Death of the Falcon

by Nick Carter

  My hands were itching to get inside that shirt and I had a feeling she knew it. At the end of the dinner, as I got behind Candy to help her from her chair, I suddenly leaned over to kiss her full on the mouth, then pulled quickly away. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t resist . . . ma’am.”

  The big hazel eyes were soft as she spoke. “The only thing I object to, Nick, is that ma’am. The rest I liked . . .”

  “Let’s try again, then.” I took her in my arms and pressed my lips over her full mouth. She tensed briefly, then I felt the warmth flooding into her lips as they parted. Slowly, but instinctively, she responded to my caresses, relaxing into my arms. I held her tighter, moving one hand slightly forward until my fingers rested just below the curve of a breast. She moved in my arms so that my hand slid upward and I cupped her tenderly, then more harshly as I felt a nipple swelling and hardened under my fingers.

  Candy sank back on the couch and I followed her, my lips still glued to hers in a kiss that seemed without end. She moved aside to give me room to stretch out beside her, never saying a word. She didn’t need to, for I felt her body mold itself against me. Her eyes had been closed, but they opened wide, seeming afraid or confused for a moment before closing again.

  My hand slid inside the V of her shirt, and her silken skin felt velvety and hot under my touch. Candy moaned deep in her throat and her hands became more demanding.

  Still not speaking, she squirmed around on the overstuffed pillows. For a moment, I thought she was trying to push me off the couch, but her hands that had been clawing at my shoulders in erotically irritating scratches, moved to my waist and I realized she was trying to give me room to lie back flat so she could shift to a position on top of me. She succeeded easily, with my cooperation, then the soft hands slid firmly up over my chest to the collar of my shirt. At her insistence, I already had removed my tie before we sat down to eat so there was nothing to interfere with her questing fingers as they began opening the buttons.

  Lifting the top half of her body, but never breaking the kiss, she spread my shirt wide and tugged the tails out of my pants. My hands were busy, too, and with almost the same motions, we pulled off each other’s shirt, then lay back, locked together again full length, our bare chests touching and caressing.

  We stayed like that for a long moment before I grasped her waist, lifting her slightly, then sliding a hand between us to open her belt buckle. She twisted onto one side to make it easier for me, and I responded by quickly opening the big Levi buttons. She lifted again slightly so that I could slide the jeans down over her hips.

  Pulling her lips away from mine and raising her head, Candy looked down at me. “My turn,” she said softly. Inching her way backward down along my body, she leaned down to plant tiny kisses on my chest, then rose to her knees. She slipped off first one leg of her jeans and her panties, then the other before she leaned down again to open my belt buckle.

  We moved in an embrace to the bed, and in another moment I was no longer play-acting . . .

  The phone ring was short, but it wakened me instantly. I picked it up before it could ring again, saying softly, “Hello.”

  “Mr. Carter, it’s twelve-thirty.” The operator had automatically spoken softly, too, and she hastened on, almost apologetically, “You asked me to call you so you wouldn’t miss a meeting.”

  “Yes, thank you very much. I’m awake.” I made a mental note to spend some more of Hawk’s hard-fought-for money and send a little something along to the switchboard operators. It doesn’t hurt to have as many people as possible on your side.

  Candy sat up, and the sheet fell away from her breasts. “What time is it?”

  “Twelve-thirty.”

  “My God, Sherima must be home.” She started to slip out of bed, demanding, “How could you have let me sleep so long?”

  “You’ve only been asleep for half an hour,” I said. “It was midnight when you dropped off.”

  “God, where did the night go?” she said, swinging her legs to the floor and standing up beside the bed.

  I let my eyes sweep pointedly over her nude body and then over the rumpled bed without saying anything.

  “Don’t say it,” she laughed, then turned and ran toward the couch to pick up her jeans and shirt. As she scooted into them, she said, “I hope Sherima isn’t there. She’s bound to be worried, and Abdul will be angry.”

  The latter part of her words was said with a touch of fright. I decided to follow up on it. “Abdul? Why should he be angry? He’s not your boss, is he?”

  Flustered for a moment, she didn’t answer. Then, collecting herself as she headed for the door, she laughed and said, “No, of course not. But he likes to know where I am all the time. I think he believes he’s supposed to be my bodyguard, too.”

  I had gotten up and followed her to the door. Taking her in my arms for a last, lingering kiss, I said as I released her, “I’m sure glad he wasn’t guarding your body tonight, ma’am.”

  She looked up at me, and her eyes were filled with coyness. “Me, too, Nick. And I really mean that. Now please, I must go.”

  I picked up my Stetson from a chair and flourished it across my naked thighs. “Yes, ma’am. See you at breakfast.”

  “Breakfast? Oh yes, I’ll try Nick, I’ll really try.”

  Chapter 6

  I was thinking about the previous night’s sex contest when my phone rang.

  “Nick, are you up? It’s Candy.”

  I told her I was just getting dressed, although I’d actually been awake since a little after five. After exercising and showering, I had spent about thirty minutes on the phone to AXE headquarters. I had wanted to find out if any further information had come in on what the Sword’s plans might be, but none, I was told, had been received. Our local agents had learned that most of the radical underground groups in the District’s area seemed to be alive with activity, after being relatively quiet for almost a year. Several, especially the revolutionary-terror group known as the American Arab Coalition, had held clandestine meetings, attended by only the leaders of the units, although all members had been put on the alert. For just what, nobody seemed to know.

  “Breakfast is on, Nick,” Candy said eagerly.

  “Great,” I replied. “Downstairs?”

  “Yes. We’ll see you in the Terrace Room in about a half hour.”

  “So you sold Sherima on getting out and meeting her public?”

  Candy replied, “There will be just the two of us, Sherima and me.” That didn’t seem to make much sense as a response to my question, but I realized then that the former queen was .probably nearby and that Candy couldn’t talk too freely. The urge to tease her under those circumstances was too great to resist, so I said:

  “I’ll be the one wearing the cowboy hat and the erection.”

  Her laughter flowed out of my receiver before she hung up.

  At first, only a few heads turned to glance at the two attractive women moving toward my table; but when the headwaiter, obviously recognizing Sherima, intercepted them halfway across the room and began making a formal fuss over her, people took notice. Voices fell into whispers and casual glances became stares as Sherima spoke with the waiter. By the time they finally made their way past the patronizing headwaiter, I could see that nearly everyone in the room had recognized the former Queen. Even the normally busy waiters and waitresses had collected by the long buffet table to discuss the famous new arrival.

  “Nick, I’m sorry we’re late,” Candy began, “but I—”

  “Don’t believe her, Mr. Carter—Nick,” Sherima interrupted. “Candy had nothing to do with our being late. It’s my fault. It takes me a while to decide I’m up to facing what I’m sure is going on behind us.” She extended her hand, adding, “I’m Liz Chanley.”

  Taking my cue for informality from her, I shook hands.

  “Hello, Liz. Candy says you were going out house hunting today,” I said. “Which way are you headed?”

  “Into Maryland,” sh
e said. “Up around Potomac and north of there. I had dinner with the Secre . . . with an old friend last night and he suggested that area might have just what I’m looking for. I want someplace where I can have my horses.

  I liked the way Sherima had stopped before saying the Secretary of State and turned it into “an old friend.” It showed she was secure enough within herself, not to have to drop famous names to assure her own position. There’s a nice person behind that pretty face, I decided.

  The waiter hovered discreetly in the background and I motioned him forward to order our food. Poached eggs, toast, coffee for Sherima; the same for Candy, except her eggs would float over a hefty portion of corned beef hash; ham and eggs, toast and coffee for me.

  I maneuvered the conversation to Sherima’s househunting agenda for the day, graciously offering my services as a guide—with Her Highness’ permission, of course. Just as graciously she accepted the services of a helpful fellow American. Candy’s foot was rubbing against mine, slowly and sensuously. When I glanced at her, she gave me an innocent smile, then turned to offer Sherima more coffee, her foot never stopping for an instant.

  I was finding it hard to concentrate on Maryland real estate.

  The husky bodyguard had the limousine door open the instant he saw Sherima and Candy appear in the hotel entryway. Then he suddenly noticed me trailing close behind and his right hand let go of the door and automatically darted toward his belt. Sherima’s words stopped him before he could draw the gun that I knew must be concealed there. She, too, obviously had realized what his sudden action meant.

  “It’s all right, Abdul.” she said quietly, adding as she turned to me, “Mr. Carter is with us.” I stepped up beside her and Candy and she continued, “Nick—Mr. Carter—I want you to meet Abdul Bedawi, who looks after Candy and me. Abdul, Mr. Carter will be coming along with us today. He’s a friend and he knows the area where we’ll be going.”

  I couldn’t decide if the expression that flooded Abdul’s face came from suspicion, recognition of my name, or plain dislike. But in an instant, he covered it with a broad smile, although his eyes continued to appraise me from head to toe as he bowed. Even as he spoke to Sherima he was watching me intently. “As you wish, my lady.”

  I stuck out my right hand and said, “Howdy, Abdul. Nice to meet you. I’ll try not to get us lost.”

  “I, too, shall endeavor to keep us from going astray,” he replied.

  There was a moment’s hesitation on his part before he finally took my hand. For another brief instant, we tested each other’s strength, both without being obvious about it. His grip was a crusher and he seemed surprised that I didn’t attempt to pull away from it. No one watching would have suspected our little combat, however, from the smiles on our faces or from his cordiality as he finally let go, bowed and said, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Carter.” His English was formal, precise, and typical of those Arabs who have been raised in nations where the British and Americans have had a strong influence.

  Bedawi held the door until we were settled in the back seat of the car, then went around and took his place behind the wheel. I noticed the first thing he did was to lower the window that separated the rear compartment from the chauffeur’s seat, something that normally would have been done by the passengers when ready to speak to the driver. He wasn’t taking any chances on missing a word that was said.

  As we started off, Sherima, looking around the car, said, “A different car today, Abdul?”

  Contempt was evident in his voice as he replied, “Yes, my lady. I don’t know what is going on at the embassy. They can’t seem to get it straight that we are to have our own car. I spent two hours after we returned last night checking out the other car to make certain that we wouldn’t have trouble today again. Then, when I got to the embassy this morning, they had this car ready for us. The other one was gone.”

  It crossed my mind that perhaps Hawk was playing games with the car again, but I was reasonably sure he would have mentioned it to me. Was there somebody in the embassy involved in the Sword’s plotting, I wondered, as I directed Bedawi through Georgetown onto M Street and toward Canal Road. It was difficult to play navigator and tourist guide at the same time, but I managed to point out some of the interesting shops and fine restaurants in that charming old sector of the capital as we passed.

  “This is Canal Road, Abdul,” I said as we swung off M Street and headed along the scenic highway. “We stay on this road for some time now. It eventually becomes the George Washington Parkway, and that takes us just where we want to go.”

  “Yes, Mr. Carter,” the chauffeur replied coldly. “I spent some time this morning studying the maps.”

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” I asked.

  “I need very little sleep, sir.”

  Sherima interrupted, sensing, I felt, the tension that was growing between us. “Why do they call it Canal Road?”

  “Well, you see that big ditch out there filled with water,” I said, pointing out the window. As they nodded automatically, I went on, “That’s what remains of the old C and O—the Chesapeake and Ohio—barge canal. Barges loaded with goods and passengers used to be towed along by mules. You can still see the towpath. It’s that bare strip on the grass beside the canal.

  “As I recall someone telling me, the canal used to run the whole way up to Cumberland, Maryland, which must be almost two hundred miles. At this end, it was connected by some sort of viaduct over the Potomac to Alexandria. For a hundred years, the barges ran along the canal, then it was closed just about the time World War I ended.”

  “What do they do with it now?” Candy asked.

  “It’s been preserved by the National Park Service,” I explained, “and people just use it for hiking or bike riding along the towpath. I don’t know whether they still do it or not, but when I was down here a few years back, there was a barge that still ran on the canal for sightseeing. It wasn’t one of the original ones, of course, just a replica. They tell me it was a real fun trip, complete with a mule to pull the barge. It must have made a great day’s outing.”

  As the women looked out the window, exclaiming again and again over the beauty of the scenery along the canal route, I was keeping an eye on the way Bedawi was handling the big car. He was an excellent driver, despite being on unfamiliar roads, alert to every passing sign or turn-off. At one point, he caught sight of me watching him in the rear-view mirror and a tight smile crossed his face.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Carter,” he said stiffly, “I shall get us there safely.”

  “We’ll be coming into the George Washington Parkway soon,” I said, as if to explain my attention to him and the road. “We keep right on going on it until it becomes MacArthur Boulevard. Then we can swing off it at just about any point and head into the horse country up around Potomac, Maryland.”

  “My lady,” he said quickly, “wasn’t there someplace you wanted to go for sightseeing up that route?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “Great Falls. It’s supposed to be beautiful there. Is it out of our way, Nick?”

  “Not at all. MacArthur Boulevard leads right to it. And it’s really something to see.”

  In a few minutes the car was swinging smoothly into the parking lot of the Great Falls recreational area. There were surprisingly few cars. I suddenly realized it was a weekday and most of Washington was at work.

  Sherima, Candy and I headed for the Falls. Bedawi stayed behind. When I turned to see what he was up to, he was leaning over the open hood, apparently tinkering with the motor.

  As we started for the walkway over what once had been a canal lock, three men who had been standing near the Park Service office in an area that was formerly the site of a canal rest-stop and inn, began heading that way, too. From the almost compulsive way they had been taking pictures of each other in front of a nearby sign, and from the collection of cameras that hung around the neck of each of them, I had suspected they were Japanese. I saw I was right as we got closer
and they crossed to the other side of the canal.

  “Come on,” one of them called to his companions, looking at his watch. “We must hurry if we are to take pictures of the Falls and still get to the city in time to photograph the Capitol and the Washington Monument.”

  I smiled to myself, thinking how typical was their drive to record everything they saw on film. Then it suddenly struck me that what was unusual about the scene was that the apparent leader of the trio had spoken in English rather than Japanese. As I watched them hasten along the canal bank and head into the budding trees and shrubbery, a little warning bell rang at the back of my mind. While Sherima and Candy crossed the walkway over the canal, I stopped and looked back toward the spot where Bedawi was still tinkering under the upraised hood. I realized that ours was the sole car in the big lot, with the exception of a Datsun parked at the far end. Apparently, the group of tourists who had returned from the Falls as we arrived had departed in the other cars. Obviously, too, Sherima’s bodyguard thought we had gone into the Park “Service building, otherwise he would have been coming after us.

  “Nick! Come on!” Candy was waving at me from the turn-off into the woods. I waved and headed after them, pausing just for a moment to turn once more to see if Bedawi had heard her and would start after us. He hadn’t lifted his head. Probably has the motor running and can’t hear anything, I decided.

  When I caught up to Sherima and Candy, they were busily reading a brass plaque attached to a huge boulder beside the trail to the Falls. The Japanese camera bugs were nowhere in sight, which didn’t surprise me, but I had expected to hear them on the twisted path that lay ahead. The forest was quiet around us, however, with the women’s chatter the only sound.

  I moved past them, then waited until they caught up at a footbridge over the first of the little rushing streams that flowed noisily through the woods. As they peered down at the frothy water below us, Candy asked, “Why is it so foamy? The water doesn’t seem to be moving so fast that it would make all that froth.”