"No. No! Hodler doesn't need anybody to tell him when he's being trailed. Sale was crazy to tackle an animal like that!"
"Not crazy. Just doing his job. All right," Carter said, "where do I find Hodler now? At the club?"
"No." Wooten shook his head until his teeth rattled, or maybe they were just chattering with fear. "Hodler took a trip out into the desert. He had to go meet the big boss."
"Who's that?"
"I don't know. Shit, you think he tells me anything? I'm just a stooge to him, that's all."
"That I can believe," Carter said. "What's Hodler planning?"
"I dunno."
"Too bad. You were doing so well up to now, too." Yellow-tongued flame whooshed out of the lighter.
It jogged Wooten's memory. "The Shiites! He's working with the Shiite radicals! They're going to off the emir and take over the oil fields!"
That made sense in light of what Carter knew about Al Khobaiq. Like his cousins the Saudis, Emir Bandar al Jalubi and his royal family were members of the Bedouin members of the Moslem Wahhabi sect. But the masses of the city were Shiites, the same sect as their radical Iranian cousins on the other side of the Gulf.
"What about Greer?" Carter asked. "Where does he fit in?"
"That asshole? He doesn't know which end is up. That's why Hodler wanted you of fed. He was afraid that the Company had finally sent somebody who knew what he was doing."
"I want Hodler. Where is he?"
"I don't know, I swear it!" Wooten cried. "I don't know when he's coming back from meeting the big boss. They've got an airstrip somewhere out in the desert. That's all I know. Even if you burn me, I couldn't tell you any more."
"All right, I'll do that," Carter said. He made a few close passes with the flame, while Wooten writhed, sobbing, rolling on the ground.
If he wasn't telling the truth, he was giving an Academy Award performance.
The lights of the oncoming vehicle could be seen from a long, long way off in this wide flat space. Carter had plenty of time to get Wooten to the far side of the car, out of sight from the road.
"If these are some of your buddies, Wooten, the first bullet belongs to you," Carter snarled. "And just so you don't die too quickly, you'll get it in the belly."
The oncoming vehicle slowed as its lights picked out the limo. Carter stood holding Wilhelmina out of sight behind his back.
A rugged Land-Rover halted in front of him, driven by members of the Al Khobaiq Home Guard, a Bedouin unit presumably loyal to the throne.
Two soldiers jumped out, rifles at the ready, while a third opened the passenger side door for a young man in his early thirties with the air of command.
He was chunky, with a quizzical mouth half-hidden by a drooping mustache. His ghutra was silk, the head covering's expensive fabric denoting his royal status while contrasting with his custom-tailored European suit.
Carter recognized him from photos included by Hawk at the final briefing back in Beirut. He slipped his gun back in the holster.
"Prince Hasan, I presume?"
"Indeed, yes! And you must be the elusive Mr. Fletcher. Or, rather, Mr. Carter. It gives me great pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. I confess that when your driver ran us off the road, I feared we had seen the last of you. I was already composing my note of regret to your government."
Prince Hasan took in the miserable figure of Wooten, reeking of cleaning fluid, filthy, in pain, nursing his bullet-shattered ankle as he slumped dismally against the limo.
Prince Hasan grinned. "I see you have the situation well in hand."
Eleven
Every country has its share of architectural follies, and Al Khobaiq was no exception. A quarter-century ago, an eccentric member of the Jalubi royal family built a palace high on a hill overlooking scrub-covered eastern flatlands and the first rolling dunes of the western desert. The eccentric ended his days as a madman, screaming his lungs out in a padded cell. After passing through many owners, his white elephant of a palace now housed the Crescent Club.
Rumor had it that the palace was still owned by the royal family, who craved the pleasures it offered as much as any of their subjects. Leasing it to a syndicate of middlemen, they collected its revenues and partook of its delights while keeping their hands clean.
Certainly its owners had clout. A new road branched off the coastal highway, going inland for miles to connect with the mountain palace. The Crescent Club did a bang-up business. Carter saw more vehicular traffic on its access road than he had seen anywhere else in Al Khobaiq.
Ferrying the Killmaster to the club was Fawwaz, Prince Hasan's younger brother. Hasan's connections to the emir were too well known; a public figure reputed to head the secret police, Hasan's appearance might scare off Hodler from surfacing at the club.
Hasan was delighted to get his hands on Wooten. "So, here is the villain who wrecked my beautiful car!"
"Take good care of him," Carter said. "If my plan doesn't pan out, maybe we can use him as a lure to flush Hodler out from wherever he's holed up."
"Don't worry, I will take very good care of him," the prince promised. "I have just the place for this bad boy."
The prince's car had been wrecked, but not its two-way radio. Hasan had sent a message to Road Post 58, which dispatched a unit in the Land-Rover to pick him up. The unit then cruised the highway until they came upon Carter and Wooten.
After conferring on a plan of action with the Killmaster, Hasan and his men took Wooten to Road Post 58 while Fawwaz drove Carter to the club in the gray limo.
Surrounding the hilltop palace was an eight-foot-high concrete wall whose main gates were thrown wide open to accommodate the steady stream of long, luxurious automobiles delivering well-heeled, well-turned-out patrons to the club.
The sentries manning the gates were fierce-looking men, armed with rifles and daggers stuck in their belts. But security procedures were minimal, and Carter's car was waved through, into the central courtyard.
A circular drive allowed vehicles to drop their charges off at the club's main entrance. Many cars were parked off to one side, their drivers idling and smoking while waiting for their masters' return.
And so Nick Carter came to Al Khobaiq's gilded palace of sin.
The main building was a bizarre hybrid, cross-pollinating Moorish motifs with vintage Las Vegas glitz, garishly rendered in poured concrete, glass, and stressed steel. The fantastic creation had been built the hard way, with money squeezed out of the impoverished land prior to the discovery of the Zubeir oil dome.
Branching off on either side of the central structure were long, rectangular, two-story wings. Their ground floors were blank, windowless. The arched windows of the upper floors were barred by ornate wrought-iron grilles through which could occasionally be glimpsed the indistinct figures of the rooms' occupants.
These wings housed the so-called pleasure gardens, stocked with male and female slaves. Slavery is prohibited by man's law, but not by the Koran. Officially outlawed through the emirate, the age-old custom was still alive and flourishing.
Fawwaz's English was not as good as Carter's Arabic, but he managed to wish the Killmaster luck. Carter shook his hand, said good-bye, climbed out of the car, and watched the gray limo circle the drive and exit the grounds.
Eager patrons streamed across the plaza, under a portico, and into the palace. Carter joined them.
Inside, his nostrils detected a multiplicity of scents: roasting lamb, butter, spices, tobacco, incense, perfume, sweat. Noise racketed off the walls. Heat seethed.
The clientele was a mixed bag, fairly evenly divided between the Khobaiqi elite and affluent foreigners. The Crescent Club thrived — despite its flouting of Islamic and civil law — because the power structure wanted it that way. It looked as if a fair number of them were here tonight.