prostituted it."
"Then you'll help me find A1-Chir and put him out of
business?"
"I'll try."
"Then come along. We're going to Madrid. I just have
to leave word for someone at my hotel."
At the head of the alley they found a vacant taxi. Carter
gave the driver instructions, and both of them settled back
into the seat. They were nearly to the the hotel before Ynez
spoke.
"There is one man, an extension of A1-Chir, really, who
does his killing, Yusef spoke of him often, but never saw
him. He intimated that no one but A1-Chir ever saw him.
But that made no difference; everyone feared him. A1-Chir
made sure of that."
"Does he have a name?"
"Yes, but it is probably a code name. Yusef said that
A1-Chir always called him Ja'il."
"I'll check it against our files of known terrorists,"
Carter said. "I've never heard the name, but that doesn't
mean he isn't on file somewhere."
Monique was at the hotel. A half hour later, the three of
them were in the Audi racing for Madrid.
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FIVE
"So she was of some help?" Monique said, mashing her
cigarette in the ashtray and sipping her coffee.
"A little," Carter replied. ' 'We know from Yusef's
travels that Hassan A1-Chir is probably headquartered in or
somewhere around Tripli. We know that if he travels at all
it is to somewhere in Tunisia to meet with this Ja'il."
"And from the sound of this Ja'il, it is really he who
deserves the legend that Hassan A1-Chir has built up for
himself. "
Carter nÜed. "It's to expected. It would be impos-
Sible for A1-Chir to be in all the places he is supposed to
be, and do a tenth of the things he is supposed to do. It
would stand to reason that he would have a trained assassin
and field leader like this Ja'il to do the hard work for him."
"And Ja'il is a mystery?"
"Completely," Carter said. Tere's nothing in any file
on him. But at least we can be fairly sure now that he
exists."
They fell silent. They were sitting at a sidewalk table at
a café across from their Madrid hotel. On the stucco wall
43.
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behind them, a poster showing a bullfighter in his suit of
lighis advertised the next day's card at the Plaza de Toros.
From a nearby record store came the sound of gypsy
music, with a man wailing at the top of his voice to his lost
love.
Monique's eyes wavered on the poster and came to rest
on Carter. "You're sure you don't want to take a few more
days? I could stay. We could go to the bullfights tomor-
row,"
Carter shook his head. "No, Washington says come
home quick. They have something else for me that comes
up in a week or so."
"Pity." She smiled sadly. "We do have a good time to-
gether."
"That we do," Carter mused, sipping from his cup of
strong Spanish coffee. "But you yourself said Paris
couldn't wait."
S 'Paris can always wait if I want it to." She paused,
taking another cigarette from her case. Carter lit it. "Where
is the girl, Ynez, now?"
Carter checked his watch. "About halfway to London.
She has an uncle somewhere in the countryside. He's her
mother's brother, practically raised her. She'll be safe
there."
They both nodded. It was small talk now, and they both
knew it. The mission had failed, and they both knew it.
Hassan A1-Chir's worldwide network would stay intact,
and everyone was powerless to do anything about it until
another chink could be discovered in his an-nor.
It was almost with relief that Monique spotted her driver
and stood. "You don't want to ride with me to the airport?"
' 'No," Carter said. s 'My plane is two hours after yours.
I'll check in with Central here and turn in the Audi."
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She ncxided and leaned her cheek forward to kissed.
"Until next time, cheri."
"Until next time," he replied.
"And in the meantime, you have my Paris number."
He patted his breast pocket and grinned. "Close to my
heart. Au revoir, Monique."
"Au revoir, Nicky... darling."
Carter watched the limo until it was out of sight,
dropped some bills on the table, and crossed the street to
the hotel.
"Figure my bill, will you? I'll checking out."
"Si, senor."
In his rcx)m, Carter packed what few toilet articles he
had left out, and left a tip for the maids.
Back in the lobby, he paid the bill.
"Oh, Sehor Carter, this was in your box."
"Thank you." Carter took the envelope and ripped it
open as he left the hotel:
THIS IS NOT YOUR WAR, NICK CARTER,
AMERICAN. 1 WANT NO HARM TO COME TO
YOU. GO HOME AND LET US FIGHT OUR
WARS OURSELVES.
The Killmaster his bag and raced back to the
desk.
"What is it, Senor Carter?"
"The envelope you just gave me..
"Who left it?"
"It was left with my assistant, sefior. One moment."
man disappeared behind a partition, and
later reaprEared with a young woman.
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"l am sorry, seior, but I didn't see the person who left
the note. I was busy and I found it on the counter and put it
in your box. Is there something wrong?"
"No no, thank you."
Outside, Carter pocketed the note and retrieved his bag.
As he walked across the parking area, he fished the car
keys from his pocket.
He was about ten cars from the Audi when he was mo-
mentarily blinded by a white flash.
The Audi bulged from within, glass erupting every-
where. One door flew off into the air, followed by a blast
of heat and then flarne.
The entire car rose from the asphalt, turned once in
midair, and rolled over the two cars beside it to come to
rest on its side.
The wave hit Carter like a strong wind, sending
him sprawling under the rear of a nearby car. 'Ihe sound
deafened him and made him lie still with his cheek against
the asphalt until he passed out.
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SIX
He shuffled along the dust-swirled street in perfect har-
mony with the other djellaba-clad herdsmen and camel
drivers who moved to escape the heat of the sun. Not a
single man or woman around him would guess that only
twenty-four hours before he had stepped from a plane in
Algiers, immaculate in a seven-hundred-dollar Savile Row
suit.
Such had become his way of life for so many years. To
become a chameleon and blend was to him as natural as
sleeping, relieving one's body Of waste, taking food, forni-
cating, or killing.
They were all one to him.
The village was Albebat. It was in central Tunisia, near
the lake of Tozeur. He had come here many times and
knew its narrow, winding streets as he knew the swiftness
of his mind and hand.
At a small, café, he turned in under the awning.
His eyes, above the burnoose wrap}Ed around the lower
part of his face, shot around the rickety tables until he
found a tall man dressed just like himself.
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When he reached the table, the man stood almost pain-
fully and bowed. They embraced and kissed one another on
both cheeks.
"My son, Allah is with you."
"Hassan," was all the younger man replied.
'SSit, sit, there is refreshing mint tea." They sat, and
Hassan A1-Chir stared for a long time into the other man's
eyes before he spoke again. "Ah, Ja'il, each time I see
you, you are more the man."
Ja'il Rahman nodded without responding and absently
poured himself a glass of the sweet green tea.
It was true. The frail eight-year-old-boy had m.lly
come a man.
But he was a man with no soul. The gentle humanity he
had learned in his youth from his mother and father had
been replaced, under Hassan A1-Chir's tutelage, with a
total lack of values. While his brain was still functioning
with more than genius intelligence, his soul was vacant. He
had killed too much, tcx) often, until it was the only pas-
Sion left him.
A1-Chir and his cause had bleached from Ja'il's soul all
the value of life, his or anyone else's.
As a Palestinian commando, he had learned to kill with
expertise and without emotion or fear.
He had walked off the mountain that day so many years
before directly into the camp of Hassan A1-Chir. By show-
ing the dagger, he was taken directly to the leader, who
greeted him warmly as the "little warrior."
Ja'il had explained that he needed a favor. He wanted
A1-Chir's approval and aid in killing his uncle.
A1-Chir had readily agreed. Abu Rahman had become a
liability anyway.
The deed was done, and A1-Chir had listened raptly as
his men relayed the gory details of the small boy as he
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