Fraulein Spy

by Nick Carter

  He was not as alone as he thought; Jack glided quietly behind him.

  And, in the meantime, Elena was managing to meet Philip Carteret in the lobby. A few minutes later they went up to his suite together.

  They talked for a while, first in circles and then to the point. Nick kissed her once, muttered something, and turned away from her toward his living room window. Elena was beautiful in her low-cut summer dress, and her luminous green eyes glowed with tiny fires.

  "Philip, Philip," she said softly. "Oh, my darling, please don't worry so. You'll make me feel shabby if you don't stop talking about Mark."

  He stood at the window staring down at Bombay. It was a hot, bright evening that promised to get hotter. "I like Mark. And I don't want to cheat him."

  "Philip, sweetheart," Elena said patiently, "don't you understand that Mark and I are not in love with each other? Of course I don't want to force you into bed with me, darling. I'll leave this minute if you're sorry that you brought me here."

  Nick swung around and took three long strides toward her. His hands clamped down on her shoulders and trapped her in the chair she was occupying as serenely as a favorite cat. He may have used a little more force than necessary, but he wanted her to feel his strength. He was curious to see if she would enjoy the feel of it.

  "You're not leaving," he said harshly. "I may feel guilty, but I'm not a fool. I know what I want. And I'm going to have it."

  She smiled faintly and relaxed under his grasp. "You know I wouldn't hurt Mark for the world," said Elena, "but… it's not as if I'm being unfaithful. I'm his secretary, after all, not his — property." Her jade-colored eyes stared straight up into his, and her lips were slightly parted.

  Nick bent down and kissed her fiercely. His hands sought her neckline and explored.

  Then he pulled her abruptly, almost rudely, to her feet and held her close to him. "Love me, then," he said thickly. "Close to me. Close. Let me make love to you." His hand went down her leg, plucked at the hem of her dress, came up again under the soft and summery cotton, stopped where it should have found the line of even the scantiest panty, moved on when it found nothing to stop it and then at last stayed where it was. He crushed her to him and kissed while he caressed.

  At last she released her clinging lips. "But standing up, sweetheart? Is that the way you want it? How impatient you are!"

  Nick let her hem drop. "I am impatient," he said huskily, and picked her up easily. He carried her to the sofa and put her down on its soft pillows.

  Pieces of clothing dropped one by one, the few dainty things she wore and everything that he had on, until there was nothing left to separate them. Their bodies clung together. If he had only known, she was thinking: If he is the man, why doesn't he tell me? Oh, but he will, before this evening's over! And he was thinking, if she could only know: The treacherous bitch. Wonder if she's the kind who wants to talk afterwards, or just gets sleepy?

  He teased her, alternating gentle love-play with a roughness that verged on brutality. Her response was more than gratifying.

  She teased him in return, and so skillfully that he almost lost control before realizing that he could plot her every provocative movement in advance. Even the most experienced secretary at Universal Electronics was hardly likely to know the subtleties she employed so expertly.

  Once years before he had masqueraded as a sailor visiting a Chinese port and had allowed himself to be lured into a place called The Heaven of a Thousand and One Delights. Its inhabitants were ladies of the night, especially trained to use their wiles on visiting seamen and foreign officials to compromise them into working for the Red Chinese cause. China's spy trainees went there, too, to learn the seductive arts and how best to use them on their chosen targets.

  Elena was an expert. Within a few tantalizing moments the simple room in Bombay was transformed into an Oriental harem, with Nick the sultan and Elena the composite of half-a-dozen exotic women he had known. First she was the demure one, waiting to be aroused; then the woman of the world, drawing him on and then holding him back; then the siren, offering him a glimpse of what might be if he only followed her; then the voluptuous concubine, leading him into strange paths and arousing him anew at every sensuous turn; then a willowy wanton, demanding more than she was giving; again the Oriental enchantress, bowing to his every whim and suggesting others that he might not have thought of; and then at last a woman, any woman, arching with desire…

  Under his own trained touch her small breasts seemed to swell and her legs seemed to grow longer and more limber. The tricks that were second nature to her gave way to natural longing, aroused to fever pitch by someone at least as experienced as she. Nick felt the change in her and changed his own approach. He became the urgent lover, finished with technique and straining with the need for release. He had to tell himself again and again that he loved her and he wanted her, and at last he let himself stop calculating and become a man with one thought in mind — to sweep her to a peak such as she'd never known before.

  Together they caught a rhythm that pulsed for long, exquisite moments, until she gasped and begged and shuddered with passion and then gasped again. He quivered like a taut spring, controlling and maneuvering his Yoga-trained body so that it gave her everything she demanded and more than she had dreamed possible.

  "Ahhh, Philip," she moaned. Her legs clasped his and her thighs rose to meet him in one long, reverberating explosion of fulfilled desire. At last she lay back gasping. He held her for a while and then released her gently.

  "Oh, God, Philip," she whispered. "How wonderful you are!"

  He smoothed her hair back gently. "Not I, Elena," he said softly. "You."

  Elena smiled dreamily. "But you… you are superb. I didn't know it could ever be so — so devastating. It's more than just the act, isn't it, Philip? It is love, isn't it?" Her eyes pleaded with all of their new warmth.

  "It's love," he lied, and pressed his lips to hers.

  * * *

  Two new passengers joined the plane on the following morning. The en-route passengers were already settled into their seats. Only Jack and one or two businessmen had left the flight. Nick was standing in the aisle looking down at Mark and Elena and discussing the highlights of Bombay — though not all of them — when, the first of the newcomers boarded. Nick eyed him curiously. He knew, through a discreet enquiry to the airline, that one would be A. J. Wyatt and the other V. Mauriello.

  The new arrival was short, thickset, and swarthy. He engulfed the Indian hostess with slightly bloodshot eyes and growled, "Hiya, doll. Where ya gonna put me, huh, Gorgeous?" The hostess smiled politely and pointed out his seat. AXEman? thought Nick. Crude-looking thug, but I guess it takes all kinds. Wyatt? No, more like a Mauriello.

  He was heading for his own seat when the second of the new passengers boarded. A kind of stir went through the cabin and Nick heard a low-pitched whistle near him. Hmm. Short, dark and ugly must surely be his contact. AXEmen were seldom whistle-bait.

  Nick turned.

  The vision at the open door smiled a dazzling greeting that was wasted on another woman. Every man in sight grabbed a little of it for himself.

  Nick sat down and tried hard not to stare. A pulse-beat of shock caught at him and gave way to a surge of anger. And anger blended with an almost painful thrill of heart-catching excitement.

  A. J. Wyatt undulated down the aisle. Nick saw what he had seen one warm September day in Section 33 of Yankee Stadium: a supple body moving with the grace of a tigress. Soft, copper-tanned skin. High cheekbones, a generous mouth carefully reddened to accentuate its natural beauty, eyes that were almost almond-shaped. Rich, dark hair escaping in little curling tendrils from beneath an impossible but wonderful hat. Subtly curving hips, slender waist and high, tilted breastline that evoked all manner of delicious thoughts… and memories.

  The ravishing Miss Wyatt glided past him. And as she did so her lips took on the tiniest of smiles and one almond-shaped eye winked almost imperceptibl
y. No one else but Nick could have seen it, and his heart leaped.

  Deep anger fought exquisite pleasure within him. Not her! Not on an assignment like this. But God, how wonderful to see her!

  Miss Wyatt, alias Julia Baron of New York, London and Peking, sat down and stretched out her elegant legs.

  A Meeting and a Parting

  Julie Baron. Either she or Hawk must be crazy. Since Hawk was crazy like a fox, he'd have a good reason for putting her on the job. If he had. Julie was just impulsive enough to worm herself into a spot that looked exciting and be out of it before the brass knew where she'd been. She was the crazy one.

  Nick had no intention of making contact with her but he just had to have another look. So A. J. Wyatt had winked. So what? She probably had some kind of tic in her eye.

  Hmm. Of course Julie also had some kind of tic in her right eye; she had used it to spectacular effect in a consular living room during the Judas case.

  He got up and headed for the magazine rack, passing her without a glance but with an involuntary sniff of appreciation for a fragrance he should have identified when she walked by. The brand he himself had nicknamed "Dragon Lady."

  The lady with the tawny skin and almond-shaped eyes was leaning back in her reclining seat. Her eyelids were drooping and the luscious lips were slightly parted. Nick eyed her covertly.

  One feline eye opened slightly, closed again. Opened, closed; didn't look at him. Opened, closed, opened, closed, quickly, slowly, quickly, slowly, quickly… Dit dah dit, dit dit…?

  Julie Baron was up to her old tricks. She was winking him a message.

  The message said: Hi, honey.

  * * *

  Delhi. A noon landing. Check-in at Claridges.

  Most of the passengers decided to take the organized afternoon tour. Genial Hubert Hansinger was leading it, and as long as he had gotten his money in advance from his tour party, he certainly didn't mind who tagged along, har har.

  Nick tagged along because Mark and Elena were going. As Philip Carteret, with cameras in tow, he thought it would be a sound idea to get a general impression of Old Delhi before searching out picture material on his own. Julie thereupon ingratiated herself with Uncle Hubert Hansinger and managed to get his personal invitation while he stared hopefully down the front of her dress.

  Two busloads of tourists rumbled off in the hot afternoon to view the architectural wonders of Old Delhi.

  The party gathered at the gates of the old fort and trooped in twittering with anticipation.

  "All together, folks, now, all together! Stick with Uncle Hube!"

  Uncle Hube clapped his hands and bellowed jovially. But the party was a little too cumbersome for him to handle with his usual ease. Several of his flock detached themselves in twos and threes and drifted off in the direction of the Palace and the Mosque without waiting for his opening spiel.

  Nick followed Mark and Elena toward the Palace. From the corner of his eye he could see Julie meandering along behind, jabbing the air with a ridiculous little box camera.

  Ah! Camera! Load! He stopped and took a prolonged exposure reading, set his camera stops, and focused on a crumbling spire that stood out dramatically against a cloud-flecked sky.

  He clicked. And smelled perfume. "Dragon Lady" was the name.

  Julie was standing hesitantly beside him, holding her tiny camera. She looked up at him appealingly.

  "I wonder if you'd mind helping me?" she asked, in her most sultry voice.

  Nick beamed. His Julie. So seldom seen; so deeply loved.

  "Anything," he said. "Anything at all. Camera trouble, Miss Wyatt?"

  She nodded. "So you know my name?"

  "I've heard it mentioned. I'm Philip Carteret. What seems to be your difficulty?"

  "Getting you away from that woman, for one thing. You mean you're the famous, prize-winning Philip Carteret of PIC?"

  "The very same," he said immodestly, and grinned. "How marvelous!" she breathed. "What absolute luck!

  Then I'm sure you can help me. Tell me, which clicks up and which clicks down?"

  He took the tiny camera from her. "The way you shoot, it probably doesn't make the slightest bit of difference. Is it loaded?"

  Hubert Hansinger and his Faithful trailed past them.

  "Of course it's loaded," Julie said indignantly. Nick slid aside the tiny window-guard. "I may not be very bright, but that much I do — Oh. Now where did I put the film…?"

  Nick, with Julie close behind, sought shade and opened up the camera.

  But even though the small red window had shown the camera to be unloaded, there was still something inside: A shakily scrawled note in language code that read, when translated:

  VITAMIN TO N-3 ("Vitamin" was what all AXEmen called Special Agent B-12): SPOTTED AND IMMOBILIZED IN HONG KONG. UNABLE TO JOIN YOU AND IMPOSSIBLE TO SEND OTHER AXEMAN IN TIME. INTRODUCING HEREWITH OCI AGENT J. BARON. UNFORTUNATE CHOICE BUT NO OTHER COURSE AVAILABLE SINCE SHE WAS ONLY ONE ON SPOT. REMINDER FROM HAWK NOT ABANDON PLANE OR GERBER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES NO MATTER WHAT OTHER LEADS APPEAR TO PRESENT THEMSELVES. HOWEVER MUST WARN YOU TO LOOK OUT FOR SCARFACE MOON GOON. AT DESTINATION USE SHARPEST AXE NO HESITATION. LUCK.

  Nick slid the note into an inside pocket and loaded Julie's camera. "What in the world is a scarfaced moon goon?" he muttered.

  "I haven't a clue. And I don't know what happened to Vitamin, either."

  Dr. E. B. Brown and his assistant walked slowly past them to the Palace. Brown seemed to be tired, lagging. It was a hot day for an elderly man with a painful limp.

  "How'd you get the note?" asked Nick.

  "A messenger from the hospital. Oh, he's immobilized, all right. Somebody tried to knock him off. They wouldn't even let me see him. You've done it already? Oh, thank you so much. God, it's hot. I suppose we have to go look at that damn Palace?"

  "Not the Palace," Nick said soothingly. "Just the people."

  They walked along slowly in the wake of Brown and-McHugh, off into the dimness of the Palace entrance.

  "Any time you want help with that camera, please call on me," Nick said, finally.

  "You bet I will," she murmured. "Usually it gives me all kinds of trouble late at night. Room 207, or did you know?"

  "I knew," he said, and peered into an anteroom lined with mosaic murals. There was no one in there but an antiquated Palace Guard.

  But elephantine footsteps shambled in the distance from the floor above. Nick listened. And heard a sound much closer to them. Quick footsteps, clipping hard against the marble of the vast entrance hall.

  "Oh, listen, someone's making a getaway from Uncle Hube…"

  "Shut up, Julie!" Nick pushed her behind a pillar and looked past its worn smoothness in the direction of the rapid footsteps.

  Professor E. B. Brown was hurrying toward them from the back of the great hall, casting anxious glances behind him and dragging his crippled leg with difficulty. Suddenly he froze; Nick heard the second set of footsteps at the same time he did and could almost read Brown's thoughts as he stared desperately at the immense front doors: Too close behind. Doors too far. I'll never make it.

  Brown's eyes searched wildly for another exit. Then he spun clumsily and dodged behind a pillar. And disappeared.

  The second set of footsteps became a person. Brian McHugh.

  McHugh stopped, darting swift, angry glances from side to side as if searching for a fleeing pickpocket.

  And then McHugh stepped behind a pillar and disappeared.

  Nick hesitated for a fleeting second. Don't abandon Gerber any circumstances. "Julie!" he whispered urgently. "Can you hide the cameras in your bag?"

  She nodded. Nick whipped the straps over his shoulders and thrust the cameras at her. "Find Gerber. Stick with him. You armed?"

  She nodded again, pushing the camera into her huge pocketbook, as a shadow fell across the marble floor near the immense open door. V. Mauriello, blinking, peered into the gloom. His face was undisguised brutality.

 
; "No questions," Julie said abruptly, and whisked herself away.

  Nick kept his head averted from Mauriello and walked rapidly across the hall to the pillars where the two men had seemed to disappear. Beside them, and concealed by them from the doorway, was a crude stone stairway leading down. A very low iron fence barred them from the public.

  Within seconds Nick was plunged in almost absolute darkness. There was just enough light for him to see a vault-like room — empty — with passages leading off in three different directions. He stood still and listened.

  Stumbling footsteps in the passageway to the right. He followed them, soft-footed as a cat, his eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the darkness.

  Light stabbed a curve of passage in front of him and disappeared. McHugh's voice echoed eerily against the stone walls. "Rademeyer. I know you're there there there. Come back here here here. You can't get away ay ay. Rademeyer er er er! There's no way out no way out no way out out out!"

  Now how does he know that? thought Nick.

  Either there were two sets of footsteps in hearing distance now, or one set, echoing. Stumble run stumble run patter patter patter patter. There were two, all right. Closing in on each other.

  The light flashed again. It stayed on this time, brushing the walls with shades of dark and light and weirdly leaping shadows.

  The light was a nuisance. It was darkness Nick needed, or he'd tip his hand to McHugh — genial young McHugh with the smiling, college-boy face.

  Nick felt in his trouser pocket and pulled out something light and flimsy. He had made an unusual purchase in Cairo — and had half of it with him at all times.

  He briskly tucked his sports shirt out of sight under his lightweight jacket and pulled up his jacket collar. Then he pulled the stocking well down over his head. Its thread was thick and dark and a lady of fashion would have scorned it. But it suited Nick perfectly: It distorted and darkened his features beyond recognition.