by Nick Carter
"We know that. When his file was reactivated we had our people in New York run a check on him immediately. We were just too late. Only the day before the body of his wife had been discovered. Bennett had disappeared. We could do nothing but wait for him to contact us."
The trick was to keep her talking. As long as she talked the mallet would not fall, the sickening agony would not return. But to keep her talking he had to feed the kitty — keep handing her bits and pieces of valueless information. But how? What? Who could he throw to the wolves without endangering AXE security?
The mallet came down. Hard. Nick screamed. Or so he thought. He could not be sure. The scream seemed to come from a distance. One thing was sure — someone had screamed!
He could bear it no longer. Why not give them the porter? The porter at the Hotel Dom? He opened his bleeding mouth to speak, then clamped it shut again. No. Fool! They would take the man and torture him — and that would lead them to the poor drab on Ladenstrasse. He couldn't do it.
The mallet again. And again. Pain entered his being and got mixed and came out as a pleasure of such purity that it could not be undergone. Pleasure such as this was quite unendurable.
"Stop!" He was screaming again. "Stop it! I'll talk... I'll talk." He would give them Avatar. The Berlin man. He was dead and nothing could ever hurt him again.
The mallet rested from its labors. The voice of the Demon Goddess, Purveyor of Pain, said with a chuckle: "I thought you would, Carter. Now you are being sensible. I am glad. I do not enjoy inflicting pain."
Lying bitch!
Killmaster spoke rapidly, as though the rush of words could congeal into a barrier, a physical shield, against the mallet.
"I don't know anything about the Yellow Widow," he panted. "It's the truth — I don't. I'd tell you if I did. But I can give you our Berlin setup — from the head man down. Our whole network. That should be of some use to you, Colonel! His code name is Avatar and..."
It wasn't going to work. He saw the mallet strike down again. His body exploded in a gust of flame and he felt new vomit spew from his lips and down over his chin to trickle on his bare chest.
"You are a fool," said the voice. "We know all about Avatar. We killed him as he was following us across the roof. We took his wallet which, as you know, will be of some help to us. Not much. That is minor. As for his network in Berlin, Carter, you lie! You would not know of that — not unless you Americans are even bigger fools than we think."
All true. He couldn't buy himself out of torture that way.
The voice went on: "It is the Yellow Widow that we. must know about. She, and only she, is the key now. She will try to hide now until this thing has time to cool. Where will she hide, Carter? Where would you look for her — if you were free to look?"
He still had enough brain left to think of a plausible lie. It would have to do. Maybe it was even true. He had no way of knowing — he only knew that somehow he must gain respite from the pain for a time. Time to pull himself together. Time to gain strength for the new ordeals. But it had better be a good lie!
"In Albania," he gasped. "In Albania! That's a ChiCom stronghold. You must know that. According to our files this Yellow Widow has got a villa on the Adriatic. She'll probably take Bennett there. She'll have plenty of protection and she'll lie low until the heat is off and she can make the run for China."
It was purest moonshine, of course, but it didn't sound so bad. Even a little plausible. As a guess it might be better than most. And it was buying him time, time which he sorely needed. For Killmaster was nearly at the end of his tether.
He heard her laugh and say something to the doctor. There was triumph in her voice and Nick clutched at the sliver of hope. Maybe if he could keep it up, keep feeding her plausible lies, he would black out. He cudgeled his pain-mangled brain, trying to think of a city, a town, in Albania. Anything. Damn — damn! He couldn't think — What in hell was the capitol of Albania? Wasn't it near the Adriatic? He'd better be right or it would be the mallet again.
"Tirana," he gasped. "She's got a villa on the sea near Tirana. I'm telling the truth — I swear it!"
She tapped him very gently with the mallet. A bare touch. The pain shivered through him in little modulated waves. Bearable. Only just bearable.
She laughed. To his surprise it was rather a pleasant laugh. Not at all what he would have expected from this monstrous woman.
She said: "At this point, Carter, you would tell me anything. Anything at all. But you may be telling the truth. It is just possible. Albania is plausible enough — perhaps too plausible. A little too obvious. Hmmm — yes. And yet it just may be. We shall have to check it out. All right, Carter, no more torture for the moment. But just in case you are lying — and so you will remember..."
Colonel Kalinski swung the mallet one last time. Hard.
Killmaster fainted at last. Never had he welcomed darkness more.
Chapter 7
When he came to he was on his feet. He had been dressed again in the porter's outfit and the heavy Army shoes were on his feet. Nick swayed, but did not fall. He was being supported on either side by the colonel's muscle men. Their fingers bit into his biceps as they hauled him upright. Somehow he managed to straighten his sagging knees.
As the pain mists gradually cleared he saw her seated on the table where he had been bound. Her stubby legs were crossed and he saw that she was wearing thick black lisle stockings. Fiat, sensible shoes. Her feet were as enormous as her behind.
The yellow teeth flashed at Nick as she waved a slip of paper. "I have just received orders from Moscow, Mr. Carter." So it was "Mr." again. Immediately he was suspicious.
The Colonel was speaking. "I cannot say that I agree with my superiors, but I must obey orders. You are to be released immediately. My men will take you from this place and let you go. Naturally you will be blindfolded."
Nick swayed between his guards. He was coming back fast, recovering his mental and physical balance, a fact which he wished to conceal. He didn't believe they were letting him go. They were conning him, trying to lull him. They couldn't, or didn't want, to kill him here in the warehouse. They were soft talking him so that he would go quietly to his place of execution. He decided to play along. His enormous strength was coming back — the bundle of pain he carried would just have to be ignored. He could function.
He let his knees buckle again. The men held him up. "I don't get it," Nick croaked. "It's a trick. Why would you let me go?"
She was a good actress. She tapped the slip of paper against her discolored teeth. "I am as puzzled as you are, Mr. Carter. We have been trying to get you, to kill you, for years. Now they insist that you are to be set free. The order comes from the very highest level in my government. It would appear that your government, and mine, have agreed to work together after all. Your own idea, Mr. Carter, if you remember."
It was possible, he admitted. Barely possible. Both governments were admittedly desperate. He had failed. The Colonel had failed. The Yellow Widow, Madame whatever it was, had Raymond Lee Bennett and was off and running. Yes — it was very nearly credible and he didn't believe a word of it. He knew what was in the message from the Kremlin — kill Carter! They wouldn't miss a chance like this.
Colonel Kalinski nodded to the emaciated doctor. "Give him his possessions. His arms. Everything but the little metal ball. I am going to send that back to be analysed."
So Pierre, the little gas bomb, was going to end up in a Kremlin laboratory. Nick hoped there would be an accident.
The doctor handed Nick's Luger and stiletto to one of the men. The man was about to thrust the pistol into the shoulder holster when the woman spoke sharply. "Take out the clip, you fool!" She hunched her big shoulders in disgust and made a face. "You see, Mr. Carter, how it is? I must think of everything. I sometimes wonder where they find the oafs they send me."
The clip was removed and tossed into a comer. The man on Nick's left, who had the stiletto, found a crack in the concrete floo
r and thrust the slim weapon into it. He bent it over until the point broke off, then slipped it into the arm sheath with a grin. Nick swung at him, very feebly, and fell flat on his face. The man kicked him in the ribs.
"None of that! For the moment we are to be allies. Does he have his wallet? His papers, handkerchief, change — he must have everything he had when you brought him in."
"Thank you," Nick muttered as the men picked him up and supported him. "You are an angel of mercy, Colonel."
Again the strangely pleasant laugh. "We do not, as you say in the States, kid ourselves, Mr. Carter. But orders are orders. And I must say goodbye now. Blindfold him and take him to the boat. Goodbye, Mr. Carter. Perhaps we shall meet again."
She could not, completely, conceal the note of gloating in her voice. Nick had been sure before; now he was positive. They were going to kill him.
He accepted the knowledge and did not fret. He would worry about dying when the moment came. Meantime he did a most unprofessional thing — he allowed his bitterness, his hate, his desire for revenge, to show. To become vocal. A thing he had never done before.
"I hope we do meet again," he told her coldly. "I hope we meet and that I am in command of the situation, Colonel. I would enjoy that. But there is one great problem..."
They put a black cloth over his eyes then. He sensed that she had moved away from the table and the light, that she was in the act of leaving.
When she had gone, Nick was punched in the spine with a hard object that was undoubtedly a gun. The men on either side gripped him hard and led him along. Three of them. Two on each side and the one behind — he was the important one. He would keep his distance and his gun would be ready. They weren't expecting any trouble from Nick — but the third man was there just in case he hadn't gone for the allies bit.
They passed through a door and appeared to be in a narrow passage. Their heels rang on the floor. Metal plating. It was a long passage and after a time Nick caught the smell of the river. They must be approaching a wharf or pier, some sort of dock. Probably where the river boats loaded and unloaded the rolls of paper he had seen. He could see nothing through the black scarf tied over his eyes, but he reckoned that it was still dark. He had lost all track of time — the pain had seen to that — but it must be dark. They wouldn't dare to execute him in daylight.
Nick lagged a bit, let his feet drag.-He groaned. "Not so fast, you bastards. It hurts me. Where are you taking me? She said something about a boat — what boat? I'm too sick to handle a boat by myself."
The man to his right spoke softly in German. "You will be all right, Herr. It is a small boat. Very small, and there is an oar for steering. It will be easy. The current will take you down river to one of the passenger quays. You will be able to get a taxi there."
"Enough of talk," said the man behind them. "Get on with it. It will be dawn soon."
Nick saw that they were going to play this little game out to the very end. And now he understood why. Why they hadn't killed him back in the warehouse. They didn't want to shoot him. Or stab him. They were going to sap him when the time came, just hard enough, then drown him. He had to have water in his lungs. It wasn't perfect, of course, but it was better than tossing a bloody corpse into the river. His wallet and money, credentials, would be on him. The river police might suspect foul play but there would be no proof, and no fuss would be made. Quite a few bodies came floating down the Rhine. It was the way he would have done it himself. These were professionals.
They stopped abruptly. The smell of the river was much stronger now and Nick could hear the lap-lapping of water nearby. It wouldn't be long now until they made their move — and the man behind him was still the key man. He would be the one to sap Nick from behind. But they wouldn't do it until the very last second — they wanted the unsuspecting victim to walk to within an inch of the gallows!
"You'll have to take off the blindfold." It was the man behind them. "The catwalk is narrow. He'll have to be able to see."
The blindfold was taken off. It was still very dark, but across the river, to the east beyond the end of the pier under which they stood, Nick made out a thin line of pearl. He stood loosely, relaxed, slumping a bit in the grip of the two men on either side of him. He willed himself to forget the agony in his groin. There was no time for pain now. Death was waiting out at the end of this pier. Death for whom? He thought not for him — but you could never be really sure.
The man behind him prodded with the gun. Good, you sonofabitch! Stay close to me. The closer the better. Now every micro-second was important. He couldn't wait too long. Any moment now the man behind him would raise a hand, bring the sap swishing down...
They were on a narrow catwalk under the long pier jutting out into the Rhine. "Kommen" said the man on Nick's right. He took out a slender flashlight and played the tiny beam on the rough planks underfoot. The catwalk was barely wide enough for them to go three abreast.
In reaching for his flashlight the man had slightly relaxed his grip on Nick's arm. Killmaster guessed that the man behind was still close, not more than two or three feet. Perhaps even now raising the sap. It was time!
Ignoring the blinding flash of pain in his groin, he raised his elbows abruptly. Like muscular wings coming up. He slammed backwards with both elbows, with every ounce of his strength, catching each man squarely in the chest. They staggered back into the following man, knocking him off balance. All were flailing wildly for balance on the narrow catwalk. The man who had spoken to Nick let out a startled yelp. "Gott Verdammt!"
Nick Carter pivoted on one foot, put his head down and dove at the man with the pistol. The Luger flashed and banged just alongside Nick's head. The muzzle flash seared his face. Then the top of his head was in the man's paunch with pile driver force. They went off the catwalk together. As they hit the river Nick flicked the blunted stiletto down into his hand.
The man was fat and bouyant. Nick had a hard time taking him down. But he did take him down, all the way to muddy bottom. He got one powerful arm under the struggling man's chin and lifted it. He put the jagged blunt point of the stiletto into that fat flesh a dozen times, feeling the blood swell hot on his fingers, tasting it in the water. He could easily have drowned the man — Nick was good for four minutes under water — but now that he could strike back at last he found himself in a cold fury. Again and again he rammed the stiletto home.
His flash of rage passed. He let the corpse go and, still with two minutes of air, came back up near the surface. He could see nothing. It was dark and the water was roiled and muddy. He would have to risk a fast look to orient himself, in this case literally, because he must swim to the east away from the pier.
He broke water as quietly as a seal. They were fools, those remaining two. One of them was back on the catwalk, playing his flashlight about as he helped the other one out of the water. Killmaster could have pulled them both down and drowned them, and for a moment he was tempted; then he sank silently beneath the surface. Let them go. They were tools. Muscle heads. Not worth killing unless they threatened him. Nick's smile was grim. They had enough to worry about. Colonel Kalinski wasn't goinh to like this.
He swam underwater until his lungs began to hurt. When he surfaced again he was a hundred feet off the end of the pier. Both men were using flashlights now. Trying to find their dead friend, no doubt.
Downstream he could see a glow in the sky, paling now in the first flush of dawn. That would be the central park of Cologne. He let the current take him, relaxing and floating, swimming only enough to stay close inshore. He had to get out of the river without attracting the attention of the police. He would go back to Ladenstrasse, to the little whore. She might not like it, but she would have to hide him for now. Later he would have her make a contact for him by phone.
The porter's jacket was binding him. He was about to cast it off when he felt something in the pocket. Now what in hell — then he remembered. The shards of the ceramic tiger he had picked up in Bennett's hotel ro
om. Why was he lugging it about? Nick shrugged in the chill water and admitted that he didn't know. Probably it didn't mean anything. Certainly it hadn't meant anything to the Kalinski woman or she wouldn't have put it back in his jacket.
So he might as well take it along. He kept the jacket on. It just might mean something. He would turn it over to Hawk and the lab boys in Washington. If he made it.
Right now he had more important things to worry about. He had to get out of Cologne alive. He had to report failure of his mission. That thought tightened his throat and brought a bad taste into his mouth. Failure. Abject and absolute failure. It had been a long time since he had used that word.
How, and where, was he going to pick up the trail of the Yellow Widow and Raymond Lee Bennett? It must be alone.
Chapter 8
The Shanghai Gai, one of the more exclusive gesang houses in South Korea, stood on a hilltop near the village of Tongnae. It was some ten miles north of Pusan, but the roads to the port were good, for Korea, and the phone service was adequate. Not that adequate was good enough in this instance — Killmaster was gambling, playing a long hunch and an educated guess — and he was in constant touch with his men in Pusan by short-wave radio. Nick Carter was taking the biggest chance of his career — and placing that career in jeopardy. He was betting that the Yellow Widow would try to take Raymond Lee Bennett into China through Korea.
It was the middle of June. Ten days since he had floated down the bloodstained Rhine. On his return tc Washington he spent two days in an AXE hospital,' most of the time floating in a hot bath loaded with Epsom salts to reduce the swelling, but he was still fiendishly sore and moved with difficulty. During his time in the bath he had refused to eat, had gone into an intense yoga trance. It was the water pranayama, in which he hoped to achieve what his guru had called a "one pointed" mind. The AXE doctors were doubtful, and puzzled, and one suggested that Nick needed a psychiatrist more than the soothing bath. But Nick stuck by his guns, abetted by Hawk, and though the doctors grumbled they let him have his way. For two days he was deep in hatha yoga; he united the moon breath and the sun breath; when he came out of it and the hospital, he entered a long series of high-level conferences with a certainty that he was right. In the end he won his point, but only over furious objection from the CIA. AXE had goofed it, they said. Fumbled the ball. Now it was their turn. Hawk did not tell Nick about it, but it was his own call to the White House that finally turned the tide. Nick, and AXE, were to get one more chance to handle it alone. They had better be right!