Circle of Scorpions

by Nick Carter

  Like all Italian prisons, Montferrato was run on the gratuity system. That is to say that if a palm is well greased, the palm will pat the back of the one who does the greasing.

  Ali Kashmir was such a one. Because of his notoriety — and his ability to obtain lire from outside the walls — he was exempted from labor and just about had the run of the prison.

  Unlike the penal theory of American prisons, where there is ideally some attempt at rehabilitation, Italian prisons are solely for incarceration. But like American prisons, the inmates are thrown into the pool and told to swim as best they can with the other sharks.

  Carter learned this only too well the first week. The basic precept of each man was survival. And survival was accomplished only through respect.

  The entire center of the compound was a courtyard. Part of the area was for craft shops, where the more skilled prisoners could set up small shops to make and sell their wares to the other, more wealthy prisoners. The rest of the area was used for exercise and recreation, and brawls that decided the pecking order.

  It was in the afternoon of his third day that Carter was first tested. He was standing alone, idly watching some of the older inmates playing boccie.

  They were goons, two of them. They moved in on each side of him.

  "You are the dandy, the rich one, Kashmir, who doesn't have to sweat in the laundry!"

  "I am Kashmir," Carter replied in a quiet voice.

  "You are not Italian!"

  "I am Lebanese."

  "Ah, then you sponge off our Italian state! It is only right that you should pay for your food and lodging in this wonderful hotel our government has provided for you!"

  "Yes, that's true, Kashmir. We — my friend and I — will collect for the state, each week."

  The boccie game had slowed to listlessness, the players now more interested in the drama on the sidelines. A circle of inmates had formed around Carter and the two men challenging him.

  Carter looked to the one at his left, then swiveled his gaze to the other man on his right.

  "Both of you can go to hell."

  One swung a roundhouse right, while the other grabbed Carter's arms and pinned them to his back. He caught the one swinging in the kneecap before the blow landed. The man was still cursing and screaming in pain when Carter kicked again. This time Carter's booted toe caught him full in the face.

  His nose spouted blood, and a few teeth dribbled from his mouth as he went down.

  The other one, holding Carter, roared and tried to break his shoulders by crossing his arms behind him.

  Carter leaned forward, his legs off the ground. He curled his feet behind the other man's ankles and lurched backward.

  They both went down with Carter on top, his tailbone crunching into the other man's crotch. His scream of pain made the previous one sound like a whimper, and Carter's arms were free.

  He rolled away and to his feet as the first one came up off the ground in a lunge, his face a bloody mask.

  The man had about forty pounds on Carter, so the hit was effective.

  They both went down, but on the way Carter managed to grab the man's thumbs. By the time they hit, he had curled them both back. Both thumbs snapped like twigs.

  This addled the man long enough for Carter to roll him over. Then he sat on his chest and methodically battered his face until it was a pulpy mass.

  When there was no movement beneath him, Carter stood and walked back to the second man, who was still rolling on the ground, his hands cupping his ruptured testicles.

  Carter was vaguely aware that the other inmates had crowded around them in a tight circle to shield the battle from the prison guards.

  Not that the guards would interfere anyway; it made for a better show.

  Carter drop-kicked the man in the chest. He rolled over and got two more vicious kicks in the kidneys.

  Carter was just sighting in on the back of his neck, when be felt a hand tentatively touch his shoulder.

  "Signore…"

  Carter turned his head. A weathered old face covered with beard stubble was beside him. "Si?"

  "I think, signore, that if you kick him one more time he will die."

  Carter looked at the body at his feet. "Yes, that would be awkward," he murmured.

  He stepped away and walked through the silent crowd. They parted like a wave before him and slowly dispersed.

  No one paid any attention to the two mangled men on the ground.

  That evening, after the six o'clock meal had been served in the huge dining hall, Carter was heading back toward his cell. He was almost there when a ferret-faced little man with droopy eyes and sloping shoulders fell into step behind him.

  "Signore Kashmir?"

  "Yes?"

  "One of the men in the courtyard today… Anzio…?"

  "What about him?"

  "He is in the infirmary. They say he bleeds bad inside. They say be will die."

  "So?"

  The little man shrugged and smiled, showing crooked and broken teeth. "It matters no more to me than to you if the pig dies, but he has friends."

  "And that means that I need friends, right?"

  The smile grew wider and uglier. "That is right. In here, there are only two kinds of men, signore… common pig criminals like Anzio and political prisoners such as myself."

  "Headed by Pietro Amani."

  True. Since you already have some affiliation with the Liberta, it would be wise for you to seek out Signore Amani and request his protection."

  "For a price, no doubt."

  Again the shrug. "Signore Amani respects the fact that you were aiding the Liberia when you were arrested, but in here you roust earn your own way. A man like you, with your talent, could be very useful to our side."

  "No, thanks."

  "Signore Kashmir. Signore Amani does not take no for an answer. He is a boss, and bosses must control."

  "Not me."

  The grin faded. "This is the only offer that will be made."

  "Tell Signore Amani to stick his offer up his ass."

  It was about midnight when Carter beard a key being inserted in his cell door. Through one slitted eye he saw Amani's emissary, little Ferret Face, sliding the door to the side.

  He was expecting it. If they wont join you, do away with them. It was the rule. It maintained discipline. No one is supposed to buck the bosses.

  The little man moved like a cat on soft-soled shoes through the door. Carter saw his hand move to his belt, then down to his side.

  It would either be a makeshift stiletto or an ice pick. Probably the latter, they were easier to come by. As for the key to his cell, any inmate could get it, with the right bribe to the right guard.

  It was the quickest way to solve a problem: an ice pick in the ear and a quiet burial outside the walls.

  Carter waited until he saw the arm start down before he reached up with his left hand and locked his fingers around the man's wrist. At the same time, he kicked out and scissored his legs around the man's middle.

  When his feet were locked behind the other's back, Carter pulled him in. Carter twisted the wrist around and filled his right hand with the man's greasy hair.

  It was an ice pick, and now its sharp needle point was just drawing blood under the man's upthrust, stretched chin.

  "Amani sent you."

  Silence.

  "You're going to die anyway."

  "No… no…"

  "Yes."

  Carter rammed his shoulder against his left hand, sending the ice pick through the man's throat and up into his brain.

  After shutting and locking the cell door, he stuffed the body under the cot. Then he lay down and set the alarm in his head at four hours.

  A few seconds after four A.M., he awoke. Ten minutes later the guard passed by, making his last round before dawn.

  Carter waited until his footsteps had completely faded before rolling from the cot. He unlocked the door, then hoisted the corpse in a fireman's lift to his shou
lder.

  On stocking feet, he padded to the end of the corridor and down to the second level. At this time of the morning, sleep was deepest. Not a single head came up from a pillow nor was one snore interrupted as Carter passed the cells with his grisly burden.

  Amani's cell was number fourteen on the second level. As silent as death. Carter slid the man's arms through the bars of Amani's cell and secured them with the corpse's own belt.

  Five minutes later he was back in his own cell, sound asleep with the door locked and the key hidden in one leg of the cot.

  Near the end of the exercise period that afternoon, Pietro Amani groaned into a bench beside Carter.

  He was a big man, well over six feet, with a once powerful athletic body that was now going to fat. Carter knew him to be just past his sixtieth birthday, but he looked ten years younger.

  "You are a very relentless man, Kashmir." He spoke without turning his head toward Carter, and his lips barely moved.

  "Am I?"

  "Removing Guido's body without a report to the warden cost me a great deal."

  "Did it now?" Carter dropped the cigarette from his lips and ground it under his boot.

  "I don't wish to have a private war with you, and I don't want to see you on the other side."

  "You won't."

  "Good. I didn't think so. Power is everything in here, don't you agree?"

  "I do."

  "You and I, we have many years yet behind these walls. You would do me a great favor if you would help me save face by at least nominally giving me your allegiance. I will ask no more of you, and I promise that in the years to come I can help you."

  "I don't think so."

  Amani's neck began to redden, and his body grew tense. Carter hastened to explain.

  "You can do very little for me, Signore Amani, in the years to come, because I won't be here."

  "What?"

  "I plan on escaping."

  The big Italian laughed, a low, rumbling laugh from deep in his gut. "Many have tried, Kashmir, many. And none have succeeded. With bribes we can do practically anything we want in here, but even with bribes we cannot get out."

  "I can and without bribes."

  Slowly the mane of gray hair moved until Carter was staring directly into the man's clear blue eyes.

  "I think you mean it, Kashmir."

  "I do," Carter replied. "If you're a gambling man, you can make book on it."

  "When?"

  "Within the week."

  Carter practically saw the little light bulbs go on behind the man's eyes.

  Within a week.

  If he could escape, he could usurp Nicolo Palmori's authority and take over the Liberia again. He could meet with the Russians and begin again his reign of terror that would topple the Italian state.

  "Tonight, please, come to my cell after lights out."

  "Why?"

  "Because, Signore Kashmir, if you can get me out of this pigsty and to a certain part of the world in nine days' time, I can put you in touch with certain people who, in your line of work, can make you a very rich man."

  Nine

  The apartment was in a building that was exactly like its neighbors in the hills above Montmartre. It contained a living room, two small bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, bathroom, and an entrance hall. The furniture was modern and cheap but comfortable.

  It was perfect in every way, including privacy and security. Carlotta Polti had checked it out herself in every detail.

  It would provide the perfect safe house after the break for herself, Carter, and Pietro Amani, until the old man dictated the next move.

  The buzzer rang from five flights below, and Carlotta pressed the button. "Yes?"

  "My name is Justin."

  "Come up."

  She buzzed the voice in and lifted her skirt. Attached to her right inner thigh with a soft chamois harness was a six-inch tube that looked like no more than a chrome pipe with a small plunger on one end. Actually, it was a single-shot pistol that carried a .44 dumdum slug.

  From five feet or less, it could tear a man's side out.

  Carlotta checked the load, dropped her skirt, and moved to answer the rap on the door.

  She gazed through the peephole and then muttered in a low voice, "Move aside, please."

  "I am alone."

  "I said, move aside."

  He did. When she was satisfied that he was indeed alone, she opened the door and moved back into the living room.

  Jason Henry was a king-size man with a florid face that sported a habitual grin and a gleam in the eye that could only be described as mischievous.

  Well, well," he said, moving to within a foot of Carlotta and letting his eyes enjoy what they saw.

  "You look surprised. Mr. Henry."

  "I am. The scum that usually hires me this way are generally short, fat, beady-eyed, and can barely speak French or English through their slobbery lips."

  "Sorry to disappoint you."

  "Believe me, I am not disappointed. Got anything around here to drink"

  "Wine?" Carlotta asked, already knowing the answer. "Wine? Hell. lady, mat's for washing down a steak or saying beads!"

  "There's a bottle of American whiskey, there, and glasses. Pour me one. too,"

  He smiled and roiled toward the table with something akin to a sailor's gait. As he poured the whiskey, Carlotta lit a cigarette and went over what she saw, and what she knew about Jason Henry.

  His clothes were far from Parisian chic: khaki pants and shirt with the sleeves rolled to the midpoint of bulging biceps. His shoes were canvas half boots, and he wore no socks. He was a good six and a half feet tall and would never see two hundred and fifty pounds again no matter what diet he used.

  Under his roaring manner Carlotta sensed the guile and wit of a true intelligence, and a sensitivity beyond the personality he showed the world. He could have been a New York cop, a New Jersey longshoreman, a Boston politician, or an IRA radical in Cork — anything but an American expatriate on the European continent.

  He had served twelve years with the U.S. Army and attained the rank of major in Vietnam. When that war ended, Henry had gone to work for the CIA.

  Because of bureaucracy — and the agency not using his many talents — Jason Henry had gotten bored. He resigned. but because of the many contacts he had made, he was able to get work as a mercenary.

  Between those jobs, he filled in his time — and his bank account — with a flying service. He was known to have some scruples, but most of them could be stretched with the right amount of money.

  Before he had been chosen and contacted by Carlotta, he had been thoroughly checked out on his latest escapades by the Americans and her own SID. Much of what he had been up to had been shady or downright illegal, but mat only made him more ideal for the assignment.

  Henry handed her a glass and raised his own in a salute. "To the devil and beautiful women!"

  Carlotta smiled and raised her glass. "To them being one and the same, Mr. Henry."

  "A lady after my own heart!" He drank and smacked his lips. "If we're going to do some hell-raising and head-busting together, why don't you start calling me Jason?

  "Fair enough. My name is Carlotta."

  "Carlotta what?"

  "Carlotta none-of-your-business. Now why don't we sit down and talk?"

  His grin, if possible, widened, and the twinkle in his eyes got brighter. "Carlotta, I think I'm gonna like you."

  He took a chair, she the opposite sofa, with a coffee table between them. She spread papers and maps out on the table, and looked up. "There will be certain preparations to make before the actual mission starts."

  "And the mission?"

  "It's in two parts. The first will be to help two men escape from Castel Montferrato, in Italy."

  Henry whistled. "Sounds like fun."

  "Now, suppose we get down to it."

  She spoke rapidly in quick, staccato sentences, but it still took her over an hour to explain the entire operat
ion with all its ramifications.

  When she was finished, Henry got up and poured himself another glass of whiskey. When he returned to his chair, he brought the bottle with him.

  "Well?"

  "Lady, uh, Carlotta… you know what you're asking for?"

  "I do. I've just spelled most of it out."

  "You want three untraceable cars to use for carry, lead, and chase. You want three other low-life gunnies that can be trusted, you want to refit a helicopter, and you want the use of my own plane to fly to hell-knows-where."

  "That's exactly what I want."

  "Like I say, you want a bundle!"

  Carlotta placed a pad before him, lifted a pen, and wrote a figure. "I'm paying a bundle, plus expenses."

  Henry looked at the figure and roared with a laugh that practically rocked the room's walls. "Carlotta, I'm your man."

  She flipped a picture across the table. "Can you fly this?"

  "An H-34? Hell, yes. I flew those banana boats before I knew how to fly props."

  She turned a map around. "This machine is currently here, in a bam about thirty kilometers from the Italian frontier. It needs to be repainted and resignatured. There is also a hoisting device that has been removed but must be reinstalled with a pickup hook."

  He nodded. "Probably the same kind we used in Nam. I know it. When does all this have to be ready?"

  "In forty-eight hours."

  "Jesus."

  "Can it be done?"

  Jason Henry glanced again at the pad containing the figures and grinned. "It can be done."

  * * *

  Émile Dobruck stepped from the car and crossed the narrow walk to the Club Paris. Without a verbal order, the driver stayed in the car while the two other passengers, Dobruck's new bodyguards, entered the club with him.

  At the door, he was greeted with much bowing and scraping, and was escorted to the best table in the house. This was always the case when he was in Brussels and decided on a night out at the Club Paris.

  Émile Dobruck owned the club and most of the real estate surrounding it.

  His manager, Montchard, saw his boss enter and, knowing Dobruck's taste, immediately signaled the new girl that he had just hired two days before to wait on him.