The Code

One

The plane delivered me to a private landing strip in the Florida Keys. A car sat waiting with a tall, expressionless man leaning against the hood. I recognized him. He was one of the two AXE agents who worked as Hawk's body guards. His name, appropriately, was Smith.

This proved to be one of Smith's talkative days. He spoke all of eighteen words as he drove me toward my rendezvous with Hawk.

"The Old Man is biting nails," he said. We were racing along a deserted road with the limousine's speedometer needle nudging 70. "I can't remember when I've seen him in such a foul mood."

The reason for Hawk's unhappiness wasn't difficult to figure out. No one would be unconcerned after losing an agent like David Kirby.

The limousine swept around a curve and I saw a lonely cottage perched at the end of a hardpacked road. Beyond the cottage, an empty dock probed out into the quiet bay. The Gulf of Mexico shimmered in the distance like colored glass hammered by the sun.

A wind was blowing in on the island, tousling Hawk's white hair. He was waiting outside the cottage as we pulled in. Smith's carbon copy, the second expressionless operative who could usually be found near Hawk, stood at the door.

"This is the place where the killings occurred," Hawk said, gesturing with a quick, angry chop of his hand toward the house. "I'll take you inside in a minute."

"Thanks for sending for me."

"I'm not springing you loose on a vendetta, Nick. I sent for you because I need you."

He gave me a level look, then went on. "We've managed to reconstruct some of the details. The killers were driving a small truck. They stopped back there," he pointed, "and cut the telephone wires leading to the house. Then they approached the house and persuaded someone to admit them, probably on the pretense of checking out the phone. We think they were dressed like linemen. They took Kirby and the man Kirby had come here to meet completely by surprise, and killed them and two others who were in the cottage at the time." There was a trace of bitterness in his voice as he added, "We still don't know who they were and we can only guess at their motives."

"How many people are we looking for?"

"As an educated guess, I'd say four. At least two were carrying automatic rifles. One had a shotgun. We found tracks where one of them circled the house to approach it from the rear. He broke in the back door and they caught the men inside in a crossfire. It was an ugly piece of work."

The wind buffeted us as we walked toward the house, Smith following silently behind.

"What was Kirby's assignment?" I asked.

"He came here to talk to the man renting the cottage. The man was Frank Abruze."

The name made me halt in mid-stride. "The Mafia's Frank Abruze?"

"None other. The legendary Frank Abruze. One of the few men the Mafia ever agreed to retire with honors. He'd suffered a heart attack and decided he wanted to spend his last days in Sicily. The Mafia's board of directors voted to okay his retirement and pay him a small pension for loyal service." Hawk permitted himself a thin smile. The pension was somewhat better than a gold watch. Two hundred thousand a year, as a matter of fact. We had learned that Abruze was leaving the country within a few weeks and Kirby had established contact with him."

"I'd be interested to know what they had to talk about, an AXE agent and a former Mafia capo."

"Abruze's travels, Nick. He was a man who was trusted by conflicting factions within the Brotherhood and when they had a touchy errand to be run abroad, they often sent him." Hawk touched my arm. "Let's go inside the cottage now."

Hawk's other bodyguard, whose name was Corbett, opened the door for us. I almost winced when we stepped inside. The place had been closed up for months but it still seemed to hold the smell of death.

"Frank Abruze was an interesting man, an individualist. I won't say I respected him. His record was too bloody," Hawk continued, "but he had been one of the leaders in opposing Mafia involvement in the international drug traffic. He had vigorously fought against it within the last two years, when the U.S. arm of the Mafia was offered a deal by an Asian group that controlled choice opium fields in Indochina."

"This was before the heart attack that led him to retire?"

"Right. Then when Abruze happened to get wise to the Communist guerrilla angle in the deal everything blew sky-high. He laid his findings before the Mafias high council and suggested they reconsider the proposition. This time the vote went his way. There were dissenters, but the board decided to cancel the deal."

"I get the picture. Abruze had information about the opium fields we could use. Kirby was trying to persuade him to give it to us."

"Abruze's virtues were few, but one of them was a belief that communism wasn't the wave of the future. There was reason to hope he would cooperate with us. Also, Kirby had a suspicion that Abruze had some information about the Communists. It's possible that their Mafia contacts were involved with them in more business than just drugs."

"What kind of business?"

"Kirby didn't know. Abruze had only hinted that he knew something that AXE might find very interesting."

Hawk led me into a room where the walls were riddled with bullet holes. He gestured angrily. "The killers didn't take any chances, as you can see. They sprayed enough lead around in here to kill a dozen men."

"Abruze had a tough reputation. Heart attack or no heart attack, he wasn't a man to play around with. They had to make sure there were no survivors."

Hawk nodded. "They were quick and efficient, I'll give them that. And absolutely coldblooded."

"You said two other persons were killed Abruze's boys?"

"His personal bodyguards."

I opened a window and let a breeze in. I thought about the old Mafia capo and my friend Kirby lying on the floor with their bodies torn apart by bullets. I took a deep gulp of the cool air streaming against my face.

"How does the Mafia feel about Abruze's death?"

"My usually reliable sources say they profess to be appalled that one of their trusted elder statesmen got bumped off. But remember that Abruze's views were opposed by some and that he had made enemies in his time. The important thing to me is that one of our top agents was killed under circumstances I can't explain. I don't plan to shrug that off any more than you do. I want the slayers found."

"There are three possibilities," I said. "Communist agents, old enemies of Abruze, or someone who didn't like his putting a damper on the Asian drug deal."

Hawk spilled cigar ashes on his trousers and brushed them away. "Four possibilities. Remember my mentioning Abruze's $200,000 a year pension? He had the first year's payment here in the house. It disappeared along with the killers."

"Ripping off one of the Mafia's most feared capos? It would take a crazy man to come up with an idea like that."

Hawk stood up abruptly. "Look at those bullet holes. Do you think the man responsible for this was sane?"

He had a point.

I followed Hawk outside. "I've seen the house and heard the story, but you didn't rush me down here just for this. What's the rest of it?"

"There was another person in the cottage, one who escaped the slaughter. We've finally found her."

The girl looked like a million pre-inflation dollars. She was a blonde, young, and long-limbed. Although she wore a coat with the collar turned up, I caught a glimpse of her face as she came out of a restaurant and onto the street. She had high, prominent cheekbones and wide, dark eyes — a fragile set of features unmarked by the cynicism and toughness I had expected.

"Freeze it right there," Hawk said to the man operating the projector. We sat in the shadowy projection room of one of AXE's main bases studying the motionless image on the screen. "Her name is Sheila Brant, but she isn't calling herself that anymore," Hawk said. "We had a hell of a time finding her."

I was having trouble believing what Hawk had told me about Sheila Brant. It didn't go with the fineboned face and the soft eyes.

"You sure she was Frank Abruze's mistress?"

"No doubt about it. But we know very little about what she was before Abruze picked her up in Vegas."

I let out a disappointed sigh. I guess there's no law that says a beautiful girl of twenty-two can't find happiness in the bed of an aging Mafia hood. "The old Hon had taste."

"Much like yours, as a matter of fact," said Hawk, his voice grown sardonic. Then he continued, "When we learned that Sheila had been staying at the Florida cottage with Abruze and was not among the dead, we started looking for her. She had hidden her tracks well."

"Who is she running from? AXE, the law, the Mafia?"

"Possibly all three. And possibly someone else besides. You'll be happy to know that I'm going to arrange for you to ask Sheila that question."

I was looking forward to it. I glanced down at the luminous dial of my watch. Although I knew the briefing was necessary, I was beginning to feel the sharp edge of impatience. I was eager to get on the road and on the trail of David Kirby's killers. That trail was already much too cold to suit me.

"This film was made in a small town in Idaho called Bonham. Sheila Brant has been living there for the past two months. You'll have a cover story to explain your sudden appearance. We don't want to frighten the girl into flight again," Hawk told me. "But after you arrive, you'll have to wing it."

"Let's see the rest of the film," I suggested.

The projector started up again. We watched Sheila Brant, one hand in the pocket of her coat, walk to a parked car. Her movements had a fluid grace. As she opened the door of the car, her head jerked around as if she's heard a sound that set her nerves to jangling. When she realized that the sound was harmless relief touched her face.

She got into the car and drove away, the camera followed her until she turned a corner.

"Our man shot the film from a hotel window across the street from the restaurant. The girl works there as a waitress," Hawk said. This was eight days ago. Our man didn't try to make contact. That's your job. To establish contact with Sheila and if necessary a relationship. We need to know what she knows. All of it."

The projector clicked off and lights burst on, filling the room with brightness.

"Well, did the film tell you anything?" Hawk asked me.

"You were right. She is frightened. She was carrying a weapon in the right hand pocket of her coat. Also, she has good legs."

"I thought you'd notice all of that," said Hawk dryly. "Make sure you keep your eye on her right hand as well as her legs."

He handed me the folder he'd been holding in his lap. It contained AXE's file on Sheila and a summary of my cover story. I had the rest of the day to commit them to memory, to get my phony identification prepared, and to familiarize myself with the special equipment I'd be taking with me to Idaho.

I left the Sheila Brant file in the living quarters to which I had been assigned, then picked up my phony identification. The Ned Harper pictured on the driver's license looked exactly like Nick Carter. He had a hard face, but I rather liked it. Along with the identification, I got a suitcase packed with personal belongings appropriate to the part I would be playing in Idaho. The clothing looked neither new nor tailored, but it fit me perfectly.

I spent an hour in the arms room. I checked out a case that contained, among other deadly items, a high-powered rifle with a long range sight. Together with my personal arms the case gave me as much firepower as some police departments.

Another of my stops was the base's electronics department. Acting on orders from Hawk, our experts had packed a kit for me. It looked like a shaving kit but it contained sensitive bugging devices, a camera, and a tiny tape recorder. I doubted that I would need any of this equipment, but Hawk wasn't overlooking anything.

I had one more visit to make — to the shed where mechanics had been working on the car I'd be driving when I became a man named Ned Harper. One of the mechanics was a sturdy little man in his forties who said he'd heard a lot about Nick Carter and had been wanting to meet me. I decided not to tell him that half of what he'd heard probably wasn't true.

"Our orders were to give you a car that looked like it came off a cheap second-hand lot, but one that would really scat," he said with a grin. "That's what we've done. This baby isn't pretty, but I think you'll fall in love with her. She responds like a French whore."

We walked to the other side of the shed. The mechanic pointed toward a short stretch of obstacle-littered road. "That's where we try her out. A test driver is about to put her through her paces."

A three-year-old Ford, the paint flecked in spots and one of the fenders dented, sat purring at the end of the obstacle course. The driver, wearing a crash helmet, waved a hand to us, then abruptly slammed down the accelerator. The car took off like a scalded cat.

"I promise you can get 120 per hour out of her in a pinch," the little mechanic said proudly. "We've got her tuned like a concert violin."

The car was bearing down on the obstacles. I thought it would hit the first one, but the driver cut the wheel at the last minute. He zigzagged the car along the course, tires screeching. At the end of the course, he slammed the brakes and skidded the car into a deliberate spin, whipping it around with a Hollywood stuntmans flair before he straightened out and drove back to us.

"That man should be driving at Indianapolis," I said.

The mechanic's grin widened. "Do you like surprises, Carter?"

I saw what he meant when the driver got out of the car, removed the crash helmet, and shook out a mane of bright red hair. Even with her body concealed by shapeless coveralls, there was no doubt that the test driver was entirely female. Built on a large frame, the redhead was my height and would have made almost two of the little mechanic. In fact, she could probably have packed him on a five-mile hike without breathing hard.

Her cheeks flushed, she walked over to us, the helmet swinging in her hand.

"What do you think, N3?" she said, using my Killmaster rank instead of my name. Among girls who looked as striking as she did, I tried to encourage a little more familiarity than that.

"Of the car, or the driver?" I asked.

Fire flared in her green eyes. "The car, of course. I don't give a damn what you think of the driver."

I glanced at the mechanic, who shrugged, then beat a diplomatic retreat. He didn't want to be a witness when this magnificent redhead chopped the famed Nick Carter into little pieces with her scorn.

"What have I done to you?" I asked her, slightly bewildered.

"Nothing at all. Let's see that it stays that way, N3."

There it was again, the rank instead of the name. I took this and the glint of fire in her eyes as a challenge. "I thought you were showing off a little bit when you were behind the wheel of the car," I said. "Was it for my benefit?"

"Of course you'd think that. You were probably astonished to see that a woman could handle a car better than you can." Her proud lip curled, but it only made her full mouth more inviting. "Let's get the obvious out of the way right now, N3. You may be worshiped as a bedroom athlete by some of the girls around here, but I'm not impressed by your reputation."

"What does impress you — performance? Maybe we can arrange a demonstration."

She laughed as though the suggestion amused her. She tugged at the zipper that ran down the front of her baggy coveralls. "Do you know what I was told, N3? I was told that if you were on a plane that was crashing, you'll still find time to proposition the stewardess."

That's true," I told her. "In fact, I'm the one who said that."

She shrugged the coveralls off her shoulders and wriggled out of them, managing to make the procedure as titillating as a strip tease. Underneath her work clothes, she was wearing hip-hugging pants and a sweater that clung to her curves like the skin on a grape.

"I respect you as a professional. The rank N3 means something," she said. "But let's keep our conversation on the professional level, shall we?"

I couldn't think of anything that interested me less, except possibly delivering a temperance lecture at a home for old maids.

"The car handled well for you, but I'd like to try it out for myself," I told her.

I got under the steering wheel, awoke the motor, and backed the car up. Then I gunned it. I took the course as fast as the girl had and finished up by braking the car into a tire-screeching double spin. When I got out, tossed her the keys, and said, "It'll do," I thought she'd spit in my face.

"Now who's the show-off?" she said, but there was a hint of surprise mixed with the sarcasm in her voice.

"The car doesn't look like much, but it's got a lot under the hood. You look like a lot of woman, but maybe you aren't so much. I'm curious enough to wonder about that." I dropped the duplicate key to my quarters into her hand. "If you want to use this it'll have to be tonight. I'm leaving the base in the morning."

"What makes you think I'd even consider using it?"

"Maybe you're as curious as I am," I said.

Back in my quarters I tugged off my coat, baring the stripped-down Luger in the quick-draw rig under my left arm. The armament I checked out from AXE varied from assignment to assignment, but I was never without my personal weapons: the Luger I called Wilhelmina; the stiletto, Hugo, up my sleeve; and taped to my inner thigh, the tiny gas bomb, Pierre. The bomb could kill everyone in a closed room within seconds; all that was required was a hard twist that snapped its shell.

Opening the desk drawer, I took out the folder Hawk had given me. I flipped back the cover and frowned in annoyance. I thought I remembered leaving the copy of my cover story on top of the file. Now the first page was the sheet containing Sheila's physical description and a still photograph excerpted from the film I'd seen earlier that day.

I told myself I had to be mistaken. I shuffled through the contents of the folder, but there was no sign of the single-page story. Well, no use worrying about it now, I reflected. An outsider would find infiltrating an AXE base as difficult as smuggling a steamboat into a football stadium.

Still vaguely uneasy, I settled down to read over the file on the Brant girl. As Hawk had said, there were no details on her past. She might have been born the weekend Frank Abruze had picked her up in Las Vegas. After AXE discovered her in Idaho, however, the data was painstakingly complete — the hours she worked as a waitress, what time she usually went to bed, and even a penciled sketch of the floor plan of the house she rented.

Many times I had wished that I had a photographic memory. Since I didn't have one, I'd developed my own methods for anchoring key facts in my mind. I jotted down notes in the pocket notebook I carry and read them over, scanned the floor plan of Sheila's house, then stretched out on the bed, pushing everything out of my thoughts except the material I'd been reading.

I must have dozed off. I awoke in darkness, alerted by a sound so tiny I couldn't define it.

It came again, just a faint scratching sound, metal touching metal. I surged off the bed and landed in a crouch with the Luger in my hand.

The door opened and a yellow stripe of light raced across the floor. The redhead said, "You have quick reflexes, N3."

I relaxed, realizing the sound I'd heard had been her key turning in the door. I wasn't embarrassed to be caught with a gun in my hand. The instinct that had brought me off the bed had saved my life more than once.

"Turn on the light. The button's on the wall behind you," I told the girl.

She flicked the switch, then tossed me the key. "If you're leaving tomorrow, I won't be needing this again, will I?"

I palmed the key, grinning. "So you got curious."

She shrugged. "I guess I just had to find out if you're all that I've been told."

"Why don't you close the door and introduce yourself?" I said.

She closed it without taking her eyes off me. The challenge still glinted in their green depths.

"Patricia Steele," she said.

Removing my shoulder rig, I hung it on the back of a chair and slid the Luger into the holster. "How long have you been working for AXE?"

"A year, approximately. Now ask how a nice girl like me got into this business."

"Let me hazard a guess. You wanted to prove you could do anything a man could do."

"Oh, you're a cunning bastard," she said without a noticeable degree of malice.

"I have a bottle of Scotch," I said. "A gift from our boss. Shall I break it out?"

"I didn't come here to drink," she said. She peeled her sweater over her head and pitched it at a chair.

She wore a black lace bra. Well, half a bra. Her cups were running over. Well-endowed was one of the inadequate descriptions that sprang to mind as I eyed her.

Shaking out the bright red mane of hair, she smiled at me. The smile was part taunt, part promise.

I remembered her line from that afternoon. I repeated it. "Now who's showing off?"

"I am," she admitted. "But you like it."

Still smiling, she tugged down the zippered fly of her slacks, wriggled out of the heap they made at her feet. Now she wore only the black bra and a matching splash of black lace below.

Calmly she walked to the bed and sat down on the edge. She unfastened the bra and pulled it away from her large breasts. With a casual movement of her arm, she draped the garment across the headboard, then lay back on my pillow.

"I'll leave the pants for you," she said. "I thought you might like to tear them off me."

Something other than a challenge was shining in her eyes now. Excitement, desire.

When I shed my clothing, and she saw the stiletto and the gas bomb, she exclaimed, "My God, you re a walking arsenal."

I grinned lewdly. "You re packing a pair of cannonballs yourself."

Her laugh was husky and uninhibited. She might be out to prove she was the equal of any man, but she certainly didn't mind being regarded as a sexual object "Come on, N3," she urged.

"Nick," I told her. "The bed is no place for formality."

"Nick. Nick," she said, "I'm ready."

I tore the lace pants off her. She had been right. I enjoyed doing it.

Pat was a strong girl. I felt muscles ripple in her back as we embraced. Her mouth was soft and warm, her tongue quick and darting. I buried my face in her breasts and her fingers clawed in my hair. When I toyed with her hard nipples, she writhed and growled like a hungry cat.

My hands slid down to her buttocks and I raised her to meet my opening thrust. I sank deep inside her and heard her moan. Her body ground against me. When I sped my movements, she bucked and shook the bed. She had the lithe power of an animal.

"Nick," she gasped. "Let's finish together."

As far as I was concerned, her timing was perfect. All of it, as a matter of fact, had been perfect.

Her hand slid down my thigh, exploring. "Muscles. You're quite a hunk of meat, Mr. Carter."

"So are you."

"I wasn't prepared for this. You're even better than I'd been told."

"I take it. I've earned more than your professional respect."

She laughed. "May I sleep here tonight?"

"You can stay the night," I said "I don't know how much sleep you'll get."