Circle of Scorpions

by Nick Carter

  Carter darted through the opening and left the heavy door open a crack behind him.

  It was a large wine cellar, fitted with long rows of racks on which rested many hundreds of dusty bottles under a whitewashed stone roof. He darted along the wall, glancing hurriedly down each row. Each ended in a blank stone wall…except the last. At the far end of that was a small vaulted door.

  Carter checked it and smiled in satisfaction when he found it locked.

  There was no other way out.

  Now, Carter thought, settling into a crouch behind one of the high wine racks, the hunted becomes the hunter.

  A tenseness in the muscle of his right forearm released the spring in Hugo's sheath, sending the deadly stiletto sliding forward into his hand.

  There was a deathly silence, and then the faint creak of the entrance door opening. Without hesitation, Carter clutched a half bottle of wine from one of the racks and threw it unerringly at the bulb.

  There was a popping sound as the light went, and then a louder crash as the bottle shattered on the stone floor. This was quickly followed by guttural curses and the sound of falling bodies as the two of them rolled into the room. Then Carter heard the dull thud of the door closing behind them.

  He's not armed, the squat man had said after patting Carter down.

  Hopefully, he had relayed this information to the two outside men and the woman.

  Now the cellar was completely dark. Clutching the stiletto in his hand, Carter crouched in a comer and reasoned his next move. There were two of them, and they might be joined shortly by a third, the woman.

  They would probably use knives, but Carter guessed they would have guns as well. He could only hope that they, like himself, wanted to keep this thing private. If so, guns wouldn't be a factor.

  Since there were only two of them, they couldn't search the passages between the rows of wine racks one by one and be sure that he hadn't slipped by at the unguarded end.

  Carter guessed that one would start by feeling his way carefully around the perimeter walls, either to drive him toward the other one who would be waiting for him, or to make Carter move and perhaps betray his whereabouts by some slight noise.

  If Carter was guessing correctly, what was the best maneuver to counter it?

  His only hope was to get at one of them first and hope the other would go for the sound in the confusion.

  The problem was, which way to go? He didn't know which way around the outer walls they would be moving.

  Still crouching, he listened intently. There were no footfalls, but then, if they were moving, it was probably on their hands and knees.

  Then he thought he heard a faint clink, as though one bottle had been touched against another. It seemed to have come from the far end of the right-hand wall leading away from his corner.

  Still in a half crouch, his toes barely making a whisper on the stone floor, Carter moved to his right. As he came to the corner at the far end of the wall along which he was moving, he stopped to listen once more. He was sure that the wall he had now reached was the one that led to the entrance door.

  He thought of making a noise and drawing them in, when he heard the breathing, almost beside him.

  With the greatest care, Carter groped for the end of the nearest wine rack and eased himself across the space and into the passage between that rack and the next. In spite of the exertion, he managed first to hold his breath, and then to breathe cautiously and silently.

  What he could not decide was whether, a moment or two earlier, his own breathing had been as apparent to the man as his had been to Carter.

  The breathing could no longer be heard. He dug in the pocket of his slacks until his fingers found a book of matches. Carefully, he tucked the flap under the matches and folded two of them down. Holding the match heads in place with his thumb over the striking surface, he concentrated hard, trying to discern the slightest indication of where his prey was.

  And then he heard it: the barely perceptible scrape of a toe or the leather sole of a shoe against the stone. It came from the wall directly opposite him.

  Tensing his whole body, Carter scraped the matches over the striking surface.

  They had fooled him. One was directly in front of him, staring at the flaring matches in Carter's left hand in surprise. But the other one wasn't across the room as Carter had thought. He was in the next aisle over, and already moving around toward him.

  But now Carter only had time for the one in front of him as the man lunged. Carter thrust forward with his left hand, smashing the burning matches into the man's face. His right hand, holding the stiletto, flashed up from the floor.

  There was a scream of pain as the matches seared the man's face, but it became a dry rattle as the stiletto found a home in his throat. It was dark again, but Carter knew the man was done when he felt warm blood run across his hand.

  Number one dropped like a stone, and just as he hit, the second one struck a clubbing blow across Carter's back. It sent Carter reeling against the wall. He hit, whirled, and swung his left arm.

  It was a lucky blow. The heel of his hand struck number two full in the face. He could feel cartilage, bone, and muscle all turn to gel. Then the man was sliding down his body, trying to hold on as Carter tried just as hard to twist free.

  Somehow he managed to seize an ankle and pull. Carter's feet went out from under him, and as he went down, Hugo came out of his hand. He heard it hit the floor and slither off somewhere under the bottles. In an instant, the whole weight of the other man's body fell on Carter, knocking the breath from him and pinning him down.

  Just as quickly, Carter felt himself being flipped. A hand slid across his face, and the inner side of an elbow sought his throat.

  The intent was all too clear. The man was going to bend Carter's head back until the spine snapped.

  Carter tensed his throat muscles before the grip became stationary. At the same time, he managed to get his chin slightly under the man's wrist.

  It wasn't much for leverage, but it was enough to sink his teeth deeply into the flesh.

  He bit down with all the strength in his jaws, bringing a howl of pain from the man's throat. Carter waited until he could taste blood and feel bone with his teeth, and then he started grinding.

  It worked.

  The arm loosened from his throat. Carter bucked upward, raising the straddling body off him. Before the man could come back down again. Carter slipped over and brought both knees up in a crunching blow to the other's groin.

  There was another howl of pain, and the man fell forward limply. Carter brought his left forearm across the windpipe, folded his right arm around the neck, and pressured it in a vise.

  Even in unconsciousness the man struggled, but only for a few seconds. Then he settled down against Carter again.

  Carter was about to push the very dead weight off him, when there was a scraping sound and a sudden shaft of light.

  From where he lay, pressed against the floor, Carter could see beneath the bottles ranged on the wine racks. At the far corner of the room, where the vaulted door had been locked, there was now bright light slanting across the stone floor.

  He could see two pairs of boots. The object being lowered to the floor between them he guessed to be a wine litter. Evidently, two servants had entered through the small door from the kitchens above to fill an order for wine.

  "The damn light is off again."

  "Did you bring a flashlight?"

  "Of course not."

  "Open the door a little wider. Maybe that will be enough light."

  The boots moved around the racks, coming toward the aisle in which Carter lay with a body beside him and another half on top of him.

  He tensed, ready to heave the corpse and run. when they turned one aisle short and moved down it.

  They moved down the aisle, gathering bottles as they came. Not daring to breathe, Carter followed the progress of the two pair of boots in the slanting yellow light.

  And the
n his eye caught a glint of light off metal on the floor. Directly in front of the first pair of boots lay his stiletto. Four, perhaps even three more steps, and one of the boots would kick it or step on it.

  Using every bit of strength in his body, still partially holding the corpse over him lest something in the man's pockets clatter if he were dumped off, Carter wriggled to the side. Inch by inch, he approached the wine rack.

  The boots were shuffling sideways now, accompanied by the clink of bottles going into the litter.

  The boot was six inches from the stiletto when Carter slid his hand under the lowest rack.

  His fingertips matched the distance of the servant's boot from the knife: two inches.

  He wriggled again. The body was slipping off. The boots were sliding.

  There was a crash.

  "You idiot! What happened?" His boot kicked the stiletto right into Carter's hand, but the sound of the crashing bottle had distracted him.

  "It's too damned dark. Let's get out of here before we break more."

  "What about this mess?"

  "Clean it up tomorrow."

  Carter slid the knife back to his side of the rack and held his breath until the door closed behind them. The moment he heard the bolt slide, he pushed the body away and sprinted to the outside door.

  One quick glance through the crack in the door told him the immediate area outside was deserted.

  But that could be — and probably was — misleading. There was still the woman.

  He darted into the alley and paused. From a narrow shaft of light coming down from an upper window, he assessed the damage.

  It wasn't good.

  Physically he was all right, but he looked as though he had just barely survived World War III.

  There was a rent in the side of his coat, and one sleeve hung half off. Another tear in his shirt revealed an ugly red welt. Beneath it, everything he wore was splotched with blood.

  It would be back alleys ail the way back to the hotel. But only after a short detour.

  Somewhere near the mouth of the curving alley between the buildings in front of him, Carter knew she would be waiting.

  Quickly, he unlaced his shoes and retied them to the back of his belt under his jacket. Then he moved forward in a low, running crouch, keeping himself almost entirely in the shadows.

  He moved around the curve without a pause, and then around a second.

  Just around it, Carter saw her, dead ahead, about twenty feet away. In each hand was a shoe with the heel removed. In place of the heel on each shoe there was a two-sided, six-inch dagger.

  "Amal…?"

  Carter didn't answer her, and he didn't slacken his speed. She was partially illuminated by a pool of light from a nearby house. When he charged into the same light, she recognized him and bent into a fighting stance.

  Carter didn't change direction, pause, or reverse. He just barreled ahead. Three feet from her, she feinted to the left. Instead of countering and trying to escape around her, Carter moved with her.

  It took her by surprise, but she gamely tried to nail him before he hit.

  It didn't work.

  Carter grabbed her wrists and turned them as they collided. The knives bit deep, one in the fleshy part of each shoulder.

  She muffled her own cry of pain as she went down, and Carter ran on over her.

  At the mouth of the alley he looked back once, and saw the mask of torment and pain on her face as she pulled first one and then the second piece of steel from her own body.

  He hit the larger street, went a block, and then darted into a doorway. He waited, crouched, controlling his breathing. When ten minutes had elapsed, he chanced a look.

  Nothing.

  Slowly, still in his stocking feet, he retraced his steps and looked down into the narrow alley.

  She was gone.

  It took him another two minutes to find a spot of blood on the sidewalk, and then another.

  He followed the spots for seven blocks, until he was sure of her destination, and then he broke off and headed for the hotel.

  Two blocks short of the Amstel, on an dimly lit street, he darted into a phone booth and dialed the number the arms dealer had given him.

  The woman had less distance to travel than Carter had to the hotel. It was a good bet that she had already arrived.

  The phone was answered on the fifth ring.

  "Oakhurst, this is Jasmine."

  "Yes." The voice was noncommittal.

  "Did you receive my message?"

  "Yes." Now it was a whisper.

  "Is she alive?"

  "Barely."

  "Too bad. The other two are in a wine cellar… dead. You'd better find out from her where, before they are found. Are you listening?"

  "Yes."

  "I only let this sort of thing happen once, Oakhurst. I have a long arm. If it happens again, you're out of business… permanently. Do you understand?"

  "I do"

  "Then I shall expect our rendezvous to take place with all the goods intact. That will happen, won't it, Oakhurst?"

  "It will happen, Jasmine. You have my word on it."

  "Your word to me is like your life… shit. Just remember that."

  Carter hung up and trotted the two remaining blocks to the hotel. He went all the way around to the loading dock and entered there. Between the kitchen and his floor he ran into only one person, a drunk who looked worse than Carter, vainly trying to find a hole for his key.

  Carter went on through his own room and into Carlotta's. It was empty, but the bathroom light was on.

  She had one foot on the floor and the other raised, about to step into a nightgown.

  "Beautiful," Carter whispered.

  The foot dropped and the gown came up to cover her naked body.

  When she realized who it was, she released her breath with a whooshing sound and carelessly dropped the gown back to the floor.

  "My God, what happened to you?"

  "You should see the other guys."

  He moved around her and turned on the shower.

  "Well?"

  "It's a go," he said, adjusting the taps. "A Libyan freighter will be off the coast of Italy in five days' time. I'll rendezvous, and well set up an off-load point on shore."

  "Then I should call Palmori tonight."

  Carter nodded. "And I'll call the airport and get you a morning flight to Rome. But in the meantime…"

  Effortlessly he lifted her and stepped into the tub.

  "Nick… your suit…"

  "It's ruined anyway," he said lightly. "Now, about tonight…"

  Six

  Carter flew to Nice via Paris after making sure, through a few well-placed bribes on the docks, that the crates of «pottery» had been loaded aboard the freighter Alamein. From Nice, he trained through Monaco and across the Italian frontier into San Remo.

  Dressed unobtrusively as a camera-toting American tourist on a slim budget, he checked into a small pension in the hills high above the beach. He didn't unpack his small bag, since he would only be using the room for a few hours.

  After a quick nap, he changed into a blue denim jacket, jeans, and a workman's shirt, and left the pension. The sky had darkened, and a light, drizzling rain had forced shoppers from the streets and bathers from the beaches.

  At the post office, he slipped the Kashmir passport through the cage and got back two letters. Both had been mailed in Rome two days before.

  The first was from Carlotta, with a key:

  Rendezvous Torta, 5:00 set.

  Eight: three lookouts, five handlers.

  Funds set as per prearrangement.

  Palmori not suspicious but will not attend.

  Inside the second envelope, he found a note that was even more terse:

  Guido's on Via Colonna. 3:00

  Carter checked his watch. It was already a little past the hour. But it wouldn't matter, Santoni would wait.

  He knew only the larger avenues of the small resort village, bu
t a single inquiry of a passerby led him easily to Via Colonna.

  Guido's was a good-size sidewalk cafe with about twenty tables outside and more of the same inside. There were a few drinkers and diners under the exterior awning, but none of them even glanced up at Carter.

  He stepped through the door and squinted his eyes against the gloom. The tables and booths were covered with checkered cloths, and in the center of each, the ever present wine bottle with its hardened wax drippings and a cheap candle stuck in the neck.

  Carter spotted his man in the darkness of a comer booth. The two men nodded, and Carter moved through the tables. You are late."

  "I missed my first train out of Nice."

  "Sit."

  Tony Santoni was a small, compact man of about forty. He had wavy black hair, a pale face for a native of southern Italy, and intelligent eyes.

  For years he had been registered as a master captain on anything that sailed from 165 feet on down.

  Sailing was his passion.

  So was antiterrorism.

  Tony Santoni was a major in Italy's SID, and for the last ten years he had been one of the government agency's best undercover men.

  Carter had already worked with the man on more man one rumble, and he trusted him completely.

  Two glasses had already been filled from a large carafe of wine. Santoni pushed one toward Carter and smiled.

  "You look fit," he said. "Don't you ever age?"

  "In our business, Tony, one never ages. We just up and die one day."

  ""How true. Salute!"

  The two men drank and men leaned forward, their eyes riveted over the wineglasses.

  "You have the boat?"

  The Italian nodded. "A forty-foot Corsair with enclosed cabin and twin Cummins. It will do over sixty knots in a calm sea, and it is already rigged for arms."

  "Smuggling boat?"

  "What else? We liberated it from a bunch of Turks in the Adriatic about two months ago."

  "Is it ready to roll?"

  "Absolutely, complete with spare tanks. How far do we have to go?"

  Carter fished a piece of paper from the denim jacket and spread it between them.

  "We rendezvous with the freighter here, just to the northwest of Corsica, at midnight."