“Then I should be most desolate.” El Tigre pulled at his beard. “I have been counting on this rape for a long time. The Bitch is so — well, truly that. A bitch! Proud. Arrogant. She has used her riding crop on the peasants and Indians around here as if she owned them. I am going to humble that pride. I will make her scream and cry for mercy.”
Nick Carter shrugged. Why not? Gerda von Rothe was nothing to him, except as a lead to accomplishing his mission. And he was sure now that his real work, the source of all the mystery — of the counterfeit notes and the Golden Serpent Party — lay in or near the castle of El Mirador. So he would use El Tigre for his own ends. Just as El Tigre was using him.
The bandit chief was staring dreamily off into space, a cigar drooping from his mouth, the mescal bottle in his hand. He picked up something from the floor beside him and flung it at Nick. “I look at that picture every night before I go to sleep, Señor Carter. And promise myself I will one day have her. Now is the time.”
It was one of the slick American fashion magazines, tattered and ripped, the cover missing. The date was five years previous. There was a full-page layout showing Gerda von Rothe lounging by a swimming pool in a bikini. She looked like a Venus done by Botticelli, the lush and fleshy curves starkly revealed by the tiny suit. The caption read: “The Miracle of Sixty-five!”
Nick scanned the text with bleary eyes, the type writhing and undulating like a live thing. There was something about Black Oxen, and another fictional allusion, H. Rider Haggard’s She, and a lot more about the creams and strict health routine used by the fabulous von Rothe to hang on to her youth.
Killmaster — was he really Killmaster? — shoved the magazine back at El Tigre. The room was floating now. He was himself suspended a foot off the ground.
“Maybe,” he managed to say. “Maybe it’s true, but I still think it’s some trick.” He had to laugh.
“I hope not,” said El Tigre. “That would be most cruel of Fate. I have looked forward so much to the raping of this seventy-year-old woman. It will be the greatest of thrills — and I am a man who has had many thrills in my time. What are you doing, Señor Carter?”
“I,” said Señor Carter, “am going to throw up, amigo. Toss my cookies. I hope you will overlook my bad manners, but I am drunk. And that will not do. There is work to be done.”
“It is true,” agreed El Tigre, “that you are completamente borracho. I am sorry. It is, perhaps, that you do not have the head for drinking. But be my guest, Señor. As indeed you already are. Feel free to vomit to your heart’s content.”
As he spewed in a corner Nick found himself thinking that it was most unjust of El Tigre to denigrate his drinking ability. Nick Carter could drink with any man. Well, nearly any man. Then the hot gush filled his throat again and he thought of nothing. When at last he turned back to the desk, pale and shaking, he saw that El Tigre was on his feet. The bandit leader was canted to one side, like a bearded Tower of Pisa, but he was smiling.
“Come,” he told Nick. “Now we ride. I myself will take you to the castle. We will make our plans on the way. We will work together and each shall have what he wants. As you gringos say — you scrub my back and I will scrub yours, sí?”
“Sí.” He was feeling a little better. Whether he could stay on a horse remained to be seen.
El Tigre thrust out a big hand. “Now we will shake, my good friend. I like you. I trust you. You of AXE are of the salt of the earth. I spit in the milk of the CIA.”
They shook hands. El Tigre lurched out into the mine shaft and began bawling orders that sent the bandits scrambling about like wild men. Nick was given back the Webley.
It was Pancho, the younger brother, who insisted on the blindfold again. El Tigre could not have cared less. But Pancho, as he tied the bandana over Nick’s eyes, was as friendly as ever. “It is for your own protection, hombre. When the great one is borracho he forgets. But I do not. But if you do not know this place you cannot betray us and we will not have to kill you. Is it not so?”
Nick agreed that it was so.
“Let’s go!” yelled El Tigre. “We do not have all night. My amigo must not be late for his appointment with La Perra.”
It was a ride Killmaster was never to forget. This time he had a horse and a saddle with a pommel to hang on to, and it was just as well. El Tigre, with a long lead on Nick’s mount, took them at a furious pace. Sliding, slipping, climbing. Up hills and through ravines and over mesas. Finally the bandit reined in. “You can take off the blindfold now, amigo. We are nearly there.”
They were on a low butte overlooking the highway. A gibbous moon shed some faint light. In the distance Nick could see lights in El Mirador. The gate and guardhouse were in darkness. Probably intentional. He remembered the guard he had seen cleaning the Tommy gun.
He glanced at his watch, finally made it out to be eleven-thirty. Half an hour until he was to meet Gerda von Rothe at the postern gate.
“Now,” said El Tigre, “we will make our plans, amigo. They are very simple. Listen.”
They talked for fifteen minutes and reached complete agreement. Killmaster knew he had cast the die now, crossed the Rubicon, and there could be no turning back. He needed El Tigre and the bandit needed him. Each for their separate purposes. What Nick was going to do was illegal in the extreme — he was going to break a hell of a lot of laws. No help for it. In any case he and Hawk had agreed that he was to handle matters his own way. If he was wrong — well, that just didn’t bear thinking about.
El Tigre patted him on the knee. “It is time you go, amigo. I will see you at the appointed time. Buena suerte.”
Nick slid out of the saddle. He must go the rest of the way on foot, and very quietly. He shook hands with El Tigre. “Adiós.”
El Tigre leaned down toward the AXEman. “Be very careful, amigo. Most cautious. There is one thing I forgot to mention — we have seen The Bitch take many men into the castle. We have never seen any of the men come out.”
Thanks a lot, said Nick. Under his breath. He watched as El Tigre led the other horse away down the gentle back slope of the butte. Well — here it was. This was it.
He knew that he was still a little drunk. His head ached. But all in all he was in fair shape, considering the mescal he had put away. What a character, that El Tigre.
Killmaster took another look at his watch. Only ten of twelve now. Then he stiffened, his eyes on the hour hand of the watch. It was trembling, moving, in frenetic little jerks. The DF was working. Someone was using a powerful transmitter in the vicinity. The hour hand stopped at last, pointing directly at the castle.
Nick felt a sense of relief. His hunch was beginning to pay off.
Chapter 8
Sex in the Morning
Killmaster came awake as he always did, abruptly and in full possession of his faculties. He did not move and he did not open his eyes, but he knew where he was, how he had gotten there and why he was there. His head ached a trifle and his stomach was queasy — after-effects of the deadly mescal — but he did not really have a hangover.