by Nick Carter
Tala whispered, "He's ordering rooms and dinner. We will stay."
* * *
When they retired at ten o'clock Nick tried several subterfuges to get Tala into his room. She was in another wing of the big house. The way was blocked by a number of the white-jackets who never seemed to leave their deskseats at the intersections of the hallways. He went into Nordenboss' room. "How can we get Tala over here?"
Nordenboss had stripped off his shirt and trousers and lay on the big bed, a mound of muscle and sweat. "What a man," he said wearily. "Can't do without it for one night."
"Dammit — I want her here to cover us when we slip out."
"Oh. We're slipping out?"
"Get near the dock. Watch for Judas and Amir."
"Never mind. I got the word. They are due at the dock in the morning. We might as well get some sleep."
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"I just found out. From the son of my man who disappeared."
"The son know who did it?"
"No. My theory is the army. Judas' money got rid of him."
"We have an awful lot of scores to settle with that madman."
"So have a lot of other people."
"We'll do it for them too, if we can. Okay. Let's get up at dawn and take a walk. If we choose to go toward the beach will anybody stop us?"
"I don't think so. I think Siauw will let us watch the whole bit. We're another angle in his games — and man, he sure uses complicated rules."
At the door Nick turned. "Hans — would Colonel Sudirmat's influence reach this far?"
"An interesting question. I've been thinking about it myself. No. Not his own influence. These local despots are jealous and stay apart. But with money? Yes. As a go-between with some for himself? It could be the way it happened."
"I see. Good night, Hans."
"Good night. And you did a fine job of selling Siauw, Mr. Bard."
An hour before dawn the Portagee ketch Oporto raised the light marking the headland south of Loponusias' docks, came about and stood slowly toward sea under a single steadying sail. Bert Geitsch issued crisp orders. Sailors cranked up the hidden davits that swung a big speedy-looking launch overside.
In Judas' cabin Muller and Nife shared a pot of tea and glasses of schnapps with their leader. Nife was excited. He fingered his half-hidden knives. The others hid their amusement at him, showing the tolerance one might for a retarded child. Unfortunately — but he was a member of the family, you might say. And Nife was useful for especially nasty jobs.
Judas said, "The procedure is the same. You lay two hundred yards offshore and they bring out the money. Siauw and two men — no more, in their boat. You show him the boy. Let them talk a moment. They toss over the money. You leave. Now there may be trouble. This new agent Al Bard may try something stupid. If anything looks wrong, get away."
"They can take us," observed Muller, always the practical tactician. "We have a machine gun and a bazooka. They can equip one of their company launches with heavy firepower and swoop out from a dock. For that matter they could put a piece of artillery in any of their buildings and — blam!"
"But they won't," Judas purred. "Have you forgotten your history so quickly, my dear friend? For ten years we imposed our will and the victims loved us for it. They even delivered rebels to us themselves. Men will take any amount of oppression if it is logically exercised. But let us say they do come out and tell you, 'Look! We have an 88mm. gun trained on you from that warehouse. Surrender! You strike your colors, old friend, as meek as lambs. And within twenty-four hours I'll have you out of their hands again. You know you can trust me — and you can guess how I would do it."
"Yes." Muller tilted his head toward a cabinet containing Judas' radio equipment. Every other day Judas made brief coded contact with a vessel of the rapidly growing Chicom Navy, sometimes a submarine, usually a corvette or other surface ship. It was comforting to think of that terrific firepower backing you up. Hidden reserves; or as the old general staff used to say, be more than you seem.
There was danger in it, too, Muller knew. He and Judas were robbing the Chicoms of the dragon's share of ransom moneys, and sooner or later they would be found out and the claws would thrust at them. He hoped when that happened they would be long gone, with handsome funds for themselves and Odessa's treasury — the international fund on which ex-Nazis draw. Muller prided himself on loyalty.
Judas poured their second schnapps with a smile. He guessed what Muller was thinking. His own loyalty was not as passionate. Muller did not know that the Chinese had warned him he could only expect help, if he got in trouble, at their discretion. And often the every-other-day contacts were sent up in the air. He received no answer — but he told Muller he did. And one thing he had discovered. When he made radio contact he could tell whether it was with a sub or a surface ship that had high antennas and a strong broad signal. It was a scrap of information that might somehow become valuable.
The golden arc of the sun was peeping over the horizon as Judas waved good-by to Muller, Nife and Amir. The Loponusias heir was handcuffed, a sturdy Japanese AB was at the tiller.
Judas returned to his cabin and poured himself a third schnapps before he put the bottle back with finality. The rule was two — but he felt elated. Mein Gott how the money rolled in! He downed the drink and went on deck and stretched and breathed deeply. A cripple, was he?
"Honorable scars!" he exclaimed in English.
He went below and unlocked a cabin where three young Chinese girls, none over fifteen, greeted him with tittery smiles to mask their fear and hatred. He looked at them impassively. He had bought them from peasant families on Penghu as diversion for himself and the crew, but he knew each one so well now that he was bored with them. They behaved — controlled with big promises that need never be kept. He shut the door and locked it.
In front of the cabin in which Tala was imprisoned he stopped thoughtfully. Why in hell not? He deserved it and he intended to have her sooner or later. He held out his hand for the key, took it from the guard, and went in and closed the door.
The slim shape on the narrow bunk excited him more. A virgin? Probably — those families were strict, although the naughty little girls skipped around on these immoral tropical islands and you never could be really sure.
"Hello, Tala." He put a hand on a fine-boned leg and ran it slowly upward.
"Hello." The reply was muffled. She kept her face toward the bulkhead.
His hand squeezed a thigh, fondled the round rump and explored crevices. What a hard, strong-fleshed body she had! Little bundles of muscles like cordage. Not an ounce of fat on her. He inserted his hand under the blue pajama top and his own flesh quivered delightfully as his fingers caressed warm, smooth skin.
She rolled further onto her stomach to avoid him as he tried to reach her breasts. He breathed faster and saliva poured onto his tongue as he imagined them — round and hard as little rubber balls? Or say — ovaled a little like ripe fruit on a vine?
"Be nice to me, Tala," he said as she evaded his probing hand with another twist. "You can have anything you want. And soon you'll go home. Sooner if you're nice."
She was as wiry as an eel. He reached, she writhed away. Trying to hold her was like grabbing a lean, scared puppy. He threw himself onto the rim of the bunk and she used leverage against the bulkhead to pry him away. He fell to the floor. He got up, swore and ripped the pajama top from her. He got only a quick look as they struggled in the dim light — hardly any breasts at all! Ach — that was all right, he enjoyed lean ones.
He rammed her against the wall and again she braced herself against the bulkhead, thrust with her arms and legs, and he slid off the edge.
"Enough," he roared as he staggered up. He grabbed a handful of pajama pants and ripped them down. The cotton tore away, transformed into rags in his hands. He got both hands on a thrashing leg and dragged her half off the bunk, fending off the other leg which kicked at his head.
; "A boy!" he yelled. His astonishment relaxed his grip for an instant and a hard foot caught him in the chest and bounced him across the narrow cabin. He recovered his balance and waited. The boy on the bunk gathered himself like a coiling snake — watching — waiting.
"So," Judas growled. "You're Akim Machmur."
"Some day I'll kill you," the youth snarled.
"How did you exchange places with your sister?"
"I'll cut you into many pieces."
"It was at the payoff! That fool Muller. But how… how?"
Judas studied the boy. Even with his face contorted with a killing rage you could see that Akim was the exact image of Tala. It would not be difficult to fool someone under the right conditions…
"Tell me," Judas roared. "It was when you went in the boat to Fong Island to get the money, wasn't it? Did Muller dock?"
A giant bribe? He would kill Muller personally. No. Muller was treacherous but no fool. He had heard a rumor that Tala was home, but he had thought it was a Machmur ruse to cover the fact that she was a prisoner.
Judas cursed and feinted with his good arm, the one grown so powerful with use it had the strength of two ordinary limbs. Akim ducked and the real blow connected and swept him into the corner of the bunk with a brutal crash. Judas plucked him up and slammed him again, using only the one hand. It made him feel powerful to keep his other arm, with its hook and tensile claw and small built-in pistol barrel, behind him. He could handle any man with one hand behind him! The satisfying thought cooled some of his wrath. Akim lay in a crumpled heap. Judas went out and slammed the door.
Chapter 6
THE sea was smooth and bright as Muller lounged in the motor launch, watching the Loponusias' docks grow larger. There were several ships at the long jetties, including Adam Machmur's pretty yacht and a good-size diesel workboat. Muller chuckled. You could hide a big weapon in any of the buildings and blow them out of the water or force them to land. But they wouldn't dare. He relished the feeling of power.
He saw a clump of people at the landward end of the largest pier. Someone went down the ramp to the floating dock where a small cabin cruiser was tied up. They would probably come out in her. He would follow orders. Once he had disobeyed them, but it had all come out okay. At Fong Island they ordered him to come in, using a bullhorn. Mindful of artillery he had obeyed, ready to threaten them with reprisals, but they had explained that their powerboat would not start.
In fact he had enjoyed the feeling of authority as Adam Machmur had handed him the money. When one of the Machmur sons tearfully embraced his sister he had magnanimously let them chat for a few moments while he assured Adam that his daughter would be returned as soon as the third payment was made and certain political matters settled.
"You have my word as an officer and gentleman," he had promised Machmur. The brown-faced fool. Machmur had given him three bottles of fine brandy and they had cemented the pledge with a quick glass.
But he wouldn't do it again. The Japanese AB had extracted a bottle and a packet of yen for his «friendship» silence. And Nife hadn't been along. You could never trust him, with his worship of Judas. Muller glanced distastefully to where Nife sat cleaning his nails with a shining blade, peeking at Amir every little while to see if the boy watched. The youth ignored him. Even in handcuffs, Muller thought, the lad could undoubtedly swim like a fish.
"Nife," he ordered, handing over the key, "secure those cuffs around athwart."
* * *
From a porthole of the workboat Nick and Nordenboss watched the launch pass shoreward, then throttle down and begin to circle slowly.
"The boy is there," Hans said. "And that's Muller and Nife. I've never seen the Jap sailor before but he's probably the one who came in with them at Machmur's."
Nick was clad only in swimming trunks. His clothes, the reworked Luger he called Wilhelmina and the blade, Hugo, which he usually wore strapped to his forearm, were hidden in a nearby seat locker. With them, in his shorts, was his other standard weapon — the deadly gas pellet, Pierre.
"You're real light cavalry now," Hans said. "Are you sure you want to go out without a weapon?"
"Siauw will have a fit as it is. If we do any damage he'll never accept the deal we want to make."
"I'll be covering you. I can score all right at this distance."
"Don't. Unless I'm dead."
Hans shuddered. You didn't develop many friendships in this business — it hurt to even think of losing one.
Hans peered from a forward porthole. "The cruiser is coming out. Give it two minutes and they'll be busy with each other."
"Right. Remember the arguments for Siauw if we bring it off."
Nick went up the ladder and crouched low as he crossed the small deck and slipped noiselessly into the water between the workboat and the dock. He swam around the bow. The launch and the cabin cruiser were approaching each other. The launch throttled down, the cruiser slowed. He heard clutches disengage. He filled and deflated his lungs several times.
They were two hundred yards from him. The dredged channel looked about ten feet deep but the water was clear and transparent. You could see small fish. He hoped they didn't see him coming, for there was no chance of his being mistaken for a shark.
The men on the two small boats were looking at each other and starting to talk. The cruiser held Siauw, a small sailor at the controls on the little flying bridge and a tough-looking aide of Siauw's called Abdul.
Nick lowered his head, swam down until he was just above the bottom, and measured his powerful strokes as he watched small patches of shell and weed to hold a straight course, sighting ahead from one to another. As part of his job Nick stayed in top physical condition with a regimen worthy of an Olympic athlete. Even with frequent odd hours, alcohol and unexpected foods, if you put your mind to it you could follow a reasonable program. You dodged the third drink, selected mostly proteins when you ate, and slept extra hours when you could. Nick did not cheat — it was his life insurance.
He concentrated much of his training, of course, on combat skills, yoga and many sports, including swimming, golf and tumbling.
Now he swam calmly until he estimated he was close to the boats. He rolled onto his side, saw the two oval boat shapes against the brighter sky and let himself come up at the bow of the launch, reasonably sure its occupants were looking over the stern. Hidden by the swell of the boat's lapstreak side, he discovered he was invisible to anyone except people who might be well out on the pier. He heard voices above him.
"Are you sure you're all right?" That was Siauw.
"Yes." Perhaps Amir?
Gutteral. That would be Muller. "We mustn't drop that nice package into the water. Come alongside slowly — use a little power — no, don't heave a line — I don't want to make fast."
The cruiser's engine purred. The launch's propeller was not turning, her engine idled. Nick surface-dived, looked up, sighted, and with powerful sweeps of his big arms came up at the lowest point of the launch's side, hooking one mighty hand on the wooden coaming.
It was more than enough. He got a grip with his other hand and in an instant had a leg over the side like an acrobat doing a hock mount. He landed on deck, sweeping hair and water out of his eyes, a wary and alert Neptune popped from the depths to face his foes.
Muller, Nife and the Japanese sailor were all near the stern. Nife moved first and Nick thought he was quite slow — or perhaps he compared his own perfect vision and reflexes against the handicaps of surprise and morning schnapps. Nick sprang before the knife cleared its case. His palm shot up under Nife's chin and as his legs caught on the boat's sides Nife jackknifed backwards into the water as if yanked by a cord.
Muller was fast with a gun, although he was an old man by comparison with the others. He had always secretly enjoyed Western movies and he carried a 7.65mm. Mauser in a belt holster partly cut away. But it had a safety strap and the automatic's safety was on. Muller made his fastest try, but Nick plucked the weapon out of hi
s hand while it was still pointed at the deck. He pushed Muller into a heap.
The Japanese sailor was the most interesting of the trio. He swung a backhand edge-of-hand slash at Nick's throat which would have laid him down for ten minutes if it had landed on his Adam's apple. Holding Muller's gun in his right hand, he made a ramp with his left forearm with his own fist near his forehead. The sailor's blow was guided up into the air and Nick poked him in the hose with his elbow.
Through the tears that clouded his eyes the sailor's expression showed surprise chased by fear. He was no black belt expert but he knew professionalism when he saw it. But — perhaps just an accident! What a reward if he dropped the big white man. He fell on the rail, hooked his arms over it, and his legs flashed at Nick — one for the crotch and one for the belly like twin kicks of a mule.
Nick faded aside. He could have turn-blocked but he didn't want the bruises those strong, hard-muscled legs could give him. He caught the highest ankle with an underhand scoop, locked on it, lifted — turned — flipped the sailor into a clumsy huddle against the rail. Nick stepped back one pace, still holding the Mauser in one hand with a finger through the trigger guard.
The sailor straightened, slumped back, hanging by one arm. Muller was struggling to his feet. Nick kicked his left ankle and he collapsed again. He said to the sailor, "Stop it or I'll finish you."
The man nodded his head. Nick leaned over and removed his belt knife and tossed it overboard.
"Who has the key to the boy's handcuffs?"
The sailor gasped, looked at Muller, said nothing. Muller pushed himself erect again, looking stunned. "Give me the key to the handcuffs," Nick said.
Muller hesitated, then produced it from the pocket of his white ducks. "This will do you no good, you fool. We are…"