Carter took that moment of action to make his own move. He sprang in front of the blonde's date and delivered a sharp kick to his left kneecap, sending him back against a car with a yowl.
"Hey, what's this? We got a helping hand for the lady," the black man said, and came at Carter with an overhand chop that was calculated to numb Carter's right arm and leave him vulnerable for a combination or a move from the man with the scar.
Carter wasn't in position to do more than roll away from the hand chop, which dealt him only a glancing blow. But Scarface, six feet and powerful, came at Carter like a street tighter, diving right at him for a tackle.
Knowing he was going to have to go down for a moment, Carter did a back roll, extended his feet, and took the tackier right in the gut. He sprang to his feet in time to see the blonde's date coming at him with a baton.
Carter poised, kick-turned, and used a Korean gwan-kyo maneuver, snapping the man's wrist with his foot. Now he spun around, slashed at the man with his left, pushed away his guard, and slammed his right fist into the side of his attacker's neck, felling him immediately.
The black man came at him, leaping from the hood of a car, catching Carter by the shoulders while his confederate approached with a large knife.
Carter smashed his left elbow into the black man's chest, wrenching his right arm free. With a quick twitch of his forearm muscle, Hugo, his razor-sharp stiletto, perfectly balanced and deadly, was in his right hand, ready for action. The Killmaster used a fast, underhanded snap toss, delivering Hugo right at the black man's carotid artery, where it was not likely to glance off any ribs.
The blonde watched with a gasp as the black man quickly lost the power even to try yanking Hugo from his neck.
That left only one assailant, who now kicked off his loafers and assumed a fighting stance Carter knew only too well.
Before Carter could get set, he felt a stinging jab under his left ear as Scarface, more lithe and faster than he appeared, reached him with a powerful Korean snap kick. Carter reeled and felt himself sinking. He tried to force concentration and move back, but a combination stomach kick and spin kick brought him down.
Scarface danced before him, moving in. "Not too well versed in the Korean style, eh, Killmaster?" His knee slammed against Carter's jaw, but Carter had opted to take the knee charge so that he could lash out at Scarface's thigh with the rigid side of his right hand.
Carter bought enough time to slow the next kick, get a purchase on Scarface's leg, and apply a wrenching twist.
Scarface lost his balance and made his position worse by trying to avoid landing on Carter.
His head still ringing but his senses clearing, Carter caught Scarface with a glancing side kick, spun, grabbed the man's arm, made a fulcrum with his own leg and gave him a compound fracture. His foot came down on the big man's ankle, producing a popping sound.
Scarface made a quick move with his left hand, and when Carter realized what the man had in mind, he kicked at the side of his opponent's face. For the first time in the encounter, Scarface smiled. "You are good, I'll say that for you. At least I lost to the best."
Carter turned from him and moved toward the girl.
"He's still moving!" she cried.
"Not for long," Carter said. "He had a poison ring and when he saw he was finished, he wouldn't risk the chance of talking." Carter turned back to Scarface, nudged him.
The poison was one of those quick-acting neural transmitters. The man was dead.
The blonde took a long look at Carter, then at the three inert forms of her attackers, and she began to tremble. For a moment she appeared vulnerable and naive, a little girl caught wearing the clothes of a grown-up woman.
Watching her, Carter approached the black man, withdrew Hugo from his throat, then casually wiped the blade on the man's jacket.
"Lucky for me you were here," she said, taking several deep breaths and composing herself. Carter watched the transformation back to mature womanhood as she faced him, aware that her life had been very much at risk.
The blonde smiled at him, her face ripe with sensual challenge. Then she shook her head. "No, it wasn't luck at all, was it?"
A half hour later they were in her rooms, a budget businessman's suite at the Sonesta on Indian School Road. Comfortable beds, large bathtubs, shower heads mounted far enough up on the wall not to hit someone of Carter's size in the chest, and even a Jacuzzi.
Carter was drinking beer. The blonde went for an occasional splash of cognac in her coffee. They sat on a large sofa, close but not touching, aware of the intimacy and sensuality building between them. Carter had seen that in the parking lot and realized the blonde's reaction hadn't been fear at the closeness of death, but rather a long moment of personal excitement at the closeness of complete involvement.
"You're a person who's been through a lot of political upheaval, or a professional," Carter said. "Which is it?"
The blonde sipped her coffee thoughtfully. "You must be in there yourself to spot it so easily."
Aware that she was avoiding the question, Carter removed the false back of his AXE-doctored Rolex and placed the tiny microchip board near the telephone. No red warning light. He did a quick sweep of the obvious places in the room. There were no traces of a sophisticated bug that would pick up their conversation.
Sitting next to her, he pressed on her background. "I'm hoping you'll tell me why Guillermo Arriosto is so important to you."
She took more brandy and asked for a cigarette. Even though she was young, Carter could sense a growing patina of the professional beginning to form around her. Under that, there was something more. Pure, raw emotion. Some came to this work through idealism, like Carter. Others came to it to get even.
"I'm Susanna King. A few generations ago, the family name hadn't been Anglicized. It was still Konig, but that was before the family had to move. I was born in Buenos Aires, but" — she gave a cynical laugh — "we didn't better ourselves by much in the move from Germany to Argentina."
She paused to smoke, then went on with a story Carter had heard before with variations. The difficulties of a relocated life, the subtler and more obvious kinds of discrimination, and above all, the ruling military. "I don't think it will come as any surprise when I tell you we were subjected to massive repression."
Her family had not been especially political nor had she, but because of their background and their habits of reading and education, they asked the inevitable questions, especially when it had to do with questioning authority. Gradually, some of her family and friends began to become what was called los Desaparacidos — "the disappeared ones" — those who simply vanished without a trace.
Susanna had become politicized when Raoul, a young man she'd been seeing, suddenly disappeared. "He managed to get word back to me where he'd been taken and by whom."
Raoul was never seen or heard from again, but Susanna had joined an organization to help hide those who were considered prime targets for being disappeared, and to assist their families in getting news of them. It was there she'd learned of the man known as Guillermo Arriosto.
"That was not his real name, of course," she said with scorn. "He took that name when he came to this country, and he had the gall, the audacity, to call himself the Grinning Gaucho. The only thing he ever smiled about were his tortures and continuous human rights abuses. His real name was Hector Leon Cardenas. He was a ranking officer in the security police."
Susanna King had seen him a few times in parades and there were occasional photos of him in La Prensa. Even more important, Susanna and her associates began to read of Cardenas's activities in clearing out the university and other places of dissent. He openly boasted of his powers and the number of people he had turned back into patriotic, law-abiding citizens. "He was very proud of the training he was given by the Americans."