Hood of Death

Chapter I

Ten seconds after he turned off Route 28 he wondered if he had made a mistake. Should he have brought the girl to this isolated area? Was it necessary to leave his weapons out of reach in the hidden locker under the car's rear deck?

Headlights had raced on their tail all the way from Washington on U.S. 66. You expected that on the busy superhighway, but the twin glares had stayed with them on Route 28, which was less logical. He thought they belonged to the same car. It was there now.

"Funny," he said, trying to feel whether the girl in his arms tensed at the remark. He felt no change. The lovely soft body remained deliciously pliant.

"What?" she murmured.

"You'll have to sit up a moment, darling." He moved her gently upright, spread his hands evenly on the wheel at three-and-nine-o'clock and put the throttle to the floor. A minute later he skid-turned into the familiar side road.

He had puttered with the tuning of the new engine himself and felt personal satisfaction as the 428 cubic inches growled out acceleration without a stumble on the rev up. The Thunderbird whipped through the S-turns of the two-lane Maryland back road like a hummingbird banking between trees.

"Exciting!" Ruth Moto levered herself away to give him arm room.

Smart girl, he thought. Smart, beautiful. I wonder…

He knew the road well. The odds were they didn't. He could outrun them, slip away to safety and a promising evening. That wouldn't be doing the job. He sighed and let the Bird slow to a moderate speed and checked his back trail on a rise. The lights were there. They didn't dare put them out at these speeds on winding roads. They'd crack up. Mustn't let that happen — they might be as valuable to him as he would be to them.

He slowed to a crawl. The lights came closer, bobbled as if the other car were braked, and then they went out. Ahh… He smiled in the gloom. After the first chill of contact there was always the thrill and the hope of accomplishment.

Ruth leaned against him, the aroma of her hair and subtly delightful perfume pleasant again in his nostrils. 'That was fun," she said. "I like surprises."

Her hand was on top of the hard, solid muscles of his thigh. He couldn't tell if she pressed down slightly or the feeling was caused by the sway of the car. He replaced his arm around her and added a discreet hug. "I wanted to try those turns. The wheels were balanced last week and I haven't had a chance to bend her in town. She corners perfectly now."

"I think — everything you do is aimed at perfection, Jerry. Am I not right? Don't be modest. I get enough of that when I'm in Japan."

"I suppose so. Yes… perhaps."

"Of course. And you're ambitious. You want to be with the leaders."

"You're telling fortunes. Everybody wants perfection and leadership. Just as a tall dark man will appear in every woman's life if she lasts long enough."

"1 waited a long time." The hand pressed his thigh. It was not car motion.

"You're making a snap decision. We've only been together twice. Three times if you count meeting at Jimmy Hartford's party."

"I'm counting that," she whispered. Her hand rubbed his leg, very slightly. He was surprised and pleased at the sensual warmth that the simple caress aroused in him. It sent more tingles up his spine than most girls generated when they fondled his naked flesh. It's so true, he thought, the physical is fine for animals or a quickie, but to raise a really high temperature you need the emotional rapport.

In part, he supposed, he had sold himself on Ruth Moto when he watched her at the Yacht Club dance and a week later at Robert Quitlock's birthday dinner. Like a boy peering through a store window at a shiny bicycle or a mound of temptingly displayed candy, he gathered impressions that fueled his hopes and longings. Now that he knew her better, he was convinced his tastes were excellent.

Among the expensive gowns and dinner jackets at parties where men in the money brought the most beautiful women they could find, Ruth shown like an incomparable jewel. She had inherited height and long bones from her Norwegian mother and dark coloring and exotic features from her Japanese father, forming a Eurasian blend which produces the most beautiful women in the world. By any standards her body was amply perfect, and when she moved through a room on her father's arm every pair of male eyes flicked after her or followed her, depending on whether some other woman was watching them or not. She aroused admiration, desire and, in simpler minds, instant lust.

Her father, Akito Tsogu Nu Moto, provided a fitting escort. He was short and blocky, with smooth ageless skin and the calmly serene expression of a patriarch sculptured in granite.

Were the Motos what they seemed? They had been checked by the most efficient intelligence arm of the United States — AXE. The report was clean but the probe would go deeper, right back to Matthew Perry. David Hawk, AXE's top officer and Nick Carter's one superior in the chain-of-command had said, "They may be a blind alley, Nick. Old man Akito made a few million in Japanese-American ventures in electronics and building products. He's typed as hard as nails but straight. Ruth behaved at Vassar. She's a popular hostess and moves in good Washington circles. Follow other leads… if you have any."

Nick suppressed a grin. Hawk would back you with his life and career, but he was deft with the inspirational needle. He replied, "I have. How about Akito as another victim?"

Hawk's thin lips showed one of his rare smiles, forming wise-and-weary wrinkles about his mouth and eyes. They had rendezvoused for their last talk just after dawn in a secluded dead-end at Fort Belvoir. The morning was cloudless, the day would be hot. The crisp rays of the sun lanced through the air above the Potomac and illuminated Hawk's strong features. He watched the boats starting out from the Mt. Vernon Yacht Club and Gunston Cove. "She must be as beautiful as they say she is."

Nick did not quiver an eyelid. "Who, Ruth? One of a kind."

"Personality plus sex appeal, eh? I must have a look at her. She comes over nicely in the pictures. You can have a look at them at the office."

Nick thought, Hawk. If the name wasn't such a perfect fit I'd suggest Old Fox. He said, "I prefer the real thing. She smells so nice. Unless — pornographic?"

"No, nothing like that. She checks out as a typical girl of decent family. Maybe an affair or two but if so discreetly hidden. Perhaps a virgin. There's always the perhaps in our business. But don't buy them on this first check, Nick. Be careful. Don't relax for an instant."

Time and again Hawk had, with words of caution and extra foresighted action, literally saved the life of Nicholas Huntington Carter, N3 of AXE-US.

"I won't, sir," Nick replied. "But I have the feeling I'm not getting anywhere. Six weeks of Washington parties have been fun, but I'm getting bored with the good life."

"I can imagine how you feel, but stay with it. This case gives one a sense of helplessness, with three important men dead. But we'll get a break and it will burst wide open."

"No more help from the autopsy conferences?"

"The best pathologists in the world agree that they died by natural causes — evidently. They give themselves that small out Natural? Yes. Logical? No. A senator, a cabinet official and a key banker in our monetary complex. We'll find the method or the link or the why. I have the feeling…"

Hawk's "feelings" — based on his encyclopedic knowledge and reasoned intuition — had never, as far as Nick could remember, been wrong. He had discussed details of the case and possibilities with Hawk for an hour and they had parted. Hawk to command — Nick to his role.

Six weeks ago Nick Carter had slipped almost literally into the skin of "Gerald Parsons Deming," Washington representative for a West Coast oil company. Another tall, dark and handsome young executive who was invited to all the best official and social gatherings.

He fitted the part. He should; it had been created for him by the master technicians in the Documents and Editing Divisions of AXE. Nick's hair became black instead of brown, the tiny blue hatchet inside his right elbow concealed with skin paint Where his deep tan wasn't enough to mark him as a genuine brunet, his skin was darkened. He stepped into a life which a double had established in advance, complete with papers and identification perfect even to hairline detail. Jerry Deming, man-about-town, with an impressive country place in Maryland and an apartment in the city.

The flicker of headlights in the mirror brought him back to the moment. He became Jerry Deming, fitting himself into the fantasy, forcing himself to forget the Luger and stiletto and tiny gas bomb so perfectly hidden in a compartment welded under the rear of the Bird. Jerry Deming. On his own. Decoy. Target. The man sent out to make the enemy move. The man who sometimes got the casket.

Ruth said softly, "Why are you in such a changeable mood tonight, Jerry?"

"Had a hunch. I thought a car was following us."

"Oh, dear. You didn't tell me you're married."

"Seven times and loved every one." He chuckled. It was the kind of a joke Jerry Deming would make. "No-o-o, sweet. I've been too busy to get deeply involved." That was the truth. He added a fib, "Don't see those lights any more. Guess I was mistaken. You gotta watch it. Plenty of stickups on these back roads."

"Be careful, dear. Perhaps we shouldn't have come away out here. Is your place terribly isolated? I'm not — scared, but my father is strict. He has a horror of publicity. He's always cautioning me to be careful. His old-country prudence, I suppose."

She eased back against his arm. If it's an act, Nick thought, it's great Since he had met her she had behaved precisely like the modern but conservative daughter of a foreign businessman who had discovered how to amass millions in the U.S.A. A man who considered his every move and word in advance. When you found the golden cornucopia you shunned any notoriety that might disturb your shoveling. In the world of war contracts and bankers and brass, publicity is as welcome as a slap on a red raw sunburn.

He found a luscious breast with his right hand, without any protest from her. It was about as far as he had gone with Ruth Moto, slower progress than he liked, but it fitted his methods. Schooling women, he had learned, was akin to training horses. The qualities for success were patience, one small advance at a time, gentleness — and experience.

"My place is isolated, dear, but there's an automatic gate on the drive and the police patrol the area regularly. Nothing to worry about."

She snuggled against him. "That's good. Have you owned it long?"

"Several years. Ever since I began spending a lot of time in Washington." He wondered if her questions were casual or well planned.

"And you were in Seattle before you came here? That's lovely country. Those trees in the mountains. The even climate."

"Yes." She couldn't see his small grin in the darkness. "I'm really a nature boy. I'd like to retire to the Rockies and just hunt and fish and — things like that."

"All alone?"

"No. You can't hunt and fish all winter. And then there are rainy days."

She giggled. "Those are wonderful plans. But will you? I mean — maybe you'll put it off like all the rest and they'll find you at your desk at the age of fifty-nine. Heart attack. No hunting. No fishing. No winter or rainy days."

"Not me. I'm planning ahead."

And so I am, he thought, as he braked when the small red reflector that marked the almost hidden drive came into sight. He turned in, went forty yards and stopped in front of a sturdy wooden gate made of cypress planks stained a rich red-brown. He cut the engine and the lights.

The stillness was astonishing, when the roar of the engine and the ripple of the tires stopped. He gently tilted her chin toward him and the kiss was smoothly begun; their lips undulated together in a warm and stimulating and moist blending. He stroked her lissome body with his free hand, cautiously advancing just a little further than he ever had before. He was pleased to feel her cooperating, her lips parting slowly to the probe of his tongue, her breasts seeming to return his gentle massage with no shiver of retreat. Her breath quickened. He matched his own to its sweet-scented beat — and listened.

Under the insistent pressure of his tongue her lips at last parted fully, flaring like a flexible hymen as he formed a lance of flesh, exploring the pungent depths of her mouth. He teased and tickled, feeling the quivers of reaction flutter through her. He caught her tongue between his lips and sucked gently… and he listened.

She was wearing a simple dress of thin white sharkskin with a button front. His deft fingers unslipped three buttons and he stroked the smooth skin between her breasts with the backs of his fingernails. Lightly, thoughtfully — with the force of a butterfly stamping on a rose petal. She stiffened briefly and he was careful to keep the rhythm of his caress even; accelerating it only when her breath exploded into him with a warm panting rush and she made small humming sounds. He sent his fingers on a soft exploratory cruise around the swelling globe of her right breast. The hum lowered to a sigh as she pressed against his hand.

And he listened. The car came slowly and silently along the narrow road past the driveway, its headlights a floating glow in the night. They were just too decorous. He had heard them pause when he had turned off. Now they were checking. He hoped they had good imaginations and had seen Ruth. Eat your hearts out, boys!

He slid the fastener of the half-bra apart, where it met between her splendid cleavage, and enjoyed the smooth, warm flesh that greeted his palm. Delicious. Inspiring — he was glad he wasn't wearing his especially made jock shorts; the weapons in the form-fitting pockets would have been comforting, but the stricture annoying. Ruth said, "Oh, my dear," and bit his lip lightly.

He thought, I hope it's just a teenager looking for a parking spot. Or perhaps it was a carload of sudden death for Nick Carter. The removal of a dangerous piece in a game that was being played now, or a legacy of revenge earned in the past. Once you earned the classification of Killmaster you bought the risks.

Nick ran his tongue up the silky cheek to her ear. He began a beat in time with his hand which now enveloped a magnificent warm breast inside the bra. He matched her sigh with his own. If you die today — you don't have to die tomorrow.

He drifted his right forefinger upward and inserted it delicately in the other ear, forming a triple titillation as he varied the pressures in time with a little symphony all his own. She shivered with pleasure, and he found with some dismay that he enjoyed shaping joy for her and he hoped she had no connection with the car on the road which had stopped a few hundred yards away. He could hear it easily in the silence of the night. She could hear nothing for the moment.

His hearing was acute — indeed, the instant he wasn't physically perfect AXE wouldn't give him assignments like this and he wouldn't take them. The odds were deadly enough as it was. He heard the tiny creak of a car door-hinge, the sound of a stone struck by a foot in the blackness.

He said. "Darling, how about a drink and a swim?"

"Love it," she answered, with a little hoarse gulp before the words.

He pressed the transmitter button for the gate actuator and the barrier moved aside, closing automatically behind them as they followed the short winding drive. It was just a deterrent for trespassers, not a barrier. The property fencing was simple open post-and-rail.

"Gerald Parsons Deming" had built a charming country home, seven rooms and a giant patio floored with bluestone facing the swimming pool. The houselights and exterior floodlights went on when Nick pressed a button on a post at the edge of the parking area. Ruth gurgled with delight.

"It's lovely! Oh, the beautiful flowers. Do you work on the landscaping yourself?"

"Quite often," he lied. "Too busy to do all I'd like to. A local gardener comes twice a week."

She paused on the flagstone walk beside a column of climbing roses, a vertical color bar of reds and pinks, whites and off-whites. "They're so lovely. It's part of being Japanese — or part Japanese — I guess. Even a single flower can thrill me."

He kissed the back of her neck before they walked on, and said, "Just the way one beautiful girl can thrill me? You're just as lovely as all these flowers together — and you're alive."

She laughed appreciatively. "You're sweet, Jerry, but I wonder — how many girls have you led up this walk?"

"The truth?"

"I hope so."

He unlocked the door and they went into the large living room with its giant fireplace and wall of glass facing the pool. "Well, Ruth — the truth. The truth to Ruth." He led her to the little bar and flicked on the record player with one hand, holding her fingers with the other. "You, my sweet, are the first girl I ever brought here alone."

He saw her eyes widen, then knew by the warmth and softness of her expression that she decided he was telling the truth — which he was — and she loved it.

Any girl would, if she believed you, and the build-up and setting and mounting intimacy were right tonight. His double might have brought fifty girls here — knowing Deming he probably had — but Nick was telling the truth and Ruth's intuition verified it.

He built martinis with swift motions while Ruth sat watching him across the narrow oaken bar, her chin in her hands, her black eyes dreamy-alert. Her flawless skin still gleamed with the emotion he had aroused and Nick caught his breath at the astonishingly beautiful portrait she made as he put the glass in front of her and poured.

She's bought it but won't believe it, he thought. Oriental caution, or the doubts women harbor even as their emotions lead them astray. He said softly, "To you, Ruthie. The prettiest picture I've ever seen. An artist would love to paint you right this instant."

"Thank you. You make me feel — very happy and warm, Jerry."

Her eyes glowed at him over the cocktail glass. He listened. Nothing. They were coming through the forest now, or perhaps had already reached the smooth green carpet of lawn. They would circle carefully and soon discover that the picture windows were ideal for observation of those inside the house.

I'm bait. We didn't mention it, but I'm just the cheese in the AXE trap. It was the only way. Hawk wouldn't have set it up like this if there were any other out. Three men of importance dead. Natural causes on the death certificates. No leads. No clues. No pattern.

You couldn't give the bait much protection, Nick mused grimly, because you didn't have any idea what might scare the quarry, or at what strange level it might appear. If you set up complicated safeguards, one of them might be part of the pattern you were seeking to uncover. Hawk had decided on the only logical course — his most trusted agent would be the bait.

Nick had followed as closely as he could the Washington paths of the dead men. Unobtrusively he received invitations via Hawk to innumerable parties, receptions and business and social gatherings. He went to convention hotels, embassies, private homes and estates and clubs from the Georgetown to the University and Union League. He grew sick of hors d'oeuvres and filet mignons and he became tired of climbing in and out of dinner jackets. The laundry didn't return his pleat-front dress shirts fast enough and he had to call Rogers Peet to deliver a dozen by special messenger.

He had met dozens of important men and beautiful women and he received dozens of invitations which he respectfully declined, except for those which involved people the dead men had known or places they had gone. He was instantly popular and most women found his quiet attentiveness fascinating. When they discovered that he was an "executive in oil" and single, some of them were persistent by note and telephone.

He had turned up exactly nothing. Ruth and her father seemed perfectly respectable and he asked himself if he was honestly checking her out because his built-in trouble antenna gave a slight spark — or because she was the most desirable beauty of the hundreds he had met in the last few weeks.

He smiled into the gorgeous dark eyes and captured her hand where it lay on the polished oak near his own. There was one question: Who was out there and how had they picked up his trail in the Thunderbird? And why? Had he actually struck oil? He grinned at the situation pun as Ruth said softly, "You're a strange man, Gerald Deming. You're more than you seem."

"Is that some wisdom from the Orient or Zen or what?"

"I think a German philosopher said it first as a maxim — 'Be more than you seem.' But I've been watching your face and eyes. You've been far away from me."

"Just dreaming."

"Have you always been in the oil business?"

"More or less." He spun his prefabricated story. "I was born in Kansas and drifted down to the oil fields. Spent some time in the Mideast and made friends with a few of the right men and got lucky." He sighed and grimaced.

"Go on. You thought of something and stopped…"

"Now I'm about as far up as I'll go. It's a good job and I ought to be satisfied. But if I had a college degree I wouldn't be limited."

She squeezed his hand. "You'll find a way around that. You have — you have a vibrant personality."

"I've been around." He grinned and added the sleeper. "Actually I have done more than I tell. In fact a couple of times I didn't use the name Deming. It was a fast deal in the Mideast and if we could have stood off the London cartel for a few months I'd be a rich man today."

He shook his head as if in deep regret and stepped to the hi-fi console and switched from the player to the radio bands. In a shower of static he spun down the frequencies and in the long waves he caught it — bip— bip— bip. So that was how they followed him! Now the question was, had a beeper been hidden on his car without Ruth's knowledge, or did his beautiful guest carry it in her handbag or fastened to her clothing or — you had to be thorough — in a plastic suppository? He switched back to a recording, the strong, sensual imagery of Peter Tschaikovsky's Fourth, and ambled back to the bar. "How about that swim?"

"Love it. Give me a minute to finish this."

"Want another?"

"After we swim."

"Okay."

"And — where's the bathroom, please?"

"Right here…"

He conducted her into the master bedroom and showed her the big bath with its Roman sunken tub in pink ceramic tile. She kissed him lightly and went in and closed the door.

Swiftly he returned to the bar where she had left her handbag. Usually they took them to the John. A trap? He was careful not to disturb its position or arrangement as he checked its contents. Lipstick, bills in a money clip, small gold lighter which he opened and inspected, a credit card… nothing which might be the beeper. He replaced the items precisely and picked up his drink.

When would they come? When he was in the pool with her? He disliked the helpless feeling which the situation gave him, a nasty sense of exposure, the unpleasant fact that he couldn't strike first.

He wondered dourly if he had been in the business too long. If weapons meant confidence he ought to quit Did he feel defenseless because thin-bladed Hugo wasn't strapped to his forearm? You couldn't cuddle a girl much with Hugo on you before she'd feel it.

Lugging Wilhelmina, the modified Luger with which he could usually hit a fly at sixty feet, was also impossible in his role of Deming-the-Target. If felt or found, it was a giveaway. He had to agree with Eglinton, the AXE gunsmith, that Wilhelmina had drawbacks as a favorite arm. Eglinton altered them as he wanted them, installing three-inch barrels on perfect actions and fitting them with butt plates of thin transparent plastic. It reduced the size and cut the weight, and you could see the cartridges march up the ramp like a stick of little bottle-nosed bombs — but it was still a lot of gun to carry.

"Call it psychological," he had argued with Eglinton. "My Wilhelminas have got me through some tough ones. I know exactly what I can do from every angle and every position. I must have burned ten thousand rounds of the nine-milly in my time. I like the gun."

"Take another look at this S. & W., Chief," Eglinton had urged.

"Would you try and talk Babe Ruth out of his favorite bat? Tell the Mets to switch gloves? I go hunting with an old guy in Maine who has got his deer every year for forty-three years with a Springfield 1903. Ill take you up there with me this summer and let you talk him into using one of the new autoloaders."

Eglinton had given up. Nick chuckled at the memory. He glanced at the brass lamp that hung above the giant couch in the conversation pit across the room. He wasn't entirely helpless. AXE craftsmen had done what they could. Yank that lamp and down came the ceiling wallboard, carrying with it a Swedish Carl Gustav SMG Parabellum with its stock in place for you to grab.

In the car's compartment were Wilhelmina and Hugo and a tiny gas bomb known by the codeword Pierre. Under the bar the fourth bottle of gin on the left side of the locker contained a tasteless version of Michael Finn that would put you out in about fifteen seconds. And in the garage the next to last coat hook — the one with the shabby, least attractive raincoat — would open the hook-board with a full turn to the left. Wilhelmina's twin sister lay there on a shelf between the studs.

He listened. Frowned. Nick Carter with nerves? You couldn't hear anything with Tschaikovsky's masterpiece pouring out its suggestive theme.

It was the waiting. And the doubt. If you went for a weapon too soon you ruined the whole expensive set-up. If you waited too long you might get dead. How had they killed those three? If they did? Hawk had never been wrong…

"Hi," Ruth came around the archway. "Still feel like a swim?"

He met her halfway across the room, took her in his arms and kissed her thoroughly, and led her back into the bedroom. "More than ever. Just thinking about you sends my temperature up. I need a dunking."

She laughed and stood by the king-size bed, looking uncertain as he stripped off his dinner jacket and pulled the knot from his maroon tie. When the matching cummerbund hit the bed she said timidly, "Do you have a suit for me?"

"Sure," he smiled as he popped the gray pearl studs from his shirt. "But who needs 'em? Are we that old-fashioned? I hear in Japan the boys and girls hardly bother with suits at all in the baths. You just want a suit so you can go home and tell them that I'm a square?"

She looked at him quizzically and he caught his breath as the highlights danced in her eyes like sparks caught in obsidian.

"We wouldn't want that to happen," she said throatily and in a low key. She unfastened the buttons of the trim sharkskin, he looked away and heard the promising z-z-z-z of a hidden zipper, and when he looked again she was laying the dress neatly on the bed.

With an effort he kept his eyes from her until he was completely nude, then he turned casually and gave himself a treat — and his heart gave a slight thump, he was sure, as it began to increase his blood pressure.

He had seen them all, he had thought. From tall Scandinavians to robust Australians, in Kamathipura and Ho-Phang Road and in the politician's palace in Hamburg where you paid a hundred dollars just to get in. But you, Ruthie, he thought, are something else again!

She had turned heads at exclusive parties where the competition was picked from the best available in the world, and she had had her clothes on then. Now, standing naked against the background of the oyster-white wall and the rich blue carpeting, she looked like something which had been especially painted for a harem wall — to inspire the owner.

Her body was firm and flawless, her breasts high-riding twins with the nipples high-centered like redball signals — beware explosives. Her skin was flawless from brow to pink enameled toes, her pubic hair was an exciting bib of soft blackness. He was locked in place. She had him for the moment and she knew it. She carried one long fingernail up under her lips and tapped her chin questioningly. Her eyebrows, plucked in high curves to add just enough roundness above the slight slant of her eyes, came down — went up. "You approve, Jerry?"

"You…" He swallowed, choosing his words carefully. "You are one tremendous package of beautiful woman. I'd like — I'd like a picture of you. Just as you are this moment."

"That's one of the nicest things anyone ever said to me. You have some artist in you." She picked up two cigarettes from his pack on the bed, centered one after another in her lips for him to hold a light. After she handed him one she said, "I'm not sure I'd have done this except for what you said…"

"What I said?"

"About my being the only girl you've brought here. Somehow — I know that's true."

"How do you know?"

Her eyes became dreamy behind the blue smoke. "I'm not sure. It would be a typical lie for a man to tell, but I knew you were telling the truth."

Nick put a hand on her upper arm. It was round and satiny and firm as an athlete's under the tan skin. "It was the truth, my dear."

She said, "You have a tremendous body yourself, Jerry. I didn't realize. How much do you weigh?"

"Two-ten. Give or take the day."

She felt his arm, around which her slim hand hardly curved, so flat-hard was the surface above the bone. "You get lots of exercise. That's good for anyone. I was afraid that you'd be like so many men today. They grow paunches behind those desks. Even the youngsters at the Pentagon. It's shameful."

He thought, This isn't really the time or place but, oh brother, and took her in his arms and their bodies melded into one column of responsive flesh. She put both arms around his neck and pressed in his fervent embrace her feet left the floor and she spread them apart several times like a ballet dancer, but with a more jerky, vigorous and excited movement, like a muscular reflex.

Nick was in excellent physical shape. His program of both body and mind exercises was faithfully practiced. They included control of his libido, but he failed to catch himself in time. His distended, passionate flesh swelled between them. She kissed him, deeply, her body pressed against his.

He felt as if a child's sparkler had been drawn up his spine from coccyx to crown — lit. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing like a mile runner near the two-minute mark. The gusts from her lungs felt like lascivious jets aimed to sear his throat. Without disturbing her position he took the three short steps to the edge of the bed.

He wished he had listened harder — but it wouldn't have done any good. He felt— or perhaps caught a reflection or a shadow — the man step into the room.

"Put her down and turn around. Slowly."

It was a deep voice. The words came loud and clear, with just a touch of rolling guttural. They sounded as if they came from a man used to being obeyed to the letter.

Nick obeyed. He quarter-turned and put Ruth down. He took another slow quarter-turn to face a blond giant of a man, about his own age and easily as big as himself.

In a big hand, held low and steady and fairly close-in to his body, the man held what Nick easily identified as a Walther P-38. Even without his perfect handling of the weapon you would know that this lad knew his business.

This, Nick thought regretfully, is it. All the judo and savate in the world don't help you in a situation like this. He knows them, too, because he knows his trade.

If he has come to kill you, you're dead.