Safari for Spies

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There was not, so far as he knew, the slightest reason for anyone outside his official reception committee to be waiting for him in Dakar, but somebody else most certainly was. And it was much too early in the game for that.

Nicholas J. Huntington Carter stepped off the Jet into the cool African morning feeling both overdressed and oddly naked. New Panama hat, slim briefcase practically covered with initials, bone-handled walking cane to match the stiffness of his back... all this, when all he really felt like wearing was a set of bush khakis and a knotted handkerchief. But what the hell. This was a job, not a picnic. And it was going to be a sticky one, for all the diplomatic camouflage.

Something about using his own name made him feel stripped to the buff yet painted over with signs blazoning out his identity and purpose, HI, SPY! the invisible label announced. THE NAME IS CARTER. NICK CARTER. SECRET AGENT N-3, KILLMASTER FOR AXE. Beneath, in smaller print, the imaginary sign confided the inscription across his chest: TROUBLESHOOTER WITH LICENSE TO KILL. He could almost read the tempting invitation offering him as a target to anyone on the opposite side of the espionage fence. COME AND GET ME, RED, said the bullseye over his heart. READY, AIM, FIRE!

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