Night of the Warheads Read online

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  From a lonely beach in the Yucatan to a tiny nation high in the Pyrenees, Nick Carter stalks the trail of international terrorists. Eight deadly nuclear missiles have been hijacked, and the Killmaster's job is to get the missiles back and distribute AXE justice to the thieves.

  For agent N3, it's a piece-of-cake assignment with sweet rewards… until a mysterious Basque millionaires spins a web of danger and death that threatens all Europe with nuclear destruction!

  * * *

  Nick CarterOne

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  * * *

  Nick Carter

  Killmaster

  Night of the Warheads

  Dedicated to the men of the Secret Services of the United States of America

  One

  Nick Carter stood at the villa's massive upstairs window, gazing out at the softly falling snow. Smoke leaked from the corner of his mouth as his powerful shoulders shrugged deeper into the expensively cut white dinner jacket.

  In the villa's great room, behind and below where he stood, the gentle tinkle of china and silverware being set wafted up to his ears.

  The table was being prepared for the dinner party Nicholas Carstocus was giving that evening.

  "Just a small gathering, select people, to celebrate my liberation from American taxes and the anniversary of my first month in the delightful little principality of Andorra!"

  That's what he had told her.

  Far below him, headlights pierced the darkness on the road leading up from Andorra-la-Vella, the country's capital.

  It's been quite a month, Carter thought, raising a glass of the harsh local red wine to his lips.

  And tonight may put the icing on what had started out to be a "piece of cake" mission. Some you figure wrong…

  The powerful little sports car slid to a halt in the courtyard below. The engine cut off abruptly, and the driver's side door opened to reveal a vision in white.

  But Carter barely saw her. He was already halfway down the stairs and heading across the great room. He deposited the empty wineglass and his cigarette on a table in the foyer, and threw open the massive, copper-studded door.

  She stood, smiling, her finger poised about to ring the bell.

  "Señorita de Nerro. I am delighted you're here."

  "Señor Carstocus."

  Her white-gloved arm came up with the expertise and experience of her class. Carter accepted the long, tapering fingers in his and gently brushed the back of the glove with his lips.

  His eyes meandered up from the white pumps, taking in the well-shaped legs and hips under the black and white silk dress. Her shoulders were encased in a white ermine stole that was deliciously parted in front to reveal the deep-cut vee of her bodice and the ample swell of her barely concealed breasts.

  His eyes then found hers.

  "Nicholas, please… Nick would be even better."

  Her smile broadened across even, white teeth. "And I would prefer Armanda."

  "So be it," Carter said, stepping aside and lifting the stole from her shoulders as she passed by him into the foyer.

  She was a tall woman, especially for a Latin. Her very long, very dark hair, where it now caressed her bare shoulders, had reddish highlights and just enough of a natural curl to make it bounce delightfully as she moved.

  Seeing the empty room, she paused and slipped into a three-quarter turn.

  "I am early?"

  "Not at all. I told you it was to be a very small dinner party."

  Realization flooded her high forehead and black, doelike eyes. "How small?"

  "For two," Carter replied with a grin, passing the stole to a woman servant who had soundlessly appeared.

  A low, throaty laugh erupted from Armanda's slender throat. "I am not surprised. Since your arrival in Andorra you have established quite a reputation as a man of wealth, mystery… and debauchery!"

  "But, my dear Armanda," Carter said, his eyes brazenly raking the bulges of satiny flesh above her neckline, "aren't those the very reasons you accepted my invitation?"

  Her eyes met his in an unwavering gaze. "Of course." And again the laugh that sent a little quiver up Carter's spine.

  Here was a woman of thirty who had debauched through every capital of Europe. A woman whose arts of seduction were legend and whose lovers had been cast aside, broken in heart and wallet.

  And she was practically admitting that the very traits she had just laid on Carter were the traits that made him attractive.

  It was going to be quite an evening.

  "Drink?"

  "Wine, please," she said. "But French. The local stuff turns my stomach."

  Carter requested a bottle of French white by name and year from the old servant woman, who nodded and slipped away as soundlessly as she had arrived.

  "The balcony?" Carter said, gesturing to the stairway. "There is an excellent view of Andorra-la-Vella, as well as the great room of the villa."

  "Enchanting."

  Carter moved his forearm under her hand, and together they mounted the stairs.

  The snow had lightened a little now, and as was so often the case in the high mountains, there were breaks in the overcast that allowed some moonlight to pour through and illuminate the landscape.

  The lights of Andorra-la-Vella and its sister village across the narrow river, Les Escaldes, burned like so many tiny beacons through the intermittent flakes of whiteness. Beyond the two villages, the valley stretched in peaceful slumber upward to the majestic white-capped peaks that surrounded it on all sides.

  "It's a beautiful country," Carter whispered at her shoulder.

  She nodded, her strong chin and aristocratic nose barely bobbing. "Do you know what Napoleon said when he decided to bypass Andorra in 1804?"

  "No."

  " 'It is too amazing to invade. Let it stand as a museum piece! »

  Carter smiled but did not reply as the little Spanish woman scurried up the stairs with a tray, left it at Carter's side, and departed.

  Yes, perhaps Bonaparte had bypassed Andorra in his conquest of the world. But someone — perhaps the Russians, perhaps one of the more powerful and ambitious Third World countries — had decided to invade the tiny principality in a more modem way.

  That was Nick Carter's mission: find out who was suddenly interested in Andorra, find out what they were doing, and stop them.

  "To Andorra," Armanda de Nerro said, turning to Carter and raising her glass.

  "And beauty," Carter replied, lightly touching her glass to create a perfect ringing sound.

  She sipped the wine and studied Carter's rugged features over the rim of the glass.

  "You are Greek?"

  "Greek-American," Carter replied and went on to let his memorized cover story unfold. "I was born and raised in New York City, and lived there most of my life. About two years ago I emigrated to Paris."

  "And now you live in Andorra."

  "Not quite. I'm taking a long vacation to see if the climate suits me. This villa is leased for six months."

  Armanda slipped her eyes from his and turned back to the falling snow.

  "And you?"

  "I live in Andorra so I can be near my own country."

  "Spain?"

  "Yes."

  "But why don't you just live in Spain?"

  Her lovely dark head sagged slightly. "That, señor, is a very long story."

  "I'd like to hear it," Carter said and thought, to see if it agrees with what I alrea
dy know!

  Her dark eyes came up to fasten intently on his. "And I, Nick, would like to hear why you left the land of plenty, the United States."

  "Touché," Carter said and reached for the bottle to refill their glasses. "Perhaps, Armanda, before this evening is over, we will learn a great deal about each other."

  "Perhaps."

  Her smile was like a thousand lights coming on at the same time. But oddly, Carter thought, it would not melt a single ice cube.

  "I seem to remember the name… Carstocus. Athens, I think…"

  Carter returned her steady gaze with a slight smile curving his lips. He offered no enlightenment.

  "Ah, yes, I remember now! A self-styled general. He was the leader of a band of rebel Communist guerrillas at the end of the war. He slaughtered Greeks and Germans alike as the Allies swept through Greece toward Bulgaria."

  Carter's smile broadened, but he did not alter the flat, noncommittal expression in his eyes. The woman was testing him. She had probably been briefed some time that day, or perhaps the day before, on his background and the story of Constantin Carstocus.

  She was baiting him, and this time Carter replied.

  "My uncle. He was eventually shot as a Communist rabble-rouser."

  "But you had no connection with him?"

  "None," Carter replied. "Indeed, quite the opposite. My father was very different from his brother, very immersed in capitalism. I only know of my uncle. I never met the man."

  "I see. That is a pity. From the stories I have heard, he must have been quite a man."

  "Perhaps. His name was rarely spoken in our house."

  "Then you do not approve of your uncle's politics?"

  There it was, an open question. But Carter was saved from answering her for the time being.

  "Señor Carstocus?" The dark-haired little woman stood at the head of the stairs.

  "Si, Estrellita?"

  "Dinner, señor, is served."

  "Gracias," Carter said and turned to his guest. "Shall we?"

  Armanda de Nerro glided against him until her firm breasts were pressed to his chest.

  She was indeed tall, tall enough that she had only to tilt her head to bring her lips to his.

  It was a seething kiss, full of passion and promise.

  And Carter returned it in kind until she gently pulled away.

  "An appetizer," she breathed, barely parting her lips.

  "And, I hope, an omen," Carter replied, "of things to come."

  "We shall see," Armanda said, her voice husky and full of sensuality.

  Carter followed her swaying hips down the stairway with a curve to his lips that was more sneer than smile.

  Yes, indeed, it had been quite a month since he had staked out a beach three thousand miles or more west of the tiny principality of Andorra.

  Quite a month, with a lot of bodies in between…

  Two

  The eyes were like black ice behind the hooded lids. They seemed somnambulant, but they digested every twitch, every movement on the moonlit beach two hundred yards below.

  There were eight of them, crouched in two groups on the sand. A few smoked, the fireflies at the ends of the cigarettes glowing behind cupped hands. Two more — flanked to the right and left of the hill-dweller — served as back watchers for the men on the beach.

  Nick Carter's trained ears and the icy eyes had already made their position in the rain forest behind him.

  From below there was conversation, hushed and muted, but the distance was too great for the black-clad observer to catch more than an occasional word.

  But accents he did catch, allowing conclusions.

  They were multinational. Probably few of them spoke more than their native tongue and English. So they were communicating in English, heavily accented by Spanish, French, and Italian.

  They had moved in just after sundown, two at a time, all from different directions.

  Their dress was the baggy, white overblouse and trousers of the Yucatecan peasant. When they slipped out of the jungle, there had not been a weapon in sight. But shortly after taking up a position on the beach, hardware had appeared from beneath their clothing and out of the shoulder-slung woven bags at their hips.

  Most of it was old stuff: M-l carbines and Enfields that looked as though they were as old as the Bedouin wars when Rommel's tanks rumbled.

  The small irons were Smith and Wesson.38s. It took one hell of a shooter to bring anybody down for good with one of those. It has been said that the best way to take a man out with one was to throw it at him.

  The newest thing showing was a Beretta Model 12 sub.

  Carter had already made a mental note that the head guy with the Beretta would be the first to go. Not just because of his hardware, but because of who he was.

  Nels Pomroy, CIA, retired. At least on the books.

  In actual fact, Pomroy had decided — upon his retirement two years before — to go into business for himself, using the expertise and contacts he had gained while working for the Company.

  He had become a broker for various international assassins around the world.

  You want a businessman or politician gunned down somewhere? Just contact old Nels. For a solid percentage of the fee he would find you the man for the job.

  And when the killing business was slow. Pomroy had a second, even more profitable sideline: arms sales.

  That was his current business that night on a Mexican beach.

  Carter's assignment was to stop the arms shipment and, more importantly, put Nels Pomroy out of business… permanently.

  He had become a big fat embarrassment to his former employers.

  It would not be much of a contest. In contrast to the men on the beach, Carter bristled with the latest.

  A close-action Beretta 9mm pistol was leathered beneath his left armpit, the snout of its silencer tickling his lower left side.

  His favorite Luger, Wilhelmina, had been left behind on this assignment.

  Reason?

  All the hardware Carter carried would be destroyed when the job was over. AXE chief David Hawk had been explicit on those instructions.

  "No trace, N3, not even a shell casing. I want it as if you or them had never been there."

  A Beretta 93R machine pistol hung low, Western-style, on his right hip. Its leather had been customized with a plastic, friction-reducing lining.

  The 93R had also been customized away from factory specs. A suppressor had been installed, as well as machined springs designed to cycle the cartridges.

  They made the Beretta a quiet killer.

  At his side rested one of Lt. Col. Uziel Gal's finest: a Galil assault rifle. It had been modified to fire 5.56 shells with the same accuracy and reliability as its big-brother predecessor, the AK-47. Firepower was more than adequate with an elongated Stoner Mag holding forty-nine slugs in the magazine and one napping in the chamber waiting to be awakened.

  And for icing he had infrared eyes to see the slugs on their way, goggles so that his hands were free to do the job.

  Carter let his eyes float. Quintana Roo territory, Yucatan Peninsula, Republic of Mexico. A soft sand beach, isolated, desolate, fronting many miles of muggy, steam-sweating tropical jungle and rain forest.

  Not a very pretty spot, he thought with a grimace, but as good as any place to die.

  * * *

  "They call themselves Latinos for Freedom. It's a small group and not affiliated, so until now we haven't paid them a hell of a lot of attention."

  David Hawk paused to sip from the cup of steaming coffee in his right hand.

  They were in Hawk's office in the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services building, Dupont Circle, Washington, D.C.

  Hawk's right hand returned his cup to the table. The left, holding a cigar, came up. The rope's well-chewed end split his lips and found a groove between his teeth.

  "As near as we can tell, Latinos for Freedom are rebel rebels. They raise random hell, with all sides as targets. A bomb here
, a raid there. Hell, they even assassinated one right-wing tinhorn dictator, then turned right around and tried to nail the socialist who succeeded him!"

  Until now, Carter had sat silently, smoking, digesting his boss's every word and storing it in the computerlike memory bank of his mind.

  Now he asked questions.

  "Unrest for unrest's sake?"

  "That's it. We couldn't pin them down and, God knows, we've got enough trouble down there anyway, so we ignored them. The Russians and Fidel left them alone because unrest is the name of their game as well. Hell, they were giving our side as much trouble as they were giving the Marxist rebels, so the Communists figured, let 'em play."

  "But now they've joined the worldwide terrorist fraternity."

  "Looks that way," Hawk said, chewing his rope thoughtfully. "It happens. The Irish IRA provos get together with the Italian Red Brigade. The Palestinians help out the rebel Turks. It's all an exchange of favors."

  "So we nip the Latinos for Freedom in the bud before they form a coalition?"

  "Right," Hawk replied. "And there's another reason. Remember Nels Pomroy?"

  Carter's teeth came down hard on the filter tip of his cigarette. "Yeah, I know him, and about him."

  "He's the man," Hawk said. "We want him… dead. We think he's brokering this deal for the Basque terrorists. It's probably some kind of a trade-off; we don't know. But the best way to stop it is to get Nels and the arms."

  Carter mashed his cigarette. "When and where?"

  "The goods are on the way now, a Libyan freighter, the Star of Tripoli. She ETAs sometime tomorrow night at Marianao, Cuba."

  "Cuba?" Carter asked. "I thought you said they weren't Fidel-backed…"

  "They're not. No aid there. It's strictly a deal between the Basques and the Latinos for Freedom. Fidel's probably just turning his head and letting a little import-export happen in his port."

  "Like a way station," Carter added.

  "Exactly. The hardware's end-use certificate states Nicaragua, for defense. We all know that's a crock. We think the goods will be trucked from Marianao overland to Cabo San Antonio. From there it's night-ferry time to the Yucatan. The landing spot is an inlet about twenty miles south of Punta Herrero. I've got the coordinates."