The man was short, about the size and musculature of a jockey. He wore aviator-style glasses and moved with an exaggerated roll on Gucci loafers. He scarcely acknowledged Carter and Zachary's presence as he came in.
"What have we got here?"
As the doctor entered the room, the young man propped himself up on his elbows and removed the ice pack from his nose.
From a distance of ten feet the man in the smock scowled. "What the hell is this? What's your name?"
"Gug-Gonder, sir," the young man stuttered. "Bub-Bud Gonder."
The nurse became distraught. "I'm sorry, Doctor. I really was led to believe…"
The doctor ignored her. To the young man, he said, "Who did that to you?"
Bewildered, the young man said, "Sir?"
"Who did that butchery on your face?"
"There was an explosion…" the young man began.
"Screw the explosion! That was nothing so far as you're concerned. Someone did a nose job on you when you were a kid, right?"
Uncertainly, the young man nodded.
"Butcher!" the man in the smock said. "Whoever it was, he really butchered you, Gonder."
The doctor was leaning over the examination table, tracing his fingertips over the young man's nose, snapping instructions for the nurse to get him some sterile wipes.
Within five minutes, the doctor had the young man's face daubed clean, then he reached into his smock and extracted an examining light which he shone into the patient's nostrils. "Oakland," the doctor said. "Right?"
"Sir?"
"You're from Oakland, aren't you? Lake Merritt?"
"We-we lived there when I was younger."
"I thought so." The Doctor projected triumph. "Lawrence, right? Ronald Albert Lawrence of Oakland. That was the man who did this to your nose. Don't try to protect him, I can tell that butcher's work."
Within a short while, the diminutive doctor had the young man up and moving around. "You'd better come with me. I want to look into this at some greater length."
"I don't understand, sir," the young man said.
"Never mind," the doctor said, leading him out into the bright noon sun. "You just come with me, Gonder. I'll take care of everything." He draped a fatherly arm over the young man's shoulder and ushered him out the door. In leaving, he did not make eye contact with Carter or Zachary; he scarcely acknowledged the presence of the nurse.
"Come on," Carter said, leaving the infirmary and heading for the large grassy commons where students and participants were carrying on conversations, playing chess, or conducting small study groups. A griddle produced a steady stream of hamburgers on buns unlike anything Carter had ever seen, made from corn flour and a gritty substance Carter guessed was ground, dried hominy. Whatever the ingredients, the results were excellent, especially when doused with a tangy salsa made of tomatoes, green chiles, onions, and tomatillos.
"You know who that little guy is, don't you?" Zachary asked.
"Yeah. I didn't want to call him on it or spook him," Carter said, "but I'll give you odds that we just saw Dr. Charles Smith, an eccentric but gifted cosmetic surgeon."
Zachary said. "What's the scoop?"
Carter paused for a swallow of coffee. "The fact that he's here at all is the biggest break I've had in some lime." He set the scenario for Zachary. "I hated to use that kid the way we did, but I know now that we're on the right track. We've got to find a way to nose around here on our own. If Smith is on the premises, there's every likelihood that he has his own operating room somewhere in the neighborhood." Carter smiled. "Things are starting to fall in place after all, my friend."
"You're thinking Smith did the reconstruct on that guy, Cardenas? The one who died at Covington?"
"Exactly," Carter said. "The Grinning Gaucho. The one you or your people were supposed to have heisted to prevent an autopsy. It makes sense now. Why would someone want an autopsy prevented?"
Zachary snapped his fingers. "To prevent the discovery of a Charles Smith reconstruction job."
"That's it," Carter said, standing. "I've got to make a phone call. I can see I let a potentially valuable piece of evidence gel through the cracks."
"Any hints?" Zachary said.
"The Grinning Gaucho himself," the Killmaster said as he moved out onto the patio adjacent to the cantina.
Because of the excitement related to the bombing, Carter had to wait a half hour before he got to one of the most private of the pay phones.
David Hawk answered on the first ring.
"I need information," Carter said. "The only major metropolitan area near Covington, Kentucky, is across the river in Cincinnati. I need to know if there were any incidents of blunt trauma corpses being found there on or about the date of the Grinning Gaucho's death. Not just any old blunt force corpses. The one I'm looking for would significantly match Cardenas in weight, height, configurations."
"In other words, Nick, you think someone may have mutilated the body and dumped it to hide a cosmetic surgery job on Cardenas."
"I'd say it's ninety percent."
"What's next on your agenda?"
"Probably." Nick Carter said, knowing in advance the kind of sputtering and fuming reaction it would produce, "I'll be going to a poetry reading."
The rooms assigned Carter and Zachary were located in a two-story arcade across a large patio from the dormitories. There were thoughtfully scattered chairs and tables in the patio, many of which were covered with the so-called little or literary magazines published by small groups and schools. The rooms of both men were on the ground floor. About ten feet wide and perhaps fifteen feet long, they held a minimum of furnishings: an institutional single bed, a modest desk and chair, and a larger, padded chair. In a small alcove was a vanity next to a sink. Each room had self-contained plumbing.
Carter put in an obligatory few minutes running a security check. So far as he could tell, no one had been in his room with the exception of a maid. His sensors picked up no recording or photographing devices.
Then, just as Zachary knocked on his door, he saw something he was intended to see.
"Come in, Sam."
The CIA man entered, clutching a sheet of paper. He saw Carter's pillow. "I see you got one too."
"Was yours on the bed?"
Zachary. "Right on the fluffed pillow." He noted they were both written by the same hand. A large circle with the letters LT. "Somehow I don't think this Lex Talionis logo has anything to do with Abdul Samadhi," the CIA operative said.
"Neither do I," Carter said.
"But someone is clearly warning us off."
Carter offered Zachary one of his cigarettes. "I don't think it has to be that way." He paused, savoring a developing thought. "I'm beginning to come up with its being something entirely different."
Sam Zachary smoked for a moment, reflecting. He snapped his fingers. "Margo Huerta!"
"Possible," Carter said, "but that doesn't make too much sense to me."
"Okay, then." Zachary said, "you're thinking way ahead of me. Tell me what you're working on."
"My line of logic goes like this: there's someone who knows what we're doing here and who we are. That person wants us to know how close we are to the big stuff."
"Then our next move is to get ourselves some space and check these grounds out in as much detail as we can."
"That's not going to be easy," Carter said. "We've got the problem of Rogan not trusting us. But let's go."
They agreed on different directions.
Carter set off toward a large ornate pink building that looked like an auditorium.
Zachary took off toward the administration building.
Each carried notebooks and made no move to look furtive.