The Judas Spy

by Nick Carter

  Nick recalled Hawk's words, "…intrigue and corruption. In Indonesia it's a way of life." As usual, Hawk forecast things-to-come with computer accuracy.

  He kicked at a chunk of pink coral. "So your family doesn't want help. I'm just a big surprise you're bringing home. No wonder you were so willing to slip into Fong Island unannounced."

  "Please don't be angry." She was struggling with the jeans and shirt. He decided she wouldn't get anywhere with them without a sewing machine, but the view was marvelous. She caught his solemn glance and came to him, holding the shreds of cloth in front of her. "Help us and you'll help your country at the same time. We've been through a bath of blood. Fong Island escaped, it's true, but in Malang just down the coast two thousand people died. And they are still searching the jungle for Chinese."

  "So. I thought you hated the Chinese."

  "We don't hate anybody. Some of our Chinese people have been here many generations. But when people do wrong things and everybody gets angry they kill. Old resentments. Jealousies. Religious differences."

  "Superstition over reason," Nick murmured. He had seen it in action. He patted one smooth brown arm, noting how delicately she was formed. "Well, we're here. Let's find Fong Island."

  She waggled the bundle of cloth. "Would you hand me one of the blankets?"

  "Here."

  He stubbornly refused to turn away and enjoyed looking at her as she dropped the old clothing and deftly turned herself into the blanket which became a sheath-like sarong. Her gleaming black eyes were impish. "It's more comfortable anyway."

  "It looks good on you," he said. She uncoiled the white cloth band that restrained her breasts and the sarong was beautifully filled out. "Yes," he added, "delightful. Now where are we?"

  She turned and studied the gentle curve of the bay, bordered on its east rim by twisted mangroves. The shore was a white crescent, the sea sapphire in the clear dawn, except where green and azure breakers tumbled over a pink coral reef. Several sea slugs slumped above the surf line like foot-long caterpillars.

  "We may be on Adata Island," she said. "It's uninhabited. The family uses it as sort of a zoo. There are crocodiles, snakes and tigers. If we circle to the north shore we can cross to Fong."

  "No wonder Conrad Hilton skipped it," Nick said. "Sit down and give me half an hour. Then we'll move out."

  He resecured the anchors and covered the little submarine with driftwood and jungle brush until it looked like a pile of debris on the shore. Tala led the way west along the beach. They rounded several small headlands and she exclaimed, "This is Adata. We're on Creese Beach."

  "Creese? Knife?"

  "A curved dagger. Serpentine I think is the English word."

  "How far to Fong?"

  "One pot." She giggled.

  "Come again?"

  "In Malay, one meal. Or about a half day."

  Nick swore soundlessly and strode forward. "Come on."

  They reached a gully that cut across the beach from the interior, where the jungle rose in the distance as if there were hills. Tala paused. "It might be shorter to go up the trail beside the stream and out to the north. It is harder going, but it is twice as long to stay on the beach and go to the west end of Adata and come back."

  "Lead on."

  The trail was horrible, with innumerable deadfalls and barrier vines that resisted Nick's axe like metal. The sun was high and viciously hot when Tala paused at a pool from which the stream ran. "This is the high point. I'm sorry. We're not gaining much time. I didn't realize the trail had not been used for a long time."

  Nick grunted as he sliced at a liana with the razor edge of stiletto-like Hugo. To his astonishment it cut through more swiftly than the axe. Good old Stuart! The weapons chief of AXE always claimed that Hugo was a sample of the best steel in the world — he would be tickled to hear this. Nick pressed Hugo back in the arm sheath. "Today — tomorrow. The sun will still rise."

  Tala laughed. "Thank you. You remember."

  He unwrapped some rations. The chocolate was mud, the biscuits soggy dough. He opened some K-type crackers and cheese and they ate them. A movement back on the trail alerted him and his hand swept out Wilhelmina as he hissed, "Down, Tala."

  Up the rugged path came Mabel. She looked black again instead of brown in the jungle shadow. Nick said, "Oh, hell," and threw her the chocolate and biscuit. She took the gifts and nibbled happily, looking like a dowager at tea at the Plaza. When she had finished Nick yelled, "Now scram!"

  She went away.

  * * *

  After a couple of miles of downhill work they came to a jungle stream about ten yards wide. Tala said, "Wait."

  She went to the edge, deftly made a small packet of her sarong and swam to the other side like a slim brown fish. Nick watched admiringly. She called, "I think it's all right. Come on."

  Nick removed his rubber-cleated boat shoes, wrapped them with the axe in his shirt. He had taken five or six powerful strokes when he heard Tala shout and saw a movement upstream from the corner of his eye. A gnarled brown log seemed to move out from the near bank under its own outboard motor. Alligator? No, crocodile! And he knew that the crocs were the worst! His reflexes were swift. Too late to waste time turning — and didn't they say splashing helped! He gripped shirt and shoes in one hand, letting the axe go, and plowed ahead with powerful overhand strokes and a wide, crashing flutter kick.

  It would be neck and neck! Or would you say jaws and leg? Tala loomed over him. She raised a limb and brought it down — it hit him on the back. The jungle was ripped by an ear-shattering scream and he heard a giant splash behind him. His fingers touched earth and he dropped the packet and dragged himself up on the bank like a seal shoaling on an ice floe. He turned to see Mabel, waist deep in the dark stream, flailing at the crocodile with a giant tree limb.

  Tala hurled another branch at the reptile. Nick rubbed his back.

  "Ouch," he said. "Her aim is better than yours."

  Tala crumpled beside him, sobbing, as if her small body had at last taken too much and the floodgates burst. "Oh, Al, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't see it. It nearly got you. And you're a good man — you're a good man."

  She was stroking his head. Nick looked up and smiled. Mabel withdrew to the other bank and scowled. At least he was sure it was a scowl. "I'm a pretty good man. More."

  He held the slim Indonesian girl in his arms for ten minutes until her hysterical gulps subsided. She had not had time to rewrap her sarong and he noted with approval that her plump breasts were beautifully molded, authentic Playboy picture material. Didn't they say these people had no shyness about breasts? They only covered them because the civilized ladies insisted. He wanted to touch one. Resisted the impulse and gave a small sigh of self-approval.

  When Tala seemed calm, he went to the stream and dragged in his shirt and shoes with a stick. Mabel had vanished.

  When they came out onto a beach which was a replica of the one they had left, the sun was at the treeline in the west. Nick said, "One pot, eh? We took a full dinner."

  "It was my idea," Tala replied humbly. "We should have gone around."

  "I'm teasing you. We probably wouldn't have made any better time. Is that Fong?"

  Across a mile of sea, stretching side-to-side as far as one could see and backed by triplet mountains or volcanic cores, was a beach and shoreline. It had a cultivated, civilized look, unlike Adata. Meadows or farmlands rose on the uplands in green and brown oblongs, and there were clusters of what looked like houses. Nick thought he saw a truck or bus on a road as he squinted his keen eyes.

  "Any way to signal them? Do you happen to be carrying a mirror?"

  "No."

  Nick frowned. There had been a complete jungle survival kit in the sub, but it had seemed stupid to lug it all. The matches in his pocket were like mush. He polished Hugo's thin blade and tried to send flashes toward Fong Island, angling the sun's last rays. He figured he might have made some flickers but in this weird country, he thought dourly
, who would care?

  Tala sat in the sand, her glossy black hair cascading over her shoulders, her small body slumped with weariness. Nick felt the sore tiredness in his own legs and feet and joined her. "I can flash at them all day tomorrow. They'll get the message."

  Tala leaned on him. In exhaustion, he thought at first, until a slim hand crept over his forearm and clung. He admired the perfect, moon-shaped creamy circles at the base of her nails. Man, she was a pretty little thing.

  She said softly, "You must think I'm horrible. I wanted to do the right thing but it all wound up in a mess."

  He squeezed her hand gently. "It just looks worse because you're so tired. Tomorrow I'll explain to your father that you're a heroine. You went for help. There'll be singing and dancing as the whole family celebrates your courage."

  She chuckled as if she enjoyed the fantasy. Then gave a big sigh. "You don't know my family. If Akim had done it, maybe. But I'm only a girl."

  "Some girl." It was more comfortable with his arm around her. She didn't object. She snuggled.

  After awhile his back ached. He slowly lay back on the sand and she followed like a barnacle. She began to run one small hand lightly over his chest and neck.

  The slim fingers stroked his jaw, outlined his lips, patted his eyes. They massaged his forehead and temples with a knowing cleverness that — combined with the day's exercise — almost put him to sleep. Except that when the tantalizing, feathery touch danced over his nipples, and belly button he awoke again.

  Her lips were soft on his ear. "You are a good man, Al."

  "You said that before. You're sure, huh?"

  "I know. Mabel knew." She giggled.

  "Leave my girl friend out of this," he murmured sleepily.

  "Do you have a girl?"

  "Sure."

  "Is she a beautiful American?"

  "No. Unattractive Eskimo, but man she can cook a swell chowder."

  "A what?"

  "Fish stew."

  "I don't really have any boy friend."

  "C'mon now. A beautiful little dish like you? Your local lads aren't all blind. And you're smart. Educated. And by the way" — he squeezed a little with the arm around her — "thanks for conking that croc. It took courage."

  She gave a pleased gurgle. "It was nothing." The titillating fingers tap-danced just above his belt and Nick sniffed the hot, rich air. This is how it happens. Warm tropic night — hot blood pounds. Mine is warming, and is pounding such a bad idea?

  He twisted onto his side, clamping Wilhelmina back under his arm. Tala fitted him as snugly as the Luger in the holster.

  "No good-looking young man for you over on Fong Island?"

  "Not really. Gan Bik Tjang says he loves me, but I think he is confused."

  "How confused?"

  "He seems nervous around me. He hardly touches me."

  "I'm nervous around you. But I love touching…"

  "If I had a strong boy friend — or husband — I'd fear nothing."

  Nick diverted his hand which had been traveling toward those magnetic young breasts and patted her shoulder. This required thought. A husband? Hah! It would be wise to study the Machmurs before inviting trouble. There were odd customs — like penetrate daughter and we penetrate you. Wouldn't it be nice if they were a tribal type where tradition said it was an honor if you mounted one of their nubile daughters? No such luck.

  He dozed. The fingers on his forehead returned, hypnotic at his temples.

  * * *

  Tala's cry awoke him. He started to jump up and a hand pressed down on his chest. The first thing he saw was a shiny knife that looked two-feet long — not far from his nose, with the tip at his throat. It had a symmetrical, serpentine-curved blade. Hands grabbed his arms and legs. He was held by five or six men and they were not weaklings, he decided, after an experimental wrench.

  Tala was pulled away from his side.

  Nick's eyes followed the gleaming blade up to its holder, a stern-looking young Chinese with very short hair and clean-cut features.

  The Chinese asked in excellent English, "Kill him now, Tala?"

  "Don't do it till I give you the message," Nick barked. It seemed as smart a thing to say as any.

  The Chinese frowned. "I am Gan Bik Tjang. Who are you?"

  Chapter 2

  "Stop!" Tala shouted.

  About time she joined the action, Nick thought. He lay very still and said, "I'm Al Bard, an American businessman. I brought Miss Machmur home."

  By rolling his eyes he watched Tala step close to the pig-pile with himself on the bottom. She said, "He is with us, Gan. He brought me back from Hawaii. I talked with the Orang Americas and…"

  She continued with a stream of Malay-Indonesian which Nick could not follow. Men began to climb off his arms and legs. At last the slim Chinese youth removed the creese and put it carefully in a belt case. He put out an arm and Nick took it as if he needed it. No harm in getting a grip on one of them — just in case. He pretended to be clumsy and appear resentful and frightened, but once on his feet he studied the situation as he stumbled in the sand. Seven men. One holding a repeating shotgun. He would get him first, if need be, and the chances were better than even that he would take them all. Hours and years of practice — judo, karate, savate — and deadly precision with Wilhelmina and Hugo gave you a tremendous edge.

  He shook his head and rubbed his arm and staggered closer to the man with the shotgun. "Please excuse us," Gan said. "Tala says you have come to help us. I thought she might be your prisoner. We saw the flash last night and came over before dawn."

  "I understand," Nick answered. "No harm done. Glad to meet you. Tala has talked about you."

  Gan looked pleased. "Where is your boat?"

  Nick shot a warning glance at Tala. "The U.S. Navy dropped us here. On the other side of the island."

  "I see. Our boat is just up the beach. Can you make it?"

  Nick decided his acting was improving. "I'm fine. How are things at Fong?"

  "Not good. Not bad. We have our… troubles."

  "Tala told us. Any more word from the bandits?"

  "Yes. Always the same. More money or they will kill… the hostages."

  Nick was sure he had been going to say "Tala." But Tala was right here! They walked along the beach. Gan said, "You are going to meet Adam Machmur. He will not be happy to see you, you know."

  "I've heard. We can offer powerful help. I'm sure Tala told you I also have a government connection. Why won't he and the other victims welcome it?"

  "They don't believe in help from governments. They believe in the power of money and their own plans. Their own… I guess the English word is cunning."

  "And they don't even cooperate with each other…"

  "No. It is not the way they think. Each believes that if you pay, everything will come out all right and you can always get more money. You know the story of the goose and the golden eggs?"

  "Yes."

  "It's like that. They cannot understand how bandits could kill the goose that lays the gold."

  "But you think differently…"

  They rounded a spit of pink-white sand and Nick saw a small sailing craft, a double-ended outrigger vessel with a large lateen sail half-lowered, flapping in the light breeze. A man was reefing it. He stopped when he saw them. Gan had been silent for several minutes. At last he said, "Some of us are younger. We see and read and think differently."

  "Your English is excellent and you have an American rather than a British accent. Did you go to school in the United States?"

  "Berkeley," Gan replied shortly.

  There was little chance to talk in the prau. The big sail made maximum use of the easy wind and the small craft crossed the patch of sea at four or five knots, with Indonesians draped over its outriggers. They were muscular, hard little men, all bone and sinew, and they were fine sailors. Without a word they would move their weight to maintain the best sailing trim.

  In the bright morning Fong Island looked m
ore businesslike than at dusk. They headed for a big dock that stretched out on piles about two hundred yards from the shore. At its landward end was a complex of warehouses and sheds, trucks of several sizes; to the east a small engine was shunting tiny cars in a rail yard.

  Nick leaned near Gan's ear. "What do you ship?"

  "Rice, kapok, coconut products, coffee, rubber. Tin and bauxite from other islands. Mr. Machmur is very — alert."

  "How is business?"

  "Mr. Machmur owns a lot of stores. Big one in Djakarta. We never lack for markets except when world prices are way down."

  Nick thought that Gan Bik was alert, too. They landed on a floating dock beside the big pier, next to a two-masted schooner into which a mobile crane was loading bags on pallets.

  Gan Bik led Tala and Nick along the dock and up a walk with a hard-shell surface to a big, cool-looking building with awning shutters. They entered an office with a picturesque decor in a blend of European and Asian themes; walls of polished wood displayed art that Nick decided was outstanding, two giant fans circled overhead, mocking the tall air-conditioner silent in a corner. The broad ironwood executive desk was flanked by a modern adding machine and a switchboard and recording equipment.

  The man at the desk was large — wide, not tall — with keen brown eyes. He wore spotless, tailored white cottons. A dignified Chinese in a linen suit over a light blue polo shirt sat on a bench of rubbed teak. Gan Bik said, "Mr. Machmur — this is Mr. Al Bard. He brought Tala." Nick shook hands and Gan drew him to the Chinese. "This is my father, Ong Tjang."

  They were pleasant without changing facial expressions. Nick did not sense hostility — rather an air of "it's nice you've come and it will be nice when you go."

  Adam Machmur said, "Tala will want to eat and rest. Gan, please take her to the house in my car and come back."

  Tala flashed Nick a glance — I told you so — and followed Gan out. The Machmur patriarch gestured Nick to a chair. "Thank you for returning my impetuous daughter. I hope she was no — trouble."