Ник Картер - War from the Clouds

A giant of seven feet, a mountainous specimen of three hundred pounds, eyes like ingots of burning phosphorous, hands that could shred stainless steel slabs. A fury of a monster with a booming voice like the rumble of thunder.

The image faded when Don Carlos tried a smile. But only faintly. It came off like a caricature of Death regarding his next victim. His eyes, dark with the red glow still at their centers, flickered around at the assembled guards.

“You will henceforth refer to me as Don Carlos,” he ordered. “All that Ancio business is in the past. I am no longer Ancio, no longer a Ninca. You will do well to remember that.”

I was about to ask what the hell worse he could do to us if we persisted in calling him Ancio, but I got no chance. He snapped his fingers at the guards and ordered them to take us to his inner chamber. We were hustled to our feet and, even though it was difficult walking, we weren’t given a chance to dawdle. I rambled along on aching legs, down corridors, up sweeping — staircases, through spacious galleries and, finally, into an honest-to-goodness throne room at the rear of the palace.

If nothing else, Don Carlos had good taste in decor. The parquet and mosaic marble floors were enhanced by colorful Persian rugs that would have gone for a fortune in New York or Washington. The white marble walls were graced by original paintings by Dega, Monet, da Vinci, Michelangelo, Manet, de Vriess — even a few Picassos. Silk draperies covered every window and alcove.

The throne room was immense, befitting its main occupant. Persian rugs, draperies, paintings and fluffy pillows were everywhere. The throne itself sat on a marble pedestal. It looked like a monument to hugeness and importance, yet it had enough silk and velvet upholstery to look almost gentle.

Behind the throne, on a section of wall between two doorways to open balconies, hung da Vinci’s painting of The Last Supper. For a moment, I was convinced that it was the original, but I knew that the famous painting actually was in the Vatican. It was, to say the least, the most precise and perfect copy imaginable.

Don Carlos took one hefty step to the pedestal and settled himself in his uniformed and decorated glory directly under the famous scene of Jesus and his disciples breaking bread for the final time. If Don Carlos took one hefty step to the pedestal and settled himself in his uniformed and decorated glory directly under the famous scene of Jesus were soft and compassionate; Don Carlos Italla’s eyes still glowed with demonic intensity.

The throne room gradually filled with monks and guards, all keeping a respectful distance from the throne. Don Carlos had me, Uturo and the other warrior led to a small couch directly below his pedestal. We had to crane our necks to look up to him, and that was what he wanted.

“And now, Mr. Nick Carter,” Don Carlos said in that booming voice of his, “I must say that I’m pleased you weren’t killed during your foolish journey to my humble abode. Oh, I have known of you for some time, ever since your imperialistic masters placed you on the sacred soil of Nicarxa. I have kept track of your exploits with interest. I have issued orders for your death, and have executed many who have failed to carry out those orders.”

He took a breather then, belched a few times, swigged from the bottle of wine Sagacio had recently brought him, and glared down at me with those fiery-red eyes.

“Now,” he said, settling back in his velvet-padded throne as though he had a long and interesting tale to relate, “I must say that I had begun to engender a certain amount of respect for your skills and for your persistence and for your successes. But you were doomed from the beginning. You see, I knew that if all else failed you would somehow find the natural chimney leading up from the sacrificial cave. On the off chance that you would succeed in reaching and breaching my wine cellar, I was prepared for that. I knew of Sagacio’s penchant for trying to remove that stone from the wall leading to the chimney. I was aware also of the efforts of his fellow tribesmen to use that as a route of escape. I sent Sagacio for wine at just a time when I knew that you would be at the mortared stone, if you, indeed, had succeeded in traversing the chimney.

“I would like to say that Sagacio, in the end, betrayed you out of loyalty to me. But I am a religious man, Mr. Nick Carter. Truth is important to me. Sagacio betrayed you, but not out of loyalty to me. He betrayed you by the look of ecstasy on his face when he brought me this final bottle of wine. I knew then that he had located you and had let you into the wine cellar.

“It was then that I let him return to you, but not before I had ordered the guards to vacate the guard station and set up positions in other areas to annihilate you and your friends — my former fellow tribesmen — when you emerged from the wine cellar. As I said, you were doomed to failure from the beginning. But I have one question, Mr. Nick Carter. There was a woman with you, a girl, actually. There were others, including Pico the old hermit and Purano, the son of Botussin. There were other warriors as well. Might I prevail upon you to tell me what has happened to them?”

I told him about our journey to the cave entrance, our battle with his guerillas, the killing of eight of our warriors, the wounding of Purano and Pico. I told him of our ordeal with the bats and how the first warrior had fallen to his death when the bats attacked him. I told of how the second warrior had been killed when he encountered the nest of scorpions, of how I had eliminated the scorpions and had eventually found the square stone and had loosened its mortar.

“And the woman — the girl? I believe her name is Elicia.”

I had told him the truth all along. I saw no reason to tell him that Elicia was still at large, perhaps in the winecellar. Besides, I still had the ominous feeling that she had been killed in that exchange of gunfire with the wine-stealing guards. When I lied to Don Carlos, it was only a half-lie. I believed it to be possibly true.

“She died when four guards entered the winecellar to steal your wine,” I said. “There was gunfire and a stray bullet killed her.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then made a small gesture with his right hand. I noticed that he had huge diamond rings on each finger, including his thumb. I turned and saw that a guard was leaving the throne room.

“If you speak true,” Don Carlos said, “the girl’s body will be located and brought up for burial. We are not animals here, Mr. Nick Carter.” He got up and went down the back side of his pedestal. He opened the drapes to a balcony and stepped through. He was gone for only a few seconds, then returned with a wicked smile on his broad face.

“The clouds are clearing away,” he announced. He snapped his fingers at an old monk who stood nearest the throne. “Fetch the case bearing the flares and flare gun,” he ordered. “In a minute or two, the clouds will be gone and I shall send the signal. The battle is long overdue.”

“I don’t suppose,” I said, trying to decide whether to set off one of my gas bombs and wiping out everybody in the throne room, including myself, “you’d like to discuss sending that signal, would you?”

Don Carlos stared at me for a long time, his face impassive, his eyes only barely glowing red in the centers. Then, obviously convinced that I was making a joke, he leaned back in his throne and let out a series of guffaws that actually made the painting of The Last Supper rattle against the wall. There was dead silence from the monks and guards behind me. Apparently, when Don Carlos laughed, he laughed alone, unlike other bosses who insisted that underlings share their warped sense of humor. Don Carlos finally wound down and the famous painting stopped rattling against the wall.