"Tell me about Lex Talionis, Carter."
Carter got off a few stanzas of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" before Samadhi began shaking and slapping him. In the background, he was again aware of Margo screaming.
He mustn't think of that screaming.
Focus on something else.
Focus on that flapping sound in the distance, whatever it was. The flapping noise that seemed to remind Carter of someone beating a rug with rapid, steady strokes. That increasing sound that suddenly seemed to make Abdul Samadhi angry enough that he began swearing and pushing Carter around.
"Lex Talionis, Carter. Tell me what you know."
"Organization to get revenge," Carter responded against his will.
Then the kindly image of Ira Wein came to him and he began to rock with laughter, although he didn't know why.
He saw the entrance to a large black cave and in his mind's eye, he entered it.
Everything was dark for a time, but someone was setting off fireworks and there was a good deal of activity with people shouting, and the stew was burning in the next room.
After a time, Carter realized he wasn't smelling burning stew at all but rather the distinctive smell of weapons being discharged. There was at least one muffled report nearby, and in his sleep-clouded mind, Carter tried to rouse himself to action.
He sank to the floor, tried to push himself to a sitting position, and collapsed again.
He was working on pure instinct and coordination now. He fought his way to a sitting position and tried to focus his watery eyes.
He was aware of a rather large presence carrying him to a cot and setting him on top of it.
Then the activities began to recede again and Carter no longer had the ability to fight it.
Eight
Nick Carter's head felt as though it had been stuffed with the small plastic chips used to insulate shipping cartons. He tentatively flexed his hands, finding them stiff and numb. A tortured sound appeared to come from outside, but Carter quickly realized it had been the sound of his own groan. His head was tender to the touch and his mouth seemed dry and thick.
"Here, try this, Carter," a sympathetic voice said, handing him a clay drinking cup. "Go ahead, it's rather sweet well water."
Carter drank gratefully, then turned to regard his companion. "Who…?" he began, but stopped when it came out sounding like a barking seal.
"Zachary. Sam Zachary. CIA. Sorry we couldn't get here any sooner. Some horrendous winds developed and they naturally slowed us down. But I don't think any serious harm's been done."
Carter heard a burst of automatic fire from the near distance.
"We've got your friends hemmed in up toward the draw."
"We?"
"Two associates of mine and a lad who's interested in meeting you. Cuban, but he spends a good deal of time with us."
"The woman?" Carter asked.
"She had a bad scare, but she's all right." Zachary poured more water for Carter, then poured two cups of coffee from a stainless steel Thermos on the table. "I might be able to scrounge up some sugar, but if you like your coffee with milk, you're out of luck."
"I'll take it any way I can get it," Carter said, accepting the hot, steaming mug from Zachary and guiding it to his lips with both hands. The robust flavor immediately cheered him. "This is Jamaican blue mountain."
Zachary nodded. "Coffee is such a vile concoction that you might as well drink the best if you drink it at all."
Carter sipped appreciatively, watching the CIA man, an agreeable sort, slightly taller than himself. Hand-tailored blazer, sturdy twill chinos, and a crisply laundered cotton shirt in muted stripes. "I know you from somewhere."
"I should think so." Zachary said. "I saw you briefly about two years ago at a David Hawk meeting to discuss ethics in intelligence gathering, but more recently" — Zachary reached into his pocket, removed a convincing false mustache, and plastered it on his upper lip — "the Green Angels, at your service."
The driver of the chicken truck?"
"Ah, yes. Chepe Munoz. Good man. Wanted to meet you and — well, you know the drill in this business. Now, as the saying goes, you owe him one."
By now Carter was taking larger sips of Zachary's excellent coffee and (he fogginess in his head was beginning to recede. "It makes sense now. All that business with the kicking and (humping was a blind to let you put beepers on both vehicles. Then you tracked us with choppers."
"You have to admit, Carter, it worked. It would have been even sooner if not for that damned wind. I keep telling them to buy us the Hueys. A nice, substantial chopper. So what do they do? They have to get these little pipsqueak AF-sixes." Zachary shook his head. "Everyone's so damned cost-conscious since Cap Weinberger got caught with those expensive ashtrays and toilet seats."
Carter lowered his voice. "I'm not sure we can trust Margo Huerta."
Two exchanges of automatic weapons fire, one distant, the other considerably closer, punctuated his comment.
"Why not? Why wouldn't you trust her?"
"I think she's a radical groupie. But that's a possible cover for some other things."
Zachary smiled. "I know for a fact she propositioned Chepe Munoz, and I've seen her at some conspicuously liberal parties, but we don't have anything of value in our field reports to suggest anything fishy."
"Just a hunch, so far." Carter finished his coffee, feeling measurably better. He got tentatively to his feet, did a few slow torso stretches, and allowed Zachary to pour more coffee.
"I almost feel I can cope again," Carter said.
Zachary smiled. "Excellent. We'd better give the others a hand. We can talk later."
The CIA operative led Carter outside, where two AF-6 choppers were moored. Zachary tossed Carter an FN-FAL, which Carter checked quickly and with respect. It was an excellent weapon. He fired a burst, liked the placement.
"We got one of the PLOs when we came in," Zachary said, "but there are four left and we'd very much like to get our hands on the leader."
"Abdul Samadhi."
Zachary beamed. "You're sure?"
Carter nodded.
"We thought it might be him, but we lost him between Paris and here. Yes, we'd definitely like to have a few words with him."
As they started up the draw, Carter could see two of Zachary's colleagues, nicely positioned behind clumps of rock. "Munoz is further up and to your left."
One of Carter's captors appeared suddenly and sprayed a blast, drawing return fire. Carter watched another Palestinian scrabble up a segment of rock, take a hard leap, then disappear. Carter thought he saw a grenade launcher. They would have to be careful about letting the PLO get close to the choppers.
Zachary and Carter quickly agreed on assignments and moved off into position. As he broke into a running crouch, Carter noticed Margo Huerta, protected by a small boulder, smoking a cigarette, hugging her knees to her chest. She waved a vulgar gesture to Carter. "You still think I set this up, you pig."
Carter's response was blunted by a stitching of shots directed at Sam Zachary, who zigzagged into his assigned position. Now a spray of shots forced the Killmaster down, but he took the chance after waiting a few moments and broke for the protective cover of a large tree stump.
A thumping sound warned Carter that the grenade launcher had been tired.
The blast from the explosion felt like hands being clapped over both ears. A spray of debris erupted between Carter and Zachary. Up ahead, the bearlike man in camouflage trousers and a blue sweat shirt took a risk, but made it pay off. He broke from cover and angled toward the position of the grenade launcher, opened another stitching of fire across the face of the rocks, scrambled up an outcropping, paused, took deliberate aim, and squeezed a short burst. "The unmistakable sound of a hit came. A man yowled, staggered forward, and fell.