The Weapon of Night

by Nick Carter

  He gave a rich, satisfied sigh and leaned back, thinking of the glory that lay ahead for him and for the Chinese masters who were paying him so richly. And well they should, he thought; well they should.

  And then he leaned forward abruptly and his slightly stiff fingers dipped into his briefcase.

  “I, too, have pictures,” he fluted. “Study them. Memorize the faces. These arc the people we must look for. These are the people we must avoid or kill. Preferably kill. Five faces. Five. Study them!”

  Nine minus two leaves seven, plus one makes eight. And the eighth was Judas. There was no doubt in his mind.

  Nick leaned back in the U.S. Air Force jet and closed his eyes. Thank God for Hakim, he thought wearily, Too bad the reunion had been so brief and joyless, but when this whole snarled-up mess was sorted out they would have one helluva bash to make up for it — Nick and Hakim and Valentina and Julia, and maybe even Hawk.

  There were pictures in his mind and in his pocket. Ten of them. Nine were copies of the photographs Hakim had discovered in von Kluge’s home, and among these were the faces of the phony Parry and Hughes. The tenth was a sketch, done from memory by Hakim, and Nick’s mental image of it was colored by his own, sharp recollections of the man. Valentina had confirmed the basic story; her nine were the same as Hakim’s. Nine minus two leaves seven . . . plus one makes eight . . . and the eighth living man was the ubiquitous, murdering Judas, the man who had offered his services so many times before to the highest bidder — so long as that bidder shared Judas’s scaring hatred for the Western world.

  Nick cat-napped. New York and West Valley lay far behind him; West Valley swarming with extra guards and AXEmen and J. Egbert’s hard-faced boys; New York once again blessed by the presence of Valentina. But this time she had consented to disguise herself, and Hakim, too, was wearing a strange face.

  Julia, beside Nick, stretched in her sleep, and a lock of new-blond hair fell over her new-blue eyes. She looked as Scandinavian as Nick himself; AXE’s Editing Department had made them look as much as possible like Viking brother and sister.

  Nick stirred and peered at her. “ ‘S practically incestuous,” he murmured.

  Julia stretched again. “No incest right now, brother baby,” she crooned sleepily. “Your little Inger needs her rest.”

  “You’ve had it, love,” said Nick, glancing at his watch. “We’ll be coming into Montreal in just about ten minutes. Nap time is over.”

  Which it was. Not only for then, but for many hours to come.

  They checked into adjoining single rooms at the modest Hotel Edward and left almost at once on a sightseeing tour. But they were armed with more than cameras, and the sights they saw were police stations, municipal offices, travel bureaus, airline offices, hotels, restaurants, and — faces. Most of all they looked for faces. After a while they separated, agreeing to meet for drinks at the Princess Bar of the Hotel Monte Royale.

  The panic in the States began to build.

  First, there had been the weeks of intermittent blackouts, the smog, the filthy water, the lakes that were blood-red beneath the morning sun. Then, suddenly, the talk, the wild rumors about what had happened at West Valley.

  At the same time, a new sighting of flashing flying saucers in a midwestern state.

  Another lake, blood-red.

  Smog, in Darien, Connecticut. In Darien!

  Then a nurse in a Denver hospital found a strange container far back in a linen closet. She called the duty intern for her floor. He reported it to his chief. His chief called the police.

  What the police said about it was in the afternoon papers.

  It was not long before mysterious containers were being reported in junkyards, restaurant kitchens, rooming houses, railroad stations and checkrooms througout the nation. Most of diem were harmless. But some of them were not.

  They were hundreds, even thousands, of miles apart, the harmless boxes and the dangerous ones. But the news spread quickly. And the very fact that the boxes were so widely scattered helped to build the fear into a near hysteria. It meant — so people said — that the enemy was countless in their midst. Or how else could they spread their treachery so far and wide? By this time they were very sure that there was an enemy, and those who did not believe in visitors from outer space began — inevitably — to connect all the disasters, large and small, with one source. The Reds.

  And they were right. But they had no way of knowing, because of their own innocence, that what was happening to them was caused by nothing more than a small band of super-skilled saboteurs armed with chemicals, battery-operated motion-picture projectors, dye, simple electronic devices, and the lethal loot from the West Valley plant. Nor did it occur to them that the enemy was widespread only because it made swift, effective use of the airlines readily available to all.

  Nick arrived at the Hotel Monte Royale several minutes early. It was only natural to use the time making the same inquiries that he had made elsewhere throughout the day, but he made them automatically and with very little hope. His biggest lead had been the airline that had issued Parry’s ticket, and that had proved to be a dud. So had all his other efforts.

  And so, when the hotel manager and the house detective shook their heads regretfully, he was not at all surprised. They looked at all the pictures, including Hakim’s sketch of Martin Brown, and there was not one among them that they recognized.

  “Bland-looking men,” the hotel dick commented. “Only the fellow with the beard and this skull-faced chap look like anything at all. But you stick around and I’ll check with reception and the bell captain.”

  Nick stuck around and made conversation with the manager.

  “I doubt if they were guests here,” Nick said, just for the sake of saying something. “In fact, for all I know, only one of them — the bearded man — has ever been in Montreal. I should think they must have met sometimes, somewhere, but it doesn’t have to have been here. And yet we do know that this man,” and he tapped the sketch of Judas, “has a visa to Canada. They may have made their headquarters in your country.”

  The manager smiled wryly. “Not in my place, I hope. I’d hate to think I might have been harboring a gang of international thieves.” For that was what Nick had called them to avoid going too deeply into details, and it had brought cooperation if not concrete results.

  And then the manager’s face froze and a curious look came into his eyes.

  “Harboring them,” he repeated faintly. “Not as guests. Surely not as guests or I’d have been certain to have seen some of them, at least. Unless they were disguised? But . . . perhaps they needed no disguise. Because they were not expecting to be seen. Not after the first time. And you say you think they must have had a place to meet?”

  “Yes, I do think so,” Nick said sharply. “What’re you getting at?”

  The manager stood up and placed both hands against the front edge of his desk. “We have meeting rooms,” he said intensely. “Private conference rooms. Several companies use them for board meetings or special banquets. For the most part they are used by special appointment only. But one or two companies rent them on a long-term basis. They have private entrances, keys of their own. Even special locks. We .never see these people coming and going — they make these arrangements because of the highly secret nature of their business. I should not even tell you who they are —”

  “But you will,” Nick said urgently. “You must. I’m not interested in prying into innocent businesses; I’m looking for one group of highly dangerous people. Thieves? They’re killers, man! I’ve got to know.”

  The manager stared at him. “Yes,” he said. “I think you’d better know. One of the rooms is used by a branch of the Canadian Government, and they’ve been using it for years. I’ll vouch for them until hell freezes. The other — Canadian Ceramics, Ltd. Still in the process of building, I was told, so they have no permanent office of their own. I saw one of them, just once. Couldn’t tell you if it might have been one of these me
n in your pictures. He was elderly, white-haired, distinguished. Produced all manner of references and recommendations and paid for six months in advance. Insisted on absolute privacy because his company had a revolutionary new process in the planning stage and couldn’t take a chance on competitors’ getting wind of it. I’ve heard that kind of story many times before. So, of course, I —”

  “Bought it,” Nick finished for him. “Naturally. And you’ve no idea when they hold their meetings?”

  “None at all, none at all. They come and go unnoticed just like the Government people —”

  “I want to see that room,” said Nick, starting for the door.

  “Take you there myself,” the manager said, and led Nick through the lobby.

  They walked together around the outside of the building and into a narrow paved road running the side of the hotel.

  “Separate entrances, as you can see,” the manager pointed out.

  Nick saw. They were not only separate but screened by low brick walls that led into private entranceways. With a reasonable amount of care ten men or two dozen men could easily have come and gone without being noticed.

  “Thank you,” said Nick. “This one? Fine. I’ll go in alone.” And his nod was a dismissal.

  “But how? I have no key.”

  “I have.”

  Nick waited until his guide was out of sight and then he went to work with his lockpicker’s special. The lock was a tricky one indeed.

  And it was bolted from inside.

  He worked quietly, methodically, glad of the bolt within because it must surely mean that someone was in there.

  There was a series of low clicks. He waited for a moment, heard nothing from inside, and slid back the bolt.

  Then he stopped into a narrow hall and bolted the door behind him. Again he stopped to listen.

  Nothing.

  There was a solid wooden door at the end of the hall and he glided silently toward it. It, too, was locked.

  He picked it and slid inside.

  It was a big boardroom with a large and shiny table. The table was bare and the seats around it were empty.

  Across the room was another door. That one was half-open.

  Nick reached for Wilhelmina and padded to the door.

  The room beyond was small, little more than a closet, and a burly man with a bland face sat at a table tapping on a set of keys. And they were not typewriter keys.

  Morse code was a language Nick knew well enough to think in. There was no need for him to pause and translate and miss any of the message. He flattened himself against the wall outside the tiny room and listened.

  “H.M., H.M., H.M.,” he heard. “Come in T.S. Come in T.S. Report.”

  “T.S., Little Rock. T.S., Little Rock. Stinkbomb in Negro section caused severe riot. Whole town in a state of tension. Completed box assignment according M.B. orders, in spite of difficult circumstances. Everyone suspicious of strangers carrying bags. Almost mobbed but got away. However, schedule thrown out. Delay prevents fulfillment of next project. Also, cops at town exits, airport stations, et cetera. Might not be wise attempt departure. Request advice. Over.”

  “H.M. to T.S. Do you have secure accommodations where you are? Over.”

  “Secure enough. Rundown hotel, Orval Street.”

  “Stay there for further orders. Cannot advise otherwise until M.B. gives instructions. He may call on you directly but doubt if he has reached your area as yet. Can only suggest you wait in hotel and repeat contact in two hours. Over.”

  Nick heard the smooth click of a switch and then the harsh scraping of a chair. The burly man yawned loudly and got to his feet. His big form loomed in the doorway next to Nick.

  Nick leaned back to gain impetus and then lunged forward. Wilhelmina’s barrel cracked sharply, savagely, against the big man’s temple; and then the karate chop of Nick’s left hand sliced axelike deep into the neck.

  H.M. dropped without a sound.

  His face was a mirror image of one of Hakim’s pictures.

  This time Nick was not taking any chances. He quickly tripped the man down to the skin, and then he took the strong adhesive tape he had almost lost hope of using and plastered lengths of it around the mouth, arms and ankles. And when he had done that he took a tiny syringe and a vial from an inner capsule and shot sleep into H.M.’s veins.

  The little room contained the small transmitter-receiver and one suitcase, fully packed, Nick took a quick glance at both and then fingered a small switch behind his lapel. The two-way radio sewn into his jacket was no bigger than a cigarette case, but it was powerful and versatile.

  “N3 to AXE H.Q.,” he murmured. “Top priority to Hawk. . . . Sir? Found a lead in Hotel Mont Royale. I’ll bring him back to you. In the meantime, here’s another, and this means utmost speed: One of the seven is in Little Rock, in a rundown hotel on Orval Street, with orders to stay there. But he may not stay there long, so . . .”

  He finished his message crisply. Before he signed off he could hear Hawk’s thin voice calling— “Sadek! Get me Sadek here at once. Good, Carter. Good. At last, for God’s sake! Over, out.”

  The next call went to Julia. He could hear the bar sounds in the background.

  “Buy you a drink, doll?” he said seductively into the tiny microphone.

  “Get lost, buster,” she said harshly. “Buy yourself a drink. I’m leaving.”

  He waited, studying the small machine in front of him. It was an unusual device, but he figured he could make it work.

  H.M.’s receiver began to beep.

  “L.M. Norfolk. L.M., Norfolk,” it said. “Come in, H.M., come in, H.M., come in, H.M.”

  Nick flicked the transmitting switch. He could not see the hidden second switch at the back of the tiny machine tripping automatically as he began to transmit.

  “H.M., H.M., H.M.,” he tapped. “Come in, L.M. Come, L.M. Report.”

  A pause. Then: “H.M. Query. H.M. Query. Your touch is different. Is something wrong? Query. Request further identification.”

  “All right, Nickska,” Julia’s voice murmured into his ear. “I had to leave the bar. Too many listeners. I’m in the ladies’ room. And where the hell are you? Speak, lover.”

  “H.M., H.M., H.M.,” the little receiver tapped. “Identify yourself.”

  “Wait, Julia,” Nick whispered. “Back with you in a second.”

  His fingers played over the keys.

  “H.M. to L.M.,” he tapped. “Yes, there is something wrong. Activity in hotel. Suspect search. B.P. must have talked. Must leave here soon. M.B. will have message for you within the next few hours. Wait — someone comes. Over, but wait!”

  “Julia, baby,” he said into his mike, “go outside the hotel, walk around the west wing, take the second brick-walled path, and give the AXE signal. On your way, send message to Hawk that one of our chickens is roosting in Norfolk. Details later, but right now I’m on another line.”

  He tapped again. “H.M. to L.M. Safe so far, but search gets closer. Your report, quickly. I will forward to M.B. if I get out of here. Hurry L.M. Hurry.”

  “L.M. to H.M.,” came the answer, and this time the tapping from the other end was not quite as smooth as it had been. “Report as follows. Placed container in Naval housing unit. Started saucer scare. Left smog pollutants in eight different places. Request details trouble your end. Over.”

  “No time,” Nick tapped urgently. “Must leave at once. Last orders from M.B. for you as follows. Stay where you arc. He will contact you in person because of crisis situation. Do you have secure accommodations?”

  “Secure enough. Skyline Motel, Route 17. Over.”

  “H.M. to L.M. Stay there and exercise caution. No need for great alarm, but must take care. Do not attempt to contact others. M.B. or self will do that as soon as possible. Over.”

  “But my previous instructions —”

  Nick blanked out the tapping with his own.

  “Have been changed. You will obey new orders. Over
and out.”

  A pause. Tap-tap. “Accept. Over.”

  Nick grinned to himself as he rose from the little machine. It was ready to receive more incoming calls, and so was he. For once he had been lucky, and if he went on being really lucky he could sit here and take messages until the whole lot of them called in, and Hawk would have them picked up one after the other.

  It was unfortunate that he still did not know about the hidden switch at the back of the machine, the one that H.M. had turned off when he had risen to stretch and that had tripped automatically when Nick had started to transmit. He could not know that there was a timer attached, and that he had inadvertently left it in the “on’ position.

  Nick spoke again into his tiny mike as he began to search the packed suitcase. “N3 to Hawk. N3 to Hawk. Further to Norfolk lead. Definitely Norfolk. Virginia. Prospect placed container presumably radioactive in Naval housing unit. May himself be found in Skyline Motel, Norfolk, Route 17.”

  “Good. I already have a man — well, someone — on the way to Norfolk,” Hawk came back. “Which one of the prospects is it?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Nick said rather coldly, digging through the suitcase. “The initials he is using at the moment are L.M. But he didn’t send his photograph along with his message —”

  “All right, all right, enough of that. But would you know if it was Judas?”

  Nick shook his head at the unseeing microphone. “It wasn’t Judas, definitely wasn’t Judas. Neither was the one at Little Rock. They’re both awaiting orders from M.B. himself. Martin Brown, the boss. Or is it Brune, or something else? By the way, I am at the moment sorting through a suitcase apparently intended to be removed from here by the H.M. fellow. I suspect it’s only one of several, the others in use elsewhere. It should give the sceptics something to think about — more goodies in it than in a Fuller Brush man’s bag.”

  “Hold it,” said Hawk, and spoke to someone at his side. “Prospect L.M. Norfolk. Alert our courier, send reinforcements immediately. Said to be at Skyline Motel, Route 17. On the double! All right, Carter.”