Nick said he did.
"About the Turkish police," said the man in the bedroom. "You will have to be very careful there. They are well disposed toward us, but their organization is a little primitive by our standards. And they do not have a dope problem. On the other hand they do share a mutual enemy with us — an enemy who is quite literally looking down their throat! But in the end you'll have to do it yourself!"
Nick took the liberty. "Do exactly what, sir?"
"Ah, yes. You're wondering why I don't get to the nub of things. But I will — I will. Those four men we were discussing — we want them out of the way! If we can do that we hope to throw the syndicate into chaos. The big shots may even panic and try to take over security and so betray themselves. We can hope so. But our real purpose in Mission Pilgrim is to serve notice that things have changed — that the gloves are off."
Nick watched as the cigar was crushed out on the expensive Mayflower carpet. The man in there didn't bother with ashtrays.
"Before I finish, N3, T must tell you that you are not bound to accept this assignment. You have been put forward as the best man for the job — I was told that you are the best in the world at your work! That is a high compliment for any man in any line of work!"
"I doubt that I will ever receive such kudos, even from posterity. But to get back — your references are impeccable! From a very high source."
Nick grinned in the dark. He knew the source.
"I'll take on the job, sir," Nick said softly. "Just tell me what it is."
"Very well. I want you to go to Turkev. N3, and find those four men. Dr. Joseph Six; Maurice Defarge; Carlos Gonzalez; and the one who calls himself Johnny Ruthless. You will have all the resources of this country behind you, as well as those of your own service. And only three people in the world will know your real purpose, your real orders! Yourself, your chief — and me!"
The pause this time was long. Finally the man in the bedroom said, "We all have to do things we detest. When you find those men, N3, show them no mercy. Kill them!"
Chapter 2
Not All Goodbyes Are Sad
Janet Leeds had been insatiable all week. Even Nick's desire and ability had begun to flag. He seemed not able to give her enough — even when it was over for the time being she clung to him like a delectable soft fleshed leech, crying and sobbing and begging him to begin again.
Nick knew the why of all this. They both knew. Nick was going to leave her!
It was the end of the first week in May. It had been a sparkling champagne week; the weather had been perfect, the surf marvelous. Sun, sand, and crisp air had turned Nick's magnificent body to a high pitch of readiness. He doubled his daily stint of yoga — doing this and a little target practice with Wilhelmina, the 9mm Luger — while Janet went shopping in the village twenty miles away. Nick did not really need the target practice, but it took his mind off what was coming. The goodbye scene with Janet!
He had played these scenes many times in the past. Nick had an advantage, of course, because his own heart was never involved. His heart, to paraphrase the song, belonged to AXE!
The sun was a flaming red ball sinking into piney woods as Nick came out of the beach house to wait for Janet. She had taken the beach wagon into the village to get steaks for their last dinner.
Nick glanced in either direction along the smooth curving beach, saw no sign of the returning beach wagon and ran out to plunge into the low quartering surf. At the moment he was as superbly content and at home as a seal. Of the task upcoming he did not think at all — he had four men to kill, yes, but that was in the future.
He was wearing only the special jock in which there was a place for Hugo, the meanest little stiletto in the world. Pierre, the gas pellet, and Wilhelmina the Luger were in a concealed compartment in Nick's new car.
Nick went out half a mile with his tireless crawl, then floated on his back and gazed at the serene twilight sky. This was beautiful country, he thought. Perfect for lovers. Not a neighbor for miles. Janet and he had been bathing nude all week, with no interruption.
Yes, Nick admitted now, it had been a good week. But it was nearly over. Almost time to go to work. An old World War I tune began to run through his head and Nick deftly altered it, humming to himself: When it's poppy blossom time in Turkey I'll be there…
Fragments of his last briefing flitted through his mind. When the opium poppies had been harvested and the pods cut, then the real skullduggery began. The farmers were obliged by Turkish law to sell all the opium to the government — only they didn't! They held back as much as they could and sold it on the black market — meaning the Syndicate! The Syndicate in turn ran it across the border into Syria and processed it into heroin. Then it spread all over the world and, eventually, into the veins of addicts.
A hell raid, Hawk had said. Smash as many opium caravans as you can. Put the fear of God — or of Allah — into them! He would put the fear into them, all right. They had given him a new weapon for that!
But the hell raid was secondary. Number one was — find four men and kill them! The names whipped through Nick's mind as though on tape: Dr. Joseph Six — Maurice Defarge — Carlos Gonzalez — Johnny Ruthless. The last name intrigued Nick the most. Ruthless! An alias for whom? Somehow — he had no real reason why — he thought that he would probably kill Johnny Ruthless last.
Nick rolled over, glanced at the special AXE watch on his wrist — water and bullet proof — and sounded like a whale lonely for the depths. Might as well test his lungs, exercise them a little.
He went down and down in a deep probing dive, found sandy bottom. He stooged around on the bottom until his lungs began to pain, then shot to the surface. He glanced at the watch. Three minutes on the nose. He could do almost four if he had to. It was what yoga and constant breathing exercises did for you.
Nick saw the beach wagon coming along the sand from the north. Janet at last. He began to swim in, taking it as fast as he could this time, gliding with furious speed.
Janet Leeds was waiting beside the beach wagon, smoking a cigarette, when Nick dashed up the beach. She tossed her cigarette into the sand and raised her small, triangular face for a kiss. "Hi, darling. Miss me?"
Nick kissed her. She clung to him. "Did you? Miss me?"
"Sure did," Nick lied cheerfully. He picked her up and held her over his head, one hand on her spine just above the taut little buttocks.
"I was going to drown myself," he told her. "I thought you weren't coming back. I thought maybe you had run away with the butcher in the village, I swam way out — and I was just going down for the last time to end it all when I saw you coming back. So / came back."
Janet squealed. "Put me down, you fool! And liar!"
Nick put her down. He regarded her with mock hurt. "Liar? Is that a way to talk to a man who was just about to kill himself over you!"
"You aren't a fool," she murmured. "I know that. But you are a liar! You didn't miss me a bit."
"But I did," Nick insisted.
Janet put her little hands into his chest hair and tugged hard. "Liar — liar and ingrate!"
"Ouch! That hurts. Lay off!"
"Not until you admit you're a liar."
"Okay — okay! I'm a liar. Where are the steaks, anyway?"
"In the wagon, stupid! With all the other things." Janet turned away and began to run up to the beach house. Nick had seen a glint of moisture in her eyes. He sighed inwardly. It looked as though he would have to be cruel after all.
He gazed after her. What a perfect little doll she was! Everything about her was tiny and tight and perfect. Small hard breasts, a waist he could nearly span with one hand, little taut fanny, surprisingly long and slim legs. Hair of dark gold, spun fine. Eyes huge and gray with corneas of a startling white. Eyes that could laugh and love — and now cry.