Night of the Warheads

by Nick Carter

  Little pinpricks of warning rippled up Carter's spine to lodge under the hair on the back of his neck.

  "Then there is a good chance that the target knows I'm coming."

  "Yes. But then, monsieur, you have stated that you are a specialist."

  "True, Monsieur LeClerc. Touché."

  "Then you will still take the contract?" LeClerc sighed.

  "Yes, the challenge intrigues me. But I may need some additional aid: equipment, perhaps some surveillance, and help in escaping when the work is done."

  "The Barcelona number can provide you with whatever you need. But I must warn you — my people cannot be actively involved in the kill itself. It would be, shall we say, a public relations faux pas within the group. I'm sure you understand."

  "Quite," Carter replied and rescued Hugo from the window catch. "The Luger, butt first."

  Reluctantly, Wilhelmina was passed through the opening. Carter leathered it, replaced Hugo, and stepped from the car.

  "There will be no need for us to meet again, monsieur," LeClerc said. "Good hunting."

  "Adieu," Carter replied and slammed the door.

  He kept one eye on the Mercedes and the other on the area as the big car backed around and began to roll down the hill.

  The sun was up full-strength now, so he was able to spot the reflections long before he reached his own vehicle. They came from a large group of trees about a quarter of a mile to his left and a greater elevation of about three hundred yards.

  Once, in the limousine, he thought he had seen them. Now, walking across the open area toward the little convertible, they were unmistakably following him.

  At the car, in full view of whoever was manning the field glasses, Carter dropped the top and slid behind the wheel.

  He drove slowly all the way back to the hotel, not wanting to lose whoever was interested in him.

  By the time he had deposited the car and strolled into the lobby, it was fairly clear that both sides of LeClerc's organization knew where he had come after the meeting.

  To let them know not only where he was but also who he was, he strolled directly to the desk and asked for his key in a loud, clear voice.

  "Suite six-eighteen, s'il vous plaît."

  "Of course. Monsieur Carstocus."

  Carter pocketed the key and strolled into the muted warmth of the hotel's wood-paneled restaurant.

  "Un menu, s'il vous plait."

  Only when his breakfast had been served and he had requested a second pot of coffee did he remove the envelope from his inside coat pocket.

  Slowly he pulled the contents upward from the flap as his eyes searched for the name.

  And then he found it.

  The target was Armanda de Nerro.

  Nine

  Carter crossed the frontier into Andorra on the French side at Pas-de-la-Casa. Here he secured a detailed map of the country and sat down over lunch to study it.

  The principality was incredibly tiny, 188 square miles, with no airport and no railway system, and on the one main highway that led from the French to the Spanish frontier, the whole country could be crossed in less than an hour.

  But that did not tell the whole story, at least as far as Carter was concerned.

  Every inch of Andorra was valleys or mountains. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of places where the ground could be excavated and silos constructed to house the missiles.

  By one o'clock he was back in the car and climbing toward the center of the country via a mountain road that was constantly turning left or right and, often it seemed, both ways at once.

  The scenery was magnificent, even after he passed the snow line and a cloudy haze obscured everything beyond a half mile. From the tiny ski village of Soldeu, the terrain flattened out through a place called Ronsol. There he descended downward out of the snow and shut the heater off after only a few miles.

  By the time he passed the third largest village. Encamp, and was nearing the capital of Andorra-la-Vella, Carter had gained one very solid impression of the country.

  Andorra might once have been a mountain paradise for a small population of farmers and sheep herders, a simple alpine aerie remote from the rest of the world and its troubles.

  But no more. Word of its tax-free status had obviously spread, and the world was now beating a track to this tiny country.

  The whole face of Andorra was changing, almost hourly. There were workmen, cranes, bulldozers, huge earthmovers, and piles of building materials everywhere.

  With all this as cover, it would be no trick at all to build a structure or structures to house eight missiles right under anyone's nose.

  In the center of the capital he paused to study the map that Pallmar had given him in Paris as a guide to the villa.

  "Pardon, monsieur. May I be of help?" a perky female voice asked in French.

  She was cute, in a blue and white uniform with a beret perched saucily on a well-coiffed mane of red hair. Above a very prominent left breast was a badge, and in one hand she carried a traffic baton.

  "Yes," Carter replied with a jaunty air in his voice. "You can tell me how I can find this villa and then tell me your name."

  "The villa, monsieur, is easy. Take the road to your right, there, where it says Engordany. The first road you come to, turn right again and go to the end. There you will find the villa. It is a very beautiful house overlooking all of the city. You are a guest of the Englishman, Harris-White?"

  "No, I'm leasing the villa for a while. You know the gentleman?"

  "No, but it is a small country," she said with a pretty smile. "A person as rich as Monsieur Harris-White who lives in so grand a villa is known by everyone. Enjoy your stay in my country, monsieur."

  "Wait. You haven't answered my second question."

  "Your second question?"

  "Your name."

  "Marie."

  "I am Nicholas Carstocus," he announced. "Now that we have been formally introduced, you can have dinner with me tonight."

  "I cannot discuss such things while I am on duty."

  "Then what time do you get off duty?"

  She glanced quickly to her right and left, and when she spoke again it was with a pixyish grin and a low voice.

  "I usually have a glass of wine at the Hotel Roc Blanc lounge on my way home from work at five."

  "Five it is, mademoiselle," Carter said and waved as he whirled the powerful little car up the street she had indicated.

  Harris-White's villa had been built right into the side of a mountain. It was surrounded on three sides by trees, and a gatehouse abutted the dead-end road.

  The gate was open. Carter sailed through it and stopped at the steps leading up to a massive, copper-studded oak door.

  Almost before he had switched off the ignition, a white-gloved hand was opening the door.

  "Señor Carstocus?"

  "Si," Carter replied, uncoiling from the sports car.

  "I am Robere, the houseboy."

  He was a full two feet shorter than Carter, with an almost feminine body, but his smile seemed to go from ear to ear when he grinned.

  "The bags are in the trunk. Can you handle them?"

  "Of course," Robere said with a shrug, then flashed another grin. "I only look like a girl."

  Carter was just reaching for the front door when it opened wide. A small, dark-haired woman with a gnarled face and flat, expressionless eyes faced him.

  "Señor Carstocus?"

  "Si."

  "I am Estrellita, the housekeeper and cook. I do not work on Saturdays or Sundays, or beyond six o'clock unless I am paid extra and am warned the previous day. The master suite is the second door beyond the head of the stairs. What do you wish for supper?"

  "I'll be dining out."

  "Good. Welcome to the casa."

  She turned and stomped away on stumpy heels.

  Truly, Carter thought, a woman of few words, and one who knows her own mind.

  He used the time until four o'clock to unpa
ck and familiarize himself with the house and grounds.

  At four he showered and changed into a light short-sleeved shirt, beige trousers to match, and a cardigan with a designer's name discreetly stitched onto the left breast.

  It was a pity, he thought, climbing into the Mercedes, that Carstocus's taste did not match his own. The wardrobe he had purchased to match the identity was high-quality stuff. He could have used it when the mission was over, but as Nick Carter he hated to be a walking billboard for someone else.

  The Hotel Roc Blanc was easy to find. It was located in the center of the village of Les Escaldes and constructed almost entirely of white stone quarried from the mountain behind it.

  At five after five he walked into the hotel lounge.

  Marie sat at a window table sipping a glass of wine. She had changed into a pair of white wool slacks, a sheer blouse, and a very form-fitting white sleeveless sweater.

  "You don't look anything like a policeperson."

  "I'm not a policeperson… after five."

  "What are you then?"

  "My own person."

  Carter grinned. "You started without me," he said, nodding toward the wine.

  "Yes, but I didn't pay the check."

  He laughed and slipped into the chair opposite her. "I think I'm going to like you, Marie…"

  "Follett."

  "Spanish or French?"

  "Neither… Andorran."

  "Good! You should prove to be the perfect guide! I want to see all of Andorra, every mountaintop, every valley. I want to see every building being built and I want to know who is building it."

  "Why?"

  "I'm thinking of moving here. I like to know my neighbors."

  "That could take some time…"

  "I have a lot of it," Carter replied.

  "I have to work in the daytime, I'm afraid."

  "Don't you have any vacation time coming?"

  "Yes, but…"

  "I pay my guides quite well."

  * * *

  The following days were spent with Marie, either in the Mercedes or a rented jeep. Carter explored every inch of the country, making his own maps and compiling a long list of the contractors and builders on every piece of construction.

  By night he pub-crawled, giving everyone he met the impression that he was a very rich, oversexed roué.

  There was an English schoolteacher on vacation and there was a young Spanish widow who had moved to Andorra because she could do things there she could not do in her small provincial hometown. There was the daughter of a French restaurateur who adored handsome, wealthy Greeks, and there was the bored wife of an American banker who lived in Andorra, had most of his business interests in Andorra, but traveled ninety percent of the time.

  At the end of a week Carter had enough information to clog a computer, and he had gone through enough women that to seduce one more would hardly be noticed.

  It was time to make contact with Louisa Juaneda.

  Cabaret Amour was the kind of place that used the silhouette of a nude female for its advertising logo. Alongside the nude, the signs made big promises: DELIGHTFUL LADY COMPANIONS, AMBIANCE AS YOU LIKE IT, SEX ATTRACTIONS NUDE.

  And in the Bar Americain there was dancing and the vocal stylings of Louisa Juaneda.

  As in any cabaret, the action began after dark… long after dark. After yet another hard day of tramping the hills with Marie, taking pictures of almost-finished, half-finished, and barely started houses and buildings, Carter slept until nine.

  After a shower and a fresh shave, he dressed in gray slacks, a navy jacket, a pale shirt, and a bright red ascot. He had a light supper in one of the better hotel restaurants and walked into the Cabaret Amour at eleven o'clock.

  Things were just getting under way.

  There was an old woman with the white face of a robot collecting a cover charge and a burly bouncer at the door who informed everyone that at the first inkling of a fight he would break bones no matter who was the instigator.

  Carter went down a flight of steps to a cement corridor that smelled of damp concrete. This led through a beaded curtain to the club itself.

  Like all European late-night spots, it had the atmosphere of a cave. There were dim lights positioned over tiny tables crowded close together and couples dancing to a disco beat on a small dance floor with rainbow lights bouncing up their pants legs and skirts.

  A tall, languorous-looking brunette with most of her anatomy spilling out of a halter top ambled toward him. She would have almost looked erotic if her eyes could focus and she hadn't been chewing gum.

  "Just you, monsieur?"

  "Oui."

  "A table or the bar? A table is a two-drink minimum."

  "I'll take a table. I might scare up some company."

  She smiled flatly. "That won't be any trouble in here. Follow me!"

  Carter ordered scotch, lit a cigarette, and let his eyes adjust to the gloom.

  They made it by the time the scotch arrived.

  "What time does the first show start in the Bar Americain?"

  "The nude lesbian show or the singer?"

  "Uh, the singer, "Carter replied, trying to keep a straight face.

  "Midnight. It's a two-drink minimum in there, too, but don't worry about it. You'll never get drunk on this stuff."

  She was right. The scotch was lousy.

  So was the decor, now that Carter could see it. The walls and ceiling were poor rip-offs of the sleazy decor you see in Pigalle clubs in Paris. It was a fair try but lacked the smoky, sultry aura of sin that seemed so much a part of Pigalle.

  Here the sin seemed make-believe, even if the customers were trying hard to make it real.

  At the table beside Carter, a man of about twenty was sitting hunched across the table, his forehead pressed hard against the forehead of his date. She was a pretty, plump blonde who kept her eyes closed and her fingers curling through his thick black hair.

  The man had his hands under the blonde's blouse, kneading with almost dreamlike slowness the full roundness of her breasts where they rested on the table.

  At the table beyond them were three girls, all about twenty, and all looking fearfully around the room. Carter guessed the fear was twofold. One, would they be asked to dance or would anyone buy them a drink? Two, what the hell would they do if someone did?

  Behind him Carter heard a high-pitched male laugh, and he turned casually.

  The table was full of nubile teenage girls and barely bearded boys. One of the girls was wearing an off-the-shoulder dress that had been pulled down low enough to expose a starkly white, darkly nippled breast.

  The boy beside her — a hairy cross between modern punk and early Elvis in black leather — was having one hell of a time autographing the breast with a marking pencil.

  Everybody at the table — including the girl being autographed — thought the whole thing was a laugh riot.

  Suddenly Carter felt very old and oddly puritan.

  "Want your other drink?"

  "No, thanks. I think I'll hit the other room. Is the crowd any older in there?"

  "Yeah, they come to see the singer strip and the lesbians."

  That, thought Carter had not been in Louisa Juaneda's resume.

  It took several minutes to wind his way to the blinking sign that announced the Bar Americain. Beneath it was another beaded curtain, and beyond that another burly bouncer.

  "Fifty francs cover."

  Carter passed over the money.

  "There's also a two-drink minimum."

  "I heard. Are you sure I'm not in New York?"

  "Huh?"

  "Nothing."

  He found a table right on top of the tiny stage and blinked several times when the waitress arrived. She was a clone of the brunette in the other room.

  "Whiskey… no water. Make it a double."

  She was back in two minutes. The room was not very crowded.

  He didn't have long to wait. Three musicians dressed like poorer class b
ullfighters came through a curtain at the rear of the stage and tuned up.

  It didn't take long.

  Then a woman's voice, made raspy by too many cigarettes and too much booze, slid through the speakers over the stage.

  "Monsieurs et mesdames, the Cabaret Amour is proud to present, directly from Madrid, Barcelona, and Paris, recording star Louisa Juaneda…"

  There was a smattering of applause as the lights dimmed. An amber spot flickered on and danced around the room until it found the curtain at the rear of the stage.

  When it did, a vision in silver sequins stepped through and glided like a cat to a stool before the microphone. Once there, she draped herself over the stool and lifted the mike from its cradle.

  The outfit, a floor-length skirt and tiny halter, was something to behold. What it held was breathtaking.

  Louisa Juaneda was breathtaking.

  The band, muted and surprisingly good, came in behind her in perfect synchronization to her low, throaty, almost raspy voice. She literally oozed through three slow ballads, each greeted with perfunctory applause.

  Carter could see why. She was no singer. Her voice, while sultry and somewhat alluring, was weak and almost void of range.

  But somehow she seemed to pull it off. As he watched and listened, he began to understand why. It was a combination of her eyes, deep and almond-shaped, the satin black sheen of her carefully coiffed hair arranged in a long swirl over her right shoulder, her tanned skin, and her voluptuous figure compressed just so in the sequined costume.

  Then the tempo of the music changed. It was still low-key with an aura of smoldering sex, but now the beat seemed to take over and the rhythm became more driving.

  And Louisa Juaneda began to move.

  It did not take Carter long to realize that this was what made her act a success.

  The voice became more strident, matching the movements of her perfectly coordinated body. All at the same time, she had that rarest of qualities: the beauty and effervescence of youth plus the experience of age. She was, Carter knew, around thirty. But now, as she slithered back and forth across the tiny stage, she seemed barely twenty: young, tender, and sexy.

  The lights narrowed down to just the spot on her. The orchestra was little more than a driving bass beat.