Blood Of The Falcon

Eight

The showdown took place in what Eva called the "orgy room."

"Wait till you see it," she enthused. "It's really something! The last word in entertainment."

"I'm looking forward to it," Carter said. "I'm looking forward to meeting the big boss, too. What kind of a fellow is he?"

"I don't know. I've never met him. He's supposed to be very secretive. He meets only with Gianni. You should feel flattered that he's come out to meet you."

"I am," Carter said.

It was time to get down to brass tacks. Carter's senses were on full alert. His body vibrated with every heartbeat. His mouth was dry, his palms were moist. He looked as cool and unconcerned as if he were strolling on the Via Veneto. He concentrated on keeping his body loose, relaxed. Flexibility beats rigidity every time. When the time came, he would have to move fast.

He felt like Daniel going into the lion's den. Lion's den? Lion's mouth was more like it.

He was well equipped, however. He had brought along a pistol, expecting that it would be discovered, which it had been. Tuttle had found it and had taken it from him. But his cursory pat-down of the Killmaster had failed to detect Hugo up Carter's sleeve, not to mention Pierre, a miniature gas bomb worn high on his thigh between his legs. He'd removed his personal arsenal while Eva was in the dressing room, but everything was back in place now.

Tuttle had also overlooked Carter's communications device, but that was not surprising, since it was incorporated into the stylish wristwatch worn on his left hand. It contained a microminiatured transmitter that could be activated by pressing one of the nibs for setting the time. A pretty sophisticated piece of equipment, it even kept the correct time.

Carter was as prepared as possible.

Eva looked lovely in a sleeveless turquoise-and-white striped knit dress and high-heeled sandals. "Here we are."

"After you." Carter followed her through a door and into the "orgy room."

The large room was cleverly divided into a system of stepped terraces, forming pits, pools, alcoves, and platforms — a seductive environment of rounded forms and smooth-flowing curves with no hard edges. A scheme of indirect lighting created zones of soft, inviting light and even more invitingly intimate shadow. Banks of fragrant potted plants and shrubs partitioned the space into a maze of secluded nooks and crannies. The sweet scent of incense perfumed the air.

A death chamber for the Killmaster.

Carter knew it as soon as he entered the room. Present were Girotti, Bob and Bill, and Tuttle. No one else, no one who could be Reguiba. But that didn't mean he wasn't there. The orgy room had plenty of places in which he could conceal himself if he wished.

There was no hiding the fact that Girotti and company had tumbled to the secret of his masquerade. Earlier they were suspicious, but they bought his story. Now they knew he was a phony. Their knowledge lurked behind a brittle facade of cool casualness.

As before, Girotti was flanked by his bodyguards, who stood with their hands resting near pistols worn in hip and shoulder holsters.

Tuttle wasn't cool. Ugly, gloating triumph marked his face, as did an enormous purple bruise from Carter's knockout punch.

"You should have killed me when you had the chance, buddy boy," Tuttle said.

"I can fix that now if you'd like," Carter retorted.

"You're the one who's gonna get fixed, wise guy."

Carter's adrenals primed his body for flight or fight.

Tuttle started toward him. "I'm gonna tear you down like a condemned building."

Girotti held up a hand. "I'm afraid you'll have to forgo that pleasure, Tuttle. Solano belongs to someone else. Or perhaps I should call him by his real name — Nick Carter."

Guns appeared in the hands of Bob and Bill. They were good, all right. Carter had hardly seen them draw, they were so fast.

Eva sidled away from Carter. She knew which way the winds were blowing, even if she lacked the big picture.

"More games?" Carter asked. "Suppose you tell me, so I can play too."

"You're good. Very good. You'd have to be good to fool me for so long. I, Gianni Girotti, salute your skill, Carter."

"The name's Solano."

Girotti shook his head. "No need to act any more, Carter. Your cover's blown. I know who you are and what you are. Or should I say what you were. Because as of tonight, you're done for."

Tuttle fidgeted, unable to contain himself any longer. "I don't care if he's Jimmy Carter, I got a score to settle with that guy and I ain't kiddin'."

Girotti's eyebrows drew themselves together in a frown. "Leave us, Tuttle. You, too, Eva."

Eva was well trained. Without a word, she spun on her high heels and left the room.

"Ciao, carissima," Carter called after her.

She did not reply.

"I told you to leave, Tuttle," Girotti said.

"Nobody gives me the bum's rush."

"I won't argue, Tuttle. I'm telling you to get out while you still can."

"Sheeeyit." Tuttle reached for the revolver stuffed in his waistband.

Two shots rang out. Bob fired casually from the hip, his bullet taking off the top of Tuttle's head in a soft wet explosion of blood, brain, and bone. Bill used a more classic marksman's stance, shooting with arm extended straight out. His shot took Tuttle in the heart.

Tuttle was doubly dead.

Carter held back from making his play, even though Tuttle's death had provided an opening diversion. Girotti was enjoying his little game of cat and mouse too much to cut it short by killing Carter. Still, this waiting game was hell on the Killmaster's nerves.

Glancing at Tuttle's bloody corpse, Carter said, "Thanks. You just saved me the trouble."

"You're a cool one," Girotti said. "Let's see how cool you are when the pain begins."

"I don't know who you think I am, but you're making a big mistake…"

"It won't wash, Mr. Carter. You know a man named Tigdal?"

"Never heard of him."

"He knows you. He's my pipeline into the upper echelon of the SB's Counterforce department. Tigdal had a sister, a pretty little thing, if a bit spoiled and reckless. She came here to play, but when I found out who her brother was, why, I simply couldn't let her go. Tigdal didn't believe I had her, so I sent him a ring he'd given her for her birthday."

Girotti paused, then delivered the punchline. "Her finger was still attached to the ring. Since then, the lieutenant has been most cooperative."

Carter figured Girotti for the type who could have happily gone on gloating all night long. But the arrival of his master put a halt to the game-playing.

Girotti and his bodyguards stood on a raised dais, looking down at Carter. A hairline crack appeared in the wail behind them, the leading edge of an oblong of darkness revealed when a hidden door slid back.

Reguiba stepped through it.

The trio glanced his way as he made his entrance. Carter used the opportunity to put his hand in his pocket, plunging his fingers through its slitted hole to touch Pierre. The contact was infinitely reassuring.

Reguiba stood regally, sinister in his black garments so reminiscent of the garb of the ninjas. But no ninja ever wore twin.45s holstered on his hips.

How had he managed to slip through the cordon around the villa? Carter wondered. Was he that good, or was more treachery involved?

Reguiba stared at Carter. Something odd about his eyes… the irises as dark as the pupils, with no line of demarcation between the two. They created the unnerving illusion of twin black holes bored through his eyeballs, a pair of gun-barrel eyes. Reguiba regarded Carter so coldly that icicles could have formed in the room.

Girotti said, unnecessarily, "This is Carter."

"I know," Reguiba said. "He looks like the kind of man who could have sunk my ship."

He spoke directly to Carter. "You have cost me no small trouble and expense, a debt you will repay a thousandfold."

Carter said nothing. What was there to say?

Reguiba told Girotti, "Your work here is done. The dogs are hard on your heels. Even as I speak, the hunters tighten the net around your dwelling place."

"What?"

"You will leave now, with me."

"But I can't leave just yet…"

"You must."

Girotti looked stricken. "But my work, all I've accomplished here…"

"There is work for you in Al Khobaiq. Come."

"All right, just let me get some things together."

Reguiba shook his head. "Time runs out. We must go now."

"I…" Realizing the futility of arguing with Reguiba, Girotti accepted the inevitable. He pointed at Carter. "What about him?"

"Bring him. I will exact the full measure of the blood debt he owes me."

Bob and Bill started down the stairs of the dais toward where Carter stood.

Reguiba was right. Time had run out.

The Killmaster depressed Pierre's tiny trigger button twice, a fail-safe device to prevent accidental activation. It was activated now, and this was no accident. He pulled off the special tape and it rolled down his leg and dropped to the floor, a little lead egg whose three-second safety delay was done.

Carter took a mental picture of the positions of the foursome, then squeezed his eyes shut.

He had selected his armaments well. This particular Pierre was a combination dazzle-smoke bomb, a useful tool for a one operator in the midst of his enemies.

Pierre detonated in a flash, with a loud fizz-pop! It was like a gigantic flashbulb going off, a blinding glare. Even with his eyes squeezed shut, the glare was harsh, painful.

Carter threw himself to the floor. Shots rang out, none of them nearing him as he rolled sideways to Tuttle's corpse.

Clouds of choking smoke billowed from the little bomb.

Carter grabbed Tuttle's.357, jammed in the top of the dead man's pants. It was more gun than he preferred, but it would do the job and then some.

Pink and yellow afterimages danced in front of his eyes. He could imagine the blinding effect the flash must have had on those who had their eyes wide open when it went off.

Girotti and his bodyguards stumbled around like three blind mice, futilely clawing at their eyes, arms flailing, guns blasting far wide of the Killmaster.

Reguiba had better reflexes. At the instant that Pierre rolled across the floor, he had thrown himself backward, through the secret door by which he had entered.

Carter crouched on one knee, holding the gun in a two-handed grip. He squeezed off three shots.

Three shots, three kills. Gianni Girotti, Bob, and Bill spun like swivel-mounted targets in a shooting gallery. They went down, not to rise again until Judgment Day.

Carter paused to give the go signal. He hit the switch on his wristwatch, its intricate layers of wafered microchips transmitting the alert to the action team.

As if by remote control, the dull boom of concussing grenades and the typewriter chattering of automatic weapons sounded from outside the villa.

The raid was on.

Carter dashed up the dais, eyes tearing from the choking smoke fumigating the room. He ducked through the doorway in pursuit of Reguiba, flattening himself against the wall to throw off any ambush. He remembered Reguiba's twin.45s; his magnum contained at best three more shots. He would have grabbed one of the bodyguard's pistols, but the smoke had been too thick to locate the weapons.

No shots greeted him. Reguiba had taken to his heels. Carter took off after Reguiba.

He followed a long, narrow, curving corridor, dimly lit. The secret passage was a kind of companionway, snaking behind the rear walls of various rooms on the villa's ground floor. It had no side exits that Carter could see.

Reguiba had only a few seconds' head start. His soft boots muffled his footfalls, but not so much that Carter couldn't hear them.

"Oof!"

An outcry sounded ahead, where the passage ended in an open doorway. Beyond it lay a drawing room. On the floor lay one of Girotti's hired guns, a heavyset thug whom Reguiba had knocked down in the course of his mad flight.

At the opposite end of the room was another door. Carter arrived just in time to see Reguiba slam it shut behind him.

The dazed thug sat up, cleared his head, and saw Carter. He grabbed for his pistol, which lay on the floor not far from his hand.

Carter slammed him with a front snap kick, powering the ball of his foot into the fellow's jaw. He wouldn't be getting up for a while, if ever.

Carter broke stride long enough to pick up the thug's pistol. He felt better now that he was packing two guns.

He approached the closed door from the side instead of straight on. Back to the wall, he turned the doorknob.

Three slugs came crashing through the door panel at chest height. The bullet holes clustered in a tight circle, outstanding shooting with a.45.

Carter threw open the door, clearing the way with a deafening blast from the.357. There was no answering fire.

He ducked into a narrow hall no more than ten feet long. At its far end was a wide, spacious room, racketing with gunfire, none of it directed his way.

Girotti's men were making a battle of it. Two of them crouched behind overturned furniture barricaded up close to a gaping hole where a picture window used to be. They fired rifles at commandos rushing the house.

They were startled by the apparition of Reguiba loping through the room. Before they could react, he vanished around a corner.

They saw Carter, though. He dove for the floor and shot them from there.

Before he could rise, machine-gun fire from outside ripped into the room, whizzing over his head, hammering holes out of the wall in bursts of white plaster that fell like fine powdered snow.

In this fire fight, he was as much of a target for his allies as he was for his enemies.

He crawled on his belly the rest of the way out of the room, rising when he was out of the line of fire. He was in a small tiled anteroom, thick with the smell of chlorine.

Reguiba's black-clad figure darted through the wing housing the indoor swimming pool. Carter shot at him with the pistol in his left hand, and missed.

Reguiba whirled and snapped off a shot. It imploded a beautifully engraved glass panel two feet to Carter's right.

Reguiba went down a stairwell, out of sight.

Carter followed. Metal-treaded concrete stairs tilted down into a musty storeroom below the pool. The air was so oppressive that Carter could hardly draw a breath.

The vault muted the sounds of battle. A few low-watt bulbs shed a twilight dusk over what was a kind of underground attic. Mounds of boxes, crates, and cartons were jumbled about, as well as several pieces of monumental sculpture, poor imitations of Classical statuary.

The dust was thick and that was good: it betrayed the route taken by Reguiba through the crates and curios.

Too good to be true, perhaps. Reguiba could be lurking just off the path, waiting for Carter.

Carter kept going.

Suddenly he heard a clang, like a manhole cover dropping into place. The sound was so close, Carter nearly jumped out of his skin. He continued on, scrambling in a low crouch over the tops of crates, dropping down to a clearing amidst the antique junk.

Not even the dim light could obscure the outlines of a hatchway set in the floor. In its center was an iron ring wide enough to accommodate a gripping hand.

Carter heaved open the heavy hatch.

A steep narrow flight of stone stairs dropped down to a small square chamber. The gloom cloaked Reguiba's dark body except for the pale oval of his face and his hands. He hunched over a piece of modern machinery, bent like a human question mark, making quick, furtive adjustments to what looked like switches and levers.

Firing a.45, he emptied a clip at Carter. The Killmaster was pinned down until the shooting stopped.

When Carter looked again, Reguiba was off and running.

Carter went down the stairs. The air, while thick, was moving, circulating. At the far side of the shaft, a tunnel mouth gaped. It was carved out of the living rock of the promontory. It was old, very old. Carter guessed it wormed its way through the guts of the rock to a hidden exit.

The kings of old were known to dig escape routes under their palaces and castles, and this land had been occupied since the beginning of recorded history. Who dug this tunnel? The Crusaders? The Old Testament Hebrews? The Canaanites? Or some even more ancient people?

No wonder Reguiba was able to slip through the cordon at will!

The fact that the tunnel was not the scene of a mass exodus by Girotti's cohorts proved that its existence was a closely held secret.

The square metal box bolted to the wall beside the stairs was as new as the tunnel was old. It looked not unlike a fuse box, but the fuse it contained was no circuit breaker; it was an arming device. Metal-sheathed cable sprouted from it, running vertically up the wall to disappear through a hole bored in the ceiling. Unless Carter missed his guess, the unseen end of the cable terminated in a load of explosives.

The switch inside the box was thrown to the ON position.

A delayed reaction — but how long? A second? Ten seconds? As much as a minute? It couldn't be more than a minute, Carter figured, and he wasn't going to stick around to find out.

He did what he could. He threw the switch back to OFF, grabbed the metal-sheathed cable, and tore at it. It was too tough to break with his bare hands. He doubted Hugo could saw through it. He shot it in two, recoiling from a ricochet that came dangerously close, making a crater in the rock wall not far from him.

It might be too late to stop the machine, but at least he had tried. He breathed a silent prayer of thanks that Hawk and the AXE men had been relegated to a back seat for this show.

And Eva? She would just have to take her chances.

Carter went into the tunnel after Reguiba.

It sloped downward at a fairly steep angle. The ramp did not go straight down, but made a right-angled turn every forty feet, describing a corkscrew shape as it wound its way downward.

Rubber-insulated power lines were strung along the low ceiling, held in place by metal staples, supplying current to the dim bare bulbs jutting from metal sockets at irregular intervals. There was barely enough light to see by.

Carter went down sideways, in a basketball player's stance, presenting the smallest target profile. The side stance was murder on the thigh muscles, but provided good maneuverability.

The walls glided past. The neatly square-cut section of the tunnel played out, replaced by a still older excavation crudely gouged from the rock. The walls pressed inward, narrowing, the ceiling dropping until he had to take care not to dash his brains out against low-hanging knobs.

The lights were fewer and far between, causing him to traverse long stretches in near darkness. Carter felt as if he were creeping through some giant intestine of stone.

Abruptly, that stone intestine quivered.

The explosives armed by the switch reached criticality. The villa on the bay destructed like a volcano blowing its top.

Even here, with dozens of feet of stone serving as a buffer, the impact was considerable. Carter was knocked to the floor as the lights went out.

The image of Eva, lovely Eva being obliterated in the blast flashed through Carter's being with a wrenching pang. Maybe she deserved her fate, but…

A few heartbeats later, Carter was galvanized by a choking cloud of dust and debris that gusted over him. On hands and knees, his pistol hopelessly lost, he crawled forward, following the downward slope.

It would be a hell of a note for him to get this far, only to be asphyxiated in a rocky tomb, he thought grimly.

He hadn't gone far when the floor leveled off, then began to rise. Air currents played over him. The dust clouds kept coming, but he was able to breathe.

And there was light of a sort, the faintest luminescence ahead.

Carter kept low. If Reguiba launched a bullet in his direction, it would pass overhead.

There was the click of a spring and the soft slap of Hugo's hilt sliding into his open palm. The long stiletto was a divining rod seeking not water, but blood.

The blood of Reguiba.

The tunnel ended in a cleft in the base of the hill which turned sharply right, then left. Fresh air revitalized him, making him aware of how much the fine-grained choking grit had filled his lungs, the very pores of his skin.

Carter worked his way through a thicket of tight-packed, thorny scrub, and eventually emerged on the apron of dirt and loose stones at the base of the hill.

He was on the north face of the rock knob, lonely and desolate terrain. The promontory's bulk stood between him and the city lights of Lulav, but he could see well enough. Firelight from the burning villa shed red glare and macabre shadows on the lower slopes.

There was nothing for Carter to do but watch the fire.

Reguiba had made his escape.

The Killmaster had crossed paths with a master killer.