by Nick Carter
Nick went on with his inspection. “Pollutants you want? Take your choice. Smog you need? We got plenty! Stink-pills you got enough? Take home a six-pack.” He described the contents to Hawk as he rapidly sorted through them.
One small motion-picture projector with two unusually wide apertures, two lenses, and two accompanying rolls of film. “3D flying saucers, I’ll bet,” said Nick.
A large, flat package of charcoal-colored tablets that were nauseating to the nostrils. A canister of gelatine cap-rules filled with some kind of liquid. A pair of wire cutters. A little electronic device with a tiny plunger and a timer — something like a supra-modern version of a dynamite detonator, except that it seemed to be designed to detonate or jam electrical circuits.
“All right, the rest will keep,” said Hawk. “I get the point. I’ll send a man up to take over the transmitter: I don’t want you spending hours of your time sitting on your butt and chatting. You have other things to do. I’ll be in touch.”
There was a small click in Nick’s ear and Hawk was gone. Abrupt old devil, Nick thought, and then rose to his feet because of the hammering on the outer door. “Lizzie Borden took-an-awe,” the rhythm told him, and he knew his visitor was Julia.
He glanced down at the familiar features of H.M. The man was out cold and would be until AXE’s medics wakened him with the antidote. He might yet do some talking. And the transmitter was still in place to betray the men who used it.
Things were not going badly at all.
He took two steps away from the tiny room.
The blast was so sudden that it enveloped him before he heard it.
With a sizzling, savage, deafening roar and an agonized tearing of metal, the small room blew up behind him and spewed its flying debris into the larger room. Chunks of steel and plaster and wood sprayed outward as if shot from a cannon; lumps and slivers of searing missiles slammed against the back of his head. Nick dropped like an ox in a slaughter-house.
The transmitter had delivered its last message.
CHAPTER TEN
Two Versus Two
The man with the artificial hands sat with his hat pulled down low over his eyes and waited until the last minute before boarding his second flight of the day. But he was alert, and he was watching.
At the last call for his flight he rose unhurriedly and walked down the ramp, smiling thinly to himself. It was no trouble at all to travel to and through the United States, he was thinking, if only one had identifications and passports for all possible occasions. And those he had — the best that money could buy. So had his men.
He boarded the plane and obediently fastened his seat belt.
On the whole he was pleased. It was a great pity about B.P. and the plant, but they had served their major purpose. Now it was simply a matter of working with redoubled caution, and he was used to that. Even the question of new headquarters was already solved; it had been solved in advance because of the need for a place to keep the pilfered West Valley material.
Ah, yes. Things were not going badly at all. The newspaper stories, the radio reports; all were gratifying. Only a day or two more, and it would be time for the final, softening blow before L-Day.
Thousands of miles away, another man was voicing similar thoughts. He wore a drab Army uniform and so did the men with him; but they represented the top military brains of their country.
“We are entering the semifinal phase,” General Kuo Hsi Tang said with quiet pride. “Our own forces are at their peak of readiness, and conditions on the other side are very nearly ripe. Judas has done well. The imperialist dogs are already yellow-livered with fear. He has only to choose the one right moment, our Judas, then he will make his move. It will be the final softening, the chaos. Then we move.”
“One begins to think our move will not even be necessary,” Li Tu Men grunted scornfully. “Perhaps fear alone will be enough to break the paper tiger. Then we can — ah — negotiate on our own terms.”
“Perhaps,” said Kuo Hsi Tang. “But we will see, we will see. True, fear and demoralization are our greatest allies. But when the total sum of all the fears is combined with widespread, inexplicable darkness . . . ah, what greater opportunity shall we ever have to use The Weapon! But, as I say, we will have to wait and see — wait only a very little while — to see how the war games, the dress rehearsal, turn out, Then we act accordingly. But it all depends on Judas.”
There was a babble of voices in his ears and his head felt like an overripe melon that had burst. Something sticky clung to his back and oozed down over his face. It tasted like blood and it smelled like blood.
So I guess it’s blood, Nick thought dazedly, and tried to open his eyes. But not a muscle in his face or body moved.
There was another smell besides the blood, a confusing mixture of plaster dust and molten metal and burned wood.
People were talking very loudly and excitedly and he wished that they would go away. Sound and pain pounded through his body. Blood, chaos and agony; those things he was aware of. But nothing more.
And then there was another odor in his nostrils, a fragrant perfume that was like a clean and cool, yet somehow seductive, breeze. Light fingers touched his face; a damp and icy cloth stroked gently at the blood.
Julia’s voice was murmuring at him.
Julia’s . . . He still could not make out separate words because of the babbling and the roaring in his ears, but his senses were coming slowly back to him — enough, now, for him to think disparagingly that all those people were raving like a bunch of idiots. Yet, still he did not even wonder where he was and his eyes stared into swirling, red-tinged darkness.
Then Julia’s voice was suddenly sharp and clear. It rose above the babble and cut it off as if her voice had been a switch.
“I want the hotel doctor and a taxicab,” she said incisively. “If you must call the police, go do it and stop gabbing. But you’d do a whole lot better to get a C.B.I, man in here quickly and let me explain it all to him. Otherwise, I shall call Washington directly, myself. Now all of you get out of here and bring me back that doctor and a cab. I mean it!
And whether you like it or not, I am in a position to give you orders, so kindly do as you’re told.”
Pretty high-handed of her, Nick thought hazily. She’s lying, too, the honey-bitch. But doing it well.
The room suddenly was silent but for the sound of Julia’s low murmuring. At first, he thought she was talking to him, but then he heard her say — “Baron to AXE H.Q. Urgent to Hawk, Baron to AXE H.Q. Urgent to Hawk”
And then his head swirled again and he sank deep into the reddish darkness.
He surfaced again, moments later, and memory flashed back like a darting pain. His eyes opened and saw Julia bending over him, and he struggled to sit up.
“Down, tiger,” she said warningly. “You’re not ready for your Yoga exercises yet.”
His eyes darted searchingly about the room. It was chaos. But the worst of it was the bloody-sheeted figure lying only feet away from him.
“Julia,” he croaked painfully, “Is that . . . ?”
Julia nodded. “Your captive, yes. If you were saving him for conversation, you’re out of luck again. Something very sharp and heavy landed on him, and — goodbye, number three. Now shut up for a while. The hotel quack is on his way to patch you up and then we’re heading back to New York. Papa Hawk is —”
“Wait,” he said urgently. They have a cache somewhere. The radioactive material. They must keep it some place to call upon as needed. It could be here, somewhere in the hotel. We’ll have to make a Geiger-counter search — we’ll have to turn this whole town upside down —”
“Not you,” she said firmly. “You’re in no shape to turn anything upside down. I’ll put through word to Hawk and someone else can do it. But not you.”
Pain pierced his head and then there was another moment of blackness. Dimly, he heard a door open and heard footsteps coming down the hall. They brought voices with them, and
the slight odor of antiseptics.
“What about the others?” he asked faintly. “Little Rock and Norfolk? Any word?”
“Too soon for Little Rock,” Julia murmured, as the doctor and the house detective came into the room. “But unless our bird has flown from Norfolk, we should be making contact just about right now.”
Mrs Harry Stephenson had had many strange experiences in her nine years as proprietress of the Skyline Motel, Norfolk, but this one looked to beat them all. She had never in her life seen such an odd-looking pair of detectives. Well, the one was pretty standard stuff, except that he seemed much trimmer and tougher than the slob-bellies who usually came on skip tracing calls, but the other —!
She tore her eyes away from them and looked again at the row of pictures spread out on her reception desk.
“Yes, I’m positive,” she chirruped in her birdlike voice. “It’s this one right here. Came in last night in a Hertz, went out this morning, came in late this afternoon, hasn’t been out since. Number Seven, to your right. You can see the car’s still there.”
“Back door or windows?” the huge man rumbled in his deep-toned, oddly accented voice.
She shook her head. “No door. Small bathroom window. There’s no way out — or in — except the front. And the big glass window in the front there doesn’t open because of the air conditioning. Here’s the key. You can pull your car in front of number six, if you like. There’s no one there.”
“Kind of you, madam,” the big man boomed. “And rest assured that if there is any damage, you will be amply compensated.”
“Well, I hope you won’t—” she began, but the big man and the lean, tough one were already on their way out of her office.
She watched them get into the waiting car and speak briefly to the driver and another man. How odd the two of them look together, she thought. Just like Nero Wolfe and Archie . . . .
The car drew up outside Number Six. The big man and the lean one got out; the other two waited.
“You tap on the window,” the big man said softly to Charley Hammond. “I’ll use the key.”
Charley glided to the window and made a rhythmic tapping sound that might have been a cautious signal. There was a slight movement from within, and Charley went on tapping.
The lock turned with a tiny click and the big man pushed. Nothing happened. Pushed again. The door refused to budge.
“Zut!” said the big man irritably beneath his breath; stepped back two paces, plunged forward like an angry bull with one vast, immensely powerful shoulder aimed at the door, and rammed three hundred pounds of muscled weight against the flimsy wood.
It splintered and caved inward with an outraged squeal as piled-up furniture flew backwards with the impact.
The huge man bounced over the scattered pile of chairs and bed and TV set with surprising agility and zoomed straight at the man who stood near the window, mouth wide open and gaping and gun protruding from his hand.
His single shot went hopelessly wide as the enormous figure landed on him with one massive hand ramming into his face and the other twisting the gun arm with one neat, almost casual flick that broke it. Then the big hands reached down and clamped viselike around the ankles to haul the fallen figure into the air, swing it around like a rag doll, and slam it hard against the wall.
The big man dusted off his hands and peered down at his handiwork.
“Do you think he’ll live through that?” asked Charley Hammond from the doorway, and there was a look of awe on his face that he usually reserved for Carter’s exploits.
“Oh, yes, he breathes. Wrap him up, friend Charley. But we will not have him delivered, no? We will take him with us and eat him on the way. Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!”
And Valentina Sichikova slapped her enormous, trousered thigh and laughed delightedly.
There was a forward compartment on the U.S. Air Force jet that was usually reserved for the brass hats. For this one trip it had been hastily converted into a sick bay. It was cool, quiet, and very, very private, and the nurse was in bed with the patient.
Nick was swathed in bandages and not much else. And Julia’s tawny, silky form was covered only by Nick.
“You do make quick recoveries, don’t you?” she murmured. “You don’t think you might strain yourself?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Nick said softly, and nibbled her ear. “It’s therapy. I need it. I need you. Do you know that I love you?”
“Yes,” she said simply, and drew his head down to hers. Their mouths joined in a melting kiss.
He did love her, in his fashion, as she loved him in hers. It wasn’t a boy-meets-girl-and-marries kind of love; it had nothing to do with moonlight, music and roses. And yet, in its own way it was deep and strong. It was yearning, sensual, sometimes desperate because of the intrusive thought that there might be no tomorrow; it was a broken series of abrupt meetings, a sudden joining and parting of flesh, an occasional interlude of deceptive peace. A need; an understanding.
“It’s such a short flight to New York,” Julia sighed, stroking the battered body that lay over her like a blanket . . . a highly charged electric blanket.
“Yes, that’s why I told the pilot to take us to San Juan,” Nick murmured.
And then her tawny tigress’ body rippled sensuously beneath him, and there was no more of the banter that so often served to cover up the things they really wanted to say.
They had no more than half an hour left to let their bodies do the talking; and their bodies talked with eloquence.
The silent speech began with gentle touches, little explorations that made flesh tingle and the muscles tense expectantly. Julia’s fingers traced the contours of his lithely muscled body, remembering where they had been before and what their touch could do; and his hands, in turn caressed her swelling breasts and thighs until her body taunted deliciously, demandingly. She trembled slightly as he sought out the secret places — no secret, any more, to him, but still with their own mystery — and little arrows of passion darted through her carrying separate little shafts of warmth that gradually merged until they engulfed her in a mellow glow. Nick sighed voluptuously and stroked the glow into a building flame.
Her legs entwined his and they rolled together. Lips met and burned; thighs undulated.
The pleasant singing of their senses blended into the quiet droning of the powerful engines, and the slight pulsation of the plane was lost in the more urgent pulsation of their bodies.
He marveled at her as he made love with all his heart and all his subtlety, glorying in the feel of her firm flesh against his and the provocative movements that soon would galvanize his body. She was always the same, yet never the same; that was the contradiction of her. Sophisticated Julia, with the teasing, expert touch . . . . Catlike Julia, languorous, wanting to be stroked . . . Tigerish Julia, hot with desire, falling on him and attacking like a wild thing . . . then languorous again, lying back provocatively, waiting for him to do things to her that only he could do to bring her to the highest peak of passion.
They came together as if that was all the two of them had ever wanted, let the stimulating movement build until it seemed that it could build no more, then parted, gasping, to savor the ecstasy and postpone the inevitable end until the last possible second.
“Julia baby, Julia baby,” Nick whispered, his face buried in her hair and all the pain forgotten. “Sweet baby . . .
“Mine,” she whispered back. “Love me, love me, love me!”
She accepted him again and he plunged deep into warmth and softness. She melted gently, slowly, and then burst into a new flame that rippled through her body and jerked her sinuous limbs into an erotic, thrilling rhythm. A little moan escaped her lips and her arms tightened about him in a clasp that was fierceness and tenderness together, as if she held the whole world in her arms and would be altogether lost if she let go.
He could feel the yearning in her, not just the animal urge, but the honest depth of feeling and the need to be a pa
rt of someone else who knew her world. For, in a way, they were both outcasts from the normal scheme of things, and they both knew it. And so, two people who lived for the moment and could only hope that there would be other moments made the kind of love that they both needed.
Her fingers tightened on his back and her supple, sinuous body writhed urgently.
Now she was all woman — not cat, not tiger — Woman. Earthy woman, damp hair curling about her ears, mouth crushing his, breasts peaked and thrusting, thighs clasping hungrily, body ripe and ready.
He rolled her over, still entwined with him, in a fluid, twisting motion that brought a sharp little cry of added pleasure from her, and drew her so close, so very close, that she could feel everything he had to give. She cried out again, almost piteously, and her muscles tightened against the hard thrust of him so that he could not have let go even if he had wanted to.
And, of course, he did not want to.
The weight of her on top of him, light and lithe as she was, tipped the delicate balance between control and absolute delirium, and with a surge of the purest happiness he gave in to the final urge.
They thrust together, rocked, thrust, dissolved into one person in a state of ultimate ecstasy. Wild exhilaration swept through them like a rushing storm wind and carried them along in their intimacy for long moments of exquisite passion . . . and gradually the storm wind sighed down into a gentle breeze. They drifted on it, lazily and lovingly, until it glided to a stop.
Their words were soft and broken and the fluttering kisses were small gifts of thanks.
The sound of the great engines, outside of their tiny world, altered subtly. The plane banked slowly.
“You lied to me,” Julia murmured, eyes half-closed and heart still beating with excitement. “It’s not San Juan, but New York after all.”
“Oh, I am a treacherous fellow.” Nick smiled down at her and Hilled her once more on the Hps. “But I have my miserable living to earn. And the big birdman awaits.”