The Snake Flag Conspiracy Read online

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  ECONOMIC DISASTER

  The KGB was planning to wreck the U.S. economy by forcing the biggest banks to dump all their stocks at the same time. A plant in one of Boston's old families — and the manipulation of their vast financial power — would trigger total economic collapse!

  Agent N3 had to discover the identity of the phony "Boston Brahmin" and make his sudden death look like an accident — before the collapse began. But there was a welcoming committee of thousands of killers waiting for him…

  * * *

  Nick Carter

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  * * *

  Nick Carter

  Killmaster

  The Snake Flag Conspiracy

  Dedicated to the Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America

  OCR Mysuli: [email protected]

  Chapter One

  There was no moon. There was only starlight. The shadows cast by the boulders at the foot of the limestone cliffs that rimmed the beach were either ominous or romantic, depending on whom you were with. Up to now, they had been as romantic as only the Riviera can be when you're with a beautiful, uninhibited girl.

  Clarisse pressed her nude body closer to mine, whispering into my ear in a voice as soft and as dark as the Mediterranean night that shrouded us as we lay on a soft wool picnic blanket.

  She whispered again, but this time my attention leaped away from her voice to a fainter sound, the scrabbling grate of a loose pebble on sand-covered rock.

  I put my hand over her mouth, feeling her moist lips on the palm of my hand, and rolled away from the softness of her body to the edge of the blanket.

  I heard it again. The sliding rasp of sand on rock.

  All along the Cote d'Azur, from Marseilles to Toulon, the coastline is indented by a continuous series of deep water inlets. The waters of the Mediterranean cover ancient river beds, so that in these small bays the limestone cliffs drop precipitously into the sea. Here and there, along the edges of some of the inlets — the calanques — there are small, rough sand beaches.

  Clarisse and I had found one earlier in the day, not far from Cassis. We had picnicked and gone swimming, and when the sun went down, going pink and then red and finally flaring out as it went into the sea, we had made love in the dark.

  Now, in an instant, the whole atmosphere changed. The sound I'd heard could only have been made by leather slipping on sand-covered rock — and a footstep made that stealthily in the night meant danger!

  I half rose, bending over Clarisse, putting my face close to hers so she could see me touch my lips with the index finger of my left hand. Clarisse's eyes questioned mine, but she made no sound. I took my hand away from her lips.

  Reaching for the tangled bundle of my slacks and jersey, I pulled out my Luger. With my other hand I found Hugo, the small but deadly knife I usually carry strapped to my wrist, and put him back in place.

  I would have put on my sandals, too, because that calanque sand is not just coarse, it's cutting. It can scrape the soles of your feet raw in no time if they're not thickly calloused.

  But I knew that only bare feet would be silent on those sandy rocks and decided not to make the same mistake as my pursuer. Leaving my sandals by the blanket, still in the nude, I moved away from Clarisse into the shadows of the nearby boulders. I motioned to her to hide behind another cluster of mountainous rocks and, her naked body glistening in the moonlight, she followed my instructions.

  Silently I waited. Let them come to me. I was ready.

  For a long time there was nothing. Minutes passed. And then I saw it. Moving slowly into the far waters of the inlet, gliding soundlessly like a dark ghost in the black night on the even blacker water, its silhouette was all that gave it away. With its blunt bows, wide beam, and triangular sail drooping because there was no wind to fill it, the fishing sloop moved into the inlet from the sea so slowly it hardly caused a ripple on the water. The phut-sput of its engine was so muffled it could barely be heard.

  There are a lot of craft of that sort all along the French coast. And along the Spanish and Portuguese coasts, too. Hell, I might as well add the Italian and Greek coasts. In fact, everywhere along the Med, you'll find boats like these. They're painted in a variety of dark colors, and they look just like other fishing boats. But they sound very different, for they're almost completely silent. They've had their engines altered and muffled because they're used for smuggling.

  I heard the scraping sound for the third time. Only now it was fainter and came from the other side of the narrow inlet. There was more than one man out there.

  I hunched down in the shadow of the boulder and waited, wondering who had set this ambush for me. And why.

  The flash of light from the fishing sloop was so small it could have been made only by a penlite. It winked on and off twice, paused and then winked a quick triple flash.

  I twisted my head to scan the blackness of the cliffs around me. Sure enough, there was an answering flash.

  Now the scrape of footsteps was clear. This time there was no stealthiness about them. They came in a hurried rush, as if someone were scrambling down the steep slope of the cliff, anxious to get at me. I turned, putting my back to the solid safety of the stone boulder. My left hand snapped back the elbow action of Wilhelmina, cocking the Luger and driving a fat, deadly 9mm round into its chamber.

  I heard a scramble of running footsteps coming at me. Instinctively, I started to slide away. I wasn't going to shoot until I had a clear target, but suddenly the target was past me, racing at full speed to the water's edge.

  He had taken three big leaps into the sea when the gunfire opened up.

  There were two of them. The man at the top of the cliffs across the inlet wasn't doing much good. He had too high an angle of fire to be accurate even if he had a sniperscope mounted on his rifle and could see what he was aiming at.

  The one halfway up the cliff behind me was more accurate. A Kalashnikov has a distinctive, coughing stutter that you can't forget if you've ever heard one close up, and I've heard more than one. That Russian automatic rifle is one of the best in the world. It was a shame that the guy using it wasn't as good. He just put the piece on "auto" fire and held down the trigger.

  The water's edge erupted in a display of miniature geysers. In the same second, the body of the man who'd started to wade into the sea snapped erect, jerked spastically a couple of times and then collapsed in a wild thrashing of arms and legs.

  Up on the cliff behind me, the Kalashnikov stopped firing. He'd run through a complete clip in seconds. In my mind I could see him unsnapping the magazine, trying to jam a fresh one in place.

  His victim was still alive. Water splashed crazily as be threw himself backwards toward the shore, crawling in panic for the sand and the safety of the boulders that rimmed the inlet.

  Two more shots came from the cliff top across the inlet. They kicked up sand yards away from their intended victim.

  And then the bullets from the reloaded AK-47 began to smash the boulder above me. I swore as stone splinters sliced painfully into my back and flung myself sideways toward a better shelter.

  For a moment I thought I was the new target. Then I saw that their original victim had lunged his way in desperate thrusts far up the beach and was scrabbling toward me, draggi
ng one leg. his hands clawing blindly at the sand like a sightless, wounded crab.

  The shots from the cliff tops were methodical even if they weren't accurate, spaced only seconds apart. It was a question of which one of the two gunmen would kill him first. The poor son-of-a-bitch didn't have a chance in hell of coming out of this alive. By now I knew they weren't after me, and I damn well wasn't going to interfere. I told myself it was none of my business, and I wouldn't have gotten involved except that I heard the victim cry out.

  In Russian.

  Chapter Two

  Out in the bay, the sloop had turned sharply, cutting out its muffler. The deep chugging roar of its powerful diesel engine snarled away hoarsely at full power. Its stern settled heavily into the water. At its prow, a bow wave surged up. Whoever its captain was, he obviously wanted no part of what was going on. He was getting himself and his crew out of the action as fast as he could.

  I didn't blame him. I'd just as soon have stayed out of it myself, but after what I'd heard, I knew I couldn't.

  For a moment I was tempted to play deaf and dumb. Hell, I was supposed to be on a vacation, wasn't I? Hawk had promised me a rest. Up to now I'd had three days of the two weeks he'd promised me. I knew that if I interfered, there'd be no more vacation for me. It would be back to Washington, back to Dupont Circle, back to AXE and an assignment to finish whatever the hell it was that was starting on this beach on the French coast.

  Sometimes I like to forget that I'm not just Nick Carter, that I have a designation — N3, Killmaster — in the supersecret organization known as AXE. Known, that is, to the few that have to know about us because we do their dirty work.

  If I just stayed where I was and did nothing, I could look forward to another eleven days — and nights — with Clarisse. And it was worth almost any sacrifice just to enjoy the delights of her company for even that short a time.

  Hawk wouldn't know if I didn't tell him, would he? I asked myself the question and knew the answer immediately. The hell he wouldn't! In spite of the stink of his cheap cigars in his nostrils, David Hawk could smell out every damn secret any one of his agents in AXE ever uncovered.

  I compared the pleasures of Clarisse's body with what Hawk would do to me if he found out It wasn't even a toss-up.

  So I gave a deep sigh and tensed myself mentally before I broke from cover, every muscle in my thighs and calves driving hard into the coarse sand, like a linebacker going in to make a low, hard tackle. I reached the collapsed body in four plunging strides, my arms reaching low.

  The man was short but heavy. My fingers scraped sand. I grunted with the strain of scooping him up, one arm under his knees, the other under his broad back. Holding his body to my chest, I kept driving forward, lunging desperately for the security of the boulders just a few yards in front of us.

  Around us, the sand exploded in angry spurts. The crackling bark of the Kalashnikovs echoed furiously in the confines of the small inlet. Both rifles were on "auto" now.

  With one last effort, I hurled us into a crevice at the foot of two mountainous boulders resting together.

  I was out of breath, panting hard. At my feet, the man I'd saved groaned and rolled painfully over onto his back. A dark bubble of froth formed and burst on his lips. I started to wipe the sweat off my chest with the palm of my hand, but the moisture felt sticky and thicker than perspiration. I was literally covered with blood.

  The man whispered something. I leaned forward.

  "Spasebo," he gasped. "Thank you."

  "It's not over yet." I answered him in Russian.

  I saw his eyes wander to the Luger in my hand.

  "Make them burn in hell!" He reached out and put one hand on my arm. "Make them pay!"

  " 'They'?" I asked. "Who are 'they'?"

  But I knew without his answering. "They" could only be KGB agents. No one else merited such hatred. Especially from another Russian.

  "Why are they after you?"

  He took a shuddering breath. "I accidentally learned more… more than was good for me." His voice was barely reaching me. It was a cultured, slightly guttural Moscow accent. "It is supposed to… to be very secret. Most… most secret I didn't know… how secret until too late."

  "And the boat?"

  "I was trying to get away. I arranged to be smuggled out of France. Someone gave me away." He wasn't bitter. Slavic fatalism had been inbred in him. It was as if, all along, he had expected to be turned in, to be betrayed. "You can never trust the French," he muttered. "They know from childhood that two payments add up to more than one."

  "You're still alive," I told him.

  I thought I saw him smile in the dark.

  "For how long?" he asked cynically. "How… long… will it take them… to reach us?"

  I put my hand on his chest. My searching fingers found ripped flesh on his rib cage and a gaping hole in his shoulder, but the pulse at his neck was steady. Unless there was internal bleeding, the chances were damn good that he could pull through if I could get him medical attention in time.

  That is, assuming I could get both of us out of this mess. The Kalashnikovs were silent. Yet I knew it would be mere minutes before the two of them converged on us. And when they opened up from only a few yards away — well, that would be it!

  I had stood up and started to wriggle out of the back end of the crevice formed by the boulders when I heard the scream.

  "Nick! Where are you?"

  And then Clarisse's second, panic-stricken scream was abruptly cut off.

  I swore out loud.

  At my feet, the Russian glared up at me. He, too, had heard Clarisse and my answering curse.

  "Amerikanski!" he accused.

  "Would you rather I were Russian?" I threw back at him. "How quickly do you want to die?"

  He made no answer. I slithered quickly out into the night on my hands and knees.

  They should have left Clarisse alone.

  Up to now I hadn't really felt personally involved in what was going on. Clarisse's screams changed all that A surge of anger flooded through every part of me, but furious as I was, I still knew enough not to go charging rashly into the muzzles of a couple of Kalashnikovs. Not with just a Luger and a knife. Losing your temper is out-and-out suicide in a situation like this, and I never was the suicidal type.

  I transferred Wilhelmina to my left hand and slid Hugo into my right palm. The haft of the small knife felt good to the touch. The blade was as keen as careful, deliberate honing could make it. The steel was the best. The point was razor sharp.

  Hugo was made for night fighting, for battling in deadly silence in the dark, for a stealthy approach, a shadowy attack, a quick lunge that ended in death for whomever he bit in his quick, savage way.

  Cautiously I circled the edges of the tiny beach. Now I was glad I hadn't taken the time to don my slacks. They were white duck and would have turned me into an easy target. Since I had always sunbathed in the nude, my tan was not broken anywhere by a band of light skin. I blended into the shadows from head to toe.

  I knew that whoever had stumbled across Clarisse was trying to use her as bait, to tempt me into making a rash move to save her.

  Let him keep thinking I would do that.

  I went after the other Russian first.

  Ears attuned to even the smallest of sounds in the night, I finally heard the noise I had been waiting for. It came from the far end of the inlet. The careless rap of a gunstock against stone.

  In a night as dark as this, it's damn hard to move around with a gun as big as the AK-47 without banging into something unless you have the agility of a panther. The Russian was careless. The soft crack was all I needed to locate him.

  I moved sideways to the base of the limestone cliffs and circled the inlet until I was as close to him as I could get without seeing him. I crouched down at an angle to the slope of the cliff. He was up there, somewhere.

  Night fighting calls for patience. Assuming his combat ability is equal to his opponent's, the m
an who can wait the longest usually wins. I'd been trained to wait for hours without moving a muscle or making a sound.

  The Russian wasn't as patient or hadn't been trained as well. He came down the cliffside, heading for the crevice where he must have thought we were still in hiding.

  I let him get down almost to my level. When his body loomed above me, blocking out the faint starlight, I rose to my feet and hurled myself at him. Wilhelmina, in my left hand, slashed at his grip on the AK-47. Hugo, in my right hand, stabbed upward in what should have been a deadly stroke.

  But luck ran against me. The impact of the Luger striking the stock of the automatic rifle stung my hand. The barrel of the gun canted up sharply, just in time to deflect Hugo. It saved the Russian's life.

  He gasped in pain as the knife cut across his chest. His reflexes were fast He turned on his heel, swinging the Kalashnikov blindly at me in the dark.

  The gun caught me across the left biceps, paralyzing every nerve from my shoulder down to my wrist. Wilhelmina fell out of my hand. I slashed at him again with Hugo. Once more the Kalashnikov slammed into me, knocking me to my knees.

  Whoever he was, the Russian was powerful. What saved my life was his obvious lack of training in night combat. He should have stepped back and blasted away with the Kalashnikov. I wouldn't have had a chance. Instead, he closed in and tried to hit me again. It was the only chance I was going to get, and I took full advantage of it. My knuckles slammed into the bridge of his nose.

  Blindly the Russian dropped the rifle, grabbing at me with his hands. Fingernails raked across my back. One of his hands clamped itself around my wrist, immobilizing Hugo. I slammed my left elbow across his throat.

  He tucked his chin into his chest and tried to butt me with his head. Christ! He was all hard skullbone! It was as though he'd hit me with the Kalashnikov. I took the blow on my shoulder.

  His face was tucked into my collarbone so I couldn't reach his eyes. His grasp on my wrist was like a steel handcuff. In my ear, the heavy, panting rasp of his breathing was like a roaring bellows as he sucked air into his lungs in spasmodic gasps. He tried to get a grip on me with his other hand, but his fingers kept slipping off my forearm. My chest and arms were still wet with the blood of the man he'd tried to kill earlier. It made it impossible for him to hold on to me.