Death of the Falcon Read online

  I began to close the folder, planning to read over the entire thing again more thoroughly back in my hotel room.

  “No, wait,” Hawk said. “Take a look at that last part.”

  “The Unconfirmed section?” I asked, flipping the dossier open again. “But the Unconfirmed parts in most dossiers are generally nothing more than speculation from—”

  I cut myself off when my eyes fell on the first few paragraphs of Candace Knight: Unconfirmed. The memo went into considerable detail on the subject’s sex life.

  “A little less drab than the rest of the report, wouldn’t you say, Nick?”

  “Yes, sir.” I flipped back for a second to the photograph of the young woman whose private life I was reading about.

  Obviously, the writer didn’t want to come right out and say it, but from the collection of gossip and rumors he’d put together, it seemed that the hazel-eyed young woman, confidante to the former Queen of Adabi, was a nymphomaniac. Local gossip had it that Candy had worked her way through a veritable legion of Americans employed by the oil companies in Adabi, and had gone on to service most of the men attached to the United States Embassy in Sidi Hassan.

  The investigator was polite enough to note that Candy’s overly active sex life began shortly after the death of her father and Sherima’s marriage to the Shah, and to speculate further that perhaps it was as a consequence of these events that she went in search of some outlet for her feelings.

  A final paragraph reported that during the last year and a half, she had seemed to curtail her sexual activities, at least to AXE’s knowledge.

  “Quite thorough,” I said.

  “Think you can handle it, N3?” Hawk asked.

  “I’ll do my best, sir,” I answered, trying not to smile.

  Chapter 4

  Since my cover was being a trouble-shooter for a Houston-based oil company with worldwide interest, I spent my second day in a briefing session on the oil business. The first half of the day was spent in backgrounding; the second in being quizzed about what I had learned. My memory banks work pretty well, and I was sure I had passed when Hawk summoned me to his office about ten o’clock that night with a smile on his face.

  “Well, Nick,” he said. “Briefing tells me you’ve done pretty well. How do you feci about it?”

  “Quite honestly, sir,” I told him, “I’d like to have a couple more days. But I think I can handle it.”

  “Good, because there just isn’t any more time. Sherima and the others arrive from London about noon tomorrow. Now, we’re pretty certain that nothing can happen to her for a day or so. The Sword’s plan, the way we figure it, is to let her get settled in at the hotel and make some contacts; then he will set up an assassination to throw suspicion on the CIA.

  “The Secretary of State already has talked to Sherima in London. She’s been invited to his home for dinner. Abdul Bedawi will be driving her to the Secretary’s home in Alexandria. That will tie up the two of them for the evening and leave the Knight girl on her own.”

  “And that’s where I come in,” I said.

  “Right. You will make contact early in the evening. I want you two to be good friends. Good enough so that it will be a simple matter for you to meet Sherima and, because of your obvious affection for Candace Knight, have an excuse to stick close to them. Right?”

  “Yes, sir. How long will I have?”

  “The Secretary will see that dinner drags on pleasantly. Then, when it is time for Sherima to start back, her car will have a little trouble getting started. Nothing extensive and nothing that could possibly arouse Bedawi’s suspicions.”

  I grinned. My back-up team was on the ball. “Goodbye, sir,” I said, heading for the door.

  “Good luck,” Hawk replied.

  During its seven years of operation, the Watergate Hotel has catered to the celebrities of the world, and its staff has naturally developed a blasé attitude toward the presence of the famous people who come and go. Most of the big stars of dance and the theater have appeared at Kennedy Center at one time or another, so the center’s next-door neighbor is a logical choice for them to stay. Movie actors, in the District for personal appearances, invariably stay at the Watergate; and it is the home away from home for the jet-setters. Most of the world’s political figures stay there, and even the few top-level international leaders who take up temporary quarters in the official government guest mansion, Blair House, often address gatherings in one of the hotel’s opulent banquet rooms.

  Still, accustomed as the hotel staff is to such international luminaries, the former wife of one of the world’s remaining absolute monarchs gave them pause. It was obvious that Sherima rated some very special attention, and as I watched from my post in the lobby, I could see that she was getting it.

  I had decided to be in the lobby that afternoon at the time I knew Sherima would be leaving for Alexandria. There aren’t many places to sit, but after loitering for a while in front of the newsstand, examining out-of-town papers, and standing around in the Gucci shop at the hotel’s front entrance, I managed to claim one of the chairs in the lobby. The traffic was heavy, but I could keep my eye on the two small elevators that serve the upper floors and the concierge’s desk.

  About five o’clock, I saw a man I recognized as Bedawi get off the elevator, cross to the stairway that led to the parking garage, and disappear. Assuming he was going for the limousine, I walked casually to the entryway; about ten minutes later, a big Cadillac with diplomatic plates swept into the drive and stopped. The doorman started to tell the chauffeur that he would have to keep going around the circle, but after a brief conference, Bedawi got out and went inside, leaving the car at the door. Obviously, the doorman agreed that the former Queen shouldn’t have to walk more than a couple of steps to her carriage.

  I could see Bedawi go to the concierge’s desk, then return to wait for his passenger. He was shorter than I expected, about five feet ten, but solidly built. He wore a well-tailored black jacket that accentuated his massive shoulders and tapered sharply to a slim waist. The tight black trousers outlined his incredibly muscular thighs. His build suggested that of a running back for professional football. The chauffeur’s cap covered hair that I knew from his file picture was cut short and inky black. His eyes matched the hair, and they swept over everyone moving past him. I had stepped back into the Gucci shop to watch him from behind a selection of men’s handbags hanging next to one window near the door. He doesn’t miss a thing, I decided.

  I knew the moment that Sherima came into his view from the sudden tenseness that filled the man. I moved to the doorway in time to see her walk by. From the AXE report, I knew that she was five-foot-five, but she appeared much smaller in person. Every inch was that of a queen, however.

  Bedawi snapped the door open for her, and as she slipped inside the limousine, her dress slipped above a knee for a quick second before she pulled her leg inside. Several people standing nearby waiting for cabs turned to look, and I could tell from the whispers that some of them had recognized her, perhaps from the pictures the local papers had carried that morning with their stories on her expected arrival in the capital.

  Time to go to work, I decided, and headed for the elevator.

  Chapter 5

  Her body was as warm and receptive as I had imagined. And her appetite for lovemaking proved as much of a challenge as I had ever met. But the tingling invitation of her fingertips trailing on my neck and along my chest aroused my own passion until our caresses became more demanding, more urgent.

  I don’t think I’d ever touched such soft, sensitive skin. As we lay tired and spent on the twisted bedsheets, I brushed a long strand of silky hair from her breast, letting my fingers rest lightly on her shoulder. It was like stroking velvet, and even now, exhausted from making love, she moaned, pulling me forward and finding my lips with hers.

  “Nick,” she whispered, “you are fantastic.”

  Propping myself up on one elbow, I looked down into those wide, h
azel eyes. For a brief second I had a mental image of her photograph in the dossier, and realized that it had not at all captured the depths of her sensuality. Leaning down, I covered her full mouth, and in a moment it was obvious that we weren’t nearly as tired as we had thought.

  I was never considered a sexual coward, but that night I went to the very limits of pure exhaustion with a woman whose demands were as intense—and arousing—as any woman I’d ever made love with. Yet, after each frenzied climax, while we lay in each other’s arms, I could feel the desire mount again as she let her fingers play idly over my thigh, or brushed her lips over mine.

  It was Candy Knight, though, and not me who finally fell into a fatigued sleep. As I looked at the even rise and fall of her breasts, half-hidden now by the sheet I had pulled over us, she seemed more like an innocent teenager than the insatiable woman whose moans still echoed in my ears. She stirred slightly, moving closer against me as I stretched out an arm to the bedside table and picked up my watch.

  It was just midnight. A cooling breeze came in through the partly open window, fluttering the drapes and sending a chill over my shoulders. I reached over and picked up the telephone receiver, trying to be as quiet as possible, and pushed the “O” button.

  The hotel operator answered immediately.

  Softly, casting a glance toward the sleeping Candy, I said, “Would you ring me at twelve-thirty? I have an appointment, and I don’t want to be late . . . Thank you.”

  Beside me, Candy stirred again, pulling the sheet tightly around her shoulders as she rolled over. A tiny noise, almost like a whimper, sounded in her throat, and then she was still looking more childlike than ever. Cautiously, I leaned over, lifted a lock of hair from her forehead, and kissed her softly just above her eyes.

  Then I lay on my back, closing my eyes. Thirty minutes would be a sufficient rest for me, and it would have to do for Candy, too. We’d both be awake before Sherima returned to the hotel.

  Relaxing, I let my mind drift over the past hours, from the time I had come upstairs after Sherima’s departure. I’d gone to the door of her suite and stood fumbling with my key, trying to force it into the lock . . .

  Like many people do, Candy made the mistake of opening the slide on the door’s peep hole with the light on behind her, so I could tell she was trying to see who was attempting to get into the room. Apparently, she wasn’t put off by what she saw, for the door suddenly opened. Her look was as questioning as her voice.

  “Yes?” she said.

  Feigning astonishment, I gaped at her, looked at my key, at the number on her door, then back along the hallway to my own door. Sweeping off my Stetson, I said in my best Texas drawl, “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m truly sorry. I guess I was thinking about something and just went one door too far. My room’s back there. I do apologize for bothering you.”

  The wide, alert hazel eyes continued their appraisal of me, noting the hat and suit and square-toed boots, and finally sweeping back up over my six-foot-plus frame and taking in my face. At the same time, I was getting a healthy view of her. The bright chandelier in the suite’s foyer outlined her long legs under the sheer negligee al-most as clearly as the thin material revealed every delightful detail of her firm breasts thrusting sensuously out toward me. Desire rose in. me like an electric shock, and almost immediately I sensed that she felt it too, as her glance swept down to my waist and below, where I knew the tight-cut trousers would betray me if we stood looking at each other a moment longer. In a gesture of false embarrassment, I moved the Stetson in front of me. She raised her eyes, and it was apparent that my gesture had rattled her. Her face was flushed when she finally spoke:.

  “That’s all right,” she said. “You didn’t bother me. I was just sitting here enjoying my first solitary moment in the past several weeks.”

  “All the more reason I should apologize, ma’am,” I replied. “I know just how you feel. I’ve been on the go, running from meetings here in Washington, to Dallas, to New York for almost three weeks now and I’m tuckered out talking to people. I feel like a cayuse that’s been in the corral for a spell without a good run on his own.” Silently, I hoped I wasn’t overdoing my accent.

  “Are you a Texan, Mr., ah . . . ?”

  “Carter, ma’am. Nick Carter. Yes, ma’am, I sure am. I was born not far from Poteet, down in Atacosa County. How did you know?”

  “Cowboy, you can take the boy out of Texas, but you can’t take Texas out of the boy. And I should know; I’m a Texan, too.”

  “Well I’ll be—” I exploded. “How about that? But you sure don’t look like a Texas girl.” I let my eyes move with less caution up and down her lush, skimpily clad body again, then tried to lift them to her face with a sheepishly guilty expression. Her satisfied smile told me I’d succeeded in flattering her the way she obviously enjoyed flattery.

  “I’ve been away from Texas for a long time,” she said, adding almost sadly, “Too long.”

  “Well, ma’am, that’s not very good,” I sympathized. “At least I get back home pretty often. Not as much as I’d like to lately, though. It seems I spend most of my time running back and forth between here and New York, trying to explain to the people here why we aren’t bringing up more oil, and to the people in New York why people down here can’t understand that you don’t just turn the faucet more and let more flow out.” My drawl was coming easier now that it had convinced a native Texan.

  “You’re in the oil business, Mr. Carter?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But don’t blame me if you can’t get enough gas. Blame it on those Arabs over there.” Then, as if suddenly remembering where we were talking, I said, “Ma’am, I’m real sorry, keeping you standing here.

  I know you were enjoying being by yourself when I interrupted and I’ll just mosey on back to my—”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Carter. I’ve been enjoying just listening to you talk. I haven’t heard a twang like yours for a long tune, ever since . . . for a long time now. It sounds good and it reminds me of home. By the way,” she went on, extending a hand, “my name is Candy, Candy. Knight.”

  “It’s a real pleasure, ma’am,” I said, taking her hand. The skin was soft, but the grip was firm and she shook hands like a man, not with that dead-fish grip some women offer. As if struck by a sudden inspiration, I rushed on. “Ma’am, would you like to have dinner with me? Uh, that is if there’s no Mr. Knight to object.”

  “There’s no Mr. Knight,” she said, again with a touch of sadness in her voice. “But what about Mrs. Carter?”

  “There’s no Mrs. Carter, either. I just never had the time to tie myself down that way.”

  “Well, Mr. Carter—”

  “Nick, please, ma’am.”

  “Only if you call me Candy and forget about that ma’am for a while.”

  “Yes, ma’am . . . uh . . . Candy.”

  “Well, Nick, I really don’t feel up to going out for dinner.” Then, seeing my look of obvious disappointment, she hurried on. “But why couldn’t we just have dinner in the hotel? Maybe even right here? I don’t want to be alone so much that I’d pass up a chance to talk to a real live Texan again.”

  “Fine, Miss Candy . . . uh . . . Candy. That sounds just great. Say, why don’t you just let me rustle up something from room service and get it all set up in my digs and surprise you. That way, you wouldn’t even have to dress.” She glanced down at her negligee that had gapped widely during her animated conversation, then lifted coyly accusing eyes at mine, which had followed her gaze. “I mean, uh, you could just slip into something comfortable and not worry about getting all dressed up.”

  “Don’t you think this is comfortable, Nick?” she asked archly, as she pulled the peignoir a bit tighter in the front, as if that would do anything at all to conceal her bosom beneath the gauzy material.

  “It looks like it to me,” I began, then, playing embarrassed again, I added, “I mean if you’re coming down to my room, you might not want to wear that through the hall.”r />
  She stuck her head out the door, looked pointedly along the twenty-odd feet or so to my door, and said, “You’re right, Nick. It is a long walk and I wouldn’t want to shock anybody at the Watergate.” Then added with a wink, “There’s been enough scandal around here already. All right, give me an hour or so and I’ll be over.” A laugh came into her voice as she added coyly, “And I’ll try to be careful not to let anybody see me coming to your room.”

  “Oh, ma’am, I didn’t mean that,” I blurted, purposely backing away and stumbling over my feet. “I meant—

  “I know what you meant, you big Texan,” she said, laughing heartily at my apparent embarrassment as I continued to back toward my door. “I’ll see you in an hour. And I warn you, I’m starved.”

  It turned out food wasn’t the only thing she had a craving for.

  It was hard to believe that someone with such a slender figure was packing away so much at one meal. And as she ate, the words spilled out. We talked about my job and Texas, which logically led into her explaining how she happened to be in Adabi and ended up as companion to Sherima. She faltered only once, when it came to discussing her father’s death. “Then my father got mur—” she started to say at one point, only to change it to “And then my father died and I was left alone . . .”

  By the time I served the chocolate mousse, which the waiter had put in the kitchenette’s almost bare refrigerator to keep it cold, Candy had gone over her background pretty thoroughly. It checked out closely with what I already knew from the AXE report, except for the way she avoided any reference to men in her life. But I wasn’t about to bring that up. It was difficult to keep from thinking about, however, as I watched that firm body straining at every seam, or as she bent over to pick up a napkin that had slipped from her lap and one .perfectly formed breast almost escaped from the deep V of her shirtfront.