The Judas Spy

by Nick Carter

  Tala made a wriggling, snuggling motion that blended her onto him like a caterpillar on a branch. He knew that she could feel every bit of him. After long minutes she gently removed her lips from his and whispered, "I adore you."

  Nick said, "You can tell how I feel about you, you beautiful Javanese doll." He ran a finger lightly along the rim of her sarong. "This is in the way and you'll wrinkle it."

  She dropped her legs slowly to the floor, stood up, and unwrapped her sarong as casually and unaffectedly as she had when bathing in the jungle. Only now the atmosphere was different. He caught his breath. Her twinkling eyes judged him accurately, and her expression changed to that of a mischievous female urchin, the merry look he had noted before, so appealing because there was no mockery in it — she shared delight with you.

  She put her hands on her perfect brown hips. "You approve?"

  Nick swallowed, swung off the bed and went to the door. No one was in the corridor. He closed the jalousie and the solid inner door which had a flat brass bolt of the quality designed for yachts. He flipped the window jalousies into peek-proof slants.

  He returned to the bed and picked her up, handling her like a precious toy, holding her high and watching her smile. Her demure calm was more exciting than activity. He took a deep breath — she looked in the soft light like a nude mannequin colored by Gauguin. She cooed something he could not understand and the soft sound and warmth and scent of her dispelled the doll dream. When he laid her gently on the white spread beside the Dutch wife she gurgled happily. The weight of her generous breasts spread them slightly into inviting, plumped cushions. They rose and fell with a faster than normal beat and he realized their love play had aroused her passions in tune with his own, but she had held them within her, masking the boiling eagerness which he saw clearly now. Her small hands suddenly raised. "Come."

  He welded himself to her. He felt an instant of resistance and a small grimace crossed her lovely features to be dispelled at once as if she was reassuring him. Her palms locked inside his armpits, pulled at him with astonishing strength, crawled around his back. He felt the delightful warmth of delicious depths and a thousand tingling tendrils gripping him, relaxed, flickered, tickled, stroked at him moistly and gripped again. His spinal nerve cord became an alternating filament receiving warm, tiny, tingling shocks. The vibration at his loins strengthened powerfully and he was lifted for instants by surges that overwhelmed his own.

  He forgot time. Long after their explosive ecstasies had flamed and subsided he moved a damp arm, looked at his wristwatch. "God," he whispered, "Two hours. If anyone is looking for you…"

  Fingers danced along his jaw, stroked his neck, flowed down his chest and discovered relaxing flesh. They generated a new, sudden thrill like the vibrating fingers of a concert pianist trilling a staccato passage.

  "No one is looking for me." She raised her full lips to his again.

  Chapter 3

  On his way to the breakfast room, just after dawn, Nick stepped out onto the wide porch. The sun was a yellow ball in a cloudless sky at the rim of the sea and shore to the east. The landscape beamed fresh and spotless, the road and luxuriant vegetation sloping down to the coastline looked like a minutely crafted model, so lovely it almost lacked reality.

  The air was spice scented, still fresh from the night breeze. It could be paradise, he thought, if you banished the Colonel Sudirmats.

  Hans Nordenboss came out beside him, his stocky body moving soundlessly on the polished wood deck. "Magnificent, eh?"

  "Yes. What's that spice smell?"

  "From the groves. Once this area was a mass of spice parks, as they are called. Plantations of everything from nutmeg to peppers. It's a small part of the business now."

  "Grand place to live. Too bad men can't just relax and enjoy it."

  Three trucks crowded with natives crawled like toys along the road far below. Nordenboss said, "There's part of your problem. Overpopulation. As long as men breed like bugs they'll build their own problems."

  Nick nodded. Hans the realist. "I know you're right. I've seen the population tables."

  "Did you see Colonel Sudirmat last night?"

  "I'm betting you saw him come to my room."

  "You win. In fact I listened for a crash and bang."

  "He looked at the passport. Hinted that I'd be paying him if I continued to carry a gun."

  "Pay him if you have to. He comes cheap to us. His real income is ground out of his own people, big money from types like the Machmurs and pennies from every peasant right down the line. The army is grabbing power again. You'll see the generals in big houses and imported Mercedes-Benz cars. Their base pay is about 2000 rupees a month. That's twelve dollars."

  "What a setup for Judas. Do you know a woman called Mata Nasut?"

  Nordenboss looked astonished. "Man, you get around. She's the contact I want to put you on. She's the highest paid model in Djakarta, a prime dish. Poses for real stuff and advertising, no tourist junk-art."

  Nick felt the invisible support of Hawk's shrewd logic. How appropriate for an art buyer to move in artists' circles. "Tala mentioned her. Whose side is Mata on?"

  "Her own, like most everyone you'll meet. She comes from one of the oldest families so she moves in the best circles, yet she gets around among the art crowd and the intelligentsia too. Smart. Takes in a lot of money. Lives high."

  "She's not with us or against us — but she knows things we need to know," Nick summed up reflectively. "And she's shrewd. Let's approach her very logically, Hans. Maybe it's best if you don't give me the intro. Let me see if I can find a back stair."

  "Go to it." Nordenboss chuckled. "If I were a Greek god like you instead of a fat old man I'd love to do the exploring."

  "Save that fat old man pitch. I've seen you work."

  They shared a moment of good-natured banter, the small relaxation of men who live on the edge of precipices, then went into the house for breakfast.

  True to Nordenboss' prediction, Adam Machmur invited them to a party two weekends later. After a glance at Hans, Nick accepted.

  They drove along the shore to a cove where the Machmurs had a landing ramp for seaplanes and flying boats, facing the sea with a straight run without reefs. On the ramp sat an Ishikawajima-Harima PX-S2 flying boat. Nick stared, recalling recent memorandums from AXE which detailed developments and products. The ship had four GE T64-10 turboprop engines, 110-foot wingspread and a bare-weight of 23 tons.

  Nick watched Hans return the wave of a Japanese in a tan uniform without insignia who was releasing tie-downs. "You mean you came down to get me in that?"

  "Nothing but the best."

  "I expected a four-place job with patches."

  "I thought you'd like to ride in style."

  Nick computed mentally. "Are you crazy? Hawk will kill us. A four or five thousand dollar charter to pick me up!"

  Nordenboss could not keep his face straight. He laughed explosively. "Relax. I wangled it out of the CIA boys. It wasn't doing anything till tomorrow when it's taking some wheels up to Singapore."

  Nick gave a sigh of relief that puffed out his cheeks. "That's different. They can stand it — with a budget fifty times ours. Hawk has been keen on expenses lately."

  A telephone bell trilled in the little cabin beside the ramp. The Japanese waved at Hans. "For you."

  Hans returned frowning. "Company. Colonel Sudirmat and Gan Bik and six soldiers and two of Machmur's men — bodyguards for Gan I suppose — want a lift to Djakarta. I had to say okay."

  "Mean anything to us?"

  "In this part of the world — anything can mean something. They go to Djakarta all the time. They have some small planes and even a private railroad car. Play it cool and watch."

  Their passengers arrived twenty minutes later. The takeoff was unusually smooth, without the usual flying boat's rumble-bump-roar. They followed the coastline and again Nick was reminded of a model landscape as they droned over cultivated fields and plantations, alte
rnating with clumps of jungle forest and oddly smooth meadows. Hans explained the variety below by pointing out that sweeps of volcanic effluvia over the centuries had cleared areas like a natural bulldozer, at times scraping the jungles into the sea.

  Djakarta was chaos. Nick and Hans said good-by to the others and at last found a taxi which wove through the teeming streets. Nick was reminded of other Asiatic cities, although Djakarta might be a trifle cleaner and more colorful. The sidewalks were jammed with small brown people, many in gay printed skirts, some in cotton pants and sports shirts, some wearing turbans or big round straw hats — or turbans with big straw hats atop them. Big colored parasols floated along above the crowds. The Chinese seemed to prefer quiet dress in blue or black, Arabian types wore long cloaks and red fezzes. Europeans were quite rare. The majority of the brown people were graceful, relaxed and young.

  They passed native markets packed with sheds and stalls. The haggling over every kind of merchandise, live chickens in coops, tubs of live fish and piles of vegetables and fruit was a cackling cacophony of what sounded like a dozen languages. Nordenboss directed the driver — giving Nick a short tour of the capital.

  They made a big loop in front of impressive concrete buildings grouped around an oval green lawn. "Downtown Plaza," Hans explained. "Now we'll see the new buildings and hotels."

  They passed some giant structures, several unfinished. Nick said, "It reminds me of a boulevard in Puerto Rico."

  "Yes. These were Sukarno's dreams. If he had been less of a dreamer and more of an administrator he might have made it. He carried too much weight from the past. Lacked flexibility."

  "I understand he's still popular?"

  "That's why he's vegetating. Lives near the weekend palace at Bogor till they finish building him a house. Twenty-five million East Javanese are loyal to him. That's why he's still alive."

  "How stable is the new regime?"

  Nordenboss snorted. "In a nutshell — they need $550 million annual imports. The export $400 million. The interest and repayments on foreign loans is $530 million. Last I heard there was seven million in the treasury. SNAFU."

  Nick studied Nordenboss for a moment. "You talk hard but you sound sorry for them, Hans. I think you like this country and its people."

  "Aw, hell, Nick, I do. They've got some wonderful qualities. You'll learn about gotong-rojong — helping each to help the other. They are essentially kind except when triggered by their damn superstitions. Wait till you get out into the country. What is called in Latin countries the siesta is djam karet. It means the elastic hour. Swim, snooze, talk, make love."

  They were leaving the city, passing larger houses along a two-lane road. About five miles out they turned off onto another, narrower road and then into the driveway of a large, wide house of dark wood set amid a small park. "Yours?" Nick asked.

  "All mine."

  "What happens when you're transferred?"

  "I'm making arrangements," Hans replied rather grimly. "Maybe it won't happen. How many men have we got who speak Indonesian in five flavors as well as Dutch, English and German?"

  The house was lovely inside as well as out. Hans gave him a quick tour, explaining how the former kampong — wash house and servants' quarters — had been converted to a cabana for the small swimming pool, why he preferred fans to air-conditioning, and showing Nick his collection of shells which filled a room.

  They drank beer on the porch, flanked by flame and passion flowers that twisted along the walls in bursts of purple, yellow and orange. Orchids hung in sprays under the eaves, and bright-colored parakeets chattered as their two big cages swung in the light breeze.

  Nick finished his beer and said, "Well — I'll freshen up and get into town if you have some transportation."

  "Abu will drive you anywhere. He's the lad in the white skirt and black jacket. But take it easy — you just got here."

  "Hans, you've gone native." Nick stood up and paced a turn on the broad porch. "Judas is out there with half a dozen captives using them to bleed these people like hogs hung up at slaughter. You say you like them — let's get off our asses and help! To say nothing of our own responsibility to stop Judas pulling a coup for the Chicoms. Why don't you talk to the Loponusias clan?"

  "I have," Nordenboss answered quietly. "Have another beer?"

  "No."

  "Don't sulk."

  "I'm going downtown."

  "Want me to go with you?"

  "No. They must know you by now, don't they?"

  "Sure. I'm supposed to be in oil machinery but you can't keep anything quiet around here. Have a late lunch at Mario's. The food is great."

  Nick sat on the edge of a chair facing the stocky man. Hans' cherubic features had not lost their merry beam. He said, "Aw, Nick, I'm with you all the way. But around here you use time. You don't buck it. You didn't notice the Machmurs racing around firing blanks, did you? The Loponusias are the same. They'll pay. Wait. Watch. Hope. Maybe they'll get an opening and they'll pounce. These folks are easy-going but they aren't stupid."

  "I see your point of view," Nick answered with less heat. "Maybe I'm just a new broom. I want to get connected, learn, spot 'em and go get 'em."

  "Thanks for suggesting I'm an old broom."

  "You said it, I didn't." Nick gave the older man a gentle slap on the arm. It felt like padded hard leather. "Guess I'm just an eager beaver, eh?"

  "No-o. But you're in a new country. You'll learn. I have a native working for me at the Loponusias. If we're lucky we'll know when Judas is about to get paid off again. Then we'll move. We'll know that the junk is somewhere off the north coast of Sumatra."

  "If we're lucky. How reliable is your man?"

  "Not very. But hell risk a lot for what I'm paying."

  "How about a plane search for the junk? Any use?"

  "We've tried. Wait till you fly to some of the other islands and see the amount of shipping around here. It looks like Times Square traffic. Thousands of vessels."

  Nick let his big shoulders slump. "I'll nose around town. See you about sixish?"

  "I'll be here. Paddling in the pool or playing with my shells." Nick glanced to see if Hans was kidding him. The round countenance was just — merry. His host bounced out of his chair. "C'mon. I'll get you Abu and the car. And for me — another beer."

  * * *

  Abu was a small, slim man with black hair and a strip of white teeth which he flashed frequently. He had removed his jacket and skirt and now wore suntans and a black hat like an overseas cap.

  In his pocket Nick had two maps of Djakarta which he had studied carefully. He said, "Abu, please take me to Embassy Row where the art is on sale. You know the spot?"

  "Yes. If you want art, Mr. Bard, my cousin has a fine store on Geela Street. Many beautiful things. And on the fences there many artists show their work. He can take you out and make sure you don't get cheated. My cousin is…"

  "We'll visit your cousin some day soon," Nick interrupted. "I've got a special reason for going to Embassy Row first. Can you show me where you can park? It doesn't have to be near the art squares. I can walk."

  "Sure." Abu turned, the white teeth gleamed, and Nick shivered as they knifed past a truck. "I know."

  For two hours Nick looked at art in open-air galleries — some of them just space on barb-wire-topped fences — on the walls in squares, and in more conventional shops. He had studied the subject and was not captivated by the "Bandung School" of hacked out scenes showing volcanoes and rice paddies and bare-breasted women in brilliant blues, purples, oranges, pinks and greens. Some of the statuary was better. "It should be," a dealer told him. "Three hundred sculptors were put out of work when work stopped on Bung Sukarno's National Monument. That's it — up there on Freedom Square."

  Rambling along and absorbing impressions Nick reached a large shop with a small title on its window in gold leaf — JOSEF HARIS DALAM, DEALER IN THE FINE. Nick noted reflectively that the goldwork was on the inside of the glass and the folding
iron shutters partly concealed at the edges of the windows were as solid as any he had ever seen along New York's Bowery.

  The show windows exhibited only a few items, but these were magnificent. In the first were two carved life-size heads, a man and a woman, of some dark wood the color of a well-smoked briar pipe. They blended the realism of photography with the impressionism of art. The man's features expressed calm strength. The woman was beautiful, with a compound of passion and intelligence that caused you to move around the carving to savor the slight changes of expression. The pieces were not colored in any way, all of their grandeur was generated simply by the talent that had worked the rich wood.

  In the next window — the shop had four — were three silver bowls. Each was different, each an eye-stopper. Nick made a mental note to keep away from silver. He knew little about it, and he had a hunch that one of the bowls was worth a fortune and the others were common. Unless you knew — it was a refinement of the three-shell game.

  The third window held paintings. They were better than those he had been looking at in the open-air stalls and on fences, but produced for the quality tourist trade.

  In the fourth window was a portrait of a woman, almost life-size, wearing a simple blue sarong and with a flower over her left ear. The woman looked not quite Asian, although her eyes and skin were brown and the artist had clearly spent a lot of time on her black hair. Nick lit a cigarette and looked — and thought.

  She might be a blend of Portuguese and Malay. Her small, pouting lips were like Tala's, but there was a firmness of set that promised passion cautiously given and then beyond imagining. The wide-set eyes above emphatic cheekbones were calmly reserved, yet hinted at daring you unlocked with a secret key.

  Nick sighed thoughtfully, stepped on his cigarette and went into the shop. A wiry clerk with a cheery smile became lovingly cordial when Nick gave him one of the cards reading BARD GALLERIES, NEW YORK. ALBERT BARD, VICE PRESIDENT.