Night of the Warheads

Eight

Nick Carter stood on the very edge of the cliff, smoke rolling slowly from the corners of his lips. Against the misty dawn sky he made a clear and easy target.

He meant to.

LeClerc would feel much easier because of it.

Far below him, the city of Marseille had already come to boiling life. Autos jammed the corniche leading to the docks, and commuter traffic flowed inward on the city's two northern arteries from the port city's suburbs.

He heard the low rumble of a powerful engine behind him and flipped the cigarette in a high arc over the edge of the cliff. Other than the movement of his arm, he was still. Even his eyes did not blink when the front bumper of the Mercedes rocked to a halt a scant six inches from the back of his legs.

He heard the door open and then the soft pad of feet over the grassy earth.

"Are you armed?" a voice, just behind and to his left, asked in slightly accented English.

"Yes, a Luger. Shoulder holster, left side."

A hand snaked under his jacket, and Carter felt the weight of Wilhelmina lifted from her soft leather sheath.

Only when the hands had completed a quick frisk of his waist and down his legs did Carter finally turn.

The Mercedes's front bumper was an inverted vee, the grille was a mangled mess, and the fronts of both fenders were pleated beyond repair.

"A pity," Carter smiled. "Such a marvelous machine."

"Basta!" the dark little man hissed and motioned Carter to the rear, passenger side of the limousine.

Carter slid into the rear seat, and the door slammed behind him. He heard the unmistakable click of the electronic door locks and calmly lit a cigarette.

"Monsieur Bluebeard, at last," the man said in French.

"Monsieur LeClerc… and, I assume, Pepe?"

"I think it is far from an assumption on your part, monsieur. My congratulations on your cunning."

He was about sixty, with an earnest, fleshy face. His wiry, sleek black hair was just receding on each side of the crown and had only a touch of gray in the sideburns. His skin seemed to sag like the rest of him, but his eyes were black pinpoints of alert intelligence.

A whirring sound closed the window between the front and rear seats. That, coupled with the blacked-out windows, threw the rear of the car into near darkness.

LeClerc's hand moved to a console between them, and a dome light and lights in the doors came on.

For the first time, Carter noticed a thin manila envelope in the man's lap.

"I must say, I admire your courage if not your methods. My driver could have shot you where you stood when we drove up."

"He could have," Carter agreed.

"And letting yourself be relieved of your gun takes a lot of nerve."

"Not really."

LeClerc took time to study Carter before speaking again. He perceived the wide shoulders, the powerful chest, and then he met the other's eyes with his own. Carter's eyes seemed to look completely through him, sifting as they penetrated.

A barely perceptible chill seemed to slice through LeClerc's body. In his lifetime he had dealt with many men whose eyes held the icy chill he saw now.

Always there was a killer behind them.

"How so?" LeClerc said at last.

"I really don't need a gun to kill you or your little appendage in the front seat, LeClerc. I could do it with my bare hands. And if they failed, there is always this…"

Carter tensed the muscles in his right forearm to activate the spring in Hugo's sheath. The thin stiletto shot from his cuff, the hilt settling comfortably in his right palm.

The driver had been watching his every movement in the rearview mirror. When he saw the blade in Carter's hand, he activated the window and pawed for his gun.

The window had slid less than an inch when Carter jammed Hugo's point into its catch, arresting its downward movement.

LeClerc's hand came up to calm his driver, and a thin smile creased his wide face.

"Once again, you prove your point quite well."

Carter shrugged. "It is an age of specialization. I assume that you, Monsieur LeClerc, are good at what you do. I, at the same time, am a specialist at what I do. Shall we get on with it?"

LeClerc passed the envelope across with another slight shudder.

"Everything you need to know is in here. There is a complete background on the target, as well as photographs and personal habits."

"Current location?"

"It's there, as well as a prediction of any movements in the near future."

"Good," Carter said, slipping the envelope into an inside pocket and lighting another cigarette. "Now, about the remainder of the payment upon completion."

"An additional one hundred thousand dollars upon completion, as agreed. In the envelope there is a Barcelona number to call when the job is done. In light of the quasi-celebrity status of your target, the news media will confirm for us. Within twenty-four hours, the rest of the money will be deposited in your Swiss account."

"Excellent," Carter said. "Now, there is only one more thing. Nels Pomroy."

"What about him?"

"I think I should know a little more about his situation."

"I told you. We think he is dead. Why do you ask?"

"Because I think he may have sold me out somehow. Not informing me of this, for instance." Carter patted the pocket where the envelope rested.

"Quite possible," LeClerc replied, a wan smile accenting his words. "We feel he may have done the same to us."

"How so?"

"I cannot and will not be specific, monsieur. As you have said, you are a specialist. We require your services. Beyond that, our business is none of your business. But I can tell you this. Our organization…"

"Which is…?"

"Also none of your business. Our organization has had a slight rift in leadership…"

"So one wants to get rid of the other," Carter interjected.

"Sadly, that is the case. We thought that Monsieur Pomroy was working exclusively for our side in this little power struggle. It would seem that, in point of fact, his allegiance was for the other side and he was only baiting us, draining our funds, and probably reporting our activities to the other side."

Little pinpricks of warning rippled up Carter's spine to lodge under the hair on the back of his neck.

"Then there is a good chance that the target knows I'm coming."

"Yes. But then, monsieur, you have stated that you are a specialist."

"True, Monsieur LeClerc. Touché."

"Then you will still take the contract?" LeClerc sighed.

"Yes, the challenge intrigues me. But I may need some additional aid: equipment, perhaps some surveillance, and help in escaping when the work is done."

"The Barcelona number can provide you with whatever you need. But I must warn you — my people cannot be actively involved in the kill itself. It would be, shall we say, a public relations faux pas within the group. I'm sure you understand."

"Quite," Carter replied and rescued Hugo from the window catch. "The Luger, butt first."

Reluctantly, Wilhelmina was passed through the opening. Carter leathered it, replaced Hugo, and stepped from the car.

"There will be no need for us to meet again, monsieur," LeClerc said. "Good hunting."

"Adieu," Carter replied and slammed the door.

He kept one eye on the Mercedes and the other on the area as the big car backed around and began to roll down the hill.

The sun was up full-strength now, so he was able to spot the reflections long before he reached his own vehicle. They came from a large group of trees about a quarter of a mile to his left and a greater elevation of about three hundred yards.

Once, in the limousine, he thought he had seen them. Now, walking across the open area toward the little convertible, they were unmistakably following him.

At the car, in full view of whoever was manning the field glasses, Carter dropped the top and slid behind the wheel.

He drove slowly all the way back to the hotel, not wanting to lose whoever was interested in him.

By the time he had deposited the car and strolled into the lobby, it was fairly clear that both sides of LeClerc's organization knew where he had come after the meeting.

To let them know not only where he was but also who he was, he strolled directly to the desk and asked for his key in a loud, clear voice.

"Suite six-eighteen, s'il vous plaît."

"Of course. Monsieur Carstocus."

Carter pocketed the key and strolled into the muted warmth of the hotel's wood-paneled restaurant.

"Un menu, s'il vous plait."

Only when his breakfast had been served and he had requested a second pot of coffee did he remove the envelope from his inside coat pocket.

Slowly he pulled the contents upward from the flap as his eyes searched for the name.

And then he found it.

The target was Armanda de Nerro.