Law of the Lion

by Nick Carter

Carter outlasted Zachary by ten minutes. The CIA man had been stopped by armed persons who'd sent him back to the areas indicated on the map.

  They were forced to join an orientation and discussion group in which Jim Rogan gave a lengthy discourse on the explosions and their significance.

  "These guys here," he said, pointing to Carter and Zachary, "said the explosions were probably pipe bombs and as nearly as we can tell, they were right. There did not appear to be any specific target. None of our buildings or utilities were damaged. There were some broken windows and debris, but that's the extent." He looked at them with fatherly concern. "I've provided some security forces to check things out and to make sure you're all okay."

  While Rogan spoke, justifying his armed guards, Carter realized it was going to make investigating the surroundings that much more difficult.

  "Why would anyone want to set off a bomb here?" an incredulous and serious young woman with a straw hat said.

  "We're working on it," Jim Rogan said. "But don't worry, we'll keep our guard up. And we won't let it interfere with our festival. We'll have our workshops and our readings. Remember, wherever you go, you'll be safe. But just to make sure, I ask that you don't stray beyond the marked buildings on the map that came with your registration packet."

  "There's no way for us to get out tonight for a look around," the Killmaster said. "He'll have someone posted to watch us. If we don't even try, and participate in some of the other activities, it will get his guard down."

  Zachary groaned. "This is not going to be easy stuff to take."

  Carter gave him an encouraging clap on the shoulder. "Just think of it all being for a good cause. We can get free tomorrow night and find out what the hell's at the other side of these grounds."

  The evening passed with agonizing slowness. A tall woman in her early thirties, speaking with a working-class English accent, appeared to be taken with Zachary and tried to sit near him and engage the CIA man in conversation.

  At the dinner hour, they were served some black beans and rice and macaroni and cheese. Although the cheese was tangy enough, Zachary balked. "Thank goodness for my war chest in my room." In desperation, he went to the cantina and found a few candy bars, and when that didn't do the trick, he bribed one of the Belezian cafeteria workers, who produced a roast pork sandwich with fresh lettuce and a piquant salsa, which he shared with Carter.

  Discussion groups were formed and Carter made efforts to engage Rogan with questions that were related to the agenda of poetry. "Would you please," he said, "give us your theory about the need for relevant imagery?"

  The portly director was delighted with the question and spent a half hour expounding on it. Questions and open discussion lasted yet another hour. The Englishwoman, looking at Zachary as she spoke, took issue with Rogan, no doubt trying to impress Zachary.

  Carter looked at his watch. It was nearly ten o'clock. Not a bad night's work, considering how boring it was.

  Rogan read some more of his work and the work of others he'd translated from various languages.

  Zachary was soon inspired with a question of his own. "Would you please discuss in some detail the obligations of a translator to the integrity of the original work?"

  The Englishwoman beamed with satisfaction, as though it had been the very thing she'd come to hear about. "Here, here," she said, applauding faintly.

  Her response was not lost on Rogan, who looked at his watch and sighed thoughtfully. "Maybe we can get at that tomorrow, in the morning session," he said with a hopeful nod.

  Zachary was right there with the pressure. "Hey, I thought we came here to be serious and work. Isn't that what you said? I read that the discussions at Black Mountain went on all night when the students and teachers began really communicating."

  Rogan looked at him for a moment, trying to make up his mind.

  The Englishwoman spoke out in outrage. "You were the one who said this was to be a working session."

  At length Rogan smiled. "Okay," he relented. "I can see you people are serious. I can see what this all means to you."

  "Damned right," Zachary said as Rogan began, once again, to expound on a subject that was dear to his heart.

  The session broke up at eleven-thirty with Carter, Zachary, and an elderly man who wore a bow tie trying to prolong things, asking still more questions.

  Rogan held up his pudgy hands and said, "I really appreciate all this energy. I've got an assignment to give you, and you can be working on it tonight and we'll look at the results tomorrow."

  While the students took notes, Rogan assigned a topic for them to write about.

  "Does that sound like make work to you?" Zachary whispered.

  Carter shook his head. "I think he's serious. I don't think he's trying to get away for any reason other than he's tired."

  As they headed to their rooms, the Englishwoman asked Zachary if he'd like to come to her room for a nightcap. She very nearly blushed when she said, "I have a little flask of cognac."

  Zachary was tempted by the prospect of the cognac, but he politely refused.

  "I think we've done ourselves some good," Carter said. "In the meantime, don't even go out to have a smoke once you've turned in. Tomorrow night we'll take advantage of the fact that we have ground-floor rooms with large enough windows to crawl out of."

  "Gotcha," the CIA man said. "But it's going to be a bitch getting through the day."

  "Think of it as being like stakeout duty," Carter suggested.

  "I'll take stakeout to this crap any old time." Zachary opened his door, waved, and disappeared inside.

  Carter walked to his room.

  He inserted the key in the ancient latch and let himself in.

  The light switch brought no response. The Killmaster flattened himself against the wall, a twitch of his forearm muscle bringing Hugo instantly into his palm.

  Someone was in the room with him.

  The Killmaster waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark.

  Fifteen

  Carter could hear the shallow breathing of someone who was excited, someone trying to control his own breathing.

  He placed his visitor near the bed. He thought about throwing Hugo at the direction of the breathing, estimating his chances for a hit.

  The woman's voice spoke in a soft whisper. "Don't you think after all this time I should find my way to your bed, Nick Carter?"

  "You almost bought yourself some extra ventilation, Margo," Carter told her. "That was a foolish thing to do to achieve a dramatic effect."

  "You come here," she said in the darkness, "and I'll show you everything you need to know about dramatic effects."

  Carter swore under his breath and replaced Hugo in his chamois sheath. "Could anyone have seen you come in here?"

  She sniffed disdainfully. "See how you begin to patronize me instead of accepting the gift that is yours? I was very careful. I finished my chores sometime back. No one is expecting me, and no one is keeping track of me as they are you."

  "You know that for a fact?"

  "I heard Rogan tell two of his staff to watch you and Zachary tonight and to report" — she chuckled — "to report any movements."

  "What's so funny?"

  "You are about to make some very interesting movements. Come sit next to me, Carter. It is time for us to meet our destiny."

  "You wouldn't be one of those assigned to report my movements, would you, Margo?"

  Carter could feel her anger flare in the darkness.

  "You still don't trust me, do you," she said, her voice raised with indignation. "After everything we've been through, the risks I have taken? After I have provided you and your friends with vital leads, you still have your doubts about me?"

  "I've been in this business for a long time," Carter said, "and I'll admit there's a good deal I do by the book, procedures proven to work. But there's also an instinct I've learned to trust, and something about you turns on my warning sirens."

  She turned on the lamp
on the nightstand. A small pool of light from a low-wattage bulb made it possible for Carter to now see clearly that she was in his bed, naked, her clothes neatly folded over a chair.

  "So much for your warning sirens, Carter. This was to have been yours for the taking." She cupped her hands under her ample and shapely breasts, lifting suggestively.

  Carter watched her without comment.

  "All the hidden delights were to have been yours," she said, running her hands over her hips in an inviting, frank manner, her tongue flickering over her lips and moistening them. "There is unfinished business between us from before."

  Naked, she was a beautiful and erotic sight, her body sleek, her dark hair pulled back so that the long curve of her neck was emphasized. Now her legs began to part suggestively.

  "That was quite an interesting note you left earlier today on my bed," Carter said.

  "What note? I left you no note, Carter. I have been here perhaps half an hour, but not before then."

  Carter moved to the padded chair and sat, kicking off his loafers.

  Margo Huerta swung her shapely legs over the side of the bed and began to approach him. Watching her, seeing her naked opulence, Carter was strangely unmoved. In a moment she sensed it and posed, hands on her hips. "What of all the chemistry between us before, Carter?" She seized upon an idea. "I know what it is," she said in triumph. "You still carry a torch for that little Mossad girl, don't you?"

  Carter had not thought about Rachel Porat for some time, but now the mention of her name brought back the memory of their lovemaking in Phoenix, and the image of her (rim, compact body was very much with him.

  "You see?" Margo said. "I was right. I can see what the mention of her does to you."

  "We have a problem," Carter said, "or maybe I'm the one with the problem. This room is being watched to see what if any my movements are. You'll surely be noticed if you leave now, so it looks as if I'm stuck sleeping on this chair and you take the bed."

  Margo approached him and delivered a stinging slap to his cheek. He felt the heat of it spread slowly. "You are a beast, Carter, to treat me like this. I am not used to being treated this way by men."

  Carter realized the slap was sincere. It again gave him pause that maybe he was wrong. "Unless you can figure a way to get out of here without being seen, it's the bed for you and the chair for me."

  She whirled and jumped on the bed in a fury. Carter smiled and took the chair.

  * * *

  At two o'clock Margo propped herself up on her elbows. "Carter," she said, "are you asleep?"

  "Yes," Carter said mechanically.

  "You could still be here, with me. We could have the rest of the night together."

  Carter realized that was probably true and wondered if he was wrong. Margo Huerta was an attractive woman; it would undoubtedly be a memorable experience to make love with her. Was he passing up a splendid opportunity for no real reason?

  But again the internal warning sounded and Carter knew he would have to be governed by it; he would accept the consequences of his own instincts, silly or not. He had lived with those instincts for too long now.

  "Close your eyes and try to get some sleep," he told her. "Thinking about it isn't going to make it any better. It'll only keep you awake"

  In the darkness Margo hissed a Spanish word across the gap that separated them. "Maricón!"

  Carter laughed quietly. "Now, Margo," he said, "you know that isn't true. Try to get some sleep."

  "Cochon!"

  "That's better," Carter said. "Pig is okay."

  * * *

  At four o'clock Margo called out again. "Carter," she said. "Can you hear me?"

  "Go to sleep, Margo."

  "First I want to tell you."

  "Tell me what?"

  "I really respect you, Carter. You're absolutely right. I wanted you just because we're in something frightening and I'm horny and I wanted to prove that I could make you care for me. It was you and my own fears I was really after. I apologize, compadre. Is it okay between us now?"

  "It's okay, Margo. Go to sleep."

  "Listen, Carter, let me take the chair for a while and you take the bed."

  * * *

  At five-thirty they began hearing sounds of life outside and by six o'clock there were the unmistakable smells of coffee and the aroma of frying bacon. Carter showered, shaved, got dressed, and headed for Zachary's room. If he were still being watched, that would give Margo a chance to get out of his room unnoticed.

  The CIA agent offered Carter a cup of freshly brewed coffee that helped clear the mists in his head. Last night had not been easy. "You look a bit done in," Zachary said.

  Carter noticed the same of Zachary.

  The CIA man handed Carter an English muffin, toasted on a small gas stove from his war chest. "Marmalade or damson plum preserves?" Zachary said, causing Carter to marvel at his resourcefulness.

  "The mountain would not come to Mohammed," he said, "and so Vanessa came to the mountain. She is a demure-looking lady, but she has some intriguing moves." Zachary pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have not had a cognac hangover for some time," he said with a wince. "Here, let me pour you some more coffee."

  There were pads of paper on the small desk, and while they ate their breakfast, the two men went resolutely to work on the writing assignment Jim Rogan had given the night before. "We've got to get clear to do a thorough investigation," Carter recounted, "and if we play Rogan's game, we'll get the best opportunity to get free."

  Groaning loudly from time to time, Zachary recalled some material from his college days and later reading. Carter worked on something he remembered from one of the Russian dissident writers. The two men finished another pot of Zachary's good Jamaican coffee while working on their assignments, then they went to the cafeteria and managed some bacon and eggs. Carter noticed the pay phone was free and moved to it to call David Hawk.

  Even though it was apparently a standard pay phone, Carter thought it best to use precautions. This was going to be a sensitive conversation with no way to talk around things. "You'd better put this call on scramble," he advised. "Try range two."

  From his wallet, Carter extracted a circuit board the size and approximate thickness of a credit card. Across the middle was a round green membrane the size of a half dollar. Carter held the card directly over the mouthpiece of the phone, then began to speak.

  "What did Cincinnati say, sir?"

  The crusty AXE director lit a cigar. "You hit the mark. Nick. Cincinnati was most cooperative and impressed. They report an unclaimed traumatic force corpse that appeared about three days after the Grinning Gaucho business in Covington. They'd been on the telex to a number of agencies. Really responsible people."

  "How about the ID?"

  "The corpse had been in the river for sometime." Hawk said. "That didn't leave much to work on. Significantly, the fingerprints had been eaten away and the face was battered beyond recognition. But the size, apparent weight, and general body characteristics are a good match with our man."

  "How about a dental match to make certain?" Carter said.

  "No longer possible, Nick. The corpse was kept for the required period of time, the usual notices sent out. It was sent to the medical school anatomy department. The soggy mortal remains of the Grinning Gaucho are probably quite spread out among a number of young men and women who are the future doctors of America."

  He paused, took in some smoke, and exhaled with pleasure. "How's your poetry venture?"

  Carter told him of the episode with the doctor. "I'm betting it's Charles Smith. You might check for me to see if we're dealing with a five-foot-five or five-foot-six male Caucasian, dark brown hair, weight about a hundred and ten or fifteen."

  "Will do," Hawk said.

  "Any news on those Japanese investment bankers taken as hostages by LT?"

  Hawk sounded concerned. He told Carter of the pressure he'd been getting to develop some leads on the three men. "Believe it or not, that
's having a direct effect on the market value of the dollar and on the stock market. You can imagine how that trickles down to me. And now it's landed in your lap." He took in smoke, then let it out with a sigh. "I'm almost tempted to pull you off what you're doing to have a look at all the evidentiary materials."

  Carter's response cheered Hawk when he told him, "I believe we're going to find a connection between the kidnapped investment bankers and that so-called gas main explosion in Los Angeles. I think we're going to find all these activities tie in with LT." He told Hawk about the notes he and Zachary had received and about his belief that they were intended as clues. "I'll of course obey your instructions," Carter said, "but I urge you to consider that I'm in the right place now."

  "Fine, fine," Hawk said, "but keep pushing." He reflected for a moment. "I can tell you for a fact, Nick, that the explosion in Los Angeles was a bomb. The gas main story was trumped up from the beginning."

  "It may be a little late in the game to ask you this, but it was you who taught me the virtues of checking on everything."

  Hawk blew out smoke.

  "The CIA man, Sam Zachary. He claims he met you at a gathering hosted by you at your place."

  "Quite right, Nick, it's always important to check. Yes, I've seen him two or three times socially. I frankly can't understand what he sees in that bunch at Langley. He isn't their sort at all. More of a loner. Good man. I did a stealth inquiry on him and discovered he hadn't cashed a paycheck in over a year. You'd think they wouldn't notice, the way they throw around their discretionary funds and all, but it played havoc with their payroll and they called him on the carpet."

  Hawk smoked, began to chuckle. "His excuse was that he'd forgotten."

  "You wouldn't have that trouble with me, sir," Carter said."

  "This is highly confidential and is not to go beyond you. It seems Zachary is independently wealthy. He came from a middle-class family, but married into real money. He refused their help, worked at securities trading, and amassed a tidy fortune all on his own. The marriage failed, and even though his ex-wife's family can well afford his son's education, he regularly contributes a handsome stipend for the boy."