Death Island

One

The azure sky out to sea seemed to merge with the fairy-tale blue of the Mediterranean as the yacht Marybelle worked her way northeast up the coast of France from Cannes to her winter berth at Monaco.

It was still early, before noon, as Nick Carter, clad in bathing trunks and a short terry cloth robe, emerged onto the afterdeck where the stewards had laid out champagne and breakfast.

"Good morning, Monsieur Carter," Henri-Rieves, the assistant chief steward said, holding out Carter's chair.

"It is a good morning, isn't it," Carter said, breathing deeply, drinking in the sweetly scented sea air. "When are we due at Monaco?"

"Not until after lunch, monsieur. Mademoiselle Gordon instructed that we stop for an hour or two off Antibes."

"Another wreck?"

"Perhaps more Roman amphorae, monsieur."

"Perhaps," Carter said. The steward poured him a glass of crackling cold Dom Perignon, served him a bit of beluga, some toast, and shirred eggs, then retired gracefully belowdecks.

The gentle motion of the ship easing its way through calm seas, the fine, well-chilled wine, and the comfortable surroundings were deeply relaxing at that moment. Carter sighed deeply. It had been years since he had had a vacation half so purely restful as this one had been.

For the past two weeks he had been cruising the French Riviera aboard the Marybelle, a 210-foot yacht owned by Lady Pamela Gordon, the thirty-year-old daughter of Sir Donald Gordon, former MP and chief of the SIS back in the late fifties and early sixties. Sir Donald and David Hawk, Carter's boss and head of the United States's supersecret intelligence agency, AXE, were old friends, going back together before World War II. It was only natural that Carter had been introduced to Lady Gordon, and last month the invitation to join her for the beginning of her fall-winter cruise had come.

He had another ten days before he had to report to the AXE Rehab and Retraining Facility in Arizona, and his plans included Lady Gordon's villa in Monaco and a bit of baccarat in Monte Carlo.

"Two weeks, and you're already going soft on me," a mellifluous woman's voice came from behind him.

Carter turned around as Lady Gordon, her deep, rich tan stunning against her almost nonexistent yellow bikini, came on deck. She was frowning.

"Enough clay pots, Pamela," Carter said, laughing. "I'm on vacation."

She came around and kissed him on the cheek, then took her place across the small table from him. Henri-Rieves glided to her elbow, the champagne bottle in hand.

"Mademoiselle," he said.

"Please," she said, looking into Carter's eyes.

The steward poured her wine and brought her a lightly salted musk melon half with a bit of cream and a few strawberries on the side, then left.

"Didn't you sleep?" she asked, sipping her wine.

"Like a log."

"Why were you up so early, then?"

"You've done well for the last two weeks. Don't try to arrange my next ten days," Carter said. Lady Gordon's problem had been — and always would be, he suspected — that she did not feel comfortable unless she had arranged the lives of everyone around her. She was a natural-born organizer. Everyone in London — and half of the regulars on the French, Spanish, and Italian Rivieras — was trying to marry her off to a diplomat. She would make a perfect consul's wife or the consort of an ambassador somewhere.

"Sorry, Nicholas," she said, turning her head. "I hope you don't mind that we're stopping at the twelve-foot ledge off Antibes."

"Not at all…" Carter started to say, when Henri-Rieves came up. He was carrying a telephone.

"Pardon, monsieur," he said. "There is a call for you." He plugged the telephone in the afterdeck panel and set the instrument on the table in front of Carter, who picked it up.

"Carter here."

"Mr. Carter, I'm so happy I was able to reach you," an excited man's voice came over the line. This was trouble, Carter sensed.

"What can I do for you?"

"Pardon me. I'm Roger Morton, charge d'affaires for the United States embassy in Paris, and I have a message for you, sir."

"This is an open line, Morton," Carter said. He was looking at Pamela, who was pouting. She sensed it meant trouble as well.

"Ah… yes, sir, I understand that. I merely telephoned to pass a message, sir."

"Go ahead. I'll take your message."

"This is from Amalgamated Press. You are to return home immediately. There is an important assignment for you. End of message, sir."

Pamela had gotten up, and she came around the table to Carter and leaned over him, running her fingers through the hairs on his chest as she nibbled on his left ear.

"Who was the signatory?"

"D.W. Hawkins."

It was David Hawk. "All right, Morton. Thank you for your help."

"Any reply, sir?" the charge hastened to ask.

"None. Thanks again," Carter said. As he put down the phone, Pamela straightened up, smiled provocatively, and sauntered back into the main salon and into the owner's stateroom.

Carter smiled. He drank the rest of his champagne, then got up and went up the ladder to the fly deck and up the second ladder to the bridge. Captain Phillipe Jourdain, his dress whites immaculate, looked up when Carter entered.

"Ah, Monsieur Carter, how may I be of assistance this morning?"

"I need to get to Nice as quickly as possible, Captain. I have a plane to catch."

"I am so very sorry, monsieur, but Mademoiselle Gordon has issued us our instructions…"

Carter reached out and picked up the phone, then punched the numbers for the owner's stateroom. He switched to intercom.

"Pamela, this is Nicholas. I've told your captain to make for Nice."

"Yes, Nicholas," Pamela said, her voice husky. "But am I to be kept waiting here all morning?"

"No," Carter said, eyeing the embarrassed captain. He put down the telephone. "What is our ETA?"

"It will take us two hours at full speed, Monsieur Carter," the captain said.

"Get me to the public docks, then I'll need a taxi to the airport," Carter said, and he turned and went below.

Pamela was waiting for him, nude on the king-size bed in the owner's stateroom. They had been going on like this for two weeks, but now Carter was almost glad that Hawk had called him away. He was beginning to feel just a bit kept.

Carter had no problems getting a seat on the 2:00 p.m. flight to Paris from Nice, and from there the evening TWA flight into Washington's National Airport.

Pamela had put up a fuss at the docks, however, insisting that she come along with him and straighten out his boss about his vacation time. She had even been willing to place a call to the President.

Carter had calmed her down, promised to rejoin her as soon as he could, and to placate her, he even left his tuxedo aboard.

"Hurry back, Nicholas," she breathed into his ear. "We'll have a marvelous fall together. You'll see. I will have everything arranged by the time you return."

He disengaged himself from her, they kissed once again, and he took a cab. By the time he had rounded the corner from the quay, the Marybelle was already pulling out. Pamela wasted no time.

A chill wind blew off the Potomac as Nick Carter retrieved his bags, hurried through customs, and went outside to look for a cab. It was just a few minutes after midnight, Washington time, but his body clock told him it was six hours later. He was dead tired.

Tom LaMotta, one of AXE's staff drivers, was waiting for him just ahead of the taxi stands. There was a lot of traffic from the late-night Paris arrival.

"Mr. Carter," a familiar voice called out, and Carter looked around tiredly as the round, cheerful driver came across and plucked both suitcases out of his hands.

"Didn't expect to see you here, Tom," Carter said, following the driver back to the nondescript Chevy.

"We knew you were coming in on the midnight TWA."

"Just get me home. I'm beat."

LaMotta opened the trunk and tossed Carter's bags inside. "Sorry about that, sir, but the brass is waiting for you."

Carter was instantly awake, the adrenaline suddenly pumping. "Is Smitty there?" he asked. Rupert Smith was AXE's new head of Operations. If he was waiting, something immediate was happening.

"Yes, sir," LaMotta said.

They drove north past the Pentagon to the Key Bridge, and once across the river they cut back on M Street to New Hampshire, which they took up to Dupont Circle where AXE maintained its headquarters under the cover of Amalgamated Press and Wire Services.

LaMotta parked in the basement garage and took care of the luggage while Carter signed in and went directly up to Operations on the fourth floor. He had to be signed in again by security there, then had to punch the six-digit code for the access door.

LaMotta had called ahead. Rupert Smith was waiting for him, a thick bundle of file folders before him. He did not look pleased.

"Sorry to have to cut your vacation short like this, Carter," Smith said. He was very tall and very thin, almost skeletal-looking. He had served in various capacities in the Central Intelligence Agency for the past fifteen years, but when the Company had become too tame for him, he had transferred to AXE. He was very good at his job.

One of his people stuck his head in the door. "He's ready, sir. Will you be needing Karsten?"

"Is he ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very good. I want you down in Archives. We may have some more cross-referencing to tidy up the loose ends yet tonight."

"Yes, sir."

Smith, who had been seated behind his desk, got up and came around. Carter got to his feet.

"No rest for the wicked, I'm afraid," Smith said. "But David wants to see you."

"Hawk is here? Tonight?"

Smith nodded. "I don't know the source, but he's taken this as one of his pet projects. It's why you were called, of course."

They went out into the corridor and started toward the private elevator, which was the only access up to executive territory on the fifth floor.

"Something's happened somewhere?" Carter asked. When he had left for vacation with Pamela, everything here had seemed to be on a fairly even keel. No trouble spots had been developing as far as he knew. He said as much to Smith.

"This has been hatching for the past year or two, from what I gather," Smith said. "But NASA was handling it until two months ago, until the Navy took over security."

Carter was about to ask "Security for what?" when Herb Karsten, the major domo of facts, figures, and instant references for AXE, stepped out of his office and joined them.

"Nick," he said, extending his hand. "Trust you had a good vacation?"

"Not bad. Been here long?"

"All night."

They took the elevator up, their passes were checked, and they strode down the corridor into Hawk's outer office. His secretary, Ginger Bateman, was gone, but the inner door was open, and Smith led them through.

David Hawk was a short, very stocky man with a thick shock of white hair and a short bulldoglike neck. He was smoking a dreadful cigar as usual, and he took it out of his mouth and looked up as they came in.

"Are you fit, Nick?" he grumbled without preamble.

Smith closed the door behind them.

"Yes, sir," Carter said.

"You were scheduled for retraining and testing this quarter. Are you ready for an assignment without it?"

"I think I can manage, sir," Carter said. He, no less than anyone else in AXE, had a very deep and abiding respect for David Hawk, the chief. What Hawk said, went. He was hardly ever wrong. And no one, absolutely no one, ever lied to him, or over- or underestimated any situation. When he asked a question, he expected an absolutely honest, totally straight answer.

"Have a seat, then, gentlemen. We have a lot of ground to cover tonight," Hawk said.

They all took seats across from Hawk. Smith opened his top file folder and thumbed through the papers it contained. Karsten sat back.

"What do you know about the Caroline Islands?" Hawk began.

"A group in the Pacific… north of the equator, I think. South of Japan. U.S. trust territory. Truk is there and Hall Island and maybe Bikini."

"Correct on all but Bikini… it's in the Marshall Islands. Nearby. But you understand that not much happens out there these days."

"Satellite tracking and receiving stations?" Carter asked.

"That's the extent of it," Hawk said, glancing at Smith. "Which is exactly our problem."

Smith took up the briefing. The Faui Faui island group within the Carolines," he began. "Have you heard of them?"

Carter admitted he had not.

"Five inhabited islands, plus numerous other coral atolls. Faui Faui itself — which is one of the smaller islands — then Tamau Faui, Akau Faui, Natu Faui — where the biggest native population lives — and then Hiva Faui. Hiva Faui is the main island and on it is the capital city of the same name."

"In the Carolines?"

"Yes. Just east of Hall, northeast of Truk, and almost directly north of Oroluk. Lots of white sand beaches, hot days and warm evenings, volcanoes, natives, all that sort of thing."

"But curiously enough, the French actually own it all," Karsten put in.

Carter looked toward him. "I thought it was all a U.S. trust."

"All but the Faui Faui group. Much of that area was French before the war, and then after we liberated it all from the Japanese we took it over. All but the Faui Faui group. There were apparently a number of French families who sacrificed a lot during the war. De Gaulle insisted, and the group remained in French control."

"But with a rather important treaty, as it turns out," Smith added.

"French cooperation," Carter said.

"Yes. Much like Guantanamo Bay. Despite the French histrionics of the sixties and seventies, we managed to hang on to our bit of land on Hiva Faui."

"Satellite tracking?" Carter asked.

"Yes," Smith replied.

"Spy-in-the-Sky satellite," Hawk said. "Interagency. Big stuff."

"I see," Carter said. "How long have we had this operation running?"

"In one form or another since the mid-sixties," Smith said. "Actually, it was one of our first. We watch the Far East from there. Before that it was routine electronic surveillance. Radio and cryptography, and things like that."

"I get the picture," Carter said. "So what's happening out there now that has us worried? Sabotage? A mole?"

"That's just it," Smith said. "We really don't know."

"But it has to stop." Karsten added.

Smith thumbed deeper into the files he held on his lap. He looked up at Hawk, who nodded for him to go on, then cleared his throat.

"In January 1969, Tom Hawkins, a technician at what was then called Number 17HF Site, apparently committed suicide. They found him hanging in the forest," Smith said. He paused just a moment and went on. "August 1971, Stew Scharaga, Donald Deutsch, and Wally Hoggins died when the truck they were driving apparently went out of control and crashed over a cliff just down from the station. May 74, and again in July of 75, 76, and 78, there were major fires at the station. A total of fourteen people killed, twenty-seven injured."

"The list goes on?" Carter asked. He had a funny feeling about what he was being told, although he had no idea where it was going.

"Indeed," Smith said. "The troubles out there increased. Suicides, fires, accidents, landslides, and even several murders."

"What else?" There was something more; Carter could feel it now.

"Headhunters. Cannibals. Natives hostile, for some reason, to our being on the island."

Carter looked at him, then turned to Hawk who nodded. "We're not serious, are we?"

"Perfectly," Smith said. "In the last five and a half years there have been seventeen technicians killed, another thirty or so wounded. And that's not counting the various cases of physical and mental exhaustion reporting back from Hiva Faui."

"What have we done about it?" Carter asked. He could not believe he was hearing what he was.

"As far as the accidents, suicides, and fights among the staff go, not a lot," Smith said. "As far as the attacks go, we've cleaned out Natu Faui and Akau Faui at least three times. Or at least the Navy has."

"To no effect?"

"Apparently not," Hawk said, sitting forward. "It's technically a French protectorate. There isn't a whole lot we can do about it."

"Surely security is…"

"Security is and always has been very good at the Hiva Faui site," Hawk said. "Somehow, though, the natives always find a way of getting through."

Carter sat back and lit one of his cigarettes that were specially made for him in a small shop in Washington. The paper was black, and his initials were stamped in gold near the tip. The tobacco was very strong.

"I'm to go out there and see what the trouble is."

"Something like that, Nick," Hawk said. "You're to see a Justin Owen — he's the station manager — and a Handley Duvall who witnessed a part of the last native attack."

"I see, sir," Carter said. "Who's in charge of the island? I mean, who is the French governor, or isn't there such a position?"

"Indeed there is," Smith said. "Albert Remi Rondine. He and his family own an enormous amount of stock in French manufacturing… especially steel and oil."

"Yet he chooses to be governor of a tiny Pacific island group?" Carter asked.

"He is quite a colorful character, actually," Karsten said. "He was born in Hong Kong in 1930 or 31, and when the war broke out he was taken prisoner by the Japanese."

"How'd he end up on Hiva Faui?"

"We don't know. But he is autocratic. He hates Americans. And he has a wife and at least half a dozen mistresses. It's his little kingdom."

"You want me to find out what or who is killing our people and put a stop to it on Hiva Faui."

"Exactly," Hawk said.

"Our people at the tracking station call it Death Island," Karsten added.