Nick Carter

Run, Spy, Run

The man with the steel hand

Nick Carter settled back in his forward seat and allowed himself to be lulled by the powerful throbs of the jet-thrust engines. The giant metal bird was moving as easily as a magic carpet. He folded his lean hands across his stomach and relaxed. There was nothing to do but wait. Yet the steel gray eyes remained alert beneath his lowered lids. Flight 16 from Jamaica to New York had long since passed its midpoint,' and still there had been no sign of anyone's interest in him.

Once again he surveyed his fellow passengers, mentally positioning those he could not see without turning his head. It would have to be someone on board, or the message didn't make much sense. Anyway, it was always a good habit to double-check those you were traveling with. And a bad habit to break. Nick had never broken it, which may have been one of the reasons he had survived a World War, five years with OSS, and seven years as Top Secret Operative for Mr. Hawk and the United States.

The assembled company was as before. Everyone was in the expected place wearing the expected expression. The young honeymooners directly in front of Nick were still billing and cooing, being predictably solicitous of each other's needs. Ahead of them, the two noisy executives — apparently business partners on their way back to the home office — were weighing the comparative merits of Mantle, Mays and Musial. The young brunette across the aisle from him was still supporting her thick paper-back textbook whose title had made him glad that his college days were far behind: Problems of Adaptation and Culture Clash in the Emerging Nations — A Socio-Psychological Study. Only she wasn't looking at the book. She was looking at him with appraising, speculative eyes. Then she caught his glance and blushed. He grinned at her cheerfully, Barnard, he thought, or Vassar, maybe. Nice if the message referred to her. Too young for him, though, and much better off with one of those Princeton lads three rows to the rear.

He closed his eyes and sighed a little wistfully. The good part of those days was also far behind. And so was Jamaica. Jamaica had been intoxicating. A tough assignment had turned, surprisingly, into a vacation. Two wonderful weeks of fun in the sun, far away from a Mr. Hawk who was fondly supposing his best operative — Nick Carter — to be risking his neck and racking his brains. It had been a breeze and a pure delight. A breeze that, among other things, had blown him a stack of bonus money from Uncle Sam for services rendered. And then there had been the delicious icing of the Countess de Fresnaye, a tall, willful wanton who had not only been the key to the case but its most delectable element. It was while he was dining with her in the Montego Room of the Cayman Hotel that the note had come. It read:

Nick Carter: Urgently need help. Our mutual friend. Max Dillman of Intour, has often spoken of you. Said he thought you were in Kingston. Looked for you and saw you in lounge tonight, overheard you saying you planned to leave in a day or two. Can't talk to you now to explain, but beg you to take Flight 16 tomorrow. Otherwise no way out of desperate situation that might interest you. Please help. Will contact you on plane. Please please please this is not a joke or trap.

The note had been hastily written on hotel stationery. It was unsigned. A waiter had handed it to him. He had received it from a busboy, who had had it from a porter, who had been given it by... well, he couldn't exactly say. There had been a party at the bar and another at table 23, and all sorts of notes had been passing back and forth all evening. He just couldn't recall where this one had come from.

The Countess had smiled, shaken her head, and raised her glass for more champagne.

"An admirer, Nick. A silly woman with a made-up story. Ignore it. Stay until Friday."

A woman, he thought now, opening his eyes to the small world of the plane. She was probably right. But not the kid on the aisle. She's shy, but she's not nervous. Nothing urgent on her mind. Who had been in the hotel the night before? Impossible to match last night's faces with anyone here.

There was the highly-strung, over-age blonde in the Paris clothes, with the small freckle-faced kid who kept running to the water cooler. There was the matron with the impossible hat, and the frail little fellow who squealed "My dear!" every few minutes and waved his fingers when he talked. Hardly anybody stood out from the crowd. An ordinary lot.

Except the man with the steel hand.

He had intrigued Nick from the moment of departure from sunny Jamaica. Clearly, he was not the type to write the imploring "Please please please help!" What type was he? An odd bird.

Short, squat, very wide in the shoulders, wearing expensive but poorly cut clothes. Bald, Brynner skull, small eyes ringed with pouches, indicating poor health or fatigue — tension? — rather than age. And then that hand...

The man had done nothing during the flight but sip tea and smoke short, thin cigarettes. From his seat, Nick had identified the pack as Rayettes, a type favored by Latin Americans. Yet the man was smooth-faced, fair of skin, and very nearly American looking. Or maybe Russian. But with the British tea-drinking habit. There she was again, the stewardess, dispensing tea from that bottomless server. Mmmm. Most attractive girl. Seemed to know the man. She smiled and chatted as she filled the upheld cup in the robot hand.

The hand was fascinating.

Tragedies of war had brought about fantastic advances in artificial limbs. It was engrossing to watch the bald man maneuver his tea and Rayettes with those gleaming, non-human fingers. He hardly used his good left hand, as if openly defying his disability.

Steel Hand, so far, has been the only non-routine aspect of Flight 16.

Nick stirred restlessly. The girl on the aisle looked at him sideways, sliding her glance over his handsome face and down the lean, whipcord length of his body. He was almost too good looking, with that classic profile and the firm, cleft chin. Those icy eyes looked cruel and dangerous. Until he smiled. Then the firm, straight mouth split into a grin and laugh-lines rayed out from much warmer eyes. Damn! He'd seen her staring again! She buried her nose in the book.

He'd seen her staring only because he was watching the hostess coming up the aisle and thinking that she had fine, firm hips, that the blue uniform was most becoming to her, and that he felt like some coffee.

"Hello," he said, as she came between them. "Does this line ever serve coffee, or would that be un-English?"

"Oh, of course, I'm sorry!" She looked a little flustered. "I'll bring it right away. It's just been such a day for tea-drinkers...!"

"Yes, I noticed. Especially your friend, hmm?" Nick glanced down the aisle at the man with the artificial hand, then back at the hostess. She was looking at him, somehow, too intently.

"And a Remy Martin with the coffee, if I may?"

"Why not?" she answered, smiling faintly and moving away.

Nick felt a frown gathering on his forehead.

Plane crews — out of uniform — often came to the Montego Room and the Henry Morgan Bar of the Cayman for entertainment. Why hadn't he thought of that? Well — didn't prove anything. Hundreds of people drifted in and out of that hotel last night.

Rita Jameson surveyed him from her vantage point in the commissary alcove, admiring the lithe, limber body in Seat 6E. Could anyone quite so good looking be really reliable? She poured the coffee and cognac and moved swiftly down the aisle.

"I wonder if you could help me with something," he said, very quietly.

She raised her eyebrows.

"I'll try."

"Somebody on board this plane sent me a note and forgot to sign it. Somebody who seemed to be in trouble."

A muscle twitched at the corner of her mouth. He poured the cognac into his coffee and pretended not to notice.

"Do you have any idea how I could find out who it was? I'd really like to help."

"I don't know," she said. "I'll think about it. I'll see what I can do."

Her face was without color or expression as she hurried back to the tiny galley. You're a damn fool, she told herself fiercely. Can't you make up your mind?

Nick Carter peered out of the port window. Not much time left, if there was going to be any action. He couldn't see it yet, but he knew that the Manhattan skyline was looming up as fast as the four engines could manage the balance of the distance into Idlewild. Mr. Hawk would be waiting to hear from him — Hawk, a voice on the telephone or a coldly impersonal face behind a cigar. A man he had never failed, and prayed he never would. An enigmatic yet dynamic personality, a man with his authoritative finger in every espionage pie indigestible to the United States Government.

He wondered about the stewardess.

Rita wondered about him. But Max Dillman, in London, had said he was all right. She eyed her watch and checked the windows. 10:35. ETA was 10:50. Time to tell the passengers to fasten their safety belts, put out the smokes — and all the rest of it. This was supposed to have been her last trip. Tears misted her eyes. Stop that and get moving, she told herself.

She made the announcement in her low, crisp voice, and began the necessary duty tour down the aisle.

"Fasten your seat belts, please. We'll be arriving at Idlewild in fifteen minutes. Please put out the cigarette, sir. Here, let me do that, Madame Monnet. Everything all right, Señor Valdez?"

The steel hand flapped confidently.

The gradual banking sweep of the 710 Jetstar was almost imperceptible. Nick felt it, and made a final visual check of his companions. Everybody in place and neatly buttoned down. Well, that was that.

Rita came down the aisle toward him.

The gigantic spire of the Empire State Building sliced into the morning sky.

Rita leaned over Nick, pretending to adjust his seat belt.

"You're cheating, Mr. Carter. You didn't have it fastened," she said laughingly. Barely moving her lips, she added: "Will you help me?"

"I'd be glad to. How, when, where? And, incidentally, who?"

He watched the piquant oval of her face and waited.

She straightened up and said, with mock severity, "Really, Mr. Carter. You know I can't do that. But there's nothing to stop you telephoning me." She lowered her voice again. "Try to be the last one off the plane. Otherwise — it's Rita Jameson, Hadway House. Call tonight at eight."

He nodded and she turned away.

A drum of belated warning sounded in his brain. He'd been so fascinated by the question of Who that he really hadn't given much thought to the possibility of a trap. And it was a possibility that a man in his profession could never overlook.

Well, he was glad he had finally thought of it. But he didn't think it was a trap, somehow. It wasn't only that Rita was so very lovely; she seemed to be afraid.

Idlewild in the sunlight, a vast, concrete playground with wide ribbons of runways waiting to receive the great metallic homing pigeons.

Flight 16 came down with a long glide of controlled power, wheels bumping easily and pneumatic air brakes making small choking sounds. The pressurized passenger cabin was, thought Nick, as silent as a churchyard after midnight.

And then the storm of passenger voices and departure activity began. The flight was over and everybody was home safe.

The airstair was disgorging passengers rapidly. Nick stretched lazily. Two or three passengers were still wrestling with their hand baggage, but there was no point in making himself conspicuous by hanging around doing nothing. He picked up his briefcase and ambled to the exit.

"Got a coat for me?" he asked Rita, who stood on the airstair.

"Oh, yes, that's right," she said, nodding brightly. "One moment."

He waited. Behind him, he could sense the presence of the man with the steel hand.

"Excuse me, please, señor. I am in a hurry." The English was perfect, barely tinged with accent.

Nick stepped out on to the airstair and stood aside. Rita turned from the coat rack.

"Goodbye, Señor Valdez." She was smiling politely at the man with the steel hand. "I hope you'll honor us with a flight again soon."

The Brynner skull was now hidden by a brand new Panama. Thin lips curved slightly and the squat body inclined forward in the barest of bows.

"Thank you. We will meet again, I am sure. Pardon me."

He edged past Nick on the stairway and made his way quickly down to the tarmac. Nick admired the agility of his movements. The crippled arm was held normally and swung easily at his side.

Rita came back with Nick's coat.

"Well, on my way, Miss Jameson." Nick smiled at her gently, like a man who appreciated what he was seeing. A soft yellow curl was trying to escape the confines of her cap, and the breeze ruffled the top of her blouse. "Walk me down?"

"It's a little unusual, but why not?"

She walked a step ahead of him and said quietly, "Can't talk much now, but I need your help with a murder."

"Committing one?" asked Nick, slightly startled.

"No, of course not," she answered crisply. "Solving one. A hideous, monstrous thing."

They stopped at the foot of the airstair.

"I'll try," said Nick. "May not be up my alley, but perhaps we can find that out over a late dinner."

"Perhaps we can. Thank you." She smiled briefly. "Hadway House, remember?"

Nick nodded and raised his hand in a wave. She turned toward the stair and he headed briskly after the stream of passengers wending erratically toward the Exit gate. He was ready for some strong coffee and possibly four or five eggs. Still, his interest was divided between Rita and the fat back of the Señor. Ahead, the blonde Panama gleamed in the sunlight.

Something, some sixth sense, made Nick look up at the observation deck. At that instant, there was a click of sound. A barely discernible cricket-chirp of a noise that should have been lost in the busy throb of Idlewild. But Carter heard it.

He stopped, braking on the balls of his feet, every sense of his finely-tuned body alerted. Nick had had this sensation of imminent danger before. Walking across a minefield in southern Germany just before a member of his reconnaissance patrol — a buddy — had tripped over a vicious S-2 device, a deadly Bouncing Betty which had blown Mike to nothingness. That moment in time was the same as now.

The sound came from in front of him. There was only time for a swift look that showed something inexplicable and eerie. Señor Valdez had checked himself in stride as if he, too, had heard the click of sound. And as if it meant something to him. For, what was even more bewildering, he had raised his steel hand as if to inspect it for mechanical defects.

And then there was no time at all.

A mighty roar blasted Nick's consciousness. The universe flipped over on its back, spilling the earth and the people on it into one boiling lake of confusion and tangled bodies.

Nick kicked over like a feather blown by a hurricane, burying his face in the sun-baked concrete of Idlewild field.

Passengers screamed in mindless terror. It was as if a lightning bolt had leapt from the heavens to strike down the straggly line of passengers leaving Flight 16.

The atmosphere rolled and thundered with explosion.

Nick pried his eyes open. A rain of flying fragments and concrete chips powdered the cover of his folded arms. His coat and the briefcase lay yards away, whipped from him by the force of the blast.

The scene before him was a carnage. Passengers lay sprawled in impossible positions, looking like discarded rag dolls tossed on some vast garbage heap. It was a montage of horror. Smoky dust rose from pits where, seconds ago, had walked the honeymoon couple, the blonde woman and her freckle-faced kid, the brunette with the book, the slight young man with the languid hands, and...

A huge, smoking hole was visible where Señor Valdez had stood and looked at his hand.

There was no sign of Señor Valdez.

A wave of wailing, high-pitched human sound came from the airport building and the observation deck.

Nick staggered to his feet, dazed and bleeding, his ears full of the scream of a siren and the animal cries of people in misery and fear, his senses chilled with the immediacy of sudden, hideous death.

Behind him, he could hear a woman crying bitterly, in short, frantic gasps of terror.

It sounded like Rita Jameson.

He turned swiftly and saw her at the top of the airstair, clutching the slightly buckled rail and sobbing. A swift glance around the field convinced him that there was nothing he could do for anyone. An ambulance screamed on to the concrete beyond the pit and its siren moaned to a stop. Nick ran toward the plane and sprang up the steps. Pilot and engineer brushed past him to gasp at the nightmare scene on the field.

Nick took Rita by the shoulders.

"Stop that, now. Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm all right, I'm all right, but oh God, how horrible!" She choked out the words. "The people. All the people!"

"Did you see anything out of the way before this happened?" Nick shook her gently.

She brushed the hair out of her eyes and drew her hand across her tear-stained face. It was an oddly endearing, childlike gesture.

"No, but... Señor Valdez. I thought — I thought he blew up!" She raised her hand in unconscious imitation of Valdez' final action.

"That's what I thought," said Nick. "Look, take hold of yourself. We're going to be questioned, all of us. No need to tell anyone you've talked to me — about anything. Call you tonight."

But a figure on the observation deck had seen them talking, had seen Rita's gesture with her hand, had seen them look, immediately afterwards, at the frightful hole where Valdez had once stood.

A calculating mind asked itself, "Why take a chance?" and answered its own question.

Mr. Hawk

The airfield was a madhouse for the next two hours.

A barrage of officials, police, fire trucks, ambulances and clamoring personnel crowded the strip of runway where the strange man with the even stranger hand had vanished in a puff of terrible smoke. Nick Carter, as a passenger returning from business in Jamaica, could do nothing but look properly horrified and render a baffled eyewitness account. This was no time to be the private eye he usually called himself or even the top secret agent for AXE, which he now was. This time he was strictly on the sidelines, truly as shaken as any passenger. There were no conclusions to be drawn until he had consulted with Mr. Hawk.

But the special agent who lived inside his brain was as deeply disturbed as Nick Carter, the man. The explosion-killing was one of the most inexplicable, as well as one of the most horrifying, things he had ever encountered. He thought of the mangled forms strewing the pitted strip. What maniac could have planned this frightful thing?

As soon as he could, he drifted quietly away from the maelstrom of questions and sobs. In the spacious Coffee Shop, Nick found an unoccupied phone booth and dialed Hawk's unlisted number. His mind quickly turned to the code jargon of Axe.

"Yes?" Mr. Hawk's voice was as crackling as ever, belying his sixty-odd years.

"Your pigeon's home to roost," said Carter.

"Oh, good trip?"

"Until now. Somebody's just chopped down a cherry tree. More than that — an orchard."

"That so? Hatchet?"

"No. An axe."

There was a pause. Then the old man's voice said carefully, "Something you can talk about at home?"

"Could be — but I think I need a change of scene."

"I see. I hear they have some interesting exhibits at the Museum of National History. I especially like the Tyrannosaurus Rex. At four o'clock."

"So do I," said Nick, and hung up.

It was a simple code system, but it worked.

Tyrannosaurus Rex stood poised like a monster from some Grade B horror movie. The eyeless skull and raised forepaws of the king of prehistoric reptiles, four stories high when standing erect, filled Nick Carter's view as the hands on his radium-dial wrist watch indicated four o'clock.

The large, eerily-lit room was deserted, save for Carter and a tall, lanky figure peering thoughtfully up into the rib cage of the exhibit.

Hawk always gave Nick the image of a frontiersman made to dress to the nines in a dark cutaway coat and striped morning trousers and itching to get back into his working clothes. Seven long years of association had not dimmed the sensation. There he was, America's top secret service man looking like Uncle Sam himself, except for beard and stripes.

The dreaded enemy of traitors, saboteurs and the spies of every continent was craning his neck upward with absorbed interest, looking for all the world like a spry old-timer with nothing on his mind but the wonders of nature.

Nick strolled slowly around the gigantic skeleton. He stopped, as if by chance, beside Hawk and scrutinized the bone structure.

"Ha, young man." Hawk pointed a leathery finger upward. "What do you know about the intercosta clavicle?"

"Not very much, sir, I'm afraid," apologized Nick.

"Something to do with bones, I believe. But I'm more interested in other kinds of bodies. And in jet planes that unload passengers who suddenly blow up."

"Yes," Hawk murmured. "Odd about that." He looked sharply at Nick. "You look peaky. Should be used to this sort of thing. Can't let it get you. Something special about this one?"

Nick shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like his facial expressions to be readable.

"Maybe. Very messy. And the kids — well, nothing to be done about them now. But there was something odd. A fellow with a steel hand — that ticked. Just once."

Hawk's eyes brightened. Years fell away from him.

"Let's have it."

Nick told him, his account crisp and graphic. He mentioned Rita only briefly, but not so briefly that Hawk's alert eyes failed to register the mention.

"Think there's a connection?"

"Seems possible. I'll find out."

"Hmmm. You do that"

A woman with a teenager in tow wandered into the room. Hawk indicated something in his program. Nick moved closer to him and peered over his shoulder.

"Curious coincidence," said Hawk.

"About the girl?"

"No. About the explosion. By the way, how was Jamaica?"

"Fun," said Nick.

"Fun?" Hawk raised his eyebrows.

"I mean successful," said Nick hurriedly. "Mission completed. Little fun on the side, naturally."

"Naturally," agreed Hawk drily.

"But I'm ready for work again."

"Good. You seem to have started already. Coincidence about the bombings, as I was saying. And about you being involved in one of them."

"One of them?" Nick eyed the woman and the teenager idly. "There haven't been any others quite like this."

"No, not quite, but close enough to convince me that they're connected in some way. It's your new assignment, Carter. Operation Jet. AXE is being sharpened now. Three planes have blown up in the last few months. One over the Pacific, one over the Atlantic, and — last month — one over North Africa. The insurance people are trying to pin them on money-crazy relatives eager to dispose of kin in order to cash in on accident policies. And in one case there's a suspicion of pilot error. All of which we'd go along with — except for the three jokers in the deck."

"Such as?"

"On each plane, a noted diplomat died. The FBI suspects sabotage. The fellow in the White House has asked me personally to investigate."

"Mr. Burns of Great Britain, wasn't it? Ahmed Tal Barin of India. La Dilda of Peru. I remember now."

Hawk nodded approvingly. "That's right. And from all indications, you've just sat in on the fourth."

"Not exactly. The bomb went off on the ground. After the flight was over."

"They make mistakes too." Hawk looked grim. "I don't know of any diplomat with a steel hand, but it's my guess that the man on Flight 16 was somebody. Unless..." His eyes narrowed. "Unless he was the killer, a walking bomb who meant to take the plane with him. You did say the explosion seemed to come from him — or anyway, he was closest to it?"

Nick shook his head decisively. "That won't wash. Not the type. And the actions don't fit at all. He was as surprised as anyone. And he didn't take the plane with him."

"Then the chances are he was the target. We'll know more when the airport people step out of the way and let the machinery roll. CAB is in our hair at this point."

"I've checked into the Biltmore," Nick said. "Room 2010. As long as I'm on the job there's no sense in going to my little gray home on the west side." He grinned almost apologetically. "And I'll be needing some money."

Hawk checked his program again.

"You'll need more than money. You'll get a package tomorrow morning. Complete dossier, all details, and a set of identification papers. This time you'll have to change your name. I don't want the Nick Carter of Flight 16 mixed up in this thing any more."

"Ha. Secret Agent X-9," snorted Nick scornfully.

"That's not really very much funnier than N-3. is it, Carter?" Hawk asked coldly. "A number isn't a game. It's protection. So is a false name. And not just for you." He stabbed a bony forefinger at Nick. "For the Service."

"Yes, sir."

"And stop that idiotic grinning. Now. Get back to your hotel room and get some rest and oil your weapons, or whatever you do with them. You'll be very busy from now on."

"There's the girl," Nick said.

"Oh, yes. The girl." Hawk eyed him thoughtfully. "There always is, isn't there? Are you sure of her? Are you sure of your friend Max Dillman?"

"I'm sure of Max," said Nick. "And I'll soon find out about the girl."

"I'll bet you will," said the old man.

Nick hid a smile. "If she's one of theirs, whoever 'they' may be, I may as well know it now. I may have to — um — take steps. If not, I may learn something about Steel Hand. I gather the girl has traveled with him before. And we were both pretty close to him just before he blew out of this world."

"What kind of woman is she?"

"Ah!" said Nick. "Knockout. Name's Rita Jameson. Twenty-fiveish, five-seven, about a hundred and twenty-five pounds, natural blonde, blue eyes, small mole..."

"I meant her character, if you noticed it," Hawk said huffily.

"I know you did." Nick laughed. "Hard to say until I know why she wanted to see me. But I'd say she had a genuine problem and she was really scared."

"And you have a date with her tonight. I imagine you'll have a clearer picture before the evening's over."

"Oh, I imagine so," agreed Nick.

Hawk eyed him suddenly, his keen eyes narrowing.

"Are you armed as of now?"

"Yes. Usual equipment, plus one. The blast gave me my own ideas."

"Very good. You look as if you're carrying nothing larger than that fountain pen in your breast pocket."

Nick shook his head. "Nothing much larger, but much more lethal. Right now I could blow up everything in this room, including us. And of course I have my old friends Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre. Glad you can't spot them."

"So am I, boy, and glad I don't have to." Mr. Hawk closed his program decisively. "On your way. Stay as neat as you are."

He raised a hand in farewell and moved away.

Carter smoked a cigarette before taking his leave of Tyrannosaurus Rex. It had proved an unpopular day for the scaly king who had terrorized the earth in the dawn of time. His only visitors had been Nick, Mr. Hawk, and the woman with the teenager. Rex's day was over. And now Man was doing the terrorizing. Nick's brow furrowed. He seldom philosopriized, but he hated the brutal slaughter he had seen today.

On the sunny steps of the Museum, Nick hailed a cab for his trip to the Hotel Biltmore.

Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre lay close together on the big bed in Room 2010 of the Biltmore. Nick Carter, naked, moved from the tiled bathroom to the thick pile of the bedroom carpet. A stinging shower had followed a luxurious soak and the tension had gone out of his body, although there was a gathering welt on his forehead, a stiffness in his shoulders, and several small scratches and abrasions on wrists and ankles. But apart from that, and a minor graze running down his cheek to his chin, he had been almost untouched by the blast. Fifteen strenuous minutes of Yoga and a dab of talcum powder would cure whatever ailed him.

On the bed, Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre waited for his attention.

The room was soundless. The heavy drapes were drawn, and not even the street noises filtered through the high windows. Nick threw himself prone on the heavy carpet.

It was a pity that the occupants of the bed were such unappreciative spectators. The marvelously fashioned specimen of male architecture that was Nick Carter deserved a living audience for his daily exercise. True, he often had one. In Jamaica, for instance, the glossy eyes of the Countess had followed every move of his supple body. For no matter where he was, Nick found the time to coordinate every nerve and muscle in his body to the physical science of Yoga. Fifteen concentrated, straining minutes of complete muscular control enabled a man to breathe miraculously under abnormal conditions. Trained him, too, to contort his abdomen and hips to an almost impossible degree of narrowness, so that he was capable of squeezing himself in and out of areas denied the average man. Exercises for eyes and ears and limbs and heart and diaphragm, tried and tested throughout the years, had made Nick Carter a man who never had an earache, an eyestrain or a headache. The muscle exercises were the fieldwork in his campaign for perfect control; the Yoga philosophy of mind over matter consummated the feat. There is no pain, Nick had told himself again and again. Soon this had become a fact. There was no pain — even during one endurance-straining ordeal when his arm had been nearly crushed in a death struggle with the mammoth murderer, Tilson of Berlin. Tilson had died of a broken neck at Nick's hands. Hawk, who seldom allowed himself to be impressed, had never ceased to marvel at how Nick had managed to accomplish the deed with a mangled arm.

Yoga was also responsible for Nick's great prowess in more amorous exercises. In love as in war, the superb masculine body performed with grace and power.

Nick snapped erect, his labors over. A fine sheen of perspiration covered his litheness. He flicked the towel over his body and let it fall as he went over to the bed.

Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre could do things that even Yoga could not do.

He inspected his trio of lifesavers. Three delicately balanced instruments that were the great equalizers in the war of Spy versus Spy.

Wilhelmina was a 9mm. Luger, the spoils of World War II. She came from the SS Barracks at Munich. Nick had killed Colonel Pabst, a Himmler aide, to get her, and not only because he considered the Luger the finest hand automatic weapon ever devised: Wilhelmina was a very special Luger. The Colonel had gone in for some refinements. Wilhelmina was stripped to no more than barrel and frame, making her feather-light and easy storage for the waistband of the trousers or the taper of a hip beneath the tail of a coat. She had killed for Nick — several times.

Hugo was a killer of different style but equal experience.

Hugo was an Italian stiletto, a lethal miracle fashioned in Milano by an admirer of Cellini. A razor-thin ice pick blade and a bone handle no thicker than a heavy pencil. A blade that lay concealed in the haft until the flick of a finger on a tiny switch whipped the deadly steel from its slot. Hugo was even easier to hide than Wilhelmina. And quieter.

Pierre was a ball no bigger than a marble. But Pierre was a specialist in death. A French chemist, working for Hawk, had devised an ingenious little implement of destruction in the form of a round pellet containing enough X-5 gas to kill a roomful of people. A turn of the two halves of the pellet in opposite directions set off a thirty-second timer that made speedy departure a necessity. Nick was very wary of Pierre. He had to be carried carefully. True, his outer casing was virtually indestructible and the two halves responded only to a twist of considerable dexterity and pressure, but Pierre was too deadly a genie to take any chances with.

Nick checked these weapons daily. As with the Yoga, it was good to be on your toes with the equipment you waged your wars with. The war of espionage and international chess kept a top operative busy even when not actively engaged in the battle or the hunt.

And now there was a fourth weapon. It lay in his pants pocket with the everyday jumble of coins and keys.

Nick pulled on his shorts and took a flask out of his briefcase. He poured a generous shot into a bathroom tumbler and slid comfortably into a lounge chair, feeling just a little foolish about his latest acquisition. An arsenal of gimmicky weapons, for God's sake, as if he were a boy scout boasting a knife with sixteen blades!

But there were times when you had to fight fire with fire, or knife with knife, or blast with blast. And maybe this would be one of them. Even before seeing Hawk he had been certain that he would become even more deeply involved, somehow, in the weird business of the explosion. He had stopped, briefly, on his way into town from the airport. Frankie Gennaro was retired now, but he still liked to tinker down in his basement and use his skillful hands. The little flashlight key-chain was a minor masterpiece. The chain unscrewed and came out like a pin from a grenade. When it did, the gadget was transformed into a door-opener too deadly to use among friends. Frankie's instructions were: "Pull, throw, and run."

Nick swallowed thoughtfully.

Flight 16. That was a puzzler. A man blowing up after stepping off an airliner. Hawk and his new assignment... Yes, the old man must be right. Four recent explosions, all connected with aircraft and at least three with foreign diplomats, were a coincidence that spelled out "plan," not "accident." Bombs on planes were more than accident or even murder. There was a hideous callousness in wiping out a planeload of people when you were after only one of them. If you were. But what about this morning? Hawk was probably right about that, too. The bomb must have gone off behind schedule. A snafu. What had gone wrong? That strange clicking sound. Steel Hand looking at his artificial fingers before the explosion. Surprise. Did his hand blow him up? Didn't he know what he had in his hand? Maybe it wasn't the hand. Then what was it?

Nick took a deep breath. Time enough to think about that when the assignment officially began with the arrival of the facts and figures in Hawk's package. Until then he was still the innocent bystander of Flight 16, one Nicholas Carter who had completed his business in Jamaica and walked down an airstair to stand on the brink of hell. Only Hawk and a handful of trusted cops knew that Carter was N-3 of AXE. If the world thought Nick Carter was a private investigator or a business executive, fine. Just so long as it didn't know that the tall man with the hard jaw and even harder eyes and the label "Carter" had anything to do with AXE.

There was Rita Jameson to consider.

Damn! He should have thought of it before. Nick reached for his watch and strapped it on as he glanced at the time. Too late to call London now. Max would be out of his office and on the town. If it was true that he had spoken to Rita about Nick, then he would have told her what he thought he knew: that Nick was a private detective, who enjoyed a challenging assignment.

Rita. Lovely, troubled, in need of help. Or else a clever counter-spy who had somehow discovered that he was more public avenger than private eye. If that was the case, she was either somehow involved with the bombings or had coincidentally chosen Flight 16 to con him into a trap. He shook his head. That would be one coincidence too many.

Room 2010 slowly darkened as he sat there sunk in thought. The small blue tattoo on his right forearm, near the inside of the elbow, glowed faintly in the gathering gloom. He stared down at it and smiled a little ruefully. When Hawk had organized AXE, the tattoo had come with the job. Along with the phone code, the danger and the fun. One little blue axe, and a man was committed for life to the job of secret agent for the U.S. Government. Hawk's undercover agency had its own unorthodox ideas about "give 'em the axe" to enemy spies and saboteurs. But along with the axe and the code and everything else had come a deep-rooted sense of caution, a suspiciousness that reached out to every wide-eyed bellhop, every garrulous cabdriver and every lovely girl. Certainly it had played hell with romance on more than one occasion.

Nick rose, snapped on the lights and started to dress.

A few minutes later he was formally attired in a dark charcoal grey suit, powder blue tie and laceless black shoes. He inspected his face in the bathroom mirror. The scrapes and bruises of the day's misadventure were scarcely visible. Makeup, he thought, can do wonders, and he grinned at his image. He combed the thick, dark hair away from his forehead and told himself to get it cut in the morning, right after he'd talked to Max.

Back in the bedroom, he pocketed Pierre and slid Wilhelmina and Hugo into their accustomed places. Then he moved to the phone to call Hadway House and Rita Jameson.

His hand was reaching for it when something happened to the lights in Room 2010. Every one of them went out with alarming suddenness. Silently, swiftly — disturbingly.

Someone called out in the next room. It wasn't his room only, then.

A window made a click of sound.

That was his room.

Nick Carter stood stock-still in the new darkness, abruptly conscious of a deadly fact: someone else was in the room with him.

Someone who had not come in through the front door.

Death in a Dark Room

Nick Carter held his breath.

Not in the normal manner. Not with the sudden, sharp intake of sound that would have told the unknown intruder exactly where he stood.

Yoga has its multiple benefits. One of them is the art of breath control. Nick closed his mouth and stopped breathing. The hush of the room was unbroken.

Quickly, he adjusted his eyes to the darkness and waited. But his brain was flying, arranging every article of furniture, everything that took up space and held the geometrical pattern it had formed before the lights went out.

A chair fell over in the room next door. A man's voice raised in a curse.

Nick's mind raced in the darkness.

He was between the bed and the bureau. The door was approximately ten feet to his left. Chair and end table to either side of the door. Bathroom to his right, another few feet from the bed. Two windows facing Madison Avenue. The heavy drapes had been closed while he was taking his exercises and were still closed by the time he had finished dressing. No entrance there. The front door had been locked on the inside. The bathroom. The intruder had to be in the bathroom. There was a small window there. Too small for the ordinary man.

All other possible entrances were accounted for. Where else could the danger be but in the bathroom?

Nick didn't move. He could hold his breath for four and a half minutes, if he had to. But what would the intruder be doing? Nick cocked his ears, anxious for the slightest sound.

Now he was aware of the sound of Manhattan. The din of traffic rose from twenty floors below. Twenty floors... Fire escape? Not directly outside the bathroom window but near enough for an agile man. A car horn squalled.

Still, the silence in Room 2010 was a tangible, living thing.

His visitor couldn't afford to wait much longer. If other lights were out the guests would be raising hell. The lights would be going on again before anything happened. Fine. That suited Nick.

A slight, leathery splat of sound ignited him. Tt was too close. He moved from where he stood, still holding his breath, and glided to the wall near the front door. As he did so, he flexed his forearm and Hugo slipped quietly from the leathery breakaway holster and settled coolly in his right palm without so much as a hiss of noise. The ice-pick blade sprang into place. Nick reached out his left arm to feel for a chair. It would offer some protection if he could get it between himself and the hidden menace. His movement was soundless, but the darkness betrayed him. It was as if the someone in the room with him had seen the gesture with X-ray eyes.

There was a flick of sibilant noise and a tiny, swiftrushing current of air past Carter's left cheek. A slight thuck of contact sounded as a cold piece of flying steel found a target. Nick's split-second reaction was pure reflex, spurred on by sense memory of a thousand combats. His left hand found the hilt of knife jutting from the plaster wall. He shoved his right shoulder just below the hard handle, aimed, and answered back in kind.

Hugo shot from the balance of his throwing palm with the ease and thrust of a bullet, following the line from which the killer's knife had come. Nick's body tensed, his eyes trying to break the solid blackness into something that could be seen.

But there was no need for eyes now.

A strangled cry of surprise broke the silence. Before the sound could blend into a scream it fell to a bubbling gurgle. Something fell, heavily.

Nick let the air out of his lungs. The killer had paid the price for confidence.

Somewhere, nearby, a door slammed. An angry voice filtered into the darkness from the hall.

"What the hell goes on here? Somebody must have been messing with the fuse box or the circuit breaker or whatever the hell you call it. Are they going to let us grope around in the dark all night?"

Nick found his way to the window and pulled the drapes.

The dim light of the city's night sky showed a man spread-eagled on the floor, halfway across the threshold of the bathroom, his torso sprawled the rest of the way into the living room. Hugo was poking bloodily into his throat, in grim testimony to the accuracy of Nick's judgment and aim. Nick approached the corpse warily. The man was dead, all right. He turned the body over. There was no mistaking the rigid mold of the face.

Nick stepped over the body and went into the bathroom. A brief inspection confirmed his suspicions. The single window was open. He peered through. As he'd remembered, there was nothing but a yawning space below, but a fire escape to either side of the frame was within easy reaching distance. All it took was nerve. He went back to the corpse.

The lights blazed on.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the new brightness. A blank face stared up at him. A voice on the landing said, apologetically: "A kid playing around, maybe. Somebody's idea of a joke. Sorry, folks. Sorry about the inconvenience." The voice and the babble faded.

Inconvenience was right. He'd have to get out of here.

The man was about five ten — not short, certainly — but as thin as a piccolo, and dressed like a window cleaner. Denim trousers, sail cloth shirt. He hadn't bothered with the pail. Probably counted on just blending with the landscape and nipping in and out as fast as he could. It didn't work.

The face was plain and ingenuous even in death. No distinguishing features. There was nothing in his pockets. Not even a book of matches. No labels in the faded work clothes. Nick checked the heels of his shoes, the mouth and ears for hidden accessories. Nothing. The killer had come with only his knife.

The knife was a staghorn-handled destroyer, typical of what you could buy in an Army and Navy Store or those junk shops on Times Square. Nothing there, either. And the nothing left plenty to worry about.

Someone had sent a killer to Carter's room. Because of the plane incident, or because of something else?

Nick lit a Player's and thought: One killer?

Piccolo had come in through the bathroom window, as if on signal, the instant after the lights had gone out. There was no way he could have tampered with the box in the hall. Therefore there must have been a second man. But whoever had killed the lights was probably far away by now. No use looking for him. And no point in waiting around. Nick stubbed out his cigarette.

Too bad he'd have to leave a corpse for the chambermaid to discover. But secret operatives could have no truck with city police.

He placed the knife wielder in bed, dumping him unceremoniously under the blankets. He wrapped a hand towel around his ringers and pulled the knife from the wall. Putting the knife into the folds of the towel, he slid it into his briefcase.

The corpse mustn't be discovered until the next day, or it would serve no purpose at all. Check-out time was three in the afternoon and no maid would disturb a sleeping guest, no matter how badly she wanted to get through work and go home. Not even a guest who didn't answer a knock on the door.

But the knifer's friends were another matter entirely. If they felt like visiting, an unanswered knock wouldn't stop them.

Nick wiped off Hugo with almost fond dutifulness. Hugo had done the job well, as usual. Nick decided his suitcase could stay behind. A few items went into the briefcase: towel, knife, razor, book he hadn't finished reading on the plane, half-full flask. The only other things he wanted were on his person. Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre.

He wasn't worried about his signature on the hotel registration card. The Department had spent two months teaching him how to vary his handwriting to match assumed identities and produce admirably indecipherable signatures that looked like the real thing but spelled nothing and defied analysis. Actually, he had signed in as Willa Gather, but no one would ever know.

He spent several minutes thoroughly checking out Room 2010, then stepped cautiously out into the corridor and closed the door on the self-locking latch. He had left the keys to the room on the writing table. Then he hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle and headed for the stairway with his briefcase.

Piccolo's accomplice, if he were still about, was unlikely to show himself under the bright lights. Anyway, Hugo was ready for him. Nick climbed two flights, eyes alert for any sign of lurking presence, and made his way to the bank of elevators.

As things stood, the New York City Police would have a difficult case on their hands. Very likely insoluble. There was nothing here that could possibly lead back to Nick Carter. But the knifer's employers would soon know that their quarry was alerted enough to kill and run. That could make for a rather unpleasant future. Pity, in a way, that he had killed the knifer outright.

Still, there was no use moaning over spilt corpses. Especially ones that weren't your own.

Nick looked through the plate glass of the lobby phone booth, wondering how many of Them there were and what had happened to the second man.

The phone rang distantly several times.

"Yes?" Hawk answered with characteristic abruptness.

"Someone just sent a knife with a fine-honed edge," said Nick. "I refused the delivery."

"Oh. Wrong address?"

"No. Right address, I think. Wrong package."

"That so? What did you order?"

"An axe."

"Delivery man still there?"

"Yes. He'll be around awhile. Could be getting company — somebody to check on the delivery. But somebody else'll have to let 'em in. I think I'd better change hotels. Will the Roosevelt be all right for your package?"

"Fine for mine, if it isn't for theirs. Don't cut yourself."

The old man's voice was a little sour. Nick could practically hear what he was thinking. The case was only hours old and already N-3 had provided a corpse to confuse the issue.

Nick grinned into the telephone. "One more thing. When you send someone regarding this delivery, remember the front door as well as the service entrance. It may be a big thing."

"Don't worry about my memory." Hawk hung up.

Nick watched the lobby and dialed again. This time he called Hadway House and asked for Rita Jameson.

"Hello, Miss Jameson? Nick Carter. Sorry I'm late." Rita sounded strained.

"Thank God it's you." He could hear a sigh of relief, and her voice lightened just a little. "I thought you'd changed your mind."

"Not a chance. I was afraid you might have, after the day's excitement."

"Oh, God. Wasn't this morning awful? I can't get it out of my mind." The voice rose again. "That poor man! And the children and the screams and the blood. I can't bear it!"

"Easy, now. Take it easy." Nick was alarmed by the familiar, siren-like sound of hysteria. But "I can't bear it" seemed a funny thing to say. Well, maybe not. The horror of it was pretty hard to take. He hardened his own voice.

"Do you intend to fall apart, or are you going to pull yourself together? Because if you disintegrate, you do it alone. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's an hysterical female."

He waited. They usually nibbled on that line.

"If there's one thing / can't stand," Rita answered coldly, "it's a man who thinks it matters worth a damn what he can stand, and tops it off by pouring pompous clichés into my ear and..."

"That's better." He laughed aloud. "Those old hackneyed phrases nearly always do the trick."

There was a brief silence, then: "Oh." And a little laugh.

"What time shall I pick you up?" Nick asked briskly. "Let's see... it's now eight-thirty, and I'm afraid I still have one or two things to do. Do you think you can hold out until about nine, or nine-fifteen?"

"If you're thinking of food, I've never been less hungry in my life. But I'd just as soon you didn't pick me up at this place." She thought out loud. "We could meet at the Café Arnold, or at... no, I don't think I want to wait in a restaurant."

"A bar?"

"Or in a bar... I know — let's meet at the Plaza Fountain at, oh, nine-fifteen. I need a little fresh air. Do you mind?"

"No, of course not. See you at nine-fifteen."

He hung up. There was one more call to make. His finger traced out the familiar numbers.

"Frankie? Nick."

If he had been tailed from the airport it seemed only fair to warn Frankie that someone might have an eye on his house. It was unlikely, but possible. He told him what had happened.

Frankie Gennaro cackled.

"Don't worry about me, kid. If I was a sitting duck for any tail I'd a been dead a dozen times over. And I don't mind a little action. Still got some gadgets need trying out. You know, like under real-life conditions, as you might say. But, you, fella! You need lessons. Good thing you're only working for the Government. You'd make a no-good hood!"

He cackled again and hung up.

Nick looked out into the lobby. A middle-aged man with a prosperous-looking executive paunch was settling himself into an easy chair. A youngish man with a crew cut waited for the express elevator. He carried a bag that looked as though it might contain sales samples. Nick knew that it was filled with the delicate tools of his specialized trade. Agents K-7 and A-24 were on the job.

Nick spent what was left of the short time before his appointment checking in at the Roosevelt. He bought a cheap one-suiter at Liggett's and walked to the hotel keeping an eye peeled for trailing shadows. If they had found him once, they could find him again. But if they had picked him up as he left the Biltmore, K-7 would have spotted a tail and they would have formed a neat little procession of three. As far as he could make out, though, he had drawn no tail.

A late edition of the New York Post shouted out the headline: MYSTERY EXPLOSION AT IDLEWILD. Nick bought a paper, checked in at the desk with an inscrutable scrawl, and settled down to a few moments of reading in the privacy of a comfortable seventh-floor room.

It was just a skeleton story, breathing unsolved mysteries and suggesting no official unraveling of the bizarre event, but it did offer one scrap of worthwhile information:

"...has been identified as Pablo Valdez, secretary of the cabinet of Minirio. The flight was not official in nature, authorities disclosed here today. Minirio, even more than its neighboring Latin American nations, has been a world problem in recent months because of Red Chinese efforts to infiltrate the country with designs toward satellization..."

Bullseye for Mr. Hawk, again.

Burns of Great Britain, Ahmed Tal Barin of India, La Dilda of Peru and now Valdez of Minirio. Something was in the wind when four diplomats all died in similar ways. How in hell could the insurance companies go for such a weak cover-up as murder for insurance? Or was that just the official lie to keep the enemy hoodwinked while the FBI poked around for further information? Oh, yes. One exception. Pilot error. Perhaps it was a genuine exception.

It was turning out to be a real international soup, all right. And Mr. Hawk was just the chef to stir the pot.

Valdez's steel hand... The possibility of a bomb device was fascinating and horrible. It would be interesting to see what CAB and all the other authorities would make out of the one explosion which hadn't occurred on the plane. It was a break, in a way — it narrowed the field of inquiry.

Carter wondered why Rita had chosen to meet at the Fountain. The ever-present doubt swelled in the back of his mind. It would be a dandy place for anyone who wanted to pick him off.

Don't jump the gun, he told himself. It may just turn out to be a very pleasant night on the town with an extremely lovely girl who has turned to you, trustingly, for help.

Huh. Coincidence, coincidence, coincidence. There were too many of them — a series of explosions, a plea from a beautiful girl who sets up meetings in the oddest places, an unidentifiable knifer with an unknown motive. And all he'd done was mind his own business. And talk to Rita.

He whistled tunelessly as he rearranged the contents of his pockets and adjusted Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre to fit more snugly into their accustomed places.

Appointment at the Plaza Fountain

The Plaza Fountain looked like an oasis in the chaotic whirl of Fifth Avenue. Silvery spray played in the semidarkness, a pleasant sight for passersby. The large, aging hotel behind it looked like some rococo remnant of another era. The broad sweep of Central Park filled the eye to the north.

Directly across the Plaza, a line of hansom carriages waited for customers. One turn through the park and lovers might enjoy a breath of fresh air and romance even in so jaded a cosmopolitan universe as Manhattan.

Nick's eyes took in the tableau as he crossed Fifth and saw Rita Jameson. It wasn't just the pretty picture that caught his interest, although Rita looked even lovelier than his mental image of her. The hostess outfit had been replaced by a short blue gown of almost sculptured clinging lines. A lightweight evening coat was draped casually over her shoulders, and the blonde hair had been allowed to fall free over the velvet collar. But Carter read worry in her agitated movements. Why so nervous? He wasn't late. Reaction, maybe.

A young couple walked slowly beneath the wispy trees and murmured to each other. Half-hidden by a shadow in the northeast corner was a short, squat man in a crumpled seersucker suit with limp fedora to match. He was pretending to study his watch, but his eyes were on Rita.

Nick felt a cold flush of anger. So he was going to be fingered. No, come on! Who wouldn't look at a lovely girl pacing the square? Well, the bastard shouldn't stare like that.

He quickened his pace and walked alongside her as she strolled toward 59th.

"Hello, Rita."

Rita whirled, her eyes startled. Then she smiled.

"You gave me quite a start. Guess I'm jumpy. How are you, Mr. Carter?"

"Nick." He took her hand in his. Let seersucker have something to look at. "Don't worry. It's that old magnetism. I affect people that way. Dinner at some quiet place where we can talk?"

"If you don't mind, I'd rather not, just yet. Maybe we could walk awhile. Or — how about a hansom carriage ride? I've always wanted to try it."

"If that's what you want, fine."

What could be more pleasant than an evening in the park?

Nick whistled shrilly and motioned with his free hand as they walked to the corner. The first carriage in line rumbled forward.

Nick helped Rita up and followed her. The driver made a clicking sound between his teeth and lethargically raised the reins. Rita sank back into the darkness of the cab, her thighs disturbingly close to Nick's.

The man in the seersucker suit stopped looking at his watch and stood up, yawning and stretching. The coolness of Nick's mind settled into a chill.

The man strolled toward the line of waiting hansom cabs.

A tail. No mistake. Rita had been followed — or accompanied — to the Plaza Fountain. The question was — why?

Their carriage turned off the brightly-lit street and into the dark environs of Central Park. If anything was going to happen, it might as well happen here. He was ready.

He turned to Rita.

"All right, let's talk business first. Then we can start enjoying ourselves. What was it you wanted to see me about?"

Rita sighed heavily. She was silent for a moment. Nick stole a look out of the small rear window. Another carriage had rolled into view. Seersucker, no doubt.

Rita began slowly.

"It was something to do with the explosions. All the planes blowing up."

Nick shot a surprised look at her.

"All the planes blowing up?"

"I didn't connect it until today. And maybe it doesn't have anything to do with what happened today. But I know there was something wrong with the way Steve went. That's why I wanted to see you. He didn't wreck that plane. I know it wasn't his fault. And now somebody's trying to get at me."

"What do you mean, 'get at you'?" Nick frowned down at her and took her hand. "Listen, honey, you'd better tell me the story from the start"

"I'll try. But give me a cigarette first, please."

A flick of his lighter showed the violent worry in her blue eyes.

"He was a pilot and we were engaged. We were going to get married after this trip. My trip, I mean. We'd planned it months ago. But his plane blew up. There was a hearing, and they said it was his fault, he was up late and he was tired and careless, and he crashed. But he didn't Oh, Christ, when I saw that mess this morning, that horrible sound and all those innocent people, I know what it was like for him, and I can't stand it...!"

"Stop that!" Nick took her hand and squeezed it brutally. "You don't know what it was like for him. God knows I can't figure out what happened from what you've told me, but if the plane exploded he didn't feel a thing. Now who's trying to get at you, and why?"

"I don't know who, I don't know why. Maybe because I was making a nuisance of myself. Just because I knew it wasn't his fault."

"What makes you think somebody's trying to get at you?" Nick's voice was as coldly demanding as a prosecuting attorney's.

"Because I got a phony letter and because somebody tried to get into my room this afternoon, that's why!" Her voice rose to a near-hysterical pitch.

"Somebody did get into mine," Nick said gently. "Okay. We'll get back to that. What about Valdez?"

Street lights from Fifth Avenue disappeared as the horse-drawn carriage clopped noisily further west into the heart of the park.

"What about him?" Rita's eyes were moist. "What's he got to do with it?"

"Thought you said you'd found some kind of connection between the explosions," Nick said carefully. "I just wondered what you knew about him. You seemed to know him pretty well."

"Oh, Yes. He's often flown with us. His government kept him pretty busy."

"Wasn't that rough on a one-handed man?"

She tilted her chin. "You saw him. Handled himself beautifully. He lost the hand in a revolution. Valdez told me all about it. He was a fine man, in his way. I suppose what happened today was some kind of frightful political conspiracy."

"Funny, how the idea of bombs keeps coming up," Nick mused. Forty yards behind them, the second carriage loomed like a hearse beyond the small window. "One more question, then back to your story. Why did you want to meet outside and take a ride in the park? Instead of letting me take you to some cozy restaurant where we could talk in peace?"

Rita's eyes met his. "Because I didn't want to get trapped into a corner. I don't want to be surrounded by people when I can't trust any damn one of them."

"I appreciate your feelings," Nick murmured, "but I think you operated on the wrong principle. Driver... stoke the engines, would you? I think we could stand to go a little faster."

Rita tensed. "Is there something wrong?"

"Maybe not much. Just keep well back and be ready to duck. You wouldn't have any vested interest in having me followed, would you?"

"Having you followed! For God's sake, no!" The blue eyes widened, showing both fear and surprise.

"And somebody's been trying to get at you. Have you ever noticed anyone showing any interest in Valdez? Or — try it this way — would anyone have any reason to think that you were particularly friendly with Valdez?"

"No," she answered. "No to both." She shivered suddenly.

"All right, let's go back to Steve. Steve who?"

"His name was Steven Anderson." Her voice was a low monotone. "He used to fly for World Airways. Four months ago he crashed. At least, they said he did. First the papers said the plane exploded in the air. Then there was a hearing, and they said he'd crashed. Because he was up late and drinking. Well, he wasn't. I should know. But they wouldn't believe me. And then a couple of weeks ago I heard they'd found a baggage tag with his name on it, and I knew that couldn't be true."

A long line of lights and sudden brilliance appeared in front of them. The 79th street throughway lay ahead. The carriage slowed. Nick checked the rear again. Carriage number two was drawing closer. He frowned. The driver mounted on the front seat was neither old nor characteristic of his kind. There was no top hat, no shambling posture. Alarm shot through him, but he sat back easily and his right hand found Wilhelmina.

"Why couldn't it be true?" he asked. "Nothing so strange about a baggage tag."

"This time there was."

Traffic thickened and the horse whinnied impatiently. The carriage behind grew close enough to touch.

"Do they have to get that close? The traffic isn't that bad!"

"That's right, it isn't," Nick said quietly. "Lean back and get your head down."

"What?" The horse behind them arched his head and neighed. Rita caught her breath. "You mean that's what's following us?" She laughed nervously. "But that's ridiculous! They won't do anything to us, surely. Not here."

"Better safe than sorry. Get that head down!"

She pulled herself lower in the seat. Nick closed his fingers around Wilhelmina's naked butt.

"Who are they?" she whispered.

"Don't you know?"

She shook her head. And then, suddenly, Nick's suspicions were terribly confirmed. All his experience in espionage had not prepared him for something so unthinkably blatant, so wildly improbable, as the behavior of the men in the second carriage.

Suddenly, a whip cracked with the suddenness of a pistol shot. A guttural voice commanded "Hiyar!" like a cavalryman in a western movie, and the carriage directly behind them swerved out of line and shot alongside as the horse reacted smartly to the lash. Their own horse shied. Nick threw himself across Rita's body and flung Wilhelmina up with lightning speed. For a second or two, the hansoms were perfectly abreast.

He saw it all in an ugly flash. The face of the man in the seersucker suit stared into his from the other carriage. His right arm was drawn back. The metallic, egg-shaped object clasped in his throwing hand was a grenade. The face was firm, purposeful, almost devoid of emotion. His eyes locked briefly with Nick's as the arm came forward.

Nick fired on the move. Wilhelmina spat viciously. There was a ghastly smear of crimson and the face twisted into its last expression. The arm holding the egg seemed to hang in the air. Then the carriage was whipping by, raced toward a turn-off lane that swung back toward the way they had come.

Nick flung his arms about Rita, cushioning her frightened face in the hollow of his shoulder.

The blast came with a violent, ear-shattering roar. The park volleyed with a burst of flying-shrapnel and shattered carriage parts, and the acrid fumes of cordite poisoned the air. A glance through the side window told the story. Nick leaped from his seat, leaving Rita shocked and trembling behind him. Their old driver sat like a man turned to stone, his hands riveted to the reins.

The second carriage was lying on one twisted side on a hillock of leafy ground, two wheels spinning crazily. The shattered frame of the coach was as perforated as Swiss cheese. The horse had broken free of a splintered wagon tongue and was rearing excitedly at the base of a tall, shuddering elm. There was no use looking for the man in the coach. A grenade exploding within those narrow confines was apt to be pretty final for anybody, even if a bullet had not found him first. But there was still the driver. Where in God's name had he gotten to?

Nick saw him too late.

In the darkness under the trees he had regained his feet and darted back to the other side of the carriage Nick had left. Rita screamed once, a high, piercing crescendo of terror that stopped with awful abruptness. The muffled, oldman's scream of Nick's driver was drowned out in a string of four or five horrifyingly rapid shots of automatic fire.

His heart squeezing with the agony of defeat, Nick tore back to his own carriage.

A tall, glowering figure loomed before him, the figure of the driver who wasn't. He had ducked back from his murderous work, looking for more. He saw Nick and his gun came up. An Army .45 — a heavy, powerful, mankiller of a weapon, designed for murder.

The park was alive with shouts and high-pitched yells.

Nick fired at the hand that held the .45 and at the knees and thighs that supported that killing-machine of a body. He kept firing until the thing in front of him lay riddled and bleeding. But a small, cool part of his brain told him to let the creature live a little longer. The shot that would have killed stayed inside the gun. After the burst of gunfire, there seemed to be a silence. But sound began to seep into his mind: the frightened weeping of an old coachman too terrified to run, the confused murmur of nearby motorists, the distant shrill of a siren.

Nick took one swift look into the dark interior of the coach.

Rita Jameson was no longer frightened and no longer beautiful.

The slaughtering .45 had butchered her face and bosom. She lay pinned to the upholstery, no longer a person but an outraged mass of pulpy flesh.

Nick closed off his mind to the horror and turned swiftly away to bend beside the man who had so nearly succumbed to Wilhelmina's charms. A fast frisk came up with — nothing. The enemy was going in wholesale for unidentifiable killers. Maybe Seersucker...

A new sound intruded into his consciousness. Hooves, sounding crisp and urgent on the road nearby. Park police.

Carter threw himself into the shadows and left it all behind, running swiftly through the trees, cutting across the measured lawns toward Central Park West. His world was one of ugliness and death, of running into trouble and running from it. Because if you were to live to fight another day, you had to keep out of the official spotlight. You had to run — even if it meant leaving messy corpses behind. Even the corpses of friends.

A siren swelled and stopped.

Nick slowed to a brisk walk, straightened his tie and combed his fingers through his hair. An exit showed through the tree-lined lane ahead.

The cops would have a dazed old driver, a pair of unsightly corpses, a mysteriously wrecked coach, and a dying man. And the enemy would know he had escaped again.

But Rita hadn't.

Whoever was behind this would have to pay for that.

And pay dearly.

It was ten-thirty when Mr. Hawk picked up his office telephone. Hawk seldom left the office until midnight. It was his home.

"Yes?"

"I'm asking for a fine cutting edge this time. Something that will take care of a lot of red tape."

Hawk's brows furrowed. It wasn't like N-3 to call so often in one day — something was very wrong.

"What do you have in mind?"

"A double-edged axe. The biggest. Jameson was driven out of this world tonight, and I don't think it was only because of me. I had to use Wilhelmina again. She barked, but she didn't finish biting."

"I see. And the one who was bitten?"

Nick told him rapidly, choosing the coded words with care, giving as much detail as he could but stressing the need for urgent action.

"Check back in two hours," said Hawk, and cut the connection.

Nick left the phone booth on 57th and zigzagged several blocks before hailing a cab on Third Avenue to Grand Central and a bar.

"Double Scotch."

He drank and thought.

If he had had any lingering doubts about Rita and her half-told story they had been shockingly dispelled when the driver of the shattered coach had deliberately sought her out first and pumped her full of hot lead. So someone was after both of them.

Plane explosion, pilot, frightened stewardess, knifer, watcher at the Plaza Fountain, coachman-killer. How did it make sense?

He ordered again.

More than an hour to kill.

He drank deeply and left in search of a phone booth. This time he called Hadway House.

The same female voiced answered, sounding tired.

"Miss Jameson, please."

"Miss Jameson went out and has not returned." The voice sounded final.

Hadway House was a hotel for career women, Nick suddenly realized. Of course those harpies would know who came and went, with whom and when.

"This is Lieutenant Hanrahan. We had a call from Miss Jameson earlier today in connection with a prowler."

"Not from my switchboard, you didn't," the adenoids said suspiciously.

"Are you on all day?"

"No, but I know what goes on in this house. It's my duty to..."

"It's your duty to cooperate with the Police," Nick said as coldly as he could. "Would you like a pair of uniformed policemen to interrogate you in your lobby?"

The nasal voice was flustered.

"Oh, no! That would be so bad for the place..."

"So would a prowler. Now. Miss Jameson made it very clear that she did not want to involve the hotel in any unpleasantness. She also said she would call the Precinct tonight and inform us if any further attempt had been made to molest her."

"Oh, well, if she hasn't called it must mean that she's all right..."

"Not necessarily, ma'am," Carter said meaningfully.

"Oh. Oh, but there wasn't any attempt to molest her..."

"Then you know about it," Nick cut in.

"Yes, but it was nothing! The poor girl was hysterical because of that dreadful business at the airport. This man was only an investigator, he wanted to ask her some more questions..."

"Did he call first? Or phone from the desk?"

"Well, no." The voice sounded puzzled. "He didn't, at least not from the desk. I don't know so much about the incoming calls, you see..."

"Then how do you know what he was?"

"Well, he said so, when we saw him coming downstairs after she'd screamed."

"Is that the kind of security you have in your hotel?" He was genuinely exasperated. "All right, never mind that now. So you saw him. What did he look like?"

"Well," and now she was on the defensive, "perfectly respectable, although not very neat. He was sort of short and fat and — and he was wearing a seersucker suit. Rather late for this time of year, but that's what he was wearing."

"Did you make any further attempt to question him?"

"No, of course not."

"Why of course not? Did you look at his credentials?"

"Why, no. He left, that's all. He just smiled and left. He seemed to understand she was hysterical."

"Has he been back?"

"No, he..."

"Did you talk to Miss Jameson?"

"No, she had locked herself in her room. She didn't even see him, wouldn't talk to anybody."

"All right. Thank you. Your name?"

"Jones. Adelaide Jones. And what did you say?.."

"One more thing. She went out alone tonight?"

"Yes, she did. But — now that I come to think of it — she sort of joined a group of people and went out with them, but she wasn't really with them."

"I see. That's all."

"And what did you say your name?.."

Nick hung up.

Eventually, when it was time, he called Hawk.

"Yes?"

"Did the tape-cutter work?"

"Fairly well. The bite was bad, but there was time."

"See it yourself?"

"I did." Hawk's voice was noncommittal. "Consultation will be helpful. Any suggestions?"

"Yes. But one thing first. Any word on that delivery?"

"Nothing yet."

"Pity. But I have a delivery myself." Nick still had Piccolo's knife in his briefcase. Perhaps he should have left it where it was, but there'd been no way of knowing who'd be first on the scene in Room 2010. "Afraid it's not much, but it's the best I could do before leaving the room. Unfortunately nothing to do with tonight."

"I'll arrange a pickup. The hotel you mentioned?"

"That's all right. It'll be at the desk, labeled Masterson. But for tomorrow's package, skip the hotel. Just in case. Can we consult somewhere else?"

"Hmmm." Nick could almost see Mr. Hawk tugging his left ear. "Might as well mix business with pleasure, for a change. Ford pitches tomorrow at the Stadium. Section 33 suit you?"

"Fine. We'll give 'im the axe."

"For a New Yorker, that's not a nice thing to say," said Hawk. "Sleep well."

"I always do," said Nick, and hung up.

Something Rotten at Yankee Stadium

Tony Kubek was swinging his bat experimentally in the batter's circle when Nick Carter found Mr. Hawk. Hawk was hunched over a scorecard making notations with a ballpoint pen. His open-necked sports shirt and pullover cap looked as though he lived in them, as though he wore them to cut grass on Sundays and devise things in his workshop to delight his grandchildren. As far as Nick knew, he had never married. He lived only for his dangerous, demanding work. But today, his lean, leathery frontier face represented lifelong baseball fandom at its most faithful.

Nick made himself comfortable, crossed his knees and watched Kubek go after the first pitch and send a line single to center. He cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed: "Attaboy, Tony!"

Hawk clucked approvingly. "The operation is big now, Nick. No time to lose. I'll have to get the package to you right away. And not quite the one I'd planned. You've given us something new to work on."

Nick nodded. "What've you got?"

"One. No return callers at the Biltmore. A-24 got in and went over your visitor. Nothing. K-7 got prints off the knife. Your window-washer friend turns out to have a minor record and a reputation as a hired killer. But nothing big's ever been pinned on him. We got one thing, though. He was contacted in his bar-hangout by a man in a seersucker suit. And we got a description. It matched yours.

"Two. A-24 spent the morning at the airport. A man of that description was seen on the observation deck some time before the explosion and for a while after it. But earlier, he'd been making inquiries about Flight 16. They remembered him because of that.

"Three. The so-called coachman lived long enough to curse both you and Seersucker and say his orders were to get the girl at any price. He got those orders from Seersucker who got his from overseas. From some damn foreigner, he said. And then, regrettably, he died."

"Well, that wasn't much use." Nick shrugged sourly.

"Not much, but it made us wonder how he got his orders. Not so easy, if they come from overseas. And there we had a little break."

The stands came alive with applause as Tresh drove a high fly ball to the left center field corner that bounced into the stands for a ground rule double.

"What break?"

"On what was left of your friend Seersucker we found a pack of cigarettes. And inside the cellophane we found a cablegram. It was sent from London the day before yesterday and it said: Watch Jamaica Flight 16 tomorrow provide welcoming committee if necessary. Hope this already arranged but best intentions sometimes fail. Essential maintain privacy of mission. Trust you will meet situation accordingly. It was signed 'Red'."

"Does that mean anything to us?"

"Not yet. There's more you'll need to know, but I've talked enough for the moment." He dug into his pocket. "When the hot dog man comes around, get two. My treat."

His hand closed a dollar bill into Nick's palm. Nick felt something hard and metallic folded into the wad. A key.

"Grand Central," murmured Hawk. "Everything you'll want for now. You can check with me later for any new developments. But I can tell you this. You'll be traveling again, and soon. First thing after the ballgame, get a haircut."

Nick looked at him indignantly. "I already did."

Hawk allowed himself an inspection. "Not enough. Crew. You're going to be the young college type."

Nick groaned. "What next?"

"Next you'll do the talking. What else do you have for me?"

Carter told him about his conversation with Hadway House while his eyes searched for a hot dog man. This morning he had been to the barber and then called Max Dillman in London. Max had confirmed everything Rita had said, adding that she was a damn fine girl and that it was a bloody awful thing, about Steve. He had met them both through the travel business and she had come to him with her heartbreak after the explosion that took Steve's life. Certainly, it had been an explosion. They'd tried to pin a drunk charge on him at the hearing but it didn't wash. Not with the people who knew him. Sure, she'd been pestering the eyeballs off the authorities, and then she'd had the letter to lay off. And then it turned out that no one in authority had sent the letter.

"What does she mean about the baggage tag?" Carter had asked him.

"Didn't she tell you herself?"

"I didn't want to press her any more, just yet." Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to tell Max that she was dead. "Thought if I checked with you first I might just make it easier for her."

"You could be right. Well, the point about the baggage tag was that he never — and I mean never — carried a bag with him. It was a kind of thing with him, pilots have these bugs. He had a clean shirt in every port — used a locker and he wouldn't carry a bag. So it raised an ugly thought. Strange bag, strange explosion. That was no crash, boy, no pilot error. I know these kids."

"You knew them, you mean.

"Okay, Max. I don't suppose the letter was ever traced?"

"Not a chance. It did one good thing, though. It made 'em start taking her seriously. But they still didn't buy the tag story."

They had talked a little more, around the edges of the subject.

"Good to hear from you, Nick," Max had finished. "Help her, will you?"

"I'll try," Nick had said woodenly. "Thanks, Max."

A hot dog vendor wandered down the runway, hoarsely touting his wares. Nick beckoned and ordered two. Hawk grunted and took a frank carefully.

Mickey Mantle stepped up to the plate with two out and Tresh parked on second base. The stadium erupted into cheers.

"I checked London, too," said Hawk. "It's a cover-up. They don't think there was any pilot error."

"My God, they could have told her that." Nick bit savagely into his hot dog.

"They didn't think it wise. Someone had gone to so much trouble to plant false evidence that they thought they'd better bite."

Nick finished his hot dog in silence.

" 'Get the girl at any price'," Nick muttered. "A pair of killers for her and a pair for me. They wanted her, I gather, because she was getting too nosey about the bombings. And me? Because they knew somehow, she'd come to me for help. Silence us both, d'you reckon?"

"I reckon." Hawk wiped mustard off his fingers.

"Anything more on Steel Hand?"

"Some. Dossier in your package."

They watched for a moment. Foul ball.

Nick stirred. "But it looks as though we've got Killer No. I, doesn't it? Seersucker, the man who got his orders from 'overseas'?"

"That's one little goodie I've been saving for you," said Hawk. "It appears that the cablegram was not addressed to him."

"But you said..."

"I didn't. The cable was sent to an A. Brown at 432A East 86th. More on that later. Underneath the printed message there was a penciled note. It said: Re above. Meet me 9:30 a.m. Idlewild Cobb's Coffee Shop. Alert all hands. Destroy at once. It was initialed A.B."

The low murmur of the crowd broke into a roar. Mickey Mantle had swung his bat and the ball landed four rows back in the right center field bleachers.

"Good grief, why didn't the fool destroy it?"

"Tucked it away in a hurry, probably, and forgot about it. To err is human, after all," Hawk said complacently.

"Yes, but why in the world did A.B. send the original..."

Hawk cut in with some impatience.

"A.B. did send it and Seersucker kept it. We have to draw a winning card once in a while."

"The second murderer was wrong then, huh? Seersucker didn't get his orders directly from overseas. And we have another enemy to contend with. God, they're roaming around in veritable packs." He lit a cigarette, and flicked away the match, instinctively making another quick survey of the nearby seats and aisles. It was at that point that the tall young woman in the smart gray-and-red cotton knit dress and black picture hat stepped gracefully down the stone stairway and took an end seat in the row directly behind Hawk and Carter.

The woman was as out of place in the ballpark as Hawk was in.

Nick saw high cheekbones, carefully reddened full mouth and deep, almost almond-shaped eyes that coolly viewed the action on the field. Slender, jeweled hands clasped an expensive-looking black leather purse. The flesh of the bare arms was tawny and sensuous; the body was supple, its movements relaxed. She looked like a tigress in the sun.

There was exquisite molding in the high, tilted breastline, trim belted waist and subtly curving hips. She was not the sort of woman usually seen at Yankee Stadium on a September afternoon.

Hawk said, "Interesting. I see you find her so, too. Don't break your neck."

"Interesting, indeed. But dangerous, maybe."

"I don't think so. Too obviously eye-catching."

"That could be what we're intended to think."

From the corner of his eye Nick could see the exotic newcomer smiling slightly at some private thought and casually opening her lavish purse. He waited, resisting the urge to spring at her and grab that slender wrist. But only a long cigarette holder appeared, followed by the cigarette to which she applied a silver lighter.

Hawk's blue eyes glittered frostily. He rose to leave. "Better get to Grand Central. If the woman is after you, we'll find out soon enough. And don't forget the haircut. Goodbye."

Nick knew finality when he heard it. He stood up, politely excusing himself.

His long legs took him up the steps in a loping stride. The woman flicked a glance at him as he passed, but the almond eyes held no interest and returned instantaneously to the ballgame. Carter felt oddly satisfied. Her aloofness was in keeping with her appearance. Perhaps she was all she seemed, a lovely sophisticate out at the ball park for reasons of her own. Perhaps she was interested in one of the players. This year they seemed to be as popular as movie stars.

Nick found a cab on Jerome Avenue and got in with alacrity, glad to be on the go again.

Hawk's key for locker 701 in Grand Central Station was burning a hole in his pocket. He was getting anxious to see the contents of the package which would give him more data on the strange affair of Senor Valdez and the bombed airplanes.

Locker 701 was situated in a long bank of hundreds exactly like it somewhere in the lower levels of Grand Central. A quarter went a long way when you wanted to store anything. For ordinary folk, secret agents, murderers — anybody who had something to park, hide, or deliver.

There was a plain, burlap package in 701. About 8 1/2 by 11 inches square, bound with sisal twine. The handwritten address directed it to: Mr. Peter Cane, Hotel Elmont, New York, N.Y. Carter recognized Hawk's firm, accountant-like fine hand.

He closed the locker and went into the nearest washroom. In the dime-bought privacy of a small cubicle he opened the package. He removed a stack of typewritten pages bound in pressboard. This he ignored, turning his attention to the personal items in the parcel. There was a passport, sparsely stamped; an ostrich leather wallet and a well-thumbed blue address book; a gold cigarette lighter, rather scratched and engraved with the initials P.C.; a matching pen and pencil set and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses; a crisp letter of introduction to the Curator of the British Museum from Professor Matthew Zedderburg of Columbia University; and a much-folded, worn envelope addressed to Peter Cane of 412 West 110th Street and purporting to come from one Myra Koening of Rochester, N.Y. The letter inside read: "Dear Peter, oh, Peter, I don't know how to begin. Perhaps with my dreams and my wonderful memories of that night, that one incredible night when the world turned over and..."

Nick grinned to himself and folded it back in its envelope. Trust Hawk to add romance to round out the impersonation! It was the sort of letter a single man would carry around with him for a month or so before discarding, a convincing touch of dressing for the role he was to play.

He opened the passport and saw himself with a crew-cut, horn rims, and a dedicated expression. Oh, yes — the haircut.

A rapid glance through the rest of the material suggested no immediate course of action other than a second trip to the barber, a final call on the Roosevelt, and a quiet couple of hours at the Elmont with his homework.

An hour later he checked in at the Hotel Elmont, a conservative ten-storied building on the upper West Side. On impulse, he used one of his indecipherable signatures rather than the one given to him by his new passport.

His room turned out to be a modest, clean little affair on the seventh floor. The tiny bathroom was windowless. Nick locked the door, hung his jacket over the knob and placed the parcel on the bed. Then he loosened his tie and prepared for work. A swift check of the room showed nothing to be wary of. The windows faced Central Park, offering a vista that had somehow lost appeal. The face of the building was blank and featureless except for the windows; only a fly would be able to navigate so sheer a façade. The fire escapes were on the other side of the building, well away from his room.

Nick opened his Liggett's bag, empty of all but his briefcase and its welcome contents, and took out the flask.

Glass in hand, he settled down to inspect Hawk's present. Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre had taken the parcel's place on the bed.

The bulging wallet contained a number of cards, licenses and memoranda that would all need memorizing. A résumé informed him that Peter Cane was an instructor at an Ivy League college, a young man with an apparently great future in archaeology. It was just as well he'd been in on that Bahrein expedition, he reflected, or he'd have had more studying to do than he could handle. But Hawk had counted on Nick's past experience to help him with the present. The rest of the information on Peter Cane dealt with his background, his personality, and his family history. The letter from the girl, hinting at a touch of gentlemanly restraint and possibly shyness in his character, fitted in nicely.

A hundred and fifty dollars in cash rounded out the contents of the wallet. A separate envelope revealed a thousand dollars in traveler's checks for Peter Cane, and a neat, satisfying pile of fives, tens and twenties for Nick Carter. The total budget was over five thousand dollars. Nick riffled the bills. Automatically, he split the pack and began worrying the bills into creases and folds to take away some of the newness. He had no intention of spreading them around in the guise of Peter Cane, underpaid instructor, but if he did have to dip into the reserve fund he certainly wasn't going to flash wads of brand new money.

The blue address book was filled with names, phone numbers and street addresses of people in places like New Haven, Princeton, Bennington, and so on. Most of them were male and clearly in the academic field. A sprinkling of feminine names relieved the New York area. And there was his sister's address in Yellow Springs. How very homey.

The pressboard binder with the stack of typewritten sheets was the next item to command his attention. He read swiftly but with care:

LORD EDMOND BURNS. Labor Leader, Great Britain. Died June 1, 1963. English Atlantic coast. Crash shortly after takeoff of World Airways plane. Seventy-nine killed. Explosion of undetermined origin. Suspicion of pilot error proved unfounded. Evidence of behind-scenes meddling. See below. Burns replaced by Jonathan Welles, well known for sympathies with Red Chinese.

AHMED TAL BARIN. Pacifist-Neutralist, India. Died July 13, 1963. Pacific Ocean, U.S. Orienta Airlines plane exploded, killing sixty-seven. Cause unproven. Indian Pacifist faction led by Tal Barin now being swayed by supporters of Red Chinese.

AUGUSTO LA DILDA. Lola Party President, Peru. Died August 6, 1963. North Africa. Afro-American Airlines turboprop exploded and crashed. Thirty-seven dead. Explosion blamed on individual sending bomb on board in father's suitcase for insurance benefits. Moderate Lola Party dissolved, reformed; now believed sympathetic to Red Chinese influences in Peru.

PABLO VALDEZ. Cabinet Secretary, Minirio. Died September 3, 1963. Idlewild Airport, New York City, N.Y. Explosion on field killed eleven. Cause undetermined. Minirio increasingly subjected to Communist Chinese infiltration in recent months. Government now in state of chaos. Successor to Valdez not yet named.

The bulk of the file contained dossiers and reports from CAB, eyewitnesses, foreign authorities and airline officials; reports from the insurance companies connected with the wrecks, giving details of the various claims made by relatives; and the complete biographies of the first three diplomats involved. There were one or two gaps in the story of Valdez, but that was to be expected under the circumstances. No doubt more information would soon be available.

The one glaring, inescapable fact was that four men had died in airplane tragedies — four men who had held positions of power that the Red Chinese might be exceedingly happy to see vacated. Each man had stood in the way of some kind of Red Chinese power grab.

Surely not coincidence but master plan.

British officialdom, as a result of Hawk's personal call, had conceded that their conviction of pilot error in the case of the World Airways crash had been bolstered by the bottle-littered condition of the pilot's apartment, discovered after an anonymous tip; that the pilot's fiancée, Miss Rita Jameson, had repeatedly insisted that pilot Anderson was moderate in habit, had spent the early part of the evening with her and retired chastely for the night; that they had discounted her story, believing it to be the natural loyalty of a woman in love; that Miss Jameson had persisted in attempts to re-open the investigation; that she had received a politely worded official letter asking her discreetly to refrain from further enquiry, as her actions were an embarrassment and a hindrance to the investigating authorities, who had indeed not closed the case; and that, after waiting for some time to be further questioned or informed, Miss Jameson had discussed this letter with the authorities and all parties concerned had then realized that the communication was a forgery, designed, apparently, to forestall further interference. However, new evidence had come to light as a result of the continued investigation, and authorities agreed that it would be impolitic to encourage Miss Jameson's interest. The new facts being so appalling in their implications and the spuriousness of the letter suggesting something so sinister, it was felt that every effort should be made to pursue the inquiry in absolute secrecy, and that Miss Jameson should be advised to leave matters in the hands of the experts. She was also to be left with the impression that, the letter notwithstanding, they had as yet had no reason to ascribe the crash to any cause other than that already suggested.

In other words, Rita had been given the brush-off and forced to turn elsewhere for help.

The individual accused of planting a bomb on board the Afro-American Airlines plane via his father's suitcase had insisted that his father had himself suggested that heavy insurance be taken out, and that he, the son, had had no access to his father's suitcase for days before the crash, had not even been aware of the flying schedule. All those questioned in connection with insurance claims had similar stories. In fact, the authorities had all but given up the possibility of murder-for-insurance, but had allowed the public to go on believing in it since no other official theories could be made available.

Into the AXE files had come the story of each of the disasters as they had occurred. To Hawk's inquiring mind they had suggested a pattern. Consultation with other federal intelligence agencies had determined that AXE, the trouble-shooting arm of the cooperating services, would spearhead an investigation based on the possibility of international sabotage.

As to local events, a brief report revealed no conclusive link between the explosions and the attacks on Carter and Rita Jameson, but strongly supported Nick's own belief that each incident formed part of the same picture. The cablegram certainly provided a tie between Rita, Nick, and Flight 16, if not conclusively between that flight and the three previous disasters. As for A. Brown of 432A East 86th Street, he was apparently an infrequent user of a sparsely furnished walk-up apartment at that address, checking in daily for mail and messages but seldom sleeping there. Agents had staked out the place but were doubtful that their quarry would show. A description had, however, been obtained from the landlady and fingerprints had been lifted from various surfaces in apartment 4G.

Investigation of all facets of the situation was still under way. Further information was expected — Nick read on to the end.

So far, what they had was four dubious plane disasters and four dead diplomats. But Senor Valdez and his steel hand just didn't quite fit into the pseudo-accidental pattern of insurance schemes and pilot errors, of greedy relatives and lethal suitcases and inexplicable baggage tags. Senor Valdez had blown himself up, not by choice and almost certainly with his steel hand. How had that been accomplished, and by whom? Where did such a bizarre circumstance fit into the pattern presented by the first three catastrophes?

Now, once again, Nick went through the wallet, address book and personal documents of Peter Cane. Age. Height. Weight. Birthplace. Parents. Siblings. Education. School record. Friends. Sports. Other interests. Travels. Credit cards. Bank plate. Social Security number. Health Insurance. Club memberships. And so on, and so on, over and over again, until the information was printed on his brain.

A faint rustling noise came from the hallway. He snapped erect in the chair, all senses alert. A corner of something white was edging under the door. Carter rose soundlessly, reached for Wilhelmina, and glided over to the wall near the door frame. As he flattened himself against the wall, a white strip edged into the room.

The faintest of footfalls receded down the hall. He waited for a minute or two after the sound had faded, and then toed the letter toward him without putting his body in range of the door.

The envelope was inscribed with his new name.

It contained an airline ticket for Flight 601 from New York to London, leaving Idlewild Airport very early on the following morning. The ticket was made out in the name of Peter Cane. There was no need to wonder about the sender of the envelope: The a-n-e in "Cane" had been written in such a manner by whoever had sent the ticket that it looked like a-x-e.

Hawk was obviously ready to move.

Nick sniffed the envelope. His nostrils flared with the soft, subtle scent of a rare perfume, something exotic that he couldn't quite place. But it certainly wasn't aftershave lotion.

The party who had delivered Hawk's envelope was a woman.

The Burning Building

Everything was in order.

Dossiers read, information memorized. Peter Cane would fly out of New York on Flight 601 from Idlewild in the morning, doubtless receiving further instructions about his mission before the plane left the field. Nick knew Hawk and his methods.

But a woman! Who? Not Meg Hathaway from the Ops office. True, she always smelled delectable, but Coty was more in her line.

Nick filed the question away for future reference. Security, at the moment, was the main consideration. It seemed highly unlikely that any unauthorized person could know where he was, but the unknown enemy was resourceful.

The door was locked and Nick's coat hung over the knob to blank out the keyhole to prying eyes. He hooked a heavy chair under the same knob to make forced entrance difficult and furtive entry virtually impossible. The windows were as secure as height, and Nick, could make them. He surrounded his bed with newspapers, making it impossible for an intruder to approach him silently.

You had to keep on your toes if you wanted to stay alive, and you had to sleep while you could because there was no knowing what the assignment would bring.

Nick showered and prepared for bed. He mentally reviewed the facts in the bulky dossier willed to him by Hawk. In the morning he would destroy everything that did not relate directly to Peter Cane. Copies of all the data would already be on file with all the appropriate departments.

Nick yielded to sleep. His quiet, even breathing was the only sound in the room.

Outside his door, the hotel corridor was silent and deserted.

But not for long.

Smoke.

The first indication of it was a pungent stab at Nick's nostrils. He came awake quickly, eyes straining in the darkness. An instant passed while he assembled his five senses before giving due credit to the phantom sixth that always seemed to alert him in time of danger. But there was no mistake. His nostrils were curling reflexively, pulling away from the acrid odor of stifling smoke. Yet the hotel was as peaceful as sleep.

Nick reached for the automatic pencil lying on the bedside table. It was also a flashlight with a beam that traveled a full thirty feet on high-powered batteries. Nick flicked it on, aiming it at the door.

The stab of light picked up a coiled snake of black smoke roping across the floor, from the narrow space beneath the door. But there was no sign of flame, no lick of orange light. He held the beam a second longer before easing himself to a crouch. Then he hurdled the newspapers with a broad jump and landed like a cat on the balls of his feet. The smoke began to gather alarmingly in the room.

Nick knew this game. Knew it too well to lose it. When you couldn't enter the bear's lair, you tried to smoke the bear out. The trick of the game this time was the imitation of a hotel fire. Didn't terrified guests, waking from a deep sleep, obey their first instincts and rush for the door, throwing it open both to see what was going on and obtain some blessed fresh air?

So there was only one thing to do.

It was a matter of flying seconds to dress hurriedly with only the propped pencil light to guide him. He kept his back to the billowing smoke as long as he could and held his breath while he gathered up the files and papers to thrust them into his briefcase.

He could have hollered "Help! Fire!" thrown a chair through the window, or phoned downstairs for help. But his instinct told him that his wire was probably cut. And he had just as much reason to maintain secrecy as did whoever was in the hall. Up to a point, Nick had to play the game their way and exit via the door. He padded back to the bathroom and moistened his handkerchief.

With silent speed, he pulled the chair away from the door, and whipped on his coat. The briefcase he put next to the door where he could reach it easily when he was ready to break out. Then he placed the handkerchief over his nostrils and tied it behind his head. He released the latch-lock with an audible click, pressed his ear to the door, and waited for any tell-tale sound.

He heard a door creak. Shoe leather made a little complaining sound as somebody moved. Nick stepped back and flung the door open, away from him, flattening himself against the wall.

Light from the corridor spilled in, revealing a length of rubber hose curling across the hall floor. There was no time to see anything else.

Three quick, muffled splats of sound and tongues of gun-propelled flame licked into the room. Carter managed a credible scream of choked surprise and hurled the chair over backwards. At the falling sound, two men loomed in the doorway, dark and indistinguishable, guns jutting, their long barrels made ungainly by bridged contraptions that were silencers.

The two men fired again, a salvo of pinging shots that picked up the chair and flung it around in the room. There was a brief, hesitant lull.

Nick detached himself from the wall in a lightning-swift move and kicked his hard-toed shoe upward in a savage arc. It might have been a perfect place kick in a football game. As it was, the deadly weapon, employed with the finest French accent of Le Savate, caught the nearest man dead-center on the point of the chin. A dark fedora sailed from the crown of his skull as his head flew back. Nick moved swiftly around him in a flying crouch. The second man gave a croak of surprise and swung his gun toward Nick. He was too late. The karate blow, with the elbow pointed upward and the palm stiffened in a flying wedge of destruction, chopped viciously and landed with the impact of a sledgehammer. The man screamed his pain and collapsed on the threshold, his nose spouting great gouts of blood.

Time was running out. The hotel was showing signs of coming awake. A door slammed down the hallway. Voices rose in a querying clamor.

Talking to policemen was not one of the things Carter intended to do. He scooped up his briefcase, stepped swiftly over the moaning human wrecks in the doorway, and streaked down the hallway toward the stairs yelling, "Tire!"

The smoke created a useful diversion. Behind him, the quavering voice of a guest took up his cry of "Fire!"

An even greater diversion than the billowing clouds of smoke would be the open door of the room almost opposite his, with the small metal tank that poured black smoke through the snaky length of rubber hose. That was going to take some explaining when those buzzards came to.

Nick thought of this with satisfaction as he checked his downward course on the second floor and headed for the fire escape. If there was anyone waiting for him outside, they weren't going to pick him off at the front door.

He reached ground and turned on to the crosstown street.

A red Jaguar was slowly turning the corner into Central Park West. Nick stared. The driver was wearing the black picture hat he had seen at Yankee Stadium.

Nick stepped back into the shadows. Shouts came from upstairs, but he knew by their muffled quality that they were directed to something within.

Moments passed.

The Jaguar turned smoothly around the far corner and headed toward him. He stepped from the shadows, his free hand ready to use Wilhelmina.

"That's far enough," he said, and put his hand on the slowly moving car. It stopped.

The woman looked at him calmly, only her raised eyebrows indicating any surprise.

"Get in," she said. "I was waiting for you."

"I thought you might be," Nick said easily. "I was waiting for you. Move over. Come on, move. That's better."

She moved reluctantly. Nick got in behind the wheel.

"I always feel easier when I'm driving," said Nick, beating a stop light. "I find conversation so much more pleasant. Did you enjoy the game?"

"Five to nothing, Yankees," she said matter-of-factly. "A bore. Now tell me where you think you're going."

Nick turned north, then gave his attention to her. The limpid, almost Asian eyes and the wide red mouth were just as he remembered them. But the enigmatic expression had gone and she looked — what? — Not at all afraid Piqued, somehow.

"It doesn't matter where we're going, as long as we can talk. Let's start with this: Why were you waiting for me?"

She flashed an angry look at him. "Because I saw those two hoods go in and I thought..."

His voice lashed at her. "You saw them or you led them?"

"How could I lead them?" The marvelous eyes flashed with anger. "I was there all evening!"

"Oh, you were," he murmured. "Why would that be?"

"Why do you think? I had orders to keep an eye on you."

He hooted. "Hah! And to what purpose, may I ask? To make sure I was neck deep in trouble?"

The rear-view mirror showed nothing out of the way. He made a sharp left turn, just in case, and made for West End Avenue.

"Who gave the orders?" he asked quietly, studying her profile out of the corner of his eye. It was worth studying. He liked it very much. But lady spies were no novelty to him.

"Mr. Cane." The voice was low and dangerous. So she knew his sometime name. "I know a great deal about you. You were sitting with a man in Section 33 this afternoon. A man I know very well. He doesn't really approve of female agents but my record is too good for even him to ignore. You follow me, Mr. Cane?"

He swung south. "Not altogether, and I hope no one else is. Do you know," he added conversationally, "that there's no way in the world anyone could have found me tonight, except to have followed you?"

"That's not true. That can't be true. I know how to be careful."

He laughed. "In a red Jaguar?" She made a small, muffled sound. "By the way," he said, glancing at the dashboard, "we'll be driving a long way tonight and we may need gas. Since this is your party, do you have five dollars?"

From her purse she took a five-dollar bill and thrust it at him. He took it and slowed down as he turned it over. The dashboard light showed the familiar picture of the Lincoln Memorial. The shading of the bushes to the left of the pillars spelled out the ragged letters COMSEC. Combined Security.

He gave it back to her.

"Now about that man. Who was he?"

"He's the one I was trying to take you to see," she snapped savagely.

"And what about me?"

"N-3 of AXE. I brought you an envelope this evening. With an airline ticket in it. Now suppose you let me drive."

"Just tell me where we're going and I'll drive. We've been theatrical enough already, don't you think?"

It was obviously an effort for her to give him the address. But she gave it.

"Tch. Should have told me that before. Look at all the time we've wasted."

He turned uptown.

She spoke bitterly. For someone who's supposed to be a gentleman, you're a smart-aleck, aren't you?"

"Not always smart enough," he answered seriously. "And neither are you. Didn't it occur to you that they just needed someone like you to lead them to me? And didn't you think that they might have left someone waiting outside, watching you?"

She was silent.

"You didn't Well, you should have."

The Jaguar clawed its way through a jam of cars on West 79th and turned easily on Riverside Drive. Up ahead, Nick could see the brilliantly lit outline of the George Washington Bridge.

"You're right," she said at last. "Maybe I'm the smart-aleck."

He smiled, and put his hand briefly on her shoulders.

"I haven't been doing so well lately, myself. What can I call you?"

She made a face. "Dope. Idiot. Incompetent..."

"No, no. I mean your name."

The lovely lips curved into a smile. "At the moment, Julia Baron."

"Nice. Very nice. Julie. I trust you'll call me Pete. Unless, of course, our mutual friend is less mutual than you claim."

Nick brought the car to a smooth halt before a line of brownstones lying on the rise between 79th and 80th.

"Stop Judas!"

Nick followed Julia Baron up a short flight of stone steps into a baroque lobby. They hadn't far to go. The girl beckoned quietly to the left to a broad, paneled mahogany door. A metal doorknocker, fashioned like a lion's head, yielded three spaced knocks followed by two short ones as Julia gave some prearranged signal. Nick stood behind her holding his briefcase. Hugo twitched in his sleeve as the door opened. Gloom rushed out at them.

Julia Baron hurried in with Nick on her heels and his right hand ready for defensive action.

The gloom vanished in a sudden blaze of electric light.

Nick blinked.

Mr. Hawk came away from the light switch, a taut smile on his leathery face, and secured the door behind them. He nodded to Julia and offered a half-apologetic look to Nick.

"Sorry I can't offer you chairs, but this won't take long. Sorry, too, about the melodrama, but it can't be helped. There are fleets of the enemy abroad, and I don't intend to bring you to headquarters at a time like this. You may sit on the floor, if you wish."

Nick did not wish. He found a fireplace mantelpiece and leaned on it. Julia sank gracefully to a cross-legged position.

The three of them — Nick, Hawk and the girl — congregated awkwardly in the empty room. There wasn't a stick of furniture in the place. Nick saw a foyer leading into darkness. Bedroom, kitchen or bathroom. It wasn't important right now.

"Very good cover." Hawk sighed heavily, as if he disliked the whole business. "The apartment is for rent and I'm interviewing prospective tenants. A bit late at night, of course, but it's the only time I had available. As you see, it's easy to make sure that we're not wired for sound. Not a bug in the place, except for the roaches. Now, down to business."

"Do you think you could bring yourself to offer an explanation?" Nick asked pointedly, eyeing the lovely in the picture hat.

"Later," Hawk said briskly. With that, he strode energetically into the dark room, reappearing with two pieces of gray luggage. He set them down on the floor, the American Tourister two-suiter and overnight case, and smiled at Nick without much humor.

"These are for you. Try not to lose them. You'll find all the clothes you'll need, plus the latest text on Israeli archaeological discoveries of the last decade and a couple of notebooks for your innermost scholarly thoughts. One of them has already been half-filled for you, so you don't have to write — just read."

Nick opened the bags, looking up at Hawk as he did.

"You've heard about this evening at the Elmont?" he asked.

Hawk nodded. "I got the police report just before you arrived. I trust you examined the parcel before the floor show began?" Nick nodded, admiring the carefully packed bags and the extraordinary thoroughness with which Hawk always operated.

"Memorized it. But I left in a hurry, so I didn't switch the contents." He snapped open his briefcase and took out Hawk's package.

"Yes, do it now," approved Hawk. "And since you've committed it all to memory, we will dispose of the dossiers right away.

"That's the longest crewcut I've ever seen," he said, watching as Nick removed Peter Cane's possessions and transferred them to his own pockets. "But it's not a bad idea for you to look a little overgrown. I don't suppose it's necessary to remind you, Miss Baron, of your obligations?"

"I don't suppose it is," said Julia haughtily, then had the grace to look a little shamefaced.

Hawk was clearly in no mood to bandy words. He waited until Nick was ready, then took the file from him and set it down in the fireplace.

"What about Miss Baron?" Nick asked him pointedly.

"I'm sorry, Cane," said Hawk, sounding as though he really was. "Miss Baron was wished on us by a branch other than our own. By the Asian OCI, as a matter of fact." He busied himself with the parcel, making sure that it was precisely beneath the open flue. "It's a bit irregular, of course. I wasn't aware of her involvement until after I'd made my plans for you as Peter Cane. However. It may turn out to be for the best. Now. I want you both to watch this." He assumed his most pedantic expression. "It may come in handy for you both when it comes to the proper disposal of incriminating information."

Hawk gave these little lectures periodically, usually choosing the oddest times for them. Nick suspected he used them as a device to cover up embarrassment or hesitation. Sometimes he had to ask the impossible of one of the chosen twenty-four that made up AXE; then he would stall for time, fumble with his cigar, and give a lecture on molecular metamorphoses, poisonous lichens, or desert survival. This one would be short, apparently. Hawk had not started by making a production of lighting his cigar.

Almost in unison, Nick and the Baron woman moved closer to the fireplace. Hawk had drawn a phial of something from his inside coat pocket and removed the stopper.

He paused, looked at Nick and Julia, and stepped back. The hand holding the phial remained extended above the parcel.

"Acid," he said in a schoolroom voice. "Highly volatile, with an increased effectiveness of better than seven hundred percent above the norm for such liquids. Chemical War sent me a batch for just such occasions as this. You'll be surprised, I can assure you."

Silvery drops of liquid trickled from the phial and splattered gently on to the burlap-and-paper parcel.

The effect was magical.

There was a hiss of sound, a barely perceptible spreading of dissolution, and — no smoke at all. Within fifteen seconds — Nick timed it by his wrist watch — the parcel containing all the background information shriveled and collapsed into withered shreds. Hawk nudged the pile with his shoe tip and looked pleased with himself. The pile flattened into powdery ashes.

"Quantity K, they call it," Hawk said. "Impossible to make anything at all out of those scraps now. The chemicals reduce all printed matter and textures to meaningless ciphers. An improvement, I'd say. Wouldn't you?" He carefully plugged in the stopper and deposited the phial back in his pocket.

"Dandy," said Nick. "If I ever have access to Quantity K, I'm sure I'll make good use of it"

Julia Baron smiled. The high cheek bones stood out in relief, emphasized by the harsh overhead light.

"Hadn't you better tell Cane what he wants to know, Mr. Hawk? The atmosphere's a little chilly, and I think it comes from that cold shoulder."

"Cane is my best man, Miss Baron," Hawk said evenly, "because he doesn't even trust himself. He's wondering right now if you haven't managed to pull the wool over my old eyes. If he's not convinced that you're authentic, you may just never leave here." He reached for a cigar, suggesting to Nick that he himself needed a cigarette.

Julia shifted uncomfortably. Damn this old man! He was a hard case.

He clipped, scraped matches, puffed.

"When you left the stadium, Cane, Miss Baron approached me with the usual interdepartmental identification. She had been told where to find me and she produced credentials that are unshakeable and unarguable. Until recently she has been at the Asian desk of the OCI, which you will recall is the Office of Confidential Information. She flew into Washington with a useful scrap of information and was sent up here to see me. Word from Washington reached me later in the day. I had heard of her, of course, but we had never met. Washington insists that we make use of her." He mouthed his cigar reflectively. "It occurred to me that your cover might be less easy to penetrate if you were traveling together. Therefore, Miss Baron will be on Flight 601 with you tomorrow."

"Why, Mr. Hawk," said Nick, pained. "You know I'm not married. And what about my girl friend, Myra?"

Hawk permitted himself a faint smile. "Myra is a memory, a lovely thing of the past. Miss Baron has swept you off your feet and you are flying to England, determined to spend several beautiful days together in a London love nest. You will approach your research conscientiously, of course, but your free time is your own. There is no reason why information of that nature should appear on Peter Cane's official records. You would, in fact, have been very careful to see that it did not. When you are not immersed in your work you will be immersed in the girl."

Nick looked at her appraisingly. Yes, perhaps he would. She was very decorative, indeed. There was spirit in those luminous, slanting eyes, and strength in that supple body.

There was a glint of amusement in Hawk's eye as he asked: "Is everything clear so far?"

"So far," Nick said. The girl nodded and studied the tip of the cigarette she had lit.

"Very well. These two pieces of luggage are yours, Cane. Miss Baron has her own. And, as I indicated earlier, I shall expect her to tone down her appearance. Appropriately sober clothes have been provided. A somewhat less apparent aura of sophistication would be in order. In other words, Miss Baron," the old man finished crisply, "I want you to look a little less like Mata Hari."

Julia raised her eyebrows and stretched languidly.

"Dragon Lady, they used to call me in Peking." She laughed with genuine pleasure, and took off her hat. Nick noticed that her front teeth were slightly crooked. The lady of mystery was transformed into a gamin. Dark hair fell over her forehead, released from hat and pins, and she swept it back with a toss of the head and a slender hand. The earrings came off, revealing small, delectably shaped ears. Nick watched with growing approval. Hmmm. Perhaps this wouldn't be bad after all.

"That's better," Hawk grunted. "All right, Miss Baron — enough."

"What about Miss Baron's information, sir?" Nick prodded.

Hawk took a slow puff on his cigar. "As I said, it was a scrap, not a hard-and-fast fact. But it ties together with what we've begun to suspect. We think we know who we're dealing with now. Do you remember the old files on Mr. Judas?"

"Judas!" Nick was caught by surprise.

"Yes," Hawk said grimly, and tasted the name. "Mr. Judas. Our old friend of the European wars. Miss Baron's duties on the other side led her frequently — and quite dangerously, I might add — into high places. On several occasions she caught fragments of conversation, and even of action, that led her to conclude that a man named Judas was working, in some capacity, for the Red Chinese. Now, am I right, Miss Baron: you had never heard of Judas before?"

"That's right," she said seriously. "The name meant nothing to me. Until I checked with Washington and they sent a courier with the background information. Then I thought I'd better fly in at once."

"So it wasn't just an assumption on your part that the man they were talking about was Mr. Judas?"

"No, it wasn't. I wasn't even sure I had the name right, at first."

"It ties in, Cane. While you were away AXE and the CIA were adding to their trouble-pattern files. It looks as though Judas is still trying to play all countries against each other, still selling to the highest bidder. It would appear that he has found a market for his wares with the Chinese Reds. Just as he did with the Italian Fascists, the Nazis and the Communists during the war. The man has a genius for the subversive, for anything aimed at the perpetuation of world strife. We believe he's shown his hand again; this thing has his stamp on it."

Nick frowned. "It does. It's just the bastard's style. But I thought he was dead?"

Hawk nodded. "We did too. That last touch-and-go in the Alps should have been his sign-off. But his body was never recovered in the wreckage of the Chalet Internationale. So, even though we thought we detected his hand in that business at Puerto Blanco and the revolution in Hidalgo, we couldn't very well pin it on him. But things have been boiling in the last day or two. Interpol and the combined security services have finally managed to put together enough data to convince Washington that we have a target. Miss Baron's story turned the trick. And your accidental involvement in the last explosion, Cane, brought everything to a head. Lucky you were there. Of course, we still can't be positive that it's Judas we're after, but everything points to it."

"Red!" said Nick suddenly.

"What?" Hawk stared at him.

"The cable from 'Red.' Judas-colored. The first Judas is supposed to have had red hair."

"You're not suggesting..."

"No, I haven't the faintest idea what Judas looks like. Maybe he's bald, I don't know. But for a code name meaning Judas, it's not bad. Especially for someone working for the Reds."

"Perhaps that's all it means. No, I think you're right." Hawk frowned thoughtfully. " 'Red' for 'Communist' is just a bit too pat. 'Red' for 'Judas,' though... I like that Yes, I like that. Judas is back, all right, and we have to get him."

Julia reached silently for another cigarette.

"Let's recap," Hawk went on. "Someone, almost certainly Judas, has now manufactured four aeronautical coups, under cover of accidental occurrence, to eliminate four powerful enemies of Red China." He ticked them off on his leathery fingers. "Burns, Tal Barin, La Dilda and Valdez. Four staunch allies of the U.S. and all peace-loving countries, at least one of which is now in turmoil. But the accident theory doesn't wash any more. The CIA has come through with information unavailable to CAB and local officials. Those disasters were not crashes. All four were almost certainly deliberate explosions. On that premise, we can move ahead. Four planes were somehow bombed, and there may be more."

"Three planes," Nick reminded. "Valdez blew up. Not the plane."

Hawk's eyes hardened. "I was coming to that. Who bombs a man if he's the prime target? Suppose you take it from there."

"Well, if we begin with the premise that all the so-called accidents were caused by planted explosives, and that three took place on planes and one took place after a passenger debarked, we could assume that passengers have been used to take explosives aboard. Probably unknowingly, and certainly unknowingly in the case of Valdez. What a wicked bit that would be! Having your victim carry his own death around with him." He was silent for a moment as he sorted out the facts. "On the other hand, Rita Jameson's story would indicate that, in one case at least, explosives were sent on board, not carried. Who uses bombs on airplanes? Somebody who doesn't give a damn about human life as long as he gets his own victim. Why make an exception in the case of Valdez? It wasn't supposed to be an exception. He was also supposed to take the plane with him. And why — to kill everybody with him? I don't think so. To destroy the plane and, with it, evidence that the explosion was aimed at any particular individual."

"I think you've got it there, Cane. The break from the pattern is the very thing that made us certain there is a pattern." Hawk started pacing. "We only suspected foul play in the other three crashes. Valdez's ill-timed death takes the accident out and puts the design in. The fact of your presence on the scene helped, too." He shook his head and made a futile gesture. "I'm sorry about that girl, I really am. I wish she could know that she's helped us. Because her story to you about her pilot friend and the unexplained baggage tag helped us extract some information from London that they hadn't realized was important. Then we were sure of two deliberate, wholesale murders. And the attacks on you, because of your association with the girl, perhaps because of your mere presence on the scene, have been of inestimable help."

"Glad to be of service," murmured Nick ironically.

Hawk ignored that. "But it looks as though Valdez is the main key. He has to be. If we know how that bomb was secreted on his person, and how it was possible to do that without his knowledge, then we'd know a lot. It might be, as you say, that he was tricked in some way. Still, your account of the explosion does seem to indicate the blast originated in that steel hand..."

Nick shook his head slowly.

"I could be mistaken, sir. It happened pretty fast. Perhaps it had something else to do with his hand. Maybe when he raised it, the movement acted as some sort of signal to — well, perhaps to Seersucker on the observation deck. Or maybe it activated some land of remote control device."

Hawk thought it over. "I wonder what 'A. Brown' was doing at the time. Seersucker strikes me as more of a gun-and-grenade killer. No, I can't buy that. It has to fit the plane bombings."

Julia Baron gave a small, attention-getting cough. "Can't the airport people determine the source of the explosion?"

The old man stopped pacing and sighed. "Plane wreckage is one thing. Big pieces to go over, surfaces to study — shrapnel parts and the like. But when the human body is ripped apart by a concentrate of nitroglycerin, well..." He shrugged expressively. "There isn't very much left, I'm afraid."

"Nitro?" Nick echoed.

"Yes. That's one thing CAB experts are sure of."

Nick pondered. Nitroglycerin could be detonated with the slightest jar or shake. It could not have been ready on the plane; they had hit airpockets and bumpy weather several times over the ocean. Now what did the back of his mind mean by "ready?"

"Think of something, Cane?" Hawk's eyes pierced him.

"Ye-es. Maybe. Wouldn't that mean a timer? Because without it, we'd all have been dead and gone — even supposing he'd made the Jamaica airport in one of those crazy taxicabs."

"Which he probably wouldn't have," Hawk said quietly. "Yes, I think you have it."

"If the explosive was on him."

"All right," Hawk said wearily. "We don't have time to go back over that track tonight. We know enough to prepare for the next move."

"Flight 601," Nick suggested.

"That's it. A Mr. Harcourt is flying on that plane. Lyle Harcourt, our Ambassador to the U.N. And we know where he stands with the Red Chinese, don't we? Well, so do they. As far as they're concerned, he talks too much and makes too much sense. With him out of the way, they at least can hope for a replacement who talks less — and then only a nice soft line about Red China. So we can't have Flight 601 blowing up over the Atlantic."

"Would they move so fast after the Valdez incident?"

Hawk shook his head. "We can't guess, and we can't afford to take a chance. We have to move on the assumption that Lyle Harcourt's life is in danger."

Julia stirred. "Why doesn't Harcourt take an Army plane and keep away from crowds?"

Hawk smiled briefly. "The flight is ostensibly a personal one. Vacation. You know how we citizens scream about congressmen and other civil brass using funds for pleasure jaunts. So, in defense of our way of life, and to avoid calling attention to himself by any change of plan, Mr. Harcourt is making a point of flying like any ordinary citizen."

"And scholarly Mr. Cane and the beautiful Julia will be blown to bits while holding hands in the air. America, it's wonderful."

"Yes, it is," Hawk said sternly. "Now tell me your version of what happened at the Elmont."

Nick outlined the evening's events in succinct phrases, leaving nothing out except the exact circumstances of his meeting with Julia and the initial coolness between them. He dwelled on the perfumed envelope.

"Miss Baron's way of preparing you for her appearance, no doubt. That's another thing..."

"Yes, Mr. Hawk," Julia said demurely. "Tomorrow, Yardley's Lavender."

"Anything new on my gentlemen callers?" Nick went back to business, but his eyes were smiling. Julia might get in the way, but he was going to like her.

"Nothing at all on tonight, of course. Not yet. As to the rest, the police have been cooperative, but we haven't made much headway since this morning. The Biltmore corpse revealed nothing more than I told you this afternoon. Apparently just another gun — or knife — hired for dirty work. The hansom carriage pair were East Side hoods, who kill for anyone with enough money to hire them. Just murder for profit, even in the case of Seersucker. The difference with him is that he was closer to the source."

"The source being, in this case, the inscrutable A. Brown."

"Yes. We may have something there. A few more questions at the airport elicited the interesting fact that someone they thought was the same man who'd asked questions about Flight 16 was seen talking to a tall fellow with, they said, 'a mean and calculating eye.' Now, that doesn't tell us much, but it does suggest that Seersucker got his orders at the airport after X had seen something on the field. You, perhaps, and Rita Jameson."

"Oh." Nick fell silent. There was no use cursing himself now. But a picture of Rita leapt to his mind. A lovely vision that shimmered, as in a nightmare, into a sharp image of the mutilated, blood-drenched figure on the carriage seat. Damn Judas, then!

Hawk was still talking. "Brown, whoever he is, is going to be our concern at this end. You know the enemy, Cane. Why waste valuable espionage agents on mere executions when there's plenty of local talent for hire? Very confusing and very clever operational technique. Too bad we don't know how to use it."

Nick pulled his wandering thoughts together. "Doesn't it strike you that someone's been a little careless with his ambushes and killings?"

"No, I don't think so, Cane." Hawk's voice was grim. "Who could have guessed that the whole of AXE would be down on his neck if he killed one airline hostess and one playboy private eye?"

He reached into a pocket and withdrew a set of keys. Handing them to Nick, he said: "Front door. I'm afraid you'll both have to stay here tonight. It's the safest place in town for you. There are two army cots in the bedroom. That's the best we could manage. Set them up as you wish."

Hawk walked slowly to the door, then turned suddenly to face them.

"Oh, Miss Baron. You'll have to leave the Jaguar. We'll look after it. You'll find a thermos of coffee in the kitchen and some cigarettes. You both should try to make the best of a somewhat embarrassing situation. Miss Baron, you're here because Washington wants you in on the operation. It's up to Cane to decide your value and call the shots. I, personally, am very proud to have you with us — I know your services to this country. So please cooperate with each other. Keep Lyle Harcourt in one piece." He unlatched the door. "Mr. Judas is no joke. Good luck to you."

In the brief silence that followed. Carter and Julia Baron surveyed each other with measured looks.

"Cooperate with each other! The old buzzard. I'll see about those cots. You can have the bedroom. I'll sleep out here."

Nick left Julia standing in the middle of the blank living room, looking like a newly arrived tenant wondering why the moving van was late.

His survey showed him that Hawk had done all he could to offer them comfort without spoiling the illusion of an unoccupied apartment. Heavy shades were pulled down everywhere. The bathroom's frosted window was locked and barred. The cots were made up and looked almost good enough to sleep in. The thermos was comfortingly warm and the cigarettes were Players.

He carried one of the cots into the living room and set it up. Julia drifted past him into the bedroom and made suitcase-opening noises. She came out carrying something filmy and gave him a quick glance before closeting herself in the bathroom. He stripped down to his shorts and put his clothes on top of the two-suiter.

Julia emerged, looking a good five years younger than the femme fatale who had strolled so confidently into Yankee Stadium and waited for him, later, in the dashing Jaguar. The dark hair was loose over her shoulders and her face was scrubbed and as smooth as a child's. Yet her cat's eyes were far from childlike. Nick saw a lovely young woman with a tawny skin, high, proud breasts and a tall, exquisitely shaped body draped loosely in something that only a woman, and a very beautiful woman at that, would regard as something appropriate to sleep in.

She saw a tall, hard-faced man with an almost classic profile and a magnificently muscled body. An Apollo with a knife-scarred shoulder, wide-set steel gray eyes, and a crew-cut that somehow managed to look unruly.

"Julie, you are beautiful. How about some coffee?"

"I'd like that very much."

"Here, you maneuver these nasty little cups while I clean off the grime."

He vanished into the bathroom and splashed briskly for a while. When he came out the coffee was poured into the two plastic cups and Julie was sitting on the bed. He sat down beside her and they sipped the still-scalding brew.

"So you're O.C.I.?" he began formally.

"Uhuh." Her eyes slid over his body, then turned quickly away.

Carter noticed the glance and enjoyed the feel of it.

"Suppose you fill me in on your own immediate background. What you saw and heard in Peking; things like that."

She told him rapidly, in the crisp, incisive style of one accustomed to giving vital reports and having them listened to. Nick's mind absorbed every word, though his eyes wandered from hers down to her lips and then to the firm, exciting breasts that rose and fell with her measured breathing as if issuing invitations.

When she had finished her story she asked him: "Who is Rita Jameson? Hawk didn't tell me about her."

He told her. Her eyes widened with horror as he described the scene in Central Park. She reached over and touched him gently when his forehead clouded with the memory of what he thought was his own guilt. He found his breath quickening.

"Was she very beautiful?" she asked.

"She was," he answered seriously. "Much too lovely to die like that." He looked into the almond-shaped pools of her eyes. "But not as lovely as you. Some gentleman prefer brunettes." It seemed to him her breath had quickened, too. He uncoiled his whipcord body and got up from the bed, reaching for her hands with his.

"Perhaps we'd better get some sleep. We have to be up very early."

He pulled her gently to her feet.

"Perhaps we should," she murmured. She freed her hands from his and very lightly encircled his neck with her marvelously tawny arms. "Goodnight." Her lips brushed his. The arms stayed where they were. His own arms rose as if on hidden strings and reached around her, past the provocative firm softness of her magnificent bosom.

"Goodnight," he said, and kissed her lightly but lingeringly on the lips and eyes. Her arms tightened around him.

"Goodnight," she whispered. Her lips wandered over his face. The wonderful breasts swelled against his chest. She could feel the welcome warmth of his lithe, virile body.

"Goodnight," he breathed. His hands slid down her back and traced the contours of her thighs. One arm went around her and the other brought her mouth against his. Their lips caught fire from their bodies and fused together in the flame. They stood like that for moments, two perfect human bodies almost melding into one.

Nick drew his head back, still holding her body close.

"Bedtime, Julie," he said gently. "Do you want to sleep alone?"

Her hands flowed over the skin of his arms and torso.

"Peter Cane. whoever you are... turn out the lights. I want you."

Julia Baron

A long, quivering sigh escaped her parted lips. Scanty clothes lay forgotten on the floor. Carter's lingering memories of the Countess de Fresnaye fled on wings of a new and deeper passion. The firm thighs so very close to his undulated rhythmically, giving and taking, rising and falling, flowing and receding.

The narrow Army cot was a haven of delight, the darkened room an amalgam of unexpected and delicious pleasures. Two who lived for the moment made marvelous love without restraint or shame. Nick Carter, alias Peter Cane, felt every taut nerve in his body surrendering to Julie's fluid beauty and to the endless, fleeting fragment of time.

She spoke to him once or twice in little gasps, the words disjointed but full of the meaning that her body so eloquently expressed. He whispered something, nothing, and trapped her sinuous firmness beneath him, his powerful muscles making his body an instrument of pleasure. She moaned, but not in pain. She circled his ear lobe with sharp teeth and bit, and murmured breathlessly. The darkness dissolved into tiny separate shafts of warmth, shafts that drew together in the blackness and caught fire. Their senses reeled in a communion of soaring happiness. For brief, ecstatic moments, the component parts of a blueprint, how to blow up a railroad train or detail-strip a .45, meant less than nothing. They belonged to a different layer of life, not the life that pulsed between them now. Man and Woman fused together. Their minds and hearts were blazing skyrockets of emotion. Both felt, as one, the overwhelming flood-tide of wonderful release.

"Peter, Peter, Peter." And a sigh.

"Julia... my one and only favorite spy."

They laughed together in the darkness, a relaxed and happy sound.

"Peter Cane, what is your name?"

"Julia Baron, what is yours?"

She laughed. "All right, I won't pry. Let's have a cigarette."

The coffee was lukewarm but welcome. They sat side by side in the darkness, their cigarettes twin points of light in a room that no longer seemed bare and drab.

After a moment he said: "Are you sleepy?"

"Not a bit. Never less."

"Good. Because we have a little homework to do that I somehow forgot in the press of more urgent business."

Julia eyed him lazily. "Such as?"

"Bombs. Their cause and effect. Not a very appropriate time to talk about them, perhaps, but we may not have another chance. Do you know much about demolitions?"

The darkest patch of darkness moved as her dark head shook. She sensed, rather than saw, the compact, whipcord figure so close to hers. "Three weeks, a few years ago at Fort Riley. A short, intensive course I've never used. And I suppose there've been modifications since then."

The tip of his cigarette flickered.

"Mostly variations on old themes. On Flight 601, you'll have to know some of the things to look for. Not to forget steel hands and bags that go bang in the night."

"Or day," she reminded. "They've all happened during the day. And tomorrow is another."

"Not our last, if we're careful. The OSS came up with a cartload of demolition gadgets in World War II. They're still damned effective, custom built for espionage and its baby, sabotage. Ever hear of gimmicks like Aunt Jemima, Stinger, Casey Jones or Hedy?"

"Pancake, cocktail, trainman, movie star. Or what?"

"You haven't heard of them," he said matter-of-factly. "Each is a choice little item in the well-rounded spy's book of tactics. You are, of course, well-rounded, but..."

Nick described the Machiavellian devices he had encountered in his crowded lifetime:

Aunt Jemima, innocent-looking devil with the destructive force of TNT, was an apparently ordinary flour which could be kneaded, raised, and actually baked into bread. Even if moistened, it was still effective. Stinger was a fob-pocket gun with a three-by-half-inch tube; a short, automatic pencil in appearance. The tube contained a .22 cartridge, activated by a tiny lever on the side. One squeeze of the lever with your fingernail, and you could kill a man. Casey Jones was a magnet fastened to a box device containing a photoelectric cell. All it took to trigger treacherous Casey into explosion was a swift cutting-off of light, such as the dimout incurred when a train entered a tunnel. The electric eye would react to the sudden darkness and trip the explosive. Hedy was a decoy, rather than a weapon, a screeching firecracker-type device which gave off enough attention-getting clamor to allow an agent to create a diversion anywhere he chose while the real scene played elsewhere.

There were sundry other niceties in the OSS catalog. Nick detailed them with care and Julia listened. It was becoming increasingly clear that Flight 601 would take a lot of surveillance.

"That's about it," Nick finished. "There may be refinements, but those are the basic elements. Want to cash in your ticket?"

"I wouldn't if I could," she said quietly. "I've seen Harcourt at the U.N. I'd hate for us to lose him."

"That's why we're going to have to be on our toes every minute," Nick said. "Do you have any kind of weapon, by the way?"

"You bet I have. But I feel like a babe in the woods, after all that... I've a small traveling clock grenade, useful for bedsides in strange places. A small .25 that looks like a cigarette lighted. And a nailfile that's made of Toledo steel and cuts like a razor. I've only used it once — so far."

Nick could feel her shudder in the dark. Then she said: "What about you?"

He laughed. "Wilhelmina, Hugo, and Pierre. And a little grenade gadget that I haven't yet named and probably never will. If I don't use him, he doesn't deserve christening. And if I do — well, then he's dead."

"Wilhelmina who?"

"The Luger. We're a walking armory, we are."

She sighed and lay back on the cot. Her eyes searched for his in a darkness that was no longer absolute.

"Do you have any L-pills?" she asked quietly.

He was surprised. "No. Do you?"

"Yes. I've seen what's happened to some of us. I don't want to end up like that. If they ever get me, I want to die my way. I won't brainwash, and I won't talk. But I don't want to end up a babbling, mindless... thing."

Nick was silent for a moment Then he said: "I'd like to say, 'stick with me, kid, and you'll be fine.' But I can't guarantee anything but trouble."

"I know that" She reached for his hand. "I know what I'm doing, even though sometimes I hate it."

The cigarettes were dead, the coffee finished.

Nick stroked her fingers as if counting them.

"It's getting late. We'd better get some sleep. Now. In the morning, you leave first I'll help you get a cab on Broadway, then I'll clock out of here about ten minutes later. I'll meet you at the airline weighing-in counter, looking like a hungry lover. Which, I might add, won't be hard. You look breathless and expectant, as if looking forward to our assignation but wondering what mother would think if she could only know." She laughed quietly. "And then, for God's sake, when we get on the plane you'll have to tell me how we're supposed to have met! What is your cover, anyway?"

"I am an art teacher at Slocombe College, Pennsylvania," she said dreamily. "Destiny — and your best friend — brought us together. It was like a bolt of lightning from a summer sky... Oh, well. Tune in tomorrow for the next thrilling installment. I do draw rather well, by the way."

Nick smiled and kissed her, putting his hands lightly on her silky shoulders.

"Goodnight, then. You might as well stay here — I'll have the bedroom."

He rose silently.

"Peter," she called softly.

"Yes?"

"I still don't want to sleep alone."

"Neither do I," he said huskily.

They didn't.

Dawn was lacing the sky with a ladder of fleecy clouds above the vast expanse of Idlewild as Nick Carter's taxi drew up before the Air America Building.

Julie Baron had pecked his lips in hasty farewell and tucked her long legs into the back of her airport-bound cab. Nick instructed the driver and had watched the Yellow Cab take off. He had gone back to the apartment and checked every inch of it before locking up. The little pile of cinders in the fireplace had become a light powder, as shapeless as dust. Nick carefully collected cigarette butts and ashes into an empty pack of Players. Habit was so strong that his check-up of the place was as natural as breathing.

The American Tourister luggage was neatly packed with the wardrobe and toilet accessories he would need for the flight. This time, he would have to leave his brief case. Peter Cane's notebooks and favorite reading matter were in the overnight bag, which he would keep with him on the plane. The four thousand dollars in bills were in a dual-purpose money belt strapped about his waist; his pockets were filled with items that proclaimed his identity as Peter Cane.

Nick set the black horn rims on his straight nose and surveyed himself in the discolored bathroom mirror. He rather liked the effect. We Professors don't have time to fuss with our appearance. Satisfied, he took his leave, throwing the discarded cigarette pack and the apartment keys into the nearest convenient garbage can. The Jaguar, he noticed, was already gone.

He hailed a cab, and the past was behind him. Only the lingering happiness of the night with Julie remained, and a feeling of fulfillment and relaxation.

The trail behind him was empty. There were no early morning followers to throw discord into the harmony of the pleasant ride to the airfield.

Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre waited patiently in their beds, oiled and ready for maximum effort. The nameless key-chain flashlight just waited.

Mr. Judas. Nick swore softly to himself. The biggest name in international espionage. Nobody knew what he looked like or how old he was. Or his nationality. Just the name. A code name given him years ago because his shadowy presence so often made itself felt in treasonous activity. Interpol had racked its resources for fifteen years in hopeless pursuit. England's Special Branch had turned all its data on him over to Security Service when a national crime wave had assumed the proportions of a political scandal. No result. Argentina had detected his unholy stamp in a monstrous blackmail and murder plot. But the chimera had wavered and disappeared. He was dead; he was not dead. He had been seen; he had never been seen. He was tall, short, hideous, handsome, frying in hell, luxuriating at Cannes. He was everywhere, nowhere, nothing and everything, and all that was known was the name of Judas. Reports filtering down through the funnel of years made it appear that he enjoyed the name "Judas" and wore it with pride.

Now he was back. The faceless genius of sabotage.

Nick ached to meet him, to see for himself what the wizard looked like and sounded like. Judas had to be a wizard. How could anyone be so well known and yet so obscure?

Flight from Idlewild

"Darling!"

"Darling!"

"Sweetheart!"

"Baby!"

Julie was waiting for him, her luggage already on the scale. They kissed a little clumsily and blushed at each other, the very picture of pre-married love.

"I thought you weren't going to make it," she said nervously.

"Nonsense," he said lightly. "You knew I'd be here. You weighed in?"

"Yes, there it goes."

She looked demure and wholesome, like a girl from Slocombe, Pennsylvania. Nick thought he detected a dab of Chanel; that was all right, for a special occasion.

Their bags glided away on the luggage belt. Passports were checked, tickets scrutinized. The airline official behind the desk looked up at Nick.

"Oh, Mr. Cane. A message for you. From your father, I believe. He couldn't wait."

"Oh," said Nick anxiously. "Did you see Dad?" he asked Julia.

"Oh, no, he was very early," the official interrupted. "Just stopped by, he said, with a farewell note. Wanted to wish you luck with your work." He eyed Julia meaningfully.

She managed another blush.

"There you are sir, madam. Enjoy your flight"

They moved away and Nick opened the envelope. It contained a copy of Flight 601's passenger list and a brief note:

"Dear Pete,

Just to wish you good luck and remind you to check in at the Consulate for all mail. Use their facilities if you wish to cable. I shall be in Washington for the next few days, back at the old stand.

By the way, it seems that your Latin friend was hospitalized only a year ago after an accident, and not several years ago as the lady seemed to think. It appears she was mistaken. No wonder he was not quite recovered.

Have a good trip, keep sharp, and let us know how things are going. We will keep you posted if there is any news from home.

from your old man."

Nick frowned. Why should Rita's story clash with the records on Valdez?

On the northern runway, a gleaming 710 Jetstar sat poised. Nick watched the airstair being wheeled into place. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes to go. For a moment, he thought about Valdez and Rita Jameson — about the two of them as human beings. Yesterday, they were alive. One evidently resourceful and energetic. The other beautiful, very beautiful, now very very ugly.

He shook the thoughts away. That kind of thinking was no good. He dug out his airline ticket and picked up his bag.

"C'mon, Julie. Here, I'll take that."

They walked to the wire gate squaring the runway, she tall, graceful, with cat-shaped eyes and a sassy, holiday hat; he, taller, serious-looking, youngish, companionably carrying her simple fall coat over his arm. A line of passengers had already begun to form, eager to get on with the flight.

A jet engine thundered somewhere off to the right. Uniformed personnel began to climb up the airstair with unhurried steps. Nick poked the horn-rimmed bridge higher up on his nose, a characteristic gesture for a man with spectacles.

Voices broke over the gate. Nick and Julia fell into line behind a woman in a blue print dress and jacket, carrying a clutch bag, and a tall, elderly gentleman with a sandy brown moustache and the penetrating voice of the Middle West. Two men in dark suits walked rapidly toward the airstair. The younger of the two handed an attaché case to the other man, gave a sort of salute, and walked away. The older man ascended the stair. That would be Harcourt.

Julia moved ahead. The flash of her shapely legs evoked memories. Nick reached for his seat card.

A pert stewardess, almost as beautiful as Rita Jameson, welcomed him on board. Behind him, a rotund executive was trying not to swear as he fumbled for his boarding ticket.

The eastern seaboard vanished on the horizon and Flight 601 headed out to sea, nose toward London. Skies were clear and there was no headwind. Julia yawned seductively and let her lovely head, now hatless, loll against the plexiglass porthole. Peter Cane's book on the Israeli discoveries lay unopened on Nick Carter's rangy knees. His hand held Julie's lightly. Every now and then they would smile and whisper affectionately to each other. In fact, Julia was filling him in on her cover background and the so-called circumstances of their first meeting. Some of the details and dialogue they worked out together, laughing quietly at their joint imagination and the memories they were supposed to have.

Lyle Harcourt was sitting amidships on the aisle. The window seat next to him was unoccupied but for his attaché case and papers. At the moment he was skimming the morning newspapers. Nick sat at a diagonal line from his courtly head and shoulders.

Harcourt was an imposing man of middle years, very tall, and ruddy of complexion. Nick had seen penetrating blue eyes beneath the shaggy eyebrows. He remembered that Harcourt had been Ail-American decades before, then had given up a lucrative law practice to enter service with his country. His rise from farm boy to state governor and to one of the nation's most influential and best-loved statesmen was one of the legendary tales of American politics. It would be disastrous if anything were to happen to this man.

It was too early to thoroughly case the rest of the passengers. Nick tallied nearly seventy head of assorted ages, sizes and shapes. Those in the vicinity of Harcourt were the ones that concerned him most, at the moment.

He squeezed Julia's hand gently. Her eyes opened.

"I have a tendency to get airsick, did you know that?"

"Oh, no!" she said, alarmed. "Do you feel bad?"

Nick grinned. "No. But Mr. Cane has a funny tummy and he may need to go running up and down the aisle to one of those doors up there."

"Oh." She sounded relieved. "Well, the paper bag's in front of you, if you don't make it. But please try. Sometimes I don't feel so good myself."

"Push the button, will you? Let's see, the stewardess' name is Janet Reed..."

Julia gave him a suspicious look and pressed the button.

"How did you know that?"

"She told us, didn't you notice?"

"No, I didn't."

"Well, I did. She's rather a honey, isn't she?"

"Two-timer!"

One or two miniscule clouds were building in the morning sky. He hoped that they, or inexperience, would be sufficient excuse for his plaint.

"Yes, Mr. Cane?"

"Oh... er... Miss. Urn, Janet. I feel a little uneasy, I'm afraid. That is, queasy. Could you... suggest something?"

He swallowed uncomfortably.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Cane! I'll bring you a pill. They're very good. And some tea. That usually helps."

Nick shuddered. Coffee and a shot of brandy was what he felt like.

"Thank you, that'll be fine. You're very kind."

Janet went off, hips swaying attractively.

"My hero," said Julie lovingly, offering him a well-faked look of concern. "Fink, with feet of clay."

"Stomach of clay. Come on, fuss over me. But not too much; it might upset me more."

"Here, lover, let me loosen your tie."

"It is loose."

"So it is. Then fuss over yourself, damn you."

Janet came back with tea, sympathy and pill.

"Now drink that, Mr. Cane, and I'm sure you'll feel much better."

"My poor baby," Julia cooed.

Peter Cane managed a brave smile. "Thank you, Janet. Ill be all right."

Nick managed to choke down the tea. "By the way, did you want something?"

"Thank you so much for thinking of me in your delicate condition, but the answer's no. At least, not in front of all these people."

Their eyes met in a secret, knowing glance.

Down the aisle, Lyle Harcourt had put aside the newspapers and was now immersed in a stack of documents that were piled on the attaché case in his lap. He rarely looked up and he spoke to no one. The flight was as serene as the quiet weather above the ocean. The tiny clouds were thickening but the great plane sliced through their wispy fingers with ease. Not a bump, not a shiver. Well, I can't wait, thought Nick. One cigarette, and I'll make a move.

He lit one for each of them, and pondered.

The only action had been the inevitable brief trips to either end of the aisle. The passengers had settled in quickly and sleepily. He couldn't, of course, tell about the personnel of Flight 601. Janet Reed was the only one who had so far shown herself. There was no need for any of the others to emerge.

It was hard to sit around waiting. Nick's springy muscles ached for some activity.

The plane itself represented a problem. A bomb could be concealed anywhere. There were a hundred and one hiding places for small, lethal devices.

"I think I have to throw up," he said inelegantly, and stubbed out his cigarette.

"Congratulations. But don't do it here."

He rose abruptly, untangling his long legs from beneath the seat ahead.

"Keep an eye open while I'm gone," he murmured, clutching his stomach. Julie nodded.

Nick made his way down the aisle, his eyes skimming along the overhead racks as he passed. No funny looking bundles. But then, he could hardly expect to find anything labeled BOMB.

He made a precipitous entry into the lavatory.

His exit, a few minutes later, was more dignified, but his progress down the smoothly carpeted aisle was erratic. He was two paces from Lyle Harcourt's aisle seat when he stumbled, seeming to catch his toe on some invisible lump in the carpeting. He gave a cry of embarrassed surprise as he caught himself on the arm rest of Harcourt's chair and used his other hand to grasp the support of the baggage rack above.

"Dreadfully sorry! Please excuse me!" he gasped into Harcourt's ear, smiling awkwardly. "Damn clumsy of me..."

Lyle Harcourt's ruddy face was tolerant. "Quite all right. Think nothing of it."

Nick righted himself, still smiling.

"Why, you're Lyle Harcourt. I'd know you anywhere. Embarrassing way to meet you, Mr. Harcourt, but a privilege, sir. My name's Cane."

Harcourt nodded politely, his eyes wandering back to his papers. But Nick kept on, talking in jerky, admiring phrases, his eyes taking split second pictures that his mind would develop later.

"...A student, in a way, sir, of your methods. Of course, my field isn't political science, but as a private citizen I, well, I naturally have a deep concern for our foreign policy..."

Harcourt raised his eyes resignedly and gazed at him.

"...I was with you to the hilt on our bomb control program..."

The Ambassador's look became a little wary.

"...and so were most Americans, I'd say. Oh, I know there are people who insist that the Communists can't be trusted, but / say we have to make a start somewhere..."

His voice trailed off. Harcourt was smiling patiently but his sharp eyes were staring Nick into silence.

"Mr. Cane," the Ambassador said courteously, "while I appreciate your interest and support, such discussions are usually held on the floors or platforms of assembly halls. Please forgive me, but I really must pay close attention to a few matters before we land..."

"Of course, sir. Terribly sorry to intrude."

He nodded nervously and stumbled away.

A few people had glanced casually at the clumsy young man with the horn-rimmed glasses towering over the distinguished, older man, but as far as he'd noticed, no one had shown any undue interest.

Julia eyed him sympathetically as he folded himself back into his seat.

"Feel better, honey? I don't think you should be wandering around talking to people if you're feeling funny."

"Any watchers?"

"Only me, and a few stray glances that didn't seem to mean a thing. How was your scouting expedition?"

Nick slumped down in his seat.

"Rack over his head — empty. Not even a matchbox could be hidden there. His seat is the same as ours. The attaché case is clean. No buckles, just a zipper. The papers are just papers. People sitting near him all check out. Milwaukee housewife and child. Insurance salesman from Illinois. Two Roman Catholic priests too devout to do anything but sit and pray. No steel hands, no crutches, no sinister ticking packages. One accountant from General Foods. One middle-aged couple from Westchester..."

Julia gasped. "You didn't see all that in those few seconds!"

He sat up. "No. I checked the passenger manifest before we left. But I wish I could check Harcourt's pockets. Even if he's carrying a fountain pen or a lighter, it could be dangerous. Someone could have given it to him as a..." He stopped suddenly, looking startled. Julia caught his expression and her eyes flew to follow his gaze. Nick was sitting erect, his jaw taut.

"What is it?" Julia whispered. "That man?"

Nick nodded.

A passenger had risen to his feet, turned into the aisle and made for the door of the lavatory. Julia saw a short, square-shouldered man in a dark suit; clean-shaven; rather handsome head with wiry hair combed back. Nothing special about him. Except that his right sleeve hung empty and the right arm was bound stiffly in a cast of white plaster reaching past the elbow.

The injury must have been recent — the whiteness of plaster and bandage shone spotlessly clean.

Nick started humming tunelessly.

"What about him?" Julia was looking at him curiously. "The cast, you mean?"

"Mmm. I think so. I didn't notice it when I went up ahead before; I guess his coat was covering it."

The man went into the toilet opposite the one Nick had used before.

"You wait here and... no, hold it."

The woman with the clutch bag came out of the other door.

"Look." He spoke in a rapid undertone. "It's your turn now. Go powder your nose. Take as long as you can. I'll follow in a while. But listen for his door opening. He may be through before I get there."

She nodded, listening intently.

"When you hear his door open, open yours right away and get a good look at him. Study that cast and let me know what you see. I want to get in right after him even if I have to wait; that means the other one has to be occupied. So you wait until you hear that door. Then get out of there as fast as you can and watch him."

Julie was already picking her way past him.

"What if I'm in the middle of something when I hear his door open?" she breathed, an impish grin on her face.

"Just don't start anything you can't finish," Nick answered.

She made her way to the vacant lavatory.

Flight 601 began a gradual climb to escape a wall of storm clouds that had started building in the east.

Aunt Jemima

The man with the broken arm spent ten minutes in the lavatory. Nick timed him. He waited restlessly outside the door, evincing all the impatience of an uncomfortable passenger in urgent need of privacy. The plane hit a small air pocket, and he was able to lurch and groan convincingly. Janet Reed flashed him an anxious look.

"Mr. Cane," she said in a low voice, "don't you think you'd better go back to your seat and wait? You don't look well at all. How about another pill?"

"No to both, thank you very much," he moaned. "Now that I'm here, I'll just stay put. Don't worry."

"All right," she answered doubtfully.

"Ohhhh!" The muffled sound and his tortured look were sufficient.

"Well, please call me if I can help."

The lavatory door opened and the man came out. Behind him, as Nick stood at the ready, he heard the other door click. The man with the cast looked blankly at Nick, said "Excuse me," and stepped sideways into the aisle. Julie moved quickly ahead of him and briefly blocked his path. Nick took the face and body apart in a lightning survey. Bland features, small scar on left side of mouth, heavy beard starting to show under the film of powder that gave the illusion of a clean shave, eyes that held all the expression of a dead fish. He moved stiffly, supporting his bandaged arm in his good hand. Nick wondered why he did not use a sling, then stumbled gratefully into the lavatory and closed the door on the automatic lock.

The cubicle was no more than a comfortable stall equipped with sink, commode, chair with strap, and shelving for towels. The wall light had an electric razor socket. A small porthole showed a view of blue sky above a bank of clouds. Nick made a rapid inspection. Nothing out of the way on shelves, wall, floor, fixtures. He ran the water from both taps into the shining sink. Steam rose, but nothing else. A clean piece of soap lay in its hollow.

Nick wrapped a paper tissue round his fingers and felt inside the toilet bowl. Nothing. A fresh roll of tissue hung conveniently near at hand. He took it off its rod, replaced it when he saw there was nothing in the tube. He washed his hands.

When he returned to his seat, Julie murmured: "You really are beginning to look sick. Find something?"

He shook his head. "I'm starving to death. Maybe we can order some sandwiches for you, and I'll lap up the crumbs. Let's call dreamboat."

"I'll call dreamboat," she said, and did.

They were silent until Janet had come and gone with their order and then the sandwiches. Nick took one from Julia's hand.

"Watercress! What a diet for a growing boy."

"Good for the tummy," said Julia placidly. "By the way, it struck me that our friend's plaster cast was just a little loose to be effective."

"Oh." Nick raised an eyebrow. "Something struck me, too. But nothing very conclusive. I don't think he used the bathroom. Not for its primary purpose, anyway. Of course, people have been going in and out all morning, and I've seen Janet go in a couple of times to keep things tidy, so I can't be sure. The bowl was damp, but not wet. The soap was dry. Tissue unbroken on the roll."

"You mean he just went in to look around?"

"That, or more likely he wanted to be alone to look at something he brought in with him. No, he didn't leave anything there," he caught her glance, "I'm sure of that"

"Then he did something to the cast."

"I would say yes. But we don't have enough to go on. If I were sure of anything I might be able to get the Captain's cooperation. But as of now, we're stymied."

The jet engines throbbed smoothly. Occasionally someone rose to stretch his legs. People talked and dozed.

Nick settled back and watched. His two main objectives were Lyle Harcourt's seat and the general area occupied by the man with the broken arm. The latter was too far forward for Nick to see directly; Nick could only see him when he stood up.

Flight 601 was two hours out of London when the bandaged man stood up again. Nick shook Julie. Her head was resting on his shoulder, and he breathed in the fragrance of her hair and skin.

"Julie, honey."

She came awake instantly. "Is this it?"

"I think so." The closer they got to London, the sooner somebody had to make his move.

The man with the bandaged arm went into the lavatory. Julie stiffened.

A woman with a crying baby opened the door opposite and entered. Both signs read "Occupied."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Much the same thing as before, but this time I'll go first. With any luck the baby'll keep that one busy for a while. But follow me down the aisle in a minute and get yourself a forward seat — his, maybe — and be ready to beat me to the punch if the woman comes out first. I've got to see what's going on in there. Okay?"

She nodded.

He kissed her lightly on the cheek and left his seat. Several passengers looked at him as he passed. His jaw was working and his face was pale. It was Yoga, not airsickness, that brought about the pallor, but they were not to know that.

He brushed against Janet Reed in the aisle again, turning his body sideways and avoiding her eyes.

"Mr. Cane," she began solicitously.

He shook his head dumbly and went on his way. When he got to the pair of occupied cubicles, his expression was that of a man praying for death to deliver him. He sighed, and leaned against the outside wall of the one occupied by the man with the cast and strained his ears for whatever there was to be heard. From the corner of his eye he saw Julie coming toward him, her purse open and a comb in her hand. She reached the vacated forward seat and stopped, looking at him with lovely, sympathetic cat eyes.

"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered, "can't you get in?"

He shook his agonized head and turned away.

His ears were primed for the slightest sound.

The baby was still crying. Water splashed into a sink.

Three minutes crawled by in which the only sounds were coughs, low conversations and the pulsing of the jet engines.

Then he heard something else.

Faint, slapping, sliding sounds. The soft, clothy sounds of someone dressing or undressing.

Carter tensed. Still not enough to go on. If he were wrong and burst in like a fool, he'd lose all hope of stopping whatever was going to happen. If anything was going to happen.

Then he heard the sound that removed all doubts.

It was a coarse, tearing, cracking sound. Given his memory of the lavatory as he had last seen it, and his suspicions of the man who had just entered, there was only one conclusion to be drawn.

Nick had heard that familiar combination of sounds, too many times, in dressing stations all over the battlefields of Europe. The tearing, ripping sounds of bandagesbeing removed and plaster-of-paris casts being cracked apart.

Why should anyone remove a brand-new bandage?

The baby gurgled and stopped crying.

Right or wrong, he had to act — now.

The belt around his waist slipped quickly off into his hands. He adjusted it rapidly and clamped the metal buckle over the doorknob, fitting it over the lock mechanism like a vise.

Carter adjusted the tongue of the buckle and stepped to one side. Julie had taken her .22 lighter out of her bag and was watching with rapt attention.

It took only two seconds for the power train of fulminate of mercury — similar to that of the U.S. MI grenade — to ignite and energize a quarter ounce of nitro starch.

The lock blew and the door caved inward neatly, almost noiselessly. But not completely. Nick flung the battered barrier to one side and threw himself past it into the tiny room. Behind him, the Jetliner came alive. Someone screamed. Not Julie. He could hear her speaking in a calm reassuring voice.

A clutter of trailing white bandage and plaster lay discarded on the floor. The broad-shouldered man had swung around to face him, his right hand free of its bandage and raised to his mouth as if in a gesture of shock. The hard edge of Nick's palm slashed at the thick neck, and two sinewy arms turned the square body and snaked about the man's back. A strangled foreign oath split the air. Suddenly, the man's back undulated powerfully and Nick found himself slamming backward until he was cruelly checked by the wall.

The man's face loomed close to his. It was mottled with rage and surprise. A knife, point upward, sprang into his fist and jabbed viciously forward. Nick rolled swiftly and the blade clanged against the wall. The man lost his balance and staggered, clutching the metal rail of a shelf, leaving himself wide open.

Nick brought his right knee up in a savage jab which found the lower vitals. There was a high-pitched groan of agony and the man doubled over, clutching his body and wheezing bitterly. Nick followed up with a chopping thrust of his hand into the base of the man's skull.

The man lay inert, crumpled into a half-sitting position against the seat. The main job was still to be done.

Ignoring the clamor at the door and an insistent male voice demanding to know what the hell was going on, Nick crouched beneath the sink and found what he was looking for.

The man with the false broken arm had lined the underside of the sink with the plaster of paris which had bound his arm. It clung damply to the curvature, dropping little fragments to the floor. There was no mistaking the copper blasting cap device and the connected watch timer that jutted ominously from the doughy mass of plaster.

Nick worked swiftly, removing the cap and timer.

Julia stood in the doorway, a restraining hand on the arm of an angry pilot. In a controlled, authoritative voice, she was saying something about security, government agents and enemy saboteurs.

Nick filled the sink with water and doused the detonating mechanism. Then he scraped off the remaining plaster from underneath the sink. Wrapping the hardening mess in the bandage he placed the innocuous bundle in a waste container.

"Captain," he said, not stopping in his work, "Is there some way we can jettison this stuff? It's out of action now, but I shouldn't like to take a chance."

The pilot was pushing Julia to one side. He was a stringy, tanned young man with a moustache and sharp, intelligent eyes.

"When you've explained all this. And you'd better do that now."

"In a minute," he answered crisply. Nick was leaning over his victim. He went through the pockets. The wallet, passport and driver's license identified one Paul Vertmann, Munich businessman. That was all. There was no weapon of any kind other than the knife that had failed to kill him.

Nick rose. A knot of people clustered in the forward aisle. Janet Reed's beautiful face was white with fear and incomprehension.

"Please ask everybody to return to their seats. I'll see you in your compartment — this isn't for the passengers."

"You'll tell me now — in front of everyone. And come out of there."

Nick sighed and stepped through the doorway.

"All right, then, say this much. An attempt was made to kill one of us on board. To blow up the plane and everybody with it, just to get one man. That won't happen now. Now please have the passengers go back to their seats."

The Captain barked an order. Janet pulled herself together and began shepherding the passengers back to their seats.

"Now what is this, and who are you?" The tanned face bristled at him.

"I'll show you the proper identification in your cabin, if you don't mind. Meanwhile, if you have some manacles on board, or rope, we'll tie this fellow up for delivery in London."

"Henderson!" the Captain rapped, without turning. "Handcuffs!"

"Right!" a voice came back.

Lyle Harcourt walked firmly down the aisle toward them.

"Excuse me, madam." He gently pushed his way around Julia.

"Captain, I think this may have something to do with me. What happened, Cane?"

The young Captain's manner changed. "You, sir?" he said, amazed but respectful.

Harcourt nodded. Nick explained in a rapid undertone.

"The man on the floor had what we call an Aunt Jemima kneaded inside his false cast. Enough to blow this plane and all of us to kingdom come. Harmless by itself, but when triggered with a blasting cap — well, it's over now. But I'd like to talk to you in more privacy, sir."

"By all means." Harcourt looked dazed but in full control.

"Peter! Peter!" It was a scream from Julie. "Look!" She was pointing at the figure on the floor.

Nick swung around, his hand on Wilhelmina.

The man had rolled slightly in his huddled position. The face he turned to the ceiling was a ghastly suffusion of black and purple mottling. A strangled gasp escaped the tight throat. Nick cursed and bent over him. It was too late.

Harcourt and the Captain spoke at once.

"Good Lord, what's happening to him?"

"Now what, for the luvva God?"

Nick stood up, defeat shining bitterly from his eyes. He looked past them at Julia. Her eyes were downcast, her face was pale.

"L-pill. He won't be doing any talking. Skip the 'cuffs."

"I thought he was unconscious," Julie said helplessly. "How did he do it?"

"Roof of the mouth," said Nick. "Fixed in place with a layer of gelatin. Body heat dissolves the gelatin... and that's it."

Harcourt frowned. "I don't understand. Why, that would only take minutes, and a man wouldn't have to be unconscious..."

"It's the way they play," Nick answered. "He may not have taken it if I hadn't forced his hand. Perhaps he would have waited to be sure his bomb worked, and gone up with us in a blaze of patriotic glory. But I rather think he meant to go before the rest of us. Cheating, to the end," he finished bitterly.

"The true fanatic." Lyle Harcourt shook his head. "Captain, Mr. Cane... let's seal that door and do our talking somewhere else."

"Right. Henderson, get this door closed and wait right here. Don't let anybody near."

A uniformed youngster nodded and stepped forward.

"Now let's go forward and get this whole thing sorted out. Because so far, I don't get it."

"That's what I wanted to do in the first place," Nick said drily. He motioned for Ambassador Harcourt to precede him and closed his hands over Julia's fingers.

It was the curse of espionage, that people very seldom "got it."

London Idyll

Peter Cane and Julia Baron, newly arrived from New York and wearing their hearts on their sleeves, registered at the small but glamorous Hotel Rand in the heart of Piccadilly. For a "love-nest," it was ideal. The carpets were soft, the management discreet, the decor quietly luxurious, the pulse of the city within easy reach, the rooms charmingly intimate. They took adjoining suites with a connecting door.

Julia luxuriated under the warm shower, recovering from the tension of the trip and the question period that had followed. A squad of officials and a worried United States Consul had met the plane at London Airport. Nick, Julie and Harcourt had answered questions for well over an hour. Security Service was impressed with Nick's credentials, congratulated him and Julie, and indicated their total cooperation in tracking down the moving force behind the attempted murder. Consul Henry Judson had expressed deep concern over Harcourt's safety and had begged him to stay at the Consulate, but Harcourt courteously pleaded a preference for his usual quiet hotel and left in the company of the U.N. official who had come to meet him.

"I'm hungry!" Nick's voice came through the connecting doorway.

"What?" Julie poked her head out between the shower curtains. Nick padded damply over the thick carpet of her room and peered into the bathroom.

"I'm hungry. So I called down for champagne and caviar. All Fve had today is one lousy watercress sandwich."

"And tea and a pill." She laughed and ducked back under the shower. "But champagne and caviar! Do you think that'll fill up the spaces?"

"It'll do until dinnertime. Besides, it's romantic. Remember why we're here. Oh, there's the door. They don't keep lovers waiting, do they?" Nick enveloped himself in the huge bath towel and went back to his room.

Julie did remember why they were there. A small frown creased her forehead.

She stepped out of the shower. Wrapping herself voluptuously in an enormous, feather-soft towel, she trailed into the companion suite. Iced champagne and a silver tray waited on the low-slung table in front of the couch.

Nick was standing on his head.

"What in the world are you doing?"

He lowered himself neatly and sat down with his legs folded beneath him.

"Yoga exercises. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night nor lovely lady nor waiting bottle of champagne can stay me from the swift completion of my appointed rounds. And now I have completed them."

He smiled and stood up his muscles rippling smoothly under the light tan that never left him.

"And very quickly, too," she said approvingly. "What's that scar on your right thigh? And the one on the shoulder?"

She touched his shoulder lightly.

"Knife up there, shrapnel down below. He kissed the tip of her upturned nose and wrapped his giant towel around his waist. "Ready for champagne?"

"Dying for it." The cat eyes crinkled with amusement. "You look like one of the new delegation heads at the United Nations. Down on First Avenue you could go out and not a single head would turn. Correction. All the girls would look."

"I must try it some time."

The cork popped.

They sank down on the soft, inviting couch and toasted each other.

"What now, Peter? What do we do next?"

"Hmmm?" He eyed her languorously.

"I mean the job."

The smile went out of his eyes. He had drafted a code message to Hawk and Judson had undertaken to see that it went off immediately. The reply should not be long in coming. "Hawk will get in touch and the Consul will get some kind of code message which he'll refer to us. Don't worry about it now. Time enough when official orders come."

"How will we find Judas? God, he must be a monster. And that — that fanatic on the plane, with the Betty Crocker."

"Aunt Jemima."

"Peter, why did he take off the cast? He knew he couldn't get away if the explosive did go off. Couldn't he have just — sat there — and..."

Nick took her hand. "Someone might have seen him. And then, I suppose, even the most diehard fanatic must find it difficult to sit calmly and wait to explode. An L-pill is easier. Now don't think about it. There's a time to worry and a time to spy and a time to — to be almost ourselves."

The towel slid gently from her pale-copper shoulders. She leaned back and pulled him to her. He could feel her heart thudding as his head came down on the twin pillows of her bosom. Cool fingers traced the scar on his shoulder. He moved his head. The marvelous breasts responded to his touch. He covered her mouth with his, and her body with his body.

Shadows lengthened across the floor. Big Ben rumbled metallically. Julie stretched like a cat.

"Isn't Yoga wonderful?" Deep contentment filled her eyes.

Nick stroked her hair and rose as smoothly as a panther.

"No more wonderful than you. Please stay there — I want to look at you."

He had known many women in his life, but very few so truly beautiful; and none before with Julie's exciting tiger-like quality of controlled and sinuous strength, none who could melt so slowly and softly and then burst into a vital, blazing flame of passion that stimulated, thrilled, licked hungrily, hung for long moments on the high precipice of desire, then burst into a blinding flame-shower of fulfillment.

She could laugh, too. They had loved and laughed and brought to each other the soul-filling satisfaction and body release of a perfect sexual union. She was almost dangerously desirable. With her, it was easy to love and forget the murderous hand of the man who had reached around the world to blow up planes, smash lives and damage the tenuous links of national policy. The red shadow in the background made the lovemaking all the more urgent, all the more compelling.

He began to dress, paying special attention to the harnesses and holsters that held his lethal friends.

"I should think he would have called by now."

"Judson? Perhaps we didn't hear the telephone." She propped herself on one elbow and watched him dress.

"Oh, we'd have heard all right. But it's getting late. Hawk's had plenty of time to reply."

"Perhaps the Consul downs tools at five. Maybe he won't call until tomorrow. After all, he's a fairly big wheel."

"Not so big that he doesn't have to turn when Hawk is pushing. He's a hired hand like us when it comes to Security. And Hawk won't waste any time after hearing about Vertmann and his kamikaze bomb. We've blocked Judas, and he'll know it too."

"You think he'll know how he was blocked?"

"He'll find out. The word'll get around. Once he puts the facts together, he'll realize that someone has caught on to his plane-bomb routine. Which means he'll either have to change his technique or give up the whole business. There's another possibility. He may very well try to remove the immediate threat to his operation."

"Meaning us?" It was more a statement than a question.

"Meaning us."

Her eyes met his and saw that they were troubled. "I won't get in the way. Don't worry, Peter."

"What — me worry?" He managed an enviably accurate expression of smiling idiocy. "Now you'd better get dressed, or I'll never get my mind on work."

"I think it's there already." She rose and went slowly to him. "I mean it, though. I've been in this business a long time. I won't get underfoot, and I'm not going to get hurt. I'm a fellow agent, here to help. That's all I am to you."

"Is it?" He cupped his hands beneath her chin. "All right then, Agent Baron. Get on your jockey shorts and dinner jacket. We're going to spy out something to eat."

She laughed. "Are you always hungry?" She drew herself away and made for the connecting door.

"Certainly not. I drink, too." He pulled on the plain dinner jacket supplied by Hawk to middle-income Peter Cane. It sat surprisingly well on the muscular shoulders.

The phone rang.

Nick scooped it up.

"Yes?"

"Cane. This is Henry Judson."

"Good to hear from you, sir. You've had news?"

Judson sounded regretful. "Not yet, I'm afraid. But we're expecting word momentarily. Your report has been studied — on both sides of the ocean, I imagine — and these things take a little time."

They're taking a damn sight longer than usual, thought Nick.

The mellow voice continued. "We've been in touch with Munich to check out the history of Paul Vertmann, if recorded, and we may just turn up something there. Presumably Washington is doing the same thing. So at the moment I'm waiting as anxiously as I'm sure you are."

"Well, if there's nothing new yet, Miss Baron and I will go out for dinner and check in with you in the course of the evening."

There was a slight pause. "As a matter of fact, we may get orders any minute, and I'd like to be able to reach you at once. In fact, I've taken the liberty of arranging a little dinner for you tonight at the Consulate. We'll try to make you feel at home and perhaps relieve the boredom a bit. I hope you don't mind."

Nick smiled. He was quite sure that an evening in London with Julie and without Judson would be far from boring, but he couldn't very well say so.

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Judson. It'll be a pleasure. What time?"

"I'll send the consular car around to your hotel at, oh, eightish. That all right?"

"The time is fine, but are you sure we should be riding around in an official car?"

"Safe as houses, Cane. Better than an unknown cab."

"As you say, sir. We'll be waiting."

"Splendid. See you later, Cane. My warmest greetings to Miss Baron, by the way."

Nick thought he detected a note of envy in the anglicized voice.

"I'll pass them on, sir. I know she'll appreciate your invitation. Goodbye."

Julie came in, half dressed, and wrinkled her nose at him. Nick was staring thoughtfully at the receiver as if expecting it to offer some sort of revelation.

"Something wrong?"

"We're invited to dinner at the Consulate."

"Well, you're hungry, aren't you?"

"Naturally. But I'm not so sure I like this. Consular car, and all. Royal carpet treatment for a couple of spies."

Julie perched on the arm of a chair, shaking her head.

"For a couple of cleancut young American citizens who managed to foil a dastardly plot. It would be strange if we didn't get some kind of thank you. It was Judson, wasn't it?"

"Oh, yes." Nick nodded. "I'd know that fruity half-English voice anywhere. But he says he hasn't heard from Hawk yet, and that is strange."

"Maybe it is. But perhaps Hawk couldn't be located right away, or perhaps he isn't ready with the next move."

He shook his head. "He'd be ready and waiting. But it's been more than two hours since we sent our message, and a TELEX answer doesn't take that long."

She came to him, placing her cool hands on his jaws.

"Judson is the Consul here, correct? Not an imposter?"

"Of course not. He's been here for years. British Security knows him, three or four of his staff were with him, even Harry Byrnes whom I knew in OSS during the war. Of course, he's Judson. But I still think it's funny that he hasn't heard from Hawk. Well. Powder your nose and let's go have a drink while we wait."

A few minutes later they were sitting in a quiet, candlelit bar-lounge in the mezzanine, having left word at the desk that they were expecting a limousine.

It was impossible to avoid talking about the assignment. They sipped a pair of very dry martinis and murmured intimately to each other.

"Julie. You know our cover's as good as blown already. Nobody who cares to stop and think about it is going to buy the story of a couple of innocent bystanders butting into the bomb affair. Oh, I know people were told not to talk about it, but word is bound to get around. Which suits us, in a way."

"Speak for yourself, friend. I'd just as soon remain anonymous."

"No, look. No one in the world's more slippery than Judas. How're we supposed to find him when practically every intelligence agency on earth has been trying and failing for more than twenty years? Only one way. We'll go on being Miss Baron and Mr. Cane but we'll skip the usual elaborate precautions. No British Museum for me and no Tate Gallery for you. We'll spy like mad and let 'em know it."

"How do we do that?"

"I don't know yet. We'll just have to play it as it comes. But we're hired hands, understand? We never heard of AXE or OCI. We don't know anything or anybody except our immediate superior in... uh, let's see... in Army Intelligence, and our job was to fly with Harcourt. We did, and now we're busily investigating the would-be bombing. Okay?"

"Okay."

They talked some more, worrying away at the discrepancy between Rita's story of Valdez' artificial hand and the facts as officially recorded, the identity of A. Brown, and the fanaticism of those who would blow themselves to bits for a cause.

They ordered again, and waited, and talked about the last time they'd seen London.

Promptly at eight o'clock a vintage Rolls drew to a smooth stop outside the Hotel Rand. A uniformed chauffeur sprang from the wheel, entered the hotel with the neat precision of a onetime military man, and informed the desk that Mr. Cane's transportation had arrived.

Moments later, Mr. Peter Cane, handsome and distinguished in his dark dinner jacket and black horn-rimmed glasses, appeared in the lobby with a breathtaking vision on his right arm. The vision was recognizable as Miss Julia Baron, dazzlingly beautiful in a simple black evening gown. Her lush, dark hair peeked over the upturned fur collar of her cape. The staff of the Hotel Rand eyed her appreciatively.

The chauffeur was no less appreciative and much more attentive. He handed her into the back seat and crisply closed the door after her and Nick.

The evening air was crisp and cool. Street lights blurred fuzzily in the darkness.

From the roomy rear of the limousine, Nick kept his eyes fixed on the chauffeur's head and hands. A preliminary survey of the car had satisfied him that it either was an official car or a very good imitation of one — thoroughly appropriate looking, US Consular plates, and a driver of unmistakably American origin. The voice could not have been faked by any actor — certainly not well enough to fool someone so attuned to accents and intonations as Carter.

"You look wonderful, Julie. Did I tell you? Like a princess."

"I like the looks of you, too, Peter."

They locked fingers and lapsed into silence, watching London pass by through the windows. Julie seemed calm and happy. Perhaps she was neither. Nick was uneasy.

The high, stone shadow of the American Consulate loomed up through the windshield and the Rolls glided into a driveway and stopped. Nick relaxed a little. At least they hadn't been taken for the legendary "ride."

Julie grinned and pressed his hand.

"Do you suppose there'll be poison in the soup?"

The Enemy Within

The soup was excellent.

So was the delicate pate, the crisp bread fingers, the fine filet, and the succulent green salad. So were the varicolored wines that accompanied each course.

Henry Judson was cordiality itself. There was no sign of a wife, and he mentioned none. In spite of his borrowed anglicisms, picked up in the course of his many years in London, he was wholeheartedly American, crisply executive and charmingly attentive. He was sensitive to political trends and nuances; he spoke knowledgeably but. not condescendingly about many things. Nick answered in kind, with assists from a remarkably well-informed Julia. Judson went on to talk of life in London and of world affairs with all the impressive familiarity of the true diplomat. Nick sensed that he enjoyed the talking, that he liked their ready answers. He began to feel that he had been foolish and melodramatic.

Hawk's message arrived with the cherries jubilee and fragrant sherry. An aide came in and whispered briefly. Judson nodded, dismissed him, and they finished their meal without haste.

"If the circumstances had been different," the Consul said, setting down his sherry glass, "I should like to have arranged a more elaborate dinner party. But until this thing is done with, we can't afford to call attention to you. I hope we'll have occasion for a celebration later. Coffee?"

It was the first time since he had greeted them that he had alluded to the reason for their presence in the misty city.

They had their coffee in a high-ceilinged, paneled den room somewhere beyond the formal dining room. There was a roaring fireplace flanked by American and English flags. Julia sank into a deep stuffed chair to listen while Nick and Judson examined Hawk's coded message. It was imprinted on a streamer of teletype and incomprehensible to anyone but the party for whom it was intended:

BROWN CONFIRMS BIBLE IS RIGHT ISCARIOT TAKING SILVER IN STEEL HAND SAME 707 INTENDED ELIMINATION LINE ON LOCATION RED PROCEED UNIVERSITY BUSINESS AWAIT FRIENDS WATCH BIG BEN WEDNESDAY GERONIMO.

Henry Judson smiled ruefully.

"I get a lot of these. I must confess I've never learned to make heads or tails out of most of them. We have a decoding staff, of course, and they interpret for me. But I suppose it's basic English to you, Cane."

Nick nodded thoughtfully. "Fairly basic. Sometimes open to conflicting interpretations, of course." He passed the streamer to Julie. She read it swiftly and returned it to Nick. He re-read it, went over to a metal ash tray and took out his cigarette lighter. Too bad, he thought, that he didn't have any of Hawk's Quantity K to play with. He applied the flame to the streamer and watched the coarse paper shrivel.

Judson pulled deeply on his cigarette.

"Am I a security risk, too?"

"No, of course not. But one gets in the habit of not leaving things of that sort lying around." Nick stirred the hot ashes. "Anyway, except for sending and receiving messages, I think it would be best to leave the Consulate out of this as much as possible."

"Oh, quite," said Judson, nodding his acceptance. "I couldn't agree with you more. But we will need to work together to a degree, and I'm always bothered by these cloak-and-dagger melodramatics. I can't be of use if I have to work completely in the dark."

Nick frowned. "I see your point. Naturally you have a right to know what's happening." He knew, as well as anyone, that the American government representative in any country was, as the President's envoy, the American government on that country's soil. He reached into his pocket for a pack of Players and offered one to Julie. She took one and inhaled gratefully. As he lit his own, Julie turned to Judson and reached for her coffee cup.

"This must be American coffee, Mr. Judson. I wonder if I could trouble you for some more."

"Of course, my dear. Oh! How forgetful of me. I meant to offer you some Drambuie, or a Cointreau. Any takers?"

They agreed to make it Drambuie all round, and Judson took Julie's coffee cup over to the bar. He busied himself with coffee tray and tiny glasses.

Nick stared at Julie. Her right eye was twitching in the strangest way. The eyelid batted away with alarming speed. One short, two long, one...

He blinked, himself. He had never before, in all his experience, received a Morse Code message via the eyes.

The message itself was haix-raising.

He's phony! Watch him!

Nick Carter found it hard to keep himself in check as Judson returned with the tray. What the hell had she seen that he hadn't noticed?

He was very careful with his drink. Judson was drinking the same thing, and the bottle was on the tray.

It smelled all right and it tasted all right.

"Now, Mr. Cane, you were going to tell me?.."

"Oh, yes. The message." It flashed through his mind: BROWN CONFIRMS BIBLE IS RIGHT. That meant they had found Brown and extracted from him the information that the operation did indeed involve Judas as Hawk had so strongly suspected. ISCARIOT TAKING SILVER IN STEEL HAND. Judas was selling his services to a foreign bidder. STEEL HAND was a bit puzzling... STEEL HAND SAME 707 INTENDED ELIMINATION. Hmm. Valdez was Steel Hand and had been eliminated on that Boeing 707 flight. "SAME" could only mean that Mr. Judas had a steel hand, too. LINE ON LOCATION RED meant that Hawk had a clue as to Judas' whereabouts. PROCEED UNIVERSITY BUSINESS AWAIT FRIENDS. Continue with investigation but expect further, more detailed orders. WATCH BIG BEN WEDNESDAY GERONIMO. Stay in London until Wednesday when they'd get a "Go, Go" sign.

Judson was eyeing him with politely concealed impatience.

Nick smiled apologetically. "As I said, sometimes these messages are subject to interpretation. Since it's a word code, rather than a letter substitute or number code, there's a limit to what one can say in them and still make sense. Roughly, it means this: We have a suspected traitor in our midst who is taking money from the enemy..." Was it his imagination, or did the lean face tighten? "The incident on today's flight was to have had the same purpose as the one on the 707 — the elimination of a public figure. Evidence points to a Red sabotage plan. Our instructions are to stay out of it from now on because friends will be arriving on Wednesday to take over the operation. Unless I misread that last line," he added, playing his deception to the hilt. "Perhaps it means there's to be another important flight on Wednesday, and therefore another attempt. I'll just have to wait for further instructions on that one."

"Ingenious," murmured Judson, his eyes admiring. "A traitor, eh? To whom, I wonder. To the entire western world?" He sighed and shook his head. "I must say, (though, it's amazing the way you people work. Speak your own language, arrange your own systems. Here at the Consulate I'm afraid we're duller than cold coffee. Oh, we like to think of ourselves as important, and quite capable of solving the problems of the world... but I'm very much afraid it all breaks down to routine, red tape and hypocrisy."

Julia laughed melodiously.

"Come, now, Mr. Judson. Consular work is very important."

"You are kind, my dear, and flattering. But my task shrivels in comparison with that of yours and Mr. Cane's. May I toast you both, and your continued success in foiling the plots of the ungodly!"

They raised their nearly empty liqueur glasses. Nick's eyes were swiftly measuring doorways and distances. If Julie was right — and his instinct told him that she was — they'd better be moving along.

He set his empty glass down. "I hope you'll forgive us, sir, if we eat and run. It's been a long, tiring day. I'd think we'd better be on our way."

Julie took his cue and stifled a ladylike yawn.

"It's been marvelous, but I am a little tired."

"Of course you are," said Judson remorsefully. "I'll call the car."

He pressed a buzzer and spoke into a mouthpiece.

"Harper. Have the car ready. My guests are leaving now."

Judson turned back to them. "I'm sorry you have to go so soon."

"Thank you, sir, for your hospitality."

"Delightful. Very kind," murmured Julie sleepily.

Judson escorted them easily to the great oak-and-iron front door.

Nick was mildly surprised that no move was being made to detain them.

The high, circular marble staircase rose like an exquisite monument. The Consulate was ablaze with light. A portrait of a sober-faced President Johnson hung in the great foyer beneath the seal of the United States. There was no suggestion of anything remotely sinister in the lofty hall.

Judson opened the door.

"Thank you both for coming."

"Our pleasure, sir. If you hear anything further, you can reach us at the Rand."

"I'll keep in touch. It's always good to talk to fellow Americans."

The car was waiting. Judson saw them to the great stone steps, shook Nick's hand, and bowed to Julie. The chauffeur was waiting with his hand on the open rear door of the limousine, touching his cap.

"How did you know?" said Nick affectionately and very, very quietly. He adjusted her cape around her shoulders.

"The TELEX," she whispered, smoothing her hair. "Dateline, Washington, 1:45 p.m. Hours ago. What a marvelous night!"

Nick cursed softly. "A bit cool, though. Come on, honey, let's not keep the driver waiting."

They walked arm in arm down the high stone steps. Nick nodded pleasantly to the chauffeur and handed Julie into the car. The connecting window was closed. A cool breeze drifted through the open rear windows. They settled back against the cushions and the limousine purred out through the high iron gates of the great town house.

Nick pulled Julie to him. "Anything else strike you?"

"Look in the mirror," she murmured, putting her head on his shoulder. "I think the bastard is a lip reader."

The driver's expressionless eyes seemed to be staring into his. The thin lips were forming shapes, as if he were talking to himself or trying on words for size. Nick fought the impulse to reach for Wilhelmina.

Nick held Julie close and kissed her hard. Then he placed his mouth in the hollow of her ear. "You may be right, sweetheart. About that TELEX — are you sure? What about the time difference?"

She giggled softly and nuzzled him seductively. "Even with the time difference, he got that message at least two hours before we got there tonight."

"And spent the time trying to figure it out, I suppose. And doing what else, I wonder?"

"Contacting someone, perhaps."

"Perhaps." A little shadow of doubt had formed into a black cloud of almost-certainty. "Wonder why Harcourt wasn't there tonight? And why we were, when he knows we're top secret? My God, any spy with any sense at all would've been watching that Consulate to see who comes and goes. And he was pretty interested in that message, wasn't he?"

"Much too interested, lover. And why does he have a lip-reading chauffeur?"

They straightened, breaking apart, as two lovers will when bright lights and staring eyes burst in upon them. They were entering the city's heart, and crowds thronged the sidewalks and the streets.

He peered out of the window. "We must be nearly there." He reached for her again and pulled her head on to his shoulder. "Chances are Judson doesn't know we're on to him. So let us both be casual and charming to the nice man when we leave his car, or he may tell tales."

She pulled herself away and busied herself with a fresh lipstick.

The limousine shot forward in a sudden burst of speed and darted down a side street. Nick instinctively reached for the door handle. Before he got there he heard two sharp clicks. The door was locked. With astonishing abruptness the two rear windows rolled themselves up and snapped shut. Julie gasped. Nick whipped Wilhelmina from her holster. The great Rolls swerved sharply to the left and down another secondary street. Julie sat up straight, her eyes wide with alarm.

"Peter. We've got to do something."

"Easy, now." He put an arm about her shoulders and lowered his head, as if reassuring her. "We're hooked. But we wanted to be, remember? It looks like time for sitting ducks."

"Can't you shoot the window out?" she whispered urgently.

"I probably can. But Julie — we've got to ride along with this. It's a little sooner than I expected, but he may be taking us where we want to go."

"Oh." She was silent for a moment. Then: "That was pretty good for a last meal, wasn't it?"

"Uhuh. Let's see if this connecting window opens. Perhaps the driver feels like chatting."

Apparently he didn't. The window was locked and the glass was very heavy, fitting snugly into felt-and-rubber grooving in the framework.

The huge, sturdy car rolled implacably away from the bright hub of London and into a misty dim darkness that bulged with the hazy, angular forms of unlighted buildings.

"From what I remember of Merry Olde England," Julia said distastefully, "we seem to be heading for the waterfront district."

"Yeah. Smells like Limehouse. Now look. I don't know what we're getting into, but we have to be ready for anything. You have that fingernail file?"

Julie nodded.

"Good. In your bag?"

She nodded again.

"Take it out. Pretend to fix your upsweep and stick it in your hair."

She took out a comb and did something to her hair, swiftly rearranging the firm, invisible pins. Nick bent over her, shielding her from view. But the stony eyes in the rearview mirror were momentarily averted. The driver's hand was in the glove compartment.

"What's he doing?" Julie put the comb back into her bag.

"Don't know."

The hand came out, empty.

Neither of them saw or heard the odorless, colorless gas that seeped through the tiny air vents in the upholstery surrounding them. Swiftly, irresistibly, it choked the air in the back of the limousine.

"Awfully sleepy," Julie yawned, tugging helplessly at the window.

Nick was mildly conscious of a sense of torpor, a pleasant feeling of drowsy relaxation.

"Hey!" He sat up suddenly shook his head. "Julie! Your shoe against the window!"

He searched desperately for the source of the gas, cutting off his breath although he knew it was too late for that. Julie swung feebly at the glass pane with her shoe. It rebounded and dropped, useless. She fell across Nick's lap, red lips parted, slender fingers clawing the expensive upholstery.

Nick felt resolve slipping from him like a sheet unwinding. He took Wilhelmina by the barrel and slammed the butt against the window glass. The glass crystallized and spider-webbed but did not break. He tried again, strength ebbing from his arm and reason from his mind. Wilhelmina's butt end was back in his hand. He raised her and squeezed the trigger. Once, twice, at the window next to him. Once at the glass partition. The noise thundered, volleyed around the confines of the car with ear-shattering echoes. The stinging smell of cordite hung in the air, filling the nostrils, blinding, choking, rasping, lulling, anesthetizing...

Nick slumped back, joining Julie in unconsciousness, Wilhelmina dangling from his trigger finger.

It was only then that the driver turned around and let the corners of his mouth twist in a frosty smile. The inner layer of the partition's shatter-proof glass held a tiny puncture and a miniature network of spidery lines. The glass immediately behind his own head was untouched. One rear window was in the same condition.

The chauffeur was pleased. Nothing like a specially designed Rolls for a good, neat job. Satisfied with what he had seen, he reached into the glove compartment and turned a switch. Then he applied himself to his driving.

Wilhelmina dropped from Nick's nerveless fingers.

Mr. Cane and Miss Baron were ready for delivery.

Judas: Myth and Man

"Non-toxic, Mr. Cane. An effective sleep-inducer, but not permanent." It was the most peculiar voice Nick had ever heard, like the high, tinny whine of a cheap transistor radio. It was distant yet close; in his ear, yet on a different plane. "Do open your eyes. Two minutes more and I will know you are shamming."

Nick opened his eyes suddenly, as if he had automatically responded to the commanding quality of the strange voice. In one second he snapped from the black well of the unconscious to a reality in which his shoulders and ankles burned horribly.

There is no pain. No pain, he told himself.

But for a moment, there was pain, and his knees tried to sag.

It was a weird sensation.

Weirder still was the tableau before him.

He was in a cellar of sorts, it seemed. The light of a single dangling bulb flung a circle of illumination over rotting wallboards, stone floor, and mouldy-looking barrels. The only furniture was a rickety table and two unstable looking chairs. No one was using them. The smell of the place was damp and close, almost intolerable.

There were four people in the room.

Julia was several feet away from him. Seeing her condition alerted him to his own.

Julie was naked.

Her tall lithe body had been anchored to one of the beams which supported the ceiling above. Rough cord bound her cruelly to the coarse wooden post. Her arms were pinned back over a sort of crossbar that he couldn't see too well, but it seemed to be some kind of metal rod attached to the beam. She hung, in effect, from the rod, her shoulders uncomfortably raised and her dangling wrists lashed to the post. Her feet barely touched the floor; her ankles were confined with the same abrasive cord. She was awake now, too, and straining in a useless effort to get free. He could see the fierce red welts where she had surged her soft, copper-colored flesh against the searing bonds, and felt an almost blinding wave of anger. For God's sake, had it been necessary to tear the clothes off her? He had a fair idea how she was feeling.

The fluting voice spoke again. "The lady is a tigress, Mr. Cane. If you care to imitate the action of the tiger — to paraphrase Shakespeare — it will come to nothing. Your bonds, if anything, are even more secure than hers."

He could feel the truth of it. The cold, damp feel of rough-grained wood behind him, the taut suspension of his arms and legs, and the sharp bite of the cord were all the proof he needed.

He blinked under the dazzling light of the unshielded bulb. Two dark, shadowy figures swam into focus, rimmed with light, featureless.

He swallowed a foul taste and the impulse to be sick.

"Judas, I suppose."

A high, humorless laugh rang hollowly in the bare cellar. One of the dim figures came forward and stood beneath the bulb. Its full glow splashed upon his head.

"Yes. I am Judas. Take a good look, Mr. Cane. You and the lovely lady. Drink your fill of my face. It is the last time you will see it. Anyone who has ever looked upon me is long since dead. With the exception, of course, of my faithful Braille, who is always with me. Braille is blind. I trust that you appreciate the joke."

Braille was a vague silhouette beyond the perimeter of the bulb.

Judas, the legend, the obscure, stood revealed in the harsh light.

There was nothing ordinary about the legendary Judas. If Nick had ever formed any impression of him at all through the years that echoed with his infamous name, it dissolved at once with the impact of the man himself.

Judas was a symmetrical man. Short, well-proportioned, compact; body as militant and cut-from-the-mould as a Prussian Junker. In action, it would be a flying wedge of strength and iron control. The face and the strange right hand compelled attention.

Judas' face was a shining globe of hairless, bloodless features, a one-color, one-surface mask of precision that might have been cast from an assembly line die. The eyes were slits which showed no more than narrow, unfathomable pools of liquid fire. The nose was small in the globular face, hardly raised above the flat cheek bones, finely chiseled, ruler-straight. The huge, permanently-grinning mouth beneath it would have looked more appropriate on a skull; some of Judas' face had been lost in a long-ago accident and had never been quite replaced. Apart from the hideous grin, there was no expression on the face, save a fixed one of watching, of waiting, of preparedness to strike. The head, brows and lids were completely bald. It was not a view to be savored up close.

Julie made a stifled sound in her throat. It echoed through the dank cellar and came back like a whimper. The figure called Braille turned to her, arm upraised, but Judas made a restraining gesture with the glittering device that was his right hand.

"Wait, Braille."

The light bulb sent dancing arrows of silver reflection off five metallic, rigid fingers, that simulated the human hand in all but color and texture. The fingers curved, as if the muscles were real, and the hand was lowered.

"The lady is correct," said Judas. "I am not pretty."

"So I see," Nick agreed. "What do you want with us, aside from a discussion of your appearance?"

The eye slits narrowed. "A good question. The answer is in your own hands. And I want more than names, ranks and serial numbers. I know that you are American agents who have successfully counteracted my aircraft operations, making it necessary for me to find another way. But in the meantime I intend to get all I can out of you. Everything that is in you." The inhuman eyes suggestively raked Nick's body. "I already know enough to assure you that nothing will be gained by prevarication."

"Judson," Nick said bitterly.

"Judson," Judas agreed evenly.

"Judson is a fool," said Nick. "And we played him for the fool. There's no secret about our job. We were told to take a certain flight. We did. It's over. If there's any stupid melodrama of agents, ranks, and serial numbers, it came from him."

"Judson is indeed a fool," Judas said agreeably. "It has always been my good fortune to find fools in high places who place money above patriotism. And now Judson's services are at an end. Your government will wonder why two of their operatives have disappeared after contacting him. I cannot — I'm sure you understand — afford investigations. But I can afford to spend a little time with you."

"I've already told you," snapped Nick, "that we've nothing to say. Judson was an idiot with spy stories in his head and lots of conversation and very little else." He tested his bonds as he rapped out the impatient words. Whoever had trussed them up was an expert.

"And I've already told you, Mr. Cane — I'm sure that is not your name, but it will do for the moment — that lies will get you nowhere." The weird, mechanical voice had climbed in pitch. "I may not know all about you, but I do know that you're working for the CIA and that you were sent to look for me."

Quick relief flashed through Nick Carter. Almost certainly, he had not heard of AXE or Operation Jet. Nick had been wondering for a moment just how much Judson knew. Not much, to judge by their evening with him; not much, to judge by Judas.

"We were sent to prevent an assassination and find out who gave the orders. Now we know. It was Judson, of course, who first mentioned your name."

"That's enough Mr. Cane! This is not the first time that one of my plans has been foiled. I have people working in America who — but you're the one who should be talking." Judas controlled his breath with a hiss. "You will tell me all you have heard or guessed about my plane-bomb operations — the names and plans of your superiors. You will tell me if there are other agents here in London working on the same assignment. And if you won't tell me, I'm sure Miss Baron will."

He pivoted on his heels and looked at her, the skull-mouth gaping.

"Oh, sure," said Julie, and she laughed. "Get out your steno pad and we'll just reel them off."

"Easy, Julie," Nick said warningly. He had heard the note of hysteria in her voice. "Don't let him get you with this garbage of his."

"No, let her talk," said Judas, his voice sounding hollow. "Her nerves begin to show erosion. Always a good sign. A very beautiful woman. She could be very useful with a little problem we have on our hands. Braille has not had a — shall we say — satisfying woman since our little bit of business in Argentina. Braille is amazing, Mr. Cane." He turned to Nick. "Incredibly virile and most interesting in his methods. None of your gentle lover's tactics for him. He likes to brutalize his women. Rip them apart, you know, tear them. It gives him great pleasure. He enjoys screaming, too. You see, he is built quite like a bull, and there isn't a woman alive who can — uh — accommodate him without a certain amount of quite unbearable..."

"You're filth, Judas. Nothing but dirt." Nick controlled his voice. Julie's eyes were sick and the skin was tight over her jaw. "Is that how you lost the hand — mouthing obscenities like that?"

The gash of a mouth almost smiled. Judas took a few gliding steps toward Nick. The light of the bulb fell behind him.

"I'm glad you asked me that, Mr. Cane. A bomb did that. Carelessly handled, I regret to say. My own fault. A year ago. The second one was much better; the intended party died. Tragedy does have its compensations. Braille, for instance is blind, but in the dark he is unerring. Of course it's always dark for him. I find him far more effective in many ways than a highly-skilled normal man. As for this hand — kindly watch."

The five fake fingers extended stiffly, shot toward Nick. Suddenly they halted, inches from his chest. There was a click, and a nasty little miracle occurred. The forefinger grew. The covering silver receded and a switchblade knife of gleaming steel paused a hair's breadth from Nick's throat.

"That is only one of my five weapons," said Judas. "Another is a delicate little gouge. For eyes, you know, and things like that. A third is a device that a Borgia would envy. Ah, but I'm taking too much of your time. I should like to show you more, but we must get busy. Now."

Weapons. Nick's mind raced. But Judas had spotted the giveaway flash of his eyes.

"Yes, Mr. Cane. We relieved you of your choice collection. Braille and I made a very thorough search of both your clothes and persons. Braille in particular is very good at feeling his way around in — ah — places I may have missed. Yes, we found the clever Luger, the interesting Italian knife and that peculiar round ball. Not to mention not one but two small flashlights. Are you afraid of the dark, Mr. Cane?"

Nick glanced at Julie. The nailfile knife! Her taut expression had relaxed slightly and she gave a slight nod and an almost cheerful wink. Ha! So much for Braille and his feelies. Judas was saying, "I must confess the ball resisted our best efforts. What is it?"

"Souvenir," said Nick. "Good luck piece."

"So? What kind, might I ask?"

"It's a new compound. Manufactured in our labs. You could drop ten tons on it and it wouldn't break. Just a keepsake." His mind began to stir with an idea.

"You're lying," Judas suggested easily.

"Well, Baldy," said Julie helpfully, "why don't you let Peter bounce it off your head and see which one is the phony?"

Judas turned to her. His tapering body with the globular head and the lethal steel hand looked too ugly to be real.

"I see that you have fire, my dear. Braille will like that."

"Tell me about Valdez," Nick interjected. "The late Senor had a steel hand, too. Coincidence?"

Judas' intent look was quietly dangerous.

"How do you know about Valdez?"

Have I made a mistake? Nick wondered swiftly. "Why, I was briefed, of course. I was told that a recent explosion had been caused by a man with a steel hand, and that I should look for something of that sort on our flight. That's really how I spotted that fellow with the broken arm," he said easily, trying to look a little complacent.

Judas stared at him.

The dank cellar was getting steadily more foul. The waterfront location of their prison was unmistakable. It seemed to be some kind of basement storage room, long unused. Judson's chauffeur, had unloaded them somewhere among the docks of London, in that backyard area of abandoned sheds and antiquated warehouses. Nick fought down a rising tide of helplessness. Nick shot another sidelong glance at Julie. An unkempt ringlet of long, dark hair hung past one shoulder. Shorter, loose tendrils dangled over her forehead and down the back of her neck.

Judas had decided to answer. "Valdez," he said without animation, "was a man who betrayed not only his own government but the people who paid him well to betray it. Myself, in other words. He was not the anti-Red Chinese hero that he seemed. He fought against them with words in public places, but he helped their cause with deeds. Unfortunately he made the mistake of thinking he could replace me. Replace Judas! The arrogance of the man. So we arranged an ingenious end for him. Unhappily, the bomb was triggered on the ground, not in the air, as planned. I deplore this kind of accident, but nevertheless it turned out fairly well. I had hoped to get two birds with one stone — there was an interfering girl who was making a nuisance of herself — but I have every reason to believe that she has been taken care of."

What did that mean — that he'd heard from "Brown," or hadn't?

"No doubt you know about that too," finished Judas, with a faint inflection of enquiry.

Nick ignored that. "So you somehow persuaded him to blow himself up. How did you manage that?"

"Simple, really. The good Senor Valdez thought he was bringing a clever bomb to your country, which would be used at a later date and in the appropriate company. It was, of course, a device concealed in his artificial limb. He would simply remove the hand under cover of, say, the banquet tablecloth, and quietly excuse himself several minutes ahead of time. But we deceived him." The globular head lowered, as if in shame. Or gloating pleasure. "We told him everything but the time of the explosion. He did not know he was carrying an activated explosive."

"And you yourself were mistaken about the time of the explosion. So your timing was off, too."

Judas chuckled mirthlessly. "Not my timing, Mr. Cane. My hirelings'. Even the best laid plans are open to human error. Our expert in the — uh — portable demolitions department has been diverted to a less responsible position. He neglected to observe the time difference. Something to do with your idiotic daylight saving, I understand."

Well, that certainly explained a lot. But there was still a coincidence unanswered.

"But what about these artificial hands — are there more of them? What is it, a sort of trademark?"

Judas laughed again. "You do ask an awful lot of questions, Mr. Cane. I don't know what possible good you think it's going to do you. But that's really quite a delightful concept: the League of Silver-Fingered Men... Unfortunately, we only had the fortunes of war, Valdez and I, to blame for our common affliction. We met a year ago in the Swiss hospital to which we both had gone for our very difficult and specialized operations — he had had some kind of sordid little accident. It was there that I won him over to my employ. But eventually he got big ideas, as all really small men do. I even used his hand for him! Now, Mr. Cane, I've answered you. It's your turn to talk. Tell me: What is 'Brown' to you?"

"Huh?" Nick was flexing his leg muscles. Were the bonds just a little looser? It was very difficult to do anything about his hands; the rod beneath his shoulders made any useful movement virtually impossible. "A rather dull color. Why?"

The steel hand flashed out and struck Nick's face.

"A man named Brown. What is he to you?"

Nick shook his head as if to clear it. "What Brown? It's a common name."

"The Brown of the message, Mr. Cane. Remember Judson?"

"Oh, yes. He would have relayed that simple message, wouldn't he?"

"He did. The 'simple message' started. Mr. Cane, like this: BROWN CONFIRMS BIBLE IS RIGHT. ISCARIOT TAKING SILVER IN STEEL HAND. I understand you had some very specious explanation of that for our foolish Mr. Judson."

"There's nothing to it," said Nick. "Brown is a New York operative, a private investigator. The message is clear enough." He frowned and looked thoughtful. "On second thought, perhaps Judson didn't realize he was the suspected traitor."

"Why would you think Judson was taking silver in his steel hand, Mr. Cane? You know that Judson doesn't have one."

Nick hesitated just a little too long. "It was meant as a warning to us, that he would kill if he realized we suspected him. 'Steel' means knife or..."

"That'll do. Cane. You've stalled long enough. You'll start telling me now what I want to know, or Braille begins in earnest. You may not find me handsome, but I can assure you that Braille is no picture postcard, either. The lady must be longing to look him over."

"There's nothing to tell you," said Nick. "You know it all."

"Who are your colleagues?"

"We haven't any. We hire out our services, that's all — like you do."

Something like a titter came out of the unlikely mouth.

"A presumptuous comparison. I'm sure the lady's story will be far more sensible."

"The lady's story," said Nick firmly, "will be exactly the same as mine."

Judas turned to Julia, beautiful, pitiful in her nakedness. "You'll speak for yourself, won't you, my dear? After all, it is your body that your gallant colleague so easily ignores for his noble cause. So why not give me the true story, Miss Baron? Perhaps then Braille won't hurt quite so much."

"You can go to hell," said Julie. "I wouldn't give you the lint from my navel. There's no story. Just your sick preoccupation with Braille."

Nick caught his breath. She had said too much.

Judas eyed her coldly. "How extremely coarse." He looked from her to Nick and then back again. Suddenly he stepped back out of the light and his curt, echoing voice snapped: "Braille!"

Something shambled in the shadows.

Nick tensed. The cord cut into his raw body. He was wrong; it was useless; nothing was giving. Julie braced herself. Her firm, smooth body drew erect within the bonds, her chin jutted defiantly.

Braille stepped into view.

Even Nick could scarcely repress a visible shudder of revulsion.

Julie uttered a choked cry which she swiftly bit into silence.

Braille was a travesty of a man, a blasphemous distortion of nature.

Wilhelmina, Hugo, Pierre and Friend

Mr. Judas' talented lieutenant was an unspeakably hideous human being. Braille was a mockery of mankind.

He was very tall and very wide. His shoulders hunched forward, his thick knees bent a little more than necessary when he walked. Long arms ended in great knotted hands. His face was horribly pitted and scarred. Putrescent-looking lumps bulged from his forehead and neck. The diseased appearance of the flesh gave a crawling, loathsome quality to his incredible face. It was no wonder Julia had cried out.

Braille halted at the sound. Mr. Judas chuckled.

"You see, Braille? The lady is captivated by you already."

Braille looked enquiringly at Judas.

"Yes, you can have her."

The creature lumbered forward, hands outstretched. Julie shrank. The hands moved over her. Then one of them disappeared into the brown folds of his commonplace suit and came out holding a long-blade knife with a serrated edge. Nick watched as the blind giant quickly and neatly severed the ropes that held Julie's arms. She was almost paralyzed with fear, and held her face averted from the horror that was yet to come.

Nick opened his mouth and shut it quickly. Julie had lifted her arms from the painful, crucifix-like crossbar and was standing almost free. Braille bent his huge body and sliced the cords that bound her feet. The knotted hands clamped around her body.

Nick was aware of Judas' close scrutiny. When Braille touched Julie, Nick shuddered and burst out:

"Stop that! Tell him to stop that!"

Judas clucked gently. "Why should I, Mr. Cane?"

"You win, damn you! Make that animal leave her alone."

Judas nodded approvingly. "Braille!" The high voice whispered through the room. "That's all for now." The giant dropped her and shambled back to the shadows from which he had sprung. The switch-blade shot from Judas' finger.

"No tricks now, Mr. Cane, T warn you. T can easily knife the lady — or turn her back to the hungry Braille." Julie slumped against the pole, her eyes dazed and her body shaken by tremors.

"Tell me what you have to say. And be sure that I believe it," Judas scoffed.

"How can I be sure of that?" said Nick between his teeth. "And what difference does it make? No matter what I say, you're going to have to kill us. But maybe you'll come with us!"

"Just what do you mean by that, Cane?" The eyes shot cold fire.

"I'm bargaining, Judas — for a quick death. For me and the girl. Without pain and without Braille. You promise me that and you make me believe it, and I'll tell you what you want to know."

"So. Perhaps I misjudged you, Mr. Cane. All right, we bargain. I get correct information, you and the lady get L-pi!ls. I shall even leave you alone while you digest them. But don't think of trying to get out of this cellar. There's only one way out, and we'll be blocking it."

Nick smiled.

Judas' eyes glittered. "You will talk now. And you'll start by explaining what you meant by taking us with you."

Julie stirred and brushed the hair back from her forehead. Beyond the brilliant light, Braille waited. Nick measured Judas across the malodorous room.

"Do you know poker, Mr. Judas?"

"What about it?" snapped Judas.

Nick let his smile widen. "That little round ball. That interested you, didn't it? He saw a flash of something like comprehension in Judas' eyes. "I am about to tell you something, Judas. You have to make up your mind. Either I'm stalling or I really have got something up my sleeve. And you have to decide whether you want to take a chance on dying." He waited. Judas locked eyes with him. Julie straightened slightly.

"Continue, Mr. Cane."

"I will. But tell me first — just how thoroughly did you examine the ball, and the other items?"

"Why should I tell you that?"

"Because if you don't tell me, and if you don't untie my hands and bring those items to me immediately, the lady and I won't be needing L-pills. Neither will you and dear, lovable Braille. I must say you were very lucky when you stripped me, because things with timers sometimes go off unexpectedly, don't they, Mr. Judas? Especially if they're handled with insufficient care." His mind was racing. Pierre? Pierre was not the explosive that he needed, but a deadly gas that allowed a bare thirty seconds for escape.

Julie was staring at him. So was Judas.

"What things, Mr. Cane?"

"I think there's something that you overlooked."

"Pah! Overlooked, Cane? Once they were removed from you, how could they matter? I told you that the ball resisted us. Of course I didn't pick everything apart. I've had things blow up in my hand before."

Good. Perhaps he hadn't, then. "One of those little items is a bomb," Nick said, almost dreamily. "Operated on a combination that would take you months to discover. T set it every morning when I wake up, and then again in the early afternoon. But I have to disconnect it every eight hours. Now I've lost track of time, but if I don't reset the tiny mechanism..." Nick shrugged eloquently.

Mr. Judas gave a high-pitched bark of laughter.

"Tiny! It must be. Do you seriously expect me to believe this fiction?"

"I told you," Nick said blandly. "It's poker. What can you lose by checking? Five minutes?" He sneered.

"And you alone can work this item?" Judas faced him menacingly. "I think you'd better tell me what the combination is."

"You know I won't do that, Judas. And by the time you've tried to persuade me, it might just be too late."

The awful laugh rang out.

"Not bad poker. So. Our innocent Mr. Cane is no mere agent on a trifling mission. He is a walking arsenal of science-fiction apparatus. Really, Mr. Cane..."

"I've got all the time in the world," Nick said evenly.

Judas considered.

Among people who lead dangerous lives, the wildest bluff is worth cross-checking. But this was Judas, no fledgling in the high-stakes league of espionage. Nick's heart hammered furiously in spite of his iron control.

"Braille. Get Mr. Cane's possessions and bring them here."

The giant grunted and shuffled further into the darkness. Nick could hear movement in the background. In seconds Braille was back, carrying a tin box without a cover. He handed it directly to Judas, as though he could see him. Mr. Judas murmured in his throat and Braille shuffled quietly away.

Judas loomed before Nick, steel hand extended. The click sounded again.

The switch-blade forefinger traced a pattern down the coarse rope that bound Nick's arms. He felt the bonds fall away. Then he lifted his arms slowly from the crossbar and let them drop to his sides. The damned flow of his blood began to course slowly back into his body.

"You may stretch," said Judas. "That is all."

Nick drew his upper body away from the damp wooden beam.

"That's enough. One false move and I shall disembowel you. And then Braille and I, together, will take on the lady." He grinned diabolically. "Remember that, my dear, in case you feel like moving. Your lover is still waiting. So no heroics, please."

A whimpering sound came from Julia. She cringed against the supporting beam.

"We made a bargain, Judas," Nick said coldly. "One more threat and you can forget about what's in the box. Quick death for two, or all of us. That's all the choice you've got."

Judas looked thoughtfully into the box. Nick flexed his arms surreptitiously. Now if only his feet were free... He glanced at Julie. Something seemed to have died in her.

Judas' steel hand poked around in the tin box, lifted Wilhelmina by the trigger guard and dropped her on the floor. She clattered on the damp stones, out of Nick's reach. Next came Hugo, dismissed as a trifle. Judas clucked and took both tiny flashlights up at once — the pencil and the keychain.

"Careful!" Nick rapped. "Don't throw down anything else."

The hand halted. For the first time, Judas looked surprised. "I'm not throwing out the ball, Mr. Cane." He replaced the flashlights, then changed hands to lift slippery Pierre. He held it appraisingly up to the light. Wordlessly, he reached out and handed it to Nick.

Nick took Pierre easily in his right hand and played catch with him. "A keepsake, as I told you, Judas," he said lightly.

"Don't play games with me, Cane." Judas' voice was thin ice. "Is that thing a bomb, or isn't it?"

"Regrettably, no," said Nick, fingering Pierre thoughtfully. "Here, you take Pierre." He dropped it casually into the bayoneted hand. Judas flung it from him as if it were a rattlesnake. It hit a wall, bounced, rolled and then lay still. Nick raised his eyebrows, praying fervently that the impact had not jarred Pierre into action.

"Why did you do that? I told you it was just a keepsake. A nasty little keepsake, true, and the more it comes in contact with this damp floor, the nastier it'll be. Now give me the flashlight."

"What's in that ball, Cane?" the high voice screamed.

"Never mind that now!" Nick shouted back. "That's not the thing I was talking about. Now give me the flashlight!"

"Braille! Find that thing and get rid of it."

Braille shuffled in the background. From the corner of his eye Nick could see Julie come to life and reach into her tangled hair. Her hand pulled out a silver gleam and then dropped quickly down her side. Braille felt around in his eternal darkness.

"Now. Cane." Judas turned toward him and gently stroked Nick's chest with the wicked blade. It left a narrow white line that quickly bubbled red. Judas regarded it with relish.

"You've got a timebomb ticking in your hands," Nick spat through his teeth. "Die, if you want to. It's all right with me."

Without taking his eyes off Nick, Judas reached into the tin.

"Not that one — the keychain."

Judas took out the keychain. Then he put the box down on the floor and gave the tiny flashlight to Nick.

"I've had enough of your tricks, Cane," he hissed. "Now if that's your death-gadget, reset it."

Braille lumbered to the end of the room holding something small.

The door, thought Nick. At least a window.

"Not my trick at all," said Nick, holding the little gadget to his ear. "Your mistake."

"Get on with it. Let me see you finish your bluff." Judas tried to control his voice. "It would be interesting to learn if something so small could contain enough explosive to kill, let alone a timing device. If you are lying, no L-pills for either of you. Braille will do what he wishes with the lady, and you will tell me what I want to know."

Something slammed at the end of the room. Goodbye, Pierre. Hello, Junior.

A screw-thread held the chain in place. Nick twisted the chain very, very slowly.

"Continue, Mr. Cane, or I will point my finger at the lady's right breast as an inducement. She will bleed before your eyes."

Nick turned the screw. Slowly, very slowly.

"I'm warning you. Be careful — but be quick!" The steel finger hung poised before Julie's silky breasts.

Nick felt the screw part from the threading. It was time.

"Now," said Judas sibilantly, "or my finger kisses her."

Nick looked up at him. "There is no now," he said sorrowfully. "There is no timer, and no bomb." Judas pulled his hand away from Julie and stared into Nick's face. Nick pulled the pin. "It's only a flashlight after all." He lobbed it into Judas' face and flung himself back, screaming, "Behind the pillar, Julie!"

Judas threw up his robot hand and backed away with an inhuman scream. There was an ear-shattering sound, and then — no hand. Judas fell. Braille came grunting out of the shadows. Nick pulled himself to a sitting position, cursing the thongs that held his feet. Julie shot out from behind the beam, silver knife in hand. Braille thundered after her. Her slim knife lashed the cords, and Nick was free.

"Run! Just run!" He pushed her. She rounded a beam and gave a piercing scream. Braille went after her.

Blood streamed down Judas' face. Nick dropped to one knee, scooped up Wilhelmina and Hugo, and made for Judas. Incredibly, the man was rising to his feet. His good hand slammed at Nick. The globular head ducked like a striking snake and butted him. Nick kicked hard. Judas fell again, screaming "Braille!" as he fell.

The pursuit in the shadows stopped. Braille came charging into the lighted circle with a gorilla-like roar compounded of blood-lust and brutal anger. Judas rose again. Nick's teeth closed on Hugo while his trigger finger tightened. Braille screamed in pain but kept on coming. Judas reached for the empty tin box and slammed it through the air. There was a loud pop and a sparkling splash of electricity as the bulb shattered.

The cellar became a jungle.

Braille's blurt of maddened pain erupted in the new darkness. Another of Wilhelmina's bullets had thudded home. But the impetus of his forward charge carried him like a runaway barrel into Nick's body. Nick went down, tenpin style, with Braille's lumpy fingers clawing at his throat. The big one was going to die hard.

His mind half-registered scuffling noises at the far end of the room. There was a thud, a high-pitched snarl, the clatter of a falling body, and a feminine squeal. Something clanked and slammed. Julie?.. Judas?.. The cellar was strangely silent. But there was no time to count noses. Braille's powerful fingers were scorching Nick's throat.

Nick dropped Wilhelmina on the floor and spat Hugo into one hand while the other clutched at Braille's thick throat. Nick squeezed and pushed upward. Hugo dug into Braille's abdomen. The gorilla barked. Nick made a ripping motion with deadly Hugo across the bulge above him. It sagged.

There was a bubble of sound, a hoarse dying rattle, then a surge of hot, fetid breath.

The big hands relaxed. Nick turned his head to draw breath, then heaved himself from under Braille's dead bulk. A hush hung over the cellar.

He saw Julie's head framed in the glow of his own cigarette lighter.

"He's gone," she whispered. "Tried to stop him. He pounded out of here in a helluva hurry. Maybe we'd better, too."

Nick reached for her and touched her cheek. "Julie, Julie, Julie... Are you all right?"

She nodded, and suddenly clutched his arms. A tremor ran through her. Then she said: "Never felt better in my life. Now can we get out of here?"

The flickering light showed a trail of blood leading to a street-level trapdoor.

Nick stopped suddenly. "My God! Where did the bastard put our clothes?"

Two after One

Lyle Harcourt woke late the next morning in his expensive three-room suite at the exclusive Royal Crown Hotel. He had brushed off all offers of company or protection the night before, and had retired after leaving strict instructions that all callers were to be identified and announced before disturbing him.

He sat up in bed, determined to read the London Times from front page to last before even thinking of ordering breakfast.

He enjoyed reading the morning paper. One of the luxuries of being a prominent public official was the amount of time and attention one could lavish on Current Events. It was part of the job, and a very pleasant part.

He didn't get anywhere near the last page.

Harcourt forgot all about breakfast when he saw the morning headlines. The news brought back all the terrifying details of his own strange experience aboard the Jetliner from New York to London.

TRAGIC ACCIDENT TO U.S. CONSUL

JUDSON DROWNS IN BATHTUB

Harcourt bounded out of bed and phoned the Consulate. A stiff voice answered, identifying itself as the property of a Scotland Yard Inspector.

Ambassador Harcourt announced himself. "But why Scotland Yard? Wasn't it an accident?"

The voice unbent a trifle. Harcourt was Somebody. So was Judson, and that was why they were there. No stone would be unturned, no doubts left dangling. The voice stonily related the scanty information concerning Judson's death. Lyle Harcourt was irritated. Why hadn't he been informed? The Inspector was sorry. Harcourt understood. He would be at the Royal Crown should anyone care to contact him. He hung up. A little while later the phone rang, and the Vice-Consul apologetically told him the little he knew. The only odd thing was that Judson usually took his bath in the morning. It appeared that he had drowned some hours before the day began. Very late last night, in fact.

Harcourt spent the next hour calling the United Nations' London Headquarters trying to get a circuit to the States for a call either to the U.S. Mission in New York or the home office in Washington. Finally he cancelled the calls and drafted a pair of cables.

Peter Cane, that Security fellow on the plane, had certainly known what he was talking about. In fact, the Secret Service man who had seen Harcourt off at Idlewild had urged him to be on guard against any overt move by anyone on or off the plane. He had even been wary of Cane.

Between calls, Harcourt showered and dressed.

Peter Cane. Let's see... He and the girl were staying at the Rand.

He picked up the phone. There was no answer from Cane's room, or Miss Baron's.

He called Room Service for his belated breakfast.

Later, the reception desk called to announce visitors. Harcourt was surprised to find his pulse quickening, his heart pounding. His fingers trembled slightly as he spoke into the mouthpiece.

"Who is it?"

"The name is Cane, Mr. Harcourt," the Crown's desk announced. "Peter Cane. And a young lady. A Miss Baron."

"Ah." Harcourt was relieved. "Let me have a word with Cane." That's the way to do it, he assured himself. Never take anything on trust.

A lively, cultured American voice came on the line.

"This is Cane. May we see you, sir?"

"Ah, Cane. I've been trying to contact you. Yes, please come up. Oh, let me tell the Desk. Hello? Reception? Send them right up. Thank you."

His doorknocker clacked decisively a few minutes later. He heard a woman's laugh and the low rumble of a male voice. Tucking a white handkerchief into the breast pocket of his dark blue suit, Harcourt strode through his sitting room toward the door. The prospect of seeing two government agents was more than a relief. Harcourt was an intelligent, courageous man, but he had no flair for espionage. His own extremely complex job was quite enough for him. He believed in experts, as he believed in himself.

He had only a second, after unlatching the door and pulling it back, to recognize his callers. Only a second to see a tall, good looking man and the attractive woman. They were not Peter Cane and Julia Baron.

He could not even protest, much less think of shouting for help. The door closed and a hand clamped over his mouth. Harcourt suddenly realized that he had no idea what Peter Cane sounded like on the telephone.

The Ambassador toppled without a murmur as the tall man sapped him swiftly with a weighted black instrument.

After that, Harcourt felt nothing.

"There's no answer," said Julie. Her face was puzzled as she put down the phone. "The line was busy only a few minutes ago — it's been busy all morning."

"Damn!" said Nick. "He's gone out and we've missed him. Try the U.N. office."

He paced the floor of the room. They had checked in, after Mr. Judas' near-fatal waterfront party, at a rambling old hotel in the Strand section, registered as Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Slocombe of Philadelphia. The assistant manager's reluctance to accept two disheveled people unaccompanied by luggage had been dispelled by the sight of a wallet bulging with American dollars.

"Peter Cane's" cash had been lifted — no doubt by Braille. The money belt had been tampered with, but not emptied. No doubt Braille and Judas had counted on absconding with it intact. Pierre and Junior were lost forever, but Hugo and Wilhelmina had settled comfortably back into their accustomed places. Julie's torn clothes were still wearable. The warehouse cellar had yielded none of its secrets to a rapid search.

"Well? What do they say?" he demanded. Julie had cut the connection.

"He called them this morning, but they haven't seen him. They suggested his hotel."

"Try his room again and then call the Consulate. Perhaps he decided to go there after he talked to them."

Nick had called the Consulate himself earlier. He was not surprised to learn from Harry Byrnes that Judson had been found drowned in the bathtub after "fainting and striking his head." The chauffeur? Well, it hardly mattered at the moment. There had been a brief message for Nick from Hawk. It said: RECEIVE PACKAGE AT JOHNSON & CO. WAREHOUSE 283 DOCK ROAD. REGRET TO INFORM YOU OF FATAL ILLNESS YOUR FRIEND BROWN. REPORT SOONEST. BIRD.

He already knew about the abandoned warehouse — only too well. It was unlikely that Judas would be using it again, even if he had survived. So "Brown" was dead. Too bad.

Nick looked at Julie. She was putting through another call.

After getting Hawk's message Nick had gone out to find the nearest Post Office and a branch of the Cable and Wireless Company. Perhaps the Consulate's wires were safe now, with Judson gone. Nick wasn't going to take a chance. In a carefully worded cable to ACTION, WASHINGTON, he gave a full report to Hawk asking what he was supposed to make of WATCH BIG BEN WEDNESDAY GERONIMO.

Julie was trying to contact Harcourt, only to run into a barrage of busy signals.

Nick closed his message with a request for all future cables to be addressed to the Cable Company's branch office. He signed it "Max P. Cane." The "Max" was for Hawk and the "Cane" for the Cable Company, in case they required identification.

"What did they say at the Consulate?" Julie was jiggling the telephone hook.

"They haven't seen him. I thought I'd call the Royal Crown and find out if he's had any callers."

"Yes, that's a good idea," Nick said thoughtfully, and frowned. "Better sound official — say you're calling from the Consulate to find out if his messenger came or something. Otherwise they won't give anything away."

Nick tried to figure out a possible next move. Judas had been badly hurt. Frankie Gennaro's little grenade had not been quite as powerful as he'd hoped. On the other hand, if it had been any more powerful, it might have been the end of him and Julie. It had ripped that silver hand off and dug deep gouges into Judas' face and arm. He must have lost a dangerous amount of blood.

"I see," Julie was saying. "Two callers?"

Nick stopped and listened.

"Would you mind telling me their names? He made an appointment through us a little earlier, you see, and I just wondered if... Oh. Yes, those would be the people. Thank you very much."

She hung up and turned to face him.

"He just had two visitors. Us."

"What!"

"About ten or fifteen minutes ago Miss Baron and Mr. Cane went up to his room. They haven't come down and neither has Harcourt."

"Christ! Give me that phone!"

He got through to one of the Security officers he'd talked to at the Airport and swiftly outlined his suspicions. They'd have to work through the Police, they said, but they'd get on to it right away. A call to the house detective and a few enquiries... Where could they reach Mr. Cane if they wanted him?

"Hotel Emerson — ask for Slocombe. But I won't be here for long. Check with you later."

He hung up and started cursing. "Could be dead in his room, for God's sake. I should've gone over there first thing this morning. I'm getting over there. You stay here."

"Peter." Julie's voice was dangerously quiet. "You're letting your hot head run away with your brains. The Police are going to be there. How're you going to explain yourself? Oh, I'm Cane, you say, of AXE. Or Army Intelligence. Oh, yes? they say politely. Well, just come along with us. But you can check me with Security, you say..."

"All right, I get the picture. I hadn't intended to be quite as obvious as that." He grinned suddenly. "But at least I can find out if he's still there."

"We'll find out by waiting here. Why did you call Security in the first place? Because you knew damn well you wouldn't get anywhere if you tried to snoop around and question people."

"Okay. You win. Let's eat. I'm hungry."

The phone rang an hour later.

The clipped voice of British Security informed him that there was no sign of Harcourt or the tall young couple. The bound and gagged figure of the freight elevator operator had been found in the first-floor storage closet. An attendant in the basement garage had told how two young people and a man in chauffeur's uniform had stepped out of the freight elevator supporting a middle-aged man. They had explained that he was very ill and had to be rushed to a hospital. The car was a Rolls. The attendant couldn't remember the license number. The party had driven off some twenty minutes before the police arrived. That was all. There was no need for Cane to involve himself in the inquiry, but if he should run into anything — the clipped voice gave him a number. Every effort was being made to find Harcourt.

"Abducted from his hotel suite in broad daylight!" Nick had started pacing again. Then he stopped. "Wait a minute. Why didn't they kill him then and there?"

He flung himself at the telephone and called the desk. Mr. and Mrs. Slocombe were checking out. Could their bill be ready, please?

"Peter, what are you doing?"

Smiling, he pulled her to her feet. "C'mon, let's get out of here. We're going back to the Rand."

The cat eyes widened. "Why the Rand?"

"Because Judas is still busy. I didn't hurt him enough. Right?"

She nodded, puzzled.

"And why would Harcourt be kidnapped instead of killed outright?"

"Because... well, because maybe they thought he'd be discovered too soon. He's probably lying dead some place right now."

"Uhuh. He's not. They took more risk getting him out than leaving him there. No, Judas could've had him killed right there. He's alive, and there's just one reason for it Us. To flush us out of cover. Remember last night?"

She shuddered. "How could I forget?"

"Judas said we were the only people alive who knew what he looked like. Which means that even his hired hands couldn't describe him to anyone. Certainly not Braille. Maybe Judas deals with the chauffeur through a mail-slot — I don't know. But I do know this: he showed his face to us only because he was ready to kill us. Now he has to. But first he has to draw us out. He wants Harcourt, sure. But he wants us, too. We know his face. He's got to get us."

"I suppose he has to," said Julie, her eyes thoughtful. "But Harcourt can still be dead. If you think Judas is going to try to arrange some kind of hostage swap, don't think we're going to get a bargain."

"If I don't talk to Harcourt myself, then we don't bite. That satisfy you?"

"I guess so," she said reluctantly. "But don't you think he'll figure we'll have left the Rand?"

"Very likely. But still, he'll try us there. So we'll play at sitting ducks again."

Hours later and many miles away, Mr. Hawk sat in a well-known Washington building and looked across the desk at a man he had learned to admire, a man of intelligence and courage. A pile of dispatches, cablegrams and teletypes lay on the polished surface between them. Three messages from Carter lay among them: a TELEX from the Consulate relating the story of flight 601; a cabled message detailing the story of Judson and Judas; a shorter cable describing the physical characteristics of the man called Judas.

"All right, Hawk," said the man, "I'll change the Wednesday flight time. I won't let it be known — on one condition — that Harcourt's found before then. Otherwise I'll fly as planned and see what happens."

Hawk bristled. "Sir, for a man in your position that would be nothing short of criminal bravado." He was one of the few people in the country who could address his chief like that. McCracken of the CIA had leapt up from his corner and said "Good heavens, sir, you can't!" but the man's eyes remained on Hawk. He smiled.

"What can happen? I'll use the private plane. You know I'll be surrounded by Security men."

Hawk shook his head. "No, sir, I can't let you do that. There's no limit to this man's resources. Change your plans. Or you'll be playing right into this maniac's hands."

"Hands, Hawk? I understand the man's disabled. I can't just not be there. The whole disarmament plan will fall through by default. Find Harcourt and find Judas. I don't like to issue ultimatums, but you have until tomorrow afternoon. I hope your man can do the job."

"If anyone can, he can. He's an extraordinary agent."

"I know that. I hope our Mr. Judas finds out, too. Let me know tomorrow, Hawk."

He was dismissed.

Twenty-four hours, at best.

Hawk went back to the Georgetown brownstone that served as his Washington headquarters and drafted a cable to Max P. Cane. All it said was: PILATE WANTS HARCOURT FOUND JUDAS CRUCIFIED 2400 FAILURE MEANS PILATE CRUCIFIES SELF WEDNESDAY ACT IMMEDIATELY.

Harcourt to Judas to Cane

It was a restless Tuesday. Late in the afternoon Nick picked up the cable from Hawk at the Strand branch office. Twenty-four hours to go. Less, by now. PILATE CRUCIFIES SELF! Unthinkable!

He and Julia waited in their rooms at the Rand. And had heard nothing.

Nick called the Consulate to remind them where he was and that he was expecting a message from the States. Sorry, no message. Of course there wouldn't be.

The call came after the sun had gone down and lights were trimming the streets.

"We will not spar, Mr. Cane," said the metallic voice. It sounded even thinner, less real than before. "This is J. I have H. If you wish to see him alive, you will listen carefully."

"J. for Judas, this is C. for Cane. So you have H. for Harcourt." Nick took an almost childish pleasure in repeating the names. He waved to Julie and she picked up the extension phone. "Go ahead, Judas."

The voice sounded pained. "There is no need to broadcast all these names. If anyone is listening..."

Nick cut him short. "I'm listening. What do you have to say?"

"Do you know Piccadilly?"

"Yes."

"Good. At nine this evening, you and the lady will be standing on the northeast corner of the square. My car will pick you up."

"Indeed it won't," said Nick. "No more gas rides, thank you."

Judas chuckled without humor. "Open touring car this time, Cane. No tricks."

"Just give me the address. We'll get there by ourselves."

"You don't care to see Harcourt, then?" The voice was almost a whistle.

"Oh, I wouldn't mind seeing Harcourt," said Nick, "but naturally, I'd like to hear him first."

"You can't," the voice said flatly.

"Too bad," said Nick, and put down the phone.

It rang again.

"Mr. Cane."

"Yes?"

"If you hear Lyle Harcourt's voice, will you come to a meeting tonight?"

"Perhaps."

"I think you'd better, Mr. Cane. I have a most extraordinary proposition for you. One that will benefit all parties. I'm sure you will be interested. Suppose I send the car..."

"Suppose you let me talk to Harcourt. And don't tell me I can't. No talk, no meeting. Understand?"

The line went dead again.

This time the phone did not ring again immediately.

When it did the quality of Judas' voice had changed, as if he were speaking from a different room.

"Cane?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Harcourt wants to speak to you."

The second voice was anguished. It sounded far away. It was Harcourt's and it said: "Don't listen to him, Cane. Whatever he wants of you, don't listen to him."

There was a creaking chuckle and Judas was back.

"You see, Cane? Mr. Harcourt is not only alive but full of spirit. Now let's stop this fencing. You will get here as I say or not at ail. Nine o'clock, northeastern corner, Piccadilly. The driver has instructions to deliver you unharmed. I guarantee that. It suits me, this time, to be sure that you're alive. Understood?"

"Check."

"One more thing. One false note, one ruse from you, one phone call even — and Harcourt dies before you even enter the car. And if this call is being tapped or traced, you run a very grave risk of ruining everything. You've been warned." The phone clicked off.

Julie's eyes shone with excitement. "We've hooked him!"

"Or he's hooked us. I'm glad I decided not to have a wiretap. We'd never have gotten past Piccadilly. What did you think about Harcourt's voice — was that him?" His own expression was noncommittal.

She nodded decisively. "That was Harcourt, all right. I'm sure of it. Aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. I just wanted to get your unbiased verdict... Come on, sit down. I don't suppose I'd trigger off a bomb if I called down to Room Service, do you?"

Ice, Scotch and mixer appeared shortly.

"You don't look terribly pleased," Julie observed.

"I'm not terribly pleased. As you yourself said earlier, we're hardly likely to get a bargain. Judas isn't risking anything. He knows we'll do anything to save Harcourt, even walk into his death trap without cover."

"I'm sure there must be a way to get a message to the Police or to Security," said Julie, "short of using the phone. The waiter, elevator operator, someone like that. Surely the Security people could follow us without being obvious..."

Nick shook his head firmly. "Too risky. I believe him — one slip, and Harcourt's dead. We play this alone."

Julie was silent, but she nodded faintly.

Nick eyed her and took a long, slow swallow.

"Julie, we had some luck last night. But tonight may be for the money."

"I know it."

"We're up against a monster. God knows what he's got lined up for us. Boiling oil, buzz saws or bombs — whatever it is, it'll be rough."

"Well, I can't very well stay home," she said lightly. "Think how he'll miss me. At least Braille won't be around to lurk in the shadows." He smiled at her. "You did beautifully last night. I'm proud of you." Nick gently squeezed a lovely knee. "Why did you choose this business, anyway?"

"Why does anyone? I don't like spies, so I became one. Isn't that funny? I lost my family a long time ago because some maniac wanted to change a government with bombs. Don't ask me the details — I don't even care about them any more. The moral is, of course," she went on lightly, "don't expose your children to bombings at an early age if you want them to follow a respectable career."

"That's a very funny moral," said Nick. "I think you need another drink."

They talked of such irrelevant things as autumn weather and the colors of Vermont and Maine, of Chinese junks on shining seas and sailboats off Bermuda, of ski slopes in Switzerland and the beaches of Tahiti.

At last she put down her glass and sighed. "How much time do we have left?"

"Enough," he said. He rose to his feet and pulled her to him, folding her in his arms. She yielded to his kiss.

Without being aware of moving they found themselves on his bed, bare, supple bodies touching.

This time their lovemaking was as lingering and tender as a farewell kiss.

Piccadilly Circus at nine o'clock was a Times Square of bright lights and bustle: the same streams of cars emitting irritable toots, the same gaudy neon splashes and the same murmuring tide of voices, whistles, wheels and muffled music.

They waited on the northeastern corner, an attractive American couple seeing the sights. A friendly bobby, strolling by, touched his helmet in a warm salute. Nick nodded and Julie unleashed a devastating smile. Nick tightened his grip on her arm. "Not so goddamn friendly. He'll fall down at your feet, and then we've had it."

Julie turned it off.

Piccadilly throbbed with noise and movement.

Nick was the first to see the car, a long, foreign one that was new to him. The chauffeur was the same man who had driven them to and from the Consulate.

The car purred to a stop. The man waited quietly, staring straight ahead. Nick strolled over and tapped him on the shoulder.

"We don't want to miss the sights tonight, Mac. So just behave, won't you? We will, if you do."

The man nodded.

Nick handed Julie in and closed the door.

The car surged forward and clawed its way through Piccadilly and turned sharply down an avenue. Julie leaned back and scrutinized the chauffeur's head and hands. Nick's right hand found Wilhelmina's friendly butt and stayed with it.

The trip was without incident, a succession of bright streets and dim ones, then the cobblestones of Limehouse once again. A fine light fog hung over the street lamps.

The car slowed and Nick tensed. They had found a quiet block, lined with low houses bordered with hedges and white picket fences. It was odd to find so very nearly a suburban touch in a neighborhood like Limehouse.

The motor stopped. The driver turned and motioned toward one of the houses. It lay back from the sidewalk, separated from it by twenty feet or so of pebbled path leading to a door framed by clinging ivy. The air was fragrant with wet flowers and grass.

"Here you are. Number Thirty-three."

They got out. Nick stared down into the chauffeur's face, itching to take that scrawny neck between his hands and squeeze. Better leave him alone. "One false note, one ruse from you — and Harcourt dies," the odd voice said inside his head.

"Don't try to take me, friend," the chauffeur grunted. "You'll blow it if you do. And don't bother about the license plates. We just borrowed this heap. And you won't see me again after tonight."

He changed gear noisily.

"Tch," said Nick. "And just when we had learned to love you."

The car shot away from the curb and roared off down the block.

Silence hung over the street. Most of the houses showed at least a gleam of light. But not Number Thirty-three.

Nick guided Julie through a gate that needed oiling. They scrunched up the path. No sound or sign of life came from the shadowed house.

He found a bell, pushed it, and waited. Nothing. Julie shivered suddenly. Nick tried the door. It opened inward. He pulled Julie to one side and pushed it in.

The gloom of the interior was as enveloping as a shroud.

They entered cautiously, moving swiftly away from the direct line of the door. And waited.

A thin, vertical sliver of light sliced the darkness at the end of what appeared to be a length of hallway. Nick's pencil flashlight revealed a wide, carpeted passage. He flicked off the beam and replaced the pencil-light with Wilhelmina. They moved slowly toward the slightly open door.

There were no sudden bursts of gunfire, no pouncing shadows, no animal grunts from lurking figures. Everything was as peaceful as Mr. Judas had promised.

They paused at the door and looked at each other in the gloom. Nick squeezed Julie's arm with more reassurance than he felt. The ticking of his watch was suddenly very loud.

The door creaked open, inwards. Light blazed out.

Judas stood on the threshold. The room behind him was, incongruously, a kitchen, lined with covered shelves and hanging pots and pans.

Mr. Judas inclined his ugly, bandaged head, and made the grimace he intended for a smile. His right arm ended in his pocket. The left held a vicious-looking, snub-nosed gun.

"Come in, come in, my friends. No need to stalk. We are quite alone — except of course for poor, sick Harcourt. You know my passion for privacy. Come in, please."

He backed away. They entered.

Judas pushed the door shut with a swift movement of his elbow and followed them in.

"I see you've come armed, Mr. Cane, as usual. So have I. I assure you I can shoot as quickly as any man alive. And at the sound of the shots, Lyle Harcourt will die downstairs in the cellar."

"I thought you said we were alone," Nick said crisply.

"We are. But I am a man of many resources. Sit down, please, and let us discuss international politics. I have much to say to you both."

The kitchen was a cheery enough place. It looked and smelled lived in; cooking aromas and detergent scents hung in the air. The table in the center of the room had four chairs and a checkered cloth covering.

Mr. Judas sat briskly in the chair facing the door. Nick swiftly looked around. The windows were covered with drawn shades. A door led off to the right, near the stove. There was nothing, apparently, more sinister in the place than a heavy rolling pin that lay innocently on a thick wooden surface near the sink.

"Mr. Cane, on my right. Miss Baron, across from me if you will."

They sat.

Mr. Judas, seated comfortably in the cozy, working-class kitchen was even harder to take than in the more suitable environs of a smelly basement. Seen in close-up, his face was like some remarkable rubber mask drawn tightly over the globular skull that held it in place. But the heavily bandaged left side of the face showed red around the patch of white.

Julie's eyes were flicking around the room.

"Quite cozy for our chat, don't you think, Miss Baron?" Judas crooned. "Belongs to friends of mine. Let me use it once in a while." He took the arm out of his pocket and waved it around the room. "Really rather comfortable, I feel."

A silver paw described a gesture in the air and came to rest upon the table top.

Julie gasped and stared. Nick just stared.

Judas chuckled flutingly. "You see, Miss Baron, unlike human hands, mine are replaceable." Then the hideous face turned a look of the purest hatred on Nick Carter. "You did well, Mr. Cane. You would have paid for it when you stepped into this house if I did not intend to use you."

Between the sleeve and the five-fingered silver thing there was a fringe of bandaging. There was no gleam to the silver.

"A glove," said Nick easily. "Very cleverly staged for shock effect. Why did you bother? That's no replacement, Judas. I did do well, at that. But not quite well enough. Perhaps I can do better this time. Where's Lyle Harcourt?"

"Don't you listen, Cane? Downstairs in the cellar of this place. He is merely sleeping off the effects of a drug administered to maintain unconsciousness. And a little bump on the head, of course. We can discuss him later. As to my — replacement — I shall have it soon, never fear."

"I couldn't care less," said Carter. "We have nothing to talk about but Harcourt. I want to see him, and I want to see him safely out of here."

Judas laughed. "Perhaps you'd like to stay here in his place?"

"I'd like to see you dead, Judas. Let Harcourt go, or either you or I will never leave this place."

"And the lady?" Judas cocked a hairless brow.

Julie answered for herself. "The lady goes where he goes." Her face and voice were icily calm. "But Harcourt leaves here first."

"What touching loyalty! But there is no need for us to kill each other if we can come to terms. You see, there is a hitch to your solution. Something has come up. Something so vital to the people who pay me — and pay me lavishly, might I add — that I shall forego my previous plans concerning you and the lady if you comply. There is a tremendous amount of money involved, more than you could make in several lifetimes. Are you interested?"

"Talk is cheap enough, Judas. Go on."

Mr. Judas scratched his nose with the barrel of his gun.

"Mr. Cane, it has come to my attention that you are considered the number one agent in a very secret branch of your government's intelligence services. I am not as familiar with the details as I should like to be. However, first things first. We are both titans in our field, I find. I have had access to reports that make you out a legend — fantastically resourceful, highly trusted..."

"What reports?" Nick rapped out.

Judas smiled his terrifying smile. "Not, unfortunately, from your own agency, if that is what you want to know. No, painful documents from those who have tangled with a man who always carries a stripped Luger, a stiletto, and a small round ball. For luck. But let me make my point. I want to buy your years of priceless training, your experience, your knowledge, and — shall we say — your goodwill. I need a man who is trusted in high places. Your first job, alone, will net you a very considerable reward."

"And what would that entail?" Nick's voice was softly dangerous.

"An airplane flight, leaving three hours from now. A report to your superior — which we shall work on together — and another very special flight back here. Your specialized knowledge of the dangers of flying should make it a simple matter to place you on that flight."

"What flight?"

Judas' eyes showed chips of cold determination.

"A flight from Washington tomorrow afternoon. I have been authorized by my people to undertake my biggest coup. With yonr cooperation, it will succeed. You will run some risk yourself, of course, but that is nothing new to you. Your entree into the highest echelons of the government would make your association with me priceless. Priceless." He lingered over the word.

"Get to the point, Judas. What the hell are you suggesting — what is this so-called coup?"

"The murder," Mr. Judas hissed, "of the President of the United States."

Red Shadow over White House

"You're mad!" Julie leaned across the table and spat the words at him. "You're mad!" And then she laughed. The withering scorn of her laughter filled the room.

"Your answer, Mr. Cane." Judas' eyes bored into Nick's.

"First one question, Judas," Nick said evenly. "Why?"

It was Judas's turn to sound amused. His hairless skull bobbed with silent laughter.

"Why? Does the question really need an answer? You know, or do you not, that I have thrown my resources in with the Red Chinese? And are we not discussing the official Number One enemy of Communism? The man who heads the most powerful of nations? A symbol only, you might say. Other men can take his place. But my employers are keenly interested in the death of that symbol. Another man might well be easier to deal with, and even if he is not, the President's death will stun the Western world. I should think it would be obvious to you. Now, your answer, please."

Nick stared calculatingly at Judas.

"And if I say Yes, I'll take your money, and then leave, what makes you think I'll do the job?"

"Two good reasons. One: I know that each man has his price and wants to see it paid. You'll get a down payment before you leave. The bulk of the payment comes only when the job is successfully completed. Two: Miss Baron will remain with me until you report back."

"I'll refuse to go without her and Harcourt."

"No, you will not. Harcourt is no longer of importance to me, or perhaps, to you. But both will stay with me."

"Perhaps I would be willing to sacrifice them for my country," Nick said quietly. "Have you thought of that?"

"I have thought of everything. It is not hard to find a man like Braille. Imagine the delicious scenes that would occur even while the medal is being pinned upon your chest! The delectable Miss Baron will die a little every day, for many, many days. I do not need to detail what can happen to her. Think for yourself. Let your mind dwell upon the picture, savor it, enjoy it..."

"Let your mind do what it pleases, Peter," Julia interrupted, her face hard and pale.

"Exactly, dear lady. The choice is his, not yours."

Nick's eyes pierced the slits beneath the lowered lids.

"And if the answer is no?"

"Then the answer is death. For you, the lady, and Lyle Harcourt. And I shall have to find another man to take your place in my new plans. Eventually, I will. In the meantime, tomorrow's action will proceed without your help. If it fails, I shall try other means."

Nick was silent. Slowly, he turned his eyes away from Judas. His face and body sagged despairingly.

Julie shot him a look of amazed disgust.

The silence deepened in the room.

Judas waited.

Nick's hold on Wilhelmina loosened. At last he drew his hand away and left the Luger lying unguarded on the table top near his right hand. Then he laid both hands loosely on the edge of the table in a gesture of submission. At last he raised his eyes and looked at Judas.

"You've left me very little choice, Judas," he said heavily.

"Hardly any choice at all," Judas agreed. His taut concentration relaxed almost imperceptibly. "Miss Baron, I think that Luger will be better off with..."

The table went over with a crash. Julie screamed out in surprise and Nick was on Judas, his sinewy hands clamped on the gun-wrist before the table settled upside down on the floor. Judas was halfway up in his chair, his right arm with the silver glove sawing futilely in the air.

Nick twisted.

The man had been badly hurt the night before but he was as strong as a bull and struggling with the wild, intense fury of a wounded animal.

"Julie! The Luger!"

Judas kicked savagely at Nick and squirmed with his body like some thick-shouldered serpent. Nick held on and then suddenly ducked and pulled the heavy body down over his shoulders. Then he was up again. Dimly, he saw sweat on the globular face. The massive arm muscles strained with effort. Nick kept turning and turning...At last the thick fingers straightened and the snub-nosed gun dropped on the floor. Nick scooped it up and leapt back, pointing at Judas.

"Don't shoot!" Judas screamed at him. "Don't shoot! I tell you you'll die and Harcourt will die!" He bounced back on his feet and reached out his hand.

Coldly, Nick shot at it.

Judas grunted, tried to clutch his hand, but had nothing to clutch it with. Blood drooled down a shapeless mass protruding from his left sleeve.

Julie was on the far side of the overturned table with the Luger in her hand. The look of disgust had been wiped away by a look of astonishment — and then hope.

Judas was still trying frantically to do something with his hand, but the mask of pain had become a mask of hatred.

Through his bared teeth he said, "For that, Cane, you die."

"You're as dead as we are, Judas. Deader. And now we really have some talking to do. Sit down. Sit down."

Judas sat, not taking his agonized eyes off Carter's face.

"Yes, we have some talking, Cane." His thin voice came from a distance. "Perhaps I am as dead as you.

But remember what you said last night? I'll take you with me."

"Is that the cellar door?" Nick gestured with the gun.

"Forget the cellar door. I am less a bluffer than you turned out to be. Pay close attention to what I say. This house and all it holds is prepared for instant destruction." He paused and swallowed painfully.

"Keep your eyes on both doors, Julie," Nick cut in. "We may have company coming."

"No company, Cane. Just Death. Even now, as we sit here talking, there are strategically planted magneto charges all over the structure. Oh, there's no need to sneer. I'm an expert in demolitions. Big ones, anyway." The white-hot hatred still flashed in his eyes. "Those charges, in turn, will trigger a full payload of TNT. A payload sufficient to raze this entire block of houses." He was talking very slowly and deliberately. "It is timed to the minute. For this one, there will be no mistake. I set it myself. We made our appointment for nine. I allowed you twenty minutes to arrive and allotted a half hour for our transaction. Do you have the time now, Mr. Cane? It must be nearly up."

"Julie?" Nick kept his eyes on Judas.

"Ten... nine minutes to ten," she reported.

"And ten minutes to make our farewells. It seems I planned it fairly accurately."

"Just what are you trying to bargain for, Judas?"

"My life, Cane. We can all leave here alive. Or none of us need leave at all. Even if you killed me now you could never find the device in time — and I am sure you would not leave Harcourt in the cellar to the tender mercies of TNT. No, Mr. Cane. You will have to let me disarm the device — or die."

Julie sneered. "Fu Manchu rides again and falls on face. He's bluffing, Peter. Worse than you did."

Judas' bandaged head sprang angrily in her direction.

"Am I, dear lady? Very well. But don't forget that Cane's gambit was no bluff; it was a very treacherous trap. Wait another eight minutes and we shall all see for ourselves if what I say is true."

Nick's mind was racing.

"You don't want to die either, Judas. Why should we believe you'd rig a scheme like this?"

"You can believe it, Cane, because you can see I have none of my colleagues with me. They don't want to die. As for me, I am a fatalist. I was a physical tragedy at birth, and later — you see my hand. My hands, perhaps I ought to say. Aside from that..." His strange eyes shone. "I have always hoped to die by demolition. Not just to be mutilated, but to die grandly in a vast explosion of my own making. To expire like a flaming Roman candle strikes me as a glorious finale to a brilliant career. Wouldn't you say?"

"I'd say he's either crazy or stalling for time," said Julie harshly. "Make him show you the timer, Peter. We've got to get Harcourt out of here."

Nick shook his head. "So far we've had no proof that Harcourt really is here. I asked you, Judas — where is he?"

Judas sighed. "In the cellar, my dear Cane. I told you that. Yes, that's the cellar door. But do hurry if you want to look. Time grows short. We have less than seven minutes."

"Julie. Go and see. Keep that Luger cocked. Quick, now."

She darted to the door and flung it open. Her high heels clattered down the stairs.

Blood was seeping through Judas' right pocket.

Within seconds Julia was back, breathing quickly.

"He's there all right. Tied down to the table and out like a light. But breathing. Shall I cut him loose?"

"Yes. Need a knife?"

"No, I..."

"Mr. Cane!" the high voice rapped out. "You don't seem to understand. In six minutes — six minutes — this house will blow to hell. Miss Baron, get back in this room."

Julie took a slow step or two back into the kitchen.

"Stay where you are, Julie," Nick's voice lashed out. "In less than five minutes we can be out of here with Harcourt. Why should we wait around for his explosion?"

"My God, you're right, why should we? Shoot him, Peter..."

"Just a minute! You touch Harcourt without my help and you're finished! Don't you think I knew enough to wire him to it? One careless contact, and everything is over."

"I thought you said it was a timing device," said Nick, "not a land mine."

"It's both, you fool, it's both!" The voice reached an incredible pitch.

"I saw no wires, Peter," said Julie quietly. "Just cords."

"Of course you wouldn't see them. Do you think I'm an amateur? Five minutes, Cane. That's all." Judas' voice subsided in a gasp. The arm was hurting.

"Shoot him, Peter. I think he's lying." Julie's face was a hard, purposeful mask. "Let's try to get Harcourt out of here. If we're wrong, at least we will have died trying."

Nick could have kissed her on the spot. "Stand by with Wilhelmina, honey." Even if they were wrong, it would be almost worth it. Score: one arch enemy of the world, one fine diplomat and two skilled agents. So. You can't make omelets without breaking eggs.

"Goodbye, Mr. Judas," said Nick. He raised his hand.

Judas stared into the dark bore of his own gun.

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"Dead serious."

Judas did a strange thing. His grotesqueness made it both horrible and oddly pathetic.

He slowly raised his hands, the one that was streaming blood and the one that was nothing but an empty glove.

It threw Nick for a second.

Several things happened in rapid succession. Their order was a blur. The lights in the kitchen winked out. An orange tongue leapt from Nick's hand across the darkness. Wilhelmina barked. A chair scraped and fell. Some sort of movement flowed across the room. Julie made a grunting, unladylike sound. Something thudded and clattered at the same time. Nick gathered his muscles and shot across the room, stumbled into the overturned table, flailed the air with the borrowed gun. He hit nothing but air. Whirling, he faced the direction of the door. There was no movement there, either. Cursing, Nick groped for the light switch. Couldn't find it. Reached for a pencil flashlight, darted it around the room. A fallen body. Light switch on the wall. He clicked it.

The scene in the kitchen had changed considerably. It was like some fantastically clever disappearing act. Judas was gone.

Julie was lying on the floor, gasping for breath. A trail of blood led — nowhere. To a blank wall. Nick ran his fingers over it, picked at it uselessly. God — how long? Three minutes? Four? He bent over Julie. Sorry, Julie, no time for first aid. The Luger lay beneath her. At least Judas hadn't got that.

Hugo slid into his hand.

Nick had no memory of flinging down the wooden steps and finding Lyle Harcourt. He was only aware of maybe three minutes of time in which to live. Maybe no time at all, once he moved Harcourt. And no time to wonder about Judas' bluff.

Lyle Harcourt was lying, fully dressed, on a rough wooden table. Coarse ropes bound him at ankles and shoulders. Nick held the flashlight between his teeth as he made swift, deft motions with Hugo and tried to spot anything that could possible be linked with an explosive charge. Then Harcourt was free. No explosion.

Nick hung the big man over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and climbed up the stairs. Harcourt was heavy. The steps were steep, the way narrow and dark.

Julie lay on the floor, groaning and trying to lift herself up.

"Ohhhh... Peter!"

"Can you make it? Get up!"

"Peter, he's gone. What..."

"It's all right, I've got Harcourt. Here, give me Wilhelmina. Come on, let's go." He thrust Wilhelmina loosely into his pocket. "Up, Julie, up!" He took her hand and pulled. "That's it. Can you run?"

"Got to run."

She stumbled down the hall after him, borne along by his tugging hand. He almost fell in the darkness. Harcourt seemed to get heavier with each passing second. Their bodies pitched full-tilt against the door, slamming it. Nick let go of Julie's hand and wrenched it open. It crashed back against the wall. The house reverberated with the sound. The street lay ahead of them, cool, dark and calm.

"C'mon." He grabbed her hand again. They staggered down the pebbled walk, half-wondering why no one seemed to have heard the commotion.

They reached the sidewalk, gasping. Julie faltered.

"Can't stay here. Move!" Nick barked at her, slapping her face sharply. "Gotta keep going."

She got going, running and stumbled.

"Thanks... a... lot..." she panted. "So good for you... you... when you're... winded."

"Shut up and run."

They were halfway down the street when a bell tolled somewhere. It may have been Big Ben talking in the light fog. Whatever it was, it tolled ten o'clock.

The house they had fled remained where it was.

Peaceful, undisturbed, dark, and...

Intact.

He had made it with about thirty seconds to spare. The watch mechanism was simple enough, but it had been no easy matter to hold it in his shattered, slippery hand and pull out the timing device with his teeth. If it had not been for foot-operated push buttons, he would never have made it at all.

Judas stood in the basement storage closet that was separated from the kitchen by a flight of stone steps and a sliding panel and allowed his body to shudder. He had been hit again in his headlong dash for the panel. Whether his own gun or the Luger, he didn't know. Everything happened so quickly. He was bleeding badly. Have to get back upstairs for towels. Who would have thought that Cane would shoot like that? Mr. Judas wearily shook his bald head. He had misjudged those American spies. Pity that Cane was such a dedicated operative in the employ of the enemy. He could have used that man. Girl, too.

He felt an unfamiliar sensation of weakness. Upstairs, now, Towels. Outside and away. Or Cane would be back with his own damn bombs. He dragged himself up the steps. From somewhere outside he heard the sound of a car backfiring. Harper coming back for him. Those foreign cars made hell's own noise. He'd better hurry.

He'd meet Cane again.

Or whatever his name really was.

Ten minutes later he left the house. Crude dressings covered a searing pain in his ribs and the mutilated left hand. The absent right hand ached in sympathy and the arm above it was a flaming agony. But his firm step and military posture reflected none of his pain. A coat shielded him from the cool mist and a soft slouch hat concealed his dome-like head. The gate, fortunately, was open. It might have given him a little trouble.

Where was the car, and that surly Harper?

The car was nowhere in sight.

Judas walked slowly along the sidewalk to the corner.

A dark hedge bulged with a darker shadow. A sprawling, ungainly shadow.

Harper was dead.

The street was quiet. Someone must have heard something. Shots and running and a car driving off. But the houses were tranquil. Not a soul was abroad.

Well, that's London for you. Just as well.

He turned the corner and walked on, feeling weak and ill. But his step was firm and his shoulders were straight and his mind was functioning normally. There was a time to work and a time to head for cover. It was better to drop out of sight for the time being.

Mr. Judas vanished into the London fog.

ACTION WASHINGTON ATTENTION BIRD HARCOURT SAFE HOTEL RAND CARE OF CANE AND BARON...

The cable was long and specific and had taken time. There were still some details to clarify, but an early-morning phone call from Harcourt's office would take care of that.

"Incredible, Cane! I still can't believe what I saw with my own two eyes." Harcourt drained his glass. "I'm not, as a rule, a drinking man, but... Thank you, yes, I'm glad you asked."

Nick grinned and mixed him another bracing Scotch and soda. They were together, the three of them, in Nick's suite at the Hotel Rand.

"Cane, Miss Baron, I don't know how to thank you. And I'm not even going to try — or I'll use up all the clichés I'll be needing for tomorrow's speech. But... good Lord, what an experience. The people at home will never believe this."

"They'll believe it, sir. And it'll do 'em good. Julie! Mind your manners when we have company."

She stifled a prodigious yawn and turned it into a smile. The smile made even the ugly bruise on her forehead seem somehow attractive, as if she were a little girl who had fallen while playing with the boys in some rough game. A cat-eyed, lovely little girl...

"I'm sorry. I'm really awfully sorry. But we've had two rather late nights..."

They all laughed.

"I must admit I'm tired too," said Harcourt, "and tomorrow will be full of reports and words and lots of questions. But they'll keep. This sort of thing is — well, I just can't..." He gave up, shaking his patrician head, a peaceful man gradually awaking from a nightmare of violence.

He stayed in Nick's suite that night. Julie and Nick shared hers. It was, after all, two rooms and a bath...

"Peter."

He came awake instantly. She lay in the crook of his arm, warm and soft as a cat. Somewhere a clock struck four.

"Yes?"

"I'm awake."

"So am I."

"Perhaps we should do something about it."

"Perhaps we should."

And so they did, with lighthearted passion, secure in the knowledge that, this time at least, there was a tomorrow to count upon.

Content

Nick Carter
Run, Spy, Run

The man with the steel hand

Mr. Hawk

Death in a Dark Room

Appointment at the Plaza Fountain

Something Rotten at Yankee Stadium

The Burning Building

"Stop Judas!"

Julia Baron

Flight from Idlewild

Aunt Jemima

London Idyll

The Enemy Within

Judas: Myth and Man

Wilhelmina, Hugo, Pierre and Friend

Two after One

Harcourt to Judas to Cane

Red Shadow over White House