The embassy gardens are beautiful any time, but they were particularly splendid that evening. There were lanterns all around the grounds. Flaming braziers and food tables had been set up for guests. At one end of the garden there was a platform where a band played all evening.
Hawk and Vincent were there with me, but we didn't speak to each other. I had met Vincent in a restroom earlier. We had exchanged greetings, and it was pretty awkward for me. I knew I was supposed to know him, but I hadn't been prepared for a meeting with another AXE man. I'd had to bluff my way through our conversation, and I was afraid I hadn't been convincing. Vincent talked briefly about AXE headquarters and about a previous assignment we'd worked on together. I'd let him do the talking and just agreed with everything he said.
The Vice-President appeared quite early in the evening. I tried to avoid him completely. His face and voice aroused such strong emotions in me that I was sure I'd blow my cover if I met him face to face. I went over to the band and just listened to them play. The music was beautiful, and it made me long for the day when my homeland would be free from tyranny. For the first time in hours I began to relax.
But my luck didn't hold out. I heard a voice behind me, and it was the hideous voice of the American Vice-President.
"Mr. Carter."
I turned and looked into his face and began to feel the horrible pressure in my head, but I fought the revulsion. The Vice-President was flanked by two Secret Service men, who nodded to me.
"Mr. Vice-President," I said tightly.
"You have not met the President, I believe," the monster was saying. He gestured toward an approaching figure, and I saw the man I hated most in the world. He was erect and distinguished-looking, a seemingly harmless old man with a wide smile and a chest full of ribbons and medals. But I knew what he stood for, and it made my stomach churn. He came up and stood beside us. Two plainclothes policemen and an aid were just behind.
"Mr. President, this is one of the best young men in our security services," the Vice-President said. "Mr. Carter."
"It pleases me to meet you, Mr. Carter."
The proximity of that face made my rage almost uncontrollable. I fought the overpowering impulse to throw myself onto him and tear him to pieces with my bare hands. Sweat popped out on my forehead, and I felt a severe tightening in my chest, which continued to grow and grow. My head ached so much I thought it was going to explode.
"I… I am…" I gasped and looked away from the two men. I had to get control of myself, but I didn't know how. I looked back, grim-faced. "It is my pleasure, Mr. President," I said.
They were all staring at me as if I'd lost my mind. The security people were studying me carefully.
"Are you all right, young man?" the President asked.
My eyes struggled to meet his. "Oh, yes," I said quickly. "I'll be all right. I've just had a bout with the turistas."
The Vice-President was watching my face closely. "You had better get some rest, Mr. Carter," he said quietly. In another minute they'd moved on to speak with the American ambassador.
In sudden desperation I turned to go after them. My hand went into my jacket. I was going to pull the Luger and blow their heads off. But when I felt the cold metal of the gun against my hand, I came to my senses. This was not the plan, and I had to follow orders. I pulled my hand back out and wiped the sweat off on my jacket. I was trembling all over. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed my actions, and when I turned toward the building, I saw my AXE colleague Clay Vincent staring at me. He'd been watching the whole time.
Fighting my panic, I hurried toward the rear of the embassy building, to the men's room. I felt sick and was afraid I was going to vomit. I was still trembling, and my head felt as if it would split open.
In the restroom I ran cold water over my head and leaned heavily against a washbasin. I put the faces out of my mind, and the pain and nausea began to subside. When I turned to find a towel, Vincent was there.
"What's wrong with you, Nick?" he asked.
I turned from him and dried myself. "It must have been something I ate," I answered. "I guess I'm still a little under the weather."
"You look terrible," he persisted.
"I feel all right now."
"Don't you think you ought to see the embassy doctor."
"Hell no. I I'm really okay now."
There was a long silence while I ran a comb roughly through my hair.
"I got something in a drink in that café in Beirut when we worked that one together," he said. "Remember? You helped me out of that. I was just trying to return the favor."
Something deep inside my brain responded when he mentioned the Beirut incident. I had a very brief vision of Clay Vincent falling against an old brick wall and my going to help him back on his feet. In a split second the scene was gone, and I wondered if I had even visualized it.
It shook me up. I'd never met Clay Vincent before in my life. How could I remember being with him in Beirut? I'd never been outside of Venezuela except the time I went to the United States. I didn't know a thing about Lebanon. Or did I? Again I had the feeling that there was something about my past they'd kept from me at the clinic. Something very important. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe the drugs had stimulated my imagination so I could invent scenes to help me with my impersonation of Nick Carter.
"Sorry," I said. "I appreciate your interest, Clay."
He smiled briefly, but then the look of concern came back. "Nick, what the hell were you doing out there after they spoke to you?"
"What do you mean?" I asked defensively.
"Well, for a minute, it looked like you were going for that Luger of yours. What was going on?"
My mind raced through several possible answers. "Oh, that. I guess I'm pretty edgy. I saw a guy reach into his jacket, and for a minute I thought he was going for a gun. I felt like an idiot when he pulled out a handkerchief."
Our eyes met and locked as Vincent assessed my answer. If he challenged me, I'd have to kill him right there, and that would mean big trouble.
"Okay, buddy," he said. His voice had softened. "You'd better get some rest so you'll be better by tomorrow."
I looked at him. He was a stocky, sandy-haired man, probably about thirty-two years old. He had an open, honest face, but I knew he could be tough.
"Thanks, Clay," I said.
"Forget it."
For the rest of the evening I tried to stay out of the mainstream of activity. Hawk appeared at one point when everybody was watching a group of dancers and stood beside me.
"Everything appear normal?" he asked without looking at me.
"Yes, sir," I answered. I wondered if Vincent had spoken to him about me.
"There doesn't seem to be any need for you to stay around much longer, Nick," he said. "I'm sending Vincent back to his hotel, too. But I'll see you bright and early tomorrow at the palace. Even though everything seems fine, I still have that feeling about the warning note. Have you spotted that man who was following you around?"
Another unfamiliar scene flashed through my mind — a man standing in a white room holding a gun on me. No, it was a corridor, not a room. I touched my forehead with my hand while Hawk stared at me.
"No. No, I haven't seen him." How did I even know what man he was talking about? Nothing had been mentioned in the file that my comrades had read to me. Unless I had forgotten.
"Nick, are you sure you're okay?" Hawk asked. "With Vincent here, I could probably do without you at the conference."
"I'm all right!" I said somewhat harshly. I glanced at Hawk, and he was regarding me bleakly, chewing on an unlit cigar. "Sorry. But I feel I'm needed at the conference, and I want to be there."
I had tried to keep the raw panic out of my voice. If Hawk pulled me off the security job, it would be impossible for me to carry out my mission.