Ник Картер - Death Island

“No,” Carter said, eyeing the embarrassed captain. He put down the telephone. “What is our ETA?”

“It will take us two hours at full speed, Monsieur Carter,” the captain said.

“Get me to the public docks, then I’ll need a taxi to the airport,” Carter said, and he turned and went below.

Pamela was waiting for him, nude on the king-size bed in the owner’s stateroom. They had been going on like this for two weeks, but now Carter was almost glad that Hawk had called him away. He was beginning to feel just a bit kept.

Carter had no problems getting a seat on the 2:00 P.M. flight to Paris from Nice, and from there the evening TWA flight into Washington’s National Airport.

Pamela had put up a fuss at the docks, however, insisting that she come along with him and straighten out his boss about his vacation time. She had even been willing to place a call to the President.

Carter had calmed her down, promised to rejoin her as soon as he could, and to placate her, he even left his tuxedo aboard.

“Hurry back, Nicholas,” she breathed into his ear. “We’ll have a marvelous fall together. You’ll see. I will have everything arranged by the time you return.”

He disengaged himself from her, they kissed once again, and he took a cab. By the time he had rounded the corner from the quay, the Marybelle was already pulling out. Pamela wasted no time.

A chill wind blew off the Potomac as Nick Carter retrieved his bags, hurried through customs, and went outside to look for a cab. It was just a few minutes after midnight, Washington time, but his body clock told him it was six hours later. He was dead tired.

Tom LaMotta, one of AXe’s staff drivers, was waiting for him just ahead of the taxi stands. There was a lot of traffic from the late-night Paris arrival.

“Mr. Carter,” a familiar voice called out, and Carter looked around tiredly as the round, cheerful driver came across and plucked both suitcases out of his hands.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Tom,” Carter said, following the driver back to the nondescript Chevy.

“We knew you were coming in on the midnight TWA.”

“Just get me home. I’m beat.”

LaMotta opened the trunk and tossed Carter’s bags inside. “Sorry about that, sir, but the brass is waiting for you.”

Carter was instantly awake, the adrenaline suddenly pumping. “Is Smitty there?” he asked. Rupert Smith was AXe’s new head of Operations. If he was waiting, something immediate was happening.

“Yes, sir,” LaMotta said.

They drove north past the Pentagon to the Key Bridge, and once across the river they cut back on M Street to New Hampshire, which they took up to Dupont Circle where AXE maintained its headquarters under the cover of Amalgamated Press and Wire Services.

LaMotta parked in the basement garage and took care of the luggage while Carter signed in and went directly up to Operations on the fourth floor. He had to be signed in again by security there, then had to punch the six-digit code for the access door.

LaMotta had called ahead. Rupert Smith was waiting for him, a thick bundle of file folders before him. He did not look pleased.

“Sorry to have to cut your vacation short like this, Carter,” Smith said. He was very tall and very thin, almost skeletal-looking. He had served in various capacities in the Central Intelligence Agency for the past fifteen years, but when the Company had become too tame for him, he had transferred to AXE. He was very good at his job.

One of his people stuck his head in the door. “He’s ready, sir. Will you be needing Karsten?”

“Is he ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. I want you down in Archives. We may have some more cross-referencing to tidy up the loose ends yet tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

Smith, who had been seated behind his desk, got up and came around. Carter got to his feet.

“No rest for the wicked, I’m afraid,” Smith said. “But David wants to see you.”

“Hawk is here? Tonight?”

Smith nodded. “I don’t know the source, but he’s taken this as one of his pet projects. It’s why you were called, of course.”

They went out into the corridor and started toward the private elevator, which was the only access up to executive territory on the fifth floor.

“Something’s happened somewhere?” Carter asked. When he had left for vacation with Pamela, everything here had seemed to be on a fairly even keel. No trouble spots had been developing as far as he knew. He said as much to Smith.

“This has been hatching for the past year or two, from what I gather,” Smith said. “But NASA was handling it until two months ago, until the Navy took over security.”

Carter was about to ask “Security for what?” when Herb Karsten, the major domo of facts, figures, and instant references for AXE, stepped out of his office and joined them.

“Nick,” he said, extending his hand. “Trust you had a good vacation?”

“Not bad. Been here long?”

“All night.”

They took the elevator up, their passes were checked, and they strode down the corridor into Hawk’s outer office. His secretary, Ginger Bateman, was gone, but the inner door was open, and Smith led them through.

David Hawk was a short, very stocky man with a thick shock of white hair and a short bulldoglike neck. He was smoking a dreadful cigar as usual, and he took it out of his mouth and looked up as they came in.

“Are you fit, Nick?” he grumbled without preamble.

Smith closed the door behind them.

“Yes, sir,” Carter said.

“You were scheduled for retraining and testing this quarter. Are you ready for an assignment without it?”

“I think I can manage, sir,” Carter said. He, no less than anyone else in AXE, had a very deep and abiding respect for David Hawk, the chief. What Hawk said, went. He was hardly ever wrong. And no one, absolutely no one, ever lied to him, or over- or underestimated any situation. When he asked a question, he expected an absolutely honest, totally straight answer.

“Have a seat, then, gentlemen. We have a lot of ground to cover tonight,” Hawk said.

They all took seats across from Hawk. Smith opened his top file folder and thumbed through the papers it contained. Karsten sat back.

“What do you know about the Caroline Islands?” Hawk began.

“A group in the Pacific... north of the equator, I think. South of Japan. U.S. trust territory. Truk is there and Hall Island and maybe Bikini.”

“Correct on all but Bikini... it’s in the Marshall Islands. Nearby. But you understand that not much happens out there these days.”

“Satellite tracking and receiving stations?” Carter asked.

“That’s the extent of it,” Hawk said, glancing at Smith. “Which is exactly our problem.”

Smith took up the briefing. “The Faui Faui island group within the Carolines,” he began. “Have you heard of them?”

Carter admitted he had not.

“Five inhabited islands, plus numerous other coral atolls. Faui Faui itself — which is one of the smaller islands — then Tamau Faui, Akau Faui, Natu Faui — where the biggest native population lives — and then Hiva Faui. Hiva Faui is the main island and on it is the capital city of the same name.”

“In the Carolines?”

“Yes. Just east of Hall, northeast of Truk, and almost directly north of Oroluk. Lots of white sand beaches, hot days and warm evenings, volcanoes, natives, all that sort of thing.”

“But curiously enough, the French actually own it all,” Karsten put in.

Carter looked toward him. “I thought it was all a U.S. trust.”

“All but the Faui Faui group. Much of that area was French before the war, and then after we liberated it all from the Japanese we took it over. All but the Faui Faui group. There were apparently a number of French families who sacrificed a lot during the war. De Gaulle insisted, and the group remained in French control.”