Earthfire North

Four

High in the building housing the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services, David Hawk looked out his office window at the falling rain and rubbed the back of his neck. The muscles were sore, as was always the case when he was upset, and today he was more upset than usual.

On the desk behind him, a file folder lay open, a field report he had asked his friend, Robert LeMott, the Director of Central Intelligence, to compile for him. It was a thin file, no more than five sheets, comprised of a timetable and a few pages of notes hastily scribbled by LeMott's field man, an army colonel in the liaison office at the U.S. base at Keflavik, Iceland. But it was enough to cause Hawk some genuine discomfort.

The file dealt with Nick Carter's activities in Iceland over a forty-eight-hour period during which Nick had managed to get himself shot at and nearly killed, and had stirred up enough ire among the locals to get himself kicked out of the country. At one point he had almost put himself in the position of bringing undue attention to himself as a man with unique and extensive combat training. In short he had almost blown his AXE cover, and this was not to be tolerated.

As Hawk watched, a maroon Jaguar Super America pulled into the parking lot below and glided to a stop. The door swung open, and Nick Carter got out and hurried through the rain toward the back door of the building.

Hawk took a cigar out of his pocket, bit off the end, and lit it. Then he sat down behind his desk to wait.

When Carter opened the door and saw Hawk sitting stiffly behind his desk, staring directly at him, he knew the old man's mood was not good. He came in without a word, took a seat in the winged leather armchair across from the desk, and guiltily avoided Hawk's gaze.

"You're home quickly," Hawk said dryly. He tapped the ash from his cigar, then studied the chewed end.

"I was asked to leave Iceland, sir."

"So I've heard," Hawk said gruffly. "Any explanation, or do I have to guess?

"I stepped on some toes."

"Sensitive toes?"

"Yes, sir. I think Lydia Coatsworth stepped on the same toes and was killed for it."

"You were in Iceland as a private citizen, is that not so? You had no assignment from me, no backup, no license. You were completely on your own."

"Yes, sir»

Hawk shook his head. Nick could see that the anger was smoldering in him. "What the hell am I supposed to do? You've survived a long time in this business."

"Yes, sir?"

"I should think long enough to know that you are not licensed to act as a private citizen because of the constant risk of exposure. When you're on duty, and something goes sour, this office covers for you. Governments are mollified, police officials cooled down, cover stories strung out. You are given almost unlimited freedom on your assignments, but only at a great cost and with the understanding that on your off-duty time you're not on privilege."

"I know…"

"When you play games with that backup, you leave us wide open. Carter. Questions are asked, murder investigations begun… almost impossible to cover because there was no chance to prepare for these contingencies in advance. I know you understand this, but it needs to be repeated anyway."

"There were mitigating circumstances," Carter said. Hawk was absolutely correct, of course, but he just couldn't let this go.

Hawk sat back in his chair with a sigh. "I'm willing to listen."

Carter related the story to Hawk just as he had told it to Captain Einarsson and Lieutenant Thorsson before him, except this time no details were left out. He centered his narrative around his suspicions of Thorstein Josepsson, the Althing member with a taste for money and power who, as a former head of the Icelandic Internal Energy Commission, would have the knowledge to run such an operation as Lydia had apparently discovered. He explained Josepsson's position on the commission and how he had lobbied for nuclear power.

Carter added that if he'd had the time, he was sure he could have found financial connections between Josepsson and the contractors who would have done the actual work on whatever machinery was tapping the geothermal energy. Carter was about to go on, pointing out that it was Josepsson who had engineered his ouster from Iceland, when Hawk raised a hand to stop him.

"What you've told me so far is nothing more than a local problem…"

"If I may interrupt, sir," Carter said, "there is something else."

"Important?"

"Yes, sir."

"Go on."

"Just before I left, I spoke with the police captain in Akureyri. My assailant, Victor Hauptmann, was identified as an Argentinian hit man with a long history of rightist politics. He'd participated in assassinations in Chile, Paraguay, and El Salvador to name a few. A real pro. He had a cyanide capsule implanted beneath the skin of his arm."

Hawk's attitude changed noticeably. He sat forward and tapped the ash from his cigar. "I haven't heard that used since the war. Strange it should crop up now. Like this."

"I have a feeling Josepsson is fronting for someone else. His people break into my hotel room and cut up my clothes. Eventually they even engineer my persona non grata status. But whoever Josepsson fronts for plays rougher. They killed Lydia and tried with me. Without that explanation, or something like it, Josepsson's actions seem too erratic."

Hawk nodded in agreement.

The obvious question," Carter went on, "is who? It may be someone interested in establishing a nuclear plant in Iceland and who is not above importing muscle from a long ways off to keep their secrets secret."

"Argentina?"

Nick nodded.

"You want this as an assignment?"

"Yes, sir," Carter said, relieved. "I think I've discovered something important. But if it turns out to be nothing more than a local flap, we can turn what we have over to the local authorities. I know at least one of them who is straight." Carter hesitated a moment. "But I think there's more to it than that, sir. I mink it's international."

Hawk turned and gazed momentarily out the window, his brow knitted. "All right." he said finally. "You know the procedure. I want a complete written report with budget estimates, the works. I'll get Stransky to help you with the figures…"

"Begging your pardon, sir, but there really isn't time for that. The trail in Argentina is already getting cold."

Hawk sighed. "Skip the paperwork. Give what you have to Mary, and I'll have Stransky work it up. We'll get the team on it."

"Thank you, sir," Carter said, getting to his feet.

"Do what you have to do. No sense going about this half-assed. But be careful, please."

In the outer office Carter gave Mary the complete rundown on everything that had happened in Iceland. When it was all down on tape, he pecked her on the cheek and left.

The rain had stopped, but the afternoon was chilly. He climbed into his car, drove quickly home, and packed his suitcase. When he was ready he called a cab for the airport.

His flight had left Washington at 6:00 p.m., and twelve hours later he was watching the sun rise over the Rio de la Plata as the vast sprawl of greater Buenos Aires came into view through the ragged clouds.

He had no real idea what he would find here, but he knew that he could not let this go. He kept seeing Lydia's note in his mind's eye. He kept seeing her against the bleak backdrop of Iceland.

The plane dipped south and rumbled to a landing at Ezeiza Airport about thirty miles from the city. Carter deplaned, was passed through customs with no problem, and caught the airport bus into the metropolitan area.

Ever since the Falkland Island war with Britain, the situation here was strained at best. He could see it on the faces of the other passengers, and he kept to himself for the long ride. What he didn't need at this moment was any kind of a stupid incident.

It took nearly forty-five minutes before he got downtown to the Sheraton. He checked in, went upstairs, and when he was cleaned up from the trip, ordered breakfast from room service. Next, he telephoned Juan Mendoza, who was AXE's chief of station here. His cover was political editor for La Nacion, and in fact he was one of the most politically knowledgeable men in Argentina.

But Carter had forgotten that business in Buenos Aires rarely begins before ten, and even though it was an hour later here than in Washington, for Argentinians it was still early. Mendoza's wife answered with a few mumbled words thickened with sleep. But Carter's urgent tone brought her awake. Juan was indisposed at the moment, but she promised to have him telephone the hotel immediately.

Room service arrived with his breakfast, and the waiter set the cart by the floor-to-ceiling window where Carter could watch the city come to life. When he was alone he pulled two file folders from his suitcase, poured himself a cup of thick, black coffee, and began to read.

The first was the Interpol file on Victor Hauptmann, and it covered essentially the same ground Einarsson had covered earlier, only in greater detail, with definite dates and places.

The second file was the AXE computer printout of all the reports from other agencies — the CIA, the French SDECE, and the British SIS — on Hauptmann. Most of it consisted of material filed by intelligence agency stations in Bolivia, Uruguay, Venezuela, Panama, and Chile.

On one of the back pages, reference was made to a Paraguay school for assassination. It was a jungle camp run by members of certain security forces and was designed to teach the art of political murder to any with the money to pay for it. The school was reportedly Cuban-staffed and backed. Hauptmann had apparently attended the school in 69 and 70, and Carter noted with some satisfaction that the encoding for his own career dossier was included in the "see also" listing at the bottom of the page. He remembered the place well. In 78 he had put it out of commission.

Carter was about to pour his third cup of coffee when Mendoza called. He was mildly sarcastic about how nice it was to hear from a man he hadn't seen in two years at practically the crack of dawn, and the two of them traded friendly banter for a few minutes. They had worked together once before on the Venezuelan oil pipeline, having discovered a plot to sabotage it. Ever since that time they had been friends.

"What brings you here, my friend? Business?" Mendoza finally asked. "I didn't see it on the wire."

"Business," Carter said. "Victor Hauptmann. The name ring a bell?"

"You've been traveling in some tough circles if you've been near him, amigo. The local toughs call him 'the exterminator'." A very bad man but the best there is for certain types of work."

"Who can afford him lately? Any rumblings?"

"Nothing. It would be doubtful he's working for anyone local. He lives here. He'll keep his nose clean in his own backyard."

"It would be someone with an interest in Iceland."

"Iceland? Are you kidding? What possible connection could there be between Argentina and Iceland? Most of Argentina hasn't heard of the place, much less even know where it is. We've got problems enough with the Maldivas without taking on another island."

"I killed Hauptmann two days ago in a lava field a hundred miles south of the Arctic Circle. The files say he was Argentinian. Someone here must know what he's been up to lately — who he might have been working for.

Mendoza took a while to answer. "It's too bad your boy isn't a Red," he said finally. "We've got Russians crawling all over the place down here. But when it comes to the extreme right, our info is definitely thin."

"I have files on him thick enough to choke a horse, Juan. But not a damn thing on his activities for the past few years. He seemed to have dropped out of sight. And for a man like Hauptmann, that doesn't mean retirement."

"The local police have no love lost for Hauptmann and his kind. They might be able to help."

"Anything else?" Carter asked, somewhat disappointed.

"There is one other source you might try. A kid named José Braga. They say he's phenomenal. A walking computer. He's with the Committee for a Free Argentina, one of our local groups. They keep tabs on all the right-wingers this side of the equator, and Braga keeps it all in his head."

"Too dangerous to keep files?"

"That's what I'm told. This Braga has total recall. If anyone might know where Hauptmann has been and what company he's been keeping, Braga would."

"Where do I find him?"

"That's the hard part. Right now the Committee is on the run. A little mishap with a bomb at a meeting of the conservative party. They're wanted pretty badly just at this moment."

"How do I get to Braga?"

"You might try a priest at St. Dominic's. Father Wilfredo. He's been their spokesman in the past. He hasn't spoken with the police of course, but if you say the right things he might arrange a meeting."

"Thanks."

"Best of luck, amigo. You're going to need it with that crowd. The Argentinian Federal Police are very good, and they've had no luck."

"Carter hung up, but only after Mendoza had extracted a promise from him to come out for dinner sometime soon. There was no offer of help. It was AXE policy; agents were to have a certain autonomy unless they requested help or clearly needed it. Juan had just been doing his job.

Using information from the AXE background file, Carter contacted the CIA liaison in the Argentinian Federal Police, a Captain Vargas. Using Vargas's cryptonymn, he asked that any information about Victor Hauptmann be sent to his room at the Sheraton. Vargas, of course, thought Carter was CIA and agreed to do it. Carter didn't like to step on interservice toes this way, but he did not want to go through a lot of lengthy explanations at the moment. If the kid Mendoza had mentioned could not be found, he was evidently good. If the waters got too muddied around Carter, Braga might go deeper.

While he was waiting, Carter took a leisurely shower and shaved. He was just finishing putting on a sport jacket to hide Wilhelmina nestled under his arm, when he heard a knock at the door. He opened it to find a well-groomed young man in a crisp uniform standing in the corridor. He handed Carter a fat manila envelope, saluted stiffly, and left.

Vargas had worked very fast. Incredibly fast, as a matter of fact.

Carter brought the envelope over to the window where he sat down and took out the file folder stuffed with papers. It was an old file, however, its information no more up-to-date than the things he already had. It was disappointing. The federales, it seemed, knew even less about Hauptmann than Washington did, although he did uncover one interesting fact.

Hauptmann's mother had been Argentinian, but his father had been German. His father had come here just after the war and had set up a small printing business. The business had failed, there had been a divorce, and the father had eventually returned to Germany. He knew all that. What was new was that apparently Hauptmann's father had been an officer in the SS. The notation after the name was nothing more than the two letters, faded now with time, and yet it was something Washington did not have.

Carter closed the file and put it with the others in his suitcase. Then he went out, locking the door behind him. Outside he caught a cab.

St. Dominic's was a small church that looked as though it had seen better times. The pink stucco had fallen from the bricks in several places, and its plain wooden door looked well worn. But the sign in front was freshly painted, and as Carter's cab pulled up and he got out, the bells were ringing out the hour.

The church was located in the western end of the city, nestled in with the villas miserias — cities of misery — the slums made up of corrugated cardboard, tin, and plywood shanties pushed together in an incredible jumble. A group of filthy dirty, ragged children begging for coins surrounded Carter as he stepped from the cab. Norteamericanos were very rare in this part of the city. He took the change from his cab fare, added a few pesos, and distributed it among them. Then he went inside.

At the altar a man was lighting candles. Carter walked down the aisle and, when the priest was finished, cleared his throat.

"Father Wilfredo?"

The old man turned around. The sagging, lined flesh of his face bunched around his eyes as he squinted at Carter in the near darkness. "Yes, my son?"

"I would like to speak with you. Father, if I may. It is something of very great importance," Carter said in Spanish.

"Momento, por favor," Father Wilfredo said. "Please sit down. I will be finished in a moment."

The priest turned back to his candles, and Carter took a seat in the first row of pews. He waited until the priest had lit all the candles, then several more minutes while the man knelt in front of the crucifix and prayed.

Slowly the old man got up, shuffled to the vestry to the left of the altar, and a few minutes later reappeared wearing street clothes and a clerical collar. He eased himself into the pew next to Carter.

"And now, what may I do for you?"

"I am looking for a young man. Father. José Braga. I was told you might be able to help."

The smile left the old man's face. "There are many looking for José. Half of Argentina would like to find him. Why do you want to see him? You are American?"

Carter nodded. "I want to speak with him because he might have knowledge of a man I'm looking for. A man who is a hired killer."

The priest looked at him closely.

"I would be willing to pay well."

The priest sighed. "He needs money. There is so little food. If you can be trusted. Who is this man you seek?"

"Victor Hauptmann. I must know where he has been, who he has been working for, and what he has been doing for the past year. The information is worth a lot to me. Perhaps as much as one thousand dollars."

The old eyes looked at him uncertainly. "If I deliver your message, what would stop you from telling the police?"

"I am not from the police. I have no interest in them nor in what they think José Braga might be involved in. Victor Hauptmann tried to kill me several days ago. I have reason to believe he killed a very good friend of mine. A woman. I want to know why. I want to know who he is working for. Carter took out two hundred-dollar bills and handed them over. "One is for José, and one is for the church. There will be more when I have spoken with him."

Father Wilfredo glanced doubtfully at the money in his hand.

"I will meet him anywhere at any time. He can pick the place. And I will come alone."

Father Wilfredo looked Carter directly in the eye, weighed the alternatives for a moment, then put the money in his jacket pocket. "Come back after the eleven o'clock mass," he said.

It was a few minutes after noon when the last of the few parishioners had cleared the church. Carter came forward. The old priest said nothing. He turned and walked toward the rear of the building. Carter followed.

They went through a narrow door concealed in the wood paneling behind the altar, into an ill-lit hall, and finally into a tiny room at the back. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases jammed with papers and books covered three of the walls. A battered, ancient armchair and footstool stood to one side, and in the center of the bare, tiled floor was set a squat, ornate wooden desk. Perched upon the desk as though he too were a part of the furnishings was a slight, dark boy in threadbare cotton trousers and shirt. On his upper lip was a very thin mustache. He looked like any other Argentinian teenager except that across the bridge of his nose rested a pair of thick glasses that enlarged his eyes, giving him a vaguely owlish appearance.

"José Braga?" Carter asked.

The boy nodded, watching Carter suspiciously. The priest walked behind the boy and put his hand protectively on his shoulder.

"The money," Braga demanded.

Carter pulled out nine one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the boy who looked at them, then handed the money to the priest.

"You have just saved the lives of my comrades in arms, and you have prolonged the valiant struggle of the Argentinian people against the oppression of its cruel imperialist government,"

Carter noticed the boy did not speak the usual street jargon, and glancing at the book-lined walls, he could see why. Although his phrases were trite, they were well spoken.

"If the speechmaking is over, I came here for information," Carter said. The boy and the priest exchanged glances.

"What do you want to know about the pig Hauptmann? He has disappeared," Braga snapped.

"I killed him." Carter said.

Braga's eyes widened. "No one deserved death more than that maniac. But why did you do such a thing?"

"He tried to kill me."

The boy's eyes narrowed. "And now you want more information about him. What sort of information?"

"Where was he six months ago?"

"In jail. Salto, Uruguay. He had a profitable little gun-running business across the Uruaguay River into Concordia until his boat developed troubles and he was stranded."

"I have looked at the police files. That wasn't included."

Braga shrugged. "Communications are not always good with the provinces. And relations are somewhat strained with Uruguay at the moment." He smiled as though he'd had a hand in straining the relations himself.

"How do you know this, about Hauptmann?"

"You doubt my word, señor?"

Carter held his silence.

"We sent a man to Salto with orders to kill Hauptmann. He has been a thorn in our sides. He was to be arrested and put into the cell next to our man. Then a knife was to be slipped between the pig's ribs while everyone slept. It was all arranged. But then Hauptmann escaped."

"How? Did he have help?"

Again the boy shrugged, a loose, careless gesture that Carter was beginning to find irritable. "The man with the monocle."

"Who?"

"He is a European. He is always there when Hauptmann or men like him need help. Buys their way out of jail if possible, or shoots their way out."

This was something new. Carter had not seen anything about such a man in AXE files.

"I've never seen the man, but others have. They said his eye behind his monocle is as cold as the winter wind. He is said to have no heart."

"A name?"

Braga shook his head.

"How about your man… the one you sent to Salto to kill Hauptmann? Perhaps he saw this European? Perhaps he can give me a description?"

The priest crossed himself. "Pepé Morales is dying. Cancer. There is not much time."

"Did he see him?"

"I don't know," Braga said. "When he came back he was sick. He didn't say anything. We didn't ask."

"I would like to ask him. It is very important," Carter said.

Braga started to say no, but the priest held him off. They went out into the corridor for a minute or two, and when the door opened again, the boy was gone.

"It is best this way," Father Wilfredo said.

"That was easy money," Carter said bitterly.

"It was all he knew, believe me. But I will tell you how to get to Pepé. Perhaps he will be able to help you," the priest said. "He is back in Salto, there is a cantina…"

During the cab ride back to his hotel, Carter vacillated between wanting to disbelieve what he had been told and wondering if Braga hadn't been straight with him after all. It was possible that neither AXE nor the CIA, nor Interpol, nor even the Argentine Federal Police had any idea Hauptmann was in jail. It was also possible that another organization could have found out — if Hauptmann had sent out word — and decided to buy Hauptmann's freedom in return for services rendered.

When he reached his hotel he made arrangements to rent a car. Twenty minutes later they brought it around, a white 67 Chevrolet with eighty thousand miles on the odometer. It looked rough, but the tires were good and it was reasonably clean.

Another half an hour of haggling produced the necessary insurance and registration papers, and he was on his way northward on the Avenida Eduardo Maredo with a road map open on the seat beside him.

Salto was a two-hundred-mile trip, but the roads were good, and by five forty-five that afternoon he had stopped for directions to the cantina the priest had told him about. By six he was parking in front of the place, which was just off the square in a very sleepy, dusty little village with only one main street. The square held an open-air market.

There were very few people about, and the cantina seemed to be closed, so Carter went over to one of the stalls in the market, where a man was just bundling up his pots and pans.

He looked up hopefully.

"Do you know a man who is very sick named Pepé Morales?" Carter asked. He pulled out a few pesos.

The man looked Carter over. He eyed the money, but he made no move to reach for it.

Carter sensed the mistrust. "Father Wilfredo from St. Dominic's in Buenos Aires sent me. He said I could find Pepé here."

The man nodded slowly and pointed down a side street. "The last house," he said. "In the back." His Spanish was very thick, very difficult to understand.

Carter handed him the money, then went back to his car. From his things in the trunk, he pulled out a thin, black briefcase containing a portable Identi-Kit. He had brought it along on a hunch, and he hoped it was about to pay off. He drove up the narrow street.

The house was little more than a dirt-floored shack. Carter knocked at the door.

"Who is it?" a woman asked impatiently.

"I have come to see Pepé."

"Go away!"

Carter gently pushed open the door. The light was dim, but in the darkness he could make out a mattress on the floor. A man was lying there, an old woman bent over him. The whites of her eyes flashed up at him.

"Go away!"

"I am sorry, but I must speak with him. It is very urgent."

The woman began to struggle to her feet, but the man reached up, gently laying his hand on her arm, stopping her. "It doesn't matter," he said softly.

The woman stood, and with a furious look retired to the other side of the room.

Carter crouched beside the man on the mattress. "Are you the one they call Pepé?"

"Yes," the man said, his voice hoarse and soft.

"José Braga sent me. He says you were the man in prison with Victor Hauptmann."

Pepé nodded. His breathing was labored. He was obviously in great pain.

"A man came to get him out of the prison. The man with the monocle. Did you see him? Did you see his face that night? Clearly?"

Pepé nodded again.

"I must find this man with the monocle. Hauptmann is dead, but I must find his friend. Do you understand?"

Tears leaked from the man's eyes. But once again he nodded his understanding.

"I need this man's description, and I have something with me that will help." Carter opened the briefcase and took out a notebook with interchangeable plastic pages. The overlays were divided into sections, each section containing a facial feature of a different type. By flipping the various pages back and forth, and by interchanging the proper overlays, one could put together almost any combination of features.

"Do you feel up to helping me?"

Pepé's face was grayish-white. He lay with his mouth open, his lips white and dry, his eyes narrowed to slits. "Yes," he whispered.

"Do you have a lamp?" Carter asked the woman.

She lit a kerosene lamp and brought it over. Carter set it on the floor and propped the notebook on his knee. "Was he bald?" he asked. "Short hair? Shorter than this? And the nose, long or short?"

The process took three-quarters of an hour. Carter worked steadily, not wanting to rush the dying man but fully aware that the man's strength was limited. What began as nods and shakes of the head became, after a time, little more than eye movements and an occasional grunt toward the end. Nevertheless, a picture began to take shape.

Carter's quarry turned out to be apparently a large man whose head was either shaved or naturally bald. He was thickly built with ridges of muscle along his bull neck. His face was squarish, the mouth grim, the eyes blue and penetrating. He was about sixty, perhaps a bit more or less.

When they were done, Pepé was completely exhausted. He lay with his eyes closed, his breath coming more irregularly than before. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words were too faint to be heard.

"Do you know what he's trying to say?" Carter asked the woman. He felt a great amount of pity for these people, but there was little if anything he could do for them.

She came over and knelt down beside the mattress. Pepé spoke again. She looked up. "He wants to know who you are," she said. "He wants to know if you will kill this man."

Carter crouched back down and looked into Pepé's eyes. "I think this man is trying to have me killed. I may have to kill him."

"Good," Pepé croaked. Then he closed his eyes and appeared to fall asleep.

Carter got slowly to his feet. "Has he seen a doctor?"

"Who has money for such things?" the woman snapped.

Carter put the Identi-Kit composite back in the briefcase. Then he pulled out several hundred dollars and held it out to the woman. But she did not reach out to take it, so Carter put it on the floor beside Pepé.

"When he wakes up, thank him forme. He has been a very big help."

"Swine!" the woman hissed.

Outside, the sun was low in the sky, and shadows around the little hut were beginning to lengthen. He walked to the car and was about to pull the door open when he noticed a small smear of grease near the front wheel well. Odd, he thought. He'd inspected the car thoroughly before he'd driven up here. He didn't remember any grease.

He got in, put the key in the ignition but didn't turn it. Directly ahead, through the windshield, the rutted mud road that led back to town lay silent in the gathering haze of twilight. A pair of trees bobbed at the end of the lane. To his right were the cluttered backyards of several neighboring families. They had been busy centers of activity when he came — children playing, women hanging wash. Now the children were gone, and the wash was down. Not dry. Not yet.

Quiet, he thought. Much too quiet.

Slowly he reached down and pulled the door latch. As the door popped, he hit it with his shoulder and dove headfirst into the dirt. He'd no more than cleared the seat when a shot sounded. The windshield went white with cracks, and there was a saw-toothed hole where his head had been.

An automatic weapon opened fire from a hedge about sixty yards down the road. Carter rolled frantically back and forth as the chattering slugs kicked up dirt all around him.

Carter rolled under the car as the barrage continued. The bullets clattered into the metal on all sides, and he could hear the windshield breaking up.

The hedge was located directly down the road from the car. Carter drew his Luger and pumped a few rounds toward the spot, but the firing continued. Whoever it was seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of ammunition.

Then he saw two wires leading down from the engine compartment, and he suddenly realized what he should have understood earlier. The wires ended in a lump of plastique directly beneath the seat on the driver's side. The machine gunner had been nothing more than insurance.

The bullets kept coming, pinning Carter down. It was as if the gunman were trying to pick the car apart and detonate the bomb himself.

The first two wires were connected to the ignition switch. He pulled down one, then the other, being very careful not to let their ends make contact. Then he wrapped the first wire around the coils of the right front wheel spring, leaving its end exposed. He did the same with the second, wrapping it around a lower coil in the spring and fanning its end; when the spring was compressed, the ends would meet and the bomb would explode. Then he pulled himself on his elbows out from under the car's rear bumper.

The firing stopped for a moment or two, and Carter ducked around to the passenger side of the car, threw open the door, and scrambled inside.

The firing did not resume.

Carter reached up and put the car in neutral, then turned on the ignition. The wires on the springs below were hot now, the bomb activated.

Making sure the steering wheel was straight, the car pointing directly at the line of hedges. Carter turned the ignition again, starting the car. He slipped the gear lever into drive, and as the car began to move, he slid backward out of the car and rolled away from the rear wheels.

The firing started again as the car gathered speed, lumbered down the road, and hit the ditch near the hedges. The explosion blew out its doors like a pair of wings, and the car burst into flames, glass, bits of hot metal, and burning upholstery raining down.

Carter leaped up and ran toward the hedges, expecting to see the gunman making a run for it. But the area around the car was burning, making it impossible to see much of anything beyond.

A motorcycle engine kicked into life, and Carter turned in time to see a man with an automatic rifle strapped to his back bouncing over the terrain. Carter brought up his Luger and fired twice, but it was no use; the figure was well out of range.

He holstered his gun after a bit, then went back to the house to check on Pepé and his woman, who had been badly frightened by the barrage of gunfire. Once again, the little street was silent.