The China Doll (1964)
(The second book in the Killmaster series)
Version 1.1
Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the United States of
America
CHAPTER 1
THEY KNEW HE WAS COMING
KHRUSHCHEV TO VISIT NEW YORK WILL ADDRESS UNITED
NATIONS GENERAL ASSEMBLY
There was nothing in the headline or the accompanying story to
cause the average New Yorker to do anything but shrug. Some of
them, notably cabdrivers and barbers—who thrive on captive
audiences—expressed vociferous disapproval, usually starting out with
something like: “That bum! Why inthehell should we let him into our
country, you tell me that?” Others wondered idly if there would be a
repetition of the bad manners of a previous year, when Mr. K had all
but thrown a tantrum before a startled assemblage in the East Side
palace of peace. But most people simply didn’t give a damn. They
were bored with Khrushchev and his antics, cold war thaw or no cold
war thaw.
On the other hand, there were people who read the brief news
story with delighted anticipation, and some who saw in it a signal. In
a dozen places throughout the city—flophouse, office, mansion—and
several places in another town, hearts beat just a little faster and
minds began to buzz with old instructions and new plans.
Nick Carter belonged to the great majority that didn’t care,
personally, if Khrushchev addressed the General Assembly or
Disneyland, if he lived to be a hundred and ten, or if he keeled over
with apoplexy the day after tomorrow. He did wonder, though, as any
professional would, if trouble was expected.
Nick sat in the spacious living room of his West Side apartment
appreciatively sniffing Robyn’s elusive perfume and clinking ice in a
glass that also contained a good three ounces of very fine Scotch,
much finer than anything obtainable in godforsaken Petropavlovsk.
His right shoulder still ached with the impact of enemy agent Sven
Larson’s fist, although he had been treating it very gently with hot
baths, melting massages (administered by Robyn in such a way as to
make the gods themselves cry out for more), and eight-year-old
medication. But though the pain was intermittent hell, the cure was
heaven. The blow could have killed a man in less superb condition but
the job had been a success, and he was very much alive. Hawk, head
of AXE and the only man to whom Nick was accountable, had been
worried about the base in the Aleutians and the sudden acquisition of
American military information by the Communists. Nick had gone in
and found Sven Larson. The hotel room in Petropavlovsk had been the
end of the trail on Operation Ice Pack. Larson was no more; special
agent Carter had come home to New York for a breather between
assignments.
He had spent the last couple of days at the AXE branch office off
Columbus Circle. The small brownstone formed little more than a
foyer to the complex of linked buildings that housed the operations
rooms, communications center, crime lab, and temporary sleeping
quarters for AXE men working around the clock. His session with the
files and the briefing officer had brought him up to date on current
rumor and ugly fact, though J-2 had indicated that Hawk’s reason for
sticking so closely to Washington Headquarters at this time was a
recent upsurge of Red Chinese subversive activity that was still being
documented and analysed. Whatever there was that was so Top
Secret, Nick would find out when Hawk was ready to tell him.
Tonight was his—his and hers. Tonight he was Nick Carter, private
citizen, with little more on his mind than romance, cocktails, dinner,
and more romance. And tonight, the girl with eyes like deep blue
pools and hair as black as a raven’s, was Robyn Tyler, actress-
playwright-and companion in romance—not the hardbitten Gertrude
Miles of the Rand goldfields, nor the shy secretary to importer Lao Tze
Tung—but the real and lovely Robyn with the magic voice and
melting touch. Actress she may be, but with him she was herself.
Petropavlovsk seemed as far away as if it had never existed.
“Nick, honey.” Robyn reached over to him and lightly flicked the
newspaper to the floor. “Let’s not even think about shop. To hell with
Khrushchev. Let’s think about us. Better still, let’s do something about
us.” Cool fingers brushed his cheek and drifted down past his ear.
“Something nice.”
Nick grinned and caught her hand. “Like what?” His lips caressed
her hand and wrist, and then wandered over her face in amorous
exploration.
“Mm-hmm. Like that.”
“Just for a start. The main feature comes later.” He kissed a long-
lashed eyelid and drew back, one eye on his watch. “Fix me a refill,
Robyn baby. It’s seven o’clock.”
“So?” She raised an exquisitely arched eyebrow. “Is seven o’clock
refill time? Or do you now throw yourself on the floor and entertain
me with your Yoga exercises?”
He laughed. “No, that’s not the way I plan to entertain you.” He
crossed to the television set. “News time. Sorry, but it’s part of the
ritual. You know that.” The set clicked on. Robyn sighed and reached
for the ice bucket. She knew the ritual.
Hawk insisted that his operatives keep up with all news
developments. There was no knowing when a nugget of information
might prove to be the simple key to a complicated case.
Nick took his place beside Robyn on the immense, deep-cushioned
sofa and laid a hand on her shapely knee. Bunter and Hinkley faded in
on the screen.
“Washington officials agree that in all probability there is no truth
to the rumors. Their position is that every visit to our shores by a
prominent personality, particularly such a controversial figure as the
Soviet Chairman, is bound to be accompanied by a rash of threats and
outcries. Nevertheless, precautions will be taken. New York City
Police only too well remember the visit of Yugoslavia’s Tito—and
other more recent and infinitely more disastrous events in another city
—and will be constantly on the lookout for disturbances of any kind.
And now, here’s Pete Hinkley in New York.”
Pete Hinkley’s measured tones took up the refrain.
“Once again, city officials will be faced with the unpleasant task of
shielding an unpopular personality from contact with those who hold
personal grudges or fanatically strong political beliefs. Plans have not
as yet been announced for the protection of Mr. Khrushchev, but
whether or not the rumors have some basis in fact, the task of the city
Police and the Security forces of the U.N. will be unenviable.”
Nick gave less than half of his mind to the rest of the news. He put
his glass down and gently detached Robyn’s from her fingers. Her
hand crept to his shirtfront and loosened a button. “Unenviable” was
right, thought Nick. Thank Heaven it wasn’t his problem.
Bodyguarding political personages was way out of his field, and he
was glad of it. Of course, there had been the case of American
Ambassador Harcourt, but that was different. Foreign dignitaries were
no concern of his. He had one assignment on hand: Assignment
Robyn, the most beautiful brunette in New York.
One after the other, clothes dropped to the floor.
“Hope you’re not too hungry, because I have a feeling dinner’s
going to be late tonight,” he murmured, and tasted her earlobe.
“Dinner can wait. It’s you I’m hungry for.” Her fingers roamed over
his bare chest and down his sides. The provocative perfume of her
wafted into his nostrils. His senses took possession of the fragrance.
His body tingled with the urgent need to possess the compellingly
desirable being who smelled and tasted so dangerously wonderful. He
pulled her toward him; his probing lips and fingers sought the bared
wonders of her lissome body.
“Turn the light out, Nick. Just the one. I want to see you, darling.
All of you.”
He turned a switch. Only a low light remained to bathe the two
beautifully matched human bodies.
Television voices spoke, unheeded.
“Goodnight, Steve.”
“Goodnight, Pete.”
For a moment the man and woman lay almost motionless beside
each other, at least one of them thinking of the night in Dublin when
they had discovered how sweet love could be when each partner knew
without speech what would please and excite the other. She felt the
hard strength and masculine sensuousness of his superbly muscled but
limber body; he felt her graceful silky softness, the controlled vigor of
her perfect feminine form. Then their lips and bodies met and moved
in unison. The spark fanned into a blaze.
“Nick … my darling. Ah….”
“Robyn. My love.”
Then there was silence but for the quiet movement of their bodies
and their rising breath. The television set was a murmur a million
miles away. Two bodies undulated in rising passion. He was not gentle
with her, nor she with him. They were abandoned, urgent and urging,
giving and demanding, for their world was one of danger and they
lived each moment to the limits of what it had to give.
He lay beneath her, muscular arms encircling her and holding her
strength to him. Her breasts seemed to melt into his chest and her
long dark hair caressed his face. They lay for moments, he taking what
she gave, both hungry bodies pulsing. Then he turned so that she lay
trapped beneath him, begging wordlessly to be lifted to that exquisite
peak of voluptuous frenzy where only he could take her. She
demanded, and he gave; he demanded, and he took. A sudden mutual
surge, the ultimate contact, and they clung together rejoicing in the
sweet, singing sharpness of absolute and perfect union. He closed his
eyes and released his strength and breath. Robyn gave a tiny moan,
and sighed.
It would be like this, he thought happily, as he stroked her hair
and felt her warm breath on his face, tomorrow and tomorrow and
tomorrow. There was no need to think of anything but her. To hell,
indeed, with Khrushchev. To hell with all the distant, unimportant
problems in the world. None of them had anything to do with him.
And then the phone rang.
The checkered cab picked its way through the Washington traffic
from Dulles Airport to the heart of the nation’s capital. Nick paid off
the driver on 14th Street and walked several blocks to a quiet bar
where he made one swift phone call and drank one swift drink. His
first reaction to J-2’s guarded call had been one of fierce resentment,
but that had given way to curiosity when the agent-chauffeur from
AXE had whisked him to Newark Airport and seen him aboard a
Washington-bound plane. There were no instructions except that
Hawk had requested Carter’s immediate presence at Headquarters.
Nick left the bar and took a second cab to the building on Dupont
Circle.
Hawk was waiting for him in the sixth-floor offices of the
Amalgamated Press and Wire Service. In shirtsleeves, pencil behind
right ear and sheaf of papers in hand, he looked for all the world like
the tough and stringy editor of a small-town newspaper. But the small-
town air was pure deception. His crisp voice rose above the clatter of
the teletypes.
“Time you got here. Let’s go into my office. How’s the shoulder?”
“Fine.” Nick pulled up a chair and sat down. “What’s the
emergency?”
Hawk opened a drawer and took out a cigar.
“You may not like this one,” he said. “It’s hometown stuff, and it’s
not quite up your alley.”
Nick raised his eyebrows. “Then why give it to me? I don’t mind a
change of alley, but hasn’t our policy always been to live one place
and work another? And if it’s not quite in my field, maybe someone
else is better equipped to handle it.”
The head of AXE stared coldly at him. “Oddly enough, those
thoughts have already occurred to me. Do I take it that you’re turning
down the assignment before you know what it is?”
“No.” Nick shook his head and reached for a cigarette. Hawk
always had a field day with elaborate answers. Let him do the talking.
There was a brief silence while Hawk waited for Nick to bluster
and Nick waited for Hawk to explain. He wondered why Hawk was
playing this testing game with him. It was, as a rule, a stalling device,
like his lectures on subversion or deadly poisons, to postpone saying
something he didn’t much want to say.
Nick realised what the answer was: this assignment was going to
be a bastard.
Hawk lit his cigar and puffed at it.
“Khrushvhev’s coming to New York, as you know,” he began.
“You’ve probably also heard the rumors about an assassination plot.
You haven’t?” He stopped.
“Not really. I’ve heard rumors about rumors, but no mention of a
plot. In fact, the word ‘assassination’ wasn’t used. I gathered it was the
usual sort of thing—hated Communist leader, threats of vengeance
from all sides, and then pphhht! Nothing but pickets and scuffles.”
“Well, I hope it’ll be pphhht this time too,” the old man said drily.
“But we have reason to believe we’re in for trouble. We’ve been
getting reports—mostly from Cuba—that if Khrushchev came to the
States again an attempt would be made to assassinate him.”
“By whom? Free Cubans? Obviously not just some outraged
individual, or you wouldn’t have had reports on it. An American
group?”
“I don’t know,” said Hawk testily. “If I did, you probably wouldn’t
be sitting here right now. All I can tell you is this: For several months,
brief, non-explicit reports have been coming in regarding some vague
plan to assassinate Khrushchev in the United States. That’s all we
know. In a way it’s nothing, and in a way it’s a great deal. What is
important is the way these reports have been persisting. They keep
coming. We hear it from our man in Cuba, we hear it from refugees,
and we get it occasionally from news editors in Asia. We can’t
discount the story.
“And it’s not just its persistence that interests us. There are two
other facts that are of vital importance: one, most of these rumors
originate in Cuba, which is not exactly our staunchest ally and which
is tending these days toward a very hard-line Communism. Two, the
plan apparently calls for Khrushchev to be not in China, not in Cuba,
not anywhere but in the United States, and almost certainly in New
York. Unless he is invited to other parts of the country, his reason for
coming at all is to attend the opening meetings of the U.N. Precisely
what he’s planning to do.”
“I take it, then,” said Nick thoughtfully, “that you think the plan
has a dual objective—getting rid of Khrushchev, and putting either the
U.S. or the U.N. in a bad light. Maybe both the U.S. and the U.N.”
“That’s about it,” Hawk nodded. “The result could mean the end of
the world organization. It could even mean the end of the world.
Almost certainly, if Russia feels the United States is responsible,
deliberately or otherwise, for the death of the Soviet Premier, there
will either be a cold war so cold that we will freeze to death or there
will be a hot war that’ll finish us all.”
“I expect you’re right,” said Nick. “But that wouldn’t make sense.
They wouldn’t gain anything by it.”
“It’s not a question of sense. Whoever takes over from K is going to
have to show his toughness and ‘avenge’ the murder. Russia couldn’t
afford to lose face by not going to war. We’ve had a number of far less
serious incidents that have taken us dangerously close to disaster. No,
don’t look for sense.” Hawk chewed at his cigar. “International politics
is like a ballgame played on a minefield. Both sides insist on playing
until one of them blows up. And if they both go, well—they know
they’re taking the other side with them. No, I think if the attempt is
successful, we can look forward to a constant downhill slide in our
relations with Russia that’ll be impossible to stop. So we stop it now.
We can’t, under any circumstances, let anything happen to
Khrushchev. I don’t care if he drops dead ten minutes after he gets
back to Moscow as long as he’s all right while he’s in our hands.”
“Not so sure about that, either.” Nick shook his head. “Granted,
the problem would be a lesser one if his death couldn’t be blamed on
us. But we could still be deep in trouble. Who’s next, after K? Another
Stalin, maybe? Uh-uh. Better the devil we know.” He dug into his
pocket for a Players cigarette. “But who stands to gain the most from
assassinating Khrushchev? It’s just possible that it isn’t anyone
thinking in terms of war at all. Fanatics don’t always think of the end
result. It could be a Fascist group. It could be a group of honest—
stupid but honest—anti-Communists. It could be a Cuban crowd,
disenchanted with Russia and particularly Khrushchev. It could be a
rival Communist group, Chinese or even Russian. What a dandy way
for an ambitious Russian to come into power! If he wasn’t afraid of
war, of course.”
“That’s exactly it,” said Hawk. “Maybe that’s our answer. But
there’s no point in any more theorizing. We have to get more facts,
and we have to protect Khrushchev. Fortunately we have a little time.
Before we get down to business I would just like you to file away in
your mind a couple of items. One is the amazing speed with which the
news media picked up the story of an assassination attempt, which has
so far been confined to our own files. Someone leaked it at this
curiously appropriate time. The leak didn’t come from our side. The
other thing that you might chew on is the present icy snap in the cold
war. You’ll remember that the hand-holding stopped along with those
incidents on the Autobahn. Since then things have been getting even
worse because of manufactured incidents, calculated to cause friction
between the United States and Russia. We must not have any more of
them. Least of all one so monstrous as a successful attack on
Khrushchev.”
He glared at Nick, as if suspecting him of harboring dark plans to
assassinate Khrushchev himself. Pulling toward him a yellow pad and
pencil, he said briskly, “Now. You’ll be wanting to know your part in
it.”
“I would, indeed.” Nick watched Hawk expectantly.
The head of AXE started making meaningless doodles on the pad.
He spoke without looking at Nick.
“Naturally, your job will be to prevent such a thing from taking
place. After we have checked out all the angles you will return at once
to New York and set your plans in motion. You will personally be with
the Premier from the moment he arrives to the moment his plane
takes off.”
Hawk raised his eyes and stared piercingly, somehow defiantly, at
Nick, who was gaping back at him.
“My job?” He shut his mouth and swallowed. “Well, of course! The
F.B.I. and the Secret Service and Khrushchev’s own bodyguards and
the City Police and the United Nations Security Forces would be far
too busy to attend to such a trifling affair. And then of course, their
resources are so meager and their equipment so inadequate that they
would just naturally think of calling on me … !” He laughed shortly.
“It’s not my kind of job, nor AXE’s.”
Hawk sighed heavily. “It is, though. In the first place, you won’t
just be a bodyguard—you will have to be responsible for all the
security arrangements and out-think—beforehand—the assassins. In
the second place, the Chief asked especially for you.” Nick cocked his
head with interest. There was only one man in the United States that
Hawk called Chief. “He admired the way you handled that Harcourt
affair, even though Judas did manage to get away. Now. The Security
and Intelligence heads agree that an AXE agent, with his highly
specialized training in explosives, lethal devices, security and other
people’s treachery, would be the best man to co-ordinate all the plans
and see that they’re carried out. You were selected because the Chief
asked for you … and because you’re my least expendable man.”
Nick flicked the ash off his cigarette and rose to his feet. He looked
down at Hawk.
“I suppose I’m being a little slow today. Or maybe I’m just too
flattered to see straight.” His steel gray eyes bore down into Hawk’s.
“What’s ‘least expendable’ got to do with it? Is the assignment
supposed to be so cushy that I can’t possibly get hurt?”
“On the contrary. For God’s sake, sit down. I can’t talk to you
when you tower over me like that. Now. We’re offering the Russians
the very best we have—you. A highly-skilled special agent that we
cannot afford to lose and don’t intend to lose. If someone gets at K,
they’re going to get you, too. You’re his insurance just because you are
our least expendable man. Now do your understand? You’re going to
be his shadow. His death is your death; his life is your safety. For once
we’re going to have to take the chance of making it known that a top
secret agent is on the job. It’s public relations.” Hawk laughed shortly.
“It’s also highly dangerous, and that’s why it’s such a valuable move.
The Russians know better than anyone that you don’t brandish your
best agents around in public unless you really have to. So we’re
throwing you to the wolves, Carter.”
“Well, that seems reasonable enough,” said Nick, “now that you’ve
explained it. And rather colorfully too, I thought. But I don’t really
intend this to be my last job. Unless you want my usefulness to AXE to
end when I wave goodbye to Nikita, don’t you think I should adopt
some sort of cover and disguise when I prowl among the wolves?”
“Of course,” said Hawk testily. “I’ve said we don’t intend to lose
you, and by that I mean not only your life but your value to us. When
we’ve finished here we’ll go over to Editing and you can ask them for
whatever you want.”
The Editing Department worked its magic not on copy but on faces
and personalities. Its artists, graduates of Hollywood, crime, the
O.S.S., and the nation’s finest medical schools, know virtually
everything about make-up, criminal behavior, plastic surgery,
anatomy, false hair and true, fingerprints, dyes and cosmetics,
dermatology and dental care, contact lenses and limps, tattoos and
birthmarks.
Hawk was still doodling: drawing round faces with bald heads.
“Now then. Khrushchev will be arriving by Russian jet the day
before the opening session. If you think it wise, and it fits into your
plans, we could arrange to have him invited to stay at a private home
in New York or on the Island. He will of course have his own secret
service men with him. We don’t know yet how long he will be staying.
Probably no more than a few days, what with his production crises at
home. In the light of the little I’ve been able to tell you so far, let me
hear your reactions. How would you safeguard Khrushchev?”
It was Hawk’s brand of brainstorming. He was a firm believer in
first thoughts and impressions—their very freshness and spontaneity
might have value.
Nick thought for a minute, putting his ideas in order.
“Well, this is how I think it should be handled….”
Idlewild, in the early morning sun, was quieter than usual. The
only watchers on the observation deck were armed police. All
approaches to the airport were heavily guarded; most were closed off
entirely. Stalled traffic bunched up against the barriers. Police
helicopters swooped low. Unobtrusive cars waited at various points,
their motors purring.
The great Russian jet stood comfortably on the tarmac like some
vast, contented bird come home to roost. Two rows of alert military
policemen formed a passageway from the aircraft to the arrival door.
Inside, hallways and public rooms were lined with plainclothhes
guards. Offices concealed men with high-powered rifles and machine
guns. Outside, official cars were warming up, manned by security
officers and watched by attendants with holsters and government
credentials.
Nick walked with the group of Russian visitors between the rows
of uniformed men. A joint contingent of American and Soviet Secret
Service officers led the party. The Russian chairman waddled in their
wake, flanked by muscular personal guards. Nick walked several paces
behind him, alongside General Zabotov.
Zabotov had first arrived in the States shortly after Nick’s trip to
Washington. As head of an advance group of Soviet security officers,
the Russian general had conferred with Carter and the nation’s top
security men. Some of his demands had seemed to Nick fantastic and
his opinion of some of Nick’s arrangements was expressed with a sniff
and a sneer; but part of Nick’s job in this case was to be
accommodating and reassuring, so he acceded to every Russian
demand and made doubly certain that his own plans would be
followed as well. Zabotov looked at him as they walked. He saw the
man known to him as Richard MacArthur; a powerfully-built man who
topped Zabotov’s height of something over six feet and was said to be
America’s most valuable special agent. The man’s eyes were a deep
brown, his dark hair was flecked with gray. The slightly heavy jaw
seemed inclined to succumb early in the day to five o’clock shadow. A
puckered scar pulled down the corner of one eye. The powerful body
was thickening slightly around the middle, and it seemed to Zabotov
that the man beside him. walked with an almost imperceptible limp.
Nick’s best friends would not have known him. They were used to
steel gray eyes, a lean, clean-shaven jaw, slim strength, and the
prowling, light-footed gait of a panther.
A group of very highly placed City and Federal officials greeted
Khrushchev’s party inside the airport building. The entourage halted
briefly. Nick edged closer to the Premier, his eyes darting around to
spot the men he had placed in the areaways. Everyone in the vicinity
had gone through an exhaustive security check; every face was
familiar and trusted.
The procession moved on. Zabotov inclined his head toward Nick.
“I trust you will remember what I said on our first meeting. If
anyone so much as gets near the Premier with intent to harm him … if
Khrushchev should die….”
He waited, watching Nick.
“He will not die,” Nick said with an assurance he did not feel.
“Good,” said Zabotov, with a sardonic smile. “Then neither will the
United States.”
Moments later a motorcade, sirens wailing, sped from the airport.
Motorcycles brought up the rear. The procession made its way rapidly
toward Manhattan.
An embargo on departing traffic remained in force at the airport
for five full minutes.
And yet two parties did leave, and headed for the city.
Gradually, the traffic was allowed to thicken. Armed guards
removed the road blocks after the motorcade had passed.
At the entrance to the Queens Midtown Tunnel to Manhattan, two
things were happening: An official was doing some independent
thinking; and a stalled truck seemed to be struggling back to life.
The sirens of the motorcade sounded in the distance. The
truckdriver, working feverishly just offside of the tunnel’s mouth, got
back into his cab and pressed the starter again. It caught. The truck
edged slowly into the tunnel with a great grinding of gears. The
independently-minded official noted the gathering traffic in the toll-
lanes and heard the sirens. What he foresaw was a gigantic mess when
he tried to get the motorcade through the lanes of waiting cars. Now,
before the motorcade arrived, was the time to get them through and
out of the way. Then he would delay the following traffic, strictly
according to orders. He gave instructions for the first group of cars to
be hurried into the tunnel.
Within the tunnel the truck seemed to be having difficulties. It
lurched and hiccuped along like an elephant in pain. But the driver
was unconcerned. He reached for the knob of a small portable radio
on the seat beside him and turned up the volume. The sound was on
full. A voice said: “Estimated one minute to entry. Stand by. One
minute to entry. Maintaining speed. Proceed slowly. Wait for signal.”
The truck’s motor picked up speed, enough to assuage the officer
in the guard booth but not enough to beat any records.
The radio voice spoke again.
“Check timer for three. Repeat check timer for three. Ready for
action. Now—use first immediate opportunity, and go!”
The truckdriver checked the device in his hand. Then he surveyed
his position in the tunnel. The next guard booth was out of sight. In a
swift, controlled movement, the driver pitched an elongated package
through the open rear window of the cab into the loaded back of the
truck. Two minutes to go. One or two cars passed alongside. Then the
flow of traffic eased. For a moment it seemed that no more vehicles
were entering the tunnel.
Suddenly, the relative calm was shattered by the roar of two
motorcycles. They went swiftly ahead to wait at the exit of the tunnel
for a very special follower to catch up with them.
Something in the back of the truck started to smolder.
Outside, near one of the toll-booths, someone shouted, “Stop that
car! I told you, no more cars for the next couple of minutes!”
The pursued car was already in the tunnel and traveling fast. A
police car followed swiftly.
A second radio crackled within the tunnel.
“Stand by for trouble! Unauthorized vehicle entered tunnel,
traveling at great speed. Sixty-two Master Special, black. Ignored
orders to stop….”
The occupants of the four cars in the main procession heard the
announcement with varying degrees of apprehension. In the second
one, the powerfully-muscled American special agent pulled a gun from
its holster and spoke a few terse sentences to the big military man
beside him. The short man with the bald head squinted at them with
his tiny eyes.
Some distance ahead, thick smoke rose from the truck. A guard
leapt from his post with a fire extinguisher, but the truck thundered
on. A sheet of flame swept over the back of the truck. Smoke billowed
in choking waves. The cars behind it fell back, slamming viciously
into one another. People screamed. Suddenly, the truck came to a
sliding halt—across both lanes, effectively blocking off the tunnel.
Far behind, the black Master Special, Police car on its tail, began to
lose speed. The official car edged alongside. The driver of the Master
Special made a sudden stop, went into a curving reverse behind the
Police car and hit the wall catwalk with tremendous force. Four men
leapt out. Two of them carried machine guns, and two of them held
irregularly shaped objects in their raised right hands. All four of them
wore gas masks.
Police bullets spat hollowly through the tunnel. Two objects sailed
through the smoke-tightened air and burst. The four masked men shot
their way past the squad car and picked their way into the smoke.
CHAPTER 2
A CROWD OF ONE
“Tear gas!”
Voices picked up the cry and echoed in the tunnel.
The truck ahead was a blazing monster.
The four cars in the main procession bulged with activity. In one,
an incisive voice rapped instructions into a radio-microphone while a
companion pulled gas-masks from a compartment. Heavily armed
men, their faces covered, piled out of the other cars and deployed
through the tunnel. The tunnel was a hell of heat and fire. A guard,
trapped in his glass booth by a heat-swollen door, screamed pitifully.
The tubby little man with the bald head sat silently in the second
car of the one-time motorcade. He wondered for a moment what had
happened to the driver of that blazing truck. He didn’t wonder long.
The man in the seat beside him suddenly raised his gun, sighted
carefully, and fired decisively at a figure creeping along the catwalk
toward them. The figure dropped, fatally punctured.
The fumes got thicker. Machine-gun fire rattled and echoed
through the tunnel. From somewhere, a voice came with orders. And
from somewhere help came.
In a matter of moments the tunnel was a roaring battlefield on
which the forces of the ungodly were outnumbered ten to one. Police
and fire fighters swarmed into the smoke. Even in the midst of the
holocaust ambulances drew up at either end of the tunnel, white-clad
attendants braving the tunnel’s hell.
When it was over, two women had fainted and one elderly man
had had a heart attack. A little girl was having hysterics. There were
many sore throats and smarting eyes. The police guard and two
patrolmen would be out of action for some weeks. Five men lay dead.
One was the truckdriver. The others were the occupants of the black
Master Special.
At long last the tunnel was cleared.
The reinforced motorcade proceeded on its way.
The tubby baldhead in the second car mopped his brow and bared
his teeth in an unintentional snarl. It was the way his face was made;
he couldn’t help it.
The tall, powerful special agent beside him said, “Well, Chairman
Khrushchev, how do you feel?”
The fat man unwrapped a sliver of chewing gum and popped it
into his mouth. “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad, considering.”
The party moved into the Park Avenue apartment of American
industrialist Elmer K. Forrest, ostensibly a loud-mouthed denouncer of
Communist Russia, but actually an ardent advocate of better trade and
cultural relations between the two great powers.
Every occupant of Forrest’s apartment building was under
surveillance. Each member of his personal staff as well as the
maintenance staff of the building had been screened. Replacements
consisted of people trained to fill dual roles—special-agent-cook,
special-agent-window-washer, special-agent-elevator-operator, and so
on. The building itself had been picked over by security inspectors.
Rings of armed plainclothesmen unobtrusively guarded the apartment,
the building, the roof, the street,
Nick Carter sat in Forrest’s study going over a mental checklist of
his security arrangements. There would be the trips downtown and
back, and there would be the U.N. itself. But days of planning with the
head of the men in U.N.-blue had resulted in a plan of action that Nick
felt must surely be very close to watertight.
Zabotov came into the study, followed by one of Forrest’s most
trusted servants. The man carried a tray bearing ice, glasses and
vodka. At a nod from Zabotov he put the tray down and went away.
Nick cocked an enquiring eyebrow at the Russian general.
“Chairman Khrushchev sends felicitations,” Zabotov began. “He
admires the thoroughness of your planning and wishes us to drink to
his health.”
“A worthy toast,” said Nick. “I appreciate his thoughtfulness. All
right. I wouldn’t want to let him down.”
“You’d better not,” Zabotov said, reaching for the bottle.
Three days and nights of unceasing vigilance had left Nick feeling
hot-eyed and tense. Yoga discipline kept his mind alert; Yoga exercises
kept his body attuned and allowed him some measure of relaxation.
But it was, Nick thought, a good thing that the Russian leader would
soon be on his way back to Moscow.
Khrushchev himself was showing signs of restlessness. It was
obvious that he preferred disporting himself in public to this tiresome
business of hiding out, of entering buildings via basement garages
rather than through great soaring doorways over red velvet carpets.
And because he was bored, he had chosen his last day in New York
to throw a spanner in the works.
Nick sat in the back row of the Russian section in the General
Assembly and thought of the perversity of man. The bald head bobbed
busily in front of him, throwing out quick bursts of words. That
someone else was speaking from the dais was apparently of no
importance.
The Russian chairman had announced that, at the end of this
morning’s session, he intended to stroll in the rose garden with
Secretary General U Thant. What was worse, photographers and
reporters were invited.
Nick cursed under his breath. Why in hell couldn’t he have waited
until he got home and walked in his own damn rose garden?
The meeting was over, for the Russian delegation at least. They
rose, chatting inscrutably, and left the great assembly room. There
were no catcalls or shouts of “Russian murderers” when they left, for
during the days of Khrushchev’s presence the galleries had been
cleared.
Seeing their departure, the speaker on the dais hurriedly
completed his address. If anything was going to happen in the rose
garden, he wanted to be there to see it. His country had a special
reason to hate Khrushchev and the Soviet system.
The public halls, too, were almost eerily silent. Thousands of irate
tourists had been turned away at the gates. Security guards with guns
patrolled the building and grounds. Police helicopters flew high and
low over the East River.
Mr. Khrushchev and his party crowded into two descending
elevators to the first basement. There was a great deal of loud, forced
laughter and nervous talking in a variety of regional accents. Nick,
whose Russian was good but very much of the city, gathered that they
found it hilarious to walk such a distance inside a building to find
themselves outside.
They headed through the glass doors leading into the garden. Nick
forced his way through a knot of minor Russian delegates to his post
at Khrushchev’s shoulder.
A few roses were still blooming valiantly, for Indian summer had
been good to one of the finest gardens in New York City. Yet only a
stubborn man would have insisted on parading outside to admire little
more than the carefully trimmed remnants of summer and a low haze
over the river.
Nick made one more try. “Sir,” he began in Russian, “won’t you
reconsider? Ordinarily you’d be perfectly safe, but …”
The tubby Russian cut him off with a short, emphatic phrase and
turned away from him. Zabotov, at Nick’s elbow, smiled.
“You have been too thorough, my friend. Now he thinks there is no
danger. In any case, he expects you to protect him from whatever
comes!”
“I heard what he said,” snapped Nick. “Now suppose you keep
your eyes open as well as your ears. I don’t expect you’ll get a medal if
something happens to him.”
The big Russian shot him a malignant look.
The Secretary General, serene and imperturbable, joined the
Russian party in the garden. Accredited reporters and photographers
followed shortly afterwards. The group became a crowd.
Nick looked around uneasily. There was no real reason, he
thought, why he should feel this nagging sense of worry. Everything
looked peaceful. Eagle-eyed Security men were stationed everywhere.
The newsmen were not only trustworthy but unarmed. Not a single
unfamiliar face was anywhere in sight. Nick, in the past week or two,
had personally met every man who would have anything to do with
guarding Khrushchev. He had memorized each face as though his life
—in fact, his nation’s future—depended on his memory.
Four police helicopters were hovering nearby. One policed First
Avenue, a second the River, a third circled over the building. The
other zigzagged back and forth over the garden. Two Secret Service
agents strolled with the group. A sharpshooter’s bullet from across the
river? No, too far to have any force. A traitor in the Russian group?
Nonsense. They had been checked out until they had protested to the
State Department, which had not displeased Nick in the least. If one of
them did suddenly uncover a hidden desire to dispose of Khrushchev,
it would now be very difficult for the Russians to claim bribery or
blackmail by an American mastermind.
What the hell, nothing could happen.
Still, his hand was seldom more than inches away from the butt of
the powerful stripped-down Luger, Wilhelmina, which had come to
him as the spoils of war.
The portly Russian was in the center of the group with Nick and
Zabotov right behind him. If anyone were to try to get at him now,
they’d have to plough a path through at least three or four people on
any side.
They had passed the rose beds and were walking slowly alongside
the great sweep of lawn that spread from the curving pathway to the
public area. It seemed to Nick that they were walking very slowly.
The small two-way radio he had carried with him from the start of
what Hawk pleased to call “the emergency” was added insurance
against the unexpected. He could get reinforcements out here in a
matter of seconds, if needed.
Guards stood firmly at their posts or walked back and forth along a
prescribed path. The two Secret Service men formed the immediate
rearguard of the group. Zabotov kept his eyes on the back of
Khrushchev’s neck. Nick’s eyes were everywhere.
One helicopter was hovering over the south end of the building.
The second was heading downriver. The third had, only seconds ago,
passed almost in front of them and chuffed off up the avenue. The
fourth was on its crosstown zag. The fifth….
The fifth hung like a huge bee on the far side of the river directly
opposite the walking party. As Nick watched, it started moving in
their direction.
The group walked into the cold shade of the trees flanking the
path.
“Mr. Chairman,” Nick rapped out in Russian. “I must ask you to
take that bench beneath the trees at once and stay there. At once,
please.” He switched to English and spoke to the Secret Service men.
“Get this group to disperse. Keep them under the trees. One of you
and Zabotov stay with Khrushchev and the S.G.” U Thant frowned
thoughtfully. Khrushchev was scowling. Nick switched back to
Russian. “There’s an unauthorized aircraft in the neighborhood. It may
mean nothing, but until we are sure you must do whatever the officers
suggest.”
The fifth helicopter was dipping and swooping in a pattern of its
own. Either it was in trouble … or it was searching.
Nick switched on his radio and sought the other helicopters with
his eyes. At the moment only one was near enough to be of any
possible help.
His hand went to Wilhelmina as he listened to the radio voices.
“NYO28 to NY1B20—Come in and be identified! Come in and be
identified! What is your authority? NY1B20! Identify yourself.”
Helicopter number four was making the demand. There was no
reply.
The fifth helicopter swooped and spluttered. It hovered low over
the lawn near the trees, near the Russian visitor and his strolling
companions. The engine seemed to be missing a beat. Could it be a
bona fide police patrol plane with both engine and radio trouble?
Nick decided it could not. He spoke into the tiny microphone.
“NY1B20. NY1B20. Get out of the area at once. Repeat, get out of
the area at once! NYO28. NYO28. Attempt to head off unauthorized
craft. Fire if necessary. All other planes: return at once to north end
U.N. garden.”
They began to converge rapidly.
But something else happened even more rapidly.
The unidentified helicopter veered abrupdy away from
approaching police craft NYO28 and dropped like an elevator to a
near-landing on the grass. A goggled head appeared at the open
window, followed by a hand with something in it. The thing flew
through the air toward Nick. As in a slow-motion dream he dropped
Wilhelmina and reached for the hurtling thing. The catching action
became a throwing motion as he caught the heavy object and threw it
away from him. He had a split second in which to pray that it would
hit the killer craft, to realize that it wouldn’t, to scoop up Wilhelmina
—and to see the deep crater that suddenly appeared in the lawn just
beyond the murderous fifth helicopter. The tearing blast of sound
enveloped him. Great sods of turf ripped skyward and slammed up at
the helicopter. It rocked and shuddered, and then fell with a
splintering crash.
Nick raced toward it. Police helicopter number four made a shaky
landing nearby.
Something moved in the crashed aircraft. The something leveled a
gun.
Nick crouched low and fired twice.
The gun dropped out of the assassin’s hand and the goggles
snapped away from his face. A bloody streak appeared along his
temple.
In moments, the once-smooth lawn took on the tattered
appearance of a bombed airfield.
Miraculously, the man was still alive.
Nick and one of the guards moved him from his seat while two
armed officers searched the craft.
“Help me … help me. Pocket. Look in pocket.” The man was
stirring and muttering thickly.
“Who are you working for? How many are you?” Nick spoke while
searching the man’s clothes.
“Inside pocket … letter. Help wife. Not her fault. Korea … see
letter.” He sighed and his head fell on his chest.
By the time the ambulance had come and gone and some
semblance of order had been restored to the violated lawn, Nick had
radioed a brief report to Hawk and was back at Khrushchev’s elbow.
One thing had shocked him: The would-be assassin had most
certainly been an American. There would be hell to pay.
Emergency Plan A was put into action. A sturdy closed car, waiting
at the exit gate with its motor running, glided swiftly down the broad
path and picked up Khrushchev and the major members of his party.
They would have been a bare few yards away from the immediate
danger if the explosive had landed as planned. Nick shuddered to
think what could have happened. Thank God, it hadn’t.
The big sedan had made swiftly for the ramp leading into the
basement garage. From there the shaken group had been taken to a
private suite where all but the imperturbable U Thant had collapsed.
They waited there until Nick came in.
“So, MacArthur. Something went wrong with your ingenious
arrangements.”
It took a moment before Nick realized that the sneering voice of
Zabotov was addressed to him. He felt suddenly tired—almost tired
enough to forget his cover name.
“No, General. That’s what happens when one deviates from plan.
And now perhaps Premier Khrushchev can be taken to his lunch
engagement.”
But the rotund Russian was in no mood to fulfill social obligations.
A small party of chastened Russians left the building quietly, in strict
accordance with Nick’s careful arrangements.
Zabotov made no further comment as they made their way uptown
to Forrest’s apartment. Zabotov’s expression was a strange mixture of
malevolence and respect.
Shortly after they had arrived at the luxurious residence the
Premier’s party started making plans for departure. Nick, fighting
weariness, forced himself to concentrate on the final phase of “the
emergency.” Several highly placed Washington officials came and
went, buzzing at the edges of his attention, but he conferred only with
the radio voice of Hawk.
At last, at the airport, Khrushchev paused on the air-stair and
looked at Nick.
“As the Premier of the Soviet Union,” he said, “I am outraged. But
as Nikita Khrushchev—I give you my thanks.”
Then he waddled into the Soviet jet and out of sight.
CHAPTER 3
LETTER FROM THE LOST
“I changed my mind less than three months later, but It was
already too late. They had me. At first it was just Information they
wanted, and I didn’t have much to give them. But then they got me to
sell out on a couple of my buddies. I guess I don’t need to tell you
how. Finally they gave me some money and let me come home. They
said I could make quite a lot of money if I just did a couple of little
things for them. So I did, and I made some money. I needed that
money. Then it was always one more job, and one more job. They
wanted me to go to work at the plant, so I did. First it was rumors
they wanted, then letters from the files, then plans and specifications.
I had enough. I wanted out. I didn’t want to get into anything like
that. But there was Janie and the kids, and I was afraid of what might
happen to them. So this time they said they had one last job for me.
They told me what it was. I tried to turn it down. I tried to say I
wouldn’t do it. But….”
It was a rambling, incoherent, sometimes self-pitying letter. But it
made a sort of sense.
“Not really an unusual story,” said Hawk, putting the letter back in
its folder. “Unfortunately. The Chinese Reds made the most of Korea.
Too bad it doesn’t tell us more.”
Nick nodded. They were in the briefing room in the complex of
buildings off Columbus Circle.
“At least it shows the Russians that it wasn’t just some dirty
American plot. Or do they think we forged it?”
“They’re not sure,” said Hawk grimly. “But it rings a bell with
them. They’ve tried this kind of blackmail so often themselves that
they know it could be true. On the other hand, they’re also pretty
familiar with the business of manufacturing evidence. Either to get
themselves off the hook or someone else on to it. So on the whole it
doesn’t do much more than cast a reasonable doubt on our evil
intentions. The best thing in our favor is your share in this affair. I
must say that I endorse what the Chief said about you.” Hawk got very
busy with the papers on his desk. He gave compliments the way
misers give to charity. “Of course, it was your job, but it was well
done. Now. To current business.”
Nick’s senses tingled. His weariness had left him after one night’s
sleep and one memorable night with Robyn of the raven hair and deep
blue eyes. He was ready for anything. He waited expectantly.
“You remember Julia Baron?” Hawk began.
“Of course I do,” said Nick cheerfully. “Is she back with us, I
hope?”
“She is not,” said Hawk sternly. “She returned to Peking after the
Judas-bombing affair and resumed her duties with the O.C.I. Under a
new cover, of course. There is no reason why you should be
encountering her again.”
“Oh.”
Hawk relented. “In the immediate future, I mean. For now her
importance to us lies in the reports she has been sending regarding
Red Chinese subversive activities—not only in Asia but right here in
the States.”
“In connection with our helicopter friend?” Nick fished for a
cigarette.
“So it would seem, although she has said nothing about him
personally. He fits in, though, as part of a much larger scheme. Now.
We have been gathering information and forming a plan which
requires you to do some traveling. You need a vacation.”
“Vacation? I thought this was going to be an assignment.”
“It is. You’re going to be a tourist. I’ll give you a file to read
through before you leave here. I want you to brush up on all you
know about the two countries figuring in the report. Then you will
pick up the traveling bags provided by the Documents Section and
check in at a hotel. Just leave word where you’ll be, because a key
will be delivered to you. You will use that key to pick up further
information and documentation at the usual place. That covers it, I
think.” From a drawer he took a stack of papers and handed it to Nick.
“Read these. Give them back to Files when you’re through. I’m on my
way to Washington.”
Nick raised his eyebrows. “Just like that? Without telling me
anything more?” Hawk rose. “I’ll be back. You’ll find plenty to keep
you busy.” He stopped briefly at the door. “Ask J-2 for help if you
want the language tapes. He’s checked out on this already, so he
knows what you’ll need.”
“How much time do we have on this one?” asked Nick.
“No time at all,” said Hawk. “I want you to be ready slightly
sooner than is humanly possible.” He nodded firmly and stalked off
down the corridor.
Nick turned his full attention to the bulging file. He skmimned
everything, then concentrated on what seemed to him the most
important documents.
The first was a concise report on the local scene, beginning with
the sparse data on Larry Mason and ending with the reaction in
Washington.
Mason, the G.I. defector who changed his mind too late, had died
several hours after arriving at the hospital. All he could add to what
he’d said in his letter was that “they” had contacted him at various
bars and street-corners and public libraries and paid him in cash
whenever he had completed a “job.” He knew none of his contacts by
name, nor where they lived. He knew they were working for the Red
Chinese, but none of them looked particularly Chinese. Their
descriptions followed. They certainly didn’t sound Chinese, but,
besides Mason, the one with the Southern accent appeared to be the
only other American. That was all Mason knew. He begged that his
wife and kids be taken away somewhere and looked after. Then he
died.
The report concluded with echoes of the rumblings in Washington.
Relations between the U.S.S.R. and the U.S.A. were strained indeed,
but the President had personally stepped in and the ominous thunder
on the left had simmered down to quietly vicious sniping.
Nick turned with relief to the report from Julia Baron. He could
see her as he read: tall, supple and graceful, with banked fires glowing
in her lustrous cat’s eyes, her skin the color of nutty copper and the
texture of pure satin, her body pliant … warm … urgent….
Read the report, Carter.
He grinned and read:
“Increase in Red Chinese espionage activities, as noted in previous
reports, continues so noticeably that even civilians are aware of it. It is
common talk in Peking that their agents are everywhere. For some
time it has been apparent that a special branch of the joint
intelligence services has gone into high-gear operation. Their job is to
create trouble and dissension in countries unsympathetic with current
Red Chinese policies. Their methods: infiltration, sabotage, forged
evidence, deliberate accidents, and so on. Since Chinese facial
characteristics are rather difficult to disguise, at least over a long
period of time, they have found ways to force Caucasians to work for
them.”
Nick lit up a Players and wondered what he was expected to do
about all this. Play double agent, perhaps. That was a nasty thought.
Swift, decisive action that showed immediate results—that was more
in his line of business.
“This operative gained impression,” (the report continued) “that
main purpose of special branch was to create friction between United
States and U.S.S.R. See attached report for supporting evidence. Am
convinced that final purpose is to deliberately create incident leading
to war between our countries which can only benefit Peoples’
Republic of China.”
The only country in the world, Nick reflected, that could survive a
nuclear holocaust. Even if only one-tenth of its population survived,
that would be enough people to take over the ravaged, shriveled
world that would remain.
“I am still sure of this after meeting Soviet Agent Guren,” the
report read, “who persists in doubting integrity of United States.”
Soviet Agent? What the hell?
“As detailed below, Guren is convinced that Red Chinese special
branch is devoted to damaging Soviet Communism and the Soviet
Union. He points to incidents in Albania, Cambodia, etc., and insists
that Red Chinese are sabotaging Russian plants, factories, dams, and
doing all they can to steal atomic secrets. In general Guren is
unwilling to believe that Red China is responsible for anti-Soviet
incidents taking place in the West, and even in the U.S.A. He claims
that this position is simply U.S. cover for its own “criminal” activities.
I did not argue with him.”
Nick laughed at Julie’s idea of not arguing. She had probably torn
strips off this fellow Guren by the time she was through.
“Nevertheless, he agreed that such an organization would
undoubtedly turn its attention to the U.S.A. when It was ready, and
made it clear that his government was extremely concerned by its
anti-Russian activities. He has instructions to locate its headquarters
and build up a file of information on it, possibly with a view to its
later destruction.
“So far he has very little to go on. All he admits to knowing is that
its headquarters are probably right here In Peking, that it is very
closely allied to the Chinese crime lords, and that it is known by the
name of CLAW.
“Since all of Peking is virtually locked against the foreigner and
information is very hard to come by, he is going to Tokyo. Pro-Red
Chinese agitators have become very active in that city in an attempt to
unite what might call the ‘Yellow East’ against all other interests or
cultures. Guren believes that in a friendly, westernized city such as
Tokyo he may be able to operate more freely. He also believes that
Tokyo is so riddled with Chinese spies that he is bound to run into one
who will be only too glad to hand him the secret of CLAW.”
The body of the report ended on this gently derisive note. Nick
gathered that Julie hadn’t been too crazy about Comrade Guren. His
own immediate impression was that Guren had found Peking a little
too hot and had gone chasing off to Tokyo to sit safely on the
sidelines.
But his impression was wrong.
Someone in the Records section of AXE’s Washington office had
prepared a brief synopsis of Red Chinese subversive activities in the
East. One significant paragraph dealt with the rash of disappearances
of western agents visiting Tokyo, either on assignment or passing
through between cases. Several of them had vanished after entering
Japanese bathhouses.
Funny, Nick thought. After the first couple, why don’t agents just
stay away from bathhouses?
But, as an agent himself, he knew the answer. In the first place,
they would want to find out why the others had disappeared; and in
the second place, they were probably on the same hot leads
themselves.
It all boiled down to a new menace from the East: an extremely
active and unscrupulous organization dedicated to sowing hatred,
murder, and the seeds of war.
And its name was CLAW.
The traveling bags supplied by Documents (the department in
charge of passports, identities, and specialized travel gear) were
equipped with a number of special features. The bags were light but
sturdy and well-constructed. Even trained eyes would fail to see the
carefully concealed compartments.
The smaller bag contained clothes, toilet supplies, and some books
and brochures extolling the holiday attractions of the mysterious East.
Nick checked in at the Towers and browsed through the books. He
was beginning to feel the need of food and drink when a bellhop
tapped on the door and delivered an envelope containing a note and a
key. The note gave instructions for a meeting with Hawk on the
following day. The key opened a locker in Grand Central Station.
Back in his hotel room after a quick trip across town, Nick opened
his packages.
He poured himself a drink from the first and went to work on the
second.
Within the next day or two he was to transform himself into Henry
Stewart of Detroit, a young businessman who had made a small pile
out of dealing in auto parts and was returning to Japan—which he
had last seen in wartime—for a look-around and business survey. It
was to be largely a vacation trip, but naturally Mr. Stewart would take
a bit of a busman’s holiday and interest himself in Japan’s tremendous
economic recovery. He would call on businessmen, eat at the best
restaurants (and the small ones not often visited by the ordinary
tourist) and revisit the scenes of his days as a soldier.
And he would take a special delight in the bathhouses.
Nick sighed happily and drank. He loved Japan, and he hadn’t
been there for some years.
As always, Hawk and the backroom boys of AXE had done a
thorough job. When they supplied him with a cover story and new
identity, he knew that if any enquiries were made about Henry
Stewart or Detroit, the answers would check out.
Stewart’s passport showed a lean, handsome man with a touch of
gray at his temples. His biography revealed that he was recently
widowed, that his only living relaives were a brother and sister and
their families….
Nick immersed himself in his new identity.
By the time he met Hawk at Vesuvio’s for lunch the next day, he
was Henry Stewart, complete with gray temples.
Hawk was waiting at a quiet side table reading the Wall Street
Journal. He and Nick greeted each other like a pair of business
acquaintances with a minor deal to discuss. A waiter brought one very
dry martini and one Bourbon Old Fashioned. Hawk frowned, and
sipped.
“I think I like this,” Nick announced. “Lunching on your expense
account is infinitely preferable to skulking around in museums and
ballparks. It makes me feel quite human.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” said Hawk caustically. “Now. I
assume that you’re familiar with all the details.”
Nick nodded. “All available details. I take it that you expect me to
get mugged in a Tokyo bathhouse and find out all about CLAW. Then
what?”
“Next,” said Hawk, “I expect you to locate CLAW headquarters and
neutralize their operations.”
“Neutralize it? It doesn’t sound like the kind of operation that will
lend itself to reason. Do you want me to join them?”
“Not exactly. I want you to wreck them. The best way is to
constantly outguess them. Our best bet would be to plant someone
with them. But not yourself. It’ll be your job to create the apparatus
that’ll eventually bring them down. But it could be a very long-term
operation and I need you for other things. Find out about them. Set up
the scheme of attack. And then come back.”
“Just like that. It’s so simple, it’s practically done.”
They talked about the price of steel while the waiter made room
for green salads and two orders of the daily special.
“Are we sure that the disappearances in Tokyo have something to
do with CLAW?” Nick buttered a roll lavishly.
“We’re not sure of anything. But we think it’s likely. You have to
start somewhere. May as well be Tokyo. It’s the only lead we have.
Peking’s a big, strange city. It could take you months to get to first
base there. No, it has to be Tokyo.”
“Well, that suits me. Who are my contacts there—and in Peking?”
“In Tokyo, no contacts as of now. We’ll arrange to have you
contacted, if necessary. In case of emergency, use the Tokyo drop.
Miss Baron will be your Peking contact. For the sake of her cover, you
should not approach her in person at any time. Nor can you address
her directly. You’ll have to use a drop in Peking, too, so the coded
address which I’ll give you will ensure that she gets any messages.
Code instructions for specific occasions, and the two drop addresses,
will be given to you with your final instructions. You yourself will be
staying at the Hotel Diplomat in Tokyo, quite openly. Within reason,
of course. Now. Can you think of anything else you’ll want?”
“One dozen lovely dancing girls,” Nick said cheerfully.
“Hmmph.” Hawk applied himself to his salad.
Oddly enough, Nick’s wish would be granted.
CHAPTER 4
KILL HIM WITH KARATE
Thus it was that Nick Carter’s troubles with Peking began in a
Japanese bathhouse in the heart of Tokyo. It seemed an innocuous
enough place for danger to catch up with him.
He had been to bathhouses until his lithe body had felt stripped of
skin, until he thought his bones must surely show. He had toured and
re-toured the strangely garish Oriental city which, since World War II,
had picked up as much of a Times Square atmosphere as Manhattan
itself. Lotus blossoms and willow trees were an almost incongruous
leftover from Tokyo’s legendary past.
And yet he saw lotus blossoms and willow trees. He visited
graceful pagodas and bulging Buddhas, big business houses and
backstreet restaurants. And he visited bathhouses: Typical Japanese
bathhouses, where one of the most traditional of Oriental customs was
pursued in old-time style and comfort in spite of the encroachments of
the Western way of life.
He was just beginning to wonder if the whole thing was worth it
when he got the message. It was waiting for him in the pigeonhole
under his room number when he came in after a long day of
sightseeing and two bathhouse visits.
Nick went into the small bar behind an alcove of beaded drapes
and ordered a Vodka martini. Mr. Stewart looked at his message. It
was a Western Union cablegram from Detroit. It was signed “Bird,”
and it read:
SEVERE BUSINESS SETBACKS CAUSED BY LEGAL COMPETITION
INDICATE THIRD AND FINAL CRISIS ALMOST INEVITABLE UNLESS
CONSOLIDATE RSS CORPORATION TO FACILITATE MATTERS HAVE
ARRANGED THEIR TOP REPRESENTATIVE CONTACT YOU
ESSENTIAL WE COOPERATE IN CUTTING COSTS BY CONSULTATION
AND MUTUAL ASSISTANCE UNTIL MEETING REDOUBLE
NEGOTIATIONS YOUR END JOHNSON WILL RELAY RESULTS
BOARD MEETING TOMORROW FIVE.
Nick’s blood ran cold.
A new series of manufactured incidents had put the U.S. in really
bad trouble, so bad that World War III appeared almost inevitable.
Somehow Hawk had managed to persuade his Russian counterpart to
cooperate in an action against the common enemy. A member of the
Russian Secret Service—AXE code name “RSS Corporation”—was to
contact Nick and they were to work together. “Cutting costs” was
merely a code phrase used in all cables to authenticate the message.
“Redouble negotiations” meant that he was to proceed as before
until contacted by the RSS representative. And “Johnson” was a short
wave radio.
It was an appalling situation. Good God. Cooperate with a Russian
agent? It was unthinkable. But so was the prospect of a nuclear war.
Nick swallowed his drink and ordered a second.
No fresh instructions until tomorrow at five. Well, back to the
bathhouses.
This time he tried one close to the busy mainstream of Tokyo.
Carter San found a quiet stall, paid the appropriate sum of yen for
the privilege of privacy, and surrendered his over-bathed body to an
almond-eyed beauty who murmured that her name was Taka.
Nick got into a vat of crystal clear water and closed his eyes. Taka
moved about him like a silent shadow, her slender, high-busted body
neatly encased in a terrycloth towel knotted expertly around her. The
feathery touch of her fingers was Oriental magic of the most subtle
sort.
It was the homeliest occupation in the world raised to art of the
highest order. Muscles and nerves that Nick felt had been relaxed to
the point of torpor during the last few days reacted now in sweet
surrender. A delightful euphoria stole through his mind and body.
Taka worked quietly, kneading her cool fingers into the rippling
crevices of his muscles, appreciating the masculine strength of the
finely tuned Carter body. She said nothing, but her almond eyes
betrayed ungrudging admiration.
“San like?” she asked, finally.
“San like very much.” Nick sighed happily.
She worked on, finding and disintegrating little areas of tension
that Nick hadn’t known to exist. Then his thoughts turned to the
ominous cable from Hawk. My God, and here he was lying around in a
bathhouse, with the world on the edge of disaster. His euphoria left
him. His muscles tensed.
“San has thoughts?” Taka’s gentle, voice broke in upon his reverie.
Nick was surprised. “Once in a while. Why?”
“I felt a tightness come upon your body.”
“You have observant fingers.”
“I am sorry, San. I did not mean to intrude.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” said Nick easily. But he was still
surprised.
His experience with Orientals, both male and female, told him that
Taka’s behavior had a touch of the unusual about it, even for a
bathhouse. It was, somehow, emancipated. Of course, times had
changed. The Japanese woman was gradually, slowly, coming into her
own. That she should ask a question that revealed her awareness of
him was something that set her apart. For the Japanese female knows
her place—the place accorded her by the Japanese male—and speaks
when spoken to. Hence the usual air of subservience, the custom of
the Geisha, and the walking ten paces to the rear.
But she was a beauty. Slender but delicately rounded, smooth as
ivory, jet black hair worn in a softly knotted bun, eyes lively and
glowing. Her mouth was full-lipped, and tempting. It looked
passionate, yet yielding. And she spoke English in very cultured tones.
Come now, Carter. She’s gabby. She’s the only one of the
bathhouse ladies who ever said a word to you outside of Hello, Thank
you, and Goodbye.
“A little lower, please, Taka. And harder, if you like. Ouch! That’s
fine.”
It was an interesting experience. His own nudity and her proximity
were all completely acceptable things. Taka, brought up in this
ancient, “backward” land that still denied the equality of the sexes,
was centuries ahead of her enlightened American sisters. There was no
false shame in her. He appreciated the matter-of-fact way she
massaged his thighs and hips, the efficiency of the tiny, competent
hands.
She worked on him for nearly an hour, until the water grew still
and cloudy with the soap. He felt completely relaxed. Only his acutely
developed sixth sense was on the alert, the one that reminded him,
wherever he was and whatever he was doing: YOU ARE AN AXE
AGENT FIRST, LAST AND ALWAYS. BE ON YOUR GUARD.
“Now the cool water,” Taka said.
He sat like an obedient child as she showered him—gently,
lovingly—with a dipper-shaped device which water-failed over his
lithe body.
Nick murmured contentedly. Even the old shrapnal wound on his
thigh felt nerveless and well. The stall of the bathhouse was heavenly
contentment. So why was the sixth sense shooting little needles into
his brain?
“San?”
“Mmmmm?”
“What is this, please?”
Her delicate forefinger was pointing to the tiny tattoo on his inner
right elbow—the design of a little blue axe—the insignia worn by the
highly specialized operatives who formed the upper echelon of the
secret agency called AXE. The little tattoo was a trademark, proof that
its wearer was an agent extraordinary, a member of an elite corps
dedicated to the defense of the United States against subversion,
sabotage and sneak attack. Impossibilities were the stock in trade of
AXE.
The name AXE, and the significance of the tattoo, were known to
very few people anywhere.
“Oh, it’s just a tattoo,” said Nick. “Had it done when I was a kid
during the war. Everybody was doing it.” He grinned. “Some of ‘em
had naked ladies on their chests and hearts and flowers dripping off
their hairy arms. Not me.”
Taka’s eyes had narrowed as if she couldn’t quite believe him. But
she smiled.
“Hatchet,” she cooed. “As with Chinese Tong. Small hatchet.”
Hatchet worn by hatchet man. She was very close to the truth.
Nick Carter had been a hatchetman for AXE for more than seven
years. In the line of duty he had killed, by actual count.… To his
horror, he found that he’d lost count.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Small hatchet. You don’t mean to say you’ve
never seen a tattoo before?”
“Tattoos, yes. But no hatchets. Hearts and flowers.” And she
laughed, a little tinkling sound. “Wait, please. I will be back soon.”
She flashed him a little smile and bobbed her head.
The swinging bat’s wing door behind him swept open as her trim
figure darted through. Nick wondered what her errand was. After this
would come the brisk toweling, and then the piece de resistance: a
really manipulative massage, followed by a pedicure if he wanted the
full treatment. He didn’t.
Small hatchet. So what?
Nick gazed at the neat pile of his clothes. He had broken house
rules by refusing to check his personal belongings. It would have been
uncomfortable—and foolish—to be naked in a tub while all his
weapons were somewhere else. He could never allow his vigilance to
slacken. The espionage agent who relaxed was risking relaxation
forever. Once was all it took to die.
So Wilhelmina the Luger, Hugo the stiletto and Pierre the gas
pellet were close to hand, concealed in the pile of his garments. And
Nick’s mind was wide awake.
Taka was taking a little too long.
Nick stepped from the tub to his bundle of clothes. He took the six-
foot bathtowel off its hook, toweled himself briskly and wrapped
himself in it. Then he sat down on the wooden bench, lit a Players and
kept a wary eye on the door.
It was a high-hanging door that topped head-height but permitted
a view of the lower part of anybody standing on the other side.
Nick sucked smoke into his lungs and waited. Nice Japanese girls,
serving the male in some capacity, did not speak until spoken to. Nice
Japanese girls did not ask personal questions. With any luck, nice
Japanese girls did sometimes have lush lips and bedroom eyes, but
very few were to be found working in bathhouses. They were usually
some rich man’s pleasure, especially if their fingers held gentle,
soothing magic and their intelligence made conversation possible. And
nice Japanese girls did not show so much interest in a hatchet that
was really an axe, and then disappear.
Nick Carter stubbed out his cigarette and pulled on his shorts
under the towel.
Taka’s lovely legs appeared beneath the door. Nick admired them.
She had softly dimpled knees, well-formed, rounded calves, trim
ankles and little feet. But the legs alongside hers were infinitely less
alluring. The trousers tapered down to a shiny pair of black patent
leather shoes encasing uncommonly large feet.
Nick slid Wilhelmina from her leather bed in his jacket and placed
her under a fold of the towel encircling him.
Taka’s legs vanished from beneath the door, swiftly and silently.
The bat’s wing door angled inward; a brown, no-knuckled hand
appeared in the opening. The newcomer came in as advertised.
Assassin.
For a second he showed surprise that Nick seemed to be waiting
for him. Then a humorless grin split his face. It was a wide, flat
caricature of a Japanese face, with flaring nostrils and a cruelly-lipped
mouth.
He carried no weapon. His body was bigger and taller than most
Japanese, his shoulders enormous and his arms thick as oak limbs. But
his hands were the definitive giveaway. They were Karate hands.
Their knuckles had been broken in childhood to force them to grow
into flat-surfaced, ramming destroyers that could slam through
twenty-seven tiles of roof slate in one chopping blow.
Nick and the iron giant locked glances.
“Aahhhhh,” the giant said softly, and glided forward. His feet
moved deftly.
Nick stayed where he was, all senses focused on this viciously
armed threat to his safety. Wilhelmina nosed into view, her black
snout centered on the giant’s belly.
He stopped, scorn twisting his face.
“Are you a woman that you face me with that?” His voice was
curiously flat, monotonous. “Come, fight me in the manner of men!”
He raised his hands, palms outward, and his big chest heaved with
breathing.
“I did not come here to fight,” Nick said. Wilhelmina pointed
unwaveringly at the giant. “Who are you? Why is there murder in
your eyes?”
“I come to avenge the honor of my family. I come for vengeance,
and vengeance is not murder.”
“Vengeance!” Nick laughed. “What do you pretend to be
avenging?”
“I do not pretend! You have the axe symbol on your arm—do not
lie, my sister saw it. My father was killed by the Tong in your
Chinatown years ago. You wear their mark, and I will beat you with
my bare hands. I have been waiting for this.”
His eyes narrowed to slits and his great hands reached out.
Nick raised the Luger higher.
“Now wait a minute! The mark I wear has nothing to do with the
Tong. It’s a personal thing, a tattoo. Lots of Americans have tattoos.
They don’t mean a thing. Stay where you are! I don’t want to hurt
you. One more move toward me …”
Nick rose in a fluid motion and stepped away from the wooden
bench.
“You lie,” the giant rumbled at him. “Taka knows the tattoos that
men wear. She saw the symbol. You are a hatchetman of Chinatown.
And I will kill you.”
It was an impossible situation. Nick could not bring himself to
shoot a misdirected man. Nor could he submit to a contest of strength
with this bulldozer of a man with the battering-ram hands. Taka had
certainly flung him into hot water. When this big ape had described
the tatoo, he had said “axe” instead of hatchet. Nick had carefully
avoided the word “axe,” and Taka had not used it. At least she had not
used it to him.
“Now listen. I’ve got nothing to do with Chinatown. I’m not even
Chinese, and neither are you. So what could either of us possibly have
to do with the Tongs? Better tell me the true story or get out, fast. I
could shoot you before you reached me.”
But he was wrong.
With all the agility of a great ape the giant flicked into motion and
slapped the Luger out of Nick’s hand.
Wilhelmina skidded on the damp tiles and came to a halt against
the far wall of the stall.
“Now,” the giant thundered. “Prepare yourself!”
The Karate hand chopped down savagely at Nick Carter’s face.
CHAPTER 5
ASSIGNMENT DEATH
The blow would have killed Nick—had it landed. That destructive
right hand would have caved in the temple, crushing delicate bone
into splintering fragments.
But the art of self defense was one of the primary concerns of Nick
Carter’s life and one of his major talents.
The broad, flat face of the giant registered surprise as Nick back-
flipped like a gymnast on a training mat, jack-knifing away from
danger. He snapped erect a full two yards from the giant, and stood
poised on the balls of his naked feet.
The intruder charged. He came at Nick—a roaring bull of strength,
arms flailing with the vigor of the samurai, but with none of the
traditional chivalry.
Nick side-stepped lightly and shot a blow into the man’s side. His
hands might as well have encountered a stone wall. The giant’s body
was hard and bony, its flesh solid and unyielding. Nick back-pedaled
swiftly, keeping his eyes glued to his antagonist but getting distance
between them.
The time for argument was past.
The giant circled Nick warily, his eyes gleaming, his great flat
hands sawing the air in wide, rhythmic gestures. Nick moved with
him. There was no defense against this muscle-machine but escape or
attack. And he had no weapon for attack. Wilhelmina lay tantalizingly
out of reach.
Nick restrained a curse. What a helluva way to go. Trapped in a
Nipponese bathhouse by a treacherous beauty and an ugly giant, and
the assignment not even begun.
The giant made a sudden leap.
Nick swerved, but not far enough or quickly enough. A long arm
clamped on to his. He felt himself being reeled in like a fish on a line.
The giant anchored his feet and squeezed. Nick was bear-hugged,
trapped in the savage embrace.
Their contorted faces were only inches apart. Nick felt the
enormous power of the Karate hands applying yet another art: the
Grecian wrestling hold, meant to paralyze and crush. He sucked in his
breath and hooked a leg behind the giant’s hamstring and snapped a
bone-cracking twist.
It worked.
The giant lost balance and staggered, but kept his crushing hold on
the lean body.
At last, Nick’s towel fell away. Its falling was a gift from the gods.
It covered the knee he raised and planted solidly into the giant’s
abdomen. There was a gasp of pain, and the crushing hold eased. It
was the barest change—but it was just enough for Nick to lock his
hands and bring them up in a bonny blow.
Air whistled through the giant’s teeth. Spittle flew. A tooth cracked
with the suddenness of a pistol shot.
Nick chopped Judo-fashion at the broad, distorted face. The punch
fell just above the rubbery lips and jerked the flat nose upward. Before
his huge attacker could adjust, Nick fanned both arms out like wings
and swiftly brought them back together in the head area. The palms of
his hands closed with a twin thunderclap of violence over the giant’s
ears, like great steel doors.
The giant, his senses reeling, roared with excruciating pain. His
arms released their crushing hold on Carter.
Rage and agony consumed the giant. Shrieking incomprehensible
Japanese obscenities, he lowered his head and battered like a ram.
Nick threw a half-Nelson on the thick neck. His feet flat on the tiles,
he exerted all his weight and strength on the giant’s neck.
The giant wheezed.
Nick held fast, with every ounce of strength and all the
concentration of his being. The giant strained desperately. His eyes
bulged and his lips drew back over his teeth in his yearning effort to
be free.
Nick was merciless.
He did not release his hold until the awful snapping sound came.
Then he lowered his antagonist to the tiled floor.
The bat’s wing door was motionless. No one was visible beyond it.
Nick stepped over his victim and swiftly pulled on his clothes.
Even this simple process was one that he had practiced endlessly
during his apprenticeship with Hawk. They had timed him
relentlessly, until Nick had worked it down to the irreducible
minimum of fifty-five seconds. Nick had discovered in the course of
years that being caught without clothes on was one of the most
dangerous things that could happen to an agent. There was no telling,
in terms of personal safety, just what the ability to dress so rapidly
could mean to AXE’s trouble-shooting specialists.
He slid Wilhelmina back into her accustomed bed and bent over
the giant. The eyes glared sightlessly up at the ceiling. Nick’s fingers
flew through the imitation-American clothes.
The wallet, the small amount of yen, the keys and the crumpled
pack of American cigarettes meant nothing. And there was nothing to
indicate that the giant’s weird story about avenging Tong murders was
anything but the fable Nick had suspected it of being. Nick uncovered
the torso and bared a massive, hairless chest.
Tattooed over the heart and roughly resembling a third nipple was
a crude representation of the letter “C.” No doubt the Chinese
character would have been too difficult for most people to recognize.
For it was probably meant to be seen, when necessary; meant to be
recognized; meant as a warning.
It was a brand, a crude one. It had probably been administered at
about the same time as the dim brain had been washed—rinsed of
reason and ready to receive instructions to kill on cue.
Nick had heard of this “C.” Badly wounded, sometimes horribly
disfigured western agents and even civilians had seen men who
flaunted this mark while torturing them.
And the mark had been discerned on corpses found in the alleys
and dock areas of the East. Most people thought it had something to
do with one of the Orient’s secret societies. Some intelligence agencies
felt it had a much broader significance. And now Nick was sure that it
had.
It was hardly likely, any more, that “C” stood for anything but
CLAW, that curiously specialized intelligence arm of Red China
dedicated to fermenting war between the U.S.A. and the U.S.S.R. And,
undoubtedly, Russian-American hostilities would be the prelude to
Red China’s assumption of world power. Naturally they would make
every effort to get rid of foreign spies. But how could they know about
the tattooed axe… ?
The thing to do now was to get out of the bathhouse with a whole
skin, leaving the giant for his playmates to collect. The only good AXE
agent was a live AXE agent.
But there was still Taka to take care of. He could use her.
Nick padded over the tiled floor and eased through the door. There
was no one in sight. They must have been very sure of their pet giant.
Still, he was convinced that there must be other Clawmen somewhere
on or near the premises.
Nick stole silently down to the next landing, keeping a wary eye
open for shadows and movement of any sort. The landing was clear.
Taka could be expected to double back sooner or later to check on the
murder in the private stall. And God knows who else was liable to pop
up. One thing was certain: Hawk’s intelligence reports were checking
out: Carter was a western agent; Carter had been attacked in a Tokyo
bathhouse.
He wondered again about the axe symbol and why it had brought
CLAW down upon him. Even his closest friends had never seen it. Who
in the world had… ?
Nick turned a corner and entered a wide, dimly-lit corridor. The
end of the corridor broadened out into the entrance foyer. A lean,
hard-faced man occupied the registration desk. His head was turned
away from Nick and he was talking in low, intense tones to the
guardian of the door, a beefy Japanese clad in kimono and sandals.
Something about their manner was far from reassuring.
They were waiting for him.
He flattened himself against the passage wall and cast his mind
about for another means of exit. In through one of the stalls, perhaps,
and out a window? His mind formed a picture of the layout. Not the
stalls behind him; they had no windows. Opposite, perhaps.
Wilhelmina slid into his right hand and he glided silently across the
passage. The first door was locked.
The lightest of footfalls approached. Nick’s hand lightly but firmly
held the Luger…. Small feet. A breath of perfume. He stood—and
waited.
Taka glided down the passageway toward him.
He detached himself from the wall and put one hand on her
shoulder, gently. Wilhelmina’s nose tilted upward.
Taka gasped.
“You left me high and not very dry, didn’t you, Taka,” Nick said
easily.
“The San must not speak here,” she whispered, her eyes wide and
startled.
Both of them heard heavy footsteps in the corridor leading to the
entrance foyer.
“I did not expect the San to be finished so soon.” Her lovely lips
trembled. “You will come this way, please.” She reached toward a
door and clicked it open.
The heavy footsteps clattered down the stairs.
“Do I get to meet more of your friends in there, Taka? Those nice
gentlemen who want to show me wrestling holds?”
She tugged at his arm. “Please, San! This is the only way. They are
looking for you, and there are more of them waiting for you outside.
Please, San!”
The urgency in her voice could not be denied. He gripped her
tightly, holding her in front of him. Almost as one, they moved
through the open doorway.
No one was waiting for him in the tiny room. It could scarcely
have held three people. Nick pushed the door shut behind them. Taka
twisted free, turned the long key in the lock, then slipped it down the
front of the mandarin-style dress with which she had replaced her
bathtowel. She looked at Nick with something like defiance. Footsteps
clattered past. They met others in the center of the landing. There was
a muffled conference. Then the footsteps separated and faded into the
distance on either side.
Taka looked at Nick.
“So Ka Tanaki failed. I am glad.”
Nick looked at her. “Are you?”
Her eyes were strangely bright, her subtle beauty enhanced by the
straight-cut dress of purple hues. There was an indefinable something
about her face that intrigued Nick in spite of his precarious position.
The small room seemed to be a storeroom, lit only by a kerosene
lamp. Shelves held towels, linens, soap and oils. There were no
windows and no other door.
“If you are glad, Taka, why did you send the man to kill me? I
have not hurt you in any way. But I can hurt you now.” His eyes were
cruel. “I could kill you before you could utter a sound.” Carter’s voice
tightened with menace. His left hand reached out and caressed her
throat with terrible gentleness. “Who are you working for? And who is
waiting outside for me? Someone that you sent for? And why did you
bring me in here?”
Taka’s breath came in short, uneven gasps. Her head moved as if
she were a cat being stroked by a loving master. But Carter knew how
treacherous cats can sometimes be.
“Too many questions, San. Too much at once.”
“Try one at a time,” Nick’s voice lashed at her. His fingers
tightened almost imperceptibly around her soft, smooth throat.
Her hand clutched at his. “You are marked for death. I was told to
look for you. And I did not want to tell them you had come. Deep
inside I was afraid, but I had to tell them.”
“Tell who?”
“The men of Claw. And there are more outside, four more with
cars and guns. I want to help you, San. I want to help you!”
“Help me!” His voice was bitter. “So you surround me with killers
and you trap me in a closet!” He laughed. “You expect me to believe
that?”
Her eyes misted and her lush lips trembled.
“I could have let you walk outside. All I had to do was turn away.
They are looking for you inside and they are waiting for you on the
street. I made you come in here, and for the moment you are safe. You
must believe I want to help you!”
Wilhelmina was unconvinced. Her uncompromising nose was
pointing at Taka. Nick’s hand stayed at Taka’s throat.
“Trap me first and help me afterwards! Why should you do that?”
Taka sighed. The sound was almost a sob.
“I have touched you,” she said softly, “and I have touched beauty.
No, do not move your hand away. To you I would give myself most
gladly. All else in my life is dirt beneath your feet.” Her hand
tightened on his while his mind flashed: Careful! Trap! “I am
surrounded always by the fat and ugly, by the blasphemy that some
men can bring their bodies to. You, San, are the image of my dreams.”
The hand pulled his down and stroked it over a softly pointed breast.
“When you came into my stall, my heart fluttered. I saw your body
and stroked it with my eyes and hands. There was goodness in your
face. I felt a closeness with you. It was a dream come true.”
Her hold upon his fingers loosened. Nick’s ears could scarcely
credit what he heard. Her dark lashes lowered.
“My sadness was very great”—the voice was low—“when I saw the
blue axe-hatchet on your elbow. I had been instructed to look for it
and report to my superiors. No one can say that I did not follow
orders. But I cannot harm you any more. I want to be yours alone,
San.”
“Then take out that key,” said Nick, “and put it back in the lock,
where I can use it when I need to.”
Now the voice was almost inaudible. “Take it yourself. You will
know for yourself that I am yours.”
“Give me the key, Taka.”
“Take it, San.” Taka closed her eyes and wilted beneath his hand.
Nick’s deft fingers flicked open the buttons of the high collar. His
hand went down between her breasts and found nothing but firm,
rounded flesh.
“Taka.…”
“Not there, San. It is heavy.”
His pulse quickened. This was a game, and a dangerous one, but
there was something to be said for it. His hand inspected the beautiful
young body. It was his for the taking.
He found the key where the scanty lace of her single undergarment
had caught and held it. He drew it out and thrust it into his pocket.
Taka gave a quivering sigh.
“And now you will leave me and go to your death.” Tears welled
up in her eyes. “I am sorry. I am sorry, San. I would do anything I
could to help you. Stay with me. They will never think of looking
here.”
“Why not?” he asked sharply. “You thought of coming here. In a
moment I will open the door and you will go ahead of me. But first
you will tell me who you work for and where I can find him.”
Suddenly, unexpectedly, her eyes flashed fire. “I will tell you and it
will do you no good. They will kill you anyway. If you know anything,
then you have heard of CLAW. I belong to CLAW and I belong to the
Mandarin. I came here from Peking. A man named Judas spoke of
you. I will gladly walk in front of you and they will kill us both.
Come, open the door and let us go!”
Nick stared at her. He knew this was the truth.
She saw his change of expression and her eyes softened.
“There is no one in the passage now. I can lead you to a door that
is seldom used. Perhaps they will not think of watching it thinking
you would not know about it.”
“Where is this door?”
“Downstairs. It is like a trapdoor into the side street. We go back
along this landing, then go down. Come, it is quiet now.”
Taka plucked at his sleeve, her eyes eager. Nick was shaking his
head.
“You still do not trust me,” she whispered.
His mind worked swiftly, weighing chances, considering the
probability of further betrayal. But he was not in business just to keep
alive. He was on to something here, and he had to find out more. On
the other hand, the life history of CLAW and a roadmap to its
headquarters wouldn’t do him much good in a closet.
He decided.
“I have a better way. What happens to you if you don’t come with
me?”
She stared into the steel gray eyes that pierced into hers.
“Nothing. They would kill me if they knew I was with you and had
told you anything. But they do not know that yet.”
“Won’t they blame you for letting me go?”
She shrugged expressively. “It was Ka Tanaki’s job to stop you.
And there are others waiting to take over. They do not expect me to
do their killing for them.”
He refrained from making the obvious comment and asked,
instead, another question. “If I manage to get out of here can I count
on you to contact me later and give the help that you have promised?”
“Please let me come with you, San. I hate these people and this
place.”
“Taka, you can’t.” He shook her shoulder urgently. “They will
certainly kill you if they see us together. Each of us will be better off
alone. But I want you to meet me later. Will you do that?”
She nodded. “I will do that, if I can.”
It was taking a hell of a chance. But something told him that time
was running out and this was no time to make complicated plans.
He’d just have to be on guard.
“All right. I’m at the Diplomat Hotel. Henry Stewart, 515.” He
started pulling towels down off the shelves. “Wait ‘til the commotion
dies down, then call me. We’ll arrange a meeting place.”
Taka stared at him. “What are you doing?”
“Getting out of here.”
CHAPTER 6
HOT TIME IN THE OLD TOWN
The towels formed a tangled pile on the floor, topped with
shredded and crumpled shelf paper. Nick surveyed the rumpled pyre.
It reached from the shelves to the door, a very satisfactory
arrangement. He searched around for anything else he could use: odd
bits of tissue and wrappings, plastic and celluloid containers, a couple
of cardboard soap boxes.
Then he carefully shook most of his cigarette lighter’s fuel on the
towels, saving a drop for another purpose.
Taka watched with interest, realization spreading over her face.
Nick turned a screw on the kerosene lamp and again allowed most,
but not all, of its fluid to pour over the tinderbox pile. He put back the
screw cap and threw a couple more towels over his shoulder.
“There has never been a fire here before,” said Taka. “You will let
me out, won’t you? You would not let me stay here burning?”
Her eyes were beginning to show fear. For all her brave talk about
walking out with him and dying, Nick realized she did not relish the
idea of death. Certainly not by fire.
He was unkind enough to grin at her.
“Do you think I would? No, Taka. I am not like your friends.”
“They are not my friends!” Now she was angry again.
He finished his preparations and slid the key into the lock, talking
to her softly and swiftly as he did so.
“I will light this. Then I will open the door and you will walk
quickly but naturally toward the stairway. If anyone asks about me,
you will be surprised that I have not been found. Whatever happens,
react normally. Understand?”
She nodded.
The dying lick of the cigarette lighter applied to his carefully
constructed pyramid did the trick. The first slow creeping of smoky
flame became a hungry leap of fire.
“Okay. Open that door and get out fast.”
She did. Nick poked his head cautiously out after her. There was
no one else on the landing. Fine. He fanned the flames. He took up the
kerosene lamp and stepped past his bonfire into the corridor and
hurled the lamp against the corridor wall. It burst noisily; flaming
liquid spewed. He grabbed a burning towel from behind him and
tossed it toward the lamp, following it with the two spare towels he
had over his shoulder. Simultaneously he shrieked: “Fire! Fire! Help!
Fire!”
The oldest trick in the book worked.
Startled heads thrust out of suddenly opened doors; half-naked
men bobbed into sight, clutching huge towels around them; attendants
squealed and screamed. The tiny room behind Nick was producing a
hellfire of smoke, flame and confusion. The blazing lamp in the
corridor was doing its job most effectively, too. A dozen garbled
voices rattled off a stream of Japanese interspersed with the
penetrating voices of American tourists taking the treatment. Half-clad
people pushed past him without even seeing him. Heavier feet
thundered from the direction of the stairway. An alarm bell of some
kind sent a frenetic whhhrrr of noise through the building.
Nick tore open his jacket and rumpled his shirt as he started to
run, throwing himself into the whirlwind of bodies that swept down
the hall. The main lobby bulged with the clientele of the bathhouse,
clutching towels and odd bits of clothing and screaming out their
panic. Nick, fully dressed, joined the mob which bolted out through
the main entrance with almost complete disregard for their state of
undress. He clutched his pants and feverishly buttoned his jacket, as if
he were one of the fortunate few to have been almost ready to leave.
He was damned if he was going to put on a more dramatic act and
leave his clothes behind him. He could scarcely go running naked
around Tokyo with a bunch of killers after him.
Tokyo was sunny, serene—and waiting.
Something else was waiting, too.
As the swarm of people poured from the building, Nick spotted Ka
Tanaki’s reinforcements. There was no mistaking them.
A small plaza of cherry trees enhanced the entrance of the
bathhouse. Two sides of it were lined with parked cars belonging to
the bathhouse clientele. Beyond it, Tokyo Boulevard was alive with
traffic and pedestrians—energetic citizens, tourists with cameras,
sailors with girls. The fleet was in again. But so was death.
A line of four taxicabs, each with a driver and a fare, was waiting
across the plaza. Each cab started moving very slowly as the crowd
poured out of the bathhouse.
The flurry of excitement generated by the fire had served its
purpose. Nick was outside the death trap. It should be fairly easy to
slip away now. He moved along the front of the building, picking his
way through the mob toward the parking lot away from the direction
in which the cabs were heading. Then, suddenly, the crowd deserted
him. The strange instinct that impels a group of strangers to move as a
single being drew the crowd back toward the entrance and left him as
isolated and obvious as a flashing beacon on a rock. He started
running, intending to cut through the parking lot and aim for the busy
boulevard.
Even as a fire engine screamed its way on to the scene, its
compelling voice cutting a path through the traffic, the four cabs
wheeled in a sharp U-turn and headed back toward him.
A run-down. The familiar Al Capone trick of the thirties, when a
line of black cars would race past a shop or the home of a rival and
rake it with machine gun fire on the theory that what the first car
missed the second would hit, and so on right down the line.
The first car turned into the parking lot. Nick ducked and ran in a
crouch toward the boulevard. A burst of automatic machine gun fire
tore above his head. There was an agonized cry from someone in the
crowd behind him.
Dodging and weaving, he cut across the open reaches of the Plaza
toward the remaining three cars. There was a stone bench on the
plaza that would have to do. At last, a stroke of luck.
The stone back of the bench ran all the way to the ground. He ran,
bullets screaming above his head, and dropped to his knees behind the
bench that faced the deadly avenue of taxicabs. Wilhelmina leapt into
his hand. All he had to do was hold out. The first cab was already out
of sight.
A hail of machine gun bullets raked the bench. Chips flew, and the
second car was by. Nick hugged the ground. Another burst of fire
came from somewhere behind him, pinging over his head into the
back of the bench just above his left shoulder. The second car, cutting
through the parking lot, was firing parting shots at his exposed rear.
Christ! He’d have to guard both ends at once.
The third car passed. Machine guns chattered. The bench seemed
to tremble on its moorings, but it held. Nick ducked alongside the
bench to shield himself from rear attack. Now the fourth murder car
faced Nick. He raised Wilhelmina for the kill. A face stared directly
into his over the deadly weapon whose single blast would tear his
body to shreds. Wilhelmina spat viciously. Her first answer to the
assault exploded in the hateful face. One machine gun fell into the
street. The car swerved slightly but kept going, heading for the
parking lot. Nick raised his head gingerly, leveled Wilhelmina, and
fired at a fleeting profile even as the taxi turned.
His aim was worthy of the brilliant record he had run up on the
ranges at the Aberdeen Proving Grounds. Even the cold-eyed FBI
instructor, who had noted Nick’s perfect score in the legendary
Hogan’s Alley, would have permitted himself a nod of satisfaction.
Wilhelmina’s final message bore into the driver’s skull. The man
jerked like a puppet. The wheel flew from his dead fingers and the
taxicab swerved crazily. Nick was on his feet and running toward the
corner when the cab slammed headlong into a telephone pole at the
far corner of the narrow lot.
There was a wild gulp of flame, and then the gas tank exploded,
filling the air with flying metal and flesh. From bathhouse and
boulevard came screams of fear and horror.
There was nothing to wait for. The other three cabs had not
reappeared. Yet. People were converging from all sides. How in hell to
explain all this to the Tokyo Police? And how in hell get out of here?
Maybe, again, one of the oldest of all gambits was the best.
He ran toward the flaming wreck and stared at it with well-
simulated horror. The pedestrians coming toward him from the
boulevard could not have seen him shooting. He had to act quickly.
He stood for a moment as if stunned, then turned to a small knot of
approaching onlookers and waved them on to see the horror for
themselves.
“Police! Police!” he stammered, his hands flapping helplessly. “My
friends. Gotta get ambulance, police!” Distraught, he pushed his way
through the gathering crowd and crossed the boulevard. Then he
ducked into a cross street, walked very swiftly for a block, then made
another turn.
There was no hue and cry behind him, no taxicabs with murderous
fares. No one was hurrying after him.
Not hurrying at all. At least, not any faster than he was.
The big figure in the kimono blended with the pedestrians, keeping
a discreet distance and a moderate pace.
Nick’s room at the Diplomat was a haven after all the commotion.
He locked his door, checked the windows, noted the nearby fire
escape with displeasure, and sat down to prepare a coded report for
the Tokyo drop. It would be an involved story about Japanese
industry and American auto parts, but it would make another sort of
sense to those for whom it was intended.
Eventually he sealed and addressed it for delivery, then made
preparations for a brief absence from the hotel. Precautions had not
been necessary during his first days at the Diplomat, but now they
were. He pulled the window down to within four inches of the sill and
jammed it fast, then arranged certain personal items in such a way
that he would know at once, upon re-entering, whether he had had a
visitor while he was away. He locked the door and left the hotel for a
journey to another part of town.
This time his progress was so devious that the man who saw him
leave found him impossible to follow. But it didn’t really matter. The
man had something else to do.
It was more than an hour later when Nick Carter came back to the
hotel. He went in through a side door and walked with his light, quick
step to the fifth floor and room number 515. He opened the door with
care and stepped cautiously inside. No one had come in through the
door before him. He doublelocked it behind him and inspected the
small traps he had left. Everything was as he had left it. Nothing had
been touched.
His taut nerves eased. Somehow he had expected an intrusion, but
it had not come. He wondered how Taka was faring at the bathhouse
and when she would—if she would—contact him.
Then, as he had done so many times before during these past few
days, he stripped to his shorts. This time he did not step out of them
into a steaming bath, but squatted on the floor and began his Yoga
exercises. The first of them were physical, and he enjoyed the feeling
that every muscle in his body was being stimulated. Then he
progressed to the breath retention exercises that had paid off for him
so many times in terms of safety. The practice of these aspects of Yoga
had become second nature to him over the years. They were an
essential part of the conditioning that kept him at physical and mental
peak.
In spite of his concentration he found himself wondering about
CLAW and what his course of action should be. He would be
exchanging radio messages with Hawk later this afternoon, but Hawk
could only tell him to play the cards as they were dealt to him.
Perhaps there would be a way of using Taka—if he ever saw her
again. Pity he hadn’t been able to take her out of the bathhouse with
him….
He did not see the snake until it was too late to run. Too late to
reach for Wilhelmina and strike before the trap was sprung.
He was squatting crosslegged in the center of the room, facing the
window, when the glittering length slithered across the floor from the
dark recess under the bed. It came soundlessly, tongue darting, head
rocking.
King cobra.
His heart seemed to stop.
CLAW had arranged this! How? Through Taka, of course.
His mind focused on one thought: Cobra. It was poised a scant five
feet away from him, eyes glistening like little diamonds in the fan-
shaped head.
Cobra. The hooded snake of India, Ceylon and Africa. One of the
most venomous of the vipers. When disturbed or excited, expands the
skin of the neck and head into a hood-like shape.
The fan of the cobra’s head was only slightly dilated. So far, it had
little to be excited about.
Nick held his breath and forced his body to remain still. How did it
get in? Window. Pushed in from the fire escape.
The cobra’s shiny tongue flicked. Nick’s eyes centered on the
deadly hooded head. The rest of the room dissolved. There was
nothing there at all but Nick and the deadliness of the cobra. The
coiled shape undulated and the head rose higher. It was inches closer
to him now. Nick’s body tensed, in spite of his control, against a
sudden move of any kind. The tight structure of his physique revealed
a sheen of perspiration. He forced himself to relax.
There was no way out. One false movement and the cobra could
sink its vicious incisors into him so swiftly that he would not feel it
until the poison began to choke his blood stream. There would be
swelling, and unthinkable pain.
It was a terrible way for a man to die.
The only salvation was utter rigidity. It is movement which
triggers nearly all combat in the world of beasts. And then there is the
scent of fear. Like movement, it offends, it has to be attacked.
Nick forced fear from him. His body began to feel the strain of this
useless and enforced inaction.
The cobra hung poised, tongue questing, eyes gleaming. The
atmosphere was expectant, imminent, deadly.
Street noises were suddenly loud. Car horns barked. A woman’s
laughter climbed five floors from the sidewalk. A radio voice crooned
in a nearby room. And all the while, the cobra and Nick stared at each
other.
Sssssss! The flicking, darting tongue rustled in the silent room.
Nick’s heart thumped. He thought of making a wild leap for the bed,
of jumping up and grabbing a chair to throw. But he knew no
movement of his would be fast enough. There was nothing he could
do but sit it out—and hope.
The slightest of sounds came from the door behind him. Nick saw
the snake’s head sway ominously. But it did not strike. It seemed to
listen. Then there was no sound.
A snake in front and God knows what behind. He must be a greater
threat to them than he knew—they were really going to the most
incredible lengths to get rid of him.
Another very tiny sound. The cobra’s hood was bigger now and its
head swayed high. Nick willed himself into absolute immobility. If the
door was opened he would have to make some kind of desperate
move. Jump. Duck.
Throw himself at the gleaming coils, or backwards out of the door.
Roll over. Die.
He did not realize that the door was open until he felt a tiny draft
on his back. The snake’s head swelled, the tongue flickered angrily. Its
hood seemed to be growing, fanning out like a rising tide of rage.
This was it.
But still there was no sound, no movement.
Moments passed.
No attack.
Absolute stillness in the room.
Then there was an apologetic cough of sound, light and low, from
somewhere above and behind his right shoulder. Before Nick’s eyes
the head of the cobra swelled and burst. The body jolted, the hood
deflated, the twitching body stilled. Dark, ugly fluid stained the rug.
Its menace died with it.
Nick took a deep breath and raised himself stiffly to his feet.
A tall man in a conservative, rather short-jacketed dark suit was
standing at the doorway pushing the door shut behind him. His right
hand held a snout-nosed automatic fitted with a silencer. As Nick
watched, the man holstered the gun and doublelocked the door. Only
then did he lock eyes with Carter.
“Ordinarily I prefer people to knock,” Nick said lightly. “This time
I’m just as glad you didn’t.”
“They move fast, the swine,” the man said in a barely accented
voice. “You are Stewart, of Detroit?”
Nick nodded. “Mind if I get dressed?”
“Please do.”
Nick reached for his clothes. “Do you always come calling with a
lockpick and a silencer? Oh, please sit down. I’m not complaining,
understand. I don’t like to think of what would have happened if you
hadn’t shown up.”
The man with the gimlet eyes and placid face squinted at Nick and
laughed. He stepped over the dead cobra and selected a chair.
“You have a cool head, Mr. Stewart. You must have thought the
end had come when the door opened and you felt the breeze. Nasty
things, snakes. Hate them.”
“And you have a good eye, Mr.—uh—” Nick pulled his jacket on,
liking the feel of Wilhelmina in her holster. He was far from ready to
trust his rescuer. “What name should I use? Guren?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Why that? And what does it matter? I
am sure your name is anything but Henry Stewart.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Nick murmured. “And I’m not too sure
of you. Suppose I call you Comrade. Would that suit you?”
“As well as anything.” The man reached into an inner pocket. “No,
do not worry. I do not shoot cobras for you just to kill you for myself.
I have money to give you. An acquaintance of yours asked me to give
it to you. Very small money.” He looked at the dollar bill and passed it
to Nick. He tried to see what Nick would look for on the single.
Nick took it without looking at it.
“Is that all?” he said sharply.
His visitor looked surprised.
“There should be more? That is all your friend gave me.”
Nick raised his eyebrows at the man, then finally scrutinized the
bill. “All right,” he said at last. He was sure that Comrade had already
tried to decipher a hidden message on the bill and had not found it. It
was too simple: the unchanged, unadorned portrait of George
Washington, the man who could not tell a lie.
Whoever this man was, he had been sent to Nick by AXE.
CHAPTER 7
COMRADE
“So, Comrade. You thought you’d take a look around before we
met, huh?” Nick’s eyes glinted with amusement. He would have done
the same thing himself.
Comrade crossed his legs comfortably.
“Naturally. Though I must admit I didn’t know you were in. That
fool of a desk clerk assured me that you had gone out and not
returned.”
Nick laughed. “I’m glad you decided to call anyway. Now what do
you propose to do?”
His visitor frowned.
“There is no need to fence with me, Stewart. I know you are the
man I seek because I saw the blue axe on your elbow. Evidently
someone else has seen it, too. Or were you not involved in that
bathhouse affair the news reports are so full of this afternoon?”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Comrade. I want you to tell me
why you’re here, that’s all.” Nick spoke reasonably, but he was
annoyed. Damn it to hell, the whole world knew about the axe
symbol. First Japanese killers and now Russian spies.
Comrade was looking at him curiously. “We are to work together,
Stewart. Surely you have had instructions?”
Nick nodded and reached for a cigarette. “I’ve had instructions.
And I’m expected to use my own judgment. Judgment tells me that
you have instructions, too. What are they?”
“I am not your lackey, Stewart.” His tone said more than his
words; it said that Russian intelligence was a fine and noble thing and
American spies were contemptible. “I, too, enjoy the rank and
privilege of agent first class. And normally we would be at each
other’s throats. But a turn of the wheel now places us side by side. I do
not enjoy the experience any more than you do. Here.” He drew the
silencer-gun and dropped it on the bed. “I shall place this between us.
You put yours down also. Then I will tell you what I have to say. If
you are not satisfied we may see if you can reach faster than I. One of
us shall not leave the room alive. If it is you …”
“Comrade, you are far too hasty.” Nick was shaking his head like a
disappointed teacher. “Put the gun away. Why the big production?
You’ve just said you’ll tell me what you have to say. You are being
ridiculous.”
The Russian’s placid face twisted into a scowl. “Yankee, I will
not…”
“Look, fella. Play cowboy all you want to. I’m just interested in
exchanging information. You came here with something in mind. Until
I know what it is, I’m nothing more to you than a tourist who found a
snake under his bed. And you’re nothing more to me than a guy I’m
grateful to for saving my life. We’re going to pool resources, right?
Then why not tell me about yourself.”
He waited. Comrade stared at him. Nick stared back, scrutinizing
the man’s strong face and steady eyes. He looked like a cold son of a
bitch.
“You’re not the man I thought you’d be,” said Comrade
unexpectedly.
“Oh? I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“I am not disappointed.” Comrade paused. “I had expected an
older, more heavy-set man. With a limp. And a scar. Is it that America
has many top agents? Or one with many faces?”
Nick laughed outright. “You don’t look much like Zabotov. And
you’re not, are you? Come on, Comrade. Let’s get to the point. My
instructions said I would be contacted with a view to a joint mission;
I’ll give you that much. Now what have you got?”
“More than that,” the Russian answered scornfully. “The political
background is not my concern, but I do know that the time has come
for Russians and Americans to unite in a common cause. You cannot
make me believe that every act of wickedness by your country against
mine is devised by other forces, but there does exist a threat to both
our countries. It comes from Red China, and its name is CLAW. You
have heard of it?” The question was a sneer.
“I have met it.”
“Then perhaps you know that it is the evil counterpart of your AXE
and our … what you call SIN, or RSS. Yes, I know what you call us. It
does not matter now.” Comrade fished into his pocket and drew out a
thin, dark cigarette. “This CLAW was not originally formed for the
purpose it now serves. In fact, at one time it was something like your
Mafia—a crime syndicate. The supreme development of the old
Oriental warlord groupings and the Tong societies. Some time ago it
threw in its lot with the government of the People’s Republic of China.
Its crimes are international. They have dared to meddle with us, the
people of Soviet Russia. Us!” Comrade’s voice rose indignantly. He
struck a match with a flourish and lit his cigarette.
“The ultimate crime,” murmured Nick.
“Absolutely. This of course was of no interest to your government
until it felt the rake of CLAW, itself. But don’t think you can blame
everything …”
“All right, Comrade, all right.” Nick sighed. “Nor can you blame
everything on us. Back to CLAW. Your assignment, I suppose, is to go
to Peking and snip off CLAWs fingernails. But how?”
Comrade showed a flash of surprise. “Peking? So you are not as
ignorant as you seem. Yes, Peking. Perhaps we will go together. Do
you know where?”
Nick shook his head. Comrade looked pleased with himself.
“The leader of CLAW maintains his headquarters in the Forbidden
City. It is a place not known to many white men, for of the few who
have dared to enter, very few have ever left. Their fate …” Comrade
shrugged eloquently.
He puffed busily and went on with his story.
“CLAW’s methods of persuasion and punishment have been
developed over the course of centuries. Their techniques are a mixture
of the barbaric and the very modern. Their physical tortures, for
instance, are as old as China itself, with refinements that are unique in
the debasement of mankind. Enough of that for the moment. I have
been assigned to enter the Forbidden City and assassinate the head of
CLAW. What your specific instructions are, of course I do not know.
The suggestion that we work together came from your country, that I
know. It does not please me, but I have my orders. And yours?”
Nick smiled thinly. “To work with you. What is your information
regarding this leader? The Mandarin, I think they call him.”
Comrade scowled at him. “So. You know that that is what they call
him. He claims to be Mandarin. Who he really is, what he looks like,
and how he took over the Forbidden City, I do not know. But rest
assured, he is the very devil himself. But now I think it is time for you
to do the talking, Stewart.”
Nick glanced at his watch and shook his head.
“Sorry, Comrade. You will have to excuse me. Make yourself at
home. There’s a flask in the top drawer.” He rose and walked over to
the closet.
Comrade’s eyebrows came together over the gimlet eyes.
“You call this cooperation? If you are trying to trick me—to trap
me! Is that it? I should have known you Americans would do anything
to …”
“Relax, Comrade, relax. No tricks.” Nick swung open the closet
door and hefted out the larger of his two suitcases. “I just have to
make a call. Then I’ll do the talking.” He went into the bathroom and
closed the door behind him.
It probably wouldn’t matter if Comrade kibitzed his short-wave
contact with Hawk in Washington, but the habit of caution was
strong. He covered the crack beneath the door with a towel and
turned the faucets on full blast. Then he opened the suitcase and
activated Johnson.
His message to Hawk was long and carefully worded. It began with
a description and ended with a question. Hawk’s answer was brief and
to the point. “Yes, that is the man to do business with. Share all
information. The situation has now reached crisis proportions. The
only way out is to liquidate the overseas company entirely.
Negotiations are in your hands. So is the future. Good luck.”
It didn’t help much. But it cleared the way with Comrade.
When Nick came out of the bathroom Comrade was sniffing at the
open neck of the flask.
“Fine Scotch, Stewart. Vodka is better, of course. Perhaps this will
prompt you to talk.” His smile was almost friendly. He seemed to have
recovered his equilibrium.
“Right. But just tell me one more thing. Where did you get your
information about the Forbidden City—here in Tokyo?”
Comrade nodded. “Much of it, yes. This city is like a melting pot.
We have our people here, they have theirs. Sometimes they … cross
over, you might say. Tch!” He sighed and shook his head. “There is
much wickedness in these big cities. So many spies.”
Hypocritical bastard, Nick thought. But he nodded agreement.
“So I’ve noticed. I’ve met one or two. Well, here’s the story as I see
it …”
Thrusting aside his reservations about confiding in his traditional
enemy, Nick gave Comrade the kind of concise but detailed report he
would have given a trusted fellow agent. Nothing extra, nothing about
AXE, but everything that related to the assignment. He began with
background information and ended with the cobra. Comrade’s eyes
narrowed when Nick related Taka’s part in the bathhouse affair, but
he said nothing until Nick finished with: “… thanks to your steady
hand and eye.”
Comrade waved the compliment away with a flap of the hand.
“This girl Taka. I gather you arranged a tryst with her. Was that not
foolish?”
Nick shrugged. “Without her, I had nothing to go on. It was worth
the chance.”
Comrade snorted. His eyes flickered over the unsightly body of the
cobra. “Was it?”
“As it turned out—yes. She may still come back to check up on me.
I hope so. We can use her.”
“So. Perhaps.” The Russian lit another cigarette. “We will talk
more of her later. But you have said nothing of the Forbidden City.
What do you know of it, Stewart? Anything?”
His eyes were mocking, as if knowledge of the Forbidden City were
Russian property.
“Not much more than the myths that surround the place.” Ugly
tales, gossip, rumor and official reports added up to no more than a
nightmarish picture of ungodly crime disguised by ritual, a religious
covering for a band of criminal terrorists that preyed upon their own
people. Apparently it was much more than that.
“It’s a walled city, something like your Kremlin. A place of
courtyards, towers and stone. A religious order of Buddhist monks
supposedly rules the place, and it’s said to be filled with religious
statues, ancient carvings and brooding idols. It traces its birth, I
believe, to the conquering Manchu clans that overpowered the weaker
Chinese forces and set up a shrine somewhere in Peking.” He paused.
The Russian was watching him with interest and some surprise. (Hah!
thought Nick. So I know a little more than he bargained for.) “It is, or
was, a forbidden shrine because it held the Son of the Dragon, a king,
the lone male who could stay in the Forbidden City at night. In the
evening, when the drums sounded, all other men left the Forbidden
City, and the Emperor remained alone with his concubines. Of course,
the eunuchs could remain, but they were not considered men.
“That’s the way it was in the old days. In a vast land of hills and
valleys, cities and villages, that walled city within a city controlled
millions of Chinese peasants—generation after generation. I know
that, to this day, even though the era of Chinese Emperors and Sons of
Dragons has ended, there are people who still think of the Forbidden
City as the soul of China. But what it’s really like today, I don’t know.
My understanding is that townspeople still visit there daily,
presumably with supplies, and leave the big gates before sundown.
And that there are guardsmen of some sort, who watch the city walls
from inside during the day and from outside at night. Perhaps we can
make use of that somehow. My country suspects that it might be, now,
the headquarters of a terrorist organization or possibly even one of the
hideouts of the leaders of Red China. But we have never been able to
obtain any proof. As you say, very few white men have ever been
there, and I personally don’t know of any who have come back.
Frankly, until today I had never connected it with any organization
like CLAW. But I can see how such a specialized outfit could be
interested in controlling the place. I expect that the Chinese people
still hold it in considerable awe.”
“Exactly.” Comrade smiled. “You have more background
knowledge than I expected. But we have been able to get closer to the
secret than you, believe me. We have more than rumor to go by …”
“But then you’re closer to the Red Chinese than we are, aren’t
you?” Nick could not resist the interruption.
“Sometimes.” Comrade’s placid face grew hard. “Only when their
interests do not conflict with ours. Today they do. Our information is
that a man who calls himself the Mandarin has built up a cover that
has disguised his activities even from his countrymen. He surrounds
himself with monks and Mongol bodyguards and rules a harem of
concubines, but beneath this facade of religious flummery he runs Red
China’s most dangerous underground organization.”
“Concubines!” Nick almost laughed. “I suppose that’s why little
Taka was so expert at her job.”
“You catch on quickly, Stewart.” Comrade was condescending.
“But you see what I mean, don’t you? They blind and weaken the
Chinese people—oh, they themselves feel the hand of CLAW, believe
me—with all this foolery of gods and ritual, while at the same time
they play at world politics and international murder. We know for
certain of vicious tortures and hideous brutality. Pagan sexual rites
and executions, and the pleasant custom of burying enemies alive in
the walls that surround the place. So. Interesting, Stewart, is it not?”
“Fascinating,” Nick murmured. “I think we should drink a toast to
the success of our joint mission.” He poured. “Here’s to you, Comrade
—what was the name again?”
The big Russian bared his teeth in a crooked smile.
“Just Comrade. And so shall it remain during what I trust will be a
brief acquaintance. The sooner I see the last of you, the better I shall
like it. Just remember that Peking is not Petropavlovsk.” Nick raised a
quizzical eyebrow, but Comrade was still smiling. “Oh, I bear you no
grudge. Sven Larson was a fool who deserved to die at your hands.
The Soviet has little use for failures. And I myself do not intend to fail.
I work with you only as long as it suits my purpose.”
“And then?” Nick locked glances with Comrade. “A stab in the
back when the time comes, I suppose. No, Comrade. Let us understand
each other. Complete cooperation or nothing. We either have a deal or
we have your silly gunfight right now and get it over with. Make up
your mind.”
Comrade stared at him. Finally, he spoke again.
“You may not know it, but the blue axe is famous in Soviet
espionage circles. It will be an honor to work with you, Stewart. Until
we have completed our mission and removed the Mandarin we will
be, as you Americans say, foxhole buddies. My word on it.”
Nick found himself shaking hands with Comrade. The hand was
cold, but there was bull strength in it.
But that goddamn blue axe again! The mark of Cain, a millstone
around his neck. In a way the axe tattoo didn’t really matter. He could
always cover it up, have it removed, disguise himself on future
missions, change everything except his fingerprints. … but he would
rather not. To the chosen few of AXE, the tattoo was a badge of honor,
and he preferred to use his own face whenever possible. So he could
not help the icy thought that flashed across his mind: eliminate this
bastard when the show is over.
He would not have been very surprised at what was going through
the Russian’s mind: I will kill him before the end. He will be too
dangerous to us, alive.
But they smiled at each other and did not speak their thoughts.
“All right, Comrade, the game is on. Since you’re so much closer to
the secret than we are, the first move’s yours. How do you propose to
start?”
Out of his pocket Comrade pulled a guidebook to Peking.
“We will need more information as to the exact location of the
place and how to get there. I shall make discreet enquiries. And you.
… Do you really expect to see the girl Taka again?” His smile curved
downward, unpleasantly.
“I don’t know,” Nick said thoughtfully. “I have a feeling I may yet
hear from her. Failing that, I’ll try to find her. I still think she can be
of use.”
“Smitten by her charms, my friend?” Comrade sneered at him.
“No. I rather thought she was the one to be struck by my manly
beauty,” said Nick modestly. God, this fellow was a creep.
The Russian agent snorted contemptuously.
“Well, whatever your immediate reasons, it is best that you find
her. Then we move.”
“Sure we move,” said Nick patiently. “But you haven’t yet
suggested how.”
“Kill Taka,” said Comrade evenly, “and then push on for the
Forbidden City.”
CHAPTER 8
TAKA
“Kill Taka?”
Nick stared at the Russian agent, and did not care for the
expression that he saw on the deceptively placid face.
“I kill when necessary, Comrade,” he said evenly. “And only then.
Do you know something about her that you haven’t bothered telling
me?”
The smile broadened.
“I know nothing that you do not, Yankee. She betrayed you once,
and probably twice. She will do so again if she can. The girl is aware
of your identity. It follows that she should be eliminated.”
“She helped me once, too, remember?”
“Pah. She is a tool, a dupe for them. She may yet pay the price for
helping you escape, my friend. It is best that you get rid of her
yourself, before you give her even more to talk about.”
“They don’t know she helped me and she’s hardly likely to tell
them. We can save time and get more valuable information from her
than you can from your paid stooges, or whatever they are. I notice
you don’t share your sources of information with me.”
“I have my own methods.” Comrade’s words were clipped and his
eyes shot icy sparks. “I tell you, Stewart, she is too dangerous to live.
Her very existence can mean the end of the entire operation. If she
calls, I suggest that you arrange to meet her here and then strangle
her when she arrives.”
Nick felt disgust welling up within him. “Invite her in and strangle
her. Is that the best thing you can think of doing? What frightens you
so much that you want her killed before you even see her?”
The Russian agent stiffened, his lips grew hard against his teeth.
“Nothing frightens me! You are a fool, Stewart. She told you in her
own words that she belongs to the Mandarin. That means she will
always belong to the Mandarin. Obviously you know nothing of the
strange loyalty of concubines …”
“To a phoney Mandarin? Perhaps I don’t. And I don’t think you do,
either. It should be obvious that nothing could benefit us more than
the services of someone who has already been to the Forbidden City
and could practically chart us a map of names and places.”
“Why should she?” Comrade blazed at him. “The fact that she got
out alive from behind those walls makes one thing clear—she must
die!” He leapt to his feet and thrust a thick forefinger at Nick. “You
are gullible. You are an American imbecile. She will lie, she will trap
us! We only have to be seen with her and we are marked men. No,
Stewart, she dies!”
Nick tried to control his own rising anger.
“We will not be seen with her. What we want is information, not
company. There is no need for her to know our plans. Can’t you see
the simple sense of using her instead of killing her?”
Even more suddenly than he had lost it, Comrade regained his
temper. He sat down, leaned back, and leered at Nick.
“Ah, yes, make use of her. By all means, have her if you like.
Spend all of tonight with her, if she sees fit to visit you, and enjoy her
favors which are doubtless bountiful. She is well trained, I am sure.
Glut yourself—then leave her corpse behind.”
“That’ll be enough!” Nick’s voice was a whiplash. “Did you come
here to do a job, or spend your time snickering like some lavatory
pervert?”
The Russian’s eyes seemed to congeal and the heavy jaw muscles
worked. But there was a hint of shame in his expression. When he
spoke his tone was strained but surprisingly mild. His theme,
however, had not improved.
“There is no need to talk to me that way, Stewart. I do not wish to
interfere with your pleasures, but you cannot let your personal
feelings sway you. Do not think of her as a defenseless female. History
is full of defenseless females. If you do not have the stomach, I shall
kill the girl myself.”
“You will do nothing of the sort.” It was a cold command. Nick had
had enough. “Not even Russia’s top secret agent, if that is what you
are, can survive the reputation of being a killer for kicks. You know
what I mean, Comrade?” The word “comrade” changed meaning on
his tongue; it became an epithet. “I mean murder for the love of it is
not considered nice even in your country.” Words were starting from
Comrade’s mouth. “I am through with throwing words around. If the
girl calls, I’ll have her come here. I’ll question her and you can listen
from the closet. If I think that she can help us, then she will. If we
both feel she cannot be trusted, I will deal with her. I have no qualms
about killing when necessary. When necessary.”
Comrade produced another unexpected reaction. His eyes shone
and he leaned forward eagerly. “Ah, now I know you, Stewart. That is
the kind of answer I would expect from a man of your caliber. But I do
not think the girl will call.”
He was right. She didn’t call. She came.
He had scarcely finished speaking when there was a gentle tapping
on the door.
Comrade rose soundlessly to his feet. His hand went to his
shoulder holster as he disappeared into the closet, leaving the door an
inch or two ajar. Nick glided across the room and placed himself to
one side of the bedroom door. Wilhelmina slid into his hand.
“Who is it?”
“Taka.” The name was like a whisper.
“Say something else. Convince me.”
After a pause her voice came, low and hurried: “You found the key
where I had dropped it.”
“If you are not alone, I will shoot whoever comes in, including
you.”
“I am alone. Please hurry.”
Nick opened the door, still keeping to one side. Taka flew in, her
eyes upon his face. Nick latched the door and turned to her. She
looked radiantly beautiful in an American print dress in shades of
orange and brown. But her full lips were pale, and her face was
drawn.
“Oh, San! You are alive! I was so afraid,” she breathed. “He lied,
then. He was bragging. Oh!” She gave a gasp of horror and revulsion.
“Who lied?” Nick’s voice was hard. “What were you afraid of?”
“Akitaro!” she wailed. “He was here.” She stared at the dead thing
on the floor as if the cobra still lived and had the power to hypnotize.
A shudder shook her magnificently proportioned frame.
“How did you escape from …” Her eyes caught icy accusation in
his. “Oh, no! No, it was not I, I swear it!” The full lips trembled.
“Please, believe. Please, you must believe.”
“Who was it then?” he asked relentlessly. “I told no one but you
where I was staying. Who did you tell?”
“No one. No one. He followed you. Akitaro, the big man who
stands at the door of the bathhouse where one is supposed to leave the
shoes. His mouth was big with bragging when he came back this
afternoon. He said he followed you across the boulevard and through
many side streets, back and forth like this …” she made a zigzagging
motion with her hands. “He waited here until you went out. It is true,
it is true! He would not say what he did next. But he said that you
would die. He said he had arranged it.” She was running out of
breath. “You must believe me!”
Maybe. The boulevard and zigzag bit rang true.
“Why did you come instead of calling?” he asked quietly.
There was a sigh as gentle as the fall of cherry blossoms on soft
earth. Taka lowered her eyes.
“I was afraid you would not answer. I would not know if you were
out or dead. I had to come.”
She raised her head and placed her hands shyly on his arms.
“Stewart, San. I love you. I would not harm you. It was an old
command that drove me, that first time, and I could not help myself. I
would die before I did it again.” Her hands fell to her sides.
He was silent, studying her face. Love? So much, so soon?
“You do not believe me, do you?” There were tears in her eyes.
“What do you want of me? I will do anything you say.”
“Why should you?”
“I told you once before. I told you twice.” She drew her head back
as if too embarrassed to bear the touch of his hand. Then she looked
up suddenly, directly into his eyes. “Do with me what you will. Use
my body. Degrade me. Play with me, hurt me, kill me, anything. But
do not hate me. I want your love. You are the only man I know who is
really a man. Let me try to please you!”
“All I want at the moment, Taka, is your help. I need information.”
She nodded eagerly, brushing tears away with tiny fingers.
“Anything.”
“What do you know about the Forbidden City?”
She paced back and forth and walked past him, her eyes downcast.
“Too much. You see what I have become. A partly used plaything, a
creature of deceit and treachery. But no more! No more.” She raised
her lovely face and spoke almost with defiance. “I told you that I am
the Mandarin’s. I tell you now—I was. A concubine. For four years I
was a prisoner in his harem. Oh, he wearied of me soon. I was only
one of many. His women fall from favor like the leaves from trees. But
none would be sorry to fall, if they were not so afraid of his
displeasure.” Her face was a mask of disgust. “He is horrible. Like a
corpse dried by fire. Oh, I was glad when he tired of me! But he did
not want to let me free. He knew that other men would not tire of my
charms so quickly. So the Mandarin made me his spy.”
“In the bathhouse?”
Taka shook her head. “Not at first. Teahouses, other bathhouses.
Then the one you saw me in. I was free of the Mandarin and free of
the City. But I was not free. He owned me still. And so I spied.”
“How?”
Taka shrugged. “What difference does it make? I looked for men
who matched descriptions I was given. I talked to tourists. I asked
questions. I went through their clothes. I did other things. And then I
pointed them out to other people. I was to look for wearers of the blue
axe, more than for any other men. At last I found one. You.”
Nick lowered himself to the arm of a chair. “Mm. You did. What
was that you said to me about a man called Judas?”
She made a gesture of distaste. “I saw the creature once, the last
time I went back to the Mandarin with my report. He spoke with
hatred of wearers of the Axe. One man he seemed to hate particularly.
Someone of the AXE company who had nearly killed him. Perhaps it
was you?” She looked at Nick.
He decided not to pursue the subject of AXE within Comrade’s
hearing. Ignoring her question, he asked: “What do you know of the
operations of CLAW? Is the Mandarin genuine?”
She laughed bitterly. “I thought he was, at first. I soon found out
otherwise. The real Mandarin’s bones are sealed within the wall. This
man is a vicious criminal. A warmonger, a sadist, and a fiend.”
“There’s no doubt he’s head of CLAW?”
“He is CLAW. He has personal control of every scheme—blackmail,
murder, torture, drug rings, slave trade, forgeries, assassinations—
everything that can possibly hurt a people or a country. Oh, he is vile!
I wish that I could make you know how hard I tried to get away, to
break from him and the whole ugly thing. But it seemed as if my mind
was chained. … until I saw you.”
“But you would still work for the Chinese Communists, I suppose,
if your employer were a different kind of man.” He said it in a tone of
understanding, as if it were acceptable and didn’t really matter.
“I hate them!” She spat the words out. “I hate them with all the
hatred in me!”
“Do you hate them enough to help me get into the Forbidden
City?”
She caught her breath and stared at him. Nick stared back, trying
to see into her heart. The silence was heavy in the room.
Nick was the first to break it.
“I don’t expect you to lead me there. I want to know exactly where
it is and how it is laid out. I want you to tell me all you know about it.
And tell it truthfully.”
Taka gazed at his tall, lithe body, the chiseled, handsome face, the
firm mouth that could smile and the gray eyes that looked so cold but
hid warmth and humor. She saw, too, honesty and courage. The eyes
looked into hers. They were waiting. Yet they did not look as though
they expected lies or cowardice from her.
Suddenly, she nodded decisively. “Very well. Do you have paper?”
“Let’s start with the map,” Nick said, relieved. “Sit down.”
They sat side by side on the bed and pored over Comrade’s Peking
guide.
“Pencil? So. There is a mark here, but if you think that is the City,
you are wrong. It is farther out—here, near this great gorge. You see
the highway? The river? And this grove of trees within the valley?
This is the place. It is very heavily guarded from within and without.
The paper, please. There is first an outside wall, then courtyards, and
then the inner walls. Like this.” She sketched quickly. “Here, another
courtyard. Here the inner chambers. A great hallway. Narrow
passages. Doors here. This one always locked and barred. This one
leading to a passage which goes down so. …” She drew, described,
and filled in details. Nick nodded, fixing them upon his brain. “Here
are monks’ quarters on one side, others on this side. But these on this
side are no longer occupied by monks. They are used by men of
CLAW.”
“How many are there?”
“I do not know. They come and go. Perhaps eight or ten of them
are there at one time.”
“Is it possible to get into these quarters?”
“Yes, I have been there many times to take in food and …”
She stopped and stared at him. “I could get in much more easily
than you.”
“I would not suggest that, Taka. Now tell me about the other
people who have access to the City. The Mongols, monks,
townspeople, Guardsmen and so on.”
She described them quickly. “But San, I have just thought. There is
no reason why I should not go back to the City myself and take word
to the Mandarin about the bungling fools he has working for him in
Tokyo. I could be there, then, to help you when you came. Perhaps …
But if they found out …” she shuddered. “Still, I will do whatever you
say.”
Nick shook his head. “I don’t like the idea of your being there. But
it’s something I’ll have to discuss with my colleague. His ideas are
very different from mine.”
Fear shadowed her face. “You have a colleague, San? You did not
tell me.”
“Yes, he has a colleague, little Lotus Blossom.” The closet door
opened. Comrade stepped out and eyed her appraisingly. “One who
has been forced into a difficult decision. You have made yours,
Stewart?”
“Yes,” Nick said crisply. “And you?”
“I, too.” Comrade’s big head nodded. “We can use her—with care.
We will have no more talk of killing.”
Taka’s eyes were reproachful. “It was not right to let him listen,
San. I said many things that were not for other ears.”
Nick shook his head. “Sorry, Taka. You were an unknown quantity.
What we are trying to do is vital to world peace. We had to make sure
you could be trusted.”
“Of course we still do not trust wholeheartedly,” said Comrade. “I,
at least, never will. I have found it does not pay.” He swung out a long
leg and kicked the body of the cobra. It landed with a thud beneath
the bed. “One never knows exactly where one stands. Let me see that
map.” He scrutinized it. “Ah. Yes. Yes, that seems eminendy possible.
Perhaps you will be useful to us in the City. All you need to know is
that someday, somehow, we will liquidate your master, the
Mandarin.” He grinned wolfishly at Taka.
“He is not my master!” she lashed back angrily. “And if I do go
back, it will not be because of you.”
“Oh, quite,” Comrade agreed. “But your motives do not interest
me. Nevertheless I think you have made your point, Stewart. Her
information is most useful, and perhaps there is still more that she can
do for us—that is, for you. On the basis of what we have already
heard, I believe I can make some preliminary plans. Obviously you are
better qualified to deal with her than I.” He bowed mockingly. “I
underestimated you.”
“If you’ve got things to do, Comrade,” said Nick quietly, “get
going. I may have to work with you but I don’t have to like you. Meet
me here in a couple of hours, or whenever you’ve got your business
done. And this time, knock. Or better still, call me from downstairs.”
Comrade’s smile almost reached his gimlet eyes. “Perhaps I should
have done that the first time.”
“Perhaps,” Nick agreed. “Touche, Buster.”
“Goodbye, Buster.” Comrade said, closing the door behind him.
“I am sorry about that,” Nick said gently. “He’s a crude swine. But
I owe my life to him, as well as to you. Taka … do you think you
could go back safely to the City?” Placing his hands on her shoulders,
he looked down into her eyes.
“I will do it, San, if you think that I can help you there. But … I
want one thing in return. Only one thing. And I want it now, so that
happiness is with me when I go.”
“What is it, Taka?”
She stood on tiptoes and pressed her high, ripe breasts against him.
“Make love to me, San. Make love to me. Make love to me!”
CHAPTER 9
OF LOVE AND WAR
The last light of the fading day filtered in between the slightly
parted curtains. Door locked, lights out, window down. A musky
perfume in the room. A sense of urgency, a swift consuming passion.
He looked down upon her small, trim body in the dimness of what so
nearly was his death cell, and let his hands do what they willed. She
was soft as silk, pliant, yet the nerves and muscles in the sweet body
were taut and quivering.
Make love to me… . She had bared her wondrous breasts and
trapped his great strength against her with the intensity of her desire.
Longing swelled within him.
And now they lay together on the bed, he enveloping the
startlingly desirable white form that rose and fell and undulated first
with a langorous passion and then a growing need, she clinging to him
with all of her slight strength and caressing him with tiny, loving
hands. He explored the mystery of her gently, feeling her warmth and
willingness, kissing each small part of her and each soft surface that
demanded his attention. Her hips rose to meet his, and pressed against
him. Her cool hands encircled his waist, imploring. He kissed her full
mouth, lin-geringly. She answered with her whole body, holding him
with hands and mouth and legs, straining to make his big, lithe body
become a part of hers.
“Touch me, touch me. Let me feel the strength of you. I want to be
all yours!”
“But you are not mine, Taka,” he murmured into her hair. “Why do
you give yourself to me? I would not have asked it of you.”
“Because I want to.” Her fingernails bit into his back. “I ask it for
myself. This is my last happiness. Whatever else may happen, I want
to lose myself with you tonight. Kiss me, San, and let me drink of you.
Let me love wholly, for once, with heart as well as body.” Her breath
quickened. The small-muscled limbs became even more demanding.
“Kiss my lips, my eyes, my breasts, everything that is yours….
Ahhhhh.”
He did as he was told, not because he was her servant but because
he was her master and both knew it. Tenderly, he met the seven
fragrant orifices of her body, all cleansed, purified and perfumed in
the manner of the concubines of old. Shudders of ecstasy swept over
Taka’s naked beauty. Then he stretched out again, beside her. Her
light, kittenish body swung around like a cat at play to meet him.
Need, and his tantalizing touch, made her still bolder. Her thighs
scissored around his and drew him to her yearningly. She bit into him
suddenly, drawing a quick response in the sudden arching of his
muscles and the yielding strength of his body.
She made love like one possessed, as if her last hour on earth had
come and she had spent her life preparing for it.
Suddenly, the time for soft caresses was past. Kisses became one
kiss. Two bodies harmonized and clung together, rhythmic movements
increased in pace and passion. Together, they rode waves that grew
higher and higher without falling, until the waves joined and became
one in an overwhelming surge of exaltation. Taka gasped, a small
sharp sound that was almost a sob. For one long moment they hung
upon the crest of the highest wave… . and slowly fell, together. Taka’s
gasp became a low, moaning sigh.
Nick felt the strength drain from him. He kissed her lips once
more, lightly. They lay silent in each other’s arms.
At last he drew his strength and will together, remembering the
job ahead and all the hazards it involved. Taka stirred beside him. Her
coiled black hair was shining damply; her eyes were deep with
happiness.
Moments later, faces serious and voices low, they were making
plans. After she dressed, Nick gave her two small objects he felt it safe
to let her carry. Then he led her quietly down the back way to the
street. Wilhelmina was ready to deal with anyone who showed too
much interest at seeing them together, but they passed no one on the
stairs. At the side door he kissed her, then watched as she melted into
the flow of passing traffic. He could only pray that no one had seen
her—that no one would suspect her.
A Japanese concubine in the Forbidden City because the Mandarin
liked variety. Townspeople who could not gossip about who came and
went because they did not know. An impenetrable wall concealing
unnamed horrors. The chanting of a band of Buddhist monks who
went about their holy business either not knowing or not caring what
kind of man the Mandarin was. It was a weird, ugly set-up.
Nick was packing when the phone rang.
“Stewart?” Comrade was calling from the bar. “I am ready to
discuss plans. But I think you must move from this hotel.”
“I’m packed,” said Nick. “Be right with you. Order me a vodka
martini, will you?”
“Very sensible,” Comrade’s voice came back approvingly.
Nick joined him moments later, his hotel bill paid and his bags
checked with the desk.
Comrade raised an eyebrow. “So, Stewart. Satisfactory afternoon?”
“Uh-huh. Yours?”
“Interesting.”
Nick reached for his martini. “Here’s luck.”
They raised glasses. Comrade’s face was smug and knowing.
“Let’s get going on this thing,” said Nick, his mind churning with
ideas, his blood tingling. It was time to go to work. “I’m moving to the
Emperor Hotel. We can talk business there.”
Comrade nodded. “I have a car outside.”
They walked through the lobby, Nick stopping briefly to pick up
his bags, and headed for the wide front door. Three men were coming
in. Nick presumed they would step aside. But they did not.
Suddenly, there was no mistaking them. Small, thickset, glowering;
faces brown as lichi nuts; three pairs of beetle-browed eyes a matching
menace.
Comrade clucked in his throat and broke his stride.
Nick came to a halt and put down his bags.
The trio fanned out in the doorway and barred the way. A scant six
feet separated them from Comrade and Nick.
One of them spoke in a curious sing-song tone.
“We have come for you, foreign criminals.” He stepped forward.
“I’m afraid you have made a mistake, my friend,” said Comrade,
“Kindly let us pass.”
The man in the middle laughed. “No, you will not get away. We
know who you are. Your crimes have caught up with you. You are
under arrest. Take them!” he snapped suddenly.
Comrade backed away.
There were interested, startled voices in the background. The men
edged forward. It would come now— the sudden thrust that would
end in carnage. Nick reached as casually as he could for Wilhelmina.
“Get out of the way,” Comrade said, with a note of bluster in his
voice. “We know nothing of any crimes and we do not know you.” He
took a lumbering step forward and the make-believe was over.
The trio flattened back in the doorway. Three shining, deadly
knives flashed into view, each held in a clawlike, Chinese hand.
Nick tensed and jerked Comrade back violently.
Throwing knives. The balance of the wide blades was
unmistakable.
Wilhelmina spoke once, sharply. One man fell. But even in the
falling, he released his knife. Nick ducked swiftly. As he moved, a
message hammered in his brain.
The Mandarin was not just an evil genius lurking in a hidden city.
He moved fast, too. And his moves were deadly.
Wilhelmina spoke again. My God! Missed, at this range!
But it was Comrade’s doing.
At the very moment that Nick fired, he was pushed back by a
mighty shove from Comrade’s arm. What the hell was he up to! But
even as he regained his balance, Nick saw a startling tableau.
The man on the floor, still alive, was clutching at his chest. The
other two stood in the doorway, knives balanced for throwing. But all
three men had one thing in common: Their faces were a study in blind
fear and panic.
Comrade, with a swift, deft movement, had plucked an egg-shaped
device from the folds of his coat. The panic-frozen men suddenly came
to life. One turned and tripped over his fallen colleague. The third
slammed into the pair and tried to scramble past. Comrade calmly
tugged a small lever on the egg-shaped thing and flung it full into the
doorway, throwing himself back almost simultaneously in Nick’s
direction. In a strange flash of slow-motion vision, Nick saw the
shining egg thud against the padded shoulder of one of the retreating
men. Instinctively, Nick buried his face in his arms on the floor.
Thunder rolled through the lobby. Someone gave a piercing shriek
of agony. There was an awful disintegration of plaster and wood. And
something else. Smoke clouded the doorway and drifted lazily through
the lobby. Then there was a deathly, stench-laden silence. Nick felt
Comrade pulling at his arm.
“Come. It is done.”
It certainly was. Nick rose and grabbed his bags.
Comrade urged him on over the battered, bloody corpses that lay
in the doorway. The Mandarin’s three knife-throwers were no more.
Behind them, the hotel was an uproar of yelling voices and alarm
bells. Comrade led Nick to the side street, where an MG squatted like
a mechanical bug at the curb.
Comrade looked mammoth at the wheel as they roared away. Nick
studied his grim profile with mixed feelings of revulsion and respect.
“Rather drastic measures for three men, I’d say.”
Comrade shrugged. “You shoot well, Stewart, but I could not be
sure our guns would suffice. Why take chances?”
“I don’t think we would have been. Two guns versus three knives.
Not bad odds. Using a grenade was like using five pounds of nitro
starch to blow up an outhouse.”
Comrade spun the wheel, easing the MG on to the boulevard.
“They’re dead, aren’t they? Besides it was not a grenade. It was a
Russian Easter Egg. We have no time for brawls in Tokyo.”
“With that, I can agree. Incidentally, skip the Emperor Hotel.
Tokyo police may be interested enough to look for us. Where are you
staying?”
“That, Stewart, is my business.”
Nick felt a wave of irritation. “All right, mind it then. Turn right at
the next corner and go five blocks to the light. I’ll direct you again
from there.” In his wanderings around the back streets of Tokyo
during the last few days he had spotted a likely hideout in case of
emergency. He’d head for it now. “One of us, at least, has to give
away enough to get the job done.”
Comrade grunted but followed his directions.
It took a week to get ready for the move toward the Forbidden
City. Transportation, disguises and supplies had to be prepared. Nick
performed a small cosmetic operation on himself and managed to
cover the axe symbol so successfully that only the most prying eyes
could possibly discover it. Detailed reports were on their way to
Washington via the Tokyo drop. Julie Baron, in Peking, would soon be
getting a message describing the location of the Forbidden City and
the nature of the operation. Brief radio reports had already been given
to Hawk. Then the radio had been safely stored away.
Once again the MG made a night-time trip through downtown
Tokyo. Stopping two blocks from the waterfront edge, Comrade
turned the car over to a man in the worn clothes of a dock laborer.
The two agents walked the rest of the way to a barnacle-limned pier
with dripping, green-encrusted legs revealed by the low tide of
evening.
The waterfront area was clogged. Moorings were literally choked
with junks, sampans, fishing smacks and streamlined motor vessels.
Nick and Comrade headed for a tiny motorboat moored in the very
heart of the clutter. Bland-faced Japanese boatmen eyed them
casually.
Nick stepped lightly onto the boat. Comrade followed with the air
of a man who knows little about boats and cares less. But this
roundabout method of travel had been carefully planned and agreed
upon.
The motorboat had a forward covering that housed the steering
wheel. Nick started the engine while Comrade cast off the line. Nick
throttled. A strong backwash chugged powerfully at the stern.
Nick eased from the pier and cut around sharply to find an opening
in the clog of water traffic. Comrade was peering into a wooden chest
in the stern.
“Everything there?” Nick’s tall form stood like a statue at the helm.
“Yes, everything,” Comrade’s voice came back.
“Fine.”
Nick eased the motorboat through a scattering of sampans and
picked up speed.
Shanghai first. Pick up supplies from a cache arranged by
Comrade. Then over the mainland to Peking—with nothing to help
them but luck and their own built-in cunning. Good thing they didn’t
have to make the entire thousand-mile sea voyage in this put-putter. It
was speedy for its size, but inadequate for long, hazardous journeys.
The shore faded behind them and the modern outline of Tokyo was
lost in a mist that sifted down over the towers of the city. For some
time, neither Nick nor Comrade spoke. At last, when the coastline was
a disant sprinkling of pinhead lights, Nick glanced at the radium dial
of his watch and cut the motor sharply.
“Okay, Comrade. Time for us to disappear.”
Comrade nodded and opened the hinged lid of the wooden chest.
With an expression of some distaste, he lifted out the contents.
“Regrettably, they are somewhat old and smelly, friend. But I had
a hard time getting them, so I suppose we cannot complain.”
“As long as they’re authentic,” said Nick, steadying the wheel.
“You’re positive they are?”
“As sure as any man can be. Their … uh … personality vouches for
them, I should say. Here, see for yourself.”
The box contained Nick’s ingenious make-up kit, supplemented by
one or two highly specialized items, and two sets of rough garments
made of leather and coarse wool. And aged on the animal, thought
Nick, inhaling a penetrating odor. There were cloth-soled shoes, too,
and round caps of faded red fox fur trimmed with some feltlike
material. These were the costumes of the ancient order of Guardsmen
who had, for centuries, patrolled and protected the walls of the
Forbidden City and did so still, without question or curiosity. It had
been impossible to find out what kind of men they were, where and
how they lived, what dialect or dialects they spoke.
Nick’s Chinese was fairly fluent but it was Mandarin. Comrade
used the dialect of Shanghai. Nick wondered if their joint language
talents would serve, and said so.
“They will have to, friend. But we need not do much talking. No
one will question two Guardsmen returning from, let’s say, a furlough
to Shanghai.”
“I hope not. Up to a point, we can always draw ourselves up
haughtily and refuse to enter conversations. But I don’t think that’ll
get us anywhere with cops or counterspies. Still, we’ll cross those
bridges when we come to them. Let’s get dressed.”
He watched Comrade remove his clothes and stand naked in the
stern for a moment while he inspected the scratchy, shaggy garment.
The man was a superb physical specimen: large, but with no excess
poundage; powerfully muscled, but by no means muscle-bound; quick-
stepping, and in beautiful condition. In a matter of moments, Comrade
was dressed in the leather-woolen garments, the red fox hat rammed
down over his forehead. Nick paid special attention to the items
Comrade secured within the folds of his Guardsman’s disguise: the
silencer-gun and a short, ugly dirk. An unusually large wristwatch was
pushed up the forearm away from the exposed wrist, and a cigarette
case and lighter were dropped into a satchel-like pocket. Nick
intended to follow much the same procedure himself, with one
exception.
Taking over at the wheel, Comrade watched as Nick, in turn,
stripped off his clothes and pulled on the strange, sour-smelling
costume. Hugo, the stiletto, he strapped on to his arm. Wilhelmina
snuggled at his waist. Pierre… .
“It is a nuisance that you have injured your foot, Stewart. It may
hold us up. The least you could have done was change the dressing.”
Comrade saw Nick bind together two toes on his left foot. The
bandage bulged slightiy—but not from any injury.
Nick looked up. “How long can you hold your breath, Comrade?”
The Russian stared at him. “I don’t know. A minute? Two minutes?
Something like that. Why?”
A light flickered through the mist.
“Never mind just now. But if I ever holler ‘hold it’ at you, don’t just
stand there. Hold your breath and run. That looks like our junk. Is it?”
He checked his watch. Comrade peered at the flickering light and
flashed a blinker. Within five minutes they were to be met by a very
special junk outfitted with a Diesel engine and a 40mm cannon. To
the world, though, it was just an ordinary junk. It would carry them to
Shanghai—they hoped —without challenge from Japanese patrol
boats, Chinese coastal vessels or Russian “trawlers.” There, on Chinese
soil, their odyssey would begin in earnest.
A blinker answered through the gloom.
Nick reached into the stern and pulled out a can of gasoline. He
saturated their piled-up clothes and all the wood and canvas of the
craft’s interior.
Both blinker lights went out. Water rippled in the darkness.
Comrade gave a grunt of satisfaction and pointed.
“There. Starboard. Ready, Stewart?”
The large shadow of a junk moved in easily, silently, with the
incoming tide. Nick made out the faces of two men in the dim, blue
light. The mist was thickening into fog.
He lashed the wheel and reached for the compact makeup box.
Water lapped between the two quietly waiting vessels. Comrade
barked a Russian command. Waiting hands hauled Nick up and over
the side of the junk and onto the deck.
Comrade followed, his face expressionless.
He turned on the deck and looked down at the motorboat bobbing
on the waves.
One of the seamen handed Comrade a flare gun. He clucked in his
throat and pulled the trigger. A flare arced downward onto the
gasoline-soaked deck of the little speedboat. Almost simultaneously,
the junk pulled away silently as if it had a mind of its own.
For an instant there was complete darkness over the nearby sea.
Then the small boat came alive with a burst of light and flame. It
became a blazing bonfire floating lazily on the quiet sea.
Comrade nodded and gave another order. The seaman moved
silently away. Within seconds the junk was throbbing with motion and
cutting a swath through the sea. Comrade turned a satisfied smile on
Nick.
“So, Stewart. Now we truly begin.”
“So, Comrade. But now I have a new identity and name. Lo Mei
Teng, Guardsman. You?”
The Russian bowed. “Hong Tu Lee. Also a Guardsman. At your
service. Now I hope you can succeed in making us look Chinese.”
“Don’t worry, friend,” said Nick, still clutching the box. “By the
time we reach Shanghai, your own mother wouldn’t know you. For
which, no doubt, she’d be profoundly thankful. Let’s go below and get
some light.”
They moved together into the small main cabin.
Nick opened up his box and started changing Comrade’s face.
Suddenly, as he worked, the whole thing seemed like a crazy,
harebrained scheme. Two men, unused to working together—not even
liking each other—dressed in Halloween costumes and pitting
themselves against one of the most vicious organizations the world
had ever seen. What was needed was a bomb, one that could be
dropped into the heart of the Forbidden City and obliterate it forever.
But that would certainly mean war. This had to be an undercover
operation.
“Raise your chin. That’s better.”
But could they really end the life of the monstrous thing called
CLAW just by putting a bullet into the figurehead called the
Mandarin?
CHAPTER 10
DANGEROUS ENCOUNTER
At the conference tables of the world men with serious faces talked
earnestly of violence and terrorism, of the creeping menace that had
terrorized the Chinese people for many years and now reached its
tentacles across the world, of the unspeakable horrors perpetrated by
a band of warmongers and sadists in the name of international
politics.
And at the mouth of the Yellow River, two tall, similarly attired
Guardsmen—Lo Mei Teng and Hong Tu Lee —paused to enjoy a meal
of cold fish, rice and tea. The day was muddy gray in color and
texture. Cold winds swept in from the turbulent Pacific. The two men,
soiled and fatigued from their long days of travel from Shanghai, ate
their tasteless meal with relish.
They had found a spot on the wayside where they could enjoy
their meal and watch the activity at the river’s edge. Junks and
sampans plied their way across the bay.
Lo Mei Teng wiped his hands on his tunic. His white teeth shone
starkly in his dirty brown face.
“Lord, what I’d give for a cigarette!”
Hong Tu Lee gave him a scornful look. “Guardsmen do not smoke
in public, friend.”
Lo Mei Teng laughed. “I don’t suppose they normally carry
lighters, either, though you do.”
“That is for another purpose,” Comrade said severely. “And even
you can now appreciate the niceties of our disguises. You notice how
everyone gives us a wide berth?”
It was true. The leather-wool uniforms and red fox hats certainly
had their effect. Nick had been amazed at the averting of eyes, the
turning away of peasants and townspeople who had encountered them
on the winding roads from Shanghai to the Gulf. It had been
Comrade’s idea to use these outfits. He had acquired them, and he was
clearly pleased with himself, ignoring Nick’s skill in the make-up
department.
Nick studied the gray sky. He was impatient to be gone again. For
the first time in his life he was operating with a stranger, calling joint
shots and only half in charge of mapping his own course of action. It
was nettling, in a way, and perhaps even doubly dangerous. But it was
what Hawk and the government of the United States had wanted.
He rose suddenly. “Let’s get going.” The scenery was fascinating,
but he hadn’t come this far to examine the Chinese way of life. “If we
cut down on these coffee breaks we should be able to reach the gates
of the City by Wednesday evening.”
Comrade chuckled. “You are impatient, Lo Mei Teng. But I agree.
Let us press on.”
Nick started toward the small town square, but, almost at once,
stopped. Comrade followed his gaze. There was a commotion in the
square. The peasants and passersby had halted, fanning backwards as
if by some unspoken order.
“She comes! She comes!” The whisper raced around the square and
sent its echoes to the waterfront. Nick eased himself forward, very
cautiously, for all activity had stilled. Comrade plodded silently
behind him. A hush fell as they made their way to the forefront of the
crowd.
Small wonder that it did. On that dirty cobbled street, redolent
with the smell of ancient fish hauls and the dried salt of the sea,
something from a dream materialized.
It was a palanquin such as Nick had never seen, an ornate fantasy
out of the Arabian Nights, borne aloft by four stalwart Chinese of
powerful physique and the trappings of Mongol warriors. The
palanquin gleamed even though the day was dull and gray; inlays of
gold and emeralds flashed brilliantly. The four Mongols walked with
measured steps, their pace as gentle as a rocking chair. As they drew
closer with their precious burden, the populace bowed with clumsy
reverence, genuflecting with heads lowered in homage to the queen
lying in the palanquin.
Nick caught his breath, ignoring Comrade’s grunt of disapproval.
The woman in the palanquin was unbelievably, heart-breakingly,
inaccessibly beautiful.
The face was classically sculptured, the eyebrows two jet black
wings above a perfectly formed nose. A wide ribbon of scarlet parted
easily to reveal teeth as even and luminous as graded pearls. Jade
earrings twinkled at the lobes of her ears, their subtle green fire
lending added beauty to the near-ivory skin and the coiled black hair,
the tendrils of curls that clung to the sides of the regal face. Her eyes
were as dark as a moonless night and as boldly commanding as those
of an Empress. A tiered, glittering headpiece gleamed with the trapped
rays of rubies, diamonds and emeralds.
Comrade tugged Nick’s sleeve and bowed. But he was too late.
Nick seemed mesmerized by the beauty that confronted him. His alert
sixth sense told him that this encounter was important, that he should
not lose himself in the faceless, obsequious crowd.
The woman who cast spells murmured something and the
palanquin swayed to a halt. She leaned forward gracefully in her
chair. A binding hush held the square and its dazzled people. Comrade
gritted between his teeth: “Down on your knees, you fool!” and threw
himself down like a supplicant before a heathen altar. Nick stood tall
and proud, staring at the vision. The lovely lady motioned with a
bejewelled arm that tapered to a graceful, diamond-studded hand. Her
eyes settled on Nick’s face. One of her Mongol carriers turned to Nick
and spoke in rapid Chinese.
“Approach the daughter of the Dragon. It is her command!”
The daughter of the Dragon! Well, well, well! China clung hard to
her ancient days of glory.
Nick folded his hands in the customary gesture of courtesy and
walked with quick, sure steps toward the palanquin. The regal lady’s
look of interest and appraisal never left his face.
Nick stopped within a yard of her. The fragrance of her perfumed
presence caressed his nostrils, washing away the foul smells of the
Yellow River. He had never seen such a woman. The rounded
magnificence of her bust, trapped in two sequined cups of gold,
moved bewitchingly as she leaned back against the cushions. The
yellow silk robes concealing the languid length of her body hid only
details, not form or sensuality. These were revealed when she moved,
as if the flowing garment were transparent.
“You are Guardsmen,” the lovely apparition said, in a voice that
projected sexual magnetism. “Where does your journey take you?”
Nick bowed. “To the place of the all-powerful, the Forbidden City.”
The lady smiled, and the gray day miraculously grew brighter.
“It is well. Buddha has placed you in my path. How are you
called?”
“Lo Mei Teng. My comrade is Hong Tu Lee. We have enjoyed a
leave, these last days, from the City. Now we return to our duties.”
The lady’s smile faded but the lovely eyes still sparkled.
“Know you, then, that I am Yasunara, the Lute Flower, Concubine
to the Mandarin. I command your escort, Lo Mei Teng, and that of
your comrade, Hong Tu Lee.”
Exultation soared in Nick’s heart but his face remained calm and
controlled. “The Lute Flower commands and we obey,” he said.
She waved her hand gracefully. It was like a delicate sparrow
taking wing.
“Welcome, Lo Mei Teng and comrade. Be you at my right shoulder,
and he beside my left. I have need of you.”
“To serve you is my humble wish. May I be worthy.”
“So be it, then. Come, we leave now.”
Nick turned and jerked a hand at Comrade, who was straining
eagerly to hear what passed between the Guardsman and the lady. He
pushed himself forward, large and muscular in his uniform, and
exchanged salutes with Nick.
“Hong Tu Lee,” Nick told him gravely, “great favor is ours this day.
We will be honored to give Yasunara, the Lute Flower, Daughter of the
Dragon and Concubine to the Mandarin, safe escort back to the
hallowed gates of the Forbidden City.”
The look of sheer joy in Comrade’s eyes was, fortunately, open to
misinterpretation by the lady. She smiled and waved them to their
positions. The four Mongol porters once again moved forward at her
quiet command. Their cloth-soled shoes scuffed in unison upon the
cobblestones. Nick took up his place on Yasunara’s right while
Comrade marched on the other side of the palanquin. Once again,
awed groups of townspeople parted before their passage. Nick stared
straight ahead, resisting the temptation to turn and feast his eyes on
her incredible beauty. He knew, with masculine certainty, that she
was watching him. He also knew that humble Guardmen do not stare
boldly at their master’s lady.
“Lo Mei Teng.”
“Yes, Daughter of the Dragon.”
“What word have you from Shanghai?”
Nick held back a frown. How could she know they had come from
Shanghai? Or perhaps it was the custom for Guardsmen to take their
leave in that City. There was nothing to do but gamble on a
generality.
“Trouble and unrest. Too much of the world seems to be against
our country. The students and the new leaders are crying for a new
and greater China.”
“And what of you, Lo Mei Teng?” There was a mocking quality in
her tone, as if she did not expect a simple Guardsman to have an
opinion.
“I, too, my lady,” he said ingenuously.
He heard her sigh and she seemed to settle back once more. Nick
caught a sidelong, worried look from Comrade. He could understand
his feelings. The Mandarin’s chief Concubine—as she surely was—was
no one to discuss things with. Especially politics.
While once Nick had been dubious about their costumes and their
make-up, he now felt almost convinced that his hand and Comrade’s
had been sure. Both of them were bronzed, hard and smooth of face,
with the sturdy look of mountain men of the North. Minute strips of
flesh-colored adhesive, darkened with the same stain that covered
their arms and faces, gave their eyes a slight Oriental slant. The
remarkable adhesive, devised by AXE’s Editing Department, was as
tight and compact as a contact lens.
The bearers forged on through the town and past it, moving
steadily toward the low foothills that marked the last lap to Peking.
The Great Wall of China was already on the horizon, an awesome
monument to the far-off days of Chinese resistance to the advancing
Mongol hordes.
On the crest of a small hillock, framed like a jewel by a lake of
silvery clear water, the procession halted for a rest. The lady prepared
her toilet behind the shrouded hood of the canopied sedan chair, and
the bearers relaxed in the shade of a eucalyptus tree. Nick and
Comrade paired off to check signals.
“What do you think about the bearers, Comrade? Think they
belong to the City? Or are they just porters for the lovely lady?”
“I don’t know,” said Comrade thoughtfully. “But let us be careful
how we talk in front of them.”
“Watch it!” Nick warned hastily. “Here comes one of them.”
The apparent leader of the Mongol four was approaching them in a
slowly loping stride. He stopped before them, unsmiling, his flat
yellow face expressionless, his pale eyes shuttered.
“How are you called, my friends?”
Comrade performed the introductions with the proper Chinese
flourish. The Mongol porter nodded and announced his name as Kwan
Too.
“Later you will eat with us? I see you have no food with you.”
He meant it, they could see, and thanked him.
“We did not intend,” Nick explained, “to travel this way with the
lady.”
“Ah, that one.” Something like an expression of admiration
managed to find its way to Kwan Too’s face. “A being from another
world. A concubine like no other that any man has seen. Should
anything happen to her on this journey, it will be on our heads. Still,
it is an honor. The Mandarin pays well, and always in gold. But surely
you Guardsmen know far more of her than I.”
Comrade looked slightly alarmed.
“There are many of us,” Nick said easily, “and to a lady such as
she, we are as dirt beneath the feet. Never have we been so close to
her. We admire from afar. But we are not privileged to know much of
her.”
The Mongol nodded. This made sense to him.
Comrade recovered easily. “So close we are, and yet so far. She is
the very magnificence of womanhood. A night with her would be
paradise, I think.” He leered.
The Mongol chuckled. “Listen to him! Nor all your Guardsman’s
guile nor all your prowess could win such a woman. She is the
Mandarin’s woman, his sun, his moon, his stars. And she is even more
than woman. She has a head, a mind like Confucius. Or so they say.”
Nick looked toward the palanquin. Yasunara had emerged,
stepping like a beautiful bride from an exotic bower. She was tall and
proud, bedecked with enough jewelry and ornaments to adorn four
ordinary women. Yet she did not look encumbered with the glittering
finery, and the afternoon light seemed to throw back not the fires of
the jewels but the glow of her own radiance. Yes, she was more than
concubine, this woman.
“Tell us, Kwan Too,” Nick said, “why the Lute Flower is gone from
the Forbidden City? We did not know of her departure. Surely the
Mandarin does not allow his favorite flower to wander like some
seamstress from the palace?”
Kwan Too made an effort to look profound.
“She went to Shanghai, to confer with people in those big
buildings there.” He waved a vague hand. “Perhaps with men from
over the Urals; I do not know. But she is more than woman, as I said.
She is power.”
Nick frowned seriously. “Why then only four men to guard such a
precious being? It does not seem right.”
“It was the Mandarin’s thought that a larger party would draw too
much notice. Besides …” he drew himself up proudly, “… there are no
four like the men of Kwan Too. You will see if the occasion should
arise.”
“What you say is surely true,” Nick agreed, deciding it would be
tactless to mention the crowds she had drawn in passing. “We are
honored to be a small part of your escort.”
Kwan Too was pleased. But before he could say more, the tinkling
voice of Yasunara issued an imperious summons. He hastened away.
Nick looked at Comrade.
“Well, we seem to have hit pay dirt. Through Yasunara, we should
be able to get to the Mandarin in spite of his guards and walls. With
accent on the should.”
“Yes,” Comrade said, his blue eyes worried. “But somehow I do not
think it will be easy.”
The northern winds, howling like banshees, made the night a
misery. The palanquin procession, sheltered beneath a bower of sturdy
elms, bivouacked through the long and awful darkness.
Nick and Comrade had bedded down with Kwan Too and his men,
close to the palanquin and a low burning fire. Nick slept well, despite
the cruel weather and a nagging impulse to steal into the shrouded
palanquin to see Yasunara—not the regal thing of jewels and silks, but
Yasunara the woman. He conquered the impulse and dreamed of a
small, strong body on a soft bed in a warm, dark room.
At last the touch of dawn transformed the skies. Nick was surprised
to see a fine sheen of dust over their blankets and the ground. Of
course. The Gobi desert. The night winds had carried the yellow sand
a long way.
They washed in the cold clear water of a nearby stream. Yasunara
had not yet appeared. Kwan Too and his men, having shared their
breakfast with the Guardsmen-spies, had left a small platter of fruits
and sweetmeats outside the palanquin and were dutifully awaiting
orders.
An hour later, Yasunara showed her lovely face. Kwan Too bowed,
barked rapid orders in Cantonese, and they were on their way. Nick
and Comrade took up their appointed positions at either side of the
palanquin. They walked on under a bright, cold sun.
The road widened into a broad plateau of hard-packed earth.
Autumn had claimed most of the greenery. Faded browns, muddy
yellows and pale golden blades of grass lined the horizon. The Great
Wall undulated like a snake over a thousand distant hills.
Yasunara turned her head to look at Nick.
“Why have I not seen you in the Forbidden City before now, Lo
Mei Teng?”
“I am not meant to be noticed by such as you, Lute Flower of the
Mandarin, for I am just a humble guardsman. I have looked upon your
beauty many times, and prayed to the gods above that you would
favor me with a glance.”
She laughed with a touch of coquetry. “You have not the look of a
humble man. You walk tall and proud like the Dragon himself.”
“Forgive me, Daughter of the Dragon. It is a fault of mine to think
myself better than I am.”
He felt her eyes studying him from beneath the long, painted
brows.
“Yet you are tall and proud, Lo Mei Teng.”
“The Lute Flower is too kind.”
Her laugh was almost bitter. “Kind? I am many things, yet I am not
kind. You will learn that, Lo Mei Teng, if you live long enough.”
That, Nick thought, was a rather ominous note to add to a
beautiful friendship.
She turned away and said no more.
The procession slowed. Nick squinted into the sunlight that bathed
the roadway in a blinding golden glow. A long, dark shadow waited in
the road ahead.
They went on until they reached the car. Kwan Too raised a
mighty arm and halted the procession. Nick stared against the sun and
Comrade made a small sound of surprise—or disbelief.
It was a Daimler. Limousine class, but open-topped. A uniformed
driver sat at the wheel. And there was someone else: An enormously
fat man in civilian clothes, cautiously easing himself out of the rear
seat.
Surely this could not be the Mandarin!
The four bearers lowered the palanquin gently to the ground.
Kwan Too hurried toward the car, saluting clumsily. Comrade scowled
beneath his red fox cap. Nick thought swiftly. Now the Daughter of
the Dragon, the Lute Flower, the favored concubine of the demon of
CLAW would be chauffeured the rest of the way. But were did that
leave the escort and Lo Mei Teng and Hong Tu Lee? Out in the cold
and walking probably. But was that fat pig the Mandarin? No, he
couldn’t be. Taka’s words came back: “… Like a corpse dried by fire,”
No. Whoever this fat creature was, he was not the Mandarin. Pity. If
he had been, their job would have been almost too easy. As it was, it
looked as though their hopes and plans were about to be scotched.
Lute Flower would have neither need nor room for them in that
limousine.
The fat man stepped grandly from the rear seat and waddled
toward the palanquin. He stopped and waited at a discreet distance.
Yasunara rose elegandy from her seat, beckoning to Nick. He helped
her to the ground, feeling the warm squeeze of her hand as it pressed
his for support.
“The Lute Flower is leaving us to mourn the rest of out days?” Nick
murmured swiftly. Yasunara straightened in surprise, a strange quirk
twisting her lips.
“We will see, Lo Mei Teng. We will see.”
The fat man stepped forward obsequiously, doffing his crushed,
unseasonable white panama hat as if it were a plumed headpiece.
“Daughter of the Dragon,” he rumbled, “Lute Flower of the North,
Most Favored Concubine of all China, I, Wong Fat, have come to guide
you to the Lord Emperor of the Forbidden City. You are safe and well
and my heart rejoices at the sight of your august body.”
The peroration hung gaudily on the morning air. Yasunara
graciously raised her arm in greeting. The jewels and adornments
gleamed and tinkled.
“Wong Fat, I give you greetings. How is our Master?”
“Well, very well,” the fat man wheezed. “Pray take your seat
before the winds rise up again.”
Kwan Too stepped forward, his face solemn and important.
Nick and Comrade waited. Each could see the shuttered meaning
in the other’s face. In each of their stomachs, tiny butterflies of doubt
and danger were beginning to stir. For all espionage agents, every turn
of the wheel or any sudden change in a situation could mean an
equally sudden change of plan. It could mean life or death.
They were aliens in enemy territory, and anything could happen.
What did happen came so suddenly that no one, least of all the
Chinese members of the party, was prepared for it.
One moment, the sky was as clear as a shiny new mirror,
untroubled by so much as a hawk. The next, it was full of a roaring,
chattering, coughing noise, and a menacing shadow fell across the
ground. All eyes turned skyward in stunned unison.
A small plane shot like an arrow let loose from the morning sun,
sharp black nose leveled at them, streamlined shape bulleting toward
the roadway. It had no markings, nothing at all to indicate its origins
or loyalties. But its intentions were unmistakable.
CHAPTER 11
THE FORBIDDEN CITY
The effect was instantaneous.
Nick flattened reflexively, his eyes taking in the mad scramble of
the others to find cover. Even Yasunara had abandoned her regal
Oriental languor to spring behind the hooded sedan chair of her
palanquin.
The plane dipped and banked with a high, whistling shriek,
leaving a jet-like thunder in its wake. A thudding, streaming flow of
machine-gun fire exploded in Nick’s ears. For what seemed like acres
around him, dry earth geysered up clouds of dust and flying clods of
tufted soil. A man screamed in hysterical Cantonese and for a moment
the sky was almost quiet as the plane’s first swooping pass carried it a
mile or two away toward the south. Nick sprang to his feet. Of all the
others trapped on the open roadway, only Comrade had sufficient
command of himself to make a move. Wong Fat was screaming like a
woman. All the Mongols lay face down on the ground. Nick reached
swiftly into the palanquin, lifted Yasunara bodily—towering headdress
and all—and hurried with her to the shelter of a tall, gnarled tree that
bordered the roadway. Behind him, Comrade shouted something. The
Daimler’s motor throbbed.
“Put me down,” Yasunara panted furiously. “How dure you touch
me! You will die for this desecration, presumptuous creature. You—
you defiler! Put me down!” Nick dumped her unceremoniously behind
the big tree’s protective trunk and turned back to the road. The plane,
he saw, was banking sharply in the south preparatory to its next run.
The chauffeur of the Daimler had lost his head and thrown the
machine in gear. Comrade cursed and slammed a hard fist into the
terrified face under the chauffer’s cap.
Two of Kwan Too’s men had been cut down. Their bodies, fatally
ripped, lay sprawled bloodily in the roadway. Wong Fat was shrilling
from beneath the car, imploring the heavens to witness this vile
attempt on the Mandarin’s favored concubine.
Comrade looked up from the front seat of the car and gave a shout
of triumph. He emerged with an American Sub-Thompson machine
gun. Nick raced to join him as the high-pitched roar of the murder
plane filled the heavens again. Hopefully, he dived into the back seat.
Thank God! Another. He had no time to ponder the peculiarities of the
Mandarin’s merchants of death and their small arsenal. One could
only feel gratitude—toward the gods of chance and war for providing
weapons when killers came calling, and to the Mandarin for thinking
enough of Yasunara to thus arm her useless escorts.
“He’s getting careless,” Nick said in rapid Chinese. “Thinks we’re
sitting ducks and won’t expect a welcome. Double fire, right?”
Comrade nodded agreement. “Down, now. Here he comes!”
The plane came down like a guided missile, guns hammering.
Bullets whined and splattered into the palanquin. Nick and Comrade
lay flat on either side of the Daimler for a long few seconds, until
there was an ascending zoom and the small plane began a banking
climb.
“Now!” Nick shouted.
They raised and fired, holding the cold butts of their guns to their
shoulders, tripping the triggers inexorably.
It was a thousand to one chance, an ace in the hole after a
succession of aces, but it might just work. Two lethal barrels led every
move of the plane.
Pounds of .45-caliber ammunition thudded home. The phantom
aircraft twitched, climbed on, and shuddered heavily. It rose again,
winging swiftly on its way—but not before a hundred shattering
rounds had found their mark.
The engine roared in a desperate effort at control. Then there was
a different kind of roar. Flame licked the sleek metal body; an
explosion tore the sky and the plane disintegrated in a rain of debris
and black smoke. A dark cloud marked the mystery pilot’s deathbed in
the sky.
Silence settled over the blood-spattered road.
Nick dropped his machine gun and went back to Yasunara. She
was leaning against the tree, her marvelous bosom heaving under the
sequin cups.
“You are not Guardsmen but dragons, Lo Mei Teng!”
“As long as you are safe, Lute Flower, we are well rewarded.”
Comrade remained at the Daimler, inspecting the American
machine gun in his hands. “It worked,” his expression seemed to say.
Wong Fat, his clothes a mass of grime, was crowing with delight.
Yasunara stared at the corpses. Even as she watched, the third man
sighed painfully, and died. The driver was a bloody huddle over the
wheel. Kwan Too was nowhere in sight.
“Come,” commanded Yasunara. “Assist me to the car.”
Nick led her to the Daimler, her fingers lightly touching his arm.
Wong Fat fell on his knees before her.
“Daughter of the Moon, the Earth, the Sun!” he groveled. “Forgive
me for not shielding you with my worthless body. If anything had
befallen your Magnificence …”
“Silence!” Yasunara hissed. “Heads will roll for this. And where is
Kwan Too, the captain of my bearers? The protector of my divinity?”
Kwan Too staggered, shame-faced, from a low copse of bush. A
wet, red stain spread down one side of his face. He came forward and
fell at Yasunara’s feet, trying to kiss the hem of her brocaded gown.
“How do you answer for your cowardice, you crawling creature?”
A low moan escaped Kwan Too’s trembling lips.
“My lady, I beg forgiveness of your great heart. I know not how to
guard against the things that come from the sky. Never in my life …”
“Your worthless life! That is no answer, animal!” She turned to
Nick. “You, Lo Mei Teng, man who walks like a dragon. How would
you deal with the creature Kwan Too?”
“My heart mourns for his moment of weakness,” said Nick
diplomatically. He saw Comrade’s wide mouth curl into a sneer. “Let
him stay in this place of treachery and die of his wounds.”
“Oh, he will die,” Yasunara said evenly. “But not here. He will
return for the Mandarin’s pleasure. For we must learn something of
the plane that knew, so wonderfully, where to find me. Wong Fat!”
She flung the name like an insult. He quivered before her.
“Command me, honored Lute Flower, and I obey.”
“You will stay here with Kwan Too until some other vehicle comes
this way and you will arrange other modes of transportation to the
Forbidden City. I will go with these, my staunch supporters, the rest of
the distance. They have shown me they are giants, worthy of
protecting me.”
Wong Fat’s face wobbled and his mouth fell open.
“But …” and his eyes were on the car.
“Silence! You will deliver Kwan Too to the Mandarin. And you will
be sure to do it, because you, Wong Fat, you elephant, can easily be
found should you decide to turn elsewhere than to the Mandarin’s
City.”
Wong Fat wailed, his fearful eyes roaming over the corpses of
Kwan Too’s men and the riddled body of the driver.
“Oh, magnificent one, you know that I am faithful. Let there be no
more death. I beg you, plead my cause before the Mandarin …”
She turned her head abruptly away from him and motioned Nick
to precede her to the Daimler.
Comrade was already engaged in dumping the dead body of the
driver unceremoniously on the ground. Nick hurried to join him,
busily dragging the driver’s feet while Comrade hoisted the blood-
clotted shoulders.
“I do not need your help, my friend.”
“It is better for two to work together, Hong Tu Lee. Know you how
to drive this big foreign car?” Nick busied himself with the body and
murmured to Comrade. “It is not the kind of transport I am
accustomed to, as a lowly Guardsman. And you, my comrade?”
Comrade’s eyes widened with comprehension. He released his end
of the body and dusted off his hands. “You speak true, friend. But a
man of ingenuity, such as yourself, will surely find out how to make
the machine gallop.”
That was a sneaky one. Comrade had tossed the ball right back to
him.
Nick bowed ironically. “Very well, my flattering friend. I shall try.”
He turned to Yasunara and helped her into the back seat, saying as he
did so: “You, Hong Tu Lee. Put the weapons into the front where we
can easily reach them.”
Yasunara paused before settling herself.
“No, Lo Mei Teng. In the back here, where there is more room.”
“As you say, my lady.”
Comrade’s brow darkened, but he placed the two machine guns in
the back. Yasunara smiled.
“On, my dragons. To the Forbidden City, where my lord the
Mandarin, your master, awaits us.”
Nick slid behind the wheel. Comrade got in beside him and
watched Nick’s fumbling movements with the key.
“Here, I think,” Nick mumbled to himself. “And now this. That’s
better.”
The big car started with a snarl and a jerk.
“Apologies, my lady.”
There was a tinkle of laughter from the back seat.
“I cannot expect excellence in everything, bold one. Drive on as
best you can.”
Nick drove like a man with the best of intentions but very little
mechanical experience. The Daimler grudgingly responded.
A picture of the road map formed in his mind. He hoped Taka’s
directions were accurate. For the time being, though, he could only
concentrate on one objective —Peking itself—which lay somewhere
over the rising hills. And somewhere, concealed within its farflung
roaches, lay the Forbidden City.
For some time they rode in silence. There was much that Nick and
Comrade could talk about, but confidential conversation was
impossible. The Daughter of the Dragon, resplendent in robes now
slightly awry, was a serene and remote Highness on the leather
cushions of the back seat—but an alert, wide-awake Lute Flower, too.
Nick kept his eyes on the unfamiliar road. Comrade sat with his big
hands on his thighs, like a man who wished he had something else to
hold in them. Preferably a Sub-Thompson machine gun.
An hour later, after seemingly endless stretches of hard-packed
earth scattered with lone trees, the earth softened into gently rolling
layers. There was very little sign of life. For all of China’s vast
population explosion, they passed only one farmer in coolie hat with
bullock in tow. Long lines of rice paddies terraced off to the sides.
Hawks cried and soared in the sky. Distant slopes became nearby hills;
distant hills became mountains. Yasunara closed her eyes.
Nick looked at her in the mirror. Her face was soft yet sensual in
repose. Comrade opened his mouth to speak. Nick shook his head.
At last, Comrade could stand it no longer. He turned around and
looked Yasunara full in the face. Her breath was a rhythmic sigh.
“My lady? Daughter of the Dragon? Lute Flower? Do you rest
comfortably?”
There was no answer.
Comrade turned to Nick. “We must plan,” he whispered, still in
Chinese.
Nick nodded. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible,
carefully pitched for Comrade’s ears alone. “Our disguise will work
only as far as the gates. There’s bound to be a duty guard who’ll
recognize us as phonies.”
Comrade nodded agreement. “Once there, our masquerade ends.
This approach has its advantages, but it is somewhat too precipitate.
The darkness of night and our own timing, that is what we need.”
“We haven’t got it. Let’s say we have three possibilities. One: we
drop her at the gates and beg off duty on some pretext or other. Most
unlikely to succeed. Two: we drive in boldly, bluffing our way past the
guard, and let the Daughter of the Dragon lead us right to the
bossman so we can win medals for saving her life. Same chances as
the first, unless we’re very brazen and make up a story about a special
detail. Three: Kidnap the lady, keep her as a hostage and bargain with
the Mandarin until we can get him to come out in the open where we
can get a crack at him. Don’t like that either. Maybe the big, bold bluff
is best.”
“Four,” said Comrade. “One of us can betray the other.” Nick
flashed him a sidelong look. “Whisper to the guard that he can help to
gain glory by capturing the other, who is nothing but a dirty,
murderous spy. The masquerade of one of us was simply a means of
joining forces with the masked murderer with a view to thwarting
him. Then the betrayer will surely be taken in to see the Mandarin
while the other, the murderer, is clapped in chains or whatever they
do. Then the one who is not the murderer becomes the murderer and
shoots the Mandarin during the audience, quick before one of the
faithful chops his head off. Thus we both die, and so does the
Mandarin.”
Nick was grinning in spite of himself. “That was a complicated
piece of plotting. But I get your meaning. And it’s no less likely than
our other three choices. In fact, something like that might just work.”
He kept his eyes on the mirror image of Yasunara as he spoke,
watching the road with the periphery of his vision. “But at least one of
us has got to manage to stay alive a little longer than that, preferably
even get out to tell the story.”
Comrade nodded silently. He, like Nick, was not one of the glory
boys, anxious to die in the course of a mission. He would if he had to,
but he would rather not.
“I would say,” murmured Nick, his lips barely moving, “that we
might just possibly use the bluff technique to get both of us in alive—
with an urgent message for the Mandarin. Something, let’s say, that
we can give to him alone, that it has come to our notice that his
establishment is riddled with spies.”
They whispered, trying to refine their crude plan. What had
seemed like such a break at first—their meeting with Yasunara—had
shattered their first plan of reconnaissance and entry. Even their
flimsy cover story, the only one that had seemed possible before they
started, would have to be changed.
“Perhaps we could make something of that plane,” suggested Nick.
“We can invent a new enemy for the Mandarin, and warn him of
future attacks. Have any idea where the plane could have come
from?”
“It was Russian,” said Comrade gloomily. “A poor move, I must
say. Perhaps,” he brightened, “we could say it was Albanian. That
would give him something to ponder.”
Nick chuckled.
Yasunara stirred sleepily. Nick stared at her in the mirror. She was
exquisite. It would be a challenge to stir her emotions, to take the
dream apart and see what kind of woman lay underneath, what kind
of woman could enjoy the status of favorite concubine to the “dried-
up corpse” who was the Mandarin.
The road narrowed as they made the turn suggested by Nick’s
mental map. They would by-pass Peking and head straight for the
gorge that foreigners knew nothing of although, on paper, it lay
within the boundaries of the city. Nick knew by now, through Taka’s
tales and Comrade’s research, that anyone who accidentally
approached it was firmly turned back by men in military uniform.
Nick bumped the Daimler down a rutted grade.
“This should wake the daughter of the gods,” Comrade grunted.
It did. Yasunara opened her lovely eyes and smiled sleepily.
“Ah, my dragons,” she murmured. “We make good time. I see the
hill of the sighing willow just beyond. Nightfall, and we will be at the
gates of the Forbidden City.”
“Praise to Buddha,” said Nick sincerely. Comrade muttered in his
throat.
Yasunara’s voice tinkled. “I will enrich you both beyond measure
for the services you have rendered. My lord the Mandarin will show
you his gratitude in a most fitting manner.” Her voice hardened. “For
Wong Fat, a suitable reward. And for the wretch Kwan Too, the wall.
You will see what happens to the fools that fail the Great One. But you
warriors,” she said warmly, “will be most handsomely served. You
shall have your pick of the painted jewels of the Mandarin’s harem, a
thousand and one delights of the flesh, and suitable elevation in
station and position. Mark me, you will learn of the magnifiicence of
the Mandarin when he deals with loyal servitors.”
“The Mandarin is wise and all powerful,” Nick said between his
teeth. For Wong Fat, a suitable reward. But Kwan Too, the poor
bastard!
“See there!” Yasunara cried suddenly. “The gorge of the dragon.
Oh, we are close now to my beloved City.” Their eyes followed her
pointing hand, casually, as though they had seen her City many times.
A vast gorge of red earth lay before them. Beyond a fringe of half-
naked trees, Nick saw the afternoon sun bounce with dazzling
brilliance in the distance.
“Roofs of gold, tiles of jade, walls of rich vermilion hue.” He
recalled the legend he had read, many years ago, long before the
world awoke to the menace of Red China. The Forbidden City, a fairy-
tale transplanted from a forgotten book to the confines of greater
Peking.
The road dipped. Nick shifted gears again. Yasunara settled back,
fanning herself with a beaded fan that was all the shaded colors of the
rainbow. Nick saw that her mirrored eyes were fastened on him.
“You handle American weapons well, Lo Mei Teng and Hong Tu
Lee. It is seldom that our countrymen show such swift proficiency in
mastering such inventions.”
Nick sought for a suitable answer.
“The Guardsmen have learned that they must do many things to
protect the Mandarin, as befits a man so great.”
“Yes,” murmured Comrade approvingly. “Only in this way do we
become worthy of the honor to serve.”
Yasunara’s almond eyes showed pleasure.
“You answer me well, bold defenders.”
“The only answer, Daughter of the Dragon.”
Up ahead, a peasant farmer leading a flock of goats urged his small
herd across the lane with a gnarled wooden stick and genuflected as
the car swept by. Yasunara nodded and raised a gracious hand. And
from a distant knoll, Nick thought he caught a glint of light off
something small and glassy. Something like binoculars. Though the
fall afternoon was cool, Yasunara fanned herself with languid ease.
The sun was drifting westward with them, dipping slowly down.
But the sparkle of the Forbidden City continued beneath the softening
rays. Yasunara’s lovely face seemed to take on added color as they
neared their goal.
Comrade yawned. Nick straightened in his seat to ease the
tightness in his shoulders. Yasunara purred understanding.
“You grow weary, my helpers?”
They demurred politely, and she laughed. “You have good reason,
for you have labored well. But you will rest tonight, such rest as you
have never dreamed of. The wonders of another world will be yours.
Be patient. Your pilgrimage ends soon.”
Nick thought about the gates of the City. He knew from what Taka
had said that they would certainly be manned by Guardsmen, but she
had been a little dim about security arrangements. It had simply never
occurred to her to notice them or question them. They would have to
do some fancy footwork when they were questioned at the entrance.
Their chances of coming out of this alive were very slim. But Nick
thought very little about dying. Tactics went by the board if you
carried the fear of death around with you.
The road twisted, turned, took a dozen complicated convolutions.
Then at last, in the early evening light, the road straightened into a
smooth carpet that marked the end of the trail and the beginning of
fulfillment. The high gates of the city gleamed before them.
“There,” murmured Yasunara. “There they are. The gates of
heaven. See them now and remember, for they are the last gates you
will ever see.”
The terrifying quality of her voice made Nick turn suddenly, for
the mirror image revealed a face transformed by emotion, but it
showed little more. Comrade swung around with him.
“Keep driving!” the changed voice lashed at him.
“Excellency!” Nick began, startled and confused.
“Do as you are told!”
The most beautiful Chinese woman in the world was staring at him
coldly above the unwavering, meaningful nose of a .45 automatic.
“Fools,” she hissed, her carmine mouth almost ugly now. “Did you
think to trap Yasunara? We will see who is the captor, who the victim.
You will both die tonight, as befits all enemies of the Mandarin!”
CHAPTER 12
THE CURIOUS CONCUBINES
Yasunara’s face above the .45, now ominously visible in the rear-
view mirror, was no longer that of a noble, lovely Lute Flower but that
of a triumphant witch.
“My lady!” Nick protested. “Do you mock us, or do you test us?”
He shot a look of warning at Comrade, who seemed about to burst
into angry, giveaway speech. “Is it that we have been too bold?”
Her scornful laughter washed over the back of his head.
“Far too bold,” she agreed. “So very bold that you betray
yourselves. Humble Guardsmen! Pah! You are spies and killers. The
Mandarin will enjoy rewarding you.”
Comrade turned to her slowly, his hand reaching stealthily into the
folds of his tunic.
“You wrong us, Daughter of the Dragon. We only live to serve …”
“If you are not careful you will not live another moment. Put your
hands up and keep them up until I allow you to lower them. And you
… both hands on the wheel. You will do as I say until we reach the
Forbidden City. If you wish to die here and now, it can be arranged.
One movement will arrange it.”
Comrade’s grim profile was stony with rage and disappointment.
Nick’s mind was churning feverishly: Ram the car. Reach over the
back for a machine gun. Swerve suddenly, let Comrade grab for her.
But then she’d know for certain what they were. Bluff first; force as a
last resort. Position here and now too compromising to turn on dragon
woman except as desperation move. Then perhaps silent Hugo would
be best.
“You are too harsh, Daughter of the Dragon,” Nick said mildly.
“Please tell us what we have done, what mistakes we have made in
dealing with your exalted self. We will then humbly determine not to
make the same error in the future.”
Comrade sat there listening, hands uncomfortably raised, face an
expressionless mask.
“You have no future, my false friends,” her mocking voice said
thinly. “But if it serves your curiosity, Guardsmen for the Forbidden
City do not dare to be familiar with concubines, least of all the Most
Favored of the Mandarin. When fortunate enough to be addressed,
they reply in ancient phrases demanded by ritualistic custom. Nor are
they conversant with such things as American machine guns. Nor do
they wear red fox caps, except for the month of June. You would have
done better to be more careful of your attire. When I first saw you in
the square, my suspicions were at once aroused. The Mandarin has
wisely ordered a monthly change in color of dress. A recent order,
most unfortunate for you. Many of his enemies have sought, of late, to
reach him through his Guardsmen. So, you see, I knew you for
imposters from the very start.”
Comrade cursed in Russian. Nick cut in quickly, trying to obscure
this premature lapse. “Then we are not Guardsmen, as you say. But we
have proven ourselves friends. We had to find a way to see the man
we wish to call our leader, for we have a message for him of the
utmost urgency. We will prove this to you if …”
“You will be silent and drive on,” she snapped. “Save your lying
explanations for the Mandarin. And compose yourselves to face your
death.”
Nick shrugged and drove on into the lengthening shadows. The
walls of the Forbidden City drew near. Soon they would be meeting
the man they wanted most to meet. But the manner of their meeting
was not one they had planned on. It would be particularly galling to
be delivered over to their fate by the beautiful woman whose life they
had saved.
The Daimler smoothly breasted the last rise of earth between them
and the City. Then the strange, unholy place lay there below them in
the valley. The afternoon had waned, giving way to nightfall. The
countryside was a vast, darkening mystery to these strangers
approaching the legendary gates. Even the eerie glow of the gates
themselves, casting a strange radiance into the sky, added to the
atmosphere of emptiness and desolation.
The great gates were closed. They would have to stop, surely, and
make some sort of signal. Go in and face the Mandarin with their
hastily made up story? Now it could not possibly work. They would be
searched, disarmed, brought before CLAW’s leader as prisoners and
supplicants. They would have to make a move, and quickly. He
glanced at Comrade. The Russian gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Nick started slowing down.
“Drive straight up to the gates,” Yasunara ordered. “Stop only
when I tell you.”
He drove on very slowly, thinking: Comrade’s gun is quiet.
Wilhelmina would surely be heard. I’ll have to reach for Hugo.
There was a sudden, stinging sensation in the middle of his back,
where it rested lightly against the cushioned upholstery. Comrade
jerked suddenly, as if he had felt the same thing at the same time.
Yasunara laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh. It rose like tinkling,
off-key silver bells and hardened into rough gold, pouring heavily into
their eardrums.
“No, my fools. You do not escape. Stop the car.”
Nick braked, turned off the engine, and reached for Hugo. But his
fingers groped uselessly at his sleeve and refused to do his bidding.
Comrade leaned forward, his mouth slack, and stayed in that position.
A horn sounded behind them, somehow close and somehow distant.
Though he could not see it he sensed the automatic looming behind
his head. It seemed to fill the car.
His body refused his urgent command to move.
The gates slowly opened. Two short, square Guardsmen in
costumes very similar to their own but for the dirty white fur caps
appeared in the opening, swinging back the heavy barriers. For a
moment his senses were abnormally acute. He saw, sharply, the design
details on the walls and gates, the colors of the earth, the sky, the
Guardsmen’s tunics and the dirty-bronze of their complexions; he
scented the odor of honeyed Oils and jasmine and the nearby presence
of goats, and underneath it or beyond it the smell of damp soil and
water reeds; and he heard distant bells and the shuffle of approaching
feet.
Then he saw a line of slowly marching men coming toward them
through the gates.
The twelve Chinese were all dressed in the robes and cowls of
priests. From each throat dangled a large golden key hung upon a
strand of linked pieces of green jade.
Again he tried to move, but could not.
A soft whisper of sound floated into his ear.
“These are holy priests, do not mistake them. They will know you
as the enemies of all religion and of their lord the Mandarin. Whoever
sees you in this place or watches from afar will know you as the
graceless, the ignorant, the godless haters of the heart of China. All
hope is-lost to you.”
The small procession approached. Behind it, the gates of the
Forbidden City widened to receive the two sworn enemies of the
Mandarin.
The nightmare suddenly blurred. Nick saw and heard no more.
Nightmare melted into sleep, and sleep into a dream. At least, it
should have been a dream, a glorious figment of the most fantastic
sort.
And yet it was not.
Nick Carter blinked his eyes and the vision remained. His whole
being seemed to be one enormous eye that absorbed a feast of colors,
textures, and unbelievable patterns of movement. It was real, and yet
it could not be. He was vaguely aware of tolling gongs, but the sound,
too, had an unreal quality. The melodious chimes seemed to linger
hauntingly in the ear, more like a memory than a present actuality.
Before his gaze lay a polished marble floor as clear and perfect as a
sheet of glass. Fluted columns of what looked like ivory thrust like
monoliths into a ceiling as intangible, as dark and as mysterious, as
infinity. Suspended miraculously from the darkness were enormous
crystal chandeliers that flung their light down on the surfaces below.
It seemed to be an amphitheater of some kind, for tiered seats rose in
the background to look down upon the glittering scene. By itself the
place would have been grotesquerie enough to conjure with, but there
was far more for the mind and senses to comprehend. The place was
peopled with the delirious phantasms of a thousand and one erotic,
magical nights. It was as if Nick had rubbed Aladdin’s lamp and asked
for Paradise —a man’s idea of Paradise—and found himself in some
exquisitely painful purgatory of untouchable delights.
Superb, soft bodies swayed and undulated before him, dream
bodies such as he had never seen: Women in provocative attitudes and
postures that would have driven the most dedicated saint to desire
and despair.
Twelve lovely women, dancing in the nude.
Memory brought back a phrase, and quickly lost it. Whatever these
women were doing, it was not what most men would call dancing. It
was rhythmic movement of a primitive, yet highly sophisticated sort
that made his body crave while it was repelled.
Nick stared. These must be the shapes of dreams. As in a dream, he
could not make himself reach out and touch them. He did not know
why; he only knew he desperately wanted to. His eyes drank in the
unimaginable sight until his mind reeled with intoxication.
The twelve women were ringed before him in a strangely
interrelated group. Their eyes were only for each other, not for him. It
was as if he did not exist. The tableau they presented hinted of things
occult and unspeakably delicious, of savage pleasures to be subtly
enjoyed, of aching need and burning lust.
Nick’s reviving pulse began pounding like a drum. He could feel
his heart hammer, as if beating an accompaniment to the motions of
the dance that was no dance at all. In their turn, the movements
quickened. Never was a man so gratified and so tormented in
witnessing such an exhibition. It was lurid while it was beautiful. It
was controlled; it was abandoned. It was fascinating and it was
maddening.
Gentle, sensual hands caressed. Lovely female bodies pulsed and
intertwined with eloquent grace. The tableau weaved and wavered
and blended into hues of purple, orange, green and gold. For the
women were not completely exposed. Diaphanous films of gossamer at
waist or throat swayed with the undulating movement and made it
even more provocative. Colors mingled, parted, came together. The
scene might have been painted by a sorcerer’s brush that gave it not
only color but sheer poetry of movement.
None of the women spoke. But there was a low, moaning murmur
that seemed to be growing gradually louder and more compelling.
Nick suddenly felt the acute heat of his own body and the sudden
dampness of his flesh.
It was only then that he realized that he himself was completely
unclothed, squatting on his knees and leaning forward like some
servile coolie, and completely unbound. His throat was dry and his
eyes seemed to be straining from his head. He knew that he should be
doing something practical, at least thinking about the desperate
situation he was in, but all he could do was lose himself in the scene
before him. He could not bring himself to wonder where his clothes
had gone, what had happened to Hugo and Wilhelmina, or even about
the fate of Comrade. All of his heart and mind and soul were riveted
to the interplay of the twelve beautiful women before him. He felt that
he was swimming in a sea of passion. If he could only touch….
There were almond-eyed Eurasians, doe-eyed Chinese, voluptuous
Negresses, midnight-haired Japanese beauties. There were superb
contours of breast and thigh, flashing cameos of sculptured features,
skin pale as ivory, coloring as exotic as an island in the South Seas.
It was unbearable, now. The pattern of the group movement had
brought all twelve women around to face Nick. At last, they seemed to
look at him, and he was lost. Twelve sets of eyes that held all the
answers to the questions of love focused on him like a hot searchlight.
The eyes suggested things … told him things … played over his body
… promised and begged.
He made a strangled noise in his throat and sprang forward.
His feet—not quite bare, but he did not notice— slithered across
the glassy floor as he lurched with arms outstretched to reach for the
nearest naked daughter of the Devil.
A vicious, whistling sound reverberated in his ears and a cruel lash
bit into his back. He pulled up short, a gasp of agony wrenching from
his throat. There was a moment’s pause, and then the sound came
again. The invisible whip found his waist and encircled it like a vise,
biting deeply into his warm flesh. And still the women stared and
swayed.
The whip pulled away from him with excruciating abruptness.
Nick went down, tears of pain springing to his eyes, the red-hot agony
of his torn flesh blinding him momentarily. The first wave of pain
receded and left him whole. Suddenly he was acutely aware of his
position. White hot shame and anger burned within him. He made an
effort to rise and turn on the unseen wielder of the whip.
“Remain where you are,” a high, sing-song voice called. “Dare to
touch the concubines again and I will shred you as grains of rice in a
threshing machine.”
Through blurred eyes Nick could see that the tableau of women
had frozen into immobility. Only a low panting and the droop of their
limbs indicated the frenzy that had gone before.
A long shadow fell across the polished floor and the man who had
spoken came forward with a slow, methodical pad of sandaled feet. He
came like a wraith, ephemeral and ghosdy, the long, black whip
trailing from his emaciated right hand. Nick stared up at him. The
Mandarin did not have to introduce himself.
He was incredibly tall and impossibly thin. “A corpse dried by
fire… .” but one that was nearly seven feet tall, and as hideously
slender as a dead, dried-up reed. The fantastically narrow body was
encased in a handsome orange and green mandarin robe of striking
design. A golden dragon sprang wrathfully across the breast of the
garment; embossed, writhing things that looked like spitling snakes
trimmed the hem. But the Mandarin’s face was the very essence of the
man. A man unmistakably evil.
His was a Death’s Head of fleshless, consumptive hollows and
pitted cavities. Yellow eyes gleamed from deep-sunken sockets. The
wide, thin-lipped mouth, open to reveal the brown stumps of his teeth,
twisted to one side in a perpetual grimace of malignity. The nose was
a pair of holes pitted in the skeletal face. Dry, parchment-colored skin
was pulled tightly over the bald, conical skull. The face was a sickly
yellow-green in the reflected light. A musty odor seemed to emanate
from the emaciated presence.
This rotten stalk of man was the legendary Mandarin.
Nick rose stiffly to his feet and willed away the pain that
enveloped his lashed body. He faced the Mandarin with a dignity he
did not feel. A low murmur of amazement rippled through the group
of watching concubines.
The thin lips twisted and the bony claw tightened on the
whipstock.
“So, Defilers,” the singing voice mocked. “You wake to a dream of
ecstasy, do you not? How fortunate you are! For I have plucked aside
the veils and allowed you to see the delights of the Forbidden City. Do
you wonder why?” He seemed to smile. “Because you deserve reward
for all you have done this day.” Then the voice changed and lashed
out like the whip. “And it pleases me to bring lust and passion and
rapture to your unworthy bodies, and then cut off fulfillment as easily
as I might snuff out a candle. Gaze at yourselves, interlopers, and see
how you were prepared to put aside your noble cause—whatever it
may be—for caresses from my beauties.”
It was only then that Nick was aware that Comrade was also in the
glittering, high-vaulted room. He slowly turned his head to see the
Russian glaring at the elongated figure of the Mandarin with an
expression that was an amalgam of shame and anger. It was obvious
that Comrade, too, had forgotten himself and wanted to rush across
the floor to sample the strange fruits of the Forbidden City.
“Play, then, if it pleases you,” Nick said coldly. “You will soon see
how you mistake us, and regret it. Where is the blind one, Yasunara?
The one so pleased with her own cunning that she outreached herself
and dared to trap two special emissaries?”
The Mandarin laughed, a thin wisp of sound like dry leaves
brushing together.
“My compliments. You are a stallion of a different hue from others
who have been brought here.” (“Hue!” thought Nick suddenly, and
glanced down at his body. But the subtle stain from the jettisoned
make-up kit blended imperceptibly with the tan of his own body. The
tightness, too, still pulled up the corner of his eyes. The tattered
bandage, filthy with old blood and the dirt of many miles of dusty
road, still clung to the toes of his left foot.) “Fool though you are, you
have a sort of stupid courage. But the Daughter of the Dragon is not
your concern. Your concern is death. You will die, and soon. But first
you will answer a few questions.”
“Questions!” Nick rasped furiously. “It is for you to answer why we
have been treated in this way. Your own favored woman, the so-called
Daughter of the Dragon, caused us to come here in this disguise,
though our mission was to warn your Excellency of a plot.” (This was
partly true. He and Comrade had never intended to use the Guards’
disguise to penetrate the City—merely to get them to the City walls.)
“Truly, you put your trust in curious places. See to it that our clothes
are brought to us and we will answer you with dignity. Otherwise
there will be much trouble from high places and the consequence for
you—servant of the people—will be disastrous.”
The pitted eyes glowed. “That is very good. Very good indeed. So
good that I shall make a bargain with you. Continue lying, and you
die most painfully. Tell me the truth, and you shall live in paradise.
This beauty can be yours.” He waved a skeletal claw at the twelve
dangerously lovely concubines, who stood watching like some silent
jury waiting to receive instructions from a hanging judge. “Take your
choice. Have one—have all. But tell me why you have come here to
the Forbidden City. And speak truly!” The voice ended on a high lash
of sound.
Comrade growled in his throat.
Nick laughed. “You still persist in your foolish fantasies. Until we
speak on equal terms, I shall tell you nothing, Not for all the tea in
China, nor once around the room with each of your twelve harlots.”
The Mandarin’s thin lips drew back in a stub-toothed snarl.
“How easily you insult me. How gracelessly yet pointedly you
express yourself. Perhaps it is necessary for you to see more and hear
how much we know of you before you make a sensible decision.” He
clapped his hands suddenly.
A gong sounded and there was a rustle of silk. Behind the rustle,
like a bass accompaniment, came the tread of heavy feet.
The rustle grew closer. Yasunara appeared, her tall figure wrapped
in a mass of nearly transparent gauze. The headdress was no more; her
jet-black hair clung like a sheath to her head. Behind her came a
group of four Mongols, enormously muscled, clad only in loin cloths
and sandals.
Yasunara flashed a triumphant look at Nick and bowed before the
Mandarin.
“Illustrious One,” she murmured. “I am here at your command.
What is your wish for my humble presence?”
The Death’s Head smiled. “These men would have me believe
strange things of you, my good right hand.” Yasunara’s perfect
eyebrows arched. “I see that we shall have to reason with them. It will
be a pleasant entertainment for us all. See that they are taken to the—
shall we say—Convincing Chamber. And have Chou Chang arrange to
greet them.”
“He awaits, lord and master.” Yasunara’s eyes glistened with
anticipation of the joys to come.
“That is well, my flower.” He turned an overpoweringly evil stare
upon Comrade and Nick. “Take them, then. I will follow shortly.”
Yasunara clapped her hands and the four Mongols came forward.
Magically, a section of the far wall beyond the silent concubines
opened to reveal a dark, stone-lined passage.
As the two captives were hauled unceremoniously away, Nick
turned to watch the Mandarin. The tall gaunt figure was facing his
concubines and stretching forth his hands.
As one, they sank down on their knees, their eyes and postures
humble.
A rough shove sent Nick staggering down to the damp passage on
Comrade’s reluctant heels. The big man was strangely silent. But then,
there wasn’t much to say. Spies died quiet, or they were not spies.
They stumbled through a long labyrinth of stone-walled passages
and out into a cold dark night that bit viciously into their naked
bodies. Then there was a drawbridge spanning a broad moat, and
ahead of them a line of low stone buildings crouching like
blockhouses against the inner city wall. Beyond, there was another
open space, and then the high sweep of the outer walls. The Forbidden
City lay like a silent, cavern-mouthed monster beneath the starlit sky.
There was still a chance. All their enemies could know, so far, was
that they were not Guardsmen. Yasunara could not possibly have
overheard their low-voiced conversation in the car through the hum of
the engine and the breeze that had rushed past the car. Bluff. Play for
time. Pray that Taka—wherever she might be—could produce a
miracle.
They left the night air behind them and entered another passage.
Yasunara led on, silently, and they entered a square, stone-walled
room with a high barred window. A second, much narrower door
stood opposite the main entrance. The room was furnished with a
wide, wooden table and a throne-like chair.
Behind the table stood a short, square man with a curiously
nondescript face. And on the table lay a box-shaped object that looked
like—and was—a miniature tape recorder.
CHAPTER 13
THE HAND OF CLAW
The great door slammed behind them. The Mongols stepped back
like waiting executioners. Yasunara smiled. “Meet Chou Chang,” she
said graciously, like a hostess at a tea party. “The Mandarin’s left
hand.”
Chou Chang of the nondescript face inclined his head politely.
“Welcome,” he said, his voice calm and friendly. “Please to step a
little closer to the table. So, that is better. Now we talk. Please to tell a
little of yourselves.”
Comrade snarled and spat on the stone floor. “We speak only to
the Mandarin, not to his servants, and on our own conditions. I will
not stand here naked and converse with underlings.”
Chou Chang clicked his tongue reprovingly. “But you must realize I
have my orders, too. I do not detain you on my own behalf. And all I
ask is why you honor us with this unexpected visit.”
“Not altogether unexpected,” said Nick. “It was, after all, the chief
harlot of this house that brought us here.”
Yasunara’s eyes snapped, but she said nothing.
Chou Chang raised his eyebrows. “So I understand. But why the
Guardsman’s garb which drew her to you? Who employed you to so
disguise yourselves?”
“Our mission is our own,” said Nick. “We wished to Join the
Mandarin and help his cause. We will speak with him, and him alone.
Alone, not in the presence of his treacherous slaves.”
“Ah.” Chou Chang nodded. “That is understandable. Our master
will be with us soon, and then perhaps you will have a suitable
audience. But in the meantime, let me delight your ears with
something of great interest to us all.” Deft fingers on the table top
brought the small box-shaped machine to life. “You will see, too, that
the lady Yasunara has more to her than beauty. And I ask you,
please,” he said reproachfully, “to refrain from referring to her as
‘chief harlot.’ It is most tactless, and you cannot expect to gain her
friendship in that way.” His tone was friendly, as if he were offering
advice to potential allies.
The machine breathed softly. The hum of a well-oiled motor filled
the cavernous room.
Comrade’s throaty voice whispered: “My lady? Daughter of the
Dragon? Lute Flower? Do you rest comfortably?”
A shiver ran down Nick’s bare spine. Beside him, Comrade
groaned.
“We must plan,” came the mechanical voice, so softly that it was
barely audible. From very far away, a voice whispered back a
wordless sound. Chou Chang thoughtfully turned up the volume.
“… bound to be a duty guard who’ll recognize us as phonies the
moment they see us.” A pause. “Once there, our masquerade ends….”
The tape whirred on. Comrade’s face was a mask of defeat. Nick
could feel the unnatural tightness of his own muscles.
“… keep her as a hostage and bargain with the Mandarin until we
can get him to come out in the open where we can get a crack at
him… .”
Chou Chang let the damning sounds run on for another moment.
Then he shook his head regretfully and snapped off the machine.
“That is enough, I think. You know the rest. Perhaps now we shall
hear the true story of your honored visit.”
“You can go to hell,” said Comrade, and once more spat upon the
floor.
“Tch. Not a helpful answer. Do you think it might have a salutary
effect if we were to see what lies hidden beneath your admirable
surface?” European education, Nick was thinking. Wonder where he—
and before he finished wondering, a hand shot out suddenly and
clawed at Comrade’s eyes. Comrade lurched back with a snarl of
surprise. Two Mongols stepped forward swiftly and placed themselves
behind the prisoners, their tremendous arms pinning the victims’ own
arms to their sides.
Surprisingly long fingernails raked at the corners of the Russian’s
eyes. Comrade swore and lurched. The fingers fell back and lashed
again. Red furrows appeared on Comrade’s face.
“I could not possibly be wrong, could I?” the gentle voice
murmured doubtfully. “Hold still now, please.” The claws raked deep
into Comrade’s left temple, and something flapped loosely through the
streams of blood. “Ah. There.” The voice was pleased. “I see a
European face. Now you.” He turned to Nick.
“Be damned to you,” said Nick, and jerked his body violently so
that his head bulleted down toward the floor and the Mongol guard
that pinned him fell down over Nick’s back. Nick jerked upward again
in a sudden whip-lush movement and struck out at the face behind the
clawing fingernails. A second Mongol stepped up and grabbed his arm,
twisting it up behind his back. The first took his other arm and
wrenched vengefully. The inexorable clawing hand came at his face—
knifing, tearing, twisting. Nick’s head butted and darted. Blood ran
into his eyes. As suddenly as it had begun, the clawing stopped.
“You too,” Chou Chang said happily. “It is so nice to be right. Is it
not, my lady?” He turned politely to Yasunara. There was an
indescribable look of pleasure on her face.
“Continue, please, Chou Chang,” she said in her lovely tinkling
voice.
“At once, Daughter of the Dragon. Now, esteemed guests, phase
two of our little visit.” He waved the slight hand with the long
clawlike fingernails, and the Mongols stepped back one pace. “A
guessing game, which you will play with me. I expect, of course, to
win. What are you —English? French? Russian? American? M.V.D.?
B.I.S.? C.I.A.? S.O.S.?” He laughed gently, as if he found initials very
funny. “I do not mind telling you about myself. C.L.A.W., that is what
I work for.” The laugh became a chuckle. “Please tell me, or things
will become hotter for you.” He waited.
They were silent. Not even the most inspired lie could help them
now.
“Perhaps I can help you,” the gentle voice said reasonably. “Is it
AXE, that our good friend Mr. Judas has so helpfully warned us
about?” His eyes roved over Nick’s body and then Comrade’s,
searching for the symbol he had heard of but had never seen. “Or that
admirable Russian organization the Americans so amusingly call SIN?”
Nick shifted uncomfortably. The floor seemed to be growing warm
beneath his feet. If only the Mandarin would come in, Nick would
reach for the thing tied to his foot and kill the lot of them at once.
Chou Chang sighed. His eyes clouded. “I wish that you would tell
me. If, for instance, you would tell me all you know of your country’s
intelligence services—perhaps not even all, just something,” he added
cojolingly, “we would be able to spare you the worst. Perhaps reward
you. Do you not like money? Women? Would you not sample the
delights of a connoisseur’s collection? No? I am so sorry.” His regret
sounded genuine. “It seems you must suffer first, then talk.”
The floor beneath his feet were growing damnably hot. Comrade
shuffled his feet and shot a desperate glance at Nick. Nick could only
shake his head. Comrade’s jaw muscles bunched. Nick took a tentative
step forward. Hot there, too. He stepped sideways. A Mongol guard
stepped with him.
The heat became unbearable. The once-cool room’ weighed down
hotly on his aching shoulders. His feet were stinging horribly. There is
no such thing as pain … there is no pain … there is no pain… . From
the corner of his eye he saw Yasunara move back. Hell burned
beneath his feet. Chou Chang’s blank, gentle face was smiling
pleasantly. Pain shot up through Nick’s legs. He found his feet doing
an ungraceful, shambling dance. Comrade’s body was twitching
uncontrollably.
And then, as one, they moved. The Russian and the American spies
threw themselves against the table, two minds and two strong bodies
joined together in a common attempt to throw the great wooden table
back against that nondescript man and crush him under it.
Their hands smashed futilely against the table. It was bolted to the
floor. Chou Chang laughed, stepped back, and motioned. The Mongols
fell upon the two men with the burning feet and threw them to the
floor. For one dreadful moment Nick’s back burned as if he had been
thrust into a furance. Then he was on his feet again, swinging wildly.
The nearest Mongol cursed and reached for him. Nick ducked, leapt,
and swung upon the Mongol’s back as if mounting a recalcitrant
horse. The man fell. Nick rode his heaving, struggling body like a
rodeo rider, straining at the bullet head so that the flat face and bare
shoulders pressed down at the white-hot floor. Through a mist of heat
he could see Comrade leaping joyously upon another of the Mongol
guards and clinging to him like a boa constrictor. Two men screamed
—not Comrade, and not Nick.
Suddenly there was a rush of icy air. A choked voice stammered
out: “He comes! He comes!” Nick rolled over on the hot floor, two
men on top of him, his shoulders an agony of whip-welts and
excruciating heat. His body jerked with useless energy. Two heavy,
muscular figures pinned him firmly to the burning floor. His mind
went blank.
It could have been moments, hours, or only seconds later, when his
eyes cleared and he saw newcomers at the open door. The biting heat
seemed more bearable—or perhaps he was inured, now, to pain.
Yasunara faced the door, the diaphanous gauze of her single flowing
garment rustling in the unnaturally icy draft. Two more Mongols
stepped forward through the doorway. Then the lanky, specter-like
figure of the Mandarin loomed up behind them. His Death’s Head
bobbed and rose again as he stepped through the doorway. He came
into the room and glided over to the table with all the noiseless
quality of the wraith he almost was. The door remained open behind
him.
He ran his eyes over the assemblage.
“On your feet, you dogs!” his voice lashed out like the long, curling
whip he carried in his claw.
The Mongols scrambled up and stood at something like attention.
Nick dragged himself to his knees and fell on his face. Beneath the
cover of his crouched body, his hands reached frantically for the
bandage on his toes. A sledgehammer blow landed on the back of his
head. Then huge hands dragged him to his feet. He cursed out loud.
In the distance, he heard tinkling laughter.
He shook his head to clear the stars away and shifted on the balls
of his tortured feet. Yes, the floor was cooler now.
“Well, Chou Chang? What has the last hour brought?”
Nick saw Chou Chang shaking his head sorrowfully. “Nothing but
noise and pain, my lord. So far, they are adamant. I would respectfully
suggest, Illustrious One, that we offer them a foretaste of their fate.
Perhaps we can then persuade them that it is a far, far better thing to
live.”
The deathly, shriveled head nodded. “So be it, then.”
He clapped his hands twice, sharply.
A small procession came in through the open door.
Two more Mongols. Kwan Too, the scapegoat of the roadway
scene, head slumped disconsolately on sagging chest, tunic stained
with blood. Another Mongol. Wong Fat, stumbling, blubbery lips
working frantically. Another Mongol.
Taka.
Taka, face bruised, flowing clothes in disarray, eyes downcast and
dull.
Two more Mongols.
End of the procession.
The door swung shut behind them.
Nick looked at Taka, and his thoughts were torture to him. The
small, sweet body, and the desperate clinging. The betrayal, and the
promise, and the love. Whatever she had done before, she could not
possibly have betrayed him now. She had not known the time and
manner of their coming. Neither, for that matter, had they. He was the
one, Nick Carter, who had persuaded her to come back here.
“Do you know this man?” The Mandarin sing-songed.
Nick thought that he was asking her. But the Mandarin was
looking at him and Comrade, pointing his bony finger at Kwan Too.
Nick nodded. “We have met.”
“By pre-arrangement?” The voice was harsh.
Nick sighed. “What possible sense could that have made? We met
when your harlot picked us up.”
The whip lashed out and hotly licked his chest.
“Save your tongue for meaningful answers. Do not insult me
further. Now you will see what happens to this man. For traitors,
enemies, and those who fail to carry out my orders, there are many
answers. Here is one of them. Watch closely, now, so that you miss
nothing.”
Dry fingers snapped.
Four Mongols hurried a panting, staring-eyed Kwan Too across the
floor to the far wall beyond the heavy table. One of them pushed a
muscular hand against a section of the wall. The room creaked and
groaned. The whole wall seemed to move, to slide sideways like a
closet door on rollers. Nick stared unbelievingly. Then he saw that the
apparent stone wall was a thin facade. The real wall—probably the
wall to the inner city—lay a few feet beyond. Stone blocks, loose ones,
lay in neat piles beneath the wall. And in the wall were four deep
cavities, waiting for their fillings. There had, it appeared, been four
other cavities, for there were four rectangular areas that looked like
bricked-up windows.
There was no doubt what they had been used for.
“Come,” the Mandarin said. “Step closer. This should prove most
interesting for you.”
One of the Mongols padded quickly out of the room.
The Mandarin’s voice, when it came again, was as quiet and
horrible as a witch’s lullaby.
“Have you any words of wisdom for us, cowardly Kwan Too?”
The man’s face was a study in fear. His mouth worked silently. He
shook his head and trembled violently.
“Ah, well, it makes no difference.” The Mandarin clapped his
hands again. Two of the Mongols forced Kwan Too into one of the
recesses in the wall. The one who had gone so swiftly from the room
came back with a metal pail and a trowel.
Nick sought Taka’s eyes. He willed her to look at him. At last, she
did. She looked, and it was a look of love and deep despair. Then she
shook her head, very slightly, and turned her head away.
It was then that Kwan Too found his voice and screamed. One of
the Mongols slammed a fist against his head and Kwan Too, stunned,
fell back against the inside wall of the recess. The Mongols worked
quickly and efficiendy. Two big hands to a stone—until there was a
layer. The quick slap-slapping of wet cement, and then another layer.
Cement and stones, cement and stones. Kwan Too screamed again and
Nick saw him reaching wildly over his half-built prison wall. A
Mongol hit him carelessly, but with great force. Kwan Too snarled and
came up biting. The Mongol hit him again, smashing his head against
the back wall. Slap-slap and heave; the thud of stone; the clink of a
trowel. The barrier grew higher and thicker. Kwan Too screamed
again, a gurgling, maddened, high-pitched sound. This time they let
him scream.
The Mandarin smiled approvingly. “It is good this way, is it not,
Chou Chang?” The mild man nodded enthusiastically.
“Better by far, Ingenious One. You could, perhaps, explain?”
“I used to gag them,” the Mandarin said to Nick, as quietly and
conversationally as if describing what he had eaten for breakfast,
“because the screaming can be tiresome. But then I learned that the
screaming had a most salutary effect on my servitors. They would
remember the cries and wails far longer than any instructive lectures I
could give them. Listen, now. Hear how a man being walled up alive
reacts to his well-deserved fate.” He cocked an ear appreciatively.
Nick would have given anything to have been deaf at that moment.
The pain suddenly left his punished body and his torn face. Even the
purpose of his mission and his own hideous predicament faded. All he
could hear and feel and think was one loud scream, ripping from the
very soul of the doomed man. The awful, mad sound echoed and re-
echoed terribly through the large, high-ceilinged room.
Only the last big stone, the last high stone of the outside layer, cut
off the voice completely. It slid wetly into place like the last piece of a
puzzle, and Kwan Too was a silently screaming dead man.
The Mandarin heaved a rustling sigh of satisfaction.
“Thus it is with cowards, misguided fools, and enemies of the
people. You will be interested to know that there are one hundred
corpses in the west wall alone. The inner wall, that is. The outer wall
is very old… . But you, my friends… .” The sunken eyes stared down
at Nick and Comrade. “You, if you do not choose to talk more
sensibly, will repose in the western wall, where your bones will lie for
centuries to come. Long centuries, while Red China rules the world.”
He waited. “No comments? I think you will speak, friends. You will
tell me what government you serve, and then you will sign a paper
stating that you have come to kill the friend of the people, to
perpetrate the foulest murder …”
Nick laughed scornfully. This man should talk of murder…!
A Mongol belted him savagely across the mouth.
“Ahhhh!” The sighing sound of pleasure came from Yasunara.
“You vile animal!” snarled Comrade. “What people are you friend
of?” A ready hand smashed his face, in turn. The Russian’s lip trickled
blood, but his eyes were stony cold and calm.
“No, let him speak,” Chou Chang interrupted softly. “I deplore his
insults, but he interests me. He has, I think, I a feeling for ‘the people.’
Could he be a Russian comrade, do you think? Tell us, friend. We have
much admiration for your country.” Benign eyes sparkled in the
forgettable face. The Mandarin gazed at Comrade.
Comrade was silent.
“Speak!” The whip lashed out. Comrade rocked on his toes as the
thong curled around his chest and pulled away. “Speak!” Again, the
lash. “Speak!” The pitted skull looked murderously angry. “No? Then
do not speak!” The whip coiled around his throat and tightened.
Comrade gagged and clutched at it. His eyes bulged and his tongue
started from his head. He swayed, tearing at the thong. Four times it
had gone around his throat and lightened there. Nick leaped at him
and his lightning lingers worked feverishly at the lash. Inevitably, a
Mongol thundered after him and dragged him away, struggling.
The Mandarin’s chuckle sounded like a rat scampering into its
hole.
“Ah, loyalty! An admirable quality.”
Comrade gurgled in his throat and fell to his knees. Slowly, very
slowly, the thong uncoiled from around his agonized throat. Comrade
crouched like a supplicant in a temple. But his face was twisted with
pain and he breathed in tortured, rattling gasps.
Chou Chang clucked sympathetically.
“Perhaps it is time for the other entertainment, while the
gentlemen recover themselves.” His gentle gaze roamed around the
room and fell upon Taka.
Nick tensed. He had to find a way to help her. He had to help her.
God, how?
“Lovely little Taka,” the Mandarin rustled. “Yes, it is time for Taka.
She came back to us, unasked, and we must be suitably grateful. Do
you know these men, little Blossom of the Lotus? Look up when your
Master speaks.”
She raised her eyes and looked steadfasdy at the Mandarin.
“No, I do not know these men.”
Yasunara laughed harshly in the background.
“That is not the story Akitaro tells.”
Taka’s eyes widened.
“Yes, little Lotus Blossom,” came the mocking voice. “Did you
wonder why I had you questioned? I know you saw these men. One of
them at least, and perhaps even both of them. Tell us what you know
of them.”
“Akitaro is a liar and a failure,” Taka answered scornfully, head
high. “I told both him and Ka Tanaki that I saw the AXE man in the
bathhouse. But both failed, the fools. I have never seen these men.”
“Look closely, little Taka,” hissed the Mandarin. “Go to them, look
into their faces, tell us what you see. It is hard to recognize the
features, perhaps, through all the blood. Go to them, little Lotus
Flower, and look. Now!”
Taka moved slowly, her long, tightly-waisted gown sighing as she
walked. She stopped beside Comrade and looked down at his mottled
face. She turned and looked at Nick. Suddenly, her face twisted with
anger. She shouted to the room in general: “Why do you torment me
in this way? I have been faithful, always faithful. These are not the
men! Neither of these bleeding creatures is the man I spoke about.
Where is the little hatchet that is supposed to be upon the body? Tell
me that, my lord and master!” She paused. The room was suddenly
silent. Taka’s lovely head darted angrily.
“Akitaro!” she scoffed. “That lying fool! He knows no better. But it
is you—you—you!” She spat the words down at Comrade, up at Nick.
“If you murdering interlopers had not come to this place no one would
dream of laying hands on me. I have never seen you swine, and I wish
to Buddha I were not seeing you now!” A tiny foot lashed out and
kicked Comrade sharply.
Yasunara laughed unpleasantly. One of the Mongols allowed an
appreciative rumble to escape his throat. Comrade looked up at Taka
and swore thickly.
“And you!” She turned on Nick, her eyes flashing with a strange
light. It was love and death and pain, it was fire and resolve. “You are
another. Why have you come here to ruin me? Why? Why? Why?”
Little fists pummeled into his flat belly. Involuntarily, he clutched a
tiny hand. It opened. Something fell into his. “For you, I have to
suffer. For you, a stranger! A hated, hated stranger!” Her voice rose to
a piercing shriek. The little hands raked at his shoulder. Her face came
close to his and hissed: “For you I have to die! For you!” Her voice
dropped menacingly. Her teeth bared in a snarl. Very quietly and very
quickly, her voice dripping sheer loathing, she said something in
English. “Do not try to help me let me die I love you.” Then she sank
her teeth into his shoulder and bit hard.
Nick stared back with a gasp and clutched his shoulder with his
free hand. The other dangled loosely at his waist, still hanging there
as if to protect him from the pummeling. Taka flung herself away from
him without another look.
Chou Chang laughed melodiously. “Perhaps we have
misunderstood the little Taka,” he cooed. “Should we try the wall and
see?”
“Very well, let us do it and do it quickly,” the Mandarin snapped
rustily. “I tire of this.” He clapped sharply. Four Mongols stepped
forward and took hold of Taka. Calmly, proudly, she walked with
them to the wall. Turning, at the recess, she spoke directly to the
Mandarin.
“Buddha will witness what you do this day. For you are evil, and I
am innocent.”
“She is innocent, friends,” sang the Mandarin. “Would you have
her sealed up in the wall? Tell us who you are and from whence you
came.”
Nick looked at Taka. He felt the welcome object in his hand. He
could not let her die. Taka looked back at him. It was a piercing look
that told him volumes and yet fold him nothing.
Comrade staggered to his feet. “She is a beautiful minx,” he
rumbled, “but she is innocent. You will gain nothing by sealing her in
the wall.”
“So. You would not have her die?” The parchment voice was
amused. “Then speak now, and speak carefully.”
“We have nothing to say,” Nick answered for him. “But spare her
from the wall.” His heart ached, and he was shivering inside.
“Then speak.”
There was a deathly silence.
The Mandarin clapped again.
Taka stepped, unassisted, into the second waiting cavity.
Nick lunged forward, shouting something incomprehensible. Two
huge shapes landed on him and held him down.
He could not move. But neither could he allow himself to talk.
Voices swirled around his head. “Tell us who you are. Tell us
where you came from. Tell us who sent you. Tell us … tell us… .” And
all the while he struggled feverishly, knowing that he could not help—
or answer.
It was the same awful procedure all over again—except that Taka
was silent. The great stones rose. Cement slap-slapped. Someone sat
on his back and twisted his arms. He clenched his fist. Use it now? Get
one Mongol. Maybe two. Lose Taka anyway. He had to calculate,
when he felt least like calculating. Get the Mandarin? How many
Mongol bodyguards? Four … six … seven … eight … ten. Chou
Chang. Yasunara. Mandarin. Versus Comrade and Nick Carter. Wong
Fat. Where was he? What did it matter … it was hopeless.
And yet he struggled and swore, demanding Taka’s release, but
refusing, still, to bargain.
The wall rose higher. He saw Taka’s face above it, serene and calm.
A hand rose to her mouth.
“I die,” she said calmly. “And I die happy in my innocence.”
She swallowed and was silent.
The last pieces of the wall slid into place.
Nick put his face down on the still warm floor. It was one of the
tragic ironies of the situation that he had given Taka the one thing he
never dreamed she would use—a deadly capsule, just in case of dire
need.
Dire need. He felt like crying.
The trowel clinked one last time. And then the room was
absolutely silent.
At last, the Mandarin spoke. His tone was oddly hesitant.
“Will you speak now, enemies of Buddha, defilers of the city that
honors him?”
Silence. The Mandarin stroked his cadaverous cheek thoughtfully.
“So be it. We have more for you. The wall will wait. You will call
upon your God for mercy for what you are about to endure.”
Yasunara’s eyes lit up her ivory face.
“The Death of a Thousand Cuts,” she breathed.
The Mandarin shook his head.
“The Gloves?” Chou Chang suggested cheerfully.
“No.”
“The water torture?” whispered Yasunara hopefully.
Again, the Mandarin’s head wagged in the negative. He clapped his
hands. “Up, dogs. Stand.” The Mongols rose swiftly. Nick dragged
himself to his feet. Comrade was already up, looking at him in a
manner far more comradely than he had shown before.
Yasunara was gasping with excitement. Her hands were tightly
clenched and something very ugly shone out of her eyes.
The true darkness of her soul, thought Nick, his heart half-dead
within him.
“Oh, my Lord, my Emperor, pray tell me what you have devised to
punish them? I cannot endure the waiting!”
She was evil incarnate. But her evil passions were fired by her
more-evil master.
“For them,” the Mandarin intoned musically, “a connoisseur’s
delight.”
“The specialty of the house?” Chou Chang murmured smilingly.
The brown stumps in the death mask stood out like cannibal’s
teeth. The skull head nodded.
Yasunara’s cold eyes snapped with incredulous delight.
“Oh, most Illustrious, Inspired Master!” she cried shrilly. “At last,
the Turtles?”
“The Turtles,” the Mandarin agreed, clapping his hands sharply.
Four Mongols came forward and fastened their viselike hands on
Nick and Comrade. Two more stepped up to form the head and tail of
the procession. The others stationed themselves near the infamous
wall, as if they were an honor guard humbly standing by the dead.
Yasunara’s gay laughter spread through the room.
CHAPTER 14
THE SPECIALTY OF THE HOUSE
The great beauty of Oriental torture, from the torturer’s point of
view, is the mental anguish inflicted upon the sufferer even while his
body bears affliction. Many brave men successfully endure physical
atrocities so awful and so final that their bodies die even while their
determination to resist still burns strong. But others of the same brave
breed have been known to crack even before the pain makes inroads
on the flesh. Their spirit is broken by fear of the unknown; fear, even,
of their own capacity to be afraid. They are victims of a highly
specialized form of persuasion.
The tortures listed so enthusiastically in the Mandarin’s
“convincing room” were fair samples of the method. The Thousand
Cuts were small, superficial slits made at random all over a victim’s
body at irregular intervals. By the time the blade-expert was finished,
a great many more than one thousand cuts crisscrossed each other,
oozing little beads of blood. The performance took considerable time.
In the course of it the victim would be continually wondering when
the next stinging little cut would come, how much more painful an
increasingly raw body could get, and how long it would be before he
bled to death. The Gloves was a very simple process. It consisted of
immersing the limbs of the victim one at a time into a cauldron of
boiling water, then removing the scalding member and peeling the
skin off like gloves. Eventually, not only limbs but entire body would
be stripped of its outer surface, and then the immersions would begin
again, until the flesh started pulling away from the bones. The well-
known Water Cure, with its metronome inexorability, caused only
imagined pain and had been known to drive men mad. It was no more
than a steady, slow and gentle drip-drop of water on the sufferer’s
head while he writhed in his chains, but it was the ultimate in
bloodless, mind-destroying torment.
These were the standard elements of Chinese torture. Nick Carter
had encountered them before, but had never undergone them. The
Turtles were an innovation even to him.
The procession led through the inner door and into a nearby stone
chamber. The Mandarin led, accompanied by an amiably chatting
Chou Chang. Yasunara followed, her head obediently low but her eyes
alight. A wobbling, mumbling Wong Fat brought up the rear.
Chou Chang stepped aside at the doorway and waited for them all
to enter.
“This is the noble Mandarin’s Aquarium,” he said conversationally.
There was no furniture of any kind, no barred windows or inner
doors. It looked like the end of the line. There were familiar looking
recesses in the walls, but that was all that looked familiar. It was a
fairly large chamber, but there was room in it for hardly anything but
the enormous tank of greenish water occupying the center. Nick’s
heart shrank in his chest. He did not have to look at Comrade. He
could feel him stiffen.
The tank was thick-glassed and solid, firmly planted on four steel
uprights at the corners and braced by heavy struts. A steel ladder was
propped against the side of the tank to permit feeding and cleaning.
The ladder ended, in a platform enclosed by a thick, curving metal
wall.
Nick soon saw why. The monsters swimming about in the murky
water were horrifying. It was impossible that any turtle could be so
prodigiously big! But they were big: four of them, all as large as half-
grown crocodiles, shells as indestructible as manhole covers, great
snapping, horny jaws as formidable as the mouth of hell. Their eyes
bulged obscenely from their lumpy green heads as they waggled
around behind the glass, hungrily searching for morsels. But there
were none to be found in the cloudy, discolored water.
But surely turtles are not carnivorous. They don’t have teeth. Nick
peered into the mouth of one as it passed. Its huge, horny bill, and the
edges of its traplike beak, were curiously sharp and shiny, as though
they had been filed. Carnivorous? What if they had no choice?
The Mandarin chuckled hollowly. “They are hungry. Good.”
Yasunara looked worried. “But they will eat quickly, and it will be
over all too soon.”
“Do not be afraid, my Daughter. I am not ready for our guests to
die. They will answer my questions yet. Then they will beg me to let
them die. No, my turtles must have an appetizer first so that they may
not gorge themselves too swiftly on the main dish. Sometimes I like to
see them… toy with their food.”
“Oh, a nice touch, Excellency,” chuckled Chou Chang.
The Mandarin beckoned to one of his Mongols, who stood strung
out around the tank, staring wide-eyed at the creatures.
“Bring Wong Fat. He will serve as a preview for our tongue-tied
guests.”
Wong Fat started babbling.
Yasunara drew closer to the tank, as eagerly excited as a child at a
circus.
“Wong Fat will pay for his creeping foolishness on the roadway?”
“Exactly. Come, all of you. Chou, westerners, my slaves. Draw
nearer. You must watch. This is truly an experience. You will see what
hungry jaws and eager beaks can do to a man’s soft, vulnerable body.”
Wong Fat stood at the foot of the ladder, his immense body
quivering. His Mongol escort held one firm hand over Wong Fat’s
mouth and expertly twisted a pudgy arm behind his back. The head
was bobbing furiously, but only muffled sounds of terror and outrage
came from it.
Yasunara was drawing her nail along the heavy glass of the tank,
deliberately trying to lure and vex the beady-eyed mankiller circling
before her. The thing made a sudden pass at her behind the glass and
she drew back, startled.
“Careful!” the Mandarin called. “Do not distract my pets. It may
disturb their feeding.”
Nick and Comrade exchanged looks. What had begun as a joint
enterprise in a hotel room in Tokyo was about to end somewhere
within the walls of the Forbidden City. But Nick had two aces in the
hole. Small aces, chancy ones, but aces. He only needed opportunity.
Wong Fat suddenly pushed away the hand that clamped his mouth.
He yelled. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no!” Froth bubbled on his lips. The
scream became wordless, and he fainted.
“In with him,” the Mandarin commanded. “He will waken when he
feels the water.”
Yasunara’s mouth was parted in a smile of pure delight, but the
devil was riding her soul. Her breasts rose and fell with her rapid
breathing.
The opportunity came. Nick knew Comrade was as ready as he to
grasp it. He had been with the Russian long enough to know that here
was a man who would go down fighting without asking for quarter or
giving any.
Wong Fat’s unconscious body was a deadweight. Two of the
Mongols, brutally strong as they were, were trying unsuccessfully to
hoist the limp body up the short steel ladder. The Mandarin’s dry lips
curled.
“Weaklings! Must you have assistance?” He snapped his lingers.
Two more hastened to the ladder and heaved up from the rear. The
turtles, accustomed to the Mandarin’s peculiar feeding techniques,
were already circling in the vicinity of the ladder. All eyes were on the
frightful scene.
The Mongol closest to the churning water stood on the steel
parapet and pulled powerfully at a fat arm. The others heaved and
strained beneath him. Nick’s target was almost in the clear.
The Mandarin and Yasunara were the closest to him. Chou Chang
was stationed at the door, his mild eyes shining. Comrade stood in
front of one of the unoccupied Mongols. The other had taken up a
position between Nick and Chou Chang at the door. Both muscle-men
were watching their tough cronies perform their task.
Nick flexed his muscles and told them firmly to do his bidding. He
shot forward, left arm flying into the face of the Mongol nearest the
door and his ramrod right arm with its clenched fist bowling Yasunara
roughly to one side. Only then did he relieve his tight hold on the
thing in his hand and press a tiny trigger. A short stiletto blade shot
out of its hiding place in the grooved handle. It was Hugo, Jr., smaller
than his favorite knife and shorter-bladed, but almost as effective. It
was the second of the two small objects he had given to Taka in Room
515 of the Diplomat Hotel in Tokyo. Yasunara shrieked as her light
body, propelled by the flat hard palm, slammed against the raised
glass tank. She crumpled to the floor in a rustling heap of gauze and
beauty.
Nick jumped at the tall, gaunt figure of the Mandarin, his right
hand taut with the knife and his left striking the scrawny windpipe
with a crushing blow. The Mandarin made a strangled sound and
stepped back like a great cardboard figure flapping in the wind. But
Nick had already fastened a viselike grip on the thin wattled throat
above the orange and green robe. The whip fell to the floor.
The back of his mind told him that Comrade had let out a booming
roar of pure joy and slammed back into his guardian Mongol. The
corner of his eyes showed him four Mongols and a fainting fat man,
draped around a ladder and frozen like statues in a children’s game.
He thrust the slender knife blade once, then twice, into the skeletal
body before him. The fingers of his left hand squeezed the throat.
The figure should have swayed and fallen. But it did not.
The bony thing that called itself the Mandarin flung itself back,
twisted its dead-tree body, and rolled over on the floor. The robes
fluttered grotesquely. Nick, still gripping the thin throat, went down
with it, both dragged down by the surprising move and propelled by
his own weight. His hand slipped from its grasp and he slammed
down onto the hard stone floor. The ghastly Death’s Head leered at
him from a scant yard away. A curved Oriental dagger darted toward
him like a striking snake. He jacknifed away from it and to his feet.
Wong Fat chose that moment to come to moaning wakefulness.
The first thing he saw was a hungrily snapping turtle. The terrible
scream that left his pudgy body was an ear-splitting sound wrenched
from the depths of his soul. Then he saw, one step above him, a beefy
leg ending in a battered sandal. With strength born of desperation, he
pulled at the leg. Both he and the Mongol above him crashed down
the ladder. His huge body came down on two men beneath him with
an enormous thud. Suddenly, the group at the ladder was an
unbelievable tangle of brawny bodies and fat limbs.
Comrade jumped into the group like a bather into the surf, uttering
barks of delight.
“Look at your Master,” he bellowed. “See how he lies writhing on
the floor like a pig in a trough. See the august one, wallowing in dirt
of his own making.” Two dazed heads slammed together.
Yasunara staggered to her tiny feet.
“Chou Chang, Chou Chang!”
“Ah, yes, Chou Chang!” roared Comrade, pausing only to twist a
limb sticking up from the tangled heap. “Where is that smiling swine
with the woman’s voice?”
A steel door clanged in answer.
Only Yasunara stood between Comrade and the door. He picked
her up in his great hands and squeezed her mercilessly.
“So, little beauty, Lute Flower, Daughter of the Dragon. Daughter
of the garbage heap!”
She kicked frantically, her face an ugly mask. Then she sank her
small white teeth into the Russian’s forearm, biting deep. Comrade
howled with rage and pain. Cursing, he spun the beautiful Yasunara
around with a brutal punch at the base of her pretty chin. Her elegant
figure sprawled inelegantly on the floor and her head came to rest
against the base of the stone wall.
One of the Mongols pulled himself out of the heap of bodies
beneath the ladder and shook off his amazement at seeing his all-
powerful master rolling on the floor like Home common street fighter.
He made for Nick, bulging arms outstretched.
Comrade saw and excelled himself. He threw himself on the man’s
back, pulled him over backwards, then suddenly had him in the air.
The first man to recover himself and defy the tigers from the outside
world was borne aloft in the Russian’s mighty airplane spin, and the
walls of the chamber revolved before his eyes.
The skeletal man facing Nick Carter moved like black magic,
darting and dancing out of Nick’s urgent way, ploughing the air with
his razor-sharp dagger.
Nick had had enough. He hated long drawn-out killings.
His own lean blade whistled through the air sideways, slashing
down at that darting hand. The Death’s Head face contorted and the
yellow claw opened. The curving knife dropped to the floor. Great
bony arms snaked around him and squeezed with incredible force. But
Nick’s hands were free. He raised Hugo Jr. for the final thrust. And
dropped it. Suddenly, he had to kill this bestial unarmed man with his
bare hands.
Comrade, spinning, gave a hoarse shout of triumph. The Mongol
soared through the air and into the waiting water tank. He plummeted
like a rock into the murky depths as water geysered to the ceiling.
There was a desperate churning below, and then the man’s terrified
face came to the surface, bulging, streaming eyes seeking the ladder.
The monster turtle nearest him, goggle-eyes gleaming, flipped
forward with its great beak snapping. There was a violent threshing in
the water and the Mongol’s fear-maddened scream ended in a blub-
blub-blub of sound. Countless bubbles exploded on the surface. Red
streams of blood stained the green water, fanning out in an awful
cloud of crimson.
The Mongol who had been next in line on the ladder, heaving at
the fat man, stood rooted to the stone floor, watching with horrified,
unbelieving eyes. He didn’t even see Comrade’s huge fist crashing into
his jaw. He collapsed in a heap on Wong Fat’s cushioned body.
Comrade whirled to assist his American friend.
Nick didn’t need any help.
He was rolling in a death struggle with the Mandarin on the floor.
The elongated figure made his own superbly proportioned body look
short and overmatched, and the strength in the awful bony limbs was
unbelievable. But the Mandarin was wounded by the ice-pick blade,
and weakening. The skull face glared hideously. Then Nick’s firm
limbs scissored into place, and the punishment inflicted by his Yoga-
hardened legs turned the Mandarin’s face an even ghastlier hue.
Again, Nick put his powerful hands around the shriveled throat and
squeezed, Ignoring the clawing fingers that struck viciously at his
hands and face.
The eyes bulged up from their deep pits in the skull. A strangled
cough erupted from the leathery neck. Nick let him cough, and
squeezed, and waited. At last, he released the tension of his killing
hands. The Mandarin’s head and shoulders fell back on the stone floor,
his gaunt figure stretched out to its fullest length.
Nick rose, panting, his lithe figure a sea of perspiration. His eye
caught Hugo Jr. as he rose, and he reached for it. And just in time.
Comrade, yards away, was wrestling with a brawny, loin-clothed
figure, unable to cope with the one that crouched near him, facing
Nick with murder in his eyes. The figure sprang. Hugo Jr. flew
through the air and slammed into the flying Mongol’s chest. Nick
jumped aside. The man fell, clutching at his chest. There was a look of
surprise in his animal eyes. And then they glazed.
Moving quickly Nick retrieved the Mandarin’s discarded whip.
He looked around the room. Every living, conscious figure froze
into position. The surviving Mongols fell on their faces to the floor.
The Mandarin, Lord Emperor of the Forbidden City and moving
spirit of Red China’s CLAW, lay dead upon the floor. And a tall, well-
muscled man stood over the body, whip in hand.
Wong Fat, a trembling mass of frightened flesh, watched pop-eyed
from a recess in the chamber wall.
“He is dead, he is dead,” he mumbled like a madman. “Buddha
witness this remarkable day.”
Nick stared at the remaining Mongols. He flicked the whip across
the room over their heads.
“Get up,” he ordered. “Your Master is dead. Two of you—pick up
the body and give it to his pets, the turtles. Now!”
He cracked the whip again. Two of them rose like obedient
zombies and tramped toward the body on the floor. They lifted the
ungainly, elongated corpse. They carried it up the steel ladder. And
threw the body in.
There was a rushing in the water.
The turtles toyed hideously with their food.
Comrade clucked. “I am supposed to be the crude, cold-blooded
one. Why did you do that?”
“Because I have the awful feeling,” Nick answered, shuddering
inside, “that a man like that can come back from the dead. He looked
as though he’d died many times already.”
Comrade nodded. “I share your feeling.” Thoughtfully, he bent
over Nick’s latest victim and extracted Hugo Jr. “We must keep this
useful weapon. Taka?”
Nick grunted. He did not want to talk about her now. Later, if he
ever was alone again and living, he would allow his thoughts to
wander. But not now.
“Let’s get out of here. Chou Chang, wherever he is, will be back
with the shock troops if we don’t hurry. We’re a long way from home
yet.”
Comrade pointed the knife blade at trembling Wong Fat.
“Come out of your hole, Fat Man. We will not hurt you if you help
us. You will guide us out of here.”
Wong Fat hurried from his recess.
“Yes, yes,” he cried. “But we must hurry! The judgments of the
twelve priests with the twelve keys will be against us all if we are
caught now. Hurry, hurry …”
“Which way, you babbling fool?”
Nick let them talk. He had a fair idea of how to get out of here
because of—because he’d been given directions. And he had
something else in mind. Brandishing the whip like some cruel slave
owner, he strode amongst the Mongols and bent over two of their
dead. Silently, he stripped off the two loin cloths. They weren’t much,
but they were all that was available.
“… and then to the North Corridor. Beneath it is a subterranean
passage. It is not far, but we must hurry!” Wong Fat tried to pull his
bulk away but Comrade held him fast. “Wait, friend. I’m all for speed,
but I will not flit around the countryside so indecently exposed.” He
took the rough cloth Nick handed to him. “Someone might think to
ask impertinent questions,” he added, covering himself as adequately
as he could.
Nick hesitated briefly before deciding not to take the Mandarin’s
curved dagger. It would be of little use, and the idea of touching it
repelled him. Comrade had Hugo Jr.; Nick had the whip.
He hoisted Yasunara’s unconscious figure to his shoulder in a
fireman’s carry. Her shapely form was as light as a bag of feathers.
“Why her?” Comrade growled.
“Hostage. She may come in handy.”
“Maybe. Let’s be on our way.” He pushed Wong Fat toward the
heavy door. “Lead on, fat one. One outcry and you will never cry out
again, I promise you.”
The surviving Mongols stared into the room with sightless eyes, as
if in a state of trance. Nick took the great ornate key from the lock and
they hurried out into the corridor, not looking back at the water tank
where the four turtles, with awful thrashings, were finishing their
sudden meal in the murky depths of their loathesome home.
Nick locked the door behind them. There was no knowing how
long the Mongols would remain in their strange, trance-like state.
They weaved through the labyrinthine passages toward the North
Corridor and the subterranean passage. Once Wong Fat hesitated,
undecided. Nick consulted his mental map, made the decision for
them, and they hurried on.
Somewhere in the intestines of the City gongs began to clang.
Wong Fat called on Buddha to preserve him. Comrade prodded
him on. Nick strode on in silence, wondering what Chou Chang, that
evil smiler, had in store for them and where he was.
Lord, how he missed the comforting warmth of his faithful
Wilhelmina.
CHAPTER 15
SKY ABOVE AND THE SNAKES BELOW
Wong Fat led on.
The passageway, more of a tunnel than anything else, was long,
dark and winding. Traveling its length would have been impossible
save for the flaming torches mounted in niches along the wall every
ten yards or so. But even the heat of die torches could not dispel the
darkness of moss-covered walls.
“A river,” rumbled Comrade, his voice echoing. “There must be
water of some sort nearby.”
Nick agreed. “A river, all right. I believe there is supposed to be
some kind of underground loading area down here. Remember? It fits
with the map. And an exit right out to the river.”
And yet they could hear no rush of water, or anything but Wong
Fat’s urgent wheezing and the hollow thump of their footfalls on the
damp stone.
The passageway seemed to corkscrew into a maze of turns and
bends, here climbing, there dipping sharply into nowhere. Nick
tightened his hold on Yasunara and walked with light, almost running
steps. Comrade must have slugged her very hard indeed to keep her
out cold this long. But she was breathing regularly, though shallowly.
Nick controlled his own breathing carefully. The rough stones began
to make themselves felt beneath his blistered feet. Wong Fat wheezed
to a stop. Comrade shoved him unmercifully, urging him on.
“Illustrious One, mercy. I am tired, my breath is gone…”
“You’ll be gone altogether if we get caught,” Comrade reminded
him. “The turtles still await you.” Wong Fat gasped and stumbled on.
Suddenly, up ahead, the tunnel forked. One passage went left,
another right. Wong Fat paused, obviously confused.
“Which way?” Comrade barked.
“A moment. I must think …”
“Think correctly,” the Russian hissed. “It would be too bad if we
happened to ran into a search party.” He placed the sharp tip of Hugo
Jr. in the small of Wong Fat’s back. “Choose. And choose wisely, my
fat friend.”
Wong Fat’s chins bobbled. “I think it must be …”
“To the right,” Nick cut in. “It must be to the right if It’s the river
exit. The other goes back to center City.”
Wong Fat nodded, pointing a tremulous finger to the right.
“Yes, that is correct. This way. Yes, I am sure of it. There is an exit
coming out almost on the banks of the waters.”
They hurried along with him. Nick felt Yasunara stirring. He
increased the pressure of his hold on her. She was so much heavier
than little Taka would have been
The passageway narrowed even more. The moss of the stone walls
increased in abundance. A flambeau burned brightly just ahead,
bigger than the others and emitting a more brilliant glow than any of
the others. The flame flickered in the passage, casting grotesque
shadows on the wall. Air.
Cool breezes fanned toward them, indicating the proximity of a
passage to the outside world. Nick’s heart soared. No sign of pursuit—
and a hope of freedom before them. Though his spirits rose, he was
suddenly very weary. Cold, hungry, tired, aching in every limb and
burning on almost every surface. The strain of the last few hours had
caught up with him with alarming abruptness. Nick knew the limits of
his own body. They were vastly broader than that of most men, but
they did exist. He had just about reached them. He could not vouch
for Comrade, but he was certain the Russian was feeling much the
same way. Nick held back a yawn, outward symbol of nerves too
finely strung. The soldier in a combat zone has the same reaction,
after hours of tension and the threat of death, although he knows he
could not possibly sleep even if he had the chance.
Nick could only pray that if he had to make one final effort he
would find the strength within him.
Wong Fat sagged at the end of the corridor, his bulk falling against
the mossy stones bordering a massive square door set firmly in the
wall. “Here,” he wheezed. “It is here. A cavern, long and dark. And at
the end of it another short passage leading upward once again toward
the river.”
Comrade grunted and thrust him aside. He tugged at the door with
both hands.
“Oh, please,” Wong Fat whimpered. “I am old and fat and very
tired, but I beg you in the name of heaven —take me with you.”
“We’re not out yet ourselves,” Comrade said irritably. “How does
this godforsaken stable door come open?”
There were no knobs or handles of any kind.
“Push the rock, not the door,” Nick remembered out loud. “See
that projection to the left of your hand? Left hand. That’s it.”
A portion of the rock moved slowly aside, away from the oak-and-
iron door. Then it stopped, leaving a bare two-inch aperture. Comrade
forced his blunt fingers into this small space between barrier and wall,
and tugged. The door groaned inward.
Cool air rushed to meet them. Cool refreshing wind and the
absolute darkness of night. No, not quite absolute. Somewhere up
ahead—it was impossible to judge distance or perspective—was a
suggestion of the dimmest of dim lights. From not very far away they
could hear the running whisper of the river.
“Go ahead,” Comrade pushed Wong Fat. “You first.”
Wong Fat caught his breath, nodded quickly, and stepped through
the portal. The light of the last flambeau caught the buttery smile that
creased his face. He really thought he had it made. Comrade followed
on his heels and stepped aside for Nick to join them. Nick maneuvered
himself and Yasunara through the doorway and Comrade firmly
pulled the door shut behind them.
Night closed over the scene.
“Too bad we couldn’t have taken one of those torches,” Comrade
whispered. “But I do not care to be too obvious a target.”
Now there was no narrow, confining passage, nor yet the freedom
of the open night. The cool air had a musty, underground smell, and
the walls flanking the heavy door were damp and stalagmitic to the
touch.
Nick took the lead, his eyes trained on that softening of the
darkness up ahead.
But they had gone no more than a few yards when daylight bit into
the night—the false daylight of dazzling, blinding floodlights aimed
from different angles and levels to completely inundate the area with
a wash of revelatory light. The night came alive with startling
suddenness, and the four of them—three on the run and one a hostage
—were trapped like so many flies in a spray-burst of insecticide.
“Do not fire,” Chou Chang’s gently reasonable voice called. “You
will hit the Daughter of the Dragon.”
Wong Fat moaned bitterly.
Nick and Comrade blinked their weary eyelids against the bitter
assault of the new light, feeling the intense heat of the high-powered
floodlamps beating down on them and sapping their resistance. Defeat
had a foul, sour taste after freedom had seemed so close at hand. It
was painfully easy to see what had happened. Chou Chang had known
they would have to come this way; apart from the heavily guarded
front entrance, it was the only way out of the City. He had gambled on
them being able to find it, and his gamble had paid off. So he had lain
in readiness for them, no doubt with a bunch of hidden armed men
and enough lighting for the gaudiest Hollywood premiere. Nick felt a
weight at the pit of his stomach. Hopelessness flooded him. Yasunara
became unbearably heavy.
Comrade turned and tore futilely at the heavy door, knowing it
was hopeless. There was no escape in that direction.
“Dead ducks, Stewart,” he said dourly. “Shall we run for it?”
“No, wait,” Nick murmured. “Dead ducks is probably right, but if
we’re going to die let’s take that slimy bastard Chou Chang with us.
Wherever the hell he is.”
As if in answer, Chou Chang’s sympathetic, cultured tones floated
down from some hidden height above the light-splashed, slippery
ground.
“Honored visitors, a few facts. If you will play the game, then you
must know the possible moves and the composition of the board. Six
.50-caliber machine guns are trained on you as of now. A low-
ceilinged underground cavern lies before you, approximately one
hundred yards in length. At the far end of it is an upward sloping
tunnel, and beyond that, the cold night air and the comparative safety
of the tall trees. I am telling you all this in case you decide to run for
it. The chances are you will be cut to ribbons before you can advance
a yard. On the other hand, if you remain where you are the
Guardsmen will come to take you. We can kill you now as you stand
there, I assure you, but we would rather wait. Anticipation so
improves the experience, when at last it comes. It will be something
magnificent. The slayers of his most august, most revered holiness, the
Lord Emperor, our god the Mandarin, well deserve to suffer the
thousand and one deaths for their foul deed. But perhaps the lovelies
of the departed Mandarin’s harem will persuade the Mandarin’s
successor—my humble, insignificant self—to permit you to sample
once again the pleasures of the flesh. Perhaps they will even want you
to live … today, tomorrow, next week, possibly for many months.
Who knows? It is all a game of chance. And the choice is yours.”
There was no choice at all.
Wong Fat knew that better than anyone. Pushed far beyond the
pale of reason by that mocking voice, by his fear, by his memory of
the monster turtles in the murky tank, he lost his head and ran. With a
gurgling, half-human cry, he broke for the far end of the tunnel in
headlong, stumbling flight.
“Come back, you fool!” Nick shouted. But the words had hardly
left his lips when the dank, hollow atmosphere came apart with a
pounding fusillade from a brace of .50-caliber machine guns. It was
horrible yet fascinating to watch. Lead whined, chewed and thumped.
It came from nowhere, and it reached Wong Fat as if he were a
magnet. It was as if some unseen giant hand had clapped down from
the heavens to buffet him mercilessly.
His fat body was lifted off its feet, slammed down and picked up
again in a blazing crossfire which riddled him and the ground around
him. He didn’t have a chance, not even time to scream. His fat man’s
bloody body jerked in death as a hail of bullets ripped angrily into
him and went on ripping, shredding him to shapeless pieces. Nick
sucked in his breath and turned his head away.
The firing ceased. Echoes of sound slammed back and forth against
the unseen cavern walls beyond the brilliant light. Comrade was
cursing fluently. Yasunara stirred and struggled awake. Nick set her
down on the ground in front of him, found a sensitive nerve, and
squeezed. She slumped again.
“Here, Comrade. Take her other arm and hold her close as you
can.”
“Disgusting,” grumbled Comrade, but did as he was bade.
“I know,” Nick agreed. “But we might as well make some use of
Lute Flower.”
“Enjoy the exhibition, friends?” Chou Chang’s voice floated down
to them. They ignored the question.
“Where does that voice come from, do you reckon?”
“Over near that so-called exit, which incidentally I can no longer
see.”
“Neither can I. But we know approximately where it is. Let’s head
for it. Come on, grab your piece of Devil’s Daughter.”
They walked on slowly, cautiously, underneath the glaring lights,
holding the limp body of the Lute Flower between them.
“Remain where you are!” the voice called again. “Release the
Daughter of the Dragon immediately. You cannot cover both your
bodies with her, from all sides at once—as my guns can cover you.”
Obviously. They realized this. But she was something. Almost all
they had.
“Comrade.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think this is going to work. Let’s try something else with
her. Like killing her.”
Comrade stared. “Then we have absolutely nothing, except a small
knife and a whip. At least one of us has a chance to get out of here by
using her a shield. And that one should be you, since you …”
“No. I don’t want to just get out. I want Chou. In his own crawling,
stinking way, he’s every bit as dangerous as the Mandarin. Let’s see if
we can draw him out. And go down fighting, not in some damn
torture chamber or running like scared rats.”
“Well said, my friend!” Comrade nodded at him approvingly. “I
leave the bargaining to you.”
“Okay, here goes. And don’t forget to hold your breath and try to
make a dash for it if I get a chance to yell out ‘hold it.’ “
“Wha … ? Oh, yes!” Comrade remembered.
Yasunara stirred again and shook her head groggily. This time,
Nick let her come to, but tightened his hold on her cruelly.
“Comrade—her throat.”
Comrade obliged. His great hands tightened on her pretty neck.
Yasunara blinked in the blinding lights and swallowed painfully.
And then she realized what was happening. Her lips curled in
mockery.
“So,” she breathed. “You pigs will die.”
“You die with us,” said Nick calmly. “Now be quiet. We have
business to attend to. You, Chou Chang!” his voice rang through the
echoing cavern. “Show yourself. We will bargain with you.”
Chou Chang’s friendly laughter rolled back to them.
“What is there for you to bargain about? Perhaps you now intend
to tell me who employs you? No, my friends. Whatever you try to tell
me now, at this late stage, I will not believe. I know the lies of
desperation. And I also know that you will never tell the truth. No,
your only choice: Stay where you are and hope, or run for it. And
pray.”
“Then you do not care what happens to Yasunara?” Nick called
back resoundingly. “It is nothing to you if she dies? I am sure it is a
matter of great concern to her.” Yasunara squirmed and cursed. “Show
yourself, and close enough so that we can talk like reasonable men.
Otherwise her neck is broken.” He waited for a moment. “We do not
bluff, Chou Chang. We have every cause to loathe this woman and
want her dead. A moment’s delay from you, and she starts slowly
strangling.”
Comrade applied pressure. Yasunara screamed like a guilt-ridden
soul in hell.
A low, strange murmur rose from the shadows, like the chorus of
other souls enduring her torment.
“Out, Chou Chang! If she dies, it is you and you alone who’ll be
responsible. Come out now, or we kill her now.” He paused again. The
puzzling murmur became a low rumble of deeply chanting voices.
“One more chance, you creeping coward. I offer you the choice you
offered us: we stay where we are and strangle her, or we run for it
with her between us. If you cut us down with gunfire, you cut her
down too! All you have to do is show your face to save her.”
Damn the bastard! Was he really here, or was he just a voice
hiding somewhere behind a microphone? “All right! We kill!”
A voice like a priest at mass came out of the darkness.
“Show yourself, poor successor to the Mandarin. If harm comes to
the Flower of Heaven, you yourself will die! In the name of Buddha,
come forth! As we ourselves will do.”
Chou Chang stepped out of the shadows at the far end of the
cavern and walked slowly toward them across the damply oozing
floor. His eyes glittered in the unnatural light, and the thing he
pointed at them was a .45.
Comrade gave a gasp of triumph and he released his stranglehold
on Yasunara. His arm drew back and Hugo Jr. flew through the air
like an arrow from a bow. Chou Chang saw it coming and his
nondescript face mirrored his sudden fear. At the last second he
twisted his body and dropped to his knees. But not soon enough to
save him completely. The knife blow struck him high in the right side,
just short of his protecting arm. He screamed, and tore the knife from
him.
Nick, off-balance, felt Yasunara squirm within his clutching arm.
Suddenly, a curved dagger similar to the Mandarin’s, emerged from a
fold of her flowing garment and she struck at Nick’s forearm. As she
turned on him to strike again he slammed a blow into her temple and
she fell.
Almost simultaneously, several things happened. Comrade received
a knife thrust in the ankle from a Yasunara much less dazed than
either Nick or Comrade had thought possible. Twelve figures, robed
and cowled, emerged from the shadows into the lights, and the lamps
dimmed subtly to a softer brilliance. Yasunara picked herself up and
ran to them, hands outstretched. The strange robed men—perhaps the
same as those they had seen at the City gates—were of even height
and similar characteristics. Faces were smooth, heads bald and
shining, and large, dangling keys marked the front of each flowing
gown. Nick wondered wildly if these were men of CLAW, or possibly
true believers who unwittingly served the Mandarin’s cause. Whatever
they were, they ringed themselves protectively about Yasunara and
made no move toward Comrade and Nick. Their right arms raised in a
benediction of some kind and she bowed before them, her elegant
disheveled figure strangely humbled.
Nick dropped to his knees and tore the stained bandage off his
toes. An elongated capsule—much thinner but much longer than its
rotund cousin Gas Pellet Pierre —fell into his hand. And then the
Guardsmen were upon them. They trooped forward on the half-run
and surrounded the two agents. Each bore rifles, and each was leveled
at Comrade and Nick Carter.
Chou Chang’s voice, much less pleasant and controlled, bounced
off the dripping walls.
“Quickly, executioners. In line to deal with them.”
The fingers of Nick’s left hand worked frantically at the small
capsule. Hell’s bells, something was stuck. Sweat and dust, maybe, had
jammed the tiny mechanism.
Comrade looked at Carter.
Nick Carter looked at Comrade.
“Stewart,” rumbled Comrade.
“Yes?”
“I know that now we die. I want you to know that I am X-17, once
your sworn enemy. But not now. You are a worthy man. We will not
have a chance to talk again. So you must understand what I am
saying.”
“I do, my friend. And thanks. It has been an honor to work with
you.”
Comrade smiled. His face looked almost happy.
Yasunara, within her protective group, drew her proud figure
erect. She stared scornfully at them both.
“Do the tigers now start weeping like puny lambs? Are you women
that you must pay fancy compliment to one another? You disgust me.”
“As you disgust us, my fine pigeon. You go jump into hell and
sleep with the devils. You will be fitting company for each other.”
But the time for talk was past.
The Guardsmen raised their rifles.
“Adieu, Stewart,” Comrade whispered.
“One last try,” said Nick. “We’ll take a couple with us, and ride
them down to hell.”
Comrade threw back his head and laughed.
“May we work as well together there.”
The four pairs of eyes before them were flat and menacing.
The cousin of Pierre was stiff and stubborn. But the Mandarin’s
whip was still clutched in Nick’s right hand.
And the hot lights beat down upon them.
CHAPTER 16
FAREWELL, GOOD FRIEND
Chou Chang, behind the line of Guardsmen, clutched his painful
side and opened his bland mouth to issue a command.
It never came.
The whip lashed out like a striking cobra and wound itself around
the Guardsman on the end of the line nearest Nick. He reeled the
fellow in and tore the rifle from his senseless fingers. Comrade had
uttered a warlike cry of triumph and swung into lightning-swift
action. Rotating like a top, he thudded his huge right hand into the
face of one of the squad and plucked the rifle from him. Two other
rifles spat uselessly; their target wasn’t there. Two rifle butts swung in
unison; two Guardsmen toppled as the heavy stocks crashed into their
faces. The whole play took little more than seconds. But the important
move was still at hand. The unseen .50 calibers were the biggest
threat to life.
Yasunara and her twelve high priests stood stony still, frozen into
immobility. Chou Chang screamed his rage and fired off his .45. But
Nick and Comrade, acting as a perfect team, were both flat on the
damp stone and firing rapidly at the lights. Their shots merged in a
volume of fast fire, and one of the huge lights winked out with a crash
of falling glass. A perimeter of darkness fell over one section of the
cavern.
The shot was Nick’s. Hard on the dimout, Comrade’s rifle found a
glaring lamp on the left and dealt with it. The dimout thickened.
Yasunara and her priests began to run—a mass of robed, twisting
figures. One, perhaps more, of the .50 calibers spat death into the
cavern. But not at the running, sliding, dodging figures of Nick Carter
and his Russian comrade.
“Hold your fire!” screamed Chou Chang, his bland urbanity
completely shattered. “Wait until the Daughter of the Dragon has left
the cavern!”
Nick pumped three rapid shots in the direction of Chou Chang’s
anguished voice. Gratifyingly, he heard a startled yell. Chou dropped
to his knees and fired back. A bright streak of something wet and
shiny adorned the lapel of his unobtrusive suit. Nick ducked and ran.
Cousin of Pierre, you crummy little bastard, open up and do your
work!
Comrade, whirling like a dervish, slowed momentarily and fired
quickly into the mass of robed figures heading briskly for the unseen
exit. A priest screamed and fell. Another wailed, clutched his gut, and
staggered. Comrade roared with joy. Nick turned and sprinted toward
the river exit, where the friendly darkness revealed a semi-circle of
dim light. Yasunara. He wanted Yasunara before she fled. He had to
see her dead.
Chou Chang was still uttering strangled cries in the background
when Nick spied her filmy figure and leaped. His flying tackle brought
her down with a thud. But as they landed on the cold, damp stone,
two of her priests halted in their tracks and closed in on him, their
arms windmilling and their robed legs kicking. Nick held Yasunara
fast with a foot in the small of her back and flailed out with the rifle
butt. He caught one priest full across the mouth. Bone crunched; blood
and spittle flew. He swung the ugly muzzle and cracked another priest
over the bald skull. From the corner of his eye he saw Chou Chang
slumping to the floor, the .45 dropping from his fingers. Comrade
jumped blithely over the prone figure of a Guardsman and headed for
the knot of priests surrounding Nick. A roving spotlight picked up his
tall figure. Nick swung the rifle sights to his eye and fired once. The
light went out with a discouraged shatter.
Yasunara twisted free beneath Nick’s sole and sprang erect.
Comrade reached for her but she darted to one side, robes fluttering.
From a great distance, Nick heard a strangled order coming from Chou
Chang. Great gongs sounded an alarm. Unnoticed in the uproar of
sound and the commotion of fleeing priests, the knife blade gleamed
suddenly in Yasunara’s hand.
Comrade grabbed her.
Nick saw Comrade take the tall, regal body in a deathly bearhug.
He saw Chou Chang struggle to his knees and snarl out a command.
He saw the passage door opening, and he saw a confusion of figures
coming through the door. He dropped the empty rifle and wrestled
with the cousin of Pierre. At last, the tiny mechanism clicked. He tore
off the protective cap and shouted: “Comrade! Hold it!” and he drew a
deep, full breath of the cool, air and closed off his well-trained lungs.
The cousin of Pierre the Pellet flew into the heart of the great
cavern.
But Comrade could not run.
Yasunara came quickly to him, ducking under his great bearhug
and following the knife-blade home with all her force. Comrade
shrieked in agony. Nick sprang to help and ran headlong into a robed
figure. It clutched at him with an oddly ineffectual hold, but it was
enough to stall him.
Yasunara and the Russian stood locked together like a pair of ill-
assorted lovers. The Daughter of the Dragon, squeezed against the big
muscular body, thrust the dagger home repeatedly. Comrade sighed
mightily and locked his big hands about the fragile column of throat.
“Goodbye, Devil’s Daughter,” he said in a strangely quiet voice.
Yasunara’s smile of triumph twisted suddenly into a grimace of
horror. A squeal of terror gurgled in her throat as she tried to pull
herself away. But the Russian’s hands tightened over her windpipe
even as his life’s blood coursed down his lacerated chest. He bent
forward, looming over her and arching her backwards toward the
stony ground. He went down with her, still clutching her in deadly
embrace. Her knife was in his chest; his hands were clamped about
her neck.
Nick tore himself free from the robed figure and threw himself on
Comrade, trying to force open the hands clamped on Yasunara’s
throat. He had not seen how many times the knife had hit its target.
His only thought was to drag Comrade out of here.
“Comrade! Comrade!” he yelled urgently into deaf and dying ears,
knowing as he did so that deadly gas was permeating the damp, musty
air of the underground cavern. But it was useless. Comrade was past
all reason. The Daughter of the Dragon would die with him.
There was a sudden sharp crack and Comrade, at last, released her.
She slid to the ground, limbs lax, her neck a broken hinge from which
dangled the lovely head that would no longer plot with the Red
Chinese or dazzle with its lying beauty. Comrade looked up at Nick
and slid slowly to the ground, a tall tree yielding to the inevitable.
“Comrade,” Nick murmured, dropping to his knees, at last seeing
the awful bleeding wounds on Comrade’s chest.
“Stewart … you did well. My thanks. Goodbye … my … honored
… friend.”
That was all. Comrade closed his eyes and was silent. Nick took the
dead right hand in his and held it briefly. Then he got up and ran.
He dived headlong and almost blindly toward the suggestion of
natural light at the end of the cavern. Behind him, one of the machine
guns rattled briefly and then fell silent. A robed priest fell as he ran
past, clutching a cowled throat and gasping frantically for air. Nick’s
own throat felt harsh and raw and his heart was pounding heavily. He
ran on. No time to bury the dead, no time to mourn for an opposite
number, no time to count the casualties.
Feet stumbled along behind him. And then stopped. An uneven
chorus of strangled cries came from deep within the cavern. Then they
stopped, too.
No time even to think of what might lie ahead.
There was only flight and the tearing torture of his lungs and the
shape of another tunnel ahead.
He found the entrance to the conduit and started struggling
upward to a glimmering star.
And then, at last, he stood just inside the mouth and looked out
through a tangle of bushes at a moonless, star-sprinkled night. He
opened his mouth and sucked the fresh air into his tormented lungs.
A dark figure in the rough garb of a Guardsman walked slowly past
the dark mouth of the tunnel carrying a carbine. Nick peered out
cautiously, scanned the night for more of them, then ducked back
quickly as the man turned back and passed him once again. Nick
waited for a few seconds before easing himself past the covering
bushes. He picked his way softly over the damp earth, coiled his
muscles, and sprang. There was a grunt, a thud, and that was all. Nick
hastily dragged the body into a clump of skeletal trees and stripped it,
thinking how strange it was that he should be climbing back into the
familiar tunic after so much had happened in so short a time. The
coarse fabric rubbed against his lacerated flesh, but its warmth was a
welcome weapon against the biting chill. The fact of wearing it was
comforting after the hours of nakedness. He helped himself to the
carbine, and felt even better.
He stood for moments beneath the protection of the trees, staring
into the night for signs of other Guardsmen or any sort of alarm.
Nothing stirred. There was nothing to be seen and nothing to be
heard, except the gentle lapping of water somewhere near at hand.
It was time to go wherever he was going.
He stole away from the concealing trees and made swiftly for the
river, guided by his nostrils and the lapping sound. Subconsciously he
hoped that he would find a boat to hijack. But there was nothing on
the river. He decided to head downstream where he might spot some
craft along the way and buy himself a ride with the carbine. In any
case, he could swim, or use the river as a temporary hiding place.
His eyes scanning the night like a searchlight, he walked lightly
and quickly along the riverbank. As the moments passed and there
was no sign of pursuit or anything inimical ahead, he allowed his pace
to quicken into a run.
Then he rounded a bend and saw a dim shape on the river. Some
kind of launch, riding without its lights on.
It was then, too, that his ears told him an impossible thing.
Someone was whistling. And the tune was anything but Chinese.
As he listened, his incredulous mind put words to the time and
played them back to him:
Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks
Ta-rum-ta-rum when she was done
She gave her father forty-one.
At first his answering whistle would not come through his dry lips.
But when it did, it brought a swift reaction. A blob of a figure leaned
out of the launch and a low voice whispered a question in rapid
Chinese.
“Are you the man who chops down cherry trees?”
“I am,” he answered. “But I have finished chopping for the day.”
“You must be tired, then,” the voice came back. “Come aboard and
rest. A good chopper is always hard to find. We are glad to have found
you.”
He edged forward cautiously, carbine raised.
“Who are you? Are you alone?”
“Original Dragon Lady. No cheap imitation—the real thing. No, I
am not alone. I have company with big muscles and big guns. Hurry,
please. It’s getting goddamn cold on this lousy river.”
His heart soared and he hastened to the boat. By God, his own
Dragon Lady! Large as life and as sassy as ever.
The launch poled over to the bank and a slight figure stretched out
an arm to help him. At least, it was slight compared with the two
muscular boatmen whose Oriental faces flashed American grins of
welcome.
Nick clambered aboard.
“Julie! Is it really you?”
She looked like anything but the glamorous Julie Baron of the
plane-and-bomb affair in her shapeless peasant dress and flat straw
hat. But her cat’s eyes gleamed with the same old light, and she put
her cop-pertoned hands lightly on his shoulders and she kissed him.
“It really is, and you look like hell. But oh, my God, I’m glad to see
you.” Her voice shook slightly. “Come on, sit down. We’ve fixed up a
sort of bed for you.”
The launch was pulling away from the bank and heading slowly
and very quietly downstream.
He put his aching body down on a pile of pillows and blankets.
Julie took his hand and looked into his eyes.
“Your poor face,” she said softly. “How about the rest of you?”
“Doesn’t matter any more,” he answered lightly. “Julie, baby,
you’re a witch, a wizard, a maker of miracles, an angel in disguise.
What brought you here? How did you know where to find me?”
“There wasn’t much choice,” Julie said soberly. “Judging by your
report, you’d have to land up here if you got out at all. And, honey, I
didn’t think you would. How about CLAW? Did you make it?”
He nodded. “The three big ones and God knows how many thugs.”
A small frown pinched his forehead as he thought of Comrade.
Julie seemed to read his thoughts, because she said: “What about
the Russian?”
Nick raised his hands, palms up, in a gesture of empty finality.
“I liked him,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Now how
do we get home from here?”
She laughed quietly and lightly touched his clawed face with
gentle fingers. “Don’t you worry about that. Leave it to the boys.
You’ve done your share. Now let’s doctor you, sweetheart—starting
with your handsome, horrible face.”
“Never mind my face,” Nick protested. “How about some food? I’m
starving.”
“You’re always starving! And I knew you would be. How would
you like to warm up first with some Irish coffee?”
“That would be lovely. And you’re lovely, Julie. Let’s warm up
together. You’re beautiful!”
“You used to be, too.” Julie smiled down at him. “But right now
you need beauty sleep more than anything.”
“Ah! Julie, I love you. Come here …”
She gave herself to his arms. All of his pent-up hunger released
itself to her. She responded with her own wanting. Their kiss flamed
them both.
“We’re not alone, Nick. And you’re going to rest. I won’t want you
any less tomorrow … or the day after.” She rose to get the coffee, her
eyes bright with emotion.
He drank the brew readily. As its gentle glow spread through him
his body gave way to fatigue. His head grew heavy and his eyelids
drooped. As in a dream he heard the motor pick up pace and steady
into a rapid rythm. Jumbled thoughts danced in his weary mind. Taka
… cobra … Comrade … CLAW. The pulsing of the launch. His
weapons gone. Julie’s soft hand doing something soothing to his face.
A blanket being pulled over him. Judas a sinister figure luring in the
background, still alive to spread his poison.
But the Mandarin was dead, his evil machinations over. For the
time being, at least, an end to threats of war. Someday, too, there
would be an end to Judas. And he could always find another
Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre.
A loving kiss touched lightly on his lips.
He slept.
0 comments:
Posting Komentar