by Nick Carter
Nick cleared his throat and looked attentive.
"It is also quite possible," Hawk continued, "that he did all he could to ingratiate himself with the man he claimed was Bormann in case of a Nazi comeback. He could have managed to have found out something he wasn't supposed to know. And because Bronson, or Bormann, or whoever he is, left such a clear trail to Berlin, it would seem that his killers were afraid he was going to name some destination for Bronson other than Berlin. Which, I believe, occurred to you at the time. I am now almost sure that you were right.
"Four. Ruppert checked out satisfactorily. The barman at the International Club and several other witnesses vouch for the fact that Bronson, just before leaving, very casually scribbled the Wilhelmstrasse address for him and asked him to give it out to anyone who might ask. Also, Ruppert is neither Nazi nor Communist, but completely apolitical and rather ashamed of his country's wartime record. His acquaintance with Bronson was only casual. So if he steered you to West Berlin, he did so in all innocence."
They stopped in front of a black-maned Hon.
"Beautiful creature," commented Hawk. "All grace and power. Well. I am sorry to say that is all we got from Buenos Aires. Except, I may say, you left quite a bit of a scandal behind you. The police lost days looking for Karl Gruber. And you got the estimable editors of that filthy rag Achtung! into all kinds of trouble."
"That's too damn bad." Nick clucked sympathetically. "But I'm sorry about beclouding the issue for the B.A. cops. I'd like very much — to coin a corny phrase — to avenge Gomez. Christ, I lured the poor guy onto the sidewalk and just let him have it."
"That's nonsense," Hawk said sharply. "It is pointless to indulge in that kind of thinking. Now. About your finds in that cellar…"
They left the Hon to its restless pacing and continued their walk.
"The masks you found were — in addition to that of Scheuer — the exact facial images of several German scientists. One was Dietz, missing from Australia. One was Mark Gerber, a naturalized American anti-Nazi of whom you'll be hearing more later. Another was Otto Lehmann, known to have gone to Russia after the war. The Russians deny that he is missing, but they were worried and evasive when we contacted them. Another was Ernst Rademeyer, who disappeared from his lab in Canada just one week ago. As far as we know, none of these people have any lingering Nazi sympathies. Perhaps they never had. They're scientists, after all. I would say it is fairly clear now that the whole operation is an elaborate decoy — executed with considerable overconfidence and incompetence. We are still trying to pin down exactly who your friends Hans, Dieter and Müller were working for. It is not easy. Berlin is riddled with double and triple spies working for the highest bidder of the moment. But we think we know. Double agents do not die, as Müller did, to protect their secrets. They sell them. From his actions, and from the microdot information, we are reasonably certain that his cell was working on behalf of our old friends CLAW. Or some other branch of the Red Chinese intelligence services."
Nick whistled. "So the whole Berlin plant was set up by the Reds. Wouldn't they have been better off just to cover their tracks and forget all these elaborate red herrings?"
Hawk shrugged and stopped in front of the elephant house.
"You know their devious minds as well as I do — which isn't very well. But if they'd succeeded in planting their decoy idea of neo-Nazism, they could have had us running around in circles for months. As it is, because of Hauser and their own incompetent help, they've given us a clue. It's their bad break, and our good luck."
"And the scientists are presumably being transported to some place behind the Bamboo Curtain?"
"Are there already, I should say. Which brings me to my next point. Why don't we buy some peanuts for that elephant? He looks as though he wants some."
Nick sought out the peanut vendor and came back with two bags.
"And what's your next point?"
Hawk opened the bag and shelled a peanut for himself.
"Dr. Mark Gerber," he said. "He is not yet missing. And because we've had such a heavy guard on him it's been impossible for anyone to put the grab on him. But he's been persuaded to leave the country — oh, yes, he's left already — and though we've got two men traveling on that plane with him he may end up with his fellow-scientists after all. At this point I'll just give you an outline. When Dietz and Scheuer disappeared from their labs we doubled all security precautions in all our top labs, factories, universities and plants. And when Mark Gerber's wife was murdered and a most gorgeous creature took over for his departing secretary…"
"Murdered? How?"
"An electric short," Hawk said impatiently. "Just after a handyman had been around. He killed himself when we got after him, as these bastards so often do. Point is, she was murdered. Part of a detailed plan for softening up Gerber. I have a dossier for you spelling out all these details; you can read it later. We checked into the new and glamorous secretary as soon as we suspected murder. Understand, we had the F.B.I. on this. We couldn't have done it by ourselves. Not enough available manpower. Elena Darby, her name is. Checked back five years and then a blank. But we kept working. Found she'd taken over the identity of an orphan girl. We tailed them both wherever they went, bugged his office, her home, his home, friends' houses. It's paying off."
He fed a peanut to the elephant and took one for himself.
"The Harrisons?" Nick said at last. "Was Rick Harrison in this too?"
Hawk shook his head. "A friend of Gerber's. Honestly thought it would do him good to get away a while with a glamorous companion. The whole idea was hers — we know it from the tapes. And then, just about the time he agreed to go away with her on this round-the-world thing, I got a report from Peking. From your friend Julia Baron."
"Julie?" said Nick, brightening up. A mother and her little boy were nearby talking to the elephants. "How is she?"
"Just fine," said Hawk. "She sends her love. How about the seal pool next?"
They sauntered away eating their peanuts.
"And what did Julie say?"
"That the Chinese Reds have some kind of highly secret plant in Sinkiang or Inner Mongolia or thereabouts. I stuck my neck out there. The whole thing has been kept so very secret that we thought it deserved investigation. The Chief himself had to authorize the flight and one of C.I.A.'s most qualified spy-pilots made it. Got himself shot down on the southern border of Outer Mongolia. He disintegrated his plane on the way down, and himself along with it. We've heard no kicks from the Reds about illegal flights, but we know more or less what — and where — it happened. So we have no evidence from the flight, but we have a very strong suspicion,"
"Uhm. What's the route for Gerber's trip around the world?"
"L.A., New York, London, Cairo, Bombay, Delhi, Agra…"
"Cairo? Lots of German scientists have been winging off to Egypt with no Communist conspiracy in mind at all. Nasser has his own use for them, and it spells no good for Israel. Do we have anyone in Cairo?"
Hawk nodded. "Two on the plane heading for Cairo, as I said, and two more waiting. Not enough, but all we have. That's where you'll be starting from. You're on the staff of PIC Magazine, with cameras. And leaving late this afternoon, so you'll get there before the tour flight."
"There's no plane that I know of going this afternoon."
"There's one. The U.S. Air Force. I told you this was urgent."
They watched the seals in silence for a moment.
"We don't have much more time," Hawk said at last. "Your plane will get to Cairo just before Gerber's flight, which you'll join. Before it goes, I trust you will have met both Gerber and Elena Darby. You'll be staying at their hotel. You will find that most of the passengers on this flight have booked through a travel agency and will go around the world with you. You'll not only see them on the plane but at tourist spots and hotels where they, and you, have been booked. But the plane is not loaded to capacity. Other passengers may be joining along the way. Keep your eye on them. Y
ou'll be contacted in Cairo. As soon as you check in there, the responsibility is all yours. Maybe the whole thing will come to a head in Egypt."
"What are we after? Something more than Gerber's safety, I assume. If the end of the trail is not in Cairo, it must be somewhere else. Red China, possibly. But on a flight that doesn't go any closer to Red China than New Delhi?"
"I think," said Hawk, "that somehow or other this flight is going to lead us to a plant or factory we'd very much like to know more about. No matter what happens, you're to stay on that flight to the end. We want to know where scientists like Mark Gerber are going. And it may be necessary to destroy what you find at the other end. Now. I think we've both had enough Zoo for today. You will go from here to the Weber Travel Agency to pick up a package. When you have studied the contents you will know what is expected of you. I myself am going to study the penguins. It has been a pleasure to talk to a fellow American." Hawk inclined his head and stuck out his hand to clasp Nick's. "If I hear any more from Aunt Lizzie, I'll certainly let you know. In the meantime… give 'em the Axe."
Nick watched him go, a tall, stringy man in a bright tourist's shirt… and the mind of a master spy.
He spent another half hour in the Zoo before heading for the Weber Travel Agency. When the smell of fresh hay was out of his nostrils he was once again the man called Killmaster by both friends and enemies, and his memory was telling him things about his next stop — Cairo.
Bargain in Bombay
Elena Darby was a dish, all right. And so attentive to Dr. Mark Gerber in a casual, undemanding way.
Nick sat at the almost deserted bar of the Semiramis Hotel in Cairo and glanced down the length of the cool, airy lounge. Elena and Mark had just come in and taken a table. Nick unobtrusively turned his back on them. Either one of them was likely to call him over if they caught his eye, and that wasn't part of his plans at the moment.
He swallowed appreciatively. Egypt had changed drastically, but there was at least one impressive change for the better: it was now possible to obtain an exquisite, extra dry martini.
Someone harrumphed beside him and ordered a Pimm's Cup.
"So you're leaving tomorrow?" said Someone. "Do hope your snaps come out."
Nick looked at the man with faint dislike. Smythe was the hotel bore.
"Photographic studies," Nick corrected coldly. Everyone tried to dodge the man and everyone got cornered by him sooner or later.
Smythe clucked. "Sorry, old boy. Not snaps, of course. That's what I take, isn't it? Yes. Cheers. Lovely girl, that, with Gerber. Gather you've become quite friendly with them, what?"
Nick nodded. "Uh-huh. Market places, Pyramids, Sphinx, camels, and pictures all over the lot."
"Good," said Smythe. "Progress. And nothing untoward?"
"Nothing that I can see."
"Uhm. Nor I. We'll be extra cautious from now until the plane leaves, of course, but I don't think Cairo's the dead end. Wish we could all come with you."
"So do I," said Nick, and meant it. Hawk picked his men with care, and the dreary Smythe was a highly competent operative with a deep zest for life and a flair for acting.
"I gather from Alfred that Gerber, weary though he still looks, has much improved since he left New York," said Smythe. 'Alfred' was the code name for agent A-12, who had joined the flight in New York and come as far as Cairo before dodging out of sight. "Elena's magic seems to be working. A very subtle seductress."
"Very. Experience does pay off."
"And how many of all these pictures do you think your magazine will use?" The bartender was wiping the bar in their direction. "Why, you must have taken positively thousands!"
"They'll do a spread of twelve to fourteen on every place along the route," said Nick. "A tie-in with the airline. They'll put the leftovers in the stock shot file to save the cost of another trip for the next four or five years or until there's some really bloody border incident to cover. Some of the pictures, of course, I'll keep myself."
Smythe smiled slyly. "The bulk of your studies of Miss Darby, I suppose." The bartender bustled off to attend to a customer at the far end of the bar. "I think you might be interested in one little bit of information I've dug up for you. You'll have two new fellow passengers on your plane tomorrow. They bought their tickets about an hour ago so we haven't yet got anything on them." That was interesting. Nick carried in his head the names, backgrounds and faces of all the passengers who had come as far as Cairo, and every one of them checked out satisfactorily for a good fifteen to twenty years back at least… except for orphan Elena Darby. Sudden additions to the passenger list were none too easy to check out in time, especially if passports were impeccable and the travelers paid cash.
"Together?" Nick asked.
Smythe nodded. "Dr. E. B. Brown and his young assistant, Brian McHugh. Archaeologists. Brown doesn't look much like a Brown and McHugh doesn't sound much like a Mc, but we all know about my nasty, suspicious mind and what a melting pot of a world we live in. Anyway, Brown is a scholarly looking chap with a slight limp and McHugh is full of bounce and cheer, altogether too Sunday School-energetic to be quite human."
"No candid study, I suppose?"
"Regrettably, no. It was only luck, actually, that we caught them at the ticket office at all. Can't have jam on it, my boy."
"Another Pimms?" Nick asked, smiling. "Or do you think you've bored me long enough?"
"Shame on you," Smythe said reproachfully. "How can I drink with a man who talks to me like that? I'll find someone else to bore, thank you. One parting note, however. Norm and I will stay here on call in case you find it necessary — or possible — to send for us. Alf will head back home after a day or two. Jack will stay with you as far as Bombay." 'Jack' was the reedy and insignificant young fellow who had dogged Mark and Elena from L.A. to Cairo, overlapping Alfred. "Then in Bombay," continued Smythe, "you will be joined by another operative who will make the trip as far as Calcutta at least and possibly further."
"Well, if that's all, I think I'll leave you now," said Nick. "I see my friends have spotted me. Try to find another ear to bend, will you? And don't make any further contact with me. Anything new, give it to Jack."
"Roger. Happy landings, old boy."
Nick left him with a curt nod and made his way to the table occupied by Mark and Elena.
"Hi," said Mark. "Looking for an escape route? Come and join us."
"Lord, I'm glad to see you two," Nick said, pulling up a chair. "A half-hour with him is like a month in the country. Siberia."
Elena laughed. "He really is a menace, that Smythe. Buttonholes every innocent traveler and latches onto them like the Ancient Mariner. All he needs is an albatross to complete the picture."
Well, he has the next best thing, thought Nick. A Hawk.
Philip Carteret, scion of a very old New Jersey family and ace photojournalist for PIC ordered drinks all round.
By the time the great, sleek plane had been in the air for an hour Nick had identified all his fellow passengers and pinned their names to them. A bevy of school-marms from scattered points in the U.S.A. A travel club of a dozen aging couples under the leadership of world traveler Hubert Hansinger, in person, folks, offering all the experience and friendly courtesies of a man who knows his way around the world and into its out-of-the-way corners; costs a little more than those run-of-the-mill tours, but quality, quality, that's what counts, and with a Hansinger tour there are always special surprises. A couple of earnest looking students, one of whom used the code name Jack. A little old lady with a winning smile and a humorous gleam in her eye, something Japanese in her ancestry. Solitary singles with lonely faces. A few young couples. No children, fortunately. Unusual in a planeload of ninety, capacity one hundred and forty, but just as well. In case. Two lovely stewardesses, one an Indian in a sari, the other apparently English or Canadian; and one purser.
Nick got up to stroll down the aisle. Mark and Elena were talking companionably. Only Elena saw him pass, and
she smiled at him as Mark reached for her hand. Dr. E.B. Brown, sitting in a window seat, seemed oblivious to the cloudbanks in the brilliant sky. A book lay closed on his lap and his eyes stared at the seat in front of him. In spite of the wispy gray moustache that wasn't there, Nick was almost certain that in E. B. Brown's strained face he recognized Dr. Ernst Rademeyer, late of Canada. The young man beside him, Brian McHugh, was engrossed in a book that made him smile and chuckle to himself. Nick had not seen him before.
Near the rear of the plane was an Oriental couple of uncertain years and complex background. Nick knew that their home was San Francisco and that they had left Taiwan many years before to start a new life as far away as they could from both Chinas. Now they were on a sentimental journey back to the Orient, if not to their own old home.
He stopped at the water cooler and looked down the length of the one-class plane, wondering when and how the next move would be made. His camera bag, with its combination lock, lay beneath his seat. Inside were three cameras of varying versatility, plus film and filters. They would serve their purpose — in time.
Elena, holding Mark's hand, was doing some wondering. She was wondering which of this crowd would prove to be her accomplices. She rather hoped that one of them would be that virile-looking Philip Carteret.
* * *
That night, in Bombay, Elena gave herself to Mark.
He spent the next day in a glowing, happy daze. Bursting with energy, he insisted that both Elena and Nick join him in a round of sightseeing. It was only when Elena pleaded exhaustion and Nick said that he had to get shots of the Hanging Gardens of Malabar Hill that Mark finally said that he would like to walk around a bit alone.