Law of the Lion

by Nick Carter

  While they were waiting for the order to be brought, Carter again checked the door, the hallway, and the windows. For good measure, he ran another check on the phone. "Equipment is so sophisticated these days, they don't even have to be in the room to turn the phone into a microphone."

  Susanna nodded, propped herself up on one elbow, and eyed Carter speculatively. "I'm having a very good time with you," she said, "and I'm probably a little in love with you, but I happen to be a practical and realistic sort and so I wonder if we could have the rest of the day together."

  "How about until breakfast, tomorrow morning?" Carter countered.

  "I think I am in love with you." Susanna King said. "But only until breakfast."

  Using some of Susanna's things, Carter took a quick shave and by the time he'd finished, room service arrived with what they both agreed was enough food and drink to last them until tomorrow morning.

  Wheeling the serving dolly over to the side of the bed, Carter produced dishes and glasses. They ate and drank, unselfconscious about being naked, their hands meeting occasionally, their eyes filled with the admiration of each other and the knowledge of what was still before them.

  Carter decided it was best to get business out of the way. He still had something to say to her and now seemed the proper time.

  "I've come to the conclusion that Hector Cardenas was not the only one with a laundered identity," he said.

  While Susanna was spooning generous gobs of the green chili over her huevos rancheros, Carter went to his wallet and retrieved the photo of Miss Crystal left for him in the private jet that took him from Toronto to Phoenix.

  "Anyone you know?" he asked.

  To her credit, Susanna didn't miss a beat and kept right on eating. "I told you that someone close to me began to suspect. It was my younger sister. Crystal»

  "And now you've decided to find out for yourself?" He sat down on the edge of the bed, took the fork from her hand, and set it on her plate. Taking both her hands in his, the Killmaster said. "It's much more plausible that you're a brunette under that blond dye job, and that you used a product called eye collagen along with another formula, Retin A, available from the more enlightened dermatologists. You were able to make yourself look quite a bit younger, and judging from the outfit you wore in this photo, you were able to make yourself appear to be the type that so excited Guillermo Arriosto, alias Hector Cardenas."

  Susanna King pulled her hands free and began eating again.

  "Was it indeed Cardenas at Covington?"

  "Yes," she said matter-of-factly, looking now for some jam made from the nopal cactus. "From the things he asked me to do — the sexual things — and all the other similarities, I concluded it was him."

  "Concluded?" Carter said.

  "But not quite positive." She stopped chewing, paused reflectively, and turned to face Carter. "I… I wanted to be positive, but something wasn't quite right. There were striking similarities and yet there were differences…"

  "What kind of differences?"

  "Appearance. Cardenas was known to have scars about his lower torso. He liked it when — he asked me to put on a French maid's costume and to pretend I was angry with him and to spank him. I was told this had left many scars from previous times."

  Susanna poured them both coffee and sipped hers slowly. "He had a younger face than I expected, and one of my reports said his eyes were rather close together."

  "Crossed?"

  "No, not that way, simply the effect of a smaller head. But so many other things checked out. I have to conclude that it was Cardenas. I reported to my people that it was indeed Cardenas."

  "And after the body was stolen, your people suspected it had something to do with the CIA."

  She nodded guilelessly.

  Carter trusted her. "Then you were instructed to come here to Phoenix and, in the role of Miss Crystal's older sister, see if you couldn't pick up any fresh leads."

  Susanna nodded again. "See if I could get any leads on the others who were with him at Covington. See if there were any other leads or connections here."

  "My guess," Carter said, "would be that you told me the truth about your background in Argentina, and the ones you now refer to as your people are, in fact, the Mossad."

  Susanna King watched him thoughtfully, then broke into a smile. "You won't tell them about this, will you?" she said, picking up a large shrimp and dipping it into a small container of mustard, then slowly placing the shrimp in her mouth.

  "Ah, of course," Carter said with a laugh. "Shrimp aren't kosher."

  "But it is very, very good, Mr. Killmaster from AXE."

  "Another of your conclusions?" Carter said.

  "Makes sense. The guy in the parking lot called you Killmaster, and you're certainly better than any FBI or CIA operative I've ever seen. Also, when I came here, I was told the names of all the FBI and CIA people in the area. Mostly the FBI agents who are here all the time and one CIA man named Zachary. For you to have missed our surveillance, you must have come in by private sources."

  "What's your real name?"

  She shook her head. "You already know enough about me. Why would you care about that?"

  "I want to call you by your real name while we're making love," Carter said.

  "It's lucky for me and my career that I don't go for everyone the way I do for you. All right, my name is Rachel. Rachel Porat. I'll be twenty-four in four months. I really am from Argentina, and I went with the Mossad because I'm more or less in sympathy, and they aren't in a position to turn down likely operatives because of something as mundane as age."

  "Care to tell me your real interest in Cardenas?"

  She hesitated. "The part about his causing some of my family and friends to disappear is true. From that sense, it was purely a bonus that I'd known about him as he really was. We have him connected with attempts to start dealing in weapons and ammunition. He was specifically interested in Belgian FN-FALs and if not those, then AK-47s."

  "He was certainly after good stuff," Carter acknowledged.

  "He was also after the H & K 91."

  Carter knitted his brow. "That fires a.762 NATO round. His tastes in guns are rather interesting."

  "Our people link him with another man who greatly interests us, a man who is also interested in guns and ammunition — Piet Bezeidenhout."

  "The head of the South African diamond cartel security police?"

  "That's the one. My immediate superior considers him one of the most dangerous and venal men in the security profession today."

  Carter felt his spine begin to prickle. He'd heard of Bezeidenhout's activities in and out of South Africa. An idea began to formulate. "Do the initials LT mean anything to you?"

  "Lammed tav?" The woman who was Rachel Porat shrugged noncommittally.

  Carter grabbed her shoulders. "Don't play games with me, Rachel. I don't mean Hebrew letters. I mean English ones, L and T."

  She pulled away from his grip, and stood up. Vulnerable in her nakedness and desire, but torn by something deep inside. Carter had touched a nerve.

  "Dammit, Carter, I've given you enough. Can't we just…"

  "No," Carter snapped, "we can't. LT could be something of momentous proportions. If you know anything, you should share."

  "Find your own leads," she said angrily. "We have to work hard for what we get, and now, all of a sudden, everyone thinks we're world-class heavies."

  "Are you?" Carter asked.

  "What do you think?"

  Carter shook his head. "It doesn't matter what I think. I know who pays my rent and I know how far I'm willing to go to earn my pay. What about you?"

  "LT is top-echelon stuff for us. If we develop our investigations and find out we were right, we can go in and stop it, and suddenly we're looking good again because we've removed something dangerous. Something potentially risky here in America and Canada. Then the rest of the world owes us. It's not my idea of how to do business, but in case you hadn't noticed, we're not ex
actly winning popularity contests these days."

  "When you say 'go in, you mean like at Entebbe?"

  "I was only a kid then, Carter. I wasn't with them."

  The Killmaster said nothing, stood, and lit a cigarette. He took a few drags, organizing his thoughts, then looked her in the eye.

  "I've got this assignment too, Rachel, and I mean to develop it until I know what it is. If it's something as big as it looks, we'll have to take steps to stop it."

  Rachel Porat made a snicker of distaste. "One stubborn American senator could slow down the entire procedure with delays and tin cans tied to the tail. One ambitious CIA operative, looking for name and glory, could ruin it."

  "My organization has its own mandates, but it still respects the democratic process. If you give me something of value, I can promise you a return if I develop anything from your lead."

  Rachel shook her head bitterly. "It becomes so damned political, Carter. Suppose you think there's nothing in it? Suppose we do?"

  "Look, Rachel. I know what you're saying. But my group doesn't have to protect people. Very few persons know about us — the president and a few key others. Our size is strictly limited. There's no way we can get out of hand or lose touch with reality. In a very real sense, we're above politics."

  "I'm going to trust you, Carter, because you saved my life, and because your being here isn't any accident."

  "I think," Carter said, "you're doing the right thing."

  Rachel Porat began to walk about the room, filled with the tenseness of her decision. After a minute or two she sat next to him and made eye contact all the while she spoke.

  She might have been young and vulnerable, but she had the hard center necessary to be a good agent. It became clear to Carter that the accident of Rachel's Argentine background and her knowledge of Cardenas had influenced the higher echelons of the Mossad to let her in on more than they had Abrams, the operative running in Paris.

  The Mossad had reason to believe Lex Talionis, whatever its goals were, was growing, gaining momentum and followers. They weren't clear where the money was coming from, but it was apparently well financed.

  "Does the name Abdul Samadhi mean anything to you?"

  Rachel Porat frowned. "Little cast-eyed PLO pig with a cleft chin trying to run up a reputation for himself."

  Carter motioned for her to continue.

  What came out was a series of anomalies — apparent or suspected dealings between persons who were either natural enemies or close to it. "As it was, I can tell you the names of three men who spent time with Cardenas in the meetings he held at Covington." Purposefully, she gave Carter some names of members of the notorious tonton macoute secret police from the deposed "Baby Doc" Duvalier regime, a former member of Ferdinand Marcos's staff, and an ardent white supremacist from Idaho.

  "You know for a fact they were there?"

  Rachel nodded. "I have the names of others who met with him, but I will end this conversation and all our covenants if you push me on these. Two of them we want, one of them I want."

  "I understand," Carter said.

  She smiled, relieved. "In that case, there is a name I will give you, because I don't think I'm going to be able to get to Mexico City just yet."

  "You're determined to work these people Cardenas met with?"

  "And his contacts here. Cardenas was planning something big, big enough to betray the people who laundered him and brought him in."

  Maybe not betray them, Carter thought, but he said nothing. He waited while Rachel Porat began to describe and lead up to the contact in Mexico City.

  Carter had to stop her. "Why are you hesitating like this?"

  "Because, damn you, I'm jealous." Then she went on to explain why. "The person I'm sending you to, Margo Huerta, is a fascinating woman. She's tall, good-looking, sensual. She's an artist who is well respected, and she has great passions for everything in life. I know what will happen when she sees you." While she went on describing Margo Huerta, Rachel lapsed into the formalized, stilted method of reporting that characterized so many police, security, and political organizations.

  "Subject is known to have significant contacts with liberal fund-raising groups and is thought to have funneled funds for indigenous tribespeople and nationalist fighters involved in armed conflicts with American — and Soviet-sponsored military groups." While Rachel Porat spoke, Carter had to muster all his control not to erupt into a large grin, but he was successful at keeping a poker face.

  Rachel's description was professional enough, although she did manage a few catty digs.

  When she finished talking, she looked at her watch. They had sixteen hours left — sixteen hours for Rachel Porat to work out her jealousy in ways that would give Nick Carter something to think about when he was in Mexico City. "Come here," she said. "I'm going to make sure you remember me."

  * * *

  Carter eased out of Rachel's room while she slept. It was not an easy decision to make. Theoretically he was still on schedule, and as Rachel lay there, her hair spilling over the pillow, her body warm and inviting, he was tempted to wake her up for a proper farewell.

  But Carter sighed, went to the door, and left. He used the taxi trip to Phoenix International Airport to set the complex skein of events in perspective. He had time to put in a call to Hawk and for a barbershop shave and massage before his flight to Mexico City boarded.

  "I imagine your interview with Miss Crystal was productive," Hawk said, and Carter could hear the sucking and puffing of smoke as well as Hawk's ironic bite.

  Hawk listened carefully as Carter went through the details. "No question about it, Nick. This is a profitable line of enquiry. While you were digging up your details, we got a few of our own. We had to twist a few arms, and the CIA bloody well yowled when I gave them a quid pro quo. They hadn't known one of their boys had been doubled by the Cubans. Here's what it amounts to."

  He went on to report that Guy Prentiss had been in Mexico City shortly before his death, trying to contact old intelligence sources, especially a rare book dealer named Norman Sasner. "Prentiss was desperately trying to get word through that he was on to something."

  "Did that have any effect?"

  "You know the bureaucratic maze, Nick. CIA and State took notice, but in all cases, they discounted his reliability and placed the material in a file where it will stay until they either get confirmation or decide it isn't worth pursuit."

  There was a long pause and Carter could hear the TV monitors in the background. A private teletype began to clatter, bringing forth fresh, reliable information from somewhere in the world.

  "We're most interested in the participation of this Bezeidenhout fellow. Pursue that. Find him if you can. See if you can discover what he's up to. Is this something he's doing for the South African diamond cartel?"

  "Could it be something he's working on independently, sir?"

  "Good question. Find out. We need to know that. Those diamond security police pay their operatives well, but they brook no nonsense. If a man is caught with even the suspicion of an unsavory deal, there are severe reprisals."

  Hawk paused to let that sink in.

  "See if you can get any fresh material from the sources our colleagues at the Agency and State missed," he continued. "Go to Mexico City and keep in touch, especially if you land anyone who is a member of this Lex Talionis."

  "I'll see if I can get you some Cuban cigars," Carter said.

  "Don't bother," Hawk growled, but not without regard.

  Five

  Several noted commentators have projected that the huge sprawl of Mexico City would be the largest metropolitan area in the world by the end of the century. There were already twenty-eight million people living in varying degrees of opulence or poverty, depending on where you drew the line between luxury suites and packing crates. Probably another two or three million more than that if you remember that census programs begin to lose their accuracy as you move closer to the pockets where the poor and t
he dispossessed try to eke out a living.

  As far as Carter was concerned, Mexico City already was the largest, measurably larger since his last visit a few years earlier. A heavy layer of smog pressed down, amplified by the rattle and clatter of slow-moving streams of cars and trucks without mufflers and, even worse, by too many smoke-belching diesel-powered vehicles.

  The usual afternoon cloudburst fell within minutes of four o'clock, and a light breeze promised some relief from the day's heat, but at an altitude of seven thousand feet, it would take something more forceful to clean out the smog. So it was clear that while you were here, there were other things on your mind besides clean air: a twenty-four-hour-a-day lifestyle, some of the most beautiful women in the world, some great restaurants, first-rate museums, top performances in every kind of music, some of the finest minds in the world today as well as some of the most devious, the opportunity to cut deals with the wealthy and the needy from all over the world.

  Carter went to a favorite cafe, the Tupinamba, home of the bullfight crowd. He washed down a light lunch of lamb shank and green peas with two bottles of Carta Blanca pilsner, then made it official that he was back in Mexico by having a syrupy Mexican coffee, half-and-half with steamed milk.

  Checking the list of his contacts, he decided on the Plaza Florencia as his hotel. Just off Mexico City's main avenue. Paseo de la Reforma, it was convenient to the Zona Rosa, the so-called Pink Zone that reminded Carter in many ways of the Georgetown area of Washington, D.C. In both places, the shops, galleries, restaurants, and bistros were definitely upscale.

  From the Plaza Florencia, Carter could pursue his meeting with Margo Huerta, the artist Rachel Porat had told him about. It was convenient as well to the rare book dealer, Norman Sasner. Apparently desperate, Prentiss had tried to contact any legitimate source before his driving urge to tell what he'd known about Lex Talionis had brought him and the CIA man, Merton, violent death. He'd also be within blocks of a café where he could either find or make contact with Chepe Munoz, another person Prentiss was known to have contacted.