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Death of the Falcon

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Школа кожевенного мастерства: сумки, ремни своими руками
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  • Аннотация:
    Seeking to completely undermine the American influence in the Middle East, a Moroccan arms dealer unleashes his band of cutthroats to attack U.S. Seeking to completely undermine the American influence in the Middle East, a Moroccan arms dealer unleashes his band of cutthroats to attack U.S. allies.
  Nick Carter
  Death of the Falcon
  Chapter 1
  The ringing of the phone in my room allowed the man in the building across the street another thirty seconds to live. I was positive that the phone would ring again, then be silent for twenty seconds before it rang twice more; it would be Hawk’s special two-ring system, signaling me to call him immediately. Over the years, I’d developed an almost instinctual sense that knew on the first ring when Hawk’s signal was coming. And ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I was right. I locked in the sight on the Anschutz 1413 Super Match 54 again as the bell jangled for the second time, then was silent. Before the second double ring, I squeezed the trigger.
  The let-off was perfect. Through the partially open French doors across the street, I could see a third eye suddenly appear in my target’s forehead. It was a bit above and between the other two that would never again gleefully watch while an AXE agent was being tortured for information. Their evil twinkling stopped forever as Krischikov slumped forward over his desk. Only that third eye seemed alive as a slight swell of blood appeared in it, glistened in the light, then rolled down across the bridge of his nose.
  The second double ring of the phone came quickly after my shot, and stepping back from the open window of my shabby, rent-by-the-week apartment, I put the rifle down on the bed and picked up the receiver. I dialed Hawk’s direct number and he answered at once.
  “You’re not scrambled,” he warned as always.
  Having a scrambler installed on the phone in that little Montreal apartment hadn’t seemed necessary. Nor did Hawk’s reminder, but he never failed to give it and I automatically replied, “I know.”
  “Have you made that sale yet?”
  “Mr. Kaye just bought it,” I told him. “Now I have to close this office as quickly as possible and move on.”
  “I think it’s time for you to come back to the home office,” the Old Man said slowly. “We have a client in town who needs your services.” He waited for a moment, then added, “It’s one of our biggest clients in Washington. Do you understand?”
  That stopped me for a moment It wasn’t often that Hawk wanted me in Washington; he didn’t like to take the chance that somebody from the competition might spot me — either on their side or ours; because if anything happened in the capital, he and his N-rated agents who might be there at the time would get blamed for it. That’s the trouble with having an N rating — mine’s N3 — and being permitted to carry out the ultimate solution to a problem. Everybody thinks you’re a bad guy; that is certainly the feeling on their side, and on ours, too — unless you happen to be doing a dirty little job they don’t feel up to handling. Then the Killmaster becomes a hero — until the job’s done.
  Also, Hawk was never too enthusiastic about lending me out to another agency, and his reference to a “client” could mean another intelligence organization. I wanted to ask him which of the super-intelligence agencies had goofed again and needed us to pick up the pieces for them, but we were on an unscrambled phone, so my questions would have to wait until I got back to the States.
  Not only that, but I realized Hawk’s slow, deliberate tone was intended to convey much more than just the uncomplicated exhaustion at the end of another long day. I knew better than that. For a man who was getting on in years, he could hold his own with the best of us when the job called for it. No, Hawk wasn’t speaking in that tone because he was tired; someone was in the office with him, and the careful pitch of his voice warned me against putting him in a position to say anything that would give that someone any hint of where I was or what I had been up to.
  “Yes, sir,” I said simply.
  “Pack your things and go to the airport,” he instructed matter-of-factly. “I’ll arrange for your plane ticket on the next flight to D.C.… Oh yes, I don’t think you’ll need all of your equipment. “I think you can store some of it with the local office.”
  I knew our weapons officer wouldn’t be too happy when he found out I’d left one of his favorite rifles in Montreal; but Hawk obviously wanted me back quickly, and he didn’t want me delayed by airport security clearance which would be inevitable if I tried to board a plane with that gun. I had a specially designed briefcase, with lead shielding for my own weapons, but none for the rifle.
  “I’ll be in your office early tomorrow morning,” I said.
  He had other ideas. “No, go directly to the Watergate Hotel. I’ll contact you there. A reservation’s already been made in your name.” He wasn’t even saying my name, much less the room number, on an unscrambled phone. “I took the liberty of sending someone around there with some clothes for you. I hope you don’t mind.”
  “No sir. That was very thoughtful of you.”
  Hawk was playing it very formally in front of his company, and I knew it must be someone especially important; usually he could get pretty crusty with the brass from the Pentagon or the CIA when they came begging for favors.
  After we said our equally stiff goodbyes, I put down the phone and stood there looking at it for a moment. I was pretty certain the President hadn’t come to Hawk’s office. But there was only one other person in Washington the Old Man really respected: one of his old school chums who had managed to do things right for a change. As I hurriedly packed, I wondered what the Secretary of State had been talking about with Hawk and how it might affect me.
  After checking across the street to make sure Mr. Kaye’s three-eyed corpse hadn’t been discovered yet and somebody wasn’t figuring out the line of fire, I picked up the phone again to call our local office; I had to arrange for the pickup of the rented car I had driven to Montreal and the rifle I would lock in its trunk. Last to be packed were my Luger, Wilhelmina, in its shoulder holster and my stiletto, Hugo, in its chamois forearm sheath. They went into an ingenious compartment in the briefcase the lab boys had designed for agents traveling with weapons on commercial flights. A special lead shielding made certain no alarms went off as we boarded planes. Too bad there hadn’t been time to get a similar suitcase made to transport the rifle; I would have liked to return it personally to Eddie Blessing, our armaments man. His face really lights up when one of his “babies” comes back home. Oh well, I was happy enough just to be bringing my babies with me. I had a feeling I’d be needing them soon.
  Only ten minutes later, I was regretting my hasty packing. As I walked out of the rundown rooming house across from Krischikov’s formerly secure house, I spotted two men lounging against the rented Nova I had parked two doors further down the street. With a flight bag in one hand and a briefcase in the other, I couldn’t have appeared too menacing, for they looked up only briefly at the sound of the door closing behind me, then continued talking. I recognized the language as Russian, and the quick glimpse I’d had of their’ faces in the glare of the streetlight told me who they were.
  I’d come to call them “Laurel and Hardy” in the short time I had been observing Krischikov and this pair who dogged his footsteps. AXE’s local office had filled me in on their actual identities and their jobs as the spy chiefs favorite killers and bodyguards. An hour earlier, I had seen them drive up with their boss and drop him off in front of his hideaway; then they rode away. At the time, it struck me as unusual that they didn’t go into the building with him, as they ordinarily did, and I had mistakenly reasoned that he must have sent them off on some assignment. Obviously, however, their orders had been to return and hang around outside. Either Krischikov had some kind of work to do that he didn’t want them to know about, or he had been expecting someone and had posted them to wait outside, possibly to pick up his visitor and check him out before letting him into the house.
  At that point, it didn’t matter to me what had been on their agenda; I had to get into that Nova and get out of there before one of the servants of the man with three eyes went into Krischikov’s room and discovered the body. The only thing stopping me from getting out of there was this pair of killers. I was pretty certain they had been briefed on what most of our people looked like, including me. Ours isn’t the only intelligence network clever enough to keep “make-sheets” on the enemy.
  I couldn’t stand on the doorstep any longer without arousing their suspicions, and the Nova was the only certain transportation I had out of the area, so I started to walk toward it. Hardy — the beefy one, whom AXE had warned me was a lethal pile of solid muscle — was standing with his back to me. The gangly one — Laurel, a reputed expert with a switchblade who delighted in slicing little pieces off his prisoners until they were ready to talk — was looking right at me as I approached, but not really seeing me in the shadows, engrossed as he was in conversation.
  I could see that just about the time I got to the car trunk I would come into the streetlamp’s little circle of light, and that Laurel probably would be watching me as I walked closer. I angled to the curb, so that Hardy’s back would partially block his companion’s view of me. The size of that back could have blocked out the approach of an M16 tank, except that Laurel was about a head taller than his partner. Instinctively, I knew that something about me had attracted Laurel’s attention as I stepped off the sidewalk and set down my luggage behind the car. Keeping my head turned toward the street, I took out the keys and opened the trunk, sensing as I did, that Laurel had stopped talking and was walking to the rear of the car.
  The click of a switchblade told me that I had been recognized. I. turned to face him just as he lunged toward me, preceded by five inches of steel. I sidestepped and let his momentum carry him forward, then backhanded him on the side of the neck in the nerve center just below the ear. He fell face down into the trunk and I reached up and slammed the lid on his lower back. The heavy metal edge hit him at just about belt level and I could hear a loud snap that must have been his spine.
  I flipped the trunk lid up again and, in the small glow of its light, I could see his face, twisted in pain, the mouth gaping open in silent screams of agony that no one would hear.
  By that time, Hardy was lumbering around the back of the car, one hamlike hand reaching for me as the other fumbled at his belt for a gun. I scooped up a jack handle from the trunk and, using it like an extension of my arm, smashed it straight into that huge pudding face. He backed off, spitting out bits of shattered teeth and snarling in pain as blood spurted from what had been his nose. The arm that had been trying to grab me transformed into a swinging pole as solid as a two-by-four as he swept the jack handle from my grasp. It sailed through the air and clattered to the street.
  If he had been smart, he would have kept trying to free his gun, which was caught between his overflowing belly and a tight belt. Instead, maddened by pain, he lunged forward like an enraged bear, arms spread wide to enfold me in what I knew would be a deadly hug. I had been warned that it was his favorite method of slaughter. At least two men we knew about had been found squeezed almost to pulp, their ribs crushed into vital organs, dying horribly as they drowned in their own blood. I back-stepped onto the curb; locking my eyes onto his gargantuan arms.
  As I moved away from that terrible embrace, he tripped over the dead Laurel’s feet and stumbled forward to his knees. Clenching my hands together, I brought them down on the back of his neck, and he sprawled full-length on the street. The blow would have killed most men instantly, but as I watched In amazement, he grunted, swung his massive head as if to clear his muddled brain, and started to get to his knees. His groping hands stretched out for support and one of them closed on Laurel’s switchblade which had fallen to the pavement. Sausage-like fingers wrapped around the knife handle as he began to rise. What was almost a smile shaped itself on that bloody, now gap-toothed mouth and little piggish eyes gleamed evilly as they focused on me. Recognition also, came into them as he realized who I was, and blood bubbled from his lips as he swore in Russian and said:
  “Sobachkin syn! I split you in two, Carter, and feed you to pigs.” The muscles in his neck strained and a heavy pulse beat danced grotesquely just under the reddening flesh of his thick neck. He took two lumbering steps toward me. Like a punter being rushed by the Vikings defensive line, I kicked him in that ugly crushed-pumpkin face.
  The powerful blob of flesh pitched forward again. The hand clutching the knife hit the street first, holding the blade upright, and the beefy neck came down on it. I sidestepped the spurting blood that fountained from his severed artery and walked to the back of the Nova; jerking Laurel’s still twitching body from the trunk, I slammed the lid.
  As I put my luggage in the rear seat, I heard a shout from the house across the street. It came through the open second-floor French doors and I knew that Krischikov’s corpse had been discovered. Getting into the Nova, I swung swiftly into the still quiet street and headed for the airport, thinking grimly that more surprises lay ahead for the man upstairs when he began to look for Krischikov’s bodyguards.
  Chapter 2
  One thing I had to say about whatever role Hawk was having me play, it came with nice accommodations. According to the tags on the Gucci luggage that was waiting in the room at the Watergate when I arrived, I was Nick Carter of East 48th Street in Manhattan. I recognized the address as that of the Turtle Bay brownstones our bureau used, as offices, “safe house,” and a New York cover residence. The clothes in the bags were obviously expensive, conservative in color, and their cut suggested the taste of a Western oil millionaire. Those boys in Dallas and Houston may not go in for flashy tweeds and checks, but they like their traveling clothes to be as comfortable as the Levi’s they wear around the old corral. The wide-shouldered, side-vented jackets topped tight-fitting trousers with pockets set in the front, blue-jean style, and wide loops to handle the stiff, brass-buckled belts that were packed with them. The extra soft white cotton shirts had double pockets, with buttons in the front. Everything was the right size, I noted, even the several pairs of three-hundred-dollar hand-tooled boots.
  If Hawk wants me to play a wealthy oilman-type, I thought as I unpacked and stored things away in the huge walk-in closet, I don’t mind a bit. The room helped, too. As large as some studio apartments I’d lived in — which is just what it originally was intended to be, because the Watergate was designed as a residence hotel when it first opened — the combination living room-bedroom was about twenty-four feet long and eighteen feet wide. It held a full-size sofa, a couple of side chairs, a large color TV, a complete kitchenette, and a king-size bed was set in an alcove.
  Light streamed into the room from the floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto the terrace. I looked out over the ten-acre Watergate complex, toward the grandly historic Potomac River, and saw four sculls streaking smoothly over the water. Racing season must be on, I realized, as I watched the college crews stroking rhythmically with the oars. I could tell just when the rival coxswains upped the beat, for the shells suddenly shot forward on the swift-flowing current. My appreciation of the close coordination of the rowers was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. Hawk, I bet myself, as I picked up the receiver. But the voice that said “Mr. Carter?” told me that this was one time out of a hundred that I was wrong.
  “This is Mr. Carter.”
  “This is the concierge, Mr. Carter. Your car is at the front door.”
  I didn’t know what car he was talking about, but on the other hand, I wasn’t going to argue. I answered simply, “Thanks, I’ll be right down.”
  Supposedly, Hawk was the only one who knew Nick Carter was at the Watergate, so I figured he had sent a car for me; I headed for the lobby.
  Passing the concierge’s desk on the way to the front door, I discreetly handed the distinguished-looking, black-suited figure behind the counter a five-dollar bill and said breezily, “Thanks for calling about my car.” If Hawk wanted me to be rich, I’d play rich — on AXE’s money.
  “Thank you, Mr. Carter.” His refined tones drifted after me as I pushed open the glass door leading to the circular drive that secludes the entrance to the hotel. The doorman started to ask if he should signal for one of the ever-present cabs parked around the driveway, then stopped as I headed for the Continental limousine that was idling just off the curbing. Since it was the only one in sight, I figured it had to be my car. The chauffeur leaning back against its side stiffened to attention as I approached, said softly, “Mr. Carter?” When I nodded, he opened the door.
  There was no one inside, which made me a little wary; instinctively, I touched the outlines of my Luger and sheath to reassure myself that my best friends were along, then I settled back in the glove leather upholstery as the driver came around to take his place behind the wheel. He swung the big car around the circle and along the driveway to Virginia Avenue, where he bore right.
  When we stopped for a light, I tried the door and it opened without any trouble. That put me a bit more at ease, so I flicked up the panel lid in the armrest and pressed the switch that lowered the glass window separating me from the driver. “Are you sure you know the way?” I asked, trying to keep it light.
  “Oh, yes sir,” the driver replied. I waited a minute, expecting him to add something that might tell me where we were headed, but nothing came.
  “Do you go there often?”
  “Yes sir.” Strike two.
  “Is it far?”
  “No sir, we’ll be at the White House in just a few minutes.”
  Home run. Clear out of the ball park, in fact; visits to the White House weren’t in my usual itinerary. Well, I told myself, overnight you’ve moved up from the Secretary of State to the President. But why?
  But it was Hawk, not the President, who told me that I soon would be playing nursemaid to a woman who was called the Silver Falcon, and she was the most potentially explosive woman in the world.
  The Silver Falcon.
  “Her name is Liz Chanley and she arrives in Washington tomorrow,” Hawk said. “And your job is to make certain that nothing happens to her. I’ve told the President and the Secretary that we will undertake responsibility for her safety until such time as she no longer appears to be in danger.”
  As Hawk mentioned the two others in the room with us, I stared at each of them in turn. I couldn’t help it. The President caught me at it and gave a slight nod. The Secretary of State caught me at it, too, but he was too much of a gentlemen to add to my embarrassment by acknowledging the fact of it. My only chance for a comeback lay in looking smart, I decided, so I broke in with, “I know who Liz Chanley is, sir.”
  Hawk looked as if he could kill me right then and there for even giving an indication that one of his prize men might not know who everyone of importance is, but I was relieved when, before he could file it away in his mind to dwell on it later, the Secretary of State suddenly asked: “How?”
  “I’ve had several assignments in the Mideast, sir, and our backgrounders are quite thorough.”
  “What do you know about Liz Chanley?” the Secretary went on.
  “That she is the ex-wife of the Shah of Adabi. That her Arabian name is Sherima and that they had triplet daughters about six years ago. And about six months ago she and the Shah were divorced. She’s an American, and her father was a Texas oilman who helped set up the drilling operations in Adabi and became a close friend of the Shah.”
  Nobody seemed to want to stop my recital, so T went on: “Right after the divorce, Shah Hassan married the daughter of a Syrian general. Liz Chanley — Sherima is using her American name again — stayed on in the royal palace at Sidi Hassan until about two weeks ago, then she went to England for a visit. Supposedly, she is returning to the States to buy a place in the Washington area and settle down. She has a number of friends here, most of whom she met during the years she made diplomatic visits with the Shah.
  “As for this name you’ve been calling her,” I said, “I’ve never heard it. I assume this is classified.”
  “In a way, yes,” the Secretary nodded, and a barely perceptible smile crossed his lips. “The Silver Falcon is the name the Shah gave her after they married, to symbolize her new royal position. It was their personal secret Until this problem began.”
  The President elaborated. “We have been using it as a code, so to speak.”
  “I see,” I replied. “In other words, when it’s not wise to speak of her directly in some situations—”
  “She becomes the Silver Falcon,” Hawk finished for mc.
  I turned to the President. “Sir, I am sure that there is more I should know of the former Queen, and about Adabi.”
  “With your permission, Mr. President, I’ll fill in some details that Mr. Carter may not know,” the Secretary of State began. Receiving a nod of approval, he went on: “Adabi is a small, but powerful nation. Powerful because it is one of the richest of the oil-producing countries and because its army is one of the best trained and equipped in the Mideast. And both of those facts are thanks primarily to the United States. The Shah was educated in this country and it was just about the time he completed his post-graduate studies at Harvard that his father died of bone cancer. The old Shah might have lived longer if there had been adequate medical help available in Adabi, but there wasn’t and he refused to leave his country.
  “When Shah Hassan took over as ruler,” the Secretary continued, “he was determined that never again would one of his people want for medical care. He also wanted to make certain that his subjects benefitted from the best educational opportunities that money could buy. But there wasn’t any money in Adabi, because at that time, no oil had been discovered there.
  “Hassan realized that his land had essentially the same geological makeup as the other nations which were producing oil, so he asked our government for assistance in exploratory drilling operations. Several of the Texas-based oil companies formed a corporation and sent their drilling experts to Adabi, in response to a request from President Truman. They found more oil than anyone imagined possible and the money started to roll into the treasury at Sidi Hassan.”
  The Secretary went on to explain that Hassan’s former wife was the daughter of one of the Texas oil experts in Adabi. Liz Chanley had become a Moslem when she married the Shah. They had been unusually happy together with their three small daughters. She never had a son, but that no longer mattered to Hassan. The marriage contract had specified that the crown would pass on to his younger brother. “Who, I might add, also likes the United States, but not so much as Hassan,” the Secretary pointed out.
  “Over the years, particularly since the 1967 Arab-Israeli war,” he continued, “Shah Hassan has managed to bring a moderate voice into Arab councils. But the pressure on him has increased tremendously. Twice in recent years, fanatics have attempted to kill Hassan. Unfortunately for the plotters against the Shah, the assassination attempts only united his people more solidly behind him.”
  I couldn’t help but interrupt to ask why Hassan divorced Sherima.
  The Secretary of State shook his head. “The divorce was Sherima’s idea. She suggested it after the last attempt on Hassan’s life, but he wouldn’t hear of it. But she kept telling him that if he left her, the other Arab countries might take it as a sign that he was really on their side and call off their campaign to unseat him. She finally convinced him that he had to do it, if not for his own safety, for the sake of their little girls.
  “Sherima also was the one who suggested he remarry right away — and she insisted his new wife be Arab. In fact, she was the one who picked the girl after scouting — around for an alliance that might link Hassan to a powerful military man in another country.”
  “Why such concern for her safety here?” I asked. It seemed to me, I explained, that once she no longer was the Shah’s wife, she shouldn’t be in any danger.
  The President turned to Hawk and said, “I believe you’d better handle this part of the explanation. It was your agency’s sources who provided the information on the plot to kill former Queen Sherima.” He turned from Hawk to me, then back again before he said, “And your agency discovered the part of the plot to ‘prove’ that all during her marriage she was acting as a secret agent of the United States government.”
  Chapter 3
  “You’re familiar, of course, with the Silver Scimitar movement,” Hawk began. He didn’t wait for me to acknowledge the fact — and I couldn’t blame him for trying to impress the President with the assumption that his top agent was, of course, familiar with all Mideastern goings-on; he was, after all, The Man when it came to getting us badly needed operating funds over the protests of the CIA and the Pentagon. He went on: “Since the time it originally was established as the enforcement arm of the Black September movement, the fanaticism of its members has increased almost day by day.
  “In recent months, the extent of Scimitar atrocities has alarmed even Al Fatah. It’s reached the point where Black September, which supplies Scimitar with operating funds, is afraid to try to stop the bloodletting. One of the September leaders who did try pulling back on the reins was found murdered in Baghdad. The Iraqi government has kept the lid on how he died, but our Baghdad office learned the details of his ‘execution.’ He was electrocuted. A length of chain was wrapped around his body, after he had been stripped, beaten, and mutilated; then the terminals of an arc welding machine were attached to the ends of the chain and the current turned on. Every link burned its way into his flesh. Since that time, Scimitar has had its own way; no more protests.”
  Hawk paused to chomp on his cigar, then continued: “The leader of Scimitar calls himself the Sword of Allah, and his true identity is known only to about two or three of September’s high command. Even they’re afraid to mention his real name. For some reason, he hates Shah Hassan and is determined to drive him from the throne. We know he was behind the most recent assassination attempt, and probably instigated the first one.
  “Our office in Sidi Hassan captured one of the Sword’s top lieutenants and persuaded him to tell us what he knew of Scimitar’s plans—”
  “How?” the President asked.
  “Sir?”
  “How did you persuade him?”
  “We used the arc welding machine technique,” Hawk admitted. “Only we didn’t throw the switch. The man had taken part in the execution of the September leader and had seen its effects. He started talking when our man reached for the switch.”
  There was a short silence, then the President said, “Go on.”
  “Sherima was picked as the target for the attempted destruction of Hassan,” Hawk said. “When the Sword learned she was returning to the States, he came up with a brilliant plan.
  “What if she were killed while she was in Washington? And at the same time, Hassan were presented with evidence — forged and false, of course, but almost impossible to disprove — that all during their marriage, Sherima had been a secret agent of our government.”
  “But wouldn’t the opposite be true?” I asked. “If she were a United States agent, wouldn’t she be safest here?”
  “That’s where the little kicker comes into the plan,” Hawk said. “From some source close to Sherima he has obtained a statement purported to be an admission. In effect, it says that she really came to Washington to tell her capitalist bosses that she was despondent over what she had done to the man she always loved and that she was going to tell Hassan the truth. Then, the Sword’s story would be that she was slain by the CIA before she could tell the Shah how she had used him. Her forged ‘admission,’ of course, would be in the Shah’s hands.”
  “Would the Shah believe it?” the Secretary of State wanted to know.
  “We know the deep extent of his emotional attachment to her — it’s hard to tell how a man that much in love will respond,” Hawk said. “If he could be persuaded that Sherima had pressed for the divorce as a means of getting out of the country because she no longer wanted to hurt him, he also might accept as logical the forged evidence of her involvement with the CIA.”
  “Mr. Carter,” the Secretary said, “can you imagine what would happen in the Mideast if Shah Hassan were to turn against us? For many years, Hassan has been regarded as one of our best friends in his part of the world. More than that, his military forces have become almost an extension of our own in the thinking and planning of the Pentagon, in so far as an all-out war effort is concerned. It is vital that he remain a friend of the United States.”
  On the way from the White House to AXE headquarters in the Secretary of State’s limousine, Hawk seemed preoccupied. He asked casual questions about my return flight, how I liked my room at the Watergate, and if the wardrobe he had ordered to be put together fitted me properly. I was pretty sure there was more he wanted to tell me, but he was taking no chances that the chauffeur might overhear, despite the heavy partition that separated us from him. The driver had been ordered to take us wherever we wanted to go, then to return to pick up the Secretary, who had more matters to discuss with the President.
  By the time we were seated in Hawk’s office — the only room where he really felt secure, because he had his electronics experts check it out daily for surveillance devices — he had chewed the Dunhill to the length he felt most comfortable with. I relaxed in one of the heavy oak captain’s chairs that sat in front of his desk, while he hurriedly went through the latest in a never-ending stream of dispatches, coded messages and situation evaluation reports that flowed through his office.
  Finally, the pile of papers had shrunk to three manila folders. He handed me the first, a thick dossier on Sherima that went back to her childhood in Texas and included just about everything she had done since that time. Calling my attention to the latest reports on the former Queen, he summarized them briefly, with instructions to memorize the information before morning. Shah Hassan had been exceedingly generous to the woman he divorced, Hawk said, pointing out that our Zurich office had learned that $10,000,000 had been deposited to her account on the day she left Sidi Hassan.
  From AXE’s office in London, where Sherima went first after flying out of Adabi on the Shah’s personal 747, was a précis of several hundred hours of tapes picked up by our bugs. It revealed that Sherima was, as I already had been told, planning on buying an estate somewhere in the horse-farm countryside outside Washington. The Arabian stallions and brood mares she had lovingly tended at the palace in Sidi Hassan were to be flown to her when she got settled.
  According to the report, Sherima would be arriving in D.C. in just two days. The Adabian embassy here had been instructed to arrange for a suite for her and her party at the Watergate Hotel. “It’s all set up,” Hawk said. “Your room is next to that suite. That wasn’t too difficult to arrange. However, we haven’t been able to bug that suite yet. The couple who are in it now won’t be leaving until the morning of the day she arrives and, unfortunately, the woman in it came down with a virus two days ago and hasn’t been out of the room since. We are going to try to get somebody in there before Sherima’s party arrives, but don’t count on the bugs for a day or two.”
  I flipped to the dossiers on the people who would be traveling with Sherima. There were two; a.bodyguard and a companion. An entire staff would be hired for her after she selected an estate.
  The first folder covered the bodyguard, Abdul Bedawi. He looked like Omar Sharif, except for the nose, which had a prominent bridge that gave him a typically Arabian hook. “He was personally selected for the job by Hassan,” Hawk said. “The man was a former palace guard who saved Hassan’s life during the last assassination attempt. We don’t have too much on him except that he became the Shah’s personal bodyguard after that and supposedly is very loyal to him — and to Sherima. We hear he protested when Hassan assigned him to the ex-Queen and sent him away, but finally did as he was ordered.
  “Abdul is supposed to be strong as a bull and an expert in judo and karate, as well as being a crack shot with every kind of weapon. He might come in handy if you get in a pinch. But don’t trust him. Don’t trust anybody.”
  Hawk handed over the next folder with a little smile, saying “I think you’ll like this part of the job, Nick.”
  I saw what he meant as soon as I looked at the picture stapled to the inside cover. The girl was nuzzling the mane of the white stallion. Her reddish blonde hair made its own mane as it fell well past her slender shoulders, framing a beautiful face accented by high cheekbones. Her lips were moist and full, and her large hazel eyes seemed to laugh at someone or something in the distance.
  The body that went with that face was even more magnificent. She was wearing a black turtleneck sweater, but its bulk couldn’t hide the curves of ripe, full breasts, high and almost straining to be set free. Slim-cut black and white checked slacks set off a narrow waist and outlined her graceful hips and long shapely legs.
  Hawk cleared his throat with a prolonged ahem. “When you’re finished looking at the picture, you might take a look at the rest of the dossier,” he said. Dutifully I moved on.
  Each of the accompanying sheets was headed Candace (Candy) Knight. The first contained the basics. Although she looked about twenty-three, she was actually approaching thirty. Like Liz Chanley, she was Texas-born, and her widowered father had been one of the oilmen who had gone with Chanley to Adabi, to undertake exploratory drilling operations. I was beginning to understand Hawk’s choice of wardrobe for me. Candace Knight’s father and Bill Chanley had been close friends, and Candace had become good friends with Sherima.
  The dossier told of another assassination attempt on the Shah; like Abdul, Candy’s father had saved the Shah. But unlike Abdul, his heroism had cost Candy’s father his life. He had thrown himself in front of the gunman. Hassan, apparently, never forgot it. Knowing that the young girl had no mother, he practically adopted Candy into the royal household. Her friendship with the Queen, I figured, eased that transition somewhat.
  Candy Knight had no family left after her father’s death. She was unmarried, and according to the report, apparently devoted to Sherima. After the divorce, the Shah persuaded Candy to accompany her to Washington.
  He set up a half-a-million-dollar account for the young woman in Zurich at the same time that Sherima’s account was established.
  According to observations in the Shah’s household, Candy had always appeared cold toward Hassan, despite his many material and human kindnesses toward her. Our investigator in Sidi Hassan reported that Candy was rumored to have once been in love with Hassan.
  I began to close the folder, planning to read over the entire thing again more thoroughly back in my hotel room.
  “No, wait,” Hawk said. “Take a look at that last part.”
  “The Unconfirmed section?” I asked, flipping the dossier open again. “But the Unconfirmed parts in most dossiers are generally nothing more than speculation from—”
  I cut myself off when my eyes fell on the first few paragraphs of Candace Knight: Unconfirmed. The memo went into considerable detail on the subject’s sex life.
  “A little less drab than the rest of the report, wouldn’t you say, Nick?”
  “Yes, sir.” I flipped back for a second to the photograph of the young woman whose private life I was reading about.
  Obviously, the writer didn’t want to come right out and say it, but from the collection of gossip and rumors he’d put together, it seemed that the hazel-eyed young woman, confidante to the former Queen of Adabi, was a nymphomaniac. Local gossip had it that Candy had worked her way through a veritable legion of Americans employed by the oil companies in Adabi, and had gone on to service most of the men attached to the United States Embassy in Sidi Hassan.
  The investigator was polite enough to note that Candy’s overly active sex life began shortly after the death of her father and Sherima’s marriage to the Shah, and to speculate further that perhaps it was as a consequence of these events that she went in search of some outlet for her feelings.
  A final paragraph reported that during the last year and a half, she had seemed to curtail her sexual activities, at least to AXE’s knowledge.
  “Quite thorough,” I said.
  “Think you can handle it, N3?” Hawk asked.
  “I’ll do my best, sir,” I answered, trying not to smile.
  Chapter 4
  Since my cover was being a trouble-shooter for a Houston-based oil company with worldwide interest, I spent my second day in a briefing session on the oil business. The first half of the day was spent in backgrounding; the second in being quizzed about what I had learned. My memory banks work pretty well, and I was sure I had passed when Hawk summoned me to his office about ten o’clock that night with a smile on his face.
  “Well, Nick,” he said. “Briefing tells me you’ve done pretty well. How do you feci about it?”
  “Quite honestly, sir,” I told him, “I’d like to have a couple more days. But I think I can handle it.”
  “Good, because there just isn’t any more time. Sherima and the others arrive from London about noon tomorrow. Now, we’re pretty certain that nothing can happen to her for a day or so. The Sword’s plan, the way we figure it, is to let her get settled in at the hotel and make some contacts; then he will set up an assassination to throw suspicion on the CIA.
  “The Secretary of State already has talked to Sherima in London. She’s been invited to his home for dinner. Abdul Bedawi will be driving her to the Secretary’s home in Alexandria. That will tie up the two of them for the evening and leave the Knight girl on her own.”
  “And that’s where I come in,” I said.
  “Right. You will make contact early in the evening. I want you two to be good friends. Good enough so that it will be a simple matter for you to meet Sherima and, because of your obvious affection for Candace Knight, have an excuse to stick close to them. Right?”
  “Yes, sir. How long will I have?”
  “The Secretary will see that dinner drags on pleasantly. Then, when it is time for Sherima to start back, her car will have a little trouble getting started. Nothing extensive and nothing that could possibly arouse Bedawi’s suspicions.”
  I grinned. My back-up team was on the ball. “Goodbye, sir,” I said, heading for the door.
  “Good luck,” Hawk replied.
  During its seven years of operation, the Watergate Hotel has catered to the celebrities of the world, and its staff has naturally developed a blasé attitude toward the presence of the famous people who come and go. Most of the big stars of dance and the theater have appeared at Kennedy Center at one time or another, so the center’s next-door neighbor is a logical choice for them to stay. Movie actors, in the District for personal appearances, invariably stay at the Watergate; and it is the home away from home for the jet-setters. Most of the world’s political figures stay there, and even the few top-level international leaders who take up temporary quarters in the official government guest mansion, Blair House, often address gatherings in one of the hotel’s opulent banquet rooms.
  Still, accustomed as the hotel staff is to such international luminaries, the former wife of one of the world’s remaining absolute monarchs gave them pause. It was obvious that Sherima rated some very special attention, and as I watched from my post in the lobby, I could see that she was getting it.
  I had decided to be in the lobby that afternoon at the time I knew Sherima would be leaving for Alexandria. There aren’t many places to sit, but after loitering for a while in front of the newsstand, examining out-of-town papers, and standing around in the Gucci shop at the hotel’s front entrance, I managed to claim one of the chairs in the lobby. The traffic was heavy, but I could keep my eye on the two small elevators that serve the upper floors and the concierge’s desk.
  About five o’clock, I saw a man I recognized as Bedawi get off the elevator, cross to the stairway that led to the parking garage, and disappear. Assuming he was going for the limousine, I walked casually to the entryway; about ten minutes later, a big Cadillac with diplomatic plates swept into the drive and stopped. The doorman started to tell the chauffeur that he would have to keep going around the circle, but after a brief conference, Bedawi got out and went inside, leaving the car at the door. Obviously, the doorman agreed that the former Queen shouldn’t have to walk more than a couple of steps to her carriage.
  I could see Bedawi go to the concierge’s desk, then return to wait for his passenger. He was shorter than I expected, about five feet ten, but solidly built. He wore a well-tailored black jacket that accentuated his massive shoulders and tapered sharply to a slim waist. The tight black trousers outlined his incredibly muscular thighs. His build suggested that of a running back for professional football. The chauffeur’s cap covered hair that I knew from his file picture was cut short and inky black. His eyes matched the hair, and they swept over everyone moving past him. I had stepped back into the Gucci shop to watch him from behind a selection of men’s handbags hanging next to one window near the door. He doesn’t miss a thing, I decided.
  I knew the moment that Sherima came into his view from the sudden tenseness that filled the man. I moved to the doorway in time to see her walk by. From the AXE report, I knew that she was five-foot-five, but she appeared much smaller in person. Every inch was that of a queen, however.
  Bedawi snapped the door open for her, and as she slipped inside the limousine, her dress slipped above a knee for a quick second before she pulled her leg inside. Several people standing nearby waiting for cabs turned to look, and I could tell from the whispers that some of them had recognized her, perhaps from the pictures the local papers had carried that morning with their stories on her expected arrival in the capital.
  Time to go to work, I decided, and headed for the elevator.
  Chapter 5
  Her body was as warm and receptive as I had imagined. And her appetite for lovemaking proved as much of a challenge as I had ever met. But the tingling invitation of her fingertips trailing on my neck and along my chest aroused my own passion until our caresses became more demanding, more urgent.
  I don’t think I’d ever touched such soft, sensitive skin. As we lay tired and spent on the twisted bedsheets, I brushed a long strand of silky hair from her breast, letting my fingers rest lightly on her shoulder. It was like stroking velvet, and even now, exhausted from making love, she moaned, pulling me forward and finding my lips with hers.
  “Nick,” she whispered, “you are fantastic.”
  Propping myself up on one elbow, I looked down into those wide, hazel eyes. For a brief second I had a mental image of her photograph in the dossier, and realized that it had not at all captured the depths of her sensuality. Leaning down, I covered her full mouth, and in a moment it was obvious that we weren’t nearly as tired as we had thought.
  I was never considered a sexual coward, but that night I went to the very limits of pure exhaustion with a woman whose demands were as intense — and arousing — as any woman I’d ever made love with. Yet, after each frenzied climax, while we lay in each other’s arms, I could feel the desire mount again as she let her fingers play idly over my thigh, or brushed her lips over mine.
  It was Candy Knight, though, and not me who finally fell into a fatigued sleep. As I looked at the even rise and fall of her breasts, half-hidden now by the sheet I had pulled over us, she seemed more like an innocent teenager than the insatiable woman whose moans still echoed in my ears. She stirred slightly, moving closer against me as I stretched out an arm to the bedside table and picked up my watch.
  It was just midnight. A cooling breeze came in through the partly open window, fluttering the drapes and sending a chill over my shoulders. I reached over and picked up the telephone receiver, trying to be as quiet as possible, and pushed the “O” button.
  The hotel operator answered immediately.
  Softly, casting a glance toward the sleeping Candy, I said, “Would you ring me at twelve-thirty? I have an appointment, and I don’t want to be late… Thank you.”
  Beside me, Candy stirred again, pulling the sheet tightly around her shoulders as she rolled over. A tiny noise, almost like a whimper, sounded in her throat, and then she was still looking more childlike than ever. Cautiously, I leaned over, lifted a lock of hair from her forehead, and kissed her softly just above her eyes.
  Then I lay on my back, closing my eyes. Thirty minutes would be a sufficient rest for me, and it would have to do for Candy, too. We’d both be awake before Sherima returned to the hotel.
  Relaxing, I let my mind drift over the past hours, from the time I had come upstairs after Sherima’s departure. I’d gone to the door of her suite and stood fumbling with my key, trying to force it into the lock…
  Like many people do, Candy made the mistake of opening the slide on the door’s peep hole with the light on behind her, so I could tell she was trying to see who was attempting to get into the room. Apparently, she wasn’t put off by what she saw, for the door suddenly opened. Her look was as questioning as her voice.
  “Yes?” she said.
  Feigning astonishment, I gaped at her, looked at my key, at the number on her door, then back along the hallway to my own door. Sweeping off my Stetson, I said in my best Texas drawl, “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m truly sorry. I guess I was thinking about something and just went one door too far. My room’s back there. I do apologize for bothering you.”
  The wide, alert hazel eyes continued their appraisal of me, noting the hat and suit and square-toed boots, and finally sweeping back up over my six-foot-plus frame and taking in my face. At the same time, I was getting a healthy view of her. The bright chandelier in the suite’s foyer outlined her long legs under the sheer negligee al-most as clearly as the thin material revealed every delightful detail of her firm breasts thrusting sensuously out toward me. Desire rose in. me like an electric shock, and almost immediately I sensed that she felt it too, as her glance swept down to my waist and below, where I knew the tight-cut trousers would betray me if we stood looking at each other a moment longer. In a gesture of false embarrassment, I moved the Stetson in front of me. She raised her eyes, and it was apparent that my gesture had rattled her. Her face was flushed when she finally spoke:.
  “That’s all right,” she said. “You didn’t bother me. I was just sitting here enjoying my first solitary moment in the past several weeks.”
  “All the more reason I should apologize, ma’am,” I replied. “I know just how you feel. I’ve been on the go, running from meetings here in Washington, to Dallas, to New York for almost three weeks now and I’m tuckered out talking to people. I feel like a cayuse that’s been in the corral for a spell without a good run on his own.” Silently, I hoped I wasn’t overdoing my accent.
  “Are you a Texan, Mr., ah…?”
  “Carter, ma’am. Nick Carter. Yes, ma’am, I sure am. I was born not far from Poteet, down in Atacosa County. How did you know?”
  “Cowboy, you can take the boy out of Texas, but you can’t take Texas out of the boy. And I should know; I’m a Texan, too.”
  “Well I’ll be—” I exploded. “How about that? But you sure don’t look like a Texas girl.” I let my eyes move with less caution up and down her lush, skimpily clad body again, then tried to lift them to her face with a sheepishly guilty expression. Her satisfied smile told me I’d succeeded in flattering her the way she obviously enjoyed flattery.
  “I’ve been away from Texas for a long time,” she said, adding almost sadly, “Too long.”
  “Well, ma’am, that’s not very good,” I sympathized. “At least I get back home pretty often. Not as much as I’d like to lately, though. It seems I spend most of my time running back and forth between here and New York, trying to explain to the people here why we aren’t bringing up more oil, and to the people in New York why people down here can’t understand that you don’t just turn the faucet more and let more flow out.” My drawl was coming easier now that it had convinced a native Texan.
  “You’re in the oil business, Mr. Carter?”
  “Yes, ma’am. But don’t blame me if you can’t get enough gas. Blame it on those Arabs over there.” Then, as if suddenly remembering where we were talking, I said, “Ma’am, I’m real sorry, keeping you standing here.
  I know you were enjoying being by yourself when I interrupted and I’ll just mosey on back to my—”
  “That’s all right, Mr. Carter. I’ve been enjoying just listening to you talk. I haven’t heard a twang like yours for a long tune, ever since… for a long time now. It sounds good and it reminds me of home. By the way,” she went on, extending a hand, “my name is Candy, Candy. Knight.”
  “It’s a real pleasure, ma’am,” I said, taking her hand. The skin was soft, but the grip was firm and she shook hands like a man, not with that dead-fish grip some women offer. As if struck by a sudden inspiration, I rushed on. “Ma’am, would you like to have dinner with me? Uh, that is if there’s no Mr. Knight to object.”
  “There’s no Mr. Knight,” she said, again with a touch of sadness in her voice. “But what about Mrs. Carter?”
  “There’s no Mrs. Carter, either. I just never had the time to tie myself down that way.”
  “Well, Mr. Carter—”
  “Nick, please, ma’am.”
  “Only if you call me Candy and forget about that ma’am for a while.”
  “Yes, ma’am… uh… Candy.”
  “Well, Nick, I really don’t feel up to going out for dinner.” Then, seeing my look of obvious disappointment, she hurried on. “But why couldn’t we just have dinner in the hotel? Maybe even right here? I don’t want to be alone so much that I’d pass up a chance to talk to a real live Texan again.”
  “Fine, Miss Candy… uh… Candy. That sounds just great. Say, why don’t you just let me rustle up something from room service and get it all set up in my digs and surprise you. That way, you wouldn’t even have to dress.” She glanced down at her negligee that had gapped widely during her animated conversation, then lifted coyly accusing eyes at mine, which had followed her gaze. “I mean, uh, you could just slip into something comfortable and not worry about getting all dressed up.”
  “Don’t you think this is comfortable, Nick?” she asked archly, as she pulled the peignoir a bit tighter in the front, as if that would do anything at all to conceal her bosom beneath the gauzy material.
  “It looks like it to me,” I began, then, playing embarrassed again, I added, “I mean if you’re coming down to my room, you might not want to wear that through the hall.”
  She stuck her head out the door, looked pointedly along the twenty-odd feet or so to my door, and said, “You’re right, Nick. It is a long walk and I wouldn’t want to shock anybody at the Watergate.” Then added with a wink, “There’s been enough scandal around here already. All right, give me an hour or so and I’ll be over.” A laugh came into her voice as she added coyly, “And I’ll try to be careful not to let anybody see me coming to your room.”
  “Oh, ma’am, I didn’t mean that,” I blurted, purposely backing away and stumbling over my feet. “I meant—
  “I know what you meant, you big Texan,” she said, laughing heartily at my apparent embarrassment as I continued to back toward my door. “I’ll see you in an hour. And I warn you, I’m starved.”
  It turned out food wasn’t the only thing she had a craving for.
  It was hard to believe that someone with such a slender figure was packing away so much at one meal. And as she ate, the words spilled out. We talked about my job and Texas, which logically led into her explaining how she happened to be in Adabi and ended up as companion to Sherima. She faltered only once, when it came to discussing her father’s death. “Then my father got mur—” she started to say at one point, only to change it to “And then my father died and I was left alone…”
  By the time I served the chocolate mousse, which the waiter had put in the kitchenette’s almost bare refrigerator to keep it cold, Candy had gone over her background pretty thoroughly. It checked out closely with what I already knew from the AXE report, except for the way she avoided any reference to men in her life. But I wasn’t about to bring that up. It was difficult to keep from thinking about, however, as I watched that firm body straining at every seam, or as she bent over to pick up a napkin that had slipped from her lap and one.perfectly formed breast almost escaped from the deep V of her shirtfront.
  My hands were itching to get inside that shirt and I had a feeling she knew it. At the end of the dinner, as I got behind Candy to help her from her chair, I suddenly leaned over to kiss her full on the mouth, then pulled quickly away. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t resist… ma’am.”
  The big hazel eyes were soft as she spoke. “The only thing I object to, Nick, is that ma’am. The rest I liked…”
  “Let’s try again, then.” I took her in my arms and pressed my lips over her full mouth. She tensed briefly, then I felt the warmth flooding into her lips as they parted. Slowly, but instinctively, she responded to my caresses, relaxing into my arms. I held her tighter, moving one hand slightly forward until my fingers rested just below the curve of a breast. She moved in my arms so that my hand slid upward and I cupped her tenderly, then more harshly as I felt a nipple swelling and hardened under my fingers.
  Candy sank back on the couch and I followed her, my lips still glued to hers in a kiss that seemed without end. She moved aside to give me room to stretch out beside her, never saying a word. She didn’t need to, for I felt her body mold itself against me. Her eyes had been closed, but they opened wide, seeming afraid or confused for a moment before closing again.
  My hand slid inside the V of her shirt, and her silken skin felt velvety and hot under my touch. Candy moaned deep in her throat and her hands became more demanding.
  Still not speaking, she squirmed around on the overstuffed pillows. For a moment, I thought she was trying to push me off the couch, but her hands that had been clawing at my shoulders in erotically irritating scratches, moved to my waist and I realized she was trying to give me room to lie back flat so she could shift to a position on top of me. She succeeded easily, with my cooperation, then the soft hands slid firmly up over my chest to the collar of my shirt. At her insistence, I already had removed my tie before we sat down to eat so there was nothing to interfere with her questing fingers as they began opening the buttons.
  Lifting the top half of her body, but never breaking the kiss, she spread my shirt wide and tugged the tails out of my pants. My hands were busy, too, and with almost the same motions, we pulled off each other’s shirt, then lay back, locked together again full length, our bare chests touching and caressing.
  We stayed like that for a long moment before I grasped her waist, lifting her slightly, then sliding a hand between us to open her belt buckle. She twisted onto one side to make it easier for me, and I responded by quickly opening the big Levi buttons. She lifted again slightly so that I could slide the jeans down over her hips.
  Pulling her lips away from mine and raising her head, Candy looked down at me. “My turn,” she said softly. Inching her way backward down along my body, she leaned down to plant tiny kisses on my chest, then rose to her knees. She slipped off first one leg of her jeans and her panties, then the other before she leaned down again to open my belt buckle.
  We moved in an embrace to the bed, and in another moment I was no longer play-acting…
  The phone ring was short, but it wakened me instantly. I picked it up before it could ring again, saying softly, “Hello.”
  “Mr. Carter, it’s twelve-thirty.” The operator had automatically spoken softly, too, and she hastened on, almost apologetically, “You asked me to call you so you wouldn’t miss a meeting.”
  “Yes, thank you very much. I’m awake.” I made a mental note to spend some more of Hawk’s hard-fought-for money and send a little something along to the switchboard operators. It doesn’t hurt to have as many people as possible on your side.
  Candy sat up, and the sheet fell away from her breasts. “What time is it?”
  “Twelve-thirty.”
  “My God, Sherima must be home.” She started to slip out of bed, demanding, “How could you have let me sleep so long?”
  “You’ve only been asleep for half an hour,” I said. “It was midnight when you dropped off.”
  “God, where did the night go?” she said, swinging her legs to the floor and standing up beside the bed.
  I let my eyes sweep pointedly over her nude body and then over the rumpled bed without saying anything.
  “Don’t say it,” she laughed, then turned and ran toward the couch to pick up her jeans and shirt. As she scooted into them, she said, “I hope Sherima isn’t there. She’s bound to be worried, and Abdul will be angry.”
  The latter part of her words was said with a touch of fright. I decided to follow up on it. “Abdul? Why should he be angry? He’s not your boss, is he?”
  Flustered for a moment, she didn’t answer. Then, collecting herself as she headed for the door, she laughed and said, “No, of course not. But he likes to know where I am all the time. I think he believes he’s supposed to be my bodyguard, too.”
  I had gotten up and followed her to the door. Taking her in my arms for a last, lingering kiss, I said as I released her, “I’m sure glad he wasn’t guarding your body tonight, ma’am.”
  She looked up at me, and her eyes were filled with coyness. “Me, too, Nick. And I really mean that. Now please, I must go.”
  I picked up my Stetson from a chair and flourished it across my naked thighs. “Yes, ma’am. See you at breakfast.”
  “Breakfast? Oh yes, I’ll try Nick, I’ll really try.”
  Chapter 6
  I was thinking about the previous night’s sex contest when my phone rang.
  “Nick, are you up? It’s Candy.”
  I told her I was just getting dressed, although I’d actually been awake since a little after five. After exercising and showering, I had spent about thirty minutes on the phone to AXE headquarters. I had wanted to find out if any further information had come in on what the Sword’s plans might be, but none, I was told, had been received. Our local agents had learned that most of the radical underground groups in the District’s area seemed to be alive with activity, after being relatively quiet for almost a year. Several, especially the revolutionary-terror group known as the American Arab Coalition, had held clandestine meetings, attended by only the leaders of the units, although all members had been put on the alert. For just what, nobody seemed to know.
  “Breakfast is on, Nick,” Candy said eagerly.
  “Great,” I replied. “Downstairs?”
  “Yes. We’ll see you in the Terrace Room in about a half hour.”
  “So you sold Sherima on getting out and meeting her public?”
  Candy replied, “There will be just the two of us, Sherima and me.” That didn’t seem to make much sense as a response to my question, but I realized then that the former queen was.probably nearby and that Candy couldn’t talk too freely. The urge to tease her under those circumstances was too great to resist, so I said:
  “I’ll be the one wearing the cowboy hat and the erection.”
  Her laughter flowed out of my receiver before she hung up.
  At first, only a few heads turned to glance at the two attractive women moving toward my table; but when the headwaiter, obviously recognizing Sherima, intercepted them halfway across the room and began making a formal fuss over her, people took notice. Voices fell into whispers and casual glances became stares as Sherima spoke with the waiter. By the time they finally made their way past the patronizing headwaiter, I could see that nearly everyone in the room had recognized the former Queen. Even the normally busy waiters and waitresses had collected by the long buffet table to discuss the famous new arrival.
  “Nick, I’m sorry we’re late,” Candy began, “but I—”
  “Don’t believe her, Mr. Carter — Nick,” Sherima interrupted. “Candy had nothing to do with our being late. It’s my fault. It takes me a while to decide I’m up to facing what I’m sure is going on behind us.” She extended her hand, adding, “I’m Liz Chanley.”
  Taking my cue for informality from her, I shook hands.
  “Hello, Liz. Candy says you were going out house hunting today,” I said. “Which way are you headed?”
  “Into Maryland,” she said. “Up around Potomac and north of there. I had dinner with the Secre… with an old friend last night and he suggested that area might have just what I’m looking for. I want someplace where I can have my horses.
  I liked the way Sherima had stopped before saying the Secretary of State and turned it into “an old friend.” It showed she was secure enough within herself, not to have to drop famous names to assure her own position. There’s a nice person behind that pretty face, I decided.
  The waiter hovered discreetly in the background and I motioned him forward to order our food. Poached eggs, toast, coffee for Sherima; the same for Candy, except her eggs would float over a hefty portion of corned beef hash; ham and eggs, toast and coffee for me.
  I maneuvered the conversation to Sherima’s househunting agenda for the day, graciously offering my services as a guide — with Her Highness’ permission, of course. Just as graciously she accepted the services of a helpful fellow American. Candy’s foot was rubbing against mine, slowly and sensuously. When I glanced at her, she gave me an innocent smile, then turned to offer Sherima more coffee, her foot never stopping for an instant.
  I was finding it hard to concentrate on Maryland real estate.
  The husky bodyguard had the limousine door open the instant he saw Sherima and Candy appear in the hotel entryway. Then he suddenly noticed me trailing close behind and his right hand let go of the door and automatically darted toward his belt. Sherima’s words stopped him before he could draw the gun that I knew must be concealed there. She, too, obviously had realized what his sudden action meant.
  “It’s all right, Abdul.” she said quietly, adding as she turned to me, “Mr. Carter is with us.” I stepped up beside her and Candy and she continued, “Nick — Mr. Carter — I want you to meet Abdul Bedawi, who looks after Candy and me. Abdul, Mr. Carter will be coming along with us today. He’s a friend and he knows the area where we’ll be going.”
  I couldn’t decide if the expression that flooded Abdul’s face came from suspicion, recognition of my name, or plain dislike. But in an instant, he covered it with a broad smile, although his eyes continued to appraise me from head to toe as he bowed. Even as he spoke to Sherima he was watching me intently. “As you wish, my lady.”
  I stuck out my right hand and said, “Howdy, Abdul. Nice to meet you. I’ll try not to get us lost.”
  “I, too, shall endeavor to keep us from going astray,” he replied.
  There was a moment’s hesitation on his part before he finally took my hand. For another brief instant, we tested each other’s strength, both without being obvious about it. His grip was a crusher and he seemed surprised that I didn’t attempt to pull away from it. No one watching would have suspected our little combat, however, from the smiles on our faces or from his cordiality as he finally let go, bowed and said, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Carter.” His English was formal, precise, and typical of those Arabs who have been raised in nations where the British and Americans have had a strong influence.
  Bedawi held the door until we were settled in the back seat of the car, then went around and took his place behind the wheel. I noticed the first thing he did was to lower the window that separated the rear compartment from the chauffeur’s seat, something that normally would have been done by the passengers when ready to speak to the driver. He wasn’t taking any chances on missing a word that was said.
  As we started off, Sherima, looking around the car, said, “A different car today, Abdul?”
  Contempt was evident in his voice as he replied, “Yes, my lady. I don’t know what is going on at the embassy. They can’t seem to get it straight that we are to have our own car. I spent two hours after we returned last night checking out the other car to make certain that we wouldn’t have trouble today again. Then, when I got to the embassy this morning, they had this car ready for us. The other one was gone.”
  It crossed my mind that perhaps Hawk was playing games with the car again, but I was reasonably sure he would have mentioned it to me. Was there somebody in the embassy involved in the Sword’s plotting, I wondered, as I directed Bedawi through Georgetown onto M Street and toward Canal Road. It was difficult to play navigator and tourist guide at the same time, but I managed to point out some of the interesting shops and fine restaurants in that charming old sector of the capital as we passed.
  “This is Canal Road, Abdul,” I said as we swung off M Street and headed along the scenic highway. “We stay on this road for some time now. It eventually becomes the George Washington Parkway, and that takes us just where we want to go.”
  “Yes, Mr. Carter,” the chauffeur replied coldly. “I spent some time this morning studying the maps.”
  “Don’t you ever sleep?” I asked.
  “I need very little sleep, sir.”
  Sherima interrupted, sensing, I felt, the tension that was growing between us. “Why do they call it Canal Road?”
  “Well, you see that big ditch out there filled with water,” I said, pointing out the window. As they nodded automatically, I went on, “That’s what remains of the old C and O — the Chesapeake and Ohio — barge canal. Barges loaded with goods and passengers used to be towed along by mules. You can still see the towpath. It’s that bare strip on the grass beside the canal.
  “As I recall someone telling me, the canal used to run the whole way up to Cumberland, Maryland, which must be almost two hundred miles. At this end, it was connected by some sort of viaduct over the Potomac to Alexandria. For a hundred years, the barges ran along the canal, then it was closed just about the time World War I ended.”
  “What do they do with it now?” Candy asked.
  “It’s been preserved by the National Park Service,” I explained, “and people just use it for hiking or bike riding along the towpath. I don’t know whether they still do it or not, but when I was down here a few years back, there was a barge that still ran on the canal for sightseeing. It wasn’t one of the original ones, of course, just a replica. They tell me it was a real fun trip, complete with a mule to pull the barge. It must have made a great day’s outing.”
  As the women looked out the window, exclaiming again and again over the beauty of the scenery along the canal route, I was keeping an eye on the way Bedawi was handling the big car. He was an excellent driver, despite being on unfamiliar roads, alert to every passing sign or turn-off. At one point, he caught sight of me watching him in the rear-view mirror and a tight smile crossed his face.
  “Don’t worry, Mr. Carter,” he said stiffly, “I shall get us there safely.”
  “We’ll be coming into the George Washington Parkway soon,” I said, as if to explain my attention to him and the road. “We keep right on going on it until it becomes MacArthur Boulevard. Then we can swing off it at just about any point and head into the horse country up around Potomac, Maryland.”
  “My lady,” he said quickly, “wasn’t there someplace you wanted to go for sightseeing up that route?”
  “Oh yes,” she said. “Great Falls. It’s supposed to be beautiful there. Is it out of our way, Nick?”
  “Not at all. MacArthur Boulevard leads right to it. And it’s really something to see.”
  In a few minutes the car was swinging smoothly into the parking lot of the Great Falls recreational area. There were surprisingly few cars. I suddenly realized it was a weekday and most of Washington was at work.
  Sherima, Candy and I headed for the Falls. Bedawi stayed behind. When I turned to see what he was up to, he was leaning over the open hood, apparently tinkering with the motor.
  As we started for the walkway over what once had been a canal lock, three men who had been standing near the Park Service office in an area that was formerly the site of a canal rest-stop and inn, began heading that way, too. From the almost compulsive way they had been taking pictures of each other in front of a nearby sign, and from the collection of cameras that hung around the neck of each of them, I had suspected they were Japanese. I saw I was right as we got closer and they crossed to the other side of the canal.
  “Come on,” one of them called to his companions, looking at his watch. “We must hurry if we are to take pictures of the Falls and still get to the city in time to photograph the Capitol and the Washington Monument.”
  I smiled to myself, thinking how typical was their drive to record everything they saw on film. Then it suddenly struck me that what was unusual about the scene was that the apparent leader of the trio had spoken in English rather than Japanese. As I watched them hasten along the canal bank and head into the budding trees and shrubbery, a little warning bell rang at the back of my mind. While Sherima and Candy crossed the walkway over the canal, I stopped and looked back toward the spot where Bedawi was still tinkering under the upraised hood. I realized that ours was the sole car in the big lot, with the exception of a Datsun parked at the far end. Apparently, the group of tourists who had returned from the Falls as we arrived had departed in the other cars. Obviously, too, Sherima’s bodyguard thought we had gone into the Park “Service building, otherwise he would have been coming after us.
  “Nick! Come on!” Candy was waving at me from the turn-off into the woods. I waved and headed after them, pausing just for a moment to turn once more to see if Bedawi had heard her and would start after us. He hadn’t lifted his head. Probably has the motor running and can’t hear anything, I decided.
  When I caught up to Sherima and Candy, they were busily reading a brass plaque attached to a huge boulder beside the trail to the Falls. The Japanese camera bugs were nowhere in sight, which didn’t surprise me, but I had expected to hear them on the twisted path that lay ahead. The forest was quiet around us, however, with the women’s chatter the only sound.
  I moved past them, then waited until they caught up at a footbridge over the first of the little rushing streams that flowed noisily through the woods. As they peered down at the frothy water below us, Candy asked, “Why is it so foamy? The water doesn’t seem to be moving so fast that it would make all that froth.”
  “It’s not nature making those bubbles. That’s plain old American pollution,” I said. “That foam is just what it looks like — soap suds. Detergent, to be exact. They get into the river from upstream, then when they get swirled by the fast current here, the foam starts to form, just like in the washing machine.”
  We moved on to another footbridge that passed over a swifter current which had cut a deeper ravine in the rock formation. Sherima pointed out to us one spot where the rushing water had dug out a pothole; inside the hole a small rock was trapped and the water that flowed through the pothole spun it about frantically. She started to tell Candy about a glacier garden she had visited in Lucerne, Switzerland. I took advantage of their interest in the discussion of water being able to make little stones out of big ones, and slipped ahead on the trail.
  About twenty yards further on, the sudden snap of a branch to the side and slightly in front of me froze me in my steps. I waited an instant, then, hearing nothing more, stepped off the path and slipped into the underbrush, moving in a wide circle.
  “Where are they?”
  The whisper was in Japanese, off to my left, closer to the Falls trail. Creeping forward, I found myself staring at the backs of two of the Japanese tourists, who were crouched behind a huge boulder.
  “Shut up,” the second man hissed in reply to his companion’s anxious question. “They’ll be along soon.”
  The nervous one wasn’t to be silenced. “Why are there three of them? We were told there would be just two women. Are we to kill the man, too? Who is he?”
  “I don’t know who he is,” the other one said. I recognized him as the English-speaking clock-watcher.
  It was difficult to translate the Japanese whispers, and I wished he were using English again. “Whoever he is, he must die like them. There are to be no witnesses. That is the Sword’s order. Now be quiet; they will hear you.”
  Japanese and working for the Sword! Wait until Hawk hears about this, I thought, then added to myself, if he ever does. I was pretty certain I could handle the pair in front of me, despite the silencer-equipped pistols both of them held. It was the third one who had me worried. I didn’t know just where he was, and the women would be along any moment. Praying that the pothole and the swirling rock would hypnotize them just a few minutes longer, I slid Wilhelmina from the belt holster and let Hugo drop into my hand from the forearm sheath. Both of the waiting assassins would have to die at the same time, With no noise. Slipping off my jacket, I wrapped it around my left hand and the Luger. It was a very makeshift sort of silencer, but it would have to do.
  I swiftly moved four paces forward, bringing myself right behind the pair before they were aware of my presence. At the instant the cloth-swaddled Luger touched the back of the nervous Japanese man’s neck, I pulled the trigger. I had made certain that the muzzle was tilted upward, so the slug tore through his brain, exiting from the top of his head. The bullet continued its path skyward, as I had calculated. I couldn’t have afforded the noise that would have been inevitable if it had struck a rock or a tree when it left his skull.
  Even as his head jerked backward in a death contraction, my knife was sliding between the discs of the other’s spine, severing the cords that controlled his nervous system. My arm with its jacket wrapping came forward and closed over the dead man’s mouth, just in case he might scream, but there wasn’t even a gasp for air. I swung a hip to pin the first dead man to the boulder as I lowered the second one quietly to the ground, then let his companion slide down silently beside him. As I did, I heard a call from back along the trail.
  “Nick, where are you?” It was Candy. They must have realized I was no longer around, and perhaps had become frightened in the stillness of the woods.
  “Up here,” I called back, deciding that I had to let the third killer find me. “Just keep coming along the trail.”
  Arranging the jacket so that it looked like I had casually tossed it over my arm, I stepped out onto the trail and began walking. I knew he had to be nearby — they wouldn’t have separated too far apart — and I was right. As I rounded a huge slab of granite that practically formed a wall beside the path, he suddenly stepped into view, blocking my progress. A silencer-fitted pistol was leveled at my gut
  “Don’t shoot; I’m the Sword,” I whispered in Japanese. His hesitation marked him as a non-professional and it cost him his life. The slug from my jacket-wrapped luger caught him in the heart and coursed upward, lifting his body for a moment before he started to slump forward. I caught him and dragged him behind the granite slab, dumping him there. A grisly burbling came from his gaping mouth. I couldn’t risk having Sherima or Candy hear him as they passed by, so I tore loose a clump of grass and shoved it deep between the lips that already were turning blue. Blood welled from around my makeshift gag, but no sound penetrated it Turning and running back the few feet to where the other dead Japanese lay, I pulled them around the boulder where they had set up their ambush, working swiftly as I heard Sherima’s and Candy’s voices coming closer. By the time they reached me, I was back standing on the trail, my jacket once more draped casually over my arm so that the bullet holes didn’t show, my collar and tie loosened. I had transferred my gun, holster, and wallet to my pants pockets.
  Candy asked the question that was on both their faces. “Too warm, Nick?”
  “Yes, ma’am,” I drawled. “This hiking surely is hot work on such a balmy day. I hope you ladies don’t mind.”
  “I certainly don’t,” Sherima said. “This wool pants suit is starting to feel pretty uncomfortable, too.”
  “Mine, too,” Candy chimed in. “In fact, I think I’ll just put this jacket around my shoulders.” She slipped off her jacket and, as I helped her adjust it around her shoulders, I noticed that she had settled on a bra under today’s man-tailored white shirt. It didn’t quite succeed in restraining her ample breasts. She seemed to sense my critical appraisal, because she turned just enough to brush her right breast against my chest, then looked up innocently at me. I played the game with her, lifting a hand as if to brush back an errant strand of my hair, but making certain my fingers trailed across the bulging shirtfront. Her quick, muted gasp told me that she was feeling the same desire that was rising in me.
  “Guess we better move on,” I said, moving away from her and taking the lead once more on the path. “It’s only a little way to the Falls now. You can hear the water if you listen carefully.”
  “That must have been the noise I heard,” Sherima said, turning to Candy. “But I thought it was you, Nick, moving around in the underbrush ahead of us after we missed you at that place with the pothole.”
  “It must have been the Falls,” I agreed, thankful for the increasing noise that was reaching us as we walked on. “I decided to go on while you two looked at the locks. I’m a camera fancier and I thought I might catch up to those Japanese tourists and see what kind of equipment they had with them. They must’ve listened to the one who was so worried about the time, though, because they’re not around, and probably way ahead of us by now. We’ll see them at the lookout point at the Falls.”
  By that time, the roar of the water rushing over the cataract ahead was quite loud, then, as we rounded a bend, the full beauty of the huge, steep cascade struck us.
  “My God, it’s fantastic,” Sherima exclaimed. “So lovely and so frightening at the same time. Is it always so violent, Nick?”
  “No,” I said as we moved up to lean against the metal piping that served as a fence around the lookout spot created by nature and the Park Service. “The water’s high this time of year with the spring thaws. They tell me that sometimes it becomes just a trickle, but that’s pretty hard to believe looking at it now. And from what I remember of my last visit here, the floods seem to have washed away quite a bit of the banks around here.”
  “Is there any dang now?” Candy asked, backing away a bit from the guard rail.
  “No, I’m sure it’s safe, or there’d be someone from the Park Service to keep us out,” I said. I draped my jacket over the railing, then turned to take her hand and pulled her forward again. “Look, you can see that the water still has quite a way to rise before it gets to here.”
  When she — had satisfied herself as to the safety of our vantage point, I called their attention to the other side of the river. “That’s the Virginia side,” I explained. “The land’s higher over there. It forms palisades, something like those on the Hudson across from New York City, only not so steep. There’s a highway along that side, too, and on that sort of plateau over there is a great spot to look down at the rapids. They’ve set up a little picnic grove there, too. Maybe you’ll get a chance to see Great Falls from there some — Hey! Darn it!”
  “Oh Nick, your jacket!” Candy cried, leaning over the railing and sadly watching my jacket’s rapid progress through the air and into the water.
  I just sighed, and she and Sherima groaned in sympathy as it fell into the water and was carried away on the foaming current below us. While I had drawn their attention to the opposite shore, I had eased the jacket over the guard rail. Perhaps Hawk wouldn’t be too happy that part of any expensive wardrobe had been disposed of so readily, but I wouldn’t have been able to wear it again anyway. Nobody would have believed that the two round, singed holes were the latest in men’s fashions — not even in Texas.
  “Oh, Nick, your lovely jacket,” Candy moaned again. “Did you have anything valuable in it?”
  “No. Luckily, I carry my wallet and most of my papers in my pants,” I said, displaying the billfold and hoping that they would think the bulge of the Luger on the other side was my “papers.” I added, “It’s a habit I got into in New York City after a pickpocket lifted just about everything I was carrying while I was telling him how to get to Times Square.”
  “Nick, I feel responsible,” Sherima said. “You must let me replace it for you. After all, you’re here because. I wanted to see the Falls. I wish now that Abdul’s friend never had suggested it.”
  “I’m here because I wanted to be here,” I told her. “And don’t you worry about replacing it; you know how much money we folks in the oil industry throw away on expense accounts, lobbying in Washington.”
  She looked at me oddly for a moment, then she and Candy burst into laughter as my smile told them I had been kidding. If only they knew, I thought, just where my expense account came from!
  I looked at my watch and said we better start back to the car and go on with our househunting. As we retraced our steps, I said, “I’d hoped that we could have lunch somewhere nice around Potomac, but I reckon that with me in my shirtsleeves, we’ll have to settle for a Big Mac.”
  “What’s a Big Mac?” they both asked at once, surprise and amusement mingled in their voices.
  “That’s right,” I said, slapping my forehead, “I’d forgotten that the two of you have been out of the country for so long that you’ve never had the taste-treat of the century. Ladies, I promise you that if we can find a McDonald’s you are in for a real surprise.”
  They tried to persuade me to tell them the secret of the Big Mac as we walked on, and I persisted with my game, refusing to explain anything further. I kept them involved in that laughing discussion as we passed the section where three corpses littered the underbrush, and they walked by without noticing any hint of the bloodshed that had recently occurred there. We had just reached the bridge where the women had been watching the swirling rock in the pothole when Abdul came charging up to us. I had wondered why he hadn’t shown up earlier, considering his reputed dedication to the role of watchdog, but he had an explanation ready.
  “My lady, forgive me,” he begged, almost prostrating himself before Sherima. “I thought you had gone into that building near the parking lot, so I began to check the car’s engine as I had wanted to do before we left. Only minutes ago did I discover that you weren’t there, and I came after you right away. Forgive me.” Again his bow almost touched the ground.
  “Oh, Abdul, that’s all right,” Sherima said, taking his arm so that he had to rise. “We’ve been having fun. We just walked to the Falls and back. You should have been along—” Seeing that he had mistaken her meaning, taking it as a reprimand, she hurried on to explain, “No, I mean that you should have been there to see the Falls. They are spectacular, just as your friend told you. And you could have watched Mr. Carter’s jacket float away on the soapsuds.”
  He seemed completely mystified by her last words, and by the time she finished explaining my loss to him, we were back at the limousine. He looked at me speculatively as we got into the car, and I decided that he probably was wondering what kind of a careless idiot I was to lose a valuable jacket the way I did, but he only politely expressed his regrets, then got in and started driving back toward Falls Road.
  We just had started through Potomac when the little dagger that had been stabbing at my thoughts suddenly made its point: What friend of Abdul’s had told him about Great Falls? He’s never been in this country before. So when did he meet a friend here? Twice, Sherima had mentioned that the suggestion for the side trip to the Falls had been made by that unknown friend, and twice, my brain had registered it, then gone on to other things. I made another mental note to try to find out, either from Candy or through her, just where Abdul had met this acquaintance.
  The next couple of hours were spent just driving around the area, allowing Sherima to see the types of estates that dotted it and the rolling countryside that went with them. We had to stop several times as she admired a herd of horses grazing in a pasture, or when she went into rapture over a private steeplechase course that extended almost to the roadside.
  We never did find a McDonald’s, so T finally had to tell them about the burger chain and its menu. For lunch, we settled on a little country inn, after I had checked it out to make certain I could be served without a jacket.
  I excused myself at one point to go to the men’s room, heading instead for the phone booth I had spotted near the cashier’s desk. I was surprised to find Abdul there before me. He had declined to have lunch with us; when we were inside, Sherima explained that he preferred to prepare his own food, sticking strictly to his religious dietary laws.
  He spotted me almost at the same time I saw him in the phone booth and he quickly hung up and stepped out to make way for me.-
  “I was reporting to the embassy where we were,” he said coldly. “His Majesty might want to contact my lady at any time and I am ordered to let our ambassador know our whereabouts regularly.”
  It seemed like a logical explanation, so I said nothing, simply allowing him to pass and watching until he went out to the car. Then I called Hawk to make a report myself. It was unnecessary to worry about the absence of a scrambler on a pay phone. He got a bit upset when I asked to have someone tidy up the landscape at Great Falls. I left the details of how to collect the three corpses without arousing the suspicions of some Park Service employee up to him, and just gave him a quick rundown on what our schedule was for the rest of the afternoon, then told him that I would contact him when we returned to the Watergate.
  Just before I hung up, I asked if Communications Section had been able to get into Sherima’s suite to plant our bugs. His grunt of disgust told me that the listening devices hadn’t been put in place, then he explained why. “It seems someone phoned the Adabian Embassy and suggested that Sherima might feel more at home if some native paintings and handicrafts were sent around to decorate the suite while she was out. Anyway, the First Secretary has been in the suite almost from the moment you all drove away, and he’s had people carrying things in and out all day. We’re ready to move in as soon as they get out of there, but it looks to me as if the First Secretary wants to be on hand when Sherima returns so he can take credit for the decorating job.”
  “Who phoned to suggest all this?”
  “We haven’t been able to find out — yet,” Hawk said. “Our man in the embassy thinks the call went directly to the ambassador, so it would have had to have come from Sherima herself, your Miss Knight, or, perhaps, from that Bedawi fellow.”
  “Speaking of him,” I said, “see if you can find out if he knows anyone at the embassy, or has had any opportunity to contact a friend here.”
  I went on to tell him how our side trip to Great Falls had been suggested. Hawk said he would try to have an answer for me by the time we got back.
  Then, pitching his voice to an almost admonishing tone, he said, “I’ll take care of those three packages of Japanese goods you mentioned leaving behind at the Falls, but please try to be more careful in the future. Collection service of that type is rather difficult to arrange in this area. The competition among the agencies that might have to be involved is so hot, one of them might find it to their advantage to use the information against us, businesswise.”
  I knew he meant he would have to make some arrangements with either the FBI or the CIA to cover up the fate of the trio of would-be assassins. Asking for assistance of that kind always upset him, for he was certain he would have to repay the favor ten fold at a later date. “I’m sorry, sir,” I said, trying to sound as though I was. “It won’t happen again. I’ll stay behind myself next time.”
  “That won’t be necessary,” he said brusquely, then hung up.
  Returning to Sherima and Candy, I found that lunch had arrived. We all were hungry from our hike, and since I had indulged in a bit more exercise than the others my stomach was screaming for anything, and the food was good. We finished quickly, then spent another hour touring the hunt country, with Candy busily making notes as Sherima told her what sections particularly interested her. They decided that Candy would begin to contact real estate agents the following day. Hopefully, they would find a home within the next week or two.
  It was shortly after six P.M. when Abdul swung the limousine into the Watergate driveway again. By then, we had decided to have dinner in Georgetown. I insisted that they be my guests at the 1789 Restaurant, an excellent dining spot housed in a building that dated back to the year that gave the restaurant its name. Sherima again was hesitant about imposing on me, but I convinced her to agree by accepting her invitation to be her guest the following evening.
  As we got out of the car, Sherima instructed Abdul to return at eight-thirty to pick us up. I suggested that we could easily go to Georgetown by taxi, and that Abdul might enjoy a night off.
  “Thank you, Mr. Carter,” he said with his usual iciness, “but I require no night off. It is my job to be at my lady’s disposal. I shall return at eight-thirty.”
  “All right, Abdul,” Sherima said, sensing, perhaps, that her faithful bodyguard’s feelings might have been hurt. “But you be certain to get something to eat.”
  “Yes, my lady,” he said, bowing. “I shall do so at the embassy immediately. I can drive there easily and be back here as you instructed.” He closed the discussion by stepping quickly around the car and driving off.
  “Abdul takes his job very seriously, Nick,” Sherima said as we rode up to our floor in the elevator. “He does not mean to be impolite; it is just his manner.”
  “I understand,” I said, stopping at my door while they continued to their suite. “See you in the lobby.”
  Moments later, I was on the phone to Hawk, who had some information for me.
  “For one thing,” he began, “that fool First Secretary didn’t give up waiting for Sherima until about fifteen minutes ago. We never got into the suite, so don’t count on the bugs.”
  I started to say something about an unscrambled phone, but he broke in to say that, if nothing else, Communications hadn’t wasted the day at the Watergate entirely. “A scrambler has been installed in your phone, so you can talk freely.”
  “Great! What about my three friends at the Falls?”
  “Just about now,” he said slowly, “their totally incinerated corpses are being removed from the wreckage of their Datsun on MacArthur Boulevard near the Naval Research Center. A tire must have blown out, for they suddenly swerved and hit a gasoline tank truck just waiting to swing into the Center. A couple of officers from Naval Intelligence happened to be passing at the time, and they saw the accident. Fortunately, the driver of the tank truck jumped clear just before the explosion. From what the Naval Institute witnesses told the Maryland State Police, the truck driver’s in the clear. It was just an accident.”
  “Were you able to find out anything about them before the accident?”
  “Their photographs and prints were taken, and we’ve established that they were members of the Rengo Sekigun. We thought most of those Japanese Red Army fanatics had been rounded up or wiped out, but apparently, these three had fled Tokyo and made their way to Lebanon; they’d been taken in by Black September.”
  “How did they get here?”
  “We haven’t pinned that down yet, but we’re working on it. The Beirut office says it had a report that some Japanese being trained by Black September had decided that the September organization wasn’t militant enough for them so they made contact on their own with the Sword’s Silver Scimitar boys. He may have arranged to have them sent here for this job on Sherima.”
  “So they didn’t think the Black September was militant enough,” I mused. “What did they think that little massacre their fellow countrymen pulled at Lod Airport in Tel Aviv a couple of years back was — an exercise in pacifism?”
  “What are your plans for the evening?” Hawk wanted to know. “Do you want any back-up assigned?”
  I told him about our dinner at the 1789 Restaurant, then rang off. As if on cue, there was a knock at my door.
  Loosening my tie as I crossed to the door, I swung it open. Candy pushed past me immediately, closing it quickly behind herself.
  “Don’t you ever just walk into a room?” I chided her.
  “You never can tell who’s out there,” she replied, then threw her arms around my neck and kissed me deeply. Our tongues played games for a while, then she pulled her mouth away, saying, “Umm. I’ve been wanting to do that all day, Nick. You have no idea how hard it was being good while Sherima was around.”
  “You have no idea how hard it was for me, too, but what about Sherima?” I asked, not entirely distracted by the fact that she was opening my shirt, loosening my belt, and guiding me toward the bed.
  “She took a quick shower, then said she was going to nap until seven forty-five,” Candy replied, sitting on the bed and gesturing for me to join her. “That means we have over an hour together before I have to get back there and get dressed myself.”
  I sat next to her, taking her face between my hands.
  “You don’t mind living dangerously with our little secret, do you?”
  At first, she smiled in response to that, but suddenly her face clouded over, and the large hazel eyes looked past me toward the door. A strange sort of bitterness rung in her voice as she said abstractedly, “Everyone has a’ secret. We all do, don’t we? You, me, Sherima, Abdul…” That last was uttered with a shadowy grimace, and I wondered for a second why. “Even his High and Mighty Majesty Hassan…”
  She realized I was watching her closely as she spoke, and seemed to snap from her mood, snaking her slender arms around my neck and pulling me down.
  “Oh, Nick, hold me. No secrets now — just hold me.”
  I covered her full mouth with mine and kissed her. She ran her fingers through my hair, then trailed them over the back of my neck, returning my kiss long and deeply. We undressed each other. She moved to the bed.
  She lay on her back, her long, wavy hair spread out on the pillow over her head. Her eyes were partly closed, and her face had become more relaxed. I ran a finger over her chin, then down around her long, classical neck, and she let a deep sigh escape her lips as my caresses became more intimate. She turned to her side, kissing me urgently.
  For several minutes, we lay side by side, not speaking, touching each other almost tentatively, as though each of us expected the other to object in some way. I could see that she had slipped back into her own thoughts. Occasionally, she would shut her eyes tightly, as though erasing some thought from her mind, then open them widely again to look at me and allow a smile to cross over her lips.
  Finally, I asked, “What is it, Candy? You’re doing a lot of thinking about something or another.” I tried to sound as off-handed as possible.
  “Nothing — it’s really nothing,” she answered softly. “I–I only wish we’d met ten years ago…” She rolled to her back again and put her arms over her head. “Then so much wouldn’t have happened… With you to love…” She fell silent, staring up at the ceiling.
  I raised myself on one elbow and looked down at her. I hadn’t intended to have this beautiful woman fall in love with me. But then I also hadn’t intended to find myself feeling as much as I did for her.
  There was nothing I could say in response to her words that wouldn’t betray the fact that I knew much more about her own secret past — and what she probably was talking about just now — so I filled the silence with a long kiss.
  In a moment, our bodies were saying everything that had to be said for the time. We made slow, easy love, the way two people who have known each other for a long time do, giving and receiving equal pleasure.
  Later, as we lay quietly, Candy’s head on my shoulder, I could feel that she was relaxed, the tension of her previous thoughts vanished. Suddenly, she bolted upright.
  “Oh, my God — what time is it?”
  Taking my watch from the bedside table, I said, “Exactly seven-forty, ma’am,” affecting an exaggerated drawl.
  She laughed. “I just love the way you talk, Nick.” And then, “But now I have to run.” Gathering her clothes and virtually jumping into them, she mumbled like a schoolgirl nearing the curfew hour. “God, I hope she didn’t wake up yet… Well, I’ll just say I had to go down to the lobby for something… Or that I took a walk or something…”
  Dressed, she leaned over the bed and kissed me again, then turned to rush out of the room. “See you in forty-five minutes,” I called after her.
  As I showered, I realized that no matter where I was focusing my thoughts, they always returned to form around the image of Candy, and to echo her words. People had secrets — that was a fact. And perhaps my secret from her was the biggest one of them all. But there had been something in her tone that bothered me.
  This was turning into much more than the simple assignment of protecting the former Queen. There was a mystery that entangled the lives of these people, and although it might be a personal thing, it still intrigued me. Yet, there seemed to be more than personal considerations: and they seemed to focus around Abdul.
  Bedawi could simply be jealous of the way in which I was usurping his role. He’d surely seemed humiliated about slipping up on his responsibilities back at the Falls, and his coldness toward me had only increased after that. Still, I couldn’t, help feeling that there was more to the formidable looking bodyguard than met the eye. The AXE backgrounder on him had been far too incomplete.
  Hoping that Hawk would have more information on Bedawi’s Washington friends, I stepped from the shower under the warming rays of the overhead lamp. I’d have to put my speculations to rest for a while, I told myself, until I had more solid information to go on.
  Selecting a dinner jacket that wasn’t without the Texas touch, I began dressing, laughing silently at the way Hawk hadn’t missed a single detail in my wardrobe. The jacket, although formal, had buttons with the logo of my supposed business.
  Chapter 7
  “That was delicious, but I feel as if I’ve gained at least ten pounds,” Candy enthused as she and Sherima waited for me to retrieve their coats from the checkroom. If she’d put on extra weight, it didn’t show a bit, I thought as I handed over the claim checks. The floor-length white sheath dress she was wearing looked as if it had been stitched together on her, with loving hands fitting the soft material to every curve. Sleeveless and slit high, to her knees, it set off both the reddish highlights of her flowing hair and the golden tan that I knew covered every delicious inch of her body. I suspected she had selected the gown for just that reason.
  “Me too,” Sherima agreed. “Nick, dinner was wonderful. The cuisine here is the equal to that of any I’ve had in Paris. Thank you so much for bringing us.”
  “My pleasure, ma’am,” I said, taking her long sable coat from the attendant and settling it around her slender shoulders when she indicated that she preferred to wear it cape fashion, as she had earlier. She had worn a black empire gown that accented her shoulder-length raven hair and her high bosom that graced her slender figure. I had been proud to walk into the dining room at 1789 with two such lovely women and coolly return the envious stares of every man there. Through his seemingly endless connections, Hawk had managed on short notice to arrange a somewhat secluded table for us, but I realized the word had spread quickly of the former Queen’s presence when a stream of people began to find excuses to pass us as we dined. I was certain Sherima and Candy had noticed, too, but neither chose to remark about it.
  “Here you are,” I said, holding out Candy’s leopard coat. As she slipped into the luxurious wrap that would have brought howls of outrage from wildlife conservationists, I let my hand linger on her shoulders for a moment, touching her soft, sensitive skin. She gave me a quick, knowing smile. Then, turning to Sherima, she said something that nearly choked me.
  “You know, I think I’m going to exercise before I go to sleep tonight.”
  “That’s a good idea,” Sherima agreed, then looked closely at Candy, perhaps suspecting her friend’s double meaning.
  When Candy returned her look with an innocent expression, saying “Unless I’m too tired, of course. The night’s still young,” Sherima’s face fell into a warm smile. She touched Candy’s hand affectionately and we started for the door.
  As we went outside, I walked between the two women, letting each one take an arm. I pressed Candy’s hand inside my elbow and she returned the gesture, squeezing my forearm. Then a slight tremor that I knew came from sexual arousal swept over her.
  “Cold?” I asked, grinning down at her.
  “No. It’s beautiful tonight. It’s so warm, it feels more like summer than spring. Nick, Sherima,” she added quickly, “what do you say to walking a bit? These old homes around here are so lovely, and the exercise would do us all good.”
  Sherima turned to me, asking, “Would it be safe, Nick?”
  “Oh, I think so. There seem to be lots of people out tonight enjoying the nice weather. If you’d like, we could walk up around Georgetown University, then circle around and stroll down N Street to Wisconsin Avenue, and on along to M Street. That’s where you noticed all those stores this morning and I believe a number of them are open late. It’s only a bit after eleven, and if nothing else, you could do a little window shopping.”
  “Let’s do it, Sherima,” Candy said. “It sounds like fun.”
  By then, we had reached the limousine, where Abdul stood holding open the door. “All right,” Sherima assented. Turning to her bodyguard, she said, “Abdul, we’re going to walk for a bit.”
  “Yes, my lady,” he said, bowing as always. “I shall follow along in the car.”
  “Oh, that won’t be necessary, Abdul,” Sherima said. “Nick, couldn’t we pick out a corner where Abdul might meet us after a while? Better still, I have an idea. Abdul, you take the rest of the night off. We won’t need you any more tonight. We can get a cab back to the hotel, can’t we, Nick?”
  “Oh, sure,” I said. “There are always a lot of cabs on Wisconsin Avenue.”
  When her bodyguard started to protest that it would be no trouble for him to follow us in the car, and that it was his place to be with her, Sherima held up her hand to silence him. The gesture obviously was a holdover from her days as Queen of Adabi and Abdul, an experienced courtier, because silent instantly.
  “That’s an order, Abdul,” she told him. “You have been on the go looking after us ever since we got to this country, and I’m sure you can use the rest. Now, do as I say.” Her tone left no room for argument.
  Bowing deeply, Abdul said, “As you wish, my lady. I shall return to the embassy. What time do you wish me to be at the hotel in the morning?”
  “Ten o’clock will certainly be early enough,” Sherima said. “I think Candy and I can use a good night’s sleep, too, and this little walk will be just the thing to make certain we get it.”
  Abdul bowed once more, closed the door, and went around the car, driving of! as we started to walk along Prospect Avenue toward the university grounds just a few blocks away.
  Ambling past the older buildings on the campus, I told the girls what little I knew about the school. Almost two hundred years old, it once had been run by the Jesuits and subsequently developed into one of the world’s best known institutions for international and foreign service studies. “Many of our most important statesmen studied here over the years,” I said, “which is logical, I reckon, since it is located in the capital.”
  “It’s lovely,” Sherima said, admiring the Gothic majesty of one of the main buildings as we passed by. “And it’s so quiet around here; it almost seems that we stepped back in time. I think it’s marvelous the way that the buildings have been preserved. It’s always so saddening to see the grand architecture of a city’s older sections become ignored and decay. But this is delightful.”
  “Well, ma’am, our time-traveling will end when we get down to Wisconsin Avenue,” I said. “On a night like this the pubs will be full of young people involved in very comtemporary social rituals! And, by the way, Washington is supposed to have some of the prettiest women in the world. An old friend of mine from Hollywood was working on a movie here, and he swore that he’s never seen so many attractive women in one place before. Now, that’s something for a Hollywood man to say.”
  “Is that why you like to spend so much of your time in Washington?” Candy asked jokingly.
  “Strictly business with me, ma’am,” I insisted, and we all started to laugh.
  By that time, we had turned down N Street, and they were remarking over the old homes, carefully preserved in their original state. I explained that since 1949, and the enactment of the Old Georgetown Bill, no one is allowed to build or demolish a building in the Historic District without permission from the Commission of Fine Arts.
  “Nick, you sound like a guide book,” Candy kidded me at one point.
  “That’s because I love Georgetown,” I said honestly. “When I find time on a trip up here, I always end up walking the streets, just enjoying the whole atmosphere of the area. In fact, if we have time and you aren’t too tired hiking, I’ll show you the house that I’d like to buy someday and just settle down in. It’s at Thirty-second and P Streets. Someday — maybe a long time away — but someday I’m going to have that house,” I mused aloud.
  As I continued with my little lecture tour, I was conscious that the day of my eventual retirement might never arrive. Or that it might come very soon — and violently.
  I noticed out of the corner of my eye that a battered old station wagon was passing us for the third time as we stopped in front of 3307 N Street and I was explaining that this was the house that President Kennedy, then a Senator, had bought for Jackie as a present after the birth of their daughter Caroline. “They lived here until moving to the White House,” I said.
  As Sherima and Candy stared at the house and talked quietly, I used the opportunity to follow the station wagon’s progress along the block. Just past the corner of Thirty-third Street, it halted, double-parking in a dark spot between the glow cast by the streetlights. As I watched, two shadowy figures got out of the right side doors, crossed the street, and walked almost to the intersection ahead of us. I had noticed there were four people in the station wagon, so that left two of them on our side of the street. Without being obvious to Sherima and Candy, I transferred the trenchcoat I’d been carrying over my right arm to the other side after easing my Luger into my left hand so that the coat was draped over it. Then I turned back to the girls, who were still talking in whispers about the tragedy of JFK.
  “Come on, you two,” I said. “This was supposed to be a night for fun. I’m sorry that I stopped here.”
  They moved up to join me, both subdued and saying little as we walked on. We crossed Thirty-third Street, and I left them to their thoughts. I saw the two men who had crossed the street in my peripheral sight. They had come back to our side and had fallen in behind us. About thirty yards ahead, both doors on the driver’s side of the station wagon opened, but no one got out. That would come as we got closer, I figured, where the darkness was deepest on the block.
  My companions apparently weren’t conscious of the footsteps coming up fast behind us, but I was. A few yards further on and we would be hemmed in between two pair of what I was pretty certain were assassins ready to make another try at Sherima. I decided to act while we were in a spot where some of the corner streetlight’s glare penetrated the branches of the still leafless trees.
  Turning suddenly, I faced two tall, muscular blacks who were, by then, almost running to catch up to us. They skidded to a stop as I demanded harshly:
  “Are you foIlowing us?”
  Behind me, I heard one of the women gasp as they suddenly swung around to be confronted by the hulking, dark-clad pair who faced me sullenly. I also heard a metal thud from further along the block behind me that told me a door on the double-parked station wagon had been flung open, slamming into one of the vehicles at the curb.
  “No — what are you talking about?” one of the men protested. His actions belied his words, however, as he lunged forward with an open switchblade.
  My coat-shrouded arm brushed the knife aside while I pulled the trigger on the Luger. The slug caught him in the chest and flung him backward. I heard him grunt, but already had turned to his partner, who was clawing at a gun stuck in his belt. My stiletto had dropped down into my right hand and I plunged it into him, pinning his hand to his stomach for a moment before withdrawing it. Then I lunged forward once more and slid the blade deep into his throat then pulled it out immediately.
  Someone, Candy I thought — had screamed at the sound of my shot and then another scream — this time from Sherima — swung me instantly back to them. Two more husky blacks were almost upon the women. One was raising a gun; the other seemed to be trying to open a switchblade knife that appeared stuck. I fired Wilhelmina again and the side of the gunman’s forehead suddenly vanished and was replaced by a torrent of blood.
  The fourth attacker froze in his tracks as I swung the Luger clear of the trenchcoat and leveled it at him. A light came on in the doorway of the house beside us and I could see the fear turning the black face into a glistening mask of sweat. I stepped up close and said softly:
  “Who’s The Sword? And where is he?”
  The terrified man’s features seemed almost paralyzed as he looked at me and then at the barrel of the Luger that was pointed up under his chin. “I don’t know, man. I swear it. Honest, man, I don’t even know what you’re talkin’ about. I only know that we got told to wipe you out.”
  I could tell that Sherima and Candy were moving closer to me, instinctively seeking protection. And I knew, too, that my prisoner was telling the truth. No one who was that afraid to die would worry about keeping secrets.
  “Okay. Beat it,” I said. “And tell whoever gave you your orders to cool it or he’ll end up like your friends here.”
  He didn’t even answer; just turned, raced to the station wagon and gunned the motor that had been left running and pulled away, not bothering to close the doors which banged into two cars parked along the street.
  Suddenly conscious that lights were blazing in almost every nearby house, I turned to find Sherima and Candy huddled together, staring in horror at me and at the three figures sprawled on the ground. Finally, Sherima spoke:
  “Nick, what’s happening? Who are they?” Her voice was a croaking whisper.
  “Muggers,” I said. “It’s an old trick. They work in a foursome and box in their victims so they can’t run in either direction.”
  I realized that both of them were looking at the gun and knife in my hands — especially at the still-bloody stiletto. I bent down and stuck it deep in the ground beside the cobblestone walk and pulled it out clean. Straightening, I said: “Don’t let these upset you. I always carry them. I got in the habit in New York, but I’ve never had.to use them before. I’ve had them since I got mugged there one night and spent a week in the hospital getting stitches put in and taken out.”
  Certain that a call to the police had been made from one of the now brightly-lighted houses on the block, I put the Luger back in its holster and slipped the knife back up my sleeve, then took the girls by the arm and said:
  “Come on, let’s get out of here. You don’t want to get involved in something like this.” My words were aimed at Sherima and, despite her shock, she understood what I meant.
  “No. No. It would be in all the papers… But what about them?” She looked down at the bodies on the ground.
  “Don’t worry. The police will take care of them. When we get back to the hotel, I’ll call a friend of mine on the police force and explain what happened. I won’t identify you two unless it’s absolutely necessary. And even if it is, I think the D.C. police will be as eager to keep the real story out of the papers as you are. The headlines about an attack on you would be even bigger than the ones about Senator Stennis being shot and I’m sure the District doesn’t want any more of that kind of publicity.”
  As I talked, I quickly guided them past the two dead and one dying man on the ground and continued leading them around the corner onto Thirty-third Street. Moving hastily and expecting police cars to arrive at any moment, I kept them going until we reached the corner of O Street, then let them rest a minute in front of historic old St. John’s Episcopal Church.
  “Nick! Look! A cab!”
  Candy’s first words since the attack started were the most welcome I’d heard in a long time. Not only did it mean that she was coming out of the shock that had temporarily paralyzed her vocal chords and was once more thinking rationally, but there was nothing we needed more at that moment than an empty cab. I stepped into the street and flagged him down. I helped them inside, got in after them and said calmly to the driver, “Watergate Hotel, please,” as I slammed the door. As he started off, a District police car came roaring along Thirty-third Street with its siren warbling. By the time we reached Wisconsin Avenue and M Street, Georgetown’s major intersection, police cars seemed to be coming from every direction.
  “Something big must have happened,” the cabby remarked, stopping to let one of the cruisers swerve around him. “Either that or the kids are streaking up at Georgetown again and the cops don’t want to miss it this time, just in case the girls decide to join in.”
  None of us felt like answering him and our silence must have offended his sense of humor for he didn’t say another word until we got back to the hotel and he announced the fare. A two-dollar tip put the smile back on his face, but my attempt to brighten my companions’ countenances as we walked into the lobby failed dismally for neither of them responded to my question:
  “Shall we streak to the elevator?”
  As we were riding up to our floor, it suddenly struck me that they probably didn’t know about streaking, not having been in the country when the craze occurred. I didn’t feel up to trying to explain, either, and just escorted them to their door and said goddnight. Both of them looked at me oddly, mumbled something, then closed the door in my face. I waited for the bolt to snap, then went to my room and phoned Hawk once more.
  “Two of them are from New York City, the dead ones. The one your bullet struck in the chest still is in intensive care at the hospital and not expected to live or even regain consciousness. He’s from D.C. They all have links to the Black Liberation Army, it appears. New York says the pair from there are wanted in Connecticut for the murder of a state trooper. The local one is out on bail for a bank robbery, but was being sought again for a supermarket holdup.”
  It was almost two a.m. when Hawk got back to me. He didn’t sound quite as upset as he had been when I phoned him earlier to report what had happened in Georgetown. His immediate concern then had been to establish a plausible cover-up with the District police. Plagued with one of the highest crime rates in the country, they couldn’t be expected to take kindly to having three more killings added to the local total on the FBI’s statistical reports.
  “What’s going to be the official story?” I asked. I knew that the police would have to come up with some explanation for the gunfire and bodies in one of the city’s better residential sections.
  “Four muggers made the mistake of picking on a decoy squad, with two detectives posing as women, and, in the shootout, came up losers.”
  “Will the newsmen buy that?”
  “They may not, but their editors will. The request for their cooperation came from so high that they couldn’t help but go along with it. The story will make the papers, but won’t be played up at all. The same will hold true for radio and TV; they’ll probably pass it up completely.”
  “Sorry to cause you so much trouble.”
  “It couldn’t be helped, I guess, N3.” Hawk’s tone was considerably more gentle than it had been a couple of hours earlier. “The thing that concerns me most,” he continued, “is that you may have blown.your cover with Sherima and the girl. I still can’t understand why you agreed to taking that walk in the first place. The wiser course, it seems to me, would have been to come back to the hotel by car.”
  I tried to explain that I was faced with the decision of whether to appear a party-pooper and perhaps lose the advantage of being looked upon as enjoyable company or to take the risk of a stroll in what should have been a relatively safe area.
  “I hadn’t counted on the restaurant being staked out by that foursome,” I admitted. “However, there’s always the possibility that if they hadn’t caught up to us walking, they might have cut off the car and just started shooting.”
  “That could have been nasty,” Hawk agreed. “According to our information from New York, one of that pair from there usually uses a sawed-off shotgun. That’s how they linked him to the killing of the trooper. If he had opened up with it when the three of you were jammed into the back seat of the limousine, there’s a pretty good chance the District police would have had the same number of victims, only a different cast. I wonder why he didn’t use it in the street. It probably was in the station wagon.”
  “Maybe The Sword had established the ground rules,” I suggested. “If he plans to blame the CIA for Sherima’s death as we suspect, the shotgun might not have seemed the proper weapon for secret agents to be using.”
  “Whose idea was the little walk in the first place?” Hawk wanted to know.
  That was a point that had been bothering me from the time the three of us had climbed into our fortuitous cab and headed back to the Watergate. I had been mentally playing back the conversation that led up to our almost fatal stroll, and I told Hawk that I still hadn’t reached a definite decision about its origin.
  “I’m sure it was Candy who remarked on the nice night and had the sudden inspiration about walking,” I explained to my chief. “But the idea seemed to have popped into her head only after she and Sherima had been talking about getting more exercise. And the conversation about exercise, as best I can recall, really began when Candy made a remark that was intended for me and had no connection with walking.”
  “How’s that?”
  Trying not to arouse Hawk’s moral indignation, T explained as simply as possible that her words seemed intended to convey the message that she would be visiting my room later that night. He harrumphed a bit, then decided, as I had done long before, that it didn’t seem possible to lay the blame for the Georgetown ambling on any ulterior motive. At least not at present.
  Hawk wasn’t about to let the subject of my sexual adventures drop, however. “I feel certain there will be another attempt on Sherima’s life soon,” he said. “Perhaps even yet tonight. I trust you won’t let yourself be distracted, N3.”
  “By now, my charges should be sound asleep, sir. At the Great Falls today, Candy told me that she had some tranquilizers, so I suggested that she and Sherima each take one or two before going to bed tonight. And they agreed it was a good idea. I’m hoping that a good night’s rest will help them forget some of the details of this evening and, hopefully, keep them from having too many doubts about my explanation for being armed.”
  Before hanging up, Hawk said he had followed through on a suggestion I had made in our initial conversation after the attack. “I had a call made to the assistant manager of the hotel, as we discussed. He was told it was the Adabian embassy calling and that Sherima had been accosted by a persistent freelance photographer while at dinner this evening. The ‘Adabi gentleman’ requested that someone watch the hallway on your floor tonight and see that no one disturbs her. The night manager said he would take care of it at once, so there should be someone out there.”
  “He’s there,” I said. “I checked the hallway myself earlier and an elderly Irishman who had to be a house detective pretended to be searching through his pockets for his room key until I came back inside.”
  “Didn’t he get suspicious of your sticking your head out into the hail?”
  “No. I had some coffee sent up as soon as I got back, so I put the tray back outside the door. He probably just assumed I was putting it there for Room Service to pick up.”
  “Well, with him out there, the only other entrance to Sherima’s room is over the balcony and I guess you’ll be covering that,” Hawk said.
  “I’m watching it right now, sir. Fortunately, the second phone in this room has a long cord and I’m just inside the balcony door now.”
  “All right, N3. I’ll expect a call from you in the morning… Huh, I guess since it’s already morning, I mean later this morning.”
  When I said that I would check in at eight a.m., Hawk said, “Make that seven. I’ll be back here by then.”
  “Yes, sir,” I said, then hung up, knowing that the old man really wouldn’t be going home to bed but would be spending what was left of the night on the well-worn leather couch in his office. It was his “ready room” when we had a major operation under way.
  I had turned the two wrought iron chairs on my little terrace into a makeshift chaise lounge and my trenchcoat into a blanket. The night was still balmy, but the dampness from the Potomac finally penetrated, and I stood up to move around a bit and work the chill out of my bones. The luminous dial of my watch read three-thirty, and I was just contemplating trying a few pushups when a soft thud on the next balcony, the one outside Sherima’s room, attracted my attention. Pressing into the darkest corner near the door, I looked over the low wall that separated my balcony from Sherima’s.
  At first, I couldn’t see anything there. Straining my eyes in the darkness, I spotted a rope hanging down from the roof of the hotel and extending past the front of Sherima’s balcony. What I heard, I decided, was the rope striking and falling on past the curving front wall. Then I heard another sound from up above, and I looked up to see someone coming down the rope. His feet swung precariously past the overhang as he began the slow, hand-over-hand descent. I could see no more than his shoes and pants cuffs when I vaulted the divider and pressed myself against the opposite wall, deep in the shadows. So far, it had been impossible for the intruder to spot me. A moment later, as he secured a foothold on the three-foot-high balcony wall, he was less than ten feet away from me. I stiffened, controlling my breathing, standing completely motionless.
  Dressed completely in.black, he steadied himself momentarily, then dropped quietly to the terrace floor. He stood still as though he were expecting something. Thinking that he could be waiting for a confederate to follow him down the rope, I waited, too, but no one appeared from above to join him. At last, he moved up close to the sliding glass door and appeared to be listening for some-, thing, probably to determine whether anyone was moving about inside.
  When he reached out to try to open the door, I decided it was time to make my move. I stepped up behind him, reached over one shoulder, and slapped a hand over his mouth, at the same time letting him feel the muzzle of my Luger against the side of his head.
  “Not a word, not a sound,” I whispered. “Just back up as I do and come away from the door.”
  He nodded and I took three steps backward, still keeping my hand across his’ mouth so that he followed my retreat whether he wanted to or not. I swung him around to face me when we reached the corner furthest from the door. In the soft light that filtered upward from the Watergate courtyard below, I could see that he was an Arab. A fearless one, too. Even in that subtle glow I could see hatred glaring from his eyes; not a trace of intimidation over being caught flickered in his angry face.
  Holding my Luger barrel right in front of his mouth, I asked, “Anyone else up on the roof?”
  When he didn’t answer, I marked him as a professional; obviously, he realized that I wasn’t prepared to shoot him and risk arousing the entire hotel. Testing just how far his professionalism went, I swiped the heavy gun barrel down across the bridge of his nose. The crunch of bone giving way sounded loud, but I knew that it was only because I was standing so close to him. I tried the question again. He was a real pro, not answering or even taking the chance of raising a hand to wipe away the blood that began cascading down over his chin.
  Shifting the gun to my left hand, I let my stiletto drop into my right and brought it under his throat, stopping just short of breaking the skin. He flinched, but the eyes continued to spark defiance and the lips stayed locked. I raised the needle-sharp point a bit and it pricked his skin, drawing more blood. Still he wouldn’t speak. A little pressure set the point deeper in his throat just under his Adam’s apple that began bobbing nervously.
  “Another inch and you’ll never be able to talk again,” I warned him. “Now, let’s try again. Is there anyone else up—”
  The sound of Sherima’s balcony door sliding open halted the interrogation abruptly. Keeping my stiletto at my prisoner’s neck, I turned slightly, my Luger swinging to cover the figure emerging from the doorway. It was Candy. For a moment, she was rooted in her steps as she took in the macabre scene. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she recognized me; then she stared with expressionless horror at the bloody man almost impaled on the blade in my hand.
  “Nick, what’s going on?” she asked softly, tentatively inching to my side.
  “I couldn’t sleep,” I told her, “so I came out on the balcony to get some air and relax a bit. I spotted this fellow standing outside Sherima’s door, so I jumped over the wall and collared him.”
  “What are you going to do with him?” she asked. “Is he a robber?”
  “That’s just what we’ve been talking about,” I said. “But I’ve been doing all the talking.”
  “What happened to his face?”
  “I think he had an accident getting onto the balcony,”
  I lied.
  My prisoner hadn’t moved, except for his eyes which had swept back and forth over our faces during the conversation. However, when I mentioned his “accident,” a tight smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.
  “He looks Arabian,” Candy whispered. “Could he have been trying to hurt Sherima?”
  “I think we’re going to go next door to my room and have a little talk about that,” I said, and was pleased to see a trace of fear finally appear in the night prowler’s eyes.
  “Shouldn’t we call the police, Nick?” Candy said, not taking her eyes from the Arab. “After all, if somebody is trying to harm Sherima, we should get some protection. Maybe I should call the embassy and get Abdul.”
  At her mention of the bodyguard’s name, the big Arab’s nostrils pinched as he sucked in air. The name obviously meant something to him; as I watched him, beads of perspiration began to break out on his forehead, and I had the impression he feared the wrath of the former Queen’s devoted guardian. His eyes rolled around the balcony, then flicked upward as if he were looking for some means of escape.
  “That might be a good idea to call Abdul,” I agreed. “Maybe he can get some answers out of our friend here.”
  Again, the Arab’s eyes flicked upward, but he said nothing.
  “I’ll go do it now,” Candy said, tinning away. “Sherima’s sound asleep, the pills worked, so I’ll tell Abdul to— Nick, look out!”
  Her scream wasn’t loud, but she had grabbed my arm at the same time and its completely unexpected force thrust my hand forward, plunging the knife deep in my captive’s throat. His eyes opened in disbelief for a moment, then snapped shut almost at the same time. I jerked back the stiletto. Blood welled out after it and I knew immediately that he never would talk to anyone again. He was dead. I wasn’t worrying about him right then, though, because I was swinging around to see what had caused Candy’s gasp of terror.
  Still clutching my arm, she pointed upward, apparently not yet realizing the consequence of her sudden jolt to my arm. “Something’s moving up there,” she whispered. “It looks like a snake.”
  “It’s a rope,” I said, checking the rise of my anger. I turned back to bend over the Arab, who had slipped down to the corner of the’ terrace. “That’s how he got here.”
  “What happened to him?” she asked, staring down at the dark hulk at my feet.
  I couldn’t let her know that she had been the cause of his death. She had enough troubles without having to be faced with another burden to carry around with her. “He tried to get away when you screamed, and slipped and fell forward on my knife,” I explained. “He’s dead.”
  “Nick, what are we going to do?” Fear was rising in her voice again, and I didn’t want an hysterical woman on my hands at that moment. Bending swiftly, I wiped the blood from my knife on the dead man’s jacket, then sheathed the blade up my sleeve and returned the Luger to its holster.
  “First,” I said, “I’m going to get the body over this wall and into my room. We can’t stay here talking, we might waken Sherima, and it’s better if she knows nothing about this after what she’s already gone through tonight. Then, I’m going to help you over the wall, and you and I are going to have a little talk. Now, while I take care of him, you duck back inside and make certain Sherima still is asleep. And get a robe or something on, then come back out here.”
  Events had been happening so fast, I hadn’t noticed until then that all Candy had on was a filmy pale yellow negligee, cut to a deep V and barely containing her generous bosom, which heaved spasmodically with each nervous breath.
  As she turned to do as I had instructed, I lifted the dead man from the floor and unceremoniously dumped him over the wall that separated the two balconies. Then I walked over to the would-be assassin’s rope, still dangling over Sherima’s terrace-front wall. I was quite certain that he hadn’t made the trip to the hotel on his own; it was likely that at least one more companion still waited on the roof one floor above us.
  And I felt sure that whoever had been there had taken j off after this one had failed to return after a reasonable amount of time. If the Arab’s accomplice was as professional as his dead friend had been, he would have realized something had gone wrong. The assassination, if successful, should have been accomplished in five to ten minutes, at the most. And a look at my watch had told me that it had been fifteen minutes since his feet first appeared coming down the rope. And although all of the conversation outside Sherima’s room had been in whispers and most of the movements had been muffled, there was still the chance that the second man or men had heard something, because the Watergate courtyard was quiet at that hour. Only the sound of an occasional car passing on the nearby highway by the Potomac had broken the nighttime silence, and that couldn’t possibly have covered the balcony scuffle.
  I decided not to make the climb up the rope to the roof; instead, I jumped up on the balcony railing and cut part way through the rope, weakening it just enough so if someone attempted to descend it again, it wouldn’t hold the intruder’s weight, dropping him into the courtyard ten floors below. Candy reappeared at the balcony door just as I jumped from the railing. She stifled a scream, then saw that it was me.
  “Nick, what—?”
  “Just making certain no one else uses that route tonight,” I said. “How’s Sherima?”
  “She’s out like a light. I think she took a couple of extra tranquilizers, Nick. I had given her two before she went to bed, but I noticed just now in my bathroom that the bottle was on the sink. I counted them, and there seem to be at least two less than I should have.”
  “You’re sure she’s all right?” I was concerned that the former Queen might have unintentionally overdosed.
  “Yes. I checked her breathing and it’s normal, maybe just a little slow. I’m sure that she’s only had four of my pills, and that’s just enough to put her out for ten or twelve hours.”
  I could tell from the looks Candy was giving me that she was full of questions. I delayed having to come up with the answers for a while, by asking her: “How about you? Why were you awake? Didn’t you take something to make you sleep, too?”
  “I guess I got so involved in getting Sherima quieted down and off to bed that I just forgot, Nick. I flopped down across my bed finally and started to read. I must have dozed off for an hour or so without having taken any tranquilizers. When I woke up, I came in to check on Sherima, and that’s when I heard a noise on her balcony… you know what happened after that.” She paused, then said abruptly, “Nick, who are you, really?”
  “No questions, now, Candy. They can wait until we get to my room. Wait here a minute.”
  I vaulted the divider again and carried the dead Arab into my room, stashing him in the shower and pulling the curtain across the tub, just in case Candy should go into the bathroom. Then I returned to Sherima’s balcony and lifted Candy over the divider, following with what I hoped was my final vault of the night.
  Candy was hesitant about entering the room, and I realized she probably expected to see the dead man on the floor. I led her inside and closed the sliding door after us. I had turned on the lights when I’d been inside before to conceal the corpse. Candy looked quickly around the room, then breathed a sigh of relief when she didn’t see him anywhere. She turned to me and said, “Now can you tell me, Nick?”
  She looked directly at me, her eyes wide and unblinking as she clutched the sheer peignoir over its matching gown. I put an arm around her and led her to the couch. Sitting j down beside her, I took her hands in mine. Having worked out in my mind what I hoped would be a plausible story, I started to talk.
  “My name is really Nick Carter, Candy, and I do work for the oil company, but I’m not so much a lobbyist as I am a private investigator. Normally, I handle security checks on personnel, or, if one of our people gets in trouble, I try to smooth out the rough spots and make sure there aren’t headlines that would make the company look bad. I have a license to carry my gun, and a couple of times overseas, I’ve had to use it. I started to carry the knife after I got into a pretty rough tangle in Cairo once— a couple of thugs took the gun away from me, and I ended up in the hospital.”
  “But why are you here now? Is it because of Sherima?”
  “Yes,” I admitted. “We got word from our office in Saudi Arabia that there might be an attempt made on her life. The threat didn’t sound too serious, but the home office decided to send me here, just in case. If somebody did try something and I could save her, the company reckoned that Shah Hassan would be mighty grateful to us — our firm has been trying to get in good with him for some time. There still are a lot of potential oil reserves in Adabi that haven’t been leased to anybody for exploration and my bosses would like to have a crack at them.”
  She seemed to be trying to accept my explanation, but asked an obvious question, “Shouldn’t the American government have been told about the threat to Sherima? Isn’t it their job to protect her?”
  “For awhile, I thought so, too,” I said, trying to appear embarrassed. “But the people who pay my salary, and it’s a good one, want to come off being the good guys if anything should happen. There’s billions at stake if they can get drilling rights in Adabi. And, to be honest and fair to them, I don’t think anyone really took the threat seriously. There didn’t seem to be any reason for anyone to want to kill Sherima. Maybe if she still were married to Hassan, but it didn’t seem to us that after the divorce, she was in danger.”
  “But that man on the balcony… do you think he was trying to hurt Sherima?”
  “I don’t know for sure. He could have been just a robber, though the coincidence of his being an Arab has me wondering now.”
  “What about those men in Georgetown tonight? Was that coincidence, too?”
  “That was a coincidence, I’m sure. I checked with a friend of mine at District police headquarters just a little while ago and he tells me that the three men they found in the street out there all have records as muggers or petty thieves. It looks like they were prowling around looking for likely victims and spotted us leaving the restaurant, saw we had a limousine but were starting to walk, so they followed us.”
  “Did you tell him about your shooting them? Are we going to have to answer questions and go through a police investigation? Sherima will just die if she gets involved in that kind of thing. She’s trying so hard not to embarrass Hassan.”
  I explained that I hadn’t let on to my supposed police friend that I knew anything about the incident in Georgetown, other than just saying that I had been in the area at the time and saw all the police cars and wondered what had happened. “I got the feeling the police think those blacks made the mistake of trying to rip off some big drug dealers or something, and muffed it. I don’t reckon the police are going to try too hard to find out who killed them. They probably feel that it’s three less thugs they have to worry about being on the streets.”
  “Oh, Nick, it’s all so horrible,” she whispered, snuggling up against me. “What if somebody is trying to hurt Sherima? What if you’d gotten killed?” She was quiet for a moment, deep in thought. Then, suddenly, she jerked erect and turned blazing eyes on me. “Nick, what about us? Was meeting me part of your job? Were you supposed to make me fall for you just so you could stick close to Sherima?”
  I couldn’t let her believe that, so I pulled her to me almost roughly and kissed her deeply in spite of her struggling. When I released her, I said, “Lovely lady, my orders were not to even make contact with Sherima, or anyone with her, unless some threat developed. My bosses arranged for me to have this room next to hers, yes, but my meeting you was strictly an honest-to-goodness accident. A wonderful one, too, it turned out. But when the company finds out I’ve been hanging around with you and Sherima, I’m in for big trouble. Especially if they think I might have done anything that could goof them up later when they try to get those oil leases.”
  She seemed to believe me, for concern suddenly came over her face and she leaned forward to kiss me, saying softly, “Nick, I wouldn’t tell anyone. Not even Sherima. I was afraid that you were using me. I don’t think I could…” The sentence trailed off as she buried her face on my chest, but I knew what she had been going to say, and I wondered just who had used and hurt her so deeply. Touched, I lifted her face and pressed my lips gently over hers again. Her response was more demanding as her tongue played against my lips, and as I opened them, darted inside to become a probing, teasing demon that brought an instant reaction from me.
  Finally breaking off the embrace, she asked, “Nick, can I stay here with you for the rest of the night?”
  I wanted to get on the phone to AXE and arrange for another collection — the man in the bathroom — so I said lightly, “There’s not that much of the night left, I’m afraid. The sun will be up in a couple of hours. And what if Sherima wakes up and finds you gone?”
  “I told you she’d be out for hours yet.” A pout settled on her face as she said, “Don’t you want me to stay… now that I know all about you?” The pout had turned into a hurt expression and I knew she was thinking that she’d been used again.
  Gathering her in my arms, I rose and carried her to the bed. “Get those clothes off,” I ordered, smiling. “I’ll show you who wants you to stay.” As I began to undress myself, I picked up the phone and told the desk to waken me at seven-thirty.
  I was up and had completed my exercises when the wake-up call came. I picked it up on the first ring, thanking the operator quietly so I wouldn’t waken Candy. I wanted a few more minutes of privacy before I sent her back to Sherima’s suite.
  For one thing, I had to get dressed and slip out to the balcony to retrieve my makeshift alarm. After I dumped Candy on the bed, she had insisted on going into the bathroom before our Iovemaking started. She wanted to remove her makeup, she explained, but I felt certain that her intense curiosity made her want to check out where I had hidden the dead man.
  I had used the opportunity to take a long piece of black thread from the spool I always carried in my luggage. Tying one end of it around a glass from the kitchenette and racing out and over the wall to Sherima’s balcony door, I knotted the other end to the handle. It was invisible in the darkness. Vaulting back to my side again, I set the glass on the top of the divider. Anyone trying to open Sherima’s door would pull the glass off to shatter on the balcony floor. Since there had been no crash during the few hours before daybreak, I knew no one had attempted to reach Sherima that way. And no commotion had come from the hotel detective in the hallway.
  When I returned to the room, I saw that the demands we had made on each other during more than two hours of passion before Candy finally dropped off to sleep showed on her face, bathed in the morning sun that glowed through the balcony doorway. She had made love with complete abandon and had given herself with an intensity that outdid all our previous encounters. We had come together again and again, and after each peak, she would be ready again, her caressing hands and teasing mouth almost daring me to prove my affection anew, to wipe out any thought that I was merely using her.
  I bent over and kissed her soft wet lips. “Candy, it’s time to get up.” She didn’t stir, so I moved my mouth down her slender neck, leaving a trail of quick, pecking kisses. She moaned softly and brushed a hand over her face as a childlike frown passed swiftly over her face. I slid a hand under the sheet and cupped it over her breast, massaging gently as I kissed her on the lips again.
  “Hey, gorgeous, it’s time to get up,” I repeated, raising my head.
  She let me know she was awake by reaching up and slipping both arms around my neck before I could stand up. She pulled me back to her, and this time, she was the one planting tiny kisses over my face and down my neck. We ended up in a long embrace, and I let her go, finally, to say:
  “Sherima will be waking up soon. It’s almost eight o’clock.”
  “No fair sending me away like this,” she murmured, leaning back against the pillows and blinking her eyes against the bright morning sunlight. She turned her face to me and smiled coyly, then looked down at my pants.
  “You’re dressed,” she said. “That’s not fair either.”
  “I’ve been up and dressed for hours,” I teased. “Did my exercises, wrote a book, toured the District, and had time left over to catch a short movie.”
  She sat up, filling die room with her laughter. “I suppose you’ve branded a whole herd of cattle, too,” she said between giggles.
  “Well, ma’am,” I said, “now that you mention it—”
  “Oh, Nick, even with everything that’s happened,” she sighed, her face becoming soft, “I don’t think I’ve liked a man’s company as much as I do yours — not for a long, long time.”
  The smile was gone from her face and she had become serious again, a pensive expression settling over her brow. She sat against the pillows for a moment, listening to whatever her mind was saying to her. Then just as suddenly, she turned those bright hazel eyes to me again, and I saw a smile flicker at the corners of her mouth.
  “Sherima won’t be up yet,” she grinned, starting to lie back on the bed. “At least for another — oh — half hour…”
  “Oh no you don’t!” I said, jumping from the chair I’d taken. “This time I mean up!”
  I had far too much to do this morning to give way to Candy’s tempting invitations. Stepping to the bed, I leaned over and pulled the covers down, and in the same movement, rolled her over onto her stomach and swatted her on her bottom.
  “Ouch! That hurt!”
  I doubted that I had hurt her, but she did jump out of bed.
  “And now,” I drawled, “we have to get you back to your room.”
  At first, she tossed me a puzzled expression, then, looking at her negligee and peignoir lying over a chair, said, “Oh, that’s right. I don’t have my keys.”
  “That’s right, so it’s out the way you came in.”
  As she slipped into her negligee, she seemed to suddenly remember her other enormous appetite. “Nick — what about breakfast?”
  “A bit later. I have some phone calls to make.”
  “All right. Now, how do I discreetly return to my room?” she asked, pulling the peignoir tightly around her.
  “Like so.” I lifted her in my arms and carried her to the balcony, then lifted her across the dividing wall. If there were any other early risers looking out their windows in the Watergate that morning, they must have thought they were seeing things. When she had lowered herself to the floor, she leaned back over the wall and kissed me quickly, then turned and. ran through the door and into Sherima’s room.
  Returning to my own room, I crossed to the telephone and began punching out Hawk’s number. I was just about to punch the last digit when my door chime started to ring madly and a pounding rattled the door panel at the same time. Slamming down the receiver, I ran to the door and threw it open. Candy stood there, her face ashen and her eyes brimming with tears.
  “Nick,” she cried, “Sherima’s gone!”
  Chapter 8
  I dragged Candy back into Sherima’s suite and slammed the door behind us. I had enough problems without inviting curious guests to show up in the hall or to call down to the front desk to find out why a girl was screaming at that hour. Candy stood by the door to Sherima’s quarters, wringing her hands and repeating, “It’s my fault. I never should have left her alone. What’ll we do, Nick? What will we do?”
  I was doing something already. It was obvious from the appearance of the former Queen’s sitting room-bedroom that there had been no struggle there. I came back out into the foyer where Candy was huddled against the doorway, still repeating her litany of despair. A quick look into her room showed me there had been no struggle there, either. Obviously, Sherima had been carried off while she was still partially drugged by the tranquilizers. But how had her abductors gotten her out of the hotel? And what had happened to the Watergate security man who was supposed to have spent the night in the hallway? I had to check on his whereabouts, but I couldn’t risk having the moaning Candy follow me out into the hall again. I had to keep her busy.
  Taking her firmly by the shoulders, I shook her gently, then harder until she stopped keening and looked at me. “Candy, I want you to look through Sherima’s clothes and tell me if anything is missing. We have to find out what she was wearing when she left the hotel. While you do that, I have to go back to my room for a minute, understand? I want you to keep this door closed and locked. Don’t let anyone in except me. Are you listening? Do you understand what you’re to do?”
  With chin trembling and tears still rimming her eyes, she nodded. Her lips quivered as she asked: “Nick, what are we going to do? We have to find her. Shouldn’t we call the police? Or Abdul? What about Hassan? We should let him know? And the embassy?”
  “I’ll take care of everything,” I assured her, holding her close for a moment to comfort her. “You just do as I say and see if you can find out how she was dressed. I’ll be right back. Now remember what I said about not letting anyone in. And no phone calls to anyone right now. Stay off the phone so that if Sherima tries to call you, the line won’t be busy. Will you do that, Candy?”
  Sniffling, she lifted one sleeve of the expensive peignoir and wiped away the tears that had streamed down her face. “All right, Nick. I’ll do what you say. But come right back, please. I don’t want to be here alone. Please.”
  “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” I promised. As I went out the door, she snapped the lock behind me.
  There was still no sign of the hotel security man in the hallway. Either he had gone off duty, which didn’t seem likely if he weren’t relieved by another member of the staff, or… Turning back, I pushed the button that rang the chime on the door to Sherima’s suite. When Candy asked, nervously, “Who is it?” I identified myself softly and she threw the bolt and let me in.
  She started to say, “Nick, I was just starting to look for—”
  Brushing past her, I dashed into her room and checked the bathroom. Nothing there. Running back into Sherima’s quarters, I went into her bathroom. The shower curtain was pulled across the tub and I whipped it aside.
  Obviously, I wasn’t the only one who had stashed a body that night. Lying in a congealed pool of blood in the tub was the aging house detective I’d seen earlier fumbling for his keys. Death had been the only relief he’d had, I could see where the blood had poured from several stab wounds in his chest. He had probably made the mistake of getting too close to whoever had gone to the door of Sherima’s suite without first pulling his revolver. I spread the curtain across the tub again and went out of the bathroom, closing its door behind me.
  My face must have revealed something, for Candy asked hoarsely, “Nick, what is it? What’s in there?” Suddenly she gasped and her hand flew to her mouth, “Nick, is it Sherima? Is she in there?”
  “No, it’s not Sherima,” I said. Then, as she reached for the bathroom doorknob, I grabbed her hand. “Don’t go in there, Candy. There is someone in there… He’s dead. I don’t know who he is, but I think he may be a hotel security officer who was trying to protect Sherima. There’s nothing we can do for him now, so I don’t want you to go in there.”
  Candy looked as though she was about ready to collapse, so I led her into the main sitting room again and made her sit down for a minute, stroking her beautiful hair as she choked back sobs. Finally, she looked up at me and said:
  “We have to call the police, Nick. And I have to let the embassy know, so they can contact Hassan. It’s my job. I was supposed to be with her and help protect her.” She started to sob again.
  I was wasting valuable time, I knew, but I had to keep her from making any calls that would spread the word about Sherima’s disappearance as far as the palace in Sidi Hassan. It was time to tell her the truth — at least a version of the truth. I lifted her head, and fixing my eyes on hers, tried to sound completely sincere as I said:
  “Candy, I have to tell you something. What I told you last night about being an investigator for the oil company isn’t true.”
  She started to say something, but I put a finger across her trembling lips and kept on talking.
  “I’m an investigator, sort of, but for the United States government. I’m with the Executive Protection branch of the Secret Service. I was assigned to protect Sherima after we got word through sources overseas that someone might try to assassinate Sherima.”
  Candy’s eyes had widened at my words and I paused so she could ask her question. “Why, Nick? Why would anyone want to hurt Sherima? She isn’t the Queen anymore.”
  “To embarrass the United States,” I explained. “That’s what the whole thing is about. There are people in Adabi who would like to see the United States lose its influence with Shah Hassan. And if anything happened to Sherima here in the States, that’s just what we are positive would happen. You know he still cares for her very much, don’t you?”
  “Of course,” Candy said, wiping away another tear. “He loves her more than anything. He always has. He didn’t want to divorce her, but she’s the one who made him do it. Nick, that’s the secret she has; you remember, I told you everyone has a secret? Well, Sherima said Hassan had to give her up to save his life and the children’s… Oh, Nick, what’s going to happen to her? What have they done with her?”
  “Don’t worry,” I said, hoping that I sounded confident. “We’ll find Sherima and get her back safely. But you have to help. Not just Sherima, but your country.” In response to the question that flashed across her face, I continued, “You see, if you contact the Adabian embassy now, the news will spread that Sherima has been kidnapped. -Right away, the world will know that the United States couldn’t protect her. And that’s just what her kidnappers are counting on. I think they plan to hold her for a while, probably just long enough to focus everyone’s attention on the hunt for her and then…” I didn’t have to say the obvious — the look on Candy’s face told me she understood what I meant.
  “So you see,” I went on, “as long as we can keep her disappearance quiet, she’s safe. The people who took her away need the headlines. For a while at least, we can keep them from getting them. But I need your help. Will you pretend that Sherima is here and safe? It may save her life, and it will help your country.”
  “Nick; I’ve been away from here for so long that I don’t even think of this as my country anymore. But I’ll do whatever you think will help Sherima.”
  “It will help Hassan and Adabi, too,” I pointed out. “If the Shah pulls away from the United States, he won’t last long. There are people in the Mideast just waiting for the chance to move in on his country. And it wouldn’t be just a matter of driving him from the throne. It would mean his life.”
  For a moment fire flashed in Candy’s eyes and she spat out, “I don’t care about him. He deserves whatever he gets.” My surprise must have registered on my face, for she continued, much subdued, “Oh, Nick, I didn’t mean that that way. It’s just that it’s Sherima I’m most concerned for. She’s never done anything to hurt anybody.”
  I didn’t have time to question her about her obvious implication that Hassan had hurt people, but I made a mental note to get back to it later. Instead, I said, “Then I can count on you to help?” When she nodded, I said, “AM right, here’s what you’ll have to do…”
  Abdul would soon be arriving at the Watergate to pick up her and Sherima to go househunting again, I explained, noting the time. Her job was to keep him from finding out that Sherima was gone, since he was a servant of Shah Hassan and would feel obligated to report her disappearance right away. Candy wanted to know how she was supposed to do that, so I suggested that when Abdul phoned from the lobby, she tell him Sherima wasn’t feeling well and had decided to stay in her suite and rest for the day. However, she was to tell the bodyguard that his mistress wanted him to drive Candy back up into Maryland so she could begin contacting real estate agents there, since Sherima had settled on that as the area to buy an estate.
  “What if Abdul wants to talk with Sherima?” Candy asked.
  “Just tell him that she has gone back to sleep and doesn’t want to be disturbed. Tell him that if he insists, he’ll have to be responsible. I think he’s been conditioned enough to taking orders from Sherima through you that he’ll do as he is told. Now, I want you to go out with him and keep him up around Potomac as long as you can. Stop at every real estate agency you can find and keep him waiting while you go over listings. Give me as much time as you can before coming back to Washington. Then, when you do have to come back, explain that you have to do some shopping for Sherima and have him take you to some of the stores downtown. That will give me a few hours to try to track down Sherima and see if we can’t get her back before you two return. All right?”
  She nodded, then demanded, “But what if you can’t find her by then, Nick? I can’t put him off forever. He’s going to want to get a doctor or something if Sherima isn’t up and around by the time we return. What do I tell Abdul then?”
  “We’ll just have to worry about that when the time comes. You can tell the manager before you leave here this morning that Sherima isn’t feeling well and doesn’t want to be disturbed by anyone… maids or phone calls. That way, nobody will be trying to get into the room today. And the switchboard won’t put through any calls to the room. Better still, maybe you better instruct the manager to have the switchboard tell any callers for Sherima that she is out of the hotel for the day. Make certain that he understands everyone is to be told that, even if someone from the embassy phones. Stress the fact that Sherima is indisposed and wants no calls or visitors. He’ll listen to you, since, from what you’ve told me already, you’re the one who has been dealing with the hotel staff since your arrival.”
  “Do you think it will work, Nick? Can you find Sherima before she gets hurt?”
  “I’ll do my best. Now, I’ve got to go next door and make some calls. I don’t want to.tie up this phone right now, just in case. You get dressed and be ready when Abdul arrives. And don’t forget to look through Sherima’s clothes to see if you can tell what she was wearing when they took her away.”
  I made certain she was up and moving around before I went back to my room and phoned Hawk. As succinctly as possible, I told him what had happened and what I had arranged with Candy to keep the news from spreading. He wasn’t so certain that I had been right in identifying myself as an agent of the Executive Protection Service — there could be considerable repercussions if something went wrong and it looked as if that bureau were going to take the blame for it — but he agreed the story was better than telling her the truth about myself and AXE.
  He also was a bit disconcerted about having to arrange to pick up two bodies at the Watergate, but we quickly worked out a plan. Two of his men would deliver a pair of packing cases — ostensibly containing rented movie-projection equipment — to my room as soon as possible. The suggestion would be made to whatever member of the hotel staff passed them through the delivery entrance that they were to set up the equipment for a business conference in my room, then return later for it. The corpses would go out along with the packing boxes.
  “What about the hotel security man?” I asked Hawk. “There’s liable to be someone coming up to relieve him soon. He’s been on duty all night, supposedly.”
  “As soon as we’re off the phone,” Hawk said, “I’ll get to work on that. Since we have the kind of influence we do with the people who run the hotel, we’re in a fairly good position, but even so, it’s going to take every bit of pull we have to keep this quiet. And we can only hush it up for so long, then there will have to be some sort of official explanation for his death.”
  My orders were to stay in my room and await further information from Hawk. I wanted to get into action, but admitted when he pointed’ it out, that there really was little I could do at the moment. He assured me he would put out an alert immediately through all official channels to be on the lookout for a woman of Sherima’s description, without identifying her by name. Also, all AXE agents who had infiltrated militant radical groups and known subversive organizations operating within the District area would be ordered to use any means at their disposal to establish a lead to the former Queen’s whereabouts.
  In response to a question from Hawk, I told him that I felt certain Candy Knight would cooperate in trying to cover up Sherima’s disappearance. “Not so much because it’s for her country,” I told the Old Man, “but for Sherima herself. And certainly not for Hassan’s sake,” I added, telling him about her apparent dislike of the man who had done so much for her. “I’d like to know what’s behind her feelings about the Shah,” I said.
  “I’ll see if I can get anything more from our branch in Sidi Hassan,” Hawk said. “But I think they put every available piece of information in that dossier. Now, N3, if you’ve nothing more, I want to set all these things into action.”
  “Right, sir. I’ll be waiting here for your call. I just want to go next door to see if Candy is ready to divert Abdul Bedawi, then I’ll come back to my room as soon as I know they’re off to Maryland.”
  Just before breaking off our conversation, Hawk reminded me to put up the Do Not Disturb signs on my door and on the door to Sherima’s suite. “We can’t have a maid going in either of the rooms and starting to clean up the showers,” he observed. I agreed, reassured as always by his attention to the smallest detail, however complex the overall operation. Then we hung up.
  
  “Abdul’s waiting downstairs for me,” Candy said as soon as she unchained the door and let me into Sherima’s suite.
  “How did he take the news about Sherima’s staying in today?”
  “At first, he insisted on speaking with her. Then I got across the idea that maybe we had celebrated a bit too much after we left him last night — God, was that just last night? It seems so long ago — and that she was hungover, not up to seeing anyone, not being accustomed to drinking so much… He was a bit stuffy about it — yon know Moslems and alcohol. But he finally went along with it. I’ll keep him out and busy for as long as I can, Nick, but you’ve got to find her fast. Abdul will kill me if he thinks I had anything to do with her disappearance, or if he even suspects that I kept him from looking for her.”
  “Don’t worry, Candy,” I said as confidently as possible. “We’ll find her. I’ve just been on the phone with headquarters, and a lot of people are looking for her already. Now, what was she wearing?”
  “It looks to me like she still had on her negligee. None of her dresses seem to be gone, as far as I could tell, but she’s got so many. Oh yes, her long mink is gone, too.”
  “They probably put that around her to take her out. Over a negligee, it might have looked like she was wearing an evening gown. The way I’ve figured it so far, they probably took her down on the service elevator, then out through the garage. If she was still dopey from those pills she took, she might have looked like a girl who had had too much to drink, and who was being helped home by a couple of friends.”
  The phone rang suddenly, startling us both. “Didn’t you arrange for the switchboard not to put through any calls?” I asked.
  “Yes. The manager wasn’t on duty yet, but the assistant manager was very nice about it. He assured me that the Queen wouldn’t be disturbed.”
  “Answer it,” I said as the ring came again. “It must be Abdul on the house phone in the lobby. The switchboard can’t control anyone dialing direct from there. Be sure to reprimand him for ringing and risking awakening Sherima.”
  Candy picked up the phone, listened briefly, and nodding to me that I had been correct in my guess, proceeded to tell of! Abdul for daring to call the room when he had been instructed just to wait for her and not to bother Sherima. She pulled it off quite well, and I mentally applauded her acting ability in the midst of stress.
  Hanging up, she turned and said, “Nick, I’ve got to go. If I don’t, he’ll be up here next. He says he’s still not certain that he should go off into the country when ‘my lady’ doesn’t feel well.”
  “All right, Candy,” I agreed, giving her a swift kiss as she slipped a fox jacket over her crisp white blouse. “Just don’t let him suspect anything. Act normal and keep him away as long as possible.”
  “I will, Nick,” she promised as I let her out the door. “Just find Sherima.” Another quick kiss, then she was gone. When I had closed the door behind her, I stood for a moment looking down at the lock and the chain, on the door — sturdy steel devices. I wondered how anyone could have gotten into the room without smashing his way through the chain, creating enough noise to arouse everyone on the floor. Obviously the chain hadn’t been in place. It couldn’t have been, for Candy had been in my room during the abduction, and she hadn’t had an opportunity before that to secure it in place. While we were making love, someone had taken advantage of the unchained door to get in and carry off the former Queen I was supposed to be protecting. And in the course of doing that, they had killed a man whose career as a guard had never brought him up against anyone more dangerous than an over-zealous autograph hunter or a bungling petty thief. Disgusted with myself, I slipped the Do Not Disturb sign over the outside knob on the door to Sherima’s suite, then went back to my own room. The phone was ringing as I opened the door, and I ran to answer it. Hawk began talking as soon as he recognized my voice:
  “The men will deliver your movie projector and other things in about an hour. The security man they killed was a bachelor and has no family in the District, according to his personnel record. That’s a break, at least; no one will be expecting him home this morning. The hotel manager will be informing Watergate’s security chief that he has Hogan — that’s the man’s name — on special assignment, and that he’s to be removed from the duty roster for a couple of days. That’s all I have for you right— wait a minute…”
  I had heard the buzzer signaling that a call was coming in on another of Hawk’s many desk phones, and I could hear him talking to someone on the other end, but couldn’t make out his words. Then he was back on my line.
  “That was Communications,” he said. “Our monitors report that a signal was transmitted, obviously in code, to a station in Adabi less than ten minutes ago. The sender wasn’t on the air long enough for us to get a fix on it here. The message was short, repeated three times. Decoding is working on it now — if they come up with anything, I’ll get right back to you.”
  “Do we have a car covering Sherima’s limousine?” I asked. That was part of the plan Hawk and I had worked out earlier. We didn’t want anyone grabbing Candy and Sherima’s bodyguard, too. I purposely had neglected to mention that possibility to Candy, not wanting to suggest to her that she might have anything to worry about personally.
  “Yes. Just a minute, and I’ll check on their whereabouts.”
  Once more I could hear Hawk in conversation with what. I assumed was the radio room from which local operations were directed, then he was speaking to me again:
  “Right now, the chauffeur and the girl are in Georgetown, getting ready to swing down onto Canal Road; about the same route you took the other day.”
  “Good. I guess she managed to convince him that it was their job to find Sherima a house as quickly as possible. Now, if she can just keep him occupied most of the day, we’ll have a little breathing time before the word gets to the embassy.”
  “Let’s hope so,” Hawk agreed, then added, “I’ll be in touch as soon as I get anything else for you, N3.”
  When he hung up, I went into the bathroom and checked out the dead Arab there. The corpse had stiffened in the tub, fortunately in a cramped position that would make him more easily stuffed into the makeshift coffin that soon would be delivered to my room. I was glad of that; I had no desire to start breaking arms or legs on a dead man.
  Chapter 9
  It was noon before I heard from Hawk again. By that time, the corpses had been taken away from both my room and Sherima’s suite. The latter job hadn’t been so easy. The maids were working the floor by the time Hawk’s men arrived. There wasn’t any trouble getting the Arab into one of their equipment boxes in my room, but it took a bit of doing to distract the maid in my wing while they went into the suite next door and removed the grisly bundle from the bathroom there. To accomplish it, I had to go down the hall to the room where the maid was working and keep her occupied with inane questions while they carried out their job.
  By the time the maid got through explaining to me that she was too busy to sew some buttons on my shirts and to personally handle some laundry for me — the housekeeping department and valet service would be happy to take care of any tasks like that, she insisted repeatedly while I pretended not to understand just what she meant — she must have thought I was a complete idiot. In the end, though, I was almost able to talk her into it by flashing a twenty-dollar bill at her. I pretended to give up when I heard coughing from the hallway — a signal that Hawk’s men were finished — and, I headed for the service elevator, putting the twenty back into my pocket. Her look of disappointment was partially wiped off with the five dollars I slipped to her as “consolation,” however, and the free-spending — if simple minded — Texan had won another friend on the Watergate staff.
  Hawk’s call didn’t do anything to ease the anguish I was feeling at being stuck in that room, though. Somewhere, I knew, Sherima was prisoner of the Sword or his men, and I was sitting around on my butt not able to do anything about it until AXE’s undercover agents and their informers came up with a lead. And Hawk’s response to my immediate question about that potential lead didn’t help:
  “Nothing. Nobody seems to know a thing. And that’s not the worst of it, N3.”
  “What now?”
  “The State Department has had an inquiry from the Adabian Embassy regarding the safety of Sherima. The ambassador was acting on the direct request of Shah Hassan. Somebody in Adabi — whoever received that radio signal — has passed the word to the Shah that Sherima’s life is in danger here. We still don’t know who transmitted the signal this morning, or who in Sidi Hassan received it. But this is the message that Decoding analyzed from the signal a few minutes before the call from the Adabian Embassy: ‘The Sword is poised to strike.’ ”
  “It sounds like she might still be alive,” I interrupted. “Don’t you think it would have said something like, ‘The Sword has struck,’ if she were dead?”
  Hawk apparently had reached that same conclusion, too, for he agreed with me, although I think we both admitted to ourselves that we were hoping for the best while fearing the worst. “However,” he went on grimly, “I don’t think we have too much time. The Adabian Embassy, State tells me, already has made inquiries at the Watergate about Sherima’s whereabouts. They were told that she has gone out for the day, as you had the girl arrange with the manager. Finally, the embassy spoke to the manager directly, and he followed through as instructed by informing the First Secretary that he understood Sherima had gone into Maryland to look for a house. That seemed to satisfy them for the moment, but now the pressure is on.”
  “How’s that?”
  “It seems somebody at the embassy suddenly realized that Abdul Bedawi hasn’t reported in all day, as he apparently has been doing.”
  “That strikes me as odd, too,” I admitted. “I wonder he hasn’t called in. He was making a point of it before. Where is the limo now?”
  Hawk left the line to check with the radio room, then relayed the report to me: “Your friend is sitting in a real estate office in Potomac at the moment. It’s the second one she’s stopped at so far. The chauffeur is waiting in the car.”
  “Something’s not right,” I said. “Normally, he would be using the opportunity to make a phone call so he could report in. Unless…”
  “Unless what, N3?”
  “Unless he already knew what he was going to find out when he contacted the embassy, sir. Can you have our cover car stick close to them from now on? I don’t like this whole setup anymore.” My mind was racing ahead of my words as things started falling in place. “I have the feeling we’re doing exactly as someone else wants us to do.”
  “We’re already sticking as close to them as we can without tipping our hand completely. But wait a minute, Nick — Communications tells me that at one point this morning our men in the cover car thought that they had been made for sure. They got cut off from Sherima’s limousine by a patrol car that was escorting a funeral procession. When they were finally able to proceed, the limousine had obviously slowed down, because it only was a couple of blocks ahead of them. It does give the impression that Bedawi might have been waiting for them to catch up.”
  Hawk started to say something else, then asked me to hold on when I heard another phone ring in his office. A chill swept over me when I recognized that ring — a double-bell tone. I knew it came from the red phone immediately beside Hawk’s right elbow, and that it was directly linked to the Oval Office in the White House. I had been with Hawk once before when it pealed and his automatic response—”Yes, Mr. President”—had tipped me off to the hot line. He’d never confirmed the identity of the caller to me, and I could tell that he had been annoyed with himself for answering the phone in that manner with anyone in earshot.
  I waited for him to come back on the line for what must have been only five minutes but it seemed like hours. I couldn’t hear what he was saying; the red phone had a specially designed mouthpiece that confined the words to the transmitter. I was sure there was a super-scrambler on the line, too.
  “N3?” Hawk was back on the phone to me at last.
  “Yes, sir.”
  “You recognized the ring?” He never missed a thing, although when I had been in his office the day he had answered the President’s call I had tried to pretend I hadn’t heard how he’d answered the red phone. Nonetheless, he apparently remembered the incident.
  “Yes, sir,” I admitted.
  “The Secretary of State is with the President. He has just been contacted directly by the Adabian ambassador, acting on specific orders from Shah Hassan. The United States Government has been asked to use all its facilities to locate the former Queen Sherima immediately and to put her in direct contact with His Royal Highness. The Secretary had no choice but to say that we would attempt to do so at once.”
  “How soon is ‘at once’?” I asked.
  “The Secretary bought us a little time, N3, but he put us on the spot at the same time. He told the Adabian ambassador to advise Shah Hassan that Sherima was due to return to his home for dinner this evening, not in Alexandria, but at the town house he keeps in Georgetown. He told the ambassador to assure the Shah that Sherima would be put in touch with him direct from there via the State Department radio network. He has a worldwide transmitter linkup from the town house and from his Alexandria home. The ambassador advised the Secretary while I was talking to him that the Shah would be waiting at his radio, despite the six-hour time difference.”
  “How much time do we have?”
  “The Secretary said that Sherima was due to arrive for dinner at about eight o’clock. That will be two a.m. in Sidi Hassan. And you can bet the Shah will be up waiting. That means we have about seven and a half hours to get Sherima back to the Watergate, Nick.”
  I asked Hawk if he would contact the agents in the car covering Candy and Abdul and ask them for the name of the real estate office in Potomac where the limousine was parked. He said he would have the name for me momentarily, then asked why I wanted it.
  “I’m going to get them back here,” I told him. “I’ll call Candy there and tell her that the embassy suspects something has happened to Sherima, so there’s no point in her keeping up the pretense with Abdul. I’ll tell her not to let on I’ve called, but just to tell him it’s time to drive back; she can say she is concerned about Sherima being alone, too, or something like that. I want to see what happens when they return. There’s something about this whole thing that’s not right, but I can’t put my finger on it. Or maybe it’s just that I’m getting fed up with sitting in this hotel room and figure I might stir up some action this way. Is that all right with you, sir?”
  “You’re in charge, N3,” Hawk said. “Is there anything more you want from me right now?”
  “No, sir. Just tell that cover car to stick close to them, and I want to be kept posted on their whereabouts when they get back to the District.”
  “I’ll have the radio room contact you directly every ten minutes, N3,” Hawk said. “I’m going to have to go to the White House. The President wants me there when he and the Secretary of State determine what to do if Sherima isn’t found in time to talk to Hassan.”
  I wanted to tell him I would do my best to make certain the possibility wouldn’t arise, but I already knew he was aware of that.
  Shortly after Hawk hung up, an AXE radioman phoned to relay the name of the real estate agency where Candy was carrying out her part of the charade. I got the number from information and phoned, surprising the woman who answered by asking for Miss Knight. When Candy got on the line and discovered I was calling her, she appeared even more astonished.
  “Nick, how did you know where to find me?”
  “No time to explain now, beautiful. I’ll tell you all about it later. There’s been a new development and I want you to get back here as quickly as possible.”
  “What’s happened? Is it Sherima? Have you found her? Is she—”
  I interrupted, saying, “No, it’s not Sherima and we haven’t found her. But we’ve had word that Shah Hassan has been trying to contact her. Somehow, we believe, he’s been tipped off that she’s gone. Now, don’t let on to Abdul that you know anything. Just say you’ve decided to head back; you’re concerned for Sherima, for one thing, and that the agents you’ve visited already seem to have enough houses available for Sherima to look at without going any further.”
  “Should I have him hurry back, Nick? If I do that, he might think that something is wrong.”
  Her reasoning made sense, so I suggested that she not have him drive directly back to the city, but to follow through on our original plan of stopping at a couple of stores, ostensibly to handle some errands for Sherima. “But don’t take too long,” I warned, “and keep Abdul from reporting in to the embassy if you can. Bring him up to the suite when you get back to the Watergate.”
  “Is that where you are now, Nick?”
  “Yes, Candy. I’ll be waiting here for your return.”
  Candy was silent for a moment, then asked slowly, “Nick, do you think Abdul might be involved in Sherima’s disappearance? Is that why you want him back there?”
  “Right now, I don’t know what to think. But I’d rather have him where I can keep an eye on him. Just try to get back here within a couple of hours if you can do it without being too obvious about it.”
  “All right, Nick. See you soon.”
  Five minutes after I put down the phone and flopped on the bed to wait, the AXE radio operator phoned to report that Candy had left the real estate office in Potomac, and that the limousine had started back toward Washington.
  “Keep me posted on every move they make,” I instructed before hanging up.
  Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. I was informed that the cover car was proceeding south on Route 190—River Road — about five hundred yards behind Sherima’s limousine and nearing the intersection with Cabin John Parkway. That meant Abdul was taking a more direct route into the District than he and Candy had used to reach the horse country of Maryland. He’d obviously done some more map reading since our earlier expedition up that way.
  “Instruct the cover car to keep them in sight at all times,” I told the radioman. “I don’t care if they have to stick right on their rear bumper, I don’t want to lose that car.”
  “Yes, sir,” he responded, and even before he hung up, I could hear him beginning to pass on my orders over the powerful AXE transmitter.
  The rapidity with which his next report came surprised me. And his report wasn’t the least bit encouraging.
  “Subject car has stopped at a service station near the intersection of River Road and Seven Locks Road.” I fumbled for my map as he continued routinely, “C car reports that the chauffeur has gone into the gas station while the attendant is fueling limousine. C car has halted just out of sight of the station and one agent is going forward on foot to keep up surveillance… Shall I stay on the line for his report, sir?”
  “Affirmative,” I told him, then waited perhaps ten minutes before I heard the radio crackling in the background with the report. The radioman returned to the phone with words that confirmed one of my worst fears: Candy hadn’t been able to prevent Abdul from reaching a phone:
  “Agent in C car reports that the limousine driver was inside service station eight minutes before going back to his car. During that time, agent observed the chauffeur using a public telephone in the station after obtaining change from attendant. At least two calls were made by driver and one by female passenger, but agent was not close enough to observe numbers dialed. Limousine and occupants are now proceeding south on Cabin John Parkway… One moment, sir.” I could hear another transmission, but was unable to make out the message. The AXE operator soon filled me in on what was happening:
  “Subject car has moved onto George Washington Memorial Parkway and still is proceeding south. C car will report again in five minutes unless you wish me to maintain contact, sir.”
  “No. Just inform C car to maintain that schedule of reports.”
  As I broke the connection I was wondering just whom Abdul had contacted. It was logical that one of his calls had been made to the embassy, which meant he now knew about the flap over Sherima’s whereabouts — if he hadn’t already known. But who else had he called?
  The next three reports at five-minute intervals were from our C car, who told me only that Sherima’s limousine was continuing its progress back toward the District on the George Washington Parkway. When I asked the radioman to check the car’s speed, he flashed the query to the C car and soon informed me that Abdul seemed to be maintaining the same forty-five to fifty miles per hour that he had held while he’d been traveling to and from Potomac. I asked for a reconfirmation of that speed and was assured the initial information was correct.
  That threw even more suspicion in the direction it had been building. If Abdul had been informed by the embassy that Sherima might be in danger, he should be getting back to the city as fast as possible. I wished that Hawk had returned to his office so he could check his contact at the embassy and determine if the bodyguard had phoned there. However, since Hawk hadn’t contacted me, I assumed that he was still at the White House. The AXE radioman confirmed the fact for me during his next report.
  “Do you want me to have Communications put out an emergency call on his beeper?” the radio operator asked.
  “No, that won’t be necessary,” I told him, having visions of Hawk’s little receiver suddenly beginning to buzz in the President’s office. Still, it would be valuable right now to know if any of our underground contacts had come up with a lead to Sherima’s disappearance. As the agent in charge of the operation, I had the authority to contact Hawk’s executive office and request the status of any field reports, but I decided that I would wait until the Old Man returned to headquarters. I felt certain, anyway, that he had left orders that I was to be informed of any vital communications bearing on the case.
  Keeping track of Sherima’s car on my map as reports were relayed to me, I traced its entry onto Canal Road and realized it was back in the District. Since I was assuming that Abdul knew something was up with Sherima, I expected him and Candy back at the hotel soon. She wouldn’t have been able to sidetrack him on any errands once he felt “Her Highness” was in danger.
  Just two minutes after his latest report, the AXE radioman was back on the phone to me again. “Sir, something has happened that I think you should know about. C car began transmission ahead of schedule to report that the limousine it was following had slowed considerably. Then C car abruptly broke off contact and I have been unable to raise it again.”
  “Keep trying,” I ordered. “I’ll stay on the line.”
  Over and over I could hear him mouthing the call numbers of the C car. He didn’t have to come on the line to tell me that he was getting no response. Then, suddenly, over the phone I heard some message coming into the radio room and my hopes were raised that the C car perhaps had been in a dead transmission area. They were quickly dashed when the radioman came back on the line:
  “Sir, I’m afraid there’s trouble. Monitoring just picked up a District Police flash ordering patrol cruisers to investigate a crash on Canal Road in the area where our C car last reported in. The police dispatcher sent more than one car and transmitted a code signal that indicated shots had been heard in that area. Are there any orders?”
  “Yes. Get off the line and have Monitoring call me directly. I want to know every word that District Police transmit about that call.” The radioman was sharp enough to break the connection immediately without acknowledging my instructions.
  Ninety seconds later, my phone rang again — the Watergate switchboard must have thought I was booking bets out of my room with so many calls. A supervisor in the AXE Monitoring Section began reporting what they were learning from listening in on the District Police wave-length. The news was not good. A district cruiser apparently had been near the locale on Canal Road and had reached the scene swiftly. Its initial report back to headquarters was that a car was crashed and burning, and ambulances were needed.
  “Hold it a minute, sir,” my new contact said, and, once more, I could hear radio cross-chatter in the background. He soon came back on the line with an update. “It looks bad sir,” he said. “The DP cruiser just requested that Homicide respond to the call and that all available back-up cars be sent. The patrolman making the call said a second cruiser has arrived, and they are attempting to put out a fire, but a fire engine is needed, too. Also, he said there is evidence of automatic weaponsfire.”
  “No indication that there is a second car at the scene — a limousine?” I asked.
  “Nothing so far. Hold it, here’s more coming in… Cruiser reports three dead, sir. We had three men in that C car; it looks like they’ve bought it,”
  I instructed him to relay word to our radio room to dispatch the closest available AXE unit to the scene. “I want a complete rundown on what happened as quickly as possible. Somebody must have seen it or District Police wouldn’t have gotten the word so fast.” When he was back on the line after passing on my orders, I had more for him to do: “Get on another phone and find out if the Old Man is back yet… No, better yet, have an emergency signal put out on his beeper. I want him to contact me here as soon as he can. I’ll get off the phone now so he can call me.”
  No sooner had I hung up than my phone rang again. Scooping up the receiver, I asked, “Have you heard, sir?”
  The voice that responded wasn’t Hawk’s.
  “Nick? It’s me, Candy.”
  Stunned, I almost shouted “Where are you?” at her.
  “At a little boutique on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown,” she said. “Why? What’s happened?”
  “Where’s Abdul?” I demanded, not taking time to explain.
  “Sitting out front in the car. Why, Nick? What’s wrong?”
  “Are you sure he’s there?”
  “Certainly, I’m sure. I’m looking out the window at him right now. Nick, please tell me what’s wrong. I did as you said and had him stop here, supposedly so I could pick up a sweater that Sherima saw in the window last night and mentioned she wanted. Was that wrong? You said to delay his getting back to the hotel as long as I could.”
  I was sure that Hawk must be trying to reach me by that time, but I had to find out something from Candy. “Honey, don’t ask me right now how I know, but you and Abdul stopped at a gas station and he made some phone calls. Do you know to whom?”
  She started to ask how I knew about the roadside stop, but I interrupted her and said sharply, “Not now, Candy. Just tell me, do you know who he called?”
  “No, Nick. I didn’t go into the station. I tried to keep him from stopping there, but he insisted that we needed gas, and—”
  “You know I’d like to hear all about it, but right now I’ve got to hang up. Just do me a favor and keep Abdul occupied for as long as you can. Promise?”
  “All right,” she said and sounded hurt that I was brushing off what sounded like a good effort on her part. “Just tell me one thing,” she went on, “is there any word about Sherima?”
  “No. But don’t worry. Now I have to hang up.” I could hear her saying something as I pressed down the button that disconnected us, but at the moment, I couldn’t worry about what it was. And, once more, the phone rang immediately. This time I waited until making certain that the voice responding to my hello was Hawk’s before I asked, “Have you heard what’s happened, sir?”
  “Yes. I was just coming into the office when my pager went off. I’ve been trying to get you, but your line has been busy.” The last was almost a reprimand.
  “It seems to me that I’ve spent my whole life on this phone,” I said grimly, “while other people have been murdered.” Then I launched into an explanation of what I knew about Candy’s trip to Potomac and the events that followed my contacting her there and arranging for her and Abdul to return to the city. “I’m sure that those calls he made had something to do with what happened later on Canal Road,” I said, concluding my report.
  “You’re probably right,” Hawk agreed. “Let me tell you what I’ve been able to find out in the few minutes I’ve been back…”
  For one thing, three of our men were dead, it appeared certain. Hawk had reached his contact on the District Police force, and after some hasty radio queries to and answers from officers at the scene, it was learned that the car was ours and that the corpses had either been in it or close enough to have been passengers. “And it didn’t crash,” Hawk continued. “The original report was wrong. It blew up — or, rather, a grenade was thrown under it and exploded, flipping it into a ditch. Then, according to the man who reported the incident originally — he’s a tow truck operator who has a radio in his truck and that’s how the police got the word so quickly — a VW camper stopped beside the burning C car. Two men got out of the camper and sprayed the wreck with automatic rifles.”
  “Did the tow truck operator get the license number of the camper?”
  The witness had been too stunned by the sudden violence that erupted to notice the VWs plate number, Hawk had been informed, but he had managed to provide a pretty good description of the ambushers’ vehicle. Working out of a garage, he was familiar with most models of cars and trucks and the information he supplied already had been put out on an all-points bulletin in the District and surrounding area. Roadblocks were being set up on all bridges and main highways out of Washington, while state police in adjoining Maryland and Virginia were maintaining a steady surveillance on all the principal thoroughfares and had dispatched cruising cars to the less-used roads.
  I hadn’t had time to tell Hawk of Candy’s call from Georgetown, and when I did so, his conclusion was the same as that I had reached. “He’s sticking to routine,” Hawk agreed, “to keep from appearing to have had anything to do with setting up the attack on our C car. He probably doesn’t know that one of our men trailing him had come forward on foot and watched him making the calls at that service station. So far as he knows, the C car just halted out of sight and waited for him to proceed back out onto the highway again.”
  Something that Hawk just had said rang a bell in my memory, but I didn’t have time to concentrate on it, because he had some instructions to give me. “Stick in your room, Nick, while I coordinate the hunt for that VW camper. I want to be able to reach you when it’s located, then I’ll have a job for you.” The way he said it left no doubt in my mind as to what that job would be once the killers were pinpointed. “And I want you waiting when Miss Knight and that bodyguard Abdul Bedawi return to the hotel. If he sticks to his pattern, he’ll come up to Sherima’s suite to see how she’s feeling.”
  “I’ll be here, sir,” I assured him as our conversation ended.
  With Hawk taking over control of communications, I expected my phone to be still for a while, but I was wrong. It rang almost instantly again, and when I answered it, the caller identified herself as a clerk in a boutique in Georgetown — the name sounded like something Sly.
  “Mr. Carter, I’ve been trying to get through to you, but your line has been busy,” she said. “A lady gave me twenty dollars for promising to phone you and give you a message. She ran out of here so fast she didn’t have time to call herself.”
  “What’s the message?” I asked, knowing who the lady had to be.
  “She just told me to tell you that Candy said to call you and say that somebody — I just don’t remember the name, she was in such a hurry I didn’t catch it — anyway, somebody drove off and she was going to try to follow him and she would call you later. Does that mean anything to you, Mr. Carter?”
  “It certainly does,” I told her. “It means a lot. Did you happen to see which way she went?”
  “No, I didn’t. It all happened so fast that I didn’t think to look. She just grabbed a pencil off the counter here at the cash register, wrote down your name and phone number, gave me a twenty-dollar bill and took off.”
  “Thanks very much,” I said, asking again for her name and address and making a note of it. “There will be another twenty dollars in the mail for you in a day or so.”
  She insisted it wasn’t necessary, then asked me to hold the line. I could hear her talking to someone before she turned back to the phone to tell me: “Mr. Carter, one of the girls who works with me here was watching the lady when she left the shop. She says that she saw her get in a cab and that it took off fast.”
  I thanked her again, then hung up and phoned Hawk to report the latest development. He decided to ask District Police to radio an alert for all cars to be on the lookout for Sherima’s limousine. I suggested that, if the car were spotted, it not be halted, but that an attempt be made to keep it under surveillance until it stopped. He issued the orders, then said: “What do you make of it, N3?”
  “I think Abdul must have seen Candy phoning from that boutique and realized his plans had to be changed. He must know that she is helping someone to cover up Sherima’s disappearance and probably figures it’s me. That is, if he had anything to do with her abduction.
  And his taking off that way makes it pretty certain that he did. My guess is that he’s probably heading to wherever they’re holding Sherima. If she’s still alive. I hope the District Police get a line on him soon. Is there any word on the VW camper?”
  “Nothing yet,” Hawk said dejectedly. “I’ll call you back if I get anything. You have to wait there now, anyway, in case Miss Knight calls.”
  “I know,” I said grimly, feeling resigned to wait in my room forever. “I just hope that she doesn’t try to play detective and get too close to him. I think it’s safe to assume she must still be on his trail somewhere. If she had lost him, she would have been in touch with me herself.”
  Though just a short time before I had begun to feel irritated over the continual ringing of my phone, now I kept hoping it would peal again after Hawk hung up. It didn’t, and I sat there watching the seconds turn into seemingly endless minutes, knowing that once they started becoming hours, the time soon would arrive when I was due to have Sherima at the Secretary of State’s house for her radio conversation with Shah Hassan. And knowing, too, if we didn’t keep that date the whole world could start coming apart in explosions that would expand from the Mideast to the fringes of space.
  I had paced about an inch of nap off the Watergate’s lush carpeting by the time Candy phoned just after four o’clock. Hawk had called twice in the interim with disheartening reports that neither the killers’ camper nor Sherima’s limousine and driver had been located. I could understand the limousine being hard to find among the thousands in public and private use in Washington, but the camper should have been easier to pin down, unless it had been stashed somewhere before the bulletin went out on the police network.
  Candy’s words tumbled out like water from a dam giving way; she didn’t even wait for me to answer her questions:
  “Nick, it’s Candy. Did you get my message? Abdul took off and I grabbed a cab and followed him. We’ve been all over the place. It cost me fifteen dollars, because the cab driver said he shouldn’t be doing it. Anyway, Abdul parked about a block away from the Adabian Embassy and just sat there for a while, then a man I didn’t recognize came out and got in the car and they drove off. I followed them and they rode around in circles for a while and then—”
  “Candy!” I finally was able to break into the torrent of explanation when she paused for breath. “Where are you now?”
  “At St. John’s College,” she replied casually, then, as I repeated the name incredulously, she continued, “I just came in here to use the phone. They were very nice about it and let me use one without paying, after I said it was an emergency. The lady said—”
  When I yelled “Candy” again and demanded that she tell me where Abdul was, she sounded hurt again, saying, “Nick, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. He’s at a house just about a block from here on Military Road.” She said Sherima’s bodyguard had driven the limousine right into the garage behind the house. “I saw him because I had the cab driver go past very slowly when I saw Abdul swing into the driveway. I had him let me out at the next corner, at Utah Avenue, then I walked back past the house, but I guess he and the man from the embassy already had gone inside.”
  “Nick, do you think Sherima might be there?”
  “That’s just what I intend to find out,” I told her, asking for the address on Military Road.
  She gave it to me, then said, “Nick, are you coming out yourself or going to send the police?” When I told her I would be on the way there as soon as I could get downstairs and into a cab, she said, “That’s good. Sherima might be embarrassed if the police come and there’s a big fuss.”
  I would have laughed if it hadn’t been so serious a situation; just a few hours earlier, Candy had been all for calling out the Army and Navy and anyone else to help find Sherima, but once it looked like the former Queen might have been located, she was concerned about protecting the reputation of her friend and employer.
  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “I’ll try to keep Sherima’s name out of the papers. Now, you just wait for me at that school. What’s the name again? St. John’s College…” I ignored her protest that she wanted me to pick her up and take her with me to the house, insisting instead, “Do as I say. I don’t know what Abdul and his friend are up to, but there might be trouble, and I don’t want you hurt.” Better that she didn’t know for the time being how many men already had died that afternoon and that it was almost certain more would follow them. “I’ll come for you as soon as I can. Now, I’ve got to get started.” I hung up before she could argue any further.
  There was one more call I had to make before taking off. Hawk listened as I told him what Candy had reported, then said, “The man he picked up at the embassy may be the Sword, N3.” As I concurred, he went on, “And I recognize that address on Military Road. It’s one that the CIA uses on occasion as a ‘safe house’. I thought we were the only ones, other than the CIA, who knew about it, but obviously the enemy has pretty good intelligence sources, too. You realize what the Sword probably intends to do, Nick?”
  “That’s where the Silver Falcon will be found dead,” I said. “And there will be plenty of evidence to indicate that she was working for the CIA and was slain when she threatened to expose her former employer’s plotting in Adabi. But doesn’t the CIA keep someone on the premises at all times?”
  “I would think so. But the Sword hasn’t hesitated to kill anyone else who stood in the way of his plans. And if, as Miss Knight says, he and that Bedawi fellow went right into the house, they probably had already done their killing.”
  “I’m on the way, sir,” I told him. I had been checking my map as we talked and estimated that it would take me about twenty-five minutes to reach the address on Military Road. Hawk said he would send a back-up team after me as quickly as possible. Most of the local agents were in the field attempting to track down the VW camper and its deadly crew, but he said that he would divert a team to my assistance immediately. I knew that it was a task for a Killmaster, however, and asked him to instruct his men to hold back, unless it was absolutely certain that I needed help.
  He would relay the proper orders, he said, then wished me luck — something he didn’t usually bother to do — and broke the connection.
  Chapter 10
  As I stepped out of the door of my room, something hard rammed into my back and a cool, even voice said softly, “Let’s take the service elevator down, Mr. Carter… No, don’t turn around.” The order was enforced with another jab in my spine. “This is a .357 Magnum, and if I have to pull the trigger where I have it pointed now, most of your backbone will be coming out through your stomach… That’s better, just keep walking back along the hall to the elevator and be certain to keep your hands straight down at your sides.”
  I didn’t have a chance to warn the operator when he opened the service elevator door. The blackjack clubbed him to the floor of the car immediately. Just before that, I had felt the pressure in my back ease for an instant, and as I looked down at the operator’s shattered forehead, I knew that my captor had switched the Magnum to his left hand, leaving the right free to bludgeon the man.
  Following orders, I dragged the elevator man into a nearby linen closet and slammed the door on him, hoping he would be found in time for medical aid to be of help. The action had given me an opportunity to see the man who kept the big handgun leveled at me as I worked. He was another Arab, shorter and huskier than the one who had died on the balcony with my knife in his throat. He switched gun hands again long enough to take a swipe at the housekeeper’s linen closet key which, fortunately for his purposes — or, perhaps, by arrangement — had been left in the lock on the linen closet. He was an expert with the little leather sap. The blow snapped the key in the lock, making certain that discovery of its battered contents would be delayed even longer.
  “Now we’ll go down to the cellar, Mr. Carter,” my heavyset companion said. “Just walk straight into the elevator, facing the back wall… That’s far enough… Now, just lean forward from the waist and put your hands flat out against the wall. You’ve seen the police searching prisoners, Mr. Carter, so you know what to do… That’s right, and don’t move.”
  We made the trip to the lower level of the Watergate in silence. The buzzer sounded to indicate that buttons had been pushed to signal for pickups on several floors, but the car was set on manual control and the Arab didn’t stop. When the doors finally opened, I already had been given instructions for my exit: Turn around, hands back at my sides, and walk straight out of the car and turn left. If anyone is waiting, just walk right by as if nothing is wrong. If I did anything to arouse suspicion, I and several innocent persons would die.
  No one was waiting in the cellar, but as we walked through the connecting corridors that led to the Watergate parking garage, two men wearing hotel service department uniforms looked at us curiously. To save their lives, I pretended to be talking amiably with the man who was sticking close to my side, his gun now jammed into my ribs from his jacket pocket. They apparently decided we were hotel executives or guests who had gotten lost looking for the garage and passed us without saying anything.
  “Nicely done, Mr. Carter,” my polite captor said when we were out of earshot of the pair. He dropped back behind me again, giving directions that eventually led us to a remote section of the garage. Only a few cars were parked there — plus a Volkswagen camper. No wonder it hadn’t been spotted by the patrols. The Arab with me must have dropped off his companions somewhere, then driven directly to the Watergate garage and waited outside my door almost from the time the hunt for them began.
  Automatically, I started to head toward the camper, and the Arab interpreted the action correctly. “So you know about that, Mr. Carter. We felt certain you would. That’s why I was sent to pick you up. However, we will be using the car that is parked next to the Volkswagen. It’s been here since last night. One of our men never returned to it from a visit to the roof. I’m sure you know why.”
  I didn’t answer, but my talkative friend obviously hadn’t expected a reply, because he continued: “Walk right up to the rear of the Vega, Mr. Carter. You will find the trunk is open. Just raise it and climb inside, slowly. There is no one around, but all the same, I would not like to fire this gun inside the garage. The sound would be quite loud and if someone came to investigate, he would have to be killed, too.”
  I had just about reached the Vega’s trunk when the gunman apparently realized he had made a serious error and corrected it right away. “Stop there, Mr. Carter. Now, lean forward onto the trunk lid… I’ll just take this gun. All right, you may stand up again and open the trunk… If you’ll just get in and make yourself comfortable, we’ll be underway.”
  Folding myself into the cramped quarters, I made certain that my head was as far back under the overhang as possible, while keeping my legs close to the opening. As I scrunched around, the Arab kept the Magnum pointed at my head; then, when I seemed to be settled, he stepped back and reached up for the trunk lid. As it started to descend I kept my eyes on his body, making certain he hadn’t moved away any further. At the moment I knew his view of me would be completely cut off by the almost closed trunk lid, I lashed out with both feet, putting all the force of my coiled legs behind the kick.
  The trunk lid jumped upward, slammed into something, and kept on going. By the time I could see out, I found myself staring at a grotesquely twisted face on a head that was tilted backward at what looked like an impossible angle. Unseeing eyes that already were starting to glaze peeked out at me from over the bottom edges of their sockets. A hand holding the big Magnum involuntarily jerked out toward the car trunk, but the nervous system never had passed on the signal to those frozen fingers to pull the trigger.
  As I threw one leg over the edge of the trunk and started to get out, the dying Arab suddenly fell backward, stiff as a board. The back of his oddly tilted head struck the concrete garage floor first and jerked forward again with a loud crack. It.was only as I was bending over to retrieve my Luger from the belt of the man who had held me prisoner, that I realized what had happened when I’d slammed the trunk lid upward. Its edge, like a blunted guillotine blade, had caught him under the chin, snapping his head back with such force it broke his neck.
  Searching his pockets, I found two sets of car keys. One ring had a tag on it bearing the same plate number is the VW camper and the name of a car rental agency. I tried one of the keys on the other ring in the trunk of the Vega and it worked. That was pretty strong evidence that this man had been with the one I’d knifed on Sherima’s balcony the previous night. I wondered who else might have been along on what must have been an assignment to kidnap the former Queen. Could the Sword have been on the hotel roof, too? Was the one I had killed accidentally when Candy panicked and bumped my arm trying to tell me that without speaking as he had kept rolling his eyes upward?
  There was no time to check out the VW, and I didn’t want anyone to suddenly find me with a dead man in the garage. I dumped him into the Vega trunk, slammed down the lid that had taken his life, and got in the driver’s seat. What the hell, it would save AXE cab fare to Military Road and be one less corpse for Hawk to have to arrange to cart out of the Watergate.
  Twenty minutes after I paid the parking fee for the Vega — the ticket had been stamped in almost sixteen hours earlier at one A.M. — I was passing the address I wanted on Military Road. Fortunately, most District Police cars were concentrating on the hunt for a VW camper that afternoon and not bothering with traffic light offenders or speeders, so I had made it fast and without getting stopped. I pulled around the next corner and parked. Walking back to the intersection, I noticed a large, low cluster of buildings on a rise across the street and decided that was likely the ground of St. John’s College, where Candy should be waiting for me. I turned the corner and walked rapidly back on Military Road, not wanting to risk having to explain to some helpful passer-by that I knew there wasn’t supposed to be any parking on that side of the street and that there wasn’t any space on the other side, and that I was in a hurry.
  As I drove by, I had taken a quick look at the house where Candy had said Abdul and the man Hawk and I suspected was the Sword had gone inside. It seemed to fit into the neighborhood of red brick, split-level ranch houses. Probably about twenty to twenty-five years old and tree-shaded in summer, it was boxed in by “hedges that had been allowed to grow just high enough to block the view of casual passers-by, without appearing as an obvious guarantee of privacy. The break in the front hedge came at the driveway, which led to a two-car garage at the rear of the property. A flagstone walk led up to the front door. From all outward appearances, it looked like the home of a moderately well-to-do family.
  If the CIA operated its “safe houses” as AXE did those it maintained, that image of respectability would have been carefully cultivated by the regular occupants of the house. Hawk usually assigned two agents to each of the havens that we used for clandestine meetings, or to hide enemy agents who’ve “turned” until complete new identities can be established for them, or as recuperation sites for wounded personnel. The resident agents, usually a man and woman who posed as a married couple, are instructed to be friendly with their neighbors, but not so sociable that the people next door come calling unexpectedly. Hawk likes to set up our safe houses in residential locales, rather than in remote areas more open to surprise attack. And it seemed that the CIA had adapted a similar setup, at least in so far as their selection of neighborhoods.
  I walked past the house and went up to the door of the home next to it. It opened a moment after I’d rung the bell, but only as far as a chain permitted. A gray-haired woman poked her nose around the opening at the same time the muzzle of a German shepherd jutted out at me. The woman asked pleasantly, with just a trace of suspicion, “Yes?” The shepherd didn’t say anything, but expressed his suspicions more clearly with a deep growl. She quieted him with a, “Hush, Arthur!”
  “Excuse me,” I said, “but I’m looking for the DeRoses. I don’t have the exact number, but they’re supposed to live on Military Road, near Utah, and I thought perhaps you might know them.”
  “No, I don’t recognize the name. But there are a lot of new people in the neighborhood in the past couple of years.”
  “They’re a young couple,” I explained. “She’s a blonde, about thirty, and Augie is about the same age. He’s a big guy; you’d be sure to notice him, because he’s about six-feet-four and weighs around two hundred and forty pounds. Oh yes, they drive a VW camper.”
  She had been shaking her head until I mentioned the camper, then a hint of recognition crossed her face. “Well,” she said hesitantly, “there is a nice young couple living next door. They’ve been there about a year, but I haven’t gotten to know them except to say hello. I’m sure they’re not your friends, though. She’s not a blonde, and he’s not that big. Maybe that tail, but sort of on the thin side. The only thing is…”
  “Yes?” I prodded.
  “Well, I did notice when I drove my husband to the bus this morning to go to work that there was a Volkswagen camper in the driveway over there.”
  “What time was that?”
  “About a quarter to eight or so, I guess, since that’s when we usually leave.”
  “I didn’t notice one over there now,” I said. “Did you happen to see it leave?”
  “As a matter of fact, I did. I was just coming out the door later in the morning — it must have been noon or twelve-thirty maybe — when I saw it back off and drive away. I was going down to visit a friend on Legation Street, and—”
  “Did you see who was in it?” I interrupted. “Maybe it was my friends.”
  “No, I didn’t. It was gone before I got down to the sidewalk, and they seemed to be in a hurry. I’m sorry.”
  I was pretty certain where the Volkswagen and its crew of killers had been headed; they had a rendezvous on Canal Road that had been hastily scheduled by a phone call. I thanked the woman for her help and said maybe I would try next door, just in case the people in the camper had been my friends, calling on another neighbor. The shepherd growled again as I turned to walk away, and it almost got its snout pinched as she closed the door.
  Walking casually up the drive of the CIA hideaway, I kept going around the side of the house to the garage. Its swing-up door proved to be unlatched and I slid it upward on well-oiled hinges. Sherima’s limousine was still parked there, beside a Mustang that I assumed belonged to the regular occupants of the house. Closing the door quietly, I crossed to the little patio of the ranch house. A barbeque cart, rusted from standing out in the winter snows, stood there.
  Not so good, boys, I thought to myself. Real homeowners would have stored the barbeque in the garage for the winter.
  The screen door was locked, but a little prying with the point of my stiletto forced it open. The back door was locked, too. My plastic American Express card slid back the bolt, and while I was holding it in place, I tried the knob with my other hand. It turned and the door opened. I returned the credit card to my wallet before pushing the door back further, and was relieved to discover that there was no chain latch on it.
  Stepping inside quickly, I found myself in the kitchen. The house was silent as I looked around. Dishes, probably from breakfast, had been washed and stacked in a drainer beside the sink. I tiptoed on into the dining room, then the living room. There was no sign of a struggle anywhere downstairs. Then, just as I was about to start up the half flight of stairs that obviously led to the bedrooms, a small hole in the plaster on the wall beside the stairs caught my eye. Using the stiletto point again, I dug a slug out of the wall. It looked like a .38 that had flattened itself in the plaster. Bending down, I examined the cheap Oriental throw rug that covered the floor in the front entryway.
  Almost lost in the pattern was a crimson stain. Someone opened the front door and got shot, I decided. Probably by a .38 with a silencer. There was a coat closet in the little foyer. The door was locked, I discovered, and that was unusual enough to make me want to see what was inside. Trying a few of my master keys, I found one that turned the simple lock.
  Slumped on the closet floor under the coats that hung there was the body of a man. The corpse wore a hat and coat and I could tell he had been tall from the way his knees had been doubled up to wedge him into the confined space. Pushing back the hat, which was slouched forward over his face, I saw where a bullet had struck him in the left eye. So much for half of the “nice young couple next door.” He’d apparently been getting ready to leave the house when someone came to the front door and he’d made the fatal mistake of not using its peephole to see who was outside before opening it. Whoever was standing there had his silenced gun ready, and had fired as soon as the door opened, then caught his victim and lowered him gently to the rug on the floor without the dead man’s “wife” even knowing what had happened.
  She had to be somewhere in the house, too, I decided. The Sword’s men wouldn’t have risked carrying out a corpse. Luger drawn, I climbed the stairs to the upper level. In the stillness that filled the house, the slight creak of the carpeted steps sounded loud. A bedroom door stood open to my right at the top of the stairs. I went in and found it empty. Quickly, I crossed to the closet. It held a man’s clothes and nothing else. A quick flip of the spread showed me there was nothing under the bed, so I went back out into the hall and slowly opened the next door on the same side. It was a bathroom — empty. The medicine cabinet over the sink held men’s toiletries and a razor. The dead man downstairs must have had stomach trouble; bottles of antacids lined one of the shelves. Well, it wouldn’t bother him anymore.
  Crossing the hall, I walked through another open door into what I guessed from its size to be the master bedroom of the house. The woman I was hunting had been neat; the clothes were tidily arranged on hangers and her shoes were in boxes stacked on the floor of the large double closet. Apparently, she and her partner had maintained a strictly business arrangement despite living together for about a year. Only one of the two bed pillows was rumpled. It suddenly struck me that the spread on the bed was tucked in on only one side. She must have been making it up when the gunman got to the second floor.
  Dropping to my knees, I looked under the bed. Blind eyes stared back at me from a face that must have been pretty before a bullet tore away part of the jaw, splattering blood over long black hair that fanned out on the floor. She was wearing a quilted yellow housecoat and the front of it was caked with clotted blood where the second shot struck her.
  I dropped the bedspread and got to my feet. Moving swiftly through the rest of the upstairs, I checked out a third bedroom and the master bath, both of which testified further to the neatness of the CIA housekeeper. Hidden behind a stack of towels in a linen closet, I found a powerful two-way radio, set on a frequency which I recognized as one assigned to the CIA. It probably was operated only when the safe house was being used. There was little need for direct communication with the intelligence agency’s super-secret headquarters near Langley, Virginia, except at such times. I flipped the receiver switch but no noise came from the set. Feeling behind the cabinet, I picked up some wires that had been pulled loose and cut.
  Going back downstairs, I stood in the front foyer and listened intently for some sound that might indicate the Sword and Abdul Bedawi, hopefully Sherima and, probably two of the three assassins from the camper still were in the house. Only the ticking of an old Seth Thomas beehive clock on a sideboard in the dining room broke the silence.
  I tiptoed back to the kitchen and found a door that had to lead to the basement. I tested the knob and found that it was unlocked, so I eased it ajar. A slight hum came through the crack, but no human sounds carried up the flight of about ten steps I saw as I pulled the door open wide.
  The basement light was on, however, and below I could see a linoleum-covered floor. As I inched down the steps, a washer-dryer combination came into view against a far wall. An oil burner and water heater were off behind the stairs. Almost at the bottom of the steps, I stopped short, suddenly realizing that only about one-third of the basement was exposed; maybe less, I decided, recalling the rambling rooms upstairs.
  A concrete block wall cut off the remainder of the cellar. A wall obviously added long after the house had been built, because the gray blocks were much newer than those that formed the other three sides of the area I had entered. Quickly estimating the size of the house itself, I calculated that the CIA had created a hidden room, or rooms, with a total area of about fifteen hundred square feet. This, then, was the safest part of the safe house, where friends — or enemies — needing protection might be sheltered. The interior is probably soundproofed, too, I guessed, so that if someone were hiding out there, no noise would betray his presence if neighbors should unexpectedly call on the resident agents.
  My assumption that no sound would penetrate the walls and ceiling of the secret hideout convinced me that Sherima and her captors were inside, too. Waiting for something or someone, I suspected, but didn’t know what or whom. Certainly, not for any signal on the radio upstairs, for its usefulness had been destroyed by whoever had cut the wires. There was a good chance, though, that the message to Adabi—”The Sword is poised to strike”— had been transmitted from here before the radio was put out of commission.
  There didn’t seem to be any entrance into the concrete-sheathed room, but I moved to the wall for a closer look. The CIA had created an excellent illusion; probably, when an explanation of the unusually tiny basement was necessary, should the “young couple” have to admit meter readers or utility repairmen to the basement, they would say, perhaps, that the people from whom they bought the house had not finished the cellar for lack of funds, and had just closed off the remainder of the excavation. I could almost hear the pretty raven-haired woman telling a curious electric company man: “Oh, we’re going to finish it ourselves someday when mortgage money is easier to come by. But we got such a good buy on the house because it didn’t have a full basement.”
  Near the furthest point on the wall from the stairway, I found what I was looking for. A slight crack in the blocks outlined a section about seven feet high and maybe thirty-six inches wide. It had to be the door to whatever lay beyond, but how did it open? The glare from the unshaded bulbs overhead provided plenty of light as I hunted for some sort of switch or button that would open the concealed door. There didn’t seem to be any such device on the wall itself, so I began looking around in other parts of the cellar. I had to get inside that door fast; time was running out on me.
  I searched for ten frustrating minutes without finding anything. I was just about to begin pressing on the individual concrete blocks in the wall, hoping that one of them might be the key. As I stepped back toward the hidden door, I passed one of the large supporting beams, and there, from the corner of my eye I saw what had been in front of me all along — a light switch. But what did this switch turn on? The one at the top of the basement stairs obviously controlled the only two bulbs, and they already were on.
  I checked the wiring that led from the switch. Perhaps it had something to do with the laundry equipment or the oil burner. Instead, the wire went straight up to the ceiling and across to a point near the crack that marked the entrance to the secret room. With my Luger in one hand, I flicked the switch with the other. For a moment, nothing happened. Then I felt a slight vibration in the floor under my feet and heard a muffled scraping as the section of wall started to swing outward on well-oiled hinges, obviously powered by an electric motor somewhere behind it.
  Gun in hand, I stepped through the opening as soon as it was wide enough to admit me. The scene that greeted me would have rivaled the cover of one of the old pulp magazines.
  Tied spread-eagle to the far wall opposite me was Sherima. She was completely naked, but I didn’t have time to appreciate the lush curves of her tiny figure. I was too busy looking at the man standing beside her, and in covering the others in the room with my Luger. Abdul was standing close to Sherima, and I could tell from the expression on her face that he had been doing something distasteful that was interrupted by my arrival. Seated at a desk in the large open area that had been created by the CIA was a well-dressed Arab, whom I felt certain was the man Abdul had picked up at the Adabian Embassy — the one Hawk and I had figured to be the Sword. Apparently, he had been working on some papers; he lifted his head from his paperwork to stare at me and the gun.
  Two other Arabs were lounging in another corner of the hideaway. One was seated on the bed normally used by the CIA’s temporary guests. An automatic rifle lay beside him. Its twin was in the hands of the last of this group of occupants of the government hideout. He had started to raise the rifle as I stepped into the room, but stopped as the muzzle of my pistol swung in his direction. None of them seemed surprised to see me, except Sherima, whose eyes had widened, first in astonishment, and then registered embarrassment at her nudity. I was certain that I had been expected when Abdul spoke:
  “Come in, Mr. Carter,” he said, still polite even under such a tense, situation as he was in. “We’ve been waiting for you to arrive. Now my plan is complete.”
  Calling it his plan threw me for a minute. Hawk and I had been wrong. The man who had played bodyguard for Sherima and chauffeur for the Adabian Embassy official was the Sword, not the one who had been his passenger. I stared at Abdul now as though I were looking at him for the first time. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement from the side of the room where the two men had been frozen in position. I was pulling the trigger as I swung my head, and the slug from the Luger hit the Arab with the automatic rifle in the temple as he shifted to try to line up the barrel on me. He was dead before he hit the floor, following his rifle, which had dropped from his hands.
  “Don’t try it,” I warned his companion, who had started to reach for the gun beside him on the bed. I wasn’t sure he understood English, but he apparently had no trouble interpreting the tone of my voice or my intention, because his hands snaked back and up toward the ceiling.
  “There was no need for that, Mr. Carter,” Abdul said coolly. “He wouldn’t have shot you. That wasn’t part of my plan.”
  “He didn’t hesitate using that thing earlier today,” I reminded the Sword. “Or was killing those three men part of your plan?”
  “That was necessary,” Abdul replied. “It was almost time for me to come here — and they were following too closely for me to do it without disclosing where my men were holding Her Highness.” The last was said with a sneer as he turned slightly toward Sherima. “Were they good company, my lady?” He said those last words in a tone that made them seem dirtier than anything he or his two thugs might have done to the beautiful, bound captive, and the blush that spread from her face down over her bare throat and heaving breasts told me that her ordeal had been both mental and physical.
  Sherima still hadn’t spoken since I opened the secret door and stepped into the hidden room. I had a feeling she was in shock, or just coming out of it. Or, perhaps, she had been drugged beyond the tranquilizers given her by Candy, and only now was starting to recover full control of her senses.
  “All right, Abdul, or should I say Seif Allah?” I said. His reaction to my use of the Arabic for the Sword of Allah was simply to bow slightly. “Get those chains off Her Highness. Fast.”
  “That won’t be necessary, Abdul,” a voice behind me said. “Drop your gun, Nick, and put up your hands.”
  “Hello, Candy,” I said without turning around. “What kept you? I’ve been waiting for you to join us down here. If you’d arrived a couple of minutes earlier, you might have saved the life of one of your pals.”
  The shock of seeing her long-time friend and companion holding a gun on the man who had come to rescue her snapped Sherima fully awake. “Candy! What are you doing? Nick came to get me out of here!”
  When I told her that Candy Knight was the one who had made it possible for her to be captured in the first place, the revelation was too much for the former Queen. She dissolved in tears. Gone was the royal dignity that had maintained her bravely in the face of her tormentors. She was a woman betrayed by someone she had loved like a sister, and she sobbed over and over, “Why, Candy? Why?”
  Chapter 11
  I still hadn’t dropped my gun or raised my hands, but Abdul left Sherima’s side and walked over to take the Luger away from me. There was little I could do at the moment except let him take it. If Candy pulled the trigger on me, there was no hope for the sobbing woman whose head had slumped forward on her breast. Her world was shattering into a billion pieces, and for her, physical pain was forgotten. The raw creases that the ropes had cut into her wrists and splayed ankles was no longer nearly as brutal as the process of her life disintegrating — a process that had begun when she’d been forced to leave the man she loved and her children.
  “Now, if you will just move over against the wall, Mr. Carter,” Abdul said, gesturing with my gun where he wanted me to go.
  Playing for time, I asked him: “Why don’t you let Candy tell Sherima why she sold her out? You’ve got nothing to lose now.”
  “Nothing but time,” he said, turning to order the gunman on the cot to come and guard me. As the man picked up his automatic rifle and began walking toward me, he paused to look down at his dead companion. Rage crossed his face and he raised the rifle threateningly and pointed it at me.
  “Stop!” Abdul commanded, still speaking to him in Arabic. “He must not be killed with that weapon. When everything is ready, you may use the pistol which you used on the ones upstairs.”
  Sherima lifted her head to look at me questioningly. Apparently, she had been kept outside until the Sword’s men had disposed of the CIA’s resident agents. “There’s a ‘nice young couple’ dead upstairs,” I told her. “At least, the lady next door described them as nice.”
  “They were spies for your imperialistic CIA,” Abdul snarled at me. “We knew all about this house for some time, Mr. Carter. Selim here,” he continued, nodding toward the man at the desk who had gone back to his paperwork once I was disarmed, “was quite helpful on that score. He is attached to security at the embassy, and once had to escort Shah Hassan here when our illustrious monarch was in Washington to get his orders from his masters in the CIA. That meeting lasted almost six hours, and Selim had ample opportunity to memorize the layout of the house. For spies, they were not very clever; Selim was even permitted to stand guard outside the secret door to this room and see how it operated while he waited for Hassan.”
  “The Shah never took orders from anyone!” Sherima snapped at her former bodyguard. “I remember him telling me about that meeting when he returned to Sidi Hassan. The CIA was briefing him on what was going on in the rest of the Mideast so that he could protect himself from those who pretended to be our friends while they were making plans to take the throne away from him.”
  “Who besides you and Hassan believe that fabrication?” Abdul said smugly. “By the time we are finished, everyone in the Arab world will know of his treachery and how he let himself and his people be used by the imperialist war-mongers. And how he became their running dog, thanks to you”
  When Sherima’s attractive face showed a big question mark, Abdul gloated. “Oh yes, my lady,” he said, walking back to her side, “Didn’t you know? You are the one who so clouded Hassan’s mind that he could not determine what was best for his country. You used this evil body of yours to inflame him with passion so that he could not see who his true friends were.” To emphasize his point, Abdul reached out and stroked Sherima’s breasts and thighs salaciously as she tried to twist away from his torturous caresses; pain from her coarse bonds and nausea from his barbaric touch mirrored in her face at the same time.
  “Then, when you had made Hassan your love slave,” Abdul continued, “you began to pass on to him the orders from your masters here in Washington.”
  “That’s a lie!” Sherima said, her face flushed again, this time from anger rather than embarrassment at what her former servant was doing to her body. “Hassan’s only thought was of what was best for his people. And you know that is true, Abdul. He trusted you as a friend and often confided in you, too, from the day you saved his life.”
  “Of course I know it, Your Highness,” Abdul admitted. “But who will believe that when the world sees the evidence Selim is preparing here — evidence that already is waiting to be handed over to the mighty Shah when we send word of your death at the hands of the CIA.”
  Sherima gasped. “You intend to kill me and blame it on the CIA? Why should the Shah believe that lie? Especially if you are going to insinuate that I worked for the CIA.”
  Abdul turned to me, saying, “Tell her, Mr. Carter. I am certain that by now you have figured out my plan.”
  I didn’t want to reveal just how much AXE knew of the Sword’s plot, so I merely said, “Well, they might try to convince the Shah that you were killed because you had decided to expose the CIA’s operations in Adabi to Hassan and the rest of the world.”
  “Precisely, Mr. Carter!” Abdul said. “I see that you people in the Executive Protection Service have some brains, too. We had assumed that you were little more than glorified bodyguards, good for nothing better than to stand outside embassies and consular offices.”
  The Sword didn’t know it, but he had answered a big question that had been on my mind since he first had said he was expecting me at the CIA safe house. He obviously didn’t know about AXE or who I really was. I looked over at Candy, who had been standing silently, still holding a little gun in her hand during the entire conversation between Abdul and Sherima.
  “I guess I have you to thank for telling him who I am, Lovely,” I said. Her face was defiant as I continued, “You use that body of yours pretty well to get what information you want. Thanks.”
  She didn’t reply, but Abdul chuckled and said, “Yes, Mr. Carter, she does use that body of hers well.” From the way he sneered as he spoke, I realized that he, too, had experienced the delights of Candy’s love games. “But, in your case,” he went on, “it was not uncontrollable passion that influenced her. You were treated to her pleasures as my guest — at my instructions. I needed to know just where you fit into the picture, and once she discovered that you, too, were in the employ of the capitalists’ government, I decided to include you in my plans.”
  “It was my pleasure,” I said, speaking to Candy rather than to Abdul. “Tell me, Candy, the man on Sherima’s balcony — was it an accident when you drove my knife into his throat? Or were you afraid that he was going to talk and tell me that the Sword was on the Watergate roof, too, directing the abduction attempt on Sherima?”
  The big hazel eyes refused to look at me, and Candy still didn’t speak. Abdul wasn’t nearly so reticent, however. Satisfied his plot to destroy Shah Hassan was going to succeed and that there was nothing standing in his way, he seemed almost eager to discuss every facet of the operation.
  “That was very clever of her, wasn’t it, Mr. Carter?” he said condescendingly. “I heard about it when I came down to Sherima’s room to see what had gone wrong. That was when I told her to keep you occupied for the rest of the night while we made off with Her Highness… excuse me, Her ex-Highness. Imagine, that old fool of a hotel detective thought he could stop us. He walked right up and wanted to know what I was doing at the door to the suite at that hour, flaunting his hotel badge as though I were a peeping torn.” He didn’t add the obvious — that he wouldn’t have had to kill the old man — Abdul was, after all, recognized as Sherima’s official bodyguard.
  “Unfortunately for him, that may be just what he thought,” I said. “He didn’t really know what was going on, only that he was to protect the lady from being bothered.” That had been our mistake, I admitted to myself.
  Sherima, horrified by all that she had heard in the past few minutes, once more demanded of her old school friend, “Why, Candy? How could you do this to me? You know that His Highness and I both loved you. Why?”
  The question finally got through to Candy. Eyes blazing, she said scornfully, “Sure, Hassan loved me. That’s why he killed my father!”
  “Your father!” Sherima exclaimed. “Candy, you know your father was slain by the same man who tried to kill the Shah. Your father saved Hassan’s life by sacrificing his own. And now you do this to him and me.”
  “My father didn’t sacrifice his life!” Candy was almost shouting, and crying at the same time. “Hassan killed him! He pulled my father in front of him to save his own lousy life when the assassin came at him. I swore that I would get even with Hassan when I heard about it, and now I’m going to do it”
  “That’s not true, Candy,” Sherima told her passionately. “Hassan was so surprised when that man broke into the palace reception room and went for him, that he just stood still. Your father jumped in front of him and got stabbed. Then Abdul killed the assassin.”
  “How do you know?” Candy shot back at her. “Were you there?”
  “No,” Sherima admitted. “You know I was with you at the time. But Hassan told me all about it later. He felt responsible for your father’s death, and then responsible for you. You—”
  “He was responsible! He was a coward and my father died because of it! He just couldn’t face up to telling you the truth, because then you’d know he was a coward, too.”
  “Candy,” Sherima implored her, “my father told me the same thing. And he wouldn’t have lied about something like that. He was your father’s best friend, and—”
  Candy wouldn’t listen. Interrupting Sherima again, she yelled, “Your dad was just like mine. A company man first. And the oil company couldn’t afford to have his people know that Hassan was a coward, or they wouldn’t have supported him. Then the precious company would have gotten tossed out of the country. Hassan lied and everybody who worked for the oil company backed him up.”
  I had been watching the Sword as the two girls argued, and the smirk on his face raised a question in my mind. Candy didn’t sound like herself, I thought. It was almost as if she were repeating a story that had been told to her over and over. I broke in to ask a question of my own. “Candy, who told you about what happened that day?”
  She turned to face me again. “Abdul. And he’s the only one who was there who had nothing to lose by telling me the truth. He almost got killed by that man that day, too. But he wasn’t a coward. He stepped right up to that crazy assassin and shot him down. Hassan was just lucky Abdul was there or the man would have gotten him right after my father.”
  “When did he tell you about it?” I asked.
  “That same night. He came around to see me and to try to comfort me. He just happened to let slip something about what really happened, and I pried the rest of it out of him. He made me promise not to tell anybody what the Shah had done. He said it wouldn’t be good for the country at the time if everybody knew that the Shah was a coward. It was our secret. I told you everyone has secrets, Nick.”
  “Enough of this,” Abdul suddenly said sharply. “We have much to be done here. Selim, how are the papers coming? Are you almost finished?”
  “Five minutes more.” It was the first time the embassy official had spoken since I entered the room. “I have used the code book we found upstairs to prepare a report that indicates Her Highness — the former Queen — has informed her superiors that she no longer believes that what the CIA has done in Adabi is right, and that she regrets helping them all this time. She has threatened to expose the CIA to His Highness and to the press of the world.”
  “What else?” Abdul demanded.
  “The paper I am completing now is a coded message instructing the people in the house to dispose of Sherima if they can’t change her mind. They are to make it look like an accident if possible. If not, she is to be shot and her body disposed of in such a manner that it never will be found. In that event, the message continues, a cover story will be released saying that it is believed that she has disappeared because she fears the Black September movement is going to take her life. The other paper is ready too.”
  I had to admit that the Sword had worked out a setup that was certain to put the CIA — and in doing so, the United States government — on the spot with Shah Hassan and the world in general. I was thinking about the potential ramifications of the scheme when Candy suddenly asked me:
  “Nick, you said you were expecting me. How did you know? How did I give myself away?”
  “On the way out here, I remembered two things,” I told her. “First, something that one of the men who followed you and Abdul to Potomac this morning had reported. He had watched when Abdul stopped at the gas station, and both of you used the phone. That reminded me that I asked you if you had had a chance to hear whom Abdul called or see what number he dialed, when you phoned me later at the Watergate. And you said you hadn’t gone into the station with him. But you had, my dear. Only you didn’t know that someone had seen you do it and had reported it.”
  “So those were men from the Executive Protection Service following us, Mr. Carter,” Abdul said. “I wondered about that, but I have not had enough experience in this country to be able to recognize all of the various undercover operators. But I did not think one of them had risked getting so close as to watch us in the station. I thought they waited around the curve until they saw us swing back onto the road.”
  “Where you drove slowly enough for your men in the camper to reach the ambush point,” I added.
  “Exactly.”
  “You made two calls, Abdul,” I told him and he nodded in agreement. “I know the one was to the men in the house here, who were holding Sherima prisoner— after killing the man and woman. Who was the other call to… Selim?”
  “Right again, Mr. Carter. I had to tell him that I would soon be picking him up. After Miss Knight and I staged our little charade in Georgetown for your benefit so you could be lured directly here.”
  “Then your call had to be to a cab company,” I said, looking at Candy. “You had to arrange to have a cab right at the boutique so you could make your fast exit and be sure to get away before that girl followed you outside to ask any questions.”
  “Correct once more,” Abdul said, not letting Candy answer me. He wanted to be certain that he got all the credit for planning the whole setup. “And it worked, Mr. Carter. You are here, as planned.”
  I wanted to deflate him a little, so I said, “Actually, that bit with the cab was what got me thinking about Candy and the many coincidences that involved her. Only in movies does someone run out of a building and get a cab right away. It’s like the hero always finding a parking spot just where he wants it. Anyway, I remembered that it was Candy’s idea to take that little walk around Georgetown, and that she insisted on spending last night with me while Sherima was abducted. Then I recalled the phone calls at the gas station, and everything fell into place.”
  “Too late, I’m afraid, Mr. Carter,” Abdul said. He turned to the man at the desk who had started to pick up his papers and tuck something — the CIA code book, I guessed — into his pocket. “Are you ready, Selim?”
  “Yes.” He handed the Sword several slips of paper that he’d been working on, and said, “These are the ones which are to be found in the house.” His leader took them, then held out his hand again. Selim looked at him for a moment, then sheepishly handed over the code book from his pocket. “I just thought I should take care of it,” he apologized. “There is always the chance that when the police come they might search you and it would not be wise to have it in your possession.”
  “Of course, my friend,” Abdul said, throwing a beefy arm around his shoulder. “It was good of you to think of my safety. But I will worry about that and, at the same time, I will remove any temptation from your path. There are those who would pay much to get their hands on this little book, and it is best that the money comes directly to me and our glorious Silver Scimitar movement. Is that not so, Selim?”
  The little document forger from the embassy nodded quickly in agreement and seemed relieved when the Sword relaxed the bear hug he had around the man’s shoulder. “Now, you know what you are to do?”
  “I will go directly back to the embassy, and then—” He stopped short, looked startled and asked, “What of the car I was to use? And Muhammed who was to bring this Carter here? What has happened to him?”
  Abdul turned to me. “Ah yes, Mr. Carter. I have been meaning to ask you about Muhammed. I assume he suffered the same fate as our friends from the Black Liberation Army in Georgetown. And the others.”
  I was just about to answer him when I saw the questioning look on Candy’s face and decided that she didn’t know about “the others.” Thinking back on the trio of Japanese who had been lying in wait for us at Great Falls, I had another revelation and tucked the idea away for future use. “If Muhammed is the man who was waiting outside my room, he was detained. He asked me to tell you that he would be late. Very late. In fact, I don’t think he’ll make it at all.”
  Abdul nodded. “I suspected as much,” he said.
  “Candy, were you watching when Mr. Carter arrived as I instructed you? How did he get here?”
  “I saw him get out of a car that he parked around the corner,” she said. “It was a Vega.”
  “Again, as I suspected,” Abdul said, bowing to me. “It seems we have much to repay you for, Mr. Carter, including bringing our car here so that Selim can return to the embassy.” He held out his hand. “May I have the keys? Reach for them very carefully.” He gestured to the killer with the automatic rifle, and I saw his finger close slightly on the trigger.
  I fished the key ring out of my pocket and started to throw it to the man with the rifle. “No! To me,” Abdul said quickly, alert to any suspicious move on my part. I did as he instructed, then he handed the car keys to his man Selim, saying, “Continue with your instructions.”
  “At the embassy, I am to wait for your call. When it comes, I telephone the police and say that you have called me from this address, saying that you have found Her Highness murdered. Then I radio His Highness of what has occurred.”
  “And how did I get to this address?”
  “I sent you here when it appeared that Her Highness was missing. I recalled that His Royal Highness once had me take him to this house to meet with some Americans, and I thought that perhaps Her Highness had come here to visit her American friends. And I know nothing more about whose house it is, or anything.”
  “Good. Do not forget a word of what I have told you, Selim,” Abdul said, patting him on the back. “Go now and await my call. Mustapha Bey will pick up the car later and return it to the rental agency. Park it in the lot near the embassy and tell the attendant someone will come for the keys.” As Abdul flicked a switch inside the hideout similar to the one on the post outside, the heavy door swung open again. He had a final word for his man after checking his watch. “It is now six o’clock. You should be at the embassy in half an hour and we should be finished here by that time. Expect my call between six-thirty and six-forty-five. Allah be with you.”
  “And with you, Seif Allah,” the traitorous Adabian official said as the concrete panel closed again, sealing us in the soundproof room with Sherima and me staring certain death in the face.
  Chapter 12
  Abdul got busy planting his forged CIA notes as soon as Selim was gone. The angry-faced Mustapha Bey kept the gun trained on me, only occasionally shifting his gaze for a moment to dart glances at the bare body of his former Queen. Somehow, I knew that he was the one who had molested her while she hung on the ropes that held her arms wide and her legs open. I felt certain, too, that he and his now-dead companion had probably had strict orders from the Sword not to rape their captive. Any such sexual assault would have shown up in the autopsy, and I didn’t think that the Sword wanted that kind of complication. The killing had to be neat, as if it had been carried out by CIA professionals.
  I hadn’t quite figured out how the Sword was going to explain the difference in the times of death between the corpses upstairs and Sherima. Then it struck me that those bodies weren’t going to be found in the house. All he had to do was to say that he broke in and found the secret door open and Sherima’s body lying in the hidden room. He also could say that he saw one or two people drive away as he arrived in the limousine. Or he could open the trunk of the Mustang in the garage, then tell the police that somebody ran away when he drove up. The logical assumption would be that the killer was getting ready to carry off Sherima’s body when her bodyguard got there and frightened him.
  I wondered where I fitted into his plan. Then I realized that I was going to be the dead man who would help make Abdul’s story even more air-tight, and I knew why I wasn’t to be killed with the automatic rifle. I had to die with a bullet from the same gun that killed Sherima. Abdul could say he brought me along to the house to search for her, and the man who ran away from the garage when we arrived had fired one more shot before he fled, which hit me. Abdul would pretend not to know that I was from the Executive Protection Service — as he now thought I was — and explain that I was just someone who had been friendly to Sherima, whom he had asked for help.
  His story wouldn’t stand up, of course, as far as any official investigation went. But would the government be able to convince Shah Hassan that our story simply wasn’t a cover-up of the CIA’s involvement in her murder? And any exposure of my true identity as an AXE agent would only make the whole situation even more complicated and suspicious. After all, I had been sticking pretty close to the former Queen almost since her arrival in Washington. How could that be explained to the man who loved her?
  As my mind raced over the complexities of the plot, I had been watching Candy. She had sat down on the bed and seemed to avoid looking at me or Sherima. I don’t think she had expected to see her former friend stripped and cruelly bound. I had figured out that the rope marks on her wrists and ankles were to be passed off as part of the CIA’s torture to try to get the former Queen to change her mind about spilling the beans concerning its purported plotting in Adabi.
  By that time, Abdul had finished stashing away the forged notes. He came over to my guard and started issuing orders in Arabic. “Go upstairs and bring the two bodies to the side door. Then back the limousine up as close to the door as you can. Open the trunk and load them in. Be sure no one sees you do it. Then come back down here for Karim. Unfortunately, he must ride with the capitalist pigs. And there will be one more passenger for the trunk, so make certain there is room.”
  I was the only one who could hear what the Sword was telling his man, and his words implied something I hadn’t thought about until that moment. If Sherima and I were to be found dead on the scene, then the only other “passenger” for the trunk had to be Candy! And I guessed what was on the “other paper” the forger Selim had completed and the contents of which he had avoided mentioning. I was sure it painted Candy as the CIA’s link to Sherima, and thereby, to Shah Hassan. This part of Abdul’s plan was enhanced by the fact that her disappearance at the time of Sherima’s death would look even more suspicious if the CIA couldn’t produce her to refute the evidence concocted by the Sword.
  When Mustapha was gone and the massive door cut off all sound again, I said, “Candy, tell me something. When did you get Abdul to join you in seeking revenge on Shah Hassan?”
  “Why? What does it matter?” She had looked up at me to answer, then turned away again.
  “I figure it was about the time the word got out about the divorce and Sherima returning to the States, right?”
  The hazel eyes searched my face, and she finally nodded, then said, “I guess it was about then. Why?”
  Abdul didn’t say anything, but his black, hawklike eyes darted from her to me as I continued talking, hoping as I did so that he was too tense to notice that I’d never raised my hands again after throwing the car keys to him.
  “What did he say?” I asked, then answered my own question. “I’ll bet it was something like he’d finally realized that you were right. That Hassan was a bad man who wasn’t really helping his people, but just piling up wealth for himself and giving away a few schools and hospitals to keep the people quiet.”
  Her face told me I’d hit the mark, but she wasn’t ready to admit it, not even to herself. “Abdul showed me the proof of it! He showed me the records from a Swiss bank. Do you know that good old philanthropic Hassan has over one hundred million dollars deposited there? How’s that for helping himself instead of his country?”
  Sherima had come alive again and had been listening to our conversation. Once more, she tried to convince Candy that she was wrong about her former husband. “That’s not so, Candy,” she said quietly. “The only money that Hassan ever sent out of Adabi was to pay for equipment that was needed by our people. That, and the money he deposited in Zurich for you and me.”
  “That’s how much you know about your precious Hassan,” Candy shouted at her. “Abdul showed me the records, and that’s when he suggested how we could destroy him by using you.”
  “The records could have been forged, Candy,” I said. “You saw tonight what an expert Selim is at that kind of thing. Bank records would have been much easier to create than coded CIA notes.”
  Candy looked from me to Abdul, but found no relief from the doubts I was planting in his expression. “Abdul wouldn’t do that,” she said vehemently. “He helped me because he loved me, if you must know!”
  I shook my head. “Think about it, Candy. Would a man who loved you allow you to go to bed with someone else — order you to do it — like you did?”
  “It was necessary, wasn’t it, Abdul?” Candy said, almost crying as she turned to him for assistance. “Tell him how you explained that he had to be kept occupied for the night so you could get Sherima, that there was only one way to keep a man like him busy. Tell him, Abdul.” The last three words were a plea for help that went unanswered as Abdul said nothing. A savagely tight smile was fixed on his face; he knew what I was trying to do and didn’t care, because he felt it was too late to change anything.
  “I can’t buy that, Candy,” I said, shaking my head slowly again. “Don’t forget, you already knew what kind of a man I was. You and I were together before Abdul even knew about me. He had gone off to Alexandria with Sherima before I met you that first night. You remember that night, don’t you?”
  “That was just because I was so lonesome!” She was sobbing now, looking wildly at Abdul. Apparently, she hadn’t told him everything about her initial meeting with me. “Abdul and I hadn’t had a chance to be together for months. There was so much to do getting ready to leave Sidi Hassan. And then all the time we were in London I had to be with Sherima because she was acting like such a baby. Abdul, it was nothing that first night with him. You have to believe me. It was just that I needed someone. You know how I am.”
  She started to run to him, but he backed up so that he could keep an eye on me. “Stay there, my dear,” he said sharply, stopping her. “Don’t get between Mr. Carter and my friend here.” He motioned with the gun. “That is just what he wants you to do.”
  “Then it’s all right? You do understand, Abdul?” She brushed away the tears. “Tell me it’s all right, darling.”
  “Yes, Abdul,” I prodded him, “do tell her everything.
  Tell her all about the Silver Scimitar and how you’re the Sword of Allah who’s been leading the most vicious pack of killers in the world. Tell her about all the innocent II people you’ve sacrificed to try to take over control of the entire Mideast. And be sure to tell her how she’s the next one to be sacrificed.”
  “That’s enough, Mr. Carter,” he said coldly at the same time Candy asked, “What is he talking about, Abdul? What about the Silver Scimitar and what about me being the next sacrifice?”
  “Later, my dear,” he said, watching me intently. “I’ll explain it all as soon as Mustapha returns. We have much to do yet.”
  “That’s right, Candy,” I said harshly. “You will find out when Mustapha gets back. Right now, he’s loading the trunk of the Cadillac with the bodies of the two people upstairs. Then he’s to come back for Karim there on the floor. And he’s saving space for you in the trunk, too. Right, Abdul? Or do you prefer the Sword of Allah, now that your moment of triumph is so close at hand?”
  “Yes, Mr. Carter, I think I do,” he said. Then he turned slightly toward Candy, whose hands had gone to her face in horror at my words. She stared at him unbelievingly as he turned to her and continued in an icily brutal tone, “Unfortunately, my dear, Mr. Carter is very correct. Your usefulness to me ended as soon as you made it possible for me to make the former Queen my prisoner and lured Mr. Carter here. As for you, Mr. Carter,” he went on, turning back to me, “I think you have said enough. Now please remain silent or I shall be forced to use this rifle, even though it would entail a change in my plans.”
  The tipoff that I had been right about the Sword intention of using my corpse as the best piece of evidence to support his story — that he and I had tried to rescue Sherima — made me a bit more daring in the face of the automatic weapon. He would fire it at me only as a last resort, I decided, and I hadn’t forced him to that point yet. I wanted to keep talking to Candy despite his threats, so I said:
  “You see, Candy, there are people who make love for mutual pleasure, such as you and I experienced, and there are people like Abdul, here, who make love out of hate to achieve their own ends. Abdul became your lover when he was ready to use you and not before, the way I figure it.”
  She lifted a tearstained face and looked toward me without seeing. “Up to that time, we’d just been friends. He’d come around and we’d talk about my father and how terrible it was for Hassan to be responsible for his death, to save his own greedy life. Then, finally, he told me he had loved me for a long time and… and I’d been so careful for such a long time, and—” She suddenly realized what she was revealing about herself and looked guiltily toward Sherima, then back to me.
  I suspected that long ago she had confided to her old friend about the intense search for satisfaction that once had driven her from man to man. But she had no way of knowing I was aware of her nymphomania. Now it was obvious that, having started to admit it in front of me, she had become embarrassed. More importantly, I was conscious of the passage of time and Mustapha’s impending return to the concealed room. I had to make a move before that, and letting Candy get involved in a discussion of her affair with Abdul wasn’t going to do anything but use up valuable minutes.
  Taking a chance that the crafty Arab’s plotting went way back, I asked her, “Did Abdul ever tell you that he was the one who planned the assassination attempt in which your father died? Or that the killer never was supposed to get to the Shah. Isn’t that right?” I prodded him, while Candy and Sherima both gaped in shock and disbelief. “Wasn’t he just somebody else you used, intending to shoot him down before he got close enough to actually knife Hassan? You knew that saving the Shah’s life would win you his trust since he was that kind of man. Not only that, if Hassan had been slain then, his people would have wiped out everyone connected with the assassination, and it probably would have meant the end of your Silver Scimitar movement. You weren’t powerful enough to ask for help from the rest of the Arab world.”
  The Sword didn’t answer, but I could see his finger tightening again on the rifle trigger. I was pretty sure I had guessed right, but I didn’t know how far I could go before those bullets would start spewing out at me. I had to take it one step more to try to spur Candy into action.
  “See how quiet the great man is now, Candy?” I said. “I’m right and he won’t admit it, but he’s really the one responsible for your father’s death, and furthermore—”
  “Nick, you are right!” Sherima exclaimed, interrupting me. Abdul took his eyes off me for an instant to glance her way, but the cold gaze came back onto me before there was time to jump him.
  Her voice full of excitement, Sherima kept on talking: “I just remembered something that Hassan said when he was telling me about the attempt on his life. It didn’t register then, but what you just said recalls it — makes it fit logically. He said that it was too bad that Abdul Bedawi had thought he’d had to push Mr. Knight in front of the assassin before he shot him down. That Abdul already had his gun out and probably could have shot him without trying to create a diversion by shoving Mr. Knight. It was Abdul who sacrificed your father, Candy, not His Highness!”
  It was impossible for the Sword to watch all three of us. He was concentrating on Sherima and her story and on me, for obvious reasons. If Candy hadn’t cried out in pain and rage when she turned to grab for her gun on the bed, he wouldn’t have swung on her fast enough. She’d barely raised the little pistol waist high when the heavy slugs began stitching their way across her chest, then back across her face as Abdul reversed the path of his bullet-spewing gun. Miniature fountains of blood erupted from countless holes in her beautiful breasts and erupted from the hazel eyes that would narrow no more in passion as she teased her lover to endless climax.
  One of Abdul’s first bullets had knocked Candy’s pistol from her hand and sent it spinning along the floor. I dived for it as he kept on holding back the rifle’s trigger, viciously keeping the stream of bullets following the pathetic target that jerked and twisted from the impact, even as the once lovely redhead was thrown backward onto the bed. His slugs sought out and made hate-filled love up and down her legs.
  I was just about to scoop up Candy’s gun — a .25-caliber Beretta Model 20—when my movements apparently caught his attention. The heavy rifle arched in my direction. Triumph glinted in his eyes and I could see that madness and a lust for power had swept away all thought of his need for my corpse later. The time was now, and a smile crossed his face as he sighted the barrel deliberately at my groin.
  “Never again, Mr. Carter,” he said, his trigger finger going white from the pressure as he pulled it back further and further until it would move no more. His face suddenly paled as he realized with horror, at the same moment I did, that the rifle clip was empty, its deadly contents spent in a macabre intercourse with a corpse.
  I had to laugh at his unintentional use of the international Jewish slogan which protested that the horror that had once engulfed European Jews would never be repeated. “You could get thrown out of the Arab League for saying that,” I told him as I grabbed up the Beretta and leveled it at his stomach.
  Candy’s death obviously hadn’t sated the rage that had gripped him; reason was gone from his head as he cursed and threw the rifle at me. I sidestepped it and gave him time to jerk back his tight jacket and pull out the gun I had known for so long was holstered there. Then it was my turn to squeeze a trigger. The Model 20 is noted for its accuracy, and the slug shattered his wrist bone just as I expected it to do.
  He cursed again, looking down at the twitching fingers that couldn’t hold onto the gun. It hit the floor at an angle and we both watched, momentarily immobile and fascinated, as it spun briefly at his feet. He was the first to move, and I waited again as his left hand clawed for the heavy automatic. When he got it almost waist high, Candy’s Beretta barked a second time, and he had another splintered wrist; again the automatic crashed to the floor.
  Like a man gone berserk, the Sword advanced on me, his hands flapping uselessly at the ends of massive arms that reached out to enfold me in what I knew would be a bone-crushing bear hug. I wasn’t about to risk his reaching me. The second crack of the Beretta sounded like an echo of the sharp retort that preceeded it by a second.
  Abdul screamed twice as the bullets tore into his kneecaps, then another shriek tore from his throat as he slumped forward and landed on the knees that already were sending knife-sharp streaks of pain through him. Driven by a brain that no longer was functioning logically, he pulled himself up on his elbows and began to inch his way toward me, across the linoleum tiles. Obscenities poured from his twisted lips like bile until he finally sprawled at my feet, mumbling unintelligibly.
  I turned away and walked to Sherima’s side, suddenly aware that her screams, which had begun as the Sword’s bullets ripped Candy apart, had subsided into deep, rasping sobs. Shifting gun hands so I would be ready in case the secret door started to open, I unsheathed my stiletto and cut the first of her bonds. As her arm dropped, lifeless, to her side, she became aware of my presence and lifted her bowed head. She looked at me, then at the Sword groaning in pain on the floor, and I could see her throat muscles tighten to hold back her reflex to gag.
  “Good girl,” I said as she fought off throwing up. “I’ll have you loose in a minute.”
  She shuddered and, involuntarily, started to look toward the bed. I moved in front of her to obstruct the view of the blood-covered woman she loved like a sister, as my blade freed her other arm. She fell forward on my chest, the top of her head just brushing my chin, and choked out, “Oh, Nick… Candy… Candy… It’s my fault… It’s my fault…”
  “No it isn’t,” I said, trying to comfort her at the same time I was supporting her with one arm and squatting to cut the ropes around her ankles. Severing the last brutal binding, I stood back up and held her close, saying soothingly, “It isn’t anyone’s fault. Candy couldn’t help herself. Abdul had her convinced that Hassan was responsible—”
  “No! No! No! You don’t understand,” she sobbed leaning back to pound her tiny clenched fists on my chest. “It’s my fault she’s dead. If I hadn’t told that lie about remembering what Hassan had said, she wouldn’t have tried to kill Abdul, and… and that never would have happened.” She forced herself to look at the horrible crimson drenched figure sprawled on the bed.
  “That was a lie?” I asked, incredulous. “But I’m sure that’s just what happened. It was the kind of thing Abdul would do,” I motioned with the Beretta toward the Sword, who was lying still. I couldn’t tell whether or not he had passed out. If not, he gave no indication he had heard what Sherima was telling me. “What made you say it, if it never happened?”
  “I could see that you were trying to upset him or distract him so you could perhaps jump him and take his gun away. I thought that if I said what I did, he might look my way, or maybe come after me, and you would have your chance. I never thought that Candy would. Her body convulsed in spasms of wracking sobs again, but I didn’t have time to comfort her. Over the sound of her crying I had heard something else, the whirr of an electric motor, and my brain had whirred with it, remembering the noise that marked the first time I’d opened the door to the CIA hideaway.
  There was no time to be gentle. I shoved Sherima toward the desk and hoped that her legs had regained enough circulation to hold her up. As I spun toward the opening, I saw her, out of the corner of my eye, falling partially behind the cover I had intended her to take.
  That’s when I discovered that the Sword had been feigning unconsciousness. Before the massive concrete barrier was open far enough for his man to walk into the room, he was on his elbows again and shouting a warning in Arabic:
  “Mustapha Bey! Danger! Carter has the gun! Watch out!”
  I flicked a glance in his direction just as he collapsed on the tiles again. The effort to warn his gunman had taken the last of the strength that was ebbing from him as the blood seeped from his wounds. Tense, I waited for the killer to come through the doorway. He didn’t appear, however, and the motor that operated the heavy panel completed its cycle as the door started to close again. A whoosh of air told me when it had sealed off the hideout. We were safe inside, but I knew I had to get out. I looked at my watch. Six-twenty. Hard to believe that so much had happened since six o’clock, when the Sword had dispatched his henchman Selim back to the embassy. Even more difficult to believe was the fact that I had to get Sherima out of there and have her at the Secretary of State’s pied-a-terre in just about ninety minutes.
  Selim, I knew, had instructions not to contact his cohorts in Sidi Hassan until he heard from the Sword. I had delayed that part of the plan, all right, but there was no way I could stop the Shah from expecting Sherima’s voice over the radio. And ready to keep me from getting her there was a professional killer. I had his automatic rifle, but still unaccounted for was the silencer-equipped .38 that very efficiently had knocked off two CIA agents with well-placed shots. I had him outweighed with firepower, having also retrieved my Luger, but he had the advantage of being able to wait for me to come out the only exit from the hidden room. Also, I had a deadline to meet, and he didn’t.
  I should have had help waiting outside — Hawk’s men must have arrived by now — but they would be under orders not to interfere unless it appeared obvious I needed assistance. And there was no way of communicating with them from a soundproof room.
  My contemplation of the odds facing me was suddenly interrupted by a quivering voice behind me: “Nick, is it all right to come out now?”
  I had forgotten the former Queen, whom I had shoved roughly to the floor. “Yes, Your Highness,” I told her, chuckling. “And for Pete’s sake, find your clothes. I have enough on my mind without being distracted by your loveliness.”
  After I said it I was sorry I had used the word lovely.
  It brought back memories of the beautiful woman who had laughed and loved with me, and who was now a bullet-butchered hunk of meat in the corner. It was my turn to hold down the gorge rising inside me.
  Chapter 13
  Sherima found the negligee she had worn when they had carried her off, but not her mink coat. We decided that someone probably had taken it away after they moved her into the basement. She couldn’t remember much of what happened, probably because the tranquilizers Candy had given her were of much greater potency than she had supposed.
  It was hard to keep my eyes from enjoying the golden curves of Sherima’s diminutive figure under the filmy lingerie as she hastily, told me that she recalled, vaguely, being awakened abruptly by Abdul, who told her something about somebody trying to harm her, and that he had to take her away, obviously without anyone knowing about it. One of his men must have been with him, because she had a recollection of two people supporting her as she got in the limousine.
  Beyond that point, she remembered nothing else, except waking later to find herself tied to the wall, nude. The one whose name we now knew was Mustapha had been running his hands over her body. She obviously didn’t want to talk about that part of her ordeal and passed over it quickly, going on to explain that Abdul eventually had arrived with Selim from the embassy. Her former bodyguard hadn’t bothered to answer her questions and just laughed when she ordered him to set her free.
  “He just said that soon I wouldn’t have anything more to worry about,” Sherima recalled with a shudder, “and I knew what he meant.”
  As she talked, I examined the Sword and found that he was still out cold. I tore a strip from the bottom of Sherima’s negligee and bound up his wounds to stop the blood that still oozed from them. He would live, if I could get him out of there soon and he received medical attention. But it was obvious he wouldn’t be able to do much anymore with his hands, even if his wrists were rebuilt. And extensive surgery would be needed to turn those shattered kneecaps into something that might permit him to even drag himself around as a cripple.
  I didn’t know how long Mustapha would wait outside, knowing that his leader had become my prisoner. If he were as fanatical as most of the Sword’s men, I figured, he wouldn’t do the sensible thing and make a getaway. His only two courses of action would be either to try to get in and rescue Abdul, or sit there and wait for me to try to get out.
  I slipped out of my jacket, then told Sherima, “Get down behind that desk again. I’m going to open the door and see what our friend does. He may just come in shooting, and where you’re standing now is right in the line of fire.”
  When she was out of sight, I flicked the switch that moved the concrete panel. The few seconds it took to open seemed like hours and I stayed pressed against the wall, my Luger ready. Nothing happened, however, and I had to find out if the assassin was still lurking in the outer basement.
  Draping my jacket over the barrel of the empty automatic rifle, I edged my way up to the door frame just as it started to swing shut again. Thrusting, the jacket through the narrowing opening, I watched it being torn away from the muzzle of the rifle at the same time I heard two little plops from outside. I jerked the rifle back before the heavy door sealed us in once more.
  “Well, he’s still there, and it looks like he’s not coming in,” I said more to myself than anyone else. Sherima heard me and stuck her head up over the edge of the desk.
  “What are we going to do, Nick?” she asked. “We can’t stay here, can we?”
  She didn’t know how imperative it was that we get out of there as quickly as possible; I hadn’t taken time to explain about her ex-husband and the deadline for raising him on the radio.
  “We’ll get out Don’t worry,” I assured her, not knowing myself just how we were going to do it.
  A sensible person, she kept quiet as I pondered my next move. I was visualizing the portion of the basement that lay outside the doorway. The washer-dryer combination was too far from the door to offer any cover if I risked making a break. The oil burner was against the far wall, near the stairway. It was my guess that Mustapha probably had concealed himself under the steps. From there, he could keep the doorway covered and still be out of sight in case of a surprise assault from above.
  I looked around the CIA’s hideout, hoping to spot something that might help me. One corner of the big room had been walled off to form a small cubicle with its own door. I had assumed earlier that it probably was a bathroom; and crossing to the door, I opened it to find I was right. It held a sink, a toilet, a mirrored medicine cabinet and a stall shower with a plastic curtain across it. The accommodations were simple, but most of the CIA’s guests were short-term ones and likely hadn’t expected quarters to rival those at the Watergate.
  Not really expecting to find anything of value to me, I automatically checked out the medicine cabinet. It was well provisioned, if the person using the hideout were a man. The triple shelves were stocked with toiletries — a safety razor, an aerosol can of shaving cream, a bottle of Old Spice lotion, Bandaids and adhesive tape, plus an assortment of cold pills and antacids, similar to those on the shelves in the bathroom that had been used by the dead agent upstairs. Make that in the limousine trunk outside, since the Sword’s henchman obviously had finished playing undertaker overhead.
  I started to walk out of the bathroom, then turned back as an idea hit me. Working feverishly, I made several trips between the bathroom and the secret doorway, stacking what I needed on the floor beside it. When I was ready, I called Sherima out of her hiding place and briefed her on what she had to do, then shoved the desk across the tiled floor to a spot near the switch that operated the door.
  “Okay, this is it,” I said and she took up her position beside the desk. “Do you know how to use this?” I handed her Candy’s little gun.
  She nodded. “Hassan insisted that I learn how to shoot after the second attack on his life,” she said. “I got pretty good at it, too, especially with my gun.” Her training showed as she checked to see if the pistol were loaded. “It was just like this one. Hassan gave me one and its twin, this one, to Candy. He made her learn how to shoot, too. He never expected that someday—” Her eyes started to fill with tears and she stopped talking.
  “No time for that now, Sherima,” I said.
  She sniffed the tears back, nodding, then bent and scooped up her negligee to wipe them away. At any other moment, I would have appreciated the view, but now I turned to get ready for our escape attempt.
  Picking up the shaving foam can, I took off the top and pressed the nozzle sideways to make certain there was plenty of pressure in the can. The whoosh of the erupting lather told me it seemed to be a new one.
  The shower curtain came next. Wrapping the cheap plastic sheeting around the shaving cream container, I made a wad about the size o? a basketball, then secured it lightly with strips of adhesive tape, making certain it wasn’t packed too tightly, because I wanted air to get between the folds of the curtain. Hefting it in my right hand, I decided it was controllable enough for my purposes.
  “Now,” I said, holding out my right arm to Sherima.
  She took one of the two spare rolls of toilet paper that I had scrounged off a shelf in the bathroom, and while I held it in place, began winding adhesive tape around it, securing it to the inside of my right arm just above the wrist. When it seemed solidly fixed, she did the same thing with the second roll, fastening it along my arm just above the other one. By the time she was finished, I had about four inches of makeshift padding along the entire inside of my arm above the wrist to the elbow. Not enough to stop a bullet, I knew, but, hopefully, of a thickness that might deflect a slug or greatly lessen its impact.
  “I guess that’s it,” I told her, looking around to make certain my other equipment was handy. Suddenly, I stopped short, amazed at my own shortsightedness. “Matches,” I said, looking helplessly at her.
  I knew there were none in my pockets, so I ran to the dead Karim’s side and searched his with my free left hand. No matches. The same was true for Abdul, who groaned as I rolled him over to finger through his pockets.
  “Nick! Here!”
  I turned to Sherima who had been rummaging through the desk drawers. She was holding out one of those disposable lighters. “Does it work?” I asked.
  She flicked the wheel; when nothing happened she groaned, in frustration, not pain.
  “You have to hold down that little catch at the same time,” I said, running to her side as I realized she probably hadn’t seen many such lighters in Adabi. She tried again and couldn’t make it work. I took it from her and flicked the wheel. The flame sprang to life and I blessed the unknown smoker who had forgotten his lighter.
  I kissed Sherima lightly on the cheek for luck as I said, “Let’s get out of here.” She reached for the door switch as I moved back into position, picking up my basketball bomb in my right hand and holding the lighter in the other.
  “Now!”
  She hit the switch and then dropped to the floor behind the desk, gun clutched in her fist. I waited for the whirr of the motor to begin, and when it did, thumbed the lighter. As the door began to swing out, I touched the flame to the plastic wad in my hand. It caught fire immediately, and by the time the door was half open, I had’ a blazing ball in my hand. Stepping up to a point just inside the door frame, I stuck my arm around the opening and heaved the flaming orb toward the spot where I thought Mustapha had to be hidden.
  He had turned out the lights in the basement so as to silhouette anyone coming through the door with the glow from inside. The move worked to his disadvantage, instead; when the flaming wad of plastic suddenly appeared in the darkness, it temporarily blinded him enough to throw off his aim as he fired at my arm.
  One of the .38 slugs tore along the top of the toilet paper roll Closest to my wrist. The second hit the roll nearer to my elbow, was deflected slightly, and ripped through the fleshy part of my arm there. I jerked back my hand as blood started to pour from the angry rip across my arm.
  I couldn’t stop to staunch it. Grabbing the automatic rifle from where I had leaned it against the wall, I jammed it between the door frame and the massive panel itself. I had counted on the door being delicately counter-balanced, so that the rifle would be solid enough to keep it from closing.
  There was no time to see if it was going to work. I had to put the next part of my plan into operation. Since I wasn’t about to stick my head around the door frame to see how effective my lob shot with a ball of fire had been, I used the mirrored door I had removed from the bathroom medicine cabinet. Angling it around the frame and fully expecting my makeshift periscope to be cracked by Mustapha’s next bullet, I took a look at the scene outside.
  I had missed my target, the recess behind the basement stairway. Instead, the homemade fireball had landed beside the oil burner. As I watched, Mustapha, obviously fearing that the big heating unit might explode, darted from his hiding place and scooped up the still blazing bundle in both hands, keeping it at arm’s length so the flames wouldn’t singe him. That meant he either had discarded his gun or jammed it back under his belt. I didn’t wait to see anymore. Dropping the mirror, I drew my Luger and stepped outside, realizing as I did that my rifle wedge had been successful in keeping the concrete-sheathed door from closing.
  Mustapha still held the ball of fire, looking desperately around the basement for some place to throw it. Then he spotted me standing before him with a gun leveled, and his already frightened eyes widened further. I could tell he was going to throw the flaming wad at me, so I squeezed the trigger. I never got a chance to see if I hit him.
  The crack of my Luger was lost in the explosion that engulfed the Sword’s co-conspirator. I don’t know whether my slug detonated the pressurized shaving cream can, or if the heat from the blazing plastic touched off the bomb. Maybe it was a combination of both. Mustapha had raised the bundle to toss it my way and the blast caught him full in the face. Knocked to my knees by the force of the explosion, I watched as his features disintegrated. Just as the cellar went dark again — the explosion snuffed out the flames — it appeared to me as if the killer’s eyeballs had turned to liquid and were streaming down his cheeks.
  Shaken, but unhurt, I stumbled to my feet and heard Sherima screaming inside the room that had been her torture chamber not long before.
  “Nick! Nick! Are you all right? What happened?”
  I stepped back into the doorway so she could see me.
  “Score two points for our team,” I said. “Now help me get this stuff off my arm. Everything’s going to be all right.”
  Chapter 14
  The tape that held the blood-soaked rolls of toilet paper to my arm also held my stiletto in place. I had to wait for Sherima to locate a pair of scissors in the desk drawer before she could cut away the crimson tissue. More strips of her sheer negligee became bandages for me and, by the time she had staunched the blood bubbling from the bullet crease, there wasn’t much left of what once had been an expensive piece of lingerie.
  “You’re really going to be a sensation at dinner tonight,” I said, admiring the small, firm breasts that strained against the soft fabric as she worked on my arm. My hasty explanation about her appointment at the Secretary of State’s home in less than an hour brought, I was glad to see, a typically feminine reaction: “Nick,” she gasped. “I can’t go like this!”
  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to do just that. There isn’t time to get back to the Watergate and still have you on the radio by eight o’clock. Now let’s get out of here.”
  She hung back, turning to look first at Candy’s body on the bed, then at the Sword sprawled on the floor. “Nick, what about Candy? We can’t leave her like this.”
  “I’ll have someone take care of her, Sherima. And Abdul, too. Believe me, though, the most important thing right now is to get you on that radio, talking to—”
  “ATTENTION DOWNSTAIRS. THIS HOUSE IS SURROUNDED! COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP! ATTENTION DOWNSTAIRS. THIS HOUSE IS SURROUNDED. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP.”
  The bullhorn echoed itself again, then was silent. Help had arrived. Hawk’s men must have charged the house when they heard the shaving cream bomb go off and, probably, conducted a room by room search on the upper floors before deciding to bring the squawker to the basement door. They most likely got quite a surprise when they opened it and the acrid haze from the extinguished plastic fire rolled out to them.
  I stepped to the concrete doorway and called out, “This is Nick Carter,” then identified myself as an executive of the oil company that supposedly employed me. There was a lot I hadn’t explained to Sherima yet, and some of it never would be told her. For the moment, it seemed best to revert to the way she originally knew me.
  “I’m down here with… with Miss Liz Chanley. We need help. And an ambulance.”
  “STEP THROUGH THE DOORWAY WITH YOUR HANDS UP.”
  I obeyed the bullhorned instructions. One of the AXE agents at the top of the steps recognized me and the cellar quickly filled up with Hawk’s men. It took a few valuable minutes to instruct the leader of the team in what had to be done at the house, then I said, “I need a car.”
  He handed over his keys and told me where his car was parked. “Do you need someone to drive you?”
  “No. We’ll make it.” I turned to Sherima and offered her my arm, saying, “Shall we go, Your Highness?”
  Every bit the Queen again, despite wearing a royal gown that was shredded halfway up her thighs and left little to the imagination, she took my arm. “We are pleased to retire now, Mr. Carter.”
  “Yes ma’am,” I. said and led her past the bewildered AXE agents who were already working on the Sword. They were trying to bring him back to consciousness before the ambulance arrived that would take him to the little private hospital Hawk had liberally endowed with agency funds so that he was assured a special ward for patients in whom he had an interest. Sherima stopped at the door as she heard him groan again and turned just as his eyes opened and he stared at her.
  “Abdul, you’re fired,” she said grandly, then swept out of the hideaway and up the stairs ahead of me.
  As the Secretary of State and Hawk appeared from the richly paneled library doorway, I got to my feet. The canopied porter’s chair had been comfortable and I had almost dozed off. The Secretary spoke briefly with the Old Man, then went back into the room where his powerful transmitter was located. Hawk crossed to my side.
  “We wanted to give her a couple of minutes of privacy on the radio with him,” he said. “At least as much privacy as there can be, what with monitoring equipment being what it is today.”
  “How did it go?” I asked.
  It all had been pretty formal, he said, complete with a polite, “How are you?” and, “Is everything all right?”
  I wondered just how formal the whole picture would have looked to him if I hadn’t checked the hall closet on our way out of the CIA’s safe house and found Sherima’s mink coat stashed there. The Secretary had offered to help her off with it when we arrived, but Sherima kept it clutched around her, explaining that she had taken a chill en route there and would keep it on a while, then followed the Secretary into the library as the grandfather clock in his entrance hall struck eight times.
  During the period that had passed since then, I had told Hawk what occurred in the house on Military Road. He had been on the phone several times, issuing instructions and following up on reports from the various units he had assigned to special tasks after I completed my story. The Secretary had a scrambler line that connected directly with Hawk’s office, and the Old Man’s instructions had been relayed through our communications network over it.
  Hawk went to make another call and I slumped back in the big antique wicker chair again. When he returned, I could tell the news was good, because the slight smile by which he expressed extreme pleasure was there.
  “The Sword is going to be all right,” Hawk said. “We’re going to get him back on his feet and then ship him off to Shah Hassan as a token of our mutual friendship.”
  “What do we get in return?” I asked, suspicious of such generosity on the part of my boss.
  “Well, N3, we’ve decided to suggest that it would be nice if the Shah were just to return some of those little presents the boys in the Pentagon have been slipping him when nobody was looking.”
  “Will he go along with it?”
  “I think so. From what I’ve just overheard in the library, I think the Shah will be giving up his throne soon. That means his brother will be taking over, and I don’t think Hassan wants anyone else to have his finger on the trigger of those playthings. I gather another divorce may be in the offing, too, and—”
  He turned at the sound of the library door opening again. Sherima came out, followed by the Secretary of State, who was saying, “Well, my dear, I guess we can go in to dinner, finally. I’ve had the heat turned up in the dining room, so I’m sure you won’t need your coat now.”
  As he reached out to take it, 1 started to laugh. Sherima flashed me a smile and winked, then turned so she could slip out of the mink. Embarrassed, Hawk nudged me and said reprimandingly under his breath, “What are you chuckling at, N3? They’ll hear you.”
  “It’s a secret, sir. We’ve all got one.”
  As the long coat came off Sherima’s shoulders, it was as though the Silver Falcon had shed her wings. As she walked regally toward the candlelit dining room, my secret was exposed. And so were hers. The End
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