by Nick Carter
Annotation
Axe's man in Rio wasn't there anymore. In fact, the whole intelligence apparatus that had been built with such care and operated with such cunning had just winked out like a series of shorted TV tubes. National security, violence and a mysterious woman… The assignment had to be Nick Carter.
* * *
Nick Carter
Assignment: Rio
City of the Missing
Opening Gambit
Mrs. Carla Langley
The Enquiring Reporter
Hugo Asks the Questions
A Siege, a Chase, and a Golden Key
Disappearance of a Snoop
The Man with the Black Armband
Night Life of a Spy
Encounter at the Club
Will You Walk into My Parlor
The Wayward Widower
The Venus Spy Trap
Music to Die By
And the Little Old Lady Screamed
* * *
Nick Carter
Killmaster
Checkmate in Rio
Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America
OCR Mysuli: [email protected]
Assignment: Rio
"And that makes six. Six little pockets of nothing."
The cold wind of a Washington January howled around the building on Dupont Circle and insinuated itself into the sixth floor offices of the Amalgamated Press and Wire Service. The leathery old man with the rustic appearance and gimlet eyes kept his eyes riveted to the pin-studded map.
Nick Carter's eyes wandered from the map to a pair of legs. They were nylon-clad, gracefully crossed, and almost unbelievably shapely. Hawk's office did not usually come equipped with such attractions. As a rule it was equipped only with Hawk, ordinary office furniture, and less ordinary communications devices. Nick's gaze traveled up to the knees. Nice. Gently rounded, but not by any means plump. Firm thighs, almost like a dancer's. A provocative curve of hip. A tightly belted waist that somehow managed to avoid that manacled look. A more than interesting swell of generous, well-contained femininity; twin mounds of pleasure, softly alluring. Or were they so soft? There was a determined thrust to them.
Nick jerked his eyes and his mind back to the map.
"One by one, they've turned off like radios," the head of AXE was saying. "And that leaves us with nothing from Rio — but silence. Look."
Hawk's two listeners looked. Not covertly at each other, as they had been, but at Hawk and the wall map beside him. It looked strangely blemished, with its cheerful red studs splashed east to west, north to south, and only an occasional black-headed pin to mark some point of mystery or disaster in Asia or Africa… and a cluster of six black pins on the coast of Brazil.
"Five million people in Rio de Janeiro," said Hawk. "Six of them — until recently — working for U.S. Intelligence. All of them reporting regularly, thoroughly, and to good purpose. And then, one after the other, they stopped."
Hawk glared at Nick, as if holding him personally responsible. Nick was used to this look. It was as much a part of Hawk as the malodorous cigars and the pedantic manner he assumed when introducing the latest weapon in the well-equipped spy's arsenal.
Nick's dark eyebrows drew together thoughtfully.
"Was there anything particularly significant in any of their recent reports?"
Hawk shook his head. "I wouldn't say so. They're hero — and you can take a look at them along with the dossiers — but they don't seem to me to be any more than routine. Brazil's never been one of our major trouble spots. Only reason that CIA's had that many agents in Rio is the size of the country, the population. Big city, big country, good friends of ours. A plum for the Reds, if they could pick it. And of course the government's not notoriously stable. No, the reports have been fairly standard." His long, springy stride took him to his desk. He opened a side drawer and took out a cigar. Nick sucked in a preparatory lungful of fresh air.
"Essentially," Hawk went on, "they've dealt with personalities, political leanings, promotions and power struggles — the usual sort of thing. The only off-beat item was a report of gun-running. Two of the agents mentioned this. Miguel de Freitas and Maria Cabral. I don't have to give you a geography lesson to point out how ideally situated Brazil is for something like that. Long coast line, immensely busy port with all manner of goods flowing in and out, and land borders on ten countries. And elements in some of those countries itching for arms, for one reason or another. But you'll see by the reports that no one had what you might call a hot lead. No names, places, dates, quantities. Little more than rumors. Mentioned only because a good agent mentions everything." He puffed.
Pungent smoke curled around Hawk's head. The girl's nostrils twitched delicately. Nick caught her eye, grinned, and saw the ghost of an answering smile. He wondered why Hawk had included her in this meeting. The head of AXE, a lifelong bachelor, had never fully accepted woman's role in anything but the home. But when he was obliged to use women agents, he used them with the courteous manner of a true gentleman and the conscience of a con man.
"Now. You'll be wondering why I asked the two of you to come here. The answer is that you'll be working together. Working. Together." Hawk eyed Nick accusingly. Nick preferred to work alone, to call his own shots. But he did — oh, how he did! — enjoy feminine companionship.
"Working, of course," agreed Nick. "But working how?"
"CIA's asked for a trouble-shooter," said Hawk. "Before they send down any more of their own people, they want to know what's going on down there. They can't take a chance on official enquiries, so we're it. Specifically, you're it. You'll have to find out what's happened to those silent agents, why it happened, who made it happen. These, you understand, were six people who ostensibly didn't know each other. Why do they all stop reporting within a few days of each other? Who discovered that there was a link between six people, named Cabral, de Freitas, Langley, Brenha, de Santos, and Appelbaum?"
"Appelbaum?" Nick murmured his surprise. Hawk ignored him.
"And what did he do about his discovery? Are all these people dead, kidnapped, or are they — or what are they? You two are going down to Rio to find out. You, Carter, are going to have to assume a role that I'm sure will delight you. Unfortunately I am not well enough acquainted with Miss Adler to predict what her reactions might be." He smiled a trifle coldly at the second of his two visitors. "Nevertheless I'm quite sure you'll find her cooperative."
Rosalind Adler smiled back warmly. She liked this stringy, tough old man, no matter what he thought of women. And she also liked the looks of Carter. Tall, hard-jawed, steely-eyed, almost vibrating with controlled energy; laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, thick, slightly unruly dark hair; an almost perfect profile; broad shoulders, and a sinewy, tapering body.
"You can count on me," she said.
"I should hope so," Hawk said shortly. "Here's your new passport, Carter, and a brief background just to begin with. Yours, Miss Adler. Details will follow, and of course you'll have to consult with Editing before you go. Your history, you can leave to us. But you'll have to develop your own plans, based on that outline."
Rosalind, eyes wide with interest, was already scanning Hawk's brief. Nick skimmed through his copy, and whistled.
"You don't mean to tell me that for once I'm going to have an unlimited expense account? What is AXE coming to?"
"Bankruptcy," Hawk answered drily, "if you overplay your hand. I expect you to get the job done as quickly as possible. But it's going to be necessary for you to have access to the underworld as well as high society, and I can't think of a better way. I wish I could."
"I'm sure you do," Nick said sympathetically. "Uh… Miss Adler, though. Don't think for a m
oment that I'm objecting to her company — I'm looking forward to working with her. But it isn't like AXE to send women out on jobs like this."
It was true that the very few and very special women who belonged to AXE usually worked quietly in the background — in the home, so to speak — contributing their talents without the reward of the frequent excitement and occasional glamor of what Hawk called "field work."
"There's never been a job quite like this before," Hawk said, through the blue-black haze of smoke that formed about his head. "One of the missing people is a woman. Some of the others have wives. You may find a woman essential to the distaff side of the investigation. But even if that part of it doesn't work out — and it may not — a female companion whom you can trust is a very important part of this job. I want you to get known. I want you to be seen in public. But not always alone, sticking out like a sore thumb. Miss Adler will accompany you whenever she can be useful. She can cover for you, whenever that may be necessary. Basically, she's to be a decoy, a blind. Besides that, it's in character for someone like you to have a woman along, flaunting her like a possession."
"Someone like me?" Nick contrived a hurt look.
"Someone like Robert Milbank," Hawk amended. "Now. Any more questions before you plough through these dossiers?"
"Uh-huh. Is there any way of telling, according to the due dates of the reports, the order in which these six agents disappeared?"
Hawk peered at him approvingly.
"Not a bad question, if only there were a good answer. No, there isn't. I said the reports used to be regular, but I don't mean they were filed like clockwork. Three of the reports arrived within a couple of days of each other early in December. Two others came a week later. The sixth hasn't come at all. Presumably it would have been from de Santos — although any one or more of the others could have reported again in the meantime — who sent his previous report late November, before going off on vacation. He's supposed to be back in Rio by now, and he hasn't reported again. What I'm getting at is that the first person to file during the latest batch of reports isn't necessarily the first person to have disappeared. They could have all reported — as they did — during that period of ten days or so, and then vanished at the same instant before any one of them had a chance to report again."
Nick raised an enquiring eyebrow. "At the same instant? I don't suppose you mean that literally, but is it at all likely that they could have been together? Surely they wouldn't take a chance on that kind of meeting?"
Hawk shook his head slowly. "No, I wouldn't think it likely. CIA doesn't think so, either. They were supposed to work independently, though each of them knew at least one of the others, and let's see, three of them knew all the others. The old-timers in the group naturally had the most information. You'll have it too, when you've completed your reading. Anything else, before you go?"
AXE's top secret operative recognized his chief's sudden restiveness. Hawk had done with talking and wanted action.
"No, that's it," said Nick, "except for our homework." He rose. From now on it would be up to the Editing Department, to Documents, to Records, and Operations, and the whole tightly knit machinery that made up the highly specialized intelligence agency called AXE — the troubleshooting arm of the U.S. secret services. And to special agent Carter, the man Hawk always called upon for the most delicate and dangerous assignments.
* * *
The little old lady toddled cheerfully along the shaded path in the Botanical Gardens. It was a hot day, almost sultry and on days like these she always sought the cooling comfort of the Gardens. She particularly liked the great twisted jungle trees transplanted from the wild heart of Brazil, and the immense bright butterflies that skimmed across the path and sometimes lightly touched her face as she took her favorite walk. But most of all, she loved the pond; loved its soothing blue-greenness, the pleasing croak of frogs and the swift darting of small golden arrows beneath the lily pads.
With faltering yet determined steps she navigated the turn from the quiet path to the curving walk around the pond. As was usual on a weekday, it was peaceful here; only the birds sang softly to her, and a gusty little breeze hissed over the water sending splashing ripples to lap the upturned edges of the marvelous lily pads.
She stood for a moment, just looking at them and thinking. They were like table tops. Except, of course, for the edges, that rose into low sides as if to prevent anything from sliding off. Well, then, they were like the brass table tops she had sometimes seen in other people's houses, the kind with the hammered edges like big round trays. They were sturdy, these leaves. They floated lightly, but they were strong. She had even heard it said that they would hold a baby's weight. And she wondered if that could possibly be true.
There was nothing on any of them now but water beetles and little puff-clouds of flies. And one frog, quite big but sitting thoughtful and quiet. As she watched, he jumped, and sped away on underwater business of his own. The swiftness of his passage — or perhaps it was a sudden breezy gust — caused a gentle disturbance among the lily pads. They bobbed and swayed, and for a moment she glimpsed a narrow passage through them.
There was something under them, a dark shape, and quite big. It looked as though it might be some kind of huge fish, or perhaps a — well, no. The thought that it might be some stray animal dissolved as quickly as it came. Perhaps the people of the Jardim Botanico were trying something new in the pond. They did that sort of thing sometimes. Poke the big leaves, find out what's beneath them.
The old lady looked around. Yes, there was a rake. One of the gardeners must have left it when he went off for a quick cafézinho. Her shaky fingers reached for it and her slow steps took her to the water's edge. Gently, so as not to hurt the pretty leaves, she dipped the rake in among the lily pads. Nothing. She jabbed more briskly. The great pads parted. Now she saw the shape. A little sense of excitement grew within her. Her arms were getting a little tired, but the thrusting rake was agitating the long stems of the pads, and something was moving underneath.
Slowly, reluctantly, it rose to the surface. It did look like an animal.
It lay face down between the parted lily pads, bobbing quietly in the small waves of its own making. The rake fell from her fingers and her lips moved frantically. A bloated, half-clad obscenity of a human being floated lazily on the water.
Dimly, she heard voices. "Old mother, please! Senhora, come away!"
But the little old lady went on screaming.
City of the Missing
"Unhappy rich! My heart bleeds for them. Just look at them, lying around on that scratchy old grass, nibbling those awful caviar canapés and choking down nasty iced drinks, hot sun beating down on their poor exposed bodies… worry, worry all the time. Where to dine tonight. What to wear. How to spend the second million…"
"Hush," Nick murmured. "I'm thinking."
"You are not! You're asleep."
Rosalind propped herself up on one exquisite elbow and surveyed him. Reclining comfortably on a soft terry towel and a pile of pillows, he looked like a sultan at die seaside. The sea was actually some distance beyond the swimming pool, but that did nothing to spoil the illusion. What did tend to spoil it was Nick's un-sultanlike body: Streamlined, muscular, vigorous even in repose, it had more in common with the frame of an Olympic athlete than that of an oriental playboy.
"Nick Carter, you're a fraud. Ever since I was a tiny little spy I've been hearing about your exploits. Your daring, your cunning, your alertness, your super-strength, your lightning speed…"
"You haven't been hearing about me, you've been reading Mighty Mouse comic books." But his eyes fluttered open, and this time they stayed open. He had been wasting time. The two little scraps of expensive cloth that adorned her were enough to keep any man on the alert and wondering how they stayed in place. Maybe they wouldn't. He eyed her with interest.
"But we won't get anything done if we just keep lazing around like the idle rich!"
"We are th
e idle rich, honey." Nick propped himself up and reached for a cigarette. "And you'd better get used to it. I know it's a terrific wrench after all these years of honest sweat, but until you relax and enjoy it we won't be able to do our stuff. To begin with, you can't go shouting my name all over the lot. Someone like Judas may be lurking under the hydrangeas, leering with evil triumph as he overhears All. I'm Robert, you're Rosita. In lighthearted moments — and because I'm a crude American — I may call you Roz. And if you behave, I'll let you call me Bob."
She glowered at him. "I'll call you — oh, all right. But I wasn't shouting. Though it seems I have to, to keep you awake. Robert, sweetie." She fixed a saccharine smile upon her lovely face. "Why don't we get off our backsides and go make like working spies? Do you always conduct your investigations in a horizontal position?"
"Not always. Depends on their nature." His eyes glinted with amusement. "But there's nothing wrong with a little swim and a little think before plunging into business. It's all part of the act. Besides, I was just working up to talking things over with you. When I was sufficiently rested."
Rosalind raised perfectly arched eyebrows and gazed at him worshipfully. "Oh, joy unbounded! Honor undeserved and unbelievable! You were really going to talk to me?" She lowered her voice and hissed conspiratorially. "But you don't think we might be overheard? You don't think that someone might have slipped into my bedroom and cleverly concealed a microphone in my bathing suit?"
Nick gave her bathing suit his closest attention. It concealed very little of anything.
"No, I don't really think so," he concluded after thorough inspection. "Come closer, though, so I can be sure." He grinned suddenly, showing enviably white teeth. "Sure that no one can overhear."
For a moment she just looked at him, trying to decide whether she found him insufferable or irresistible. Then, still undecided but with a reluctant smile, she inched closer to him.