The sun always shines in Acapulco. In a small hotel room overlooking a white-sand beach, Nick Carter, number one Killmaster for AXE, watched the red ball of setting sun splash its color over the sea. He enjoyed the sight and rarely missed it, but he’d been in Acapulco a month now and he felt uneasy restlessness building inside him.
Hawk had insisted he take this time off, and Nick was all for it at first. But a month was too long for the idle life. He needed an assignment.
Killmaster turned from the window, already darkening in dusk, to gaze at the ugly black phone on the nightstand. He almost wished it would ring.
A rustle of bed sheets sounded at his back. Nick completed his turn to face the bed. Laura Best held her long tanned arms out to him.
“Again, darling,” she said in a voice husky with sleep.
Nick went into her arms, his powerful chest crushing her perfectly formed naked breasts. He worked his lips over hers, tasting sleep on her breath. Laura moved her mouth eagerly. With her toes she inched the sheet down from between them. The movement excited them both. Laura Best was an expert at making love. Her legs, like her breasts — indeed like all of her — were perfectly formed. Her face held a childlike beauty containing both innocence and wisdom and, at times, open desire. Nick Carter had never known a more complete woman. She was all things to all men. She had beauty. She was rich, thanks to the oil fortune left to her by her father. She had brains. She was one of the international Beautiful People, or as Nick preferred, Jet-Set leftovers. Making love was her sport, her hobby, her vocation. For the past three weeks she’d been telling her international friends she was madly in love with Arthur Porges, buyer and seller of government surplus goods. Arthur Porges happened to be Nick Carter’s present cover.
Nick Carter also had few equals in the love-making department. Few things satisfied him quite as much as making love to a beautiful woman. Making love to Laura Best satisfied him completely. And yet—
“Oh!” Laura cried. “Now, darling! Now!” She arched against him, raking her fingernails across his tight-muscled back.
And when they had completed their love act together, she went limp and fell away from him, panting.
She opened her large brown eyes, looking up at him. “God, that was good! That was the best yet.” Her eyes swept over his chest. “You never get tired, do you?”
Nick smiled. “I get tired.” He lay beside her, pulled one of his gold-tipped cigarettes from the nightstand, lit it and offered it to her.
Laura raised herself on one elbow to see his face better. She shook her head at the cigarette. “The woman who makes you tired will have to be more woman than I am.”
“There aren’t any,” Nick said. He said it partly because he believed it and partly because he figured she wanted to hear it.
She returned his smile. He’d been right.
“That was clever of you,” she said tracing his nose with her index finger. “You always say the right thing at the right time, don’t you?”
Nick took a deep drag from the cigarette. “You’re a woman who knows men, I’ll give you that” And he was a man who knew women.
Laura Best studied him, a faraway glaze filming her large eyes. Her auburn hair cascaded over her left shoulder, almost covering her breast. The index finger slid lightly over his lips, his throat; she spread the palm of her hand on his massive chest. Finally she said, “You know I love you, don’t you?”
Nick didn’t want the conversation to go in the direction it was heading. When he first met Laura, she told him not to expect too much. Their relationship was going to be strictly for laughs. They’d enjoy each other fully, and when that paled they’d part good friends. No emotional hang-ups, no sticky theatrics. She went for him and he went for her. They’d make love and have fun. Period. It was the philosophy of the Beautiful People. And Nick more than went for the idea. He had a break between assignments. Laura was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever met. Fun was the name of the game.
But recently she’d become moody. At twenty-two she had already been married and divorced three times. She spoke of her past husbands as a hunter speaks of his trophies. For Laura to love, Laura had to possess. And for Nick, that was the one flaw in her perfection.
“Don’t you?” Laura repeated. Her eyes were searching his.
Nick mashed the cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand. “Feel like a moonlight swim?” he asked.
Laura flopped down on the bed beside him. “Damn it! Can’t you tell when I’m trying to propose to you?”
“Propose what?”
“Marriage, of course. I want you to marry me, to take me away from all this.”
Nick grinned. “Let’s go for a moonlight swim.”
Laura did not return his grin. “Not until I get an answer.”
The phone rang.
With relief, Nick moved toward it. Laura caught his arm, holding it.
“You’re not picking up that phone until I get an answer.”
With his free hand, Nick easily loosened her tight grasp on his arm. He picked up the phone, hoping to hear the voice of Hawk.
“Art, dahling,” a female voice said with a slight German accent. “May I speak to Laura, please?”
Nick recognized the voice as Sonny’s, another Jet-Set leftover. He handed the phone to Laura. “It’s Sonny.”
Angrily, Laura jumped out of bed, stuck her pretty tongue out at Nick, put the phone to her ear. “Damn you, Sonny. You picked a hell of a time to call.”
Nick stood by the window looking at but not seeing whitecaps faintly visible over the dark sea. He knew this would be the last night he would spend with Laura. Whether Hawk called or not, their relationship was over. Nick was slightly angry with himself for allowing it to go as far as it had.
Laura hung up the phone. “We’re taking a boat to Puerta Vallarta in the morning.” She said it easily, naturally. She made the plans. “I guess I should start packing.” She stepped into panties, picked up her bra. Her face had a concentrated look, as though she were thinking hard.
Nick crossed to his cigarettes, lit another one. This time he didn’t offer her one.
“Well?” Laura asked. She was fastening the bra.
“Well what?”
“When do we get married?”
Nick almost choked on the cigarette smoke he’d inhaled.
“Puerta Vallarta would be a good place,” she continued. She was still making the plans.
The phone rang again.
Nick picked it up. “Yes?”
He recognized Hawk’s voice immediately. “Mr. Porges?”
“Yes.”
“This is Thompson. I understand you have forty tons of pig iron for sale.”
“That’s right.”
“If the price is right, I might be interested in buying ten tons of it. You know where my office is?”
“Yes,” Nick answered with a broad smile. Hawk wanted him at ten o’clock. But ten o’clock tonight, or tomorrow morning? “Will tomorrow morning be soon enough?” he asked.
“Well,” Hawk hesitated. “I have several meetings tomorrow.”
Nick didn’t have to be told any more. Whatever the chief had for him, it was urgent. Killmaster stole a glance at Laura. Her lovely face was tense. She watched him anxiously.
“I’ll catch the next plane out of here,” he said.
“That will be fine.”
They hung up together.
Nick turned to Laura. If she had been Georgette, or Swee Ching, or any other of Nick’s girls, she would pout and kick up a small fuss. But they would part friends and promise each other that next time would last longer. It wouldn’t work that way with Laura, though. He had never known anyone quite like her. With her it had to be all or nothing. She was rich and spoiled, and used to having her own way.
Laura cut a fine figure standing in her bra and panties, her hand on her hips.
“So?” she said with raised eyebrows. Her face held the look of a small child watching something she wanted being taken away from her.
Nick wished to make this as painless and short as possible. “If you’re going to Puerta Vallarta, you’d better start packing. Goodbye, Laura.”
Her hands dropped to her sides. Her lower lip began to quiver slightly. “It’s over, then?”
“Yes.”
“Completely?”
“Completely,” Nick knew she could never be another one of his girls. The break with her would have to be final. He put out the cigarette he’d been smoking, and waited. If she was going to explode, he was ready for it.
Laura shrugged, gave him a weak smile and began unfastening her bra. “Then let’s make this last time the best ever,” she said.
They made love, gently at first, then violently, each taking from the other everything there was to give. It was their last time together; they both knew it. And Laura cried the whole time, her tears running down her temples wetting the pillow under her. But she had been right. It was the best ever.
At ten past ten Nick Carter entered a small office in the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services building on Dupont Circle. It was snowing in Washington, and the shoulders of his topcoat were damp. The office smelled of stale cigar smoke, yet the short black stub stuck between Hawk’s teeth remained unlit.
Hawk sat behind a dimly lit desk, his icy eyes studying Nick closely. He watched Nick hang up the topcoat and take a seat opposite him.
Nick had already filed Laura Best along with his Arthur Porges cover in the memory bank of his mind. He could recall the memory when he wanted it, but most likely it would merely rest there. He was Nick Carter now, N3, Killmaster for AXE. Pierre, his tiny gas bomb, hung in its favorite place between his legs like a third testicle. Hugo, the thin stiletto, was firmly fixed on his arm, ready to fit his hand if he needed it. And Wilhelmina, his 9mm stripped Luger, rested snugly under his left armpit. His brain was tuned to Hawk, his tight-muscled body waited for action. He was armed and ready for work.
Hawk shut the folder and leaned back in his chair. He pulled the ugly black stub out of his mouth, studied it with distaste and threw it into the trash can alongside his desk. Almost immediately he had another cigar between his teeth and his leathery face became clouded by smoke.
“Nick, I’ve got a tough one for you,” he said suddenly.
Nick didn’t even try to hide his smile. Both men knew N3 always got the tough ones.
Hawk went on. “Does the word ‘melanosomes’ mean anything to you?”
Nick recalled reading the word some time ago. “Has something to do with skin pigment, doesn’t it?”
Hawk’s genial face creased in a smile of satisfaction. “Close enough,” he said. He opened the folder in front of him. “Don’t let these ten-dollar words throw you.” He began reading. “In 1966, using an electron microscope, Professor John Loo discovered a method of isolating and characterizing such skin diseases as melanoma, cellular blue Nevus, albinism and others. While important in itself, the true value in this discovery was that by knowing and isolating these diseases, diagnosing more serious ailments became easier.” Hawk looked up at Nick from the folder. “That was in 1966.”
Nick leaned forward, waiting. He knew the chief was building up to something. He also knew everything Hawk said was important. Cigar smoke hung in the small office like a blue fog.
“Up until yesterday,” Hawk said, “Professor Loo was working as dermatologist with NASA’s Venus program. Working with ultraviolet light and other forms of radiation, he was perfecting a compound more sophisticated than benzophenones in screening harmful rays from the skin. If he’s successful, he will have a compound that protects the skin from sunrays, blisters, heat and radiation.” Hawk closed the folder. “I don’t have to tell you the value of such a compound.”
Nick’s brain digested the information. No, he didn’t have to be told. Its value to NASA was obvious. In the tiny cockpits of space vehicles, astronauts were sometimes subjected to harmful rays. With the new compound the rays could be made harmless. Medically, its use could be extended to blisters and burns. The possibilities seemed unlimited.
But Hawk had said up until yesterday. “What happened yesterday?” Killmaster asked.
Hawk stood, crossed to the bleak window. With light snow flurries and darkness there was nothing to see but the reflection of his own wiry frame clothed in a loose-fitting, wrinkled suit. He took a deep drag on the cigar and blew smoke at the reflection. “Yesterday, Professor John Loo flew to Hong Kong.” The chief turned to face Nick. “Yesterday, Professor John Loo announced he was defecting to the Chi Corns!”
Nick lit one of his gold-tipped cigarettes. He understood the gravity of such a defection. If the compound was perfected in China, its most obvious value would be skin protection against nuclear radiation. China already had an H-bomb. Such protection for them might be the green light for using their bombs. “Anyone know why the professor decided to defect?” Nick asked.
Hawk shrugged. “Nobody — not NASA, the FBI, the CIA — nobody can come up with a reason. Day before yesterday, he reports for work and the day goes fine. Yesterday he announces in Hong Kong that he’s going to defect. We know where he is, but he won’t see anyone.”
“How about his past?” Nick asked. “Anything Communist there?”
The cigar had gone out. Hawk chewed on it while he talked. “Nothing. He’s a Chinese-American, born in San Francisco’s Chinatown. Got his degree at Berkeley, married the girl he met there, went to work for NASA in 1967. He has a twelve-year-old son. Like most scientists, he has no political involvements. He’s devoted to two things: his work and his family. His son plays shortstop in the Little League. On his vacations he takes his family deep-sea fishing on the Gulf in their eighteen-foot outboard.” The chief sat back in his chair. “No, there’s nothing in his past.”
Killmaster mashed out the stub of his cigarette. Smoke hung thick in the tiny office. The radiator put out a moist heat and Nick felt himself sweating slightly. “The reason has to be either his work or his family,” he said.
Hawk nodded. “That’s the way I figure it. We have a bit of a problem, though. The CIA has informed us they have no intention of letting him work on that compound in China. If the Chi Corns get him in, the CIA will send an agent to kill him.”
Nick had figured something like that. It was not an uncommon practice. AXE had even done it occasionally. When everything failed to get a defector back, and if he was important enough, the final move would be to kill him. If the agent didn’t make it back — too bad. Agents were dispensable.
“The point is,” Hawk said, “NASA wants him back. He’s a brilliant scientist, and he’s young enough so that what he’s working on now will be just the beginning.” He gave Nick a smile without humor. “That is your assignment, N3. Use anything short of kidnapping, but get him back!”
“Yes sir.”
Hawk pulled the cigar stub from between his teeth. It joined the other in the trash can. “Professor Loo had a fellow dermatologist working with him at NASA. They were good working friends, but because of security they never got together socially. His name is Chris Wilson. That will be your cover. It might open the door for you in Hong Kong.”
“What about the professor’s family?” Nick asked.
“Far as we know, his wife is still in Orlando. We’ll give you her address. She’s already been interviewed, though, and she couldn’t give us anything useful.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to try.”
Hawk’s icy stare had approval in it. N3 accepted little on the words of others. Nothing was exhausted until he personally had tried it. That was only one reason why Nick Carter was AXE’s number-one agent. “Our departments are at your complete disposal,” Hawk said. “Get whatever you need. Good luck, Nick.”
Nick was already standing. “I’ll do my best, sir.” He knew the chief never expected any more, or less, than his best.
From AXE’s Special Effects and Editing Department Nick got the two disguises he figured he’d need. One was Chris Wilson, which was merely a matter of clothing, some padding here and there, and a few changes in mannerisms. The other, to be used later, was a bit more complicated. He had everything he needed — clothing and make-up — stored in the secret compartment of his luggage.
At Documents he committed to memory a two-hour, tape-recorded lecture on Chris Wilson’s work at NASA, along with everything personal AXE knew about the man. He received the necessary passport and papers.
By noon a slightly pudgy, bespeckled, new Chris Wilson boarded the Boeing 707, Flight 27, to Orlando, Florida.
CHAPTER TWO
As the plane circled Washington for the turn south, Nick noticed the snow had let up slightly. Patches of blue sky peeked through the clouds, and as the plane gained altitude, his window brightened with sunlight. He settled himself in his seat, and when the No Smoking light went out, he lit one of his cigarettes.
Several things seemed odd about Professor Loo’s defection. For one, why wasn’t the professor taking his family with him? If the Chi Corns were offering him a better life, it seemed logical that he’d want his wife and son to share it with him. Unless, of course, his wife was the reason behind his defection.
Another puzzling thing was how the Chi Corns knew the professor was working on that skin compound. NASA had a strict security system. Everyone who worked for them was screened thoroughly. Yet the Chi Corns knew about the compound, and convinced Professor Loo to perfect it for them. How? What could they offer him that the Americans couldn’t match?
Nick intended to find answers. He also intended to get the professor back. Once the CIA sent their agent to kill the man, it would mean Nick had failed — and Nick had no intention of failing.
Nick had had dealings with defectors before. He found they defected for greed, or they were running from something, or they were running to something. In the case of Professor Loo there could be several reasons. Number one, of course — money. Maybe the Chi Corns promised him a lump-sum deal for the compound. Certainly NASA wasn’t the highest paying outfit around. And everyone can always use a little extra scratch.
Then there were marital troubles. Nick guessed every married man had problems with his marriage at one time or another. Maybe his wife was sleeping around. Maybe the Chi Corns had someone better for him. It could be he was just disgusted with his marriage and this looked like the easiest way out. Two things were important to him— his family and his work. If he felt his family was breaking up, that might be enough to send him over. If not, it was his work. As a scientist, he probably demanded a certain amount of freedom in his work. Maybe the Chi Corns offered unlimited freedom, unlimited facilities. That would be an incentive for any scientist.
The more Killmaster thought about it, the more possibilities cropped up. The relationship the man had with his son; overdue bills and repossession threats; disgust with American political policies. All maybes, perhaps, and probablys.
Of course the Chi Corns could actually be forcing the professor to defect, threatening him in some way. To hell with it, Nick thought. As always, he would play it by ear, using his talents, weapons and brains.
Nick Carter stared at the slow-moving landscape far below his window. He had not slept in forty-eight hours. Using yoga, Nick concentrated on the complete relaxation of his body. His mind remained tuned to his surroundings, but he forced his body to go limp. Every muscle, every fiber, every cell completely relaxed. To anyone watching, he looked like a man in deep slumber, yet his eyes were open, his brain conscious.
But his relaxing was not to be. The stewardess interrupted him.
“Are you all right, Mr. Wilson?” she asked.
“Yes, fine,” Nick said. The muscles in his body tightened again.
“I thought you had fainted. Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you.”
She was a lovely creature, almond-eyed, with high cheekbones and rich, full lips. The airline’s liberal uniform policy allowed her blouse to wrap itself tightly around her large protruding breasts. She wore a girdle because it was demanded by all airlines. But Nick doubted if she wore one except while working. She certainly didn’t need it.
The stewardess grew embarrassed under his gaze. Nick’s ego was enough to know that even with thick glasses and a thick middle, he still had an effect on women.
“We’ll be in Orlando soon,” she said, a slight flush in her cheeks.
As she moved down the aisle in front of him, the short skirt revealed long, nicely tapered legs, and Nick blessed short skirts. He thought momentarily of asking her to dinner. But he knew there would be no time. When he had finished his interview with Mrs. Loo, there was a plane to catch for Hong Kong.
At the small airport in Orlando, Nick stored his baggage in a locker, and gave the professor’s home address to a taxi driver. He felt slightly uncomfortable as he settled in the back seat of the taxi. The air was muggy and hot, and although Nick had shed his topcoat, he still wore a heavy suit. And all that padding around his waist didn’t help much, either.
The house sat squeezed between other houses just like it that lined both sides of the block. Because of the heat, sprinklers were going in front of almost every one. The lawns looked well manicured and richly green. Gutter water flowed down both sides of the street, and concrete sidewalks usually white had darkened with wetness from the sprinklers. A short sidewalk ran from the front porch to the curb. As soon as Nick paid the taxi driver, he had a feeling he was being watched. It started with the fine hair bristling on the back of his neck. A slight, prickly chill went through him, then quickly left. Nick faced the house just in time to see a curtain flow back into place. Killmaster knew he was expected.
Nick didn’t particularly care for this interviewing business, especially with housewives. As Hawk had pointed out, she’d already been interviewed and could offer nothing useful.
As Nick approached the door, he fixed his face to reveal his widest, boyish grin. He pushed the bell once. The door opened immediately and he was face-to-face with Mrs. John Loo.
“Mrs. Loo?” Killmaster asked. When he got a short nod, he said, “My name is Chris Wilson. I worked with your husband. I wonder if I might chat with you awhile.”
“Chat?” Her brow wrinkled into a frown.
Nick’s grin remained frozen on his face. “Yes. John and I were good friends. I can’t understand why he would do such a thing.”
“I’ve already talked with someone from NASA.” She made no move to open the door wider or to invite him in.
“Yes,” Nick said. “I’m sure you have.” He could understand her hostility. The husband’s leaving was hard enough on, her without being pestered by CIA, FBI, NASA, and now him. Killmaster felt like the ass he was pretending to be. “If I could just talk to you…” He let the words trail off.
Mrs. Loo sighed deeply. “Very well. Come in.” She opened the door, stepping back slightly.
Once inside, Nick stood awkwardly in the foyer. It was slightly cooler in the house. He had his first real look at Mrs. Loo.
She was short, under five feet. Nick guessed her age to be in the middle or late thirties. Her raven hair lay in thick swirls on top of her head, trying to give an illusion of height but not quite carrying it off. The curves of her body blended into a stout roundness, not thick especially, but heavier than normal. She looked about twenty-five pounds overweight. Her Oriental eyes were her most outstanding feature, and she knew it. They were meticulously made up with just the right amount of liner and shadow. Mrs. Loo wore no lipstick, no other make-up. Her ears were pierced, yet no earrings hung from them.
“Step into the living room, please,” she said.
The living room contained modern furniture, and, like the foyer, was thickly carpeted. An Oriental design swirled this way and that through the carpet, but Nick noticed the carpet design was the only Oriental thing in the room.
Mrs. Loo motioned Killmaster to the fragile-looking divan, and took a chair opposite him. “I think I told the others everything I know.”
“I’m sure you did,” Nick said, breaking his grin for the first time. “But this is for my own conscience. John and I worked closely together. I’d hate to think he did this because of something I said or did.”
“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Loo said.
Like most housewives, Mrs. Loo wore pants. On top she had on a man’s shirt too large for her. Nick liked baggy shirts on women, especially the kind that buttoned down the front. He disliked pants on women. They belonged in dresses or skirts.
Serious now, the grin completely gone, he said, “Can you think of any reason why John would want to defect?”
“No,” she said. “But if it will set your mind at ease, I doubt if it had anything to do with you.”
“Then it must have been something here at home.”
“I really couldn’t say.” Mrs. Loo had become nervous. She sat with her legs tucked under her, and kept twisting the wedding band around her finger.
The glasses Nick wore felt heavy on the bridge of his nose. But they reminded him of who he was pretending to be. In a situation like this it would be too easy to start asking questions like Nick Carter. He crossed his legs and rubbed his chin. “I can’t get over the feeling that somehow I caused all this. John liked his work. He was devoted to you and the boy. What reason could he have had for Mrs. Loo said a bit impatiently, “Whatever his reasons, I’m sure they were personal.”
“Of course,” Nick knew she was trying to conclude this conversation. But he wasn’t quite ready yet. “Did anything happen here at home in the last few days?”
“What do you mean?” Her eyes narrowed and she studied him closely. She was on her guard.
“Marriage problems,” Nick said bluntly.
Her lips tightened. “Mr. Wilson, I don’t think that is any of your business. Whatever reason my husband has for wanting to defect can be found at NASA, not here.”
She was growing angry. That was all right with Nick. Angry people sometimes said things they wouldn’t normally say. “Do you know what he was working on at NASA?”
“Of course not. He never talked about his work.”
If she didn’t know anything about his work, then what made her blame NASA for his wanting to defect? Was it because she felt their marriage was so good it had to be his work? Nick decided to pursue another line. “If John does defect, will you and the boy join him?”
Mrs. Loo straightened her legs and sat stiffly in the chair. The palms of her hands were sweating. She alternated between rubbing her hands and twisting the ring. She had checked her anger, but she was still nervous. “No,” she said calmly. “I’m an American. My place is here.”
“What will you do, then?”
“Divorce him. Try to find another life for me and the boy.”
“I see.” Hawk had been right. Nick wasn’t going to learn anything here. For some reason Mrs. Loo was on her guard.
“Well, I won’t take up any more of your time.” He stood, thankful for the chance. “May I use your phone to call a taxi?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Loo seemed to relax a little. Nick could almost see the tension go out of her face.
As Killmaster was about to reach for the phone he heard a door slam somewhere toward the back of the house. A few seconds later a boy came bounding into the living room.
“Mom, I…” The boy saw Nick and froze. He shot a quick glance toward his mother.
“Mike,” Mrs. Loo said, nervous again. “This is Mr. Wilson. He worked with your father. He’s here to ask questions about your father. Do you understand, Mike? He is here to ask questions about your father.” She had emphasized those last words.
“I understand,” Mike said. He looked up at Nick, his eyes holding the same guarded look as his mother’s.
Nick gave the boy a friendly smile. “Hello, Mike.”
“Hello.” Tiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead. A baseball glove hung from his belt. The resemblance to his mother was obvious.
“Getting a little early practice?” Nick asked, pointing to the glove.
“Yes, sir.”
Nick took a chance. He took two steps so that he stood between the boy and his mother. “Tell me, Mike,” he said. “Do you know why your father left?”
The boy shut his eyes. “My father left because of his work.” It sounded well rehearsed.
“Did you get along with your father?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mrs. Loo stood. “I think you had better leave,” she said to Nick.
Killmaster nodded. He picked up the phone, called for a taxi. When he had hung up, he faced the pair. Something was wrong here. They both knew more than they were telling. Nick guessed it was one of two things. Either they were both going to join the professor, or they were the cause of his defection. One thing was certain, he wasn’t going to learn anything from them. They didn’t believe or trust him. All they would tell him were their canned, rehearsed speeches.
Nick decided to leave them with a mild shock. “Mrs. Loo, I’m flying to Hong Kong to talk with John. Any messages?”
She blinked once, and for an instant her facial expression changed. But the instant passed and the guarded look returned. “No messages,” she said.
The taxi pulled up outside and honked. Nick started for the door. “No need to show me the way out.” He felt them watching him until he closed the door behind him. Outside, in the heat once again, he felt rather than saw the curtain being pulled aside from the window. They watched him as the taxi pulled away from the curb.
In the muggy heat once again, rolling toward the airport, Nick removed his thick, horn-rimmed glasses. He was not used to glasses. The gelatin padding around his waist, formed to look like part of his skin, was like a plastic bag around him. No air got to his skin, and he found himself sweating heavily. The heat in Florida was not like the heat in Mexico.
Nick’s mind was filled with unanswered questions. They were a strange pair, those two. Not once during the visit had Mrs. Loo said that she wanted her husband back. And she had no message for him. That meant she was probably joining him later. But that didn’t sound right either. Their attitude suggested that as far as they were concerned he was already gone, and for good. No, there was something else, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
CHAPTER THREE
Killmaster had to change planes twice, once in Miami and again in Los Angeles, before he caught a direct flight to Hong Kong. Once over the Pacific, he tried to relax, to get some sleep. But again this was not to be; he could feel the fine hair on the back of his neck bristle again. A chill ran through him as before. He was being watched.
Nick stood and walked slowly down the aisle toward the rest rooms, his eyes scanning faces on each side of him. The plane was more than half-filled with Orientals. Some slept, others stared out their dark windows, still others glanced at him idly as he passed. None turned to look at him after he had gone by, and none had the look of a watcher. Once inside the rest room, Nick splashed cold water on his face. In the mirror he looked at the reflection of his handsome features, deeply tanned by the Mexican sun. Was it his imagination? He knew better. Someone on the plane was watching him, all right. Had the watcher been with him in Orlando? Miami? Los Angeles? Where had Nick picked him up? He wasn’t going to find the answer looking at his face in the mirror.
Nick returned to his seat watching the backs of heads. No one seemed to have missed him.
The stewardess came to him just as he was lighting one of his gold-tipped cigarettes.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Wilson?” she asked.
“Couldn’t be better,” Nick replied, giving her a wide grin.
She was English, small-breasted and long-legged. Her fair skin reeked with health. Bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, she had the type of bubbly personality that everything she felt, thought and wanted was shown in her face. And there was no doubt as to what was written on her face right now.
“Is there anything I can get you?” she asked.
It was a leading question, meaning anything at all, just ask: coffee, tea or me. Nick considered it seriously. A crowded plane, more than forty-eight hours without sleep, too many things were against it. He needed rest, not romance. Yet, he didn’t want to close the door completely.
“Maybe later,” he said finally.
“Of course.” A trace of disappointment showed in her eyes, but she smiled warmly at him and moved on.
Nick settled back in his seat. Surprisingly, he was becoming used to the gelatin belt around his waist. The glasses still bothered him, though, and he removed them to wipe the lenses.
He felt a little sorrow over the stewardess. He didn’t even have her name. If “later” did come about, how would he locate her? He would get her name and where she would be for the following month before he got off the plane.
The chill hit him again. Damn it, he thought, there should be some way to find out who was watching him. He knew if he really wanted to there were ways of finding out. He doubted the person would try anything on the plane. Maybe they expected him to lead them straight to the professor. Well, when they reached Hong Kong he had a few surprises for whoever. Right now he needed rest.
Killmaster wished he could explain the odd feeling he had about Mrs. Loo and the boy. If they had told him the truth, Professor Loo was in trouble. It meant he was in fact defecting strictly because of his work. And that, somehow, just didn’t set right, especially considering the professor’s past performance in dermatology. His discoveries, his present experiments, didn’t point to a man unhappy in his work. And the less-than-cordial reception Nick received from Mrs. Loo made him lean toward the marriage as a reason. Surely the professor had told his wife about Chris Wilson. And unless Nick had blown his cover when talking with her, there was no reason for her hostility toward him. Mrs. Loo was lying for some reason. It was a feeling he had, the “something wrong here” attitude of the house.
But Nick needed rest now, and rest he was going to get. If Mr. Whatsit wanted to watch him sleep, let him. When he reported to whoever had told him to watch Nick, he’d be an expert on watching a man sleep.
Killmaster relaxed his body completely. His mind went blank except for the one compartment which always remained aware of the surroundings. This part of his brain was his life insurance. It never rested, never blacked out. It had saved his life on many occasions. He closed his eyes and was asleep immediately.
Nick Carter came awake instantly one second before the hand touched his shoulder. He let the hand touch him before he opened his eyes. Then he put his own big hand over the slim feminine one. He looked into the bright eyes of the English stewardess.
“Fasten your seat belt, Mr. Wilson. We are about to land.” She tried weakly to withdraw her hand, but Nick held it to his shoulder.
“Not Mr. Wilson,” he said. “Chris.”
She stopped trying to withdraw her hand. “Chris,” she repeated.
“And you are…” He let the sentence hang.
“Sharon. Sharon Russell.”
“How long will you be in Hong Kong, Sharon?”
That trace of disappointment came back into her eyes. “Only an hour, I’m afraid. I have to catch the next flight out.”
Nick ran his fingers along her arm. “An hour isn’t enough time, it it?”
“That depends.”
Nick wanted more than an hour with her, a lot more. “What I have in mind would take at least a week,” he said.
“A week!” She was curious now, it showed in her eyes. Something else was there too. Delight.
“Where will you be next week, Sharon?”
Her face brightened. “Next week I begin my holiday.”
“And where will that be?”
“Spain. Barcelona, then Madrid.”
Nick smiled. “Will you wait in Barcelona for me? We can do Madrid together.”
“That would be wonderful.” She pressed a slip of paper into his palm. “That is where I’ll be staying in Barcelona.”
Nick could hardly contain his chuckle. She had expected this. “Until next week, then,” he said.
“Until next week.” She squeezed his hand and moved on to the other passengers.
And when they had landed, and as Nick was leaving the plane, she squeezed his hand again, saying softly, “Ole.”
From the airport, Killmaster took a taxi straight to the harbor. In the cab, with his suitcase on the floor between his legs, Nick deduced time-zone changes and set his watch. It figured to be ten-thirty-five P.M., Tuesday.
Outside, the streets of Victoria remained unchanged since Killmaster’s last visit. His driver tooled the Mercedes unmercifully through traffic, relying heavily on the horn. A chill hung icily in the air. Streets and cars sparkled from a rainstorm just past. From curbs to buildings people mingled aimlessly, covering every square inch of sidewalk. They slouched, heads bent low, arms locked across their stomachs, and shuffled slowly along. Some sat on the curbs shoveling with chopsticks food from wooden bowls to their mouths. As they ate their eyes darted from side to side suspiciously, as though they were ashamed of eating when so many others were not.
Nick sat back in his seat, smiling. This was Victoria. Across the harbor lay Kowloon, every bit as crowded, every bit as exotic. This was Hong Kong, mysterious, beautiful and, at times, deadly. Countless black markets flourished. If you had the contact and the right amount of money, nothing was priceless. Gold, silver, jade, cigarettes, girls; everything was available, everything was for sale, if you had the price.
The streets of any city interested Nick; the streets of Hong Kong fascinated him. As he watched the crowded sidewalks from his taxi, he noticed sailors threading quickly through the throng. Sometimes they moved in groups, sometimes in pairs, but never alone. And Nick knew what they were hurrying to; a girl, a bottle, a piece of tail. Sailors were sailors everywhere. The action would be heavy on the streets of Hong Kong tonight. The American fleet was in. Nick wondered if the watcher was still with him.
As the taxi approached the harbor, Nick saw sampans packed like sardines against the docks. Hundreds of them were tied together, forming a miniature floating colony. Because of the cold, ugly blue smoke belched from crude stacks cut into the cabins. People lived their whole lives on these tiny boats; they ate, slept and died on them, and there seemed to be a hundred more since the last time Nick had seen them. Larger junks were dotted here and there among them. And farther out were anchored the huge, almost monstrous ships of the American Fleet. What a contrast, Nick thought. The sampans were small, cramped and always crowded. Lanterns gave them an eerie, bobbing look, while the gigantic American ships shined brightly with generator-powered lights, making them look almost deserted. They sat like boulders in the harbor, unmoving.
In front of the hotel, Nick paid the taxi driver and walked briskly into the building without looking around. Once inside he asked the desk clerk for a room with a view.
He got one overlooking the harbor. Directly below, waves of heads flowed and zigzagged like ants hurrying nowhere. Nick stood slightly to the side of the window watching moonlight flicker across the water. When he had tipped and dismissed the bell boy, he turned off all the lights in the room and returned to the window. Salty air reached his nostrils, mingled with the smell of cooking fish. He heard hundreds of voices from the sidewalk. He studied the faces carefully, and not seeing what he wanted, moved quickly across the window to make himself as lousy a target as possible. The view from the other side proved more revealing.
One man did not move with the crowd. Neither did he slice through it. He stood under a street lamp with a newspaper in his hands.
God! Nick thought. Not a newspaper! At night, in the middle of a crowd, under a poor street lamp — reading a newspaper?
Too many questions were unanswered. Killmaster knew he could lose this obvious amateur when and if he desired. But he wanted answers. And Mr. Whatsit following him was the first forward step he’d made since starting this assignment. As Nick watched, a second, heavily built man dressed like a coolie approached the first. His left arm was curled around a brown-paper-wrapped bundle. Words were exchanged. The first man pointed to the bundle, shaking his head. More words were exchanged, becoming heated. The second man thrust the bundle at the first. He started to refuse it, then grudgingly took it. He turned his back on the second man and melted into the crowd. The hotel was now being watched by the second man.
Nick figured Mr. Whatsit would be changing into a coolie costume about now. That’s probably what was in the bundle. Killmaster’s mind clicked off a plan. Good ideas wen digested, formed, worked over, placed into a slot to become part of the plan. But still it was rough. Any plan snatched cold out of the air was rough. Nick knew this. Polishing would come in steps as the plan was executed. At least now he would begin getting some answers.
Nick moved away from the window. He unpacked his suitcase, and when it was empty, he removed the hidden drawer. From this drawer he took out a small bundle not unlike the one the second man had carried. He unfurled the cloth of the bundle and rerolled it lengthwise. Still in darkness, he undressed completely, removing his weapons and laying them on the bed. When he was naked he carefully peeled the gelatin, flesh-toned padding from around his waist. It clung stubbornly, taking some of his belly-hair as he pulled. He worked with it for half an hour and found himself sweating heavily from the pain of pulled hair. Finally, he had it off. He let it fall to the floor at his feet and permitted himself the luxury of rubbing and scratching his belly. When he was satisfied, he took Hugo, his stiletto, and the padding into the bathroom. He slit the membrane holding in the gelatin and let the gooey stuff plop into the toilet. It took four flushings to get it all down. He followed it with the membrane itself. Then Nick returned to the window.
Mr. Whatsit had rejoined the second man. He too now looked like a coolie. As Nick watched them, he felt dirty from the drying sweat. But he smiled. They were the beginning. As he moved into the light of answers to his questions, he knew he would have two shadows.
CHAPTER FOUR
Nick Carter closed the draperies across the window and turned the lights on in the room. Moving to the bathroom, he took a leisurely shower, then shaved carefully. He knew the worst hardship on the two men waiting for him outside would be time. Waiting for him to do something was the tough part. He knew this because he had been there once or twice himself. And the longer he kept them waiting, the more careless they would become.
When he was finished in the bathroom, Nick padded barefoot to the bed. He picked up the rolled cloth and fastened it around his waist. When he was satisfied, he hung his tiny gas bomb between his legs, then stepped into his shorts, pulling the waistband up over the padding. He checked his profile in the bathroom mirror. The rolled cloth did not look as real as the gelatin had, but it was the best he could do. Back by the bed, Nick finished dressing, attaching Hugo to his arm and Wilhelmina, the Luger, in the waist of his pants. It was time for something to eat.
Killmaster left all the lights on in his room. He figured one of the two men would probably want to search it.
There was no sense making it difficult for them. By the time he finished eating they should be done.
In the hotel dining room, Nick had a light meal. He expected trouble, and when it came he didn’t want to be handicapped by a full stomach. When the last dish had been cleared away, he leisurely smoked a cigarette. Forty-five minutes had passed since he left his room. When he had finished the cigarette, he paid the check and stepped once again into the cold night air.
His two followers were no longer under the street lamp. It took him a few minutes to get used to the cold, then he began walking briskly toward the harbor. Because of the late hour, the crowds along the sidewalks had diminished somewhat. Nick threaded his way through them without looking back. But by the time he reached the ferry landing he began to worry. The two men were obviously amateurs. Was it possible he had lost them already?
There was a small group waiting at the landing. Six cars were lined up almost to the water’s edge. As Nick approached the group, he could see lights of the ferry coming toward the landing. He joined the others, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and hunched his shoulders against the cold.
The lights drew closer, giving shape to the huge vessel. The low chug of the engine changed pitch. Water around the landing boiled white as the propellers were reversed. The people around Nick moved slowly toward the approaching monster. Nick moved with them. He went aboard and quickly climbed the ladder to the second deck. At the rail his keen eyes scanned the dock. Two of the cars were already aboard. But he could not see his two shadows. Killmaster lit a cigarette, keeping his eyes on the deck below him.
When the last car was loaded, Nick decided to leave the ferry and look for his two followers. It was possible they were lost. As he moved away from the railing to the ladder he caught a glimpse of two coolies trotting along the dock toward the landing. The smaller man leaped aboard easily, but the heavier, slow-moving one did no leaping. He probably hadn’t done any in a long while. He tripped coming aboard and almost fell. The smaller man helped him with difficulty.
Nick smiled. Welcome aboard, gentlemen, he thought. Now if this ancient tub could just get him across the harbor without sinking, he’d lead them a merry chase until they decided to make their move.
The huge ferry chugged away from the landing, rolling slightly as it moved into open water. Nick remained on the second deck, close to the rail. He could no longer see the two coolies but he felt their eyes watching him. The biting wind had moisture in it. Another rainstorm was coming. Nick watched the other passengers huddled together against the cold. He kept his back to the wind. The ferry creaked and bobbed, but it didn’t sink.
Killmaster waited on his second-deck perch until the last car rolled off into the Kowloon side of the harbor. As he left the ferry, he scanned the faces of the people around him. His two shadows were not among them.
On the landing, Nick hired a rickshaw, gave the boy the address of the Bar Wonderful, a small place he had been to before. He had no intention of going straight to the professor. There was a possibility his two followers didn’t know where the professor was, and hoped he would lead them to him. That didn’t make sense, but he had to consider all possibilities. Most likely they were following him to see if he knew where the professor was located. The fact that he came straight to Kowloon might have told them all they wanted to know. If so, then Nick should be eliminated quickly and without fuss. Trouble was coming. Nick could feel it. He had to be ready.
The boy pulling the rickshaw trotted without effort through the streets of Kowloon, his thin, tight-muscled legs showing the strength needed for his job. To anyone watching the passenger, he was a typical American tourist. He sat back in his seat smoking a gold-tipped cigarette, his thick glasses looking first to one side of the street, then the other.
The streets were a bit warmer than the harbor had been. Ancient buildings and fragile-looking houses blocked most of the wind. But the moisture still hung in low, thick clouds waiting for release. Because traffic was light, the rickshaw made good time and soon stopped in front of a dingy door with a large neon sign blinking Bar Wonderful over it. Nick paid the boy five Hong Kong dollars and gestured for him to wait. He went into the bar.
Nine steps led down from the door to the bar itself. It was small. Besides the bar, there were four tables, all filled. The tables ringed a tiny open space where a lovely girl sang in a low, sexy voice. A colored cartwheel turned slowly in front of the spotlight, softly flooding the girl in blue, then red, then yellow, then green. It seemed to change with the type of song she sang. She looked best in red.
The rest of the place was dark except for occasional grimy lamps. The bar was crowded, and in one quick glance Nick knew he was the only non-Oriental in there. He took a position at the end of the bar, where he could see anyone coming in or out of the door. There were three bar girls, two already had their marks, the third circulated, sitting first on one lap, then another, allowing herself to be fondled. Nick was about to get the bartender’s attention when he noticed his heavily built follower.
The man emerged through a beaded curtain from a small private table. He was dressed in a business suit instead of the coolie outfit. But the changing of clothes had been hasty. His tie was crooked, and part of his shirt-front hung outside his pants. He was sweating. He kept wiping his forehead and mouth with a white handkerchief. He looked casually around the room, then his eyes locked onto Nick’s. His flabby jowls broke into a polite smile, and he came straight for Killmaster.
Hugo dropped to Nick’s hand. He quickly scanned the bar, looking for the smaller man. The girl finished her song and bowed to a sparse crackle of applause. She started speaking in Chinese to the audience. Blue light was splashing over her as the bartender came from Nick’s right. In front of him, the heavy man was four steps away. The bartender asked in Chinese what he was drinking. Nick delayed his reply, keeping his eyes on the man approaching him. The combo started playing, and the girl swung into another song. This one was lively. The cartwheel turned faster, the colors flashing over her, blending into a bright blur. Nick was poised on the balls of his feet, ready. The bartender shrugged and turned away. There was no sign of the smaller man. The heavier one took the last step, bringing him face-to-face with Nick. The polite smile remained on his face. He stuck out his pudgy right hand in a friendly gesture.
“Mr. Wilson, I am believing,” he said. “Allow me to be introducing myself. I am Chin Ossa. May I speak at you?”
“You may,” Nick replied softly, quickly replacing Hugo and taking the outstretched hand.
Chin Ossa gestured toward the beaded curtain. “It is more privately in there.”
“After you,” Nick said, bowing slightly.
Ossa led the way through the curtain to the table and two chairs. A thin, wiry man leaned against the far wall.
He wasn’t the small man who had followed Nick. When he saw Killmaster, he moved away from the wall.
Ossa said, “Please, Mr. Wilson, to allow my friend to be searching you.”
The man approached Nick and stopped as if undecided. He reached his hand out toward Nick’s chest. Nick gently pushed the hand away.
“Please, Mr. Wilson,” Ossa whined. “We must be searching you.”