Death Island

by Nick Carter

  Inside, the house was lit up and decorated for the party. In two of the rooms they passed through were service bars with young, lovely, female bartenders, and in another room an older black man was playing ragtime piano and singing.

  From what Carter had seen so far, he guessed there were at least a hundred men and women there, about two thirds of them Oriental, the other third European.

  They had come to the far side of the house, to another wide veranda, but this one faced the jungle. This balcony was only dimly lit and was quiet in comparison to the front area. There were about a dozen people seated around a wide, ornately carved coffee table. Two young girls, bare-breasted and wearing only sarongs, served drinks to the group.

  Everyone stopped what they were doing when the houseboy led Carter around to the far side of the table. There sat one of the largest men Carter had ever seen.

  Governor Albert Remi Rondine looked up, then smiled as he rose to his impressive six-feet-eight. Carter guessed the man to weigh in the neighborhood of 450 to 500 pounds. His hair, neatly trimmed, was jet black and slicked back with oil. He wore a small goatee, also well trimmed, and a pencil-thin mustache separated his bulbous lips from his grossly huge and misshapen nose.

  The governor was, as Tieggs had promised, big, fat, and ugly.

  "Mr. Nicholas Carter, I believe," the governor said in heavily accented English, his voice as rich and as deep as his appearance suggested it would be.

  They shook hands.

  "I heard you were having this little get-together, so I thought I might drop in," Carter said, glancing around at the others. No one was smiling.

  "Please feel free to mingle, Mr. Carter. I am sure that some of my guests might find you amusing."

  Carter grinned. "Actually, it was you I came to see, Governor…" he said, but then his voice caught in his throat. To the governor's left, looking somewhat disconsolate, was an incredibly beautiful woman. She was neither European nor Oriental, but her olive skin bespoke an exotic background. Carter could not place the exquisite features. She had high, delicate cheekbones, lovely, large sloe eyes, full, moist lips, and a long, delicate neck. Her hair and eyes were very dark. She was dressed in a silk kimono, so he was not able to see her figure. But he guessed it was as lovely as her face.

  "I had intended on calling you in within the next day or so," the governor said irritably. "I understand you only just arrived this afternoon."

  "That's correct."

  "Then there will be time enough for us to speak."

  Carter focused on the gross man. The governor wore a white tropical suit with a white gauze shirt and a dark blue ascot. His dress was impeccable. Yet he gave Carter the impression of being a greasy, unkempt animal.

  "On the contrary, Governor, there is no time. Americans are being killed."

  "It is of little consequence to me," the governor shot back.

  No one moved. Even his wife, who was about to raise her wineglass to her lips, stopped.

  "It is of great consequence to me, sir," Carter said, choosing his words very carefully. "For when I find those responsible, I shall kill them." He nodded. Then he turned to the governor's wife. "It is a great pleasure for me to be here, Madame Rondine. I had heard how lovely you are, but even the most superlative claims do you no justice."

  The woman stood up as the governor's complexion turned red.

  Carter had struck a nerve. He started to step aside, half expecting the governor to take a swing at him, when his wife threw her wine into Carter's face.

  "You arrogant American bastard," she said in English.

  Carter held perfectly still for several long seconds, resisting the urge to turn around, or at the very least wipe his face. Instead he managed a thin smile.

  "There was absolutely no offense meant, madame," he said in perfect French. "You are beautiful, and it is a fact. Bon soir."

  He turned, inclined his head stiffly to the others around the table, and then nodded to the governor. "I will call on you at your office tomorrow," he said.

  "I'll call you when I desire your presence…"

  "I will see you tomorrow. Governor Rondine," Carter said, interrupting.

  He turned on his heel and stalked off the veranda, going back through the house out to the front terrace. The houseboy who had shown him to the governor was at his elbow.

  "Mr. Carter wishes perhaps for transportation to the base?"

  "The hotel," Carter snapped.

  "Very good, sir. It will be just a moment." The houseboy disappeared down the steps and into the darkness.

  The band was playing a soft tune, and many of the couples were dancing. Carter went across to the bar and ordered a snifter of cognac. The young woman tending bar glanced up at someone across the veranda before she poured the drink. Evidently for permission.

  The governor had quite a setup here, Carter thought angrily.

  He sipped from his drink — it was an excellent cognac — then turned around so that he could see who the woman had looked to for permission to serve him. A tall man, dressed in a plain tuxedo, a small bulge at his left armpit. One of the governor's goons. But if nothing ever happened here that the governor was involved with — nothing violent, that is — then why the armed guards, why the security around the fence, and why such a close watch on the Americans?

  Carter raised his snifter in salute to the guard, who stared back with no expression on his face, then took a deep drink and put the glass back on the bar as the houseboy came back up the stairs and looked around for him.

  The car was a big Mercedes limousine. It was parked at the foot of the stairs. The houseboy opened the rear door for Carter. When he was inside, even before the door was fully closed, the limo sped down the road as if it had been shot from a cannon, throwing Carter back into his seat.

  A partition of very dark glass separated the front seat area from the rear, and Carter could not make out the face of the driver. But they were going much too fast for a simple lift into the hotel in town.

  He thought about the switchback road that led through the shantytown on the steep hill, and he began to sweat.

  As they approached the main gate and then flashed past the bewildered guards, he fumbled for the door latch, but just at that moment the electric door locks snapped, blocking his escape.

  For a moment Carter thought about shooting his way out of the car, or pulling the panel from the door and shorting the electric lock system, or trying to fire through the back of the front seat in an attempt to kill or wound the driver before they came to the more dangerous sections of the road down the hill.

  He sat back instead, poured himself a drink from the rear seat bar, then lit a cigarette.

  If the governor meant to kill him, it would not be done so crudely as to destroy a very expensive car and a driver.

  Presently they came to the first of the switchbacks on the narrow road, and the car slowed down. Carter allowed the faintest flicker of a smile to cross his lips. He crossed his legs and waited for the next move.

  Governor Rondine had probably had this all planned out from the beginning. Merely to test Carter's mettle. Of the other investigators. Carter wondered how many had lost it at this stage.

  Of course none of this proved a damned thing other than the well-known fact that the governor disliked Americans and especially disliked their presence here on his island kingdom. It did not in any way prove that the governor was involved with the troubles they had been having at the base — at least not directly.

  Halfway down the hill the partition between the front and back silently lowered, and the car turned off the main road and edged back into a very narrow alleyway. Within fifty yards they were out of sight of the road as well as from anyone above or below.

  The car stopped, and the driver turned into view. It was the governor's wife, Gabrielle Rondine. She was obviously frightened. Her lower lip was quivering, and her eyes were very wide.

  "This is a surprise," Carter said.

  "This is very importa
nt, Monsieur Carter. You must listen very carefully to me."

  Carter stubbed out his cigarette and sat forward. "What is it?" he asked. "Are you in trouble?"

  "No, but you are, monsieur. It is your base. It is under attack at this moment."

  "Under attack… by natives?"

  "Yes."

  "How do you know this?"

  "Never mind how I know it, I just do."

  "Get me down to the hotel…"

  "Your driver is not there. He was called away. He is on his way out to the base at this moment."

  "Damn…"

  "I will take you to your base, but in exchange you must help me, Monsieur Carter."

  "What do you want?"

  "I want to get away from here… from this place… from…"

  "Your husband?"

  "Yes," she said with much passion. 'You must help me. You are the only one to stand up to him like that, and you did not panic when I drove fast down the hill — like the others."

  "You drove them all?"

  "No. But I knew about it. We all did."

  There would be trouble with the State Department… in fact there would be hell to pay, Carter thought. But if he gave his word here now, David Hawk would back him up. He knew that for a certainty; it was why he made damned sure of what he was doing before he made a promise.

  "Are you involved with the trouble against us?" Carter asked.

  She shook her head.

  "I must know the truth, Madame Rondine. If you are involved, there is nothing I can do for you."

  "I am not involved!" she cried.

  "I'll help you," Carter said. "Unlock the doors. I'm driving."

  She did, and Carter jumped out.

  "I know the roads better than you," she said. "I can get us there faster."

  Carter didn't argue. He climbed into the passenger seat, and she slammed the car in reverse, rocketing them out onto the main road, where she turned and then headed down the hill, sliding around the switchbacks and once or twice nearly losing it.

  They careened through town, hitting nearly seventy going past the hotel, and then they were on the road out to the base, climbing along the cliffs that edged the sea, the powerful headlights slashing the darkness. Gabrielle was an expert driver, but the best they could do with the big car around some of the curves was forty or forty-five.

  "How do you know the base is under attack?" Carter asked.

  She did not dare glance away from the road, but she shrugged. "There was a telephone call just before you showed up. Albert took it."

  "From who?"

  "I don't know," she said. "But when he hung up he was very happy. He clapped his hands, and said you… Americans were getting it again."

  "How did you know that my driver went back to the base?"

  "I telephoned the hotel to tell him about the attack, but they said he left in a hurry after getting a telephone call."

  Odd, Carter thought. He would have expected that Tieggs would have either come up to the governor's house to get him, or at the very least would have telephoned.

  "Is the governor involved, then, with the attacks on the base?"

  She glanced at Carter. "I do not know for sure, but I do not think so, monsieur. Albert is — how shall I say? — a coward. I do not think he would have the fortitude to do anything so covert. Besides, the commissioners were here, along with the SDECE. They found nothing. I think he is a bastard, but he is not attacking your people."

  "Then how did he know about tonight's attack?"

  She laughed, the sound lovely. "Albert knows everything that goes on here. Everything!"

  Carter thought about that for a moment. "About us, now?"

  Gabrielle nodded solemnly. "Yes, even this."

  Their headlights flashed across a fallen palm tree partially blocking the road and the wreckage of a jeep half in a ditch.

  Gabrielle slammed on the brakes, and the big car fishtailed left and right, finally slewing around to a halt just before the tree.

  Carter was out of the car in a second, his Luger in hand. Keeping low, he raced across the road and leaped down into the ditch.

  Bob Tieggs lay half in and half out of the jeep, the windshield starred where he had crashed into it with his head.

  This had been set up. The entire mess smelled of it.

  Tieggs was unconscious, but he was breathing regularly, and his color did not seem bad. He had lost some blood from a number of superficial scalp wounds, but other than that — unless there was a serious concussion — Carter did not think he was hurt too seriously.

  Gabrielle was at the edge of the road, and she looked down. "Is it your driver?"

  "Yes," Carter said, holstering his Luger. He gently picked Tieggs out of the wreckage of the jeep and brought him back up to the limousine. Gabrielle opened the rear door.

  "Get our suitcases out of the jeep," he said.

  She hurried back to the wrecked vehicle as Carter laid Tieggs in the back seat, then slammed the door.

  Gabrielle was back a moment later with his and Tieggs's overnight bags, which she tossed into the back on the other side, and then she climbed behind the wheel.

  Carter jumped in the passenger side, Gabrielle maneuvered the big car around the fallen tree, and within a minute they were once again racing down the highway toward the base.

  Five

  When they were still a couple of miles away from the base, they could see a bright glow above the tree line. Carter powered down his window, and the sound of gunfire came to them on the night breeze.

  Gabrielle sped up, the big car surging forward through the night. Carter took out his Luger, made sure there was a round in the chamber, and girded himself for the fight.

  They could smell the smoke just before the last curve on the paved road, and then they were around the comer as four dark-skinned men, wearing nothing more than loincloths, came running down the hill through the open main gate.

  Gabrielle let out a little squeak and slammed on the brakes. Carter leaned way out the window and fired three shots, picking off two of the natives. The third disappeared into the brush alongside the road, while the fourth turned back and hurried around the comer of the guardhouse.

  The front wheels of the limo bumped up over the body of one of the natives, but Gabrielle had the car well under control as they came slowly onto the base.

  "Wait here!" Carter snapped, and he leaped out of the car, hurried around the front, and raced up the northwest perimeter road that led back behind the supply buildings, the A and B generator sheds, and eventually the cliffs along the northern tip of the island.

  Most of the lights along the fence had been knocked out, so it was very dark along the back road with the thick jungle on one side of the tall wire mesh fence and the long, low buildings on the inside. A fire was burning somewhere toward the administration building, but the gunfire had ceased.

  For just a moment Carter had the sickening feeling that everyone on the base had been killed, but then a siren kicked off, wailed for a few seconds, and shut down.

  What sounded like Fenster's voice came booming over the public address system: "Mr. Owen, Mr. Owen, report to Administration. Mr Owen to Administration on the double. Baker team techs to Charlie dome. Baker team techs to Charlie dome."

  An arrow smacked into the side of the building Carter was just passing, missing him by less than a foot. He peeled off to the left, turning sideways as he ran to present less of himself as a target as he searched the darkness ahead for a sign of the bowman. But there was nothing.

  He pulled up short in a crouch, every sense tuned for a sign, any kind of a sign that the brown-skinned native was near.

  There was something! Ahead and to the left. Carter leaped left as a second arrow ricocheted off the mesh of the fence. He fired one shot in the general direction from where he thought the arrow had been fired. He had no intention of killing the man. He just wanted to keep pressing him until they came to the far northern edge of the base. From the air, Carter h
ad seen that the base was not fenced on this side. There was no need of a fence. The cliffs down to the ocean were at least two hundred feet high and a sheer drop.

  Someone shouted something on the far side of the supply buildings, and two shots were fired.

  Carter raced between the buildings, but at the front corner he stopped abruptly. Base personnel would be jumpy just now, and they would most likely shoot at almost anything that moved.

  He eased around the corner. A pair of white-coveralled techs stood looking down toward the generator sheds. One of them was obviously wounded, Blood was dripping on the ground from his left elbow, which he held closely against his side.

  "Which way did he go?" Carter shouted.

  They both spun around, one of the techs bringing up his.45, the wounded man stumbling to the left.

  "It's me… Nick Carter," Carter shouted, still half concealed behind the corner of the building.

  "Jesus," the tech breathed in relief. He lowered his weapon.

  Carter stepped away from the building.

  "Jesus…"the tech said again, but then he stepped forward with a cough and fell on his face, an arrow sticking out of his back.

  "Down! Get down!" Carter shouted to the other tech. He had not seen where the arrow had come from, but he fired a shot in the general vicinity of the generator sheds, the direction in which the techs had been looking.

  The wounded tech looked from the direction of the generator sheds to Carter and back again as he stepped toward his fallen buddy.

  "Get down, you stupid bastard!" Carter shouted again. He leaped away from the protection of the building and ran in a zigzag pattern toward the wounded man who seemed to be disoriented as he kept looking from his dead friend to the generator sheds.

  The tech was less than ten feet from Carter when an arrow buried itself in his neck with a sickening sound, and the tech stumbled and fell to his knees, blood spurting everywhere as he tried to claw the arrow out of his throat.

  Just beyond the second generator shed, at a distance of at least fifty yards, Carter spotted a movement, dark brown glinting dully in the red light from the burning barracks to the east.