"Solano! What are you doing here?"
"Surprised to see me?" Carter said. "I shouldn't wonder."
"I thought you were dead!"
"I'm not — no thanks to you and those idiots you teamed me up with. And speaking of idiots, tell your stooge to take his gun out of my back."
It was night, and Carter had come to Gianni Girotti's villa, an imposing structure set atop a rocky hill overlooking the town of Lulav on the bay.
Villa? Palazzo was a more accurate description. Built in the 1920s, it mingled Mediterranean and Turkish motifs in a mansion that was many-roomed, lavish, sprawling. It was surrounded by terraces, gardens, and arcades. Its grounds even boasted some ancient stone blocks, silent reminders that the villa was but a brash newcomer in this storied land.
The grounds also boasted plenty of guards, some of whom had taken Carter in hand when he strolled up the curving road rising from town. They escorted him indoors, where he was turned over to tougher, more brutal guards.
One of them, Tuttle, an American, ground the muzzle of his.357 magnum into Carter's spine as he was taken to Girotti. A mean-faced neo-Nazi from Nebraska, Tuttle fled his native land following a string of violent crimes committed in the Midwest. He ached for an excuse to hurt somebody, and Carter/Solano struck him as the likeliest candidate.
Girotti was lounging on the deck of an indoor swimming pool, located in its own separate wing. The pool was just short of Olympic size. It was illuminated by multicolored underwater lights. Chlorine-laden moisture thickened the air.
Far more spectacular than the pool was the blonde floating in it on a raft. She lounged indolently, stretched out on her belly, folded left arm pillowing her head, right arm trailing lazily in the water.
Long-legged and sleek, with a glowing tan, she wore nothing more than a shocking pink bikini bottom. Only a female with a form divine would dare to wear so minimal a costume. And this stunning female had nothing to hide — almost literally.
Her form was the only thing divine about her. She was Eva Reichenbach, and she was amoral, violent, hedonistic, and perverse. It was Eva who had provided Carter entree to Gianni Girotti's inner circle back in Milan two months ago. Girotti employed her as a "honey trap" to further his numerous schemes.
Eva stirred, lazily looking up when she heard the commotion caused by the new arrivals. When she recognized Carter at the center of the scene, her bright blue eyes went wide, narrowed, then smoldered with desire.
"Solano!"
Her cry rang in the echoing chamber. She rolled off her raft into the water and swam to the far end of the pool with swift, strong strokes.
She hoisted herself out of the pool and ran dripping across the tiles, bare feet slapping. Her short hair framed her chiseled Nordic face like a golden cap. Her tan was uniform, unbroken by any pale bikini lines. She wore no top. Her full breasts were sassily uptilted, crowned by neat dark nipples.
Carter grinned. "If you must know, she's the main reason I came back."
A snarl replaced his grin as Tuttle prodded him with the revolver.
Tuttle said, "Hey, how about you boys speakin' English so I can know what you're gabbin' about?"
"All right, Tuttle," Girotti said. "If it will make you happy. You Americans have no gift for languages."
Carter could have laughed at that one. His flawless Italian had enabled him to pass as a native for months. But Tuttle wasn't so funny. He was starting to distinctly annoy the Killmaster.
More dangerous than the clownish Nebraskan were Girotti's two personal bodyguards, the duo Carter had mentally labeled Bob and Bill.
Bill was Guillermo Lopez-Ortiz, a fine-boned Argentinian dandy who'd left the savage pampas to ply the gunman's trade on the Continent.
Bob was Roberto Martinez. Where Bill was slim and slight, Bob was a hulking physical presence, slope-shouldered and big-boned. Bob hailed from Uruguay, one of the original Tupamaros. His compañeros in that cause were all dead or rotting in jail, but he was still going strong on the other side of the world. His dark eyes, wide face, and high cheekbones testified that Indian blood ran in his veins.
Despite his brutish exterior, Bob was the brains of the pair. He and Bill were partners, working only as a team. A pair of dangerous professionals.
Now they flanked their boss, Girotti, who never left home without them, or stayed at home without them either. They lounged with seeming casualness, as if they couldn't have been less interested in the byplay, but they had covered Carter even before he stepped into the room.
"Solano, you beautiful bastard, I knew you were too tough to die!" Eva said. Sensing the tension, she stopped short a few paces from him. "What's wrong?"
By now, Girotti had recovered some of his savoir-faire. "We need to get a few things straightened out with our friend Solano, Eva."
She was nothing if not a survivor, knowing when to back off.
Bill and Bob were good, all right. They had to be good not to be distracted by Eva's erotic beauty. Their intent eyes never left Carter.
Staying in Solano's character, Carter blew Eva a kiss. "Keep it warm for me, baby. We've got a lot of lost time to make up for."
Eva smiled, saying nothing. She wouldn't commit herself one way or the other until she saw which way the deal went down.
"Shut up, you!" Tuttle jabbed Carter hard. Earlier, he had grabbed Carter's arm to steer him to Girotti. It was so corded with sinewy muscle that it was like taking hold of a tree limb. But Tuttle had already forgotten about that.
"So tell us, Solano, what happened to the Melina?"
Girotti drawled.
"Don't you watch television?"
"I want to hear it from you."
"She blew up. Those idiots on the ship must have crossed the wrong wires or something, and — kaboom!"
"Why didn't you blow up with it?"
"My squad had already cast off."
"You didn't blow up the oil depot," Girotti chided.
"After the explosion, the waters were crawling with patrol boats and covered with helicopters," Carter explained. "I signed on to do a job, not to commit suicide."
"And — the others in your group?"
"You know Abu-Bakir?"
"The Palestinian? I've heard of him."
"Too bad you didn't warn me about him," Carter said. "We made it to shore with no problem, but that guy didn't like the way some policemen were looking at him. He started shooting. They shot better. I was lucky. The others weren't."
"You deserted your comrades under fire?" Girotti asked silkily.
"With pleasure. You can't desert dead men, and they sure looked dead to me. I got away, stole a car, and made my way here."
Carter got mad. "Are you through playing twenty questions? It seems to me that I'm the injured party here! I signed on to do a professional job with professionals, and what do I get? A one-way ride on a ship of fools that nearly got me killed not once but often! I hold you responsible, Girotti!"
"I told you to take it easy, greaseball!" Tuttle growled.
"Where did you pick up this drugstore cowboy?" Carter asked.
"Why, you dirty…"
"That's enough, Tuttle!" Girotti barked.
"You buy that story?"
"What do you suggest?"
"Hell, it's no mystery to me!" Tuttle said. "This guy's yellow, just plain yellow, that's all! He got scared and chickened out on the job, and on his partners, too! You said it yourself — he's a damned lily-livered deserter!"
"I think not," Girotti said.
"You trust him?"
"I didn't say that, either."
"Use your head," Carter said. "I could have bought myself immunity and a fat reward by turning you all in. Instead, I came here. Maybe that was a mistake, eh?"
"It was for you, buddy boy," Tuttle snarled.