Nick Carter: The Omega Terror

The ball had missed me by inches. I reholstered Wilhelmina and clambered out of the rubble, spit-ting dust and swearing to myself. I had to get around that damned crane somehow, or I would be smashed like a bug on a windshield.

I ran to my left, toward the corner away from the crane. The big ball swung after me again, and the operator’s timing was almost perfect. I saw the black, round mass rushing toward me like a giant meteor. I threw myself to the ground again but felt the massive sphere graze my back as I went down. It crashed loudly on the wall behind me, rending and tearing metal, brick, and mortar. A couple of windows popped open in the building at the right of the court, and I heard a loud exclamation in Arabic. Apparently there were people still living in that building, despite the demolition on the far side of the court.

The man in the crane ignored the shouts. The engine thudded purposefully on, and the ball swung back to strike out a third time. I struggled to my feet and continued toward the far wall. Again the ball came, black and silent, and this time I stumbled over a piece of broken concrete just as I was about to make my attempt to avoid the round hulk. I was thrown off balance for just a split second before I could dive away from the ball, and when it came I had not quite gotten out of its way. It grazed my shoulder as it went past, throwing me violently to the ground, as if I were a cardboard doll. I hit the rubble hard and was dazed for a moment. I heard the crane operating again, and when I looked up, the ball was poised about ten feet above my chest.

Then it dropped.

The thought of being mashed on that broken pavement by that descending spherical terror galvanized me into action. As the ball plummeted out of the night at me, I made a frenzied roll to my left. There was an ear-splitting crash beside my head as the ball hit and debris rained around me, but the ball had missed.

The man in the crane apparently could not see that he had not hit me because he descended cautiously from the cab as the dust cleared. I grabbed a hunk of broken wood and lay very still as he approached. The engine was still throbbing behind him. He had raised the ball up about six feet, and it hung in mid-air. More windows had been opened in the building and there was the sound of many excited voices.

My assailant was standing over me. I swung the piece of wood at his knees. It connected solidly with his kneecaps, and he yelled aloud and slumped to the ground. He was a big, ugly Moroccan. Covered with dust and dirt, I leaped up and onto him. He met my attack, and we rolled on the ground to a spot under the big metal ball. I saw the ball slip down six inches, and I swallowed hard. He had not quite gotten the pulley apparatus into gear before he left the cab of the crane.

I rolled quickly out from under the ball, the other man with me, hitting at my face with a big heavy fist. Then he was on top of me and had a good hold on my neck. His viselike grip closed, and he was cutting off my wind. He had more energy left than I, and his hands felt like steel bands around my throat.

I had to get him off or suffocate. I jabbed stiff fingers into a kidney, and his grip loosened some. With a violent movement, I managed to jam a knee into his groin. The grip on me was lost, and I sucked in a big lungful of air as I shoved the Moroccan off.

I grabbed at my stiletto, which I called Hugo, but was never able to bring it into play. Just as the big man hit the ground the ball jerked again and fell on him.

There was a dull crunch as the ball hit his chest. The dust cleared quickly, and I saw that he had been cut almost in half, his body mashed by the ball.

I struggled to ray feet and heard someone say something about the police.

Yes, there would be police. And they would find me there if I did not move fast. I sheathed Hugo and, with one last look at the dead man, left the scene.

“André Delacroix? Yes, of course I knew him. We were close friends. Please step into the library with me, Mr. Carter.”

I followed Georges Pierrot into a comfortable, small room of his Moorish-style home. The room was all books and ornate carpet and wall maps of various areas of Africa. Pierrot had carved out quite a niche for himself in Morocco. He was a chemical engineer for a private industrial firm in Tetu&n.

“May I offer you a drink?” Pierrot asked.

“I’ll take a glass of brandy if you have any.”

“Of course,” he said. He went to a built-in bar on one wall, opened carved doors, and withdrew two bottles. Georges Pierrot was a small man in his mid-fifties with the look of a French university professor. His face was triangular with a goatee on the end of it, and he wore spectacles that kept slipping down on his nose. His dark hair was streaked with gray.

Pierrot handed me a glass of brandy and kept a Pernod for himself. “Were you also a friend of André?”

Since Pierrot was close to Delacroix, I answered, with at least some of the truth: “I’m the help he was looking for.”

His eyes studied me more carefully. “Ah, I see.” He looked down at the floor. “Poor André. All be wanted was to do good. He was a very dedicated man.” Pierrot spoke with a heavy French accent.

We had seated ourselves on a soft leather sofa. I sipped at the brandy and let it warm my insides. “Did André discuss the facility with you?” I asked.

He shrugged thin shoulders. “He had to talk to somebody. There is his niece, of course, a lovely girl, but he seemed to feel the need to confide in another man. He was here less than a week ago, and he was very upset.”

“About the experiments at the lab?”

“Yes, he was quite despondent about them. And, of course, he barely escaped from there with his life. They knew he was suspicious of what was going on, so when he tried to leave one night, they followed him with guards and dogs. They shot at him in the darkness, but he got away — only to have them find him in Tangier.” Pierrot shook his head slowly.

“What else did he tell you when he came here?” I asked.

Pierrot looked up at me tiredly. “Not a great deal. Probably nothing you do not already know. That the Chinese were working on a terrible biological weapon and that they had moved the laboratory to this country recently to conclude their experiments. He admitted to me that he was working with the Americans to keep a watch on the project. I am sorry if it was wrong of him to speak so openly, but as I said, he felt the need to talk to somebody.”

“Yes, of course.” It was one of the troubles with depending on amateurs.

“Did he mention the location of the laboratory to you?” I probed on.

Pierrot paused a moment. “He did not speak of the exact location, Monsieur Carter. But he mentioned that the facility was close to a village down near the Algerian border. Let me think.”

He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, pushing the spectacles down farther, and closed his eyes in concentration. “It was — the one south of Tamegroute — it begins with an ‘M.’ Mhamid. Yes, Mhamid, that is the village he mentioned.”

I made a mental note. “And that’s down near the border?”

“Yes, on the other side of the Atlas Mountains, in dry, arid country. There is almost no civilization there, monsieur. It is the edge of the desert.”

“A well-chosen spot,” I mused. “Did André describe the personnel of the facility to you?”

“Only briefly. He told me of an American scien-tist”

“Zeno,” I said.

“Yes, that is the name. And, of course, the Chinese who is the administrator of the facility. Li Yuen, I believe he said the name was.”

I sipped some more brandy. “Did André talk of Li Yuen’s personal ties to Moroccan generals?”