Lex Talionis.
Carter had arrived.
He approached a rise in the road and saw that he had now come to a point where there was an intersection running in an east-west direction. There were also indications of more foot trails.
One particular trail was well packed, topped with gravel. Carter decided to try it, starting out just as another vehicle with a bull horn came by. The words were in English, but he could still not make them out.
At the end of the dirt path, Carter saw two armed guards seated in a small hut, one reading a wrestling magazine, the other trimming his fingernails with a knife. Carter spotted a powerful transceiver in the foreground. These men might not inspire military respect, but they were out there, they were armed, and they had the ability to communicate with at least one other source.
It took Nick Carter another hour of stealthy moving through the thinning jungle to see what was so important.
Climbing nearly a quarter mile in altitude, Carter stood at the side of an outcropping and looked down at a large reservoir. It was man-made, the roads packed and graded. No more than three feet over the surface of the reservoir were a series of camouflage nets, making it all but impossible for the water to be seen from above. Carter paused to check the Mossad map. Detailed and sophisticated as it was, it had fooled the camera. Lex Talionis was apparently equipped with all the essentials for survival and for avoiding detection.
As Carter dropped back down to the intersection, he became aware of the sound of the bull horn blasting its message.
Pausing to listen, he could pick out an occasional word as the Jeep came rumbling closer."…amnesty… guest… hospitality… we will take no hostile action…"
The pounding, thwacking sound of a chopper beat through the jungle. Carter could hear it flying search patterns at a low altitude. Another of the VW Baja buggies came careening down the road, oversize tires biting into the dirt. The driver was young, but seated in front, holding a Kalashnikov at port arms, an older man in uniform looked battle-weary from all the wars he'd been in and not from any one in particular.
Carter listened to the message a bit longer, trying to piece more of it together. At first he'd thought it was merely some propaganda for a group of locals, but then he'd begun to realize that the message was for him. The people with the bull horn were calling him by name! Then he heard other names being mentioned: Chepe Munoz and Sam Zachary.
The voice on the bull horn was careful about the way it explained things. Nothing like "we have your comrades." This was tactful and friendly.
"Mr. Nick Carter, we invite you to join us. We have nothing to hide. Your friends have taken our hospitality. You may keep your weapons if you wish. That is not an issue. We merely wish to make you a gentlemanly offer."
Carter continued toward where he believed he would find the main concentration of LT.
The bullhorn persisted for nearly an hour, and with the chopper running its search pattern. Carter found it necessary to stay off the road, paralleling its course and keeping cover.
Nearly an hour later, the LT people resorted to another stratagem. As Carter hid off the main road, a Jeep moved slowly along. With the exception of the driver, who wore a holster at his waist, none of the other passengers was armed. It was the persons sitting in back who most interested Carter.
Smoking a cigar and looking comfortable in the deepening afternoon was Chepe Munoz. Sitting next to him, waving away the fumes, was Sam Zachary. Neither man looked to be under the slightest duress.
Zachary motioned the driver to a halt and took up the bull horn. He identified himself and asked Carter to come forth. "They'll even let us have a hostage," Zachary said. "I'm convinced they're only interested in talk right now."
Carter did not like the idea of giving up an advantage, not when he was getting so close to the mark. Not when Bezeidenhout was likely to suspect they'd been responsible for the loss of so much money in the form of the Japanese investment bankers.
"Strictly on the up-and-up, Carter. If you come in, we can meet Bezeidenhout within the hour."
Carter was close enough to hear Zachary and Munoz talking.
"I say we can stand here and offer things until doomsday, but Nick Carter won't give up an advantage," Zachary said.
"So what do we do? These pendejos won't wait all year, compadre. And they said they wanted to talk to him, too."
"We take them at their word and talk to them." Zachary said. "We get all the information we can, and then we use our opportunities."
"And Carter?"
Zachary spoke with admiration. "Surely you realize by now that all Carter ever does is use his opportunities."
Zachary motioned the driver on and the jeep sped along into the lengthening afternoon.
Carter took a swig of water from his canteen and kept moving. He trusted Zachary and Munoz, but they had their approaches and he had his. There was no question in his mind that he, too, would see Piet Bezeidenhout, but on his terms.
Nineteen
Carter walked until darkness began to fall. He came to a large bunker that served as a jungle supply dump. It was chained shut, locked in place. Carter took care of the lock with one silenced shot from Wilhelmina. In the process, he found an automatic weapon and several clips of ammunition. He also found rope and bandoleers for carrying ammunition.
A new carton of bayonets left him uninterested. Breaking one out of its Pliofilm and grease preservative, Carter found it all but useless. Even though a knife was a treasure in terrain like this, these would require hours of honing and treating.
Set off in the corner against a wall of canned foods, grenade launchers, and an obsolete mortar, Carter saw a little NR-6 two-banger motorcycle with the heavy-treaded wheels needed for this kind of road. There was a small amount of fuel in the tank, but searching around the bunker, he found a large metal can of gas. He filled up the NR-6 and started kicking at the pedal.
The cycle flooded. Carter had to drain and then prime it, but finally it began with a steady roar. So much for any secrecy, but he'd take care of that when the problem arose.
Riding the NR-6 for another twenty minutes, Carter came to the top of a rise where he saw the area where Zachary and Munoz had undoubtedly been taken. There were several large barracks-type buildings, a motor pool, and one large Quonset hut with two pumps in front, probably one diesel, the other gas.
He left the cycle and continued on foot, stopping from time to time to check on a suspicion that was growing. Someone was tracking him. He already had an idea who, but not why.
Hacking off a generous length of rope, he made a noose trap in a grassy glade, triggering the device with a young sapling. He led his tracker in a circle, back through the glade, carefully retracing his own tracks.
After a few moments, he heard a voice swear in the guttural street Arabic of Beirut. "Shit! Oldest damned trick in the world and I fall for it!"
Carter found his quarry hanging by his left foot, trying to reach his knife. The Killmaster quickly intercepted the knife and stuck it in his own belt. The man's gun had fallen well out of his reach.
He found himself looking at a sullen young man, barely twenty. "I thought I was pretty good, surviving a lot of stuff with the Israelis and those goddamned militiamen, and so what do I do but walk into the classic trap of all time."
"Happens to all of us," Carter said in Palestinian Arabic.
"You?" the kid asked.
"No," Carter said. "Luck, I guess."
"Sure! Luck!" The young man spat. He had lost considerable face but was smart enough to know that in his current position, no amount of posturing or swearing was going to make things any better for him.