Ник Картер - Assassin - Code Name Vulture

We explored the rest of the place. Another living area, bedrooms and kitchen. We found a gunman eating a sandwich in the kitchen. That is, Spencer found him first. I came in just as he fired the air gun again. He was damned eager with that thing, much the same way Zach had been. The man was hit in the side as he drew a long Welby .32 revolver. The poison didn’t work as fast on him for some reason, and he managed to get a shot off. The gun roared in the confines of the room and hit Spencer just under the ribs, throwing him back against the wall. I grabbed a chair and slammed it into the gunman’s face just as he was aiming the revolver at me. The chair crashed into him and splintered against his face. The gun went off into the ceiling, and the man hit the floor on his back, losing his weapon. Spencer, grunting against the wall, aimed the air pistol again.

“Hold it, damn it!” I yelled at him.

“What for?” he asked thickly. “The bastard got me.”

He aimed the gun again. I slammed the back of my fist into his face, and his head hit the wall. I then chopped down at the gun so that he lost it. It clattered on the tile floor of the kitchen, and he looked at me, stunned.

“I said hold it,” I growled.

Our eyes locked together for a moment, then he lowered his, grabbing at the wetness under his ribs. It looked like a simple flesh wound, but that wasn’t my big concern right now. I went and knelt over the gunman. His eyes were open, and his body was still fighting the poison. He was one of the rare cases that have natural immunity to certain toxic chemicals, which, although not complete, was making the curare kill him slowly rather than instantly. I was glad it was. Maybe I could get some answers.

Erika came into the kitchen just at that moment, her revolver still unfired, “He isn’t here,” she said.

I grabbed the failing thug by his shirt front and shook him. “Where is Stavros?” I demanded.

The man glared up at me. “What’s it to you?” He was another of Stavros’ American fanatics, but his hair wasn’t as long as Hammer’s.

I pulled the Luger from its holster and held it up against the thug’s left cheekbone. “If you tell me where he is, I’ll see that you get to a doctor in time to save you.” That was a lie, of course. “If you refuse, I’ll squeeze this trigger. Now.”

He looked into my eyes and assessed what he saw. “Hell, okay,” he said thickly. The poison was already getting him. “If you’ll really save me.”

I nodded.

“He went to Mykonos.”

I exchanged glances with Erika. The island of Mykonos was one of the two places where Stavros had been building his elite rebel corps. “Now level with me,” I said, pushing the Luger tighter against his face. “Did he get word on the colonels?”

The thug sneered at me, then his face was wracked with a sudden pain. “Tzanni called Kotsikas’ home. One of the cops answered. Said the lieutenant and our men were okay, and — that the colonels were dead.”

“What the hell?” Spencer exclaimed.

Spencer was surprised by the answer, but I wasn’t. Colonel Kotsikas had thought fast when the call came and had put one of the policemen on the phone. Kotsikas figured that if he didn’t give the penthouse the false message, Stavros would be on his way out there with his own men. Kotsikas hadn’t had time to coordinate with us, so went ahead and did what seemed best. It was smart thinking — but the colonel could have had no way of knowing that the answer he forced the cop to give would free Stavros to leave the penthouse before we got there.

“Why would Stavros go to Mykonos?” I asked the dying gunman acidly. “To review the troops?”

Another spasm of pain clutched at him. “Get me a doctor,” he gasped.

“Talk first.”

He whispered the words. “He called both camps. He wants the troops brought to Athens. The commander at Mykonos said something about not moving his troops until he heard from Minourkos. Stavros was — very angry with him. He flew there to take personal command.”

I rose. The man stiffened and shuddered. His face was already turning blue.

“Let’s get out of here,” I ordered. I turned to Spencer. “You stay here.”

There was resentment in his voice. “I’m wounded, Carter.”

I examined him. It was only a flesh wound and involved nothing vital. “You’ll be all right,” I said. “Stuff a bandage in that and call Hawk from here. Tell him the latest developments. I’ll have Minourkos get a doctor to take care of your wound. Any questions?”

“Yes,” he said. “Why don’t you want me with you at Mykonos?”

“You need a little seasoning, Spencer. You’re not going to get it all on this case. Stavros is too important to AXE.”

“Shall I tell that to Hawk?” he asked sourly. “He recommended me for temporary duty on this assignment.”

“Tell him whatever you like.” I turned to the door, holstering the Luger. “Come on, Erika.”

“What do you expect me to do, just wait until I hear from you?” Spencer asked.

I stopped and thought about that a moment “At breakfast time tomorrow you can leave. It will be too late for the newspapers to pick up the story. Let Minourkos call the police and tell them everything. Call Colonel Kotsikas and have him back up Minourkos. I’ll be on Mykonos by then and will have found Stavros if he’s there. It will be too soon for him to have received any news of what has happened here and at Kotsikas’ place.”

“What about Sergiou?” Erika asked.

“We’ll send him home,” I said. “He’s done a good job, and he can go back to his family now.”

“Carter,” Spencer said.

“Yes?”

“I’ll do better next time.”

I looked at him. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go, Erika. We have a vulture to catch.”

The harbor of Mykonos lay like a massive cut sapphire in the early morning sun. It was an almost completely closed harbor with small fishing boats and launches inside and two large cruise ships anchored outside the sea wall. Ships didn’t dock at Mykonos. Passengers had to climb down an uncertain gangplank, luggage in hand, to a bobbing launch that took them to shore in small groups.

Erika and I hadn’t experienced that brief adventure. We had arrived at the new airport across the island just an hour previously and had taken a bumpy bus ride over primitive roads to the village. I sat now at a waterfront café under a sailcloth canopy, perched on a straight yellow chair, watching a half dozen mustachioed Greek sailors guide a newly painted fishing boat into the water just fifteen yards away. Curving away from me in either direction was the waterfront, a line of whitewashed buildings housing cafés, shops, and small hotels. I took a sip of Nescafe, the Greeks’ token tribute to American coffee, and watched an old man in a straw hat selling grapes and flowers pass the place. In this atmosphere, it was difficult to remember that I was here to kill a man.

Erika wasn’t with me. She had disappeared down the maze of whitewashed streets just off the waterfront to find an old lady whom she had known from a stay on Mykonos a couple of years before. If you wanted information of any kind on Mykonos, you went to the dark-haired, black-shawled old ladies who rented out rooms in their homes to visitors. They knew everything. Erika had gone to find out about the military camp on the island and to find out where the commander of this camp might live, for we would probably find Stavros there.

I was just finishing the Nescafe when Erika came swinging along the stone walk before the café, dressed in a yellow slacks outfit, her long red hair pulled back with a yellow ribbon. It was still difficult for me to understand why a beautiful girl like Erika would become involved in my world. She should have been married to a rich man with a villa and a long white yacht outside Tel Aviv. She could have had all that with her looks. Maybe she didn’t know it. Or maybe yachts were just not her style.