Run, Spy, Run

by Nick Carter

  Nick took Rita by the shoulders.

  "Stop that, now. Are you hurt?"

  "No, I'm all right, I'm all right, but oh God, how horrible!" She choked out the words. "The people. All the people!"

  "Did you see anything out of the way before this happened?" Nick shook her gently.

  She brushed the hair out of her eyes and drew her hand across her tear-stained face. It was an oddly endearing, childlike gesture.

  "No, but... Señor Valdez. I thought — I thought he blew up!" She raised her hand in unconscious imitation of Valdez' final action.

  "That's what I thought," said Nick. "Look, take hold of yourself. We're going to be questioned, all of us. No need to tell anyone you've talked to me — about anything. Call you tonight."

  But a figure on the observation deck had seen them talking, had seen Rita's gesture with her hand, had seen them look, immediately afterwards, at the frightful hole where Valdez had once stood.

  A calculating mind asked itself, "Why take a chance?" and answered its own question.

  Mr. Hawk

  The airfield was a madhouse for the next two hours.

  A barrage of officials, police, fire trucks, ambulances and clamoring personnel crowded the strip of runway where the strange man with the even stranger hand had vanished in a puff of terrible smoke. Nick Carter, as a passenger returning from business in Jamaica, could do nothing but look properly horrified and render a baffled eyewitness account. This was no time to be the private eye he usually called himself or even the top secret agent for AXE, which he now was. This time he was strictly on the sidelines, truly as shaken as any passenger. There were no conclusions to be drawn until he had consulted with Mr. Hawk.

  But the special agent who lived inside his brain was as deeply disturbed as Nick Carter, the man. The explosion-killing was one of the most inexplicable, as well as one of the most horrifying, things he had ever encountered. He thought of the mangled forms strewing the pitted strip. What maniac could have planned this frightful thing?

  As soon as he could, he drifted quietly away from the maelstrom of questions and sobs. In the spacious Coffee Shop, Nick found an unoccupied phone booth and dialed Hawk's unlisted number. His mind quickly turned to the code jargon of Axe.

  "Yes?" Mr. Hawk's voice was as crackling as ever, belying his sixty-odd years.

  "Your pigeon's home to roost," said Carter.

  "Oh, good trip?"

  "Until now. Somebody's just chopped down a cherry tree. More than that — an orchard."

  "That so? Hatchet?"

  "No. An axe."

  There was a pause. Then the old man's voice said carefully, "Something you can talk about at home?"

  "Could be — but I think I need a change of scene."

  "I see. I hear they have some interesting exhibits at the Museum of National History. I especially like the Tyrannosaurus Rex. At four o'clock."

  "So do I," said Nick, and hung up.

  It was a simple code system, but it worked.

  Tyrannosaurus Rex stood poised like a monster from some Grade B horror movie. The eyeless skull and raised forepaws of the king of prehistoric reptiles, four stories high when standing erect, filled Nick Carter's view as the hands on his radium-dial wrist watch indicated four o'clock.

  The large, eerily-lit room was deserted, save for Carter and a tall, lanky figure peering thoughtfully up into the rib cage of the exhibit.

  Hawk always gave Nick the image of a frontiersman made to dress to the nines in a dark cutaway coat and striped morning trousers and itching to get back into his working clothes. Seven long years of association had not dimmed the sensation. There he was, America's top secret service man looking like Uncle Sam himself, except for beard and stripes.

  The dreaded enemy of traitors, saboteurs and the spies of every continent was craning his neck upward with absorbed interest, looking for all the world like a spry old-timer with nothing on his mind but the wonders of nature.

  Nick strolled slowly around the gigantic skeleton. He stopped, as if by chance, beside Hawk and scrutinized the bone structure.

  "Ha, young man." Hawk pointed a leathery finger upward. "What do you know about the intercosta clavicle?"

  "Not very much, sir, I'm afraid," apologized Nick.

  "Something to do with bones, I believe. But I'm more interested in other kinds of bodies. And in jet planes that unload passengers who suddenly blow up."

  "Yes," Hawk murmured. "Odd about that." He looked sharply at Nick. "You look peaky. Should be used to this sort of thing. Can't let it get you. Something special about this one?"

  Nick shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like his facial expressions to be readable.

  "Maybe. Very messy. And the kids — well, nothing to be done about them now. But there was something odd. A fellow with a steel hand — that ticked. Just once."

  Hawk's eyes brightened. Years fell away from him.

  "Let's have it."

  Nick told him, his account crisp and graphic. He mentioned Rita only briefly, but not so briefly that Hawk's alert eyes failed to register the mention.

  "Think there's a connection?"

  "Seems possible. I'll find out."

  "Hmmm. You do that"

  A woman with a teenager in tow wandered into the room. Hawk indicated something in his program. Nick moved closer to him and peered over his shoulder.

  "Curious coincidence," said Hawk.

  "About the girl?"

  "No. About the explosion. By the way, how was Jamaica?"

  "Fun," said Nick.

  "Fun?" Hawk raised his eyebrows.

  "I mean successful," said Nick hurriedly. "Mission completed. Little fun on the side, naturally."

  "Naturally," agreed Hawk drily.

  "But I'm ready for work again."

  "Good. You seem to have started already. Coincidence about the bombings, as I was saying. And about you being involved in one of them."

  "One of them?" Nick eyed the woman and the teenager idly. "There haven't been any others quite like this."

  "No, not quite, but close enough to convince me that they're connected in some way. It's your new assignment, Carter. Operation Jet. AXE is being sharpened now. Three planes have blown up in the last few months. One over the Pacific, one over the Atlantic, and — last month — one over North Africa. The insurance people are trying to pin them on money-crazy relatives eager to dispose of kin in order to cash in on accident policies. And in one case there's a suspicion of pilot error. All of which we'd go along with — except for the three jokers in the deck."

  "Such as?"

  "On each plane, a noted diplomat died. The FBI suspects sabotage. The fellow in the White House has asked me personally to investigate."

  "Mr. Burns of Great Britain, wasn't it? Ahmed Tal Barin of India. La Dilda of Peru. I remember now."

  Hawk nodded approvingly. "That's right. And from all indications, you've just sat in on the fourth."

  "Not exactly. The bomb went off on the ground. After the flight was over."

  "They make mistakes too." Hawk looked grim. "I don't know of any diplomat with a steel hand, but it's my guess that the man on Flight 16 was somebody. Unless..." His eyes narrowed. "Unless he was the killer, a walking bomb who meant to take the plane with him. You did say the explosion seemed to come from him — or anyway, he was closest to it?"

  Nick shook his head decisively. "That won't wash. Not the type. And the actions don't fit at all. He was as surprised as anyone. And he didn't take the plane with him."

  "Then the chances are he was the target. We'll know more when the airport people step out of the way and let the machinery roll. CAB is in our hair at this point."

  "I've checked into the Biltmore," Nick said. "Room 2010. As long as I'm on the job there's no sense in going to my little gray home on the west side." He grinned almost apologetically. "And I'll be needing some money."

  Hawk checked his program again.

  "You'll need more than money. You'll get a package tomor
row morning. Complete dossier, all details, and a set of identification papers. This time you'll have to change your name. I don't want the Nick Carter of Flight 16 mixed up in this thing any more."

  "Ha. Secret Agent X-9," snorted Nick scornfully.

  "That's not really very much funnier than N-3. is it, Carter?" Hawk asked coldly. "A number isn't a game. It's protection. So is a false name. And not just for you." He stabbed a bony forefinger at Nick. "For the Service."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And stop that idiotic grinning. Now. Get back to your hotel room and get some rest and oil your weapons, or whatever you do with them. You'll be very busy from now on."

  "There's the girl," Nick said.

  "Oh, yes. The girl." Hawk eyed him thoughtfully. "There always is, isn't there? Are you sure of her? Are you sure of your friend Max Dillman?"

  "I'm sure of Max," said Nick. "And I'll soon find out about the girl."

  "I'll bet you will," said the old man.

  Nick hid a smile. "If she's one of theirs, whoever 'they' may be, I may as well know it now. I may have to — um — take steps. If not, I may learn something about Steel Hand. I gather the girl has traveled with him before. And we were both pretty close to him just before he blew out of this world."

  "What kind of woman is she?"

  "Ah!" said Nick. "Knockout. Name's Rita Jameson. Twenty-fiveish, five-seven, about a hundred and twenty-five pounds, natural blonde, blue eyes, small mole..."

  "I meant her character, if you noticed it," Hawk said huffily.

  "I know you did." Nick laughed. "Hard to say until I know why she wanted to see me. But I'd say she had a genuine problem and she was really scared."

  "And you have a date with her tonight. I imagine you'll have a clearer picture before the evening's over."

  "Oh, I imagine so," agreed Nick.

  Hawk eyed him suddenly, his keen eyes narrowing.

  "Are you armed as of now?"

  "Yes. Usual equipment, plus one. The blast gave me my own ideas."

  "Very good. You look as if you're carrying nothing larger than that fountain pen in your breast pocket."

  Nick shook his head. "Nothing much larger, but much more lethal. Right now I could blow up everything in this room, including us. And of course I have my old friends Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre. Glad you can't spot them."

  "So am I, boy, and glad I don't have to." Mr. Hawk closed his program decisively. "On your way. Stay as neat as you are."

  He raised a hand in farewell and moved away.

  Carter smoked a cigarette before taking his leave of Tyrannosaurus Rex. It had proved an unpopular day for the scaly king who had terrorized the earth in the dawn of time. His only visitors had been Nick, Mr. Hawk, and the woman with the teenager. Rex's day was over. And now Man was doing the terrorizing. Nick's brow furrowed. He seldom philosopriized, but he hated the brutal slaughter he had seen today.

  On the sunny steps of the Museum, Nick hailed a cab for his trip to the Hotel Biltmore.

  * * *

  Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre lay close together on the big bed in Room 2010 of the Biltmore. Nick Carter, naked, moved from the tiled bathroom to the thick pile of the bedroom carpet. A stinging shower had followed a luxurious soak and the tension had gone out of his body, although there was a gathering welt on his forehead, a stiffness in his shoulders, and several small scratches and abrasions on wrists and ankles. But apart from that, and a minor graze running down his cheek to his chin, he had been almost untouched by the blast. Fifteen strenuous minutes of Yoga and a dab of talcum powder would cure whatever ailed him.

  On the bed, Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre waited for his attention.

  The room was soundless. The heavy drapes were drawn, and not even the street noises filtered through the high windows. Nick threw himself prone on the heavy carpet.

  It was a pity that the occupants of the bed were such unappreciative spectators. The marvelously fashioned specimen of male architecture that was Nick Carter deserved a living audience for his daily exercise. True, he often had one. In Jamaica, for instance, the glossy eyes of the Countess had followed every move of his supple body. For no matter where he was, Nick found the time to coordinate every nerve and muscle in his body to the physical science of Yoga. Fifteen concentrated, straining minutes of complete muscular control enabled a man to breathe miraculously under abnormal conditions. Trained him, too, to contort his abdomen and hips to an almost impossible degree of narrowness, so that he was capable of squeezing himself in and out of areas denied the average man. Exercises for eyes and ears and limbs and heart and diaphragm, tried and tested throughout the years, had made Nick Carter a man who never had an earache, an eyestrain or a headache. The muscle exercises were the fieldwork in his campaign for perfect control; the Yoga philosophy of mind over matter consummated the feat. There is no pain, Nick had told himself again and again. Soon this had become a fact. There was no pain — even during one endurance-straining ordeal when his arm had been nearly crushed in a death struggle with the mammoth murderer, Tilson of Berlin. Tilson had died of a broken neck at Nick's hands. Hawk, who seldom allowed himself to be impressed, had never ceased to marvel at how Nick had managed to accomplish the deed with a mangled arm.

  Yoga was also responsible for Nick's great prowess in more amorous exercises. In love as in war, the superb masculine body performed with grace and power.

  Nick snapped erect, his labors over. A fine sheen of perspiration covered his litheness. He flicked the towel over his body and let it fall as he went over to the bed.

  Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre could do things that even Yoga could not do.

  He inspected his trio of lifesavers. Three delicately balanced instruments that were the great equalizers in the war of Spy versus Spy.

  Wilhelmina was a 9mm. Luger, the spoils of World War II. She came from the SS Barracks at Munich. Nick had killed Colonel Pabst, a Himmler aide, to get her, and not only because he considered the Luger the finest hand automatic weapon ever devised: Wilhelmina was a very special Luger. The Colonel had gone in for some refinements. Wilhelmina was stripped to no more than barrel and frame, making her feather-light and easy storage for the waistband of the trousers or the taper of a hip beneath the tail of a coat. She had killed for Nick — several times.

  Hugo was a killer of different style but equal experience.

  Hugo was an Italian stiletto, a lethal miracle fashioned in Milano by an admirer of Cellini. A razor-thin ice pick blade and a bone handle no thicker than a heavy pencil. A blade that lay concealed in the haft until the flick of a finger on a tiny switch whipped the deadly steel from its slot. Hugo was even easier to hide than Wilhelmina. And quieter.

  Pierre was a ball no bigger than a marble. But Pierre was a specialist in death. A French chemist, working for Hawk, had devised an ingenious little implement of destruction in the form of a round pellet containing enough X-5 gas to kill a roomful of people. A turn of the two halves of the pellet in opposite directions set off a thirty-second timer that made speedy departure a necessity. Nick was very wary of Pierre. He had to be carried carefully. True, his outer casing was virtually indestructible and the two halves responded only to a twist of considerable dexterity and pressure, but Pierre was too deadly a genie to take any chances with.

  Nick checked these weapons daily. As with the Yoga, it was good to be on your toes with the equipment you waged your wars with. The war of espionage and international chess kept a top operative busy even when not actively engaged in the battle or the hunt.

  And now there was a fourth weapon. It lay in his pants pocket with the everyday jumble of coins and keys.

  Nick pulled on his shorts and took a flask out of his briefcase. He poured a generous shot into a bathroom tumbler and slid comfortably into a lounge chair, feeling just a little foolish about his latest acquisition. An arsenal of gimmicky weapons, for God's sake, as if he were a boy scout boasting a knife with sixteen blades!

  But there were times when you had to fight
fire with fire, or knife with knife, or blast with blast. And maybe this would be one of them. Even before seeing Hawk he had been certain that he would become even more deeply involved, somehow, in the weird business of the explosion. He had stopped, briefly, on his way into town from the airport. Frankie Gennaro was retired now, but he still liked to tinker down in his basement and use his skillful hands. The little flashlight key-chain was a minor masterpiece. The chain unscrewed and came out like a pin from a grenade. When it did, the gadget was transformed into a door-opener too deadly to use among friends. Frankie's instructions were: "Pull, throw, and run."

  Nick swallowed thoughtfully.

  Flight 16. That was a puzzler. A man blowing up after stepping off an airliner. Hawk and his new assignment... Yes, the old man must be right. Four recent explosions, all connected with aircraft and at least three with foreign diplomats, were a coincidence that spelled out "plan," not "accident." Bombs on planes were more than accident or even murder. There was a hideous callousness in wiping out a planeload of people when you were after only one of them. If you were. But what about this morning? Hawk was probably right about that, too. The bomb must have gone off behind schedule. A snafu. What had gone wrong? That strange clicking sound. Steel Hand looking at his artificial fingers before the explosion. Surprise. Did his hand blow him up? Didn't he know what he had in his hand? Maybe it wasn't the hand. Then what was it?

  Nick took a deep breath. Time enough to think about that when the assignment officially began with the arrival of the facts and figures in Hawk's package. Until then he was still the innocent bystander of Flight 16, one Nicholas Carter who had completed his business in Jamaica and walked down an airstair to stand on the brink of hell. Only Hawk and a handful of trusted cops knew that Carter was N-3 of AXE. If the world thought Nick Carter was a private investigator or a business executive, fine. Just so long as it didn't know that the tall man with the hard jaw and even harder eyes and the label "Carter" had anything to do with AXE.