Nick Carter - Death of the Falcon

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.

“Another inch and you’ll never be able to talk again,” I warned him. “Now, let’s try again. Is there anyone else up—”

The sound of Sherima’s balcony door sliding open halted the interrogation abruptly. Keeping my stiletto at my prisoner’s neck, I turned slightly, my Luger swinging to cover the figure emerging from the doorway. It was Candy. For a moment, she was rooted in her steps as she took in the macabre scene. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she recognized me; then she stared with expressionless horror at the bloody man almost impaled on the blade in my hand.

“Nick, what’s going on?” she asked softly, tentatively inching to my side.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I told her, “so I came out on the balcony to get some air and relax a bit. I spotted this fellow standing outside Sherima’s door, so I jumped over the wall and collared him.”

“What are you going to do with him?” she asked. “Is he a robber?”

“That’s just what we’ve been talking about,” I said. “But I’ve been doing all the talking.”

“What happened to his face?”

“I think he had an accident getting onto the balcony,”

I lied.

My prisoner hadn’t moved, except for his eyes which had swept back and forth over our faces during the conversation. However, when I mentioned his “accident,” a tight smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“He looks Arabian,” Candy whispered. “Could he have been trying to hurt Sherima?”

“I think we’re going to go next door to my room and have a little talk about that,” I said, and was pleased to see a trace of fear finally appear in the night prowler’s eyes.

“Shouldn’t we call the police, Nick?” Candy said, not taking her eyes from the Arab. “After all, if somebody is trying to harm Sherima, we should get some protection. Maybe I should call the embassy and get Abdul.”

At her mention of the bodyguard’s name, the big Arab’s nostrils pinched as he sucked in air. The name obviously meant something to him; as I watched him, beads of perspiration began to break out on his forehead, and I had the impression he feared the wrath of the former Queen’s devoted guardian. His eyes rolled around the balcony, then flicked upward as if he were looking for some means of escape.

“That might be a good idea to call Abdul,” I agreed. “Maybe he can get some answers out of our friend here.”

Again, the Arab’s eyes flicked upward, but he said nothing.

“I’ll go do it now,” Candy said, tinning away. “Sherima’s sound asleep, the pills worked, so I’ll tell Abdul to— Nick, look out!”

Her scream wasn’t loud, but she had grabbed my arm at the same time and its completely unexpected force thrust my hand forward, plunging the knife deep in my captive’s throat. His eyes opened in disbelief for a moment, then snapped shut almost at the same time. I jerked back the stiletto. Blood welled out after it and I knew immediately that he never would talk to anyone again. He was dead. I wasn’t worrying about him right then, though, because I was swinging around to see what had caused Candy’s gasp of terror.

Still clutching my arm, she pointed upward, apparently not yet realizing the consequence of her sudden jolt to my arm. “Something’s moving up there,” she whispered. “It looks like a snake.”

“It’s a rope,” I said, checking the rise of my anger. I turned back to bend over the Arab, who had slipped down to the corner of the’ terrace. “That’s how he got here.”

“What happened to him?” she asked, staring down at the dark hulk at my feet.

I couldn’t let her know that she had been the cause of his death. She had enough troubles without having to be faced with another burden to carry around with her. “He tried to get away when you screamed, and slipped and fell forward on my knife,” I explained. “He’s dead.”

“Nick, what are we going to do?” Fear was rising in her voice again, and I didn’t want an hysterical woman on my hands at that moment. Bending swiftly, I wiped the blood from my knife on the dead man’s jacket, then sheathed the blade up my sleeve and returned the Luger to its holster.

“First,” I said, “I’m going to get the body over this wall and into my room. We can’t stay here talking, we might waken Sherima, and it’s better if she knows nothing about this after what she’s already gone through tonight. Then, I’m going to help you over the wall, and you and I are going to have a little talk. Now, while I take care of him, you duck back inside and make certain Sherima still is asleep. And get a robe or something on, then come back out here.”

Events had been happening so fast, I hadn’t noticed until then that all Candy had on was a filmy pale yellow negligee, cut to a deep V and barely containing her generous bosom, which heaved spasmodically with each nervous breath.

As she turned to do as I had instructed, I lifted the dead man from the floor and unceremoniously dumped him over the wall that separated the two balconies. Then I walked over to the would-be assassin’s rope, still dangling over Sherima’s terrace-front wall. I was quite certain that he hadn’t made the trip to the hotel on his own; it was likely that at least one more companion still waited on the roof one floor above us.

And I felt sure that whoever had been there had taken j off after this one had failed to return after a reasonable amount of time. If the Arab’s accomplice was as professional as his dead friend had been, he would have realized something had gone wrong. The assassination, if successful, should have been accomplished in five to ten minutes, at the most. And a look at my watch had told me that it had been fifteen minutes since his feet first appeared coming down the rope. And although all of the conversation outside Sherima’s room had been in whispers and most of the movements had been muffled, there was still the chance that the second man or men had heard something, because the Watergate courtyard was quiet at that hour. Only the sound of an occasional car passing on the nearby highway by the Potomac had broken the nighttime silence, and that couldn’t possibly have covered the balcony scuffle.