by Nick Carter
The ceiling chandelier came on with a golden glow. Nick stood with his back against the door and surveyed the scene. Battle was right! A dozen or more shots must have been fired. A wall mirror had been shattered, a vase lay in shards near a mantel, there were ugly pockmarks on the light blue walls. Good thick walls or the bullets would have gone through and alerted the people next door.
There were two bodies. One, the one he had touched, was that of a small Chinese. Something went boingggg in Nick's brain even as he bent over the corpse. So they were in it, too! That would surely make the stew more binding, if not more palatable. He shook his head a little sadly as he examined the dead man. It was something that he and i Hawk had foreseen, of course — the ChiComs had good pipelines into the Kremlin — but they had been hoping that the Chinese wouldn't tumble until it was too late. After Bennett was dead.
The Chinese had been shot once through the chest, near the heart He had bled a lot on his expensive white-on-white shirt. Near his outflung hand was a Luger very like Nick's own, but a later model and not stripped down. Nick picked it up and examined the long cylindrical silencer fitted over the muzzle. A good one, made right here in Germany. With it in place there would be no more noise than a cork would make, shot from a child's popgun.
He dropped the Luger to the floor beside the dead man and moved to the other corpse. He was wearing the paper thin, nearly transparent gloves given him by old Poindexter long ago. They were made of human flesh — Poindexter only laughed and shook his head when asked about them — and they would leave prints. Whose prints Nick had no idea. Only Poindexter knew that — he and the man who had done the actual flaying.
He stood gazing down at the- second corpse. It was near the large double bed. A bed that had been lain on, but not slept in. The coverlet or red velvet was still in place. The material was heavy and thick and had retained the indentations of two bodies. Nick left the body for a moment and went to the bed. He bent over it, not touching it, and sniffed at the indentations in the velvet. Scent! Expensive perfume in one of them. Still lingering. Bennett had had a woman with him.
Killmaster went back to the body nearest the bed. The twain had met, all right. East and West. The latest dichotomy Politik. This one had been a Russian, or at least a Slav, and one glance was all that Killmaster needed. The muscles, the closely cropped hair, the swart concavity of features, the cheap suit that fitted even worse in death than it had in life. A Russian muscle man. Probably an MGB underling killed in the line of duty. Nick bent closer. Killed plenty, too. Four slugs in the gut. He had bled hardly at all. The Chinese agent had been the better shot — if the Chinese had killed him. If they had killed each other. Nick glanced at the bed again, conscious now of the sick disappointment growing in him. Maybe Bennett had killed the two men. Or the woman, whoever she was. It didn't much matter. Bennett was gone again, off and running, and here he stood with a room full of corpses. And egg on his face, as they said in show business. Empty handed.
He began to move around the room, searching it rapidly and expertly. He glanced at the dead men again and frowned. One Chinese and one Russian. A fight. So who had the button? Who had Bennett? For once he found himself pulling for the Chinese. If they had Bennett then he, AXE, still had a chance. It was a long way to China. If the Ivans had him it was probably all over — they would take him over the line in some remote, desolate country spot. They would guard him with an entire division if they thought it necessary — until they had sucked him dry, had squeezed every ounce of that thirty years of total recall from his freak brain.
The closets were empty. Clothing, bags, all gone. Nick found an ashtray with a few butts in it. Two were stained with lipstick. The woman was beginning to interest him more and more. What was she— Chinese or Russian? It was going to make all the difference.
He went into the bathroom for a fast look. Nothing left in the cabinet, nothing concealed in the flush box of the toilet; a few tissues in a wastebasket bore traces of makeup. Nobody hiding in the stall shower. Nick went back into the bedroom and went through the small desk. Nothing but the usual — hotel stationery, pens, pencils, etc. He glanced into the wastebasket beneath the desk. A medium-sized paper bag. He tilted the wastebasket with his foot and the bag slid out onto the floor. There was a ! rattling, tinkling sound. Like broken crockery. Nick picked it up and shook out the contents onto the carpet.
It was a smashed jigsaw puzzle in broken ceramic. Two dozen or more shards, large and small, with a yellow ocherous glaze. Nick fingered the bits and pieces. Some sort of desk ornament, mantel bric-a-brac, kitsch furnished by the hotel? Then why bother to gather the pieces, to put them in a bag? There had been no attempt to clean up the rest of the room.
Killmaster rolled the largest piece between his fingers. It was the head of a snarling tiger. Small, about an inch across from ear to ear, and very skillfully done. The tiny eyes were a savage yellow with a glint of scarlet, the fangs a feral white scream. You almost expected the thing to bite you. Nick stared at it a moment, then he gathered the pieces and put them back in the bag. He thrust the bag into the pocket of his porter's jacket. Probably didn't mean a thing — yet on a screwy case like this you never knew.
He went to the open window and examined the heavy monk's cloth drape. The breeze had ceased now and the hanging lay, two or three folds of it, on a narrow radiator that it should have cleared. The folds were crumpled and dirty. Nick glanced up. The drape had been torn away from the rod up there. Someone had stepped on it going out the window. He pulled back the drape.
They had gone this way, of course. Bennett and the woman, with all their gear. Nick started to put his head out, then scowled at his carelessness. He went back and turned out the light, then waited another minute before he craned out the window and searched up and down. Downward the fire escape led to a busy main street. He doubted they would go that way. Up, then. Up to the roof and over the adjacent buildings.
He checked his weapons, from force of habit, then went lithely through the window and began to climb. Only three floors to go. He went up the steep ladder that hooked over the parapet, hesitated just under the ledge, then went up and over in a rush. Silhouetting yourself against the sky was bad tradecraft and could sometimes be fatal.
The roof was flat. Gravel and tar. There was a housing for elevator machinery and a water tank. Killmaster moved into the deepest shadow beneath the tank and waited. For five minutes he waited. Nothing moved on the roof. If Bennett and the woman had come this way — he was sure of it — then they had found a way off the roof. If they could, he could. Even as Killmaster moved from beneath the tank a plan began to form in his mind. It wasn't much of a plan — and he didn't particularly like it — but it was, as the compulsive gambler said, the only game in town. It might not even come off, this cripple of a plan, and even if it did he was going to be in lots of trouble, but it seemed the only way. Killmaster was going to have to stir up a hornet's nest, make an offering of himself — in short, bait a trap with his own neck. And hope he got caught. Otherwise it was hopeless. He would just keep fumbling around in the dark. No time for that. He had to have action and he had to have it fast. He must play the clown.
After a minute of scouting the roof he knew how they had left it, Bennett and the woman. Must have. To the east, toward the Rhine, there was a ten-foot drop to the roof of the adjoining building. There was also a six-foot gap between buildings. Nick studied the dark pit below. He whistled softly. To him it was nothing. But for Bennett? For a woman? Then, somehow, with great clarity, he knew the truth. Bennett, the little traitor, might have been the problem — but not the woman! Whoever she was, and on whatever side, she would be in charge. She'd probably pushed Bennett!
There was a certain studied carelessness in the movements of Killmaster now. Hawk would have been vastly puzzled at the sloppiness of his Number One Boy. Nick leaped to the roof below. He did it easily, but clumsily. He fell and rolled and allowed himself to curse aloud. He stood in silhouette and brushed him
self off, muttering angrily, and made more noise than a bear in a thicket. There was a coldness along his spine that couldn't be helped. If they were around — the other losers, Russian or Chinese — he had to draw them. About the winners, Russian or Chinese, he didn't have to worry at the moment. They would be making time and tracks.
He crossed the roof, shambling noisily, and climbed awkwardly over a parapet leading to the next roof. The buildings were on the same level to the end of the block. Then he would have to descend to the street.
It was on the third building that he found the body of Avatar.
It was lying in deep shadow near the base of a ventilator. Nick saw it in time, but let himself appear to stumble over it. He cursed. If he was being watched — he hoped he was — they must be hard put to contain their laughter, would think they had the world's prize jackass to deal with.
He had never met the Berlin man in person, but he had been shown a picture in Washington. The man had been a top agent, yet without the rank of Killmaster. Only three other men held that rank in AXE, with Nick Carter the senior officer. Yet this had been a good man, a very good man, and now he was dead. Nick knelt beside the body, using his pen light, and made a rapid search of the pockets. There was no wallet, no credentials. They would have taken those for possible future use, for copying and forgery. Everything else was in order. Avatar had not been in disguise. He was wearing an American-made business suit of conservative cut, a white shirt and a dark blue tie. His felt hat had rolled a few feet away when the bullet had taken him between the eyes. Nick let the tiny beam rest for a moment on the black hole, the rictus of death, the staring eyes. He wondered if the guy had had a wife. A family? Few AXEmen did.
With a thumb and forefinger he closed the eyes, patted the still warm cheek and got to his feet. Avatar must have checked at the hotel, found that Raymond Lee Bennett was still there, either seen or somehow heard of the woman and the others and had decided to move without waiting for Nick. Lacking Killmaster rank, still, on the mission, he would have been licensed to kill. Fate had given matters a reverse twist.
Nick Carter went on his way over the roofs. He came to the last building, found a rusty fire escape leading down to a narrow street that ran off toward the dock area. What had been a hunch, a suspicion, became a near certainty. Bennett and the woman must be trying to get out of Cologne by an unusual route — the river. It would be slow — that would be the chief drawback — but there were also many advantages. Roads can be easily blocked; trains, planes, buses, private cars can be easily stopped and searched. It is hard to blockade a river as large and as busy as the Rhine.
As he dropped from the last fire ladder to the narrow cobbled lane he told himself that it must be the Chinese — they had Bennett! Time would have been of the essence to the Russians; it would not matter so much to the Chinese. They were a patient people, and China was a hell of a long way off — they would try to find a safe hole and go to ground. Wait. The Rhine was cluttered with tugs, steamers, barges and sailing boats, cabin cruisers, whatever. It was at that moment Nick conceded that, for the moment at least, he had lost the game. Raymond Lee Bennett was going to get away — for the time being.
He was making for the quays now, walking rapidly, his feet, still in the heavy workman's shoes, banging at the pavement. He turned into an alley that debouched on a wharf, saw the glare of lights and the stark outline of loading cranes. The alley ended at a tall wire fence. Beyond it men were working, unloading a river steamer. Next to the steamer, up river, was moored a long string of barges. The quays there were dark. Nick turned to his right, down a long tunnel formed by warehouses looming on either side. A narrow dark passage.
When he had gone fifty yards he glanced over his shoulder. They were following. Three shadows had just flitted into the tunnel after him.
Killmaster's grin was cold and a little cruel. Right on schedule. They figured to have him cold. It was true, in a way, but he had them, too. It was like the old joke — who was doing what to whom and who was going to pay for it! It was a reckless gamble, but not his first and he hoped it wouldn't be his last. And now he had to put up just enough of a fight to make it look genuine.
He halted just where the warehouses ended, where the alley widened and the light was a little better. He swung around as if only then alerted, and met the rush of the three men. Slav muscle, all of them. Big, burly, rough men with bashed faces and fists like hams. They would, he thought, have orders not to kill him. Not yet. He liked that. It meant that he could rough them up, but good, and he was in just the mood for it. He was tired, frustrated — a failure at his job — and just plain mean and ornery.
He kicked the first man in the crotch. He put four fingers, stiff and hard as railroad spikes, into the eyes of the second man. He threw a rolling block at the knees of the third man, knocked him down and kicked him in the face with the heavy Army shoes. He got the feeling that he was overdoing it. Careful! He had to be taken prisoner.
The man he had kicked in the crotch stayed down, moaning and grabbing at himself, but the second man was up and in again, swinging a sap. Nick took the sap on his left forearm — it hurt — and backhanded the man in the throat with the edge of his right hand. Too hard, damn it! The man folded with harsh animal grunts of pain. Nick cursed again. These characters were too easy! It began to look as though he would have to get the sap and knock himself out.
The man he had kicked in the face rolled in the alley, found the sap his companion had dropped, and came at Nick from behind. Nick pretended not to see him. He concentrated on kneeing one of the men in the face as he was trying to rise. He tensed, steeling himself. It was never easy to take!
The sap got him just over the right ear, an expert blow. Between the time of impact, and the opening of the dark hole beneath his feet, Nick managed to break the nose of the man before him. He felt the bone crunch and was glad about it and then the long spiral into bright gloom began. He was going down the longest laundry chute in the world. Clear to the Gates of Hell.
Chapter 6
Someone was talking. On and on the words flowed. Never ceasing. Incessant chatter. Yackety-yac-yackety-yac... Where in hell was he? Crucified on the Tower of Babel? Certainly he was bound hand and foot, and he was lying on something very hard. That wasn't so bad — it was the talking that was getting him down, bugging him. Didn't they ever shut up? It was like a convention of howler monkeys and myna birds and stuck auto horns — all mixed into one sickening blast of sound. And none of it made sense. The words were all blurred together in a weird electronic screaming. It sounded like the tape on a code machine...
Wait a minute! That voice — that one voice in there? Where had he heard that voice before? Hmmmm — it was very, very familiar. Too familiar!
Nick Carter kept his eyes tightly closed. His massive brain, only beginning to shake off the effects of the drug, just emerging into lucidity, took over. Not a muscle moved in his face, stark in the harsh hot cone of brilliant white light. In his brain the circuits moved and clicked and the little lights went on and off and the questions were shot at the central board and the answers came back — all in less time that it took him to draw a single breath.
The Russians had him. Good. He had planned it that way. He was tied down, under a hot light. Probably a cellar or an old warehouse. It didn't matter much. What did matter was that he had been talking! How long? How much? What had he told them so far? And he was still talking. Only now he was conscious of it, knew what he was saying. Coolly, calmly, the recovered segment of his brain stood apart and listened to the reflexive, automatic flow of words. But now his brain was editing the flow.
A woman's voice, soft and persuasive, was hanging in a little balloon just over his head. Like the speech balloons in the comic strips. With a great effort Nick restrained a muscular twitch — he still wasn't all the way back. His mind was still playing tricks. The lettering in the balloon, the voice, was in capitals, all caps, and in bold black Bodoni.
"You will tell u
s," said the voice, "all you know about the Yellow Widow. Everything. Every little detail is important. We know that you have a file on the Yellow Widow in Washington. You must have seen that file. You will tell us everything — everything!"
The Yellow Widow? Ktilmaster's brain came a little more back to normal as the drug wore itself out. Who in blazes was the Yellow Widow? Never heard of her. Not in the AXE files. Maybe she belonged to the CIA or FBI — in any case it wouldn't hurt to make up a few lies, kill time until he was completely himself again.
He kept his eyes closed, his face relaxed. He said: "Yes. I know of the Yellow Widow. She is a Chinese agent. She had been married three times and is believed to have murdered her husbands, though this had never been proved. She operates a string of laundries and chop suey joints in the States. She uses them for drops and meeting places."
Another voice, male, said: "He is lying. Colonel. Pulling our leg, now. The drug is beginning to wear off — I told you it was not good to administer it while he was unconscious. To be fully effective it must be..."
"Be quiet, Doctor!" The voice was now harsh and crackling, loaded with authority, very nearly a neuter. Yet it was that of a woman. Nick let his eyes crack open ever so slightly. She was bending over him, her face close to his, her eyes a hard and washed-out blue. Her hot breath was laden with tobacco. She was going slightly bald in front. Nick closed his eyes again. A bald woman? Maybe he was still drugged.
Then his amazing brain, fully recovered now, reached back into a memory file and came up with a possible answer. Colonel? The man had just called her that. A picture formed in his brain. A picture of a half-bald woman. A real horror of a woman. Her name was Zoe Kalinski and she held the rank of Colonel in MGB. AXE might not know about the Yellow Widow, whoever she was, but they had a very thick file on Kalinski. Efficient — dedicated — sadistic — bisexual. Ugly!