Run, Spy, Run

by Nick Carter

  Annotation

  Lord Edmond Burns of Britain's labor party — dead over the English coast in an airliner explosion. Replaced by a Red Chinese sympathizer.

  Ahmed Tal Barin of India's pacifist party — dead over the Pacific Ocean in an airliner explosion. Replaced by a Red Chinese sympathizer.

  Augusto La Dilda of Peru's moderate party — dead over North Africa in an airliner explosion. Replaced by a Red Chinese sympathizer.

  ...and in the Montego Room of the Cayman Hotel, Jamaica, where the delectable Countess de Fresnaye sipped champagne with her lover (a young man vaguely resembling both Cary Grant and Gregory Peck) a waiter delivered a note. It was unsigned... and addressed to Nick Carter...

  A novel behind the glamour-mask of international intelligence... pitting young Nick Carter against the world's most vicious spy.

  * * *

  Nick CarterThe Man with the Steel Hand

  Mr. Hawk

  Death in a Dark Room

  Appointment at the Plaza Fountain

  Something Rotten at Yankee Stadium

  The Burning Building

  "Stop Judas!"

  Julia Baron

  Flight from Idlewild

  Aunt Jemima

  London Idyll

  The Enemy Within

  Judas: Myth and Man

  Wilhelmina, Hugo, Pierre and Friend

  Two after One

  Harcourt to Judas to Cane

  Red Shadow over White House

  * * *

  Nick Carter

  Run, Spy, Run

  The Man with the Steel Hand

  Nick Carter settled back in his forward seat and allowed himself to be lulled by the powerful throbs of the jet-thrust engines. The giant metal bird was moving as easily as a magic carpet. He folded his lean hands across his stomach and relaxed. There was nothing to do but wait. Yet the steel gray eyes remained alert beneath his lowered lids. Flight 16 from Jamaica to New York had long since passed its midpoint,' and still there had been no sign of anyone's interest in him.

  Once again he surveyed his fellow passengers, mentally positioning those he could not see without turning his head. It would have to be someone on board, or the message didn't make much sense. Anyway, it was always a good habit to double-check those you were traveling with. And a bad habit to break. Nick had never broken it, which may have been one of the reasons he had survived a World War, five years with OSS, and seven years as Top Secret Operative for Mr. Hawk and the United States.

  The assembled company was as before. Everyone was in the expected place wearing the expected expression. The young honeymooners directly in front of Nick were still billing and cooing, being predictably solicitous of each other's needs. Ahead of them, the two noisy executives — apparently business partners on their way back to the home office — were weighing the comparative merits of Mantle, Mays and Musial. The young brunette across the aisle from him was still supporting her thick paper-back textbook whose title had made him glad that his college days were far behind: Problems of Adaptation and Culture Clash in the Emerging Nations— A Socio-Psychological Study. Only she wasn't looking at the book. She was looking at him with appraising, speculative eyes. Then she caught his glance and blushed. He grinned at her cheerfully, Barnard, he thought, or Vassar, maybe. Nice if the message referred to her. Too young for him, though, and much better off with one of those Princeton lads three rows to the rear.

  He closed his eyes and sighed a little wistfully. The good part of those days was also far behind. And so was Jamaica. Jamaica had been intoxicating. A tough assignment had turned, surprisingly, into a vacation. Two wonderful weeks of fun in the sun, far away from a Mr. Hawk who was fondly supposing his best operative — Nick Carter — to be risking his neck and racking his brains. It had been a breeze and a pure delight. A breeze that, among other things, had blown him a stack of bonus money from Uncle Sam for services rendered. And then there had been the delicious icing of the Countess de Fresnaye, a tall, willful wanton who had not only been the key to the case but its most delectable element. It was while he was dining with her in the Montego Room of the Cayman Hotel that the note had come. It read:

  Nick Carter: Urgently need help. Our mutual friend. Max Dillman of Intour, has often spoken of you. Said he thought you were in Kingston. Looked for you and saw you in lounge tonight, overheard you saying you planned to leave in a day or two. Can't talk to you now to explain, but beg you to take Flight 16 tomorrow. Otherwise no way out of desperate situation that might interest you. Please help. Will contact you on plane. Please please please this is not a joke or trap.

  The note had been hastily written on hotel stationery. It was unsigned. A waiter had handed it to him. He had received it from a busboy, who had had it from a porter, who had been given it by... well, he couldn't exactly say. There had been a party at the bar and another at table 23, and all sorts of notes had been passing back and forth all evening. He just couldn't recall where this one had come from.

  The Countess had smiled, shaken her head, and raised her glass for more champagne.

  "An admirer, Nick. A silly woman with a made-up story. Ignore it. Stay until Friday."

  A woman, he thought now, opening his eyes to the small world of the plane. She was probably right. But not the kid on the aisle. She's shy, but she's not nervous. Nothing urgent on her mind. Who had been in the hotel the night before? Impossible to match last night's faces with anyone here.

  There was the highly-strung, over-age blonde in the Paris clothes, with the small freckle-faced kid who kept running to the water cooler. There was the matron with the impossible hat, and the frail little fellow who squealed "My dear!" every few minutes and waved his fingers when he talked. Hardly anybody stood out from the crowd. An ordinary lot.

  Except the man with the steel hand.

  He had intrigued Nick from the moment of departure from sunny Jamaica. Clearly, he was not the type to write the imploring "Please please please help!" What type was he? An odd bird.

  Short, squat, very wide in the shoulders, wearing expensive but poorly cut clothes. Bald, Brynner skull, small eyes ringed with pouches, indicating poor health or fatigue — tension? — rather than age. And then that hand...

  The man had done nothing during the flight but sip tea and smoke short, thin cigarettes. From his seat, Nick had identified the pack as Rayettes, a type favored by Latin Americans. Yet the man was smooth-faced, fair of skin, and very nearly American looking. Or maybe Russian. But with the British tea-drinking habit. There she was again, the stewardess, dispensing tea from that bottomless server. Mmmm. Most attractive girl. Seemed to know the man. She smiled and chatted as she filled the upheld cup in the robot hand.

  The hand was fascinating.

  Tragedies of war had brought about fantastic advances in artificial limbs. It was engrossing to watch the bald man maneuver his tea and Rayettes with those gleaming, non-human fingers. He hardly used his good left hand, as if openly defying his disability.

  Steel Hand, so far, has been the only non-routine aspect of Flight 16.

  Nick stirred restlessly. The girl on the aisle looked at him sideways, sliding her glance over his handsome face and down the lean, whipcord length of his body. He was almost too good looking, with that classic profile and the firm, cleft chin. Those icy eyes looked cruel and dangerous. Until he smiled. Then the firm, straight mouth split into a grin and laugh-lines rayed out from much warmer eyes. Damn! He'd seen her staring again! She buried her nose in the book.

  He'd seen her staring only because he was watching the hostess coming up the aisle and thinking that she had fine, firm hips, that the blue uniform was most becoming to her, and that he felt like some coffee.

  "Hello," he said, as she came between them. "Does this line ever se
rve coffee, or would that be un-English?"

  "Oh, of course, I'm sorry!" She looked a little flustered. "I'll bring it right away. It's just been such a day for tea-drinkers...!"

  "Yes, I noticed. Especially your friend, hmm?" Nick glanced down the aisle at the man with the artificial hand, then back at the hostess. She was looking at him, somehow, too intently.

  "And a Remy Martin with the coffee, if I may?"

  "Why not?" she answered, smiling faintly and moving away.

  Nick felt a frown gathering on his forehead.

  Plane crews — out of uniform — often came to the Montego Room and the Henry Morgan Bar of the Cayman for entertainment. Why hadn't he thought of that? Well — didn't prove anything. Hundreds of people drifted in and out of that hotel last night.

  Rita Jameson surveyed him from her vantage point in the commissary alcove, admiring the lithe, limber body in Seat 6E. Could anyone quite so good looking be really reliable? She poured the coffee and cognac and moved swiftly down the aisle.

  "I wonder if you could help me with something," he said, very quietly.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  "I'll try."

  "Somebody on board this plane sent me a note and forgot to sign it. Somebody who seemed to be in trouble."

  A muscle twitched at the corner of her mouth. He poured the cognac into his coffee and pretended not to notice.

  "Do you have any idea how I could find out who it was? I'd really like to help."

  "I don't know," she said. "I'll think about it. I'll see what I can do."

  Her face was without color or expression as she hurried back to the tiny galley. You're a damn fool, she told herself fiercely. Can't you make up your mind?

  Nick Carter peered out of the port window. Not much time left, if there was going to be any action. He couldn't see it yet, but he knew that the Manhattan skyline was looming up as fast as the four engines could manage the balance of the distance into Idlewild. Mr. Hawk would be waiting to hear from him — Hawk, a voice on the telephone or a coldly impersonal face behind a cigar. A man he had never failed, and prayed he never would. An enigmatic yet dynamic personality, a man with his authoritative finger in every espionage pie indigestible to the United States Government.

  He wondered about the stewardess.

  Rita wondered about him. But Max Dillman, in London, had said he was all right. She eyed her watch and checked the windows. 10:35. ETA was 10:50. Time to tell the passengers to fasten their safety belts, put out the smokes — and all the rest of it. This was supposed to have been her last trip. Tears misted her eyes. Stop that and get moving, she told herself.

  She made the announcement in her low, crisp voice, and began the necessary duty tour down the aisle.

  "Fasten your seat belts, please. We'll be arriving at Idlewild in fifteen minutes. Please put out the cigarette, sir. Here, let me do that, Madame Monnet. Everything all right, Señor Valdez?"

  The steel hand flapped confidently.

  The gradual banking sweep of the 710 Jetstar was almost imperceptible. Nick felt it, and made a final visual check of his companions. Everybody in place and neatly buttoned down. Well, that was that.

  Rita came down the aisle toward him.

  The gigantic spire of the Empire State Building sliced into the morning sky.

  Rita leaned over Nick, pretending to adjust his seat belt.

  "You're cheating, Mr. Carter. You didn't have it fastened," she said laughingly. Barely moving her lips, she added: "Will you help me?"

  "I'd be glad to. How, when, where? And, incidentally, who?"

  He watched the piquant oval of her face and waited.

  She straightened up and said, with mock severity, "Really, Mr. Carter. You know I can't do that. But there's nothing to stop you telephoning me." She lowered her voice again. "Try to be the last one off the plane. Otherwise — it's Rita Jameson, Hadway House. Call tonight at eight."

  He nodded and she turned away.

  A drum of belated warning sounded in his brain. He'd been so fascinated by the question of Who that he really hadn't given much thought to the possibility of a trap. And it was a possibility that a man in his profession could never overlook.

  Well, he was glad he had finally thought of it. But he didn't think it was a trap, somehow. It wasn't only that Rita was so very lovely; she seemed to be afraid.

  Idlewild in the sunlight, a vast, concrete playground with wide ribbons of runways waiting to receive the great metallic homing pigeons.

  Flight 16 came down with a long glide of controlled power, wheels bumping easily and pneumatic air brakes making small choking sounds. The pressurized passenger cabin was, thought Nick, as silent as a churchyard after midnight.

  And then the storm of passenger voices and departure activity began. The flight was over and everybody was home safe.

  The airstair was disgorging passengers rapidly. Nick stretched lazily. Two or three passengers were still wrestling with their hand baggage, but there was no point in making himself conspicuous by hanging around doing nothing. He picked up his briefcase and ambled to the exit.

  "Got a coat for me?" he asked Rita, who stood on the airstair.

  "Oh, yes, that's right," she said, nodding brightly. "One moment."

  He waited. Behind him, he could sense the presence of the man with the steel hand.

  "Excuse me, please, señor. I am in a hurry." The English was perfect, barely tinged with accent.

  Nick stepped out on to the airstair and stood aside. Rita turned from the coat rack.

  "Goodbye, Señor Valdez." She was smiling politely at the man with the steel hand. "I hope you'll honor us with a flight again soon."

  The Brynner skull was now hidden by a brand new Panama. Thin lips curved slightly and the squat body inclined forward in the barest of bows.

  "Thank you. We will meet again, I am sure. Pardon me."

  He edged past Nick on the stairway and made his way quickly down to the tarmac. Nick admired the agility of his movements. The crippled arm was held normally and swung easily at his side.

  Rita came back with Nick's coat.

  "Well, on my way, Miss Jameson." Nick smiled at her gently, like a man who appreciated what he was seeing. A soft yellow curl was trying to escape the confines of her cap, and the breeze ruffled the top of her blouse. "Walk me down?"

  "It's a little unusual, but why not?"

  She walked a step ahead of him and said quietly, "Can't talk much now, but I need your help with a murder."

  "Committing one?" asked Nick, slightly startled.

  "No, of course not," she answered crisply. "Solving one. A hideous, monstrous thing."

  They stopped at the foot of the airstair.

  "I'll try," said Nick. "May not be up my alley, but perhaps we can find that out over a late dinner."

  "Perhaps we can. Thank you." She smiled briefly. "Hadway House, remember?"

  Nick nodded and raised his hand in a wave. She turned toward the stair and he headed briskly after the stream of passengers wending erratically toward the Exit gate. He was ready for some strong coffee and possibly four or five eggs. Still, his interest was divided between Rita and the fat back of the Señor. Ahead, the blonde Panama gleamed in the sunlight.

  Something, some sixth sense, made Nick look up at the observation deck. At that instant, there was a click of sound. A barely discernible cricket-chirp of a noise that should have been lost in the busy throb of Idlewild. But Carter heard it.

  He stopped, braking on the balls of his feet, every sense of his finely-tuned body alerted. Nick had had this sensation of imminent danger before. Walking across a minefield in southern Germany just before a member of his reconnaissance patrol — a buddy — had tripped over a vicious S-2 device, a deadly Bouncing Betty which had blown Mike to nothingness. That moment in time was the same as now.

  The sound came from in front of him. There was only time for a swift look that showed something inexplicable and eerie. Señor Valdez had checked himself in stri
de as if he, too, had heard the click of sound. And as if it meant something to him. For, what was even more bewildering, he had raised his steel hand as if to inspect it for mechanical defects.

  And then there was no time at all.

  A mighty roar blasted Nick's consciousness. The universe flipped over on its back, spilling the earth and the people on it into one boiling lake of confusion and tangled bodies.

  Nick kicked over like a feather blown by a hurricane, burying his face in the sun-baked concrete of Idlewild field.

  Passengers screamed in mindless terror. It was as if a lightning bolt had leapt from the heavens to strike down the straggly line of passengers leaving Flight 16.

  The atmosphere rolled and thundered with explosion.

  Nick pried his eyes open. A rain of flying fragments and concrete chips powdered the cover of his folded arms. His coat and the briefcase lay yards away, whipped from him by the force of the blast.

  The scene before him was a carnage. Passengers lay sprawled in impossible positions, looking like discarded rag dolls tossed on some vast garbage heap. It was a montage of horror. Smoky dust rose from pits where, seconds ago, had walked the honeymoon couple, the blonde woman and her freckle-faced kid, the brunette with the book, the slight young man with the languid hands, and...

  A huge, smoking hole was visible where Señor Valdez had stood and looked at his hand.

  There was no sign of Señor Valdez.

  A wave of wailing, high-pitched human sound came from the airport building and the observation deck.

  Nick staggered to his feet, dazed and bleeding, his ears full of the scream of a siren and the animal cries of people in misery and fear, his senses chilled with the immediacy of sudden, hideous death.

  Behind him, he could hear a woman crying bitterly, in short, frantic gasps of terror.

  It sounded like Rita Jameson.

  He turned swiftly and saw her at the top of the airstair, clutching the slightly buckled rail and sobbing. A swift glance around the field convinced him that there was nothing he could do for anyone. An ambulance screamed on to the concrete beyond the pit and its siren moaned to a stop. Nick ran toward the plane and sprang up the steps. Pilot and engineer brushed past him to gasp at the nightmare scene on the field.