"I'm sure you'll put it to good use."
"You can depend on that," Carter said.
With a foul-smelling black cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth, laying down a literal smoke screen, Hawk was in an expansive mood.
"Back in the thirties, before your time, a hoodlum named Lepke got the bright idea of specializing in murder. He formed a mob of hit men dealing exclusively in assassinations for the national crime syndicate, an outfit called Murder, Incorporated."
"I've heard of it," Carter said.
"Reguiba's come up with a modern variation on that classic theme. He's put terrorism on a businesslike basis. Call it Terror, Incorporated."
Carter smiled thinly. "As I recall, Lepke ended up frying in the electric chair. I don't have one of those, but I'll put plenty of heat on Reguiba."
Hawk expected no less. "There's every possibility that Reguiba is conducting an action in the emirate, as part of Operation Ifrit. Hodler's presence there would seem to confirm it."
Karl Kurt Hodler was East German, a blond giant, a former Olympic athlete turned liquidator. A one-man mob. Hodler had worked in conjunction with Girotti in northern Italy, spearheading a wave of kidnappings, kneecappings, and killings.
"I'll smoke out Reguiba through Hodler," Carter said.
"You'd do well to keep in mind that our man in Al Khobaiq dropped off the board shortly after sighting Hodler. Don't underestimate the East German. You'll have your hands full with him even if Reguiba doesn't show up."
"I think he will, sir, especially when he finds out that I'm on the scene. I've given him a bloody nose, and Reguiba isn't the type to let bygones be bygones."
"That's the plan, Nick. You're live bait. You're one of the few who've seen Reguiba's face and lived to tell the tale," Hawk said. "At least you won't be working entirely on your own. Emir Bandar is cooperating a hundred percent with us. Apparently he's not too fond of the idea that a gang of thugs is plotting to steal his kingdom out from under him.
"Your local contact is Prince Hasan. From what I've heard, he's quite a character. Bon vivant, racing car enthusiast, ladies' man."
"Sounds like we have a lot in common," Carter said with a grin.
"Except that he's a member of one of the richest families in the world, while you're on an expense account," Hawk growled. "So try to keep the expenditures within reason, okay?"
"I'll do my best, sir."
A specially designed and AXE-made attaché case allowed Carter to board the plane in Beirut with his menage a trois of Hugo, Pierre, and Wilhelmina. He'd put the trio on his person once he landed. He was freshly showered, clean-shaven, outfitted in clean new clothes, and had even had time to get a trim at the airport barber shop.
A pretty flight attendant turned her warm dark eyes his way, but Carter was too bushed to do more than a little casual flirting. He dozed for a good part of the flight, catching up on his rest.
He awoke for the last leg of the trip, as the jet made its final approach. The tiny, oil-rich emirate lay on the east coast of the Arabian boot, located midway between the Shatt-al-'Arab and the Strait of Hormuz, bordering the province of Hasa.
The seemingly endless expanse of sun-baked land gave way first to the coastal marshes, then to the silver-blue Persian Gulf.
The plane swooped in for a landing at one of the many runways at Dharbar Terminal, which petrodollars had transformed into one of the most modern and extensive facilities of its kind in the world. Limitless blue space became bounded by the horizon as the jet touched down, the landing gear contacting the tarmac with a bump and a squeal.
As he prepared to disembark, Carter recalled the last thing old Salah had said. He had quoted another old desert proverb:
"Should you meet a cobra and a Reguiba, spare the cobra."
"Welcome to Al Khobaiq, Mr. Fletcher. I'm Wooten. Greer sent me to drive you into town."
"Pleased to meet you," Carter said.
This time out, he was under light cover, posing as one Lewis Fletcher and carrying ID to match. His papers identified him as a high-ranking CIA official to whom every assistance would be rendered. He outranked Greer, who was the Company's representative in Al Khobaiq. Only the CIA's Director of Operations and a handful of his most trusted aides knew that AXE used their agency to provide cover for agents on special assignment, such as Carter.
They weren't happy about that use, but they accepted it as one of the unfortunate facts of life in the current political climate. The difference between the CIA and AXE was like the difference between a big-city police department with its thousands of employees, and a SWAT team.
AXE was no intelligence collector, though that was part of its mission. AXE was an enforcement arm, carrying out the covert activities that the CIA could no longer undertake. The CIA was a sieve, leaking like crazy.
In all fairness, Carter often wondered how enthusiastic he would be about carrying out his assignments if he, like his CIA counterparts, had to worry about his actions being the stuff of congressional hearings and front-page headlines at some future date.
Therefore, he was Lewis Fletcher, CIA, for as long as the guise proved useful.
Carter bypassed customs courtesy of Emir Bandar al Jalubi, the absolute ruler of the tiny state, whose servitors had arranged for the Killmaster to be waved through the time-consuming red tape afflicting ordinary visitors. Emir Bandar liked to think of himself as all-powerful, but if he really were, he wouldn't be sweating the threat of Reguiba.
This was Carter's first visit to Al Khobaiq, though it was far from his first encounter with the Arabian peninsula. Technically, the emirate was independent of, though closely allied to, the House of Saud, but they shared an identical culture. It was a strange land to a Westerner, a puritannical land where customs officials tore out photographs of bikinied beauties in American news magazines, yet where executions by beheading were broadcast live on state-controlled television. Like other sexually repressed cultures, it seethed with torrid passions that could boil over into outbreaks of frightful violence.
Carter met Wooten under a big sign proclaiming in English and Arabic: WARNING! DRUG SMUGGLERS WILL BE EXECUTED!
Wooten was in his mid-forties, big, beefy, red-haired, broad-shouldered. He wore a sweat-stained khaki shirt and slacks, red bandanna, and thick-soled boots.
They shook hands. Carter typed Wooten as a macho man who'd put all other males to the test, so he was braced when Wooten tried to apply a bone-crushing grip.
Wooten felt as if he'd caught his hand in a hydraulic press. Carter continued smiling blandly as he applied the pressure, making the burly man squirm. Past experience had taught him that it was best to establish his dominance at the start with Wooten's type of aggressive he-man. When he thought the lesson had been learned, he let go of Wooten's hand, now red and throbbing.
"No, don't bother, I'll carry my own bag, thanks," Carter said.
Wooten hadn't offered; it was just Carter's way of giving him the needle.
"Quite a grip you've got there," Wooten said. When Carter wasn't looking, he flexed his numb hand to restore its circulation.
Suitcase in hand, Carter followed Wooten across the broad expanse of the terminal, out the front doors. It was like stepping into an oven.
Now it was Wooten's turn to grin. "Mild day. Shouldn't reach more than a hundred degrees in the shade. Of course, there's no shade to speak of."
Carter wore a lightweight safari-style jacket, open-neck short-sleeved shirt, loose-fitting tan trousers, cotton socks, and desert boots. When he stepped into the sun, it was almost like a physical blow. At least his tropical clothes would trap the sweat and keep it from evaporating too fast. Dehydration and heatstroke could easily afflict an unacclimatized man, and not even the hot sun of the Mediterranean could prepare a man for this heat.