The Judas Spy

by Nick Carter

  Nick said, "I was thinking of buying a few items for our shops — if we can reach a wholesale arrangement…" He was led instantly to the rear of the store where the clerk tapped on a door intricately inlaid with mother of pearl.

  Josef Haris Dalam's large office was a private museum and treasure room. Dalam read the card, dismissed the clerk, and shook hands. "Welcome to Dalam's. You have heard of us?"

  "Briefly," Nick lied courteously. "I understand you have excellent merchandise. Some of the best in Djakarta."

  "Some of the best in the world!" Dalam was slim and short and agile as the village youngsters Nick had seen climbing trees. His brown face had an actor's ability to portray instant emotions; as they chatted he looked weary, alert, calculating, then impish. Nick decided this empathy, this chameleon flair for matching a visitor's mood, had brought Dalam from a gutter stand to this substantial shop. Dalam watched your face and tried on faces the way you'd try on hats. For Nick the brown features and sparkling teeth finally settled on a serious-businessman but cheerful-fellow expression. Nick scowled to see what would happen and Dalam suddenly looked angry. Nick laughed and Dalam joined in.

  Dalam hopped to a tall case filled with silver work. "Look. Take your time. Did you ever see the like?"

  Nick reached for a bracelet but Dalam was six feet away. "Here! Gold goes up — yes? Look at this little boat. Three centuries old. In pennyweight worth a fortune. Actually priceless. The prices are on the cards."

  The priceless price was $4500. Dalam was away, still talking. "This is the place. You will see. Merchandise, yes, but true art. Irreplaceable, expressive art. Bits of genius solidified and snatched from the flow of time. And ideas. Look at this…"

  He handed Nick a plump circle of intricately carved wood the color of rum coke. Nick admired the tiny scene on each of its sides, the lettering around the rims. He found a silky yellow cord between two sections. "It could be a yo-yo. Hey! It is a yo-yo!"

  Dalam matched Nick's smile. "Yes… yes! But what an idea. You know about Tibetan prayer wheels? Spin-spin and stack up prayers in heaven? One of your countrymen made a lot of money selling them rolls of your excellent toilet tissue on which they wrote prayers so that when they spun them they totaled thousands of prayers a spin. Study this yo-yo. Zen, Buddhist, Hindu, and Christian — see, hail Mary full of grace, here! Spin and pray. Play and pray."

  Nick studied the carvings more closely. They had been done by an artist who could have inscribed the Bill of Rights on a sword hilt. "Well I'll be…" Under the circumstances he finished with, "…darned."

  "Unique?"

  "You might say — unbelievable."

  "But you hold it in your hand. People everywhere are uneasy. Worried. Want something to hold onto. Advertise these in New York and see what happens, eh?"

  Squinting at the carving Nick saw Arabic, Hebrew, Chinese, Cyrillic lettering that would be prayers. You could study the thing for a long time. Some of the tiny scenes were so finely done a magnifying glass would help.

  He dug out the loop of the yellow cord and flipped the yo-yo up and down. "I don't know what would happen. A riot, probably."

  "Promote them through the United Nations! All men brothers. Buy your own ecumenical top. And they are nicely balanced, look…"

  Dalam performed with another yo-yo. He looped it, walked the dog, spun the whip, and finished with a special trick in which the wooden circle flipped around on half the cord clipped in his teeth.

  Nick looked astonished. Dalam dropped the cord and looked astonished. "Never saw the like? Man took a dozen to Tokyo. Sold them. Too conservative to advertise. Still ordered six more."

  "How much?"

  "Retail twenty dollars."

  "Wholesale?"

  "How many?"

  "Dozen."

  "Twelve dollars each."

  "Gross."

  Nick narrowed his eyes, concentrated on business. Dalam aped him immediately. "Eleven."

  "You got a gross?"

  "Not quite. Delivery in three days."

  "Six dollars apiece. All to be as good as this one. I'll take a gross in three days and another gross as soon as they are ready."

  They settled on $7.40. Nick turned the sample over and over in his hand. It was a modest investment to establish "Importer Albert Bard".

  Dalam asked softly, his expression thoughtful, matching Nick's, "Payment?"

  "Cash. Letter of credit on Bank of Indonesia. You're to handle all the paperwork with customs. Ship by air to my New York gallery, attention Bill Rohde. Okay?"

  "Delighted."

  "Now I'd like to look at a few paintings…"

  Dalam tried to sell him tourist junk of the Bandung school which he kept hidden in an ell of the shop behind drapes. Some he quoted at $125, then dropped to $4.75 "wholesale." Nick just laughed — to be joined by Dalam, who shrugged and went into his next pitch.

  When Josef Haris decided that "Albert Bard" could not be had, he showed him some fine work. Nick bought two dozen paintings at an average wholesale price of $17.50 each — and they were really talented work.

  They stood before two small oils of a beautiful woman. She was the woman in the window pictures. Nick said suavely, "She's pretty."

  "That is Mata Nasut."

  "Indeed." Nick tilted his head doubtfully, as if the brushstrokes displeased him. Dalam confirmed his guess. In this business you rarely revealed what you knew or guessed. He had not told Tala that he had glanced at a half-remembered photo of a Mata Nasut among the sixty-odd Hawk had loaned him… he had not told Nordenboss that Josef Haris Dalam had been listed as an important, perhaps politically involved, art dealer… he would tell no one that the AXE data sheets listed the Machmurs and Tjangs with a red dot — "questionable — use care."

  Dalam said, "The brushwork is unsophisticated. Come out and see what I have in the window."

  Nick looked at the painting of Mata Nasut again and she seemed to return his glance mockingly — the reserve as firm in the clear eyes as a velvet barrier rope, the promise of passion boldly shown because the secret key was complete defense.

  "She is our leading model," Dalam said. "In New York you remember Lisa Fonseur; we talk of Mata Nasut." He discovered the admiration in Nick's countenance which for a moment was unconcealed. "These are perfect for the New York market, yes? They will stop the walkers on 57th Street, eh? Three hundred and fifty dollars for this one."

  "Retail?"

  "Oh no. Wholesale."

  Nick grinned at the smaller man and received a delighted spread of white teeth in return. "Josef — you're trying to get an edge on me by tripling your prices instead of doubling them. I might go $75 for this portrait. No more. But what I would like is to get four or five more similar to it but posed to my specifications. Can do?"

  "Perhaps. I can try."

  "I don't need a commission man or a broker. I need an art studio. Forget it."

  "Wait!" Dalam's plea was anguished. "Come with me…"

  He led the way back through the store, through another heirloom door at the rear, through a twisting passage past storerooms stuffed with merchandise and an office where two small brown men and a woman worked at closely packed desks. Dalam stepped out into a small courtyard with a roof on poles, the adjacent buildings forming its walls.

  It was an «art» factory. A dozen painters and wood carvers were industriously and cheerfully at work. Nick strolled through the cramped group, keeping his face carefully expressionless. All the work was good — much of it excellent.

  "Art studio," Dalam said. "The best in Djakarta."

  "Nice craftsmanship," Nick answered. "Can you arrange for me to meet Mata this evening?"

  "Oh, I'm afraid that would be impossible. She is famous, you must understand. She gets plenty of work. She gets fift… twenty-five dollars an hour."

  "Okay. Let's go back to your office and finish our business."

  Dalam completed a simple order slip and bill of sale. "I will have the customs forms and so forth for you
to sign tomorrow. Shall we go over to the bank?"

  "Let's."

  An officer of the bank took the letter of credit and returned in three minutes with approval. Nick let Dalam see that the account was for $10,000. The art broker was thoughtful as they strolled through the crowded streets on their way back. In front of the shop Nick said, "It's been a pleasure. I'll drop by tomorrow afternoon and sign those papers. Some day we may meet again."

  Dalam's response was sheer anguish. "You are unhappy! You don't want the painting of Mata? Here — it is yours at your price." He waved at the lovely face that stared at them from the window — a bit mockingly, Nick thought. "Come in — just for a minute. Have a cool glass of beer — or whisky soda — tea — I beg you to be my guest — as an honor…"

  Nick ambled into the shop before tears flowed. He accepted a cold Dutch beer. Dalam beamed. "What else can I do for you? A party? Girls — all the lovely girls you want, all ages, all skills, all kinds? Amateurs, you understand, not professionals. Blue movies? The greatest in color and sound direct from Japan. Watch the movies with the girls — very exciting."

  Nick grinned. Dalam grinned.

  Nick frowned regretfully. Dalam frowned worriedly.

  Nick said, "Sometime soon when I have time I'd love to enjoy your hospitality. You're an interesting man, Dalam my friend, and an artist at heart. A thief by training and background, but an artist at heart. We could do more business. But only if you introduce me to Mata Nasut. Today or tonight. To sweeten your approach you can tell her I'd like to engage her to model for at least ten hours. For that lad you have on the end out there painting heads from photographs. He's good."

  "He is my best…"

  "I'll pay him well and you'll get your cut. But I'll handle my own deal with Mata." Dalam looked sad. "And if I meet Mata smoothly and she poses for your man for my purposes and you don't foul up the deal — I promise to buy more of your merchandise for export." Dalam's expressions followed Nick's remarks like a rollercoaster of emotions, but finished on a bright up-cycle.

  Dalam exclaimed, "I'll try! For you, Mr. Bard, I'll try anything. You are a man who knows what he wants and is fair with his dealings. Oh, it is good to meet such a man in our…"

  "Cut it," Nick said good-naturedly. "Get on the horn and see about Mata."

  "Horn?"

  "Nickname for telephone."

  "Ah yes." Dalam began dialing.

  * * *

  After several calls and much fast talk that Nick couldn't follow, Dalam announced in the triumphal manner of a Caesar proclaiming a victory that Nick might call on Mata Nasut at seven o'clock.

  "Very difficult. Very lucky," proclaimed the dealer. "Many people never get to meet Mata." Nick had his doubts. The country had had the dollar-shorts a long time. It had been his experience that even the wealthy often move fast for a bundle of cash-on-the-line. Dalam added he had advised Mata that Mr. Albert Bard would pay twenty-five dollars an hour for her services.

  "I told you I'd handle my own deal," Nick said. "If she holds me to that it comes out of your side." Dalam looked horrified. "Can I use your phone?"

  "Of course. Out of my payment? Is that fair? You have no idea what expenses I…"

  Nick stopped him talking by putting a hand on his shoulder — like laying a large ham on a child's wrist — and leaning across the desk to look straight into the dark eyes. "You and I are friends now, Josef. Shall we practice gotong-rojong and prosper together, or shall we play tricks on each other so we both lose?"

  Like a man hypnotized Dalam pushed the phone at Nick without looking down at it. "Yes — oh, yes." The eyes brightened. "Would you like a percentage on future orders? I can mark up the bills and give you…"

  "No, my friend. Let us try something new. We'll be honest with my company and with each other."

  Dalam seemed disappointed, or troubled by this radical idea. Then he shrugged — the small bones stirring under Nick's hand like a wiry puppy trying to escape — and nodded. "Very well."

  Nick patted his shoulder and picked up the phone. He told Nordenboss he had a late appointment — could he keep Abu and the car?

  "Of course," Hans replied. "I'll be here if you need me."

  "I'm calling on Mata Nasut to arrange for some pictures."

  "Best of luck — lucky. But watch it."

  Nick showed Abu die address Dalam had written on a slip of paper and Abu said he knew the way. They passed new houses similar to the cheap projects Nick had seen near San Diego, then an older section where the Dutch influence was again strong. The house was substantial, surrounded by the colorful flowers and vines and lush trees that Nick now associated with the country.

  She met him in the airy loggia and gave him a warm firm hand. "I am Mata Nasut. Welcome, Mr. Bard."

  Her tones had the clean rich clarity of genuine fancy grade maple syrup, oddly accented, but without a false note. Her name sounded different when she said it; Nasrsoot, with the last syllable accented and the double-o pronounced with the soft lurch of church, and the long coo of cool. Later when he tried to imitate her he discovered it took practice, like a real French tu.

  She had long model's limbs which he thought might be the secret of her success in a land where many women were curved and eye-catching and lovely but built low-slung. She was a thoroughbred among well-rounded Morgans.

  They were served highballs in the spacious, airy living room and she said «Yes» to everything. She would pose at home. Dalam's artist would be called as soon as she had time, in two or three days. "Mr. Bard" would be notified to join them and detail his desires.

  Everything was settled so easily. Nick gave her his most sincere smile, the guileless one which he refused to admit also gave him a boyish sincerity of expression close to innocence. Mata studied him cooly. "Besides business, Mr Bard, how do you like our country?"

  "I'm surprised by its beauty. We have Florida and California, of course, but they don't compare with the colors, the varieties, of your flowers and trees. And the people — I've never been so charmed."

  "But we are so slow…" She left it hanging.

  "You settled our project faster than I'd have done it in New York."

  "Because I know you value time."

  He decided the smile on the lovely lips was too long-lasting, and there was certainly a twinkle in the dark eyes. "You're teasing me," he said. "You're going to tell me that your countrymen really make better use of time. They more slowly, gently. More enjoyably, you'll say."

  "I might suggest that."

  "Well… I think you're right."

  His answer surprised her. She had discussed the topic many times with many foreigners. They defended their energy and industry and haste, and they never admitted that they might be wrong.

  She studied "Mr. Bard," wondering what his angle was. They all had them, the businessmen-CIA operators and the banker-gold-smugglers and the political zealots… she had met them all. Bard at least was interesting, the handsomest one she had met in years. He reminded her of someone — a very good actor — Richard Burton? Gregory Peck? She tilted her head to study him and the effect was charming. Nick grinned at her and finished his drink.

  Actor, she thought. He is acting, and very well, too. Dalam said he had money — plenty of it.

  She decided he was very likeable, for even though he was a giant by local standards, he moved his big graceful body with a gentle humility that made his bulk seem less. So different from some, who swaggered about as if to say, "Move aside, runts." His eyes were so clear and his mouth always pleasantly upcurved. All man, she observed, with that strong man jaw, yet boyish enough not to take things too seriously.

  Somewhere in the back of the house a servant clattered a dish and she noted his alertness, the flick of his eyes toward the end of the room. He would be, she concluded with amusement, the most handsome man in Mario's or the Nirwana Supper Club unless sleek dark Toni Poro, the actor, were there. And of course — they were entirely different types.

  "You are
very beautiful."

  Lost in reflection, the soft compliment made her start. She smiled and her even white teeth accented her lips so nicely he wondered how she kissed — he intended to find out. This was some woman. She said, "You are clever, Mr. Bard. That was a wonderful thing to say after the long silence."

  "Please call me Al."

  "Then you may call me Mata. Have you met a lot of people since you arrived?"

  "The Machmurs. Tjangs. A Colonel Sudirmat. Do you know them?"

  "Yes. We are a giant country but what you might call the interesting group is small. Perhaps fifty families, but they are usually large."

  "And then there is the army…"

  The dark eyes swept his face. "You learn swiftly, Al. There is the army."

  "Tell me something only if you wish — I will never repeat what you say but it might help me. Should I trust Colonel Sudirmat?"

  He kept his expression frankly curious, not revealing that he would not trust Colonel Sudirmat to take a suitcase to an airport.

  Mata's arched dark brows came together. She leaned forward, her tones very low. "No. Stick to your business and do not ask questions like that of anyone else. The army is in power again. The generals will bank fortunes and the people will explode when they get hungry enough. You are in a web with professional spiders of long practice. Don't become a fly. You are a strong man from a strong country but you can die as swiftly as thousands of others have." She leaned back. "Have you seen much of Djakarta?"

  "Just the commercial center and a few of the suburbs. I wish you would show me more of it — say tomorrow afternoon?"

  "I will be working."

  "Break your appointment. Postpone it."

  "Oh, I cannot…"

  "If it's money — let me pay you your regular rate — as an escort." He smiled broadly. "A lot more fun than posing in front of hot lights."

  "Yes, but…"

  "I'll pick you up at noon. Here?"