Nick Carter

A Korean Tiger

Dedicated to he Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America

Chapter 1

"And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow."

More than once during his brief stay at the lodge, Nick Carter found himself repeating the lines from Yeats' gem-like little poem. He had not yet, he admitted somewhat dourly, planted nine bean rows. He wasn't about to, either; not with Peg Tyler along. It had been a mistake to bring Peg. But then it was a mistake he kept making over and over again. Peg had been his first love, and he had been her one and only love, and neither of them had quite gotten over it. Not that anything would ever come of the liaison. Killmaster's profession, and natural restlessness, precluded that. In addition, Peg was quite contentedly married to a nice guy with a lot of money. They had two half-grown children whom Peg worshipped; the soft glow of affection she gave to her husband; but the hot glow of passion and love she reserved for Nick Carter. She saw the man from AXE very infrequently — about once every two to three years. Perhaps it was only natural that when she did see him she came close to devouring him.

It was a mild day in early June. Nick's lodge, in the old Limberlost country of northern Indiana, stood dead center in a hundred fenced-in acres. Fifty yards from his front door was the placid mirror of Loon Lake, brooding in the late morning sun, the tranquil gray-green-blue water rippled only occasionally by a leaping fish. There were bassin the lake, and pickerel and perch, and even now and then a trout. Nick had not found time for much fishing.

Killmaster had brought along a plentiful supply of his gold-tipped cigarettes, plus an adequate supply of his favorite scotch, from the penthouse in New York. Now, clad only in swimming trunks and supine on the rumpled, love-ravaged bed, he enjoyed his first smoke and drink of the day. Peg was just finishing the breakfast dishes at the tiny sink, rinsing them with cold water from the clattering pump.

He blew a lazy smoke ring and contemplated Peg with the indolent good nature of a surfeited man. They had made love most of the night through; Peg had not fallen off to sleep until the first crack of dawn. Nick, with a faint smile, now gave thanks that he had studied the whole of the Yoga-Sutra in the original Sanskrit. He had, he remembered, done so with great lamentation and only on the insistence of his old guru. Nick's smile now became an open grin. The old boy had known what he was about. The subtle exercises, the absolute control of emotions, breathing and muscles — all these enabled Nick to withstand the sweet and tender agony of lovemaking for hours without any loss of virility. He knew that Peg marveled at it, and could not understand it; what she did not know, though she may have guessed, was that her amazement and pleasure had been shared by scores of women the world over.

As for Killmaster himself — he had had it for the moment. Sex was the farthest thing from his mind just now. Sipping his scotch, he smoked and stared at the tiny red bulb set in the ceiling over the bed. He had been at the lodge now for — six days? seven? — and the red bulb had not yet winked on. When it did it would mean Hawk on the line. Nick would have to answer the telephone in the willow tree. Hawk's dry, nasal accent, crackling around a cigar, would give terse orders. And this brief stay in Paradise would be over. Too soon? No. Nick had to admit it. Not too soon. A terrible, inexorable restlessness, always his curse, was just beginning to churn in him. Another week of Paradise and he would be crawling up the walls. His wounds were healed now.

Peg was stacking dishes on the wooden drainboard of the sink. Without turning she said: "A penny for them, darling?"

Before answering Nick took a sip of his drink and put the cold glass down on his flat naked belly. "I was thinking how perfectly lovely you look in my tee shirt," he told her. "You should wear them more often. Start a new fad, maybe. Tee shirts to wash dishes in." He blew a cloud of blue smoke. "You look — delectable? If that's the word I want. Is it?"

Peg was wearing his tee shirt and nothing else. She was rather a tall woman and the shirt did not quite cover her behind. Nick took in the vista with a certain noncommitted pleasure. It was certainly one of the roundest and rosiest bottoms he had ever seen. Peg had the good long legs to go with it, too, with the slightly knock-kneed look of all well-built women, the bones properly aligned to bear the weight of children.

For the tenth of a second a ghost flitted through Killmaster's mind. A ghost of a ghost, instantly laid before it could materialize. That part of his brain slammed shut with a click of finality. You made your choices in this world — and when you made them you stuck to them. Or were stuck with them.

Peg flung a dish towel away from the sink. "There! Chores all done. The slave has earned a rest. And we'll use paper plates for lunch and dinner. I get enough of dishwashing at home."

Nick smiled. "With two maids? I'll bet."

Peg came to the bed and paused beside it, one knee on the coverlet. The tee shirt didn't quite cover her in front, either. Her breasts, the round and full breasts of a mature woman, peaked — out the white stuff of the tee shirt. Her wide-set eyes, a deep brown, were thoughtful as she stared down at the AXE man. Her mouth, which somehow always managed to look moist, was mobile and well made, with a definite sensuality about the lower lip. Peg quirked her mouth now in a little grimace.

"Delectable isn't the word you want, you know. For me, yes. For you, no. Delectable usually means something to eat."

Nick widened his eyes at her. "What the hell are you talking about?" Then he remembered. "Oh, of course. So it isn't the right word," he admitted. "What would…»

"Not the right word for you," she insisted. "But the right word for me. I find you delectable, Nick. I want to eat you. To devour you utterly, make you a part of me. So I can have you forever. You see, darling, how you bring out the cannibal in me? Give me a cigarette, please."

Nick chuckled. "Only if you promise to restrain your anthropophagous tendencies."

"I promise. It wouldn't work with you anyway. Nothing will ever work with you — not if you don't want it to. You're the real devourer, Nick. The Destroyer, I think sometimes. You would be surprised, darling, the dark thoughts I have about you at times. Dark, frightening thoughts."

She settled beside him on the bed. Nick lit a cigarette and handed it to her. A cool breeze riffled through the lodge, stirring the curtains at the windows. Just outside the open door, in the honey-colored blaze of noon, a raucous jay hunted for mud daubers. The breeze was faintly rose scented. Nick stubbed out his own cigarette and lay back beside Peg. He closed his eyes. This moment, this here and now, this gentle torpor of a lazy day, was a far cry from torment and death, from the stress and strain and cold sweat of his professional days and nights.

Again the luminescent lines of Yeats filtered through his mind: I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree/… nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee I… and I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow.

It was why he came to the lodge, of course. To find a little peace, to recharge his physical and mental batteries, to lick his psychic wounds and prepare for the next battle, for the next round in the endless struggle against the darkness that would engulf the world were it not for the fighters. He would never find peace. Not really. Not peace but the sword. He would find the sword all right, one day. Even now, at this very moment, somewhere in the world there was a bullet being molded, a rope being braided, a knife sharpened or a poison brewed for him. For Killmaster. And all this must he carry within himself. Eternally silent. For him there was no friendly ear, no couch of an analyst, no surcease of secrecy.

Of all the billions in the world there was only one person who understood, and that imperfectly, what and who Nick Carter really was, what he became when he was alone and in the dark. That man was his boss, Hawk, who loved him and admired him and respected him — taking great pains to conceal all these things — and in the end could not really help him. Aloneness is the key, the protection and the reason for being and, all too often, the reason for dying, of the undercover agent.

Peg cuddled against him. She ran a finger over the cruel, thin red scars that covered his chest and belly and thighs. She kissed a scar, her lips moist and cool, and said, very softly: "You've been whipped, badly whipped, since I saw you last."

Killmaster welcomed her words. He came back to present reality with a jolt. It was not good for a man like him to wander so far afield in imagination. Imagination was all right in its place, in the line of duty, when you needed it to save your skin. Brooding was something else, and Nick had enough of the black Celt in him to know and recognize the dangers.

Now he pulled Peg to him, holding her tenderly in his big muscled arms, kissing the softness of her eyelids. "Yes. I was whipped. By an irate husband. He caught me in the act. I was lucky he didn't shoot me."

"Liar. You're always getting hurt somehow. You never tell me how, of course. But I counted your scars once, remember. You had thirty odd then — I would hate to count them now. But let's not talk about that. I've given up. I know that you'll never tell me, really tell me the truth, about what you do. Where you go and how you get hurt all the time. Sometimes I think, darling, that I don't really know you at all. Not any more. Not really. So I make up things about you."

Nick smiled down at her. Her hair was jet black, as were her somewhat heavy brows and lashes. She had a milky complexion with a few entrancing freckles sprayed here and there. Now, in the dimpled light of a stray sunbeam, the lashes made little shadows on her cheekbones. Women. Strange creatures. So different, all of them. Some could love not at all, some could love forever without question. Give all and ask nothing. Pity was a rare emotion for Nick Carter, yet he felt it now. For Peg — and for her husband. The man must have some dark thoughts of his own when Peg disappeared at rare intervals. He had never questioned Peg about that and never would. However she handled it, she did it well and with no evidence of guilt.

Only once had Peg said: "I loved you, Nick, long before I ever met and loved Harry. I love you both. In different ways. I know I can never have you, but I can have Harry. And you, Nick darling, are the only man I ever have been, or ever will be, unfaithful with. I think Harry understands — a little. He knows, of course. Not who you are, or how it is with us, but he knows. And he'll never try to spoil it for me — for us."

Now Nick kissed her soft mouth and said, "Tell me about some of those dark thoughts of yours. This day is entirely too golden and lovely to bear — it needs a somber note for contrast."

"Ummmm — must I?"

"Yes." He took her cigarette, now only a nub, and pressed it out in the ashtray. "But first get me another drink, huh? Lots of scotch and ice, not much water. I might just get mildly plastered this afternoon."

"Hah!" Peg snorted as she slid off the bed and went to the sink. "You drunk? I'll never see the day. You know you can drink a gallon and never show it."

"I know," said Nick. "And I'm working on it. I'm really trying hard. I'm tired of spending a fortune on booze and never even taking a trip, as the LSD set puts it. I've got to let myself go more."

"Fool!" Peg came back with his glass and handed it to him. "You're the most self-disciplined person in the world and you know it. All muscles and will power. Sometimes you frighten me, Nick."

Nick pulled her down beside him. "Like now?"

She nestled her dark head on his big chest. "No. Not right now. Right now is fine. But it never lasts." She began to trace a finger over his scars again.

Nick's smile was a little grim. "Nothing lasts forever, sweetheart. And, to coin an old cliché, nobody lives forever. The world is based on an orderly progression of life and death, of living and dying, with the old making way for the new."

Peg giggled. "My God! You sound like old Mr. Wright, my philosophy prof in college. This is a new side to you, my darling."

Nick frowned at her and, with mock pompousness, said: "I have many facets unsuspected by you, my girl. And some of the most ancient of wisdom is expressed in corn, by cliché."

Peg laved a scarlet cicatrix with her warm wet tongue. "I just said I've never seen you drunk — I've never known you to be serious, either."

God forbid, thought Nick. He reserved his serious moments for his work. A sense of humor, a gift for nonsense, was a must for a man in his line of work. A killer, an official executioner — never in his own mind did he gloss it over — such a man must have an escape, a safety valve, or soon wander over the line into madness.

He kissed her lightly. "You were going to tell me about your dark thoughts."

Peg had been lying with her eyes closed. Now she opened one eye and peered up at him with an expression of mingled mischief and desire. "I don't really want to tell you — but if I do, will you do something for me?"

Killmaster stifled a groan that was not altogether simulated. "You're an insatiable wench. But okay. It's a deal. You first."

She pouted. "You don't have to sound like such a martyr, you know. I know a lot of men who would leap at the chance to go to bed with me. Anyway it's your fault — I see you so seldom. Once every two or three years if I'm lucky. It's no wonder I can't get enough of you. And what little I do have has to last a long time. So you just be nice and do what mama wants."

There was nothing reticent about Peg. Nick watched with a half smile as she rolled the tee shirt up above her breasts. He reached to tickle her stomach. "Too bad they can't find a way to store orgasms. In test tubes, you know, kept in the fridge. For use as needed."

Her deep brown eyes were kindling as she stared up at him. She pulled his face down on her warm bare bosom. "Don't be nasty and clinical. Just kiss me. There — and there! Oh my God!"

Nick let his face rest in the soft white valley of her flesh, filling his nostrils with the womanly effluvia. Peg's skin was closely grained, finely textured. Her breasts were large and firm, round globes of creamy flesh laced with faint blue veins. In repose, as she now was, they were collapsed ripe melons against her rib cage, her nipples the smallest of pink buttons.

The AXEman felt a nipple stir and rise against his lips as he caressed her. Peg moaned and ran her fingers through his hair. She held his head against her breasts as though he were a child and said, very softly, "I dream of you a lot, darling. Nearly every night. Lately they have been terrible dreams. I keep seeing you dead. Dead at the bottom of the sea, all tangled up in seaweed. You're floating and drifting, with fish all around you, and always the seaweed. And your eyes! Your poor eyes! They're open and you're staring at something. And sometimes, in my dream, you come drifting at me, straight at me, and you seem to see me and you try to speak. But you can't! Bubbles come from your mouth instead of words — only bubbles. Oh, Nick! Nick! I get so afraid sometimes. Every time I see you I keep wondering if it's the last time, if I'll ever see you or hear your voice again. We have a little time together, like now. A few days, then you vanish. You disappear for months, even years, and I don't know, I…"

Peg began to weep. A tear trickled from her closed eyes and salted Nick's lips and he felt absurdly guilty. And made a resolve — he would not see Peg again. He would not come to this place again. He would sell it, forget it. It was rather ridiculous anyway — he had long conceded this, but not acted on it — to try to retain this last link with his youth and roots. Every molecule, every atom, of his flesh and brain had changed since he had been young in this country and had first loved Peg. His heart had long ago suffered a sea change, into stony coral, and the youth had died and long been buried. Every man he had killed — and there had been many — buried the boy a little deeper. He had been a fool to come back this time, to laze and dream like an idiot, but it was the last time. It was as though his last refuge had been liquefied, dissolved, in Peg's tears.

Nick made love to her as tenderly, as skillfully, as he knew how. His anger, at himself and at the Fates, added a subtle edge to the bittersweet flavor of the moment and he took her to the highest peak that two people could attain. Peg was a moist, sweet-smelling white cling of moan and motion and in the end she screamed as though she had been stabbed.

Nick rolled away from her, leaving her in the silent trance that was her habit, her eyes closed, her breathing barely audible, her ripe red mouth a little open and showing a glint of white teeth. For the moment she was content, deep in soft aftermath, her senses lulled and free of fear and doubt and sorrow.

As he fumbled for a cigarette he saw the red light in the ceiling begin to blink off and on. Perfect timing. How considerate of his boss, of Hawk, to wait until he had finished. It was Hawk, of course. Only Hawk knew where he was. Hawk did not really approve of these "retreats," as he called them; he said they dulled Nick's edge. But the line was a direct one to Washington, and it would be Hawk, all right. That meant only one thing. Back to business! Nick reached down and pulled on his swimming trunks. He felt a tremendous sense of relief.

He kissed Peg's forehead, tasting the faint perspiration of spent passion. She said, "Ummmmmm," but did not open her eyes. Nick took his cigarettes, and a lighter and left the lodge. As he left he glanced at a cheap alarm clock on the mantel and realized, with a little sense of shock, that it was only a few minutes past one. The day had only begun. He did not think he would be around to see the sun go down over the flat prairie to the west.

Killmaster found a path that skirted the lake to the east. Hot sun beat at his scarred, tanned shoulders and chest. He passed the woodshed and the towering stack of wood he had chopped since his arrival. It was good exercise and kept his muscles in tone. Beyond the shed was the Chevy he had rented in Indianapolis — his own Jag Special attracted too many eyes — and Peg's Buick hardtop.

He came to a fork in the path and left the lake side. As he was about to plunge into a narrow ravine, a loon came skittering down to a landing on the water, giving its maniacal cry. A lunatic laughing in this vast asylum cell that was called the world. Nick thumbed his nose at the bird and went sliding down into the weed-choked ravine. Burrs and wood lice plucked at the hair on his stalwart legs and he had to go carefully through a patch of bramble.

At the far end of the ravine there towered a majestic weeping willow, its dripping linear tears forming a tent around the huge bole. Nick pushed through the green fronds and approached the tree. He was completely hidden now, encompassed by the drooping greenery, and for a moment he had the feeling of moving under green, faintly sun-tinted water. He thought of Peg's dream and his grin was hard. Not just yet.

There was a canvas camp chair by a hollow in the huge tree trunk. From above a catbird whistled at him and squirrels chittered angrily. Possibly the same squirrels he had dispossessed to install the phone.

Nick tossed away his cigarette and lit another before he sank into the camp chair. Hawk wasn't going to hang up. At last he reached into the hollow and took out an Army field phone in a leather case. It was, in this his last refuge, the only concession he had made to the electronic age. If his boss considered Nick a little touched, he had been gracious enough not to mention it. No radio, no TV, no electronic gimmicks or gadgets. No other AXE agent, lacking Nick's seniority and prestige, could have gotten away with it.

He took the phone out of the leather case. "N3 here."

A female voice, metallic over the wire, said: "Just a moment, N3. Blackbird wants to talk to you. Will you scramble, please?" The prim tones of Delia Strokes, Hawk's ultra-efficient private secretary.

"I'm scrambling." He pressed a button on the phone.

Hawk came on the line. "You there, son?"

"Yes, sir. What's up?"

Over the years Killmaster had learned to decode the nuances of Hawk's voice. Now his boss was speaking in a slow, steady, almost too casual cadence. It was his worried, high-priority voice. Nick Carter, who was never far from tension, came completely alert.

"All hell is up," said Hawk. "Or may be. That's part of the hell — we aren't exactly sure yet. It's either a false alarm — or we're in the deepest trouble we can be. You get back here right away, boy. As of right now. Boy Scout camp is over. Start as soon as you hang up. That's an order."

Nick frowned at the instrument. "Of course, sir. But what is it? Can't you tell me a little more? Something to chew on while I'm traveling."

Hawk's laugh was bleak. Nick could hear the dry crackle of his unlit cigar over the line. "No can do," he said. "Too complex, Nick. Anyway, as I said, we aren't really sure where we stand yet. But I'll tell you this much — if we're right, and it is trouble, it's one of our own. We've got a traitor in AXE!"

"I'm starting now," said Nick. "Be there in a few hours, sir."

"Make it damn few hours," said his boss. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye, sir." Nick put the phone back in the leather case and replaced it in the tree hollow. Remembering his vow not to return to the lodge again, he yanked out the case and disconnected the wires. He coiled the wires as best he could and hid them under leaves beneath a bush. On his way back to the lodge he tossed the field phone into the lake.

It was typical of Killmaster that he gave not a thought to the parting scene that lay ahead. He was already working again. The time for softness, for moodiness and nonsense and sex and booze, was over for the time being. Until the job was done.

A traitor in AXE? It seemed impossible. Incredible. And yet he knew it was neither of those things. Every organization had its weaklings, its potential betrayers. Why should AXE be an exception? Just because it had never happened before….

That killing would be involved, he had no slightest doubt. Nick merely shrugged and walked faster. Killing was a foregone conclusion in a case like this. Mere routine. He did not give it another thought.

The lake looked cool and inviting and, now that time had run out, he suddenly felt like a swim. Nick chuckled at his own perversity and went into the lodge to tell Peg it was over.

Chapter 2

Nick left Peg Tyler to close up the lodge — she could mail the keys to his agent in Indianapolis — and late that afternoon he returned the rented Chevy and caught a jet for Washington. His parting with Peg had been brief and unemotional, verging on the brusque. It was best that way for both, and both knew it. Neither voiced what they both sensed — that they would never see each other again.

On his way south to Indianapolis Nick stopped in Fort Wayne long enough to call a puzzled sheriff of Limberlost County and tell him that the special patrol could be taken off. Said sheriff was puzzled because he had never really understood, in the first place, why a patrol had to be maintained twenty-four hours a day around Nick's hundred acres. The sheriff had never seen Nick, nor had the patrolling deputies, but it stood to reason that he was very VIP. The orders had come straight from Washington.

It was, rather amazingly, cool and pleasant in Washington. Weather-wise, at least. The professional climate was something else again, as Nick found out the moment he entered his chiefs barren little office on Dupont Circle. Hawk was alone, a cigar clamped in the corner of his thin mouth. He looked haunted. His suit looked as though he had slept in it, but this was par for Hawk.

Nick Carter was wearing a two-hundred-dollar tropical suit from London's Regent Street, a Stetson straw, and Brooks cordovan moccasins with leather tassels. His shirt was of pristine Irish linen, dead white, slightly open at the throat where he had loosened his wine-colored tie. Nick had developed a thing about tight collars — ever since he had barely escaped being garrotted in Istanbul.[1]

Hawk eyed Nick's sartorial splendor with a cold eye. The old man rubbed the back of his weathered neck, cross-hatched with wrinkles like a farmer's, and rolled his dead cigar to the opposite corner of his mouth. "You look fine," he said at last. "Rested and ready, eh? You must have taken my advice for once and really had a vacation, eh? No booze and no women?"

Nick said nothing. He sank languidly into a hard chair, crossed his legs — careful to protect the crease in his trousers — and lit one of his long gold tips. Then he nodded at his boss. "It was all right, sir. But I was ready to come back. So what is it? Who's our pigeon?"

Hawk tossed his chewed cigar in the wastebasket. He jabbed a new one in his mouth, then immediately took it out and pointed it at Nick like a rapier. "It's a good thing you're sitting down, boy. Maybe you better hold on, too. It's Bennett. Raymond Lee Bennett!"

For what seemed a very long moment, Nick could only stare at his boss. As sharp as his mind was, as awesomely computerlike his brain, still it refused for the moment to ingest this information. It just didn't make sense. Bennett wasn't even an agent. Not even a low-level official in AXE. Bennett hadn't been — at least not until this moment — much more than a cipher, a lowly cog in the organization.

"You can close your mouth now," said Hawk. His laugh was harsh, mirthless. "But I know how you feel. I looked the same way when they first told me."

Nick leaned forward in his chair. He still couldn't believe it. "You mean little Bennett? The little file clerk? But didn't he retire about a month ago?"

Hawk rubbed a skinny hand through his dry, brittle hair. "He did. Just a month ago. After thirty years in Civil Service. He was only on loan to us, you know."

Nick shook his head. "I didn't know anything about Bennett. I hardly ever saw him, and didn't notice him when I did — if you know what I mean?"

Hawk's smile was grim. "I know, all right. Neither did anyone else — notice him. Bennett was the little man who was always there — only we were all so used to him that we didn't really see him. Not that it made any difference — then! It sure does now. The chickens are coming home to roost."

Killmaster rubbed his well-shaven chin. "I'm afraid I still don't quite get it, sir. You said we had a traitor in the organization. Did you mean this Raymond Lee Bennett? But how could he be? I mean, after thirty years? He must have been checked out a hundred times! Anyway, what could he know, or find out? He was only a file clerk and…"

Hawk raised a hand. "Hold it — hold it! I told you it was pretty damned complex. That was maybe an understatement, too. Let me give it to you in the proper order, just the way I got it. Then it makes more sense. You just listen, son. No interruptions until I finish, eh?"

"Right, sir."

Hawk left his desk and began to pace the tiny office. He was in his shirtsleeves. Nick noticed that his tie had a soup or gravy stain on it His chief was not the neatest man in the world.

Finally Hawk said: "Bennett is, or was — he may be dead — fifty-five years old. He left Columbia University, in New York, and came to Washington to work when he was twenty-five. I suppose some sort of security check was run on him, but I doubt that they were as tough and thorough in 1936 as they are now. Anyway he was cleared and went to work as a typist and file clerk.

"He must have been in some sort of pool at first, because he worked around, and I mean all around, Washington."

Hawk paused in front of Nick. "That is important. Damned important. Here are some, just some, mind you, of the agencies Bennett worked for." Hawk ticked them off on his fingers. "He started with the Post Office. Then, over the years, he worked for the Treasury, the Secret Service, the OSS, the FBI, the CIA and, finally, for us. For AXE. Just before his retirement last month."

Nick whistled softly and dared to interrupt. "He sure got around. But that doesn't make him a spy, or a traitor. And as I said before, he must have been checked and rechecked over the years. He must have been clean or…"

Hawk nodded and resumed his pacing. "Oh, he was clean. Never a breath of suspicion. Bennett was like Caesar's wife — above suspicion. Besides being damned near the invisible man! But let me go on.

"Over the years Bennett became an expert stenographer. He learned to use a stenotype machine and he sat in on a lot of important conferences. Not any top-level stuff, as far as we know, but enough. He could have picked up a lot."

Noting the expression of near pain on Nick's face, Hawk paused. "Okay. Ask the question. Before you burst."

Nick asked. "Supposing he was a plant, and I'm presuming you mean Commie plant, how could he pass on his information without getting caught? Over a period of thirty years! The FBI isn't that bad!"

Hawk clutched the back of his scrawny neck, his features contorted as if in agony. "Now you're starting, just starting, to see how screwed up this whole mess is. First thing — we don't really know, can't prove, yet, that Bennett was a spy. But if he was — and we think there's a good chance he was — we don't think he did pass on any information. That clear things up a little?"

Nick was aware that his mouth was open again. He closed it on a fresh cigarette. "No, sir. It clears up nothing. But I think you were right — I'll have to hear the whole story. Go on, sir. I won't interrupt again."

Hawk paced again. "I'll have to jump ahead a little in the story, just to give you the peg on which we're basing this investigation. So it will make a little sense. Without it the whole story is just so much smoke. Okay, to jump ahead. When Bennett and his wife disappeared a couple of weeks ago a routine investigation was started. Just routine, nothing more. It got more and more involved, and less routine, as it went along. But just one thing is important right now — they came up with some information that was missed thirty years ago. Raymond Lee Bennett did have some Commie friends! At Columbia, when he was going to college. This fact wasn't caught at the time and Bennett was cleared. He was clean. No Commie leanings, he belonged to no front organizations, he was absolutely in the clear. Then! Now, thirty years later, the picture is a little different. He could have been, all those years, a well-hidden Commie plant."

Hawk went back to his desk and put his feet on it. He had a hole in the sole of one shoe. "To get back to the present, in the right order. Bennett retired a month ago. No breath of suspicion. He took his gold watch and his pension and retired to his little house in Laurel, Maryland. That's about twenty miles from here.

"Okay. So far so good. Nothing. But then the milk and the mail and the papers start piling up. The meter readers can't get in. The neighbors begin to wonder. Finally the local police are called in. They force their way into the house. Nothing. No sign of Bennett or his wife. He had been married for twenty-five years.

"A lot of their clothes are gone, and some suitcases that the neighbors remember seeing. So at first the Laurel police don't think too much about it. Natural, I suppose." Hawk found a fresh cigar and actually lit it. It was the ultimate act of desperation and a tip-off to his mental state. Nick repressed his faint grin.

Hawk pointed the cigar at Nick like a pistol. "Then it happens. It begins. One of the Laurel cops smells something. Literally. And it stinks."

Despite his vow, Nick could not resist. "The wife? Dead?"

Hawk's grin stretched his wizened face into a death's head for a moment. "Go to the head of the class, son. But not stuffed into a closet or buried in the basement. Nothing as mundane as that. There was a secret room in Bennett's basement. The FBI found it, after the Laurel people called them in. I guess they had a hell of a time finding it, and if it hadn't been for the smell they might never have found it, but they did. Back of what used to be a coal bin. The neighbors say that Bennett was quite a do-it-yourself man. He did a good job on his wife, that's for sure. He used a hatchet."

Hawk took some 8 X 10 glossy photos from his desk and scaled them at Nick. As the AXE agent caught them he murmured, "Secret room, eh? Now that's something you don't often find these days in this profession. I thought they were rather passe. Except in castles on the Rhine."

Hawk, half snarling, came up with a reprimand from his own generation. "It ain't funny, McGee! If this thing turns out the way I think it's going to turn out — we're in trouble up to our ass. Just remember that Bennett was working for us, for AXE, at the last. We're going to be left holding the baby."

Nick was studying the photo of the dead woman. She was fat and lay in a congealed web of black blood. The hatchet, which still lay beside her, had done nothing to improve her features. He doubted they had been much to begin with. But then neither had Raymond Lee Bennett, as Nick remembered him. He strove to visualize the man now and found it hard. Yet he must have seen Bennett a thousand times. Lurking in halls, working over a desk, at a water cooler, in the elevators. Under normal circumstances you just didn't notice the Bennetts of this world. Balding, skinny, a long horsey face ravaged by a terrible case of juvenile acne. Dull eyed. Shambling walk. The image of the man was coming back to Nick now. And a more unlikely candidate for spy, for Commie agent, for traitor, he could not imagine. As he remembered now, forcing his mind back, Bennett hadn't even appeared very bright. Certainly he had never advanced, never gotten anywhere in government service. Why would the Kremlin employ a man like that? Especially, why would they employ him and then never contact him? Never use him?

Nick frowned at the dead fat woman and then looked at Hawk. "It doesn't make a goddamn bit of sense, sir. Something, or somebody, is way out of line. The more I remember about this Bennett the more impossible it is. I…"

His boss was smiling at him. An odd smile. "There's one other thing I didn't tell you," Hawk said. "It slipped my mind."

Nick knew it was a lie. It hadn't slipped Hawk's mind at all. He had been saving it for the last, this little tidbit, whatever it was. Hawk had a rather distorted sense of the dramatic at times.

"Raymond Lee Bennett was something of a freak," Hawk said. "He wasn't very bright in school. He got lousy marks. He dropped out. And he never got anyplace here in Washington. But the FBI found an old retired professor, who used to teach Gestalt psychology at Columbia. He's almost ninety now, but he remembers Bennett from one of his classes. Bennett was a freak — he had total recall. A camera mind. And a recorder ear. Once he read, or heard, a thing he never forgot it! So every document he's seen, every damned word he's heard in Washington in the last thirty years is filed away in his freak brain like books. Thousands of books. All the Commies have to do is open the books and read!"

Nick was still pondering that when Hawk said, "Come on. Get your hat. We're driving out to Laurel. I want you to see this secret room for yourself. What you learn may help you catch Bennett — if it's not too late."

Chapter 3

During the drive to Laurel in the chauffeur-driven Cadillac that Hawk had requisitioned, his chief expounded on a point which, in the ordinary course of things, would not have concerned Nick Carter.

As they left D.C. behind and entered Maryland Hawk said: "I know that normally you leave politics to the politicians, son, but have you been keeping up with the current hassle about the CIA?"

Nick, thinking briefly of Peg Tyler's marvelous breasts and thighs, admitted that he had not, recently, so much as glanced at a newspaper.

"I didn't think so." Hawk's tone was sardonic. "But for your information certain Congressmen, and Senators, are raising a hell of a stink. They think CIA has too much autonomy, and they want to do something about it, bring the agency under tighter supervision."

Nick grinned as he tapped a cigarette on his thumbnail. "Any Congressman that wants to do that can't be all bad. Those meatheads can use a little supervision, I'd say. Their fumbling damned near got me killed in Mexico this last jaunt."[2]

Hawk rolled down a window. He decorated the serene, rolling Maryland landscape with a beat-up cigar. "The point is — that if they succeed in supervising the CIA then we're next. AXE! The CIA can function in the limelight, but we can't! I won't even try. The day Congress comes poking its nose in the affairs of AXE is the day I resign. Anything like that would ruin us overnight. We might as well take a front page ad in The New York Times!"

Nick remained silent. It was a tempest in a teapot. He doubted that Congress would be allowed to investigate AXE and, even if it did, that Hawk would resign. The old man was too firmly wedded to his job for that. The only way Hawk would ever quit was by mandate of the retirement law — even then they would have to bind him and carry him, kicking and screaming, from his little office.

But it turned out that Hawk was not merely fuming. He was making a point. Now he said: "I know, and you know, that we always operate under cover, in the 'black' and with top secrecy. I don't have to tell you that."

"But you are telling me, sir. Why?"

His boss pulled the cellophane off a fresh cigar. "Just to remind you. And maybe help you a little. Normal secrecy and precautions, which are usually tight in any case, are being doubled and tripled in this Bennett thing. We, AXE and all the other agencies involved, have slammed a total blackout on this matter. All over the world. If the press ever gets hold of it we're dead. All of us, but especially AXE. Just because Bennett worked for us last!" Hawk bit off the end of his cigar and spat it out the window. "Damn it to hell! Why couldn't the bastard have ended up in Agriculture, or Commerce — any place but us!"

Killmaster had to admit that there was some reason for Hawk's trepidation. If the newspapers ever sniffed the scent, ever found out that a Commie agent had been able to lie doggo in Washington for thirty years, to be discovered only after he had made the mistake of murdering his wife, there was going to be a lot of undiluted hell to pay. It could blow the dome right off the Capitol!

They were in the outskirts of the little town of Laurel now. The chauffeur seemed to know where he was going. As the big limousine turned off U.S. 1 and headed for the business section Hawk said, "I've been out here once before. As soon as the FBI boys started checking and found out that Bennett worked for us they called me. But I want you to see for yourself. That's why I haven't explained more — your first impressions might be valuable. Might help you catch Bennett. He was a real kook, a concealed kook, and I've got a hunch that you're the only man who has a chance of catching him." Hawk glanced at his watch and groaned. "Unless, of course, he's having dinner in the Kremlin about now."

"Maybe he hasn't made it yet," Nick consoled. "Even if he's running in that direction. You've shot the works on this, I take it? The complete bit?"

Hawk nodded. "Yes. Of course. That's really our- only chance — that he's been forced to hide, go to ground and wait until things cool off a bit. They won't, of course, not until we get him. But he might not know that. I said he's not really very bright. But I've got the net out — our people, the CIA, the FBI, Scotland Yard, the Sureté, Interpol — you name it and I've done it. Of course there's a risk there, too, but I had to take it."

Nick understood. With so many working on a case the chances of a leak increased almost geometrically. It was, as his boss said, a chance they must take.

They had left the downtown section behind now and were again heading north. To their right was the Laurel Race Track. Nick remembered it well. He had lost a few hundred there on a long-ago weekend. What had been her name — Jane? Joan? Debbie? Mary? Lou Ann! That was it. Lou Ann somebody or other. A happy little blonde girl who had won consistently while Nick hadn't been able to pick a winner. Nick grinned to himself as he recalled something else — Lou Ann had had a thing about brassieres and refused to wear them. The result, as he recalled it now, had been a little spectacular.

Hawk shattered his pleasant little reverie. "Here we are. Just down this street."

Nick caught a glimpse of a blue and white street sign as the big car wheeled off the pavement onto an oiled dirt road. Bond Mill Road. Nick sighed, banished the ghost of the happy little blonde, and came alert.

It seemed a pleasant enough little suburb, not a recent subdivision, and the builders had left some fine old trees. The houses, in the twenty-five or thirty thousand dollar class, were well spaced. School was not yet out and at this hour there was a paucity of children, though their spoor was everywhere in the form of bikes, wagons, jungle gyms and various other impedimenta. A typical scene of American peace and tranquility, in this case enhanced by a faint breeze from Chesapeake Bay and the golden patina of Maryland sun.

"In a place like this," Nick said, "a murder must really set them on their ear."

"You can say that again," Hawk growled. "But in a way all the excitement helped us. Thank God the FBI called me in time. I got them to go sub rosa on it and the Laurel cops were very cooperative once they knew the score. With the FBI underground the papers haven't smelled a thing yet. They think it's just another wife murder. The usual thing — that Bennett killed his fat ugly old wife and ran off with another woman. We've got to keep them thinking along those lines." With fervor he added, "The story has been buried for the past few days. I hope to God it stays that way."

Nick chuckled and lit a cigarette. "Amen."

The limousine pulled off the road through a narrow wooden gate set in a white rail fence that needed paint. They followed a gravel drive around behind a small Cape Cod-type house. There was a ramshackle one-car garage also needing paint. The car stopped and Hawk and Nick got out. Hawk told the chauffeur to wait and they walked around to the front of the little house. A variety of flower beds, once carefully tended and now choked with weeds, bordered the flagstone walk.

Nick glanced over the grounds. "Bennett had quite a lot of land here."

"Couple of acres. Lot of land, not much house. Spent what money he had on privacy. He didn't want people living too close to him."

They rounded the front of the house and approached a small, screened porch. A big cop put down a magazine and disentangled himself from a metal chair. He had a red face and a growl like a bulldog. "Who are you? What do you want here?"

Hawk flashed a gold Presidential Pass. AXE did not exist for the ordinary American public. The cop looked at the pass and his manner became most respectful. But he said: "The house is sealed, sir. I don't know about…"

Hawk gave the cop a hard stare. Nick watched with a concealed grin. Hawk could be pretty terrifying at times.

Hawk nodded at Nick. "Slip that seal, Nick. Take it easy. We'll want to leave it intact."

The cop began to protest again. "But, sir! I don't think… I mean my orders are to…"

As Nick went deftly to work on the metal seal on the screen door he listened to Hawk putting the cop straight.

"Just two things," Hawk was saying. "Just two things mat you got to remember to forget, Officer. Forget is the operative word. Forget you ever saw that gold pass — and forget you ever saw us! You don't forget them, you ever mention them to anybody on this earth, and your name will be mud until the day you die! You got that, Officer?"

"Y-yes, sir. I got it, sir."

Hawk nodded brusquely. "You damned well better. Now get back to your girlie book and forget us. We'll leave everything just the way we found it."

By this time Nick had finagled the seal, unbroken, and he and Hawk went into the house. It was stifling, muggy and humid, the smell of dust mingling with a ghost of old furniture polish — and just a trace of the rotten, sickly sweet effluvia of death. Nick sniffed.

Hawk said: "She was dead a little over a week before they found her. This place is going to need fumigating before they can sell it."

He led the way down a narrow, cheaply carpeted hallway. Nick glanced to his left, into the living room, and did not waste a second glance. Furniture that was strictly Grand Rapids, purchased on credit, done in what some wag had once called "early American stupid." A TV set in a dark plastic cabinet, a rump-sprung sofa, a scarred coffee table heaped with old magazines. A few bad copies of bad pictures on the puce walls.

"The Ivans couldn't have been paying Bennett much," he told Hawk. "Or the guy isn't so dumb after all — at least he didn't make the big mistake most of them do."

Hawk nodded. He was opening a padlock on a basement door. "No. He didn't spend any money. That's part of the puzzle, son. It might be the reason he got away with it for so long — or maybe the Russians just never paid him!"

Nick Carter frowned. "In that case Bennett was, is, a really dedicated Commie? Working for nothing!"

Hawk chewed his dead cigar and mumbled around it. "Wait and see. I think the guy was a really dedicated nut, but maybe you can come up with some fresh ideas."

The basement door came open. Nick followed the older man down a steep flight of unpainted wooden stairs. Hawk reached for a dangling cord and pulled on an overhead light. The 100-watt bulb was unshielded and revealed the small basement in a pitiless glare. In one corner was a small oil furnace and a tank; in the other corner were tubs and a washer and dryer.

"Over here," said Hawk. He led Nick to the far wall of the basement, opposite the foot of the stairs. He pointed out dark, circular scars on the concrete floor. "Used to have an old coal furnace, see. Stood right here. And in here was the coal bin. Good job, eh? The FBI thinks Bennett did it all himself. They've got a theory that even his wife didn't know about it."

Hawk was tapping the roughly finished concrete wall with the back of his hand. He smiled at Nick. "Feel it It looks natural enough, innocent, but feel it."

Nick touched the concrete and felt it give slightly. He looked at his boss. "Plywood? Wallboard, something like that. He smeared a thin layer of concrete over it?"

"Right Watch now."

After a moment's searching Hawk pressed his finger against one of the trowel marks on the concrete. The section of wall opened, turning on some concealed vertical axis, leaving a gap wide enough for a man to slip through. Hawk stepped back. "After you, son. The light switch is just to your right."

Nick stepped into the darkness and fumbled for the light Hawk followed, brushing against him, pulling the section of wall shut. Nick found the switch and flicked it The little room glowed with subdued golden light.

The first thing Nick Carter noticed was the large painting above the desk. Done in garish, violent color, it shrieked in the silence of the hidden room. Nick went closer, peering, saw a small brass plate screwed into the frame.

The Rape.

A young girl lay on her back in a tangle of tall weeds. She lay with her head back, her mouth twisted in anguish, her long blonde hair flowing into the surrounding sea of weeds. Half a black brassiere had been ripped away to expose one small soft breast. Her dress had been torn off, though tattered remnants still clung around her tiny waist. She wore panties, torn at the crotch, and a garter belt with broad black straps leading down to torn stockings. Her white legs were flung wide, one knee raised, and there were bloody smears on the inside of her thighs. Near her feet, nearly out of the picture, was a single high-heeled red slipper lying on its side.

Nick Carter whistled softly. Hawk was standing back in the shadows, saying nothing. Nick said: "Bennett do this?"

"I think so. His hobby was painting."

Carter nodded. "Not bad. Raw, but with power. Graphic enough. A psychiatrist could get a lot out of this picture — too bad I'm not one."

Hawk merely grunted. "You don't have to be a head shrinker to know that Raymond Lee Bennett was, or is, a real character. Go ahead. Look around and draw your own conclusions. That's why we came here. I want you to get it firsthand. I'll keep out of it until you're finished."

Killmaster, with a skill born of long practice, began to go over the room. To a casual onlooker, one who did not know Nick Carter, his methods might have appeared indolent, even slovenly. But he missed nothing. He seldom touched anything, but his eyes — strange eyes that could change color like a chameleon — roved incessantly and fed back a constant stream of information to the brain behind the high forehead.

Bookshelves formed one entire wall of the little room. Nick cast a knowing eye past the spines of scores of paperback and hard-cover books. "Bennett was a mystery fan," he told the silent Hawk. "Also a spy buff — that figures in a way, I think. There is everything here from Anna Katherine Green through Gaboriau and Doyle to Ambler and LeCarré. The best and the worst Maybe the guy used them as handbooks for his profession."

"Keep going," Hawk muttered. "You haven't seen anything yet. The FBI brought in a psychologist and let him roam around. He didn't seem to get far — acted a little put out because Bennett wasn't around to take a Rorschach test".

Nick pulled open the top drawer of the desk. "Hummmm — this is pretty good pornography. Expensive, too. Maybe that's where his money went."

"Pornography? The FBI didn't tell me anything about any pornography!" Hawk came out of the shadows to gaze over Nick's shoulder.

Nick chuckled. "Better watch it, sir. You're a little old for this high-voltage stuff. And weren't you going to the doctor for blood pressure a little while back?"

"Hah!" Hawk reached to take one of the glossy prints from Nick. He studied it with a frown. He shook his head. "It can't be done. Not like that. It's physically impossible."

The print in question involved three women, a man, and a dog. Nick gently took the picture from Hawk and reversed it. "You had it upside down, sir."

"The hell I did!" Hawk studied the picture again. "Damned if I didn't, at that. Hummm — this way it's just possible." He scaled the print back into the drawer and nodded at a steel cabinet standing in one corner of the room. "Take a look in that." He went back into the shadows near the wall.

Nick opened the cabinet. The contents were intriguing, to say the least. Nick lit a cigarette and studied them with a half smile and half frown. Maybe Raymond Lee Bennett wasn't very bright, or too well endowed physically, but he was certainly a chap of many facets. Most of them on the oddball side.

On hooks in one corner of the cabinet was a collection of women's girdles, corsets, and garter belts. Some of the garments had long stockings attached to them. On the floor of the cabinet were women's shoes with extremely high spike heels and one pair of high-heeled patent leather boots that buttoned to the knee.

Nick whistled again, softly. "Our boy was a fetishist from way back, it seems."

Hawk was sour. "That's what the FBI psychologist said in his report. So where does that get us?"

Nick was cheerful. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. More important, he was beginning to get an inkling, some faint foreshadowing, of what Raymond Lee Bennett was really like.

He took a collection of dog whips from a shelf in the steel cabinet. Also a slender quirt of braided leather. "Bennett liked to whip people. Probably women. Without doubt women. Hmmm — but where could he find any women to whip? Living in a place like this, and looking the way he did? Not that his looks would work against him in the sort of sexual underworld he obviously wanted, liked, to move in. Did move in — or did he? Maybe he didn't. Couldn't. In Baltimore, sure. Maybe even in Washington, these days. But that would have been risky as hell — sooner or later he would have gotten caught, in trouble, and his cover would have been blown. But he was never blown. This neat little suburban fraud of his was never penetrated until he blew it himself."

Nick dropped his cigarette to the floor and stepped on the stub. As he did so he noticed the chalked outline on the drab brown linoleum. The chalk was scuffed and partially erased in places, but the outline still denoted a corpse of considerable heft.

Nick pointed to the chalk marks. "His wife, Hawk!" For once he forgot the "sir" with which he habitually addressed the older man.

Hawk shook his head doubtfully. "You think she did know about this room, then? That she was his companion in the fun and games that went on down here? But that means that she must have known he was working for the Russians, or been working for them herself. And that I won't buy! Two people couldn't have kept that secret for thirty years. One, just maybe. It looks like Bennett did. But not his wife, too."

Nick lit a fresh cigarette. He ran strong fingers through his crisp brown hair. "I agree with you on that, sir. I don't think she knew about the spying bit. She wouldn't have to know. No real reason why she should. But I think she was his sexual companion, if you want to call it that, in the nutty sex games Bennett liked to play. I would bet on it. We won't find them now, because Bennett either destroyed them or took them with him, but I'll bet there was a Polaroid camera around here with a lot of exposed film. Probably he had a timer on it so he could join the lady and take his own pictures."

Hawk, his hands in his pockets, was staring moodily at the desk. "Maybe you're right, Nick. One thing I do know — there's no secret drawer in that desk. The FBI did everything but tear it apart. I trust them on that. They didn't flub it."

"Yes," said Nick. "Bennett probably has them with him. They'll be some consolation on long cold nights when he's hiding out."

"You think the man is a real psycho, Nick?"

"Definitely," said Killmaster. "Though not in any legal sense. I'm beginning to get a pretty clear picture of our Mr. Bennett, and it's a little frightening and a little funny and more than a little pitiful. Look at this."

From another hook in the cabinet Nick took a trenchcoat and a pearl gray snapbrim hat with a large welt. Both looked new. Nick glanced at the maker's tag in the fawn-colored trenchcoat. "Abercrombie & Fitch. The hat is Dobbs. Both expensive and new, hardly worn at all." He hefted the coat. "Something heavy in the pockets."

Hawk took a typed flimsy from his pocket and glanced at it. "Yes. The FBI listed it. Pipe and tobacco, never opened, pipe never used, and a revolver. Banker's Special, never fired."

Nick took the articles in question from the pockets of the trenchcoat and examined them. The pipe tobacco was Douwe Egberts, a Dutch cavendish. The pouch was still sealed. He ran his finger around the inside of the pipe bowl. Shiny clean.

The revolver was a Smith & Wesson with a stubby two-inch barrel — a .38. It would pack a hell of a wallop at very short range. A light film of oil glistened on the weapon. Some of it adhered to Nick's fingers and he wiped them on his trousers.

Hawk said: "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, N3? Something real nutty — like make-believe and pretend and children's games?"

Before he answered, Nick Carter glanced again at the bookshelves containing the mysteries, the spy stories, the stacked assortment of comic books of like tenoi His keen eyes flicked to a little taboret where stood two bottles of scotch and a soda siphon. The seals on the whiskey were intact, the siphon was full.

Hawk followed his glance. "Bennett didn't 6moke or drink."

Finally Killmaster said: "It would make it nice and simple, sir. To decide that Bennett is just a nut who read too many spy stories, saw too much television. A juvenile mentality whose idea of glory was to earn his Junior G-Man's badge. I'll admit a lot of things point that way — but on the other hand a lot of things don't. Kids, even grown-up kids, don't usually take a hatchet to their wives."

"He's a psycho," Hawk grumbled. "A schizo. Split personality. He was a psycho, a nut, all his life. But he kept it pretty well concealed. Then suddenly something triggered him into a psychotic state, and he axed his wife."

Nick knew that his boss was thinking aloud and expecting Killmaster to play the role of devil's advocate. It was a technique they often used on a knotty problem.

"I think you're about half right," he said now. "But only half. You're oversimplifying it, sir. It's all right to say that Bennett was a childish romantic who liked to play at being a spy — but the FBI had turned up evidence that he could have been a real spy. Don't forget the total recall and the camera mind! The man's a walking record of everything important that happened in Washington in the past thirty years."

Hawk grunted and tore the unoffending wrapper from a fresh cigar. "Then why the hell didn't the Kremlin, if it was the Kremlin, ever try to contact him? Why didn't they pay him? It just doesn't make sense that they would plant a guy like Bennett and then not try to milk him over the years. Unless…"

Nick had replaced the trenchcoat and hat in the metal cabinet. He crossed the room and stood looking at a fake fireplace, of imitation red brick, that had been installed in one wall. Behind a cheap brass screen there was a small electric heater with an extension cord leading to a wall socket. Nick picked up the cord and plugged it in. The heater began to glow red.

Before the fireplace was a shabby armchair with torn vinyl upholstery. Nick Carter sank into the chair and extended his long muscular legs to the make-believe flame. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself as Raymond Lee Bennett. A dreary little man with a poor physique, not much mouse-colored hair, a bad case of acne scarring an ugly horse face. Very poor equipment with which to face the world. A world in which all the goodies went to the beautiful people, to the brilliant and the clever and the moneyed people. Nick, his eyes still closed, struggling to simulate and attune himself to the pinkish atomic armature underlying the brain of Raymond Lee Bennett — just one brain in billions — began gradually to evolve a hazy picture in his own mind. He could almost savor, nearly taste, the raw juices of defeat. Of frustration and a terrible wanting. A crying out that would not be answered. A soul wanting out of the skimpy body and begging rescue from the ravaged face. A have-not yearning to have. A fuzzy mind, yet conscious of the passage of time and with a horrible awareness of what was being missed. A poor puerile child locked away from the sweets of life.

Such a man — if man was the word — could only have found relief, surcease, in fantasy. Nick opened his eyes and stared at the glowing electric heater. For a moment he became Bennett sitting there, staring at the leaping flames of an apple wood fire, smoking a Sherlock Holmes pipe — no tobacco — and about to have a drink of expensive scotch — the seals on the bottle unbroken. Time was of the essence. Just time for a pipe and a drink before donning the trenchcoat and the snapbrim hat, pocketing the revolver, and going out in search of adventure. Because tonight the game was afoot, great events were in the making, with villains to slay and governments to save and maidens to rescue. Ah, the girls! The fair maidens. All naked and lovely. Busty and silver-thighed. How they smothered a man in their sweet-smelling flesh, clamoring for it, moaning for it, all of them sick with lust.

Fantasy. The secret room and the props and the dreams and time slipping away and the dreaming — the dreaming the dreaming…

Nick sat bolt upright in the chair. "I'll bet that Bennett is impotent!"

Hawk had not moved from his place in the shadows. He looked just the same, and for a moment Nick found that strange; then he knew that only a few seconds had elapsed. His own dreaming had seemed much longer. Now Hawk said: "You bet what?"

Nick left the chair and ran a finger through the thick dust on a barren mantel over the fake fireplace. "That our boy is impotent! He couldn't make it in bed. At least not in the normal way. That's the reason for the whips and the shoes and the girdles and all that stuff. The reason for the pornography. Bennett can't function sexually without some sort of artificial stimuli — maybe he has to be whipped first."

Hawk stared at his Number One boy with an odd mixture of awe and disgust. He moved closer, out of the shadows. "Spare me the Krafft-Ebing bit, for Pete's sake. I didn't bring you down here to look into Bennett's sex life, or lack of it, and I don't care much about his perversions, if any. I thought you might get some ideas…"

"I have," Nick interrupted. "A hell of a lot of them. More than I can use just at the moment. It will take time to sort them out — if it can be done at all. But if Bennett was a spy — and I'm inclined to think he was, in a dilettante sort of way at least — then I think we can expect another woman to turn up in the picture. Sooner or later, when and if we find Bennett, there will be a woman. And she won't be old and fat and ugly! In short, sir, Bennett has stopped depending on fantasy and gone after the real thing. He's suddenly realized that he's fifty-five, retired, and doesn't have too much time left. That's why he killed his wife! She reminded him of too much — of what he no doubt considers a wasted thirty years. And she was in the way! He couldn't just go off and leave her alive. That way he would never really be rid of her. She had to die. He had to kill her. It was Bennett's way of making a clean break, of making positive that he couldn't chicken out and come back home. Back to dreaming instead of action."

Killmaster put a cigarette in his mouth and snapped his lighter. "In a way you have to hand it to the little man — it took a lot of guts, of a sort, to do what he did."

Hawk scratched at the slight graying stubble on his chin. "You've lost me, son. I hope to God you know what you're talking about."

"So do I. The thing is — we'll never really know until we catch Bennett."

"You seen all you want to here?"

"One thing, sir." Nick pointed to the mantel. Hawk came to peer at the spot indicated. There was a thick patina of dust over the entire mantel except for an oval mark some three inches long and two inches wide.

"Something has been taken from this mantel recently," Nick said. "Probably it was the only thing kept on the mantel, and I'd guess that Bennett took it with him, but we'd better check it. Anything on it from the FBI?"

Again Hawk consulted the typed flimsy. "No. They don't even mention the mantel. Or the mark in the dust. They overlooked it, I guess."

Nick sighed and flicked ashes from his cigarette. "I'd like to know what it was. Probably it was the only thing he took from this room — it must have been important."

They left the hidden room. Hawk pushed the pseudocement wall back into place. Going up the steep basement stairs he said, "We'll probably never know unless we catch Bennett. His wife sure isn't going to tell us." The old man sounded very gloomy.

"Cheer up," Nick told him. "I've got a feeling, or call it a hunch, that we're going to catch Bennett. It's not going to be easy, but we'll do it. He's an amateur. He's also a hysteric and a psychotic and a romantic with the IQ of an eight-year-old. But he's not harmless! Far from it. He's deadly — as a child can be deadly. In addition to all that he's carrying those beautiful files around in his brain. I don't think that matters much to Bennett. I don't think he knows how much he knows, if you follow me, sir."

Hawk groaned audibly as he locked the basement door. "I'm not sure, Nick. I'm not sure of anything about this case any more. I'm not even sure there is a case! I keep thinking I'll wake up and find it's all a nightmare."

Killmaster gazed at his boss with a hint of commiseration. It was not like Hawk to be so distraught. Then he remembered that Hawk had been carrying the burden practically alone while he, Carter, was fresh from the beauties of nature and the arms of amour. It made a difference.

As they went through the stifling little house again Nick said, "There's a case, all right. And it might turn out to be a nightmare. But I'll whip it, sir."

The big cop stood up again as they left the house. As Nick was replacing the metal seal, intact, his roving sharp eyes caught a slight alteration in the placid suburban landscape. Something new had been added. Nick turned to the cop and nodded toward a small stand of silver birch some seventy-five yards to the east. "Who's the guy over there in the trees, watching us? He belong around here?"

The cop followed the AXEman's glance. "Oh, him! That's only Mr. Westcott. He lives next door. Snoops a lot. Nosey, sir. It was him that called us in on this case in the first place. Nothing we can do, sir. Those trees are on his property."

"Who said I wanted to do anything?" said Nick mildly. "But I think I will have a word with the gentleman. I'll meet you back at the car, sir." He left Hawk once more putting the fear of God, and the Presidential pass, into the cop and walked toward the little clump of trees.

Mr. Lloyd Westcott was a thin man in his early fifties with a tanned bald head and a small paunch. He wore slacks and a blue sport shirt and a definitely feisty manner. As Nick approached him he was swinging a weed cutter in a half-hearted manner, grubbing at some ragweed around the boles of the trees. It was, Nick conceded, as good an excuse as any for being there.

N3 slipped easily into his winning manner. The AXEman could be most personable when he chose. He smiled at the man. "Mr. Westcott?"

"Yeah. I'm Westcott." The man took a battered briar pipe from between shiny false teeth. "You a cop?"

Nick laughed. "No. Insurance." He handed the man a card from his wallet. The insurance front usually worked in situations like this.

Westcott pursed his lips and frowned at the card, then handed it back to Nick. "Okay. So what do you want from me?"

Nick smiled again. He offered a cigarette, which was refused, then lit his own. "Nothing in particular, Mr. Westcott. It's just that I'm trying to get all the information I can about Mr. Bennett. He's disappeared, as you must know, and he was rather heavily insured with us. You're a neighbor of his — did you know him well?"

Westcott laughed harshly. "Know him? Nobody knew that nut very well! He and that fat slob of a wife kept strictly to themselves. Which was all right with the rest of us around here — they didn't belong here anyway! I, we, all of us around here, we all knew something like this would happen someday. And sure enough…"

Nick regarded the man steadily. This might be only suburban spite and snobbishness, yet he could not afford to overlook an angle.

With intent to flatter he said: "I can't seem to get much out of the police. Either they don't know much or they just aren't talking. Now you, Mr. Westcott, you look like an intelligent and alert man. What do you think really happened over there?"

There was no mistaking the genuineness of Westcott's expression of amazement. "Happened? No question of that, mister. Just what the cops think. That crazy bastard killed his wife and ran away — probably with some other dame." Westcott grinned nastily. "Can't say I blame him for running away — that wife of his was a real mess. Only he didn't have to kill her."

Nick looked disappointed. He shrugged his big shoulders. "Sorry I bothered you, Mr. Westcott. I thought you might know something, have noticed something, that the police overlooked. But I guess you're right — it's just a routine case of wife murder. Goodbye."

"Wait a minute." Westcott tapped his pipe on his teeth. "I do know something the cops don't. Because I didn't tell them. I… I don't like to get mixed up in anything, see, so when they asked me questions I just answered those questions, see. I didn't shoot off my mouth any, didn't volunteer anything."

Nick waited patiently. "Yes, Mr. Westcott?"

"I don't see how it would have helped the cops any if I had told them," said Westcott defensively, "but this Bennett was a real nut. He used to dress up and parade around the neighborhood at night, see. In a sort of costume. I used to watch him. Follow him, just to see what he was up to."

Nick smiled again. "And what was he up to, Mr. Westcott?"

"Among other things he was a peeper. A Peeping Tom. He used to prowl the neighborhood and look in bedroom windows, trying to watch women dressing or undressing."

Nick stared at the man. His mobile lips quirked a bit as he said, "You saw him doing this, Mr. Westcott?"

"Yeah. A lot of times — well, anyway two or three times. He didn't come around my place, though, so I…"

Nick picked it up smoothly. "He didn't come around your place, Mr. Westcott, so you didn't bother to report him to the police? Is that it?"

Westcott's face was flushed. "Well, yes. Like I said, I don't like to get mixed up in anything. The guy wasn't really hurting anything and I, uh…" His voice trailed off.

Nick Carter kept a straight face. Obviously Bennett had interfered with Westcott's own peeping and that, while it must have been annoying, was definitely not a police matter!

Westcott must have sensed Nick's thought because he hurried on in an attempt to blur the moment over. "I got a pretty good look at him sometimes, when he didn't know I was watching. He was always dressed like he thought he was in a TV show or something — you know, the trench-coat and the smart aleck hat. He would always have the coat buttoned up under his chin and the hat pulled down over his eyes. And he always kept his hands in his pockets, too. Like maybe he had a gun, you know."

Westcott tapped out his pipe on a birch tree. "After what happened, him murdering his wife, I mean, he probably did have a gun, huh? I'm glad now that I never called him on the peeping stuff. He might have shot me!"

Nick turned away. He flipped a hand in farewell. "I don't think so, Mr. Westcott. The gun wasn't loaded. And now that you've got the field to yourself again — let me wish you happy peeping. And thanks for everything."

He did not turn at the faint sound behind him. It was only Mr. Westcott's pipe dropping from his open mouth.

In the car, on the way back into Washington, he told Hawk what Westcott had revealed. Hawk nodded without any real interest, "It only confirms what we already know. Bennett is a nut. So he liked to peep and play cops and robbers at night — that's not going to help us catch him."

Nick wasn't so sure. But he kept his peace and for a time they drove in silence. Hawk broke it. "I had a thought back there in the room — just before you went off into that trance. I'll tell you if you promise not to die laughing."

"Promise."

"Okay." Hawk crunched fiercely on a dry cigar. "As I was saying back there — if the Kremlin put one over on us, really succeeded in planting Bennett on us, then why in hell haven't they been using him? Contacting him? Milking him for all it was worth? It just doesn't make sense that the Ivans would plant a sleeper on us for thirty years! Five, yes. Maybe ten. That's been done. But thirty! That's a hell of a long sleeper."

Nick agreed. "Yet they seem to have done just that, sir."

Hawk shook his head. "No. I don't think so. And I've got a real screwy theory that just might explain it. Suppose they goofed in the Kremlin. Really goofed, a monumental flub. Suppose they planted Bennett on us way back in 1936 and then forgot about him!"

At least it was a fresh approach to their problem. Certainly it had not occurred to Nick. But it seemed to him a little wild. He wasn't buying it. Not yet. He reminded Hawk of one of the basic facts of life, one of the first things an agent is taught. Never underestimate the Russians.

"I'm not," said Hawk dourly. "But it is possible, boy! We make mistakes, as you know, and some of them are dillies. So do the Reds. We usually manage to cover our mistakes, hide them, and so do they. The more I think about it the more plausible it becomes. Remember that they must have told Bennett that he was going to be a sleeper. Told him to lie low, quiet like a mouse, and never try to contact them. Never! They would get in touch with him when the time came. Only it never came. They lost his file somehow. They forgot his existence. A lot can happen in thirty years, and Russians die the same as everybody else. Anyway 1936 was a bad year for them — that and the years just after. Their revolution was still pretty new and shaky, they'd had the purges, they had begun to worry about Hitler. A lot of things. And they weren't nearly as efficient then as they are now. I know! I was just a young agent then."

Killmaster shook his head. "It's still pretty wild, sir. I think you're reaching way out into left field to get an explanation. But there is one aspect, one set of circumstances, under which your theory might make some sense."

Hawk was watching him intently. "And that is?"

"If, after they recruited Bennett, they found out he was a nut. A psycho. Or that he had tendencies that way. We know they don't recruit mental cases — they would have dropped him like a hot potato. Probably they would have betrayed him themselves just to get off the hook. There was no risk, no danger to them. Bennett was a loner, a sleeper, not part of a network. He couldn't have known anything to hurt them."

"But they didn't betray him," Hawk said softly. "Never. And we didn't know about him. Yet they've never used him, at least to our knowledge. So if they didn't goof, if it wasn't a Kremlin foul-up, what the hell is the answer?"

"It just could be," said Nick, "that they're playing it straight. That Raymond Lee Bennett was supposed to sleep for thirty years. While that freak brain of his sucked up everything like a vacuum cleaner. Now they want him. Some commissar, some high brass in MGB, has decided the time has come for sleeping beauty to awake."

Nick chuckled. "Maybe he got a kiss in the mail. Anyway, if I'm right, the Russians are in a little trouble, too. I doubt they expected him to kill his wife! They certainly don't know, or didn't at the time, how crazy Bennett is. They expected him to vanish quietly, without any fanfare, and turn up in Moscow. After a few months, or years, of squeezing his brain dry they could give him some little job to keep him quiet and happy. Or maybe just arrange for him to disappear. Only it didn't work out that way — Bennett is a wife killer, the game is blown, and every agent in the world is looking for him. I'll bet the Russians are damned unhappy."

"No more than I am," said Hawk bitterly. "This thing has more angles than my maiden aunt. We've got plenty of theories, but no Bennett. And Bennett we must have! Dead or alive — and I don't have to tell you which I prefer."

Nick Carter closed his eyes against the hot glare of the sun on the Potomac. They were back in Washington now. No. Hawk didn't have to tell him.

He left Hawk on Dupont Circle and went to the Mayflower by taxi. A suite was always reserved for him there, a suite that could be reached by a service entrance and a private elevator. He wanted a couple of drinks, a long shower and a few hours' sleep.

The phone was ringing as he entered the suite. Nick picked it up. "Yes?"

"Me again," said Hawk. "Scramble."

Nick scrambled. Hawk said, "It was on my desk when I came in. A flash from Berlin. One of our people is on his way to Cologne right now. They think they've spotted Bennett."

There went the sleep. For now. Nick never slept well on planes. He said, "In Cologne?"

"Yes. He's probably avoiding Berlin purposely. Too dangerous, too much pressure. But never mind all that now — you were right about the woman, Nick. In a way. Berlin was tipped by a prostitute in Cologne who works for us sometimes. Bennett was with her last night. You'll have to contact her. That's all I know right now. Take off, son. A car will pick you up in fifteen minutes. The driver will have your instructions and travel orders and all the dope I've got. It isn't much, I know, but a hell of a lot more than we had ten minutes ago. An Army bomber is flying you over. Good luck, Nick. Let me know how it goes. And get Bennett!"

"Yes, sir." Nick hung up and stared at the ceiling for a moment. Get Bennett. He thought he would — barring death. But it wasn't going to be easy. Hawk thought it was a complex mess now — Nick had a hunch that it was going to get a hell of a lot worse before it was over.

Killmaster took one of the fastest showers of all time, letting the water stream icy cold over his rangy, hard-muscled body. He dried with a huge towel — small towels were a favorite hate of his — and wrapped it around his flat thirty-four-inch middle.

The bed was a double one and the big mattress was heavy, but he flipped it with an easy wrist motion. As usual he had a little difficulty locating the seam which in turn so cunningly concealed the zipper. Old Poindexter, of Special Effects and Editing, had overseen this job personally and the old man was an artisan of the old school.

Nick finally found the zipper and opened it, removed wads of stuffing and thrust his arm full length into the mattress. The arms cache was cunningly placed in the exact center of the mattress, well padded, so that nothing could be felt from the outside.

He took out the 9mm Luger, the stiletto, and the deadly little metal ball that was Pierre the gas bomb. One whiff of Pierre's lethal essence could kill a roomful of people. Now Nick attached the little bomb — about the size of a Ping-Pong ball — to his body. When he had finished the bomb hung free between his legs.

The 9mm Luger, stripped down, a skeleton of a pistol, had been encased in a lightly oiled rag. Knowing that it was in perfect condition, still Killmaster checked the pistol again, pulling a rag through the barrel, testing the action and the safety, thumbing out cartridges on the bed to test the feeder spring in the clip. Finally he was satisfied. Wilhelmina was ready for grim games and nasty fun.

Killmaster dressed rapidly. The stiletto, in the soft chamois sheath, was strapped to the inner side of his right forearm. A flick of his wrist activated a spring that shot the cold hilt down into his palm.

There was a beat-up old dartboard hanging on one wall of the bedroom. Nick walked to the far side of the room, turned rapidly and flung the stiletto. It quivered in the cork, just outside the bull's-eye. N3 shook his head slightly. He was a trifle out of practice. He replaced the stiletto in the sheath, donned a plastic shoulder clip, stowed away the Luger and finished dressing. The desk should be calling at any moment to announce the arrival of his car.

The phone rang. But it was Hawk again. No one but an intimate could have discerned the tension in the voice of the man who ran AXE practically singlehanded. Nick caught it immediately. More trouble?

"I'm glad I caught you," Hawk rasped. "You're scrambling?"

"Yes, sir."

"More on Bennett, son. It's even worse than we thought. Everyone is really digging now and the stuff is flooding in — Bennett was a steno-reporter at some meetings of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Quite recently, I take it. Just before he came to us."

"That does make it nice," said Nick grimly. "That freak brain of his knows the thinking, the bias and prejudice, the likes and dislikes, of every one of our top brass. Damn — that sort of information can be as valuable to the Ivans as any 'hard' stuff he might have picked up."

"I know," said Hawk. "How I know! The bastards might as well have had a bug in the White House. Anyway, I just got the flash and the FBI suggested I pass it on to — to whoever is doing the job for us. They don't know about you, of course. Actually they're just trying to nail home the tremendous urgency of finding Bennett — as though we didn't know it. They now presuppose him to be carrying, somewhere in his crazy skull, information about atomic weaponry, missiles and anti-missile missiles, plans for the defense of Europe, estimates of comparative military capabilities, military intelligence reports and analyses — I'm reading this from a flimsy they sent me — information pertaining to troop movements, retaliation plans of the United States Strategic Air Command and, hold your hat, boy, a tentative extrapolation of the war in Vietnam! Whether or not Bennett realizes he knows all these things — he does! And when the Russians realize he does — if they don't already — they will build the biggest suction pump in the world to dredge our man dry. They won't care how long it takes, either."

"I'd better get cracking, sir. The car must be downstairs by now."

"Right, son. Goodbye again. Good luck. And, Nick — there's a penciled notation on this flimsy. From J.E.H. in person. He suggests that the best solution of our problem is a few ounces of lead in the soft tissues of the Bennett brain. As soon as possible."

"I couldn't agree more," said Nick Carter.

Chapter 4

The old name for the street, for the entire district, had been the Kammachgasse. But that had been in the days before the First World War, when the sordid, poverty-stricken neighborhood had attracted prostitutes as naturally as it collected coal grime. Since that time the city of Cologne had been bombed heavily, devastated and rebuilt. Along with the rest of the Rhineland city, the Kammachgasse was also refurbished, shined and polished and given a new image. But, like a palimpsest, the old image could still be seen glowing faintly through the new, like a ghost in a television set. The prostitutes were still there. But where they had been furtive under the Kaiser, and hardly less so under Hitler, in the new Germany they were blatant.

The women now had a street of their very own. It was called Ladenstrasse. Store street! This because the girls sat in little, well-lighted store fronts, behind panes of clear glass, and displayed themselves to the shoppers, not all of | whom were male.

The women in the small glass cages were very patient. They rocked and smoked, knitted and read magazines, and waited for whoever chose to wander in from the street and use their bodies for a few minutes. Die Ladenstrasse was the last stop for these women, a fact of which even the dullest was aware. It is doubtful that many of them thought about it, or cared very much.

It was a little after midnight when the big, rough- looking man entered Ladenstrasse. There was still considerable traffic on the street, though a few of the windows were dark — the girls either having gone to bed or out for a bite and a drink with their pimps — but no one paid any attention to the big man. Not even the bored policeman who yawned now and then, and removed his shiny patent leather helmet to scratch his balding head. Gross Gott! Heinrich was late again tonight. Silly young schwein. Probably mooning around his Katte again and had forgotten the time. Oh, his feet! It would be good to get home to Anna and his supper, and to soak his poor feet in a tub of hot water.

The policeman gazed idly after the big man who had just shambled past him into Ladenstrasse. A huge one, that. Look at the shoulders on him. And a late one, too. He would be just in time. No doubt he had been drinking in some stube and had decided at the last minute to have a woman tonight. The policeman yawned again. Poor devil. He always felt a little sorry for the men who came to Ladenstrasse. They had no Kattes, no Annas.

The big man shambled down the street, his hands in his pockets, his huge shoulders hunched in the dirty leather jacket. He wore a leather workman's cap and a filthy magenta neckcloth to conceal the absence of a collar. His corduroys were limp and frayed, and he wore a pair of old German Army shoes with hobnails. The street had been resurfaced since the last war, but here and there was an island of the original cobbles. When the hobnails struck the cobbles a spark or two would orbit briefly in the night, like fireflies lost and out of season.

The man stopped before Number 9. The window was dark. The big man cursed softly. His luck was souring fast. Ever since Hamburg, where he had been delivered by the bomber. He had changed clothes, gotten an AXE car from the depot there, and driven like mad to Cologne. He had been stopped three times for speeding, twice by the Germans and once by the British, and the English had damned near jailed him. It had taken a lot of the old hands across the sea malarkey to get him out of that one — plus a sizable bribe for the corporal in charge!

Now Number 9 was dark. Closed up tight as a drum. Hell! Killmaster scratched at his chin stubble and pondered. The Berlin man had been supposed to meet him in the Hohestrasse, at the Cafe of the Two Clowns. The man hadn't shown. Nick, after hanging about for hours, had finally decided to contact the woman on his own. It wasn't good. It might not even work. The woman was the Berlin man's contact, not his. Well — when the devil drove…

Nick Carter glanced up and down Ladenstrasse. Some of the other girls were closing up shop now. The cop on the corner was scratching his head and leaning against a lamppost. The street was fast becoming deserted. He'd best get the hell off it before he became conspicuous. He rapped hard on the glass store front with his knuckles. He stopped and waited a moment. Nothing happened. He rapped again, harder this time, the impatient tattoo of a lustful, drunken man who was determined to have Number 9 and no other. That would be the story if the cop got nosey.

After five minutes a light flicked on behind a dark curtain at the rear of the little platform. Now he could make out a rocking chair and a pile of magazines. A pair of black high-heeled shoes beside the rocker, the spikes about six inches high. Nick thought of that cabinet back in the peaceful little town of Laurel, Maryland, and he grimaced. Raymond Lee Bennett, if it was indeed he, seemed to be running true to form. If, again, it wasn't all wild goose! Nick was not in a very sanguine mood at the moment.

A woman was peering at him through a slit in the curtain. The light was bad, but she appeared blonde and incredibly young to be on Ladenstrasse. Now she clutched a robe about her breasts and leaned toward him and shook her head. Her mouth was wide and red and he could read her lips as she said: "Nein— nein— geschlossen!"

Nick shot a glance at the corner. Hell! The cop was beginning to saunter this way, his attention caught by the rapping on the glass. Nick swayed a bit, as though very drunk, and jammed his face against the glass and shouted in German. "Closed hell, Bertha! Don't give me that stuff. Let me in, I say. I've got money. Plenty of money. Lemme in!"

The cop was closer now. Nick moved his lips against the glass silently and prayed that this one wasn't as dumb as most prostitutes. He mouthed a word: "Reltih— reltih!" Hitler spelled backward. A grim little joke the Berlin man had dreamed up.

The girl shook her head again. She wasn't getting the message. Nick made a blade of his right hand and chopped at his left wrist three times. It was the ultimate in AXE recognition signals, and a dead giveaway if an enemy professional was watching, but it couldn't be helped. He had to get through to Bertha — or whatever the hell her name was.

She was nodding now. Yes. She'd gotten it. She disappeared and the light went out. Nick shot a glance up the street. He breathed easier. The cop had lost interest and gone back to his corner, where he was now talking to another, younger policeman. His relief man, no doubt. His arrival had taken the heat off Nick.

A door clicked softly open. A voice whispered, "Kommen herein!"

The AXEman followed her up a narrow staircase that" smelled of sweat and urine and cheap perfume and cigarettes and a million bad meals. Her slippers made a shuffling sibilance on the worn treads. Even to Nick's falcon eyes she was only a moving blur in the gloom. Instinctively, without thinking, he eased the Luger in its plastic holster and let Hugo, the stiletto, slide down into his palm. He was not expecting trouble — and yet he was always expecting trouble!

At the top of the stairs she took his hand and led him down a long dark passage. She had not spoken again. Her hand was small and soft and slightly moist. She opened a door and said, "Herein."

She closed the door before she switched on the light in the room. Nick cast a swift look around before he relaxed. He pushed the stiletto back into its sheath. There was nothing to fear in this room. Not as he understood fear. For the woman it might be another matter. His eyes, those strange eyes that could change color like the sea, flickered rapidly around the room and missed nothing. A tiny white poodle sleeping on a cushion in a corner. A parakeet in a cage. Lace curtains and doilies, a pitiful attempt at gaiety that somehow attained only a slightly sordid froufrou. On the dressing table and small bed was a litter of kewpie dolls. Something Nick hadn't seen in years. There were a dozen or more of them. Her children, no doubt.

He sank down on the bed, still rumpled from her last customer. It smelled of cheap scent. The girl — she was indeed very young for Ladenstrasse — sat in the room's only chair and stared at him with enormous blue eyes. Her hair was a brassy yellow and swept high, her face good but for a small weak mouth and great purple shadows under her eyes. She had thin arms and big floppy breasts, a tiny waist, and her legs were much too short between ankle and knee. This gave her an oddly malformed look without any real physical deformity. It might, Killmaster thought briefly, be the reason for her presence here instead of dancing in some show or cabaret.

He got immediately to business. "Have you heard from Avatar? He was to meet me in the Hohestrasse. He didn't come." Avatar was the code name for the Berlin man.

The girl shook her head. "Nein. I have not seen Avatar. I spoke to him last night — on the phone to Berlin. I told him about the American — this Bennett? Avatar said he would come immediately." She shook her head again. "But I have not seen him."

Nick Carter nodded slowly. He took a pack of crumpled Gauloise from his pocket and offered her one.

"I do not smoke, danke." She cupped her sharp little chin in her hand and stared at him. There was approval in her glance, and something of fear.

Nick took a square of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. It was one of the flyers so hastily circulated by AXE. It bore a picture of Raymond Lee Bennett lifted from the security files in Washington. Nick glanced briefly at the narrow face, the old acne scars, the balding head and too close-set eyes. It was an easy face to spot. Why hadn't Bennett disguised himself?

He tossed the flyer to the girl. "This is the man? You're positive?"

"Ja. I am sure." She fumbled in a pocket of her robe. It fell open and she did not bother to close it. Her large breasts still retained some of their youthful firmness.

She took another flyer from her pocket and spread it alongside the one Nick had given her. "Avatar sent me this last week. It is what you call the routine, ja? I did not really expect…"

Nick glanced at his cheap Japanese wrist watch. Nearly one by now. Time was wasting. Still no Avatar. He'd best pump this poor little drab and get on with it.

"Do you know where this man is now? This Bennett?"

"Perhaps. I cannot be sure. But when he came last night he was staying at the Hotel Dom. His room key was in the pocket of his jacket. When he went to the bathroom — it is down the hall, you understand — I searched the jacket. He had forgotten to leave the key at the desk. Of course I had already recognized him from the picture."

Nick leaned toward her. "What room number? On the key?"

"Nine-four-six. I wrote it down so I would not forget." She went to the dressing table and lifted a kewpie doll. She handed the chit to Nick.

"You did well," he told her. He glanced at his watch again. He could afford a few more minutes. If Bennett was still at the Hotel Dom — it was unlikely — then he was probably in for the night. If the man had already moved on, which the AXEman expected to be the case, it was still a warm trail. Only a day old.

"You told Avatar about Bennett immediately?"

"Ja. As soon as he left I slipped out and called Berlin. Believe me, mem Herr! I did not waste a minute."

Nick smiled. "I believe you — what are you called?"

She showed bad teeth in a travesty of a smile. "Helga will do."

Nick shrugged. He did not really want to know her name. Not that important. He stood up and stretched. He saw her blue eyes widen as she made an expert appraisal of the body beneath the crude workman's clothing. For a moment he felt a tinge of sour amusement. You would think they would get sick to death of it — like a kid working in a candy store. But apparently not.

He glanced at his watch again and sat down. Another five minutes and he must be on his way. Find some way of checking if Bennett was still at the Hotel Dom. If he was — and if Nick still couldn't find Avatar — then he would just have to find some way of getting to Bennett, very quietly, and killing him. Without being arrested for murder! That might take a bit of doing. If only he knew where the Berlin man was, what he was up to. Just could be that Avatar had decided not to wait — to go after Bennett himself. His orders would have been the same as Nick's own. Kill!

"Tell me," he commanded, "just what happened last night? From the time you spotted this Bennett until you called Berlin. Make it fast, please. Bennett was all alone, of course?"

"Ja. Alone. He was shopping at the windows, you understand? Walking up and down the street and looking at the girls. When he stopped at my window I knew him at once from the picture. I was excited, Herr, and very frightened. I was afraid he would not come in, that I would lose him. I could not have dressed and followed him in time."

Killmaster nodded curtly. "But he came in. Get on with it, bitte."

Her blue eyes were steady on his as she said: "There was something about that one, Herr, that I recognized. That I understood. A look he had. When you see as many men as I do you come to know strange things — and this Bennett had the look. And I was right — he was about to turn away when I held up the boots and my little whip. He smiled at me and came in at once."

The girl left her chair and crossed the room to a flimsy cabinet made of pressed cardboard. From it she took a whip and a pair of high-heeled patent leather boots that laced to the knees. Nick thought again of the hidden room in Laurel.

She tossed the whip and boots on the bed. "These, mein Herr! And he knew how to use the whip. He also took pictures of me. Many pictures with a Kamera— die Polaroid. You understand? In many positions?"

Nick smiled gently at her. "You were no doubt well paid for all this?"

"Ja. He paid well. But I think I should have more. Look!"

She dropped her robe and stood naked before him, turning to let him see the nasty red welts striping her white back and buttocks. "You see, Herr\ Should I not be paid more for my services?" Her red mouth was sullen over the bad teeth.

Nick Carter let none of his compassion show. He gave her a flinty smile. "Avatar is your paymaster, not me. Take it up with him."

If you ever see him again, Nick thought. He was beginning to get a feeling about the Berlin man. A feeling he had known before, a very nasty premonition of disaster. In this respect his hunches were seldom wrong. His built-in radar, sharpened and sensitized by years of cheating death, was beginning to cast a faint shadow on his mind's screen. And if he was right, and Avatar was in trouble, or dead, it meant a change in plans. He had been depending on Avatar to help him get into the Hotel Dom.

It also meant, beyond doubt, that the Russians had also picked up the scent and were in full cry. He hadn't time to worry about that just now. He would face that trouble when it came — which would be soon enough. But now…

He went to the door. The girl followed.

"I'll have to find a way of getting into the Hotel Dom," Nick said. He flicked a hand at his clothes. "I can't do it dressed like this — they wouldn't let me past the desk. That means I'll have to sneak in, and to do it without being caught as a thief I'll need to know the layout of the place. Do you know anyone who works at the Dom? Anyone at all? Servants? Kitchen people? It is very important — and for it I will pay extra."

He did not really expect anything — these girls had very few contacts in the daylight world — but he took a 100-mark note from his battered wallet and let her see it.

To his surprise she nodded instantly. "I know a porter there. He comes to me sometimes. His name is…"

"I don't want to know his name!" Nick spoke curtly. "Can you get in touch with him? Now! At once?"

Again she nodded. "I think so. Frit — he works nights. This I know because he always comes here early, in the afternoons. I could call him in the service quarters at the hotel."

Killmaster was thinking rapidly. His orders were clear enough. Kill Raymond Lee Bennett. To hell with Avatar, the Berlin man. Something had gone wrong there. Who needed him, anyway? If he could buy this porter he could get the job done and be out of Cologne before dawn. It was worth a chance.

He handed her the 100-mark note. "Call him. Is there an alley behind the Dom? An areaway or parking lot? Any place that will be deserted now?" He was not familiar with Cologne.

She took the note and put it in a pocket of her robe. "There is an alley. It is narrow and dark and I do not think the police patrol it well. The Dom is a luxe hotel — they would not think it necessary. Only der Klasse stay at the Dom."

Nick glanced at his watch again. A few minutes after one. Plenty of time yet. If only the bird had not flown.

"Call him," he ordered. "Be very sure you speak only to him and that he is not overheard. He is clever, this porter? Not dumb?"

The girl smiled. She put a hand on Nick's arm, fingering the huge bicep. "He is clever enough. And he does not like the polizei. He has had trouble with them before now."

Nick grinned at her. "Good. I need someone a little shady for this job. Okay — you call your friend as soon as I leave. Here is what you will tell him — be sure you get it exactly right. Exactly! That is important.

"Tell him to be in the alley in an hour. Be sure he is not seen, or missed. He should be able to arrange that. Say that he is to smoke two cigarettes at once and, when he has smoked them, to flip the butts in opposite directions. He is not to say anything. Not to speak to me. I will see him before he sees me. I will identify myself with one word — Feldwebel. Got that?"

"Feldwebel? You will speak so? He is to say nothing until you speak first?"

"Good girl. When he hears me say Feldwebel he is to answer: 'Das Wasser ist kalt.' The water is cold. Got that now?"

"Ja. I have it all. But he will want money, this one. Perhaps much money."

Killmaster gave her a steely glance. "He will be well paid. Tell him that. Tell him also that if he double-crosses me, makes trouble for me in any way, he will also be paid. But not in marks. Do not tell him this until after he agrees to meet me, then make sure he understands it. And be sure you understand it."

"Ja, schon Mann. I know. You must not worry." Her fingers stroked timidly at the stubble on the AXEman's cheek. "Perhaps — you can stay just for a moment or two longer?" She took the 100-mark note from her pocket and let it drift to the floor. "I… I would not need that."

Nick gave her a sweet and knowing smile that was nearly genuine. To spare her feelings he said, "It would be nice, Helga. Thank you, but I cannot. There is no time. Maybe later, when this is over. Goodbye."

As he felt his way down the dark staircase he remembered what she had called him. Schön Mann. Beautiful man! Killmaster shook his head a little sadly. Somewhere within the diamond-hard casing of him there was a twinge of pity. She must know a loneliness that exceeded even his own.

Then he shook it off and stepped out into Ladenstrasse. There was work to do. Killing, if all went well. It would be nice to end this thing tonight and be back in the States tomorrow.

In any case the AXEman had never been much of a one for prostitutes. And when he did consort with them it was only with the most beautiful and the most expensive.

Chapter 5

When he left Ladenstrasse Nick Carter went, by back streets and narrow by-ways, to Cathedral Square. His manner was not furtive; he hunched his shoulders and shambled, hands in pockets, weaving now and then, a workman who was a little drunk and did not give a damn who knew it. The few passers-by paid him no attention. He did not encounter another policeman. He found a shadowed bench in the lee of the Erzbischofliches Museum, the length of the gardens from the cathedral, and waited. The Hotel Dom was a short two blocks away. He would allow himself ten minutes for the walk.

The alley running behind the Dom was narrow and dark. Nick went cautiously, as stealthily as the shadows themselves, avoiding the garbage cans and dustbins of the shops adjoining the Dom. He interrupted a conclave of cats and was soundly hissed. "Quiet, grimalkins," Nick told them. "Beat it. Take off. Your men friends are waiting."

He found a niche in the rear of a garage across the alley from the back area of the Dom. It was well after two now, but lights still burned in some of the rooms. Night lights glowed dimly in the kitchens and other service areas on the ground floor. Directly across from where he stood was a sizable parking area, asphalted and lined on one side with cans and trash receptacles. There was a small unloading dock. Three cars, two Volkswagens and a Mercedes, glinted beneath a single dull arc light.

Killmaster had been waiting barely two minutes when he heard a door softly open and close somewhere across the way. His keen eyes caught movement in the heaviest shadows clotting near the line of garbage cans. A match flared yellow for an instant, went out. Two red dots punctured the gloom. Nick waited patiently while the man smoked. Then, at last, one butt was flipped to the left, the other to the right.

Nick moved across the alley into the darter part of the parking lot. He spoke softly: "Feldwebel?"

"Das Wasser ist kalt." The voice was rough, deep, a gravely basso.

Nick went a bit closer. "Ja. The water is cold. The woman told you what I want?"

He was close enough to the shadow now to see it shrug. It was short and squat. It said, "You wish to enter the hotel without being seen, Herr. And I suppose you wish to get out the same way, nein? It can be arranged — for money."

"How much money?"

A moment of hesitation. Nick took another step forward and stopped abruptly. That breath — a powerful blend of tobacco, onions, alcohol and just plain halitosis! The man's friends, if he had any, had just never told him.

"Five hundred marks, Herr? And I must know, you must tell me, something of what you plan to do? I must protect myself, you understand? The polizei…"

"A thousand marks," Nick told him sternly. "And you will ask no questions. None! You will answer questions. The less you know the better for you. If you do your part well and keep your mouth shut you will not get in trouble with the police. When we part you will forget that you ever saw me or that the woman ever called you. You will forget it instantly and forever! Do you understand?"

"Ja, Herr. What is it you wish? I mean other than entrance to the hotel? That part is easy enough and…"

"I know," Killmaster said brusquely. "I would not need you for that! Here is what I want." And he leaned closer to the man, trying his best to avoid that terrible breath.

A quarter of an hour later Nick Carter left the freight elevator at the seventh floor of the Dom. He took the fire stairs up two flights to the ninth floor. The corridors were empty, thickly carpeted underfoot and dimly lit. He went up the fire stairs like a ghost. His workman's clothes were in a locker in the basement. He now wore a green porter's uniform with shiny silver buttons. He had changed in a laundry room while his guide and mentor kept watch outside, thus giving Nick both a respite from the breath and a chance to transfer his weapons without arousing suspicion. That the porter was a rogue he had no doubt — but murder was something else again.

Nick cracked the door on the ninth floor and peered cautiously into the long corridor, a faint grin on his rough-stubbled face. He had neither the time nor the inclination to explain to the porter about AXE executions. To him the killing of Raymond Lee Bennett would be plain murder.

Nick stepped quietly out into the corridor. So be it. After the fact, if he brought it off, it would be too late. The man dare not talk then.

Room 946 was at the far end of the corridor, near the front of the hotel. Nick walked the distance rapidly, noiselessly, his fingers probing the pocket of the green monkey jacket for the passkey. That in itself was worth the thousand marks. He might have jiggled the lock with his pick, but it would have taken time, made noise and kept him standing in the hall too long.

Here it was. A white door with the bronze numerals 946. The faintest of smiles touched his firm mouth as he saw the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door. It might, Killmaster thought sardonically, just be possible that he could kill Bennett without disturbing him. If he did it fast enough. While the man slept.

He glanced back along the corridor. It shimmered in the subdued night lighting, a dim tunnel of silence. Carefully, very slowly, Nick slipped the passkey into the lock. If Raymond Lee Bennett was indeed in the room — and Nick had no way of knowing for sure — then this was the most dangerous part of the operation. Bennett might be a nut, but he was no fool. He enjoyed playing espionage games and he probably knew a lot of tricks, if only from his reading. He might be sitting in the dark, waiting with a .38 Magnum. He might have rigged a gun trap to the door, or scattered bottles and cans around as noisemakers — anything. Nick Carter told himself that he would hate to get it from a crazy amateur like Bennett. He also prepared his apologies if he got caught by some fat German businessman and his wife: "Verzeihung, mein Herri A thousand pardons. The wrong room, you understand! Falsch Zimmer! I have come to repair the plumbing, Herr. I was told this room was empty and — Ja, mein Herr. I am going at once!"

He turned the key. The lock gave with the faintest of oily clucks. Nick waited, listening, not breathing. He had been too long in the corridor. He must get in, out of view, prepared for anything. He moved his wrist and the stiletto dropped down into his palm. He put the blade between his teeth, transferred the Luger to his right hand, and with his left slowly turned the knob. The door swung inward without a sound. The room was dark. Killmaster slipped in and closed the door softly behind him. Prepared for anything.

Prepared for anything but the smell that met his nostrils. A rank powder smell. Guns had been fired in this room. Quite recently.

Nick acted on instinct, not conscious thought. He dropped to his hands and knees and moved away from the door, to his right along the wall, feeling cautiously ahead of him. He breathed softly through his mouth. And listened. Listened with every ounce of intensity he could muster, his face a few inches off the carpet. After a moment he took a deep noiseless breath and held it until his ears began to pop and his lungs hurt. He held his breath for nearly four minutes; at the end of that time he was sure that there was nothing, no one, in the room with him. No live thing.

Nick let himself collapse softly on the carpet, relaxing the tension. The Luger was in his left hand, the stiletto in his right. There was no danger in the room. Not now. He was sure of it. But there was something else in the room — he could feel its presence — and in a moment or two he would have to face it.

He breathed deeply, listening to faint outside sounds, letting his nerves come back to normal. A tug bleated somewhere on the Rhine — the great river was close by — and a car whirred through lonely streets. From far off a police klaxon sounded. He heard the faint rustle and stir of heavy drapes and at the same moment felt a waft of breeze on his cheek. There was a window open someplace. The breeze smelled faintly of the river, of docks and quays, of coal and oil and gasoline. Then the breeze was gone and he could smell the gunpowder again.

His body was safe for the moment and his brain took over. Racing like the fine computer it was. Guns had been fired in this room; there had been no alarm, no police — the porter would have told him — so that meant the guns had been silenced. Silencers meant a particular sort of trouble, his kind, the kind he understood best. The police, hoodlums, ordinary robbers, they did not use silencers. Sometimes Nick did. So did his opposite numbers in the service of other countries.

Nick Carter made a wry face in the dark. It wasn't going to be as easy as he had begun to hope. It never was, of course. It had been crazy to dream of getting Bennett and getting out of Cologne by dawn! He sighed and pushed himself off the carpet. Best get on with it.

He put his hand squarely into a man's face. The flesh was still faintly warm. Nick ran his hand down the man's arm to the wrist, picked it up and flexed it. No rigor yet. Could it be Raymond Lee Bennett? Had the Berlin man, had Avatar, seen a chance and taken it? Done the job and gone? Or was this Avatar now cooling on the floor?

As Nick crawled back to the door he found his thinking a bit ambivalent. If the Berlin man had gotten Bennett it was all to the good — the job was done — and yet it had been, primarily, Nick's assignment. Professional jealousy? Nick grinned in the dark. Hardly that. It was just that when he started a job he liked to finish it.

He found the door and locked it. Bolted it and slipped on the safety chain. He found the light switch and flipped it. It wasn't really much of a risk. Not after a gun battle had gone unnoticed.

The ceiling chandelier came on with a golden glow. Nick stood with his back against the door and surveyed the scene. Battle was right! A dozen or more shots must have been fired. A wall mirror had been shattered, a vase lay in shards near a mantel, there were ugly pockmarks on the light blue walls. Good thick walls or the bullets would have gone through and alerted the people next door.

There were two bodies. One, the one he had touched, was that of a small Chinese. Something went boingggg in Nick's brain even as he bent over the corpse. So they were in it, too! That would surely make the stew more binding, if not more palatable. He shook his head a little sadly as he examined the dead man. It was something that he and i Hawk had foreseen, of course — the ChiComs had good pipelines into the Kremlin — but they had been hoping that the Chinese wouldn't tumble until it was too late. After Bennett was dead.

The Chinese had been shot once through the chest, near the heart He had bled a lot on his expensive white-on-white shirt. Near his outflung hand was a Luger very like Nick's own, but a later model and not stripped down. Nick picked it up and examined the long cylindrical silencer fitted over the muzzle. A good one, made right here in Germany. With it in place there would be no more noise than a cork would make, shot from a child's popgun.

He dropped the Luger to the floor beside the dead man and moved to the other corpse. He was wearing the paper thin, nearly transparent gloves given him by old Poindexter long ago. They were made of human flesh — Poindexter only laughed and shook his head when asked about them — and they would leave prints. Whose prints Nick had no idea. Only Poindexter knew that — he and the man who had done the actual flaying.

He stood gazing down at the- second corpse. It was near the large double bed. A bed that had been lain on, but not slept in. The coverlet or red velvet was still in place. The material was heavy and thick and had retained the indentations of two bodies. Nick left the body for a moment and went to the bed. He bent over it, not touching it, and sniffed at the indentations in the velvet. Scent! Expensive perfume in one of them. Still lingering. Bennett had had a woman with him.

Killmaster went back to the body nearest the bed. The twain had met, all right. East and West. The latest dichotomy Politik. This one had been a Russian, or at least a Slav, and one glance was all that Killmaster needed. The muscles, the closely cropped hair, the swart concavity of features, the cheap suit that fitted even worse in death than it had in life. A Russian muscle man. Probably an MGB underling killed in the line of duty. Nick bent closer. Killed plenty, too. Four slugs in the gut. He had bled hardly at all. The Chinese agent had been the better shot — if the Chinese had killed him. If they had killed each other. Nick glanced at the bed again, conscious now of the sick disappointment growing in him. Maybe Bennett had killed the two men. Or the woman, whoever she was. It didn't much matter. Bennett was gone again, off and running, and here he stood with a room full of corpses. And egg on his face, as they said in show business. Empty handed.

He began to move around the room, searching it rapidly and expertly. He glanced at the dead men again and frowned. One Chinese and one Russian. A fight. So who had the button? Who had Bennett? For once he found himself pulling for the Chinese. If they had Bennett then he, AXE, still had a chance. It was a long way to China. If the Ivans had him it was probably all over — they would take him over the line in some remote, desolate country spot. They would guard him with an entire division if they thought it necessary — until they had sucked him dry, had squeezed every ounce of that thirty years of total recall from his freak brain.

The closets were empty. Clothing, bags, all gone. Nick found an ashtray with a few butts in it. Two were stained with lipstick. The woman was beginning to interest him more and more. What was she— Chinese or Russian? It was going to make all the difference.

He went into the bathroom for a fast look. Nothing left in the cabinet, nothing concealed in the flush box of the toilet; a few tissues in a wastebasket bore traces of makeup. Nobody hiding in the stall shower. Nick went back into the bedroom and went through the small desk. Nothing but the usual — hotel stationery, pens, pencils, etc. He glanced into the wastebasket beneath the desk. A medium-sized paper bag. He tilted the wastebasket with his foot and the bag slid out onto the floor. There was a! rattling, tinkling sound. Like broken crockery. Nick picked it up and shook out the contents onto the carpet.

It was a smashed jigsaw puzzle in broken ceramic. Two dozen or more shards, large and small, with a yellow ocherous glaze. Nick fingered the bits and pieces. Some sort of desk ornament, mantel bric-a-brac, kitsch furnished by the hotel? Then why bother to gather the pieces, to put them in a bag? There had been no attempt to clean up the rest of the room.

Killmaster rolled the largest piece between his fingers. It was the head of a snarling tiger. Small, about an inch across from ear to ear, and very skillfully done. The tiny eyes were a savage yellow with a glint of scarlet, the fangs a feral white scream. You almost expected the thing to bite you. Nick stared at it a moment, then he gathered the pieces and put them back in the bag. He thrust the bag into the pocket of his porter's jacket. Probably didn't mean a thing — yet on a screwy case like this you never knew.

He went to the open window and examined the heavy monk's cloth drape. The breeze had ceased now and the hanging lay, two or three folds of it, on a narrow radiator that it should have cleared. The folds were crumpled and dirty. Nick glanced up. The drape had been torn away from the rod up there. Someone had stepped on it going out the window. He pulled back the drape.

They had gone this way, of course. Bennett and the woman, with all their gear. Nick started to put his head out, then scowled at his carelessness. He went back and turned out the light, then waited another minute before he craned out the window and searched up and down. Downward the fire escape led to a busy main street. He doubted they would go that way. Up, then. Up to the roof and over the adjacent buildings.

He checked his weapons, from force of habit, then went lithely through the window and began to climb. Only three floors to go. He went up the steep ladder that hooked over the parapet, hesitated just under the ledge, then went up and over in a rush. Silhouetting yourself against the sky was bad tradecraft and could sometimes be fatal.

The roof was flat. Gravel and tar. There was a housing for elevator machinery and a water tank. Killmaster moved into the deepest shadow beneath the tank and waited. For five minutes he waited. Nothing moved on the roof. If Bennett and the woman had come this way — he was sure of it — then they had found a way off the roof. If they could, he could. Even as Killmaster moved from beneath the tank a plan began to form in his mind. It wasn't much of a plan — and he didn't particularly like it — but it was, as the compulsive gambler said, the only game in town. It might not even come off, this cripple of a plan, and even if it did he was going to be in lots of trouble, but it seemed the only way. Killmaster was going to have to stir up a hornet's nest, make an offering of himself — in short, bait a trap with his own neck. And hope he got caught. Otherwise it was hopeless. He would just keep fumbling around in the dark. No time for that. He had to have action and he had to have it fast. He must play the clown.

After a minute of scouting the roof he knew how they had left it, Bennett and the woman. Must have. To the east, toward the Rhine, there was a ten-foot drop to the roof of the adjoining building. There was also a six-foot gap between buildings. Nick studied the dark pit below. He whistled softly. To him it was nothing. But for Bennett? For a woman? Then, somehow, with great clarity, he knew the truth. Bennett, the little traitor, might have been the problem — but not the woman! Whoever she was, and on whatever side, she would be in charge. She'd probably pushed Bennett!

There was a certain studied carelessness in the movements of Killmaster now. Hawk would have been vastly puzzled at the sloppiness of his Number One Boy. Nick leaped to the roof below. He did it easily, but clumsily. He fell and rolled and allowed himself to curse aloud. He stood in silhouette and brushed himself off, muttering angrily, and made more noise than a bear in a thicket. There was a coldness along his spine that couldn't be helped. If they were around — the other losers, Russian or Chinese — he had to draw them. About the winners, Russian or Chinese, he didn't have to worry at the moment. They would be making time and tracks.

He crossed the roof, shambling noisily, and climbed awkwardly over a parapet leading to the next roof. The buildings were on the same level to the end of the block. Then he would have to descend to the street.

It was on the third building that he found the body of Avatar.

It was lying in deep shadow near the base of a ventilator. Nick saw it in time, but let himself appear to stumble over it. He cursed. If he was being watched — he hoped he was — they must be hard put to contain their laughter, would think they had the world's prize jackass to deal with.

He had never met the Berlin man in person, but he had been shown a picture in Washington. The man had been a top agent, yet without the rank of Killmaster. Only three other men held that rank in AXE, with Nick Carter the senior officer. Yet this had been a good man, a very good man, and now he was dead. Nick knelt beside the body, using his pen light, and made a rapid search of the pockets. There was no wallet, no credentials. They would have taken those for possible future use, for copying and forgery. Everything else was in order. Avatar had not been in disguise. He was wearing an American-made business suit of conservative cut, a white shirt and a dark blue tie. His felt hat had rolled a few feet away when the bullet had taken him between the eyes. Nick let the tiny beam rest for a moment on the black hole, the rictus of death, the staring eyes. He wondered if the guy had had a wife. A family? Few AXEmen did.

With a thumb and forefinger he closed the eyes, patted the still warm cheek and got to his feet. Avatar must have checked at the hotel, found that Raymond Lee Bennett was still there, either seen or somehow heard of the woman and the others and had decided to move without waiting for Nick. Lacking Killmaster rank, still, on the mission, he would have been licensed to kill. Fate had given matters a reverse twist.

Nick Carter went on his way over the roofs. He came to the last building, found a rusty fire escape leading down to a narrow street that ran off toward the dock area. What had been a hunch, a suspicion, became a near certainty. Bennett and the woman must be trying to get out of Cologne by an unusual route — the river. It would be slow — that would be the chief drawback — but there were also many advantages. Roads can be easily blocked; trains, planes, buses, private cars can be easily stopped and searched. It is hard to blockade a river as large and as busy as the Rhine.

As he dropped from the last fire ladder to the narrow cobbled lane he told himself that it must be the Chinese — they had Bennett! Time would have been of the essence to the Russians; it would not matter so much to the Chinese. They were a patient people, and China was a hell of a long way off — they would try to find a safe hole and go to ground. Wait. The Rhine was cluttered with tugs, steamers, barges and sailing boats, cabin cruisers, whatever. It was at that moment Nick conceded that, for the moment at least, he had lost the game. Raymond Lee Bennett was going to get away — for the time being.

He was making for the quays now, walking rapidly, his feet, still in the heavy workman's shoes, banging at the pavement. He turned into an alley that debouched on a wharf, saw the glare of lights and the stark outline of loading cranes. The alley ended at a tall wire fence. Beyond it men were working, unloading a river steamer. Next to the steamer, up river, was moored a long string of barges. The quays there were dark. Nick turned to his right, down a long tunnel formed by warehouses looming on either side. A narrow dark passage.

When he had gone fifty yards he glanced over his shoulder. They were following. Three shadows had just flitted into the tunnel after him.

Killmaster's grin was cold and a little cruel. Right on schedule. They figured to have him cold. It was true, in a way, but he had them, too. It was like the old joke — who was doing what to whom and who was going to pay for it! It was a reckless gamble, but not his first and he hoped it wouldn't be his last. And now he had to put up just enough of a fight to make it look genuine.

He halted just where the warehouses ended, where the alley widened and the light was a little better. He swung around as if only then alerted, and met the rush of the three men. Slav muscle, all of them. Big, burly, rough men with bashed faces and fists like hams. They would, he thought, have orders not to kill him. Not yet. He liked that. It meant that he could rough them up, but good, and he was in just the mood for it. He was tired, frustrated — a failure at his job — and just plain mean and ornery.

He kicked the first man in the crotch. He put four fingers, stiff and hard as railroad spikes, into the eyes of the second man. He threw a rolling block at the knees of the third man, knocked him down and kicked him in the face with the heavy Army shoes. He got the feeling that he was overdoing it. Careful! He had to be taken prisoner.

The man he had kicked in the crotch stayed down, moaning and grabbing at himself, but the second man was up and in again, swinging a sap. Nick took the sap on his left forearm — it hurt — and backhanded the man in the throat with the edge of his right hand. Too hard, damn it! The man folded with harsh animal grunts of pain. Nick cursed again. These characters were too easy! It began to look as though he would have to get the sap and knock himself out.

The man he had kicked in the face rolled in the alley, found the sap his companion had dropped, and came at Nick from behind. Nick pretended not to see him. He concentrated on kneeing one of the men in the face as he was trying to rise. He tensed, steeling himself. It was never easy to take!

The sap got him just over the right ear, an expert blow. Between the time of impact, and the opening of the dark hole beneath his feet, Nick managed to break the nose of the man before him. He felt the bone crunch and was glad about it and then the long spiral into bright gloom began. He was going down the longest laundry chute in the world. Clear to the Gates of Hell.

Chapter 6

Someone was talking. On and on the words flowed. Never ceasing. Incessant chatter. Yackety-yac-yackety-yac… Where in hell was he? Crucified on the Tower of Babel? Certainly he was bound hand and foot, and he was lying on something very hard. That wasn't so bad — it was the talking that was getting him down, bugging him. Didn't they ever shut up? It was like a convention of howler monkeys and myna birds and stuck auto horns — all mixed into one sickening blast of sound. And none of it made sense. The words were all blurred together in a weird electronic screaming. It sounded like the tape on a code machine…

Wait a minute! That voice — that one voice in there? Where had he heard that voice before? Hmmmm — it was very, very familiar. Too familiar!

Nick Carter kept his eyes tightly closed. His massive brain, only beginning to shake off the effects of the drug, just emerging into lucidity, took over. Not a muscle moved in his face, stark in the harsh hot cone of brilliant white light. In his brain the circuits moved and clicked and the little lights went on and off and the questions were shot at the central board and the answers came back — all in less time that it took him to draw a single breath.

The Russians had him. Good. He had planned it that way. He was tied down, under a hot light. Probably a cellar or an old warehouse. It didn't matter much. What did matter was that he had been talking! How long? How much? What had he told them so far? And he was still talking. Only now he was conscious of it, knew what he was saying. Coolly, calmly, the recovered segment of his brain stood apart and listened to the reflexive, automatic flow of words. But now his brain was editing the flow.

A woman's voice, soft and persuasive, was hanging in a little balloon just over his head. Like the speech balloons in the comic strips. With a great effort Nick restrained a muscular twitch — he still wasn't all the way back. His mind was still playing tricks. The lettering in the balloon, the voice, was in capitals, all caps, and in bold black Bodoni.

"You will tell us," said the voice, "all you know about the Yellow Widow. Everything. Every little detail is important. We know that you have a file on the Yellow Widow in Washington. You must have seen that file. You will tell us everything — everything!"

The Yellow Widow? Ktilmaster's brain came a little more back to normal as the drug wore itself out. Who in blazes was the Yellow Widow? Never heard of her. Not in the AXE files. Maybe she belonged to the CIA or FBI — in any case it wouldn't hurt to make up a few lies, kill time until he was completely himself again.

He kept his eyes closed, his face relaxed. He said: "Yes. I know of the Yellow Widow. She is a Chinese agent. She had been married three times and is believed to have murdered her husbands, though this had never been proved. She operates a string of laundries and chop suey joints in the States. She uses them for drops and meeting places."

Another voice, male, said: "He is lying. Colonel. Pulling our leg, now. The drug is beginning to wear off — I told you it was not good to administer it while he was unconscious. To be fully effective it must be…"

"Be quiet, Doctor!" The voice was now harsh and crackling, loaded with authority, very nearly a neuter. Yet it was that of a woman. Nick let his eyes crack open ever so slightly. She was bending over him, her face close to his, her eyes a hard and washed-out blue. Her hot breath was laden with tobacco. She was going slightly bald in front. Nick closed his eyes again. A bald woman? Maybe he was still drugged.

Then his amazing brain, fully recovered now, reached back into a memory file and came up with a possible answer. Colonel? The man had just called her that. A picture formed in his brain. A picture of a half-bald woman. A real horror of a woman. Her name was Zoe Kalinski and she held the rank of Colonel in MGB. AXE might not know about the Yellow Widow, whoever she was, but they had a very thick file on Kalinski. Efficient — dedicated — sadistic — bisexual. Ugly!

A hand smashed across his face. It rocked and stung him. The woman said, "You are right for once, Doctor. All right, Mr. Carter! You may stop shamming now. Let us have no nonsense. Time is short and we have much to talk about."

He couldn't have told them much of value about Raymond Lee Bennett and the woman, Nick thought before he opened his eyes. He really didn't know anything! What else he might have said he had no way of knowing — he could only hope they had been too much in a hurry, too interested in Bennett, to question him in depth about AXE secrets. He decided on brashness.

He stared up at the woman. She was going bald, by God! Her mouse-colored hair was swept back and caught in a careless bun at the back of a thick neck. Her face was broad, the nose flat, her lips a thin incision in gray flesh. The blue eyes were watery, weak, but somehow very hard. Bleak. She was thick shouldered and massive around the waist. She must, Nick thought, have an enormous behind.

Nick winked at her. "Colonel Kalinski, I believe? How's it going, Colonel? Doing any wrestling these days?"

For perhaps five seconds the blue eyes blinked at him. Her lashes were scant, almost colorless. She took a deep breath, thrusting out breasts as large as basketballs, then slapped him again. And again. And yet again. She did it with the back of her open hand, hurting him with her knuckles.

"That," she said evenly, "is just to let you know your position, Mr. Carter. To show you who is boss here. You are, believe me, in no position to make wisecracks!"

"Can't help it," said Nick. "I'm just a fun-loving kid at heart. But I'll try to control it — for the sake of my jaw if nothing else. You pack a pretty good wallop there, Colonel." And yet her hands, he noted, were small and soft and somehow did not go with the rest of her.

The woman made an impatient gesture. "Enough of this! You will answer my last question, please. What do you know of this woman called the Yellow Widow? No lies."

Killmaster nodded. "Okay, Colonel. No lies. I never heard of her. Is she the one that got Bennett away?" He sneaked it in fast, hoping to catch her off balance, but having no great hope. The Socratic method was all right in its place; against a top agent of MGB he hadn't much hope. Yet he had to try to get something started. It was the whole reason for being here, for taking that clout on the head. He was stymied. And in this business you took help wherever you found it.

Colonel Zoe Kalinski stroked a flabby chin with an incongruously beautiful hand. "I will ask the questions," she said. "But I begin to think I am wasting my time with you, Carter."

Nick grinned at her. "A minute ago it was Mr. Carter. What happened to make me lose face?"

The blue eyes studied him. "Lose face? That is an odd expression for you to use. But never mind — I repeat, what do you know of this Yellow Widow?"

Nick scowled. "And I repeat — nothing! You must know I'm telling the truth. You questioned me under the drug, didn't you? What was it — sodium pentathol?"

"Yes. But it was administered wrongly! I told you, Colonel…"

The speaker was a tall, emaciated man who had been standing a little back of the woman. He was little more than a rack of bones wearing a cheap tweed suit. He wore a battered trilby hat. His face was gaunt, his eyes haunted, and there was dope addict written all over him. On the floor near his feet was a small black medical bag.

The woman turned on the man in a fury. Her voice crackled like a shorted electric cable. "Keep quiet, you! Do not speak again! Not unless you have my permission. We are not dealing with a fool here, with an underling! This man is Nicholas Carter. He is the top agent for AXE, the American murder organization! Keep that in mind, all of you. I, and only I, will do the talking to this man. Understood?"

The thin man's cowardice was abject. He passed a trembling hand over his face. "Yes — yes, my Colonel! I understand. I… I will not offend again."

"See that you do not. I have enough trouble now without having to cope with fools."

Nick Carter had used this brief altercation to survey the physical situation. His eyes missed nothing; his brain stored it for future use.

He was in a warehouse of some kind. It appeared to be very much in use. Everywhere he looked he saw stacks of what seemed to be heavy rolls of paper. Probably newsprint. From somewhere near came the muted bellow of a tug. They were still near the river, then. The long table on which he was bound stood in a little clearing in the stacks of paper. The single light was a 300-watter at least, dangling over him in a large green shade. It was hard to see back into the shadows, but he heard them move and cough, saw a match flare, heard the whispering. The muscle boys. He counted the shadows as best he could. Must be at least six of them. Fresh ones, no doubt, and not the ones he had worked over. This, he told himself, could get a little nasty before it's over. But then he had known that all along.

The Colonel was back. Her thin lips parted to reveal where all the yellow had gone. "Now, Carter, once more. You know the Yellow Widow is a Chinese agent, no? You said as much. You must know more about her. Her friends, her mode of working, her safe houses where she would take — where she would hide out? You must know all these things — and you are going to tell me!"

Nick shook his head. "I don't. I tell you I never heard of her. I made all that up just as I was coming out of the drug. Look, Colonel Kalinski, maybe we can make a deal, eh? At least I can, if you want to play. I have carte blanche from my government. Have you?"

Again the long slow look. The thin lips twitched against was more of a gurgle than a chuckle, but the Colonel was definitely amused. "I am glad we met, Carter. You are all that I have heard — insouciant and arrogant. You are also not without courage — either that or you are a complete fool! That I-cannot believe."

Nick assumed a slightly idiotic expression. "Gee, Colonel. Thanks a lot. We don't get many kind words in our profession and…"

She slammed her knuckles across his face again. "Enough. You still maintain that you know nothing of the Yellow Widow?"

It was hard work, but Nick managed to keep his grin. "I do. That's why you'd better consider a deal. Colonel, And fast! They're getting farther away all the time — Bennett and this Chinese lady. Why don't you put your cards on the table? I will. I'm after Bennett. I admit it. I want to kill him. You're after Bennett, too. But you don't want to kill him. Not yet. Not until you've used him, pumped him dry. Face it, Colonel. You people have goofed badly on this Bennett thing. So have we. We're going to have to fight it out between us later, I know, but right now neither of us has Bennett! This Yellow Widow has got him and she's running for China. If we put our heads together, if we exchange information, work together, we might be able to stop her."

It was a monumental bluff. He didn't think it had a prayer. He could offer to exchange information because he didn't have any. This Colonel Five-by-Five might just have a smattering — the Russians, after all, had been on the trail just ahead of him.

The blue eyes were like two marbles looking down at him. He got the impression that she was wearing contact lens and he wondered about it, but only briefly. She smacked him across the face again. "I think I am right about you, Carter. You don't know anything. You have, as you say, bungled it. So have we, this I admit, but your bungling is much worse. Were it not for your reputation I would be inclined to think that you are nothing but another American fool." Again her knuckles raked his face.

Nick felt a trickle of blood on his lips. He smiled, feeling the torn skin pull and stretch. "When you've finished getting your jollies, Colonel, I suggest that you get in touch with your people and ask them what they think. Get your boss in the Kremlin on the short wave and ask him! You might be a little surprised."

The woman turned from him and walked a few steps into the shadows. Nick saw that he had been right — her behind was enormous. Her legs would have been stout even on a piano. She was about two hundred pounds of feminine nastiness. His gut churned and he felt a moment of near panic. Sweat crawled on his skin like moist little snakes. Had he miscalculated? Was he going to be able to get himself out of this?

He could hear her giving orders to someone in the gloom. After a moment the man said, "Da," and left immediately. The Colonel came back to stare down at Nick. "I have followed your advice in part, Carter. I have sent a message to my superiors informing them of your capture, and of what you suggest. It will be an hour or more before we can expect an answer — in the meantime we shall get back to the real business. What do you know of this Yellow Widow?"

Nick groaned aloud. "You, Colonel Kalinski, have got a one-track mind."

"Yes. That is so. I find it a great asset in my work. What do you know of the old Roman law, Carter?"

That one stopped him for a moment. He blinked at her. "The old Roman law? Not much, I guess. Why? What's it got to do with finding Bennett?"

"Perhaps a great deal. A very great deal — with me finding Bennett. Doctor! The equipment, please. I think I will begin now." She reached a hand back and wriggled her ringers. Killmaster, remembering certain details of Zoe Kalinski's dossier, felt the sweat grow cold along his spine. He could take torture. Had taken it many a time. But he had never gotten to like it. And there was a limit to what any man could take.

Nick was prepared for knives, dental drills, even air hoses. He would not have been surprised at brass knucks, clubs, whips. This was an old warehouse and they would have to make do with what was at hand, yet the equipment that the dope addict produced puzzled him. It was so simple, so innocuous looking.

Two pieces of thin wood. About an eighth of an inch thick and five inches square. A small rubber mallet, very similar to a judge's gavel.

Colonel Kalinski stood back from the table. "Prepare him."

Two of the muscle boys came out of the shadows. Both were grinning. Nick tested the bonds that held his wrists to the table corners. Rock firm. Hell! What pleasure to have smashed the grins off those flat faces. But it was not going to be — this time he was just going to have to lie there and take it. But what?

He found out soon enough. He had been stripped to his shirt and trousers. His weapons were gone, of course, and the heavy Army shoes were also missing. Now, at the woman's command, the men unbelted his trousers and pulled them down. His shorts were ripped off and he was exposed to the hot glare of the light.

It was a strain, but Nick managed to preserve both his grin and his cool — as the cats back Stateside would have said — and he could even leer up at the Colonel. "Please, Colonel! I know we're enemies and all that, but isn't this going just a bit far? I'm a modest man and…"

"You talk a great deal. Carter, but you never say anything. But you will — you will." Her cold stare was unwavering. Nick was reminded of giant squid he had once confronted in i sea cave near Madagascar. The squid had looked at him the way she was looking now.

"I was speaking of the old Roman law/' she said. She began to draw on a pair of very thin rubber gloves. Surgeons' gloves. Again he noted the delicacy of her hands, then forgot it in a wild flurry of panic. He did not like thinking about surgeons. Not exposed like this.

"The old Roman law," she went on, "was just the opposite of your decadent English law. Now, in your country, confessions extracted by torture are thrown out of court. In the old Rome it was just the opposite — a confession had to be obtained by torture to be valid. You: begin to understand, Carter?"

"I understand," he blurted, "but you're wasting your time. If the drug didn't work…"

"Drugs!" It was as though she had spat. "I have little faith in drugs. Even less in the fools who administer them." She turned to glare at the doctor. "You will remain, understand. No creeping away because you have a weak stomach. You are a poor thing, but you must have some knowledge, and I must know when his pain threshold is reached."

"As you command," said the emaciated man with his first show of dignity. "But I will be sick as usual. I promise you that, Colonel." One of the other men laughed.

"Then be sick!" the woman rasped. "But attend closely. You and your drugs! I will show you the best drug of all — the best truth drug. Pain!"

In all his long career as an agent Killmaster had never experienced anything quite like this. Even as he steeled himself against the pain that was to come he found that he was curiously fascinated. Those delicate hands in the pale rubber gloves. Certainly she was clinical enough; there was nothing but the most dispassionate interest as she went about her business.

She put one piece of wood beneath him; the other piece of wood she lay on top. A sandwich of wood. Very thin wood. Colonel Kalinski picked up the rubber mallet and gazed down at Nick Carter. Her expression was very close to benign. She might have been a dumpy, rather ugly, nurse dealing with a recalcitrant child. She poised the mallet deftly in one hand.

"Possibly I am wasting my time," she told Nick. "And inflicting needless pain. Perhaps my intuition is correct and you know nothing of the Yellow Widow — but I cannot trust my intuition. As an agent yourself, Carter, you will understand that. I must be sure! And there is no surer way than by torture. This has been true since the world began — when all else fails, torture works. Now, Carter? One last chance. What do you know of the Yellow Widow? I know you people have a file on her — what is in it? Also I want the names of your people in this city, in Cologne and in Berlin. Quickly now!"

Nick Carter shook his head. "You're right about one thing, Colonel. You're wasting your time. I…"

Colonel Kalinski rapped the upper square of wood with the mallet. Sharply.

At the very first there was no pain. Only a gathering sickness that began in his stomach and moved up into his chest and throat. Nick thought he was going to spew and fought it back. He was choking. Then the delayed wave of pain hit him, a searing wash of agony that tore at his brain.

"You nave a foolish courage," she said. The mallet came down again. A little harder this time. The pain came faster and Nick could not restrain the hot scald in his throat. He was conscious of vomit on his lips and chin. She struck again with the mallet. And again. Nick was floating on a hot raft of pain that was unendurable and yet must somehow be borne. And more than that — he must keep at least a part of his mind clear. He must listen to, and try to remember, what this sadistic bitch was saying.

Her voice came clearly enough out of the scarlet mists of his pain. Pain that he could not remember, for one cannot remember how pain felt; pain that he would never be able to describe any more than he could describe the odor of a rose; pain that was the essence of here and now, an immediate thing that banished the rest of the universe. His racked body personified pain. He was pain!

"I will tell you the little we know of the Yellow Widow," the woman was saying. "I do this because I am sure you already know all this — a fact which you will admit presently."

The mallet fell.

"Her real name is Chung," the voice went on. "She is half Korean, half Chinese. She is considered very beautiful, though now she must be in her forties. She is now known as Madame Hsu Tzu Tsai — in Peking, that is. Her late husband was on the Chinese General Staff. She had been most unfortunate with her husbands. The last one was her fourth."

Again the mallet.

Nick put his lower lip under his teeth and bit down hard. Tasted the salt of his own blood. He wasn't going to scream for her. Not yet.

"She is a top echelon agent, this Yellow Widow. She works only on the most important missions. Our own dossier on her is very scanty, which is why I must know what you know, Carter. Because this woman must be caught, she and Bennett, before she can get him to China."

"My thought exactly," said Nick. Was that groaning, pain-racked mumble actually his voice? "If you would just listen to…"

Tap-tap-tap — Three brisk strokes with the mallet. Vast new vistas of pain opened before him. He was wandering over white hot coals, over a vast plain of pain. He began to fight hard for his sanity. The pain in Spain falls mainly on my brain. There it was again! Oh God… oh God… oh God… stop it… stop it… stop it…

The mallet rested, poised over his bruised and swelling body.

"My people," said Colonel Kalinski, "have in the past made the mistake of underestimating Chinese Intelligence. This present generation, I for one, is paying for their mistakes. To use your gangster slang — we did goof on the man Bennett. He was recruited, and planted in Washington, some thirty years ago. And then forgotten. His file lost. The idiots! His file was found recently quite by accident — in some trash that was about to be burned. That led to the discovery of a bank account in his name, into which a great deal of money had been paid." The voice was a little puzzled. "That is another thing we do not understand — why this Bennett would defect to the Chinese when he has a fortune waiting for him in Moscow."

Through pain-bleared eyes Nick saw her raise the mallet. To forestall the immediate agony he blurted, "It's the woman! Bennett loves women. He's a psycho, a sex nut. I don't think he cares much for money. But a pretty woman could talk him into anything." He was, he told himself, not giving away anything of import. So far he was getting far more information than he was giving. But that mallet — that horrible mallet!

Silence. The mallet hovered, but did not fall.

"Hmm — so that is it. Thank you, Carter. See, you are beginning to talk. So Bennett is a sex psychopath? We do not have that information in our files. Yes. I can see now how it was worked. The Chinese knew this, and we did not. They sent the Yellow Widow as bait. And it worked."

Nick Carter kept talking, his eyes on the mallet. He was getting very near to the end of his resistance and he knew it. A few more strokes with that sledge hammer — the mallet grew bigger by the moment — and he would be babbling like a brook. Be begging them to listen to AXE secrets. Unless he could somehow, mercifully, lose consciousness. But it was never that easy.

"The Widow might be sorry she got Bennett," Nick told the face hovering above him in the pain cloud. He killed his wife, you know. Or did you?"

The face nodded. Through the mists that clogged his brain he could see the blue eyes boring into him like gimlets.

"We know that. When his file was reactivated we had our people in New York run a check on him immediately. We were just too late. Only the day before the body of his wife had been discovered. Bennett had disappeared. We could do nothing but wait for him to contact us."

The trick was to keep her talking. As long as she talked the mallet would not fall, the sickening agony would not return. But to keep her talking he had to feed the kitty — keep handing her bits and pieces of valueless information. But how? What? Who could he throw to the wolves without endangering AXE security?

The mallet came down. Hard. Nick screamed. Or so he thought. He could not be sure. The scream seemed to come from a distance. One thing was sure — someone had screamed!

He could bear it no longer. Why not give them the porter? The porter at the Hotel Dom? He opened his bleeding mouth to speak, then clamped it shut again. No. Fool! They would take the man and torture him — and that would lead them to the poor drab on Ladenstrasse. He couldn't do it.

The mallet again. And again. Pain entered his being and got mixed and came out as a pleasure of such purity that it could not be undergone. Pleasure such as this was quite unendurable.

"Stop!" He was screaming again. "Stop it! I'll talk… I'll talk." He would give them Avatar. The Berlin man. He was dead and nothing could ever hurt him again.

The mallet rested from its labors. The voice of the Demon Goddess, Purveyor of Pain, said with a chuckle: "I thought you would, Carter. Now you are being sensible. I am glad. I do not enjoy inflicting pain."

Lying bitch!

Killmaster spoke rapidly, as though the rush of words could congeal into a barrier, a physical shield, against the mallet.

"I don't know anything about the Yellow Widow," he panted. "It's the truth — I don't. I'd tell you if I did. But I can give you our Berlin setup — from the head man down. Our whole network. That should be of some use to you, Colonel! His code name is Avatar and…"

It wasn't going to work. He saw the mallet strike down again. His body exploded in a gust of flame and he felt new vomit spew from his lips and down over his chin to trickle on his bare chest.

"You are a fool," said the voice. "We know all about Avatar. We killed him as he was following us across the roof. We took his wallet which, as you know, will be of some help to us. Not much. That is minor. As for his network in Berlin, Carter, you lie! You would not know of that — not unless you Americans are even bigger fools than we think."

All true. He couldn't buy himself out of torture that way.

The voice went on: "It is the Yellow Widow that we. must know about. She, and only she, is the key now. She will try to hide now until this thing has time to cool. Where will she hide, Carter? Where would you look for her — if you were free to look?"

He still had enough brain left to think of a plausible lie. It would have to do. Maybe it was even true. He had no way of knowing — he only knew that somehow he must gain respite from the pain for a time. Time to pull himself together. Time to gain strength for the new ordeals. But it had better be a good lie!

"In Albania," he gasped. "In Albania! That's a ChiCom stronghold. You must know that. According to our files this Yellow Widow has got a villa on the Adriatic. She'll probably take Bennett there. She'll have plenty of protection and she'll lie low until the heat is off and she can make the run for China."

It was purest moonshine, of course, but it didn't sound so bad. Even a little plausible. As a guess it might be better than most. And it was buying him time, time which he sorely needed. For Killmaster was nearly at the end of his tether.

He heard her laugh and say something to the doctor. There was triumph in her voice and Nick clutched at the sliver of hope. Maybe if he could keep it up, keep feeding her plausible lies, he would black out. He cudgeled his pain-mangled brain, trying to think of a city, a town, in Albania. Anything. Damn — damn! He couldn't think — What in hell was the capitol of Albania? Wasn't it near the Adriatic? He'd better be right or it would be the mallet again.

"Tirana," he gasped. "She's got a villa on the sea near Tirana. I'm telling the truth — I swear it!"

She tapped him very gently with the mallet. A bare touch. The pain shivered through him in little modulated waves. Bearable. Only just bearable.

She laughed. To his surprise it was rather a pleasant laugh. Not at all what he would have expected from this monstrous woman.

She said: "At this point, Carter, you would tell me anything. Anything at all. But you may be telling the truth. It is just possible. Albania is plausible enough — perhaps too plausible. A little too obvious. Hmmm — yes. And yet it just may be. We shall have to check it out. All right, Carter, no more torture for the moment. But just in case you are lying — and so you will remember…"

Colonel Kalinski swung the mallet one last time. Hard.

Killmaster fainted at last. Never had he welcomed darkness more.

Chapter 7

When he came to he was on his feet. He had been dressed again in the porter's outfit and the heavy Army shoes were on his feet. Nick swayed, but did not fall. He was being supported on either side by the colonel's muscle men. Their fingers bit into his biceps as they hauled him upright. Somehow he managed to straighten his sagging knees.

As the pain mists gradually cleared he saw her seated on the table where he had been bound. Her stubby legs were crossed and he saw that she was wearing thick black lisle stockings. Fiat, sensible shoes. Her feet were as enormous as her behind.

The yellow teeth flashed at Nick as she waved a slip of paper. "I have just received orders from Moscow, Mr. Carter." So it was "Mr." again. Immediately he was suspicious.

The Colonel was speaking. "I cannot say that I agree with my superiors, but I must obey orders. You are to be released immediately. My men will take you from this place and let you go. Naturally you will be blindfolded."

Nick swayed between his guards. He was coming back fast, recovering his mental and physical balance, a fact which he wished to conceal. He didn't believe they were letting him go. They were conning him, trying to lull him. They couldn't, or didn't want, to kill him here in the warehouse. They were soft talking him so that he would go quietly to his place of execution. He decided to play along. His enormous strength was coming back — the bundle of pain he carried would just have to be ignored. He could function.

He let his knees buckle again. The men held him up. "I don't get it," Nick croaked. "It's a trick. Why would you let me go?"

She was a good actress. She tapped the slip of paper against her discolored teeth. "I am as puzzled as you are, Mr. Carter. We have been trying to get you, to kill you, for years. Now they insist that you are to be set free. The order comes from the very highest level in my government. It would appear that your government, and mine, have agreed to work together after all. Your own idea, Mr. Carter, if you remember."

It was possible, he admitted. Barely possible. Both governments were admittedly desperate. He had failed. The Colonel had failed. The Yellow Widow, Madame whatever it was, had Raymond Lee Bennett and was off and running. Yes — it was very nearly credible and he didn't believe a word of it. He knew what was in the message from the Kremlin — kill Carter! They wouldn't miss a chance like this.

Colonel Kalinski nodded to the emaciated doctor. "Give him his possessions. His arms. Everything but the little metal ball. I am going to send that back to be analysed."

So Pierre, the little gas bomb, was going to end up in a Kremlin laboratory. Nick hoped there would be an accident.

The doctor handed Nick's Luger and stiletto to one of the men. The man was about to thrust the pistol into the shoulder holster when the woman spoke sharply. "Take out the clip, you fool!" She hunched her big shoulders in disgust and made a face. "You see, Mr. Carter, how it is? I must think of everything. I sometimes wonder where they find the oafs they send me."

The clip was removed and tossed into a comer. The man on Nick's left, who had the stiletto, found a crack in the concrete floor and thrust the slim weapon into it. He bent it over until the point broke off, then slipped it into the arm sheath with a grin. Nick swung at him, very feebly, and fell flat on his face. The man kicked him in the ribs.

"None of that! For the moment we are to be allies. Does he have his wallet? His papers, handkerchief, change — he must have everything he had when you brought him in."

"Thank you," Nick muttered as the men picked him up and supported him. "You are an angel of mercy, Colonel."

Again the strangely pleasant laugh. "We do not, as you say in the States, kid ourselves, Mr. Carter. But orders are orders. And I must say goodbye now. Blindfold him and take him to the boat. Goodbye, Mr. Carter. Perhaps we shall meet again."

She could not, completely, conceal the note of gloating in her voice. Nick had been sure before; now he was positive. They were going to kill him.

He accepted the knowledge and did not fret. He would worry about dying when the moment came. Meantime he did a most unprofessional thing — he allowed his bitterness, his hate, his desire for revenge, to show. To become vocal. A thing he had never done before.

"I hope we do meet again," he told her coldly. "I hope we meet and that I am in command of the situation, Colonel. I would enjoy that. But there is one great problem…"

They put a black cloth over his eyes then. He sensed that she had moved away from the table and the light, that she was in the act of leaving.

When she had gone, Nick was punched in the spine with a hard object that was undoubtedly a gun. The men on either side gripped him hard and led him along. Three of them. Two on each side and the one behind — he was the important one. He would keep his distance and his gun would be ready. They weren't expecting any trouble from Nick — but the third man was there just in case he hadn't gone for the allies bit.

They passed through a door and appeared to be in a narrow passage. Their heels rang on the floor. Metal plating. It was a long passage and after a time Nick caught the smell of the river. They must be approaching a wharf or pier, some sort of dock. Probably where the river boats loaded and unloaded the rolls of paper he had seen. He could see nothing through the black scarf tied over his eyes, but he reckoned that it was still dark. He had lost all track of time — the pain had seen to that — but it must be dark. They wouldn't dare to execute him in daylight.

Nick lagged a bit, let his feet drag.-He groaned. "Not so fast, you bastards. It hurts me. Where are you taking me? She said something about a boat — what boat? I'm too sick to handle a boat by myself."

The man to his right spoke softly in German. "You will be all right, Herr. It is a small boat. Very small, and there is an oar for steering. It will be easy. The current will take you down river to one of the passenger quays. You will be able to get a taxi there."

"Enough of talk," said the man behind them. "Get on with it. It will be dawn soon."

Nick saw that they were going to play this little game out to the very end. And now he understood why. Why they hadn't killed him back in the warehouse. They didn't want to shoot him. Or stab him. They were going to sap him when the time came, just hard enough, then drown him. He had to have water in his lungs. It wasn't perfect, of course, but it was better than tossing a bloody corpse into the river. His wallet and money, credentials, would be on him. The river police might suspect foul play but there would be no proof, and no fuss would be made. Quite a few bodies came floating down the Rhine. It was the way he would have done it himself. These were professionals.

They stopped abruptly. The smell of the river was much stronger now and Nick could hear the lap-lapping of water nearby. It wouldn't be long now until they made their move — and the man behind him was still the key man. He would be the one to sap Nick from behind. But they wouldn't do it until the very last second — they wanted the unsuspecting victim to walk to within an inch of the gallows!

"You'll have to take off the blindfold." It was the man behind them. "The catwalk is narrow. He'll have to be able to see."

The blindfold was taken off. It was still very dark, but across the river, to the east beyond the end of the pier under which they stood, Nick made out a thin line of pearl. He stood loosely, relaxed, slumping a bit in the grip of the two men on either side of him. He willed himself to forget the agony in his groin. There was no time for pain now. Death was waiting out at the end of this pier. Death for whom? He thought not for him — but you could never be really sure.

The man behind him prodded with the gun. Good, you sonofabitch! Stay close to me. The closer the better. Now every micro-second was important. He couldn't wait too long. Any moment now the man behind him would raise a hand, bring the sap swishing down…

They were on a narrow catwalk under the long pier jutting out into the Rhine. "Kommen" said the man on Nick's right. He took out a slender flashlight and played the tiny beam on the rough planks underfoot. The catwalk was barely wide enough for them to go three abreast.

In reaching for his flashlight the man had slightly relaxed his grip on Nick's arm. Killmaster guessed that the man behind was still close, not more than two or three feet. Perhaps even now raising the sap. It was time!

Ignoring the blinding flash of pain in his groin, he raised his elbows abruptly. Like muscular wings coming up. He slammed backwards with both elbows, with every ounce of his strength, catching each man squarely in the chest. They staggered back into the following man, knocking him off balance. All were flailing wildly for balance on the narrow catwalk. The man who had spoken to Nick let out a startled yelp. "Gott Verdammt!"

Nick Carter pivoted on one foot, put his head down and dove at the man with the pistol. The Luger flashed and banged just alongside Nick's head. The muzzle flash seared his face. Then the top of his head was in the man's paunch with pile driver force. They went off the catwalk together. As they hit the river Nick flicked the blunted stiletto down into his hand.

The man was fat and bouyant. Nick had a hard time taking him down. But he did take him down, all the way to muddy bottom. He got one powerful arm under the struggling man's chin and lifted it. He put the jagged blunt point of the stiletto into that fat flesh a dozen times, feeling the blood swell hot on his fingers, tasting it in the water. He could easily have drowned the man — Nick was good for four minutes under water — but now that he could strike back at last he found himself in a cold fury. Again and again he rammed the stiletto home.

His flash of rage passed. He let the corpse go and, still with two minutes of air, came back up near the surface. He could see nothing. It was dark and the water was roiled and muddy. He would have to risk a fast look to orient himself, in this case literally, because he must swim to the east away from the pier.

He broke water as quietly as a seal. They were fools, those remaining two. One of them was back on the catwalk, playing his flashlight about as he helped the other one out of the water. Killmaster could have pulled them both down and drowned them, and for a moment he was tempted; then he sank silently beneath the surface. Let them go. They were tools. Muscle heads. Not worth killing unless they threatened him. Nick's smile was grim. They had enough to worry about. Colonel Kalinski wasn't goinh to like this.

He swam underwater until his lungs began to hurt. When he surfaced again he was a hundred feet off the end of the pier. Both men were using flashlights now. Trying to find their dead friend, no doubt.

Downstream he could see a glow in the sky, paling now in the first flush of dawn. That would be the central park of Cologne. He let the current take him, relaxing and floating, swimming only enough to stay close inshore. He had to get out of the river without attracting the attention of the police. He would go back to Ladenstrasse, to the little whore. She might not like it, but she would have to hide him for now. Later he would have her make a contact for him by phone.

The porter's jacket was binding him. He was about to cast it off when he felt something in the pocket. Now what in hell — then he remembered. The shards of the ceramic tiger he had picked up in Bennett's hotel room. Why was he lugging it about? Nick shrugged in the chill water and admitted that he didn't know. Probably it didn't mean anything. Certainly it hadn't meant anything to the Kalinski woman or she wouldn't have put it back in his jacket.

So he might as well take it along. He kept the jacket on. It just might mean something. He would turn it over to Hawk and the lab boys in Washington. If he made it.

Right now he had more important things to worry about. He had to get out of Cologne alive. He had to report failure of his mission. That thought tightened his throat and brought a bad taste into his mouth. Failure. Abject and absolute failure. It had been a long time since he had used that word.

How, and where, was he going to pick up the trail of the Yellow Widow and Raymond Lee Bennett? It must be alone.

Chapter 8

The Shanghai Gai, one of the more exclusive gesang houses in South Korea, stood on a hilltop near the village of Tongnae. It was some ten miles north of Pusan, but the roads to the port were good, for Korea, and the phone service was adequate. Not that adequate was good enough in this instance — Killmaster was gambling, playing a long hunch and an educated guess — and he was in constant touch with his men in Pusan by short-wave radio. Nick Carter was taking the biggest chance of his career — and placing that career in jeopardy. He was betting that the Yellow Widow would try to take Raymond Lee Bennett into China through Korea.

It was the middle of June. Ten days since he had floated down the bloodstained Rhine. On his return tc Washington he spent two days in an AXE hospital,' most of the time floating in a hot bath loaded with Epsom salts to reduce the swelling, but he was still fiendishly sore and moved with difficulty. During his time in the bath he had refused to eat, had gone into an intense yoga trance. It was the water pranayama, in which he hoped to achieve what his guru had called a "one pointed" mind. The AXE doctors were doubtful, and puzzled, and one suggested that Nick needed a psychiatrist more than the soothing bath. But Nick stuck by his guns, abetted by Hawk, and though the doctors grumbled they let him have his way. For two days he was deep in hatha yoga; he united the moon breath and the sun breath; when he came out of it and the hospital, he entered a long series of high-level conferences with a certainty that he was right. In the end he won his point, but only over furious objection from the CIA. AXE had goofed it, they said. Fumbled the ball. Now it was their turn. Hawk did not tell Nick about it, but it was his own call to the White House that finally turned the tide. Nick, and AXE, were to get one more chance to handle it alone. They had better be right!

The door opened and Tonaka came into the room. Her getas whispered on the straw matting as she crossed to where Nick stood at the single window, gazing into a silver curtain of rain. The monsoon had come to Korea. It rained for at least twelve hours out of every twenty-four, dispersing for the moment the stinks and aridity of this Land of the Morning Calm.

The woman was carrying a tray with tea things and a bowl of fish and rice. She put it down near a brazier in which a few coals glowed lividly, then came back to stand near Nick. He put an arm about her tiny waist. He had aot wanted a woman — he was in no shape, physically or mentally, for sexual sport — but here he had run into the house rules. Shanghai-Gai was adamant; you had a woman, you paid her, or you did not stay. Nick paid. The gesang house was safe and good cover. It kept him out of Pusan, where he was sure to be noticed, yet he could get into the docks and the railroad station in half an hour. Tonaka, instead of a sexual companion, had become comrade and nurse. She did not seem to mind. Until this moment, when she rather startled Nick by saying: "I have feeling you go soon, Nick-san. You think you can maybe love me before you go?"

It was an embarrassing question as well as an unexpected one. The AXEman had no desire to make love to Tonaka, even had he been able to do so without pain, yet he did not wish to wound her feelings. He sensed that she had become much attracted to him during his brief stay.

Gently he said, "I'm afraid I can't, Tonaka. I would like to — but there is still much pain."

Tonaka put her hand down and touched him lightly. Nick, faking a little, said "Ouch!"

"I hate them for doing bad things to you, Nick-san. For hurt you so we cannot make love. I am sad for us, Nick-san."

"I am sad also," said Nick. He had told her nothing, of course. She had invented her own fantasies.

He glanced at his wrist. Nearly two. The ferry from Shimonoseki, in Japan, got into Pusan Harbor at two. Jimmy Kim would be watching the ferry slip. It was only a short walk from the slip to the railroad station. The trait for Seoul left at four. It was a good train, the best the Koreans had — all that was left of the old Asia Express from Pusan to Mukden. Now it stopped at Seoul.

Nick patted Tonaka's arm and kissed her lightly on the forehead. She was wearing a heady Occidental perfume which somehow did not clash with her gesang clothes: tiny felt slippers and socks, a long red skirt with a little jacket of yellow brocade. She was tall for a Korean girl — actually she was in her early thirties, a woman — and she kept her breath clean and free of kimchi. She had a round, bland face the color of lemons, with a pronounced epicanthic fold and small dark eyes as alert as a raven's.

She clung to the big man for a moment, burying her face in his chest. Nick was wearing only a white silk kimono with a golden dragon emblazoned across the back. It is, at times, hard for an Occidental to tell when an Oriental woman is aroused. Nick Carter had been around and he sensed that Tonaka was in the tender travail. He felt an answering stir in himself and he walked her quickly toward the door. "Maybe later, Tonaka. I have some business now."

She nodded but did not comment. She knew he had a radio in his suitcase. She stood on tiptoe and pressed her moist rosebud mouth against his cheek. She shook her head. "I do not think it, Nick-san. I told you I have a feeling — you will leave this place soon." She patted his cheek and the dark eyes twinkled. "It is too bad. I like the way you big noses make love. You are better than Korean man."

Nick patted her behind. "Com-mo-semni da. Thank you. Now beat it."

Tonaka laughed at his atrocious Korean — they usually conversed in either Japanese or broken English — and left. Nick closed the door after her. As he did so he heard the buzzing in the suitcase, like a boxed rattler. He waited until he heard the clatter of the girl's getas on the tile passage, then he went to the suitcase, opened it and flicked a switch on the small receiving set. Jimmy Kim's voice came into the room. "Testing — il, ees sahm, sah, oh — Mansei?"

Nick spoke into the little hand mike. "Long live Korea! You doing any business?"

Jimmy Kim sounded excited. "Maybe. Just could be this is it. A couple of live ones — just got off the ferry. Better get in here fast."

"I'm on my way."

On the way into Pusan in his borrowed jeep, sweating under a heavy black poncho, he kept telling himself that this had better be it. Had to be! Washington was getting very nervous. Even Hawk was nervous, and that was most unusual. Killmaster knew his boss would string along with him as far as possible, but there was a limit to everything. Ten days now. Ten days with only one faint hint that Nick's thinking was right, that he was on the right track. Word had finally leaked out of Albania that the Yellow Widow had gone to ground there. She had a man with her. That had been an inspired guess on Nick's part — he winced even now as he remembered the circumstances — and he was careful not to tell the assembled brass that it had been only a guess. A frantic clutch at a straw to save himself more pain. What the brass didn't know wouldn't hurt them. And he had been right.

Immediately after getting the word from Albania Nick had made his first move, taken his first gamble. He'd had to move while his credit was still good with the Powers That Be, and he got a somewhat reluctant Hawk to state his case.

They would make no move while Bennett, and the Widow, were in Albania. The country was tiny, desolate, with rugged mountains, the population fierce and suspicious of strangers. Neither AXE nor the CIA had ever been able to maintain a respectable apparatus there. Even British Intelligence couldn't do it. All that was available were scraps, a few bits and pieces sent out now and then by native agents who would risk their lives for a few leks.

Leave them alone, Nick urged. Depend on Soviet pressure to winkle them out of their hiding place, set them on the run again. Colonel Kalinski, that horror of a woman, would be panting on their trail. The trail that Nick had so inadvertently revealed. He grimaced at the thought now. In a way the torture had worked — he had lied to her and the lie had turned true. So far it had worked to his advantage — at least Kalinski had flushed the birds again.

The road was narrow here, deep in mud, and he had fallen in behind a column of honey carts. There was no room to pass. The carts, drawn by bullocks that could not be hurried, creaked along on solid wooden wheels. The ungreased axles squealed like stuck pigs. Each cart was loaded with kegs of human feces, collected each morning and spread on the rice paddies. You never got used to it, Nick thought now as he held his breath. Not even the Koreans got used to it. It was one reason, he supposed, why they loved to walk on their mountain tops.

By the time he got around the honey carts he was in the outskirts of Pusan, crawling through the native market at Pusan-Ju, and it was twenty-five after two. Another ten minutes would get him to the railroad station where he was to meet Jimmy Kim.

As he followed a rickety, swaying streetcar — shipped over from St. Paul — he thought of that moment of truth in the huge briefing room in the Pentagon. The CIA had been brought into the Bennett hunt by this time — Hawk stating dourly that soon the Girl Scouts would be in — and Killmaster, with a pointer in his hand, stood before an enormous map of the world that covered one wall. He tapped the red pin jabbed into Tirana, the capital of Albania. He felt like a salesman about to go into his pitch. Which he was. He had to sell this select group a bill of goods, ie: leave AXE alone. Let us finish the job. It wouldn't be easy. There were nay-sayers' among them.

"This is a gamble," Nick admitted. "A long shot and an educated guess." He tapped Tirana on the map. "The Russians are putting the squeeze on. They want Bennett and the Widow as badly as we do. But the Russians have to operate very carefully in Albania, under cover, and I don't think they'll be able to surprise the Widow. She'll know when they get close — and she'll run!"

He moved the pointer slightly to the southeast and tapped Athens. "I think she'll try to get out of Athens by air. She and Bennett will be in heavy cover, well disguised, and they'll travel tourist class. I think they'll go to Dakar first, then over the Atlantic to Panama. Or maybe Mexico City. From there over the Pacific to Manila and up to Japan. From Japan into Korea, where they'll try to slip over the 38th into North Korea. If they can they'll be home free."

One of the listeners, a top man in CIA, spoke up. He barely managed to keep the sneer from his voice. "You seem pretty damned positive, Carter! What did the Widow do — send you her itinerary? Any why Korea? It seems the least likely spot,"

"That's precisely the point," said Nick. "It is the most unlikely place. That's why I think she'll try it. But it isn't all hunch — there are other reasons, too. More concrete reasons." He could not risk telling them just how clearly he had seen matters while in the yoga trance. They would send for the men in the white coats.

So he jabbed deftly back at the CIA man. "You people, CIA, haven't been able to come up with much on the Yellow Widow, but what little you have given us is a help. She's half Korean, remember. Born in Taejon. Went to high school in Seoul. When the Commies took Seoul the first time she married a high-ranking Chinese officer, her first husband. She went back to China with him. And that's about all you people have come up with."

The CIA man scowled. "She's had excellent cover for years. I'll admit we didn't know about her until you, AXE, tipped us. But getting information out of China isn't exactly shooting fish in a barrel, Carter! They don't use this Widow much — only on highest priority missions. But okay — I still don't see why you're gambling on Korea."

Nick indicated the world map with a sweep of the pointer. "Because she knows Korea well. Because most of the world is closed to her — under either Soviet influence or our influence. Where we can operate freely and most efficiently. Tibet is too rugged and Hong Kong is too obvious. I don't think she can run to the east — it will have to be west, the long way round, and she'll stick as much to small neutral countries as she can. Where neither we nor the Russians can operate best. Countries like Greece, Senegal, Panama, the Philippines. I give them an even chance until they get to Manila. Getting in and out of Japan will be the toughest for them. I doubt they will dare risk flying into Tokyo or any other large city. But it's only 1400 miles from Manila to Pusan. They could charter a private plane or a fast boat."

A Lieutenant-Colonel of Army Intelligence spoke up. "If they can do that, they why bother with Japan at all? They could go directly into the Sea of Japan, or the Yellow Sea, and land in North Korea. Or do the same thing with a private plane."

Nick shook his head. "Too risky. Too many patrols, especially now that our people there have been alerted. In any case I doubt they could hire a skipper, or a pilot, to take them into Commie territory. The Widow can get plenty of help, of course, especially if she makes it to Manila. I doubt that she'll ask for it. Our people watch their people, and she'll know that and stay away from them. They'll be like a couple of little mice, gentlemen, trying to sneak into China through the smallest and most unlikely hole. If she gets to Seoul without being spotted, she's got it made. She'll contact her people then, probably not before, and a plane or 'copter will pick them up at night. I…"

At that moment a guard came in and handed a message to Hawk. Nick watched his boss. The old man stood up, cleared his throat and took the dead cigar from his mouth. "Just in from Albania, gentlemen. From one of our most reliable agents there — our only one at the moment, in fact. He tells me that the Yellow Widow and the man Bennett are presumed to have left Tirana. The villa where she was staying has been burned to the ground, but no bodies were found. Two Russians agents are being held by the Albanian police. End of message." Hawk glared about him for a moment, then shook his head at Nick. He sat down.

Killmaster knew what the head shake meant. Colonel Kalinski had not been involved. Naturally. She was far too shrewd an operator to be taken by the Albanian police. Those had been muscle boys — highly expendable.

Now, as he turned the jeep into the parking lot of the Railroad Hotel, he told himself again that this must be it. The timing was right. They would have gotten from Athens to Manila in about three days — plenty of time — and spent the remaining week coming up from Manila. That meant a boat. They would have landed at some obscure Japanese port, a fishing village, and made their way overland to Shimonoseki and the ferry. The ferry took eight hours for the trip, leaving Japan at six in the morning.

Nick Carter went into the Railroad Bar. Jimmy Kim was at the far end of the gloomy room, drinking a can of American beer. Jimmy was young, but very talented in the business. Somewhat brash, an operator and a quasihipster, Jimmy operated a decrepit airline with a partner by the name of Pok. They called the airline the Flying Turtles, a jape in which there was a great deal of truth, and they had only two planes. By cannibalizing both, and much ingenuity, they managed to keep one flying. At present the plane was an Aeronca, a 65 TL that was twenty-six years old. Nick devoutly hoped that he would never have to fly in it.

Nick took off has heavy poncho and draped it over the bar. Jimmy Kim was still wearing his poncho — he had a small, flat transmitter and receiver slung beneath it.

Jimmy Kim finished his beer. As he passed Nick on the way out he said, softly: "Train shed."

Nick glanced at his watch. Quarter of three. Plenty of time before the Seoul train pulled out. He had no set plan. First things first, then play the cards as they fell. If, of course, it wasn't just another false alarm. He felt a little sick at the thought. His stomach had been queasy for a week now, and the thought of goofing it again brought a sharp pain to his gut. He tossed down a shot of bad bourbon — Korean bars seldom had scotch — and shrugged back into his poncho. At the door, as he stopped to light a cigarette, he checked over his weapons. He was carrying the Luger, and the stiletto in the arm sheath. Arms had wanted to give him a new shiv, a heavy throwing knife, but he had raised hell and insisted that a new point be ground on the stiletto. It was shorter now, but it was still Hugo. Between his legs, in its metal container, he was carrying a new gas bomb. Had they had an accident with that bomb in the lab in Moscow? He could hope.

When he entered the bar it had been clear and the sun shining. Now it was raining again in bucketfulls, a sheer gray wall of water that toppled on him like surf. Nick tugged down his hat brim and trudged toward a side door leading into the train shed. As he passed his jeep he saw that it was already half full of water.

Chapter 9

Jimmy Kim was smoking a cigarette near a baggage truck. He was a tall, good-looking man with shiny black hair and perfect teeth. Usually he dressed elegantly in tight pants and narrow shoes and a colorful sport jacket; today he was nondescript in the poncho and a dirty plaid cap.

They were on Platform 1. The station was a dank cavern smelling of sweat and urine. Down a way a group of Korean women squatted patiently, waiting for the local to Taegu.

Nick Carter halted beside Jimmy Kim. On Track 4 they were beginning to make up the Seoul train.

Nick lit a fresh cigarette. "What's the poop?"

"A Mr. and Mrs. Haikada Koto. Going to Seoul on business. She's tall for a Japanese and she does all the talking. Could be he doesn't know Japanese. Both of them wearing Western clothes. She's dowdy, plain, almost ugly. — but she doesn't, move like that, if you get what I mean?"

Nick nodded. "I get. But it isn't much to go on, is it? What put you on to them?" He failed to keep the impatience out of his voice and Jimmy Kim caught it. He smiled. "Patience, dad! It's sort of a funny story. In the first place they were the only possibles, so I stuck pretty close to them. And they didn't waste any time — they went straight to their car and got on." He nodded to Track 4 where a wheezing little switcher was shunting more cars in to join those already there.

"They're in their compartment now. Car 1066. They're locked in, and not answering the door. Sound a little funny?"

Before he answered, Nick shot a glance at the car. "You've got someone watching the other platform? They could go out a window."

Jimmy flashed his teeth. "Keep your cool, dad. You think I'm an amateur, maybe? Dinky Man is over there with a hammer or something, acting like a railroad man. They can't leave the car without our knowing."

Dinky Man was a short, powerful Korean whose real name was Chang Ho Choi. How he had come by the name of Dinky Man, Nick was never to discover. Jimmy said that Dinky Man was an ex-CID spy, had probably worked for the Commies when they had most of Korea, and could be trusted because he, Jimmy Kim, had enough on him to hang him. Nick accepted that. He trusted Jimmy — as far as he ever trusted anyone.

"We might have something this time," he told Jimmy now. "And we might not. Give me the rest of it."

"Sure. When the Kotos came off the ferry he was wearing a clean white patch over his left eye. Very clean. Like he'd just put it on. I didn't think much of it then — a lot of people wear patches. Or it could just be part of his disguise…"

Nick interrupted. "This Koto fits the part physically?"

"Perfect. A little guy, scrawny, made up to look like a Jap. If he isn't a Jap, of course."

"That's the big if I'm worrying about," said Nick. "Get on with it."

'They were in a hell of a hurry to get to their compartment," Jimmy went on. "I walked through the car once myself and their door was tight shut. I listened. Couldn't hear a thing."

Nick scowled at him. "That was stupid! You might have tipped them."

"I didn't. Now listen — I put Dinky Man on the job and went into the station, to the latrine, so I could use the radio. They got booths now, you know. Just like Stateside. When I came out I saw this kid at the station-master's desk. A kid in a dirty white sailor suit. So what? In a minute the stationmaster picked up the mike and started paging the Haikada Kotos!"

Nick stared at him. "Paging them? That doesn't make any sense at all. We must be wrong. The last thing in the world they would do is have somebody page them. We…"

Jimmy Kim's grin was wide. "They didn't. The ferry people did. Mr. Koto had lost a contact lens on board and it had been found. They sent a boy with it. A smart kid — he got the stationmaster to help him. He was looking for some won, of course."

Nick rubbed his lean jaw. A contact lens and a new patch over a man's eye. Just maybe!

"Maybe they didn't hear themselves being paged," said Jimmy Kim, "or maybe they didn't want to come out again. They didn't show up. The kid hung around for a minute or two, then started back to the ferry slip. I collared him. I gave him a wad of won, which I will put on my expense account, and got his story. After I got it I thought we had something — I called you again but no answer. You were on your way by then. Anyway — Mr. Koto lost the contact lens just before they docked. There was a big search for it, with no luck. The kid said Mr. Koto kept his hand over his left eye all the time they looked — said it hurt him. Finally they gave up. And when they landed Koto had the patch over his eye. The kid noticed that because he was still trying to find the lens and he felt sorry for poor Mr. Koto. Now, Nick, you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Nick squeezed his arm. "If you're right it was damned good thinking, Kim. Mr. Koto's left eye is blue!" Bennett had blue eyes.

"I think both of his eyes are blue," said Jimmy Kim. "And I never saw a blue-eyed Jap. Here, look at this."

He took something from his poncho pocket and handed it to Nick. A contact lens. Dark brown. "I bought it from the kid," said Jimmy Kim. He glanced at Nick and laughed softly. "I thought maybe you would want to give it back to Mr. Koto in person."

Nick Carter made his decision. It was worth a try. It felt right. Killmaster had a tremendous empathy for the hunted — he had been hunted so often himself — and he knew, had he been in the shoes of Bennett and the Widow, that he would have tried it this way.

"All right," he told Jimmy Kim. “I’ll buy it. I think we've got them. I'll try to get a compartment on the same car and…"

Jimmy Kim reached into his pocket again. "Have, yes, sar." He affected a pidgin at times, though he spoke perfect English. "I took the liberty, sar. You likee?" He handed Nick a ticket in a buff envelope.

Nick grinned. "I likee — you're a good boy and I'll tell them so in Washington. Now cut out the crap and listen."

"Yes, sahib."

"I've got to check this out," said Nick. "If we're right then okay — I'll handle it. All of it. If we're wrong I'll head back here as soon as I can — probably be faster to go on to Seoul and fly back. Meantime I'm making you 2IC, temporary case officer. You and Dinky Man stay on the job here. Keep meeting the ferries the same as before — those two, the Kotos, could be decoys. If anything pops here call me at the Chosen Hotel in Seoul after six in the morning — if I'm not there I'll probably be at Number 23 Dongjadong. That's out in Choonkoo. If worst comes to worst and this is a false trail, you might have to send Pok up for me in that thing you call a plane. I hope not."

Jimmy Kim showed all his teeth in a wide smile. He was delighted to be 2IC. "You're talking about the plane I love, dad. But that old jalopy will fly to Seoul and back, don't worry. It's about time we did a little work for you people, anyway. You've been subsidizing us long enough." The Flying Turtles, more formally known as Chosen Airways, Inc., had long been a "front" for AXE.

"We've been here too long," Nick said. "Let's move around a little. In a few minutes you circle around and check on that other platform and Dinky Man. We can't afford to take any chances now."

"Dinky Man will stay on the ball," said Jimmy. His tone was grim. "He knows I can get him a fast firing squad if he doesn't."

They drifted down toward the main entrance to the station and waiting room. On the way they were besieged by a horde of beggar boys, endemic to every Korean railroad station, all in rags and with sores and scabs on their shaven heads. Most of them were war orphans — and most of them would die of disease and hunger before they attained manhood.

Jimmy Kim distributed won to the boys and chased them away. They halted again near a news kiosk, from where they could keep an eye on Car 1066. The Seoul train was being steadily put together now as the little switcher rumbled and puffed back and forth, adding more cars. There were already ten in the string on Track 4. As they watched, another car was added, a shiny new car with a white band painted along its sides. Nick saw MPs riding in the vestibules of the car.

"That's a military car," he told Kim. "What's up?" He was frowning. If he had to kill Bennett on the train, as well he might, he didn't want to get mixed up with the military. Bennett's execution, as well as the reasons for it, had to be top secret. Killmaster had no official standing in Korea, no one to whom he could turn for help. He had, literally, only his weapons and the clothes he stood in.

"Nothing to worry about," Jimmy said. "I know all about it. A bunch of big shots, VIPs and ROK and Yank officers, are going on a tiger hunt. It was in the paper this morning."

Nick shot his subordinate a quizzical glance. "A tiger hunt? In Korea?"

Jimmy nodded. "It happens once in a great while, dad. Some beat-up, toothless old tiger wanders down south from Manchuria. The old cat can't catch game anymore, so he has to eat peasants. I've been reading about this one — he's killed four or five farmers up around Yongdong. That's in the mountains near Taejon. So some of the brass got the bright idea of organizing a tiger hunt — saves the peasants and gives the brass something to do. Look — some of them are boarding now." Jimmy Kim laughed. "They've got a bar on that car. If I was a betting man I'd put my money on the tiger."

They watched a party of American and ROK officers boarding the special car. One of the ROK officers carried a Tommy gun. Nick smiled faintly. The tiger didn't figure to have much chance.

He turned to Jimmy Kim. "Okay, kid. Go check on Dinky Man now. And from now on we don't know each other — unless an emergency pops. I think I'll just stooge around for awhile. I won't board until the last minute. So long — and luck."

"So long, dad. Good luck to you. And happy hunting. Don't worry about a thing — I'll handle things here."

Nick Carter watched the boy bounce away on springy heels, full of verve and confidence. A good kid. For just a moment Nick felt old. His stomach pained him a bit. He glanced again at Car 1066. The blinds were drawn in all the compartments.

Nick went back into the bar and had a couple more shots of the bad whisky. He lingered there, not drinking more, until the loudspeaker rasped and a singsong voice began to call the Seoul train, first in Korean, then in English: "Taegu-Kumchon-Yongdong-Taejon-Chochiwon-Chonan-Seoul. Change at Seoul for Yongdungpo and Inchon and Ascom City. The Seoul Express — leaving in ten minutes from Track 4."

Killmaster waited until one minute before train time, then walked rapidly to the train. A huge diesel was snorting softly at the head of the fifteen cars. Nick glanced at his ticket, saw that his car was 1105. Two cars removed from Car 1066.

As he walked down the line he saw Jimmy Kim lingering near the open vestibule of 1066. Nick glanced through the vestibule as he passed, saw the squat figure of Dinky Man on the far platform.

As Jimmy Kim turned away he nodded slightly and flipped his cigarette butt at the train. It hit the car midway and fell to the tracks below. Nick looked straight ahead, but he had the message. The Kotos' compartment was midway in the car.

He reached his own car and swung easily up into the vestibule. He glanced down the long line of cars. Most Korean trains were pretty bad, and anything like a time schedule was mere wishful thinking, but this train, the Seoul Express, was the Koreans' pride and joy. It had, on occasion, actually arrived in Seoul on time after a four-teen-hour run.

Nick clung to the handrail. He lit a new cigarette. Fourteen hours was a long time in his business. Almost anything could happen. On this trip it probably would.

Near the engine a little Korean conductor was waving a green flag. There was a shrill of whistles and a last-minute running by two ichibans in tall horsehair hats, and their fat little wives. One of the wives was carrying a huge fish. They would be traveling third class.

The long metal snake jerked and jolted as the wheels of the giant diesel spun and bit into track. The Seoul Express moved out. Nick spotted Jimmy Kim in the crowd on the platform as the train glided slowly out of the station.

A tiny Korean boy in a smart uniform showed Nick Carter to his compartment For a Korean train it was luxurious. The boy seemed proud of it. He gestured around and said, "Number one, I think. Hokay?"

Nick smiled and handed him a few won. "Hokay, junior. Thanks." The boy left and Nick locked the door after him. It was time now for a little planning. How was he to get in to the Kotos' compartment to check things out? See if it was really Raymond Lee Bennett and the Widow? And if it was — what then? He didn't want to kill Bennett on the train if it could possibly be avoided. But how to get him off the train? Perhaps he could arrange an accident of some kind. Maybe…

There was a soft tapping at the door of his compartment. Nick Carter came off the seat with the easy flow of a powerful cat and stood to one side of the door. He checked the Luger and the stiletto before he asked, "Who is it?"

The boy's voice said: "Is me, sar. Porter boy. I bring you towels."

"Just a minute."

Nick checked the tiny lavatory. There were no towels. He went back to the door. "Okay."

He opened the door. The woman who stood there was very beautiful, with a tall, sturdy body. Her hair was auburn, her eyes green. The little gun in her hand was rock steady on Nick's belly. Behind her was the Korean boy, staring at Nick with wide eyes.

The woman spoke to the boy. "Go now. You know what to do. Hurry!" Her English was heavily accented. A Slavic accent. So they were here, too, and they had wasted no time.

The boy ran off down the corridor. The woman smiled at Nick and moved the little gun a trifle. "Please step back into the compartment, Mr. Carter, and raise your hands. High over your head. I don't want to kill you just yet."

Nick obeyed. She followed him into the compartment and kicked the door shut with a high heel. The gun never wavered from his stomach.

The woman smiled again. Her teeth were good. Very white and just a trifle large. Her body, beneath a black failie suit, was finely molded.

"So we meet again, Mr. Carter. I admit that I am surprised, but then with you one can never tell. Did you enjoy your swim in the Rhine?"

For one of the very few times in his life Nick Carter was totally taken aback, at a loss. It was impossible. It was insane. And yet — her hands! The hand holding the little gun. A delicate, pink-tipped hand. He had seen those hands before.

Nick's grin was hard. "I still don't believe it," he told her. "I must have had too much ginseng booze last night. It can't be. You people just aren't that good at makeup!" He knew the truth. It was she, impossible as it seemed. But if he could keep the chatter flowing, keep the situation from becoming static, he just might try to jump the gun. Jumping a gun was a pretty sure way of getting dead, but…

Her smile a little cold about the edges, the woman said, "Turn around, Mr. Carter. Now! Don't do anything foolish. Lean toward the wall and keep your hands high on it."

Nick did as she ordered. He was off balance and knew he had lost for the moment. As he felt those delicate hands fluttering over him in search he managed a wry grin.

He said: "I now believe in miracles, Colonel Kalinski."

Chapter 10

She took the Luger and the stiletto and stepped back away from him. "Stay exactly as you are, Mr. Carter."

Nick stared out the window. Rain was clawing at it with gray blobby paws. The train ran through a tall stand of bamboo, then plunged into a tunnel. He watched her reflection in the window. She opened the door to the tiny bathroom, tossed the weapons inside, then removed the key and locked the door from the outside. She put the key in a pocket of her jacket.

She turned back to him. "You may turn around now. Go and sit over there." The gun indicated the long sofa-divan, along one wall, that made up into a bed. Nick sat down. The eye of the little pistol never left him.

Colonel Kalinski crossed her legs with a slither of nylon. The faille skirt was short, and what she displayed was impressive. Nick remembered the lisle stockings. She must have been wearing a hell of a lot of padding.

"I am presuming," she said, "that you still carry your little gas bomb between your legs, Mr. Carter? I know how lethal it is. We conducted an experiment on some of our undesirables. Condemned men. Your gas is most efficacious — but I believe I am safe as long as we are locked in here together."

Nick was careful not to dispel her illusions. The more secure she felt — the better. If he had to use the gas bomb he would. He could hold his breath a lot longer than she could. Meanwhile, to stall for time, he might as well try to set up a deal. She, her compatriots, even the Yellow Widow — none of them were of prime importance now. Raymond Lee Bennett, riding two cars back, was all that really mattered. Killmaster had to stay alive long enough to do his job. As simple as that.

"Colonel," he began, "I think…"

She interrupted him with a smile. "What you think, Mr. Carter, is no longer of any importance. And you will address me as Zoe, not as Colonel. For the time being, no matter how short, I am a woman. Not a Colonel in Soviet Intelligence. Is that understood?" She smiled again and this time he could detect something hungry in the glint of teeth. And there was something odd, speculative, in the stare of her wide green eyes. Nick Carter had seen that look before. So why not? Maybe sex could get him out of this! It had worked before. But he must be careful not to rush it.

She leaned toward him. She was sitting in a small leather chair that opened out of the wall. "Do you consider me an attractive woman, Mr. Carter?"

"Yes." No lie. "And I congratulate your makeup man, whoever he is."

She nodded. "One of our movie people. The best. In my country the best technicians must work for the State at times."

"He's a genius," Carter said truthfully. If he could worm the man's name out of her — and lived to tell it — he would see that the fellow was taken care of. He was entirely too good.

The woman shrugged. "It is a tiresome business. The makeup is heavy and takes many hours to apply. Padding, a harness, contact lenses, the bald wig — but you know. You were fooled."

Nick agreed with a nod. He certainly had been fooled. But now he put the spurs to her just a bit. "The makeup was perfect. But you also play the part well, Col… I mean, Zoe. The sadistic bit, of course. I am sure that torturing me must have hurt you as much as it did me? Or almost?"

The wide green stare did not waver. Behind those basilisk eyes he thought he could detect a hint of something warmer. Desire? Plain old-fashioned lust? Was this creature really so human?

Boldly he put it to the test. "We've got a long ride ahead of us, Zoe. You're in the driver's seat, for now at least. You've got the gun and I'm sure there are a couple of your goons on guard in the corridor. Must be, or you wouldn't be so sure of yourself. As long as we've got to pass the time — let's do it pleasantly."

Her smile was enigmatic. She moistened her wide mouth with a sharp pink tongue. Something flickered in the green eyes. But she said, "Perhaps we shall, Mr. Carter. Nick. But later. A little later. We shall see. I…"

Someone tapped on the door. She pointed the little gun at Nick's heart. "Quiet, please."

She went to the door and, without taking her eyes off Nick, spoke softly in Russian. He could not make out the words. She listened for a moment, then gave a soft command. When she took her seat again the high white forehead was creased in a frown.

Quietly Nick said, "Trouble, I hope?"

"Perhaps. Nothing I cannot handle. It appears that quite a few rough peasant types boarded the train at Pusan-Ju. They probably have weapons concealed in their luggage. It could turn out to be something of a problem." She sank her white teeth into her scarlet lower lip and stared at him, her eyes fuzzy with thought.

Nick got the picture immediately. The train had made a brief stop at Pusan-Ju, the suburb of Pusan, to pick up third class coaches from a siding. And now the Widow and Bennett had help if they needed it. The "peasants" were undoubtedly guerrillas recruited from the mountains and acting under direct orders from Peking. The Widow had not, after all, placed all her eggs in one basket.

"Things could hot up pretty fast," he told the woman. "Once you make your move, Zoe. Those guerrillas are along as watchdogs, just in case you try to take Bennett and the Widow off this train. Which you must do — you can't afford to let them get to Seoul. It's too big. You'll lose them. They'll be over the 38th in a matter of hours. Think fast, Miss Moto!"

Zoe Kalinski was not amused. She bit her full lower lip and frowned at him. The little gun moved in her hand and for a moment he thought she was going to pull the trigger. Then she appeared to relax.

"It is not, as you Americans say, all that bad. My men will handle the guerrillas. I have a dozen aboard, all good men."

"Plus the porter boy," said Nick, remembering. "The little bastard."

She laughed. The diesel hooted far ahead as it labored up a grade. They were getting into wild mountainous country now. Outside it was growing dark. Rain pelted silver arrows at the windows.

"Yes," she said. "You were easily tricked, Mr. Carter. Bok Yong has been working for us since he was six. It was he, and his father who also works for the railroad, who smuggled us aboard this car while it was still in the yards. It was very expensive, but worth it. You see, Nick, I came straight to Pusan as soon as I heard you were here. We have been watching you — hoping you would lead us to the Widow and Bennett. As you have. We spotted your man as he followed them to the train. We tried to have Bok Yong check them out, to be sure, and when they wouldn't open their compartment door we were pretty sure. Then you put in an appearance, you take this train and, again as you Americans say, it is open and shut. No? That couple in Car 1066, in Compartment B, are the Yellow Widow and Raymond Lee Bennett!"

"Q.E.D.," said Nick softly. "Point proven. You think. But now you've got a fight on your hands, Zoe, old girl." He smiled his sweetest and let the banter slip into his voice. It would be hard to kid this one along, but he had to make the effort. She no longer was worried. He thought he knew why. She had an ace up her sleeve — and he thought he knew what it was. What it had to be.

"Whether you know it or not," he went on, "there's a military car on this train. Full of tiger hunters. ROK and Yank brass and a whole slew of MPs. About now they'll all be getting drunk. They've got rifles, shotguns, even machine guns. One yell from me, or from anyone for that matter, one hint of trouble, and you've got a real battle on your hands. Think it over, Zoe. Maybe we can come to some agreement."

One finger of that so delicate little hand whitened on the trigger. For one instant the old Colonel Kalinski was back, the balding horror that liked to hurt people. Watching her face intently now, Nick could see it as tie makeup expert must see it just before he applied the rubber pads, the wax, the putty and wig. An absurdity struck him and he grinned at her. "Which is the real Kalinski? Which is the real Zoe, eh? The old bag who likes to torture people — or this beautiful woman who would like to kill me right now?"

Her lovely face relaxed. The finger eased on the trigger. She smiled. "Thank you for telling me about the tiger hunters. I did not know. The boy slipped up there. But it doesn't matter. I have planned for everything."

He stared hard at her. "Would you by any chance be interested in finding out if the data in your dossier about my sex life is true? As you say — we have a long ride ahead of us. You could keep the gun at my head, you know. If nothing else, it will be a novel experience."

For a moment there was silence. Rain slashed at the window. The Seoul Express was running fast now, slashing through the narrow cuts and tunnels, the whistle howling like the ghosts of Korean dead who lay buried on their sere khaki mountain tops.

Something very strange glittered in her green eyes. The red mouth pursed as she examined him. Nick Carter had the feeling that he was being surveyed, assessed, viewed as a slave on a block might be viewed. She was, he knew, weighing him as a possible instrument of pleasure. The lady had her weaknesses, after all! Weakness. One was enough. It would allow him to get close to her. Not even the Russians could claim to have discovered a method of long distance lovemaking.

There was a hint of excitement in her voice when she said, "I have had that in mind from the first. I told you — I am being a woman for a little while. My government will not like it — but then they will never know. You will not tell them!" The gun moved in her hand.

Killmaster's grin was a trifle forced. It hurt his mouth a little. "So that's it? You're going to use me, enjoy me, and then kill me?" But he was content. If he could get that close to her he could take her, gun and all. He might even have some pleasure in the doing.

"You find that strange — that I should use you for my pleasure? Have you not used many women for yours?"

He nodded. "I have. But I have always tried to give them something in return. Perhaps not love — I don't know much about that — but at least affection. Companionship. I am a believer in mutual enjoyment."

"Then you are a fool! One's own pleasure is paramount. I shall show you what I mean — I will use you for my pleasure exactly as — " she thought a moment — "exactly as a Nazi officer would, did, use our Russian peasant girls for his pleasure." He knew, then, at least one reason why she was so warped.

Slowly, very cautiously, Nick tensed his leg muscles. Maybe he would have to jump that gun after all. But he would wait — see what happened. The odds were a hundred to one against him at the moment.

None of his tension was apparent in his voice. "And afterward? You will kill me?"

"I will kill you. As you no doubt know, my orders, were to kill you in Germany. You made me look very bad there, Nick. There is a blot on my file that can only be removed by your death. But do not feel so bad about it — you have had a good long run for your money, Carter. Much longer than most agents of your caliber. You know the hazards of this profession as well as I do."

Nick stood up. Very slowly. Keeping his hands well in sight and away from his body. He stretched his sleek muscles, his hands itching for that white throat, but knowing it was not yet the time.

"Yes," he admitted. "I've had a long run. So now we make love. I think I'm going to enjoy it. But there is just one thing…"

"What is that?"

Nick grinned at her. "How do we do this, make love, without me getting close enough to kill you? I will, you know, if you give me a chance. You figured that out?"

"I have. Go over there in the corner and stand for a moment. Keep your eyes to the wall."

The imp in Nick Carter could never be completely repressed. With death at his elbow now he could chuckle and say, "Don't tell me you've invented a way of doing it long distance!"

"Not exactly. You may turn around now. Be very careful. I will shoot the moment you disobey a command."

Nick turned from the wall. She was seated on the divan. Her skirt was rucked up high. The black elastic of a garter belt made twin dark roads on her firm plump thighs. Her sturdy legs were flung wide.

The gun jabbed at Nick like a finger of doom.

"You will get on your hands and knees and crawl over here to me. Now! Immediately. If you hesitate I will kill you. It is your choice — die right now or die afterward. Move!"

Nick Carter fell to his hands and knees. He felt sweat begin to pop out on him. He knew he must be pale. His jaw muscles hurt. Yet he fought down the rage. Not yet — not just yet. Play along. The odds were still too long.

He began to crawl to where she waited.

Her voice was unsteady now. The glint in her green eyes was hot. "There is a certain manner of making love that I have heard about, that I have seen photos of, but have never experienced. We do not do such things in my country! But I understand that you Americans, being of course decadent and degenerate, are fond of making love in this manner. You will make such love to me now. At once." The little gun moved in admonishment. "At no time will you get off your knees — and you will never raise your hands. One false move and I will kill you at once."

He was before her now, keeping his eyes low. He did not want her to see the rage in them. She would understand and kill him at once. And he understood — what she was really doing! This was a symbolic as well as a physical act. Her sick, perverted psyche would take pleasure in the physical act, but her real pleasure would be in making him perform it! Make him crawl and indulge in a degrading act. This would be sweet triumph indeed. It made a slave of him. It was a projection of what she worked for, and hoped for — the surrender and humbling of decent men before the iron boot of the totalitarian hordes.

Nick Carter knelt before her. He made his voice abject. "I am going to enjoy this," he said. He sounded calm. She would not understand what he meant. Until too late.

He touched her ankles. "Is this permitted? I must have some support."

"Just there. Only there. No higher. And do not look up. I have the gun to your head. Now begin at once." Her voice was husky with strain, with a tremendous excitement.

He knew then who the real Zoe Kalinski was. The beast! It did not matter. Nothing mattered now but killing her. He felt the cold muzzle of the gun on the crown of his head. His hands closed slowly, ever so slowly, over her ankles. A convulsive tremor ran through her.

Nick came up with the released fury of a gigantic steel spring. He butted her under the chin as he rose. The pistol roared in his car and he felt the fire across his scalp, the long burn of a white hot poker tormenting him. But she had missed her first shot and he knew that he had won.

He smashed at her face with his head again, felt the crunch of breaking bone. He was erect now, swinging her around by her ankles, pivoting in place and swinging her body as easily as a hammer thrower spins his hammer. The gun flew from her hand and smashed into the window, breaking it.

Killmaster stepped into the exact center of the compartment and kept swinging her around and around. Her body was up and level with his shoulders now, her skirt high up around her middle. She was screaming — screaming — screaming.

He had meant to knock her brains out against the sharp corner of the bath, where it projected a little into the room. Now, as he took one step that would bring him close enough to kill her on the next swing, the compartment went berserk. It turned into a segment of hell before it became hell — when all was chaos. Everything that was not secure: Nick, the woman, furniture, pillows from the divan, everything soared through the air and slammed into the forward wall of the compartment.

Nick smacked the wall with his skull and felt new pain. He was conscious of blood on his face and ignored it. What the hell was going on? The woman, inert, was heavy across his legs. A lamp, its bulb smashed, had its cord wound around his neck like a snake.

He fought to his feet. There was another slamming, grinding crash and the long train finally slid to a halt. The Seoul Express had stopped. Suddenly. Very suddenly!

Killmaster began to function as only he could when the chips were really down. It was a barricade, of course. The tracks were blocked. Her ace in the hole. The Russians had their own guerrillas, bandits was more like it, working in the mountains. They were here to take Bennett and the Widow.

He picked her up by the throat and held her as easily as though she were a doll. She was unconscious, her face smeared with blood.

Nick held her out away from him, dropped her, and in that moment forgot her. From now on it was going to be a rat race through hell. He had to start now and keep on going and never look back. There was chaos and confusion and hell to pay — and he might just have a chance.

He kicked the door of the bathroom down and got his weapons. With the stiletto in his left hand and the Luger in his right he shot away the lock on the compartment door and gave it a savage kick. It flew open, one hinge breaking away. Like a bulldozer gone berserk Nick Carter charged out into the corridor.

Chapter 11

Nick turned to his left as he slammed out of the compartment. The Kotos were two cars back. A massive, slab-shouldered goon at the end of the car was just getting to his feet, a dazed expression on his flat features. Nick shot him in the head. At that moment lead traced down the corridor and bounced off metal, whirring about him like angry bees. Nick turned as he gained the vestibule. Two more of her men were charging down the corridor after him. He fell to one knee, the Luger an extension of his pointed arm. He sighted carefully, brought them down with two shots. This was no time to waste ammunition. He was carrying only two spare clips.

He pelted through the next car as fast as he could run. Heads were popping out of compartment doors now and Nick kept yelling at the top of his voice: "Bandits — bandits! Stay in your compartments! Everybody stay in their compartments!" It might help keep the aisles clear and certainly it would add to the confusion.

As he ran through the next vestibule and entered the car where the Kotos were hiding he saw that it was going to be a narrow thing. Four or five rough-looking types were just spilling into the car from the other end. The "peasants" who had come aboard at Pusan-Ju hadn't taken long to figure out the deal. They were here to protect the Kotos — the Yellow Widow and Bennett!

The lead man had a Tommy gun. He saw Nick and raised the weapon, hailing lead down the corridor. Nick fell away to one side and down, fiat on his belly, feeling cold and naked. There was no cover! He poured a stream of fire down the corridor — if that bastard got off another burst with the Tommy gun, he was cooked. The man with the machine gun was running toward Nick now, but instead of spraying the coach at random he wasted time sighting the gun. That was his mistake. Nick shot him in the guts and he fell forward heavily, sprawling and blocking the narrow passage. The machine gun skidded nearly to Nick's outstretched hands. He fired twice more with the Luger, saw the other men turn and start running for the vestibule again. They had only pistols and knew what was coming.

Nick picked up the Tommy gun, stepped over the still twitching corpse, and sent a hell of fire down the corridor in short stuttering bursts. One of the retreating men screamed and lurched sideways in the vestibule. The others ran back into the next coach and slammed the door behind them.

He had gained a minute or two. Nick ran to Compartment B. This was no time for formalities. He shot away the lock and kicked in the door. All the time he was acting he was thinking — change of plans. Don't kill Bennett or the Widow right away. Might need them for hostages!

The window of the compartment was open. Her face was framed in the square against a background of hard sloshing rain. Nick got his one and only look at the infamous Yellow Widow. It was a face to haunt his dreams. Pale yellow flesh stretched taut over bone, the mouth slittcd and thin now but hinting of past sensualities. The eyes narrow and wide set, carbon black, hurling defiance at him even as she released her grip on the window sill and fell away. He caught a flutter of dark clothing; then she vanished.

Nick ran for the window, covering the little compartment in two leaps, sheathing the stiletto and jamming the Luger into his belt. He threw a leg over the sill and dropped to the shoulder of the track bed beside the train. He was instantly wet through, soaked to the skin, the downpour heavy on his head and shoulders. He kept the Tommy gun ready and peered toward the head of the train. No sign of them. He could see a few scattered lights and the sound of sporadic firing came to him. The lights of the first class cars sent narrow druggets of yellow into the wet gloom.

He spun around. Damn fool! They wouldn't go that way, to the front! The Widow knew what she was about. They would run back, back to where she had her peasants planted in the third class coaches. Nick started to run along the narrow, dangerously sloping shoulder. It fell steeply away here to a ditch. As he ran, stray bullets whimpered around him, parting the rain curtain with a sighing zing— sing— sing…

He saw them. The Widow had the slight figure of a man by the hand and was pulling him along over the treacherous footing. Nick increased his pace and brought the Tommy gun up and ready for firing. If worst came to worst, if they looked like getting away, he would have to kill them both. At least make sure of Bennett!

Somewhere in the gloom just beyond the fleeing couple a door opened and a glare of white light shot out and invaded the night. There was a tumble of figures down the car steps, out of the vestibule, silhouetted in the light. It was the military car, the tiger hunters! They had been drinking, and they were all armed, and the train was being attacked by the goddamned bandits and they all wanted in on the fun.

The little tableau took only a micro-second to enact. A ROK officer, staggering, with a bottle in one hand and a machine gun in the other, lurched away from the car. He saw the Widow and Bennett just as they ran into the band of light. Nick Carter, some twenty yards behind, could do nothing but watch. He saw an American officer leap from the car, yelling, heading for the ROK too late. The Tommy gun in the ROK's hand spewed a short burst of flame and the Widow fell.

Nick, gaining all the time, heard Bennett scream something. The man turned sharply to his left and plunged down the embankment, losing his footing and sliding head first into the gloom and out of the aura of light.

Nick Carter cut to his own left and slid down the bank. Gravel and sand carried him to the bottom on a miniature avalanche. A final glance into the light showed the end of the tableau — the Yank officer snatching the Tommy gun from the ROK and felling him with a smashing blow. The Widow was a crumpled dark figure near the car steps.

Nick fell into a deep ditch bordering the embankment at the bottom. It was totally dark here, away from the train, and rain smashed down without mercy. He was up to his knees in water. He stood perfectly still and listened, Bennett must be within a few yards of him. Nick's heart skipped a beat at the thought of losing the man now.

Something moved in the rain-encased night, a blob of something darker than the other shadows. Nick tensed, listening, straining every nerve. The man was coming toward him along the same ditch. There it was — the splash and suck of feet going in and out of mud and water. Nick crouched in the ditch and waited. Bennett was coming to him. From overhead came a long and frenzied burst of gunfire mingled with shouts and curses. Nick's grin was tight as he recognized a few choice Americanisms — the tiger hunters were getting into the fray in earnest. A nasty surprise for both groups of guerrillas — neither the Widow nor Colonel Kalinski could have reckoned on so many unfriendly guns.

Bennett had almost reached him by now. Nick stood like a statue, hardly breathing, as he ran the possibilities rapidly through his mind. His orders were to kill Bennett Not in so many words, perhaps, but it had been implied. A bullet in the soft tissues of the brain.

Yet there was the matter of positive identification. In this business you took nothing for granted. He thought the man edging toward him now was Raymond Lee Bennett — he was sure it was Bennett — yet he had to be positive, sure without any shadow of doubt. Nick's smile was harsh in the blinding rain. So ask the little creep! Point blank! Right out of the literal black of night — the reaction was sure to be a true one.

He could hear a whimpering sound now, an animal sound like a dog in pain. A whimpering and a breathy squealing and muttering. He realized that the man was crawling on all fours in the ditch, making very slow progress. And the muttering, the moaning, the complaining! Killmaster knew then that he had nothing to fear from the creature in the ditch — and also knew that he had a whole new set of problems.

It was time. Softly, in a conversational tone, Nick said: "Is that you, Mr. Bennett?"

The splashing stopped. Silence broken only by the cry of the rain. Bennett was listening. Nick spoke again. "Is that you, Bennett? Speak up. Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you. I'm here to help you."

As he finished speaking there was a new burst of firing from the train. The man who crouched on all fours in the ditch, like an animal, said in a tremulous voice: "Is that you, Jane? Help me, Jane. Please help me! I'm so cold."

Jane? Jane — Nick racked his brain for a moment and it came. Jane Bennett! That had been the wife's name — the woman he had killed with an axe. Nick sighed aloud. This was all he needed — to find Bennett at last, to find him far around the bend and wandering in cuckoo land. But it did solve one problem — he wasn't going to execute a crazy man.

"I'm not Jane," he told Bennett gently. "But she sent me to help you. I've come a long way to help you, Mr. Bennett. So we had better get started. I'm cold and hungry, too. The sooner we start the sooner we can get something to eat, and get nice and warm. Okay?"

Bennett was at Nick's feet now, still on all fours. He reached out and tugged at Nick's sodden trousers. "I'm afraid. You won't make me go back there, will you? Back where all the noise is — I'm afraid of those bad people. They want to hurt me."

"No. We won't go back there." Nick hauled the man to his feet. He ran expert hands quickly over the slight, shivering figure, not expecting to find weapons. He didn't. He wondered just when Bennett had gone over the line. It must have been some time since that night on the Ladenstrasse, when he had visited Helga — and he must have been a hell of a burden for the Yellow Widow. Now she was lying back there by the tracks, a wet bundle of nothing at all, and Carter had the problems.

First thing — get the hell out of there!

He threw away the Tommy gun, thrust the Luger back in his shoulder clip and took off his belt. Bennett stood docilely, not speaking, as Nick slipped his own belt through Bennett's and made a loop and a short tether. "Come on," Nick told him. "We have to get away from here."

A stray bullet whined overhead and Bennett whimpered again. He might be pretty far gone, Nick thought, but he knows that bullets will hurt him.

Nick began to climb the far side of the embankment, pulling Bennett up after him. The man came willingly enough, like a dog on a leash. Nick reached the top, pulled Bennett up level with him and started down the other side. Only one thing mattered at the moment — put as much distance as possible between them and the train. Find shelter, a safe spot, then think things out.

Killmaster was feeling his way down the far side of the embankment. He lost his footing and fell, pulling Bennett along with him. The fall was a good fifteen feet, on a steep slant, and when he splashed into mud and water the smell told Nick where he was — in a rice paddy, face down in crap. He wiped the stuff from his face, cleared his eyes, and swore with great feeling. Bennett sat there quietly, waist deep in the filthy paddy water.

"I am greatly tempted," said Nick through his teeth, "to kill you now and have it over with."

"Don't hurt me," said Bennett in his child's whimper. "Don't hurt me. Jane wouldn't like it if you hurt me. Where is Jane? I want Jane." And Raymond Lee Bennett, there in the Korean wilds, rain sodden and stinking, began to cry.

Nick Carter shrugged in resignation. He tugged at the belt. "Come on. Let's get out of this crap."

Korean rice paddies are usually divided into cells, each cell separated from the others by tall dikes. An interlacing pattern of footpaths runs along the tops of the dikes, enabling each peasant to reach his paddy and work it. In total darkness it is like trying to find your way out of a box maze. After the fourth or fifth dive into the sludge Nick would have given his soul for a flashlight — and would have used it no matter what the risk.

By now the danger from the train, from either set of guerrillas or the drunken soldiery, was minimal. Nick kept bearing steadily away from the sound of shooting and yelling. Once he paused atop a dike and took a backward glance. The train was still halted — they had probably killed the engineer and fireman — and all he could make out was a long line of rectangular yellow holes punched in the night. As he watched, one of the yellow rectangles vanished in a blossom of red. He heard the hollow crump of a grenade. They were really getting down to it now. Having themselves a real ball. There would be hell to pay come morning. The neighborhood would be crawling with American and ROK troops and Korean police. By that time the guerrillas would have vanished back into their mountains and he, Nick and his dotty captive, would have gone safely to ground. It was a fervent hope.

It took him the better part of an hour to work his way out of the paddy. The rain stopped suddenly, as it does in Korea, and the sky cleared with amazing rapidity. A horned moon, as though in atonement, tried to shed a little light through the thick overcast. It wasn't much but it helped.

They came out of the paddy onto a narrow road, deeply rutted by centuries of ox carts passing over it. Even a jeep would have found the going tough. Nick did not know Korea intimately, but he knew it well enough to know that when you got off the beaten track you could easily get lost. They did not call Korea the "dragon's back" land for nothing — this, the south central part, was an endless series of valleys and mountains.

All of which suited Killmaster perfectly at the moment. He wanted to get lost, so thoroughly lost that no one could find him until he was ready to be found. He set out to follow the winding, climbing road, pulling Bennett along behind him on the leather tether. The man came docilely enough, without any complaint except his whimpering for Jane, but nevertheless Nick was alert for any sign of trouble. Bennett could be faking.

They walked for two hours, always climbing. Bennett stopped whimpering and crooned to himself like a baby playing in its crib. Nick spoke only to give a command. Bennett fell a few times and would not get up until he had rested. After the last fall he refused to get up at all, to go any farther. Nick searched him again, this time with great thoroughness, and again found nothing. He slung the frail body around his shoulders in the fireman's carry, and slogged on. The rain began again, but more gently now, a cold silver curtain that blotted out the smudge of moon; Nick cursed to the even rhythm of his steps and plodded on.

Along toward dawn, still carrying Bennett, who had gone off to sleep, he passed through a tiny gun, a collection of thatched mud huts. A mongrel came out to sniff at him but, surprisingly, did not bark. Nick stopped at the town well and dropped the sleeping Bennett in the mud. Nick stretched and rubbed his aching back. He was tempted, for a moment, to rout out the gun soo, the headman of the village, and find out where he was. Commandeer some food and a place to sleep out of the rain.

He decided against it. Let sleeping villages lie. There was an uneasiness in him about the guerrillas who had attacked the train. They would have a lair someplace in these mountains. The people in the little guns, whether from inclination or terror, often aided the bandits. Best to get on. He kicked the recumbent Bennett gently in the side. "Come on, you. Hike!"

Bennett leaped up with agility and said, lucidly enough, "Sure. Where arc we going?"

Obviously the man had periods when his mind was relatively clear. Nick was no psychiatrist and he did not examine the miracle. He pointed up the road. "That way. You walk in front of me. We'll try to find a place to get out of this rain."

Bennett stared around at the sleeping gun. "Why not here? There are plenty of huts."

"Walk!"

Bennett walked. As they left the gun he put his hands over his head like a prisoner of war. "I'll keep my hands up," he said over his shoulder. "That way you won't have to be afraid that I'll try and jump you. I could, you know. I could kill you with one judo chop. I'm strong — terribly strong."

"Sure," Nick agreed. "I'll be very careful. Just keep walking."

They left the gun behind. The road narrowed even more, to a mere path, always climbing. It wound between ragged stands of bamboo and larch. The rain stopped again and a faint line of color lay along the eastern horizon. They walked on. A wild boar crossed the path a hundred yards ahead of them, stopped and caught their scent, stared with nearsighted eyes before it snorted and plunged back into the bamboo.

The path dipped into a valley, ran for several hundred yards along a brook, then lifted to spiral tightly up the next mountain. The country was becoming more rugged and broken by the minute. Great wounds of red clay bled from the mountain side, and there were numerous rock ledges and jagged outcrops. Some of the rock faces were; covered with red lichen and wind-stunted trees clung precariously from the crevices.

Killmaster noted, with sour amusement, that Bennett still had his hands up. The man had not spoken for a long time now, but he seemed determined to preserve his status of prisoner of war.

Nick said: "You can put your hands down, Bennett. It is not necessary."

Bennett obediently lowered his hands. "Thank you. I suppose you are going to observe tradition?"

"What do you mean?"

The man laughed and Nick could not repress a shudder. The sound was that of rats scuttling in a thatch. The man might be lucid enough now, but he was undoubtedly mad. Psycho, Hawk had said. Hawk had been right.

"It is customary," Bennett said, "when one spy catches another and is going to kill him, to offer him a cigarette and a glass of wine before the fatal bullet is fired. Surely you are going to abide by that custom?"

"Of course," said Nick. "Just as soon as we find some wine and some dry cigarettes. Keep walking."

After a few moments Bennett spoke again. "Is this China?"

"Yes. We're just outside Peking. We'll be there in a few minutes."

"I'm glad," said Bennett. "That woman, that nice woman, kept saying we were going to China. She said I would be an honored guest — that I would get the key to the city. Do you think she told the truth? She was nice, that lady. She did good things to me — she made me feel good."

"I'll bet." Killmaster could almost muster a little sympathy for the Yellow Widow. She must have had a rough time with this nut. Yet, even with a loony in tow, she had managed to evade the net until the last moment. Nick gave the Widow a reluctant tip of his professional hat. She had been good.

She must have used sex to keep Bennett in line. Sex mixed with cajolery and maybe even some force. The guy still had sense enough to be afraid of a gun. She had been taking him back to China, instead of simply killing him, in the hope that the doctors in Peking could bring him out of it. That the mine of information he carried in that freak, now sick, brain could still be tapped. Nick wondered if Colonel Kalinski had known about Bennett's madness. Probably not.

Bennett stopped so suddenly that Nick almost ran into him. It was just light enough now for him to make out the man's features — the dirty, stubbled face was a relief map of old acne scars. An equine face with a loose mouth and long jaw. The bald pate with its fringe of dry hair. Nick reached to rip the patch, sodden and dirty now, from the man's left eye. Even in the poor light it gleamed a bloodshot blue. The right eye was brown. Contact lens.

Bennett smiled at Nick. "Before you kill me, sir, I would like to show you some pictures of my wife. Is that permitted? If possible I would like to be shot with her picture over my heart. I would like to die with my blood on her face. You will permit it?" He sounded anxious as he craned his scrawny neck at the AXEman. He fumbled in his coat pocket and brought out a roll of wet, crumpled, stuck-together snapshots. He handed them to Nick. "You see! Wasn't she beautiful?"

Nick took the pictures. Humor the poor bastard. He riffled through the pack of snapshots while Bennett watched him anxiously. They were Polaroid prints. Some were of a fat woman, naked, taken in sprawling obscene poses. In the others he recognized Helga, or the woman who called herself Helga, from the Ladenstrasse in Cologne. Nick recognized the bed on which the pictures had been taken.

"Very nice," Nick said. He was about to hand the pictures back to Bennett, who had seemingly lost interest and wandered a few feet away, when he noticed the single snapshot of the ceramic tiger. The tiger that must have been on the mantel in the secret room back in Laurel. Nick could recognize the mantel in the snapshot now. The tiger that had somehow gotten smashed in the Hotel Dom. Nick had taken the pieces back to Washington with him and the experts had put it together again — it was a valuable piece. Korean. Wang Dynasty. 14th Century. The little ceramic was well known to the scholars. But half of it was missing. There were, and Nick had been shown a picture of the original, two tigers fighting. Half was gone. The other tiger. Now, in a wet Korean dawn, Nick Carter rubbed his rumpled, weary head and stared at Raymond Lee Bennett. How the man had come into possession of half a masterpiece, and what it meant to him, might never be cleared up now. As long as he was insane Bennett probably couldn't come up with the answer; if he regained his sanity he would have to be killed.

So who cared what the lousy tiger meant? Nick watched. Bennett wander a little way down the path toward a clump of pine. Why not just shoot the man here and now and have done with it? Nick took the Luger out of the clip and found a sodden handkerchief and began wiping it. He inspected the muzzle. It smelled like a rice paddy, but did not appear to be choked.

Nick Carter jammed the Luger back in its holster. Why kid himself? He couldn't kill an insane man.

Bennett screamed. He turned and ran back up the path toward Nick. "There's a dead man down there! In the trees. He's sitting there with a spear stuck through him!"

And Raymond Lee Bennett began to cry again.

Chapter 12

Nick took off his belt again and passed it in front of Bennett's elbows, then jerked the man's arms back and tied them in the hangman's bind. He gave Bennett a push. "Show me."

Bennett, still weeping, went down the path to the clump of pine. Here a much fainter path led off to the right. Bennett stopped at the divergence of paths. He nodded into the pine grove. "In — in there! Don't make me look again — please don't make me look!"

"All right, goddammit, but I'm not going to have you wandering around." Nick backed the man against a pine sapling and retied the hangman's bind, this time bringing the belt around the sapling. Then he went down the diverging path.

The impaled man had been dead for some time. The; birds had been at him. The eyes and the flesh around them were completely gone. Nick, Luger in hand, drew a bit closer. The pines thinned here and gave way to sparse bamboo growing right up to a cliff face.

Nick advanced to within six feet of the dead man and stopped. Impalement was a form of death he had never: seen before. Not a pretty sight, nor a good way to go. Koreans, he knew, were a volatile people. They could be kindly and helpful — and they were the crudest of the Orientals.

The man's hands had been cut off and placed at a little distance from him. This so he could not push himself off the sharpened bamboo stake, about four feet high, which had been set into the ground. He had been stripped naked. Then he had been picked up — it would have taken at least four men to hold the screaming, crazed creature — and set down with great force on the sharpened stake. The lethal stake would have pushed up into the bowels and, after a long interval of suffering during which the man would walk screaming around and around the stake inside him, would reach the heart and kill. Mercy at last.

Killmaster could not help grimacing in disgust. Even his strong stomach was on the verge of rebelling. What had the man done to deserve such a death? And why this solitary place of execution? In this remote mountain hinterland? There must be a reason…

Something moved and flapped at the edge of the little clearing where the impaled man hung on his stake, his head at a grotesque angle because the point had pushed through the side of his neck. Nick crossed swiftly, Luger alert, and picked up the moving thing. It was a piece of paper, thin cardboard, rain soaked and limp now. He saw the holes punched for twine, though the twine was missing now, and he knew it had been around the man's neck.

Words were scrawled on the cardboard in red brush strokes, so faded that he could barely discern them: Keisatsu inu. Police dog! Written in Japanese. Below was another word, Korean for dog. Kah!

Nick tossed the paper away and looked back at the impaled man. A police spy. Left there as a warning. Or perhaps more — to frighten the simple peasants of the district? Keep them at a distance?

He shot a glance back at Bennett. The man was standing patiently, his eyes downcast, talking rapidly to himself. Nick shrugged and turned back, past the dead man, and began to explore the bamboo leading to the cliff face. Bennett was on his last legs. He couldn't walk much farther. Nick himself was not exactly fresh. His hunch was growing stronger and he decided to ride along with it. That corpse on the stake was meant to keep intruders away from something and…

Here it was. No great effort had been made to conceal the little opening in the cliff face. The bandits, guerrillas or whatever, must be pretty sure of themselves. Probably they didn't have to worry much as long as they paid off — the Korean provincial police were notoriously corrupt.

A bamboo screen had been improvised by binding stalks together with slender twigs. Nick kicked it aside and entered the narrow crack in the cliff. It ran diagonally for a dozen feet through the cliff, then widened. He stood in the opening and surveyed a long, narrow valley that ended in more towering cliffs. It was like a box canyon, a dead end. This was the only way in, or out. It was a haven — or a trap.

The left slope of the valley was less steep than the far side and heavily overgrown with bamboo. Nick saw a large hut, of the inevitable mud and thatch, at the edge of the bamboo. He moved back a little into the cliff opening and watched. Nothing moved around or in the hut. Killmaster's eyes roved up and down the valley, missing nothing. Not far from where he stood now, perhaps a hundred yards, was a jumble of rocks, a crude fort of boulders, on the side of the slope. It was about halfway to the hut. Nick sighted along his outstretched hand — from those rocks you could cover this opening with a deadly fire. If, he thought wryly, you had anything to cover it with! A Luger and a stiletto weren't going to do the job.

It was the far-off distant hum of a plane that decided him. He searched the gray overcast without hope, but the idea came. That plane was miles away but there might be others. It had stopped raining now and the skies might clear suddenly, the sun come out. It did that in Korea.

He went back for Bennett, thinking that he must have at least an hour of grace. He was betting that the guerrillas who had attacked the train, at least some of them, had come from this place. They would return. They would get a hot reception if Nick could arrange it. Beyond that he did not think at the moment. He had to go to ground somewhere, had to get his back against a wall, and this was as good a place as any. A lot depended on what he found in that hut.

As he passed the impaled man he thought that he could expect the same if the guerrillas took him alive. It was unlikely they would harm an insane man. Bennett might come out best in this deal after all.

Bennett was Still babbling to himself as Nick released him from the sapling and pushed him along the path. The man was on a real talking jag. He moved slowly now, jerkily and with reluctance. He was in a near catatonic state. Nick had read enough to know what to expect — alternate periods of stupor and activity, of babble and incoherence broken by an occasional period of lucidity. He hurried the man along down the path and through the cliff face. There were a lot of big ifs looming on the horizon and Bennett was only one of them.

Nick replaced the bamboo screen after him. No use warning them too soon. If he could catch them off guard, and punish them sufficiently with the first few bursts, they might just leave him alone. If he found the cache of arms he was counting on — if… if… if…

The hut was disappointingly barren. Large for its type, it had a trodden earth floor. There was a large earthenware water jar in one corner, half full. A rusty tin cup with Made in Japan on it floated in the water. He and Bennett drank. He found a coil of straw rope in a corner and made Bennett lie down, then he tied his legs. All this time the man was babbling on and on and on…

"I want my little tiger," he said. "My little tiger — I want it. Gimme it. It's my tiger. They gave it to me a long time ago only it was two tigers then and the man said wait and someday they would come and match the tigers and they would pay me and I loved my tiger and the man never came — he never came at all and I waited so long and I listened and listened and I waited but they never came and I never got paid they owe me such a lot…"

Nick, listening with only half an ear, wished he had a tape recorder. If you could slow down the man's babble and play it over and over you might get something out of it. The tiger bit, for instance, was coming clear. The thing had been a talisman of sorts, given to Bennett when he was recruited by some astute Russky who had known the sort of kook he was dealing with. Meet me at midnight in the cemetery! Bring your half of the tiger! Match them up and begin plotting! That sort of thing — Bennett's poor brain was a mishmash of it, of all the thousands of bad books, and the way-out TV programs, that he had seen and believed in over the years.

There was a large brazier in the exact middle of the hut. Nick picked up a lump of charcoal, found it still faintly warm. Overhead huge Norway rats rustled and slithered in the thatch. Bennett babbled on wildly in his corner. Nick stood looking around the barren hut and swore. There must be something around here! Guerrillas were kept well supplied by their employers. Yet — nothing. Rats. A little water. A brazier. A crazy man. Nick kicked the brazier in an excess of disgust.

"I didn't mean to kill Jane I didn't really but then she was so boring and so fat and ugly and so boring and they never got in touch with me like they promised and sent the beautiful girls like they promised and I had my own little place where I could sit and pretend and it was all right but you can't pretend all the time and I took pictures of Jane and she wouldn't do it any more and I know it was wrong but I killed her and waited and they never got in touch with me…"

The brazier tipped over on its side. Nick Carter stared at the earthen floor beneath it. It looked a little different, somehow disturbed. He fell to his knees and began to claw the dirt aside. Almost immediately he ran a long splinter into his finger. Boards. Planks. Under the earth.

He pried up three planks in as many minutes. As he removed the last one a faint ray of sun slanted in through a window. It was clearing.

The hole was a large one. Nick leaped down into it and stood shoulder level with the floor. He began hauling out the goodies. Machine guns, Russian made. Plenty of ammo in clips, drums and bandoliers. Stick grenades made in Germany, probably captured in World War II and carefully stored. Half a dozen huge revolvers still wrapped in brown paper and cosmoline. A large stock of rice and dried fish, the latter stacked like kindling. A couple of earthenware jugs containing ginseng booze, real popskull, about 175 proof. Nick took a solid belt and winced and shuddered, then felt the fire running through him. Just what the troops needed.

In a far corner of the hole was a cache of gasoline — a dozen jerricans marked U.S. Army. Nick Carter began to work fast. The Three Bears would be home anytime now. His grin was taut. They would be pretty sore bears — and there would be more than three of them. Hurry, boy!

"So I watched and I listened and you know I never forget anything and they told me they would pay me a lot and I could have all the girls I wanted and I never saw the girls except fat old Jane and I did try to get in the CIA and they laughed and the FBI they laughed and they all laughed and said I was too weak and I couldn't pass the tests and they always laughed and the Army said I should stay home and be four eff and oh how I like the beautiful soft girls with their softness and breasts and thighs and to strangle them so they won't laugh at me…"

Nick had all he needed out of the hole. He took two of the jerricans of gas outside the hut. He lined them up with the rock fortress, placing them just underneath the overhang of the thatched roof. He opened one of the cans and sloshed gas up over the thatch and down the side of the hut. He left the cans there and went back into the hut.

"He never came back he gave me the little tiger and then he never came back with the girls he was going to bring he never did…"

Nick made Bennett swallow some of the ginseng liquor. "Drink it, fella. Might do you some good. You can't be any worse off than you are."

Bennett spat out the liquor. "I can't that's horrible I can't drink blood there was so much blood you know when I pulled the hatchet out of her head I tried to stop it I put the hatchet back in but it wouldn't stop it was like a river I couldn't…"

Nick Carter's flesh was crawling. He was tempted for a moment to gag the man. No. Bennett might turn lucid and spill something worth hearing. Meantime get on with it!

He picked up the man, still bound hand and foot, and ran all the way to the jumble of boulders on the slope. He put him against a huge rock and ran back to the hut. There had been burlap sacks in the hole and he filled one with rice and dried fish and the jugs of Korean booze. Into another sack he flung all the ammo he could carry, being careful to include tracer and incendaries. He took four of the machine guns with him. He cast a look at the water jug, then forgot it. By noon it would probably be pouring again. Water was the least of his worries.

After carefully checking the jerricans again — they were an integral part of the half-baked plan he was nurturing — he staggered back to the rock fort.

He was just in time. He had barely time to load the machine guns, carefully inserting a tracer every ten and an incendiary every fifteen, when he peered over the rocks and saw the first guerrilla coming out of the cliff opening.

Chapter 13

Killmaster leveled the machine gun over the rock and let go a sighting burst. Rock shards exploded high and to the right. So startled, so surprised, were the guerrillas that he got the lead man before he could duck back into cover. Silence descended again on the little valley.

Nick studied the corpse. The man had fallen near the cliff entrance and lay unmoving. Even at the distance Nick could make out the rubber shoes, the dirty white trousers and ragged field jacket. The man wore heavy leather bandoleers crossed over his chest. A rifle lay near at hand. Nick breathed a little easier. They were guerrillas, all right. Bandits to the police and military. But it could have been the Korean police coming through that gap — he had taken a chance in firing before looking. A necessary chance. He couldn't let them get a foothold inside the valley.

He sent a long spray of lead at the cliff entrance, sighting with the tracer now and hosing a murderous fire down the passage. He kept it up, in short bursts so the gun wouldn't heat, until he had exhausted the drum. He slipped in a fresh drum and waited. That was one confused bunch of bandits about now. Cut off from home base.

"I used to dream of the big tool and I would hurt them with it and they would all scream and run and hurt themselves on it and like it and it was a big tool and the best tool in the world and mother I'm sorry I killed you but you were too fat and you should never have laughed at me…"

Nick shot a glance at the man lying bound in the shelter of the big rock. Bennett's eyes were closed. A ropy thread of saliva leaked from the loose mouth.

There was movement again at the cliff entrance. A dirty white handkerchief suspended from the end of a bamboo pole came into view. Nick smiled tightly. They wanted a truce. While they took time to figure the score. They must know he wasn't the police. He glanced back over his shoulder, up the slope behind him. He was vulnerable in that direction — it was the only way they could get at him — but it would take them a long time to circle around and scale the valley wall.

A voice hailed him from the cliff. "Tongsun— tongsun!" Roughly it meant hey you! There followed a long spate of Korean.

Nick cupped his hands and yelled back. "Korean talkee have no! English. Speak English!"

More Korean followed. Nick could make out the word jeepo repeated over and over. House. They wanted to get to their house. Yeah. He would bet they did. They were probably almost out of ammo after the raid on the train.

Again he yelled back. "English! Hava no Korean speak. Have English only!" On sudden thought he added, "Eigo— eigo…" Japanese for English. Most Koreans over twenty spoke Jap.

That did it. After another long silence a man appeared cautiously at the cliff opening. He wagged the handkerchief back and forth. Nick yelled, "Okay — I won't shoot. What do you want?"

"Want our house — many things in house, jeepo, we need. Who you come here take house? What want? We not care, no hurt you now. Let us come house get things. No? Yis?"

Nick glanced at the sky. The sun was still shining through wispy cloud but it was darkening in the south. Rain soon. Then he heard it again, the insect buzzing of a plane far off. He saw it. A gnat in the sky far to the west. Must be somewhere near the railroad. He watched the plane. If it came closer, just a bit closer, he would take a chance. Shoot the works. Go for broke.

The guerrilla spokesman grew impatient. Nick knew that his pals were circling to get into the next valley and take him from behind. A lot of them would get killed that way and they knew it. If this crazy big nose could be talked into surrendering it would save a lot of bother and blood…

The plane was closer. Flying low, dipping and rising, following the rugged contour map of Korea. Looking for something? Someone? Nick strained his eyes — it was a light plane of some sort. A scouting plane.

"What say, crazy fool English?" The bandit was whipping himself into a lather now. "You let us go jeepo by God! You sonbitch sullender or we cut neck good! What say, English?"

"Truce over," yelled Nick. He sent a burst at the cliff just over the speaker. Rock dust flew. The man dived back into the hole in the cliff. A moment later he stuck his head out again to scream, "Cruddy sonbitch!" That guy, Nick thought, has been associating with GIs.

He yelled back. "Harabachie you!" His Korean was scanty and bad, but he thought it meant something like up your honorable grandfather's. In a land of ancestor worship it was a deadly insult.

The plane was closer now and its present line of flight would bring it over the valley. Nick sent another spray of lead at the cliff, just to hold them down, then turned to sight on the two jerricans he had so carefully placed beside the hut. The thatch was sodden from the rains, but the underside might be dry enough to catch. There should be enough smoke and flame for the pilot to sec. If he missed the signal and flew on past — well, Nick preferred not to think about that.

He sent a short burst at the jerricans. Gas spurted from holes in the metal but no fire yet. An incendiary or a tracer, damn it! He sent another burst into the cans, a long one this time. Red tracer streaked into the cans and they exploded with a whoosh of flame and smoke up the side of the hut. The relatively dry underside of the thatching caught and a pillar of black smoke began to mount.

Nick Carter swiveled to send another long burst of fire at the cliff. The machine gun heated and jammed. He flung it away and picked up another one.

Behind him Raymond Lee Bennett was still babbling: "I want my little tiger they gave it to me and said to keep it but they never came but the men came and shot it and it broke all those pieces and they were fighting and she wouldn't let me keep my little tiger so he will never come now because I lost the tiger and she is a nice lady but she oughta let me keep my tiger…."

The little plane had spotted the plume of smoke and was banking around to investigate. The engine was running rough, missing now and then. It had a bad cough. Nick Carter followed the incoming glide of the plane with something akin to awe — it couldn't possibly be! Yet it somehow was. That was an Aeronca 65 TL! Twenty-six years old. Held together with paper clips. The Hying Turtles had found him!

The man from AXE so far forgot himself as to stand up and wave. Fire from the cliff face whanged and screeched around him, and he dove for cover again. He sent a lance of lead at the cliff and the firing stopped as they ducked back.

The plane skimmed the ridge just behind Nick. He could make out two men in the tiny cabin. That would be Jimmy Kim and his partner, Pok. Small arms fire rattled from behind the ridge and Nick saw bits of the wing fly off. The guerrillas had gotten around behind that ridge faster than he had thought possible — if it were not for the plane they would have him in enfilade now. As it was the situation was much brighter — the guerrillas would expect the plane to radio for help.

Killmaster whipped around just in time to see them making a sortie from the cliff. They weren't giving up so easily. He nestled the Tommy gun on the rocks and shot down the screaming men like metal ducks in a gallery. He got four and the others turned and ran. Nick did not think they would try again.

The Aeronca had banked around and was coming back down the ridge. The engine sputtered and coughed gouts of black smoke. It was very low, hedge hopping, barely skimming the tops of the trees on the ridge. Nick watched with a mixture of admiration and apprehension. The Flying Turtles were a couple of kooks!

Pok must be flying the jalopy, because Jimmy Kim was leaning far out on his side and blazing away at the trees with a Tommy gun. They were so close that Nick could see the expression of fiendish glee on Jimmy's face. The boy was having a ball. Pok was firing a pistol from his side, shooting with one hand and flying the crate with the other.

As they glided overhead Jimmy Kim looked at Nick and waved the Tommy gun in salutation. He shouted something that was lost in the wind and gunfire and blast of the engine as Pok gunned it for altitude. But Kim was grinning and Nick got the idea — the situation was well in hand.

For about one more minute. He watched the plane bank around and come in for another strafing run — the engine coughed, spurted black smoke, coughed again and quit cold.

The sudden silence had a strange deafening effect. Nick's ears rang with it. There was no gunfire. The cliff was silent and no sound came from the ridge behind him. The only sound in the hush was the keening, the sibilant whistle of air around the little plane as it came gliding in.

They had a chance. A bare chance. Nick leaped out of his cover behind the rocks, a Tommy gun in each hand, and prepared to cover both the cliff and the ridge. It was all he could do. Cover them and wait for the crash.

Pok brought the little craft in over the far end of the valley, beyond the now blazing hut. He was fishtailing in, cutting his air speed, trying to pancake her in. Pok was flying her by the seat of his pants.

She cleared the burning hut and came down in a long flat slide. The undercarriage folded and exploded, matchwood now. The plane lost half a wing to a boulder, turned sideways and kept sliding, turned over once and came upright again and lost the other wing. She plowed a long furrow in the valley floor. She came to rest fifty feet short of the cliff face.

Nick was running toward the plane before it stopped moving. Pok and Jimmy Kim would be sitting ducks for the guerrillas in the cliff opening — if they were still alive. Nick ran zigzag, a Tommy gun in each hand, firing alternate bursts at the cliff. There was no accuracy that way — you had to hold a machine gun down to hit anything with it — but it made for effective spray fire.

There was no return fire. Nick ceased his own fire and with great caution, keeping an eye on the cliff face, took what cover he could find behind a jagged piece of tail section. He was about twenty feet from what was left of the main cabin.

He yelled: "Hey! Kim — Pok! You people all right?" It was, as he admitted later, rather an inane question. But he had a lot on his mind just at the moment.

Slowly, as though rising in an elevator, Jimmy Kim's head appeared in the smashed window of the cabin. His smile was broad. He appeared to be bleeding slightly from a cut on the head.

Jimmy Kim said: "Hi, dad! Nice to see you again. And why shouldn't we be all right? Why should a little plane crash bother us?" He began to climb out the window. "You can put those guns down now," he told Nick. "Your friends have taken off. Running. High tailing it for the high mountains."

Nick dropped one Tommy gun, kept the other. He went toward the plane. "I thought they might," he said. "They're smart enough — they knew you would radio for help."

Jimmy Kim reached down to help his partner from the plane. Pok was tiny even for a Korean, but his grin was as big as Jimmy Kim's. He leaped to the ground. Nick couldn't see a scratch on him.

Jimmy Kim laughed. "You hear that, Pok? He thinks we radioed for help."

"So sorry," said Pok. "Radio not work for about month now. No damned parts to fix." His English was on the broken side.

Nick Carter could not repress his laughter. "Well — as long as those bastards didn't know it was broken! Same result." And he went on laughing. It felt good to laugh, now that it was nearly over. "That was some landing," he told them. "I've seen better — but it worked."

Jimmy Kim's teeth flashed. "Like Orville said to Wilbur — any landing you walk away from is a good one. Where's Bennett?" '

Nick jerked his head in the direction of the rocks. "Over there. I've got him tied up."

He could see the puzzlement in Jimmy Kim's eyes as they met his. "I didn't carry out the original plan," Nick explained. "I couldn't — Bennett has lost his mind! He's completely gone. Babbling like a baby."

Kim nodded. "I knew something had gone wrong when I didn't find him among the train casualties. Soon as we heard about the train being attacked Pok and I flew up to Tacjon. We were there when the train came in and I i checked. Checked for you, too."

Nick handed his Tommy gun to Pok. "Keep an eye on that slot in the cliff, just in case."

He and Jimmy Kim started walking toward the rock fortress. "You didn't really expect to find me among the casualties?"

Jimmy shook his head. "No. Not really. I did expect to find Bennett's body. It would have been a good cover, that bandit attack. It's raising all kinds of hell. There will be cops and ROKs and Yanks all over these mountains — and those tiger hunters are in on it, too. They were all drunk when they got into Taejon. Drunk and mean — they told me guerrilla hunting was going to be a lot more fun than tiger hunting. So, if Bennett is alive, it looks like we've still got problems, huh? What you going to do with him, dad?"

Nick said he didn't have the slightest idea. It was all too true at the moment. What to do with the crazy little mouse who had tried to be a tiger?

"I couldn't bring myself to kill an insane man," he told Jimmy Kim. 'T just don't know — maybe I'll have to try to smuggle him back to the States and turn him over to the head shrinkers. That's what the Chinese, or the Russians, would have done."

They were at the rock formation now. Jimmy Kim pointed to the limp straw rope lying near a rock. "Looks like the problem is academic, dad. You said you had him tied up?"

"Damn it, I — " Nick got no farther.

A shrill scream of mortal terror came from the slope above them. Nick and Kim turned and plunged upward into the thick growing bamboo. The scream was not repeated.

It was Jimmy Kim who found what remained of Raymond Lee Bennett. They had separated and were combing the bamboo, some dozen feet apart. Nick had only the Luger now and was alert and a little nervous — if those guerrillas had left a sniper or two behind? But there had been no shot — only the single scream.

"Over here," said Jimmy Kim. "I've got him. Holy Buddha! You're never going to believe this!"

Nick found him standing over the body. Bennett lay in a spreading welter of his own blood. His face had been torn away. Nothing was left but a red mask of bleeding tissue and blue-white bone. Part of the throat was gone, too, and Jimmy Kim said: "He bled to death in a hurry."

Nick Carter gazed down at the pitiful little corpse. He knew. Intuitively he knew. But he asked nonetheless. "The tiger?"

"Yes. Don't move or make any sound. It's still around someplace but I doubt if it will attack us now. Bennett must have run right into it — fell over it, maybe. The cat would be nervous and scared from all the shooting around here."

"My fault," said Nick. "I should have done a better job on those knots. He must have been back in this world for a time."

"Forget it," said Kim. "This is best — solves a lot of problems for us. But it gives me a chill all the same — that poor stupid little guy coming all this way to meet the only tiger that's gotten this far south in ten years. It's a little weird, like!"

Nick said nothing. He was staring into the tall growing bamboo. Perhaps it was only an illusion, nerves — he was never sure — but he thought he saw the tiger for an instant. A silent mass of tawny gold blending in with the bamboo. A pair of amber eyes watching him. Then it was gone — if indeed it had ever been. Had the bamboo swayed, moved? There was no wind.

Nick put the Luger away and stooped to take the dead man's shoulders. "Come on, Kim. Let's get him back. We'll bury him in the valley. I'll leave it to you to handle Pok — we're all to forget we ever saw Bennett!"

Pok was a Christian, a fact Nick had not known, and he made a cross of bamboo and placed it at the head of the shallow grave. Nick, with a great fatigue stealing over him now that the action was over, watched as they buried the little man. It would, he thought, have taken a hundred skull doctors a hundred years to figure out all the quirks that had been the sum total of Raymond Lee Bennett. Now they would never have the chance. And he, Killmaster, didn't want to think about it. All he wanted to think about were a few of the creature comforts that at times made this life endurable. He felt a fierce desire to get going, to get out of the sodden wrecked suit, the shapeless shoes, the filthy itching underwear. His beard itched, too.

"Come on," he told them. "Let's start walking out of here."

Suddenly it began to rain again, slamming down in buckets the way it does in the monsoon in Korea.

Nick Carter turned up his collar and slogged on, trying to think of a few choice lies for the military and the Korean police.

Примечания

1

See Nick Carter — Istanbul.

2

See Nick Carter — The Golden Serpent.

Content

Nick Carter
A Korean Tiger

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Примечания