Cairo

  Annotation

  BLOODY VENGEANCE IN CAIRO'S.UNDERWORLD.

  In a small, stinking African jail Nick Carter successfully carried out the first part of the assignment — the murder of a Russian agent. Now a second AXE man could accomplish Phase II — get the microfilm, the secret plans for Novigrom, Russia's fastest fighter plane, into the free world.

  But AXE's man was butchered in Cairo, brutally and apparently inexplicably. Now Nick has to complete the assignment-recover the microfilm and find the sadistic killer.

  To help him, AXE assigned Fayeh, a golden-skinned Egyptian Interpol agent… to feed Nick information, they sent Thinman, a depraved addict who walked the narrow line between the law and the underworld for his daily fix… to test Nick, they pitted him against the New Brotherhood, the Arab version of the Mafia.

  The New Brotherhood was the most lethal syndicate Nick had ever encountered. He only hoped he would live to tell about it…

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  Nick Carter

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  Nick Carter

  Killmaster

  Cairo

  aka Cairo Mafia

  Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America

  OCR Mysuli: denlib@tut.by

  One

  The Arusha police station was a small whitewashed room with paint flaking off the walls and a few pieces of scarred wooden furniture squatting behind a reception counter. Split-bamboo shades covered two windows and allowed a late afternoon sunlight to filter through and make yellow bars across the floor and opposite wall. A slow motion ceiling fan pushed lazily against the heavy, sticky air in the place but did not appear to move it. The door to the dirt street outside stood open without a screen, and large brown flies buzzed dully in the stinking air. In a far corner, a roach moved warily from a crack in the wall then retreated back to its dark security.

  I stood handcuffed before the counter, my safari shirt torn and blood drying on my lower Up. Two big black African policemen flanked me, their night sticks ready. They had arrested me for brawling in a saloon, and I was now being booked by their sergeant, a thin lanky man who sat at an old desk behind the counter studying the false papers I had given them.

  'You're a Canadian, I see, Mr Pryor,' the sergeant said, speaking English. 'A professional hunter.' He shook his head slowly. 'We are having much trouble with Americans and Canadians. Well, you will find that you cannot cross the border from Kenya and make trouble here without suffering consequences.'

  'Nani diyesema hivii!' I yelled at him. 'I didn't make the trouble! It wasn't me who started the bloody brawl!'

  He looked up at me impassively, pushing a pair of spectacles further up onto his dark face. 'You may tell your side to the magistrate.' He motioned to the two men flanking me. 'Take him and lock him up.'

  They pulled me roughly through a doorway to a long room which was a large cell with a corridor running its length. The corridor was separated from the cell by heavy iron bars. A door was set in the bars about halfway along. As they moved me now toward the door, I saw three men in the cell, sitting and lying on a damp floor. Two were Africans and the third was a white man.

  As the tallest of the two policemen started to unlock the cell door, I pulled momentarily free of the other man's grasp. In Swahili, I said, 'I was told I could contact a lawyer.'

  'Hapana!' he hurled at me, grabbing my arm again. 'Not now!'

  'Yes, now!' I yelled.

  The tall policeman had turned back to me, forgetting the door he was unlocking. 'You wish to make trouble, Mr Pryor?'

  'I want my bloody rights!' I said loudly. I pulled away from his partner again.

  Both men grabbed at me then, their hard muscular arms locking onto my arms and neck roughly. I struggled against them, trying to break free. We spun in a small circle and slammed up hard against the bars, rattling them.

  The men in the cell were taking an interest in the struggle and all had turned to watch.

  I managed to break free of the shorter guard's grip, and the tall one became quite enraged at this, striking out with his club. The blow glanced off the side of my head and spent most of its force on my neck and shoulder. I grunted under the impact of the club, then slammed an elbow up and back against the man's throat. He made a soft sound and stumbled backwards to the floor.

  As the other policeman raised his club to strike, I shot a short right into his face. He fell back against the bars, blood showing at his mouth. But the man was a bull, and he was not shaken by the blow. He struck out wildly with his night stick. I caught the club and pulled hard on it, taking him off balance. I jerked him off the bars, swung him in an arc past me and smashed him against the corridor wall.

  'Hatari!' The tall guard was yelling toward the room they had brought me from, as he struggled to his feet.

  His bullish pal had recovered already and was reaching out for me. I drove a knee swiftly into his groin. He bellowed in pain and doubled over, clutching at himself, dropping his club.

  I turned back to the tall cop just as he regained his footing. I swung at him but missed. He drove his stick at me and didn't miss — it caught me alongside the face and neck. Pain exploded inside my skull. There was a brief instance of encroaching blackness, and then I hit the floor with a jarring thud. The tall policeman stood over me, raising the club again. I grabbed at his legs and, with the little strength left in my arms, pulled hard. His legs went out from under him, and he toppled to the floor for the second time.

  But his partner had recovered now, and picked up his stick. I saw the club descending from the corner of my eye. I ducked, but it caught me on the back of the head and neck. Wavering blackness hit again and I slumped to the floor on my back, eyes closed, barely conscious. When I opened my eyes, the desk sergeant was standing over me with a gun pointed at my head.

  'That will be enough,' he said in soft Swahili to the other two.

  The bull, who still had his club poised to strike, moved, lowering the stick. The sergeant looked at me darkly.

  'Something tells me it will be some time before your case will come before the magistrate,' he said quietly.

  'Go to hell,' I told him.

  He motioned to the other two. They grabbed me roughly and dragged me into the cell. Then they turned and left, locking the door behind them, and I was alone with the other three prisoners.

  I looked around slowly at their faces, pain throbbing in my head. My eyes focused on the other white man, moved from him to the grinning face of the African squatting beside me. I returned the grin with a grimace and relaxed slightly. Phase one of my assignment had been successfully completed. I had come to kill the white man and here I was — locked in the same cell with him.

  'Bwana all too much sick from clubs,' the smiling African beside me was saying. 'Big askari he all the time use club plenty much.' The man was dressed in western clothes, ragged pants and shirt, but he wore a fetish bracelet on his right wrist and there were delicately patterned scars on his cheeks and on his upper arms where the shirt sleeves ended. He had only one good eye.

  'I'll be all right,' I said.

  'You're a bleeding idiot to start something with them,' the white man said contemptuously to me. Then, as if that were the only comment worth making, he turned away indifferently.

  I did not answer, but I took another, better look at him. He was slightly older than me, tall and slim with a hard, straight-lined face that now had a stubble of beard. He wore a soiled tropical worsted suit and scuffed white shoes. His eyes were cold and penetrating. His
name was Brian Sykes, and he was a professional killer.

  I dragged myself to a sitting position near him against the back wall of the cell. The one-eyed African sauntered over to the bars and sat down next to them, about ten feet from the third prisoner in the cell. This third man was a primitive African, a Kikuyu warrior wearing tribal dress of red ochre cotton and brass arm bands. He sat stiff-backed and cross-legged against the bars across from me, regarding me expressionlessly.

  I turned my head from all of them and closed my eyes. I needed rest — it was going to be a long night. The fight with the policemen had not helped, but I'd had to convince Sykes that I was a legitimate prisoner. The cell stank of urine and I tried to ignore it. I thought of my conversation with David Hawk, in Nairobi, about Sykes and the plans for the Russians' Novigrom I.

  'It's going to be the fastest fighter plane ever built, Nick,' Hawk had told me. 'But, luckily, we've stolen the plans. Agent John Drummond will be in Cairo shortly with the microfilm and will then bring it here. He will deliver the film to you and it will be your job to see that it gets to Washington safely.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'However, there is a fly in the ointment. Our sources think the Russkies know of our rendezvous here. It's believed that they've hired Brian Sykes, a professional gun, to kill Drummond when he arrives in Nairobi with the film. They'll grab it, and we'll be right back where we started. So…'

  'So I get Sykes before he gets us,' I said.

  'That's about it. He's in Arusha at the moment and is expected to fly here for this assignment at the last moment. Go get him, N3.'

  But when I got to Arusha, I found that Sykes was locked up in the local jail for being drunk and disorderly and would be released just in time to fly to Nairobi. It was too risky to wait for his release. Besides, I didn't have the time. So I got myself thrown into jail with him.

  I forced myself to doze for a short while. When I awoke I was stiff all over and felt as though I needed a week in a hospital bed. I looked through the cell bars at the barred window in the corridor and saw that it was dark out. I could hear rain thudding hollowly on the metal roof of the place.

  The fight was dim, coming from a low-watt bulb in the corridor. At one end of the cell water was coming in from outside, forming a shallow puddle. It was also that end of the cell that the stink of urine came from. I glanced at the wide-awake Kikuyu across from me and guessed that it was probably he who had relieved himself. Right now he was looking down toward the opposite end of the cell. Following his gaze, I saw he was watching two rats scavenging for food down there.

  Sykes was stirring now and grumbling under his breath. Down a short distance from the Kikuyu, the other African was sleeping soundly, snoring.

  'Goddam stinking jail,' Sykes said. 'Putting a white man in here. Goddam savages.'

  One of the rats boldly ventured closer to the Kikuyu. He watched it carefully without turning his head. The rat moved closer. Suddenly, the Kikuyu's hand shot out and grabbed. The rat squealed loudly but only once, as the Kikuyu crushed its neck with one hand. Then, while the legs were still twitching, he tore the rat's belly flesh away and prepared to eat it. His eyes met mine for an acknowledgement of his hunting success, and I gave him a small smile. Sykes, however, was on his feet in a fury.

  'You bloody savage, you trying to make me sick?' he shouted. He moved over to the Kikuyu and kicked out at the African's hand, knocking the dead rat from his grasp. 'Leave the bloody vermin be, you black bastard, or I'll shove your head between those bars behind you.'

  He stood over the Kikuyu menacingly. He was as tall as the African and had more meat on him, but the Kikuyu showed no fear. He did not move against him either, though I could see the hatred in his almond eyes. I glanced over at the other African and saw that he had slept through the whole thing. I made a mental note of this.

  Sykes now moved over to me, his eyes mean. 'And as for you, Yank, you're sitting in the only dry spot in the place. Move on down the line.'

  I looked up at him. 'I got here first,' I said.

  Sykes grinned mockingly and reached into his suit He came up with a small knife and flashed its blade open. 'You want something?' he said. The grin was gone now.

  I shrugged my shoulders. 'Okay, you don't have to get rough about it,' I said. Grumblingly, I moved down about fifteen feet and watched Sykes take my dry spot. 'Turnabout's fair play,' I said.

  He gave me an ugly grin. 'That's the way to look at it, sport,' he said, pocketing the knife. 'Now you bleeding people try to keep it quiet while I get my sleep.'

  The Kikuyu and I exchanged looks as Sykes slumped down and closed his eyes. I glanced at my watch, which the sergeant had allowed me to keep. It was just fifteen minutes before the next check by the man on duty. I listened to the rain on the roof and watched a black and orange dragon lizard on an end wall stalk a brown moth. The skinny legs moved carefully, slowly, very much like a lioness getting her position on a gazelle. Just before the lizard could strike the moth flew away and the hunt was over. I ran a hand across my mouth and glanced at the drowsing Sykes. It would not be long now.

  In a few moments, the duty policeman moved into the corridor from the other room. He wore a short-barreled revolver in a holster on his belt. As he approached, I closed my eyes feigning sleep. I heard him pause at the cell door a moment, then, satisfied, turn and retreat to the other room. I opened my eyes and saw the Kikuyu regarding me curiously. I winked at him and looked at Sykes and the other African. They both appeared to be asleep. The African was snoring loudly; the sound would cover a lot of other noise.

  I rose quietly and glanced again at the Kikuyu. I did not think that he would interfere, and it would take a bomb to wake the other African. It was time to make my move.

  I walked quietly over to Sykes. He moved his lips and rolled his head sideways. I had no weapon, so I had to depend on my bare hands. I squatted in front of him. Just then, the sleeping African gave a loud barking snore and Sykes' eyes popped open. When he saw me kneeling before him, the sleepy look left the eyes in an instant.

  'Hey! What the blinking hell you…?'

  I reached out, grabbed his neck with both hands and pulled him off the wall. In the next instant he was on his back on the floor with my fingers squeezing his throat. His face reddened and his eyes bulged. His sinewy arms tried to break my hold. He was, I noted, much stronger than he looked. But his arrogance was gone now. Fear came into his face and then comprehension. He tried to speak but couldn't.

  Suddenly, with the hidden strength of desperation, he broke my hold and drove a forearm into my face. When I jerked backward from the blow, he brought a knee up between us and threw me violently off him.

  I landed on my back as Sykes struggled up quickly on one knee. 'So that's it,' he gasped.

  I did not bother to reply. I kicked out with my foot and my shoe cracked into his shin, knocking him sideways. A cry of pain came from him — luckily not a loud cry. I dived at him, but he rolled away from the attack and scrambled to his knees again. This time he came up with the small knife.

  He held the blade out in front of him, the evil grin returning to his hard face. 'Looks like you've saved me some time and effort,' he said. Then he sprang at me.

  I moved to my left, avoiding the knife-thrust at my stomach, catching his knife hand in the same movement. The force of his rush carried both of us to the floor where we rolled over twice, struggling for the knife.

  Sykes got on top of me momentarily and I found myself wishing desperately that I had managed to sneak my stiletto Hugo into the cell with me. But Hugo had purposely been left behind, along with Wilhelmina, my 9 mm Luger. Sykes savagely pushed my arm aside and made another stab with the four-inch blade. I caught his arm again but not until he had inflicted a shallow wound in my shoulder. When he saw the blood on my safari jacket, the awful grin came back.

  'I've got you, Yank. I'm going to cut your liver out.'

  I gripped the knife arm tighter, straining. I had to disarm him or he woul
d find a way in with the blade eventually. I released his other arm and smashed a left fist into his face.

  Sykes was not prepared for a counterattack. He lost his balance and fell on to his side. I fell on him then, grabbing the knife hand with both hands and twisting hard. Another yell came from him. The knife went skidding along the floor of the cell, out of reach.

  He hit out at me wildly and landed a hard right on the side of my head. I fell to one side and he scrambled to his knees, preparing to go after the knife. But I dived into him from the rear and he went down under me.

  The Kikuyu watched all this coolly and calmly from where he sat by the bars. The other African, though no longer snoring, was still asleep. There was no evidence that the guard on duty in the other room had heard anything yet.

  I chopped hard at Sykes' neck, simultaneously slamming my knee into a kidney. He grunted and grabbed me and threw me to the floor in front of him. I came up quickly and saw the fear back in his face again. He turned, opening his mouth to yell for the duty man.

  I slammed the side of my hand against his Adam's apple with a crunch, cutting off the shout before it could leave his throat. He stumbled backward, gasping and gagging.

  I closed the distance, avoided a wild right he threw at me and grabbed at him from behind, my hands closing hard over his mouth and nose.

  He tore desperately at my hands, but I held on like a bulldog. He kicked and flailed about. His face darkened and the veins swelled in his neck. His hands sliced air trying to find me. Muffled, choking sounds strained from his throat. His right hand raked across the back of mine, the nails drawing blood.

  The hand that had drawn blood closed twice in a spasmodic fist and then the whole body went limp.

  Brian Sykes was no longer a threat to agent Drummond or anyone else.

  I looked over at the Kikuyu and saw that he was grinning silently. The other African was still asleep, but moving restlessly. There was no sound from the room at the end of the corridor where the duty officer was.