Istanbul

Chapter 2 Not All Goodbyes Are Sad

Janet Leeds had been insatiable all week. Even Nick's desire and ability had begun to flag. He seemed not able to give her enough — even when it was over for the time being she clung to him like a delectable soft fleshed leech, crying and sobbing and begging him to begin again.

Nick knew the why of all this. They both knew. Nick was going to leave her!

It was the end of the first week in May. It had been a sparkling champagne week; the weather had been perfect, the surf marvelous. Sun, sand, and crisp air had turned Nick's magnificent body to a high pitch of readiness. He doubled his daily stint of yoga — doing this and a little target practice with Wilhelmina, the 9mm Luger — while Janet went shopping in the village twenty miles away. Nick did not really need the target practice, but it took his mind off what was coming. The goodbye scene with Janet!

He had played these scenes many times in the past. Nick had an advantage, of course, because his own heart was never involved. His heart, to paraphrase the song, belonged to AXE!

The sun was a flaming red ball sinking into piney woods as Nick came out of the beach house to wait for Janet. She had taken the beach wagon into the village to get steaks for their last dinner.

Nick glanced in either direction along the smooth curving beach, saw no sign of the returning beach wagon and ran out to plunge into the low quartering surf. At the moment he was as superbly content and at home as a seal. Of the task upcoming he did not think at all — he had four men to kill, yes, but that was in the future.

He was wearing only the special jock in which there was a place for Hugo, the meanest little stiletto in the world. Pierre, the gas pellet, and Wilhelmina the Luger were in a concealed compartment in Nick's new car.

Nick went out half a mile with his tireless crawl, then floated on his back and gazed at the serene twilight sky. This was beautiful country, he thought. Perfect for lovers. Not a neighbor for miles. Janet and he had been bathing nude all week, with no interruption.

Yes, Nick admitted now, it had been a good week. But it was nearly over. Almost time to go to work. An old World War I tune began to run through his head and Nick deftly altered it, humming to himself: When it's poppy blossom time in Turkey I'll be there…

Fragments of his last briefing flitted through his mind. When the opium poppies had been harvested and the pods cut, then the real skullduggery began. The farmers were obliged by Turkish law to sell all the opium to the government — only they didn't! They held back as much as they could and sold it on the black market — meaning the Syndicate! The Syndicate in turn ran it across the border into Syria and processed it into heroin. Then it spread all over the world and, eventually, into the veins of addicts.

A hell raid, Hawk had said. Smash as many opium caravans as you can. Put the fear of God — or of Allah — into them! He would put the fear into them, all right. They had given him a new weapon for that!

But the hell raid was secondary. Number one was — find four men and kill them! The names whipped through Nick's mind as though on tape: Dr. Joseph Six — Maurice Defarge — Carlos Gonzalez — Johnny Ruthless. The last name intrigued Nick the most. Ruthless! An alias for whom? Somehow — he had no real reason why — he thought that he would probably kill Johnny Ruthless last.

Nick rolled over, glanced at the special AXE watch on his wrist — water and bullet proof — and sounded like a whale lonely for the depths. Might as well test his lungs, exercise them a little.

He went down and down in a deep probing dive, found sandy bottom. He stooged around on the bottom until his lungs began to pain, then shot to the surface. He glanced at the watch. Three minutes on the nose. He could do almost four if he had to. It was what yoga and constant breathing exercises did for you.

Nick saw the beach wagon coming along the sand from the north. Janet at last. He began to swim in, taking it as fast as he could this time, gliding with furious speed.

Janet Leeds was waiting beside the beach wagon, smoking a cigarette, when Nick dashed up the beach. She tossed her cigarette into the sand and raised her small, triangular face for a kiss. "Hi, darling. Miss me?"

Nick kissed her. She clung to him. "Did you? Miss me?"

"Sure did," Nick lied cheerfully. He picked her up and held her over his head, one hand on her spine just above the taut little buttocks.

"I was going to drown myself," he told her. "I thought you weren't coming back. I thought maybe you had run away with the butcher in the village, I swam way out — and I was just going down for the last time to end it all when I saw you coming back. So / came back."

Janet squealed. "Put me down, you fool! And liar!"

Nick put her down. He regarded her with mock hurt. "Liar? Is that a way to talk to a man who was just about to kill himself over you!"

"You aren't a fool," she murmured. "I know that. But you are a liar! You didn't miss me a bit."

"But I did," Nick insisted.

Janet put her little hands into his chest hair and tugged hard. "Liar — liar and ingrate!"

"Ouch! That hurts. Lay off!"

"Not until you admit you're a liar."

"Okay — okay! I'm a liar. Where are the steaks, anyway?"

"In the wagon, stupid! With all the other things." Janet turned away and began to run up to the beach house. Nick had seen a glint of moisture in her eyes. He sighed inwardly. It looked as though he would have to be cruel after all.

He gazed after her. What a perfect little doll she was! Everything about her was tiny and tight and perfect. Small hard breasts, a waist he could nearly span with one hand, little taut fanny, surprisingly long and slim legs. Hair of dark gold, spun fine. Eyes huge and gray with corneas of a startling white. Eyes that could laugh and love — and now cry.

Nick sighed again. Then he scooped bags and parcels from the beach wagon and trudged up the slope after her.

Janet was at the bar mixing martinis when Nick entered the spacious beach house. Nick lugged the groceries into the kitchen. She won't, he thought as he stored things away, have much trouble finding a new man. Someone to marry. That's what she really wants.

When he joined her Janet was perched on a bar stool smoking a cigarette and staring into the fast pervading gloom. When Nick moved to turn on the lights she said: "No! Leave them off, honey. Suits my mood right now. But you might start the fire — please?"

Here we go, Nick thought as he touched a match to the already laid kindling and logs in the great fieldstone fireplace. A farewell scene played to martinis and fire-light.

He went to sit beside her. Still wearing only the jock. Janet swiveled on her stool and looked him up and down. "You know something, you bastard? You look like a Greek god! Anyone ever tell you that before?"

Nick straddled the stool beside her. "Well, yes — there was a little Greek girl back around 360 B.C. who said…"

"Nick! Please don't! Not tonight."

Janet's face was a pale heart shaped blur in the gloom. Her voice quavered. "Let's be serious this last time together. Serious — and completely honest." She gulped her martini.

"You'd better slow down," he warned, "or you'll be completely passed out."

"I don't give a damn, darling! You don't either, not really." She finished her drink and reached for the shining frosted pitcher of martinis. "Do you?"

Nick told her the exact truth. "Of course I give a damn. I don't want you sodden. I like you, Janet. We've had a hell of a good time together and…"

She didn't let him finish. "But don't get sloppy when it's over?"

Janet filled her glass again. "Okay — I won't. But I'll get drunk. That all right?"

"Up to you," said Nick. "Maybe I'll get a little drunk with you." He tasted his martini. Just right. Cold and very dry. Janet was a good bartender.

"You? You drunk? That I would like to see. You drink gallons and you're always as sober as a judge. You drink the way you do everything else — perfectly!"

She half turned away from him, drinking, a cigarette smouldering between her lingers. Logs were catching in the fireplace now, popping and cracking and casting little whorls of roseate flame. After a long silence Janet said, so softly that Nick could barely hear: "They are not long, the days of wine and roses…"

"I always liked that one," Nick said. He spoke as softly as she had. "Ernest Dowson, isn't it?"

To his surprise Janet laughed. "You see what I mean, Nicholas boy! You even know poetry. You're perfect! Maybe that's why I want you so much. A perfect man is hard to find these days."

Nick sipped his martini. Coldly and without rancor he said, "Drink your goddamned drink and get blistered if you want to! Only don't get maudlin. I can't stand maudlin women."

Janet put her head down on the bar and began to weep softly. Nick regarded her dispassionately.

Without looking up, without ceasing to cry, Janet said: "You are going to leave me, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"You aren't coming back, are you?"

"No."

She sat bolt upright. She finished the last of her drink. She wiped at her eyes with the back of one hand. She turned to him in the fire-splattered gloom and he felt the burn of her flesh on his. Her hand reached for him.

"So that is that," she said. "And damn you, Nick Carter. But before you leave you're going to give me something to remember you by! Tonight I want you to do everything to me. Don't hold off the way you do to keep from hurting me! You do hurt me, you know. I'm too little and you're too damn big, but tonight forget it. Promise?"

Nick told her that he promised. It was, oddly enough, in that moment that he felt a fleeting tenderness for her. It surprised and somewhat dismayed him. Tenderness was a dangerous emotion. It brought your guard down.

In one corner of the large room was a rattan couch covered with soft cushions. Nick picked Janet up and carried her to it. She crooked an arm behind her to unsnap her halter. Her little breasts, like soft pale fruits with sugar candy tips, pressed into Nick's face as he put her gently down on the couch. Her little hands, strong as talons, reached for the single sketchy jock he wore and tugged it down his legs. Nick stepped out of the strap and immediately her hands were avid for his body, demanding, caressing, pinching, stroking.

Janet deftly arranged herself on the couch, her sepia and white limbs glimmering in the firelight. She studied Nick's readiness and her red little mouth rounded into an O of delight and anticipation. She stroked her breasts once with her fingertips and then let the motion segue into one of outthrown arms of invitation.

"Come to me, darling. Quickly now! Love me — Nick. Love me!"

Nick Carter let his senses slough over with the stuff of ecstasy and oblivion. This was a fact of life — not of Death, and for the moment he was safe. This place was safe. This woman was his for the taking.

"No mercy," she begged. "Show me no mercy!"

There was a large window just over the couch. Nick glanced out just before he entered the woman. There was a pale crescent of moon hanging low on the horizon and, by some accident of conjunction — a single star nestled in the horns of the moon. Crescent and star! For a flash of an instant Nick thought of blood red poppies — this time next week he would be in Turkey and the killing would have begun.

Nick surged into the beckoning red target with the brutality she had begged of him. Janet screamed in pleasure and pain. Neither then nor later did Nick show her any quarter.