Nick Carter
Killmaster
Law of the Lion
Dedicated to the men and women of the Secret Services of the United States of America
One
San Salvador, El Salvador
John Merton set up his equipment in the small, neatly manicured park just beyond the Sheraton El Salvador, at a comfortable distance from the boxlike encroachments of the shantytown and even less formal street camps and cooking fires that had sprung up like mushrooms along the main roads to the central city.
He fiddled with the dial of his ghetto blaster, switching quickly from some piercing rhetoric about the forthcoming elections to a musical lament sung by a man who was complaining that his senorita had lost that lovin' feeling. Moving the dial a bit more toward 88.1 MHz, he got what he really wanted: talk radio that was no part of the ordinary broadcast band. Instead, Merton tuned in on an animated conversation among three men sitting at a sprawling sidewalk cafe about half a block away.
Dressed as a tourist, Merton had comfortable walking shoes, a new white guayabera shirt, and an auto everything camera. The shoeshine kids and the young girls selling packets of gum were swarming over him and that was just fine. Tourist they wanted, tourist they'd get. It gave him just the kind of cover he wanted. The tape cassette in the ghetto blaster was recording the conversation of his quarries, two contra captains wanting to «invest» some American humanitarian relief funds. They were joined by a skinny little guy who was showing them floor plans and a prospectus for a condo in Fort Lauderdale. Of course, if the two illustrious contradores were serious about wanting a completely different kind of climate than the tropics, why here was a splendid deal in Mammoth, California, that included an unlimited lift ticket during ski season.
Merton smiled. This was great equipment and an even greater opportunity to nail two leeches who abused their power to further their own personal fortunes.
It was all going down beautifully and he was getting it. One of the more satisfying pieces of work in some time.
And then a tortured stage whisper sounded behind him. "I've got to talk to you, Merton."
The mention of his name jabbed like a bee sting. Merton turned to see a man in his late forties lurching toward him, the latest in the procession of people wanting to sell the gringo something. Only this shambling, stumbling drunk was no stranger, not really a drunk. His eyes blazed with conviction. "Please."
"You idiot," Merton hissed. "I'm working."
"This is front-rank stuff," the man said. "Worth risking whatever you've got going down."
"Your credibility is all used up, Prentiss."
"I'm not selling this time," Prentiss said, "I'm giving. No strings. This is to buy back my self-respect."
"Your so-called self-respect could get us killed. Now bug off."
"This will show you how serious I am." Prentiss calculated the trajectory, then tossed a small chamois pouch toward Merton. When the pouch landed, two uncut diamonds the size of robin's eggs tumbled forth.
Before Merton could adjust to this development, a well-built man in jeans and a black T-shirt emerged from behind some shrubbery, snapping a modification in place on an AR-15 Colt with well-practiced ease, converting it to the power of an M-16. He, too, had sound equipment — what appeared to be a Walkman with an earplug. "Merton's right, Prentiss. Your self-respect has gotten you killed." He put a short burst in Merton's chest. An equally short burst caught Prentiss in the throat.
While the assailant moved in to scoop up the diamonds, Prentiss managed to trace two letters — LT — in the ground before him, roll over on top of them, and die.
Covington, Kentucky
Sam Zachary still wasn't sure how much of Sheriff Shelton's good-old-boy routine was real or how far he ought to push the sheriff in order to find out. Big fellow, dressed right out of a Banana Republic catalogue. Flop-brimmed Aussie hat. Right foot wrapped in several yards of beige Ace bandage. Could be an occupation-related wound. But judging by the way the sheriff liked to eat, it could also be old-fashioned gout.
No question about Milner, the general manager of the River View Inn. Aviator-type sunglasses, white tassel loafers, knit shirt complete with tiny alligator, a tennis sweater draped over his shoulders. In all probability he used Grecian Formula to keep the boyish, earnest young jock effect suggested by his razor-cut light brown hair. Zachary almost gagged when he caught the pinky ring with a baby blue stone.
"One more time, just to make sure I get it," Sam Zachary said. "You have no idea where Arriosto's body is now, and no one" — he looked meaningfully at Sheriff Shelton — "no one kept tabs on the little lady?" A tall man with a lean, runner's body, Zachary watched Milner giving him the once-over, checking out Zachary's gabardine twills and the lightweight blazer tailored on Savile Row.
"Miss Crystal," Milner said, wanting to be helpful.
"No one kept tabs on Miss Crystal," Sheriff Shelton said, sounding, Zachary thought, as though he were explaining something to a small child. "No one kept tabs because we all felt she showed great responsibility, calling us in the first place."
Zachary started counting to ten.
"That little lady gave mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and even tried the Heimlich maneuver," Sheriff Shelton continued. "She stuck around until we arrived and pronounced the, uh, the guest dead of apparently natural causes." There was a great, resonant sadness in his voice.
"Is that what you folks call it around here, 'apparently natural causes'? Any tourist who dies in Covington, it's natural?" Zachary stared at Sheriff Shelton. "Hey, I can understand an attitude like that, but the truth in this case is another matter. We'll never know about the cause of death if the body is missing and we can't do an autopsy."
Sam Zachary looked about the deluxe garden suite where Guillermo Arriosto had died. Lots of empty bottles lying around. Good booze. Glenlivet. Stolichnaya. Several brands of beer. Any number of foreign brands as well as Hudephol, a quite acceptable local beer from nearby Cincinnati. Good snacks.
Zachary got up and poked idly about the king-sized bed. He looked up at the round mirror on the ceiling. A large color TV set had a huge placard announcing that you weren't limited to such ordinary fare as dish antenna and cable TV stuff. You could have adult entertainment simply by turning the TV dial to 3 and following the simple instructions.
There was lots of lingerie draped all over the place. Sam Zachary lifted a black stocking. Real silk from the feel of it. Arriosto had liked his pleasures. "Looks like the little lady left in a hurry."
"Actually," Milner said, "she was wearing — she was completely dressed when she left. I think Mr. Arriosto brought this and other accouterments with him."
"And you say he paid for everything in cash? No credit cards?"
"All cash," Milner said, nodding. "When he checked in, he told us what his requirements were and I thought a cash transaction would be the best for all of us."
"When he mentioned his, uh, requirements," Zachary said, "did they include this young lady? Miss Crystal?"
Sheriff Shelton stood, gingerly resting his weight on a cane and trying to protect his right foot. The big fellow seemed agile in spite of his problem. "We've been pretty straight with you, Zachary. For my part, I can't help wondering why the Justice Department should be so interested in an apparently natural occurrence. We make no bones about the entertainment available here in Covington. A man runs a successful car dealership in Phoenix and wants to come here and cut loose, we like to see he gets his money's worth. We like to cooperate, but it seems to me the Justice people have no jurisdiction in this — this apparently sad case where a man simply bit off more than he could chew."