Nik Karter - Night of the Warheads

Nick Carter stood at the villas massive upstairs window, gazing out at the softly falling snow. Smoke leaked from the corner of his mouth as his powerful shoulders shrugged deeper into the expensively cut white dinner jacket.

In the villas great room, behind and below where he stood, the gentle tinkle of china and silverware being set wafted up to his ears.

The table was being prepared for the dinner party Nicholas Carstocus was giving that evening.

Just a small gathering, select people, to celebrate my liberation from American taxes and the anniversary of my first month in the delightful little principality of Andorra!

Thats what he had told her.

Far below him, headlights pierced the darkness on the road leading up from Andorra-la-Vella, the countrys capital.

Its been quite a month, Carter thought, raising a glass of the harsh local red wine to his lips.

And tonight may put the icing on what had started out to be a piece of cake mission. Some you figure wrong...

The powerful little sports car slid to a halt in the courtyard below. The engine cut off abruptly, and the drivers side door opened to reveal a vision in white.

But Carter barely saw her. He was already halfway down the stairs and heading across the great room. He deposited the empty wineglass and his cigarette on a table in the foyer, and threw open the massive, copper-studded door.

She stood, smiling, her finger poised about to ring the bell.

Seorita de Nerro. I am delighted youre here.

Seor Carstocus.

Her white-gloved arm came up with the expertise and experience of her class. Carter accepted the long, tapering fingers in his and gently brushed the back of the glove with his lips.

His eyes meandered up from the white pumps, taking in the well-shaped legs and hips under the black and white silk dress. Her shoulders were encased in a white ermine stole that was deliciously parted in front to reveal the deep-cut vee of her bodice and the ample swell of her barely concealed breasts.

His eyes then found hers.

Nicholas, please... Nick would be even better.

Her smile broadened across even, white teeth. And I would prefer Armanda.

So be it, Carter said, stepping aside and lifting the stole from her shoulders as she passed by him into the foyer.

She was a tall woman, especially for a Latin. Her very long, very dark hair, where it now caressed her bare shoulders, had reddish highlights and just enough of a natural curl to make it bounce delightfully as she moved.

Seeing the empty room, she paused and slipped into a three-quarter turn.

I am early?

Not at all. I told you it was to be a very small dinner party.

Realization flooded her high forehead and black, doelike eyes. How small?

For two, Carter replied with a grin, passing the stole to a woman servant who had soundlessly appeared.

A low, throaty laugh erupted from Armandas slender throat. I am not surprised. Since your arrival in Andorra you have established quite a reputation as a man of wealth, mystery... and debauchery!

But, my dear Armanda, Carter said, his eyes brazenly raking the bulges of satiny flesh above her neckline, arent those the very reasons you accepted my invitation?

Her eyes met his in an unwavering gaze. Of course. And again the laugh that sent a little quiver up Carters spine.

Here was a woman of thirty who had debauched through every capital of Europe. A woman whose arts of seduction were legend and whose lovers had been cast aside, broken in heart and wallet.

And she was practically admitting that the very traits she had just laid on Carter were the traits that made him attractive.

It was going to be quite an evening.

Drink?

Wine, please, she said. But French. The local stuff turns my stomach.

Carter requested a bottle of French white by name and year from the old servant woman, who nodded and slipped away as soundlessly as she had arrived.

The balcony? Carter said, gesturing to the stairway. There is an excellent view of Andorra-la-Vella, as well as the great room of the villa.

Enchanting.

Carter moved his forearm under her hand, and together they mounted the stairs.

The snow had lightened a little now, and as was so often the case in the high mountains, there were breaks in the overcast that allowed some moonlight to pour through and illuminate the landscape.

The lights of Andorra-la-Vella and its sister village across the narrow river, Les Escaldes, burned like so many tiny beacons through the intermittent flakes of whiteness. Beyond the two villages, the valley stretched in peaceful slumber upward to the majestic white-capped peaks that surrounded it on all sides.

Its a beautiful country, Carter whispered at her shoulder.

She nodded, her strong chin and aristocratic nose barely bobbing. Do you know what Napoleon said when he decided to bypass Andorra in 1804?

No.

It is too amazing to invade. Let it stand as a museum piece!

Carter smiled but did not reply as the little Spanish woman scurried up the stairs with a tray, left it at Carters side, and departed.

Yes, perhaps Bonaparte had bypassed Andorra in his conquest of the world. But someone perhaps the Russians, perhaps one of the more powerful and ambitious Third World countries had decided to invade the tiny principality in a more modem way.

That was Nick Carters mission: find out who was suddenly interested in Andorra, find out what they were doing, and stop them.

To Andorra, Armanda de Nerro said, turning to Carter and raising her glass.

And beauty, Carter replied, lightly touching her glass to create a perfect ringing sound.

She sipped the wine and studied Carters rugged features over the rim of the glass.

You are Greek?

Greek-American, Carter replied and went on to let his memorized cover story unfold. I was born and raised in New York City, and lived there most of my life. About two years ago I emigrated to Paris.

And now you live in Andorra.

Not quite. Im taking a long vacation to see if the climate suits me. This villa is leased for six months.

Armanda slipped her eyes from his and turned back to the falling snow.

And you?

I live in Andorra so I can be near my own country.

Spain?

Yes.

But why dont you just live in Spain?

Her lovely dark head sagged slightly. That, seor, is a very long story.

Id like to hear it, Carter said and thought, to see if it agrees with what I already know!

Her dark eyes came up to fasten intently on his. And I, Nick, would like to hear why you left the land of plenty, the United States.

Touch, Carter said and reached for the bottle to refill their glasses. Perhaps, Armanda, before this evening is over, we will learn a great deal about each other.

Perhaps.

Her smile was like a thousand lights coming on at the same time. But oddly, Carter thought, it would not melt a single ice cube.

I seem to remember the name... Carstocus. Athens, I think...

Carter returned her steady gaze with a slight smile curving his lips. He offered no enlightenment.

Ah, yes, I remember now! A self-styled general. He was the leader of a band of rebel Communist guerrillas at the end of the war. He slaughtered Greeks and Germans alike as the Allies swept through Greece toward Bulgaria.

Carters smile broadened, but he did not alter the flat, noncommittal expression in his eyes. The woman was testing him. She had probably been briefed some time that day, or perhaps the day before, on his background and the story of Constantin Carstocus.