by Nick Carter
"El Salvador? Nicaragua?"
The affable CIA man shook his shaggy head. "Not quite that far south, and not anything so obvious. Of all places, Belize. This makes it really sensitive because we — that is, the United States — are not as favored as we once were in Guatemala, and guess who has their cap set on having Belize returned to them."
Carter sipped his coffee, nodding.
"It is also widely believed, by no less than your own David Hawk, that we — that is, the CIA — are responsible for the precipitous removal of a certain cadaver from Covington, Kentucky. Mr. Hawk was all over my supervisor on that."
"You have to admit," Carter said, "there's reason to suspect your motives."
"As a consequence of that and some healthy skepticism from your leader, I was sent to Covington to question the local sheriff and the manager of the resort where the Grinning Gaucho's heart took its last pump. They still believe it was the Justice Department who questioned them."
"Have your people checked with NSC?" Carter asked.
Zachary smiled. "That's a rather touchy suggestion, and it convinces me you still have your doubts about us." Before Zachary could explain any further, the sound of the returning chopper began to intrude.
They went outside to watch the small craft dropping to a landing some fifty yards from the house. The side door sprang open and Chepe Munoz jumped out, a look of disgust on his face.
"Son of a bitch got away," he said. "He is one smart cookie." Springing toward Zachary and Carter, the burly Cuban held out his hand.
"I've looked forward to this, Carter'" The Cuban's grip was firm and powerful, his eyes taking in the terrain with steady sweeps. A man used to living in some dangerous climates, politically and physically, Carter thought. "My compadre here tells me you like to talk about stuff like the civil society and how those concepts go all the way back to the seventeenth century and in the works of dudes like Hobbes and Lock."
Carter agreed. "It's always important to keep up on history of important movements, and the civil society is important."
"But you don't think people are subordinate to philosophies, do you?" the Cuban pressed.
"I think," Nick Carter said, "that philosophies should help people lead the lives of highest moral quality, otherwise they're useless."
Chepe Munoz nodded approvingly at Zachary, then gave Carter a big, warm embrace. "We're going to work well together, hombre."
"This is starting to remind me of that old Marx Brothers movie with all the people being jammed into the one small stateroom of a luxury cruiser," Carter said.
"Hey, man, ain't it the truth," Munoz agreed. "Lot of people popping out of the woodwork in this caper. I sure didn't expect to see my buddy Zachary in on this one, and I sure didn't expect you. What did they sting your people for?"
Carter merely smiled.
"Then you're the only ones," Munoz said. "They got Zachary 's people good. They got my people. They got the Red Brigade. I hear, round about through Havana, that they even got the Chinese."
"Not to forget the South African diamond cartel," Carter said, deciding to throw in a bit of intrigue and perhaps get Zachary or Munoz to open up further. Also, it would be an excellent way of checking his suspicions about Margo Huerta.
Munoz grabbed Carter's arm. "Hey, are you serious? The diamond cartel?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Nobody stings those guys."
Carter studied Munoz's reaction and decided to trust the stocky Cuban. He was also beginning to think he might have been hasty in his judgment of Margo. She'd known who Piet Bezeidenhout was and both Munoz and Zachary had been surprised to learn of the South African connection. Even though she'd said she'd take Carter to meet Munoz, she hadn't shared this information with the Cuban.
Inside the house, as Zachary began his ritual of making more coffee, Carter thought it best to strike while the sense of camaraderie among them was warm. "All we need to do now is find out who they are and what they want. I have a theory, but it's all circumstantial."
"That's as good if not better than anything we have." Zachary said, dealing out the coffee.
While Carter spoke. Zachary's assistant, at Zachary's gestured orders, went into the war chest and came out with several freeze-dried packets and a few canned and bottled items, humming to himself as he looked about the crude kitchen where he'd be working on their next meal.
"Let's assume that there is an individual at the top of the organizational chart of Lex Talionis, a man or woman with the financial background and audacity of an Ivan Boesky. Perhaps this person has already brought a great deal of money into the picture, thinking of it as venture capital." Carter could see that he already had their attention. "Very well, now instead of organizing along strictly political lines like, say, PLO against the Mossad, KGB against the CIA. or even along divisions within a country like the infighting between the FBI. the CIA, the State Department, the Justice Department, and the NSC every time we elect a new president — instead of that, we see the concept of a multinational organization based on the lines of strict profitability."
"I'm with you in principle," Zachary said. "But what's the inducement? Why, suddenly, would dogs and cats begin to cooperate?
"Pure capitalism and a bit of Japanese-style management concepts. All the top-level people who come in have to have two kinds of credentials," Carter continued. "They have to have a street reputation, as it were — connections with some military or political power — and something else to throw in the pot."
"Money!" Munoz said, getting the picture.
"Arms!" Zachary said.
"Industrial and commercial diamonds," Carter added, reminding them about the diamonds Prentiss had tried to pass along and also adding his account about the small bag of diamonds at the Sichi murder.
Zachary's assistant served a large bowl of pasta with a piquant sauce and called Margo Huerta to join them. "So you're suggesting an operation that runs like a franchise, one of these multilevel marketing organizations?" Zachary ventured.
"Right," Carter said. "And the incentive is profit."
"Which means," Zachary said as Margo entered the room, "that they're going to start wanting a return on their money quite soon."
Munoz plunked a hairy fist on the table. "They sent me for a crash course at the London School of Economics," he told them, "and that confirmed most of my suspicions about what pendejos, what pubic hairs those large multinational organizations are, but this" — he looked at Carter — "this beats all. I hope you're wrong, amigo."
Carter started in on his pasta. "That's why I need your help. Zachary stood to make room for Margo, but she seemed preoccupied, looking about the room for a moment while the men fell to their meal. As they ate, the conversation fell off, staying with compliments for the man who had prepared it from the seemingly inexhaustible war chest Zachary carried with him.
"I'm afraid this is it," Zachary said. "If we stay here any longer, it's either that lamb or nothing."
"What is there to keep us?" Munoz asked.
"We should do a thorough check on those corpses and then we should bury them," Carter advised. He was aware of the others nodding agreement. "Then we need a working plan — which I've just been formulating. I think it's time to get back to Mexico City, check in with my source, and try to pick up Piet Bezeidenhout's trail. If this is the parting of the ways for us right now. I think we'll be in touch on this very case not too far down the line."
As they sat waiting for him to give more details, Carter suddenly felt a searing, jagged sensation at his neck, literally causing his right hand to twitch and drop the crude fork it held.
"There. Mr. Nick Carter," Margo Huerta said.
Turning, Carter saw her holding the electrodes from the battery and coil that had been used to torture her.
Fiercely, Margo touched the leads together, producing a series of sparks and a burning smell. "There," she said. "I suppose you'll tell your friends here that this is still some phony device that can't possibly work."
/> She touched the electrodes once again to Carter's arm. He jerked reflexively away from them. "I could have cooked your lousy dinner with this contraption, Carter."
Carter nodded, stood, extended his hand. "I was wrong to think the way I did."
"Goddamn right," Margo said, setting the contraption down with a bang, then suddenly beginning to shake with emotion.
"We're all uptight and frustrated right now," Zachary said. "Let's get those bodies buried and get the hell out of here."
An hour later, the dead PLO guerrillas buried, Chepe Munoz and Margo Huerta climbed into the first helicopter while Carter and Zachary checked the buildings one more time for leads to Abdul Samadhi's base in Mexico. They found nothing except a stack of leaflets for a poetry reading by James Rogan of the U.S.A., the Pennsylvania Powerhouse, next day in Mexico City, and a brochure describing Rogan's arts center and festival of performing arts in Belize.
Carter looked at Zachary. "You see Samadhi and his gang going to poetry readings?"
"About as much as I see myself," Zachary snorted.
"I think it's worth the effort to check out this Rogan character. We…"
It was as far as the Killmaster got.
Heavy firing suddenly exploded outside. The two agents grabbed their weapons and ran to the windows. A helicopter engine roared into high. The chopper carrying Chepe Munoz and Margo Huerta rose into the air, and swung away at a sharp angle almost hitting the trees as bullets ripped through the rotors. Carter and Zachary held their breaths as the chopper dipped, almost hit a low ridge, then picked up speed and vanished, climbing over the surrounding mountain peaks.
"They made it," Zachary exulted.
"But I don't think we're going to," Carter said grimly.
Outside, at least a company of federales emerged from the brush and surrounded the buildings. A spit-and-polish lieutenant held up a bullhorn:
"You are completely surrounded. There is no escape. I give you the option to come out with your hands up."
The Killmaster shrugged.
"Sometimes you have to know when to fold your hand." He dropped his weapon and stepped out of the building with his hands up.
Nine
The trip back to Mexico City in the back of the troop carrier under the watchful eyes of four young federales was uneventful. In the small neat office they were hustled into, Carter guessed things were going to be a lot more exciting.
In the office the Killmaster and Zachary faced a heavily mustached man with graying sideburns, bright red suspenders, and a military identity tag with the name CAPITAN MOISES AL–VARADO H. Carter decided to try the usual innocent, outraged approach.
"All right Captain Alvarado, let's get on with it. Why were we brought here, manhandled, and placed under arrest? Those bandits were throwing heavy weapons at us. Our rights…"
"Just shut up, Senor Carter, eh? Am I such a fool to you? We find you and your friends heavily armed and engaged in a lethal exchange of fire with some other equally armed foreigners and you have the nerve to ask why we brought you here? As you say in your country, 'Gimme a break! " The captain glared almost in amazement at both Carter and Zachary. "And that, as we say in this country, is only the tail of the iguana. What you are really here for, in addition to a possible charge of armed insurrection, is because I have this strange awareness and suspicion of other activities in which you may be involved." There was not a trace of humor in Alvarado's obsidian eyes. "Unless I miss my guess, senores, you two are going to stonewall and be cute and as a result, something's going to happen to you that I assure you is rare in the history of our country." He waited a moment for emphasis, then leaned closer. "You're both going to get your asses booted out of Mexico, and none of your influence or string-pulling is going to make any difference."
Captain Alvarado began to toy with a pencil. "Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you're going to tell me what the hell's going on, why you both come into my country with a virtual arsenal and begin poking around on a venture without having the common courtesy to check in with our intelligence people in the first place. That's not only an arrogant thing to do, it's a dumb thing to do."
The Mexican intelligence officer impressed Carter as being an honest man, trying to do a straightforward job. "Let's start with you, Mr. Zachary. It is Mister, isn't it? No military titles or diplomatic stuff. "
"Actually," Zachary said, "it's Doctor. I never got very far in the military, but I did pick up a Ph.D. as I suspect you already know."
"Very good," Alvarado said. "From small truths come great confidences. What was your mission regarding Abdul Samadhi?"
Zachary shook his head. "This is the part you're going to have trouble with, Captain Alvarado. I had no mission as such with Samadhi. I was trailing him to see where he went and with whom he'd make contact."
"Why were you doing this?"
Zachary spread his palms. "It gets even worse from here on. I have no idea why I was trailing him. I can speculate, but that's as far as it goes."
"What about you. Senor Carter? What was your interest in the PLO?"
"I was hoping to learn why he's here myself."
Alvarado nodded without comment. "When did you first learn they were in Mexico?"
"Very early this morning," Carter said.
"Later this afternoon," Zachary said.
"I am fortunate that my position here is professional, not political," Captain Alvarado sighed "I have experience in the gathering of intelligence reports, the following of leads, the piecing together of seemingly unrelated bits of information."
Carter did not like the way this was beginning to sound.
Alvarado was now clearly struggling to keep his voice level. "You are both here before me as fellow professionals. You are both telling me you are interested in a man you are both following without knowing why."
Carter decided there was no way out of enraging the captain, but he hoped to give just enough information to secure their immediate release. "I know how suspicious it sounds," the Killmaster said. "But as you noted yourself, you have to take this all in context. Dr. Zachary is looking desperately for information that will clear his agency from some rather severe and damaging circumstantial evidence." Without mentioning specific names or events, Carter filled Alvarado in on the missing corpse at Covington.
It was difficult to see if Alvarado bought any of this or not. He remained as stoic as some of the Aztec faces on the large murals at the university. "And you, Senor Carter?"
"I am in your country," the Killmaster said, "trying to determine the source, nature, and immediate intent of an organization that appears not to be political but which has a definite military character." Carter spoke a few words on his need to be as discreet as possible about the more specific nature of his mission.
Alvarado smiled for the first time. "Would you say. Senor Carter, that if you were allowed to remain in our country unhindered and you developed all the information you needed, that you would be willing to share the more important aspects of your information?"
Carter did not want to appear too eager. "I need to be discreet, but yes. I would certainly be willing to brief you on the aspects that apply to your country."
Alvarado reached into a drawer and came forth with a large manila file, bulging with papers. He dropped it on the desk with such a crash that Zachary blinked. "This entire folder contains the equivalents of promises from other countries and agencies to share with us." Leafing through the folder at random, he began to name off countries. "England wanted our cooperation on this. Cuba on this one. Ah, here is one from West Germany, and this is from Bulgaria, and this, señores, is from your old friends, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. And this is from the United States."
"Okay," Zachary said, "you can drop the other shoe, although I think we both get your point."
"Excellent," Captain Alvarado said, "because a point needs to be made. All these memos and promises are worthless. I have found out more from reading newspapers than from the men and women who hav
e sat where you two are now sitting, giving me their solemn words."
Carter wanted to ask how many of these persons were still alive, but those implications would only serve to enhance Alvarado's impatience with them.
"Let's return to you for a moment, señor Carter. In this venture you are now investigating for your country, please be good enough to tell me which country seems to be in a position to benefit."
"That's not how it works," Carter explained. "No one country is gaining anything, but individuals from a number of countries are apparently being stung for sums of money or other items of great worth."
"I'm beginning to get some ideas, senores," Captain Alvarado said. "Mr. Carter, have you any interst in rare books?"
Carter followed the captain's thinking. "Only in the abstract sense," he said. "I have books I value and some of them are first editions, but I wouldn't go out of my way to pick up a rare volume."
"And you. Senor Zachary, your organization has some animosity toward the PLO?"
"When they use terrorism and stealth, take hostages, and refuse to approach the negotiating table."
"Admirable," Captain Alvarado said, his voice rising, the cords in his neck becoming more apparent. "I have two men of great honor here, who are morally opposed to terrorism, ventures by stealth, and unlicensed incursions."
Here it comes, Carter thought.
Looking thoughtfully at Carter and Zachary. Alvarado then turned his attention toward the young man who'd been in charge of the company that captured them. Any moment now, he's going to be asked to leave the room, Carter speculated. Then the dramatic intensity would increase and later, the young lieutenant would be handed an envelope with cash. No explanation necessary.
Alvarado really began to pour it on, citing the number of unsolved violent deaths that had occurred in Mexico since their arrival. "The fact is that you both take this high-minded posture and yet it is very likely that you are responsible for these mysterious deaths." His dark eyes scanned them. "I do not delude myself. You are both at this very moment calculating how much it is going to take to buy me off. I am aware of the reputation of the Latin American civil servant in that regard. The word is mordida. Oh, yes. I've heard it called propina, but whether you call it graft or a tip, it still comes to the same thing, and as far as I'm concerned, it does not apply here. But do you gentlemen get my intent?"