by Nick Carter
"What do you think?" Hawk asked him.
He regarded Hawk seriously. "Well, I have to admit, it is the lives of the principals to the conference we're talking about here, at least potentially. I'll put extra men on the Caracas trip to match Venezuelan security."
"Good," Hawk said, chewing the cigar. He ran a hand through his gray hair, then took the cigar out of his mouth. "As for AXE, we would not ordinarily have an agent at this land of meeting. But since AXE was specifically mentioned in the note, I'm sending my top man — Nick Carter — to the conference." He waved a hand toward me. "The Vice-President thinks it would be a good idea if I accompanied him, so I'll go, too."
The CIA chief looked from me to Hawk. "We'll arrange for security clearance for both."
The man from the NSA shook his head slowly. "I still think you re off on a wild goose chase," he said sardonically.
"It may be that," Hawk admitted. "And of course there is a third possibility." He paused, enjoying the suspense. "A trap," he continued, sticking the cold cigar back into his mouth. "The note says that it is particularly AXE that will be humiliated. And that the whole thing is an open challenge to AXE. Maybe somebody wants N3 or me over there for some ulterior motive."
"Then why go?" the NSA man argued. "I would think this is one you'd be happy to sit out."
Hawk chewed the cigar. "Except that that's not the way I operate," he said. "I don't like the idea of hiding my head in the sand and hoping a threat will go away or that someone else will take care of everything for us."
"We welcome your presence, señor Hawk," said the Venezuelan.
The CIA man turned his intelligent, serious eyes on me. "I hope your trip turns out to be uneventful," he said.
I grinned at him. "Believe it or not, I hope so, too."
Two
It was Holy Week in Caracas, and the whole city had turned out for the festival. There were bullfights, parades with colorful floats and everyone dressed in bright regional costumes, concerts and exhibits, and dancing in the public squares. Caracas was letting its hair down for a good time. And yet it wasn't the bright, zany carnival mood that stayed with me as I settled into my room at Hotel El Conde just six days before the conference. It was the cold, spooky feeling of the stiff wind whistling through the narrow cobblestone streets of the old part of the city. I couldn't shake the eerie feeling that the city was trying to tell me something that the festivities concealed from the casual observer. Something evil.
Hawk had taken an earlier flight and was already in the city. He'd thought it was best for us to go separately and stay at different hotels.
I was to contact Hawk at a small restaurant near the American Express office at nine that evening. That gave me a few hours on my own, so I went to a kiosk at the corner and bought a newspaper and a bullfight sheet. I took the papers with me to a nearby sidewalk cafe, but I decided to sit inside because of the wind. I ordered a Campari and drank it while I read all the stories on the conference, wondering if that forum would be making real headlines before this was all over.
After I'd finished with the paper, I studied the bullfight news. I'd always enjoyed a good corrida. When you're in the business of killing and trying to keep from being killed and you five with death — violent death — the bullfight has a special fascination for you. You go, pay your money, and sit in the barrera — front row — seats. And you know that there will be a death in the ring, maybe even the death of a man. But whether death strikes the bull or the man, you know that — at least this time — you'll walk out alive. No matter who dies, it isn't you or an enemy you've had to kill. So you sit in your paid seat and take it all in with a sense of detachment you know you'll have to shed as soon as you step back into the world outside the arena. But during the spectacle you can actually enjoy death, smug and aloof from the death that stalks you on the streets.
While I was reading the bullfight paper, I glanced up and noticed a man watching me.
I looked quickly back to the paper. I didn't want the man to know that I'd seen him. I held my eyes on the page and sipped the Campari, watching the man out of the corner of my eye. He was sitting at a table outside, looking at me through the window. I'd never seen his face before, but it occurred to me that his general build was like that of the man with the gun who'd attacked me back at the training center. It might just be the same man.
But there are probably a thousand men in Caracas built like that one. I picked up a movement and glanced up again. The man was dropping some coins on the table, getting ready to leave. As he got up, he looked very quickly at me again.
After the man had gone, I threw some coins onto the table, tucked the paper under my arm, and started out after him. By the time I reached the street, the heavy traffic had blocked him from view. When the traffic cleared, he was nowhere in sight.
Later, at the restaurant near the American Express office, I told Hawk about the incident. As usual, he was chewing on a long cigar. Hawk is a real patriot, but when he has a legal chance to get a hold of a good Cuban cigar, he really can't pass it up.
"Very interesting," he said, thoughtfully, blowing a smoke ring toward me. "It might not mean anything, of course, but I think that we had better proceed with extreme caution."
"Have you been to the White Palace, sir?" I asked.
"I stopped by earlier today. There are a lot of people there, Nick, but there is very little organization. The security people seem more excited about the festival than the conference. I have a bad feeling about it."
"I got the feeling without even going there," I admitted.
"I want you to go to the palace tomorrow and have a long, unobstrusive look around. You have a keen nose for trouble. Use it and report back to me here tomorrow afternoon."
"When does our Vice-President arrive with his party?" I asked.
"Late tomorrow. Our Secret Service boys will be with him. The chief was going to come himself, but he had to go to Hawaii with the President."
"What does the Vice-President have scheduled?"
"There will be several days of sightseeing in and around Caracas with the President and other officials. There will also be banquets and receptions and private talks with the Venezuelan President. Then, at the conference there will be public talks with the Venezuelan President's administrators. The press will be there, of course. The conference will have a morning and an afternoon session. I wish it were shorter."
Hawk ran a hand through his gray hair and stared at the cup of thick coffee he'd ordered earlier. We were sitting at a small booth by the window. The small restaurant was busy, and there was a buzz of Spanish around us.
"When does the Vice-President make his first public appearance here?" I asked.
Hawk flicked an ash off his cigar and looked out onto the dark, narrow street. "Tomorrow night he's scheduled for a gala reception dinner in his honor at the Palacio de Miraflores. After the dinner there will be dancing."
"I'd like to attend that reception, sir," I said.
"I already have invitations for us," Hawk said, chewing on the cigar. "In fact, we have clearance to attend every function that the Vice-President is scheduled for. I don't think well need to attend all of them, since the threat was to the conference itself and since the Secret Service boys will be on the job around the clock, tied to the Vice-President's coattails. But we ought to be there at the first function, if just to meet the Secret Service fellows personally."
"We'll go separately?"
"Yes. Everybody but security people will think we're members of the ambassadorial staff here in Caracas. The Vice-President knows our cover and will play along with it."
I could see the worry lines around Hawk's piercing eyes. "You know," I said, "it's just possible that the authors of that warning note aren't planning anything more violent than a demonstration in front of the White Palace."
"Or maybe it really is just a big joke, with somebody sitting back and laughing up his sleeve at us."
I shrugged my shoulders. "Maybe."
But I didn't believe it for a moment.
"You're trying to comfort me, Nick. I must be getting older than I thought."
I grinned. "I just want you to relax, sir."
Hawk took the cigar out of his mouth again and snubbed it out in a small ashtray. "I just wish I could get rid of the awful feeling that something deadly is going to happen and take us by complete surprise."
He was staring at the table again. I wanted to say something to break the mood, but I couldn't think of anything. The feeling had gotten to me, too.
Early the next morning I took a taxi to the Palacio de Miraflores. It was an enormous building with about a thousand rooms. The conference was to be held in the Grand Reception Room. The reception dinner and party would take place in the Banquet Room and the Grand Ballroom.
I flashed my credentials at the front entrance and had no difficulty getting in. In fact, it was too easy. The Venezuelan police on duty seemed all too eager to please. The palace had been closed to the public because of the conference, but inside it was crowded with people who had special passes or were in some way connected with the conference.
It was quite a place inside. I was impressed. They'd even left tour guides on duty to help official visitors find their way around. A guide came up to me as I stood looking at a large oil canvas by an unknown Latin American artist.
"Perdóneme, señor. Siento molestarle.
"It's all right," I answered in Spanish. "You're not disturbing me."
"I merely wish to point out there is a Picasso farther down the corridor," the man smiled. He wore a gray uniform and cap and reminded me of a Latin version of Hawk.
"Gracias," I said. "'I'll be sure to see it before I leave. Have the police set up headquarters in the palace?"
"Yes," he said. "In the state apartments. Follow this corridor and you will come to it."
I thanked him and made my way to the large room that was being used as security headquarters. The atmosphere was hectic, yet casual, if that's possible. Telephones were ringing, and officials were engaged in serious conversations, but other men were joking and laughing and talking about the festival or the corrida on Sunday. There seemed to be a good deal of confusion. The Vice-President was expected soon, and the security men were trying to round up a party to go to the airport.
I spoke to a couple of CIA men I knew, but they didn't seem to have much interest in the conference. One of them spent five minutes telling me about a dancer he had met the night before. No one really believed the threat. I left the room and walked through the palace, looking at faces. I don't know what I expected so see — maybe the man who'd been watching me at the restaurant, I don't know. But I was also trying to assess the situation, to get a feeling about the palace and its security, as Hawk had. Unfortunately, my impressions weren't any more favorable than his. I felt like I was sitting on a time bomb that was going to go off when everyone least expected it. It was not a pleasant feeling.
On my way out, one of the CIA agents buttonholed me.
"The Venezuelan Security Police have arrested a bunch of radicals, and they'll keep them out of circulation till this is over," he told me. "There's nothing from Washington, no leads on your attackers. Everything looks quiet on all fronts. The scuttlebutt is that the Vice-President isn't taking the note seriously. So why the hell should we?"
I looked at him. "Well, I can think of one reason."
"Yeah?"
"We're professionals," I said pointedly. I turned and walked away from him before he could say another word. The new fuzzy-faced bright boys the CIA was hiring nowadays didn't impress me very much.
The Vice-President arrived later without incident. The streets on the route to the hotel where he and his entourage were staying were teeming with welcomers waving American and Venezuelan flags. I was at the hotel to watch the arrival, and it was a noisy one. The head of the Secret Service had kept his promise about extra men. His agents were everywhere. At least they seemed to be taking their job seriously.
In the evening I put on a dinner jacket and took a taxi back to the Palacio de Miraflores. It was like Academy Awards night in Hollywood. The streets were jammed with people, and the traffic was impossible. I walked the last long block to the palace. This time there were security people jamming the front entrance. Inside, in the high-ceilinged reception hall, the Vice-President stood surrounded by a few select members of the press.
The Vice-President is a tall man, and he towered over most of the people surrounding him. He was a silver-haired, genteel man, soft-spoken and reserved. His voice was audible only to those closest to him as he answered the reporters' questions. His pretty, dark-haired wife stood beside him in a flowing long blue gown. Again I found myself studying faces, but I didn't see anything suspicious. I was beginning to wonder if the NSA chief hadn't been right. Maybe Hawk and I were taking the whole thing too seriously. Maybe the man at the restaurant was just a Venezuelan who just liked to stare at foreigners. And maybe those men back at the training center had.just been trying to scare me with that gun. Maybe.
The banquet was splendid but uneventful. The Venezuelan President appeared in full military costume with a chest full of medals. The Vice-President sat on his right, at the head of the long banquet table. The meal was a superb combination of continental and Venezuelan dishes, and the wine was even better.
A beautiful young girl sat almost directly across from me at the dinner. She was easily the best-looking female at the table, full breasted and slim with long, dark hair and startlingly deep blue eyes. She wore a low-cut black crepe gown that revealed the beginnings of a breathtaking figure. She caught my eye several times during the meal and smiled at me once. Later in the ballroom she came over to me and introduced herself.
"I am Ilse Hoffmann," she said in English, with only a trace of an accent.
She gave me a wide smile, and I couldn't help thinking that the more you saw of her, the better she looked. The clinging black gown emphasized the swell of her full breasts and the spectacular curve of her hips. She couldn't have been wearing anything under the gown, and her erect nipples showed clearly through the clinging cloth. She was taller than I'd imagined, and her legs were long and slim.
"I'm happy to meet you, Ilse," I said. "I'm Scott Matthews."
"I did not mean to stare at you during the dinner, but your face seems so familiar. I work here at the German Embassy. Could I have seen you there?"
"It's possible," I said. "I'm at the American Embassy, recently transferred from Paris."
"Oh, I love Paris!" She smiled again. Her eyes were wide and innocent, and the smile was magnetic for any man with red blood in his veins. She was an incredible-looking girl. "Much more than my native city of Hamburg."
"I've had some good times in Hamburg, too," I said, wondering about her accent. It was basically German, but there seemed to be a trace of something else, too. The music was playing, though, and I didn't waste time thinking about it. "Would you like to dance?" I asked her.
"Very much," she said.
We moved onto the crowded dance floor. A small band was playing at one end of the big room. People were standing and talking in small groups and milling around on the dance floor. I held Ilse very close, and she didn't seem to mind at all. She pressed her warm body against mine and smiled up into my eyes. The effect was sensational.
Halfway through the song, the Vice-President and the Venezuelan President left the ball room for a private talk. A group of plainclothes men went with them. I watched them for a minute, and Ilse noticed.
"I met your Vice-President," she said, "and I like him very much. He is a true diplomat, so unlike the 'ugly American' image".
"I'll bet he liked you, too," I smiled.
"He seems very much a gentleman, a sensitive man," she answered seriously.
The music had stopped. We stood facing each other. I was beginning to wish I'd have more time to myself in Caracas. Ilse could be a very pleasant diversion. "Well," I said, "I enjoyed that."
"You
dance very well, Scott," she said. "You have much of the grace of a torero. Do you like the bullfights?"
"I see one when I can," I said.
"Ah, another aficionado!" she smiled. "I am going to the corrida tomorrow afternoon. Carlos Nunez is on the bill, and he is my favorite."
"I like El Cordobés," I said. I knew her remark was an invitation, but I had more important things to do than watch a bullfight. Besides, I had a built-in suspicion of women who took the initiative so quickly in first encounters.
"El Cordobés is my second favorite," she said enthusiastically. Her blue eyes revealed what I'd suspected all along — she was as attracted to me as I was to her. "You ought to go. It will be a fine corrida."
My eyes locked with hers. "Where will you be sitting?"
"In the front row on the shady side," she said. "I'll be alone."
"I'll go if I get a chance," I said. "I'd like to see you there."
"I would like to see you, too, Scott."
I was about to ask her for another dance when I saw the man leaving the ballroom. I only had a quarter-view of his face, but I was pretty sure he was the man who'd been watching me at the cafe.
"Excuse me, Ilse," I said abruptly and started after the man.
He had already gone through the wide doorway. Some people got in my way and slowed me down. By the time I got into the corridor, I could just see the back of the man's head as he walked briskly toward the front entrance of the palace.
When I got there, he was already outside. I walked quickly past the knot of guests near the entrance, down past the security guards on the steps. I couldn't see the man anywhere. He had disappeared. I went down the steps to ground level and looked past two strolling couples near the end of the building. A dark figure was just turning the corner toward the rear of the palace and the gardens.
I hurried down the walk, then broke into a run when I was out of sight. I stopped briefly at the place where the man had turned the corner. Another walk ran down the side of the building, but there was no one on it.