Death of the Falcon Read online

  “Come on, you two,” I said. “This was supposed to be a night for fun. I’m sorry that I stopped here.”

  They moved up to join me, both subdued and saying little as we walked on. We crossed Thirty-third Street, and I left them to their thoughts. I saw the two men who had crossed the street in my peripheral sight. They had come back to our side and had fallen in behind us. About thirty yards ahead, both doors on the driver’s side of the station wagon opened, but no one got out. That would come as we got closer, I figured, where the darkness was deepest on the block.

  My companions apparently weren’t conscious of the footsteps coming up fast behind us, but I was. A few yards further on and we would be hemmed in between two pair of what I was pretty certain were assassins ready to make another try at Sherima. I decided to act while we were in a spot where some of the corner streetlight’s glare penetrated the branches of the still leafless trees.

  Turning suddenly, I faced two tall, muscular blacks who were, by then, almost running to catch up to us. They skidded to a stop as I demanded harshly:

  “Are you foIlowing us?”

  Behind me, I heard one of the women gasp as they suddenly swung around to be confronted by the hulking, dark-clad pair who faced me sullenly. I also heard a metal thud from further along the block behind me that told me a door on the double-parked station wagon had been flung open, slamming into one of the vehicles at the curb.

  “No—what are you talking about?” one of the men protested. His actions belied his words, however, as he lunged forward with an open switchblade.

  My coat-shrouded arm brushed the knife aside while I pulled the trigger on the Luger. The slug caught him in the chest and flung him backward. I heard him grunt, but already had turned to his partner, who was clawing at a gun stuck in his belt. My stiletto had dropped down into my right hand and I plunged it into him, pinning his hand to his stomach for a moment before withdrawing it. Then I lunged forward once more and slid the blade deep into his throat then pulled it out immediately.

  Someone, Candy I thought—had screamed at the sound of my shot and then another scream—this time from Sherima—swung me instantly back to them. Two more husky blacks were almost upon the women. One was raising a gun; the other seemed to be trying to open a switchblade knife that appeared stuck. I fired Wilhelmina again and the side of the gunman’s forehead suddenly vanished and was replaced by a torrent of blood.

  The fourth attacker froze in his tracks as I swung the Luger clear of the trenchcoat and leveled it at him. A light came on in the doorway of the house beside us and I could see the fear turning the black face into a glistening mask of sweat. I stepped up close and said softly:

  “Who’s The Sword? And where is he?”

  The terrified man’s features seemed almost paralyzed as he looked at me and then at the barrel of the Luger that was pointed up under his chin. “I don’t know, man. I swear it. Honest, man, I don’t even know what you’re talkin’ about. I only know that we got told to wipe you out.”

  I could tell that Sherima and Candy were moving closer to me, instinctively seeking protection. And I knew, too, that my prisoner was telling the truth. No one who was that afraid to die would worry about keeping secrets.

  “Okay. Beat it,” I said. “And tell whoever gave you your orders to cool it or he’ll end up like your friends here.”

  He didn’t even answer; just turned, raced to the station wagon and gunned the motor that had been left running and pulled away, not bothering to close the doors which banged into two cars parked along the street.

  Suddenly conscious that lights were blazing in almost every nearby house, I turned to find Sherima and Candy huddled together, staring in horror at me and at the three figures sprawled on the ground. Finally, Sherima spoke:

  “Nick, what’s happening? Who are they?” Her voice was a croaking whisper.

  “Muggers,” I said. “It’s an old trick. They work in a foursome and box in their victims so they can’t run in either direction.”

  I realized that both of them were looking at the gun and knife in my hands—especially at the still-bloody stiletto. I bent down and stuck it deep in the ground beside the cobblestone walk and pulled it out clean. Straightening, I said: “Don’t let these upset you. I always carry them. I got in the habit in New York, but I’ve never had .to use them before. I’ve had them since I got mugged there one night and spent a week in the hospital getting stitches put in and taken out.”

  Certain that a call to the police had been made from one of the now brightly-lighted houses on the block, I put the Luger back in its holster and slipped the knife back up my sleeve, then took the girls by the arm and said:

  “Come on, let’s get out of here. You don’t want to get involved in something like this.” My words were aimed at Sherima and, despite her shock, she understood what I meant.

  “No. No. It would be in all the papers . . . But what about them?” She looked down at the bodies on the ground.

  “Don’t worry. The police will take care of them. When we get back to the hotel, I’ll call a friend of mine on the police force and explain what happened. I won’t identify you two unless it’s absolutely necessary. And even if it is, I think the D.C. police will be as eager to keep the real story out of the papers as you are. The headlines about an attack on you would be even bigger than the ones about Senator Stennis being shot and I’m sure the District doesn’t want any more of that kind of publicity.”

  As I talked, I quickly guided them past the two dead and one dying man on the ground and continued leading them around the corner onto Thirty-third Street. Moving hastily and expecting police cars to arrive at any moment, I kept them going until we reached the corner of O Street, then let them rest a minute in front of historic old St. John’s Episcopal Church.

  “Nick! Look! A cab!”

  Candy’s first words since the attack started were the most welcome I’d heard in a long time. Not only did it mean that she was coming out of the shock that had temporarily paralyzed her vocal chords and was once more thinking rationally, but there was nothing we needed more at that moment than an empty cab. I stepped into the street and flagged him down. I helped them inside, got in after them and said calmly to the driver, “Watergate Hotel, please,” as I slammed the door. As he started off, a District police car came roaring along Thirty-third Street with its siren warbling. By the time we reached Wisconsin Avenue and M Street, Georgetown’s major intersection, police cars seemed to be coming from every direction.

  “Something big must have happened,” the cabby remarked, stopping to let one of the cruisers swerve around him. “Either that or the kids are streaking up at Georgetown again and the cops don’t want to miss it this time, just in case the girls decide to join in.”

  None of us felt like answering him and our silence must have offended his sense of humor for he didn’t say another word until we got back to the hotel and he announced the fare. A two-dollar tip put the smile back on his face, but my attempt to brighten my companions’ countenances as we walked into the lobby failed dismally for neither of them responded to my question:

  “Shall we streak to the elevator?”

  As we were riding up to our floor, it suddenly struck me that they probably didn’t know about streaking, not having been in the country when the craze occurred. I didn’t feel up to trying to explain, either, and just escorted them to their door and said goddnight. Both of them looked at me oddly, mumbled something, then closed the door in my face. I waited for the bolt to snap, then went to my room and phoned Hawk once more.

  “Two of them are from New York City, the dead ones. The one your bullet struck in the chest still is in intensive care at the hospital and not expected to live or even regain consciousness. He’s from D.C. They all have links to the Black Liberation Army, it appears. New York says the pair from there are wanted in Connecticut for the murder of a state trooper. The local one is out on bail for a bank robbery, but was being sought again for a supermarket hold
up.”

  It was almost two a.m. when Hawk got back to me. He didn’t sound quite as upset as he had been when I phoned him earlier to report what had happened in Georgetown. His immediate concern then had been to establish a plausible cover-up with the District police. Plagued with one of the highest crime rates in the country, they couldn’t be expected to take kindly to having three more killings added to the local total on the FBI’s statistical reports.

  “What’s going to be the official story?” I asked. I knew that the police would have to come up with some explanation for the gunfire and bodies in one of the city’s better residential sections.

  “Four muggers made the mistake of picking on a decoy squad, with two detectives posing as women, and, in the shootout, came up losers.”

  “Will the newsmen buy that?”

  “They may not, but their editors will. The request for their cooperation came from so high that they couldn’t help but go along with it. The story will make the papers, but won’t be played up at all. The same will hold true for radio and TV; they’ll probably pass it up completely.”

  “Sorry to cause you so much trouble.”

  “It couldn’t be helped, I guess, N3.” Hawk’s tone was considerably more gentle than it had been a couple of hours earlier. “The thing that concerns me most,” he continued, “is that you may have blown .your cover with Sherima and the girl. I still can’t understand why you agreed to taking that walk in the first place. The wiser course, it seems to me, would have been to come back to the hotel by car.”

  I tried to explain that I was faced with the decision of whether to appear a party-pooper and perhaps lose the advantage of being looked upon as enjoyable company or to take the risk of a stroll in what should have been a relatively safe area.

  “I hadn’t counted on the restaurant being staked out by that foursome,” I admitted. “However, there’s always the possibility that if they hadn’t caught up to us walking, they might have cut off the car and just started shooting.”

  “That could have been nasty,” Hawk agreed. “According to our information from New York, one of that pair from there usually uses a sawed-off shotgun. That’s how they linked him to the killing of the trooper. If he had opened up with it when the three of you were jammed into the back seat of the limousine, there’s a pretty good chance the District police would have had the same number of victims, only a different cast. I wonder why he didn’t use it in the street. It probably was in the station wagon.”

  “Maybe The Sword had established the ground rules,” I suggested. “If he plans to blame the CIA for Sherima’s death as we suspect, the shotgun might not have seemed the proper weapon for secret agents to be using.”

  “Whose idea was the little walk in the first place?” Hawk wanted to know.

  That was a point that had been bothering me from the time the three of us had climbed into our fortuitous cab and headed back to the Watergate. I had been mentally playing back the conversation that led up to our almost fatal stroll, and I told Hawk that I still hadn’t reached a definite decision about its origin.

  “I’m sure it was Candy who remarked on the nice night and had the sudden inspiration about walking,” I explained to my chief. “But the idea seemed to have popped into her head only after she and Sherima had been talking about getting more exercise. And the conversation about exercise, as best I can recall, really began when Candy made a remark that was intended for me and had no connection with walking.”

  “How’s that?”

  Trying not to arouse Hawk’s moral indignation, T explained as simply as possible that her words seemed intended to convey the message that she would be visiting my room later that night. He harrumphed a bit, then decided, as I had done long before, that it didn’t seem possible to lay the blame for the Georgetown ambling on any ulterior motive. At least not at present.

  Hawk wasn’t about to let the subject of my sexual adventures drop, however. “I feel certain there will be another attempt on Sherima’s life soon,” he said. “Perhaps even yet tonight. I trust you won’t let yourself be distracted, N3.”

  “By now, my charges should be sound asleep, sir. At the Great Falls today, Candy told me that she had some tranquilizers, so I suggested that she and Sherima each take one or two before going to bed tonight. And they agreed it was a good idea. I’m hoping that a good night’s rest will help them forget some of the details of this evening and, hopefully, keep them from having too many doubts about my explanation for being armed.”

  Before hanging up, Hawk said he had followed through on a suggestion I had made in our initial conversation after the attack. “I had a call made to the assistant manager of the hotel, as we discussed. He was told it was the Adabian embassy calling and that Sherima had been accosted by a persistent freelance photographer while at dinner this evening. The ‘Adabi gentleman’ requested that someone watch the hallway on your floor tonight and see that no one disturbs her. The night manager said he would take care of it at once, so there should be someone out there.”

  “He’s there,” I said. “I checked the hallway myself earlier and an elderly Irishman who had to be a house detective pretended to be searching through his pockets for his room key until I came back inside.”

  “Didn’t he get suspicious of your sticking your head out into the hail?”

  “No. I had some coffee sent up as soon as I got back, so I put the tray back outside the door. He probably just assumed I was putting it there for Room Service to pick up.”

  “Well, with him out there, the only other entrance to Sherima’s room is over the balcony and I guess you’ll be covering that,” Hawk said.

  “I’m watching it right now, sir. Fortunately, the second phone in this room has a long cord and I’m just inside the balcony door now.”

  “All right, N3. I’ll expect a call from you in the morning . . . Huh, I guess since it’s already morning, I mean later this morning.”

  When I said that I would check in at eight a.m., Hawk said, “Make that seven. I’ll be back here by then.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, then hung up, knowing that the old man really wouldn’t be going home to bed but would be spending what was left of the night on the well-worn leather couch in his office. It was his “ready room” when we had a major operation under way.

  I had turned the two wrought iron chairs on my little terrace into a makeshift chaise lounge and my trenchcoat into a blanket. The night was still balmy, but the dampness from the Potomac finally penetrated, and I stood up to move around a bit and work the chill out of my bones. The luminous dial of my watch read three-thirty, and I was just contemplating trying a few pushups when a soft thud on the next balcony, the one outside Sherima’s room, attracted my attention. Pressing into the darkest corner near the door, I looked over the low wall that separated my balcony from Sherima’s.

  At first, I couldn’t see anything there. Straining my eyes in the darkness, I spotted a rope hanging down from the roof of the hotel and extending past the front of Sherima’s balcony. What I heard, I decided, was the rope striking and falling on past the curving front wall. Then I heard another sound from up above, and I looked up to see someone coming down the rope. His feet swung precariously past the overhang as he began the slow, hand-over-hand descent. I could see no more than his shoes and pants cuffs when I vaulted the divider and pressed myself against the opposite wall, deep in the shadows. So far, it had been impossible for the intruder to spot me. A moment later, as he secured a foothold on the three-foot-high balcony wall, he was less than ten feet away from me. I stiffened, controlling my breathing, standing completely motionless.

  Dressed completely in .black, he steadied himself momentarily, then dropped quietly to the terrace floor. He stood still as though he were expecting something. Thinking that he could be waiting for a confederate to follow him down the rope, I waited, too, but no one appeared from above to join him. At last, he moved up close to the sliding glass door and appeared to be listening for some-, thin
g, probably to determine whether anyone was moving about inside.

  When he reached out to try to open the door, I decided it was time to make my move. I stepped up behind him, reached over one shoulder, and slapped a hand over his mouth, at the same time letting him feel the muzzle of my Luger against the side of his head.

  “Not a word, not a sound,” I whispered. “Just back up as I do and come away from the door.”

  He nodded and I took three steps backward, still keeping my hand across his’ mouth so that he followed my retreat whether he wanted to or not. I swung him around to face me when we reached the corner furthest from the door. In the soft light that filtered upward from the Watergate courtyard below, I could see that he was an Arab. A fearless one, too. Even in that subtle glow I could see hatred glaring from his eyes; not a trace of intimidation over being caught flickered in his angry face.

  Holding my Luger barrel right in front of his mouth, I asked, “Anyone else up on the roof?”

  When he didn’t answer, I marked him as a professional; obviously, he realized that I wasn’t prepared to shoot him and risk arousing the entire hotel. Testing just how far his professionalism went, I swiped the heavy gun barrel down across the bridge of his nose. The crunch of bone giving way sounded loud, but I knew that it was only because I was standing so close to him. I tried the question again. He was a real pro, not answering or even taking the chance of raising a hand to wipe away the blood that began cascading down over his chin.

  Shifting the gun to my left hand, I let my stiletto drop into my right and brought it under his throat, stopping just short of breaking the skin. He flinched, but the eyes continued to spark defiance and the lips stayed locked. I raised the needle-sharp point a bit and it pricked his skin, drawing more blood. Still he wouldn’t speak. A little pressure set the point deeper in his throat just under his Adam’s apple that began bobbing nervously.