by Nick Carter
Killmaster shook his head. "It's still pretty wild, sir. I think you're reaching way out into left field to get an explanation. But there is one aspect, one set of circumstances, under which your theory might make some sense."
Hawk was watching him intently. "And that is?"
"If, after they recruited Bennett, they found out he was a nut. A psycho. Or that he had tendencies that way. We know they don't recruit mental cases — they would have dropped him like a hot potato. Probably they would have betrayed him themselves just to get off the hook. There was no risk, no danger to them. Bennett was a loner, a sleeper, not part of a network. He couldn't have known anything to hurt them."
"But they didn't betray him," Hawk said softly. "Never. And we didn't know about him. Yet they've never used him, at least to our knowledge. So if they didn't goof, if it wasn't a Kremlin foul-up, what the hell is the answer?"
"It just could be," said Nick, "that they're playing it straight. That Raymond Lee Bennett was supposed to sleep for thirty years. While that freak brain of his sucked up everything like a vacuum cleaner. Now they want him. Some commissar, some high brass in MGB, has decided the time has come for sleeping beauty to awake."
Nick chuckled. "Maybe he got a kiss in the mail. Anyway, if I'm right, the Russians are in a little trouble, too. I doubt they expected him to kill his wife! They certainly don't know, or didn't at the time, how crazy Bennett is. They expected him to vanish quietly, without any fanfare, and turn up in Moscow. After a few months, or years, of squeezing his brain dry they could give him some little job to keep him quiet and happy. Or maybe just arrange for him to disappear. Only it didn't work out that way — Bennett is a wife killer, the game is blown, and every agent in the world is looking for him. I'll bet the Russians are damned unhappy."
"No more than I am," said Hawk bitterly. "This thing has more angles than my maiden aunt. We've got plenty of theories, but no Bennett. And Bennett we must have! Dead or alive — and I don't have to tell you which I prefer."
Nick Carter closed his eyes against the hot glare of the sun on the Potomac. They were back in Washington now. No. Hawk didn't have to tell him.
He left Hawk on Dupont Circle and went to the Mayflower by taxi. A suite was always reserved for him there, a suite that could be reached by a service entrance and a private elevator. He wanted a couple of drinks, a long shower and a few hours' sleep.
The phone was ringing as he entered the suite. Nick picked it up. "Yes?"
"Me again," said Hawk. "Scramble."
Nick scrambled. Hawk said, "It was on my desk when I came in. A flash from Berlin. One of our people is on his way to Cologne right now. They think they've spotted Bennett."
There went the sleep. For now. Nick never slept well on planes. He said, "In Cologne?"
"Yes. He's probably avoiding Berlin purposely. Too dangerous, too much pressure. But never mind all that now — you were right about the woman, Nick. In a way. Berlin was tipped by a prostitute in Cologne who works for us sometimes. Bennett was with her last night. You'll have to contact her. That's all I know right now. Take off, son. A car will pick you up in fifteen minutes. The driver will have your instructions and travel orders and all the dope I've got. It isn't much, I know, but a hell of a lot more than we had ten minutes ago. An Army bomber is flying you over. Good luck, Nick. Let me know how it goes. And get Bennett!"
"Yes, sir." Nick hung up and stared at the ceiling for a moment. Get Bennett. He thought he would — barring death. But it wasn't going to be easy. Hawk thought it was a complex mess now — Nick had a hunch that it was going to get a hell of a lot worse before it was over.
Killmaster took one of the fastest showers of all time, letting the water stream icy cold over his rangy, hard-muscled body. He dried with a huge towel — small towels were a favorite hate of his — and wrapped it around his flat thirty-four-inch middle.
The bed was a double one and the big mattress was heavy, but he flipped it with an easy wrist motion. As usual he had a little difficulty locating the seam which in turn so cunningly concealed the zipper. Old Poindexter, of Special Effects and Editing, had overseen this job personally and the old man was an artisan of the old school.
Nick finally found the zipper and opened it, removed wads of stuffing and thrust his arm full length into the mattress. The arms cache was cunningly placed in the exact center of the mattress, well padded, so that nothing could be felt from the outside.
He took out the 9mm Luger, the stiletto, and the deadly little metal ball that was Pierre the gas bomb. One whiff of Pierre's lethal essence could kill a roomful of people. Now Nick attached the little bomb — about the size of a Ping-Pong ball — to his body. When he had finished the bomb hung free between his legs.
The 9mm Luger, stripped down, a skeleton of a pistol, had been encased in a lightly oiled rag. Knowing that it was in perfect condition, still Killmaster checked the pistol again, pulling a rag through the barrel, testing the action and the safety, thumbing out cartridges on the bed to test the feeder spring in the clip. Finally he was satisfied. Wilhelmina was ready for grim games and nasty fun.
Killmaster dressed rapidly. The stiletto, in the soft chamois sheath, was strapped to the inner side of his right forearm. A flick of his wrist activated a spring that shot the cold hilt down into his palm.
There was a beat-up old dartboard hanging on one wall of the bedroom. Nick walked to the far side of the room, turned rapidly and flung the stiletto. It quivered in the cork, just outside the bull's-eye. N3 shook his head slightly. He was a trifle out of practice. He replaced the stiletto in the sheath, donned a plastic shoulder clip, stowed away the Luger and finished dressing. The desk should be calling at any moment to announce the arrival of his car.
The phone rang. But it was Hawk again. No one but an intimate could have discerned the tension in the voice of the man who ran AXE practically singlehanded. Nick caught it immediately. More trouble?
"I'm glad I caught you," Hawk rasped. "You're scrambling?"
"Yes, sir."
"More on Bennett, son. It's even worse than we thought. Everyone is really digging now and the stuff is flooding in — Bennett was a steno-reporter at some meetings of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Quite recently, I take it. Just before he came to us."
"That does make it nice," said Nick grimly. "That freak brain of his knows the thinking, the bias and prejudice, the likes and dislikes, of every one of our top brass. Damn — that sort of information can be as valuable to the Ivans as any 'hard' stuff he might have picked up."
"I know," said Hawk. "How I know! The bastards might as well have had a bug in the White House. Anyway, I just got the flash and the FBI suggested I pass it on to — to whoever is doing the job for us. They don't know about you, of course. Actually they're just trying to nail home the tremendous urgency of finding Bennett — as though we didn't know it. They now presuppose him to be carrying, somewhere in his crazy skull, information about atomic weaponry, missiles and anti-missile missiles, plans for the defense of Europe, estimates of comparative military capabilities, military intelligence reports and analyses — I'm reading this from a flimsy they sent me — information pertaining to troop movements, retaliation plans of the United States Strategic Air Command and, hold your hat, boy, a tentative extrapolation of the war in Vietnam! Whether or not Bennett realizes he knows all these things — he does! And when the Russians realize he does — if they don't already — they will build the biggest suction pump in the world to dredge our man dry. They won't care how long it takes, either."
"I'd better get cracking, sir. The car must be downstairs by now."
"Right, son. Goodbye again. Good luck. And, Nick — there's a penciled notation on this flimsy. From J.E.H. in person. He suggests that the best solution of our problem is a few ounces of lead in the soft tissues of the Bennett brain. As soon as possible."
"I couldn't agree more," said Nick Carter.
Chapter 4
The old name for the street, for the entire dis
trict, had been the Kammachgasse. But that had been in the days before the First World War, when the sordid, poverty-stricken neighborhood had attracted prostitutes as naturally as it collected coal grime. Since that time the city of Cologne had been bombed heavily, devastated and rebuilt. Along with the rest of the Rhineland city, the Kammachgasse was also refurbished, shined and polished and given a new image. But, like a palimpsest, the old image could still be seen glowing faintly through the new, like a ghost in a television set. The prostitutes were still there. But where they had been furtive under the Kaiser, and hardly less so under Hitler, in the new Germany they were blatant.
The women now had a street of their very own. It was called Ladenstrasse. Store street! This because the girls sat in little, well-lighted store fronts, behind panes of clear glass, and displayed themselves to the shoppers, not all of | whom were male.
The women in the small glass cages were very patient. They rocked and smoked, knitted and read magazines, and waited for whoever chose to wander in from the street and use their bodies for a few minutes. Die Ladenstrasse was the last stop for these women, a fact of which even the dullest was aware. It is doubtful that many of them thought about it, or cared very much.
It was a little after midnight when the big, rough- looking man entered Ladenstrasse. There was still considerable traffic on the street, though a few of the windows were dark — the girls either having gone to bed or out for a bite and a drink with their pimps — but no one paid any attention to the big man. Not even the bored policeman who yawned now and then, and removed his shiny patent leather helmet to scratch his balding head. Gross Gott! Heinrich was late again tonight. Silly young schwein. Probably mooning around his Katte again and had forgotten the time. Oh, his feet! It would be good to get home to Anna and his supper, and to soak his poor feet in a tub of hot water.
The policeman gazed idly after the big man who had just shambled past him into Ladenstrasse. A huge one, that. Look at the shoulders on him. And a late one, too. He would be just in time. No doubt he had been drinking in some stube and had decided at the last minute to have a woman tonight. The policeman yawned again. Poor devil. He always felt a little sorry for the men who came to Ladenstrasse. They had no Kattes, no Annas.
The big man shambled down the street, his hands in his pockets, his huge shoulders hunched in the dirty leather jacket. He wore a leather workman's cap and a filthy magenta neckcloth to conceal the absence of a collar. His corduroys were limp and frayed, and he wore a pair of old German Army shoes with hobnails. The street had been resurfaced since the last war, but here and there was an island of the original cobbles. When the hobnails struck the cobbles a spark or two would orbit briefly in the night, like fireflies lost and out of season.
The man stopped before Number 9. The window was dark. The big man cursed softly. His luck was souring fast. Ever since Hamburg, where he had been delivered by the bomber. He had changed clothes, gotten an AXE car from the depot there, and driven like mad to Cologne. He had been stopped three times for speeding, twice by the Germans and once by the British, and the English had damned near jailed him. It had taken a lot of the old hands across the sea malarkey to get him out of that one — plus a sizable bribe for the corporal in charge!
Now Number 9 was dark. Closed up tight as a drum. Hell! Killmaster scratched at his chin stubble and pondered. The Berlin man had been supposed to meet him in the Hohestrasse, at the Cafe of the Two Clowns. The man hadn't shown. Nick, after hanging about for hours, had finally decided to contact the woman on his own. It wasn't good. It might not even work. The woman was the Berlin man's contact, not his. Well — when the devil drove...
Nick Carter glanced up and down Ladenstrasse. Some of the other girls were closing up shop now. The cop on the corner was scratching his head and leaning against a lamppost. The street was fast becoming deserted. He'd best get the hell off it before he became conspicuous. He rapped hard on the glass store front with his knuckles. He stopped and waited a moment. Nothing happened. He rapped again, harder this time, the impatient tattoo of a lustful, drunken man who was determined to have Number 9 and no other. That would be the story if the cop got nosey.
After five minutes a light flicked on behind a dark curtain at the rear of the little platform. Now he could make out a rocking chair and a pile of magazines. A pair of black high-heeled shoes beside the rocker, the spikes about six inches high. Nick thought of that cabinet back in the peaceful little town of Laurel, Maryland, and he grimaced. Raymond Lee Bennett, if it was indeed he, seemed to be running true to form. If, again, it wasn't all wild goose! Nick was not in a very sanguine mood at the moment.
A woman was peering at him through a slit in the curtain. The light was bad, but she appeared blonde and incredibly young to be on Ladenstrasse. Now she clutched a robe about her breasts and leaned toward him and shook her head. Her mouth was wide and red and he could read her lips as she said: "Nein— nein— geschlossen!"
Nick shot a glance at the corner. Hell! The cop was beginning to saunter this way, his attention caught by the rapping on the glass. Nick swayed a bit, as though very drunk, and jammed his face against the glass and shouted in German. "Closed hell, Bertha! Don't give me that stuff. Let me in, I say. I've got money. Plenty of money. Lemme in!"
The cop was closer now. Nick moved his lips against the glass silently and prayed that this one wasn't as dumb as most prostitutes. He mouthed a word: "Reltih— reltih!" Hitler spelled backward. A grim little joke the Berlin man had dreamed up.
The girl shook her head again. She wasn't getting the message. Nick made a blade of his right hand and chopped at his left wrist three times. It was the ultimate in AXE recognition signals, and a dead giveaway if an enemy professional was watching, but it couldn't be helped. He had to get through to Bertha — or whatever the hell her name was.
She was nodding now. Yes. She'd gotten it. She disappeared and the light went out. Nick shot a glance up the street. He breathed easier. The cop had lost interest and gone back to his corner, where he was now talking to another, younger policeman. His relief man, no doubt. His arrival had taken the heat off Nick.
A door clicked softly open. A voice whispered, "Kommen herein!"
The AXEman followed her up a narrow staircase that" smelled of sweat and urine and cheap perfume and cigarettes and a million bad meals. Her slippers made a shuffling sibilance on the worn treads. Even to Nick's falcon eyes she was only a moving blur in the gloom. Instinctively, without thinking, he eased the Luger in its plastic holster and let Hugo, the stiletto, slide down into his palm. He was not expecting trouble — and yet he was always expecting trouble!
At the top of the stairs she took his hand and led him down a long dark passage. She had not spoken again. Her hand was small and soft and slightly moist. She opened a door and said, "Herein."
She closed the door before she switched on the light in the room. Nick cast a swift look around before he relaxed. He pushed the stiletto back into its sheath. There was nothing to fear in this room. Not as he understood fear. For the woman it might be another matter. His eyes, those strange eyes that could change color like the sea, flickered rapidly around the room and missed nothing. A tiny white poodle sleeping on a cushion in a corner. A parakeet in a cage. Lace curtains and doilies, a pitiful attempt at gaiety that somehow attained only a slightly sordid froufrou. On the dressing table and small bed was a litter of kewpie dolls. Something Nick hadn't seen in years. There were a dozen or more of them. Her children, no doubt.
He sank down on the bed, still rumpled from her last customer. It smelled of cheap scent. The girl — she was indeed very young for Ladenstrasse — sat in the room's only chair and stared at him with enormous blue eyes. Her hair was a brassy yellow and swept high, her face good but for a small weak mouth and great purple shadows under her eyes. She had thin arms and big floppy breasts, a tiny waist, and her legs were much too short between ankle and knee. This gave her an oddly malformed look without any real physical deformity. It might, Kil
lmaster thought briefly, be the reason for her presence here instead of dancing in some show or cabaret.
He got immediately to business. "Have you heard from Avatar? He was to meet me in the Hohestrasse. He didn't come." Avatar was the code name for the Berlin man.
The girl shook her head. "Nein. I have not seen Avatar. I spoke to him last night — on the phone to Berlin. I told him about the American — this Bennett? Avatar said he would come immediately." She shook her head again. "But I have not seen him."
Nick Carter nodded slowly. He took a pack of crumpled Gauloise from his pocket and offered her one.
"I do not smoke, danke." She cupped her sharp little chin in her hand and stared at him. There was approval in her glance, and something of fear.
Nick took a square of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. It was one of the flyers so hastily circulated by AXE. It bore a picture of Raymond Lee Bennett lifted from the security files in Washington. Nick glanced briefly at the narrow face, the old acne scars, the balding head and too close-set eyes. It was an easy face to spot. Why hadn't Bennett disguised himself?
He tossed the flyer to the girl. "This is the man? You're positive?"
"Ja. I am sure." She fumbled in a pocket of her robe. It fell open and she did not bother to close it. Her large breasts still retained some of their youthful firmness.
She took another flyer from her pocket and spread it alongside the one Nick had given her. "Avatar sent me this last week. It is what you call the routine, ja? I did not really expect..."
Nick glanced at his cheap Japanese wrist watch. Nearly one by now. Time was wasting. Still no Avatar. He'd best pump this poor little drab and get on with it.
"Do you know where this man is now? This Bennett?"
"Perhaps. I cannot be sure. But when he came last night he was staying at the Hotel Dom. His room key was in the pocket of his jacket. When he went to the bathroom — it is down the hall, you understand — I searched the jacket. He had forgotten to leave the key at the desk. Of course I had already recognized him from the picture."