“I belong to an organization called AXE,” he told El Tigre. “Ever hear of us?”
El Tigre stroked his beard. He nodded. “I have heard of you. You are a murder organization, yes? Executioners.”
No use denying it. Nick had decided to play it absolutely straight. Lies would only get him killed.
“Among other things,” he admitted. “This may or may not be a kill mission. I do not know yet. There are too many damned things I don’t know. Among them is the tieup between you and the CIA. I know absolutely nothing of this, El Tigre. If you will tell me, and if you will trust me, perhaps we can be of some use to each other. Just whom were you expecting?”
El Tigre picked up the mescal bottle and found it empty. He took another from a case near his feet and filled their cups again. Nick sipped at his, put it down, and waited. The other man drank off the mescal in a single gulp. He refilled his cup. He suppressed a hiccup with his fingers and stared at Nick. Slowly he moved the finger around the little gallery, from wall to wall.
“You see how I must live, Señor? Hiding in a mine like a rat. It is not good, it is not fitting, that El Tigre should live so. I am a college graduate, Señor, of the famous University of Mexico. Where, I admit, I majored in banditry.” White teeth glinted through the beard in a smile. “That is a joke, of course. I was a philosophy major.”
Nick could not resist the question, though he knew it was taking them away from the tack he wished to pursue. “Why, then, did you become a bandit?”
“Why indeed?” El Tigre filled Nick’s cup and pushed it toward him. “Drink!” It was a command. Nick drank. He was, without doubt, starting to get a buzz on. Have to watch it, he told himself. Just have to watch it, boy.
El Tigre hunched his big shoulders. “I do not know why I became a bandit. My mother loved me and I had no suppressed desire to go to bed with her. Not a trace of an Oedipus Complex did I have, Señor — by the way, what is your name?”
Nick told him his real name and added, “My cover name is Jamie McPherson. I’m supposed to be a gold bum, panning for a stake. Your brother will vouch for that, I think.”
“Nick Carter! I have heard of you, sir, in an underground sort of way. You are quite famous, I believe.” Nick could detect a glint of respect in the dark eyes. Respect and something else? Calculation? Was this character really as drunk as he seemed?
El Tigre picked up the pistol from his desk and pointed it at Nick in a loose, floppy sort of way. “But let us get back,” he said, “to why I became a bandit. A most interesting question and, as I said, I cannot really answer. I suppose a psychoanalyst (I spit in the milk of all psychoanalysts) would say that it is because someone stole my little red wagon when I was a child. Some such nonsense. But I never had a red wagon and if I had one and someone stole it, I would have killed him. No, Señor Carter, I had a most happy childhood. My people were well off and my mother, God rest her, was a saint. My father was not exactly a saint, but a good man nonetheless and I—”
El Tigre leveled the pistol at Nick’s feet and pulled the trigger. It was a .45 automatic and the roar filled the tiny gallery. Nick half started from the chair, sweat pouring from him, panic grabbing at him. He could not understand why he felt nothing. No shock, no pain, nothing.
Then he saw the huge rat. It was kicking in its death throes about three feet from the chair. The heavy slug had torn out its guts. Blood smeared the earth.
El Tigre was blowing smoke from the muzzle of the pistol. He grinned at Nick. “I hope I didn’t startle you, Señor? I hate rats. I shoot them all the time down here. There must be millions of them.”
The AXEman dug out his cruddy handkerchief and wiped sweat out of his eyes. His nerves were thrumming. He began to wonder if El Tigre was crazy as well as drunk. He picked up his cup and drained the rest of the mescal.
“You did startle me a bit,” he said. “But let’s get on with it, shall we? About the CIA.” He glanced at his watch. The hour hand was doing its regular job, on the regular course. It was five after nine. The Bitch would be waiting for him at the postern gate at midnight. Hah! There was about one chance in a thousand that he could keep that date.
But El Tigre, as he stood up now, did not sway or stagger. He seemed to shake off the effects of the deadly mescal with ease. “You will excuse me for a few moments, Señor. I must speak with my brother.” He thrust the pistol into its holster and left the room.
While he was gone Nick examined the books. History, philosophy, political science, biography — El Tigre was a great reader, an educated man. Therein, the AXEman thought, lay his best hope. He was not dealing with a mindless peasant consumed with greed and blood lust. Nick Carter’s sharp mind began to formulate a plan. A devious plan, one which entailed going against orders, but Hawk would understand. The situation had changed since his briefing in San Diego — how it had changed!
El Tigre came back. He seated himself at the desk again and poured mescal for both of them. Nick was aware of a pleasant euphoria now — watch that! — and the little gallery tilted every now and then. He was not yet drunk — but verging on it.
El Tigre selected a long maduro cigar from a box and handed the box to Nick. The AXEman lit up, then coughed. The stogie was strong enough to stand by itself.
“Pancho tells me you have been talking to La Perra, The Bitch from the castle, Señor?” El Tigre let blue smoke leak from his nostrils as he stared at Nick.
Nick nodded. They had been watching, of course. “Yes. We had a most interesting conversation. I am to be a guest at the castle — in fact I am to go there tonight at midnight.” He glanced at his watch. It was now nine-thirty. “With your permission, naturally. And I will need a guide. I do not know where I am.”
To his surprise El Tigre inclined his head a bit. “It is possible that you may keep that appointment. We shall see. I have much interest in The Bitch. You might say it amounts to an obsession. I wish to rape her. Rape her and loot her castle. I would have done it before this, but I have been behaving like a good boy because of the CIA promises. But now my patience is at an end — but let us take it in the proper order, Señor. Then, as you say, we may be able to help each other. Here, drink!”
Nick drank. The dead rat seemed to move, and a red and blue cloud was hovering in the squalid little room. Grimly he hung on to an inner sense of sobriety.
He leaned toward El Tigre, grinning. He felt wonderful.
“Tell me,” Nick said. “Tell me all about your deal with the CIA.”
El Tigre stared at the ceiling. His red lips pursed beneath the fringe of black beard and he blew a perfect smoke ring. “A pleasure, Señor. But first I repeat — I think they have this time fumbled the ball!”
“You’re telling me!”
Nick said it bitterly, and with feeling.
Chapter 7
A Die Is Cast
“Six months ago,” El Tigre said, “my fortunes were very low, Señor Carter. I had lost many men, the pickings were poor, and the Federal police — may I live to spit in their milk — were closing in on me. Since I am not a man to surrender, I was prepared to die. Then, suddenly, a miracle — the police ceased to pursue me. They sent a message to me — that if I remained in this area, and did not operate, I would not be bothered. I could not understand it.” He drank from the bottle and tossed it to Nick. Nick drank, wondering if yoga would do him any good in this, situation. If he went into a trance would it shake off the lethal effect of the mescal? He decided not.