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Race of death

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RACE OF DEATH

1
KAPIOLANI PARK IN in Honolulu is everything the
travel brochures say it is, and more. Nothing in
print can come even close to describing the beauty
of the lush green tropical plants and the deep,
almost unreal blue of the 'ky sharply contrasting
with the perfect white of the puffy .clouds. Less
than five miles away, the majestic crown of Dia-
mond Head, beyond Waikiki Beach, has to be seen
to be believed.
But I was bored.
My chief, David Hawk, kingpin in AXE, had set
this assignment up for me. two weeks ago, and at
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first I had come back from my rest-and-
recuperation leave in Arizona with high hopes for
another exciting mission. But that excitement had
soon faded to boredom with the full impact of what
Hawk had told me.
"You're going to be a bodyguard for the presi-
dent, Nick, 'i Hawk told me in his office on Dupont
Circle of Amalgamated Press—AXES front or-
ganization in Washington, D.C.
"What!" I said, coming forward in my chair.
"Bodyguard? Jesus, he must have a thousand of
them. What does he need with another one?"
Hawk's expression was deadly serious. "He is
going to be assassinated somewhere and sometime
during his ten-day world tour."
"How do you know that?" I asked, relaxing
only slightly.
Hawk handed a single sheet of paper across the
desk to me, and while he talked I quickly scanned
its contents, which appeared to be the transcript of
a shortwave radio broadcast.
"The CIA intercepted that transmission three
days ago from Lisbon. We don't know exactly
where it was being directed, but we're assuming it
was meant for someone in western Europe."
I looked up after a moment. "This is nothing
more than some kind of a schedule, or maybe a
very detailed itinerary."
"Right," Hawk said. "Now look at this one."
He handed me a second sheet, this one labeled TOP
SECRET and headed, PRESIDENTIAL ITINERARY.
It took me only a moment to realize that both
pieces of paper contained exactly the same
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schedule. Whoever had sent the message from
Lisbon had obviously known the president's travel
plans down to the last detail, including hotel rooms
and even the license numbers of the limousines
that would be used to take the chiefexecutive from
place to place in each country.
"Those travel plans were given to the presi•
dent's security service and the CIA only four days
ago—one day before the Lisbon broadcast,"
Hawk said, chewing absentmindedly on his ever
present cigar.
"There's a leak in the Secret Service; or more
likely in the CIA,"' I said, handing the papers back.
' 'So what? We've known that all along. As far as
I've always been led to believe, ift one of the
reasons AXE was created."
"Right," Hawk said tersely. "But why do you
suppose someone in Lisbon would bother to send
our presidenfi travel plans to someone or some
organization in Europe? And in fact, why would
the Portugese be interested in such detailed plans
in the first place? "IWo days ago the president an-
nounced his world tour to the press, listing the
countries andcities he would visit, along with the
dates. What reason would anyone have to want
more detailed information?"
Hawk's message was coming over loud and
clear. "Assassination," I said, half under my
breath.
g 'Right again," Hawk said. ' 'And we've been
handed the job of stoppingit."
"Why not the Secret Service itself?" I blurted,
but then realized what I had just said.
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Hawk started to protest, but I held up my hand.
"I understand, sir," I said meekly. "Someone in
Lisbon got the travel plans in the first place be-
cause there was a leak. Now if we tell the Secret
Service that there will probably be an assassina-
tion attempt, the same leak will transfer the infor-
mation back to Lisbon, who will in turn make
damn sure their plans are foolproof."
Hawk nodded as he relit his cigar. "That's
where you come in, Nick," he said, shaking out
his match. ' €1 want you to go along with the presi-
dent on this trip. He'll be leaving Washington ory
the twenty-first, and you'll be with him as a per;
sonal bodyguard under his orders only."
"Does he know about the arrangement?" I
asked.
"Yes, although he doesn't like it much. Hes of
the same opinion you are—he, too, thinks he has
too many guards around him. But we've managed
to convince him that this time it won't be just
another Sirhan Sirhan or Lee Harvey Oswald tak-
ing a pot shot at him. If and when the try comes,
it'll be more professional than that. And those two
were successful."
I thought about that a moment. ' 'If and when the
attempt comes," Hawk had said. That meant a lot
of sitting around with little or nothing to do until an
attempt was made and I could get a handhold on
this case.
"What about the Secret Service?" I asked.
"What have they been told about me?"
"Absolutely nothing, Nick. And they are to
know nothing. As far as they are concernedy
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you're nothing more than another Secret Service
man, but you've been handpicked by the president
himself, and no one will give you any trouble.
Under no circumstances can you blow your AXE
identity."
"What about my background?"
"Research has got that worked up for you,"
Hawk said. 'K You'll remain Nick Carter, but
you've been with the CIA in their western-
European division. You got sick of that business,
asked for a transfer, and got stuck with the Secret
Service. You don't like the assignment, but you've
got it."
This was just great, I thought. Not only was I
going to have to hide from the assassins, whoever
they were, but was also going to have to hide
under my cover identity from our own people.
Hawk was talking again, and I returned my at-
tention to him.
"Theres one thing about this case we haven't
been able to figure, however," he said thought-
fully, as he examined the end of his cigar.
"Sir?"
"The Portugese. As far as we've been able to
determine, both on and off the record, they have
no reason to want our president. dead. At least
officially, he's well liked in Lisbon."
"Maybe it's a splinter group, like the Arab ter-
rorists, "
I suggested.
"No . . . "
Hawk hesitated a moment. "Por-
tugese security is too tight for that, although the
transmission may håve been the work of some
government faction we know nothing about.
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That's part of your mission. I not only want you to
thwart any attempt on the president's life, but I
also want you to find out who is behind this and
why."
"IWo days later I had cleared AXE headquarters
and was given an immediate appointment to see
the president. For now I continued to work out of
my apartment, but I would soon be leaving with
the presidential party. That gave me only a short
time here in the States and then ten days overseas
to figure out what was going on, and I figured I was
going to be pretty busy, at least for a while.
"President Magnesen will see you now, Mr.
Carter," the presidenft appointments secretary
said to me as he came from the Oval office.
I quickly rose from the chair I had been sitting in
for the last hour and followed the man into the
president's office.
"Mr. Carter," the secretary announced, and
then left, closing the door.
President Robert Magnesen was shorter and
huskier than I had thought—not over six feet tall
and 190 pounds or more. The times I had seen him
on television, I had imagined him to be much taller
and thinner. But his youthful, boyish face, longish
hairdo for a man in his position, and fantastically
charismatic smile came on even stronger in person
as he got up and came around the large desk to
where I stood. He held out his hand.
"David Hawk has told me alot about you," he
said in his Eastern accent. '6And your service re-
cord is impressive."
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I shook his hand and smiled uncertainly, won-
deringjust what the hell Hawk hawtold him about
me. "Thank you, sir," I said.
He indicated a chair for me, and he perched at
the edge of his desk.
" As I told your boss, I'm not especially pleased
to get AXE involved in something like this, and
I'm not so sure that the Lisbon message is what it
seemed to be. But for the moment I'm willing to go
along with you."
"Yes, sir," I said. It was hard to look the man
directly in the eyes. His gaze was penetrating, and
it seemed that when he looked at you, no secrets
could remain in your head.
But then he smiled, again and chuckled.
"Enough of a lecture. You're here assigned as a
Secret Service personal bodyguard under my or-
ders only. Derrick Stone—he's the head of the
White House Secret Service contingent—is a
good man. He'll probably fuss and fume a little
because you're an unknown around here, but he'll
get used to the idea. Besides, it will only be for ten
days or perhaps less."
The last was said more in the form of a question
to me, and I nodded. "I hope so, sir, but . .. "
"But what?"
"l don't quite know how to put this, sir," I
started.
C 'Tell it straight, Carter. Like I said, the lecture
is over. From this point on, I'.m going to follow
your orders as long as they don't get too silly. But
if we're going to work together for the next week
or so, I don't want any pussyfooting around. If
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you've got something to say, say it. I'll listen."
"Yes, sir," I said, somewhat relieved. At least I
would not have to watch every little move I made
for fear ofoffending some sensitive politician. And
I had to admit I was beginning to like the president.
"All right then," he said, going back behind his
desk and sitting in his chair. "What's in store for
me?"
I sat forward. "First of all, Mr. President, we're
fairly certain that there will be some assassination
attempt. And like it or not, it has some Portugese
backing. We're not sure if ift the government in
Lisbon or just a faction group, but it does have
support and therefore will be damned profes-
sional."
"How do you know that?" the president asked.
"Only a highly organized and well-financed
group could have come up with your itinerary so
fast," I said.
"We've had some pretty good relations with
Portugal so far," the president said. "So whatever
happens, I don't want any toes stepped on."
"That's not my job, Mr. President, it's yours," I
said. "I'm here only to make sure that whenever
and wherever the attempt is made, it's stopped.
Additionally I am going to find out just who is
behind this and if possible, why. What you will do
with that information . . .
' I let it trail off.
"I'm with you so far," the president said, a
slight, wry smile playing across his handsome fea-
tures. "How do you propose to do all that?"
"I'm going to be like your secondskin. I'm
hoping that the first attempt will be made fairly
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early in your tour, which will leave me time to run
down that lead and see where it takes us."
"First attempt?" the president said, no longer
smiling.
"Yes, sin As I said before, this will be a profes-
sional job, and professionals do not give up with
one or two failures. They'll keep trying either until
you are dead or until I've run their organization
down and wiped it out."
The president thought about that for a moment.
"Quite an assignment you've got yourself."
"Yes, sir." I nodded. "Any one of hundreds of
hotel employees, any one of ten thousand people
lining a crowded street, any one of literally most of
the world's population could be a triggerman wait-
ing for just the right moment."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Just act normal," I said. "But if I should knock
you down or tell you to move, I'll expect you to
instantly obey ... sir. You can chew me out later if
I was wrong."
The president broke out into a loud laugh, and
between gasps he managed to stammer, " All right,
Carter, it's a deal."
Meeting the president had been the easy part, I
thought as I brought myself back to Kapiolani
Park, where I stood a few yards to the side of the
speaker's podium. About five thousand people had
gathered so far, most of them sitting on the grass,
picnic fashion, waiting for the president to arrive.
This was going to- be his kickoff speech for his
ten-day world tour, and he wanted everything to
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go perfectly. Television crews from all three net-
works had set up their mobile equipment, and the
podium bristled -with a dozen or more micro-
phones.
Beyond the crowd, busy Honolulu was spread
out below us, and behind the podium the lush
foothills led sharply toward the base of the Koolau
Range, which was like a raised backbone for the
island of Oahu. To the left, rising up until it almost
blotted out that section of the sky, was the massive
Diamond Head, jutting out to sea.
An attack, if it happened here today, could come
from almost any direction. Anyone in the crowd
could be the assassin, and although Secret Service
men were stationed well back into the lush green
above and behind the podium, a professional could
make his way through the lines.
In the distance now I could faintly hear the
sirens from the presidential motorcade as it ap-
proached the park. But the sounds were a long way
off, and I knew it would be at least another five
minutes before they arrived.
Against my better judgment, the president had
convinced me that he would be perfectly safe rid-
ing from the hotel to the park in his bulletproof
limousine. He had suggested that I go ahead and
check out the area from which he would make his
speech. So far I had found nothing suspicious, but
it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. For
now I contented myself with standing by the
podium and waiting for the president's arrival.
After seeing the president on my first day of this
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assignment, I bad gone through the tough part,
meeting Derrick Stone, who was as craggy and
gruff a man as I have ever met.
Stone did not believe my cover story for one
instant, but he was shrewd enough to realize that if
the president had wanted him in on the real story,
he would have told him everything. So although
Stone did not like my presence on his security
force, he was forced to put up with it.
His office was down the hall just a few steps
from the president's, and when I was shown in,
Stone greeted me with silence. After a moment I
took out one of my specially blended cigarettes
with NC embossed in gold on the filter tip, lit it,
and sat down, matching the older man's steady
gaze with one of my own.
Stone finally broke the silence. "I don't know
what strings you pulled for this duty, or even why
the CIA ever released you, but since you're here
and evidently working directly for the president
himself, there are a few things I am going to have to
brief you on."
I nodded but said nothing. I had seen a lot of men
like Stone over the past years. He was a profes-
sional, there was absolutely no doubt of that, but
beyond his specific role he was like a fish out of
water. Situations too far out of the ordinary—like
the case I was assigned to now—would have been
beyond his training. I had to admit though, that his
job would be beyond me—and I would soon be-
come bored with ft. But Stone was not bored; in
fact, he seemed to' thoroughly enjoy what he was
doing, almost to the point of being pompous. Al-
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though I' ve learned not to stick to first impressions
or snap judgments, at this point I did not like
Stone, and it was obvious the feeling was mutual.
"As you may already know," Stone continued,
"the president is a very visible man. He does not
like Secret Service personnel to get too close to
him—it blows his image, I suppose. But it makes
our job a damned tough one. How or why he
decided to let you in and close to him is beyond
me, but since you'll be closer than any of us, I'll
expect you to do a good job."
I nodded and wondered idly what Stone would
say and how he would react if he knew my true
identity and what my mission was.
Stone handed across a single sheet of paper
containing the president's itinerary—the same one
that had been intercepted from the Lisbon broad-
cast and the same one that had been distributed
routinely through channels to AXE.
I pretended to study it closely while trying to
figure out just how the hell I could get out of his
office without making him even more suspicious. I
did not think I could stand too much more of his
prattling.
But it wasn't to be. Stone kept me closeted in his
office that afternoon for almost three hours, going
over the president's likes and dislikes in infinite
detail.
"Above all," he had said in parting. "The presi-
dent does not like to bejostled. And if I see you are
getting too damned close, I'll pull you off myself,
no matter what he says about it."
'0 Yes, sir," I said, smiling and nodding.
My duties for the next three days consisted of
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merely shadowing the president wherever he
went, to get myself used to his routines. And then
on the twentieth, yesterday, we had all boarded
Air Force -One for the flight west, stopping at
Travis Air Force Base in California only long
enough to refuel before we pressed on to Hon-
olulu.
Now; ten hours later, the presidential motor-
cade was arriving at the park entrance and pulling
up behind the podium, where the president
emerged amid a crowd of newspeople and Secret
Service men.
I could feel the blood begin to tingle and my
heart begin to beat a little faster against my ribs as
President Magnesen climbed the steps to the
podium, waved at the cheering crowd, and then
motioned for them to be silent.
The last strains of ' 'Hail to the Chief'S died out
from the small brass band to one side of the
platform, and Magnesen began to speak
about the purpose of his world tour—which was,
he said, to promote world peace through a new
global economic cooperation that would lead to
prosperity for all peoples.
As he spoke, I scanned the crowd, but nothing
seemed out of the ordinaryv Of course, it
wouldn't, I told myself, as the president settled
into his speech, which obviously was going to be a
long one. You never knew when a hand would
come up, a gun would be pointed, and several
shots would ring put. No one had suspected it
would happen in Dallas or in Los Angeles, but it
had.
I strolled casually through the crowd pressed
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nearest the podium, hoping against hope that if
something was going to happen here today I would
be able to catch a glimpse of a gun before it was too
late. Very few people paid any attention to me as I
moved about, and the few who did glanced my way
only momentarily and then turned their attention
back to the president, whose amplified voice
boomed and reverberated through the park.
I was on my third circuit through the crowd, and
Magnesen was just winding up his speech, when
something caught my attention, and my hand went
instinctively to Wilhelmina, my Luger, holstered
beneath my sport coat. But then I stopped. What
was it? What had caused the reaction?
And then I suddenly knew, as the dark shadow
flashed once more over the crowd. I snapped
around toward the podium and looked up in time to
see a pale blue hang glider, almost invisible against
the blue sky, floating gracefully in a large circle
less than fifty yards from the president and less
than a hundred feet off the ground.
I could make out the form ofa man strapped in
the harness, dressed in a pale bluejumpsuit, just as
he raised what appeared to be an automatic
weapon of some kind.
I ran several steps forward, pushing through the
crowd to the open space between the front row of
people and the podium, drawing Wilhelmina.
The hang glider was swooping down lower now
and moving quite fast toward the president. I
dropped to my knee as the president, suddenly
becoming aware of my presence in front of him,
stopped talking. I could hear the gasp rippling
through the crowd.
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I aimed my Luger with both hands, slightly lead-
ing the form dangling beneath the huge blue sail,
and squeezed Offa shot just as a spray of automatic
fire slammed into the podium floor a few inches
from the president. I quickly squeezed off another
shot, and the assassin's head snapped back, the
automatic rifle falling from his grasp. A third shot
from my Luger hit him somewhere in the chest,
and a spray of blood splashed down on the presi-
dent, who had dropped to the floor beneath three
Secret Service men. The hang glider swooped
sharply to the left and crashed in the middle of the
crowd, injuring at least a half dozen people, I was
sure.
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FROM THE MOMENT I had first spotted the hang
glider until I quickly got to my feet could not have
been more than twenty-five or thirty seconds, but
already the president was being -hustled into his
waiting limousine by at least a half dozen Secret
Service men, while others were converging on the
would-be killer.
Most of the people in the large crowd had been
stunned into inactivity by the shots, but now they
were coming alive. Several women were scream-
ing, some men were swearing loudly, and a mass
exodus was already beginning.
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Apparently the assassin had been working here
alone, and there would be no further attempts, at
least for the moment. But for a first attempt it had
been very smooth.
I holstered Wilhelmina and pushed through the
thinning crowd toward where the hang glider had
crashed, about a hundred yards away. As I went, I
scanned the area surrounding the park, stopping in
midstride when my gar came to Diamond Head.
Of course. The hang glider had been launched
from somewhere up the big peak. With the proper
winds the man must have sailed for five miles or
more, slowly and silently zeroing in on his target.
Only the chance shadow from the giant kitelike
wing had given him away.
If a cloud had been covering the sun, or if I had
not chanced to look that way at just that moment,
the president would now be dead, and the assassin
would have floated gracefully off somewhere be-
hind the park, no doubt to a waiting accomplice
with a car.
-But now, of course, the car would be long gone,
surely untraceable and certainly unnoticed in all
this confusion.
I reached the hang glider just as the distant
sounds of ambulance sirens floated to us on the
breeze.
Several people were lying on the ground around
the huge metal-framed glider. At least two of them
were probably dead. Several others were sitting
holding their arms or legs, moaning. The assassin
had been pulled from beneath the crumpled
wreckage, and already Derrick Stone was check-
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ing through the pockets of his jumpsuit while one
of his men was fingerprinting the dead man.
Stone looked up when I stopped just in front of
"Find anything?" I asked.
He scowled, then shook his head. "Not a thing
except for this," he said, and handed up a loaded
clip for an American-made AR15 automatic rifle.
Then he straightened up and pulled me aside.
"Look, Carter, " he said, his voice low, "I don't
know exactly going on. But I do know that
out of the clear blue sky you were assigned to be
the president S handpicked personal man, and a
few days' later someone tries to assassinate him. I
may be a big dummy, and maybe I'll never get any
further than head of the presidential detail, but
goddammit I can't work in the dark. What's going
In his office Stone had been a dull, plodding
bureaucrat, but out here in the field, and under fire,
he had transformed into a highly emcient cop. My
estimation of his abilities went up a couple of
hundred percent.
"I can't tell you a thing, Stone. Not now. But as
soon as we're done here, we'll have a little chat
with the president. Maybe he can clear up a few
things for you."
Stone searched my eyes for a long moment, then
grunted. "Good enough for me, I suppose," he
said, and then his lips curled into the faintest trace
ofa smile. "That was nice shooting."
I was about to nod my thanks, but he had al-
ready turned back to the assassin, giving orders to
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his people to have the body immediately removed
to the city morgue.
The television-news crews had set up their
equipment and zeroed in on the scene, but Stone
had ordered them away, and now they were pull-
ing their equipment back, as commentators faced
the cameras, trying to explain what had happened.
I turned just in time to see one of the newsmen
heading my way, and I hurried along with Stone
and the others heading back to the president's
hotel, but not before I had got a good look at the
dead marfi face, partially shattered from my sec-
ond shot where I had hit him in the forehead over
the right eye.
I rode in the back seat of Stone's car, crammed
in with two other Secret Service men, as we raced
out ofthe park toward downtown Honolulu. As we
drove the dead man's features kept coming back
into my mind's eye.
He had been a small man with dark, almost olive
complexion. His hair was jet-black and well
greased, and his fingernails were well manicured.
His hands reminded me of the hands of a
classical-guitar player.
That he was of Spanish origin I had no doubt.
And I had even less doubt about his exact national-
ity.
It took only a few minutes to reach the presi-
dent's hotel, but during that short time Stone was
busy on the car's telephone giving orders at the
morgue for an immediate autopsy, then contacting
the local FBI to press them for a quick rundown on
the assailant's fingerprints and mug shot from the
vast but undiscriminating computer complex in
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Washington, D.C. On my suggestion, Stone also
called the CIA offce in Honolulu and requested
the same quick action from their Langley files.
" Within a few hours we should be getting some-
thing back," Stone said, turning to me after his last
call.
' 'I doubt it," I half-mumbled.
He eyed me suspiciously but said nothing, and
we pulled up in front of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel,
piled out of the car, and marched into the lobby.
The president had the entire top floor of the
twenty-seven-story luxury hotel all to himself and
his aides. It had been reserved for him not as a
luxury, but as a measure of security. Everywhere
the president went he was always isolated from
other people. It was the only way the Secret Ser-
vice could have even a chance of keeping him
alive. And that task seemed to be getting more
diffcult by the hour.
Only one elevator was in service to the top floor,
and it, like the three sets of stairs up, was heavily
guarded. Even though the three Secret Service
men on duty at the elevator knew Stone person-
ally, they still asked to see his ID card, as well as
my own.
When we had passed inspection the elevator
doors slid open and we were allowed to enter.
On the way up Stone said nothing more to me,
but I could see that his mind was working like a set
of high-speed gears. He was ready at any moment
to explode in a flury of activity. I only hoped that
the president would know the right buttons to push
to calm him down.
The elevator came to a halt, and the doors slid
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open, depositing us into the arms of three more
Secret Service men. The ID routine was carried
out once again, but Stone did not seem to mind.
Now that the president was out of danger, at least
for the moment, Stone seemed to have slipped
back into his old mold of enjoying the heavy-
handed bureaucracy.
This time both of us were frisked as well, and the
quick examination turned up Stone's .38 Police
Special, as well as my Luger, but not Hugo, my
pencil-thin, razor-sharp stiletto in its chamois case
just above my wrist, or Pierre,.the tiny gas bomb
AXE had developed for Killmasters, which fit into
a specially designed pouch attached to my thigh,
almost like a third testicle.
When we were finally cleared, we were shown
down the conidor by one of the elevator guards to
the presidential suite, where Stone knocked once
and entered.
InSide, we were stopped in the foyer by the
president's appointments secretary, who took our
names and told us to wait until we were an-
nounced. Then he turned on his heel and went into
the main room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
From inside I could hear what sounded like an
argument, and I was able to pick out at least the
president's voice among the voices of five men,
one of whom sounded quite young.
Stone looked at me disapprovingly when he
noticed that I was eavesdropping, but I merely
shrugged. It was a natural instinct with me. The
more information I had about any case I was work-
ing on, the happier I was. Eavesdropping, even on
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the president, was routine.
The loud, angry voices stopped a moment later,
and then the appointments secretary—an older
man with a neatly trimmed white moustache,
dressed in an impeccable gray business suit—
ushered Stone and me into the president's suite,
and Magnesen rose to meet us.
He looked somewhat shaken by the experience,
but he was recovering well. Five other people
were in the room with him, and I recognized only
two of them. One of them was the secretary of
defense, who rose.
"Stone," the older man said, his voice booming
surprisingly loud for a man of such slight statures
"maybe you can talk some sense into him. Appar-
ently, we cannot."
"Take it easy, Bob—you're just overreacting,"
President Magnesen said to the man. Then he
turned to us. "Come in and sit down, gentlemen."
Stone's manner had suddenly changed to ner-
vousness in Magnesen's presence, and he perched
on the edge of his chair, which had been pulled
around to face the couch on which the president
slumped. I sat in one of the easy chairs alongside
Stone and surveyed the room, which seemed as
big as a couple of football fields but was decorated
with the peak of elegance and taste that could be
found on the. Hawaiian Islands.
Large sliding glass doors were open to let in the
breeze because, as Stone had told me back in
Washington, one of the things the president hated
most of all was air Gonditioning. He had been an
outdoorsman as a youth, and he disliked and mis-
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trusted anything closed or confining.
TWO security men were stationed on the balcony
and would be relieved every four hours to make
sure they did not become bored and therefore be-
come lax in their vign. They were equipped with
high-powered rifles, hidden out of sight, and
walkie-talkies. If trouble came from the outside, a
pair of heavily armed helicopters would swoop
down to cover the windows while Secret Service
men from every floor in the hotel would converge
on this suite.
For the moment, at least, the president was
relatively safe. But how long we could keep him
that way was a good question.
He was speaking to Stone.
"You people did a good job out there, Stone,"
he said in a soothing tone.
The secretary of defense and one of the other
men grunted in disgust and turned their stares
directly at Stone, who stiffened uncomfortably
under their gaze.
V' We were . . . uh . . . lucky, sir," Stone said
almost timidly. "But we might not be ... uh ... the
next time."
The president shifted his steady gaze to me, and
I returned the stare.
"Stone is correct, Mr. President," I said care-
fully. g 'There is no real way to guarantee your
safety if you continue with your tour."
I was
choosing my words and the tone of my voice very
carefully. On the one hand, if the president did
cancel his tour because of incident, I would
be off the hook as far as this case was concerned.
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But on the other hand, something inside me cannot
stand to see a job left undone. And the only way
this case was going to be solved was with bait, but
the real item—the president himself.
The secretary of defense removed his glasses
and shook his head. "There, you see, Mr. Presi-
dent, your own handpicked man, a man you told us
was the cream ofthe crop from the CIA, a man you
said you were assigning as your personal body-
guard, and a man who today saved your life with
some fancy shooting—even he agrees with us."
The president smiled wearily, turning toward
the defense secretary and the others—evidently
cabinet members or advisors. "Gentlemen, I have
every confidence in the abilities of Mr. Stone and
his people, as well as Mr. Carter. But if someone
wants badly enough to assassinate a president of
the United States, they can do it just as easily in
Washington as they can in Cairo or Peking or Paris
or Bonn."
s 'Or Honolulu," the secretary of defense inter-
jected. He turned around in his chair and called out
across the roomto a young man with extremely
long hair, wearing faded dungarees, a sweat shirt,
and dirty tennis shoes, whom I recognized as the
president's somewhat radical son.
"Stanley, come over here and convince your
father that he should cancel this trip."
Stanley Magnesen, who at twenty-five had been
a student at Harvard for the last seven years,
merely shrugged and glanced through the large
sliding glass doors tbward the beaches and the sea
far below. His voice, when he spoke, was high
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pitched, almost a whine, as if he were chronically
complaining about something.
"It won't do any good, MacDonald," the
younger Magnesen said arrogantly. "Although I
don't want Father to make this trip for a different
reason than you, nothing I say or do around here is
ever listened to anyway. I don't even know why
the hell I ever agreed to come along in the first
place."
The president was looking at his son with a slight
amusement in his eyes, tinged with what seemed
to me to be sadness.
Stanley turned after a moment. "One last time,
Dad—don't make this stupid trip. You'll regret it."
He took a step toward the center of the room, and
he seemed suddenly to be warming to his subject.
"Look, isn't it proof enough of what I've been
telling you? Didn't you get the message today
when that bastard came gunning for you? You were
damned lucky to come out of it alive. But you
should be grateful that you got the message before
it was too late. No responsible, thinking, intelli-
gent person on the face of this earth agrees with
your plan for world peace through economic
cooperation. No one. All you're talking about is
spreading the American way to everyone else.
Spreading the industrial-military complex around
until every little country in the world is squeezed
out of existence."
"That is enough," the president said quietly.
Although I barely heard the words, Stanley evi-
dently heard them quite clearly, because he bit off
his next words and, after hesitating only a brief
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moment, wheeled and stalked out of the room.
The president turned back to us and chuckled.
"He's a headstrong boy. Once he gets out of this
radical stage I'm sure he's going to be one hell ofan
international lawyer."
No one else said anything. I guessed that this
discussion had not been the first of its kind, even in
front of the presidenft advisors. None of them
seemed in the least bit stunned by the boy's out-
burst.
President Magnesen had turned back to me now.
"l wanted to thank you personally for saving my
life, Carter. You did a splendid job."
"That's why we came to see you, Mr. Presi-
dent," Stone spoke up.
The president eyed him carefully for a long mo-
ment, then turned back to his advisors. "If you
don't mind, gentlemen, this is an internal-security
matter. I'm sure you won't want to stay for the
lurid details."
The four men rose, but before they left, Secre-
tary MacDonald stopped by the door. "There's
nothing we can say or do to make you change your
mind?"
The president shook his head. "This is too im-
portant, Bob. I can't cancel out now. The only
thing that's going to save us from worldwide
famine, and then war, is global cooperation to
manage all food and mineral resources. I couldn't
back out of this now even if I wanted to. Too much
is riding on it. And I don't want to cancel out. No
assassination. attempt will stop me."
Secretary MacDonald shook his head, and as he
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went out the door with the others, I was sure I
heard him mutter something like "Stubborn ass,"
but the president ignored the comment, returning
his now businesslike attention to us.
' 'What have you two got for me?" he said
briskly.
Stone was the first to speak, and he sounded
extremely nervous. "Mr. President, it has come to
my mind that hiring Mr. Carter here from the CIA,
and the assassination attempt on you this after-
noon, were just too coincidental."
The president glanced briefly my way but said
nothing, allowing Stone to continue.
"In order for me to work effectively ... that is,
for me to do my job of protecting you with the
maximum efficiency, I must be made aware of any
and all facts concerning your safety and the mea•
sures taken to that end."
" What are you driving at, Stone?" the president
said, a sharpness still in his voice.
Stone seemed to be having some diffculties in
forming his next words, and his speech was halt-
ing. For a moment I almost felt sorry for the man.
After all, he was just trying to do his job the best
way he knew how.
"What I mean to say, sir, is if you are at all
dissatisfied with my work, with the way I am hand-
ling things, please say something and I'll resign. I
know I didn't do too well out there this after-
noon . . : '
The president was laughing now, the humor
spread all across his face. For a moment Stone
looked as if someone had just cut into his insides
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with a sharp, hot knife.
"All right, Carter," the president said after a
moment. "I guess we're going to have to tell him
what's going on around here; otherwise, the best
damned security man that ever guarded a presi-
dent is going to quit on me."
I held my breath for a long moment. Hawk had
said no one other than the president was to be
made aware of my AXE identity or the role AXE
was playing in this matter. But although Hawk was
my boss, the president was his boss. So no matter
how much Magnesen revealed now, I would be
stuck with it. But my fears proved groundless, and
my estimation of the presidentyent even higher.
"Derrick, the story is simply this. If you sus-
pected that Carter here was not exactly who he
claimed he was, you were correct. He did not
come from the CIA's western-European opera-
tion."
Stone's pained expression dramatically changed
to one of almost triumph, and he sat forward in his
chair. The president continued.
"He is CIA, however. From the Langley office.
Clandestine Operations."
Although AXE considered the Clandestine Ops
section of the CIA just as generally inept and
bumbling as the rest of the vast organization, the
majority of the world's population, including
Stone, regarded the section as the top of the line in
the intelligence community. To the world, Clan-
destine Ops included the James Bond super-
sleuths—the heroes of the espionage world. No
feat was too great for that section. And now Stone
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looked at me with new respect, and I guess I was
wavering at that moment between pity for his
naiveté and disgust for his sudden change in at-
titude.
But the president threw the ball my way now.
"You tell him the rest; Carter."
For a moment I was at a loss for words. What the
hell was I supposed to tell him? But then I realized
whatthe president was trying to do. On one hand,
Stone rightly needed to know enough about what
was going on to do hisjob protecting the president.
On the other hand, he couldn't be told too much, in
case he was the leak or had contact with the leak
that was siphoning information to the Lisbon or-
ganization. It was now my job to present Stone
with a convincing story that he would believe and
accept, one that would allow me to continue to
work with relative freedom from suspicion.
"You heard the president's son a little while
ago," I said, noticing a quick pained expression
flash across the president's face. "Well, he was
right on one point: What the president is trying to
do with this world tour is not making him very
popular with some factions. We got word through
the Old Boy network a couple of weeks ago that
there have been some rumblings of assassination
attempts from almost every city the president will
be visiting. So my chief thought perhaps you fev
lows could use an extra hand. Just to stay close to
the president. A last line of defense."
Stone was nodding, but then his expression
darkened slightly and he turned to the president.
"But sir, why wasn't I told about this earlier?"
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The president smiled. "Because, personally,
until this afternoon I thought it was nothing more
than a bunch of poppycock, and I didn't want to
bother you with it. I only agreed to take on Carter
here because the Clandestine Operations chief
was making such a fuss."
Stone nodded again. "They were correct
though, sir, if you'll pardon me saying so. If any-
one in this business would know about something
like this, they would. I'm glad at least that you let
Carter come aboard. Look what happened this
afternoon." He hesitated a moment, the difficulty
in forming words coming back to him. "As much
as I don't like to admit- it, without Carter this
afternoon, I'm not so sure my men could have
stopped the assassination attempt. Carter did a
fine job."
"Yes, he did," the president said immediately.
"But don't underrate yourself, Stone. It was my
fault for not making your information complete
enough. You had to work under a handicap."
"Well, sir," Stone said, rising, "I think we can
get back to work now."
The president rose with us. "What have you got
on the assassin so far?"
"Nothing much, sir," Stone said. "But we're
working on it, Should havesomething for you by
this afternoon.'
"And what about you, Carter?" the president_
said.
"That depends upon you, sir," I said.
"I'll be staying here in my room until I make my
speech at the Punch Bowl early this evening."
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"Good,' " I said. "That will leave me free this
afternoon to check with my chief and see if he has
any information on the assassin." I turned toward
Stone. "Meanwhile Stone and I will check the
arrangements for security tonight and tomorrow
morning for your departure."
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IT WAS NEARLY two-thirty by the time 1 was finally
able to shake Derrick Stone and his inane prattling
about how he had always wanted to get into Clan-
destine Ops but had never been able to pass the
.examinations. And despite my growing weariness
with his sniveling attitude, I found myself in the
position of praising his work as chief of the presi-
dent's Secret Service detail. It was the only way I
had found to stop him talking about me and my
work with the CIA.
We were sitting across from one another at a
table in the Honolulå FBI office, looking over mug
books of known international terrorists—without
much success, so far.
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Nothing had come back from either the FBI files
in Washington or the CIA files in Langley, and I
was anxious to send off a coded twixt to AXE
research to see if they had any information. But
Stone had practically ordered me to remain and
help with the mug books while his men were busy
setting up the final security .arrangements for the
president's speech early this evening.
"Jesus Christ, man," I finally shouted in exas-
peration at him. "What the hell do you want?
You've got the number-one security job in the na-
tion. Theres nothing higher. On your shoulders
rests the responsibility for protecting the life of the
most powerful man in the world."
"I suppose," Stone said, basking. "But I know
I could have done a better job and would have been
happier with the CIA."
I shook my head. "Idon't think so. I think
you're doing just fine where you are."
Stone looked at me sharply, now dropping all
pretense of studying the open mug book in front of
him on the table. "Just what the hell are you trying
to imply, Carter?" he said peevishly.
And that did it as far asA was concerned. For
once I didn't give a damn how suspicious he be-
came, and I stood up abruptly.
"Take your beef to the president. I'm sure that
when he finds out what you want to do, he'll ar-
range a transfer. Meanwhile, I've got too much
work to do to sit around and listen to you cry in
your beer about your missed opportunities."
I wheeled and started to walk away, but then
stopped, not able to resist one last shot at the man.
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"But let's just say for a moment that the president
did pull some strings and get you assigned to Clan-
destine Ops. You wouldn't like it. It's not what you
think it is. It's nothing more than a bunch of ass-
holes sitting around trying to figure out whatjob to
botch next. But then again, maybe you'd fit in
quite well."
This time when I turned and started away I
didn't stop, despite Stone's sputtered protests.-
I don't often lose my temper, but every time I
have, I've later regretted it. And already, stalking
down the stairs and out the door to the bright
Honolulu sunshine, I wished I hadn't lost it this
time. Nevertheless, I was still seething inside
thinking about him. He was either the most colos-
sal idiot who ever walked the face of the earth—in
which case the president would not be safe even at
a tea party with the ladies' auxilliary—or .. .
That thought stopped me cold as I was about to
hail a taxi, and I stood at the curb with my arm
raised. Or else Stone was putting on an act, pre-
tending to be someone or something he was not.
But if that was the case, and he was not the
bumbling idiot he made out to be, just what was
he? Was he connected with the Lisbon organiza-
tion, or was he suspicious of me and merely trying
to throw me off-guard so that would tip my hand
and reveal who I really was? If so, he was a very
shrewd man, and his tactics had already started to
work on me.
From this point on, I cautioned myself, I would
treat Derrick Stone as if he were the smartest
intelligence agent the other side had ever come up
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with. It was the only way I could treat him and still
have any confidence that my identity and mission
would not be blown.
I stood motionless for a long moment before I
realized that several passersby along the busy
Honalaku Boulevard were staring at me. I dropped
my arm as a taxi pulled up, and I got in.
"Amalgamated Press,"
I told the driver. He
pulled out into the stream of early afternoon
traffc.
It was three o'clock when I paid the cabby and
entered the small, shabby offces of the Amalga-
mated Press Honolulu omce. It had been at least
five years since I had been here last, but it seemed
that absolutely nothing had changed.
Since there had been little activity from this
office for those years, Hawk had undoubtedly cut
the budget, shifting a portion of its pitifully small
working capital to the various trouble spots in the
world where money always seemed to be a prob-
lem. It had been a wonder to me, ever since I had
joined AXE, that althoågh AXE did most of the
real work, it had a tiny budget compared to the
massive amounts available to the relatively use-
less and cumbersome CIA.
This station contained only two rooms in a
medium-sized building that housed mostly real es-
tate companies and one small pineapple
wholesaler with a tiny warehouse in the rear.
The front room contained several desks, a half
dozen clattering teletype machines, and a small
counter for routine Amalgamated Press work. The
windows were dirty, and the plastered walls were
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cracked and in bad need of paint. Near the rear of
the room, however, an innocuous-looking door led
to the bugproof safe room where the real business
of this offce was conducted.
When I entered, a young man came to the
counter and smiled pleasantly at me. "Yes, sir?"
"Code gold, " I muttered, half under my breath.
These kéy words told any AXE employee in the
worldwide that he or she was talking with a
Killmaster or someone else very high in the limited
AXE hierarchy.
The young man's face remained blank for a brief
moment, and then it looked as if he would swallow
his tongue when he realized what I had said.
"Yes, sir, " he finally managed to stammer, as he
regained his voice. "How may I help you?"
I nodded toward the safe room, and he almost
turned and looked in that direction, but then his
past training took over, and he suddenly became at
least somewhat businesslike.
"If you would like to follow me, sir, we can
discuss your newspaper contract in detail," he
said loudly enough for the benefit of the other three
young men in the room.
None of them looked up, however, as I came
around the counter and followed the young man to
the back room.
Once inside, with the door locked and the light
switch turned on, its accompanying green light
indicating that the electronic monitoring and
scrambling devices "were in operation, the young
man once again seemed highly flustered. I made it
easy for him. "No emergency, son," I said. "I'm
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N3, and I want to send a twixt to Washington
Research. Just routine."
The boy's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets
with the mention of my Killmaster number, and as I
sat down at the desk, he continued to stare at me
from where he stood by the door.
Ignoring him, I opened the top desk drawer,
pulled out a message flimsy form and quickly
scribbled out the message I wanted to send. I
merely gave a brief description of the man I had
killed less than four hours ago. I pulled out a copy
of his fingerprints, which I had managed to steal
from the file Stone had started on the investiga-
tion, and included them with the message.
I was about to hand the flimsy up to the gape-
mouthed boy, when another thought struck me,
and I added a brief paragraph giving Stone's full
name and description and asking for a brief run-
down on his background.
At the end of the message I included the code
sequence that meant I would stand by for the re-
ply.
"I want this sent out immediately," I said, hand-
ing the message and fingerprint card to the boy.
"I'll stand by for the reply."
"Yes, sir," the young man said, taking the forms
from me.
The room we were in was small, not more than
nine by twelve, and besides the desk and chair, it
contained only one file cabinet and a small console
that included a combination CRT teletype machine
and facsimile unit for sending photographs or
other visual items such as the fingerprint card.
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I leaned back in my chair and lit One of my
cigarettes inhaling deeply. The boy inserted the
fingerprint card in the facsimile machine, lined up
the light dot on the white border, and pushed the
button that started the drum rolling. The dead
gunman's fingerprints were om their way.
Sitting down at the CRT machine, the boy
punched a sequence of buttons that not only con-
nected this unit with a similar unit in our
Washington office, but also started a completely
automatic cryptographic machine that would en-
code any message sent.
It took only a few moments to send out the brief
message, and when he was finished a green light
winked on the console above the keyboard, indi-
cating that receipt of the text had been acknowl-
edged.
Then he swiveled toward me. "Mr. Carter?" he
said hesitantly.
I smiled. "Yes?"
"Well, sir... ah... Ijust wanted to say that I've
heard an awful lot about you. And ... well, I just
wanted to tell you that I admire your work."
I have never been able to take compliments very
well, but for the moment this one threw me. How
the hell did he know about me? Evidently my
puzzlement showed on my face, because his lit up
in a bright smile.
"l know a lot about you, sir. I worked in our
Washington office up until last year as a cipher
clerk. Used to see 'our stuffcoming in all the time.
I guess I sort of followed your career over the past
five years."
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f 'What are you doing out here?" I asked, for
want of something better to say.
"I was promoted. This is my first real assign-
ment."
"Station agent?" I asked.
"Yes, sir," he said nodding. "Nothing much has
happened over this year, but ift good experience
for me anyone, I suppose."
"Experience for what?" I asked, unable to help
myself. This was almost a repeat ofDerrick Stone.
' 'To be a Killmaster, sir. Just like you." The
admiration was syrupy sweet in his eyes and his
voice, making me groan inwardly. "I've been
studying karate, been taking firing range lessons,
and I've got a pretty fair command of three lan-
guages besides English."
"It's a good start," I managed to say with a
straight face. There was no way I could tell this
young man what I was really thinking. All the
training in the world could not qualify him or any,
one else to be a Külmaster. It takes a special kind of
a personality, I guess, to do what we do. It's some-
thing we were born with. Some have called it bru-
tality, which it is in a way, I suppose; others have
labeled it ruthlessness, also true to a degree. Actu-
ally, it's nothing more than an abnormal develop-
ment of the instinct of survival. Put me or any
other Killmaster in a tight, life-or-death situation,
and we'd be more likely to come out ofit alive than
almost any other person on the face of this earth,
only because wejust do not have the personality to
give up, to resign ourselves to defeat. We must
survive at all costs.
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But how in the hell could I tell that to this kid?
For that matter, why should I? If he had the in-
stinct, which I doubted, he would push, shove,
and claw his way to Killmaster status. If he didn't,
he wouldn't make it and would never understand
why, even if it was explained to him.
The boy fell silent after that, and I was satisfied
to leave it there. But ten minutes later I was start-
ing to get bored , just sitting here with him staring at
me. I was about to suggest that he go out and get us
some coffee, when the five-bell warning sounded
from the CRT unit, indicating that a top-priority
message was about to come in, and the boy
swiveled around in his seat:
"Do you want a hard copy, sir?" he asked.
"No," I said, getting up from my chair and
crossing the room to stand behind him so that I
could look over his shoulder at the face of the
picture tube. "I can read it from here."
"Very good, sir," he said. "It's coming in now."
The lines of the message printed themselves out
across the face of the CRT.
The first few lines contained only the heading
code. Below that, the body of the message was
brief.
IDENT PRINTS MATCH DESCRIPTION
FOLLOWS: SUBJECT'S ONLY KNOWN
NAME: PORTENJO. PORTUGESE.
KNOWN TERRORIST ACTIVITIES CON-
FINED LOCALLY 1973-75. RELEASED ES-
TORIL PENITENTIARY 6/15/76. NO
KNOWN CRIMINAL ACTIVITIES SINCE.
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DOB 11/27/44. NEXT OF KIN: UNK. AS-
SOCIATES: UNK. COMPUTER CROSS
INDEX CHECKING. FOR FURTHER INFO
QUERY CODE 7737 PORTENJO.
STONE, DERRICK T., CHIEF U.S. SECRET
SERVICE. ASSIGNMENT PRESIDENTIAL
DETAIL. ACCESS CLEARANCE. RATING
5A. AMENDED FIELD BACKGROUND IN-
CLUDES: DOB 3/15/31. GRAD UNIV MARY-
LAND 1/15/52. ENLISTED U.S. ARMY 1/1652.
ASSIGNED INTELLIGENCE KOREAN
THEATER. DISTING. SERVICE CROSS,
ARMY COMMENDATION, KOREAN
MEDAL OF VALOR, CONG. MEDAL OF
HONOR. HON DISCHARGE RANK LT
COL. ASSIGNED SECRET SERVICE 6/1/60.
NUMEROUS PRESIDENTIAL CITATIONS/
ON RECORD. FOR FULL REPORT QUERY
7738 STONE. E.O.M.
The last lines of the message shimmered, then
died on the screen before I was able to pull myself
away. It had not surprised me that where the CIA
and FBI had no information on the assassin, AXE
did, scanty as it was. But what really shocked me
was the information on Derrick Stone.
All along, I had naturally assumed that Stone
was a qualified man. Otherwise, he would not have
been assigned chief of the Secret Service detail
guarding the president. But never in my wildest
thoughts had I figured Stone to be a Medal of
Honor winner, with an army-intelligence back-
ground.
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The man was obviously suspicious of me, was
putting me in one hell of a fix. Not only did I have
to do my assignment in secrecy, but now I had to
play games with an honest-to-God hero, a man
who was probably as shrewd as any I had ever
come across judging from his record and perform-
ance so far.
I absentmindedly thanked the young man for
his help and assured him there was nothing else he
could do for me except forget that he had ever seen
me. Then once again I found myself on the street
hailing a taxi.
On the way back to the Royal Hawaiian Hotel I
pondered my next moves. First I would have to tell
the president not only what I had learned so far
about this mysterious Portenjo with no first name,
but then I would have to tell him about Stone,
because at this point there was no way for me to
put Stone off my trail effectively without arousing
his suspicions even more.
The president was tied up in a conference when I
got back to the hotel, and I was told that I would
not be able to see him until after his speech tonight,
unless it was an.emergency.
His appointments secretary sniffed at me almost
as if I had body odor, almost daring me to declare
an emergency so that he could bother the presi-
dent, telling him it was my fault that he had to be
dragged out of an important meeting. But I did not
rise to the obvious bait. I smiled instead and
thanked the man to tell the president I would like
to speak with him directly after his speech.
As I was leaving the top floor of the hotel, Der-
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rick Stone was just coming out of his offce, at the
opposite end of the corridor from the president's
suite. When he saw me at the open elevator doors,
his features darkened into a scowl and he beck-
oned to me, his voice gruff.
"Carter, I want to talk to you. Now."
For a moment I toyed with the idea of ignoring
him and continuing downstairs, where I intended
to have a quick dinner before going out to the
Punch Bowl to check on security arrangements.
But something in Stone's manner told me that
would not work this time. He was evidently still
angry because of my comments earlier today, but
there was something else in his commanding tone
that started the warning bells jangling along my
nerves.
The elevator doors closed as I turned and went
back to Stone's office. Once inside, I sat down
across the desk from him. As he had the first time
we met in his office in Washington, he stared at me
for a long moment before speaking.
"All right, Carter, now all bullshit aside. I want
to know just what the hell is going on."
I gave him a blank look and shrugged my shoul-
ders. "What do you mean?"
"When you left the FBI office this afternoon, I
had you followed."
"I see." I nodded, my mind racing to find an
alibi consistent with my cover story. Stone was
becoming more than a nuisance, and on the off
chance that he had turned sour and was the Lisbon
contact, I had to consider him doubly dangerous.
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"Well what?" I continued playing the game, my
face a blank mask but my mind seething..
"You took a taxi directly across town to a build-
ing that contains the offces of a small wire ser-
vice." He looked down at a sheet of paper in front
of him on the desk. "Amalgamated Press." He
looked up at me. 8' You were in there for twenty-
seven minutes. Why?"
I looked around the room, as if searching for
something or someone before I answered him, and
his gaze instinctively followed mine.
"Outside of the States, Clandestine Ops some-
times uses Amalgamated Press or some other wire
service for message drops• We usually send the
coded message to Langley through the New York
offce."
"And?"
"And, I wanted to use the Old Boy network
again this afternoon to see if we had anything on
the assassin."
"And?" Stone said relentlessly. He obviously
was not believing a thing I was telling him. But I
could not reveal the information I had on the man
called Portenjo, because if Stone was the Lisbon
man, my knowing the assassin's identity would tip
the organization off, making my job next to impos-
sible.
"And nothing. We didn't have a thing on him."
There was a satisfied smirk on Stone's face. "We
checked out the Amalgamated Press after you left.
The offce managerl under pressure, told us essen-
tially the same thing." His suspicious manner re-
laxed somewhat, and I made a mental note to send
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a letter of commendation for the young man at the
Amalgamated offce.
' 'Why did you follow me?" I said, a tinge of
suspicion in my own voice. It was the only way to
throw him off the track.
"Because.l didn't trust you," he said matter-
of-factly.
"And nowyou do?"
He looked at me for a long moment and then
finally nodded. "Yes, I do. But I don't like you.
The sooner this job is done, the better I'll feel."
I rose to leave, but he stopped me. "Where are
you going now?" he asked sharply.
s 'For some dinner, and then I'm going out to the
Punch Bowl."
"All right," he said after another- moment.
"Keep your eyes open. I'll see you there."
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THE PRESIDENT'S SPEECH at Honolulu's famed
Punch Bowl open-air auditorium went without in-
cident, although the place was packed with an
estimated twenty thousand people. By midnight
the presidential party, myself included, had loaded
aboard Air Force One and were on our way to
Tokyo; where the president would spend two days
talking with the Japanese prime minister, visiting a
few ofthe Tokyo sights , and making a speech at the
imperial palace.
During the long trip I slept only in brief
snatches, thinking about what I had learned, and
what I had not learned, so far.
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The first and foremost item was that Hawks
theory had been correct: The Lisbon message did
spell assassination. I was only half-surprised that
another attempt had not been made at the Punch
Bowl. One explanation that kept popping into my
mind was that the assassins, too, had their own
itinerary. At this moment, I figured, they were
probably setting up for their second attempt for
Tokyo. It was going to be a busy couple of days.
The second item was Derrick Stone. There was
no doubt in my mind that the man was still suspi-
cious. If he had been a less qualified man, his suspi-
cion would not have bothered me so much. But
now I knew that his sniveling attitude in the FBI
office in Honolulu had been nothing more than an
act carefully conceived to make me lose my
temper and do or say something that would reveal
my true identity. I only hoped that his inquiries at
Amalgamated Press had been passed on to
Washington, where Hawk would have been
alerted. My cover would withstand plenty of
scrutiny from the outside, but if I were to operate
effectively on this mission, my cover would not
hold up well from the inside. Stone would continue
to be a thorn in my side until he was somehow
sidetracked. And that, I told myself for the tenth
time, had to be my number-one priority.
TWO more items kept my mind busy during the
flight. The first was the president himself. He had
been too busy to talk to me before his speech, and
he had claimed he was too tired afterward. He had
been hustled aboard the waiting Air Force One
directly after his speech, and he had retired to his
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private cabin before takeoff. Since then I had not
seen him.
The one impression I had got, however, from
seeing him during his speech and then catching
glimpses of him as he was taken out to the airport,
was that somehow he was a changed man. It
looked almost as if he had learned something that
was worrying him intensely. It was not like
Magnesen, and I was determined to find out
whether his concern had anything to do with me or
my mission.
It was unlikely that Stone could have said any-
thing to him to make him suspicious of me. But
something had got to him; and if it was going to
affect my mission capabilities, I wanted to know
about it.
That was the last thing to occupy my mind be-
fore I fell asleep.
The change in the pitch of the jet engines woke
me up, and I sat forward with a start. The lights in
the main cabin of the jet were on dim, but toward
the rear of the aircraft, where the conference table
was, the main overhead lights were on.
It was nearly six o'clock, and I looked out the
window at the ocean far below. In the distance I
could dimly make out a coastline, which I assumed
as Honshu, the main Japanese island. The sun was
just coming up, but even at this distance I could
see a mass of clou$s over the island. It was prob-
ably raining right now. in Tokyo, which could
make an assassin's job somewhat easier. It would
be harder to spot an outside attempt with the
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visibility hampered by rain.
I got up from my seat, and Derrick Stone, who
was seated at the conference table with four other
Secret Service men, beckoned to me. I headed
back to them as I took out a cigarette, lit it, and
inhaled deeply.
Air Force One, an aging Boeing 707, was sched-
uled to be replaced next year with a 747. But
despite the age of this aircraft, it was still luxuri-
ous. The president had his own bedroom and bath-
room at the rear of the airplane, isolated from the
remainder of the aircraft by a wall. In his cabin he
had a communications console that would put him
in touch with all the armed forces of the United
States and its allies, as well as a hotline to the
Kremlin. Sitting outside the president's door, day
and night, vas an army warrant offcer with a
briefcase padlocked to his wrist. The briefcase
contained the ever present -war codes, another
symbol of the presidentk awesome power and re-
sponsibility. Although I've been in tough spots, I
don't think I could ever handle the pressures of his
job.
"We're going over the president's itinerary for
Tokyo," Stone said, looking up, as I pulled out a
chair and sat down across the table from him.
The others nodded to me, and I returned the
greeting, then turned my attention to Stone. "I
assume your advance men have already started
the setup for us," I said.
"Right," Stone said, "but I've got something
else for you."
I sat forward in my seat. I didn't like his tone of
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voice—he sounded almost smug. But I said
nothing, waiting for him to continue.
S S You've met the president's son, Stanley,"
Stone began, and I nodded. Some ofthe other men
smiled slightly.
"Well, Stanley's girlfriend will be joining the
presidential party in Tokyo later this morning, and
she plans to continue on the remainder of the
trip."
' 'So what?" I asked, a little too sharply: Stone
continued as if I had not said a thing.
"The president has asked that you be assigned
not only to him, but to his son and his girlfriend as
well."
"What?" I rose half out of my seat.
Stone was smiling. "You can talk with the man
later this morning if you'd like. But that's the word
he gave me last night."
s 'Why wasn't I included in that briefing?" I
asked.
Stone shrugged. "I have no idea, Carter. The
president just pulled me aside last night on the way
to the airport and gave me the change imorders. "
Something was wrong here. Combined with the
president's strange, distant behavior toward me
yesterday afternoon and evening, this change in
assignment was doubly strange. Having to play
baby-sitter for Magnesen's recalcitrant son and the
boy's girlfriend would effectively hamper my
work. If the order had really come from Magne-
sen, there had to be some reason behind itc But
whatever it was, it would have to wait until I could
get him alone. If I was going to have to remain with
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Stanley and the girl, I would request a transfer off
this assignment. If I was going to do ajob, I wanted
to do it right or not at all.
Stone was still talking. "The girl is Olanda Wil-
liamson. She's twenty-six, a writer for the Satur-
day Review and a couple other intellectual maga-
zines."
"And suppose I'm supposed to baby-sit her
and the president's son?"
"That's right," Stone said, but then his attitude
softened. really not that bad, Carter. The
president has top priority, so the only time you're
going to have to be with the kids is when they are
with the president or when the president is in his
hotel room or with the prime minister at govern-
ment center."
As far as I could figureit now, I had only two
options. If I was going to have to play baby-sitter,
I'd be constantly busy, never having any time to
work on my own. So I was going to have to explain
the situation either to the president or Hawk. And
I had a funny feeling that now, for some reason, it
would do no good to talk to Magnesen.
S 'What's the schedule for this morning?" I
asked.
Stone referred to his sheet for a moment, then
looked up. 'S You're on your own, actually, until
around noon. There will be a small reception for
the president when we land in twenty minutes.
Then he, Stanley, and the others will be going to
the Imperial Palace, where they will stay until after
lunch. Miss Williamson will be meeting them
there."
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'"And after that?" I asked, thankful at least that
I was going to have this morning off.
"You're not going to like this next part," Stone
said. ' 'None of us do."
"Go ahead," I said resigned, to almost any kind
of insanity.
"The president, Stanley, and Miss Williamson,
as well as the rest of the presidential party, will be
taking a walking tour of the Ginza. That's Tokycfi
entertainment and shopping district."
"I know it," I said. "But you've got to be kid-
ding. Security will be impossible."
know, •I know," Stone said, nodding. "But
tell it to the man. He insisted."
"Christ! What comes after that?"
"A speech at three outside the Imperial Palace
and then a parade at four-thirty."
"And tomorrow?"
"The president will be closeted with the prime
minister at government center most ofthe day. His
son and Miss Williamson however, will be taking
the grand tour ofthe city. So you'll have to baby-
sit them until after the reception and dinner at the
Imperial Palace that night. The next day we leave
for Peking."
It was well after seven o'clock, Tokyo time, by
the time Air Force One had landed, the president
had been met by a small brass band that played
C 'The Star Spangled Banner" and "Hail to the
Chief," and the president had been whisked away
to the Imperial Palace.
I was to follow with the security-service contin-
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gent, but I begged off, telling them I was going to
do some snooping around the Ginza and then along
the parade route.
"Stay the hell out of trouble," Stone cautioned
me. "And make damned sure you're back at the
Imperial Palace at noon."
After assuring him I wouldn't dream of missing
the walking tour, I took one of the small Toyotas at
our disposal and hurried into the center of Tokyo,
the sprawling metropolis of nine million people,
the second largest city in the world.
Five years ago I had been here on another mis-
Sion that had nearly cost me my life. That mission
had begun with the death of my best friend, whose
fiancée was the girl I wanted to see this morning.
Kazuka Akiyama had fallen for me near the end
of that mission, probably for the same reasons she
had fallen for my best friend. In many respects the
two of us had been very much alike.
But now five years had passed without any word
from her, and I wondered if she still remembered
me and if she still felt the way she had. When I had
left Tokyo that time, she had made me promise to
come back to see her.
Now I was finally here.
I did not go directly to her apartment, the ad-
dress of which I had gotten from the AXE direc-
tory in Washington. I took a roundabout route that
brought me more than once through the Ginza
district. If Stone or his people were following me, I
wanted to lose them, but first I wanted to convince
them that I was doing exactly what I had told Stone
I would be doing—checking out the route the pres-
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ident would be taking later today.
Also, I did not think a visit to an apartment in
Tokyo and a later visit to another Amalgamated
Press offce would do much for my already shaky
standing with Stone. The less suspicious Stone
was about me, the easier my job would be.
After an hour of driving, however, I was
satisfied that if there had been a tail behind me, I
had lost him. I parked on a side street about a block
from Kazuka's apartment, going the rest of the
way on foot.
The building she lived in was only three stories
tall, the entrance hidden by a privacy screen along
the front, with many flowering plants.
Kazuka's name was listed for IA, on the ground
floor, and I buzzed her apartment. It was after
eight, and now as station manager for Amalga-
mated Press here in Tokyo, there was a good
chance she would already be at work. But a mo-
ment later she was on the intercom.
"Yes?" her voice sounded tiny over the
speaker.
' 'Kazuka? This is Nick Carter. May I come in?"
There was a long silence, but then the buzzer for
the inner door sounded, and I went into the corridor.
I had just gotten through the door and started
down the hallway, when Kazuka's door opened
and she stepped out to watch me come down the
hall. She wore only a thin kimono and her hair was
up in a towel. Evidently she hadjust gotten out of
the bath.
If anything, she was more beautiful than I re-
membered. The years had been more than kind to
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her. She stood just a little over five feet, with a
small button nose, soft oriental eyes and complex-
ion, and the most pleasing smile I have ever seen
on a woman.
"So it is you," she said softly in Japanese, a
language I can understand well but can't speak
very pleasingly.
For an awkward moment we stood looking at
each other, and then she was in my arms, and I
could feel her shudder and then sigh. When we
parted there was a tear on her cheek. I kissed it
away.
"That's better," I said gently, and led her båck
into her apartment. Delicately arranged flowers
adorned the few simple cabinets and hutches
around the master room, which in Western coun-
tries would .serve as a living room. Subtly done
watercolors were hung on the walls, complement-
ing the beautifully decorated tatami mats on the
floor.
I had left my shoes by the door, and now Kazuka
helped me off with my coat and tie. But instead of
offering me the customary house jacket, she con-
tinued undressing me.
Soon we were nude, and she was in my arms
again as we slowly sunk to the soft mats on the
floor.
"Nick ...
oh, Nick, it has been so long!" she
cried. • 'I did not think you would return."
I said nothing, and soon we were making love.
Gently. Slowly. With no hurry or apparent con-
cern for anything else in the world. Besides water-
colors and floral arranging, the Japanese are also
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very expert at lovemaking. Kazuka was no excep-
tion.
Her body, lithe and strong from her AXE train-
ing, was perfectly adapted for this fine art, and I
lost myself completely under her ministrations.
Her small, firm breasts, the nipples still erect,
brushed against my chest when we were finished,
and she looked down at me with obvious love in
her eyes.
' 'I have waited for a very long time for this, Nick
Carter," she said, switching to English.
Five years ago we had wanted each other, but
then it had been too soon after the death of her
fiancée, my best friend, who had been AXE's
Tokyo station manager. But now, Kazuka had
been everything I had imagined she would be.
I smiled up at her. She was lying on her side,
propped up on one elbow, studying my face.
"You are beautiful, little Kazuka," I said in
Japanese.
She laughed. "English, please," she said.
I laughed with her. "Like the lotus flower, my
little one, you are pleasing not only to my eyes, but
to my touch and my nose." I said it in the for-
malized Japanese.
A sad smile played across her features, and she
sat up, reached over to the low table nearby, and lit
us a cigarette. When she turned back to me and
placed the cigarette between my lips, she studied
my face.
"You are on ari assignment?" she asked softly.
I took a deep drag and exhaled the smoke slowly
as I nodded.
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"And you are here for help or information from
me?" she continued.
Again I nodded. "I'm sorry, Kazuka. I wish it
could have been another way."
She sat up again and shook her head. 'Do not be
sorry, my love. It is our job. I am only happy that
we were able to spend at least this small time
together. I have dreamed often about you . . .
about this moment."
"As I have," I said, touching her bare shoulder.
She shrugged away from me, stood up, and
gathered her kimono, which she put on and belted
tightly. I remained where I was, on my back on the
tatami, smoking the rest of the cigarette while she
fixed us a drink. When she came back and sat
down beside me her attitude had changed from
sadness to professionalism.
"What is it you need, Nick?" sheasked in En-
glish.
"The president is here in Tokyo, as you know,"
I began. She nodded but said nothing.
"There was an attempted assassination in Hon-
olulu yesterday."
"I know. It was on all the news," she said. "Do
you expect another attempt here in Tokyo?"
I nodded. "We picked up a radio transmission
from Lisbon a couple of weeks ago. It gave the
president's itinerary for this trip. They failed in
Honolulu, so I'm certain they'll try again here."
"I've heard nothing, Nick— ' she began, but I
cut her off.
' 'I did not expect you would, but I'll need some
help from you. The president and your prime
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minister are going on a walking tour through the
Ginza this afternoon."
She groaned.
"I'll need some of your people, low profile, to
hang around his route. Just keep a lookout for
anything or anyone who might look interesting."
"There's no way you can guarantee his safety in
Ginza," she said thoughtfully. "Make him can-
cel."
I shook my head. "I can't. But with your people
in place it'll make our job a little easier."
She thought about that a moment. "How about
"There'll be a parade thisafternoon, and after
that he'll be at the government center, in confer-
ence tonight and tomorrow. If anything is going to
happen, it will be this afternoon. Either in the
Ginza, which is the most likely, or possibly along
the parade route."
Again Kazuka seemed lost in thought, and when
she came out of it, she looked at me, the same sad
expression on her face, then reached down and ran
her fingertips across my chest.
"You are a lovely man, Nick Carter. But one not
for me."
I started to protest, but she put her fingers on my
lips. "Not now, my said gently. She put
down her drink, took mine and set it aside, and
then took off her kimono again and began carress-
ing me with her entire body in a way only the
Japanese can.
It was quarter to five and every nerve in my
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body was tense with expectation as the president
left the podium outside the Imperial Palace and got
into his limousine.
Absolutely nothing had happened in Ginza. The
president's walking toun had gone completely
without a hitch. I had walked along a few feet
behind and to one side of the president, where I
spotted at least a few of Kazuka's people, but no
suspicious person. The crowds had been thick,
especially with women and children. By the time
the president climbed into his limousine with the
Japanese prime minister to head for the Imperial
Palace, I was drenched in sweat and Stone seemed
on the verge of collapse.
"One down, two to go," Stone said to me as we
followed the presidential limousine in the small
Toyota.
"The speech and the parade?" I had offered:
Stone, who was driving, had nodded. "After
that it'll all be gravy. He'll be mostly closeted with
the PM in the government center. It'll be a snap."
Several thousand people had gathered outside
the gates of the Imperial Palace to listen to the
president's brief speech, which had just con-
cluded, and many thousands more lined the parade
route, which led from the palace for three miles
along the Hibiya-Dori Avenue of modern depart-
ment stores, boutiques, and other highly Western-
ized businesses.
All that was left now was the parade. If there
was going to be an attempt on his life, it would
come here, within the next forty-five or fifty min-
utes.
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The president's limousine traveled the parade
route directly behind a Japanese honor guard of
fifty motorcycle cops, each cycle festooned with
an American flag as well as the Japanese white flag
with orange sun.
The entire procession, including the floats, dra-
gons, and bands behind the limousine, moved
down the crowded avenue around three or four
miles per hour, so Stone and, I along with a dozen
other Secret Service men, walked along, survey-
ing the crowd as we went.
Four Secret Service men were sitting on the four
fenders of the large black _ Cadillac, their right
hands inside their coat pockets, their fingers no
doubt gripping the butts of their guns.
I had been tense in Ginza and even more worried
during the president's speech, but now, halfway
through the parade route, the hairs on the nape of
my neck were standing up, and my stomach was
doing its flipflops, as it always does when my intui-
tion tells me something is about to happen.
When it did happen, I almost missed it. Stone,
walking behind'the limousine on the opposite side
from me, said something, and I started to turn
toward him, when a motion caught my attention
out of the corner of my eye.
I turned fully around in time to see a young man,
dressed in a very long and bulky overcoat, burst
from the crowd and race toward the president's
limousine.
Instantly my legs were moving and in a few steps
I had intercepted the young man and tackled him.
We both went down in a heap on the street.
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I looked up in time to see a boot coming my way
and managed to turn my head far enough to one
side so that the blow only glanced off my cheek.
But it was enough so that the young man broke
away from my grasp, jumped up, and leaped to-
ward the limousine as he reached inside his coat.
I shouted something at the men on the
limousine, who had still not realized anything was
going on.
It seemed to take forever for the Secret Service
man who had been sitting on the back right fender
to turn around, see what was happening, and jump
off toward the young man.
Then it all happened in double time. The large
Secret Service man, Stan Larsen, literally jumped
atop the young Japanese. They both went down,
twenty feet from me, and as I was getting to my
feet an explosion sent Larsen three feet into the
air, blood and bits of human body tissue flying
everywhere.
There would be no help for Larsen or for the
Japanese terrorist, but there were others.
The president's driver, finally realizing what was
happening, had sped up and was pulling around the
motorcycle contingent, when another young man,
also dressed in a bulky overcoat, emerged from the
crowd, nearly half a block from me.
I pulled out Wilhelmina, dropped to my knee,
and with both hands on the gun, squeezed off a
shot. The shot missed as the limousine came closer
to the young man, who started to reach inside his
coat.
If he got to the trigger.fthe bomb andset it off
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when the president's limousine was next to him,
the Lisbon organization would be successful.
Holding my breath and taking what seemed like
an eternity to make sure of my shot, I squeezed off
another round. The young man's hands flew up,
away from his coat, and he fell backward as the
limousine with the president and the Japanese
prime minister raced by.
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"PLASTIQUE," STONE SAID, looking down at the
young Japanese man I had shot and killed.
His overcoat had been pulled back to expose
row upon row of tubular packages sewn to the
lining of the coat and wired together to a detonator
switch. My bullet had slammed into the man's
chest about a half inch from the firing device.
Stone stared at me for a long moment, oblivious
of the police efforts to clear the street and of the
pressing, jostling crowd of newspeople. "Seventy
yards with a handgun," he said.
I shrugged. "I missed the first shot."
Stone looked back down at the dead man. ' 'And
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damned near blew this kid and the president sky
high."
"Wasn't any time for anything else—" I started
to say, but Stone waved me off.
"l didn't meant it that way, Carter," he said. He
looked weary, about ready to collapse, "Once
again I find myself in the position of thanking you
for doing my job."
I didn't answer; instead, I looked up at the grow-
ing crowd of newspeople as a flashbulb went off,
and Kazuka Akiyama lowered her camera. I
turned back to Stone.
"We'll have to try for an ID on this man as well.
Maybe Washington will have something on him," I
said loudly enough so that Kazuka could hear me.
From the corner of my eye I could see her moving
away from us and heading back, presumably to the
first body to take another picture. I was sure that
within the hour, the photos would be developed
and on their way by facsimile to Washington re-
search. Sometime this afternoon or evening AXE
would have come up with something. Kazuka was
one hell ofan efficient woman, out of bed as well as
in.
Stone was about to reply, when the ambulances
finally arrived. We turned and watched as the
bodies of the Japanese man and Stan Larsen were
loaded aboard. Kazuka made it to them just in time
to get a picutre of the Japanese before his face was
covered with the sheet.
s 'He was a good man," Stone said when the
ambulances pulled away.
I nodded.
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got a wife and three kids back in Ar-
lington. I hope they understand what he did."
It's not that I'm particularly crass or hard or
emotionless; it's just that I've always had the firm
conviction that life is for the living. "I'm going to
talk to the president," I said.
Stone looked at me. "Good idea. I think we
should load him aboard Air Force One tonight and
hustle him back to Washington. We do have that
power, no matter what he says."
I turned without another word, comandeered
one of the Secret Service Toyotas, and hurried
across town to where the preisdent had been taken
to his suite in the Imperial Hilton.
In twenty minutes I had arrived, had been
checked through security, and was being led to the
shaken president by his completely subdued and
now very respectful appointments secretary.
The president was seated, drink in hand, on the
couch across from where his son, Stanley, was
-seated in a comfortable-looking easy chair. No one
else was in the room, and it looked as if the two had
been arguing again—violently. Stanley's face
showed the signs of strain, but when I entered the
room he managed a slight smile.
"Thank you, Mr. Carter," he said rising and
holdingout his hand to me. "Thank you very much
for saving my father's life for the second time."
I took the young man's hand, and his grip was
surprisingly firm.
"I'm sure you and my father had much to dis-
cuss, so I will leave you now. But I'd like to talk
with you when you're finished here."
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For an instant I wondered what Stanley could
possibily want to talk to me about, but then I
dismissed speculation and nodded. "Sure thing,"
I said.
Stanley nodded to his father and then turned and
went out of the room.
When he was gone the president looked up at
me. "Fix yourself a drink, Carter."
I shook my head and perched on the edge of the
easy chair that Stanley had just vacated. "Never
drink when I'm trying to think, Mr. President."
The president raised his glass to me in a salute
and took a deep drink. "Once again I have AXE to
thank for my life."
' 'Are you going to cancel the rest of your trip?"
I asked without mincing words.
The president hesitated a moment.
"In Hon-
olulu my answer was absolutely not. I am com-
mitted. But now . . "
he let it trail off for a
moment. "But now I'm not so sure. Maybe Stan-
ley is right. Maybe MacDonald is right. Maybe
what I'm trying to do is so universally unpopular
that they'll keep on trying until they get me, unless
I give this up."
I shook my head. "Thaft not true, Mr. Presi-
dent, and I think you know it. The Lisbon message
indicated that this is one group after you. A
number of fanatics—professionals, nevertheless
—want you dead for some reason-: It may or may
not have something to do with your world-peace
plan, but that is really irrelevant. I don't think your
plan is universally unpopular. You persönally are
unpopular with this one group of terrorists. That's
all."
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The president drained the last of his drink, set
the glass down on the coffee table, sighed, and
then straightened his shoulders. "You're correct,
of course, Carter. So what's the next step?"
Was I right? For a moment my conviction wa-
vered. If I was right, then at best the president
would be in extreme danger for the next few days.
But if I was wrong, then his decision would surely
be fatal. He was a good man. I had come to respect
him more than any other man I have ever known,
except perhaps for Hawk, who sometimes, in a
weak moment, I thought of almost as a father.
"Your decision, Mr.' President," I said. "If you
cancel your trip and return to Washington, my job
of tracking these people down will probably be
impossible. Then you won't be in any danger. But
in effect they will have won anyway. They will
have stopped you. On the other hand, if you con-
tinue on this trip you'll not only be placing yourself
in extreme danger, but you'll have to fight your
son, by the looks of it, as well as Stone, who will
probably exercise his Secret Service option of or-
dering you back to Washington."
s 'I can get around Stone," the president said
thoughtfully. "He will listen to me."
I nodded.
"And I'm not particularly worried about the
danger. I am worried about what effect these at-
tempts are going to have on my talks—especially
in Peking and Moscow. It might make them
jumpy."
4"Your territory again, Mr, President," I said.
"But if you decide to continue, I'll ask you to take
a number of precautions."
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The president looked at me for a long moment,
and finally he nodded. "I'm continuing. I can take
care of Stone and MacDonald, and as far as Stan-
ley goes . . . well . . . "
"First," I said, getting up from the chiar, e 'I
want you fully armed. I assume, sir, that you can
use a handgun."
The president smiled. "I was top man in my
company in the army. As the C.O. I was a better
marksman than the kids."
"Second," I continued, "from this momenton,
whenever you step out of this room, I want you
•wearing a bulletproof vest. One of the Vietnam
flak jackets. They're hot and uncomfortable, but it
could save your life."
' 'Agreed," the president said.
"And finally, you go nowhere or do nothing
without my express approval. If I'm tied up and
you can't get the message to me, sit tight."
That rankled with Magnesen; I could see it in
the slight stiffness in his features. But he finally
nodded. "Agreed," he said tightly.
"I want to bust this organization, Mr. Presi-
dent," I said. "But I also want to keep you alive. I
think you are one hell of a president. I don't want
my country to lose you."
The president rose and shook my hand. "All
right, Carter," he said, smiling for almost the first
time this afternoon. "You win. I'll be a good boy."
' 'How about this evening?" I asked him.
' 'I've canceled the reception. I'll remain here."
I nodded. "And tomorrow?"
"Government center. "
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"You'll be safe there," I said. "And after that
you'll be in Peking. I'm sure that you won't be in
any danger in China or in the Soviet Union. Their
state police are too emcient for that. Besides, a
president of the United States being assassinated
on Chinese soil would start World War III. The
Chinese simply will not allow it."
"A sad commentary on our system," the presi-
dent said, and I agreed.
It was just a little after seven-thirty when I left
the president. Stone was talking with Stanley in
the corridor, and when I came out they both
looked up.
"What'd he say?" Stone asked me.
"Hess going to continue— ' I started, but that's
as far as I got before Stone and Stanley both burst
out in angry shouts.
Stone overrode the younger man. "I'm going to
exercise the Secret Service act. I'm taking him
back to Washington."
"I think he wants to talk with you first," I said.
Stone was about to protest further, but then he
sighed. "He wants to see me now?"
I nodded, and Stanley broke in: "Mr. Carter?"
I turned to him.
"Will you be on the detail coming along with
Miss Williamson and me this evening?"
I was about to say no, but something in Stanley's
eyes changed my mind. I don't know what it
was—it seemed as if he was almost pleading with
me but could say no more in front of Stone. I finally
nodded. "When do we leave?"
"Good," Stanley said, smiling. He looked at his
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watch. "We're to pick up Miss Williamson in her
room downstairs in five minutes."
"Fine," Stone said to Stanley, and then he pat-
ted me on the arm. "When you return to the hotel
this evening, I'll have something for you. I think
we'll be moving the man out 'first thing in the
morning. Early. We'll go over the details."
"Okay," I said, and Stone entered the presi-
dent's suite as d went down in the elevator with
Stanley to meet his girlfriend.
For more than two hours we traipsed around
Tokyo—Stanley Magnesen, his girlfriend Olanda
Williamson, myself, and five other Secret Service
men, as well as æcadre of at least twenty newspa-
per and television reporters.
We had drinks at three clubs in the Ginza, made
brief appearances at two nightclubs downtown;
took a quick tour of the harbor area lit up at night,
and finally, at ten o'clock, we ended up atop the
Tokyo Television tower, which rose one thousand
feet into the night sky, all the city spread out below
us.
I had come along on this jaunt under the impres-
Sion that Stanley had wanted to talk with me, but if
he did, he hid it well. More than once when we
could havg talked, at least briefly, Stanley avoided
any discussion. Now I was tired, not only physi-
cally, but of a spoiled little boy's antics.
Olanda Williamson, on •the other hand was
charming—almost too charming. Standing at least
five feet ten, she had the luxurious platinum-
blonde hair, with the makeup and clothing to go
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with it, that you might find adorning a New York
model, not a writer for a number of intellectual
magazines.
She could and did converse knowledgably on a
wide range of subjects, and throughout the night
she seemed to make sure that I caught ample
glimpses ofher lovely thighs through the side slit in
her dress as well as plenty of cleavage whenever
she bent down—which seemed often.
Stanley was playing a game—cops and robbers,
probably—with me, and so apparently was
Olanda; but her game was of a totally different
nature.
I had been expecting something to happen with
Olanda all through the night, so it came as no
surprise to me when, as Stanley was cornered by
reporters in the souviner shop near the top of the
tower, Olanda slipped away.
Stanley agreed to the impromptu press confer-
ence, and I was able to slip away as well, to follow
Olanda. She had taken the set of stairs that led
another thirty feet up to the small observation
room just below where the television antennas
were.
The tower had been closed off to the public
during this tour, so when I got upstairs Olanda and
I were alone. She apparently had been expecting
me, because she did not turn around; instead, she
continued to stare out at the city below.
"Its lovely up here, isn't it, Nick?" she said
softly.
I came up behind her and stood looking over her
shoulder at the city. "Let's go back to the others
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before Stanley gets himself into trouble."
"Let'snot," she said softly, and she suddenly
turned to face me, threw her arms around my
neck, and kissed me passionately, her tongue dart-
ing around my lips as she rotated her pelvis against
mine.
I tried to push her away, but she clung more
tightly to me, kissing my neck and ears. "God,
Nick, please! I need you!" she said huskily.
"We've got time. No one will come up here."
She pulled back from me and started to hike up
her dress. I reached out and slapped her hard
across her face, and for a moment she was stunned
speechless.
"Let's go. Now!" I said sharply, although
under different cireumstances I think I would have
obliged the lady—at least once.
And then she was on me. "You fucking son of a
bitch!" she screamed, making me glad I had had
the foresight to shut the stairwell door behind me.
I raised my hand to slap her again, and she
backed off immediately, a sly smile on her lips.
"The president will hear about this. A Secret
Service man trying to rape his son's girlfriend."
I laughed out loud, took her arm, and led her
back downstairs without another word or any
further resistance. No one had noticed-we were
missing, and a few minutes later Stanley's news
conference was over, and so was the tour.
It was eleven o'clock by the time I had seen
Stanley and Olanda safely back to the hotel. I was
told that Stone wanted to see me in the morning,
not this evening as he had said. I assumed that the
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president had been as good as his word and had
somehow convinced Stone that the world tour
could not be canceled.
I took a cab across town to a little restaurant,
where I tried to telephone Kazuka at home. There
was no answer there, so I tried Amalgamated
Press. Kazuka answered the phone on the first
ring.
"Nick," she said, and she sounded excited.
"What have you got on those two men?" I
asked.
"Nothing. But there is a message for you from a
gentleman in Washington."
"David?" 1 said.
"Yes," Kazuka replied. "He wants you home
immediately. Ift urgent."
"Anything else?" I said, my mind running to a
dozen different possibilities.
"No. He wants you home; that's all." Kazuka
hesitated, and I could almost see her sad expres-
sion. "I've booked you on a special diplomatic
flight. Leaves Tokyo at two this morning."
"Right," I said. "Kazuka—" I started, but she
cut me off.
"Don't say anything, Nick darling. If and when
you can, come back to me. I love you." And then
she hung up.
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"YOU'LL HAVE JUST four days before you're to
catch up with the presidential party in Cairo,"
Hawk was saying to me:
I sat across theclesk from him in his familiar
cluttered office on Dupont Circle, my mind still a
bit befuddled at the rapidity ofnot only switching a
few time zones, but coming across the Interna-
tional Date Line as well.
"I thought the president was only going to spend
two days in Peking," I said, sitting slightly forward
in my chair. Hawk still had not told me why he had
called me back from Tokyo so dramatically.
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He was shaking his head. "He will remain an
extra two days in China. It's safer for him there
than, I'm afraid to say, even here in Washington. "
Hawk turned and looked out the window at the
bleak drizzle that was falling at this moment. He
sighed, a gesture I had seen him do only once or
twice since I had known him. For a brief instant I
felt a pang of fear. Hawk was getting older. And
old men were not invulnerable to ... I did not want
to think of Hawk in such final terms, so I brought
my mind back to the present as he turned to me.
"The president was a hard man to convince, but
I think I can guarantee he'll remain in Peking four
days. However, that is all I could get out of him. So
you'll have to finish whatever you can in that time
and then get to Cairo. Understood?"
I nodded. Convincing the president of anything,
I figured, must have been about the toughest thing
possible, considering the state I had left him in.
After my call to Kazuka I had gone immediately
back to the Imperial Hilton. This time I did declare
an emergency to the president's sleepy appoint-
ments secretary. I had a scant two hours in which
to tell the president what was happening, some-
how slip past Stone to retrieve my luggage, pick up
my boarding pass at the gate, and make the two-
o'clock diplomatic flight.
It took the president nearly ten minutes before
hejoined me in his living room, and he did not look
in the least bit happy. At first I thought his displea-
.sure was directed toward me for waking him up at
midnight, but then I realized he was mad about
something else.
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"What is it, Carter?" he asked almost vacantly
but with an angry look in his eyes.
"David Hawk has just ordered me back to
Washington," I said without preamble.
"When do you leave?"
"Within two hours. But you should be all right
at government center, as long .as you make no
further public appearances until you board, Air
Force One for Peking. Whatever Hawk wants, I
should be back in time to meet you in Cairo."
The president looked at me for the first time
since I had entered the room. "Hawk contacted
you here? He wants you back in Washington?"
"Yes, sir," I nodded.
VYou have a lead to who is behind all this? You
know who sent the Lisbon message?"
I shook my head. "I don't, sir. Perhaps Hawk
has some answers. I just thought I would have to
let you know I was leaving. I may need you to
cover for me with Stone," I added.
The president smiled, almostly sadly. '*Quite a
little conspiracy we've got going for us here," he
said.
I returned the smile. "Yes, sir."
The president seemed to hesitate a moment be-
fore he said his next words. His shoulders seemed
to slump, and he looked at me with an almost
pleading expression in his eyes.
"It may not be
necessary for you to meet me in Cairo, though,"
he said.
'VI may be canceling the remainder of my four
after Peking. I just don't know at this time."
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"What is it, Carter?" he asked almost vacantly
but with an angry look in his eyes.
"David Hawk has just ordered me back to
Washington," I said without preamble.
"When do you leave?"
"Within two hours. But you should be all right
at government center, as long .as you make no
further public appearances until you board, Air
Force One for Peking. Whatever Hawk wants, I
should be back in time to meet you in Cairo."
The president looked at me for the first time
since I had entered the room. "Hawk contacted
you here? He wants you back in Washington?"
"Yes, sir," I nodded.
VYou have a lead to who is behind all this? You
know who sent the Lisbon message?"
I shook my head. "I don't, sir. Perhaps Hawk
has some answers. I just thought I would have to
let you know I was leaving. I may need you to
cover for me with Stone," I added.
The president smiled, almostly sadly. '*Quite a
little conspiracy we've got going for us here," he
said.
I returned the smile. "Yes, sir."
The president seemed to hesitate a moment be-
fore he said his next words. His shoulders seemed
to slump, and he looked at me with an almost
pleading expression in his eyes.
"It may not be
necessary for you to meet me in Cairo, though,"
he said.
'VI may be canceling the remainder of my four
after Peking. I just don't know at this time."
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"I'm sorry—" I started to say, but he waved me
off.
"Never mind," he said. "Go to Washington and
do what has to be done. If I have no need of you in
Cairo I'll contact Hawk."
"Yes, sir," I said. I wanted to stay and talk with
him, but he was tired and I was late. As I was about
to leave, I remembered the Olanda Williamson
thing. I turned back to the president.
"Mr. President," I said.'
The president looked at me. s 'I know all about
it," he said.
I must have looked surprised, because he •ex-
plained, "Stanley told me all about it. But let me
assure you I didn't believe a word of it. I know
your record. I know the kind of man you are. I also
know the kind of man my son is."
There was nothing I could say.
"Don't worry about it, Carter. It's a family
thing, nothing more."
Sitting now across from Hawk, half the world
away from the president, I wondered if it wasjust a
family thing. Stanley had obviously set me up for
the entire incident. Either that or he was one of the
biggest, most naive fools I had ever run into.
Either way I was going to have a word with him
and his girlfriend as soon as I rejoined the presi-
dential party.
Meanwhile, Hawk was eyeing me. "Troubles,
Carter?"
I looked up out of my thoughts. "No, sir," I
said. "Just a bit tired."
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Hawk shifted the ever present cigar from one
side of his mouth to the other, selected a thin file
folder from a pile of many on his desk, and opened
it. For several moments he scanned the contents of
the folder, which I noticed was marked with a thin
red band near the top—highest priority—and then
he looked up at me.
"Portenjo," he began. "First name Juan. You
got his other particulars from your initial query."
"There's more, I hope, sir," I said.
Hawk looked at me impatiently, and I sat back
in my chair.
"Quite a character, this Portenjo," Hawk con-
tinued. "We had to twist a few arms over the past
forty-eight hours, but it was worth it. The man did
not drop out of terrorist activities after his release
from Estoril penitentiary as we first thought, nor
were his activities previous to that time confined to
local uprisings. On the contrary, Juan Portenjo has
been one naughty boy all his life.
"Petty theft at ages five, seven, nine, and
eleven. Suspected murder when he was thirteen,
again when he was fifteen, and a third time when
he was sixteen. No arrests or convictions on those
suspicions. "
Hawk looked up at me. "The Portugese police
do not exactly cooperate well with us about their
failures," he said. That comment was the closest
to humor I had ever heard Hawk utter. But I said
nothing, waiting for him to continue.
"Over the past five years Portenjo has been
involved in guerrilla wars, radical demonstrations,
labor riots, and strikes, all over Europe, Africa,
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and finally at home in Lisbon.
"Those last activities, the ones in Lisbon, led to
his downfall. He was arrested and imprisoned and,
after he served his term, was released last year.
Then, two months ago, he dropped completely out
of sight. "
Hawk handed that file across to me and then
selected a second file, opened it, and read for a
moment before he continued his monologue.
"Akiro Tsukatani, the man you shot and killed
in Tokyo, was a radical Communist. So violent, I
understand, that even the Zengakuri movement
would have nothing to do with him as of last year.
I'll spare the details and let you read about him,"
Hawk said, closing that file and handing it across.
"Needless to say, Mr. Tsukatani also dropped out
of sight, completely out of sight, two months ago. "
Hawk selected a third file folder and without
opening it, passed it across to me. "Mr. Tsuka-
tani's assistant. A little less violent a character,
perhaps, but no less dedicated and deadly."
I held the three files on my lap. "Any connection
among the three, sir?" I asked.
Hawk selected the final thin file folder from the
pile, opened it, and passed a drawing across to me.
It looked almost like a stylized rose with four
petals, or perhaps an oddly shaped mushroom of
some sort, with four convolutions.
I looked up at Hawk.
' 'That mark was found tattooed on the inner side
of the left wrist of each man you managed to take
out. A mark of membership perhaps? A code sign
for the Lisbon organization—if there is such an
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organization?" Hawk shrugged. "Research has
had the devil's own time with this thing but has
come up with absolutely nothing."
I digested that bit of information for a moment.
Hawk was correct, of course. It certainly was no
coincidence that three men in two widely separate
places in the world, all coming to assassinate a
president of the United States, had identical tat-
toos on their inner left wrists. There was no doubt
in my mind that the tattoo signified the Lisbon
organization—whatever it was. But if we only
knew what the symbol meant or stood for, it might
lead us a long way toward ending this.
I. looked up again. -"Any other connections,
sir?" I asked.
Hawk nodded and withdrew a second sheet of
paper from the last file folder. "This from compu-
ter analysis. A bit tricky, actually. Once again we
bent a few regulations to come up with this so
quickly, and I'm afraid we might have bent a few
computers. "
I looked questioningly at my boss, but he was
going to take his time, as usual.
Once we had IDs on these three characters and
had figured out from the tattoos that they were in
all likelihood connected, and in all likelihood
something happened to them in common that
caused them to drop out of sight two months ago,
we tried to trace their movements of two months
ago."
I was perplexed; and it must have shown on my
face, because Hawk shifted his cigar impatiently.
"Bear with me, Carter. This one piece of infor-
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mation cost AXE upwards ofa quarter of a million
dollars. We still haven't gotten all the bills. I hope
worth it."
Again I said nothing, but this time I was stunned
to speechlessness. AXE had never spent a quarter
of a million dollars on anything before. AXE just
did not have that kind of money—at least, I didn't
think it had..
"With the positive IDs, their photographs, and
the probable date of their movements, we ran
computer surveys for every major, and a good
many minor, points of entry to countries all over
Europe, the Orient, and a few other places that
were such wild guesses I won't even mention
them. "
I was even more stunned.
"And of course we found that all three of those
men were in Lisbon near that time. But even more
interestingly, we also found that all three entered
West Germany on the same day six weeks ago. We
don't know where in Germany they went. But we
do know they all entered Germany on the same
day."
"So there is a Lisbon organization. There is a
highly organized plot to kill President Magnesen.
And they are not going to give up."
"Exactly," Hawk said, handing me the last file.
"Read those, and then return them to me before
you leave this office. You'll be leaving for Lisbon
within' '—he paused a moment to glance up at the
wall clock—"two and a half hours?'
I sighed.
"Find the connection between Portenjo and the
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two Japanese and their friends. Find out what the
red tattoo means. And put an end to these damned
plots to kill our man."
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LISBON IS AN ancient city built on steep hills. I o
cated on the bay into which the Tagus River flows,
the city of almost nine hundred thousand people
was listed in all the tourbooks asa major Atlantic
seaport, as well as a thriving transoceanic airline
center.
Lisbon is all that and very much more, however,
as I knew first hand.
During World War II, the city served as a clear-
ing house for Nazi intelligence and counterintelli-
gence networks. Those years had left their stamp
on the city, which now probably contained more
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intelligence agents per square mile than even
Washington, D.C.
Often my assignments had taken me to this city,
and over the years I had developed an aversion for
the place. Everyone here fancied himself a spy.
Everyone seemed to play the game, which more
thank)nce has become time consuming for me. It's
like trying to run through a crowd and make good
time. And time was something I had precious little
of on this trip.
I took a cab directly to my hotel, the Conrad
Hilton Lisbon—a little higher class of hotel than I
normally stay at on assignment, but I had wanted it
that way this time, and Hawk had agreed with me.
The Lisbon organization had mounted two very
nearly successful attempts on the president's life in
two widely separated places. That meant their or-
ganization was well run and probably well fin-
anced. It also meant that there was probably at
least one observer in the crowds during the at-
tempts.
If that was the case, then the Lisbon organiza-
tion also knew me, at least by sight. I was the one
whol always spoiled their well-laid plans.
When I showed up in Lisbon, I hoped it would
cause them confusion. What was a presidential
Secret Service man doing here in Lisbon? With
any luck I was hoping they would be confused
enough to try to pick me up, or perhaps kill me. If
and when that happened, I'd have a chance to
follow the lead all the way to the top.
My reasoning was that by checking into the
Hilton in Lisbon, I could maköjust a big enough
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show of it, that if anyone were watching, they'd be
sure to notice me.
Hawk had agreed. The desk clerk whom I stood
before at this moment seemed an agreeable sort,
too. 'SSefior Carter, welcome please to the Lisbon
Hilton," he said smoothly with a toothy grin, as he
handed me a registration card.
I returned the smile. "Thanks,"
1 said. "I've
just come from the Hilton in Tokyo, and I liked it so
much I had to stay at the Hilton while I'm here. " I
quickly fillecl- out the card and handed it back to
' 'How long will you be staying as our guest,
sefior?" the clerk asked, as he rang for the bellhop.
I shrugged. "That depends on my business."
The bellhop came across the lobby to us. The
clerk handed him my key and nodded slightly to-
ward me. "Show sefior Carter to his room," he
said.
The bellhop took my bag and half-bowed to me.
"This way, seior."
I shook my head and handed him a five-dollar
bill. "Take my bags upstairs. I'll be in the bar," I
said.
_ "Very good, sefior," the bellhop said. Pocket--
ing the bill, he turned and _ headed toward the
elevators as I ambled casually across the lobby
and entered the large, well-lit, and very well-
appointed bar.
It was shortly after noon, Lisbon time, and I was
hungry, so I ordered lunch with my drink, then sat
back and relaxed. I did not want to rush this too
much. If anyone was here to greet me, I wanted
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them to have plenty of time to get set.
I was sure that once I went snooping around
Juan Portenjo's apartment—which would, of
course, be clean—the organization would have no
doubts about me whatever.
The presidenft handpicked man . . .
stopped
two assassination attempts ... now poking around
Portenjo's apartment . . .
They would have to take me out—there was no
doubt about it. I could feel the adrenaline begin-
ning to pump into my veins.
For a brief moment I thought about Kazuka
Akiyama back in Tokyo. It was doubtful that I
would be back there this time, but the thought of
Tokyo triggered something else in my mind.
Every case I've ever been on has been some-
thing like •a jigsaw puzzle—a confusing jigsaw
puzzle, sometimes so confusing that I do not even
know the size or extent of it.
My first step in most cases, as in working on any
puzzle, is to come up with the boundaries. As I
gathered up the pieces and tried to fit them to-
gether I began to get other ideas, or at least a
feeling for what the entire puzzle looked like.
This time the puzzle was big. It covered the
entire world, or at least the world the president
would be touring. Already some of the pieces were
beginning to fit together. But there were still pieces
of the puzzle that didn't seem to fit anywhere.
Item: Olanda Williamson. She was no more a
magazine writer than I was. At least, that was my
gut feeling about her, although her background did
seem to check out.
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Item: Again Olanda Williamson. Why make a
pass at me in Tokyo? It didn't make sense.
Item: The president's son, Stanley. He had ob-
viously wanted to talk to me that night, but he
didn't. Why?
Item: Again the president's son. Why did he tell
his father I had tried something funny with his
girlfriend? And why was he so against his father's
going on this world trip?
None of those pieces, if they were pieces to this
puzzle, seemed to fit anywhere.
And then there was Derrick Stone, I told myself
as I paid for my lunch and left the hotel. When I
rejoined the presidentiaÄ party in Cairo he would
have plenty of questions for me—questions I was
going to have to come up with plausible answers
for. My absence would have increased his already
almost unbearable suspicion of me. His suspicion
pointed to the possibility that he was a key
member in the Lisbon organization, the leak from
the Washington end. But that was one speculation
I was finding hard to swallow, even though he
always seemed to be in my way and seemed so
inefficient at stopping assassination attempts.
Without trying to hide anything, I took a taxi
directly across town to the waterfront district. The
address I had been given by research in
Washington for Portenjo's apartment turned out to
be a ramshackle warehouse on the first floor with a
half dozen dingy apartments on the second story.
I dismissed the cab and went upstairs to a nar-
row, dimly lit, filthy corridor. The smells of frying
beans and greasy meat were almost sickening.
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Somewhere behind one of the doors, a baby was
crying.
The last door toward the rear ofthe building was
the one listed as Portenjo's apartment. I knocked
once, stepped to one side, and waited with my
right hand near my open coat.
A moment later the door opened a crack and an
old woman, clad only in a filthy house dress, with
no shoes, peered out at me.
"Si?" she said.
Quickly in Portugese, I told the woman that I
was looking for Juan, who was an old friend of
mine.
The woman looked at me as if I were crazy, then
closed the door. A moment later a man opened it.
He was large, much bigger than me, and wore
filthy, baggy trousers, rope-soled shoes, and a
gray T-shirt with the sleeves cut off.
"What do you want?" he said to me in English.
'SJuan Portenjo," I said.
The man shook his head. "You got the wrong
place," he said. He started to close the door, but I
moved forward quickly and with my shoulder to
the door pushed it all the way open.
The man, caught off-balance, stepped back and
began to raise his fists toward me, but when I
pulled out Wilhelmina and pointed it at him, his
entire manner suddenly changed. His attitude
switched dramatically from one of burly rough-
ness to one of peasantlike groveling at a master's
feet.
"Please forgive me, sefior," the man said,
switching back to Portugese.
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"Juan Portenjo," I said again.
The man started to shake his head, so I reached
up and pulled back the ejector on my Luger, snap-
ping a round into the firing chamber and cocking
the hammer. The man blanched.
"Juan Portenjo," I repeated.
"Not here ... " the man stammered. ' 'He is not
here. No longer."
"Where is he?" I asked, noticing out of the
corner of my eye that the woman was cowering
against the far wall.
"I don't... " the man started to say. I raised the
Luger a little higher so that it was pointed directly
between his eyes.
"Madre Dios . " the man mumbled, crossing
himself. "Senor, I swear to the Virgin Mary, I do
not know where Juan is."
"How long ago was he here?" I continued.
"Six weeks, maybe two months ago," the man
said, almost choking on the words. -"I swear to
you."
I was about to press him for an exact date, when
something in the expression in his eyes suddenly
changed. In that moment, something hard hit me
on the back of my head, and a flash of light popped
in my brain. I realized that I had stupidly remained
with my back to an open door.
I must have been out for only a few seconds,
because a moment later I was conscious that I was
lying on the floor, a:terrific pain in the back of my
head. Someone smelling of cheap whiskey
grabbed my shoulders and dragged me all the way
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into the room, and a moment later the door was
closed and I could hear the latch running home.
IWo men were talking rapidly in Portugese, and
the woman was moaning and half-crying. I was
able to pick out enough of what they were talking
about to hear the name Maria Oeirés. Something
about how Maria should have to be warned.
Someone wearing thick, heavy-soled shoes
walked over to where I lay and I tensed every
muscle in my body as one foot came back and the
man kicked me in the side.
I rolled over, groaning as if in great pain, which
wasn't far from the truth. Through half-closed
eyes, I watched as the man I had questioned came
across the room, bent down, and quickly searched
me.
The man who had kicked me was pointing my
gun in my general direction. He was a large man,
even larger than the other man, but he was dressed
in rough-cut and very clean seaman's garb.
Neither of the men used names, but when the
man who had just searched me stood up, he
handed my wallet to the man with my gun. They
had failed to find Hugo, my stiletto, or Pierre, the
tiny gas bomb. So I still had a chance.
The man with my gun flipped open my wallet
and started going through the ID cards that
showed me as Nick Carter, American Secret Ser-
vice attached to the presidential detail. This
seemed to excite him so much that he temporarily
forgot about me.
It was all the opening I needed. In an instant I
had Hugo in my right hand. I tensed my muscles
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and shot up, driving the stiletto between the man's
ribs and into his heart.
There wasn't even time for a facial reaction on
the man, as he dropped like a felled ox.
The man I had questioned, however, leaped for
the door. In an instant I was on my feet, and I
slammed my fist into the side of his head as he was
fumbling with the latch. He, too, went down like a.
steer in a slaughterhouse.
All through this the old woman had been cower-
ing in the corner of the room, mumbling and half-
crying. I collected Hugo, wiped it off, and slipped
it back in its case, and then I retrieved and
holstered my Luger.
A quick search of both men showed very little
unusual. Neither of them had the curious tattoo on
the inner left wrist.
The back of my head was still sore; which was
fully explainable when I searched the larger man's
jacket pockets and came up with the solid-oak
belaying pin he had hit me with.
TUrning my attention now to the woman, I pulled
her away from the wall and sat her roughly down
on the ancient, lopsided couch. I had no intention
of hurting her, but she didn't know that. Her eyes
were rolling in their sockets, and spittle drooled
down from the corners of her mouth as she mum-
bled something about "Jesus the savior," who
would protect her.
Very carefully, and in my best and most formal
Portugese, I told the woman that death and de-
struction would come to her family and that her
soul would burn in the everlasting fires ofhell ifshe
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did not cooperate with me.
She looked up at me, and then down at the two
men lying on the floor. "My husband," she stam-
mered. "Is he . ..
dead ?
I shook my head. "No. He will be all right. But
the other man is dead."
"Merciful God in heaven," the woman wailed,
wringing her hands.
' 'Who is Maria Oeriés?" I said sharply.
The woman looked up at me and through her
tears, mumbled, "Juan's girlfriend."
"Juan .. . " I started to say, but then changed
my mind. She had heard me, though.
"Yes . . .
yes,"
she cried. ' 'Juan is our son.
Merciful God in heaven help us."
I suddenly felt very sorry for this old woman and
the man I had knocked down by the door. They
were the parents of Juan Portenjo, but they were
innocent. They knew nothing about the Lisbon
plot. The other man, however, was most likely one
of the organizatiorfi cleanup men, sent here to
make sure neither of them talked to me. If he had
been too late to stop me, he would have killed
them.
I was more gentle with the woman. "You have
not seen Juan in two months?"
She nodded. "He is a good boy," she cried.
"He is in with bad people."
I smiled sadly. S' What bad people?" I asked.
She shook her head. "I do not know," she said.
"Maria is one of them. A bad woman. Bad ... "
"Where is Maria?'" I asked. "Where can I find
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The woman looked up into my eyes. -"l will tell
you, and then you will stop my son from whatever
it is he is about to do: Promise me on God's mercy
.. . promise you will do that?"
"Yes," I nodded. I did not have the heart to tell
her that at this moment her son was laying in the
morgue in Honolulu.
The old woman gave me the address of Maria
Oeriés and, having recovered somewhat, told me
to go. She and her husband would take care of the
body.
Reluctantly I left their apartment. A few blocks
away I found myself a cab, giving the driver the
name of my hotel.
There was no doubt in my mind that the woman
and her husband could get rid of the body. But I
was worried about who would be calling on them
next.
I could not call the Lisbon police and ask them
to protect the couple, because even if they could,
their movements would tip off the Lisbon organi-
zation that I knew even more than they suspected
and had gone to the local authorities with it. This
would do nothing more than drive them deeper
underground. They would be making fewer mis-
takes, and my job would be that much more im-
possible.
Back at my hotel, I paid the cabby and hurried
up to my room. Inside, I quickly checked my two
suitcases. Both had been opened and searched.
That really didn't matter, because anything of im-
portance was either carried on my person or dis-
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guised as part of the suitcase frame, hinges, or
handles.
The Lisbon organization knew I was here. I
would have to keep on my toes from now on.
I quickly changed clothes, cleaned and oiled my
stiletto, and then left via the fire stairs at the end of
the corridor.
After taking three cabs and two buses and walk-
ing for more than an hour, I had covered most of
Lisbon and, in an extremely roundabout fashion
made my way to the apartment of Maria Oeriés, in
the Alfama quarter near the cathedral.
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IT WAS NEARLY six o'clock by the time I took up
my position across the street from the building in
which Maria Oeriés lived. I wanted to watch the
front door for at least an hour before making my
move.
If Portenjo's parents were unsuccessful in re-
moving the dead man from their apartment un-
noticed, or if someone else from the Lisbon or-
ganization had beep acting as a backup observer
there, it was safe to bet that they would be sending
someone around to Maria's apartment.
There were only a couple of other people in the
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small café where I waited, so I was easily able to
get a small table by the window. As I sipped my
hot, sweet, thick Portugese coffee, I was able to
watch the front door of the ancient but well-kept
four-story building across the street.
How did Maria Oeriés fit into all this? I asked
myself. Portenjo's mother evidently believed that
Maria had been a bad influence on her son, but that
could have been nothing more than a
concern for her son's welfare. Every mother
wanted her son to marry a nice girl, someone he
could settle down with to raise a family.
On the other hand, the old woman had called
Maria Oeriés "bad." Did that mean bad like crim-
inal? Bad like wanton? Bad like what?
I shrugged. I would be finding out soon enough,
I hoped..
For the next hour I sat sipping my coffee and
waiting, but no one suspicious entered or left the
apartment building. I signaled for the waiter, paid
my check, and went outside. Across the street I
entered the building and looked at the mailboxes in
the narrow lobby. Maria Oeriés was listed, as Por-
tenjo's mother had said she would be, for apart-
ment 4B, on the top floor.
I avoided the creaking, iron-cage elevator and
took the stairs, silently but swiftly. In a couple of
minutes I was standing outside the door to her
apartment, listening. I could hear soft music from
within, but nothing more. A moment later I
knocked.
To say that I was surprised when the door was
opened would be the understatement of the year. I
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was flabbergasted. The woman standing at the
open door in a thick terrycloth robe was easily one
of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She
was of mediüm height, about five-five or five-six,
weighed perhaps 115 pounds, and was built as a
woman should be built—at least as far as I could
tell with the robe wrapped tightly around her.
But her face was almost the best. If ever there
could have been a cross between Elizabeth Taylor
and Brigitte, Bardot in a Portugese package, this
young woman was it.
All that, I saw in the space of an eyeblink, and in
the next moment a dozen questions crowded into
my mind.
If this was Maria Oeriés, and she was Portenjo's
girlfriend, what had she seen in him? My recollec-
tion of him from Honolulu did not fit the kind ofa
man I would expect to see by this womarfi side.
And if this was Maria Oeriés, and
mother was correct that she was a bad woman, I
was very interested in finding out: bad how?
"Senorita Oeriés?" I asked, smiling slightlye
The woman nodded slowly. She seemed
frightened; at any moment she might bolt.
"I come from Juan Portenjo," I said. "I'd like to
talk to you about him."
She stared at me for a long moment, her eyes
widening and her mouth coming open to reveal
perfect teeth. Then she burst into tears, swiveled,
and rushed into the apartment, leaving the door
open.
I hesitated a moment while glancing either way
down the corridor—no one was there—and then
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went into the apartment, closing and locking the
door behind me.
The apartment was a tiny emciency unit, in one
room. The kitchenette was partitioned off from the
room by a sliding door, and another door to my
right evidently led to the bathroom. A privacy
screen across the room from barely hid a large
double bed, and from where I stood I could see
Maria's legs from the knees down, sticking out
from her robe as she lay on her belly sobbing.
I quickly checked the bathroom, the kitchen,
and the large closet-cabinet before I turned back to
the woman on the bed. She was still crying, her
shoulders racked with her sobs.
We were alone in the apartment. If anyone from
the Lisbon organization had found out what had
gone on earlier today, they would have been here
by now. And since they were not, I suspected I
would have a little time—a suspicion that was
totally wrong.
I gingerly sat on the edge of the bed and reached
over to rub Maria's back between her shoul-
derblades, massaging also the base of her neck.
Slowly her sobs subsided, and for several min-
utes she just lay there as I continued to rub her
back and neck.
"Where is Juan?" I asked finally, keeping my
voice as soft and gentle as possible.
"I don't know," she said, her words muffed by
the pillow. "l don't know."
Neither Juan Portenjo's name nor his picture
had been published in any paper in connection
with the assassination attempt on President
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Magnesen in Honolulu. So why was Maria crying
now? If it was because Portenjo was dead, that
meant she was a part of the Lisbon organization
and therefore privy to that knowledge.
"When did you see him last?" I asked, continu:
ing my massaging.
"Eight weeks ago," she said.
"I heard he might be dead, " I started, but Maria
suddenly flipped around in the bed and sat up, her
face a mask of horror.
' She
"No!" she wailed. -"They said he lived—
broke off.
I grabbed her face in both my hands. "They?" I
said. "Who are they? - What do you know about
them?"
She struggled against my grasp. "Leave me
alone!" she screamed. "Go away from here."
I let my hands slip down to the side of her face,
so that my thumbs were positioned below and to
either side of her jaw, and I began to apply pres-
sure. Instantly she stiffened, the screams choking
off, her eyes bulging nearly out of their sockets.
I intensely dislike causing pain to any woman,
especially a woman so beautiful as Maria Oeriés,
but I hate even more a murderer, especially an
assassin.
"Maria, " I said softly, releasing the pressure on
her neck, "l want answers."
She tried to pull away from me, but I held her
firmly. "l can't," she mewed.
"You must," I inSisted, increasing the pressure
on my thumbs slightly.
She stiffened again, and her eyes rolled in terror.
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"They'll kill me!" she managed to gasp.
I took my hands away, and she lay back down on
the bed, massaging her neck, as the tears again
began to slip down her cheeks. In her struggles the
front of her robe had parted slightly revealing her
thighs and a good portion of her breasts.
I was sitting next to her on the bed, and I leaned
over her now to look directly into her eyes.
"Juan was involved in an attempt to kill a prom-
inent American," I said. "But he was not success-
ful. He was killed in the attempt."
I let that sink in for a moment before I con-
tinued. She was crying now, silently, the tears
streaming down her cheeks.
"I'm sure they will not hesitate to kill you,
Maria, if they think you are cooperating with me.
But if you don't answer my questions now, I'll
leave and spread the word that you did talk to
me."
A look of panic flashed across her face.
"If you do cooperate with me, I'll get you out of
here. I'll guarantee your protection. You'll be safe.
And the people responsible for Juan's death will be
caught."
She reached out and touched my arm. When she
spoke her voice was choked with emotion. "They
told me that Juan was still alive. That he was
hiding. That he would come back to me."
"What else did they tell you?" I asked gently as
she moved a little closer to me. Her movement
caused her robe to open in the front even more,
and what I was seeing was very nice.
"They told me that someone would be coming
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here to question me," she said, a huskiness com-
ing to her voice.
"Did they mention any names?"
She shook her head and raised her left knee. The
robe fell all the way open now, so that she was
completely nude in the front. Her body perfectly
matched her gorgeous face, and I was suddenly
having difficulty in concentrating.
' 'Who are they?" I asked again, taking a deep
breath. Sometimes Yoga breathing exercises help
calm me down. This time they weren't doing much
good.
She shook her head. "I don't know. Juan had his
friends; I had mine. A couple of months ago he
took off on business, as he called it. He said that
he'd be back soon and that he would have enough
money for us to go away."
"And you've heard nothing else from him?"
"Nothing," she said. "But two days ago I got a
phone call. It was. a man who said that he knew
where Juan was and that Juan would be safe as
long as I said nothing to anyone. He said someone
would probably be coming to question me, but I
was to answer nothing."
"Or?" I said.
For a moment she looked Quizzically at me, but
then the understanding dawned on her. "Or they
would kill me and Juan," she said.
I turned away thoughtfully for a moment. Either
this woman was telling me the truth or she was one
of the finest actresses I had ever run into. She
touched my arm, bringing me back to the present.
"I'm frightened," she said in a small voice.
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I reached out and caressed her cheek with the
back of my hand, and she snuggled even closer to
me, reached out with both hands, and drew me
down on top of her.
Her body was soft and warm, and she smelled
faintly of a fresh bath and powder. She hooked a
leg around one ofmy legs and pulled me all the way
on top of her and then kissed me passionately, her
tongue darting around my lips.
The lady was lonely, I told myself. Lonely and
beautiful. And she had answered my questions, at
least to this point. But I had many more to ask—a
lot tougher questions, which might take a little
pursuasion. Like the names of Juan's friends and
what he had done during the months before his
disappearance.
First, however, I told myself, I wanted to see
just how far she would go with her little act, if it
was an act.
Soon her robe was off, I was undressed, and we
were making love, her incredible breasts crushed
against my chest each time I moved against her.
The moment after we were finished, I felt her
body stiffen. Her arm flashed over her head, and
she grappled for something beneath her pillow. I
was off-balance on one knee and one elbow;
otherwise, she would not have come as close as
she did.
I flipped completely over as her hand came up,
and the straight razor, clutched tightly in her little
fist, flashed in the dim light. The sharp blade raked
across my outstretched arm, barely nicking the
skin but drawing blood, and in the next instant I
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had her wrist and was bending it forward.
At the point where I thought her wrist would
surely break, Maria finally let out a little cry,
dropped the razor, and tried to knee me in the
groin. I easily fended off the blow, let go of her
wrist, and flipped the razor across the room.
"Nice try, sweetheart," I said. ' VAnd now for
the answers I came for."
She was on me in an instant, her long, well-
manicured fingernails raking across my already
cut arm.
I slapped her hard across the face, instant red
coming to her cheek, but she struggled up for me
again, so I grabbed her arm just above the elbow
and applied firm pressure. She yelped in pain and
flopped back on the bed, a combination of hate and
fear in her features.
Holding her down, I reached out with my other
hand and picked up the phone on the night table.
Before the operator had a chance to come on the
line, I spoke into the mouthpiece, in Portugese.
"The federal secret police," I said. "And please
hurry."
"No!" the girl shouted as the operator came on
the line.
"Your call please?"
"Never mind," I said, and hung up the tele-
phone, then turned to look down at the deeply
frightened woman. "And now for some straight
answers, or I'll let your own government deal with
this."
The Portugese federal secret police is probably
the most ruthlessly efficient agency of its kind in
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the world. It is small in number but very large in
influence among its own people. There are very
few in Portugal who do not know and fear its force.
Maria Oeriés was completely cowed now by my
threat, and she began mumbling and babbling
about her instructions to kill me.
"And when you had accomplished that, what
next?" I asked.
She looked up at me with her liquid brown eyes
and shook her head. I again reached for the tele-
phone, and her eyes darted from my outstretched
hand back to the firm expression on my face.
"I was to call a number,"
she said half-
hysterically, shaking her head back and forth.
" Someone would come and take your body—take
you away and clean up."
I picked upthe phone and handed it to her. "Call
them," I said.
She shrank away from the phone.
"Call them or I'll call the police," I said. I could
hear the operator asking for the number.
Maria finally reached out, took the phone, and
gave the operator the number. A few moments
later someone evidently answered, because she
stiffened and then nodded her head. "Yes," she
said, and then she handed the phone back to me.
I put the receiver to my ear in time to hear the
click at the other end, and then nothing.
"A man or a woman?" I asked as I hung up the
phone.
"A man," she said, and then she rolled over and
buried her face in the pillow and began to sob
again.
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Within a couple of minutes I was up and
dressed, my Luger in hand, a round in the
chamber, the safety off. When the knock came at
the door I snapped around to Maria, who had
jumped up and was standing next to the bed, tying
the robe tightly around her. The tears were still
streaming down her cheeks, and she was so
frightened that I wondered if she was going to be
able to walk.
The knock came again, and I silently motioned
for her to answer the door, as I took up position
behind it.
On the third knock, Maria opened the door.
From where I was standing I could see through the
hinge line of the door a tall, redhaired woman
standing in the corridor, holding what looked like a
silenced .32-caliber Beret!a.
I started to move forward to push Maria out of
the way, but the unmistakable low plop of a si-
lenced gun being fired sounded twice, and Maria
crumpled where she stood, jamming the door shut
with her body.
For what seemed like ten minutes, but was more
like ten seconds, I struggled to get Maria's body
out of the way. I yanked open the door and rushed
into the corridor, Wilhelmina at the ready.
The corridor was empty% but a moment later I
noticed that the elevator indicator showed that the
iron cage was descending. Without thinking I
leaped down the stairs, taking them three at a time,
easily beating the ancient elevator to the ground
floor.
When the iron doors opened and I looked into an
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empty elevator, I realized with a sinking feeling
that I had fallen for one of the oldest tricks since
elevators had been invented. While I was chasing
an empty elevator, the redhaired woman had lei-
surely made her way down a set of back stairs or
the fire escape.
By now she was long gone, surely enjoying her
joke on me.
A couple of people in the lobby were backing
away from me because of the gun in my hand, so I
hurried back upstairs to see if there was anything I
could do for Maria before the Portugese police
arrived. I did not want to be held up here any
longer than need be—especially in a Portugese
prison, in which I was sure my chances of survival
were very slim.
Maria was still alive, but she was losing blood
fast when I arrived back at her apartment and laid
her on the bed.
I got a couple ofbath towels and tried to stop the
flow of blood as best I could, but even an amateur
in first aid could easily see that the woman would
soon be dead. One of the bullets had caught her
just below the sternum, and the other had pene-
trated low in her abdomen. She must have been in
intense pain.
She was trying to speak to me, so I leaned over
and put my ear near to her mouth.
"Wiesbaden," she said, the word barely audi-
ble. " TWO months ago . . , Wiesbaden . . G
many."
"Juan and his friends were in Wiesbaden two
months ago?" I said.
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She was barely able to nod.
It fit with what Hawk had found out. Juan and
the two Japanese terrorists had entered Germany
two months ago. They had evidently gone to
Wiesbaden.
"Where in Wiesbaden?" I asked.
' 'Max Schiller Strasse,' 'she managed to say.
"Number 17."
"Who else was there?" I asked urgently, but a
spasm of intense pain racked her delicate little
body, and I knew she could not last much longer.
"Red fist " she breathed. "Red fist ... four
fingers." And then she died.
Death is never pretty, no matter in what form it
comes or to whom. But in the case of Maria
Oeriés, one of the most beautiful women I had ever
known, it was especially hideous.
I covered her pain-contorted face with the edge
of the blanket and then left the apartment as sirens
sounded in the distance.
I quickly found the back stairs that the redhaired
woman had probably used to make her escape, and
within a couple of minutes I was out on the street,
nonchalantly walking away.
Number 17 Max Schiller Strasse in Wiesbaden,
Germany, the girl had told me. And the tattoo on
the inner wrists of Portenjo and the two Japanese
depicted a red fist—the international sign of
power.
But she had said the fist had four fingers, as if
that had some significance. What did it mean?
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EL KAHIRAH, AL-QAHIRA, or Cairo, depending
upon your language, shimmered in the intense heat
of the noonday sun as I was passed immediately
through customs on my diplomatic passport. I
hailed a taxi for downtown.
I had sent off a coded telegram to Hawk at
Amalgamated Press before I left Lisbon, and the
reply had been handed to meat the airline terminal
here in Cairo just moments ago.
Now riding in the wheezing Citroén taxi toward
the center of the capital of Egypt, I opened the
telegram and read it.
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It was in plain language, very simple, and
straight to the point. In my telegram, I had briefly
told Hawk what had happened in Lisbon and
asked him to cover for me with Stone and the
presidential party. He had complied.
EVERYTHING COVERED BOTH ENDS
STOP REJOIN COMPANY STOP YOU ARE
EXPECTED STOP.
The presidential party had spent four days in
Peking, where everything had gone smoothly.
They would spend today and tomorrow morning
here in Cairo and then would head to Moscow. In
the Soviet Union there would be no trouble, I was
sure, but here in Cairo I was equally as sure that
another attempt would be made on the president's
life. Before that happened, I needed some answers
from Stanley Magnesen and his girlfriend, Olanda
Williamson.
"Welcome back," Derrick Stone said dryly as I
slumped down in the chair across the desk from
him.
Wherever the president went, the Secret Ser-
vice usually had its operating headquarters a very
short distance from the presidential suite. In this
case Stone's office also served as his sleeping quar-
ters and was a room two doors down from the
presidenCs in Prime Minister Mohammed El-
Akbar's palatial home.
Normally, having the president's Secret Service
in attendance at a government leader's private
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home would have been in bad taste, but the Egyp-
tian leader had insisted on it because Of the at-
tempted assassinations in Honolulu and Tokyo.
"We will all feel safer for you, Mr. President,"
the Egyptian leader had said. And Akbar's own
contingent of guards had been doubled.
Stone looked uncomfortable behind the ornate
desk that had been moved in for him.
"Everything went well in Peking?" I said con-
versationally.
Stone nodded. "It was the first vacation I've
had in two years," he said.
"You should have it easy in Moscow the day
after tomorrow as well," I said, and Stone nodded
absently. "But what about today and tomorrow?"
I asked. ' 'Has his schedule changed?"
Stone shook his head. "Today is all right. He'll
be spending all his time right here closeted with the
Egyptian Prime Minister and his advisors. We're
to do nothing:"
I let it trail off.
"But... "
"But tomorrow is a different story. Tomorrow
they will be making a tour of the pyramids of Giza
and the great sphinx southwest of here."
"It'll happen then," I said, half to myself.
"There will be another attempt?" he asked, sit-
ting forward. For the first time, his facial expres-
Sion was animated.
I nodded. "Most likely they'll try again," I said.
If Stone was the leak who was informing the Lis-
bon organization of the president's moves, it did
not matter any longer that he knew I was on to
something. Half of Lisbon knew it by now.
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If it was Stone, however, and I doubted it, there
was a possibility he would make a mistake.
But Stone sighed and sat back in his chair.
"They," he said softly. "Another attempt." He
smiled and shook his head, then stared at me for
several long seconds. "I was told to keep clear of
you, not to ask any questions, not to crowd you,
but I don't know if that's possible."
' 'What do you want to know, Stone?" I asked,
lighting one of my specially blended cigarettes.
Stone sat forward again. "First of all, who the
hell are you?"
I smiled. "Just who I seem to be. The president's
handpicked personal bodyguard. Nothing more."
"Bullshit," Stone said, but then he shrugged.
"But I guess we'll have to leave it at that."
I nodded..
"You said 'they' will try again. Who arec
'they'?"
"l don't know yet. Some organization—backed
by whom, I don't know, and for what exact pur-
pose, I don't know—wants the president dead."
"The tattoo?" Stone asked.
I nodded.
"l expect that if another attempt is made and we
can stop it, the assassin will be tattooed."
"If we can stop it," Stone repeated. "Why
don't you talk with the president? He evidently
listens to you. Make him quit this insanity and
return to Washington."
I shook my head. "For once I agree with you,
Stone, but I cannot. With the president back in
Washington, we'll never get to the bottom of this.
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And sooner or later they'll try again—maybe suc-
cessfully."
' 'So our president is being used as a decoy."
"As frightening as that sounds," I said, "I'm
afraid you are right."
Stone stared at me again for a long time. ' Where
were you when we were in PekingQ"
"I can't tell you that," I said.
"Why?"
"I can't tell you that, either."
Stone was frustrated. He was about to speak
again, but I held him off.
"Look, I said. 'f Youjust do yourjob and let me
do mine as best I can. If and when I can tell you
anything—anything at all that will help you pro-
tect the president—I'll tell you. Meanwhile, even
if I did tell you where I was and what I had been
doing it wouldn't help one bit in protecting Magne-
sen."
Stone looked away for a long moment, and when
he returned his gaze to me he seemed almost sad.
' 'There is a leak somewhere here, and you suspect
me."
I shook my head. 'SI did suspect you, just as I
suspected everyone else. -But not now."
Stone sighed again , deeply. "What's the next
step?"
"Stanley Magnesen," I said, and Stone nearly
fell off his chair.
"Are you crazy?" he said through clenched
teeth.
"Don't jump to conclusions," I snapped. "Now
where is Stanley?"
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' 'In his room. come down with a cold or the
flu or something. The doctor has him on penicillin
and wants him to remain in bed for the rest of the
day and tonight."
I nodded. "And Olanda Williamson?"
' 'A shopping tour this afternoon. The party this
evening. "
"Here?" I asked.
Stone nodded. "About eight hundred people
invited. Every one of them personally vouched for
by Akbar himself, who wouldn't- let his grand-
mother in ifhe figured she'd be carrying a hat pin. ' '
I thought a moment. "All right. I want to be
detailed to watch over our Miss Williamson. No
one else. Just me."
Stone's eyebrows rose.
"Like I said," getting up, "don't jump to con-
clusions." And I walked out of Stone's office.
Olanda Williamson was tall, with a model's
figure, and somewhat pretty in a New York-plastic
sort of way. She could not in any way compare to
Maria Oeriés, whose beauty had been classic, but
Olanda would turn heads wherever she went.
"What a totally unexpected surprise," she said
smoothly when I picked her up at the front gate of
the Egyptian palace compound.
I nodded and smiled. 'S The pleasure is all
mine."
"I hope so," she mumbled, and we were off in
one of the Mercedes limousines the Egyptian gov-
ernment had provided for us.
We drove into the teeming city, comfortable in
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the air-conditioned interior despite the intense af-
ternoon heat, and I began to lecture.
"Cairo, a city of nearly five million people;-the
capital of Egypt and the largest city in Africa, was
founded in A.D. 642.
Olanda looked at me. "Nearits site was the
ancient Roman city of Babylon and across the
river was Memphis, capital of ancient Egypt.' All
that from the Viking Desk Encyclopedia," she
said, and we both laughed.
"Attacked by the crusaders in the twelveth cen-
tury," I offered.
' 'Ruled by the Mamelukes from the thirteenth to
the sixteenth centuries," she countered.
We laughed again, and the tension between us
begin to ease, exactly as I wished. I reached over
and took her hand in mine. "What's a nice girl like
you doing in a place like this?" I asked, still smil-
ing.
She groaned. "After Tokyo, anything you say or
do has got to be for some ulterior motive."
"We all make mistakes," I said. "Even you,
telling Stanley."
"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," she
quipped.
C' Seriously," I said, "what are you after? Surely
not Stanley."
She peered at me for a long moment, her mouth
finally curving into a delicate smile. "No, of
course not. I'm on en assignment. But Stanley is
involved. "
I raised my eyebrows but said nothing, waiting
for her to continue.
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"It's fairly well-known in some circles that Stan-
ley and his father don't get along very well. Stan-
ley has embarrassed the president on more than
one occasion. And now with this world tour,
which Stanley has publicly spoken out against, the
president is hoping to convert his son to his
camp."
"Kind of like a father-and-son outing," I
suggested.
"Exactly," she said. s 'Only in this case Stanley
is a big boy. Big and exceedingly bright—maybe
even bordering on genius. Not a good person to
have at your throat but someone who would be a
great asset to a president on the university cir-
cuit."
"The president wants to use his own son politi-
cally?" I said.
Olanda laughed out loud. "My, my, aren't we
naive?" she said. "It's done all the time, Nick."
"And where do you fit into all this?"
' 'A publisher I'm not at liberty to disclose just
yet wants an in-depth piece on Magnesen the
younger versus Magnesen the elder. It'll make
good copy all the •way around. Human interest—
we've got a family, the first family, at odds with
itself. Politics—what the president is trying to do
is magnificent, but his son's objections are pene-
trating and highly valid."
"And now an added bonus,"
I said. "TWO at-
tempts on the president's life. Should make for
exciting reading."
g 'That's not fair," Olanda snapped.
"But true nevertheless,"
I insisted, and she
nodded.-
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We were silent for a while then, as we entered
the downtown section.
" "Where would you wish to be dropped off, Miss
Williamson?" the driver asked in a very British
accent.
"Anyplace where I can do some shopping,"
Olanda said.
' 'Very good, madam," the driver said, and
Olanda turned back to me.
' 'And how about you, Nick Carter? How do you
fit into all this?"
"Just another Secret Service agent," I said.
"That's not true. But then, I don't suppose
you'll tell me anything about yourself. This is a
one-way conversation." She lay back in the seat,
stared up at the ceiling, and pursed her lips.
"Let me see if this is how it goes: TWO assassina-
tion attempts on President Magnesen. Therefore a
plot underfoot to kill our president. The next step
would be the conclusion that there is some inside
knowledge being spread around. Would have to
be, to set the president up this way. The parade
route, for instance, had not been announced until
an hour before the parade began. Inside informa-
tion. Which means a leak."
She sat forward and smiled coyly. ' 'And at this
moment I'm a suspect. And this little jaunt this
afternoon with me is an interrogation session. No
doubt you'll be joining me for the party this eve-
ning."
I laughed. "Exactly. So don't make any mis-
takes."
But it did not work out that way for either of us.
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The party was to begin at eight o'clock sharp in the
palace's main banquet hall. Stone's men had been
over the place with a fine-tooth comb under the
watchful gaze of Akbar's personal security men.
By seven-thirty that evening I was dressed in my
room and about ready to make one more swing
through the gigantic hall, when the president's ap-
pointments secretary telephoned me that the pres-
ident wanted to see me immediately. I was due to
pick up Olanda Williamson in her quarters at
seven-forty five. Stanley was still in bed with the
flu. I phoned her room and told her I might be a few
minutes late.
The president was dressed in his tuxedo, and
when I entered his suite he dismissed his secretary
and offered me a glass of champagne, which I
accepted.
When we were settled on easy chairs opposite
each other, the president put down his glass.
"I want you to leave in the morning, Nick," he
said. "I'm pulling AXE off this assignment."
"What?" I said, sitting forward.
"That's rights Carter. You can return to
Washington. I'll inform David Hawk of my deci-
Sion first thing in the morning."
"Mr. President, surely you can't— ' I began,
but Magnesen abruptly cut me off.
"Don't argue with me Carter," he said. "I'm
terminating AXE's involvement in this assignment
as of this moment."
"There will be another attempt on your life to-
morrow. You do understand that, don't you, Mr.
President?" I said softly.
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The president's eyes flashed, and then he shook
his head tiredly. "I don't believe there will be."
The words were like hammer blows to the center
of my skull. The president sounded sure-of him-
self. Too sure about this.
"What have you found out, sir?" I asked, but
again the president waved me off.
s 'I want you to return to Washington tomorrow
morning," he said.
My mind was racing in a dozen different di-
rections, and I felt almost like a drowning man
clutching at straws. "Mr. President—
I started
to say.
"Please, Carter," Magnesen countered, "I'm
tired, and I don't think I'd care to match wits with
you at this moment. Leave this alone."
I shook my head. I guess I've always stuck my
neck on the block. My admirers call it aggressive-
ness. My enemies call it conceit and a few other
more unpleasant things. But I could not leave this
alone, not this way. I would have to remain by the
president's side at least through tomorrow. Then if
nothing happened here, which I sincerely hoped it
wouldn't, I would let the president go on to Mos-
cow gladly. I wanted to get to Wiesbaden to check
out the address Maria Oeriés had given me.
"Just one day," I said to the president. "Allow
me to stay with you through tomorrow. Then
you'll be going on to Moscow and I'll leave. I
promise."
The president shook his head.
"l don't want to say this, Mr. President, but I
feel that I must. I've saved your life twice now,
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and all I am asking for is one small favor. Allow me
to remain with you through tomorrow. That's all."
For a moment it seemed as if Magnesen were
going to explode, and then order me shot, but he
. all right. You win.
finally smiled. "All right . ,
Tomorrow evening you return to Washington."
Again I shook my head. "No, sir. Tomorrow I go
to Wiesbaden."
The president's eyes narrowed. ' 'What are you
talking about?"
I quickly explained everything that I had done
and learned at my meeting with Hawk in
Washington and then during my two days in Lis-
bone When I was finished the president no longer
looked so good. His complexion had turned from,
beet-red anger to chalk-white concern.
"There is a Lisbon organization," the president
said softly.
"It would appear so," I answered. ' 'Tomorrow
I'd like to be with you, and then when you go on to
Moscow I'll check out the situation in Wiesbaden:
If nothing happens tomorrow, and if I find nothing
in Wiesbaden, we'll talk again and you will tell me
why you were so sure this evening that no more
attempts would be made.
The president looked at me for a long time, and
at that moment I truly felt sorry for the man.. In
addition to literally having the problems of the
world weighing down on his shoulders, someone
now was trying to kill him.
'SAgreed," he said finally. "Agreed."
It was almost eight-thirty by the time I left the
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president's suite. When I emerged, several people,
including a very anxious appointments secretary,
were waiting for the president to head for the
party.
I went directly back to my quarters. Suddenly I
did not feel very much like going to a party, and yet
I wanted more conversation with Olanda. Al-
though her story sounded convincing enough to
me, I was still not convinced. I needed a little more
time with her to satisfy my own curiosity.
Both birds were killed with one stone.
Olanda was in my quarters when I got there.
That was obvious from the moment I walked in the
door and saw her shoes in the middle of the
sitting-room floor. A few feet beyond the shoes,
her dress lay in a crumpled heap, and in the door-
way to my bedroom her bra and panties had been
thrown down together.
I would not have to go to the party, nor would I
miss the opportunity to find out more about
Olanda.
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x
EVERY MUSCLE IN my body was tense with expec-
tation as we crossed the Nile and sped the short
distance southwest of Cairo to the famed pyramids
and great sphinx at Giza. I rode in the front seat of
the limousine.
It had been the Egyptian minister's suggestion
that the American president See the pyramids, one
of the seven wonders of the world.
President Magnesen had of course agreed,
Stone had nearly had a heart attack over it, and I
was nervous. I was almost certain there would be
another attempt on Magnesen's life, here in Egypt.
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If it did come, it would have to be soon, because
the president was leaving on Air Force One for
Moscow immediately after this morning's tour.
Stanley Magnesen sat in the back seat, flanked
by his father and the Egyptian leader, and as usual
his irritatingly high-pitched voice was raised in
argument.
From time to time I stole a glance backward.
Akbar's expression held a note of amused toler-
ance, but President Magnesen looked concerned. I
wondered if he was concerned about his son's
brashness and evident lack of respect for the
Egyptian leader or about his own safety, as I was
at this moment.
Everything that could be done to ensure the
president's safety had been done. The three-mile
route from Cairo to Giza, a town of about
was being continuously patrolled by Akbar% elite
guards. The road from Giza to the pyramids had
been blocked offto all tourists, and still I had a bad
feeling about this.
There would be more than a hundred people at
the pyramids, including the presidential party, the
Secret Service guards, the Egyptian soldiers, and
the hoardes of newspeople who followed the pres-
ident everywhere.
Ahead of us were two dozen Egyptian soldiers
on motorcycles, as well as Derrick Stone and three
other Secret Service agents in a Mercedes
limousme. Behind us were at least two dozen cars
and buses, all filled with newspeople, more
American 'Secret. Service agents, and five
truckloads of Egyptian soldiers.
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It was the heaviest contingent of guards the
president had ever had, and yet they were all
merely people. Any one of them could have sold
out. Any one of them could be a member of the
Lisbon organization.
No one knew yet that we were aware of the
significance of the red tattoo, so we could not
check everyone to see if they had the same mark,
without arousing too much suspicion.
My mind was going over every possibility,
partly because I wanted to make sure I was leaving
nothing to chance and partly because I was using
the mental exercise to drown out Stanleyk wheed-
ling voice.
Olanda Williamson had left my rooms around
three o'clock in thev morning, after we had made
love, talked for a couple of hours, and then made
love again.
Although her physical beauty was no match for
that of Maria Oeriés, Olanda Williamson was by
far the superior, more accomplished lover. With
her long, slender legs and small, firm breasts, she
was built for it. And like her almost too-perfect
body and sexual technique her story was almost
too perfect. During our conversation her details
did not change in the slightest. It was almost as if
she had carefully rehearsed her lines.
Olanda Williamson seemed too good to be true.
But there had been no time to check on her story
this morning. It would have to wait until I got rto
Wiesbaden. And that worried me.
I looked up as we entered Giza. Thousands of
people lined the route and waved American flags
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as the limousine sped by them, never altering its
pace.
Stanley was still arguing with the two elder
statesmen in the back seat, and now I turned my
attention back to them.
If Olanda Williamson, who had not come along
this morning, could be called enigmatic, so could
her boyfriend, who perfectly fit the mold of the
almost radical university thinker. He, too, was
almost too perfect to be real.
"I take it, young man, that you approve of
neither your father's peace plan nor me as a leader
of my people," Akbar said.
"It's not that, Mr. Prime Minister,' 'Stanley said
earnestly. 'Slt's that both you and my father are in
positions of power, positions from which you
could do much good for the world."
"Or much harm," Akbar finished for him, smil-
Stanley nodded. "Like my father's plan-—" he
began, but his father cut him off.
"Enough," the president said, but Akbar inter-
ceded.
no, let the boy continue. It is most
entertaining."
Stanley glanced at his father triumphantly and
then turned back to the aging Arab leader. "What
I'm trying to say, Mr. Prime Minister, is simply
this: Before any talk can begin about economic
cooperation for world peace, we must first have
the elements for peace already at hand."
"And we do not?"
"Of course not, sir," Stanley said. ' 'Take your
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country versus the Israelis, for example. Your very
dramatic overtures for a peaceful settlement have
not convinced everybody. In fact, the controversy
could cause violence from other quarters and still
not guarantee normal relations with Israel."
"There will always be violent elements in so-
ciety. We are acting openly and with total integrity
in our struggle for peace."
' 'But if peace doesn't come on your terms, you
will fight again," Stanley said, and I could feel the
tension suddenly shoot up in the car. Again Presi-
dent Magnesen tried to stop the discussion, but
again Akbar held him off.
"Only as a last resort We fight only when all
negotiations have broken down."
Stanley smiled. "And if you do fight, where will
the peace be then?"
"The same place it was in your Vietnam," Akbar
said, and Stanley fell silent for a few moments as
the presidential convoy entered Giza.
More people were jammed along the convoy's
route here, and I studied their faces intently as we
sped by. This car was supposedly bomb-proof,
which meant that a bomb would have to go off
directly alongside the car to do much damage. But
that, I mused, could have been arranged.
The first two attempts on Magnesen's life had
been professional although fanatical. Any of the
people in the crowds could be carrying a bomb.
Stanley's laugh again brought my attention to
the three in the back seat. "It's amusing," he was
saying. ' 'In 1948 you were imprisoned for complic-
ity in the assassination of the Egyptian finance
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minister, whom you called a diehard anglophile.
And then again during the Suez Canal troubles you
were making anti-Western statements to the
press."
"And yet here we are together?" Akbar finished
for him. "The world does change, my boy."
"Yes," Stanley said dryly. "But do people's
basic convictions change that much?"
President Magnesen was angry. I could hear it in
his voice. "That will be enough," he said sharply
to his son.
Stanley started to say something, and the prime
minister's voice rose.
"Enough!" he roared, and Stanley finally fell
silent.
We left Giza and were waved through the
roadblocks. Less than five miles away we could
see the mammoth pyramids rising up from the'
yellow-gray desert. Just beyond them was the
great sphinx.
"The impetuousness of youth,' 'Akbar was say-
ing to President Magnesen.
"May I offer my apologies for my son's rash
behavior this morning, Mr. Prime Minister,"
Magnesen said.
"It is entirely unnecessary," Akbar said gra-
ciously. "I too as a youth was a radical and a
romantic. Today I am the leader of my people. I
believe that many great men—men greater than
myself—had radical, impetuous beginnings."
' 'That is very kind of you," President Magnesen
said.
Akbar turned to Stanley. e 'And young man, I
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believe that you will find people do change. Some
of them for the worse and some for the better.
I sincerely seek world peace, every bit as much as
your father does. And I believe your father, who is
a great leader, may have hit upon the correct solu-
tion. Of this we will talk more at a later date."
The caravan had pulled up and parked in a big
half circle so that the lead vehicles were already
facing back toward town, the presidential
limousine less than a hundred yards from the base
of the Cheops Pyramid, the largest of the three.
Stone and a half dozen other Secret Service men
had immediately surrounded the limousine, and
now the doors were being opened for us.
I jumped out of thecar on President Magnesenss
side and unbuttoned my suit coat so that I would
have easier access to Wilhelmina if need be.
The entire place felt like death to me, and I don't
think it was merely because we were standing so
very close to three ancient tombs. This was death
of the more modern variety. I could feel the hairs
prickling on my scalp.
Akbar moved around from the other side of the
car to join President Magnesen, but Stanley re-
mained in the back seat of the limousine, with the
doors closed and the engine running so that the air
conditioning would continue to keep the car cool.
He looked as if he was pouting.
Akbar led President Magnesen forward toward
the Cheops Pyramid, and I took up the rear, to the
right of the president, my eyes scanning everyone
in the large crowd that had materialized despite the
roadblocks.
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Besides the newspeople, Akbar's troops, and
President Magnesen's own Secret Service, there
had to be at least several hundred other people.
Most of them seemed to be peasants—desert
people, some of them with. their donkeys and
camels.
I was happy to see that Akbark soldiers had not
only cordoned off a large pathway for Akbar and
Magnesen through this crowd, but were also
rapidly searching the people and the packs on the
animals.
Still, I could not shake the feeling that some-
thing was about to happen, and I could see that
Stone felt the same way. He was ahead of me, and
the president, and was moving slightly to the right,
toward where a lone man in the desert robes of a
Bedouin stood alongside his camel.
I glanced toward the man and then back at the
president, something registering on my uncon-
scious. An instant later I turned back, and the man
was gone.
It took me just an instant to see the top of the
man's headgear on the opposite side of the kneel-
ing camel. In the next instant the man's arm flew up
over his head and something small and dark sailed
our way.
"Stone!" I shouted, and then I jumped forward,
roughly knocking both President Magnesen and
Akbar to the ground, covering their bodies 'with
my own.
The object the man had thrown thumped into the
sand at least twenty-five feet away from us, and I
turned my head away and buried my face in my
arms.
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In the next moment the entire world erupted in a
gigantic flash, followed by a tremendous roar. The
earth leaped as if we were in the middle of an
earthquake as something hot and very sharp
slammed into my shoulder.
I looked up in time to see the man behind the
camel standing up as his arm came back. I scram-
bled for Wilhelmina, but Stone was kneeling in the
sand, his .38 police special Smith and Wesson held
in both hands, firing one shot after the other.
The man behind the camel jerked back once,
twice—and the third time, he fell. The camel bel-
lowed and jumped up as the hand grenade the man
was about to throw exploded, ripping out the
frightened animal's side and tearing the man's
chest almost completely out of his body.
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IT WAS NEARING noon as I turned down Max Schil-
ler Strasse in the Mercedes I had rented at Tem-
pelhof airport in Frankfurt. It had been nearly
twenty-four hours since the 'third attempt on
Magnesen's life, and now the pain in my shoulder
was a deep,. throbbing ache.
Akbar's personal physician had dug the small
hunk of shrapnel from the grenade meant for the
president out of my shoulder, as Stone was hus-
tling Magnesen aboard Air Force One for an early
departure to Moscow.
The Egyptian police, along with a few American
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Secret Service agents left behind with me, were
clearing up the mess out at Giza and interviewing
witnesses.
The press corps had also been hustled off with
Magnesen aboard the second air-force aircraft,
with threats of bad press for a long time to come
because we were hushing up one of the biggest
stories they had ever covered. Akbar had cooper-
ated, making Giza and its approaches temporarily
off limits.
There had been no time for a positive ID on the
assassin, except that he was obviously Arab, and
the red fist was tattooed on his inner left wrist.
He was definitely part of the Lisbon organiza-
tion. They had tried again and failed—but just
barely this time.
I had not stuck around Cairo for anything else.
Once I was certain of the tattoo and knew that the
president was safely on his way, I took the first
flight to Germany, and at the airport rented the car
for the twenty-mile drive to Wiesbåden.
Number 17 Max Schiller Strasse turned out to be
a long, low, dirty yellow brick building on the
wrong side of Wiesbaden's tracks—if this lovely
city could have such an area.
The building fronted on the narrow street at the
city's edge, and I pulled up and parked across from
a door marked GESCHÅFTSSTELLE (office). From
behind the building I could hear the sounds of a
high-powered engine revving over and over again.
It was a sound never forgotten, once heard. The
last time I had heard it was at the Grand Prix at
Monaco. It was the sound of a high-performance
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formula-one racing car, which fit well with the sign
hanging over the front door of the building: OF-
FENBACH MOTOREN WERKE, AKG.
TWO months ago the Lisbon organization had
met here, if Maria Oeriés had been telling me the
truth on her deathbed. And two months ago the
plot to kill the president of the United States had
been given its final touches.
But as I crossed the narrow cobblestoned street
and entered the building, I wondered if the trail
was too cold by now. Would anything be left here?
"Darf Ich helfen Sie?" the matronly recep-
tionist behind the desk asked, looking up as I came
in.
' 'I'd like to speak with Herr-Offenbach," I said
in German, and I handed her my card. "Nick
Carnahan, Amalgamated Press."
"Moment, bitte, " the woman said. She got up
and disappeared through a door in the back of the
very small reception room.
A moment later she returned and guided me
through the door, down a short corridor, and into a
large, plush offce. A huge,- rotund man, corn-
pletely devoid of any facial hair, including eye-
brows, rose from an equally massive desk and
stretched out his right hand to me.
"Mr. Carnahan?" he said in English, smiling.
I crossed the room to him and took his hand as
the receptionist withdrew and closed the door be-
hind her.
"Yes, sir," I sai#. 'S Amalgamated Press."
Behind the man, most of the wall was taken up
with a large plate-glass window overlooking the
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remainder of the building, which had once evi-
dently been a factory of some sort. At this moment
there were at least a dozen sports and formula
racing cars in various stages of completion on the
floor, each surrounded by as many as a half dozen
mechanics.
Offenbach turned to follow my gaze, and his
face broke into a huge grin. "Beautiful, are they
not, my little toys?"
"Beautiful," I agreed. "Which is why I am
here."
Offenbach turnedto me, the smile leaving his
face. "And you are from Amalgamated Press?" he
asked, looking again at my card.
"'Yes."
"Not Ferrari?"
"No, sir."
"I've never heard of Amalgamated Press. What
is it?"
"We're a news service, much like the As-
sociated Press or Reuters, but much smaller."
"Office in Frankfurt?"
"Yes."
Offenbach picked up his telephone and a mo-
ment later asked his receptionist to telephone the
Amalgamated Press office inFrankfurt. He did not
put down the phone, but waited for the call to go
through.
I had not checked in with our Frankfurt office,
which was nothing but a blind number, but the
name Carnahan would be a tipoff to the lone
woman working at the telephone switchboard that
I was on an assignment. It wasa code name I had
used often.
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Our main German office was in Berlin, of
course, but we maintained blind numbers in a
number of the major German cities, including
Frankfurt, Munich, and Bonn.
The connection was made, and Offenbach sat
forward to look down at my card. "I have here
with me a Nick Carnahan, who claims to be from
your offce. Do you have such a man on assign-
ment?"
Offenbach nodded, smiled, said, "Thank you,"
and hung up. "Sorry to have to do that Mr. Carna-
han," he said, once again smiling effusively. ' 'But
we do have spies in this business, especially so
close to an upcomingrace. I had to make certain. "
"It's quite all right, sir,"
I said,. sighing with
relief, and making a mental note to put in a com-
mendation for whoever was at the Frankfurt
number today.
"Now what can I do for you specifically? Is it
about our Terryll-Ford? Jody Scheckter? Or our
pretty little Porsches, which will be running at Spa
on Sunday?"
For several long seconds I sat staring at the man,
almost as if I were seeing him for the first time. The
connection was so obvious that I was surprised I
had not made it the moment I knew what 17 Max
Schiller Strasse was. Offenbach Motor Works.
Racing cars. The Grand Prix at Spa on Sunday.
Today was Thursday. The president would be
leaving Moscow sometime on Saturday, arriving
in Frankfurt that evening. Sunday morning he was
taking a helicopter to Spa, Belgium, for the race.
The Lisbon organization, or rather the Red Fist
group, had met here two months ago. This at-
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tempted assassination would not come as a sur-
prise to me. For the first time I knew the time and
place it would occur—sometime during the race at
Spa, probably while the president was in his box at
the grandstand. It had to be.
"Spa,' ! I finally said. "I'll be covering the race
for Amalgamated Press. I'm doing a few pre-race
stories now, which is why I came here to see you."
Offenbach beamed. "Then you have come to
the correct place, because we are going to win this
one."
I nodded. "Perhaps you could show me
around," I said, "and answer a few questions."
Offenbach jumped up. "Of course," he said,
and then he stopped. He put a finger to the side of
his nose and thought a moment, and then his bulb-
ous featuresspread into a wide grin. "I have some-
thing even better for you. Something that will give;
your story about us some authenticity."
I stood up, a questioning look on my face.
"But first we shall have the tour," he said.
' 'Come with me."
I followed the large man out ofhis omce. Down
the short corridor and through a steel door, I found
myself on the main floor. The air was torn by
sounds of drills, hammers* pneumatic wrenches,
and, just outside a set of open garage doors, the
incredibly noisy racing engine.
Offenbach had to shout to be heard over the din.
"We are preparing three Porsches this year, very
similar to last year's Le Mans winner—with a few
minor improvements, of course."
"Will all three be run?" I shouted.
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We stood near the back wall, the window to
Offenbaclfi omce to our right, looking over the
workmen frantically making ready the three cars.
"Yes, of course," Offenbach shouted. "There
are always mechanical problems. We need to show
up in force if we are to have any hopes of win-
ning. "
Each of the three cars that would race in Spa in
four days was up on blocks, the wheels and body
cowling removed, exposing. the huge engines,
gleaming chromed axles, suspension elements,
and tie rods. The exhaust stacks, a huge one for
each cylinder, were bunched together at the base
as they came out of the manifold and then flared
out above the engine like- a group of highly
polished trumpet bells. An impressive sight.
Offenbach led me over to one of the machines,
and I lifted the 35-millimeter camera I had strap-
ped around my neck, but he gently pushed my arm
away.
"Please, no photographs. If one were to be pub-
lished our opposition would glean much informa-
tion. Too much, perhaps."
"Sorry," I said.
"Not to worry," Offenbach shouted. 'S The
morning of the race you will be my personal guest
in the pits and will be allowed to take all the photo-
graphs you would like."
"When do you leave for Spa?" I asked.
"Late tonight," Offenbach said. "The exact
time and our route, lof course, is another secret.
We would not want to be hijacked."
I laughed. "Of course not."
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Offenbach turned back to look at his cars, and
there was obvious pride in his expression. The
expression on his face at that moment convinced
me that Herr Offenbach had nothing whatever to
do with the Lisbon organization. He was just what
he seemed to be—the proud owner of Offenbach
Motor Works, specialists in designing and con-
structing formula-one Grand Prix racing ma-
chines.
"How many people have you had working on
this year's cars?" I asked.
The mechanics working on the Porsche we were
standing next to had not looked up when we
walked over; they had continued with their work,
almost at a feverish pace.
"Not nearly enough," he said. "And the same
goes for our team drivers." He looked at me.
"Listen, these past two months have been pure
hell. More than a dozen of our employees quit on
us, some of them men who have worked with me
for fifteen or twenty years."
"And the drivers?" I asked, a suspicion grow-
ing within me.
"We had five, which was the optimum number.
Four of them quit about the same time as the
others walked offtheirjobs. Fortunately for us, we
were able to hire two really excellent drivers. But
as for the others ... " He let it trail off and sighed.
A total of sixteen people, four of them drivers,
had quit Offenbach two months ago. No coinci-
dence. Nor did I suspect it a coincidence that only
two new drivers had been hired, although for the
moment I could not figure out why.
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With new drivers, probably Lisbon-
organization people, now on the payroll, it must
have been the plan to take the cars to Spa for the
attempt on the president. In all likelihood one of
those drivers was the assassin.
But why not hire new mechanics to replace the
dozen who quit? Then it struck me. With fewer
mechanics, Offenbach would be too harried, too
worried, and too busy personally to give much
attention or scrutiny to the two men he hired.
Obviously they were top drivers, but what of
their backgrounds? Offenbach had his back to the
wall and was not about to check on them too
closely. Able to hire two drivers almost on top of
race day, he was not about to question his good
fortune.
It was very smooth. So smooth, in fact, that this
place had been selected as the meeting place. But
did that mean someone of the original Offenbach
crew was part of the Lisbon group?
One other question was bugging me as well. All
this apparently pointed to an international
organization—Portugesef. Japanese, Arab, and
now German. But why had the message been sent
from Portugal? The radio transmission had been
traced to Lisbon, and in all likelihood it had been
directed here to Wiesbadem But why from Lis-
bon? And why, if it was a Portugese organization,
had the meeting two months ago been held here in
Wiesbaden?
I was about to aski Offenbach the names of the
two new drivers he had hired, when his secretary
hurried across from the omce door to us.
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"Telephone, Herr Offenbach," she said..
Offenbach turned to her. "Yes?" he said
peremptorily. "I am busy now."
"Nein, mein Herr," she insisted. "It is the In-
ternational Racing Commission. From Spa. They
must speak with you."
Offenbach shook his head in disgust. "Always
with the problems just before a race. Forgive me,
Mr. Carnahan," he said. "But this may take a
while." He looked up and searched the several
crews around the three cars until he found the man
he was looking for.
"Tell them to wait one moment, please," Offen-
bach said to his secretary. He led me to the third
Porsche, where an older, white-haired man stood
apart from the others; his hands on his hips.
The man looked up as we hurried across to him.
"Rudi," Offenbach said, "this is Mr. Carnahan
from the Amalgamated Press. He is here to give us
some publicity."
"Shit," said the older man, and started to turn
away, but Offenbach stopped him with a sharp
command.
"Rudi! You will show this gentleman around. It
is important to us. Do you understand?"
The man turned back to us, studied my face for a
moment, and then shrugged indolently.
"Mr. Carnahan," Offenbach said, "may I pres-
ent Rudi Gehrmann, my head mechanic. He drinks
too much. He swears too much, He is always late
for work. And sometimes he plays with the Fräu-
leins. But he is the best in the business, bar none,
and he has been with me for more than twenty-five
years."
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"Pleased to meet you," I said, holding out my
hand. But Gehrmann ignored it, turning instead to
Offenbach.
"We're busy, Klaus!" he snapped. "Spa is only
four days away."
"Please," Offenbach said.
Gehrmann looked from him to me and back to
him and finally sighed and nodded. "Very well.
What must I do?"
"That's better," Offenbach said, slapping the
man on the shoulder. "Show Mr. Carnahan
around. Let him see anything he wants to see. But
no photographs. And then let him take last year's
winner around the oval for a couple of laps."
Offenbach turned to me, a huge grin on his face.
"Last year we won at Le Mans. The car was
brilliant. I will allow you to drive it to get the feel
for our work. That is if you are game?"
That was his surprise. I returned the wide grin.
"I'd like nothing better," I said.
Gehrmann was finally smiling, figuring no doubt
that I would make a colossal fool of myself with the
car. Formula racing machines—and they are ma-
chines, not automobiles in the strictest sense ofthe
word—are not the easiest things •to drive. The
average driver would have no comprehension of
what was going on in the cockpit of one of these
highly tuned and finely machined beauties.
Graduating from an American sedan to one of
these cars would be in complexity and driving skill
like going from a tricycle to a diesel truck.
The steering on a formula-one machine is
touchy, the five-speed transmission stiff and al-
most unmanageable by ordinary standards, the
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suspension bone jarring, and the inside of the
cockpit incredibly hot. At times during the middle
of a summer race, temperatures inside the
compartment reach as high as 150 degrees. Drivers
often lose as much as eight to ten pounds in sweat
during a four-hour race.
And Gehrmann figured I was the patsy who was
going to make a fool of myself. But the last laugh
was going to be mine, I hoped. I had raced before,
more than once. And although I was no expert on
the subject, and my shoulder hurt like hell, I can
keep up with most of the pack in a race, and I
hoped I could do it today.
Offenbach left us, and Gehrmann studied my
face again for a moment before he spoke. ' 'Is there
anything else in here you would like to see, Herr
Carnahan,or would you like to go out to the track
immediately? The machine warming up now, asa
matter of fact, is the one from last year. We have
been testing various new components on the old
engine. It is ready for you." He smiled.
' 'Let's go," I said, and I headed for the doors
without waiting for him.
If Gehrmann had been here from the beginning
with Offenbach he was probably clean. And if I
could put him immediately on the defensive and
then impress him with my driving ability, perhaps I
could get some answers out of him.
In fifteen minutes I had been suited up with
asbestos underwear and socks, a fireproofed jump
suit, and light shoes and was pulling the helmet on
over my face mask.
The tremendous amount of oil spray and fuel
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exhaust in the air when one of these machines was
running necessitated the face-mask filter; other-
wise, the driver's lungs would become so irritated
in such a short time that no man could successfully
complete a race.
Gehrmann and another mechanic helped strap
me in to the small, tight-fitting cockpit, with.
aircraft-type over-the-shoulder harnesses.
They pointed out the fire-extinguishing equip-
ment and the gear-shift lever, which was a tiny
knob on my right side by my knee, and explained
that all the gauges and dials on the instrument
panel had been turned so that red line was straight
up. If any needle moved farther than the twelve-
o'clock position, something was wrong and I"
should immediately shut down.
"Take it very easy for the first couple of laps,"
Gehrmann was shouting to me over the roughly
idling engine. ' 'Get used to the transmission and
brakes and steering. Then take three or four laps to
build up your speed and confidence. On the sixth
lap I will time you. Don't run more than ten laps."
I gave him thumbs up, eased the car into first
gear, and carefully took off from the test apron and
entered the highly banked 2.4-mile oval track that
was surfaced with rough concrete for good trac-
tion.
At the first turn I was going less than fifty miles
per hour, still in first gear, and I oversteered so that
I' came very low on the bank. By the time I had
negotiated the turn and started on the back straight-
away I was back in the middle of the track, and I
punched it. The car seemed almost to shoot out
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from under me. I popped it in second gear, and it
was as if I were shot out of a cannon.
There was no speedometer in the machine, but
with the tach readings Gehrmann had thrown at
me, I figured I was doing somewhere in the neigh-
borhood of eighty at the second curve, negotiating
this one a lot more smoothly.
The steering wheel was very small, and the
steering was stiff. But the tiniest movement of the
wheel produced an immediate effect, so that
curves were made at speed by merely leaning to
the left, thus moving the steering wheel slightly. I
would be driving literally by the seat of my pants.
Down the home straightaway I shifted into third
gear in front ofGehrmann and punched it. It would
be now or never, I figured.
Around the first turn of the second lap I was
doing better than a hundred, and when I came out
ofthe curve I slammed the car into fourth, jammed
the accelerator to the floor, and held on as the
engine began to wind up. At the back curve I
tapped the brakes, and it was almost as if the car
had hit a brick wall, it slowed so fast. I
downshifted into third, hit the curve, and shot out
of it like a rocket.
Everything now was happening in a blur, and for
the time being I forgot about Lisbon, about Hawk,
about the president, about Gehrmann, about the
crowd of onlookers who had gathered; I concen-
trated on my driving.
Red line in fourth past Gehrmann; 160 miles per
hour; tap the brakes, downshift for the curve, hit
the pedal, shift to fourth; red line; shift finally to
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fifth; back curve approaching 200 miles per hour;
downshift to fourth; tap the brakes; downshift to
third; back end slides around in a drift. Out of the
curve. Shift once, twice. The heat rising.
For a half dozen laps the routine was the same.
The machine's feel was coming to me in leaps and
bounds, and for a time it was almost as if I were a
free spirit, floating and soaring around the two
wide curves and the pair of long straightaways. I
was welded to the machine. We were a part ofeach
other.
I flashed past Gehrmann at near red line in fifth,
two hundred miles per hour plus, and he was wav-
ing the red flag, which meant for me to shut down.
At the first curve I hit the brakes and
downshifted to fourth around the curve, and then
shifted down again to third, and completed-the
final straightaway at a hundred miles per hour,
which seemed almost like a crawling speed to me.
Around the last curve and the short straightaway,
and I finally pulled off the track onto the apron
where Gehrmann stood.
When I. shut off the engine, unstrapped, and
pulled off my helmet, I could hear the applause.
"Enough!" Gehrmann shouted. "Back to work
you sons of bitches. Spa is only four days away."
The crowd dispersed as Gehrmann helped me
out of the car and then offered me a drink from his
hip flask. I took it and handed it back when I had
taken a deep drink of the obviously expensive
brandy.
"Not bad," Gehrmann said, "for an amateur. I
had you at 207 miles per hour on the last straighta-
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way. A little flashy and fast for this track, perhaps,
the corners a little ragged. You never did find the
proper slot. But not bad, nevertheless."
I nodded. "Now that we know I can drive, I
wonder just how well you can drink. Or is that all
bluff?"
Gehrmann had paid me a compliment, some-
thing rare for him, I figured, and I was returning it
with a jibe. He reacted almost as if he had been
slapped.
"All right, Carnahan or whatever your name
is," he snapped. "I'll see you at six o'clock in the
Hansa Haus."
"I'll find it," I said, and Gehrmann stormed off.
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"I DON'T LIKE showoffs, I don't like spies, and I
especially don't like Communists. Which are
Rudi Gehrmann peered at me through myopic
eyes across the small, dirty table in the crowded
Hansa Haus bar. I had found the place easily
enough, after I had left Offenbach, by merely driv-
ing in everwidening circles. I figured whatever bar
was Gehrmann's usual hangout would have to be
within walking distance from where he worked. I
was right. The Hansa Haus was only two blocks
away, up a side street in a not-so-nice neigh-
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borhood. Perfect for Gehrmann when he took his
lunch hours.
This evening the place was crammed with work-
ers from the nearby chemical, plastics, and textile
factories, which were less famous than Wiesba-
den's hot springs or casino, but nevertheless made
up the backbone of this city. No one was paying
any attentionto us.
We had been sitting here together for about an
hour, and already Gehrmann was drunk.
"I don't like spies or Communists either," I
replied. "And as far as showing off, I couldn't help
myself this afternoon. The machine was too
good."
Gehrmann' laughed. "You're goddamned right
it's good. I built it with my own two hands."
I began my probing gently. "How long have you
been with Offenbach?"
Gehrmann almost exploded. "TWenty years,
and maybe that's been too long. Too long."
I said nothing, waiting for him to continue. He
seemed to be a very troubled man.
"In the beginning it was good. Klaus and me
worked together sometimes around the clock. We
built good cars in those days. Fine machines. And
we won our share of the races together."
I nodded. "And lately?" I prompted.
Gehrmann's eyes seemed to clear of their
drunken stupor for a moment. "Who the hell are
you, anyway?" he snapped.
' 'Nick Carnahan, Amalgamated Press."
"Bullshit," Gehrmann bellowed, thumping his
fist on the table. No one in the place looked up.
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' 'You tell me, then, who I am," I said calmly.
Gehrmann continued to stare at me, but after a
moment he shook his head. "I don't know. You're
not from Ferrari, and they're the only competition
I'm worried about. And you're not like the
others."
"Others?" I said, sitting forward.
' 'The Communists," he said, waving his hand as
if to dismiss the subject.
"What Communists?" I said, pressing him.
"LeMaigne and that Torman woman. Both of
them are Communists."
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"Are you with them?" Gehrmann slurred. "Are
you one of them?"
I shook my head slowly. "I'm the opposition," I
said softly.
Gehrmann reached out and grabbed my arm in
his powerful hands. "Stop them before itk too
late," he said with feeling. "They're taking over
the company. They're taking it away from Klaus,
and he can't see it. It was them who got the others
to quit. Good men all of them, and they quit two
months before Spa. No one wants to work for us
now, because we're Communists. Offenbach
Motor Works will soon be no more ifthis keeps up.
Stop them."
"You'd better tell me everything you know," I
said. "Then maybe I can do something about it."
Gehrmann let go of my arm and poured himself
another brandy from the already nearly empty bot-
tle on our table. He had drunk most of it.
He contemplated the contents of the glass,
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drank it down, and then lurched to his feet and
staggered over to the bar, where he ordered
another bottle. When he returned to the table, he
opened the bottle, poured himself another drink,
and then looked at me.
"LeMaigne was the first," he said. "He's a
damned good driver, but he's a bad man. I've tried
to tell Klaus about him, but he won't see it. There
isn't enough time to worry about such things, he
tells me. We've got to be ready by Spa."
"How long ago was that?" I asked.
Gehrmann shrugged. "Six months; maybe nine
months, ago we hired LeMaigne. He was a nothing
on the circuit until Klaus took him and put him as a
team driver alternate. But then after the meetings
began and everyone quit, LeMaigne became the
driver."
This was it. "What meetings?" I asked, leaning
forward and lowering my voice.
Gehrmann was drunk now, almost too drunk to
make any sense. He stared stupidly at me for sev-
eral long moments before he answered.
"There were a lot of meetings in the break room
late at night. That was when I was still working
late. Now I don't bother," he said.
"Who was at these meetings?" I asked ur-
gently, and something of my concern penetrated
into his stupor.
"LeMaigne, his girlfriend Inge Torman, and a
bunch of others—some of them from the com-
pany, but a lot of them strangers. I saw LeMaigne
letting those people through the back gate."
"What kind of people? Do you know their
names? Descriptions?"
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Gehrmann shook his head, and his eyes half-
closed. "Arabs, Japanese, Spaniards. I don't
know. All kinds of them."
"What did they talk about?" I asked, but
Gehrmann was sinking fast. His head nodded, and
his eyes closed as he slumped forward on the table.
I pushed him up and held the half-full glass of
brandy under his nose. "I need more answers,
Gehrmann. What did they talk about at those
meetings?"
Gehrmann stared at me but then mumbled
something.
"What?" I almost shouted.
"Honolulu," he mumbled. "They talked about
Honolulu. And then Tokyo and Cairo and some-
thing about Spa."
The Lisbon organization was here after all. And
somehow one of the Offenbach employees, prob-
ably LeMaigne, was going to pull off the next
attempt on the president's life. At Spa, during or
just before the race, when the president was in the
grandstands.
"Were you at those meetings?" I asked.
Gehrmann shook his head. "I used to hide in the
storeroom. You can listen through the ventilating
grille to what is happening in the break room."
"Was anyone else from the company in the
place at the time?"
"Klaus was sometimes in his offce. But the
place was usually empty."
"What else did they 'talk about during those
meetings?" I asked. But Gehrmann was too far
gone now for any further questioning.
As he eank down on the table again, he whis-
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pered something that sounded like "kite." For a
moment it did not register on me, but then I put it
together. Kite, of course, They were talking about
the hang glider that had been used in the Honolulu
attempt.
"Did they talk about bombs and hand grenades
too?" I asked, lifting Gehrmann's head off the
table.
"Bombs . . . hand grenades . . . missiles," he
said.
Missiles. The thought struck me dumb. In Hon-
Olulu they had used a hang glider. In Tokyo the
bombs. And in Cairo the hand grenades. All those
things had been spoken of during the meetings that
Gehrmann eavesdropped on. And now Spa. And
now a missile. They were going to kill the presi-
dent of the United States with a missile!
I looked down at Gehrmann. He was a good man
who could not handle what was happening around
him. He had tried to tell Offenbach that something
was happening to the company, but Offenbach
was too wrapped up in the problem of making it to
Spa with three cars to worry about in-plant meet-
ings.
"As long as the work done, I don't
care if they hold a dance every night iii the break
room." I'm sure that's more or less what Offen-
bach told Gehrmann.
But what kind of missile were they going to use?
And exactly when would it be fired? And by
whom?
Another connection rammed home with me as
well. The red fist tattoo had four fingers on it. One
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tor Honolulu. One for Tokyo. One for Cairo. And
evidently one for Spa. Four attempts.
But that must mean they had known all along
that the first three attempts were doomed to fail-
ure. That didn't make any sense at all.
I pulled Gehrmann's head up by the hair and
slapped him across the face. He came to momen-
tarily.
"LeMaigne. Where is he right now?"
"At the plant with the others," Gehrmann
mumbled, almost unintelligibly.
"What others?" I asked, but Gehrmann was
finally completely out.
I gave the bartender some money to. send
Gehrmann home in a cab; then I hurried the two
blocks to the Offenbach plant, which surprisingly
enough, was completely lit up. Several large
trucks and a half dozen panel vans were parked in
the front of the building, near a set of open garage
doors.
As I pulled up and parked across the street, I
suddenly remembered that Offenbach had told me
they would be moving the cars to Spa sometime
this evening. They were evidently getting ready to
leave now.
I got out of my rented Mercedes and ambled
across the street as several men pushed one of the
formula-one Porsches from inside the plant and
with the help ofa few more men, rolled the car up a
set of ramps into the back of one of the trucks.
The car was completely assembled now, includ-
ing the gleaming, bright white cowling with the
Offenbach symbol painted across the top of the
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spoiler, which looked like a wing above the rear
engine.
Offenbach was out front supervising the loading
of the machines, tires, spare parts, and tools.
When I came up to him he turned to me in surprise
and smiled.
"Mr. Carnahan, you've come to see us off?" he
boomed.
I pulled him aside. '€1 came to tell you that your
head mechanic, Rudi Gehrmann, is at this moment
in a drunken stupor at a bar not far from here."
"The Hansa Haus. I know," he said. "The bar-
tender called me. I sent one of my men over to
fetch him. He'll ride to Spa with us in the back of
one of the vans, as usual."
Offenbach stared at me for a long moment.
' 'How would you like to quit the news business
and come to work for me as a relief driver? I could
use another man."
"Not me," I laughed.
"Don't. be overmodest, Mr. Carnahan. I
watched your performance from my omce window
this afternoon. In a couple of seasons you could be
a serious contender."
"No, thanks," I said. "I just thought I'd stop by
to send you off and ask if I could have a word with
your head driver."
"LeMaigne?" Offenbach said, scowling.
'"Right," I said. "I've spoken with your head
mechanic; now I'd like a couple of words with
your head driver."
Offenbach shook his head. '41 wonder what you
must think of us, Mr. Carnahan. My head me-
chanic is a drunkard, and my head driver you'll
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learn is pot a very pleasant man. The only thing he
has going for him, as a matter of fact, is his brilliant
driving."
Offenbach pointed him out to me, down the row
of trucks near where the last Porsche was being
loaded.
I thanked him and headed that way. LeMaigne
may have been the head of the Lisbon organiza-
tion, but I was sure that if I arrested him now, it
would not stop the attempt on the president's life at
Spa. Only two things would stop thatnow. Either
the president would have to be convinced not to
show up for the race or I would have to find and
disarm the missile. If I couldn't do the latter by
race time, I was damned well going to make sure
the president remained in Frankfurt for the race,
with or without his cooperation. Guns, knives, and
bombs can be fought, but a missile is practically
impossible to stop once it's launched. It's espe-
cially unlikely to be stopped by one man armed
only with a gas bomb, a stiletto, and a 9-millimeter
Luger.
LeMaigne, a dark, narrowed-hipped, but big-
shouldered man, stood with his hands behind his
back watching as the third Porsche was finally
rolled up the ramp into the last truck in the row.
He said something to one of the mechanics, who
scurried back into the plant with a helper, and a
moment later the two of them emerged with a pair
of aluminum loading ramps, which they loaded
into the back of the truck with the car. When the
rear door of the truck was secuked, LeMaigne
turned to face me.
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"What do you want of me, Mr. Carnahan?" he
said precisely, catching me somewhat off-guard.
He noticed the expression on my face. ' 'I caught
your unimpressive performance on the track this
afternoon. Are you here seeking a job?"
I smiled. LeMaigne was smooth. No doubt there
were several people now working for Offenbach
who were reporting directly to LeMaigne. It would
have to work that way if the Lisbon organization
was to have any security whatsoever. I only won-
dered whether LeMaigne had connected me with
the presidential party, or if he was taking me for
what I appeared to be, a newsman with the Amal-
gamated Press.
' 'No job," I said. "l merely wanted to ask you
how a mutual friend of ours is doing these days."
LeMaigne's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing,
waiting for me to continue. The final act of the
Lisbon organization, set to unfold at Spa, was
already in motion. Everyone except LeMaigne—
at least everyone important—was now under-
ground and would probably not surface until just
before the attempt was to be made. I could not
allow things to progress that far, however. I was
going to have to find the missile. The only way I
could do that was to make them nervous, cause
them to get sloppy and make a mistake.
"I'm talking about Inge Torman," I said care-
fully, but there was absolutely no reaction, other
than a slight irritation, in expressions
' 'Torman?" he said. "l don't believe I've heard
the name."
' 'That's odd," I said. "l spoke with her not more
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than two months ago, and she mentioned your.
name."
I did not wait for him to answer; instead, I
turned and started to leave. But then I stopped and
turned back momentarily. "By the way, good luck
-with everything at Spa."
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AFTER 1 LEFT LeMaigne, I wished Offenbach good
luck and assured him that I would be at Spa for the
race. As I drove away, I could see LeMaigne in my
rear-view mirror, watching me leave. Then I
turned the corner.
Instead ofheading toward Frankfurt to await the
president, I went around the block so that I was on
one of the side streets that intersected with Max
Schiller Strasse. I got out ofthe car and walked the
few feet to the corner and peered around the build-
ing.
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Offenbach and his crew and all the vehicles were
still parked half a block from me, but at first I could
not pick out LeMaigne.
He had been standing at the rear of theaast
truck, but now he was nowhere in sight. For a
moment I thought he might have already left, but
then I saw him hurry out ofthe plant and approach
Offenbach, and the two of them began talking and
gesturing. I was sure that LeMaigne had come up
with some excuse why he could not leave with the
rest of the crew this evening. And Offenbach was
not buying it.
It was almost eight o'clock and dark in .this
section of the city, although to the west, toward
the center of town, the sky was brightly lit. The
streets would be people now, shopping,
going out for dinner, making ready to go up the hill
to the casino. Wiesbaden was a very classy town.
At least, most of it was.
LeMaigne finally broke away- from Offenbach
and hurried back into the plant. A few minutes
later he drove out in a small, yellow Fiat Spyder
sports car and headed my way..
Quickly I ran back to my rented Mercedes,
jumped in, and started the engine but did not turn
on the lights.
LeMaigne flashed by the side street where I was
parked, and headed back toward the center of
town. He had taken my bait, and whoever he was
going to see now would have to be someone very
important in the Lisbon organization—if
Gehrmann had been telling me the truth.
I pulled around the corner and headed down
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Max Schiller Strasse away from the Offenbach
plant, in the direction LeMaigne had gone. Several
blocks away I could see the taillights on his car,
and I sped up to close up the gap. I did not want to
lose him.
There was a possibility, I had to admit to myself,
that Gehrmann was nothing more than a drunk
who harbored resentment at the changes that Of-
fenbach had made recently. Perhaps he was jeal-
ous of LeMaigne for-some reason, in which case I
was on a wild-goose chase. Perhaps LeMaigne
was nothing more than he appeared to be—a
damned good driver with a lousy disposition. In
that case, I was wasting valuable time.
But something inside me told me that was not
true. Otherwise, why had he apparently taken my
bait? Why had he left within a few minutes after I
had mentioned the name Inge Torman?
I had originally planned to follow LeMaigne all
the way to Spa, if need be. I was hoping he would
attempt to contact someone there. But I had not
expected he would bolt so quickly. Evidently I had
upset him enough for him to telephone someone as
soon as I left him, make his excuses to Offenbach,
and now head to a meeting somewhere.
A few minutes later LeMaigne pulled up a side
street, and a few blocks later, he parked across the
avenue from a small café just off the
Wilhelmstrasse, Wiesbaden's most elegant street
of shops, restaurants, and clubs.
I quickly pulled into a narrow hotel parking lot a
few doors from the café, paid the surprised atten-
dant, and then followed LeMaigne on foot.
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The man was just crossing the avenue, and at
first I thought he would enter the café, but he did
not. Instead, he strolled past the front door of the
establishment and continued down the street, as if
he was out for a leisurely evening stroll.
I followed about half a block back.
Traffic was light and there were few people out
walking along this narrow side street, but when
LeMaigne turned on to the Wilhelmstrasse it was
as if we had gone suddenly from a quiet country
village at night to the main thoroughfare of the
busy city in broad daylight.
Neon signs, bright street lights, and even a pair
of huge searchlights in front of one newly opened
club lit up the wide avenue and crowded sidewalks
like daytime. Couples dressed in evening clothes
strolled along the broad sidewalks, talking and
laughing, and the street was crowded with traffic.
For a few minutes I lost LeMaigne in the
crowds, but then I suddenly saw him dart across
the street through the heavy traffic. A moment
later he' had switched directions on me and swas
walking the way he had come, but on the opposite
side of the street and now arm in arm with a tall,
redhaired woman.
For the next half hour I was kept busy dodging
pedestrians as I tried to keep up with LeMaigne
and the woman. She seemed vaguely familiar to
me somehow, even at this distance.
Finally I was able to make it across the street in a
break in traffic, and I managed to come within a
few yards of them, not close enough to hear what
they were saying, but definitely close enough to
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see who the woman was.
I wasn't surprised in the least to realize that the
redhaired woman was the same one who had shot
and killed Maria Oeriés im Lisbon. I had only
caught a brief glimpse of her then through the
crack in the door, butl was certain the woman now
with LeMaigne was the same one.
And now any reservations or slight doubts I had
entertained, about what Gehrmann had told me,
evaporated.
The redhaired woman was Inge Torman. She
and LeMaigne were at least members of the Lis-
bon organization, ifnot its leaders. Andl was sure
they were key elements in the last planned attempt
on the president's life, set for Sunday at Spa.
Still, there was the matter of the missile—
finding it, disarming it, and finding out who would
actually trigger it. Until I had that information, the
president would not be safe. I was certain that as
well organized as the Lisbon group was, -they
would not allow any attempt to be totally depen-
dent upon One or two people. I was sure that if I
stopped LeMaigne and the Torman woman, the
attempt on Magnesen's life would continue on
schedule.
And that was only half of my assignment. I still
had to learn why the organization wanted Presi-
dent Magnesen dead and how the organization had
come up with the president's itinerary.
There were dozgns of other questions plaguing
me as well. Such as: Olanda Williamson. How did
she fit into all this? Stanley Magnesen. Was he an
unwitting part of this plot, with his talk against his
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father's world tour for peace?
How about the assassins themselves? Once be-
fore I had run into a group of fanatics all willing to
give their lives in an attempt to terrorize society.
The had all been Japanese. They had all believed in
the kamikaze spirit of World War II. But what of
these people?
Portenjo gave his life in Honolulu for an attempt
on the president's. The two young Japanese ter-
rorists in Tokyo and the Arab in Cairo had known
they would not come out of it alive. What was their
motivation?
The two I was following walked for several
blocks along the Wilhelmstrasse, apparently two
lovers out for an evening stroll. They stopped from
time to time to look in shop windows and talk, and
then they would continue as if they didn't have a
care in the world.
Finally they turned off down a back street, and
the moment they were out of sight I rushed to
catch up. I did not want them slipping down an
alleyway or into a building before I caught up to
them.
I eased my way carefully around the corner in
time to see them running toward a parked van.
They knew they were being followed. How? And
where were they going?
Alarm bells jangling once again along my
nerves, I headed in a dead run after them, and as I
ran I loosened my jacket and withdrew my Luger.
As I was aboutto pull the safety catch off, I sensed
someone standing in a darkened doorway to my
right. I was about to swivel around, when I saw the
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club coming toward my head, and even in that split
second I knew I was too late. And then it was as ifa
bomb had been set off in my head, and I could see
the sidewalk rushing up to meet my face.
I don't know how many times I've been bashed
over the head, but each time it seems to get a little
more unpleasant. Each time it seems as if a little
part of me has been left behind on the club. This
moment was no exception.
Consciousness came back to me in nauseating
waves, as I blinked to focus my eyes on the cold
pavement in front of my nose.
LeMaigne and Inge Torman. I had been running
after them when someone hit me on the head. They
had been waiting for me. They had maneuvered
me down that back street.
In Lisbon, with the elevator, the Torman woman
had outsmarted me, and now here in Wiesbaden
she had done it again.
I tried to move my arms, which felt as if they
were being slowly stretched out of their sockets,
and realized that I had been tied up. The rope had
been looped around my arms and then pulled tight
around my ankles, bowing my entire body back-
ward. My head hurt. The stitches where the
shrapnel had been taken out of my shoulder had
pulled loose, and I could feel I was bleeding. I was
so nauseated and dizzy that I was sure I would
vomit at any moment.
By degrees, I became aware of other things
around me as well. First I could smell water, or
more accurately, the waterfront. Probably the
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Rhein. I had been knocked unconscious, tied up,
and taken down to the warehouse district.
I managed to swivel my head around a few
inches so that I could look up. Inge Torman stood a
few feet from me, talking with two men, obviously
dock workers by their dress and looks: They were
too far away for me to hear what they were saying,
but it seemed they were arguing. The Torman
woman was gesturing with her hands back the way
my feet were pointed.
When they noticed that I had regained con-
sciousness, Inge Torman broke away from them,
came over to me, and squatted down by my side.
"Sunday your president will be dead," she said
to me, almost conversationally. Her voice was
soft, with a slight German accent. I was sure that
she had been born German but had been raised, or
at least educated, in the United States. Probably
on the East Coast.
"Why?" I managed to croak. My mouth and
throat were dry, and the effort to speak seemed
almost impossible.
The woman smiled wryly. "It is an exercise,
Mr. Carter, nothing more."
This was making less and less sense the further
we went. She must have caught my confusion from
my expression, because she reached out and
gently touched my cheek.
"I imagine this has all been very confusing to
you, Honolulu. Tokyo, Cairo: All those attempts
were meant to fail. You worked out very nicely for
us."
"But Spa won't fail," I said.
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She shook her head and slowly stood up. "No,
Spa will not fail. Nor will any of this fail to show
the world just how vulnerable the president of the
United States—or any government leader, for that
matter—is. Perhaps the next leader your country
elects will be a more sane, responsive person."
I struggled to sit up, but the woman almost
nonchalantly nudged my sore shoulder with the
toe of her shoe and I fell back to the pavement, the
pain exploding along my side and down my back.
She crouched down next to me again. "You will
be dead in a few minutes, so I suppose it will not
hurt to clear up this mystery for you."
I looked frantically around me. LeMaigne was
nowhere in sight, and the twonen who had been
talking with Inge Torman were leaning up against a
rough brick building about twenty feet away,
smoking and staring past us at the river.
The place we were at was very dark. Alone light
atop a building about a block away was the only
illumination nearby.
The woman had taken a snub-nosed .38 revolver
out of her purse, and she screwed a silencer onto
the end of its threaded barrel. The silencer was
longer than the gun.
"Our organization did not begin in Lisbon, as
you have suspected all along," the woman began.
"The radio message . . "
"It was a decoy, meant only to excite your
curiosity. We wanted you to come after us, to try
to stop us. We wanted you to see how futile it is."
I wanted to stall for time. I was about to speak,
when the thought struck me: Stall for time for what
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purpose? There was no way I was going to get
loose from the ropes that held me. The cavalry
wasn't coming. No one knew where I was. The
only contact I had had with my omce was the one
call Offenbach had made to' our blind number in
Frankfurt.
But I could not give up. For an instant a picture
of the young Amalgamated Press office manager in
Honolulu flashed in my mind. He had wanted to be
a Killmaster, but I had known he would never
make it because he did not have the overdeveloped
instinct for survival that I had. And now I was
giving up.
I began to work my wrists back and forth against
the ropes. "You'll never get away with it," I said,
mustering up what strength and resolve I had to
make my voice clear and put a smile on my lips.
The woman laughed lightly. "Why not?"
"Because your plan is known. We know about
the missile at Spa. We know when the attempt will
be made. We know about LeMaigne. About the
meetings at Offenbach. We know about it all."
For an instant a flash of concern crossed her
face, but then it was replaced by the same almost
innocent smile. "Missile, you say?" she mocked
me. "We know," she said, emphasizing the first
word. "It won't work. Your people may know, that
you are in Wiesbaden. They also know that you
were at the Offenbach plant. But that's all. If they
come here looking for you, they'll find Offenbach
and the crew gone. Nothing more."
"How do you know that?" I snapped.
'S Very easy— ' she started, when suddenly the
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top ofher head disappeared backward in a spray of
blood and white, pulverized bone. An instant later
I heard the roar of a heavy-caliber hand gun, prob-
ably a .357 or .44 magnum.
The woman's body flipped backward, and her
legs jerked violently against my chest and face as
her body went through its death throes.
Iivo other shots rang out in the night, and I was
able to look up in time to see both men who had
been with the woman pitch forward.
The cavalry had arrived.
For several long minutes everything was
deathly still, the quiet even more obvious after the
gunfire. Inge Torman's body had stopped its spas-
modic twitchings. I suddenly became aware that
someone was standing behind me.
I managed to swivel my entire body painfully
around to look up into the face of Derrick Stone,
holding a Reuger .357 magnum revolver in his
hand. For an instant there was a strange look on
the man's face, in his eyes; then he grinned.
"Looks like I made it just in time," he said, and
he holstered his gun, bent down, and began unty-
ing me.
S' How in the hell did you manage that?" I asked.
Something was wrong here, drastically wrong.
"The president got word in Moscow that you
were here in Wiesbaden at the Offenbach Motor
Works," he said, undoing the knots around my
ankles. "He told me that you were investigating
the assassination plet and figured that since you
hadn't checked in, you might be in trouble. So he
sent me,"
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"From Moscow this fast?" I asked as the ropes
came loose around my wHsts and he helped me to
my feet.
Stone laughed. ' 'The president explained it all to
Brezhnev, if you can believe that. The Russians
put me on one of their jet fighter-interceptors and
flew me in to East Berlin. From there I was driven
across to the West zone, where I hopped a ride to
Frankfurt aboard one of our own jets."
' 'How did you know where to find me?"
"Pure blind luck," Stone said. "I showed up at
the Offenbach plant about the time you took off
after the Fiat."
"So you followed me?"
Stone nodded. "I wanted to see where this was
leading; otherwise I would have stopped this when
they knocked you on the head."
' 'What about LeMaigne?" I asked. "What hap-
pened to him?"
"You mean the man who was with this wo-
man?" Stone said, looking down at the nearly
decapitated body of Inge Torman.
I nodded.
' 'After they loaded you in the van, they dropped
the man back at his Fiat, and he took off. I had the
choice of following either him or you. I chose
you."
The effects of the shrapnel wound and the blow
on my head were even more painfully obvious to
me now that I was on my feet. As my knees began
to buckle, I reached out for Stone, who helped me
up.
"The president will be in Frankfurt tomorrow
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{ morning. Meanwhile, I think I'd better get you to a
doctor."
My mind was whirling, and it seemed as if
someone were drilling down through the top of my
skull with a rusty bit. I knew that I had all the
information I needed now to figure this thing out.
Inge Torman, before she died, had given me almost
everything I needed to know. But instead of mak-
ing any sense, everything was a jumbled mess in
my mind.
As I slid into unconsciousness once again, I
clung to the one idea that' if I could not find the
missile in Spa by race time on Sunday, I would
have to convince the president to return to
Washington.
For once in my career I had run into an organiza-
tion that was stronger than me—perhaps even
smarter than me. They had outwitted me, outma-
neuvered me, and outrun me the entire distance. It
was as if they had been toying with me all along.
Whoever was heading this plot had to be a brilliant
person—brilliant but twisted.
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"You HAVE A severe concussion. If you leave this
hospital you'll probably be dead within the hour."
I was standing next to my bed pulling on my shirt
as the nurse who had discovered me up was pa-
tiently trying to explain to me why I should get
back into bed. Under any other circumstances I
would have vobliged her; she was quite good-
looking and obviously concerned about me be-
yond her professional capacity.
But remaining in bed even another minute was
totally impossible.
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I had awakened about a half an hour ago, rang
for the nurse, and asked her for the time. It was
dark outside, and I was sure it was early Saturday
morning. The last thing I remembered was fainting
against Stone on the waterfront in Wiesbaden.
"Never mind the time,' "she had snapped at me.
"What time is it?" I insisted, sitting up, my
head whirling around a gigantic split in my skull
that had to be the size of the Grand Canyon.
"Two in the morning," she finally said in exas-
peration.
I lay back in bed. "I want out of here first thing
in the morning," I told her. I desperately needed
the sleep. Every muscle in my body was screaming
for it.
"Impossible," she told me. S' We wouldn't dis-
charge you on a Sunday even if you were in any
condition to get up. Now get to sleep or I'll give,
you a sedative to make you sleep."
My mind was whirling in circles. I was seeing
LeMaigne and Offenbach arguing. And then I was
seeing Inge Torman, the back of her head blowing
away in slow motion.
How long I lay like that in a half stupor, I don't
know, but suddenly what the nurse had told me
began to sink in. "Wouldn't discharge you on a
Sunday,"- the nurse had said.
I sat up in the darkened room. Sunday. I had
been unconscious from Friday night, when Stone
had rescued me, all Saturday and Saturday night,
and now it was Sunday morning—race day!
My clothes were pressed and neatly hung in the
closet, and my weapons, all of them, were in the
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bedside table. For a moment I had to smile. I'm
sure that whoever undressed me had found my
choice of weapons unusual, especially Pierre, the
gas bomb.
The door had opened, and the light had come on
as I was finishing dressing. It was the same nurse,
and now she was threatening to call the orderlies.
I looked up at her, narrowed my eyes, and mus-
tered as much firmness in my voice as I could.
"Fräulein," I said, "if anyone tries to stop me I
will hurt them."
My statement was simple, but I think she be-
lieved me, because she backed away a few feet.
"I'll call the police," she said.
I smiled at her as I finished buttoning my shirt
and painfully pulled my holster over my sore
shoulder. The motion caused me to wince involun-
tarily with the pain, and the nurse rushed to my
side to help me.
"Insanity," she muttered in German. "Pure in-
sanity. You are going to kill yourself, and I will be
to blame."
As I said, the young woman was good-looking,
unlike some nurses who have attended me, and it
seemed the natural thing to take her into my arms
and kiss her. When we parted she seemed out of
breath.
"I must go," I told her gently, "but I will tell
them it was not your fault."
' 'Your president called here personally about
you," she said, not moving away from me. Her
body felt soft and warm, and I almost wished the
situation were different.
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"That's why I must go," I said, and I disengaged
her arms from me.
She helped me with my coat after I had strapped
my stiletto, in its specially designed chamois case,
to my right forearm. But when I tried to undo the
bandage wrapped around my head like a turban,
she stopped me.
"What are you doing?" she cried in horror.
"l can't go out like this," I said, brushing her
away. A moment later the bandage was off. I
explored the large lump on the back of my head,
and I could feel the stitches. There must have been
at least a dozen.
The nurse was correct about one thing, I
thought. I probably wouldn't get very far in my
condition. For a moment standing there I was see-
ing double, and then for a few seconds the room
went dim, until I was able to refocus my eyes. But I
could not stay here—not when the president was
going to Spa in a few hours' He would have to be
warned.
I kissed the nurse one last time and then brushed
past her and left the hospital, no one on the night
shift even noticing me.
Not until I was out in the chill night air, and had
walked three blocks before I found a taxi, did
something about the hospital strike me as odd.
There had been no guard on my room.
It's not that I'm used to having guards on my
room every time I get hurt, but this time I would
have thought Stone would have ordered a guard on
me after the attempt to kill me.
"The Hotel Intercontinental," I told the cabbie.
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I sat back in my seat and closed my eyes.
It was just three o'clock in the morning. The
race began at one this afternoon, just ten hours
from now. In ten hours I was going to have to have
this thing solved. Not only was I going to have to
stop one more attempt on Magnesen's life, but I
was also going to have to find out who besides
LeMaigne was behind the plot, as well as answer
the one question I was not even close to answering
at this moment: Why? Why kill the president ofthe
United States? I mean, why besides the obvious
reasons of fanatic terrorism. I was sure there was
some reason beyond that—some every specific
reason.
Inge Torman had told me that the first three
attempts had been nothing more than an exercise.
An exercise in what? And for what? What twisted
mind would perceive of the assassination of a pres-
ident as an exercise?
There were a number of other questions still
hammering inside my head, in time with the throb-
bing pain that beat in wave after wave through my
body.
Olanda Williamson. I still had not figured where
she fit in all this, if indeed she did fit. Perhaps she
was nothing more than what she appeared to be, a
beautiful but spoiled writer for, an intellectual
magazine trying for the scoop on the first family.
What about Stanley Magnesen? I was getting
my fill of spoiled children on this assignment, and I
was liking it less and less as time went on. What
had Stanley wanted to talk to me about in Tokyo
that he suddenly found he could not say? Was it
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anything of importance?
And what about the president himself? Magne-
sen had been acting strange on and off ever since
we had left Honolulu for Tokyo. One minute he
wanted this case solved; the next, he wanted me
back in Washington and the investigation stopped.
One minute he was charging full steam ahead on
his world* tour—damn —the assassination
attempts—and the next, he was balking, ready to
return to Washington, to give it all up. Did the
president know something that was affecting his
decision-making capabilities? If so, what was it?
Last, there was Derrick Stone—presidential
bodyguard, Medal of Honor winner, a highly intel-
ligent but strange man. His appearance in Wiesba-
den was nothing short of miraculous. Or was it?
The cabbie broke me out of my reverie, and I
opened my eyes and looked up. We were thereu
I paid the driver and entered the lobby of the
hotel. A pair of Secret Service guards were stand-
ing duty at one of the elevators, and when I ap-
proached them their eyes went wide.
"It's not polite to stare," I said, smiling. I rec-
ognized both of them. The taller man had been a
close friend of the Secret Service agent who had
died protecting the president in Tokyo. The other
usually worked as an installation
"Mr. Stone said you were in the hospital," the
one said. "In critical condition."
"They made a mistake," I said. But not by very
much, I thought.
"Welcome back," the other agent said.
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"I've got to get upstairs to see the president," I
said softly.
"No can do," one of them said. ' 'Mr. Stone left
strict orders that the Man was not to be disturbed.
He's leaving for Spa at ten."
Suddenly a connection was made in my mind,
and the fuzz seemed to lift for a moment as some of
the pieces started to fall into place. "Then I must
see him," I insisted.
Both men started to protest, but I cut them off
and lowered my voice conspiratorially. "There
will be another attempt at Spa. I must tell the
president."
"Christ," the one swore. He looked at his part-
ner, who shrugged, and then they stepped aside
and punched the elevator button. "Hess probably
asleep. Shall we call Mr. Stone?"
"Don't bother," I said, as the elevator doors
opened and I stepped inside. "I'll take my
chances. "
"Yes, sir," they said, and the elevator doors
closed and the car started up.
The routine was much the same on the top floor,
and in addition I had to give up my Luger to the
two agents, who seemed genuinely pleased to see
me on my feet and back on the job. But they, too,
warned me that the president was asleep and that
Stone had left strict orders not to disturb him.
The president's appointments secretary; how-
ever, was a differegt matter. The man was defin-
itely not pleased to see me, and he told me so in no
uncertain terms.
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"I don't want you here at this hour, Mr. Car-
ter," the man sniffed indignantly, "The president
desperately needs his rest, and ifl may say so, you
look as if you belong in a hospital."
"Can't wait, my good man," I said, mocking his
slightly effeminate accent. "I must see the presi-
dent immediately. And if you won't let me
through, I'll go past you."
The man stiffened and then stood up straight to
his full, unimpressive five feet six. I was certain
the man was ready and willing to fight me. Not a
bad sort to have on your side. I could not be mean
to him.
"Look," I said, again putting a conspiratorial
tone in my voice, ' 'there will be another attempt
on his life at Spa. Do you want the president to go
to the race not knowing that?"
The man seemed to waver, and finally his de-
fenses crumbled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Carter, but
everything has been in a terrible state around here
since Cairo, The younger Mr. Magnesen is not
speaking with his father. That Williamson woman
is hanging on everyone.Änd Mr. Stone has been
browbeating the president about his duties. I don't
know what to do."
I reached out and patted the man on the arm.
"1'11 take care ofit," I said. "I have so far, haven't
1?"
Yes, sir," the man said. "You seem to be the
only one around here who can make the president
understand. "
I followed the prim but very dedicated little man
into the president's sitting room, where he indi-
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cated a seat for me and told me he would awaken
the president. And then he was gone from the
room.
I sank down into the plush, deeply cushioned
easy chair, laid my head back, and closed my
eyes.
AXE has a rest-and-recuperation ranch in
Arizona for its people who have been battered on
assignments. I had been there many times, and I
would be going there after this thing was com-
pleted. But for one of the rare times in my career, I
was beginning to wonder seriously if I was going to
make it that far this time.
Once again the feeling that I had been outma-
neuvered and outsmarted washed through my
body like paint thinner on a freshly painted sur-
face. It seemed to wash away all my resolve and
what little strength I possessed. I was beginning to
wonder if I would last.
"You look like hell," the president said, coming
into the room.
I opened my eyes and slowly sat up. "l feel like
hell too, Mr. President," I said.
Magnesen sat down in a chair a few feet from
mine and stared at me. "When Stone told me
what happened in Wiesbaden; I called David
Hawk."
The cobwebs suddenly cleared from my mind,
and I held my breath. If Hawk ordered me off this
assignment finally, it was going to be one order I
was going to disotpey.
"But he told me something I already knew," the
president continued. "That you are a good man,
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that you would probably disobey any orders call-
ing you off this assignment, so I might just as well
go along with you."
I breathed a sigh of relief.
"There will be another attempt on my life at
Spa, is that what you've come here to tell me?" the
president asked, and I could hear the weariness
and a note of worry in his voice.
"Yes, sir," I said tiredly. "But before I tell you
what I have found out, I need the answers to a
couple of questions."
The president stared at me for several long sec-
onds before he nodded. "If I can."
"You must, sir," I said. "First."
The president seemed to hold his breath waiting
for my question.
C 'Who did the background check on Olanda Wil-
liamson before she was allowed to join you and
your son on this trip?"
The president seemed surprised by this ques-
tion, and he had to think a moment.
"I don't
know," he said. "l assume it was Derrick Stone
personally. He usually handles such matters."
"Second question." I said, and again the presi-
dent seemed to be holding his breath.
"Do you think your son has had something to do
with this plot?"
"My God!" the president said, half-rising from
his chair.
I did not flinch a muscle, and just as fast as the
president had risen from his chair in reaction, he
seemed to deflate like a toy balloon that has been
popped. He slumped back in his chair and buried
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his face in his hands. "Yes," he said. "God help
me . . . yes
"Ifi not true, Mr. President," I said, with more
conviction in my voice than I had in my mind.
The president looked up at me. "You're sure?"
' 'Yes sir," I said. "But would you mind explain-
ing why you thought so?" With Magnesen believ-
ing that of his son, it explained why he vacillated
about my being on this case. If his son was a part of
the plot, a portion of the president's heart did not
want it discovered.
The president hesitated a moment, trying to pick
his words. "His actions and his words. He has
been against my trip from the beginning. His
friends all are radicals at the university. And each
time they tried—in Honolulu, Tokyo, and then
Cairo, where he stayed behind in the car—he was
nowhere near the assassination attempt."
"Circumstantial," I said.
"Do you know Who is behind this?" he said.
"Did you find out something in Wiesbaden?"
"Yes to both questions," I said. "But I'm going
to need your help not only to stop them, but to
prove it. Are you willing?"
"Anything," the president said. "I'll do any-
thing at all."
It was nearly six o'clock in the morning by the
time I finally left the president and made it to the
room in the luxurious hotel that had been assigned
to me one floor below.
I was deeply tired, more tired I think than I have
ever been in my life, but there was one more thing
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to accomplish before I would be able to get any
sleep.
I lay down on my bed, my jacket off and my
stiletto in my right hand, and waited. The lights
were out, the bed was soft, and I had to fight sleep,
reviewing over and over again the things I had told
the president.
I had drawn a number of conclusions from what
Inge Torman had told me in Wiesbaden before
Stone killed her, as well as what the president had
inadvertently told me. And now I was fairly cer-
tain I knew who was behind this plot, but still I did
not know why—or exactly how and when the mis-
sile would be used against the president at Spa.
I hoped that this morning I would get the an-
swers to at least one of those questions.
A half hour later my door, which I had purposely
left unlocked, silently swung open, and Olanda
Williamson, dressed only in a nightgown, her body
outlined by the light in the corridor, slipped inside
and closed the door behind her.
For the brief moment I had got a clear look at
her, I had seen she was holding something tightly
against her bosom.
In the darkness I silently moved to the far side of
the bed and waited for her to come to me. And
come to me she did.
I felt the wind from her arm as something struck
the bed a few inches from me. I reached out and
grabbed her arm, and she exploded into a ball of
raging fury, battering at my head with her free
hand, something raking against my chest like a hot
awl.
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For what seemed like an eternity, I struggled
with the woman, who seemed half-insane. But it
was a strange fight. Neither of us uttered a sound
other than our low grunts and soft moans.
Olanda, who had been a part ofthis all along, did
not want to raise the alarm and have the guards
stop her from killing me. And I did not want to
raise the alarm, but with a different purpose in
mind.
For one frightening moment I thought she was
going to win. In my .weakened condition, with
Olanda battering at my head and wounded shoul,
der, I was beginning to black out; but suddenly,
my right hand touched her throat. In the next
instant I let go of her arm, and with both hands,
mustering up what little strength I had remaining, I
sharply twisted her neck backward.
When her neck broke, the noise was a sicken-
ingly soft crunch, and she went suddenly and fin-
ally limp in my arms.
A moment later I passed out on the bed.
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xv
I REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS around nine o'clock
in the morning and forced myself to get out of the
bed. Olanda Williamson, who had been beautiful
in life, was a grisly sight in death. Her body was
sprawled across my bed, her head at an unnatural
angle, her mouth set in a mad grimace, and her
eyes wide open, staring at nothing. In her right
hand she held a deadly-looking, ornately jeweled
dagger with which she had meant to murder me.
But under whose orders?
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I stood at the edge of the bed looking down at
her. Portenjo had died in Honolulu, the two
Japanese terrorists in Tokyo, the other man and
then Maria Oeriés •in Lisbon, the Arab outside
Cairo, Inge Torman and her two friends in Wies-
baden, and now Olanda Williamson in Frankfurt.
The Lisbon organization had left a trail of death
behind it. How many more people would die this
day before it was all over?
And still I had none of the answers. I had hoped
that whoever would come for me this morning
would make a mistake, so that I could subdue them
alive. I had hoped that I could get a few answers.
But now I had nothing, or almost nothing.
Every muscle and nerve in my body screamed
for rest as I managed to drag Olanda's body off the
bed and stuff it into a closet. It would be discov-
ered as soon as the maids entered the room to
clean later this morning, but by then I would be in
Spa and the last chapter of this grisly business
would be unfolding.
I spent a long time in the shower, first letting the
exceedingly hot water beat against my protesting
body, and then letting the cold spray revive me
somewhat.
After I was dressed, I oiled my Luger and
checked its action, sharpened my stiletto, and
selected a longer-range, more deadly gas bomb for
my thigh pouch.
This was the end of it. Either the conclusions I
had drawn were correct and I would have a chance
of winning, or they were completely wrong and I
would probably lose. Either way, the next few
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hours would determine the outcome.
I left my room and went upstairs. I was let into
the suite by his appointments secre-
tary. The president, dressed and ready to go, was
talking with his son Stanley and Derrick Stone.
They all looked up when I entered the room.
"Good morning, Nick," the president said jo-
vially. "Care for some coffee before we leave?"
I smiled and nodded. "Love some," I said, mus-
tering as much lightness in my voice as I could.
Stanley had jumped up from where he was sit-
ting. He was looking at me as if he were seeing a
ghost. Stone remained seated, but his mouth had
dropped open.
Stanley was the first to speak. "I thought you
were . "
"In the hospital?" I finished for him. "I was, but
they releasgd me."
"I would have thought you'd be in the hospital
for quite a while," Stone said, finding his voice at
last.
The presidentS secretary brought me my coffee,
and I sat down on the edge of the couch at just the
moment my knees would have given out.
I looked directly at Stone. "I wouldn't miss Spa
for the world," I said, sipping my coffee.
Stanley had looked from me to Stone and then to
his father, an almost wild expression on his face.
When he spoke his voice was cracking. '6There's
going to be another attempted assassination at
Spa, isn't there?" hg said to his father. "They're
going to try to kill you again."
President Magnesen shrugged.
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"No!" Stanley wailed. s 'No ... I'm not going.
This is nuts." He jumped up. "This entire god-
damned tour has been crazy. been crazy since
the beginning. And now you're going to the stupid
race and let them take another potshot at you?
Sooner or later they're going to win. I'm just not
going. Olanda and I are returning to the States.
Now. This morning."
He stormed out of the room, and another piece
ofthe puzzle fell into place for me. When I had told
the president earlier that Stanley was not a part of
the Lisbon organization, I had been guessing.
Now I knew it was true. The only reason Stanley
was never around when his father was in public
was because he was a coward. After the attempt
on the president's life in Honolulu, Stanley kept
out of the way.
I only wished I could explain to him about
Olanda. He was going to do some frantic searching
this morning for her, and when her body was fin-
ally discovered in my room, he was going to be a
miserable, confused young man. It was something
his own father was going to have to sort out for him
when this was all over.
The president's the room.
"Your helicopter is ready; Mr. President," he an-
nounced, and we all stood.
"To Spa," I said, raising my cup in toast. I took
another sip of the coffee and then put the cup
down. To Spa, I said to myself, if I can make it that
long.
Spa from the air is a pleasing little town. It is a
commune of ten thousand persons in Belgiunfi
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province Liége just across the border from Ger-
many and only a little more than a hundred air
miles from Frankfurt.
More than two hundred thousand people had
gathered for the Grand Prix race, which each year
brought fame to the area and fortune to its mer-
chants.
Four helicopters, loaned to the presidential
party, had left the Frankfurt airport at 11:00 A.M.
sharp, and now, shortly after noon, we were hov-
ering over a flat area behind the grandstands.
The racetrack is nothing more than three inter-
secting highways that, once each year, are blocked
offto make up the roughly oval course. Filled with
curves, switchbacks, hills, and a few long straight-
aways, the circuit at Spa is considered, neverthe-
less, one of the easier courses, unlike Monaco,
which is run through city streets, or Nuremberg
Ring, with its terrible negative-banked curves.
The course is a couple of miles outside Spa, and
we could see the long lines ofcars, campsites, and
parking lots that stretched the entire distance.
The president, Stone, two other Secret
Service agents, and I were in the first helicopter,
along with a couple of German omcials. The other
machines carried other Secret Service agents and
several Belgium officials who had met us in
Frankfurt to facilitate our entry without customs
checks into Belgium.
We came down a hundred feet from a knot of at
least two hundred people, most ofthem, I guessed,
journalists from all over the world, as well as local
and federal Belgian officials.
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The president leaned over toward me as we
touched down. "Are you up to this, Carter?" he
said over the noise of the helicopter's blades.
"Yes, sir," I said, nodding. But I seriously won-
dered whether I was.
Stone had noticed the exchange, and he leaned
toward us. "Anything the matter, sir?" he said.
The president shook his head. "This will be an
interesting race," he said.
The mayor of Spa, the director of the Interna-
tional Racing Federation, and the federal offcial
from Brussels, whose exact title I never did get,
greeted the president when he stepped down from
the helicopter.
Stone's men formed a cordon around the little
group, fending off the newspeople and leading the
group to the rear entrance of the large grandstand,
on a slight hill. To the left the track made its famous
switchback about a quarter of a mile away. A
restaurant was on the far side of the track, at the
curve, which was actually one of the highway in-
tersections.
The straightaway that led down the hill past the
grandstand curved up and to the right about a half
mile farther, and then the track was lost to the
trees up the hill.
When the president and his party were settled in
their box seats, a light lunch with wine was served
them, while Stone followed me down to trackside.
People and cars were everywhere on the track
and in the pits. I looked at my watch as we stepped
down onto the concrete surface. It was- shortly
before twelve-thirty. In a little more than a half
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hour the race would begin.
I turned and looked back up to where the presi-
dent was seated. There were at least thirty Secret
Service agents in his immediate vicinity, and
scanning the crowd, I knew that there were
another fifty scattered here and there.
But a hundred times that number would do abso-
lutely no good against a missile.
Stone spoke, and it was as ifhe had been reading
my mind. "If we had a thousand men on him today
it wouldn't be enough," he said.
I looked at him. "Then it's up to us."
Stone nodded. "I tried to convince him this
morning to cancel out, but he insisted. There was
nothing I could
As we had entered the grandstands from the
rear, I had noticed the three big Offenbach trucks
parked, and now I looked toward the Offenbach
pit less than twenty yards away. Offenbach was
there, along with a dozen other people, but
LeMaigne was nowhere in sight. I was certain that
he was there, however, or nearby.
Stone was watching me when I turned back to
him. "Any ideas where we begin?" I asked.
"Offenbach," Stone said. "I noticed their
trucks out back. Why don't we snoop around and
see whaft back there?"
"All right," I said.
We worked our way through the crowd and be-
hind the grandstands, headed for the three Offen-
bach trucks that were parked among several dozen
other similar race•machine transporters. Stone
was a few feet behind me and to my left as we
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hurried across the soft ground toward the graveled
area where the trucks were parked.
No one was near the Offenbach trucks, and the
back doors were unlocked. I opened the first one
and peered inside. Along the inside walls were tool
racks and spare-parts bins, and near the front of
the truck were several large packing crates, any
one of which could have held a missile large
enough to dothe job.
I jumped inside, Stone directly behind me, and
worked my way to the forward section of the huge
trailer. As I got to the front, the trailer's rear door
closed and all the light was cut off, plunging us into
absolute darkness.
Silently I crouched down and scooted to my left
as something metallic clanged against the forward
wall where I had been standing a moment before.
And then there was silence.
I half-crouched and half-lay against what felt
like an engine block, my stiletto in hand, waiting
for Stone to make the next move. This had not
come as a complete surprise to me, although I was
disappointed.
Stone had evidently been the man behind this
from the very beginning. He was the only one I had
met who had the brains and the military-
operations knowledge to make such an organiza-
tion work. He was the one who knew the presi-
dent's every move, which he piped back to his
people. It had been him all along. But why?
"How did you figure me out?" Stone's voice
came from the rear of the trailer.
I edged behind the engine block and lay as flat to
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the floor as possible, using the massive hunk of
steel as a shield.
"Ithad to be either you, Olanda, or Stanley. You
were the only ones who had the president's itiner-
ary, or access to it, and yet the brains to pull
something like this off."
"Why not Stanley?" Stone said, laughing. He
had not moved yet.
a coward," I said. "Besides, the presi-
dent is his father. And no matter how much his son
disagrees with him, you can still see they are father
and son."
"Very good. And Olanda?"
"l figured Olanda was too good to be true and
was probably in on this, but she wasn't 'bright
enough to organize it, I learned. Someone else had
to do that."
"The process of elimination," Stone said. "My
compliments:"
"No," I said. "It wasn't that at all. It was your
stupid blunder in Wiesbaden."
Stone was quiet. Too quiet. There was a move-
ment to my left. It was Stone coming up on me.
I had started to move around the engine block,.
when a bright flash came from Stone's direction
and a bullet ricocheted around the narrow confines
of the trailer.
I threw my stiletto in the direction orthe flash,
but it clattered against the far wall. I had missed,
and Stone laughed directly behind and above me.
In the next instance Stone had pulled me to my feet
and his fists were battering my face and the side of my
head. I would not be able to take much of this.
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Somehow I managed to pull away from him,
stumble backward over the engine block, and then
spring to my feet, free of his grasp for the moment.
I was seeing bright spots and flashes of light
everywhere I looked, even when I closed my eyes.
And it seemed as if someone had picked up the
truck and was spinning it around and around.
' 'The missile, Stone;" I said, and then I jumped
to the right and crouched down. A moment later
another bright flash came from the front of the
trailer, the bullet again ricocheting around inside.
I would have to get some answers from Stone.
Otherwise, the president would have to be moved
out of the stands.
Stone was laughing again.. "I wish you would be
around to see its launching."
I crept forward toward Stone's voice and then
stopped. A soft scraping noise to my left alerted
me, and I ducked just as something swished in the
air past my head. It was all the opening I needed.
I jumped to my feet, swinging my right fist, and I
connected with Stone's throat.
He let out a gasp and slammed backward against
the side of the truck. An instant later he kicked me
backward against the opposite wall, and I had
barely time enough to drop to the floor and roll
away before he started firing his gun, shot after
shot, the lead ricocheting viciously around the
trailer. And then it was suddenly silent.
I crawled to the back doors, the effort taking
everything in my power, and through a red haze
that was filling my eyes, I opened the doors and
looked back.
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A ricocheting bullet, shaped into a ragged piece
of lead, had slammed into Stone's face just above
and to the right of his nose, grinding offmost ofthe
right side of his head.
There would be no answers from him. And now
in the distance I could hear the revving race-car
engines as the race was about to begin. The presi-
dent had received no signal from me that he was to
leave, so at this moment, sure that I had solved the
case, he was settling back to enjoy the race.
Earlier this morning when I had talked with him,
he had agreed to leave immediately should I signal
him at any time before or during the race.
I hurried around the grandstand as fast as I could
go, although at times I was seeing double and my
head felt as if it were about to burst open.
The president was gone. The Belgian officials
were still in their seats, along with most of the
Secret Service agents, but the president was no
longer there.
I tried to make some sense ofthat. Had someone
heard the commotion in the Offenbach trailer and
thinking there was trouble, warned the president
and made him leave?
If that was the case why hadn't the Belgian
officials left? And why hadn't the other Secret
Service agents gone with him? It just didn't make
sense.
The race had begun just moments ago, and the
cars were on the far side of the oval, so things were
momentarily quiet as I headed toward the Offen-
bach pit. The only opiion left open to me now was
LeMaigne himself. The president was gone, but
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the plot still had to be stopped, because sooner or
later they would try again.
The cars had evidently been taken directly off
the trucks at the Offenbach pit, because a pair of
the aluminum loading ramps were still set up at
trackside. I had to make my way around them as
the lead cars came around the switchback curve a
quarter of a mile away and headed down the long
straightaway toward us.
I quickly withdrew my Luger and waited until
the first Offenbach car roared past me, with
LeMaigne driving. He was in fourth, and from
what I could see as he flashed by, he was concen-
trating on his driving and not the grandstands.
Offenbach had turned around to watch the pack
come by, and he noticed me standing nearby with
my Luger in hand. Now he came in a dead run
toward me.
I quickly holstered my gun as the man began
shouting at me. "What is the matter with you?" he
shouted over the roar of the race..
"It's LeMaigne." I had to shout back at him to
be heard.
For a moment I was sure Offenbach was going to
hit me, but then he seemed almost deflated.
"LeMaigne?" he said. "What is it?"
"He's a murderer," I said. "The president ofthe
United States is here at the race. LeMaigne and his
people have already tried to assassinate him three
times. They will try again sometime during the
race. "
Offenbach looked sharply at me. "And you are
not with the Amalgamated Press?"
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I shook my head, pulled out my wallet, and
showed him my Secret Service identification. "We
traced the organization to your plant and to
LeMaigne himself. We must stop him before it's
too late."
Offenbach blanched. He turned and went back
into the pit area. A moment later he returned with a
large chalkboard on a wooden frame. Quickly he
chalked the message: 17 P-I-T S-T-O-P, and then by
the brick retaining wall at the track's edge he
waited for the pack to come around the track
again. Seventeen was the car LeMaigne was driv-
ing.
I ducked down behind the wall, out of sight of
any of the drivers in the race, and once again
withdrew my Luger. On the off chance that
LeMaigne did pull off the track, I would have him.
I was crouched at Offenbach's feet, and it
seemed like a half an hour, although it was only a
couple of minutes, before the lead machines came
around the switchback and headed down the
straightaway toward us. Offenbach leaned for-
ward, holding the chalked message high over his
head, and angled up the track so that the drivers
could see it.
Several cars roared past us, then several more,
and Offenbach put the sign down. I jumped up.
' "He will come in on the next lap." Offenbach
•aid.
Already, after only a few laps, the cars had
begun to spread out, and we watched in silence as
the last car flashed us, and then again I
crouched down behind the wall so that LeMaigne
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would not beable to see me until he pulled in.
Offenbach waited by the retaining wall, and in
less than a minute the lead cars roared past us, and
Offenbach swore. I jumped up.
" Goddamn him! He did not stop. He did not pull
in. He ignored my instructions!"
I turned and looked toward the grandstands,
where suddenly I could plainly see the president
and someone who looked like his son, Stanley,
taking their seats. The president was back, but
LeMaigne would not know that until the next lap.
And I did not think he would try anything until he
was sure Magnesen was settled down at least for
several minutes.
And then it struck me; LeMaigne was a part of
this plot, a very big part of it, and yet he was
driving—which meant the attempt would come
from LeMaigneS car. Either the missile was on the
car or its firing mechanism was on the car. He
would have to be stopped.
I turned back to Offenbach, who was staring at
me. "Flag down one of the other cars," I shouted.
Offenbach just looked at me.
"Hurry," I shouted. "Flag down one of the
other cars."
Quickly Offenbach chalked the number 24 in
place of the 17, and on the next lap, after LeMaigne
had passed us, he held up the sign.
When number 24 had passed, Offenbach, put
down the chalkboard and turned to me. "Why do
you want 24 in here?" he said.
"I'm driving it," I said. I headed toward the pit
shack, which looked more like a concession stand
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with its counter and its CINZANO and MARTINI &
ROSSI decals.
Several of Offenbach's mechanics scattered as I
jumped over the counter and grabbed a fireproofed
suit from several hanging on nails.
Offenbach sputtered his protests as I hurriedly
dressed, but I cut him off. "LeMaigne is going to
try to kill the president in the grandstands during
the race."
"What!" Offenbach screamed.
"L don't know how," I said, zippering up the
coveralls, C' but he's going to try from his car during
the race. I've got to stop him."
Offenbach was shaking his head. "You may be a
good driver, Carter or Carnahan or whatever your
name iss Maybe you are even an outstanding
amateur. But you'll never survive out there."
"l must," I shouted, as number 24 roared into
the pits and the crew busied itself refueling the
machine.
Offenbach hesitated just a moment longer, as I
headed for the machine, and then he followed me,
shouting instructions for the driver to get out im-
mediately.
Within two minutes I was secured into the ma-
chine, had strapped on my helmet, and had popped
it into first gear.
' 'Keep it above eight thousand RPM," Offen-
bach shouted at me. I eased up on the clutch and
took off.
LeMaigne, now in third place, had flashed past
me a minute ago and there would be no hope of
catching him, so I took my time accelerating down
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the straightaway. He would have to catch up to
me, but in such a fashion that when he passed me I
would be going at race speeds. From that moment
on I would have to play it by ear, because I had
absolutely no idea what I would be able to do, even
with my Luger, which I had tucked under my seat
belt.
Past the grandstands I was coming out ofsecond
gear. Down the hill I made it into third, and around
the wide, sweeping curve that led back up the hill
and into the woods, I managed fourth and then fifth
at the top, at a relatively slow 190 miles per hour.
At this speed LeMaigne would catch up to me by
the time we reached the front straightaway.
A dozen cars passed me on the back half of the
track and around the last wide curve before the
switchback above the grandstands; then I sud-
denly saw LeMaigne's white Porsche on my tail,
moving up on me incredibly fast.
I slammed the accelerator pedal to the floor, and
the machine seemed to come alive, as the
tachometer climbed above the ten thousand-RPM
mark toward the red line.
My speed was well over 200 miles per hour when
LeMaigne went by me, and then I forgot every-
thing else except keeping behind. LeMaigne and
keeping alive.
The switchback was less than a half mile ahead
of us, and still LeMaigne was not braking. For a
few panicky moments I was sure the man was
going to crash straight ahead into the hill below the
restaurant, but at the last possible instant,
LeMaigne's car slowed and began to slide side-
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ways in a drift, and he flashed around the curve.
It seemed like an hour to me before I managed to
get around the curve, and already LeMaigne was
shifting through the gears down the straightaway,
pulling away from me at an incredible speed.
Offenbach was right. I was an amateur and had
Ino business in this race. It would almost be like a
*mild-mannered accountant suddenly finding him-
self in a Minnesota Vikings football game during
the Superbowl and hoping to compete. I was sim-
ply outclassed.
I flashed by the Offenbach pit, but Offenbach
j was nowhere in sight. Then I was past the grand-
stands, and in the instant I had to look up, I could
plainly see the president and his son.
Again I plunged into the race, as I came up the
hill and around the wide curve, but this time I kept
my foot on the floor once I had the machine in fifth
gearagain, and the tach climbed up to the red line
and passed it. I was going faster now than the car
was designed for. But there was no alternative. I
.vould have to catch up with LeMaigne.
I eased past four cars on the back stretch, and
b this time I did catch up with LeMaigne just as he
flashed around the switchback. I left my braking
until the last instant and then lay on the pedal, the
back end of the car sliding around, and somehow,
miraculously, I was around the curve and heading
Idirectly behind LeMaigne.
Suddenly everything was clear to me—-
chillingly clear. A man in Offenbach coveralls was
just running back int6 the pit from where he had
-moved the pair of aluminum loading ramps to the
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track's edge. LeMaigne's car was headed that way
now, and I could see that if LeMaigne hit the
ramps his car would be launched in a direct line to
where the president was sitting.:
The car itself was the missile. LeMaigne was
going to launch his car off the ramps, killing him-
self but crashing into the president's box seat and
killing everyone for two dozen rows around him.
I kept my foot to the floor, the tachometer nee-
dle completely off the scale, and less than twenty
yards from the ramp, I managed to cut between
LeMaigne and the ramps:
LeMaigne, seeing the danger, swerved off and
flashed past the ramp down the straightaway, and I
backed offon the pedal, downshifting once, twice,
three times while pumping the brakes.
I had stopped him the first time, but there could
not be a second, or he might be successful.
I managed to stop my car just down from the
grandstands, and in a break in the pack made a
U-turn on the track and slowly headed back to-
ward the Offenbach pit.
There was not enough time to warn the presi-
dent and get him out of the stands or to move the
ramps. LeMaigne would be around the track in
less than three minutes.
Yet I was going to have to stop him this time
around, away from the crowds so that he could not
hurt anyone. I was going to have to try to force him
off the track and into the stone retaining wall
across the track and above the pits.
On the far side of the track, across from the
Offenbach pit, I stopped the car, jammed it into
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first gear, and sat revving the engine waiting for
LeMaigne. Around me I could see several race
officials and police officers running toward me,
and across the track a man in coveralls was coming
my way. He was carrying a gun.
My head seemed to be splitting in two again, and
my vision was going double because of the con-
cussion. I tried to focus on the man coming at me
from the Offenbach pits but I could not make out
his face. I was sure, however, that he was one of
the Offenbach mechanics; " someone LeMaigne
had arranged to hire.
I grabbed my Luger from where I had it tucked
under my seat belt and fired one shot at the man
but missed him. He dropped to his knees and fired
a shot at me that whined off the cowling in front of
the windshield. I fired again and a third time, miss-
ing both shots, as the lead car came around the
switchback.
It wasn't LeMaigne, but the white Porsche
could not be far behind.
If the man shooting at me had remained where
he knelt he would probably have lived. I could not
see well enough now to hit him with my shooting.
But he was a bad shot, and he jumped up and
headed for me as Offenbach came out of the pit
shack and shouted at him. The man was unaware
that the lead car had aimed for the space in the road
between him and me.
When the Ferarri struck the man, the low body
of the machine flipped him straight up into the air
and backward at least two hundred feet.
I did not wait to see what happened to the Fer-
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rari's driver as LeMaigne's car, now in second
place, flashed around the switchback and I popped
the clutch and slammed the accelerator pedal to
the floor.
I'm sure LeMaigne did not know what was hap-
pening until it was too late. He was concentrating
on lining up with the launching ramp, when at the
last moment he looked up, to see me bearing down
on him. At the last moment he swerved to avoid a
head-on collision, and our wheels touched lightly,
but hard enough to make me slide sideways.
From that point everything Seemed to go in in-
credibly slow motion.
From my position moving sideways down the
track I could see car skid, then flip
over once, jump straight up, come down in the
middle ofthe track, and explode, scattering pieces
of wreckage everywhere. And then I was going
backward, my hands bending the steering wheel
nearly off the column, and my foot jammed tightly
on the brakes.
I came around again and saw the solid stone
retaining wall heading my way far too fast, as
several other cars skidded past me going in the
opposite direction, and then I was backward again
as I crashed. Then nothing.
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XVI
AFTERWARDS THEY TOLD me I had been uncon-
scious for thirty days. They had managed to pull
my mangled body out of the wreck just moments
before it caught fire and exploded.
I had spent five days at a hospital in Spa and
another ten days in Brussels before I was moved to
the Bethesda naval hospital in Maryland.
That was nearly three months ago, and today I
was going to be released from AXE's rest-and-
recuperation farm outside Phoenix.
I looked up from where I sat in a chaise longue
by the pool as Kazuka Akiyama, stunning in her
brief white bikini, came across the patio with my
drink.
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She had asked for and been granted an extended
leave of absence from her duties at AXE's Tokyo
bureau to be with me, and in that time I was sure I
had fallen in love with her.
"There's someone here to see you, Nicholas,"
she. said, smiling. She handed me my drink, bent
down and kissed me on the forehead, and then
turned to leave.
"Don't go," I said, but she just laughed and
went back into the lounge.
Three men came across the patio from the oppo-
site side of the pool, and at first I could not make
out who they were, because the sun was in my
eyes. But then I recognized the voices, and I
started to get up.
"Don't get up, Carter," President Magnesen
said, and I slumped back in the chair as he, his son,
Stanley, and David Hawk pulled up chairs and sat
down around me.
"How are you feeling?" the president asked.
"Better," I said.
"Finally," Hawk grunted. "I've got another
assignment for you."
I said nothing, but Stanley sat forward.
"Mr. Carter," he said politely, "how did you
know Olanda was involved in the plot?"
I looked across at the young man, who had cut
his hair so that it was just fashionably long like his
father's. He was wearing new casual clothes in-
stead of his usual uniform of tattered blue jeans
and sweatshirts.
"Looks' like you've copped out to the estab-
lishment," I said lightly.
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Stanley seemed slightly embarrassed. "l was
getting a little old to play the unwashed radical
kid," he said. "There's too much to be done."
His father nodded. "As long as he doesn't go
into politics."
Stanley glanced sharply at his father, and I sus-
pected it would be a while yet before all the old
wounds between them were healed.
"I didn't know Olanda was apart of it, or at least
I wasn't sure until she came to my room in
Frankfurt the morning of the race and tried to kill
me," I said. It all seemed like it had happened so
long ago.
"But you must have suspected her," Stanley
insisted.
"Yes," I admitted. "Almost from the beginning,
when she tried to seduce me in Tokyo," I said. "l
managed to stop the assassination attempt in Hon-
olulu, and she was sent to either discredit me with
your father and get me thrown off the
assignment—which she almost did—or get rid of
me—which she also almost managed to do."
"And you suspected me for a while as well,
didn't you?" Stanley said softly. There was
another embarrassed silence.
"Yes," I said. "But I suspected almost
h everyone at the beginning. It's part of my job. I
, figured Olanda might have sotnething to do with it,
and "
"I was with Olanda and against my father,"
Stanley finished.
"But what about Stone?" the president asked.
"Stone was a surprise and a disappointment in a
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way. He was a war hero, but he was the brains
behind it all. He was the only one who had the
inside knowledge of your movements and habits to
set it up. He was the only one with the operational
experience to be able to pull it off. And evidently
he had a grudge against you. That part I'm not so
sure of. But I didn't know about Stone for sure
until Wiesbaden. You had called me off the as-
signment because you were worried that your son
was somehow involved and would be found out.
But although you knew I was in Wiesbaden, I
knew you would never send your head Secret Ser-
vice man after me. You might have called Hawk
and asked him to send someone, but you wouldn't
have sent Stone."
"True," the president said. "Stone was sup-
posed to be on his way to Spa to check on the final
security arrangements for the race, but he told me
he went through Wiesbaden and by coincidence
happened to see you on the street and followed
you. I was too confused about everything myself
to even entertain the slightest suspicions for the
moment."
"Stone rescued me to throw me off his trail," I
said. "Besides, he wanted me around in case you
thought about backing out of going to the race. I
was the only one you were listening to. And in
addition, he still had not figured out who I really
was—one mystery he didn't care for."
Magnesen glanced at his son and then back at
me. "We let Stanley in on your real identity be-
cause he already suspected too much. You just
didn't act like a Secret Service agent."
I sat forward and lit myself a cigarette, still a bit
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Aissatisfied because the assignment wasn't com-
letely done.
"You've done a fine job, Carter," the president
as saying, but I shook my head.
"I didn't find out why they wanted you dead," I
aid.
"That's easy, or relatively easy," Magnesen
aid, and nodded toward Hawk. "Your boss dug a
•ttle deeper into Stone's background these past
ew weeks, and he found out that Stone was men-
y unbalanced. It evidently happened because
f the war. But the single psychological evaluation
form on him somehow got misplaced from his re-
Cords. I'm sure that since Stone was in military
intelligence, he didn't find it very diffcult to alter
his records. At that time he had no plot in mind; he
just saw the negative psychological report as a
deterrent to his military career."
"But why kill you during the world tour?" I
asked. "And what did Inge Torman mean when
she said your assassination and the three attempts
that were meant to fail were nothing but an exer-
cise?"
"Megalomania," Stanley said. "I studied that
in school."
S' That and an American missile- base in Por-
tugal," the president continued. "Our plans evi-
dently leaked to the wrong people. Stone had intel-
ligence contacts all over the world, and he found
out about the missile-base plans and Inge Tormarfi
plans to assassinate me during my world tour, and
he simply took over."
"It was a Portugese plot from the beginning?" I
asked.
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The president nodded. "At the beginning it was.
Inge Torman, who was in the same terrorist group
as Juan Portenjo, had planned my assassination as
early as six months ago. But when Stone got wind
of what was going on, he took charge. It was a
tailor-made organization for him. He added the
Japanese, the Arab, and the German elements to
it. Stone believed he was invincible; that's why he
played at killing me the first three times. He
wanted to prove how good he was."
"And LeMaigne?" I asked.
"Hawk found out that Inge Torman was
LeMaigne's wife. They were both members of the
Communist party. Both had been trained in Mos-
cow. With his wife dead, he had nothing to live for.
Also a part of Stone's plan, to make sure LeMaigne
did not back out at the last moment. i'
Hawk had risen, and now the president and his
son got up. I got to my feet as well and shook hands
with them.
"Thanks again for a job well done," Magnesen
said.
"Yes, sir," I said.
"I'll see you in my office in the morning," Hawk
growled, but I shook my head.
"Not until Monday," I said. "There's a little
unfinished business I have to attend to first."
I headed toward the lounge and Kazuka
Akiyama.
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