"Tibet," the CIA man said. The pointer moved and stopped on a red crayon dot. "The Chumbi Valley. On the north we've got China or Tibet, same thing now; to the west Sikkim, to the east Bhutan, to the south India. The Chinese Reds, gentlemen, are building a five-hundred-mile tunnel complex out of Tibet and south toward India. Our best information, as of now, says it is about half-completed."
"We know all about it," said Army Intelligence. "We've extrapolated and planned for it with the Indian General Staff. When they finish that tunnel the ChiComs could funnel troops through it in a hurry. They could drive south through Sikkim, turn east and across the north of India to cut off New Delhi. Right there they would have all the rice, tea, jute and oil from Assam Nefa and Nagaland. We're keeping a very sharp eye on the bastards."
"Stop sweating," said Air Force Intelligence. He was very young for his position and rank. He was in civvies now, but Nick knew that he wore two stars.
"No sweat," Air Force went on. "Screw their tunnel. We drop a few sticks in there and they haven't got a tunnel. We've done at least twenty overflights with U2's in that area. Yes, gentlemen, we're still using them. The point is that we can blow their tunnel to hell any time we feel like it."
"Sure we can," Hawk said harshly. "We can get into a war with China, too. And would, if you fly boys had your way. But that isn't the point at the moment, either." Hawk fixed the CIA man with a hard glare. "Just what is the point, Charles? You didn't mention this tunnel business earlier. Why now?" Hawk swept the table with a gesture. "All those concerned know about it and are making plans accordingly. So?"
The foxy look of the CIA man grew more pronounced. He let the map roll up with a clatter and switched on the overhead lights. He went back to his place at the table. He pointed to something on the table before him. No one had paid it any attention before. It looked like a pencil box, the sort used by school children. The CIA man picked up the box and let it fall on the table. It struck the wood with a dull, heavy thud, and the table trembled slightly.
"Lead," said the CIA man. "Inside are a few ounces of dirt from Tibet, from the Chumbi Valley. In short, gentlemen, from the tunnel diggings! The dirt is radioactive! Not dangerously so — the lead is just an extra precaution — but it is definitely and freshly, radioactive. There is no evidence of decay yet. One of our agents in Tibet managed to get it to our people in Nepal. It was flown in last night."
For a moment there was silence around the U-shaped table. Nick fumbled for his fighter without taking his eyes off the tableau. The FBI man started to stand up to speak, but Hawk waved him down. "Go on," he told the CIA man. "Give us the rest of it."
The CIA man nodded. He looked at Air Force. "Your U2's are good, very good. But our satellites are better. NASA did a beautiful job for us on this — God knows how they do it, but they do — and they managed to re-orbit one of our satellites so that it crosses the area in question a dozen times a day. It's been sending back a steady stream of high-grade pictures. The ChiComs, gentlemen, are building something besides a tunnel. The tunnel is important, sure, but they're using it as a cover for something else. We think they're building a bomb. One bomb!"
There was an instant buzz around the table. Hawk rapped with his fist on the wood. "Calm it down, please. Go on, Charles. Why are the Chinese making only one bomb? By bomb I suppose you mean a nuclear device?"
"Yes. I do." The CIA man put a finger on the flat lead box before him. "We've had an inkling — not much, but a bare smell — of what has been going on in Tibet for some time now. We started paying close attention, of course, the minute they started digging the tunnel. Since then we've put a few hundred odds and ends into the computers. The end result, to make it brief, is that the ChiComs are capable, even while carrying on their normal atomic research in Sinkiang Province, of building at least one other bomb elsewhere. We think that Tibet, using the tunnel as cover, is that elsewhere. We think they're trying to build the biggest bomb the world has ever known — a hydrogen bomb. A bomb a hell of a lot bigger, and with a louder bang, than we or the Russians have ever exploded!"
Both Air Force and Army Intelligence stood up and looked at Hawk for permission. The old man nodded at Army. The CIA man, looking still more like a fox, stood waiting for questions. He was, Nick Carter thought, damned sure of himself.
Army cleared his throat. He also was in civilian clothes — they all were — but Nick could almost see the three stars glittering.
"I'll admit," said Army, as though the words hurt him, "that you seem to have more, and better, intelligence than we have. But you fellows make plenty of mistakes, just the same. I think you're making one now. Oh, your raw intelligence is probably straight enough, but I think your interpretation is wrong. I'm no amateur at this game myself. I've got most of the basic, prime knowledge that you have. Leaving out the dirt in your lead box, of course, and the satellite pictures. Has it occurred to you that the ChiComs might be running another one of their bluffs? They're pretty cute, you know. This whole thing might be a plant, a paper bomb, to draw us away from the real thing in Sinkiang. It might even be a gambit to get us to bomb their tunnel — give them a valid excuse for going to war and sending troops into North Vietnam.
"And on top of all that — my experts tell me that the ChiComs just aren't capable of making a hydrogen bomb now. Not even a small one, much less this monster bomb you're talking about! And last, not least, why would they strain their guts, use every last bit of their resources, to make this monster bomb? Just having it wouldn't get them anything! They would have to explode it to prove that it works — and when they do that they're right back where they started, with an empty arsenal. No bomb. What would they gain?"
Killmaster's thinking had been racing ahead of the Army man. He had the answer already and now he expected the CIA to pounce. But the foxy little man only nodded quietly, rubbed his pointed chin with a finger, and waited for Hawk's nod. It came.
The CIA man stared across the table at Army. Then: "To understand this as I understand it, sir, you would have to spend a few days talking to our mainland China desk. Unfortunately I don't think that is feasible or possible. But I am convinced that building such a bomb, a massive hydrogen bomb — not a paper bomb — and then wasting it on the desert air, as you might say, is entirely within the Chinese character." He stopped, took a drink of water from a frosted carafe at his side, then looked up and down the table.
"Think it out carefully, gentlemen. The ChiComs have lost a lot of face recently. We all know that face is a matter of life and death in the Orient. They need new face. So they explode this monster, bigger than anything we've done, or the Russians have done, and in a few hours the whole world knows about it. They can't conceal it, even if they tried, and they don't want to conceal it. That's the whole idea. They set off this baby with a yield of lord knows how many megatons — and headlines scream all over the world. The Chinese have made a bigger bomb than we or the Sovs can make!
"They follow it up with a propaganda barrage even bigger than the bomb itself. They've got plenty more bombs where that one came from! We know it's a lie, sure, but a lot of the little, neutral, uncommitted — and scared — peoples won't know that! Believe me, gentlemen, if the ChiComs can bring this thing off they're going to get their money's worth in propaganda and face. It's up to us to see that it doesn't happen. We here at CIA…" his glance flickered at Hawk and past the old man to Nick Carter — "we intend to see that it doesn't happen. We and, er, certain other of the combined services. For those of you not directly concerned with this matter, but who are to be kept informed consistent with the President's latest directive, the code name of this operation will be Prop B. I hardly need tell you that it stands for Propaganda Bomb." The CIA man sat down.
Hawk rubbed his eyes. "The rest is mostly routine, gentlemen. I suggest that we hold it over for another time. If you're all as dead-beat as I am, you'll understand why. Bed. Alone, I might add. In fact I will add — bed, alone!"
Amid a general titter, the meet
ing broke up. Hawk motioned to Nick to keep his seat. Nick nodded and watched the CIA Deputy Director. The foxy man waited until all the others had filed out, then he went to a door opening off the left of the conference chamber. He crooked a finger at them. "Okay, David. Let's have a drink or two and talk a little turkey."
Nick and Hawk followed him into a small, lavishly furnished private office. The CIA man pressed a button on his intercom and spoke into it. "Gladys, hold everything for me until further notice. No calls except the Director."
The female voice, cool and impersonal, said: "Yes, Mr. Donnellen."
The CIA man went to a bar in a corner and started pulling out bottles and glasses. Hawk sank into a comfortable leather chair and motioned for Nick to do the same. Hawk pulled his tie askew and unbuttoned his collar. He winked at Nick.
"Now," he told the CIA man, "we can get down to brass tacks. Do a little horsetrading. And I might as well warn you, Charles, that one of my ancestors was David Harum."
The CIA man handed a glass to Nick. He still looked like a fox, Nick thought, but now a more amiable vulpine air was discernable. The stiff, rather prissy attitude had vanished. The man studied Nick Carter for a moment with gray-green eyes, then stuck out his hand. "You're Carter?"
Nick shook hands. "Yes." The other man's hand was small in his own, but dry and firm.
The CIA man turned to smile at Hawk. "I think we can do business, you old pirate. You want this setup in China as much as I do or you wouldn't be sending your top man."
Hawk's face was impassive. "Am I sending him?"
The CIA man took a pull at his drink. "Forget it, David. I don't want to know."
"Well, there's something I want to know." Hawk leaned forward in his chair and stared at the red-haired man. He gestured toward the door leading into the conference room.
"How much of that in there was the ungarbled McCoy and how much of it was look-see pidgin?" Hawk had served his time in the Orient and he picked the exact phrase for bluffing and four-flush. He also knew — he should — that any government agency, at times, had to put up a front, had to pretend they knew what they were doing, justify their existence, even when they didn't know their tail from second base. Hawk, in his wisdom, did not think that such was the case now, but he had to be sure.
The CIA Deputy Director went to his desk, carrying his drink. Nick thought that all of a sudden he looked as weary as Hawk.
"It's true," the CIA man said. "No crapping. Those bastards are building that monster and they're going to set it off and scare the hell out of the world unless we stop them." His glance flicked from Hawk to Nick, then back again to the old man.
"From what you've told me, you think you can get Carter into China. That's a hell of a job in itself just now. And you know how I, and the Director, feel about the underground matter. We don't think it can be done and we won't risk any of our own men trying it. But if you want to try it we'll give you one-hundred-percent support, everything short of personnel. In return, you…" he looked directly at Nick — "you find that damned bomb and blow it up before they can! The odds against you, roughly, are about seven hundred million to one." He smiled tightly. "That's our latest figure on the Chinese population, but I'm not making a joke."
Hawk was staring at the ceiling. He said: "A few days ago I read something in the paper — happened in England. Four people were playing bridge and all of them drew perfect hands. Each one had thirteen cards in the same suit. Two days later the same thing happened in Australia. I looked it up. The odds against that are somewhere in the octillions."
Nick had to laugh. "I can't say that I like the odds, sir, but you make your point. There is a chance."
Hawk pointed a finger at him. "Go. Do whatever you have to do and meet me at the office in two hours. I want you in San Francisco tonight."
When Nick had gone, there was a little time of silence in the office. The CIA man freshened the drinks. Then he said, "So that's Nick Carter. You know, David, really meeting him makes me feel a little strange."
"How is that?"
The red-haired man shrugged. "It's a bit hard to put in words. Awe, maybe, because of what I've heard about him. Sort of like finding out that Superman really does exist. And yet he doesn't exactly look the part — I mean all that polish and the good clothes over the muscles. The brain under the crew cut. He — well, he looks more like an Ivy League Phi Beta Kappa, who considers pro football a nice game for babies. God — I don't know! But he sure makes an impression."
Hawk nodded. His tone was dry. "I know. Especially on the ladies. I have problems there at times."
"I can see how you would. But David…" the CIA man stared at the older man for a moment. "Are you really going to send him in there? You know — we know, just between us — that he hasn't got a prayer."
Hawk's smile was enigmatic. "Don't worry about it. He knows and he takes the chance. Nick Carter has been in, and out, of hell more times than you've got years."
Chapter 4
When Nick Carter left the plane in San Francisco, he rented a car from Number Two and drove to a small hotel on Powell Street. By the time he had showered and changed his shirt it was after nine in the evening. Fog — which the desk clerk informed him was not as bad as the night before — hung in gray streamers and wrapped itself around the street lights. From the Bay came the anguished moan of horns, answered now and then by a hoarse blast from a groping steamer.
A little smile played over Killmaster's lean face as he opened the false bottom of his suitcase and took out the Luger and the stiletto, the FBI type belt holster and the chamois arm sheath. He was officially on mission now. His hazardous-duty pay — AXE called it danger money — had started when he boarded the plane in Washington. From now on until the mission was completed, or blown, or he was dead, he got triple pay. If he died, the money went to his heirs. In Nick's case, since he had no heirs, the money was to go into a special fund for recruiting and educating promising young men for AXE. Hawk had dreamed up and set up, the fund.
As Nick adjusted the chamois sheath on his right forearm and snapped the stiletto down into his palm a couple of times, he thought that neither he, nor Hawk, were doing the kids any favor. How much better to use the money to provide them with degrees in engineering, lawyering or doctoring! The only trouble was the world — it still needed men to do black and dirty work in dark alleys.
He got his car from the hotel parking lot and drove to Chinatown. It was Sunday night, and the streets were relatively quiet and free of traffic.
He was, actually, on two missions. Prop B for CIA, and the exploratory job for Hawk and AXE. His boss, for some arbitrary reason known only to himself, had called the second mission Yellow Venus. His penultimate words, before Nick left the little office on Dupont Circle, had contained a slight clue to his thinking.
"Sooner or later," he'd said with a half-smile, "you'll have to go to ground on this mission. Hide and relax. Yellow Venus might turn out to be a 'luck name, as we Chinese always say. And since we don't know what the hell it means there is no chance that they will!" Hawk had long known about Killmaster's penchant for bed as a means of relaxation, and though he was a strait-laced old gentleman himself — married to the same woman for forty years — he now confined himself to an occasional sarcastic remark. He knew, of course, that Nick's bed play never interfered with his work, and often helped it.
Hawk's last words had been the usual: "So long, son. Good luck. I'll see you when I see you."
It was going to be a long, difficult, and terribly dangerous mission. Just how long, and how dangerous, Killmaster had no way of knowing at the moment. Perhaps this was just as well. Meantime he was remembering an old Chinese proverb: The longest journey begins with the first step."
Nick parked the car on a side street off Grant Avenue. He was in Chinatown now. His instructions were to find the Thousand Lotus Pharmacy — Chinese type — and ask for an acupuncture treatment for the bursitis in his right shoulder. This traditional therapy was called �
�Chung-i» and consisted of sticking a number of long, sharp needles into the patient. An alternative treatment was called mox-abustion, in which wormwood and incense were burnt on the skin over the affected area.
Killmaster was not prepared to undergo either of the treatments. The pharmacist, or "doctor," was working as an AXE drop, well paid, and had been forwarding the ChiCom mail from the bookstore of the murdered Sun Yat. Nick did not know the man's name. He would have a countersign and, if all went well, he would take Nick to Fan Su or bring her to him.
There was always the chance that the Thousand Lotus was blown, too. Nick could be walking into a trap. He smiled grimly now as he glanced at the street numbers. He was getting triple pay, wasn't he?
The Thousand Lotus Pharmacy was a dingy, narrow-fronted little shop wedged between an Army & Navy Store and the Won Ton Beauty Shoppe. Both of these were shuttered and dark. A dim light glowed in the showcase of the pharmacy. A hand-lettered sign, in Chinese, advertised an elixir concocted of toads, snake skin, roses and a human placenta.
"No thanks," said Nick to himself. "I'll stick to Geritol." He noticed a wide-mouthed gallon jug in which floated a perfectly formed fetus. Nick Carter smiled and pushed open the door of the shop. He was greeted by an odor which he remembered well — herbs and decaying tiger bones, wormwood and incense and scallions. The shop was deserted. There was no bell over the door. The dim light revealed a wooden counter and stacks of glass cases. A single door at the rear of the shop was closed.
Somewhere a clock was ticking. He could not see it and the tick-tock only emphasized the silence. Nick slapped the counter lightly with his palm. "Anybody around?"
There was a sound at the rear of the shop. He watched as the door opened slowly. The man who stood there was Chinese or Korean — too big for a Japanese — and he wore a starched white jacket and a round white surgeon's cap. He took three steps into the room and halted, staring at Nick through slitted eyes. He was a strongly built man with a moon face the color of old leather and a sullen mouth. He made a little bow. "Yes, please?" His English was good.
The Red Guard Page 5