Nick Carter

The Asian Mantrap

Dedicated to The Men of the

Secret Services of the

United States of America

A HERO’S REVENGE!

Old soldiers never die — they just disappear. At least that’s what happened to Keith Martin, POW survivor and Vietnam War hero. Is it just a coincidence that high-ranking North Viet officials are being murdered? But why would anyone go back?

N3’s mission is to find out — and if there’s a connection between Martin and the assassinations it’s to be severed... at any cost. Because behind closed doors in Washington nerves are stretched to the breaking point. If these murders aren’t stopped, the U.S. is bound to be blamed. And once again, world peace is in the hands of one man — Nick Carter, Killmaster — in this nerve tingling espionage thriller!

Prologue

The tall, muscular man tossed the butt of a pungent-odored, hand-rolled, brown-papered cigarette on the uneven floor and ground it out with his foot. He looked at himself in the piece of mirror still on the wall of the latrine in the bombed-out building where he had taken refuge. The only light was that of an ivory moon that seeped through gaps in the crumbling walls. He fastened together the tabs of the quilted, choke-collared, black pajama jacket he wore. It was the same as the type worn by most peasant farmers toiling in the fields and rice paddies of Northern Vietnam.

The furtive man concealed his dyed black hair with a snug-fitting beret over which he placed a cone-shaped coolie hat. It was fastened securely with tie strings knotted under his square-jawed chin. His legs were encased in black, snug-fitting stretch pants which were tucked into calf-high combat boots. For his camouflage to be perfect, he would have worn thong sandals on his feet.

From an efficiently organized backpack, the man removed a small, flat tin can. Although his face and hands were already stained to give them a jaundiced appearance, he smeared a coating of black boot polish over the reflective surfaces of his face. He looked at his wristwatch, replaced the shoe polish in his pack and shoved it into a dark corner. The final check in preparation for his departure from his hiding place was a reexamination of his weapons, the most deadly of which was the loaded, eleven-shot Lekoyev 9 mm. machine pistol. He looked over the extra ammunition clip as well before tucking it back into a convenient pocket.

He removed the wedge from under the bottom of the unlocked latrine door, then opened it. He walked noiselessly through shadows caused by shattered walls, twisted girders, and the rubble of broken concrete. At a still-standing corner of the far end of the ruined building, he pulled aside some splintered planking to uncover a bicycle.

The reefer he’d smoked had brought him to a sharp edge. Each movement, every sound, seemed amplified to his tuned-up mind. He was adept at bringing himself up to a carefully calculated personal high. He had no intention of risking a sudden marijuana disintegration by delaying what he had to do.

As he dragged out the bicycle, he felt dampness on the palms of his hands. The last-minute application of water-dissolvent paint he had used to render the bicycle unidentifiable had not yet dried completely.

The disguised interloper used back roads and little-travelled streets to reach his destination. It lay adjacent to a narrow lane flanked on either side by high walls. The hunched-over rider pedaled slowly, his face glistening with perspiration. The sultry atmosphere of a warm, humid day had lingered on long after the sun had set. It was typical of the uncomfortable summer weather found in the North Vietnamese capital city of Hanoi.

The bicycle rider coasted to a stop midway along a smooth wall on his right side. He knew what was behind it. Days had been spent studying scale drawings and memorizing every detail of the villa and the landscaped grounds around it. That knowledge was essential to the success of his plan.

The only variable was the assigned guards. One was known to be posted at the driveway gate at the beginning of the twenty-yard graveled lane leading to the residence. The other guard had no assigned station, roaming at will. He could be a problem.

Having assured himself that he was unobserved and oriented with the help of moonlight reflecting off the leaves of a lemon tree growing behind the wall, the dark-clad cyclist dismounted. He carried the bicycle across a shallow drainage ditch that ran between the street and the wall. He deposited his ungainly coolie hat in the depression, then propped the bicycle up against the wall.

He looked up and down the street once more. He was alone. He stripped off the thickly padded jacket with a single, practiced motion. Using the leaning bicycle as an improvised ladder, he stood on the crossbar, then flipped the padded jacket so it fell across the top of the wall. It formed a bridge across the jagged-toothed broken glass imbedded in the cement.

The beret-capped figure went up and over the wall like a panther. As he did, he kicked backward. The bicycle fell flat, its previous telltale silhouette against the wall erased. The stealthy figure dropped lightly between the far side of the wall and the row of hedges growing close to it. The same faint smile that had creased the man’s face any number of times during the planning stage showed again when he looked hard and found the gnarled lemon tree standing exactly in its diagrammed position. The tree would make his exit as simple as his entrance.

The grim-faced man moved to the end of the line of yew shrubs. There he waited and listened; a faint shuffling sound had reached his straining ears.

The crunch of approaching footsteps came from the gravel lane. With a swift, silent motion, the crouching man drew a stiletto-bladed commando knife from his boot. A uniformed Vietnamese soldier came to a halt no more than four feet from where the man was hiding near the end of the yew hedges.

He leaped, encircling the guard’s head with one arm, smothering the mouth and crushing the cigarette inside it while he thrust the knife to the hilt between the second and third ribs.

The Vietnamese gurgled deep in his throat and his knees sagged. The knife-wielder guided the collapsing body to the ground, an arm still clamped solidly over the slack mouth. He withdrew the knife quickly, wiped it on the grass, restored it to his boot, then used both hands to drag the inert figure behind the hedge. There was no need to test it for signs of life.

The intruder had used up an extra thirty seconds of his self-imposed time limit, but he had reduced the hazard during his withdrawal phase by fifty percent. The guard at the front gate might as well have been on the planet Mars.

The infiltrator drew his Russian machine pistol and unlocked the safety. Running forward boldly, he covered the fifteen yards across open ground like a fleeting shadow. In the same manner, he mounted a flight of stone steps that led to a marble-floored veranda. Light streamed from two sets of many-paned French doors which opened into the drawing room and dining room. He eased himself next to the doors on the right and listened.

The gunman had confidence in the intelligence work that had gone into the preparations for this moment. The new Vietnamese government’s Security Minister, Ban Lok Huong, was a methodical man. He liked to listen to light classical music during the early evening. If music came from the drawing room, Huong would be having his pre-dinner aperitif there. If music issued from the dining room, Huong would be seated alone at the head of the table, facing the French doors.

From his position next to the drawing room doors, the man could hear music, but only faintly. With pistol at the ready, he moved to the other set of doors. The strains of a piano concerto were much more distinct.

He counted to five silently, then took a deep breath and burst through the flimsy doors.

Inside, he came to a dead stop.

Strong light reflected from multitudinous teardrop crystals decorating an ornate chandelier that hung low over the huge dining table caused the assassin to blink, but he had his pistol halfway aimed when he saw that — contrary to his information — Minister Ban Lok Huong was not alone.

On either side of the table were a man and a woman, Caucasians, who stared at the intruder in blank shock. A thin-necked Vietnamese woman in traditional national dress was seated with her back to him. The gunman froze momentarily, totally surprised. Huong, formerly General in charge of all military security and prisoner-of-war confinements during the Vietnam War, was supposed to be alone. Who were these people? His hesitancy had already given three of them the chance to identify him, despite his disguise.

He had an impulse to flee, but at that instant the chunky figure of Minister Huong, who was facing the intruder, rose to his feet. Huong’s sudden movement was like that of the pop-up silhouette target on a firing range where the gunman had practiced to react against this very contingency.

Suddenly calm, he leveled his weapon and sprayed the minister with a short, accurate burst. Huong had just started to dive under the table when the slugs caught him in the chest. He fell forward heavily onto the table.

The killer fired continuously, raking the table from right to left. The chatter of the pistol hardly missed a beat as he removed the empty clip and inserted the second loaded one. The Vietnamese woman’s head dropped to one side suddenly, the muscles and arteries in her neck severed. The pallid European in a tailored dinner jacket remained sitting upright, but his head sank slowly as if to contemplate the stitching of blood welling and spreading on his shirt front.

The woman across the table from him was halfway to her feet with her mouth open to scream when the deadly bullets stifled her. A single whistling gasp escaped her before blood gushed from her throat and she was flung loosely upon the chair from which she had risen, at once painting its needlepoint a bright crimson.

The man wearing the black-smudged face and combat boots stared hard beyond the smoking muzzle of his weapon at the collapsed figure of the chubby Vietnamese who should have been his only target. One of the man’s hands spasmed and seized the tablecloth, following which the lifeless body of Minister Huong slid to the floor, dragging silver, china, and exquisite crystal wine goblets from the table with a tremendous crash.

The intruder elevated the automatic pistol and fired two short bursts into the chain supporting the heavy crystal chandelier. It crashed down onto the elaborate floral centerpiece in the middle of the table and a curtain of darkness descended upon the grisly scene.

Fifteen seconds later, the retreating dark figure swarmed up the lemon tree, swung from its overhanging branch, and was over the wall with the shredded peasant jacket in his hands. The hot-barreled machine pistol was safely secured. Both coolie hat and bicycle were retrieved. It was all he could do to hold back his urge to pedal away at sprint speed. But he restrained himself and was almost a mile away before any positive reaction occurred.

He began sweating again, but this time from more than the warm night. He evaluated his mission: nothing had gone wrong except that the old goat hadn’t been alone; but four go as easily as one at close range. Besides, the Vietnamese woman and the two Europeans were in the way of the assignment.

He wondered who the two Caucasians were.

Neither one had had a chance to speak.

And now they never would, which was all to the good.

Dead men tell no tales.

Besides, he told himself again, they were in the way of a mission he’d vowed to carry out to the very end, no matter what the cost.

One

I had no idea why I was sent to the conference room adjacent to the secretary of the army’s office on the second floor of the Pentagon Building. The glitter of silver stars and rainbows of ribbons on the uniforms of the officers waiting with me were impressive. I was the only civilian present.

The five men clustered together were generals — the two and three star kind. All of us were expecting the imminent arrival of four-star General Harold Jarrett, the U.S. Army Chief of Staff.

None of the assembled officers spoke to me. The two that kept glancing at me from across the room seemed more than curious about my presence. Their looks were dark and openly wary. It was pretty clear that I was not particularly welcome.

I kept to one corner of the carpeted, well-lit room. Its most prominent feature was a huge walnut table large enough to accomodate a twenty-member committee with ease. Through the window next to me, I could see across the sluggish Potomac River in the foreground. Beyond it, to the left, the pillars of the Lincoln Memorial were dazzling white in the bright morning sunshine. On the right, the rounded dome of the Jefferson Memorial reminded me of a smooth mushroom cap. In the distance between the two marble structures was the clean, slender obelisk of the Washington Monument.

I reached into my jacket pocket for my cigarettes. They are custom-blended to my taste by a tobacconist who embosses the initials N.C. in gold on the filter tips. My action was interrupted by the arrival of General Jarrett. The tall, gray-haired man’s entry caused the others in the room to stiffen slightly. He waved a hand toward the conference table. “Be seated, gentlemen. This matter should be dispensed with quickly.”

The lesser generals scrambled for chairs, automatically seating themselves in protocol position determined by rank. An efficient-looking, middle-aged woman carrying a stenotype machine placed herself strategically near the head of the table. I put away my cigarettes and moved to a chair at the far end. The army chief nodded to me, either approving my choice to segregate myself or tacitly acknowledging my presence. I had met him once; I wondered if he remembered me.

General Jarrett dispensed with the formalities of calling a meeting to order. He got right to the heart of things. “Gentlemen, I see no alternative but to postpone once more the scheduled meeting of the Strategic Options Board. Without the full panel, we cannot function and — as you can see — General Martin is absent. Continued attempts to bring him in attendance have been fruitless. The board can no longer put off fulfilling its obligations. This third false start in the space of ten days is intolerable. I must ask that we take steps to have a replacement appointed to assume General Martin’s duties on this panel.”

The bald, full-faced lieutenant general sitting on Jarrett’s right glanced down the table toward me. “Go ahead, Sam,” the chief said. “Mr. Carter is here at my express invitation.”

The general whose silent question had been answered was Samuel Bromley, a crusty old West Pointer who was still so shot in the butt with discipline that it was rumored he slept at attention. He and Jarrett were always at odds. Open hostility over strong opposing views erupted between them frequently. “Martin knew we were scheduled to convene on Tuesday,” growled Bromley. “Because of him we’re way behind. An’ his leave was up six days ago. I’m beginning to get pressure from Congress. We all are.”

“We don’t need a re-hash, Sam,” General Jarrett replied. “We have to make a decision — right now — whether Martin’s going to be accomodated or removed.” His alert eyes speared the two-star general sitting closest to me. “How about it, Jack; have you been able to get any sort of lead on on him?”

“Not a thing, sir,” was his answer. “We checked his leave address in ’Frisco three times. Nothing. A dead end.”

“That’s not like Keith Martin,” injected another voice. The speaker was a stout man whose thick eyebrows shaded small eyes imbedded in a fat-cheeked face. “I don’t like the sound of this at all. Men like Martin don’t just up and disappear. Aside from his being needed on the S.O.B., I think we’ve got a personal responsibility to investigate further. He isn’t your run-of-the-mill general officer, you know.”

I knew that. And millions of Americans knew it too. Keith Martin was a well-publicized hero of the Vietnam War. He was one of the few who remained in prominence even after his capture. What was it — three and a half years as a POW? Hard years for any man. When released, they were barely human: weak with sickness and hunger; the wounded badly in need of medical care. All faced emotional adjustments, some needing extended therapy before they could return to normal life in a peacetime society.

I’ve been thrown in jails, confined in grubby, despicable places and treated harshly by guards when a field operation’s gone sour. But I never have had to endure the prolonged mistreatment suffered by those hapless POWs. Still, I felt a distant kinship with those who had led dismal lives in Hanoi’s miserable prison camps. Or those who died there.

Martin was one who survived. Once released, he was not backward about telling how tough it was. He came home with the rank of colonel and used his position to stand up and speak out for the less articulate POWs. Too outspoken for some, he was immediately gagged and taken out of the public limelight. A short time later, however, his career progress continued but with considerable less fanfare.

“We don’t want to be too hasty about this,” cautioned a lean ramrod of a man on Jarrett’s left. “Keith Martin’s too well-known on the Washington scene for us not to try to cover up his absence for as long as possible. If the White House isn’t making a stir about it, maybe we should hold off a little longer. We’re damn lucky to have a man like Martin on the presidential staff where he can exert the kind of influence we need.”

“Yeah,” snarled Bromley. “He’s got a fast act going, but he won’t be giving any encores if we can’t find the son-of-a-bitch. He’s an upstart kid trying to make out like pushy George Custer did until some smart Sioux cut him down to size. I don’t care if Martin is the president’s fair-haired lad; I say we dump him and bring Clyde Burkhardt onto the board in his place.”

General Jarrett’s response surprised everyone, including me. “Do I hear an objection?” he snapped. Before any could be offered he brought his balled fist down hard on the table top. “Done!” he rapped and rose to his feet with alacrity that belied his sixty-one years. It was pretty evident that, with statutory retirement only a few months away, Jarrett didn’t give a damn who sat on the board. He controlled it with an iron hand anyway.

The other generals sprang to their feet. They stood, waiting for the chief of staff to leave the room. The stenographer did. Jarrett held back. He bobbed his head, dismissing the other members of the board. I moved with them.

General Jarrett extended his hand to block my way when I stepped up to pass around him. “You didn’t get much out of that, did you, Mr. Carter?” He did remember me.

I knew I wouldn’t have been monitoring a five-minute, high-level Pentagon conference unless it had significant overtones of interest for the man who had sent me to it. “I presume I heard what my boss wanted me to hear, General.”

My boss is David Hawk, the no-nonsense director and operations chief of AXE, a clandestine intelligence organization with no official charter. Hawk manipulates the obscure, worldwide activities of AXE as deftly as an exacting maestro conducts a well-rehearsed symphony. My employment with AXE had been going on long enough for me to have accumulated enviable seniority, a few scars — none disfiguring — and immense respect for David Hawk. Seniority in AXE is in no way related to length of service. It is more closely associated with survival. I’d reached the point at which Hawk altered my personnel jacket to carry the coded designation of N3. Only field operatives can quality for ‘N’ status. It has never been revealed to me how many N agents AXE has or who N1 and N2 are... or were. I suspect that both of them are dead. In this business, only the desk types can look forward to certain retirement.

“I wouldn’t want you to carry back the wrong impression, Mr. Carter.” Jarrett’s voice was crisp and solemn. “General Martin has his detractors — men of sincere purpose — who cannot accept radical departures from long-standing tradition. In some cases, these very senior officers view Martin as a threat — not to themselves, but to a disciplined establishment.

“Martin is young, daring, and forward. He is a combat-hardened officer, having proved himself under fire and deserving of the rapid promotions he has received. That his family has wealth and wields considerable political clout had nothing to do with his remarkable career progress. In many respects he takes after his uncle, Senator Steadier, whose tough, hawkish stand during the Vietnamese conflict was hotly challenged by Martin. Nevertheless, Keith willingly served his country, fought with outstanding bravery, and was honored for it. Oddly enough, when he was to be presented with the Distinguished Service Cross at an award ceremony conducted at Letterman Army Hospital upon his return from Southeast Asia, Martin refused to accept it from his stepfather who, as you might know, is a retired lieutenant general. Are you familiar with that background?”

“Not in detail, General.”

“I don’t have time to educate you. I’m mentioning this much only to convey to you that General Martin remains something of an enigma to many people. And to ask you to inform Mr. Hawk that he has my complete confidence. Any steps he undertakes in this matter will be both prudent and speedy, I’m sure.”

General Jarrett didn’t give me a chance to confirm that that was the only way Hawk would tackle any assignment. He spun about and strode away.

I was left by myself in the big, quiet room.

There was a lonely, eerie atmosphere about it.

The meeting had been opened and adjourned in such a hurried, ominous manner, I felt that much had been left unsaid.

There must be a reason why General Keith Martin refused to attend a crucial meeting of the Strategic Options Board. I wondered if his truancy had been ordered by the White House.

If the president was involved in prolonging Martin’s absence, some very peculiar skullduggery was going on.

That didn’t seem likely. The whole thing could be a foot-dragging trick by the unpredictable Keith Martin.

I wouldn’t get any answers by standing here daydreaming about the situation.

Hawk was waiting for me to brief him on what had transpired. He’d have some key pieces to fill out the gaps in this crazy puzzle.

Two

Mid-morning traffic crossing Arlington Memorial Bridge into the District was light and not much heavier going north on 23rd Street. I branched off onto New Hampshire Avenue at Washington Circle. Street repairs on Connecticut Avenue near the underpass reduced traffic around DuPont Circle to one lane.

I tucked my car into the reserved space kept for me in the basement garage of the DuPont Plaza Hotel. Using the emergency fire door to reach the alley, I walked clockwise halfway around the Circle and passed the Iraqi and Nigerian embassies. It was a quiet morning.

The first alphabetical listing on the directory in the lobby of the Hatterman Building is Alliance for Peace located in Suite 514. I always suspected that was a front for something else. The second listing is Amalgamated Press and Wire Service. That looks legit, but it isn’t. It’s the cover name for AXE which occupies most of the third floor.

The reception room was empty. It normally is. Very little AXE activity is carried on out in the open. Right after I entered, a familiar voice boomed out over a concealed loudspeaker. “Come right in, Nick. My door’s open.”

My presence had been detected by a body-heat sensitive electronic device hidden in the door frame. Visual identification had been made from the video picture picked up by an unseen TV camera and transmitted to a number of monitor screens strategically placed in several offices.

Hawk reclined in his high-back executive chair, his feet resting on an open bottom desk drawer. For once he wasn’t smoking or chewing on an unlit stub of one of his cheap cigars. The carcasses of four teeth-mangled butts lay soggy-ended in his hubcap-size ashtray. I can always judge Hawk’s mood by the rate his cigar butts accumulate. This wasn’t one of his better days.

“Sit down, Nick,” he invited, awarding me with a slight twist of his lips. That’s the closest hу ever came to generating a smile. He held out a humidor containing cigars. I shook my head. It takes a strong-stomached man to tolerate Hawk’s cheroots, let alone smoke them. I drew out my own pack of private-formula cigarettes.

After we lit up, he let me relax for a minute. That in itself was out of character. Hawk is a restless, dynamic man who seems to need to be constantly in motion. His chronological age, which I guessed to be around sixty, and how he was allowed to carry on his unique operations, are two of the many well-kept AXE secrets. That he exercises tremendous influence at the top levels of government is not. He worked as hard to keep AXE unknown and its select staff invisible as he did to carry out successfully the secret missions assigned to it.

“How’ve you been feeling, Nick, my boy?” Hawk asked finally.

If ever there was an indication that I wasn’t going to feel so good after Hawk told me what he had in mind, that solicitous approach telegraphed the bad news. His friendly, unexpected concern and use of a chummy salutation set off a warning signal within me. Animals and insects get the same intuitive feeling just before a disastrous earthquake takes place. When Hawk lays on the fatherly approach, the job usually turns out to be political and extremely delicate.

“Just fine, sir,” I replied to his question and left it at that. I wondered what was causing Hawk’s reticence. He wasn’t the kind to shy away from a distasteful subject.

“I’ve got something I want you to see,” he said.

A compact film viewer that resembled a portable TV set rested on the credenza opposite Hawk’s broad-topped desk. “Pull your chair around here next to mine,” he instructed. He activated the remote control that switched on the motion picture projector.

The film had no titles. The initial frames showed nothing but roiling, dark gray clouds. The sound, thunderous and constant, enabled me to identify the setting even before the smoke cleared away to reveal a battlefield scene. At first I thought I was watching a training film. A tank in front of the camera was moving down a village street under fire. Burning, shattered buildings lined the road. When the tank shuddered to a halt under the impact of the shaped charge that plowed into its side, I changed my mind. The violent orange explosion ripped off the heavy caterpillar tread. The turret hatch cover and a limp body were blown into the air. These were not special effects; I was seeing an uncensored combat film.

“There’s no commentary on the sound track!” Hawk shouted over the din. “This was taken at the height of the battle of Hue during the first Tet offensive in Vietnam. Now watch for movement on the right side of the screen.”

The cameraman swung his lens to catch a ragged line of hunched soldiers moving forward through the rubble in the street. They were trailing a man who constantly waved an arm to encourage those behind to keep up. “That’s Major Keith Martin out there in front,” Hawk told me.

Martin broke into a scrambling run toward the motionless tank. Puffs of dust caused by aimed automatic fire peppered the ground around his legs. He faltered once, but kept going. “Caught one in the fleshy part of his thigh right there,” Hawk explained. The determined major forged ahead. He reached the lee side of the smoking tank and paused just long enough to give another impatient arm wave to the lagging GIs in his wake. As Martin shelved his weapon on the treads and climbed up the tank’s side, four men in jungle fatigues surged forward. Two fell almost at once. The surviving pair made it to the protection of the tank’s hulk and huddled there.

Above them Martin had disappeared inside the disabled vehicle. Moments later an uncoordinated figure was hoisted up through the hatch. It half-slid, half-fell into the waiting arms of the two men on the ground. The camera lens zoomed in to get a close shot of the bloody, wounded crewman and the grim faces of the two soldiers reaching up with helping hands.

An ear-splitting explosion from the sound track which filled Hawk’s office was followed by complete silence. The camera jiggled just before its lens swept the sky then came to rest. The screen was filled with a blob of unfocused brown color. “Another shell!” Hawk’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “Took out the sound man and all of his equipment. The cameraman was slightly wounded. Watch!”

The still-running camera was picked up and trained upon Martin. He was backing down the side of the tank, an unconscious man draped over his shoulder. He deposited the still figure on the ground gently. He then snatched up the M-16 he’d laid on the tank’s useless treads and moved to the nose of the tank. Going down on one knee, he looked ahead. From the way he jerked back as small geysers of dust marked the impact of bullets in front of him, it was clear that the rescue operation was pinned down by an unseen Viet Cong machine gun. Its task was obviously to protect an observation post directing the deadly accurate enemy artillery fire. The next incoming round was due in seconds.

Martin moved. Alone and exposed, he dashed forward. After six long strides, his right arm looped over. A hand grenade sailed out of sight. Hunched over, Martin ran another three steps, then went down. He rolled over twice and lay still. “That one went clean through his lung,” explained Hawk. “But he’s not through yet.” I wouldn’t have known that Martin had been hit a second time because he heaved himself up on his elbows and began firing the M-16 like he was in the prone position on a practice range.

The picture on the screen shook. Another shell had impacted. From the smoke and dust that enveloped Martin lying in the street, I figured he had been blown to bits. But out of the yellowish black cloud Martin plodded — moving slowly, deliberately — driven by something stronger than the pain he must be suffering. He stumbled once more, down onto his knees. Before he dropped completely, another grenade left his hand. Debris from that one showered over Martin now laying flat and unmoving in the street.

A Russian T-47 tank smashed through the one remaining wall of a corner building. It was framed just long enough for me to recognize what it was before the projector screen went blank. “The cameraman cleared out right there, but he had a record of Martin’s heroic act,” explained Hawk. “That’s when he was captured. That bit of film, plus the account given by the men who were with him, earned him the DSC. Both tank crew members recovered, though one’s in a VA hospital to this day. The platoon that Martin commandeered couldn’t give him enough praise. You only saw a half dozen GIs in that action. There were a dozen more back of the camera who were eyewitnesses, too. They helped make Martin the legend he is today.”

“He sure had guts,” I commented.

“There’s another piece of film you should see,” Hawk continued. “After that action in Hue, no one knew what happened to Martin. He was wounded three times and a Russian tank was bearing down on him, firing and smashing everything in sight. He could have been run over and ground into the dirt. There was no way to tell. So Martin was declared missing in action and presumed dead. Then we saw this film clip.”

It was short. The staged propaganda film showed captured American prisoners being paraded down a Hanoi street lined with jeering North Vietnamese. The prisoners were a sorry lot, barefoot, emaciated-looking, with gaunt faces and their shaven heads bowed. Their ankles and wrists were shackled with heavy, dragging chains. The intentional humiliation was base and degrading. The vacant-eyed prisoners looked more like drugged automatons than freeborn American servicemen.

For a brief moment, the photographer concentrated on one slouching, dejected individual. “Good Lord!” the words escaped me. “You can barely recognize him, but that’s Martin,” I said. “He’s dragging one foot. I thought you said he was only nicked in the leg.”

“He was, but he received almost no treatment for such a relatively minor wound. That’s just another way our captured troops were abused. It went sour, as you can see. Of course, it was properly cared for after he came home.”

I fired up another cigarette. My adrenalin flows easily. Just watching someone in a tight spot stirs up my juices. Hawk says my ability to gear up to a situation so quickly is one of the reasons he holds me in reserve for the more tricky assignments. From experience I knew that the longer Hawk took to brief me on background, the nastier the job would be. He was taking a long time to get to the point.

Hawk got to his feet. To me that was a sign that he was getting close to revealing what there was about Keith Martin’s unexplained absence that was agitating everyone. He took a deep breath. “After the POWs were brought home, there seems to be a period during which no entries were made in Martin’s service record. We know he was hospitalized for some time. During that stay for physical rehabilitation, I suspect he also underwent psychiatric treatment as did many POWs. If he did, it wasn’t recorded, or has been stricken from his personnel file. The outstanding entries are the two emotional promotions given him during and just after his confinement in Hanoi. The first, from major to lieutenant colonel, followed the propaganda film confirmation that Martin was alive. The second, to full colonel, came when he was being flown back home.”

“The gap in the record could be because of leave. He must have had a lot of it accumulated,” I reasoned.

“He had it and he took it. You were out of the country on a job at the time, but you may recall the splash he made here. He really cut a wide swath, showing up in places like Las Vegas and New York with Hollywood starlets, titled divorcées, and a couple of Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. He was a big spender and his family has it. He came close to precipitating a scandal more than once. Then he suddenly cooled it. His uncle, Senator Steadier, had something to do with curbing Martin’s excesses. I mention that name because he has quite a bit to do with you being here right now.”

Hawk was only partly right about that.

It was Ginger Bateman, a picturesque redhead from Atlanta who is Hawk’s proficient girl Friday and whom I always thought would be an especially capable bedroom gal on Saturday nights, that had gotten me moving this morning.

I had been sitting naked on the turned-down toilet seat cover with a towel across my lap when the phone rang. Before that interruption, I’d been applying antiseptic to a red welt running across the fading AXE tattoo on the inner side of my right elbow and debating whether the deep fingernail scratch warranted the use of a Band-Aid.

While padding across the thick pile carpeting of my bachelor apartment in Alexandria’s Landmark Towers, I began concocting a story why I couldn’t give an encore performance for the ardent young socialite whom I’d left dreamy-eyed and languid in my bed. She didn’t want me to leave her, but I had to have a breather. Besides, another session with her might leave me slashed to ribbons, not to mention acquiring more bruises in intimate, sensitive areas. Her surprising endurance and insatiable demands disproved the rumors circulated by her ex-husband. He claimed she was frigid. I knew better. My personal research confirms that there are no frigid women — only inept men. Or drained-out men. Following an especially active night, I was one of the latter.

As I reached for the phone, I vowed that tonight I would sleep long, solidly — and alone.

“Carter, here,” I said into the mouthpiece.

“Hi, Nick. This is Ginger. The Man says you’re to get over to the Pentagon. On the double.” She gave me no chance to protest. She needed none. Both of us knew that orders from David Hawk required an automatic response. Her unscrambled call over my open telephone line verified the message’s urgency. The sketchy details Ginger passed to me included only the time and location of the meeting I was to attend.

I hurried as directed. Getting away before my honey-voiced society chick was awake enough to realize I was running out on her was an extra incentive to waste no time.

Hawk seemed to be in no hurry now. He blew a cloud of bluish smoke toward the ceiling. I’d never seen him look so pensive. For a full twenty seconds the room was so quiet we could hear the whisper of cool, air-conditioned air coming through the ceiling-mounted vents. He sat down again and swiveled his chair to face me. “This is going to be strictly off the record,” he confided.

I can be candid, too, when I think it necessary. “I’ve never seen you take so long to get around to the real issue, chief. Are you somehow involved personally?”

My question seemed to give the lean, intelligent man the opening he was seeking. He thanked me silently with one of his wry smiles. “I wish it were as simple as that. Still, you’re right in a way. A personal appeal has come from a consortium of the highest-placed officials in the administration. The White House is gravely concerned over the unavailability of General Martin. The presidential press secretary fears some reporter will notice Martin’s extended absence and speculate about it, so a ‘leak’ to the media is planned. It will suggest that Martin is off on a binge somewhere and would like to keep it under wraps.”

“Is that the best they could come up with?”

“It’s the least likely to be considered prime news. That story about Martin was run before. If it is printed, minimal reaction is expected. The general public has no idea of Martin’s favored status. Only insiders know how close to the president he is.”

“It was news to me when I heard it this morning,” I confessed.

“Well, there you are,” Hawk remarked. “And the misdirection being issued by the White House is designed to keep it that way. Although no one has come right out and said so, some kind of urgency makes the time element important. And speaking of time, how long did it take Hal Jarrett to get action out of the board this morning?”

I started to make a mental calculation, then realized that Hawk already knew the answer. A conspiratorial glint in his eye gave him away. I smiled back. “So it was rigged. That tirade by old General Bromley was planned, if not rehearsed, wasn’t it? Don’t bother to answer, chief. I recognize a Hawk twister when I’m told to look for one.”

“I wanted you there to analyze how it went. If you didn’t pinpoint the ruse, I doubt if any others present saw through the sham. It wasn’t entirely my idea; General Jarrett was cooperating so that the Strategic Options Board can convene to minimize the impact of Martin’s absence.”

“I can’t believe that any one-star general could be so indispensible as to stir up so much concern.”

“You always did have a way of putting things to make a person uncomfortable, Nick.” Hawk’s remark struck me as being a non sequitur. He was staring down at his ash-sprinkled desk blotter.

I waited through a long period of silence. It’s not often that I risk needling Hawk, but his out-of-character hesitancy made me bold. “You mentioned being contacted by someone on a strictly personal basis.”

Hawk took a long drag on his vile-smelling cigar. “Yes, that’s right. And it’s got to be kept that way. I’m sending you out to locate Keith Martin. Not just to determine where he might be, but to find him and remain with him until you turn him over to a proper escort. Though I don’t expect you to run into any unusual... ah, complications, I’m giving you an open-end Killmaster authorization.”

That seemed a little drastic to me. A Killmaster project provides unlimited and unquestioned funding to carry out an assignment. That was fine with me, but it also has a built-in aspect which allows the use of extreme measures to assure success of the mission. That seemed superfluous, especially when the missing person was a general. The army had enormous resources of its own. If Martin was truly a concern of the White House, the president could turn loose a dozen federal agencies that would make short work of turning up a person in hiding. The whole thing didn’t track right for me. My mouth was partly open to ask Hawk one of the hundred questions that came to mind when he spoke. This time his voice was precise and confident.

“This will be a full-scale trace effort, Nick. No restrictions apply other than carrying it out in such a way that no one suspects an issue is being made of Keith Martin’s absence. I want this absolutely low key, nothing flamboyant. And wrap it up fast. Any questions?”

I bit back the ones on the tip of my tongue. When Hawk got to this point, I knew he’d told me everything he knew. It was clear that I was already on the job. I needed to know if there were any local leads. I braved Hawk’s acerbity. “Where do you suggest I begin, sir?”

Surprisingly, Hawk accepted the question as being quite rational. “Martin was last seen at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco.”

Three

A taxi was waiting in front of the building entrance when I reached the street. Ginger Bateman was leaning forward from the back seat, conversing with the driver. Two of her more attractive features all but nudged the grinning driver’s head. She was having no trouble detaining him until I arrived. Upon my approach she slipped out of the cab, gracefully and wholly unconscious of flashing a brief, pleasing display of shapely thigh.

“I tidied up your apartment before I left,” she said lightly. From the knowing way she was smiling and shaking her head, I knew she had enjoyed ejecting my overnight companion. Ginger grew serious immediately after the jibe. “Everything you’ll need is there in your small valpack.”

The leather bag was on the front seat next to the driver. “Everything?” I asked.

Both of us were referring to my unique, private arsenal which would never pass the airport security metal detector scan. “In the right hand compartment, as usual, Nick. A ticket on Flight 131, non-stop and direct to San Francisco is waiting for you at the TWA check-in counter.”

“And—”

“That’s it, Nick. That’s all I was told to do — pack for you and get you on your way. Putting your friend out in the corridor was a bonus I threw in on my own.” Her impish, admonishing smile contained no real rancor.

“C’mon, Mac,” urged the cabdriver. “This is a No Parking, No Standing Zone. The fuzz over there cruisin’ around the Circle are givin’ me the eye. Let’s move it.”

Ginger stepped aside. I climbed into the back seat. The tantalizing perfume she wore left a pleasing fragrance behind.

The half-hour ride to Dulles International Airport presented me with an opportunity to think. I tried to, but my mind and body rebelled. I would have gotten more sleep last night had I known what was in store for me today. What little I did get was constantly being interrupted by teasing, titilating hands. I had responded too often and too energetically to be mentally sharp now. I did doze — fitfully — on the way, but arrived at the Dulles terminal still fatigued. I looked forward to a long, restful flight in the first-class compartment of the transcontinental jet.

My ticket and boarding pass were waiting for me as Ginger promised. I checked my bag through, even though the counter agent said it was compact enough to fit under the seat as hand luggage. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I rejected his suggestion. He took it in stride; he had been trained to expect capriciousness among first-class passengers.

As the accomodating ticket agent stapled the baggage claim stub to my boarding pass, he said: “Flight 131 will be boarding in about fifteen minutes at Gate D-3. You’re welcome to wait in our VIP lounge where a hostess will be serving complimentary refreshments.”

I thanked him. I could use a cup of strong coffee.

The coffee wasn’t much help. As I was tossing the used Styrofoam cup into the waste bin, the pert hostess came up to me. “Mr. Carter?”

“Yes?”

“There’s a telephone call for you on the lounge extension.”

“Thanks.” I followed her. She took me to a wall phone located behind the well-stocked refreshment bar.

The caller was the clerk at the TWA check-in counter. “Two gentlemen are here to see you, Mr. Carter. They asked to see you in private, so I asked them to wait in our security office. That’s just off the VIP lounge. The hostess will show you where it is.” I waited so long without speaking that the clerk addressed me again. “Mr. Carter?”

“I’m here,” I answered. “Hold on a moment.” I forced my brain into gear. “Did these two men identify themselves?”

“Ah... yes. A Mr. Layton and a Mr. Wyler... those were the names. I didn’t ask for credentials. They looked sort of... ah, official, if you know what I mean.”

I didn’t. It sounded reasonable enough, although it was Unlikely that Hawk would waste manpower by sending two men when one would do. The names Layton and Wyler meant nothing to me. They could be aliases. I figured not much could go wrong in an office belonging to the airport security police. If anything, that was a wise choice. “Thanks, I’m on my way.”

The office door was ajar. Another good sign. Through the opening the two men were visible. Both were dressed in conservative business suits. From the cut of their clothing, they could be anything from bank executives to professional football players. They were big enough to be running backs which made them about six feet tall — matching my height — but carried a good twenty pounds more than my own one hundred eighty five. Aside from being overweight, they were a pleasant-looking pair. The one who spoke to me as I entered had broad, Slavic features. “Mr. Nick Carter?” His tones were brittle with a marked New England twang.

“That’s me,” I admitted.

“We’re glad we found you.” His voice was firm, but not demanding. Neither man had made a move. They were measuring me. They seemed square enough, but I don’t readily accept strangers who seek me out. I prefer to be the aggressor. “To come directly to the point, Mr. Carter,” he continued, “we have an important message for you.”

“Just who are you?” I asked.

“We’re here on behalf of a group of responsible individuals who want to advise you to give up your plan to contact General Martin. Believe us when we say you will be wasting your time in endeavoring to locate the general. There are a number of reasons why you should cancel your effort, the main one being that you will certainly fail. More importantly, he is in complete control of his actions and does not wish to be located.” Something about the man’s clipped, parade-ground speech and erect bearing suggested General Martin was no stranger to him.

“How do I know you’re authorized to speak for him?”

“Accept the fact that I am, Mr. Carter. We are here to save you considerable trouble. I can assure you that General Martin intends to return to Washington in good time. At the present, he prefers to be left alone.” The earnest spokesman appeared outwardly calm. His friend, on the other hand, seemed nervous and impatient. He kept shifting his feet and in doing so had moved closer to the office door. My lack of a ready response and immediate agreement to break off my pursuit of Martin did not sit well with him.

I’d already made up my mind that their appeal had no bearing on what I had been instructed to do. Rather than argue the point, I decided that leaving would be the simplest course. I sidestepped to go around the man who had moved beside me. He kicked the door closed with his foot. Then he almost tore my arm out of its socket spinning me around.

“Hold it, Wyler!” snapped his companion. The order came too late to halt my countermove. With near-automatic reaction, I twisted away from Wyler’s grip as my right foot left the ground and lashed out. I used the momentum Wyler had given me to add impetus to my swinging leg. My heel struck him at the knee joint, snapping his fibular ligament. Wyler’s breath hissed through clenched teeth as he sucked in a sharp cry of pain. His hold on me loosened as he bent over to lift his weight from his injured leg. He’d be limping painfully for the next week.

As he staggered back, he reached inside his suit coat. The next instant I was staring into the business end of an army issue Colt .45 caliber automatic. The pained, angry look on his face gave him the appearance of a grimacing gargoyle.

Behind me, Layton’s voice intoned, “That wasn’t necessary. I’m sorry it happened. Since you’ve shown that we can’t reason with you, more direct means will have to be used.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Layton had moved closer. I swung about to face his challenge. That was a mistake. It made my face an easy target for a blast of mace.

Before the stinging spray reached and blinded my eyes I saw the container in Layton’s hand. It was painted olive drab and had black block lettering on it. That and the regulation caliber .45 pistol convinced me that the determined pair had armed forces connections.

Blinded, choking, and wholly disoriented, I stumbled about the room, crashing into the office furniture. I ended up on my hands and knees, completely incapacitated.

It couldn’t have been very long before my mind began functioning again. I felt my way to the door and pulled myself erect using the knob for support. Through tear-curtained eyes I looked out into the terminal. The two assailants had fled. I propped myself against the wall outside of the office door and took deep, regular breaths.

When my vision became less misty, I made my way to a water cooler and soaked my handkerchief. The water washed away most of the irritant, but the debilitating effect of mace left me with a throbbing headache. I was functional again and seething inside. I’d never forget those two. Nor what they did to me.

A quick glance at my wristwatch told me that Flight 131 had departed without me. Intuition made me reach into my pocket for my airline ticket and boarding pass. Both were gone. I patted my other pockets. My wallet was missing as well. Layton and Wyler had frisked me. They hadn’t taken my belt, though; it holds an emergency reserve of cash. Short of breaking my legs, those two thugs had put every possible obstacle in my way which made me all the more determined to reach San Francisco.

I hoped there would be an available seat on the next flight to the coast. When I found a TV monitor displaying airline schedule information I got a surprise — TWA Flight 131 was still posted on the screen. Its delayed takeoff would give me ten minutes to get aboard.

But I had no boarding pass and no ticket.

The TWA counter clerk who had served me initially was taking a twenty minute break. His stand-in, a patient, understanding young woman listened to my predicament. She didn’t get the true story. Besides taking too much time, she’d never believe it. I did get the point across that I wanted a duplicate of the ticket already purchased. She said she couldn’t do that because of some obscure but pertinent Civil Aeronautics Board regulation. There wasn’t time to debate the issue. I asked her to sell me another ticket.

She fingered a keyboard behind the counter putting the request to a remote computer. She stared at the instantaneous read-out. Her smile faded. “Oh, I’m sorry. You know that’s a very popular flight. Every seat is sold.”

I groaned.

“I can put you on stand-by,” she suggested, her smile back in place. “We’ll know if there’s space in just a couple of minutes.”

I stood by... right next to the counter where I could make my presence felt. As the public address system announced the last boarding call, I grew fidgety. When it seemed pretty clear that I was going to have plenty of time very soon to discuss with Hawk my failure, to leave, the clerk answered a ringing phone located behind the counter. She talked briefly, then turned to me. Her smile was set at its widest. “There are three no-shows for Flight 131. First class and coach seats. Which do you want?”

“First class,” I replied. Her smile evaporated and her innocent eyes grew wide as I started unbuckling my trouser belt. I whipped it out, turned it over, and unzipped the money compartment to extract some narrow-folded bills. I removed all of them, pocketing the ones not needed for the ticket purchase.

“Luggage?” she asked politely. I shook my head. She would never understand if I told her my bag was already aboard. “It’s Gate D-3,” she said unneccesarily.

I walked at a brisk pace. There was a slight delay while I waited my turn to go through the passenger checkpoint where detecting rays scanned each person for metal objects. A male flight attendant was standing beside the open aircraft door. He began closing it before I was fully inside. An anxious stewardess hustled me along to the empty aisle seat in the last row of the first-class compartment. They were in a hurry. I was barely settled when the fully-loaded jet began moving.

I sat with my eyes closed. Somewhere high over eastern Pennsylvania I began to feel well enough to set my brain into motion again. Through a stroke of very good fortune, I was back on schedule, but with an entirely different outlook on this job.

The skin of my cheeks and neck itched and burned from the burst of mace. As soon as the Fasten Seat Belts lights went off, I unbuckled and made my way back to the rear of the plane. There was a john in first class, but I wanted to take a good look at the rest of the passengers. I didn’t expect to see Layton or Wyler, but I had to make sure.

I didn’t recognize anyone in the coach section. I waited at the back of the plane until the lavatories were vacant — I didn’t want to miss anyone.

The soap and water helped a lot. On the way back to my seat I decided to check out first class too. I had been rushed down the aisle too quickly and since then, I’d seen only the backs of heads.

The compartment was full. That meant that someone was travelling on my stolen ticket. Layton — or Wyler? My step quickened.

I came to a full stop just before passing through the partition separating the two sections. The extent of my idiocy struck me and I realized that my thinking processes were still dangerously short of optimum.

Of course every first-class seat was occupied.

I came aboard as a stand-by to take the only first-class no-show space.

I was the no-show passenger.

I’d paid twice for the same seat.

Four

One advantage of travelling first class is being able to deplane first. Another is that your luggage seems to be off-loaded faster. I had good reasons for wanting to get my bag and clear out of the San Francisco terminal as rapidly as possible. Someone might be waiting who could have an undue interest in my arrival.

As I headed for the baggage claim area I saw nothing out of the ordinary. That didn’t ease the feeling that I had to be on my guard. I’d feel much better and be able to cope with any further strong-arm opposition as soon as I equipped myself with more than a bare-hands defense.

My bag was one of the first to show up on the luggage carousel. I snatched it up and headed for the nearest men’s room. The quarter spent for the privacy of a pay toilet was a typical operational expense. Inside the cubicle, I removed my jacket and hung it on the hook on the inside of the locked door.

I unzipped the side compartment of my bag and took out the soft chamois holster which held Wilhelmina, my, sleek, 9 mm Luger. I secured the holster around my chest so the weapon fit snugly under my left armpit. It’s such a familiar adjunct to my person that I feel undressed without it.

Next I strapped a flat, leather scabbard containing Hugo, a modified British World War II commando knife, to my right forearm. In practiced hands, it’s one of the deadliest weapons ever devised. Mine had its tapered blade shortened to four inches. Four inches is more than enough. Both heart and jugular vein are buried less than three inches inside a man’s body. The reduced blade length altered the original balance, but didn’t hinder my ability to put the gnarled handle instantly in my fingers by a supinating flip of my wrist.

The final weapon of my three-part arsenal was Pierre, a spherical, compact gas bomb which is kept concealed between my legs. It nestles high in my crotch, much like a displaced third testicle, a special, lightweight carrying harness making it both inconspicuous and comfortable.

After pulling up and belting my trousers, I rolled down my loose-cuffed shirt sleeve and put on my jacket. I was much more confident emerging from the stall, but the sight of a uniformed security guard standing just inside the rest room door still triggered a mild warning. I crossed over to the row of wash basins and turned on the water, unobtrusively using the looking glass in front of me as a rearview mirror.

I watched as the armed guard licked his lips then stuffed a hand inside his jacket. The holstered revolver at his side was in plain sight. It could be a decoy to make me incautious while he drew out some devilish device from his coat. Before he could reverse his hand movement, Wilhelmina was in my hand, the safety off, and finger pressure easing back on the trigger.

The man froze, his fingers as well as his eyes opened wide. “Don’t!” was all he could get out of his mouth before it remained silent and gaping. I drew back my pistol so it was concealed behind the flap of my jacket. The muzzle pointed at the belly of the open-mouthed guard.

“Over here!” I ordered. “Now, before someone comes in and gets in my line of fire.”

He stammered as he shuffled forward cautiously. His voice was high-pitched. “You got me wrong, mister,” he whined. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he talked. “You don’t understand. What I got for you is just an envelope. Came by special messenger. It’s here, in my pocket.” He was wise enough not to point to it.

He could be telling the truth. Before I accepted him, or any envelope, I had to have some answers. “Why didn’t you have me called to a courtesy phone so I’d know what you were up to?”

“Hell, man, I don’t know who you are. I wasn’t given a name. Jeez... I don’t think I want to know who you are. Just let me give you the envelope and get out of here.”

“Then how were you able to identify me?”

“Not you. Your luggage. Look, I don’t know who your friends are, but they were able to get all incoming baggage off of Flight 131 passed through the X-ray scanner. Then your bag came out on the carousel with a strip of green tape pasted on both sides of your baggage tag. That’s what I was to look for. There must be something in your bag that showed up special. Something no one else would be carrying.”

There was: Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre. Hawk would know that, of course. Normal AXE procedures for contacting an agent in the field would preclude any use of the public address system. I looked down at my bag. The narrow strip of colored tape on the tag had escaped me. I reholstered my pistol. “You were taking a chance, cornering me in here like this.”

The young, perspiring man was breathing easier. “I know that now. I didn’t expect to run into anybody who’d be so uptight. I wasn’t supposed to pass the packet to you in the open. This was the first chance I had. Can I give it to you now?”

The kid was probably straight, but I remained leery. I backed up two steps. “All right. Take it out. Slowly... real slow. Keep it in plain sight. Place it face up here on the basin counter. Then back away, turn around and go out. I don’t want to see you anywhere in sight when I come out. Got that?”

The relieved man did exactly as he was told.

The sealed envelope was fat. I picked it up by pinching a corner between two fingers. The guard hadn’t exercised that much care, so it probably was exactly what he said it was. Only he wasn’t planning to open it. I held it up against the lights above the mirrors. No interior wires. The name typed on the front — Amalgamated Press & Wire Service — was reassuring. When I read the additional words: Department N3, any lingering doubts faded.

It contained a xeroxed copy of the findings of a team of psychiatrists stationed at Fitzsimons Army Medical Center in Denver. The subject of the report was Colonel Keith Martin. The routing indicated that the results had not been sent back to Letterman General Hospital, although Keith Martin was. Marginal comments in Hawk’s peculiar scribble revealed that the report had been taken out of normal channels to be pigeonholed by the army surgeon general. It became a special controlled case kept in locked, classified files.

During the eleven mile ride on the Bayshore Freeway, I seldom looked outside. My head was buried in the strange report. Hawk must have employed some fast-fingered techniques to get his hands on it. Long distance telephone facsimile transmission had brought the five-page analysis to San Francisco well ahead of me. I finished reading and looked out to orient myself. Candlestick Park was on the right. So was the bay. The water was gray and choppy. I refolded the sheets of the report and stuffed them back into the envelope.

They told me a lot about Keith Martin that few people knew. The summary was detailed, interesting... and a little scary.

At Fitzsimons, Martin had been given numerous tests which included injections of sodium Pentothal, hypnosis, word association techniques and extensive sessions with psychologists and psychiatrists. He was judged to be reasonably cooperative at first. Later he showed resentment and exhibited marked instability. Periods of deep depression were noted. At times he reached the threshold of unpredictable violence. He had deep-seated frustrations while awake and disturbing nightmares when asleep.

Despite the many negative aspects of the evaluations, the final prognosis was noticeably upbeat. With one exception, the doctors at Fitzsimons were unanimous in predicting that Martin’s volatile behavior tendencies would diminish as he adjusted to a normal, peace-time environment. Prolonged out-patient treatment was recommended.

An appendage to the report showed that treatment was given over a considerable period. It also contained stipulation that Martin not be assigned to duty with a combat command. He could not serve with combat-ready troops or be allowed to observe any realistic battle maneuvers. The surgeon general concurred. He restricted Martin to limited duty on a quiet staff job where all undue pressure would be avoided.

The report supplied me with useful insight into the character of the man I would be seeking in the Bay Area. One warning came through loud and clear: Keith Martin had to be approached with care. If I did get a tag on him, I certainly would not push him. My translation of the technical jargon used by the psychiatrists impressed upon me that Martin, if overexcited, could react in an erratic, dangerous manner.

With my head together once again, and the report on Martin digested, I tried to fit in the actions of Layton and Wyler. The treatment they gave me seemed inconsistent with what they hoped to achieve. It was mild compared to what they could have done. If they wanted me out of circulation, why not haul me off somewhere and keep me incommunicado until Martin reappeared in Washington?

Perhaps Hawk was overestimating the importance given to Martin’s absence. Layton and Wyler’s sponsors, it seemed, were under the impression that Martin would be found easily in San Francisco. That is, unless he was forewarned. I figured that Layton and Wyler were to delay me only long enough to give Martin time to relocate and cover his tracks. Martin didn’t want to be found. Not today, especially.

The whole thing was extremely puzzling. What was he doing in San Francisco to cause him to overstay his leave and not ask for an extension of time? It couldn’t be an undercover job of an official nature. Hawk would have known what it was even before Martin had been detailed to the task.

It had to be something personal. If it was, I sympathized with Martin. I don’t like anyone prying into my personal affairs, either.

Also bothering me was who had sent Layton and Wyler to intercept me. It had to be someone with the inside knowledge that I was being dispatched to look for Martin.

The cabdriver used by Ginger didn’t finger me. He didn’t have time to put anything in motion. There were plenty of other likely prospects to suspect. I opted for the airline employee who took Ginger’s call to set up a flight reservation in my name.

I debated whether to tell Hawk about that when I phoned Washington. I had to call him. He’d want to know that I received the facsimile report on Keith Martin.

I knew Hawk wouldn’t care to hear my negative news about being roughed up. He isn’t interested in problems that crop up on the job — only results. He’d half-seriously ask why I didn’t already have Keith Martin in tow, reminding me that it’s almost impossible for a man to move about unnoticed. If the right people — doormen, beat cops and streetwalkers, to name a few — were approached, bagging the wayward general would be easy. He’d end up telling me to use a little initiative and make short work of finding Keith Martin.

Five

From the top of Nob Hill ships passing through the Golden Gate were visible through a thin veil of persistent fog. The warmth of the mid-afternoon sun would soon clear away the remaining mist. The doorman of the Fairmount Hotel greeted me on the steps. I surrendered my bag to a gangling youth wearing an ill-fitting bellhop’s uniform.

There’s something serene about the lobby of the Fairmount. Though redecorated a number of times, remnants of the lobby’s original quiet elegance remain. Despite stiff competition from the newer Mark Hopkins across the street, the Fairmount had lost none of its appeal for the affluent, genteel segment of society.

The desk clerk didn’t know me, but he treated me as though I was a major stockholder in the company. A tag pinned over his coat pocket identified him as Mr. Whitner, Ass’t. Mgr. He gave me his full, courteous attention. I was the only person checking in at the time. He addressed me by name as soon as I had written it down on the registration card. He had developed the knack of reading upside-down penmanship. “We have a nice single on the tenth floor, bay side, Mr. Carter. Will that do?”

“Fine,” I agreed.

He turned around to remove the key from the rack of pigeonhole room boxes covering the wall behind him. “What room is occupied by General Martin?” I threw at his back.

“He’s in 824,” was the reply. “Not at the moment, though. His key is gone. Would you like to leave a message?”

“Do you expect him back today? I understand he’s been in and out.”

“Now that you mention it, I haven’t noticed him around for a couple of days.” A look came over his face as though he had forgotten something. “Would you mind waiting a moment?”

Mr. Whitner disappeared behind a partition. The mechanical clatter of accounting machines beyond the wall marked the area as the billing department. Mr. Whitner returned wearing a smile. “I’ve checked. General Martin is keeping his room.” He was relieved. Keith Martin hadn’t skipped out. “His bill to date was paid up just yesterday,” Whittier added.

“In person?” I wanted to know.

Whitner didn’t answer at once. He seemed to be debating whether he should answer at all. My questions were becoming too pointed. His tone turned evasive. “I have no way of knowing. I would presume so. The account was paid with a personal check taken in by one of our cashiers on the morning shift.”

I broke off my probing. I thanked Mr. Whitner and turned away from the reception counter. The bellboy gathered up my key. I followed him into the elevator. He hummed to himself on the way up to the tenth floor. We detoured around a housekeeper’s cart in the hallway. After opening the door to Room 1022 and going through the ritual motions inside, the lad left humming a lively tune. I had tipped him generously. He’d remember me if I needed some answers from him later.

The call to Hawk couldn’t be delayed much longer if I wanted to catch him at the office, but there was something I wanted to do first. Seeing the pushcart in the corridor suggested the move.

I took the self-serve elevator down to the eighth floor. The maid, a stout, middle-aged Chicano woman, was working in Room 856. She was using a vacuum sweeper, but shut it off when she saw I wanted to speak to her. The machine was back in operation in less than a minute. The answer she gave to my question was useful, but it didn’t satisfy me.

The pay phones in the lobby were as safe as any for what I had to say. Even though my conversation with Hawk would be fairly straightforward, he didn’t like getting long distance calls that went through a switchboard.

Ginger accepted the collect call and Hawk came on immediately. The exchange between us went pretty much the way I expected. Hawk brushed aside the details and the consequences of my run-in with Layton and Wyler. The fact that interference had developed so soon disturbed him. Someone in Washington had broken silence. It had to be an intentional breach of trust. Hawk questioned Layton’s claim that Martin was remaining out of sight voluntarily. Because our plans to go after Martin had been penetrated so rapidly after getting under way, Hawk concluded that a person or persons in Washington didn’t want Martin back. He assured me that he was going to start digging around back there for some answers.

I told him I could use the help. I also agreed that there were plenty of people who would just as soon not see Martin in Washington again, although my slim evidence gathered so far suggested that Martin was in no hurry to return. “Martin isn’t using his room at the Fairmount,” I explained, “although he’s hanging onto it.”

Hawk questioned my source.

“The maid that does the rooms on the eighth floor. Martin hasn’t slept in his bed for the past six days.”

“Then he’s sleeping in someone else’s bed. That should be easy for you, Nick. Find the girl!”

Before hanging up, Hawk gave me the name of the Bank of America vice president who would expidite an alternate set of credit cards and replenish my cash supply. His voice was beginning to rasp toward the end. He’d been smoking too many of those horrid cigars.

I went out and stood on the steps under the drive-up portico. The doorman glanced over. “Cab, sir?”

“In a moment,” I replied, but made clear my intentions by getting a pair of one dollar bills ready for a tip. That left me with a last, lonely five for the cab. “I’m trying to catch up with General Martin whom I hoped to meet here. He’s a guest of the hotel, too. About my build, broad-shouldered, sandy hair with a square jaw?”

“I know who you mean,” the doorman replied, eyeing the bills.

“Does he generally use taxis to get around?”

“Only the first day. After that he had a rental car.” He saw that his answer was a disappointment to me. “I can describe it,” he added quickly. “The car wasn’t one of your standard rentals like Avis or Hertz. It was a green Ford Granada from one of those cheapie independents over on Van Ness.” He paused, thinking. “Yeah, I remember. It had a bumper sticker advertising the company. Dime-A-Mile, that’s it.”

I reached out. The money changed hands. The doorman palmed it out of sight with the expertise of a stage magician. A short bleep from his whistle summoned a cab. As it moved forward I asked, “Did you ever see anyone in the car with General Martin?”

“Just once. Matter of fact, the last time I noticed either the car or General Martin. He came out of the hotel with Miss Stevens and they drove away together.”

“The woman — Stevens — is she registered here?”

A corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. “Not quite.” He moved closer. “She’s in business for herself, but not in the hotel. We don’t permit anyone to work the premises, but we do allow a couple of special girls to meet our male tenants here. We try to accomodate all of our guests’ needs. The girls have to take them to their apartments.” He spoke faster when he saw my growing interest. He didn’t know it had nothing to do with my wanting to use the services of a call girl. “You’re not dealing with your run-of-the-mill stable stock, you understand. They’re professional model caliber and... ah... charge the same kind of prices. It’s strictly private, though, and real first-class merchandise.”

I recognize a sales pitch when I hear one. “Could you arrange an appointment for me with Miss Stevens?”

“As soon as possible,” I added from the edge of the seat while he bent over, open door in hand.

“This afternoon?” he asked, eyebrows arched. I nodded. “When will you be back, sir?”

“I’ve got to go to the bank and run another errand. I’ll call in a half hour or so.”

Following a visit to the Bank of America, my next stop was the Dime-A-Mile car rental office. My first impression upon seeing the shoddy appearance of the office, set up in an abandoned Phillips service station, was that Dime-A-Mile featured automobiles which were candidates for demolition derbies. The gum-chewing, acne-faced teenager on duty pushed the contract form at me to fill out. I wondered if the kid could write. I put down my driver’s license information from memory. The cash advance payment for two weeks use of a car and the Fairmount Hotel address apparently negated the requirement to show a valid driver’s license. I added an extra five dollar bill to the pile and asked about the car Keith Martin had rented.

The record was easy to find. Few Dime-A-Mile cars went long without some trouble being reported by the renter. The car was still out. It must be running and in use — a fact that seemed to be a surprise to the attendant. He had no idea where the car might be. He suggested checking with the operator of the Fairmount Hotel parking garage. His boss wasn’t worried. Like myself, Martin had made a good-sized cash deposit based on the highest daily rate. The advance would cover the next four days.

While the car was being topped off with gas, I used the phone. I could hear nearby street traffic in the background when I was connected with the Fairmount doorman. “The lady says she doesn’t normally accept afternoon clients, Mr. Carter, and she has an evening engagement. She will see you, however, provided your visit is concluded by six o’clock.”

Learning that the girl was not tied up told me that Keith Martin hadn’t moved in with her. She had seen him, though. It was going to cost plenty just for me to question someone who had gotten more than a fleeting glimpse of the elusive general. I asked for and got Miss Stevens’ address. It was on Fulton Street close to the San Francisco College for Women.

The building was an imposing, new high-rise apartment. I had to stare into a TV camera and identify myself to get in. A remote control unlocked the street level entrance. A haughty-looking male receptionist in the posh lobby gave me a critical visual examination as I walked past him to the elevators. A smooth ride carried me up to the fifteenth floor. The strains of Schubert’s Entr’acte No. 2 in B-flat coming from an overhead speaker kept me company.

I tread noiselessly down a wide corridor with thick pile carpeting underfoot. One of a pair of wide apartment doors opened to my ring. I stepped into a room worthy of a frontispiece position in an illustrated copy of Arabian Nights. A foyerlike entry way was bathed in soft, amber light. The tile floor was patterned in large black-and-white squares, so highly polished that the grillwork of the gold-painted wrought iron room divider beyond was reflected in the mirrorlike surface.

Through the grillwork I looked upon a sunken living room half the size of a regulation tennis court. Except where covered by black tufted throw rugs, its matching black-and-white checkerboard floor reflected a sparkling, heavy crystal chandelier overhead. The entire decor in the two spaces consisted of stark white and jet black contrasts enriched by gold accents. Displays of Moorish swords, shields, pennoned lances and beautifully framed prints of Arabian stallions lined the white walls. Handcarved ivory pieces and decorative brass pitchers containing fresh white flowers adorned oversized ebony end tables. It was a room planned to please the eyes of men.

So was the sight of Melissa Stevens.

She was a beautiful, olive-skinned girl whose Greek ancestry was evident in her large, dark eyes. Her well-groomed black hair glistened with highlights even under the subdued lighting of her luxurious apartment. Her full, crimson lips were as eye-catching as her remarkable thrusting breasts. The low-cut, richly embroidered caftan she wore showed ample expanse of flawless skin.

“You are Nick,” she said for a starter. “Please come in.” Her voice was throaty. It had a strong, distinctive accent which I recognized immediately. She turned and stepped down into the living room.

“Would you rather call me Nikko?” It came out ‘Neekko.’ She stopped dead in her tracks. When she spun around, a look of pleasant surprise on her face, I spoke again in her native tongue. “Apo pyo meros stin Elladha iste? Thessaloniki?” I’m not as proficient in Greek as other languages, but I can make myself understood.

“Dhipla!” she replied brightly. Her delighted smile showed white, even teeth. “To khoryo mu eenay Kozani.”

I’d never been to that part of Macedonia, but I knew all northern Greek villages were of the same mold. Once started, the intrigued girl rattled on. After five minutes, I was comfortably seated in a white upholstered chair, a cut-crystal glass of ouzo in my hand, and a lot of personal information about Melissa Stevens in my head. Her true name was Marika Stephanopoulos. She was in the United States on a visitor’s visa. Expired, I found out. She didn’t mean to let that slip out. She was really an illegal alien in hiding. I didn’t think she was aware of the consequences. If the law ever got onto the way she was making a living, she’d have bigger trouble than just facing a prostitution rap.

That gave me the lever I needed. Switching back to English, I told her I worked for the government. A frightened look filled her luminous eyes. “Don’t worry, Melissa. I’m not interested in making trouble for you. I want to know about a man you saw here a few days ago. His name is Keith. Keith Martin.”

“Yes. Him I remember.” The words came out fast. “A handsome man. Like a gladiator.” She sighed. “A disappointment, that one.”

I had to ask. “You mean he couldn’t—?”

“He didn’t want to. He was here all night. Sitting up, I think. He told me to go to bed and leave him alone.”

“He must have been preoccupied to ignore you,” I said as a sincere compliment.

“I tried to be nice,” she explained. “I make the bed ready and put on the short see-through nightie that shows me off, but he only looks once and waves me away. Sometime in the night the phone woke me up. He had already answered it. He said the call was for him, but all he did was write something down on the back page of my date book and hang up.” She gestured toward a stylish white writing desk trimmed with delicate gold pinstriping.

I put my glass down and walked toward the desk. “He made some telephone calls. How many?”

“Just two. Maybe more after I was asleep. One was long distance. He dialed a lot of numbers before he stopped.”

“Did you hear any of the conversations?”

“A little, but not enough to tell what was going on. The one call he talked like someone was going on a trip. He was getting information about travel schedules. I didn’t listen well.”

Sitting down at the writing desk, I thumbed through a spiral bound appointment book that lay next to an ornate French-style telephone. Patrick had a lock on Tuesdays at 9 P.M. Michael was booked every Friday evening at 7:30 for the next three months. I turned to the back of the book. The last page was missing. Tufts of paper clinging to the curved wire binding marked where it had been. There were indentations on the inside of the back cover where a ball-point pen had borne down on the impressionable surface.

I turned on the desk lamp and tilted the book to catch the light. Faint numerals were discernable. A telephone number. I shifted the book about, trying to see other dim grooves. Melissa stood close to my chair, looking over my shoulder. “I saw him write just the one time... in the book. Then he tore out the page. For a... how you say... stratygos... he acted very strange.”

The Greek word she used meant general. Hookers generally are given first names only and most customers prefer to keep it that way. “How do you know he was a general?”

“Yes. General. That’s the word. I read it, but don’t remember. It was written out. On his check.”

“You take checks?” The world’s oldest profession was certainly becoming modernized. I wondered if she accepted credit cards too?

“For him it was a favor. He paid me, like everyone, in dollars for nothing. I owed him something. He give me check for the hotel. Yesterday, when I go there to meet someone, I give check to cashier lady. Right at top of check is printed his name and address. Also his rank of general with some numbers to identify him. I remember because I see he lives in Virginia in a town with a Greek name... Alexandria.” She said it proudly.

The first three numbers scratched on the back cover of Melissa’s date book were 479. A schematic diagram in the front of the phone book showed that this exchange served communities in and around San Rafael-Novato. For some reason, it was important for Keith Martin to contact someone living there. With a bit of luck I’d find out who it was.

I dialed the 479 prefix, then added the 3715 that I could make out under the strong light from the desk lamp. The telephone was answered by a woman after the second ring.

I brought my voice up from well back in my throat. “Hello. Marianne? This is Mark, Jean’s husband, calling from San Diego. Has Jean arrived yet?” All the elements of security and appeal to human emotions were in the message. The safety of a long distance call... a married man looking for his missing wife. Her curiosity should be piqued.

A good sign would be hesitation from the other end. There was. Then, “I believe you have the wrong number.”

I had to be quick. “Isn’t this 479-3715?”

“Why, yes. But I’m not Marianne. San Diego? Are you sure you dialed the right area code?”

Another substantiating answer was needed. I had looked it up, just in case. “Four-one-five?” I said hopefully.

“That’s right for San Rafael.”

A hit.

I waited now, keeping my fingers crossed.

“Who were you calling?”

Strike out.

I was tempted to come straight out with the name Keith Martin, but that was too risky. If he was there, or the woman had a way of reaching him, he could slip away again. She’d cut me off if I made my probing too pointed. The conversation had about run its course. “Isn’t this Marianne Tyson at nine-sixty-five Grand Avenue?” I invented a likely San Rafael address, hoping she’d tell me hers. It was a long shot.

It missed.

“I’m sorry. You have the wrong party. Ask the operator to help you.” She didn’t give me time to reply. The replaced receiver sent a click over the line.

Melissa saw me out. Before leaving, I’d made a point of suggesting that she engage a lawyer to advise her on immigration laws. One slip, I reminded her, and she’d be on her way back to the tobacco fields of Kosani.

I think she was a little sorry to see me go. But she didn’t offer me a discount. I paid the full amount — top dollar for top talent — willingly.

It was money well spent.

Because of Melissa Stevens, I was one step closer to coming face-to-face with Keith Martin.

Six

The commuters that used the Golden Gate Bridge to reach their suburban homes in Marin County flowed out of the city like hordes of grunion responding to the spring spawning urge. I joined in. Like them, I knew precisely where I was going and who it was I was going to see.

Her name was Gloria Grimes. She was married. Her husband was Captain Willis Grimes, a member of the United States Air Force. They had no children. The address was 833 Ivywild Street.

This information was found in the reference department of the downtown San Francisco public library. Five shelves sagged under the weight of city directories from most California towns and all major U.S. municipalities. There is a supplement in the back of each directory. It contains a numerical listing of telephone numbers. The name of the subscriber — nothing else — is shown beside the phone number. That’s all I needed to find everything else I wanted from the front of the book.

Aside from as much advertising as can be sold, the front part of city directories contains the names of residents listed in alphabetical order. The street address follows. The given names of all persons living at that address comes next, along with their occupation shown in parentheses. The final bit of data is the telephone number. That was the cross-reference I needed to pinpoint Gloria Grimes. The most time-consuming part of the whole, simple procedure was driving to the library and finding a place to park.

At the end of each work day, Highway 101 became a hurtling traffic jam. The vehicles in the right-hand lane moved at the prescribed 55 miles-per-hour speed limit, and I rolled along with them. An unbroken file of speed limit violators streamed past in the left-hand lane. One of them was a cruising cop car, oblivious to the lawbreakers.

I exited at the 4th Street off ramp and reached the Grimes house in five minutes. It was small, square and flat-roofed, wearing a crumbling coat of sun-bleached pink stucco. The front lawn was littered. A feeble stream of water dribbled from a slowly rotating sprinkler. A mud puddle had formed around its base. From the look of things, Captain Grimes had little interest in property maintenance.

I perked up when I saw the green automobile parked in the driveway. It matched the description of the car rented by Keith Martin. Ahead of it was a white, hatchback Pinto tucked under a warped-roof carport. I slowed down, but didn’t stop. I couldn’t tell if anyone was in the house. No lights had been turned on inside although shadows were getting longer and darkening.

There was a service station on a corner two blocks from the Grimes house. It probably had been a good location until the freeway bypassed it. The operator was old enough to have been working at the station since the day the first storage tank was buried in the ground. Tasked him to put a quart of oil in the engine and fill up the gas tank. He grinned in acknowledgement, showing ill-fitting teeth. I went inside the station and got a bottle of soda from the vending machine.

When I came out the elderly man with rheumy eyes and gnarled fingers was slamming down the car’s hood. I gave him a hand. “I’m looking for the Grimes house,” I lied. “It’s along here on this street, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” the oldster sneered. “It’s a wonder you can’t see the path.”

“I don’t get you,” I admitted.

“Come on now, sonny,” he chided. “I know what you’re up to. I ain’t blind. She’s gonna like the look of you, that woman!”

“I’ll bet she owes you money,” I said lightly.

“Me, the cleaners, the liquor store — everybody. Don’t know why. She gets her old man’s government check regularly. And blows it just like the rest of them. She’s no good.”

“Them?”

“Those come-n-go women married to those kids at Hamilton Air Force Base. Only the Grimes dame ain’t about t’ move. She’s got it fat right where she is. Been squattin’ there going on five year or so. Layin’ on her back is more like it.” He went to the rear of the car and removed the gasoline hose nozzle from the tank. The dried-up, stoop-shouldered man was all too willing to air his prejudiced opinion of military wives. He’d said nothing to indicate Captain Grimes’ attitude toward his wife’s alleged behavior. It would help to know if Keith Martin had led me into an unpredictable situation and what sort of reactions I might face when I stepped into tell Martin that his weird escapade was over.

I got a long, questioning look. He took his time hanging the hose back on the pump. His voice was softer when he spoke. “Guess they didn’t tell you. Mrs. Grimes is one of them MIA wives. You know — her man got lost over Vietnam when the war was on. I was sorry for her at first... used to come in here sad-eyed an’ cryin’. I seen quite a few like her, being here so close to the air base. Most moved away after a bit. But she stayed on, not knowin’ and waitin’ for word. She joined some sort of MIA wives club, going to Washington and all... time and again. She got real bitter. Come to dislike congressmen who gave her the runaround almost as much as she hated the Vietnamese. Then she started havin’ company — men — young officers from the base. Another would show up soon’s the first one was transferred out. Been a whole string of ’em.” He snorted contemptuously. “You might as well get your share. You won’t have no trouble.”

“I don’t want to move in on somebody else’s set-up.”

“Don’t know as you will,” he replied, his tone hardening again. “There was a new one — big, strapping, important-acting guy — came in here with her once for gas a few days ago. Could be he ain’t left yet. His car was in her drive last night... seen it on my way home. None of ’em stay too long, but the car he had’s been sittin’ there most of the time the last few days.”

“Guess I’d better forget it,” I said, handing him payment for the gas and oil. “There’re plenty of other tail-wagging tadpoles in the pond.” I waved away the change he offered. “Thanks for-steering me off, Pop.”

He measured me up-and-down approvingly. “You ain’t got nothing to worry about, sonny.”

I drove away in the opposite direction from the Grimes house. A circuitous six-block trip turned me around so I could park along the curb in front of the Ivywild address. It also gave me time to think. One item of the conversation I’d just had bothered me. That was the point that Martin’s rental car had been parked in the Grimes driveway for some time.

What would keep Martin there? Apparently he didn’t know the Grimes woman; he had to get her telephone number from a long distance caller. Why did he seek her out? I couldn’t understand why some slattern who kept open house for transient jocks could have that much appeal for a person like Martin who could avail himself of the likes of Melissa Stevens.

Whatever Martin and Mrs. Grimes were up to, I was going to cut it off short. I wondered which one — Martin or Mrs. Grimes — would be the most surprised.

As it turned out, I was.

In fact, there was more than one surprise in store for me.

Mrs. Grimes was no stranger. I’d seen her many times, but not recently. And not as Mrs. Grimes.

The mystery wasn’t cleared up until I got inside the house. The doorbell didn’t work so I rapped on the loose-hanging screen door. A slim bleached blonde with a highball glass in her crimson-nailed hand answered my knock. Her puffy-eyed face wore a frown.

“Gloria?” I asked.

She squinted through the screen. The frown disappeared when she got her eyes focused properly. She didn’t answer right away. She looked me over with openly frank appraisal. The dull look in her eyes brightened. The tip of her pink tongue came out and traced along the edge of her upper lip. She looked at me like I imagined a mongoose would react upon discovering a nest of cobra eggs. “Yeah,” she replied. “Who’re you?”

“Nick Carter. I thought I’d drop by and see how you’re getting along.”

Gloria leaned out to look around me to the curb where I’d parked the car. She glanced up-and-down the street, then stepped back. “Come on in.”

The residual beauty of her attractive features nudged my recall. I couldn’t quite isolate her from the kaleidoscope of pretty faces that filled my memory. I looked her full in the face as I stepped inside. The living room was cluttered. The upholstered furniture was stained and soiled. Romance and movie magazines were heaped on a scarred and scratched coffee table. Ashtrays were unemptied. A threadbare path in the worn carpeting led to the kitchen and the bedroom. I listened. The only sound was the drip of water from a leaky faucet.

I was disappointed. I fully expected to see Keith Martin. Mrs. Grimes remained silent as my eyes roamed about. “Nobody’s here,” she reassured me.

I barely heard her. My attention was fixed on the framed photograph on the fake fireplace mantel across the room. One glimpse at it and I remembered Gloria Grimes. The photo was one of thousands mailed out from the motion picture studio publicity department. Gloria Grimes was better known as Gloria Parker, a movie bit player and one-time promising starlet. She had disappeared from the Hollywood scene some years ago. Her downfall occurred when her numerous romantic exploits received more notice and comment than her acting.

I looked back at her. Her faded blue eyes kept blinking. She weaved unsteadily. “You remember me?” she asked and struck a grosteque parody of the provocative pose in the photograph. She stood so that her long legs, high-perched bosom and saucily-flared buttocks were displayed. A form-fitting knit sweater and tight slacks made the similarity unmistakable. She then moved her hips suggestively. The bold, enticing motion was a deliberate invitation.

I didn’t respond as she expected. I smiled noncommittally; I was in no mood for sex games. I was hungry, tired, and frustrated that I always found Martin a short step ahead of me.

“Wanna drink?” she mumbled, moving past me into the kitchen. I refused, but followed her as far as the door. I couldn’t go inside. The disorder of unwashed dishes piled in the sink and hardened grease on charred-handled skillets was revolting to me. Shelves behind yawning cabinet doors were scenes of confusion. Used tea bags lay on counter tops along with loose cereal, sugar, and dried spilt milk. Gloria rattled the array of liquor bottles next to the sink, chose one at random and tilted it over her glass.

I backed away and seated myself in a broken-spring armchair facing the sofa. I sank down so that my knees were almost touching my chin. Gloria joined me, making a production of curling herself up in one corner of the sofa. With pure feline movements, she slipped off her sandals and drew her legs up on the cushion beside her. The sun had reached the western horizon. In a few minutes the room would be dark. Gloria made no move to turn on a light.

I was there for one purpose only. It was far different from what Gloria thought I had in mind. Nothing would be gained by prolonging the sham. Gloria felt the same way. “Why don’t you come sit over here,” she coaxed, patting the cushion next to her.

That was the opening I needed. If the repartee stayed on track — and it stood a good chance of doing so because Gloria’s senses weren’t at their sharpest — I was going to go away satisfied instead of leaving Gloria that way. A lot depended upon her reaction to my next statement. “You’re really something, Gloria. Only I don’t want to mess around if you’ve already got something going with General Martin.”

Her drink-fogged mind accepted it as an unloaded remark. She laughed. “Hell, he’s long gone. He won’t be comin’ back.” She saw the look on my face and laughed again. I was picturing a dead, cold trail. She was thinking something else. “Hey, Nick, honey, you got it all wrong. He wasn’t here because of me. I left the bedroom door wide open all night. He wasn’t having any, even though he must’a felt my body heat clear out here on the sofa. An’ no one’s been around since. They all see the car out there an’ take off like big-assed birds. I gotta get rid of the damn thing... it’s cuttin’ into my social life. You can fix that.” She wiggled sensuously. “You’re in no hurry, are you?” she added as appointed afterthought.

“That’s his car in the driveway.” My inflection kept it from being a firm question.

“He left it with me.” She leaned over her glass to stare at me. She interpreted what I said to mean that I doubted her truthfulness. “Really, he’s not around. I’m supposed to—” She stopped and leered at me again. It dawned on her that my interest was directed more toward the absent Martin than to her. “Wait a minute!” she slurred. “How’d you know Keith was here?”

“The old duffer at the corner service station recognized him when you were there for gas yesterday.” I made the error intentionally, hoping she would set me straight on the date.

She didn’t. A pouty, coquettish smile grew on her face. “You can forget about him. Come on, sit over here where I can touch you.”

“I guess I’d better leave if you have something to do for General Martin.” The statement was bait. To keep it from being too obvious, I stood up and moved as if to join her on the sofa.

She stretched to place her drink on the coffee table, sloshing some of the contents on its top as she put the glass down. “I don’t have to do that until tom—” She snapped her jaws tight. Her brows knitted. “Hey! What’s with you?” she demanded. “You keep talking about — Who the hell are you, anyway?” Indignation erupted. “You didn’t come here to see me!” She started to get up from the sofa.

Nice-guy time was over. I shoved Gloria back down, hard. Her hair tumbled over her face. I bent over the lamp on the end table next to the sofa and switched it on. Its strong beam shone upward over my tight-lipped features. I must have looked mean and sinister. I wanted to. Gloria sucked in her breath. She crossed her hands and brought them up to protect her face. Her beauty was her most prized possession. Fear of losing it was also her greatest weakness.

I grabbed both of her wrists with one hand and jerked down. My other hand brought Wilhelmina into view. I held it loosely in my half-opened palm. “Have you ever seen what’s left of a face after it’s been pistol-whipped?” I snarled. “It isn’t pretty. And you’ve got the delicate cheekbones that shatter easily. If you want to keep your teeth and caps, you’d better tell me where to find Keith Martin.”

A shiver of fear coursed through her body. She trembled as if an icy chill had seized her. She was so gripped by terror that she was speechless. She swallowed hard. For a moment I was afraid I’d overdone it and she was going to be sick.

I relaxed my hold on her wrists, but didn’t let go. “Look, Gloria, I don’t mean any harm to Keith Martin and I certainly don’t want to hurt you. Don’t force me to,” I said in a modified tone. She looked up at me fearfully out of the corners of her eyes. I tightened my grasp on her. “What did Martin tell you to do for him tomorrow?”

Tears made her eyes glisten. Her lips quivered, but she held back. I clutched her wrists painfully. “The car!” she shrieked. “The car! I’m supposed to take it back where he got it.”

“Why tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.” She squirmed under my hand pressure. “He told me to keep it so it would look like he was still here. He didn’t want anyone to know—” She clammed up again.

I twisted my hand, causing her to cry out. “Get it through your head, Gloria — I’m a friend. But desperate enough to hurt you if I have to. I’ve got to find Martin and you’re the only one who can tell me where he is.”

“I don’t know where he is,” she whimpered. “I really don’t know. Honest!”

“The car is here. How did he leave? By taxi? Did someone come and get him?”

“I drove him. In that car out there.” She was stone sober now, able to contend with her panic.

“Where did you take him?”

“To San Francisco. To the airport.”

She could be lying, but what she said fit in with Martin having used the phone in Melissa’s apartment to get travel information. I’d feel like a fool if he was on his way back to Washington. “Where was he going?” I asked again.

“Jesus! Why won’t you believe me? I said I didn’t know!”

“Did he have a ticket?”

Gloria clamped her lips together defiantly. I shoved the muzzle of Wilhelmina squarely against her left nipple. She gasped. “Yes! Yes, he had a ticket... in one of those airline envelopes.”

“What airline?” I gave an extra jab with the pistol.

“Quantas!” It came out half-scream, half-sob.

I almost dropped my gun.

Quantas Airways served the Pacific and Far East.

Keith Martin had left the country.

Seven

A man can push himself just so far. Hawk wouldn’t subscribe to that. He likes to think that AXE agents have few physical shortcomings and unlimited human endurance. I would be a complete disappointment to him right now. After countless hours on the job, I’d had enough for one day.

Mine had started early and been prolonged by the transcontinental trip. My empty stomach growled. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly eleven o’clock Washington time. A long day behind me, and much of it wasted.

Gloria Grimes had told me that I was as much as ten thousand miles behind Keith Martin. He could be anywhere. Quantas had routes covering the entire Far East. Japan and Australia were the northern and southern extremes of its widespread system.

This was one time when I wasn’t hesitant about going back to Hawk for guidance.

I felt a little badly about the way I had treated Gloria. There wasn’t a better way, really, to get the information from her in a hurry. She was an important link to Martin, although I was certain that she was only peripherally involved. I doubted if she understood why Martin used her house as a sanctuary to cover his trail.

Nothing had been learned to indicate how organized the conspiracy to help Martin was. It hardly mattered anymore. I had to assume that Layton and Wyler would want to know if anyone had gotten as close to Martin as Gloria Grimes. If it was important for them to know, she would tell them of my visit. When she did, the information would not bother them. I was a nuisance, but now so far behind Martin that catch up was impossible. Hawk might even consider it unnecessary. Whatever Martin’s intentions were a week ago, he had probably fulfilled them and was on his way back. Based on what I had learned, Hawk would probably tell me to pack it in and come home too. I had to let him know.

I used the first public phone booth I could find. I placed the collect call to Hawk’s unlisted home telephone number. He was going to be displeased that I was calling so late. He valued his sleep and began it no later than ten-thirty.

Hawk was displeased all right, but because I had waited so long to report. He didn’t even let me talk.

“Nick, we’ve been had,” he began with the same opening I had in mind. “I can’t talk to you on an open line like this. How soon can you get to the pit at Fort Mason?”

“Thirty minutes.”

“Make it twenty. I’ll be waiting on the line, holding until you get there.” He hung up without a goodbye, leaving me with my mouth open.

The pit is a secure communications center manned by a select contingent of cryptographic experts from the National Security Agency. They operate and maintain highly sophisticated, ground-to-satellite transmissions which carry the bulk of United States coded diplomatic messages to embassies around the world. Additionally, the highest priority, scrambled voice traffic is accomodated. Duplicate facilities exist on the east coast, on Okinawa, and at a very secure base on the island of Crete. Fort Mason had direct channels to Washington which Hawk would not hesitate to commandeer. He also wouldn’t send me to the pit unless something like an impending natural disaster was about to take place.

There was no way I was going to be speaking to Hawk from Fort Mason in twenty minutes. I took five to pick up three spongy-bunned hamburgers and a chocolate shake at a fast-food drive-in. I ate and listened to the news on the car radio while driving back across the Bay Bridge. The evening broadcast carried items relating to the United Nations, new hopes for peace in the Middle East and South Africa, a new offshore oil find near Madagascar, and depressing economic trends in Europe. The local sports announcer had some interesting observations on the future of the Oakland A’s.

Once in the city, I drove west on Eddy Street to Van Ness, then stayed on it all the way to Fort Mason. The last part was all downhill.

One thing about the military, they don’t want anyone to get lost. There were guideposts on every corner pointing to various buildings. Every building was identified by a number and a sign. I had no problem locating the Officers’ Mess and the parking lot beside it. The break in the shrubbery leading to the concealed path was a little harder to find. The bushes had thickened since the last time I had squeezed through them.

I followed the bare path which led downward behind the Officers’ Club to a low building constructed entirely of cinder block. Light coming from windows high up under the eaves of the flat roof illuminated clearly the reinforcing wire imbedded in the thick glass. The Spanish-style, iron-bar grills in front of the windows were not there just for decoration.

I walked past two sets of recessed, flush-metal double doors until I came to a single steel door with an amber light overhead. I pushed a concave button below a placard which read: Press for Entry. Nothing happened. I pushed again. A voice reached me, coming out of a small, louvered grill set in the steel door casing. “Step inside and face to the right.” The scratchy, metallic words sounded like a recording.

The steel door slid to one side. It had to be moved by some mechanical means; the door was solid steel at least eight inches thick. I moved inside onto a metal plate that fit flush with the floor. The outer door closed behind me. I was left in a boxlike entry way, sealed off ahead of me by another steel door. When I looked to the right I saw a wall studded with regularly-spaced apertures which I knew contained multifrequency sensors.

The platform on which I stood rotated slowly until I had been turned a full ninety degrees. A drawer, similar to those used at drive-in banking windows, slid out of the wall in front of me. “Remove your gun, strapped-on knife, and the spherical object concealed between your legs and deposit them in the receptacle. Mr. Hawk’s call has been routed to Room W. Third door on the left.” This voice was definitely human, but it had no warmth.

I placed my weapons in the extended drawer. The drawer closed immediately. Then the steel door I first faced opened to admit me to a tile-lined corridor. I passed by two inner doors that failed to hold back a constant clattering noise and the smell of ozone. The entire building hummed serenely as though it was sitting on top of a tremendous power plant. Room W appeared at be part of an electronic laboratory. Oscilloscopes, along with panels mosaicked with blinking multicolored lights, offered a dazzling display. The bank of consoles against one wall containing spinning, jerking reels of wide magnetic tape were producing enough heat to make the large, air-conditioned room uncomfortably warm.

Of the three telephones waiting on the top of the centrally situated executive desk, only the green one was off the hook. I sat down at the desk and picked up the phone. “This is Carter, sir.” I held the receiver an inch away from my ear, waiting for the explosion.

None came. Hawk spoke in a calm, quiet voice. “What have you uncovered?” That was typical Hawk. He was interested only in bottom line facts.

In the simplest terms, I related that Gloria Grimes, once Gloria Parker of the films and now an MIA wife in San Rafael, had told me that Keith Martin’s last known address was some Quantas Airways flight headed west. I heard a muffled obscenity come over the line. Then I heard Hawk’s voice continue, but he wasn’t speaking to me. He had someone else with him which meant that Hawk had left his house. He wouldn’t do that unless he was part of an extended night session called to deal with a crisis condition. When he came back on, Hawk surprised me with a compliment. “You’ve done well, Nick. Now we’re pretty sure where we stand.”

It sounded as though Hawk had assembled enough information at his end to settle the matter. I expected him to tell me to cash in my chips and come home. Instead, he engaged me in conversation. “Did you know that Dinh Ba Thi, the Vietnamese ambassador to the United Nations, has left for Hanoi?”

I remembered. “I heard it mentioned on the radio a short time ago. He’s the one our government expelled once for spying.”

“Good memory, Nick. Only this time he’s going back because of the sudden death of Ban Lok Huong, Hanoi’s Minister of Security.”

“I didn’t hear that,” I admitted.

“Huong died this morning. An immediate news blackout followed the official announcement. Naturally, it was important for us to know why. Huong was no obscure personality. We’ve had a tag on him for a long time. During the war he was a general in charge of the interrogation and processing center through which all American prisoners of war passed before being shunted out to regular prison camps. A lot of U.S. servicemen never left his place alive.” Hawk wasn’t making idle talk; he was leading up to something.

“Keith Martin could attest to that,” I said, letting Hawk know I was keeping in step.

“After the war, Huong, like many senior Viet Cong officers, became a top government official and rates a state funeral,” Hawk went on. “That’s all in the file. None of it warrants having a lid put on. We had to use some unorthodox sources to find out, but now we have some idea why. Ban Lok Huong didn’t die a natural death. He was assassinated. Not only him, but his wife and two unidentified persons who were dinner guests in Huong’s villa. A virtual slaughter, vicious and unwarranted.”

Those last words were strange ones coming from a man who allowed AXE agents to use drastic measures as last resort actions.

I realized that governments like the one in Hanoi would be reluctant to admit to having dissidents capable of resorting to violence and murder. It was sensitive to world opinion. One would expect it to exercise censorship on a disturbing event. I voiced an opinion: “They’ll never give up until they find the killer.”

“Which is precisely the cause for our concern,” Hawk said in a grave, low-toned voice. “Hold on a minute.”

I waited again. I heard at least two other voices speaking in the background. Their words were unintelligible. The tempo of their speech was rapid. I looked at my watch. God, what a long day. I figured it wasn’t over yet. If Hawk was going to recall me, he’d have told me before this.

“Nick?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Here’s what we’ve got. It isn’t pretty, but it’s something we have to face. Your turning up names — Layton, Wyler and Grimes — in connection with Martin gave us the key. A lot more checking and rechecking has to be done, but what you’ve steered us onto is a strange set of bedfellows. We know all about Martin and how he is almost revered by some Vietnam vets. Layton is one. He was in Hue with Martin during the tank crew rescue action that resulted in Martin’s capture. The man Wyler was a POW along with Martin and Gloria Grimes has been a fanatic on the MIA issue.

“All of them have something in common — deep-seated emotions about the war and an underlying hatred of the Vietnamese for treatment meted out to American prisoners. We have some tenuous information that indicates this unreasonable bitterness has been fomenting. It’s now reached the point of eruption. We are seeing evidence of an active, private vendetta against certain North Vietnamese who, according to Martin and men who think as he does, ignored and exceeded basic human precepts in their humiliation, torture, and murder of U.S. prisoners of war.”

“Hold on now,” I interrupted. “You’re telling me that this Ban Lok Huong, sitting there snug in his house in Hanoi, was the victim of an assassination plot masterminded by Keith Martin?”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Hawk answered. “And I’ll tell you why. Ban Lok Huong wasn’t the first — just the most important one so far. The night before Huong was killed, a minor bureaucrat — the administrator of a state hospital who, during the war, provided so-called medical care at the infamous ‘Hanoi Hilton’ — was chopped down with the same kind of Soviet Lekoyev 9 mm. machine pistol used to blow away Minister Huong.”

I knew the weapon. The Russians had supplied them in quantity to the Viet Cong. A number of them had been brought home as souvenirs by returning GIs. Three hundred dollars buys one on the streets of Baltimore if you know where to go. I wondered where Hawk was getting his information, but knew better than to ask. He implied a probable source during his next statement.

“We’re still digging in on this, but you’d best know that I’m now reporting directly to the president and no one else. General Jarrett and Secretary of State Ellsworth are the only other privileged ones. The chief is extra nervous about this. If Keith Martin is responsible for running an undercover murder operation in Hanoi and his connection with it is discovered, the global repercussion would be earthshaking. The president can’t disown him now; that would only focus attention on a situation that must be corrected at once and without fanfare.”

“Hasn’t Layton cleared the air?” I assumed the man who had rifled my pockets at Dulles airport had been questioned.

Hawk coughed lightly. “He’s evaded us... gone underground... disappeared along with Wyler. An order has been issued to the Marin County sheriff to pick up the Grimes woman on an open warrant. He should be knocking on her door even while we’re talking now. Taking her into custody guarantees she will remain incommunicado. We’ve got our butts in a real tight crack this time, Nick.”

In this case, I didn’t consider it an honor to be part of the collective “we” that included the president of the United States. “What’s next?” I asked.

“Some fast footwork back here to start with. The drill I’ve set up will give us a computer readout of the names of North Vietnamese who are potential targets. Not just those in Hanoi — I mean any who were directly associated with American POWs. There are two still in the U.N. delegation in New York. Five live in Paris. Others are scattered around. In a very discreet and indirect manner through third parties, we’re going to have them alerted. In a few cases we’ll be providing protection although the subjects won’t be aware of it. We don’t want an epidemic of North Vietnamese assassinations traced back to the White House. The best way to stop the tentacles of an octopus is to paralyze its brain. We’ve got to get to Martin wherever he is.”

I knew that by now Hawk had already tapped my best lead. “What did Quantas come up with?” I asked.

“His name wasn’t on any San Francisco departing flight manifests. Naturally, he’d use a phoney. We’re going to have to do it the hard way. That’s been put in motion.”

“So I just stand by?”

“For the moment, Nick.” He paused to choose his words. When Hawk does that, I generally don’t like what I’m going to hear. He didn’t disappoint me. “This effort we’re mounting back here is still badly disorganized. For a couple of reasons, I’m going to make some adjustments you may not like.” He was telling me in advance that he didn’t want to hear any protests.

“I’m listening.”

“With Layton and Wyler unaccounted for, I’m a little concerned. Some of their friends out there may look you up. Treat them gently if they do. To guard against any unexpected confrontations that might come at you from your blind side, I’ve arranged for some backup... a real pro who’s been helpful on a part-time basis in the past. Hold on again.”

Hawk knew I had strong feelings about being teamed up with anyone. I worked best by myself and Hawk generally kept it that way. I wanted to discuss this development further.

The wait was a short one. The voice that came back on the line wasn’t Hawk’s. It was female. The lazy southern drawl reminded me of Ginger Bateman. “Mr. Hawk was called upstairs to the Oval Office, suh. He asked me to tell you — let’s see now — oh, yes, it’s heah on this card. An odd name. Chinese, I think.” After pausing, she said, “Wee Low Kiang. Black hair, brown eyes, five feet eleven inches, age twenty-eight—”

“That’s fine,” I interrupted. “I’ll hold on until Mr. Hawk comes back.”

“Oh, he said you shouldn’t wait. Ah’m supposed to tell you that you’ll be met at your hotel. Did Ah get that straight? You were going back to a hotel?”

“What else?”

“Graduate of UCLA in Physical Educa—”

“Forget the card!” I snapped. “What did Mr. Hawk say?”

The magnolia-and-peaches voice took on a sharper tone. “If Ah remember correctly, suh, the only other thing he said was ‘Tell him good night.’ ”

Eight

Hawk had a point. The group backing Martin could become over-energetic in their efforts to curtail interference. Like Gloria Grimes, they might assume that my intervention was more sinister than sincere. Flashing Wilhelmina as a means of frightening Gloria into opening up might have been a mistake. Martin’s protectors could overreact at any time without the courtesy of preliminary conversation before taking positive steps.

I was tired enough not to be at peak alert. Despite my weariness, I took the precaution of following a roundabout way back to the Fairmount Hotel. I drove along Bay Street to Columbus Avenue, then cut back on Market Street to follow the cable car route to Nob Hill. My speed was slow enough that any obviously trailing vehicle would be noticeable. I saw none. Once parked in the hotel basement garage, I sat in the car for a full minute looking out the rear window for any sign of a tail.

I took the self-service elevator to the lobby. When the automatic doors parted, my forward view was blocked temporarily by an animated group of young people moving toward a nearby stairway. They were bound for the Zebra Room, a popular lounge. Instead of stepping out, I kept my finger on the circuit cut-off button that prevented the doors from closing. My eyes scanned the lobby seeking out a black-haired Chinese. They rested an instant on a pair of Korean businessmen, but I was searching for an individual, not a pair.

I leaned out and turned my head to the right. Three feet from my nose were the jutting mounds of a spectacular bosom. It was attached to a tall, tawny-skinned r girl wearing dark, harlequin glasses. Beneath them, full, red lips were bent into an impish smile. She removed the glasses. Her eyes, large and only slightly almond-shaped, were laughing too. She was Eurasian, mostly Chinese, but only the infusion of European blood could produce such beauty of face and full-blown curves. A pageboy bob framed her attractive countenance; straight, ebony-highlighted hair fell to her shoulders. There is nothing in this world as black as a Chinese girl’s hair. “You’re Nick Carter?” she asked. Her husky, deep-throated syllables were pure American. No accent whatsoever.

I stepped out of the elevator. Its doors closed behind me. The girl’s eyes sparkled at my hesitation. Mine did too as I took in her superb figure shown to full advantage by the fashionable, lime green jump suit she wore. A long-strapped, brown shoulder bag hung down and rested on her right hip. She spoke again. “I arranged with the garage attendant to send word up to the desk when he saw you bring your car into the hotel,” she explained as if anticipating a question. I had others.

One was why Hawk didn’t have the guts to tell me that Wee Low Kiang was a girl. Maybe Kiang wasn’t. I could be jumping to conclusions. Melissa Stephens popped into my mind again. She had said that some of the better class hookers were allowed to prowl the Fairmount lobby. The bold girl in front of me certainly had the stunning looks and physical accoutrements to qualify as a top-grade whore. There was an easy way to establish her bona tides if she was a Hawk protégé. “What kind of piece are you carrying?”

Her right hand patted the shoulderbag. “Colt mini-Panther snub-nosed .32 caliber with six-shot magazine.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Wee Low Kiang,” I said with more formality than enthusiasm.

The girl had a low-pitched laugh. “That pronunciation is close enough for a first try. Don’t worry, I don’t use it. It’s the name given to me at birth; it’s since been Anglicized to Willow Kane. Call me Willow.” She replaced the slant-framed dark glasses, hiding her unusual eyes. She grew serious. “Is there some place we can go to talk?” She sounded like a take-charge type of girl.

“I’ve got a room,” I answered. The way it came out caused her to tilt her head and draw herself more erect. Making a pass was the farthest thing from my mind. I had no intention of trying to get her into my bed. My frayed temper asserted itself. “Look, I’ve been stripping my gears since early morning. I’m just about wiped out. Any more talk can wait until morning. I’m going upstairs. If you’ve been told to stand guard in the corridor while I sack out, I’m on the tenth floor, Room 1022.”

She surprised me by lapsing into rapid French. She was fluent and precise. French is one of my better languages. I speak it with an Alsatian accent. Hers had a singsong quality which was typically Malaysian. “While waiting for you to show up I got a very peculiar telephone call. It came from a special Washington switchboard. The man I spoke with had been in contact with you less than twenty minutes before he called me. Some important decisions have been reached which I am to relay to you. This is too open a place to talk, even though we use a foreign tongue. We could be watched.”

“Votre Français est très bon.” I replied, easily following her lead.

She hurried on. “I feel uncomfortable here. I sense these things. We have to go to your room anyway.” She reached out and pressed the elevator call button. She had long slim fingers, but muscular-looking hands. I had to admit that when Hawk picked someone for a job, he chose only the best. Willow Kane had both obvious and hidden qualities. She seemed to be too aggressive for a mere bodyguard. On second thought, I excused her. Hawk must be moving things rapidly to have had to convert Willow into a trusted messenger from her simple role as an armed handmaiden.

She retreated and stood well back while waiting for the elevator to arrive. She was pointedly alert and patently overcautious when its doors parted in front of us. If this were a test, I’d have to give her a good grade for going strictly by the book. When she turned about and backed into the cab so she could keep the lobby in view, I thought she was overdoing it a bit.

We were the only passengers. I switched back to English. “You didn’t learn to speak French in France.”

“No. As a child I lived in Vientiane where my mother worked in the homes of French officers. She was a lovely, frail woman — part Portugese, with an unbridled sex drive and a correspondingly small regard for the consequences. I have nine illegitimate sisters and brothers. Fortunately, I don’t have the naivety of my mother, although the other ingrained trait gives me problems at times.”

“You went to UCLA.”

“Still do. Graduate work, but it’s taking time. I support myself with part-time jobs.”

“Like this? It can’t come along that often.”

Willow tilted her head proudly. “I’ve helped out twice before. One reason is that I’m a polyglot fluent in French, Lao, Vietnamese, and three Chinese dialects. I make out best, though, when I’m working in Hollywood,” she added matter-of-factly. I thought fleetingly of Gloria Grimes. Willow noticed my change of expression. “Oh, no. Nothing like that,” she said lightly. “I’m more athlete than actress. Tumbling, skydiving, bronco riding, things like that. I’m a freelance stunt girl.”

The elevator stopped at the tenth floor before I could comment. Willow stepped out into the hallway. She looked first to the left, then to the right. The carpeted corridor was serenely quiet.

“That way,” I gestured with one hand while taking the room key from my pocket with the other. We matched strides moving toward my room. Willow had the smooth, positive gait of a young, well-coordinated gymnast. Otherwise she was all woman. Her tight-muscled body was veneered with a thin layer of fat. The result was smooth, flattering curves. I lagged behind to watch her, my mind wandering. Willow stopped in front of Room 1022.

I unlocked the door and gave it a push. At the same time I stepped back to allow Willow to enter. The door swung easily, up to a point. Then it came to a halt as if it had bumped against something inside the room. Willow stepped forward.

The faltering swing of the door could have been caused by a burr on a hinge. Whatever it was, a warning flashed in my head.

I snatched Willow’s elbow, yanking her back. The jerk pulled her off balance. She fell against me. Both of us staggered backwards. Willow had sense enough to remain calm. She disengaged herself and allowed me to shove her further away from the partially opened door.

I drew back three steps more, breathing through my mouth. Nothing happened. I waited a little longer. Then I eased forward, peering through the narrow gap between the door’s edge and the frame. A light was on inside the room. It could be from a bed lamp, or coming from the bathroom. I hadn’t left it that way. A maid might have turned on a light. No sounds came from inside the room. My fast-pumping blood was slowing down once more.

“Is anything wrong?” Willow had moved noiselessly to my side.

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re going to have to go in there,” she said. I turned my head to stare at her. She answered my questioning gaze. “Unless you want to leave your clothes behind. The Pan-Am night flight to Honolulu leaves in just over three hours. We’re supposed to be on it. That’s one of the things I was instructed to tell you. I don’t think we should discuss the reasons why out here in the hall, even if we speak French.”

I swore under my breath. I felt manipulated, even though I knew I should be accustomed to having Hawk pile one thing on top of the other. Hawk would never withdraw an order, but I was irked because he hadn’t issued it himself. I suspected Hawk had some idea he was going to extend my wild goose chase when he had me on the satellite link from Washington. He could have told me that the helper I was to be saddled with was female.

Nothing was turning out right.

And now a stubborn hotel door was testing my patience further by not swinging open as readily as I thought it should.

“Well?” cooed Willow.

I knew that Ginger Bateman had packed my usual contingency wardrobe. Extra ammunition for Wilhelmina and a carton of my private-blend cigarettes — neither easily acquired except from special sources — ballasted my fine-grain leather bag. It was an irreplaceable item as well; it was a personal gift to me from Hawk. My custom-tailored jackets, slacks and shirts represented a considerable investment.

“Stand back,” I cautioned Willow. The door resisted when I pressed against it gently with my fingertips. I reached a hand around the edge of the door and moved it lightly up-and-down. My fingers touched nothing. Still, I wasn’t satisfied.

“We could call the manager,” Willow suggested.

My reply was curt. “When the manager shows up he’ll ask a lot of questions, quite a few of which I wouldn’t want to answer. Even if this turns out to be a false alarm, the police will get into the act. In that case—”

“The hand grenade will explode in the honey bucket,” she aptly modified the old cliché.

There were ample reasons for not drawing attention to what I considered a predicament. I knew we faced one when I peered through the slit on the hinge side of the door.

The damn door was booby trapped!

I backed off and went over to Willow. I took off my shoes and handed them to her. “Go back to the elevators. Push the call buttons to bring both of them up here. Block the automatic doors with a shoe to keep them from closing. That will hold them here. We may need one in a hurry, and we don’t want anyone showing up on this floor for the next minute.”

I placed myself in front of the partially opened door again. The device inside could be a simple light beam interruption device to signal someone that the room had been entered. On the other hand, it could be an explosive pack lethal enough to unhinge the whole of Nob Hill, but that hardly seemed likely. Whoever rigged it were experts. The thought of defusing it never crossed my mind. What concerned me was whether the surprise package was time or pressure activated. Probably the latter, but I couldn’t be positive.

I flattened myself against the wall next to the door frame. Feeling behind me, my hand found the doorknob. I saw Willow stoop down the second time to wedge a shoe between the closing doors of the last-arriving elevator. When she stood up empty-handed and waved, I shoved on the doorknob like I was heaving a shotput.

For a moment nothing happened.

The sigh of relief I gave was drowned by a dull, reverberating Whumph! A quick puff of smoke blew out of the door. Then an enormous fireball, pushing the wrenched-off door before it, rolled across the corridor and splashed into the opposite wall. I heard wallpaper sizzling as the fireball dissolved limply and oozed along the baseboard and rolled across the carpeting. Thick, choking smoke spread rapidly. The acrid odor of singed wool stung my nostrils. The door, broken when it rammed against the wall, crackled as flames licked at it.

I pulled out a handkerchief and covered my nose and mouth. I ducked through the doorway, holding my breath and avoiding the fingers of flame fringing the wooden door frame. Inside, I saw the two-seater sofa turned over, frame twisted and fabric burning. The TV set was across the room from the stand that once held it. The picture tube was miraculously intact.

The smoke wasn’t as bad as in the hall, but the walls on both sides of the door were charred. Scorched tatters was all that was left of the bedspread. My valpack had been blown into the bathroom where it rested up against the tub. One side was blackened and felt tacky to the touch.

I grabbed it by the handle and made for the door. The smoke was getting to me despite my handkerchief filter. I exited at a fast walk, heading for the elevators.

A door opened behind me. From far down the corridor a man’s voice called out: “What’s happening?” I stepped into the waiting elevator whose door was being held open by Willow with one hand, my retrieved shoes in the other. The inquisitive hotel guest, aghast and now silenced by what he saw, ducked back into his room as the automatic sprinkler system went into action.

I had my shoes on by the time we reached the lobby. We got to the cashier’s window to settle up my bill in time to hear an alarm bell go off in the hotel manager’s office. The switchboard operator in her secluded niche was trying to make sense out of a frantic call coming from inside the hotel.

I led Willow out through the front door. A doorman whom I hadn’t seen before was on duty. He whistled for a cab when I held up a finger. Willow crowded next to me. She had finally found her voice. “If I’d gone on info that room—” she said under her breath.

I reached for her hand. It was cold, but not trembling. Her grip tightened around my fingers. “But you didn’t,” I said.

A Checker cab came up the drive. “Have you got money?” Willow nodded. “Go to the airport and wait for me.”

“I want to go with you.”

I hardened my voice and lowered it. “If that joker upstairs got a look at us, the police will be looking for a couple, a suitcase-carrying man with a tall, Oriental beauty who is just too fantastic-looking to be forgotten. We have to separate.”

For a moment, it looked like she was going to argue. “I have some things to pick up at a motel,” she said.

“I understand. There’s plenty of time. I have to turn in my rental car before I do anything else.”

“Be careful, Nick.”

I shoved my bag into the rear seat next to her feet after she got inside the cab. “Keep that as a hostage,” I said.

I slammed the door on her retort and watched the cab pull away before I walked down the drive and entered the garage from the street. I had to jump aside to avoid being struck by a fire truck that careened down the ramp behind me. The five-man crew jumped off next to the service elevator.

A uniformed chauffeur was standing in wait beside a plum-colored Bentley. I had to walk past him to get to the Dime-A-Mile rental car. He called out to me: “Hey, Mac! What’s bringing in the fire brigade?”

He could remember me if I ignored him. “Beats me,” I replied. “Maybe some drunk doing an impromptu night club act in the Zebra Room pulled a smoke bomb instead of a rabbit out of his hat.”

Nine

Pink rays of the just-rising sun coated the east slope of Diamond Head as the Pan-Am 747 approached Honolulu Airport. From my window on the starboard side I could make out a faint rainbow arched over the hills behind the University of Hawaii. The shoreline of Waikiki Beach was backed by a solid wall of high-rise tourist hotels.

There had been no incidents at Los Angeles International Airport to match the misadventure encountered at the Dulles terminal outside of Washington. Willow left me to pay off the cab while she went ahead. She was waiting at the Pan-Am check-in counter talking amicably with a beefy individual when I caught up. He looked like a plainclothes cop. He was, and he was waiting for me.

The name in the identification folder which also held his impressive Federal Marshal’s badge was Towler. He was more a man of action than words. He took our bags and tossed his head in the direction he wanted us to go. We followed him through a side door, riding a narrow escalator down to ground level. A white-coveralled ground crewman drove us out onto the airfield in a maintenance vehicle. He deposited us at the bottom of a self-powered mobile stairway reaching up to the service door in the Pan-Am 747 fuselage. Going up that long flight of stairs was like climbing to the fourth floor of an ordinary building.

Towler led us to a pair of seats in the first-class compartment of the empty plane. “Okay?” he asked. I nodded sleepily and eased myself down in the window seat. Willow thanked Towler for both of us. Willow wanted to talk. I didn’t. Whatever she had to tell me could wait. Even if what she had to say was important, I’d be a poor listener. I’ve learned to grab sleep whenever the chance comes along. I can turn it on and off at will. So I did. I slept through the boarding of the other passengers, the fight attendant’s instructions, and the takeoff.

Sometime during the night, Willow’s lolling head tipped over onto my shoulder and awakened me. I looked out through the paned window. Silver moonlight from above shone on clouds below. Through breaks in the cloud layer only empty darkness was visible. It brought-to mind the vacuum in which I seemed to be working. The peacefulness of the Pacific night was a marked contrast to the violent moments recently shared with the sleeping girl beside me.

As if in response to my thoughts, Willow stirred. Still asleep, she snuggled, pressing lush warm curves against me. I slowly changed position in my seat, trying to accomodate her more comfortably without disturbing her. She sensed the movement. Her long-lashed eyes, only inches from my own, opened. She smiled coyly, then made sensuous body movements that closed up any space left between our bodies. She sighed contentedly. We fit together very well.

Willow pulled back suddenly, wide awake now. Seeing me awake too, she apologized. “Oh, I’m sorry, Nick. I didn’t mean to—”

“I liked it,” I said.

The only lights on in the plane were dimmed florescents hidden behind alcoves in the ceiling. I stood up and stretched. I glanced at my watch. We had been airborne for nearly four hours. Huddled forms of sleeping passengers under light blankets filled about half the seats around us. Willow’s hand found mine and pulled me down next to her. “How do you feel now?” she asked.

Four hours of sleep is enough for me. The fleeting close encounter I’d just experienced with Willow stirred desires in me that had nothing to do with sleep. From the way she lowered her eyes and brought her lips together to curb a smile, I guessed that she was highly intuitive. “Come on, Nick,” she chided in a vibrant, husky whisper. “You know what I mean. Are you ready to hear what I’ve been told to tell you?”

I pushed the overhead call button. A male flight attendant appeared. I asked for coffee. Willow took tea. It arrived in moments. Willow switched to French in mid-sentence and continued to speak in hushed tones. “Remember how Hawk dropped the phone because he was called away by the president?” I nodded. “That was because word had just arrived about another assassination in Hanoi. The victim was a middle-level official in the People’s Republic Agriculture Commissariat — a political appointee not too long on the job. Hawk says there’s a thick file on him, though, because he was remembered by a lot of American POWs. He was a Viet Cong army sergeant and the top NCO in charge of guards at a prison camp where many, including Martin, were prisoners. He was described as being brutal, sadistic, and responsible for the deaths of at least a dozen men.”

“An interesting thing,” I commented. “This victim, like the others liquidated, held a political post of sorts. It’s just possible that a purge is taking place. It’s not necessarily coincidence that all served in the Viet Cong armed forces. Every ablebodied man was conscripted to fight the war.” I took another sip of coffee. “Did Hawk tell you how all this undercover news is getting to Washington so damn fast without anyone else hearing of it?” My only guess was that Hawk had an agent under deep cover on the People’s Republic Central Committee in Hanoi.

Willow destroyed my theory. “There used to be a contact in the Foreign Affairs Ministry in Paris that transmitted certain quid pro quo data received from the French legation in Hanoi to Washington.” I was impressed by Willow’s in-depth knowledge.

“That’s really academic,” she continued. “However it’s done, Hawk is gravely concerned that former Vietnam veterans may be involved in the planning and financing of a secret vendetta. Some members of responsible veterans’ organizations have confirmed that the idea has been heard floating around. What little information has been scraped up suggests that the more fanatic supporters have banded together and are actively engaged in making the terrorist venture a success.”

“I met two of them yesterday,” I muttered between my teeth. “They were kids compared to whoever tried to blow us away with that trip-wire surprise in the hotel. The trouble with this venture is that too few people realize what we’re up against.”

“I’m sure Hawk does,” Willow contradicted me. “He’s disturbed by hearing that nothing will be allowed to interfere with their aims, including attempts with government intervention. While veterans’ groups back home deny and condemn any acts of violence, grassroots sentiment in this case is strong though silent. He now knows that local chapters — some in foreign countries — have knowledge of the movement. Hawk has discovered a worldwide network of endorsers of the bloodletting movement. Maybe he didn’t tell you, but Layton and Wyler are active duty sergeants in the honor company at Fort Myer, Virginia. That’s the elite troop that guards the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and conducts burial ceremonies at Arlington National Cemetery.”

I waved away the flight attendant’s offer of more coffee. He took away the soiled cup. Willow had barely touched her tea. “So we’re up against the regular army as well as old-line veteran clubs,” I remarked. “I suppose the Daughers of the American Revolution are knitting socks for the boys in the trenches along the Red River. Do we have any idea how many armed infiltrators Martin sent into Hanoi?”

Her soft eyes measured me critically. “Would there have to be more than one like you?”

“The way these former Charlie-types are being mowed down, it sounds like a tight-scheduled, get in, get ’em, and get out kind of operation by a squad of spooks with a kamikaze death wish. The targets are being knocked over so fast that, by the time we catch up with Martin, he’ll be pinning stolen Medals of Honor on them and paying off their ammunition expenses.”

“Which is why Hawk specified that we lose no time in pursuing Martin. Hawk figures there will be a lull after three almost simultaneous assassinations. The effort will have to hang fire until Hanoi cools down. Computers are correlating data to come up with a list of potential victims according to parameters which put the already dead victims near the top.”

I stared down into the space outside my window, thinking. The cloud layer had disappeared. The horizon behind us showed the barest edge of light thrust up from the rising sun. I wondered why Hawk would want to compile a future body count.

“Hawk wants us to close in on Martin before any more names on the hit list have to be scratched off,” Willow said. “You know that means we’re going on to Hong Kong, don’t you?” There was excitement in her voice.

“I figured it would be either Okinawa or the Philippines,” Willow seemed surprised that I took it so calmly.

“Why those places?”

I debated giving her my reasons. Two of the largest processing centers for radio transmission intercepts in the Far East were the Air Force Security Service installation at Clark Field, and the facility run by the Naval Security Group at Naha on Okinawa. Both are under the direction of the National Security Agency. Radio transmission, primarily the coded ones that carry secret, diplomatic messages or heavily enciphered military traffic get top priority.

Hawk would manage to put this monster to work. A round-the-clock effort had undoubtedly been mounted to monitor the air waves for a low-powered, clandestine radio transmitter passing short messages to a receiver hidden in Hanoi to aid Martin’s plan. With the enormous facilities and capabilities of the National Security Agency, it would only be a matter of time before Martin’s location was pinpointed if it hadn’t been already.

I finally answered Willow. “Well, I just had a hunch that the next break would come from one of those two places.”

The dim interior of the plane was flooded with light. All of the cabin lights had been turned on. A cheerful voice issuing from the overhead loudspeakers announced our impending landing. It came back on again after the touchdown. There would be a ninety minute layover for on-going passengers. Everyone was asked to leave the aircraft. Following that information, soft island music was played while the plane taxied to the terminal.

The senior stewardess came down the aisle and bent over our seats. “I have a message for you, Mr. Carter. You’re asked to look for an army colonel who will be in the immediate debarkation area.”

My hackles went up. “Just that? Nothing more?”

“I’ll check with the captain if you’d like. He can call the tower again if there’s some question.”

I shook my head and waved her away. Why couldn’t Hawk be more specific? He should have said friend or foe unless he wasn’t sure. I took the pessimistic view. By now Hawk would have been informed and realize the tenth floor blast at the Fairmount was a gigantic hotfoot intentionally planted to remove me from the scene. He was telling me it could happen again.

“I’ll go first,” volunteered Willow. “I doubt if anyone knows I’m with you. It’s one of the ways I’m expected to help. Don’t worry. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

I hung back while Willow walked past the colonel in uniform standing at the end of the rail-guarded aisle that steered passengers to the main corridor. She didn’t go unnoticed. His eyes followed her appreciatively until he was forced by the incoming human stream to change his position. Willow circled around and came up behind him. Her right hand was buried inside the compartment of her shoulderbag that held her pistol. I was too far away to hear what she said to him. Whatever it was, she certainly held his attention.

After a moment, she lifted a hand and beckoned with a finger. “Colonel Tulley, sir,” he said as I approached. I thought he was going to salute me. His hand moved, but only to reach out and offer me a brown envelope. Willow-watched over his shoulder. She was as tall as he. The sunburned colonel’s eyes had a tendency to drift in her direction. I concentrated on his face.

None of us saw or were prepared to ward off the fast-moving figure that rammed between us. We staggered like pins scattering under the impact of a bowling ball. The running man snatched the envelope from Colonel Tulley’s hand as he went by.

The thief, a brown-skinned youth wearing a bright, floral print Hawaiian shirt and white slacks headed for the moving ranks of passengers jamming the corridor. In an instant he would be lost in the crowd.

I shoved one hand against the startled colonel to get a push-start to catch the fleet-footed hoodlum. Out of the corner of my eye I saw another movement. Willow had her leather bag by the long straps. She whipped it around once over her head like an Argentine gaucho winding up a bola and let it fly. The bag sailed like a missile launched from a catapults. It went between the islander’s scissoring legs at ankle height. He tripped, sprawling headlong. The envelope flew out of his grasp. It ended up against the wall with Willow’s pearl-handled .32 caliber pistol close by.

A woman shrieked. The crowd opened up around the fallen man. He rolled once, recovered his footing and continued to dodge and weave through the bewildered crowd. The confused onlookers closed in behind him, screening his retreat completely by the time I recovered the envelope, shoulderbag and gun.

“Keep moving, folks!” I called out, shoving the snub-nosed weapon back into Willow’s bag. “Nothing’s wrong here.” I flashed a wide smile.

No one challenged me. No one wanted to get involved. If anything, those around me turned away quickly and hurried off.

“Neat trick,” I complimented Willow as I returned her property before the astonished Tulley. I kept the envelope.

“I can’t believe this!” Tulley exclaimed. “Hadn’t we better—”

“We’d better forget about it,” I finished for him. It was becoming harder all the time to hold a low profile. Willow’s steer-roping exhibition bordered on the flamboyant technique I had been warned to avoid. “Was the envelope worth saving?” I asked Tulley.

“It rated a motorcycle escort which I don’t” he replied.

I broke the seal and looked inside. Without the contents, I could have run into serious problems. The one that impressed me was a State Department passport. It looked genuine. The booklet with its mottled green cover and gold lettering probably was. The pre-dated visa stamps inside were counterfeit. They showed that I had cleared through customs of countries I had not yet reached.

The other papers were Department of Defense invitational orders issued to Willow and myself. These are special authorizations presented to non-military persons in rare instances. They entitle the recipient to utilize certain services under the control of the armed forces in pursuit of matters related to national security. The privileges are extended only to very important individuals. I scanned the three short paragraphs. “Do you know what is contained in these orders, Colonel Tulley?” I asked him.

“That’s why I have a vehicle waiting, sir. If you’re ready—”

“I’d like to freshen up some,” Willow mentioned. I seconded the motion.

“That’s all arranged,” Colonel Tulley assured us. “If you’ll just follow me.”

We didn’t leave the airport. A sergeant-driver was loading our bags in the trunk of khaki-colored sedan when we reached the aircraft maintenance ramp beneath the terminal. Led by a pair of MPs on motorcycles, the sergeant drove like a demented stock car racer. He sped along the edges of runways and down taxi strips. One took us onto Hickham Air Force Base. From there a ferry carried the hot-tired sedan across Pearl Harbor channel to the Navy housing area. The ride lasted no more than ten minutes. It ended in front of the Barber’s Point Naval Air Station flight operations building.

The drill went like clockwork. A lady marine greeted and led Willow away. Colonel Tulley stuck with me. He waited in the pilot’s locker room while I showered and shaved. A tray of food was brought in from the Officer’s Mess. I ate breakfast standing up because all through it I was being fitted with flight gear. I ended up with crash helmet, oxygen mask, calf-high boots, a brilliant orange flying suit, a yellow Mae West, and a parachute. A green bailout bottle which I first thought was a hand-held fire extinguisher was strapped to my right leg below the knee. It contained emergency oxygen in the event a jump from high altitudes was necessary. I was assured the precaution had nothing to do with military aircraft reliability.

Colonel Tulley escorted me out onto the ramp. He put me in a FOLLOW ME jeep. He tossed my bag in the back. I thought he was going to salute this time for sure. I could tell he was as impressed with this well-planned and fast-moving routine as I was.

When Willow showed up, carrying the visored “brain bucket” with its dangling oxygen mask, she appeared flushed. Her dark eyes flashed with anticipatory excitement. What she did to a nondescript flying suit was remarkable. Mine hung on me, even though it was the right size. Willow filled hers both front and back in a most exciting way.

She climbed into the jeep beside me. The sailor at the wheel had to be reminded we were ready to go. The freckle-faced lad shook his head unbelievingly and licked his lips one more time before he stopped staring at Willow.

I owed her an explanation. “When Hawk decided we weren’t to lose any time, I had no idea to what lengths he’d go to make up what’s been lost. These orders he pried loose from the Defense Department is his way of saying that commercial airliners lose too much time making intermediate stops. Hawk’s brought General Jarrett’s clout to bear. We’ll be using military airlift for this next leg in this wild game of hide-and-seek.”

Ten

The aircraft parked in a secluded corner of the airfield was unlike any other in the world. The huge, black monster was guarded by two rifle-armed marines wearing battle fatigues. I recognized the futuristic, needle-nosed machine. It was built almost entirely of titanium by Lockheed. The air force called it the SR-71A. The fuselage was twice as long as its mere fifty foot wingspan. Two immense and powerful turbojet engines made it the fastest, highest-flying aircraft to be put in service. Its cruising speed was well above 2,000 miles per hour when it was flying at 85,000 feet.

“We’re going to fly in that?” exclaimed Willow incredulously. “What is it?”

I told her that the plane, known as the Blackbird, was an unarmed reconnaissance craft that held every conceivable flight performance record of speed and altitude. It had made a New York to London ran in less than two hours, averaging 1,807 miles an hour.

Our pilot was Major Griffiths who appeared bored with the whole proceedings. He and an enlisted man helped Willow and I cram into a space behind the pilot which had been jury-rigged to accomodate both of us in tight tandem. Some camera and electronic equipment had been removed, but not nearly enough to provide any real comfort.

I sat in front of Willow. Her long legs stretched forward on either side of the narrow bucket seat strapped to my butt. With the padded, close-fitting helmet clamped over my head, I barely heard the starting rumble of the engines turning over. The sound grew louder during the taxi run. The end of the long runway backed up against a salt-white beach holding back a lazy Pacific surf.

The sudden acceleration jammed me back in my seat. When the afterburner cut in to give added power, I thought I would go deaf. The noise outside behind the plane must have been horrendous.

As I felt the plane lightening, Major Griffiths started the acrobatics of a high performance climb. My seat rotated and tilted until I was mostly laying on my back. Only a rocket being launched for the outer reaches of space would climb at a steeper angle.

We gazed straight up while G-forces held us fast. Then the aircraft leveled out. Major Griffiths moved in his seat for a time, then seemed to go immobile. His voice came over earphones buried in my helmet. “We’re set now,” he said. “On course at 78,500 feet. Don’t unbuckle. If you have to talk, listen first before you press the intercom button I pointed out to you earlier. The weather ahead is fine. As a matter of fact, at this altitude we seldom see any weather. It’s all below us.”

The flight was tedious. By stretching up, I could see the top row of instruments on the pilot’s panel. There was nothing but dark blue air beyond the thick glass windscreen. Willow let me know that she was present by lifting her foot alongside my seat and nudging my thigh occasionally. I captured her calf once and squeezed it in return.

I must have dozed. I woke with a start because something was different. The steady roar of the engines had changed. We were going down. I looked at my watch. We had been airborne just under two hours. A quick mental calculation caused my mouth to go dry. We couldn’t be anywhere near land. Two hours flight time would put us in mid-Pacific somewhere between Wake and Guam. Only water lay beneath us... fifteen miles straight down.

Willow kicked me again. I gripped her leg and shrugged my shoulders.

Major Griffiths had slowed the plane. We had lost altitude. He didn’t seem worried enough to tell us what was going on. He had, however, disengaged the autopilot and taken over manual control of the aircraft. He was bending forward. The craft shuddered and vibrated. More speed was lost. I unbuckled, lifted myself up and leaned forward. I could see out ahead.

At first I thought it was a commercial airliner until I saw the business trailing out behind it. Griffiths was making an intercept on a refueling tanker. He had hit the rendezvous right on the button which included descending to the height reachable by the converted Boeing 707. Four contrails stretched out behind its laboring engines: The low angle given off by the rosy light of dawn gave an orange tint to the streamers of ice crystals. We had been flying so fast we were running away from the sun.

The connection made, the two planes remained linked together a very short time. Before I thought it possible, the vaned boom of the tank detached itself and telescoped. Major Griffiths applied power immediately and commenced a climb.

The next time engine power was reduced, the nose dipped and I realized we were in a long, maximum speed descent. Far forward on the horizon was a dark mantle of land pinpointed with tiny lights. We and the dawn were reaching China at the same time.

Griffiths put the plane down on the Hong Kong airport as if it carried a touchy cargo of nitroglycerine. It was led to a distant part of the field. A British Land Rover with two men in it was waiting beside a protected hardstand. Royal Air Force personnel guided the shadow-black aircraft into a high-banked, U-shaped revetment.

I found myself stiff, a little giddy, and muscle-tired. Willow leaned on me heavily when I helped her down the handholds from cockpit to ground. The RAF Group Captain introduced himself as Harrington, mostly to Willow. It was a compliment to her; in the Crown Colony, overcrowded with Chinese, only beauty as unique as Willow’s would get a second glance. He even opened the door of the Land Rover for her.

I would have shaken hands and thanked Griffiths, but he was busy filling out some form that recorded the flight data. I waved. He acknowledged with a nod. A 6,300 mile flight in just over four hours was routine for him.

The way Group Captain Harrington drove made me aware that I had been safer with Major Griffiths. He spent most of his time leering at Willow instead of watching the perimeter road. It led to a clump of buildings over which a Royal Air Force standard was flying.

A short, plump man of fifty with a bald head, full, white mustache and wearing a beautifully-tailored business suit was waiting in an austerely-furnished office. He had a ruddy complexion and an articulate British accent. Harrington treated him with marked respect. The reason became obvious when he was introduced as Sir Hodley-Smythe, Deputy Governor General of the British Crown Colony and New Territories. He was standing next to a slate-topped table where a batman in RAF battle dress was brewing tea over a hot plate. Willow and I were excused immediately after the initial reception.

I was back in minutes, having made room for the tea. Sir Hodley-Smythe was puffing on a pipe between sips of tea from a heavy mug. He gestured to a chair. I sat down. Group Captain Harrington stooped in front of a closed office safe and worked the combination. When he stood up he had a long brown envelope in his hand. He offered it to Sir Hodley-Smythe in keeping with protocol. The chubby Englishman bobbed his head in my direction.

The back flap of the envelope was held fast by a red wax seal. “You chaps must have gotten yourself into quite a snit,” Sir Hodley-Smythe observed. “Bloody nuisance, using our top-grade communications and this RAF station for a message drop. Most unusual. But then, using a multimillion dollar reconnaissance aircraft for personnel transport is hardly common either.”

It sounded like he was fishing, but I wasn’t about to satisfy his curiosity until I’d read what was in the envelope even though a printed line along its lower edge read: In Her Majesty’s Service.

Hawk’s teletyped message was brief. One part referred to a facsimile of a computer printout which was enclosed. The printout listed names of persons having the highest potential to be murder victims based on carefully selected criteria. The nine names were divided into two groups. A footnote told me that the five in the top group had died within the year. I recognized the names of those North Vietnamese officials who had met with violent ends in the past two days.

I was reading the second part of Hawk’s message when Willow came into the room. She was wearing a sky-blue, knee-length Chousan tunic with a choke collar over black trousers. The traditionally loose garment, however, was fashionably form-fitted to accentuate her generous curves. Sleek, straight-banged black hair draped her lovely oval face. I got up and offered Willow my chair. Sir Hodley-Symthe remained seated. His eyebrows bobbed up appreciatively until he subdued his rash act and brought them down into a frown of antipathy. His die-hard colonial chauvinism rejected association with all races of “colour.”

Harrington, visibly embarrassed, quickly offered Willow a mug of steaming tea. I perched on one corner of Group Captain Harrington’s desk, mildly fuming inside.

“Please, gentlemen, go right on,” Willow said graciously. “I apologize for taking so long.” She nodded thanks to Harrington as she accepted the tea. She filled the silence that followed. “Any new developments, Nick?” she asked. I held back an answer while she seated herself in the low chair I had vacated. Her smooth, fluid movements as she did so stimulated my imagination. It took an effort to dispell my daydreaming and get back to Hawk’s message.

I picked out the part designed to cement international relations. “I’m instructed to thank the representatives of Her Majesty’s Government in Hong Kong, for their cooperation and most valuable assistance on such short notice. It says here that those individuals will be given recognition through official channels at an appropriate time.” My last words were unheard because of the thunderous rumble of a heavy jet taking off. I glanced outside. The incredible SR-71A that had brought us to Hong Kong was streaking skyward. Its powerful engines were making the window panes rattle.

Willow jumped up and ran to the window. She put on her dark glasses to shield her eyes from the morning sun. She kept them on when she turned around. “You’d think that Major Griffiths would want a rest.”

“Oh, he’ll get it, but not here. At Okinawa. For him, that’s only twenty five minutes away. You see, we didn’t mind your being dropped off, but it wouldn’t look right to some of our neighbors if we kept that fantastic machine here any length of time. Your government seems to be very touchy about conditions in our area just now, too. So he leaped off for home ground as quickly as he could be serviced. Perhaps you’re tired?”

“Strangely enough, I am,” she admitted.

“It’s a syndrome connected with long-haul, high-speed flight. Jet lag, actually. It becomes more pronounced at supersonic speeds. Experience with the Concorde shows that most passenger have a bit of a physical letdown. After some rest, they’re in the pink again.”

I interrupted the tête-à-tête. “We’ve got to be moving on.”

“There’s something encouraging then?” Willow asked.

“In Bangkok. A positive sighting from a well-established source,” I answered.

“British?” interjected Sir Hodley-Smythe. I made a mental note. The British had a first-rate agent in Thailand.

“The name is Lak Bu Chen. If he’s one of yours, we owe you more thanks.”

Sir Hodley-Smythe’s jowls quivered when he shook his head. “Never heard of the bloke.”

“But I have,” Willow said brightly. “He worked for the Americans in Saigon for years. I’d give any of his reports a high validity.”

“So you’ll be off again, you two,” Sir Hodley-Smythe said cheerfully. He sounded happy to be rid of us.

“As soon as we can get a plane out.” I silently thanked Hawk for anticipating my need for a passport, then wondered if he had more than a hunch that it would be necessary. The closer I got to confronting Martin the more help seemed to be coming my way. It was a good feeling.

“Ah — let’s see,” mused Harrington. “If memory serves me, the next non-stop flight, the kind you’ll have to use so there won’t be any complications because of intermediate stops, is Air India that leaves about fourteen hundred hours. Two o’clock, sir,” he translated for the Deputy Governor General.

“Well, see that you’re right about that and get them — ah — accomodations.” Despite his efforts to appear congenial, Sir Hodley-Smythe’s interest seemed to be preoccupied with getting us out from underfoot.

“We don’t wish to be any trouble, sir,” I said.

The way the pair of Queen’s men looked at me, I could tell we were just that. Sir Hodley-Smythe spoke up first. “We’d like to make your short stay as comfortable as possible.” He swept the room with his sausage-fingered fat hand. “This won’t do. I should think you’d prefer the facilities of the public terminal across the field.”

It was obvious he hadn’t been told about the Honolulu hit-and-run action. “Do you suppose you could arrange something on a short-term basis across the harbor in the Glouster?”

Sir Hodley-Smythe’s eyes snapped over to lock on Willow. Harrington got the message. So did I. The Glouster is Hong Kong’s oldest and most sedate hotel. It is old-line Empire from top to bottom. Despite the many changes Hong Kong has undergone, none have disturbed the pukka atmosphere of the Glouster Hotel. It remains a holdout and monument to early British colonialism. It was unthinkable that any Chinese, especially a half-breed, would be welcome as a guest.

The whole idea of declaring Willow Kane persona non grata irked the hell out of me. Sir Hodley-Smythe was a potbellied bigot. He deserved to have some gravy dropped on his old school tie. Three sentences in Hawk’s message gave me the leverage to do it. They assured me that I had uncontestable authority. “I’m dead beat,” I said quickly. It was a half-truth. “The Glouster will do fine.”

Sir Hodley-Smythe coughed. “I say, old chap, ah... there’s the small matter of—”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I cut in. “Our State Department will make full reimbursement of fuel, food, and all services your Foreign Office has agreed to provide. Would you mind getting us on our way, Group Captain Harrington?”

Harrington looked askance of Sir Hodley-Smythe. The stout man’s face was flushed from inner rage. He wasn’t quite sure whether I was naive or deliberately squeezing him. No matter, he could respond in only one way. The red-cheeked man made the concession. “I’ll phone ahead. Knowing that you wish to... ah... draw no attention to your presence here... we’ll take reasonable precautions... ah... in keeping with what we’ve been told. I suggest, however, that you get out of that ridiculous orange flying suit if you hope to remain inconspicuous.”

Aboard the RAF air-sea rescue launch that dodged slow-moving junks and freighters, I felt little satisfaction from having forced Sir Hodley-Smythe into a corner. Our final handshake had been perfunctory. I rationalized my spiteful behavior as evidence that I was beginning to tense as the final stages of my assignment approached.

I looked over at Willow. It was hard to tell what she was thinking with her expressive eyes hidden behind dark glasses. Her head was turned to follow the Hong Kong-Kowloon ferryboats plying their way back and forth across the choppy, ship-clogged harbor. There was a brisk breeze blowing. We remained silent, each keeping to private thoughts.

Whether intentional or not, Sir Hodley-Smythe made certain that we entered the Glouster Hotel without being noticed. We were taken to the employee entrance in an alleyway. A round-shouldered Chinese porter, supervised by a turbaned Sikh, took our bags. The swarthy-faced Indian was unsmiling and laconic.

The rear part of the hotel had a spicy aroma. I could hear the clatter of utensils and the babble of voices coming from the kitchen. The service elevator rose at a snail’s pace. The bearded Sikh could not ignore Willow, but the sidelong glances he gave her were uncharitable.

The fifth floor room to which I was taken was in the rear of the building. It contained one double-size brass bed. The porter dropped our bags in the hallway next to the door. The Sikh held out a registration card and a pen. All it required was my initials on an already filled-in form. “What about the lady?” I asked.

“She is your guest, sahib. That is how I was told.” His face was immobile, yet his narrowed eyes carried a knowing look as if to tell me he had been party to quiet assignations innumerable times before.

Willow laid a hand on my arm. “Let’s not make waves, Nick. It’s not worth it.”

The Chinese porter bowed low from the waist when I gave him an American dollar. I knew better than to offer the proud Sikh a tip.

After the door was closed, Willow and I faced each other. It was the first time we had been alone without something pressing to keep us from feeling a close one-on-one relationship.

The boat ride had been a fast one. My hair was tacky with salt spray. The warm Hong Kong temperature and flagging humidity added to my discomfort. I knew Willow felt it too. “I’ll match you to see who uses the shower first,” I said.

“You go ahead,” she returned.

The water, lukewarm, was nevertheless relaxing. I emerged from the bathroom swathed in an extra-large towel. Willow lay stretched out fully clothed on the bed atop the spread. Her sun glasses were pushed up and rested on her forehead. Her eyes were closed. I thought she was asleep.

While I stood there, her eyes opened. She looked curiously at a couple of visible scars on my body, but she made no comment. She got off the bed, walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

I stripped the double bed and climbed into it, covering with a sheet. I was almost asleep when she came out of the bathroom.

Her hair was done up in a towel. Besides that, she was wearing the dark-lensed harlequin glasses and a smile. Period.

“Something tells me you’re an ass man,” Willow said, turning to exhibit a real butterball type. She glanced at me over her bare shoulder.

“I give equal billing to all erogenous zones,” I corrected her, scrutinizing the lovely scenery. “I also nibble and sometimes I bite,” I warned her.

She came over and sat down on the edge of the bed. Her skin was dazzling and its texture was like satin. From her admission about regular workouts to keep herself in shape for rough-and-tumble movie stunts, I figured she was mostly hardened flesh. When I ran my fingertips over enticing portions of it, I found one or two pounds attached to each curve not evident when she was dressed. There was no particular expression on her face, but as my hands moved over certain sensitive areas, she would close her eyes and draw in her breath.

She stretched out on the bed and pulled me over on top of her. Despite my reputation, I’m very selective about women. If it doesn’t start right, more can turn me off than on, but Willow had a way with her.

She reached the rapid-breathing, passion-quickened state after very little activity on my part. She suffered sweet agony in order to prolong the foreplay. When my readiness was complete, she arched beneath me and stuffed a pillow under her tail. I didn’t have to remove her glasses; they had fallen off during her preliminary gyrations.

I slid in, bringing forth a deep, shuddering sigh from her moist, parted lips. Her reactions were innovative, far from mechanical, and highly expert. She had the type of firmly rounded belly that mated perfectly with mine.

I’ve oftentimes heard the comment that muscle-broads are no good in bed.

That’s a crock of night soil.

What I got was better than what I gave — both times.

Only a call on the house phone telling me that we had to leave to catch the Air India flight for Bangkok kept the well from running dry.

Eleven

Thailand is not the storybook country travel brochures and old National Geographic magazines might lead one to think it is. While it still has superb rice lands and vast stands of teak, both of which thrive from a guaranteed rainfall that insures agricultural abundance, the ancient city of Bangkok has become just another overcrowded metropolis jammed with pitiful humanity. A few islands of modern civilization built from commerce based on exports of silk, ceramics, and silver are surrounded by a sea of ghettos filled with peasants coaxed into the city by the flood of U.S. dollars.

In the wake of American soldiers that once poured themselves and their paychecks into a profusion of nightclubs and bars, whole streets remain crowded with garish neon signs and Thai village girls. Outwardly, Bangkok is one of the world’s liveliest cities. Of the two million people who attempt to survive in the capital city on the Gulf of Siam, few were as fortunate as Lak Bu Chen.

In less than an hour after arriving in Bangkok, Willow had gotten a line on the transplanted Vietnamese. The information came from an unlikely source: a grubby street vendor hawking brass ashtrays and candlesticks fashioned from U.S. Army 105mm howitzer shell casings. She conversed with the wizened, squatting man in at least two Lao dialects while a trio of persistent pedicabs hovered around sensing a fare. We chose one. The thin sinewy driver bell-clanged his way through crowded streets, bearing us further into a squalid part of the town. We were close to the docks when the toothless, perspiring pedaller drew over to the curb. We were in front of what looked like an abandoned warehouse. “Is this the place?”

“Nippon-Kishiwa Trading Company is what the sign says,” Willow translated. “Rue Chiang Mai, Number eighty-five.”

It looked like a fire trap to me. Maybe just a trap. I eased open the only door. Loose hinges let its bottom rasp on dusty concrete. The place was empty except for a littering of empty cartons and rat droppings. The interior of the building was dim. Unwashed windows further reduced the waning light of day. In a glassed-in office against the far wall a bare light bulb, shaded by a cone-shaped metal reflector, concentrated it’s beam on a desk where a man sat using a telephone. He hung up and peered in our direction as Willow and I approached. Willow had her right hand buried in her shoulder bag. I was alert as well.

The black-haired individual rose and moved to the open office doorway. He was a short, stocky Vietnamese with the flat, broad face more common to Koreans. His business suit was rumpled. A frayed-collared shirt was open at the throat; he wore no tie. Since I’d been in the company of Willow, he was the first man I’d seen who ignored her. His eyes were wary and locked on me. “It’s me, Chen, Wee Low Kiang,” Willow called out.

His straight-line of a mouth wreathed itself into a big-toothed smile of recognition. He answered her in some mountain dialect of lilting Vietnamese syllables, leaving me out entirely. It was only after we had crowded into the small office that Willow introduced me to Lak Bu Chen. His slightly protruding eyes measured me critically. The hand that he offered in greeting was woman-soft but muscular. He spoke English with an American accent picked up from watching old John Wayne and Clint Eastwood movies. As an English-speaking sergeant in a Vietnamese paratrooper regiment, he had found a niche and spent the last years of the war at a U.S. air depot, becoming an expert in logistics. He became proficient at moving supplies, especially the diversion of post exchange stocks to the Saigon black market. He had developed a profitable arrangement with U.S. sergeants in charge of military service clubs. For a while after the evacuation of U.S. forces from South Vietnam he had what he thought were deeply-anchored ties with black market operators in Hanoi. He had visions of building what would become a worldwide consortium in surplus war materials in the post-war period. Instead, he was lucky to get out of Vietnam alive. He’d lost everything but a few valuable contacts, an indomitable spirit, a crafty mind, and an insufferable, arrogant ego. Lak Bu Chen had an outgoing personality. You knew he was a crook, and that he’d sacrifice anyone to save his own hide, but you still couldn’t help but like him. He seemed disappointed in me, though, when he found out I’d never visited Boot Hill in Dodge City, Kansas or made a pilgrimage to the O.K. Corral in Tombstone, Arizona.

In his heyday, Chen was a fast dealer in hardware and selected soft goods. For a price he could obtain and deliver anything from an M-74 tank to a jeepload of uncut Scotch whiskey. With the jeep thrown in as a bonus if you wanted it. From his looks now, he couldn’t scrounge a pair of discarded sneakers from a trash heap.

“Sorry about the looks of this place,” Bu Chen grinned. “I’m working on a deal. Need a warehouse if it goes through. This is the best I could find on short notice.”

I thought he was putting up a front. The way governments were handing out front-line weapons, markets for war surplus had just about dried up for private entrepreneurs. He saw the doubt on my face and changed the subject before I could challenge him. “What sort of service are you looking for?”

“We’d like you to put us in touch with Keith Martin.”

“Martin? Martin. Yeah, I know him from when he was a wild-assed major back in ’Nam. You want to know what he’s been up to here in Bangkok.”

I nodded.

“You’re willing to pay, of course,” It was a demand rather than a question.

I felt like giving the son-of-a-bitch a fist in his grinning chops. Here he was, plainly living off fish heads and noodles, yet brazen enough to push his weight around. Sure, I was willing to buy his information. Willow had told me that Bu Chen had leads to privately-cultivated sources unduplicated anywhere else in Southeast Asia. It was worth a lot. It was just that the mercenary bastard had us and was getting too much pleasure watching me squirm under the milking process.

Willow interpreted my reaction correctly. She stepped in flailing Bu Chen with a torrent of spitting, sharp words. She quickly overrode his protests. She turned to me smiling and quoted to me in English the haggled-down price. I accepted it after she explained further that Bu Chen would forego payment until I was completely satisfied.

Willow had spent most of the two and a half hour Air India flight convincing me that only through contacts similar to Bu Chen could any American hope to succeed in infiltrating any of the war-torn Southeast Asian countries. Caucasians like Martin and myself stood out like cockroaches in a bowl of cooked white rice among the brown and yellow races. White men were highly visible.

It was no wonder that Bu Chen had had little difficulty in learning through the street grapevine that Martin was in Bangkok. It sounded even more reasonable when Bu Chen told us that he had tight connections with most of the bordello operators who kept him posted on foreign visitors. Whorehouse patrons were screened. Ordinary sailors from ships anchored in the harbor were ignored. Well-dressed white men who might be business executives or the occasional diplomat were horses of a different wheelbase. The underground telegraph sounded loud and clear whenever a well-heeled stranger ventured into the Alley of a Thousand Pleasures.

“Have you got a better fix than that?” I asked.

Bu Chen replied promptly. “Yep,” he drawled. “Madame Peacock’s the place where a man who sounds pretty much like Martin was seen.”

Two thoughts crossed my mind. Keith Martin seemed to be uniquely attracted to the haunts of harlots — first the posh apartment of Melissa Stephens, the high-priced pro, then the run-down cottage of Gloria Grimes, the free-bee nympho. Now it was a bagnio in Bangkok. That sounded like Martin, all right. On the other hand, I figured that all white men looked pretty much alike to most Thais, so I asked: “What makes you sure it was Martin?”

“Ya gotta understand that I haven’t run across Martin personally. I got the word from an outlaw flat-backer working the street. She tells how this big Yankee comes around to Madame Peacock’s place looking for a whore from Saigon. Some snatch from a dive on Penchu Street that was closed the day after the Commies moved in. Like the rest of us with the smarts, the B-girls faded. The top talent who had a hard mack with money enough go out pronto. Some were shipped to Macao. Others as far as Rangoon, but with the Americans still here and comin’ down from Udorn and Utaphao, the best bottom women were set up here in Bangkok. The minute I heard what this stateside Romeo looked like and what he wanted, I knew this Yank had to be Martin wanting to get back together with his special girl. He really had the hots for her.”

“You got to be kidding,” escaped me.

“Yeah... real flakey, isn’t it. I never could figure the action even back in ’Nam. Just like Madame Butterfly.”

“That’s beautiful,” sighed Willow.

“That’s crap,” I countered.

“Wait a minute!” said Bu Chen, sounding like a pitchman about to lose a mark. “Check it out. Half the GIs who were around Saigon back then knew about it. Laughed at first, but you didn’t laugh at a guy like Major Martin very long. Who knows? Maybe he did fall in love and wanted to take her away from her sordid life... Word was that she was gung-ho on him. There’s gals around still using the refugee dodge to get to the land of the big PX and find their rich American soldier boy. It can work in reverse, too, though it isn’t likely. Which is what makes this such a noticeable thing.” It was a long speech for Bu Chen.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said, trying to reconcile what I knew to be substantiated reports from Hawk with a romantic street story that was in ridiculous contrast to a succession of three murders in Hanoi. “Finding Martin shacked up in a brothel with an old flame—” I was confused.

“What else would you think?” asked Bu Chen. “It takes time for your legation here to shuffle the necessary paperwork to get anyone out of the country... legally, that is. He should have come to me.”

I refused to swallow the story. It was a good one, a carefully worked out cover plan that would account for Martin going underground in Bangkok where he could put his paid assassins into motion. The extra bit about waiting around for the local State Department clerks to process exit papers for a girl was a neat, added touch. Checking out that lead could be a waste of time. Staff personnel in the consulate sections of American embassies were a bunch of closemouthed incompetents who seldom knew the answer to a question if they were allowed to discuss immigrant cases. “When did this touching story start circulating?” I shot at Bu Chen.

“Let’s see. It was yesterday... night before last.”

I figured back. I’d been on the move so much, the past two days and nights were all run together. I’d crossed the International Date Line which made yesterday tomorrow or some such nonsense. The supersonic trip across most of the Pacific had made the sun back up for Willow and myself. According to the clock, we had arrived in Hong Kong earlier than we had taken off from Honolulu. The minimum-stop trip from San Francisco to Bangkok had permitted us to catch up with Martin so that he was now little more than twenty-four hours ahead of us.

It was hard to believe that Martin’s first known deadly move, the assassination of Minister Ban Lok Huong, had occurred such a short time ago. If we moved fast, we could curb the effort quickly if Martin would listen to reason. My big worry was that the kill campaign had been released as a headless, pre-planned monster over which Martin no longer had control. He could have turned loose a bunch of mindless kamikazes who would continue the slaughter without stopping until the job was done.

“That could be,” I mused, aloud. “Martin had to anchor himself in this part of the world to get the job done. This is as close as he could reasonably come and tie in with whoever he’s running. I never thought of his using a woman as a go-between. If there was a girl in Saigon, she doesn’t matter. If we want Martin, we’ll have to make a call on Madame Peacock.”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Bu Chen asked Willow.

Her answer told him nothing. “Take us to Madame Peacock,” she replied.

“Then we’ll need a taxi.”

The driver of the cab called by Bu Chen studied me with interest. This neighborhood wasn’t the kind to have honest white men circulating in it. He started the taxi with a jerk as he shifted gears and called in on the mobile radio at the same time. I guessed that the dash-mounted CB transmitter was originally U.S. Government property. He seemed to enjoy having it aboard. He used it a number of times.

After one call, Bu Chen began questioning the driver. The exchange became argumentative. Willow translated. “Bu Chen thinks the driver is going a roundabout way to load up the meter. I think we’ve doubled back at least once.”

Bu Chen sat back, still muttering under his breath. He paid close attention to our progress. At one unmarked intersection, we slowed before crossing. A cruising police car approaching the intersecting streets slowed and halted at the corner to let us pass. The cabbie drew over to the curb in the middle of the block. I looked behind. The hood of the police car stuck out beyond the front of the corner building. The two uniformed occupants in the cruiser were in no hurry to cross the intersection.

The taxi made a tight U-turn. The driver was taking a chance; the two Thai policemen had their faces turned toward us.

Madame Peacock’s establishment on Lamtubok Street was nothing like the Stardust in Las Vegas. It was a run-down nightclub that had an odor of bad plumbing, persistent dampness, and stale beer. We were too early for the main action. In the main room, tables and chairs surrounded a pint-size dance floor. A raised platform against a curtained wall held music stands, a piano, a drum set and empty chairs waiting for the absent musicians. Along the opposite wall was a long bar. A half dozen heavily madeup Asian girls lounged against it, some sitting on stools. The bartender behind the counter looked like an Oriental Jackie Gleason with a Prussian-style crew cut topping his balloon face. His girth and build was similar to a Japanese sumo wrestler.

Silence followed the entrance of Willow. Bu Chen rattled off something. The girls at the bar giggled. The eyebrows of the fat bartender moved upward. I looked at Willow. Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. “What’d he say?” I asked.

“He said you and I were looking for a girl to share.”

The tittering and whispers at the bar ceased when a tall, thin woman brushed aside and walked through a curtain of beads at the far end of the bar. “That’s Madame Peacock,” Bu Chen muttered needlessly.

One look at her and I could tell that she was hard as tempered steel. Tall and dignified-looking, she walked toward us with a smooth, gliding motion. She had delicate hands ending in inch-long fingernails. High-piled black hair crested a narrow face graced with a long, sensitive nose with flared nostrils. The way the bar girls looked at her with awe, I expected to see Madame Peacock draw a bull whip out from the folds of her long, capelike garment and start cracking it over their heads.

Her eyes were set well apart above high cheekbones. They riveted on me briefly before darting to fix on Bu Chen. She either recognized him or found his company unsuitable. She strode toward us, brushing by the hushed bevy of girls who watched the conductor. The floor-length flared skirt hid her legs as she walked, giving her movement a reptilian quality. Everyone in the room was as still as if they were props in a tableaux.

My attention was locked to the unusual woman as she approached. Her eyes began shifting back and forth between myself and Willow. She ignored Chen completely. Some five feet away, she stopped abruptly. I heard the solid clump of heavy footsteps behind me. I looked over my shoulder, then turned around.

Two Thai policemen in dark blue uniforms, white gauntlets, white leather Sam Brown belts with attached holsters, and white canvas ankle gaiters stood on the step just inside the street door. Their white-topped caps with shining visors topped nearly seven feet of burly human beings. They were big all over. And unsmiling.

For a moment, I had the fleeting thought that Bu Chen had betrayed us. That idea was dispelled quickly.

One of the grim-faced cops stepped down and towered over Bu Chen. With a sweep of his gloved hand, he sent the surprised Vietnamese to one side. Bu Chen crashed into two bar stools and went down. His head struck the foot rail in front of the bar. Blood from a gash on his forehead spewed down over his face like a crimson curtain.

Neither policeman turned his head toward the noise Bu Chen’s fall had made.

Madame Peacock’s lofty cool disintegrated. She began an excited chattering in her native tongue. Her words came out in pleading, piercing tones. Willow crowded closer to me, half-turning to see what the second policeman was going to do. “What’s going on” I shot to Willow. “What’s she saying?”

The cop mounted on the step behind us was arguing over our heads. “She keeps saying she’ll pay them off. The fuzz says Madame Peacock has broken the law by letting you in here. This is an Off Limits place to Americans. She says that’s not so any more. All of the American GIs have been thrown out of the country. She doesn’t want any trouble.” The harangue went on and the big cop started poking in our direction with his nightstick. Willow kept up with the exchange. “Now the cop says she’s harboring a foreign agent, meaning you, Nick. Well, I’ll be damned,” gasped Willow. “Now the cop’s trying to—”

Willow didn’t get a chance to finish. The big cop behind us, overhearing her whispered commentary in English, wrapped a huge hand around Willow’s upper arm and lifted her out of the way to separate us. He wasn’t gentle. Willow’s natural balance and keen coordination were all that kept her from stumbling over a nearby chair and table.

I really didn’t need Willow’s explanation. It was clear to me that the two police were in league with the taxi driver. He had used the cab radio to summon them to Madame Peacock’s. It was one of the oldest dodges in the world. I knew the drill. American tourists are victimized wherever they travel. It ranges from simple gouging by Paris cabdrivers to dark-alley muggings by gangs of street urchins in Karachi. Americans abroad are given the shaft by everyone. These Thai bullies were using their badges and muscle to pull a scam — a ripoff.

I wasn’t going to have any of it. I couldn’t. The payoff would be a self-help cleaning out of my wallet. I’d first be rammed up against the wall and frisked — American style — and that would bring on real trouble. Group Captain Harrington had arranged for me to circumnavigate the metal detection barrier before getting on the Air India plane. I was decked out of my complete stock of concealed weapons.

The cops didn’t expect any resistance. My opening came when one motioned for me to step over and place my outstretched hands on the edge of the bar. Madame Peacock backed away.

I looked over to where Willow had gotten herself erect again. From the way her shoulderbag dangled from one hand, I knew her defense mechanism was in gear. “This play is known as sack the quarterback,” I signalled.

“Got cha,” Willow called back, and got a firmer grip on the straps of her purse.

I acted dumb. I gave the cop the impression I was unfamiliar with the spread-legged stance he wanted me to take. He was patient, but also careless through overconfidence. I leaned forward against the bar, but kept my weight on both feet. The policeman moved in behind me. I watched his feet and legs from under my arm. When he was close enough, I brought one leg up between his in a fast backswing. It came up stiff-kneed and heel first. My foot arched upward like the head of a hard-swung sledge hammer. My aim wasn’t quite on target, but his forked legs guided my driving heel. He bellowed as my surprise kick drove at least one of his balls up into his rib cage. He dropped like a fighting bull taking a matador’s sword in the heart. He groveled on the dirty floor, gasping and drawing his knees up into a fetal position.

I snapped around to face the other cop. He was momentarily stunned. His hand started for his sidearm. He shreiked with pain as Willow’s wide swinging, gun-carrying shoulder bag struck him squarely in the elbow. The blur of motion that followed was Willow throwing a jarring, knee-buckling block that toppled the giant of a man backward. With only one useful hand to break his fall, he didn’t. His head struck the floor with the sound of a ripe melon being hit with a plank. He lay still. Blood trickled out of one nostril. His chest no longer moved.

Willow got up and stared down at her victim. She looked toward me, but her eyes were diverted. I turned around again to look at the man I had incapacited. Bu Chen was cradling the cop’s head in his lap. It took a second look to see that Bu Chen had taken a large handkerchief from his pocket and was in the last stages of garroting the man.

Madame Peacock was the first to move. She came directly to me. She spoke passable English. “I’m not yet sure whether you did me a favor. Nevertheless, these two won’t bother me any more... and good riddance. There are other proprietors of businesses along here who will be thankful for what you did for them. You, Bu Chen, get on the phone and have someone come to get rid of this trash. You know what to do with the police car out front too. Come, you two,” she beckoned with a long finger, “I must show my gratitude which you have truly earned.”

As we passed the line of ashen-faced bar girls, Madame Peacock gave instructions which Willow later told me were for them to forget what they had seen.

Twelve

Madame Peacock was outwardly calm. Her hand was steady as she poured tea. She and Willow conversed in a common language while I sat with them in the well-furnished, combination parlor-office adjacent to the main bar. When our unusual hostess took a seat and sipped the aromatic brew from a wafer-thin, hand-painted china cup, she switched to French.

Madame Peacock got right to the point. Her voice was high pitched, almost rasping. The apparent tightness in her throat could be caused by apprehension of events to come. “You must wait until Bu Chen returns. He will find a place where you can be safe — not here. You need not worry; I will see that none of my girls talk, but they will not keep silent forever. I hope your stay in Bangkok was to be a short one.”

That gave me the chance to tell Madame Peacock we’d be ready to leave as soon as we collected Keith Martin. Willow, the incurable romantic, had to inject the bit about Martin’s love-driven crusade to rejoin his war-time sweetheart.

A small smile grew on Madame Peacock’s thin lips. “Her name is Phan Wan Quan, a delightful flower. You have not been misled. Mister Martin’s search ended here. In failure, I’m afraid. You see, Phan Wan, who succeeded in establishing herself as a refugee from Hue, was actually a North Vietnamese woman sent by her owner to Saigon so she could make a fortune selling herself to rich Yankee soldiers. After the Americans left, Phan Wan was sent here because I had an arrangement with the man in Hanoi.

“It is true that Phan Wan loves your friend Martin very much. It is possible, despite what you might think to the contrary. I did not dissuade Phan Wan from the idea that her Yankee lover would someday return. She never gave up hope. It gladdened my heart to see that he came. I never thought he would.”

I grew impatient. “Where are they now?” I asked.

“Phan Wan now lives in the home of Nho Phu Thone, her master. He withdrew her after the Americans were sent out of Thailand.” She saw the look on my face. “Oh, yes. She was taken away weeks ago. To Hanoi, of course. I told that to your Mister Martin as well. Then he left.”

I knew that was what she was going to say. I had two questions. “When was this?”

“A little before midnight the day before yesterday.”

In time to put into motion the rash of assassinations, I thought. The most important question came next. “Do you have any idea where he went?”

“None at all. He seemed to be in a hurry.”

I was too. With none of the answers I needed forthcoming, my mind picked over the few facts and many possibilities that had developed from Martin’s peculiar actions. It didn’t make sense to me that Martin would claim he was hung up on a prostitute to the extent he’d risk his career by disappearing and create a lot of diversions to keep his movements secret. I was sure Martin had come to Bangkok for reasons more likely linked to the premise that he was part of a fanatical group bent on avenging American POWs. Whatever the plan — mad as it was — Martin was being helped.

At that point, my brain came to a dead stop.

I still wasn’t sure what part his old flame, Phan Wan Quan, played in his scheme. I decided that was an issue apart from the main thrust of Martin’s obsession. But now I was almost certain just how much of a grip the madness had upon him.

“How did Martin get here? By taxi? Did he walk in?”

Madame Peacock’s thin, arched eyebrows bent in thought. “A private automobile. A big, black American sedan. With an American at the wheel. I went with Mister Martin to the door. He was both sad and angry, it seemed. He got in the car next to the driver, a broad-shouldered, yellow-haired man with a short haircut. I didn’t see his face.”

“The license plate?”

She shook her head.

“Are you onto something?” asked Willow.

I didn’t have a chance to reply. Bu Chen came in from an alley entrance. He was perspiring. “It’s done,” he announced.

“I’ll get you a drink,” Madame Peacock said, rising. She was a smart woman. What she didn’t hear she couldn’t repeat.

“We’ve got big trouble,” Bu Chen said in a low voice. “When I saw that the big pig Willow clobbered had been zapped, the other one had to go,” he explained. “Those two bastards have been pressuring folks along this street for years. They deserved what they got. But the law will be down here in force soon. They’ll intimidate those birdbrain chicks out there. One of them will eventually spill her guts. They all know me. My life isn’t worth dog shit. Yours neither, now. Sorry I gotta lay this on you, but we’d better figure out what to do.”

He could have been making a subtle threat. Even if he was, I understood his position, which was little worse than the one occupied by Willow and myself. Willow looked pale. She had never been in a spot as tight as this one. “Can you get us to the American Embassy?” I asked.

“We’ll need a taxi,” he replied.

“Have you got a tag on one that doesn’t keep trip records... or hasn’t got a two-way radio contact with a dispatcher?”

Bu Chen brightened. “Easiest thing in the world,” he said proudly.

A black Citroen of ancient vintage ghosted down the alley that was beginning to fill with sea fog. The low sedan came to a shuddering stop at Madame Peacock’s back door. Its brakes squeaked piercingly. Madame Peacock turned her hand over when I reached out to shake it, avoiding the fifty dollar bill I offered. She brushed Willow’s cheek with her own and patted her fanny lightly to urge her out the door. The inside of the taxi smelled as though it was also used as a delivery van for unsealed containers of fish viscera-based fertilizer.

A circuitous route under Bu Chen’s supervision was followed. A uniformed marine came out to challenge me when I rang the night bell next to the piked, wrought-iron fence surrounding the U.S. Embassy. He took me inside, making Willow and Bu Chen wait. That irritated me, but I curbed the urge to protest.

Things went better after the duty officer was summoned. It was almost as if we were expected.

We were ushered into a small ante room and offered coffee. After a twenty minute wait, Ambassador Cavendish showed up. He was wearing a tuxedo. That and his salt-and-pepper hair topping a florid, smiling face made his appearance characteristic of senior level diplomats. He apologized for his semi-formal dress. He would have to apologize again later to his host and hostess for being tardy for an official reception and dinner.

“I didn’t expect three of you,” his well-modulated voice said, looking at Bu Chen. The chunky Asian, looking like an off-duty gravedigger, didn’t shrink under the station chief’s penetrating gaze. By contrast, the ambassador’s eyes twinkled lustfully and his smile broadened when he looked long at Willow. I wondered what face he’d wear if he knew she’d just killed a cop.

“All of us need your help,” I said, including Bu Chen.

Without prelude, Ambassador Cavendish moved to a small safe. He worked the combination, then drew out a manila folder jammed thick with sheaves of yellow teletype paper. He brought the file back to his desk and laid it before me. He waved a hand over the bulky stack of messages. “This is the stuff that’s come in during the past twelve hours. Frankly, I don’t recall anything carrying such a consistently high priority. Most of this pertains to supplying information directly to the White House. I hope you have some answers.”

“Are all of those from David Hawk?” I couldn’t believe he would be that verbose.

“A few are from the State Department,” Cavendish replied. “They outlined the problem for me, although much is couched in terms that are suggestive of an extreme crisis situation without spelling out direct United States involvement. It seems that our country is being pushed into a very delicate position because of the acts of some faction engaged in terrorist activities aimed at the North Vietnamese government,” he paused.

“I know that much, Mr. Ambassador. You put it very concisely. I take it you’ve read the whole file?” He nodded. “Then you could save me a lot of time by filling me in on the high points.” He nodded again. “I don’t mean to be critical of how this is being handled, but just how many people know what’s going on?” I asked.

“Absolutely no one but myself. And my senior code clerk downstairs, of course.”

“I meant back home in Washington.”

“Oh. Yes. Because of the gravity of the situation, the National Security Council has been called together and is remaining in loose session. The president is pressing for news, requiring hourly reports from myself and God only knows who else on anything but of the ordinary. I’ve been unable to contribute anything other than notifying Washington that you had arrived. I wasn’t told that Mr. Chen was an associate.”

Bu Chen’s shoulders went back a little at the unexpected recognition. “Keep him anonymous,” I said.

“Of course. Whatever you say. I’ve been instructed to do nothing unless you specifically request assistance. I understand the success of whatever it is you’re here to do requires both utmost secrecy and total noninterference.”

Those sounded like Hawk’s words. I was glad to know that he was still pretty much running the show. “That’s fine. So... what is going on, in Hanoi and back in Washington?”

Ambassador Cavendish ran an unsteady forefinger across his lips. “Well, the best news is that everything in Hanoi is quiet for the present.”

“No more killings,” I amplified. “That could mean a lot of things. First, the police and security forces in Hanoi may have made a capture or a killing of their own. If that’s the case, we’ll hear about it, although not necessarily right away. They’ll take time to set the stage before they spring the news in order to get the maximum propaganda effect. The other possibility is that the job is either finished or called off. I doubt if it’s finished.” I was thinking of the list of names Hawk had sent me.

“Too much has gone into setting up this operation to cut it short,” I went on. “The option that gets my vote is that this is the calm in the eye of the hurricane. Just a period of laying low and re-grouping following the initial assassinations.” Cavendish sat behind his desk nodding in agreement. “What’s the attitude at the White House?” I asked him.

“Their analysis parallels yours. The thinking is that very few individuals are involved. A large foraying party is too cumbersome. It’s a matter of only two or three suicidal and extremely gifted individuals helped along the way by other misguided, unthinking people.” I broke in because a dazzling light of understanding flooded my brain. Cavendish had hit it on the nose. Everything fell into place. Only one link was missing from the chain. “Do you have a man here in the marine detachment who is about my height with broad shoulders and blond hair?”

“Big? Blond? What makes you think he’s a marine?”

“His hair was short... like a military haircut.”

“He’s no marine. You must be thinking about Colonel Jeleff, our military attaché. He’s on leave right now.”

“Military attachés equate to intelligence work, so your Colonel Jeleff undoutedly knows how to get individuals across national borders. He runs a pipeline, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Cavendish answered as if it pained him to admit it. “I know he brings certain persons out of places like Cambodia and Laos and interrogates them.”

“So he can reverse the flow just as well.”

“I presume so,” Cavendish knew damn well it was done. He wanted to deny his knowledge of Jeleff’s covert activities.

“Colonel Jeleff was seen with General Martin in the past two days. Who else but Jeleff knows the lay of the land better? Who but Jeleff could smuggle anyone into Hanoi. I don’t know how he did it, that’s incidental. You know, there’s no squad of commandos churning up Hanoi. This is a one-man show starring Keith Martin!”

“I can’t believe it,” exclaimed Ambassador Cavendish.

“That’s because you don’t know Martin, but you damn well better believe it. Once we tell Washington what’s been uncovered here, they’ll verify that that’s the way it’s coming down.”

Cavendish squared his shoulders. “Wait a minute. That’s only supposition... a guess on your part. Why, I’d be the laughing stock of the State Department if I told—”

I cut him off. “You’ll have your butt kicked higher than the Capitol dome if you don’t. I can guarantee that. Send the message Eyes Only to David Hawk. Make it a verbatim quote from Carter and add N3 after the name. Just get it off. Now! I’ll use your desk to write up the confirming evidence, though it won’t be needed to convince Hawk. Close the message with the phrase Instructions Requested.”

For a moment it didn’t look like the ambassador was going to cooperate. He thumbed the thick file of teletype messages as if to derive a decision from their bulk. He got up from his chair and stepped aside. “Help yourself.”

“What’s the coded communications turnaround time between here and Washington?”

“With the priority assigned to this matter, between twenty-five and thirty minutes. I’ll alert my code clerk.”

I was scribbling the last words of my two page message when the ambassador returned. His bow tie was undone, his shirt collar open. “We’re ready,” he advised me. “My code clerk has the current rotor settings fed into his crypto machines.” I handed him the two sheets and he left the office again.

Five minutes later a knock sounded on the door. It was opened immediately by a pistol-armed marine corporal bearing a tray holding coffee cups and a carafe. “Compliments of the ambassador,” he said, walking toward Willow. He placed the tray on the table in front of the leather sofa in which she sat.

I was on my second cup when Ambassador Cavendish rejoined us. He waved off an invitation from Willow to accept coffee. He came over to stand next to me and spoke in guarded tones. “Are you sure about Colonel Jeleff being involved with this scheme of General Martin’s? I’ve known Jeleff for some time. He seems levelheaded and dependable, not one to engage in villainous activities that defy authority.”

“Let me ask you a question: Did he see service in Vietnam?”

“Ah... yes, he did.”

“He was a prisoner of war, too Right?”

“No. You’re wrong there, Mr. Carter. But his younger brother was. He came home with both legs missing.”

I shook my head instead of swearing out loud. “Remember, Mr. Ambassador, you’re not to interfere.” He bobbed his head again with his favorite answer. “So I respectfully request that none of what we have discussed here becomes known to Colonel Jeleff, and especially that you take no action against him for what he has done. If any charges are brought against Jeleff for his part in this, they will originate in Washington.”

“I quite understand,” agreed Cavendish. He was going to say more, but his telephone rang. He picked it up, listened, said “Thank you.” He turned to me.

“Washington has responded to your message.”

It read as if Hawk had composed it.

APPREHENSION AND INTERROGATION M/SGT THOMAS LAYTON VERIFIES INFILTRATION ACTION ONE-MAN EFFORT. NO DEATHS OF PUBLIC FIGURES ON HIT LIST REPORTED LAST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. INTERPRET THIS AS POSSIBLE CAPTURE KEITH MARTIN. NO OFFICIAL HANOI ANNOUNCEMENT ANTICIPATED UNTIL POLITICAL CONDITIONS ESTABLISHED TO MAXIMIZE IMPACT ON WORLD OPINION AS A U.S. SPONSORED VENDETTA. NO CURRENT MOVES IN THAT DIRECTION RESULTING IN NSC BELIEF MARTIN IS AT LARGE AND FREE TO ACT AGAIN. RELIABLE REPORTS FROM A-l SOURCE CONFIRM HANOI OFFICIALS AT LOSS TO IDENTIFY KILLER OR ESTABLISH COMMON LINK BETWEEN VICTIMS. PRESIDENT PREPARED TO RESPOND TO HANOI ACCUSATIONS IF CONFRONTATION DEVELOPS OVER DISCOVERY THAT U.S. GENERAL IN WHITE HOUSE AND VETERAN ORGANIZATIONS INVOLVED. DECISION HAD BEEN MADE TO INSTRUCT YOU TO MAKE THIS UNNECESSARY. DRASTIC KILLMASTER ACTIONS AUTHORIZED TO SALVAGE SITUATION. PROCEED UNDER ORIGINAL INSTRUCTIONS WITH ADDITIONAL ORDER TO USE ULTIMATE N3 MEANS TO ELIMINATE AND PERMANENTLY CONCEAL FACT THAT MARTIN EVER ENTERED COUNTRY. EXPECT NO SUPPORT OF THIS EFFORT OR LATER ACKNOWLEDGEMENT THAT YOU ARE ACTING IN OTHER THAN AN UNOFFICIAL REPEAT UNOFFICIAL CAPACITY AND IN DIRECT VIOLATION OF INTERNATIONAL LAW AND EXISTING POST-WAR AGREEMENTS. MOVE AT ONCE. EXPIDITE. ORDERS APPLY EQUALLY TO W. KANE. ACKNOWLEDGE.

The message had no signature. There were two meaningful groups of characters tacked on. One was RENAVSUBC, the other CONFREMB. These were codes indicating standby procedures for emergency evacuation and assistance. They were the only glimmers of light in the entire text. They told me that the president hadn’t written me off too. These letter groups meant that — assuming survival — I had a way out.

Even so, the message ended too abruptly to suit me.

I was left with a cold, empty feeling.

I had questions, but none about what had to do. In order to avert a crisis, Martin must be stopped at any cost. The cost to Martin for having taken the role of instigator and executioner was his own life. I was to be the instrument of death.

The presidential edict was both right and wrong.

When weighed in the balance, I could understand how the decision could only go one way.

Thirteen

For a while I toyed with the idea of bringing Colonel Jeleff in on the problem. Willow spoke out against it at once. Offsetting the aid that Jeleff’s underground railroad could provide was the question of his loyalty to Martin. It wasn’t Willow’s disapproval that changed my mind. She countered with a most practical alternative endorsed by Bu Chen. I became mildly enthusiastic as the plan evolved with Bu Chen becoming a major contributor to its success.

To get it underway, Ambassador Cavendish turned over to us an inconspicuous automobile maintained by Colonel Jeleff for his clandestine activities. He also emptied his office safe of banded stacks of paper bills in three national currencies, explaining that instructions received previously had given him the task of assembling money for our use. He made me sign a receipt for the lot.

Bu Chen drove the black, unmarked sedan through narrow back alleys and fingers of fog reaching inland from the harbor. The odor of sea salt and drying fish nets hung in the air. Bu Chen came to a halt next to a paint-scarred firedoor in a high, windowless brick wall. A dim, bare bulb glowed above the door. Bu Chen got out of the car and rapped on the door. He hunched his shoulders against the foggy chill and waited. A full minute passed. He used his knuckles again.

The door finally opened a crack. Bu Chen spoke rapidly, using a dialect that sounded like western Cantonese. The door opening widened and Bu Chen slipped inside. Willow pushed against me in the rear seat and shivered. I took her hand in mine and squeezed it.

Willow and I got out of the car. She stood close to me, shivering in the damp chill. I put my arm around her slim waist. She pressed against me. “We can do it, Nick,” she said. “I know we can.”

Bu Chen stuck his head out and beckoned for us to enter. We stepped inside. The huge, open space before me was a jungle growth of hanging ropes, dangling sandbags, curtains of canvas, spotlight rigging, ladders and catwalks. We were in the wings of a darkened theater looking out onto the stage. It was spooky. Left-on red footlights gave the cavernous space an eerie, satanical appearance. A heavy smell of burned incense intermixed with grease paint permeated the atmosphere. “It’s a kubuki theater,” whispered Willow identifying it immediately.

The centuries-old-looking Chinese man in a long, black garment standing next to Bu Chen bowed slowly from the waist when introduced to us. Willow returned the bow respectfully and addressed him as “grandfather.” His stoic face cracked into a snaggle-toothed smile upon hearing that and Willow’s Chinese name. The frail Oriental gentleman’s face immediately returned to it’s spiderwebbed, wrinkled state after the formal greeting. His eyes remained bright and twinkling in the red glow of the footlights. He kept his hands tucked inside the ends of his wide-cuffed sleeves madarin-fashion.

“I will leave you to Hong See,” Bu Chen said. “In the meantime, I will make the other arrangements. I will need money... any kind. I have ways of converting it to gold. Without gold, we have little hope of making any deals quickly.” I gave him the bundles from Ambassador Cavendish’s safe. Willow knew I had slight misgivings, but I was forced to put my trust in him. Bu Chen eased himself out into the alley. Willow threw the lock bolt on the door behind him.

Hong See shuffled away silently on his padded, thick-soled shoes. Willow and I followed. We were taken to an ill-smelling dressing room. I was seated before a makeup table in front of a large mirror bordered by frosted light bulbs.

The ancient kabuki performer had me strip to the waist then began working on me.

The transformation was miraculous. I saw myself changed from an unmistakable Caucasian to a bona fide Oriental under the deft skill of the venerable Chinese. The application of a latex coating over my eyelids to conceal the folds of skin converted my appearance considerably. It gave my eyes the smooth, almond shape which is a telltale Asian facial characteristic. The addition of other subtle, yet fundamental changes, altered my angular western physiognomy to the broad, moonfaced features of an Asian. A penetrating ochre-shade stain was applied to all portions of my skin that may become exposed to scrutiny, including my feet and legs up to my hips. Eyebrows and hair were darkened, but only after a straightedge razor had revealed much more of my skull and left my ears apparently much lower on my head.

Willow stood to one side, nodding approval and voicing compliments to the deft Hong See. She was demonstratively pleased.

I had one worry: how long would it hold up. Willow translated to the old man who was adding the finishing touches. He seemed to be giving sincere assurances, but twice he punctuated them with high-pitched; cackling laughs. Their rapid conversation concluded with the old man eyeing me enviously. “What’s all the gabbing about?” I asked.

“Well,” said Willow lightly, “you’re not going to shed your new identity easily. The longer it stays on, the more difficult it will be to remove. I’m no stranger to stage makeup, you know, so I can make any minor repairs if necessary.”

“That’s not what you were laughing about,” I said.

“No. We discussed how much physical activity your camouflage could withstand. Hong See advises against prolonged immersion in sea water, but otherwise it should endure. When I mentioned what a handsome Vietnamese he’d made of you, Hong See revealed himself to be a dirty old man. He suggested we give his handiwork a critical test. It would bring to life one of my fantasies.”

The glint in Willow’s eyes was an unconcealed challenge. It was clear what she had in mind, and it took no more than that look to bring me in tune with her desires. She sensed my like-mindedness. Her words came faster. “Bu Chen is going to be busy for some time. Hong See says we can remain here, but must stay out of sight. He suggests the prop room will be safe.”

I turned back to look for Hong See’s reflection in the dressing table mirror. It was gone. “He’s digging out some appropriate clothing to fit the roles we’ll be playing. He’ll tell us when Bu Chen has returned.”

Willow took me by the hand and led me through a passageway and down some stairs to a storeroom under the stage. It was well-organized considering it was a catchall for hundreds of items used in conjunction with a variety of kabuki dramas. Few scenery flats were in evidence because kabuki concentrates on costumes, dancing, and music more than the trappings of a stage set.

A wide, low couch was pushed against one wall. A full-length mirror was fastened to the back of the door which Willow closed behind us. I used it to stare at my new self while Willow disappeared behind an ornate, handcarved wooden screen. I literally didn’t recognize a single thing about myself. I was still staring when another figure moved into view beside me in the mirror.

Willow wore a single sheer garment. It half-contained the jutting thrust of satiny tan breasts above while it flirted at mid-thigh with hinted-at shadowy depths beneath. I felt an increased stirring in my groin.

“We make a very attractive Vietnamese couple,” Willow said. “No one would think otherwise.” Her hands were busy with my clothing. Standing in shorts only, I looked a little absurd with yellowish-brown stained legs below a lighter-skinned torso. She wasn’t looking at either. The growing warmth between my legs responded to the eager heat in her eyes.

She led me to the couch. She was self-assured, bold, and skillful. With a paradise of sleek, passionate female in my arms, I lost all concern for the job at hand. Willow made the experience mind-bending. It was that way for her, too. We shared an explosion of frantic, muscle-gripping spasms which almost bounced us off the couch.

I rolled aside spent and momentarily exhausted. She rolled too, pressing her warm, yielding flesh against me. I got up finally and went to the mirror. The makeup was unsmeared and firmly in place. I was satisfied in more ways than one. When I turned back, Willow was smiling at me from the couch. “If you feel that experiment was inconclusive in its results, there’s another technique we might employ.”

She had to be kidding. I thought she was until she coaxed me back to sit on the edge of the couch. Willow was teasingly persistent, amazingly energetic, and deliciously abandoned. She left me limp, light-headed, and drained.

Willow awakened me by shaking my shoulder. She handed me a handleless mug of strong, steaming-hot tea. It helped a lot. The clothes she brought for me were dark, pajama-type peasant garb. They were identical to those she was wearing. The choke-collar quilted jacket I put on was loose-fitting around the waist, but short in the sleeves. The trousers had ample room around the middle, but were also a little short.

While I dressed, Willow described how Bu Chen had accomplished everything asked of him in remarkably short order.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“One fifteen local time. You’ve had almost five hours of sleep.”

“And everything’s set?”

“With the Thai police breathing down Bu Chen’s neck, and you giving him a free ride out plus a bonus to boot, what do you think? God only knows what it cost. I think Bu Chen’s laid some IOUs on the American Embassy, but you’re shopping list is satisfied. I can tell from the wide grin on his face he is. He’s sitting upstairs drinking tea with Hong See. The old guy’s reveling in the first excitement to come his way in twenty years. You’d think he was going along with us.”

“What do you mean, us?” I said. “I admit I would have been stymied without you so far, but now that Bu Chen is locked in he can take your place.”

“No way, Nick,” Willow snapped back. “This is my assignment, too, don’t forget. I got my orders directly from Hawk. If he’d wanted me to back off he would have keyed his message that way. He knows you need me.”

“I’ve got Bu Chen now.”

“And how much can you trust him? Sure, he’s set up the getaway scam, mainly because he’s saving his own neck. Once you clear the Thai border, he could disappear leaving you needle-naked despite your disguise.”

I knew she was right on all counts. There were other aspects about our tight relationship she could have mentioned, which I hoped she wouldn’t. It would be hard to argue against them.

She didn’t give me any peace. “Come on, Nick. You can’t desert me. How in hell am I going to get out of here by myself. By noon I’ll be on the Thai National Police’s most wanted list along with Bu Chen. The only way I can save my ass is to stick with you. In case Bu Chen can’t cut it later and bolts, I’m your insurance in a Vietnamese-speaking environment.”

I gave in to her and felt better immediately. I was glad that I did. She had more cogent qualities besides her sexual expertise that made her a most valuable companion. Lots of girls make it in the sack; Willow’s usefulness to me was measured on a far different scale.

Bu Chen and Hong See were engaged in animated conversation. A dozen rice bowls were on the table in front of them. Each one was heaped with gold coins. Most were British Victorian pounds, long the basic medium of exchange among men without trust or honor. “He’s telling Hong See who gets paid what,” Willow explained.

At last the two men stood up and exchanged formal bows. Hong See bobbed once more in my direction, then stepped back. Bu Chen handed me my trouser belt with the zipped compartment. It must have weighed twenty pounds. I could feel the U.S. quarter-size gold coins running along the length of the belt. He passed a sash similar to the one he wore around the waist of his own rice farmer’s trousers to Willow. It too was heavy with coins stitched and hidden in the cloth. We had plenty of bribe money on hand if the occasion to use it arose.

The black embassy vehicle had been replaced with a Toyota pickup truck with a camper top. The back end was crammed with paraphernalia indistinguishable under the fire door’s single, dim light. Still, I made a hasty inspection to assure myself that a few essentials I’d asked for were there. Bu Chen had lived up to his reputation. Everything needed to carry out our audacious expedition was on hand.

The three of us climbed into the cab. Willow crowded against me comfortably and promptly fell asleep. It takes a certain kind of person to be able to relax in the face of imminent calamity. The hasty, lash-up plan forced upon us by lack of time had scant chance of assured success. It was a long shot at a very tiny target.

Bu Chen drove through back streets until he reached routes used principally by commercial vehicles. We then Blended in with trucks carrying merchandise into and out of the city. We eventually reached an outlying road lined with hovels backed by terraced rice paddies. Within a short time we were following a chain link fence bordering a large flat field. At one point, Bu Chen pulled off onto the shoulder of the road. We were apparently in the middle of nowhere. He shut off the engine and turned off the lights.

Then we sat.

A dog barked in the distance. Bu Chen rolled down his window. The scent of night soil wafted into the truck’s cab. Willow stirred. I kept alert for any sound alien to the normal night noises. Crickets chirped and frogs croaked. The distant dog exchanged barks with another then fell silent. We waited quietly on the empty road.

A flashlight snapped on and off ahead of us. Bu Chen answered with the Toyota’s headlights. The flashlight signalled again. Bu Chen cranked up the engine. A gate in the fence opened as we reached it. The Toyota’s headlights picked up the dark shape of a large aircraft. The headlights swung, illuminating the red, white and blue roundel of the Royal Thai Air Force on the side of the four-engine C-130E Hercules transport. Its rear ramp was down. Bu Chen drove directly inside. The loading door closed behind us like the hinged jaw of a Venus flytrap closing on an insect. The powerful turboprop engines whined into action immediately.

A brown-faced crewman wearing a headset and dragging its long communications cord from a jack behind him, came back through the cavernous fuselage to the truck. He grinned widely, showing strong, white teeth. “Welcome aboard, sirs and lady,” he said in classroom English. “You please will seat yourselves outside the vehicle for takeoff.” He gestured to the jump seats along the side of the fuselage. Two other flight-suited Thai airmen began lashing the little truck to convenient anchor rings.

We had donned USAF parachutes and buckled ourselves in the jumpseats by the time the big aircraft began taxiing. “Where?” I asked Bu Chen, jabbing a thumb toward the bulkhead in back of us. There were no windows in the immense cargo bay in which we were the only passengers.

“This is Utaphao,” was his answer. He had to raise his voice above the tremendous scream of propellers whirling at takeoff speed. The plane vibrated as it rolled. Its tires rumbled, then lift-off occurred. The aircraft settled into a fixed-pitch climbing altitude. A signal came back that we were free to move about.

When Bu Chen made a move to stand up, I held him back. “How is using this military aircraft going to be kept under wraps? I thought you’d charter some civilian aircraft. How can we hope to cover the use of a military transport?”

“No sweat. This will show up on tomorrow’s flight reports as a scheduled trigger mission. The crew thinks they’re on a periodic Black Maria run.”

“What’s a Black Maria flight?” I didn’t like the sound of it.

“A pass along the border to keep everyone on the other side on their toes by generating a reaction from ground defenses. We’ll be watched and tracked by radar, but no overt reaction is expected. That hardly ever happens. We’ll fly northeast and reach the border in just over an hour. Then we’ll parallel it for twenty minutes until we reach Pak Sane. Okay so far?”

“Yeah, it sounds all right,” I answered.

“At that point we’ll introduce a slight navigation error as an excuse for an incursion. We’ll run in until it’s about time for night fighters to be scrambled. That’s where we get off. Isn’t that what you had in mind?”

“Sounds dicey. You think the crew will do it?”

“Do it?” repeated Bu Chen. “We’re paying the pilot fifty dollars a mile for each mile he penetrates beyond the border!”

“I only hope he doesn’t get us killed trying to get rich. Let’s check over the gear in the truck.”

We’d been wearing breathing masks for an hour, plugged into the main oxygen supply. It was time to get ready.

An emergency bail out bottle was strapped to each leg. They fed into oxygen masks fitted to our faces and were further held in place by knitted ski masks slipped over our heads to give protection from the cold. Tight-fitting ski goggles completed the head gear. We would be exposed to severe, sub-zero temperatures for as long as forty minutes during our ground-covering, slanting descent. Thick, fur-lined batties were on our feet to keep them warm.

Covering the distance we had to travel was made possible by the airfoil-design, glide parachutes strapped to our backs. The glide ratio of the steerable, high-performance parachutes was such that many miles of horizontal travel were obtained for each mile of vertical descent. Since the pilot had taken the C-130 to an altitude of over seven miles, there was no question about having sufficient lateral range. The only things working against us were the extended time we would be moving through frigid temperatures and the approaching sunrise. According to the time charts — if all went well — we would reach the ground during darkness with less than twenty minutes to wait for the first glimmer of light on the horizon.

Each of us had a compass strapped to one wrist and a penlight tied with a leather thong to the other. I spent ten minutes in the navigator’s compartment studying his maps and figuring a compass course that would take us across the narrowest neck of Cambodia and deposit us in North Vietnam fairly close to Hanoi.

Under our loose-fitting farmer’s garb, each of us had a knapsack. Because the long-range glide parachutes were harnessed to our backs, it was impossible to sling the knapsacks in the customary way. Until we were back on the ground, our backpacks would be carried as chestpacks. The knapsacks contained items essential for survival. Among them were identity papers, local currency, spare ammunition, first-aid packets, authentic footwear, some underclothing, high-energy protein bars, and a supply of lastafylene capsules to retain stamina and ward off fatigue.

Willow and Bu Chen made a last minute check of each other’s parachute equipment, then joined together to go over mine. An icy draft swirled in around us as the rear ramp was lowered. The engines slowed as the pilot reduced air speed.

I disconnected from the aircraft oxygen supply and switched to my first bail-out bottle. I eased to the rear, gripping the safety rail until I stood looking out into unending darkness. A thin line of ground lights, dim in the distance and punctuated with a few, well-spaced pockets of illumination, marked the coastline bordering the Gulf of Tonkin. The largest glow, a hazy canopy of brightness on the horizon, marked the location of Hanoi.

The jump light flicked on. Willow, standing directly behind me, slapped my shoulder.

I snapped on my penlight, drew down the ski goggles, held them and my oxygen mask tight to my face, and dove out into the void. Ordinarily, I find the period of free fall the most exhilarating part of the sky dive. But this was hardly recreation. My mind was not keyed to physical enjoyment. I looked back. Two pinpoints of lights first trailed, then caught up with me. Within seconds Willow and Bu Chen had reached my level and matched fall speed. I jerked my ripcord.

A moment later, in total, freezing silence, I tugged at the steering shroud lines to set a course. The rate of descent was rapid; the high altitude air was extremely thin. On either side of me I saw the lights carried by Willow and Bu Chen. We were together and on track.

Suddenly, something was different. I detected a subtle change in my surroundings. It was a sound, faint and ominous where no sound should be. The stillness of the cold, silent air had been invaded by an alien rumble that grew in intensity as I listened. Something was probing the environment in response to our being there.

I looked ahead and down in the direction of the oncoming sound and sucked in my breath.

Moving upward on a slant — roaring toward us with long, torchlike flames trailing behind — were two screaming jet fighters, their afterburners blazing. The intrusion of guarded air space by the transport we had left only moments before had unleashed the alert North Vietnamese air defenses. A pair of interceptors had been sent aloft. Our trio of vulnerable parachutes dangled directly in their pursuit path. We were not the target; we were merely unseen obstructions blocking the climbing course of the fighters being sent to chase the Thai intruder. There was no getting out of the way.

My eyes locked onto the bright-burning exhausts of the approaching jets. Climbing at top speed, they were upon us before we could do anything but cringe. The lead aircraft, a Russian MIG-21 night fighter, roared by not more than thirty feet above me. The air turbulence created in his wake caused a partial collapse of my parachute canopy. The bottom fell out from under me. I dropped rapidly, falling and spinning violently. I worked frantically, yanking at the tangled shroud lines to keep the parachute from becoming a “streamer.”

The wild, terrifying descent lasted for hundreds of feet before I got back on an even keel. Minutes passed before answering light signals from Willow and Bu Chen told me that we were together again.

We certainly hadn’t been seen by the pilots in the interceptors. The world was quiet around me again. It was doubtful that we had been picked up on radar.

Even if we were, there was no turning back.

Fourteen

My feet sank ankle deep into the mud of a flooded rice paddy when I landed. For some fifteen minutes, the three of us had been calling softly to each other as we made our final descent. We were able to remain close enough to stay within sight of one another despite the heavy darkness before dawn. At the two thousand foot level I had ordered silence. Farmers all over the world are pre-dawn risers; I hoped that we wouldn’t land near one.

We dropped within yards of one another. An early morning fog layer, thin but helpful, stretched hip-high in all directions. I heard nothing as we listened and remained still like hunched statues. Bu Chen’s footsteps made sucking noises in the mucky soil as he moved toward me. His ghostly figure was hidden behind the bundled-up parachute he carried. Willow joined us, a jubilant smile on her pretty face.

We followed the planted rows to a low dike of dry, solid ground. I pushed my parachute and harness into a puffed-up pile and touched a match to it. The specially treated fabric and webbing ignited and burned completely with a blue, nearly invisible flame that produced no smoke at all. In seconds the light ashen residue was scattering before a barely perceptible breeze. Willow and Bu Chen disposed of their parachutes in the same manner.

We removed our chest-hung knapsacks and dug into them. Our temporary footwear was replaced with the thonged sandals; peaked, cloth caps completed our disguises. Long before the eastern sky lightened, all tangible evidence that North Vietnam’s guarded sovereignty had been breached was destroyed or irretrievably buried.

Smoke rose from braziers inside scattered thatch-rooted huts where simple morning meals were being prepared. A group of walkers, dressed much as we were and with hand tools over their shoulders, marched past on their way to the fields. We were moving along the mist-blanketed road in the opposite direction. One or two of the farmers glanced at us suspiciously.

“The way we’re strolling along here empty-handed,” I said, observing the stares we encountered, “we look out of place. We’ve got to appear more part of the scenery, and also find a way of moving faster.”

Bu Chen apologized. “I’m sorry I couldn’t supply current travel passes so we could use the bus or train. If you’d gone along with wearing soldier’s uniforms, we could commandeer a ride on anything that comes along.”

“And also have a military escort to the wall in front of a firing squad,” I repeated, using the argument that made me veto the idea the first time.

Willow fell into file behind me along the edge of the road when the tinkling of a bicycle bell sounded at our rear. “That’s the only way to go in this country if you want to remain inconspicuous,” she remarked after a quartet of cyclists went by.

“Which is why you’re packing those two small cans of fast-drying spray paint in your knapsack,” I told her. “Keep walking... hup... hup... hup.” Neither of my companions saw any humor in my light touch.

Our shadows were still long on the dusty lane surface from the early morning sun when we came to a hard-surfaced road. A few yards from the intersection a sign gave distances to various points ahead. Willow gasped. “Oh my, look how far it is to Hanoi!”

“That’s kilometers, not miles,” I reassured her. “Let’s keep our eyes open now. We’re looking for a chance to pick up some transportation. Nothing gaudy, just workable equipment.”

The road was well travelled. Hanoi-bound buses, crammed with humanity and all forms of belongings, including animals and fowl, were aboard the swaying, overloaded vehicles. Motorbikes, scooters, and minibuses sputtered and belched black exhausts. Everyone appeared to move mechanically; little emotion showed on their faces. In a regimented society people tend to curb their curiosity. Little outward interest is shown in individuals or matters apart from one’s own small sphere of drab existence. It was that grim quality that surrounded us with an atmosphere of security as long as we took care not to attract undue attention.

For an hour we had done nothing to rock the boat, but that was about to change.

A turnoff just ahead at the far side of the village seemed to be sucking in a steady stream of bicyclists. It led to a low, corrugated metal, windowless building. Green-tinted plastic skylights in the roof admitted light into the building interior. Workers were arriving, placing their bicycles side by side in racks anchored to the outside walls of the building.

I left the road before we reached the driveway which led to an open, graveled space that appeared to be a loading area. Willow and Bu Chen joined me in the narrow strip of underbrush that formed a natural perimeter around the open space. We crouched in the thick vegetation and observed the scene.

The tall chimneys standing above the rounded domes of circular, brick structures behind the metal building identified the complex as a factory producing fired clay products. Straw-bristling crates were stacked beside a wide, doorless opening in the building. Through it, we could see the morning shift seating themselves at long tables where they commenced painting designs on plates, cups, and teapots prior to being baked in the kilns.

In the space of a few minutes the entire work force had assembled. They hunched over their tables, busily scribing intricate patterns on pieces of chinaware. All were intent on their individual efforts.

“Follow me,” I whispered and moved off at an angle to reach the bicycle rack most removed from the open loading door. Screened behind a low leafy bush resembling a hawthorn, I looked over the nearest bicycles, making my choice. Once more the advantages of a police-state regimented society favored us. None of the cycles were secured to the rack. “Just our luck,” I complained. “Just bicycles. Not a moped in sight.”

“It’s just as well,” Bu Chen said. “All motorized vehicles are registered and easily traced. Even if we had some de-etching acid, we’d be in some pokey by noon. Foot power is the safest way to go.”

I began to move out of the bushes. A strong hand grabbed my ankle. “Not you,” Willow hissed. “We’re close to the big city where French is a second language, but you wouldn’t get by with it here. I’ll go.”

She went forward, erect and unhurried. With her comely looks hidden under the projecting peak of her cap, she looked little different from the others who had entered the factory. She examined the racks almost casually, then pulled a bicycle loose. She wheeled it over to where Bu Chen and I lay on our stomachs keeping watch. With a weight lifter’s ease she hoisted the bike over the chest-high hedge and deposited it beside us. Bu Chen wheeled it further out of sight.

Willow made a second round trip with equal aplomb.

She had selected a third bicycle and started to remove it from the rack when its handlebars became entangled with an adjacent bike. She should have left it and taken another, but Willow was determined to disengage them.

In the act of unhooking the bicycles, a truck wheeled into the driveway. Willow heard it. She stood stockstill. The truck continued its approach to the loading door. It was a two-and-a-half ton U.S. Army vehicle, part of the millions of dollars worth of military equipment abandoned in the pell-mell exodus of American troops from Vietnam.

The truck came to a stop with its front bumper no more than fifteen feet from where Willow stood grasping the two bicycles and looking over her shoulder. Now I could see that there were two men in the cab. The one sitting on the passenger side wore a peaked, woolen cap bearing a red star insignia. Both men got out. The driver, a civilian, glanced at Willow and continued into the building. The soldier, wearing a baggy uniform with cloth leggings wound around his muscular legs and thonged sandals on his bare feet, got out of the truck from the side nearest me. He carried a partially-filled rucksack which he carried by its straps in one hand. He walked toward Willow stopping beside the fender of the truck. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear any words. Willow stood her ground and said something in return. Whatever it was, it encouraged the young soldier to move closer. Willow backed away. I thought she was inviting the soldier to make a try at separating the bikes, but he didn’t step between them.

I knew instinctively that it wasn’t going right. My hackles prodded me. As I moved around to get closer, I could hear Willow’s voice. It had a pleading tone. It didn’t take a crystal ball to see that the soldier was only interested in Willow and not in what she was doing. The impression grew firmer when he dropped his backpack so both hands would be free. His mouth was parted in a wide, sinister grin.

Willow’s submissive actions were confusing to me. Whatever threat she thought she was facing — rape or exposure as a foreigner — it was forcing her to seek the shelter of the building corner.

She dodged around it blindly, tripping over something, then fell to the ground. The soldier broke into a run toward her. I moved at the same time, covering the intervening space without regard to being observed. I reached the hunched-over soldier just as he was reaching down to grab Willow.

His head turned as he sensed my presence. A snap of my wrist caused Hugo to grow out of my forward-moving right hand. The up-thrusting movement drove the dagger point deep between his third and fourth ribs. Its progress slowed slightly when the blade edge scraped and severed a costal cartilage next to the sternum. During the four seconds it took him to die and slump to the ground, he wheezed out a pitiful gasp of surprise. I used my foot to slip him over on his back so that blood would drain back into the body cavity instead of on the ground.

“Grab another bike and get back in the bushes!” I hissed. “I’ll take care of this.”

Willow had enough sense not to argue. She moved with a blur of speed and I was alone with a wholly unexpected, unwanted, and painfully evident corpse. My grisly handiwork could be found by anyone tending the ovens in preparation for the day’s ceramic firing. I had to make a split-second decision and dispose of the body at once. The longer I waited, the more likely fresh blood would seep through the uniform and stain the ground. I couldn’t hope to drag or carry it across the open space without leaving a damning trail of red stains.

The nearest circular kiln was ten feet away. I could feel the intense heat from fires burning behind its hinged metal doors placed near ground level every few feet around the circumference of the domed oven. The perspiration that ran down my stained face was as much from fear of discovery as from the blistering heat from the kiln fires.

I kicked open the nearest fire door. A blast of heat poured out. I grabbed the dead soldier by both wrists and pulled with all my strength. The body, propelled by the momentum I gave it, shot through the opening like a well-aimed sack of potatoes. I slammed the door shut and ran for the hedges.

I found Bu Chen behind the wall of bushes calmly spraying a yellow bicycle with an overcoat of neutral brown. “Where’s Willow?”

“She’s gone ahead. We’ll catch up as soon as I finish this.” He saw the questioning look on my face. “Oh, you didn’t see her. She snatched the third bike from the rack and grabbed up the loose knapsack while you were roasting that marshmallow you speared. Neat trick.”

I presumed he was admiring Willow. I did. Only a rare type of girl would have the will and presence of mind to finish a job despite the unnerving experience she had just undergone.

Bu Chen tucked the used aerosol can in his backpack for disposition later and wheeled the freshly painted bicycle away. The quick-drying finish would be hardened by the time we reached the road. I followed him with the bicycle left for me. Willow was fifty yards down the road, pedalling at a steady pace toward Hanoi.

At mid-afternoon we reached the outskirts of the city. We brought with us chafed butts and aching leg muscles. The long hours of pedalling were tedious rather than terrifying. We conversed very little, generally moving in single file with myself situated between Willow and Bu Chen. I never allowed myself to get careless or overconfident, but I adapted to the high plateau of tension we were under. It’s a compensating feature of my personality, otherwise I could never operate efficiently under constant strain.

I’d had time to think and plan. Twice during the day we had an opportunity to stop alongside the road within earshot of a public loudspeaker which was part of every crossroads village. Willow and Bu Chen translated the propaganda broadcasts. Aside from exhortations to make constant efforts to produce food, fuel and products useful to the people’s society, and harangues about the decadent western world, very little current news was heard. I was surprised at the completeness of weather reports even though the monsoon season had begun.

Nothing was mentioned about crime in the capital city. I had a suspicion that such information was deleted by government censors. To confirm the lack of public knowledge about recent deaths, Bu Chen went to a kiosk and bought a two-day old newspaper. No announcement of any kind was carried about an unknown killer roaming the streets striking down important public figures. The newspaper had no obituary column. Between Willow and Bu Chen, the entire edition was read while we rested and munched on high protein energy snacks. I had to caution Bu Chen not to discard the wrappers when he carelessly balled up one to throw it away.

I took that as an indication that he was beginning to become overconfident although he denied it. This came shortly after he had questioned the need to retain the extra, unused bail-out bottle of compressed oxygen I insisted we keep. It was a small matter — the containers weighed very little and were not bulky.

The minor argument showed that Bu Chen was becoming testy and that was bad. He could become a problem. In time I might have to consider inviting him to branch off on his own. I wouldn’t force it, though. For the moment, I’d rather keep an eye on him a while longer. If he was turned loose and got picked up, I couldn’t be sure how long he could resist certain interrogation techniques known to be employed by North Vietnamese authorities.

I called a halt at the first public telephone. It was located inside a passenger waiting shelter at the terminal end of a city bus route. I discussed strategy with Willow. Bu Chen listened in.

“We haven’t much to go on except two names that have a fatal attraction for Keith Martin. One is Phan Wan who is connected to Nho Phu Thone. Martin all but broke his back to find Phan Wan in Bangkok.-She’s here in Hanoi. Martin’s here in Hanoi. And Nho Phu Thone, a man whose name is on a list of those to be liquidated by Martin, is also here in Hanoi. For Martin to be as successful as he has been, he’s got to have someone here in the city who is fingering his victims. I think it’s Phan Wan. Martin’s got to contact her. Nho Phu Thone either has her or knows where she is. To get to Martin, we’ll have to start with Phu Thone and probably save his life in the process.”

“I’ll follow you,” Willow said. Bu Chen lifted his shoulders and dipped the corners of his mouth. It was lie of his concern.

“Telephone Phu Thone’s house and ask for Phan Wan,” I instructed Willow. “Play it by ear, but don’t push too hard. You’ll probably have to con a servant or secretary, so keep your act together.”

I supported Willow’s confiscated bicycle while she used the phone. The conversation lasted long enough to produce promising results. Willow came back with a dark look on her face. “There wasn’t any telephone directory attached to the phone. I spent all that time talking to a couple of operators.”

I guessed that I was going to be disappointed with what she had to say. I asked anyway. “Did you learn anything at all?”

“Phu Thone has a private, unlisted number.”

“It took all that time to learn that?”

“Wait a minute. This isn’t Philadelphia, you know. The phone system is part of the postal service so you get the extra bureaucratic runaround. When I insisted I had to get in touch with Phu Thone, I was told to write a letter. And would you believe, the mamh-san I talked to felt so sorry for the poor country girl lost in the big city that she gave me Phu Thone’s home address!”

A high, thick, cement-finished wall surrounded Phu Thone’s villa. The immense house sat on a sea of lush green grass rimmed with extensive flower beds. Through the closed iron gates barring access via a wide, gravelled driveway, I could see five mattock or shovel-equipped gardeners at work amid the plants and shrubs. Two others were using long lengths of hose to sprinkle shaded areas of the lawn.

It was obvious that Nho Phu Thone had a large staff of servants. One was standing in attendance on a wide, exposed veranda. He wore a white serving jacket and black bow tie. He was pouring liquid from a silver teapot into the cup in front of a slim youthful-looking woman seated alone at a glass-topped, wrought-iron table. “Do you suppose that’s Phan Wan?” Willow asked.

“If it is, I’ve got to speak to her,” I went closer to the gate so I could see as much of the grounds inside the wall as possible. A bent-over woman working with a hoe a short distance away looked sideways at me.

I beckoned to her.

She went back to work, then looked again.

I waved to her once more and took the green bail-out bottle of oxygen from my knapsack so she could see it.

“What are you doing?” Willow whispered, stepping up next to me.

“Get her over here,” I snapped. “Tell her I’ve got this revolutionary new combination insecticide and fertilizer for the head gardener. Get her to let me in and point out the boss man.”

“You’ve got to be mad!” hissed Willow. “You can’t expect to walk in there and start talking to that girl. People dressed like us stay in the streets.”

“I just want to get close enough to test her with a name. Get me inside, then you and Bu Chen wheel your bikes down to the corner. Wait three or four minutes. If I don’t join you, ride back to see what’s going on. Don’t stop, unless it’s apparent that everything is all right. Whatever happens, you know what to do.”

“Maybe I’d better make the contact. It’s too risky for you.”

The old crone’s coming to the gate ended our debate. Willow talked to her, gesturing toward me and the metal container I held. I turned the control valve releasing a spurt of gas with a convincing hiss. The gnarled hands of the old woman unlatched the gate and allowed me to push through. She pointed a bony finger in the direction of two men standing together near one corner of the mansion. I nodded my thanks and started in that direction.

I glanced back. Willow was speaking to the old lady, holding her attention while I veered toward the stand of blooming red rose bushes planted under the ballustrade of the veranda. My approach went unnoticed by the young woman who sat at the table. Her head was bent as if reading something laying flat on the table. She had a striking profile, with delicate, sculptured features. Her long black hair was piled up on her head in a chignon held in place with silver-inlaid pins the size of chopsticks. Her dress was a figure-fitting, high-collared garment made of shiny, richly embroidered material. The young woman and everything surrounding her reflected the aura of great wealth.

The manservant had disappeared inside the house. The lovely Vietnamese girl was alone on the veranda.

I leaned forward against the rose bushes. “Phan Wan!” I called out softly.

Her head came up and turned toward the sound. She had heard, but didn’t know where the voice was located. I stood on tiptoe and said her name again, a little louder.

Her eyes darted in my direction. I backed up a step. “You are Phan Wan?” I spoke clear, distinct English.

From the way her bright eyes widened, I knew that she had understood. She rose from her chair so she could see more of me. A perplexed look came over her pretty face. That changed to a haughty, imperious glare showing her surprise that a mere peasant would have the effrontery to address her at all.

As she was about to summon the missing manservant, I blurted out: “Has Keith Martin come to see you? Keith Martin!”

She was speechless. Her first reaction was to glance over her shoulder fearfully to see if the houseboy had returned. Then she rushed to the railing that separated us. Her English was flawless. “Who are you? Keith... He is here?” Her voice was breathless with excitement.

She raised her head to look out over mine. “Oh, my God!” She cried out in response to what she saw.

I whirled around.

Two men, the foremost being the one pointed out as the head gardener, were trotting toward me. The aggressive way they carried their sharp hand tools made them look like weapons poised to give battle. I jerked my head around to look up at Phan Wan.

Standing beside her was the white-jacketed manservant, an ugly look on his face. In one outstretched hand he held a British Army Webley revolver with the hammer full back.

I was trapped.

Fifteen

A hard-toned, staccato voice sang out, piercing the air around me like the crackling of hot lightning. Phan Wan was speaking in her native tongue with crisp, lashing phrases that were electric in their effect on the two approaching men. They braked to a halt, bumping into one another. Both snatched off their hats and bowed, keeping their heads lowered in subservience. I lowered my head, too, hiding behind the visor of the cloth cap I wore. The manservant on the raised level above me was unable to see my face.

I remained in that respectful attitude until I heard the click of the Webley’s hammer being eased down. Phan Wan lowered her voice. I glanced up. The armed man was withdrawing into the house. Another bark from the slim girl dismissed the pair of gardeners formerly immobilized by her sharp words.

She leaned over the balustrade. “What do you know of Keith Martin?” She spoke in English, her tone remaining sharp. “Your voice — you sound like—”

“Like an American,” I finished for her. “That’s because I am, and I’m here because of Keith Martin. He is here, too, and wants to see you.”

She ran to the end of the veranda where stone steps led down to the lawn. I moved sideways to join her on the steps. “Don’t!” she cautioned. She looked over her shoulder again, then faced me. “You must stay there where you are. None of the peasant class are permitted to enter this part of the house.”

“Thanks,” I said appreciatively. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

“Of course,” she concurred. “I have many questions for you. You are in great danger. You must not be discovered, and we must not be overheard. There is a shed in the back attached to a greenhouse. Go there and wait.”

“I am not alone,” I said. Phan Wan’s expectant, near-giddy look faded when I went on to disappoint her. “No, not Martin. But two others, a Vietnamese man and a Chinese girl. They speak the language.”

“The girl — is she young?” A strange question.

“Yes. And beautiful,” I added.

“Excellent. Bring both of them to the rear of the house. I will tell those who watch over me that you have a procurer who is bringing your sister to the house of Nho Phu Thone to sell her into prostitution. It is not uncommon for me to deal for Nho Phu Thone in these matters. Hurry. We must talk about Keith.”

While a catastrophe had been averted, what I hoped would become a miraculous opportunity faded quickly. Under the guise of haggling over the value of Willow who stood with bowed head beside Bu Chen, Phan Wan confessed that she could be of little help. She had only limited freedom, being a house-bound prisoner behind the villa’s formidable walls. A trio of live-in guards kept her under observation day and night while watching over Phu Thone’s person and property. Phan Wan considered herself property although she played the role of mistress of the house as well as being a mistress in the more classical sense.

In a hurried exchange, Phan Wan said that no attempt had been made by Keith Martin to contact her. She shed tears when I told her how Martin had interrupted his strange, bloodletting crusade to seek her out in Madame Peacock’s establishment in Bangkok.

“What can I do... to help?” she sobbed. “He must be found before — he must be stopped,” she added. “Nho Phu Thone has spoken of some mysterious deaths recently... he didn’t say murders. There was another last night. A general died in his sleep, I was told.”

“General Linpak Tung,” I said. His was the only name on Martin’s death list of a still active duty general.

Phan Wan nodded. “Phu Thone was friendly with him during and since the war. They have mutual business interests here and in Haiphong. General Linpak Tung was a powerful man and a member of the government Central Committee. You are positive that Keith is here and. responsible for this?” she asked with wonder... even a little pride.

“He pictures himself as bearing the righteous sword of vengeance and is justified in executing those who were connected with the mistreatment and torture of hundreds of American prisoners during the war.”

“General Tung had nothing to do with that. That’s what we were told. He was a respected, honorable man.”

I was sure Tung’s name was on the assassination list. There had to be a connection. “He must have had some dealings with POWs,” I insisted.

“Oh, but that’s been since the war,” explained Phan Wan. “He was persistent in the view that the Central Committee hold back the information that the Americans seek on their dead and captured soldiers. He says it is the only way the powerful United States can be made to pay restitution for damages their war caused.”

“That figures,” I said under my breath. “Chalk up another one for Martin. The man is as incredible as he is crazy. All by himself, getting away with it and surviving in a totally hostile environment. If you aren’t helping, Phan Wan, is there anyone at all who might be?”

“Impossible. You don’t know the national feeling toward the western races if you’d even think that. I can’t imagine a single soul who wouldn’t expose him instantly because we are always warned about the presence of provocateurs. He cannot avoid being found. And I fear, if he has learned as you have where I am, he may risk coming here. If he does, he will surely be killed. If there was only some way—” She fell silent.

I reached out to lay a comforting hand on her arm. Phan Wan drew back. “We tarry too long,” she said. “We are watched, I am sure. In a moment I will shake my head to reject the price asked for Willow, then you must go.”

“No,” countered Willow. “Pay Bu Chen something. I will stay. If nothing else, I might be able to prevent a tragedy.”

Her idea had merit. Willow would have a temporary safe haven. She could gain more information of use from Phan Wan. I concurred.

Phan Wan refused. “You must not. Girls that come here are used before they are sent on. A pretty one like you, Willow, will serve the pleasure of the three guards that live here, but only after Phu Thone himself has satiated his lust with you. I refuse to subject you to that. Come back tomorrow as if you have decided to sell yourself for a more reasonable price.”

I looked beyond Phan Wan. A broad-shouldered, bareheaded man was lounging against the far corner of the house eyeing our group. I peered out from under the pulled-down peak of my cap in the opposite direction. A husky twin of the first man was standing beside the glass wall of the greenhouse some twenty feet away. I grew fidgety. “We’d better leave,” I said in muted tones.

Bu Chen began making active gestures. His hand movements were in no way related to his conversation. “Where can we go to be safe for the night?” he asked.

Phan Wan’s face looked blank, then brightened. “Of course, there is a place. Phu Thone has a large, five-story building under construction. No one is working there just now because of a shortage of materials. Go there. You will find a workshed to shelter you. It also has a telephone. If I can, I will call you tonight. Now go!” Her pompous gesture and straight-pointed finger made her intentionally loud command in Vietnamese understandable even to me.

The three of us shuffled down the gravel driveway trying to look like rejected peasants. I could hardly contain my elation. While Martin was still far from my grasp, and had certainly upped the ante on his head by dispatching another public figure in Hanoi, we had accomplished a great deal.

Our successful infiltration into the city of Hanoi was a major achievement by itself. Making contact with Phan Wan was a plus that could be exploited. It was obvious that she had a smoldering hate for Nho Phu Thone. It was also understandable that she would tolerate his physical excesses and her common chatel status in exchange for an existence better than any other she could hope to have. Because she was intelligent, she had made the best of it, having grown wise and more sophisticated. Her intimate knowledge of Phu Thone’s business affairs might be put to good use. Phan Wan had planted seeds of an idea which warranted cultivation.

My feelings of well-being lasted only as long as it took to pedal down the tree-lined residential street to the next major intersection. It was a bustling thoroughfare crowded with carts, lorries, and thickly-bunched bicycles. I viewed it as a problem area. The movement of the traffic, outwardly orderly, could easily become my nemesis. One misturn, one minor collision, and I could be the center of an unpredictable, argumentative confrontation. Police would be drawn into it. My disguise would be penetrated. I would fail in my mission just when I began to think there was a chance for success.

When I pushed the nose of my bicycle out into the moving log-jam of vehicles in the wake of Bu Chen and Willow, I equated the action to playing Russian roulette with a revolver having five loaded chambers.

The situation reminded me how vulnerable and how desperate Keith Martin must be. What was it — three days or four since he had entered Hanoi with the help of Colonel Jeleff? That would have been the easy part. But to have blown away top government officials in one, two, three, four order and gotten away clean was a record closely approaching my own.

Martin’s death list was shrinking. So were his chances. If he wanted to make sure of Nho Phu Thone, he would have to strike against him very, very soon.

I almost ran into the back wheel of Bu Chen’s bike when he came to a stop along the curb. He put Willow in charge of his bike while he went inside a noodle shop. “He’s going to get directions to the Street of Seven Flowers,” she explained.

He took an ungodly long time. When he came out he was wiping his mouth with his sleeve and grinning like a Cheshire cat. Anger welled up in me. He had left us waiting while he gobbled down some hot food. Willow and I had had none since the in-flight meal furnished by Air India on the way to Bangkok.

The building site on Seven Flowers Street was hidden behind a head-high wooden fence. The crossbar of one bicycle provided the boost needed to get over it. While topping the fence I scanned the surrounding area. To the north, across a narrow, pockmarked street was what appeared to be a former military compound. A number of barracks-type wooden buildings, some with windows boarded up, occupied the open, treeless area. It was evident that the camp was once surrounded by a pair of concentric, chain-link fences topped with strands of barbed wire. Now only steel posts and a few sections of the barrier fence remained. There was no activity to be seen, although evidence of recent demolition work was all about.

Work on Phu Thone’s building had progressed to where a matrix of girders, five stories high, had been erected. The first three levels of the steel-beam skeleton framework were in a cage of lashed bamboo. The outer scaffolding provided platform from which workmen would add cinder block and brick. Adjacent to the foreman’s shack were idle pieces of earthmoving equipment. I recognized a curved-blade bulldozer and a backhoe for digging trenches parked next to a lime-encrusted cement mixer.

The workshed Phan Wan had told us to look for was little more than a single door, single window lean-to erected next to the fence. The heavy, impressive-looking padlock on the door yielded with a minimum of persuasion. The interior was typical of a construction foreman’s site office. It contained a work table with a bin of blueprints beside it. Some tools were stacked in one corner. Two chairs and a folded-up tarpaulin gave us places to sit. The air inside was unbearably warm and had a wet cement smell.

We were bone-weary and untalkative. Each of us made ourselves more comfortable by removing our backpacks. Willow repacked the items in hers. Bu Chen dropped off to sleep and snored fitfully.

At dusk, I went to the door and made a visual reconnaissance. All was quiet. Willow came out to stretch her legs. She found a water spigot with a hose attached to it behind a shoulder-high pile of cinder blocks. She called me over. “It’s dark, okay to take a shower?”

I lay flat on top of the stacked cinder blocks, holding the hose over Willow’s head. She balanced on a platform of two cinder blocks, gasping and splashing under the cold water. What a lovely creature she was.

We traded places. When I finished, Willow leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. “What’s that for?” I asked. She’d just had a cold shower. It should have dampened her sexual urges for a little longer than three minutes.

“I was just testing to see how your false face is holding up.”

I patted my eyelids. “I’ve been afraid it would start flaking off, but it’s holding. I don’t know how much longer. I’ve been sweating a lot.”

“I’ve noticed. You’re worried about Bu Chen, I can tell.”

“Shouldn’t I be? From his viewpoint, he’s gained what he was after: a quick trip away from a murder rap in Bangkok. There’s no point in him sticking with us anymore. In fact, it’s downright dangerous. He knows that. If I were him, I’d consider breaking off and fading into the woodwork. He knows too much about what we’re up to now for me not to worry. He always will—” I stopped short of admitting to Willow that there would come a time when I’d have to consider how to deal with Bu Chen to guarantee his permanent silence.

“He isn’t going to run out on us, Nick,” Willow said. “He’ll hang in there until we make a final settlement. Bu Chen loves money more than life. He knows we aren’t going to cart this load of gold coins back home with us... I’ve already told Bu Chen there’s more in it for him than what he’s carrying around his middle. He’ll wait us out like a hound dog baying at a treed possum.”

Bu Chen was missing from the foreman’s shack. The sinking feeling I had curled up like a fishhook lodged in my stomach. Then the phone rang.

I stared at it.

It rang a second time.

“Answer it,” I told Willow. “Lower your voice to a man’s register.”

“It’s Phan Wan,” she said, holding the instrument out to me.

I snatched it from her hand. The abrupt action was unlike me. I was getting edgy which is a bad sign. “Yes?” I answered, prepared for the worst.

Phan Wan wanted to make sure we had found the construction site and were safe, nothing more. I was more relieved than she was. And I was glad she had called. I had some important questions to put to her. The right answers would tell me if a plan I had in mind was workable.

In the past few days I had begun to feel I knew Keith Martin in some detail. I had acquired an insight as to how he thought and how he reacted under certain circumstances. In many ways, Martin was not much different than me. I couldn’t help but admire his daring and perserverance.

I hoped he had a flaw in his personality that could be turned to my advantage. Time was running short for both of us, and Martin had little flexibility left. Knowing that, and hearing from Phan Wan that Phu Thone made occasional trips to Haiphong, gave me bait which might lure Martin into the open. It depended upon my belief that Martin had some way of keeping posted on the whereabouts of his victims. He seemed to have some means of learning when and where to strike.

Phan Wan assured me that she would have no difficulty in getting word out in the right places about Phu Thone’s imminent departure for Haiphong. It would be a believable hoax. Phu Thone’s connection with General Linpak Tung’s business ventures in Haiphong could easily result in Phu Thone rushing off to guard his interests. The deception would work if Phu Thone took no steps to deny it.

“Is Phu Thone there now?”

“No. Otherwise I would not dare use the phone. Is it important to know?”

“Yes. When will he return?”

“Of that I cannot be sure. Usually quite late... not for some time. There is no way for me to let you know.”

“Perhaps there is. Where is his bedroom located in the house?”

“On the second floor, in the rear... the southwest corner.”

“Can it be seen over the wall from the street?”

“I do not know. I am there now, but with the lights on, I cannot tell. Wait a moment.”

I waited, framing more questions.

“I am sorry. I cannot tell. The wall and street are dark and some distance away, but there are no trees in the way if you come to look.”

“What alarm systems are installed in the house?”

“None, I think. We have men instead who stay in the house. You saw two of them. There is another. All are strong and have weapons, handguns. Only one remains awake after the master is home. The other two sleep in a room off the kitchen on the ground floor.”

“I didn’t see any dogs.”

“Phu Thone dislikes all animals. Any found on the grounds are killed instantly.”

I issued hasty instructions to which Phan Wan agreed. Her immediate chore was to spread the word that Phu Thone was leaving for Haiphong shortly, ostensibly for health reasons. The onset of a sudden illness which would preclude Phu Thone from attending the upcoming funeral of his old and dear friend, General Tung, would raise eyebrows. The news would create speculation throughout the capital as to what the two connivers had going in the port city that required Phu Thone’s personal and immediate attention.

Only one aspect of the plan bothered me.

It wasn’t that Martin wouldn’t get the word.

My concern centered on Phu Thone’s waking in the morning and learning Phan Wan was the undisputable and reliable source of the false story.

Phan Wan was clearly risking her life and would certainly lose it if the rest of my plan failed.

She understood the consequences. She was willing to take the risk. She loved Keith Martin as much as she hated Phu Thone. She was ready to sacrifice her life to save the life of Keith Martin.

I was about to put mine on the line so she wouldn’t have to.

Sixteen

Willow followed intently while I outlined my plan. At one point she held up a hand to silence me. She cocked her head to one side, listening. I heard it then too: scraping sounds and stealthy footsteps.

We flanked the shed door, pressing flat against the wall on either side. Each of us had handguns ready, Willow nodded when I indicated they were to be used for sapping, not shooting.

I relaxed the moment the door was pushed open from the outside. Anyone unaware of our presence would have hesitated upon finding the padlock gone and hasp standing open.

Bu Chen came in wearing his big-toothed grin. It evaporated when he saw me with a gun in my hand. “Guess I should have come up whistlin’ Yankee Doodle.” He held out two take-out food cartons. “I felt guilty for stuffin’ my gut without bringing you any before.”

Willow stepped out from around the swung-back door. “You could have told us where you were going!” she noted.

“When I saw your September morn act under the water hose, I figured Nick here would be giving you a little hosin’ of his own and I’d be back before you knew I was gone. Sorry.”

Willow’s eyes flashed. I stepped between them. “We haven’t got time to get into a hassle. Willow’s got a point, though. From now on, anyone that goes out of sight tells someone first. No more silent disappearing acts.” Bu Chen bobbed his head. “Thanks for bringing the food,” I added.

“I brought more than that. The old guys playing pin gow in the noodle shop were gossiping about some special mobile army patrols staking out homes of members of the Central Committee. The old codgers were whispering things like ‘purge’ and ‘liquidation.’ Folks are uptight with rumors that a Party housecleaning is underway. So the word is filtering down that bigwigs in the government are being knocked off and security is being tightened.”

Bu Chen had brought back valuable news, but it didn’t cheer me. If anything, it was more important now than ever before to corner and curb Martin. While Willow and I stuffed ourselves with hot, spicy noodles mixed with bits of pork in a piquant sauce, I repeated once more what I had in mind. Neither Bu Chen nor Willow found fault with the plan.

The first time I pedalled along the street past the high wall, lights were burning in the windows of Phu Thone’s bedroom. It was close to two o’clock in the morning. I knew the king pimp wasn’t up there reading a book. Phan Wan had guaranteed that the lights would be off as soon as her zaibatsu fell asleep. She had ways of exhausting him even though having his fat, heaving body ramming against hers in a crude, lustful act of love disgusted and sickened her.

Thinking of what Phan Wan was tolerating heightened my resolve. Only moments after the bedroom lights went out I was picking the simple lock on the front gate. Bu Chen remained behind just inside the gates. Willow crept alongside me across the lawn to the house. Outside light fixtures above the main door and over the kitchen entrance around in back were aglow. I left Willow at a darkened corner of the house near the rose bushes bordering the veranda.

The six-tumbler Japanese locks on the multipaned french doors were tricky. I spent five minutes on one before I gave up.

Phan Wan was going to leave one of the veranda doors unlocked. None were. Either she hadn’t had the opportunity, or the night guard had discovered it open. I padded back to Willow and had a consultation.

Interior night-lights were burning in the entry foyer which cast some illumination through the large, interconnected rooms on the ground floor. A lone light burned in an upper hallway. By pressing my face up against one door windowpane, I could see through a broad, long room and a wide archway at its end into the lighted foyer. A thick-necked man with weight-lifter’s arms sticking out of his short-sleeved, open-collared white shirt sat in a straight back chair close to the foot of some stairs. A credenza next to him held a telephone, a clock radio, and a reading lamp. He was awake. I saw him turn a page of the paperback book he was reading.

I backed away and padded over to Willow to describe what I’d seen. We held a conference. Willow made a sound suggestion. We crept around to the back of the house. She pointed up. The high, second floor windows were the jalousie type, their horizontal slats partly opened to let in the cooling night air. Willow pointed out one that was different. It was a side-hinged, cat-size window left slightly ajar. Its frame angled outward, leaving no more than a six inch gap.

“Must be a closet, a scrub room, or a toilet,” Willow surmised. “But it’s a way in,” she added.

I peered up. “Even with a thirty foot ladder we’d need to reach it, it’s too high under the eave to get in.”

“Watch me,” she whispered confidently. “If I make it to the window ledge, you scoot around to the veranda and keep your eye on the guard by the front door. When he leaves his chair to see what made the upper hall light go out, you punch out a door pane and get inside. Hopefully, we’ll bracket the guard if you don’t waste time getting up the stairs behind him.”

Willow kicked off her thonged sandals. Where she found the breaks in the walls that gave fingernail and toe tip purchase was a mystery. She inched her way up astride the corner of the house. Spiderlike, she felt and tested every hand and toe hold. It was slow work demanding utmost concentration and strength. When her head came level with the eave, she stopped. I thought she was stymied, but she went on. Soon only her legs were visible, feet pigeon-toed as if hammered into the wall surface. She could go no further. She was scrunched up under the overhead eave. It was impossible for her to get up onto the roof. The tiny window was thirty feet away with an impassable, tile-smooth wall separating it from Willow.

At first I thought she had slipped and was falling. She leaped backward, her arms outstretched, her body dropping. Then it hung in midair. She had somehow managed to grab hold of the metal eave trough. I heard a metallic groan as it stretched and sagged under her weight. Monkeylike, smoothly and silently, Willow hand-worked her way to the high-perched window. Opposite it, she moved her supple body like a trained athlete on the flying rings. Her legs lifted, speared out straight ahead from her hips as she swung from outstretched arms, gaining momentum. It took three arcs before her thrust-out toe reached far enough to catch under and draw open the window. With the forth swing, she was suddenly gone. She had released her grip on the eave trough and shot through the small aperture like a well-aimed arrow.

I stared up dumbfounded at the spot where she had been. Then I saw a waving hand that was hardly more than a darker shape against the shadow under the eave.

The guard acted exactly as programmed. He glanced up the moment the upper hall became dark. He studied the stairs for a moment. His mouth moved as if speaking, then his head tilted to listen. He shut off the radio and called again. Almost wearily, he put down the book and rose from his chair.

I waited ten seconds after he disappeared from view, then pressed my elbow against the pane. I leaned hard. The glass cracked, then splintered. Now I made haste. The barrel of my pistol knocked the jagged glass out of the frame. I reached inside to unlock the door and entered. My footsteps were muffled by the thick carpeting all the way up to the head of the stairs. I rounded the dark corner of the upper hallway and was immediately blinded. Willow turned on the hall lamp at that instant. The hard-muscled guard lay prone, unconscious and breathing sonorously through his half-opened mouth.

“Paramount Pictures would pay top dollar for that stunt,” Willow said proudly, nodding toward the doorway behind her. “I almost broke my butt on the toilet stool when I zipped in through the window. It’s a wonder you didn’t hear me.”

I looked at the gun in her hand. “Did you dent the barrel? He looks like he won’t be coming around for a week.” I looked up and down the wide hallway, gaining an appreciation of the layout of the massive house. “I’ll help you drag him into this bathroom so he’ll be out of the way until we can round up his buddies downstairs.”

“I’ll manage,” she answered firmly, picking up her victim’s heels. “Go on, I’ll be right behind you.”

I left her. We had to _work fast in case one of the off-duty guards was a light sleeper. I gathered up the inert man’s fallen revolver and tucked it in my waistband. I went down the stairs and through a galleylike butler’s pantry to get to the restaurant-size kitchen. The first closed door I eased open turned out to be a well-stocked pantry. I passed up what was obviously a heavy, spring-latch door to a walk-in cooler.

The mild rumble of snores coming through a closed door on the opposite side of a wide landing at the top of the stairs leading down to the cellar marked my target. Two adjacent doors that I checked led into a servant’s bathroom and a linen closet.

I synchronized my movements with the noisy breathing. With the door partly open, I saw two men on cots placed foot to foot in the far corner of the stifling, smelly room. Both men were naked. One was snoring, the other groaning in the grip of a sensual dream.

The light switch was on the inside wall to the left of the door jam. I shut my eyes so I wouldn’t be blinded when the light came on. I flicked the switch and dropped flat. I held the heavy Webley taken from their companion in a double-handed vise grip.

The snoring one woke so quickly that he choked on his flaccid tongue. His partner, reluctant to leave the dream that held his penis erect, was slower to gain consciousness. I jumped up as the snorer made an automatic response move to reach under his pillow. I brought the butt of the Webley down like an executioner’s axe. The lanyard swivel spearheaded a smashing blow that shattered the lateral condyle of his kneecap. It produced a howl of excruciating pain. The man writhed, totally incapacitated. His companion now lay wide-eyed with fright and wonderment. Except for his instantaneously deflated member, he remained rigid and immobile.

Willow made a face as the stench of the room struck her. I gave her the Webley. “Just hold them here for a moment. That yell could have carried to the other end of the house.”

I turned and ran up the back stairs two steps at a time. There was no need to be quiet. I rammed through the last door at the end of the long hallway. As I did, a light came on in a room beyond the sitting room in which I found myself. I ran forward, Wilhelmina at the ready.

Phan Wan was sitting upright on one side of the king-size bed, a satin sheet drawn up to her chin. A blob of a man lay beside her, a gross, obese figure with shaven head and protruding stomach whose girth was equal to the more generous proportions given to some statues of Buddha. My intrusion brought life to the small eyes buried in Phu Thone’s fat-puffed face. They viewed me as more of an inconvenience than a threat. Phu Thone heaved his naked torso up, blinking in the light. His scornful gaze rejected me. He appeared fully confident that I would be seized and dealt with, or gunned down from behind by his bodyguards.

Phan Wan, smooth-skinned and curvaceous, slipped out of bed and ran into a dressing room without a sound. I spoke French to Phu Thone. “Make no sound, mon ami. Your home has been taken over by persons who mean you no harm, despite the appearance otherwise. You understand me, n’est-ce pas?”

The hunk of blubber nodded. “Oui. Who are you?”

“Your new protectors. We wish to keep you from meeting the same end as Minister Ban Lok Huong, General Limpak Tunk and two or three in between. There is reason to believe you are scheduled to die, too.”

“Who are you?” he repeated. A sliver of respect tinged the tone of his voice.

“That is unimportant,” I said firmly. “All we ask is your cooperation. We hope to leave soon.”

His nearly lidless eyes left mine to look over my shoulder. The shift was not intended to distract me; Willow had come into the room. Phu Thone’s sensuous gaze backtracked when he saw the revolver in her hand. “The bicycles have been brought in,” she advised me speaking in English. “Bu Chen is looking after the boys in the back room. We lashed them to their cots for temporary safekeeping. Where’s Phan Wan?”

I indicated the dressing room. “She’s all right. We’ve got to put Phu Thone where he won’t get in the way. The cellar seems like a good place. I’ll bring him down when he’s dressed.”

It worked out fine. Wooden kitchen chairs backed against vertical supports in the wine cellar made perfect stanchions to which Phu Thone and his three house guards could be tied. Willow splinted the injured man’s leg. She was as familiar as I with field treatment of broken bones.

After the prisoners were secured, I suffered the usual let-down that accompanies the completion of adrenaline-pumping action. Bu Chen went up to stake out a claim in the kitchen. Willow was about to join him. Phan Wan lagged behind. “Are you sure he’s tied up tight?” she said, walking toward Phu Thone.

He was, but my mind was dulled to the point where her remark carried no real impact. Almost... not quite. I spun around. Phan Wan was lunging at Phu Thone, a thin-bladed letter opener held daggerlike in her fist. I leaped and threw out my hand to deflect her thrust. She screeched wildly, mouthing obscenities as her forearm came down.

I was partially successful. The slim blade dug into Phu Thone’s fat-padded deltoid muscle instead of his heart. I jerked both hand and weapon back. Phu Thone shreiked in a thin, whiney voice. His face turned ashen at the sight of his blood. Willow came running back down the stairs. She led Phan Wan away, consoling rather than condemning her. The vengeance of women that grows out of long-term, simmering hate is a strong unpredictable force. Willow understood it better than I.

We took turns sleeping. One of us always occupied the kitchen, barring access to the basement door. Phan Wan was locked in an upstairs bedroom. Willow occupied an adjoining one. I was up-and-down throughout the remainder of the night. My beard was growing and itching under the makeup layer on my face. The eyelid covering was showing signs of wear. It’s falseness would soon become evident.

Morning came. I checked the prisoners. I ignored Phu Thone’s demands for an explanation. His troubles were small compared to my own. The day dragged on, but none of the complications that could have developed ever did. To keep busy, I consolidated and pared down our supplies, repacking only the barest essentials into compact loads. The slim bail-out bottles of oxygen and the breathing masks went in first. According to the recovery code tacked onto his last message, they would be the last things we would need... if our luck lasted that long.

The ploy was working. A number of phone calls came in. All sought clarification of Phu Thone’s abrupt decision to leave town. Phan Wan handled them masterfully. She also sent home the yard workers, kitchen staff, and day-servants because of the indisposition of the master. None questioned her authority; she had given similar instructions many times before. She explained that Phu Thone used the same reason to assure privacy whenever he desired clandestine meetings with various dubious characters or cautious government officials with whom he had nefarious dealings.

Willow or I listened in on an extension each time the phone rang. One caller spoke French so precisely that I was certain the inquiry came from the French Embassy. Two calls brought no response when Phan Wan answered the phone. There was silence on the other end. These intrigued me. Martin, I thought, calling to find out if Phu Thone’s home had been closed down. The second test call lasted longer. I could picture Martin, possibly recognizing Phan Wan’s voice, being tempted to speak up. The caller was on the phone long enough for me to identify street traffic noises in the background. The call was originating from a curbside public telephone booth.

Following that late afternoon call, I was more convinced than ever that the evening would bring some interesting developments.

The night air turned stagnant, warm and humid. The sky was partly overcast. When it became dark, I had Phan Wan turn on the normal amount of house lighting. As soon as possible, without appearing too obvious, I had them turned off again. I placed myself in a darkened upstairs front bedroom. From its window, almost half of the protective wall around the villa was in sight. Willow covered the back. Phan Wan watched with her. Bu Chen took up a position in the foyer behind the front door. Upon my signal Willow extinguished the lights in the master suite.

A deep silence fell upon the house.

My eyes might have been playing tricks on me. I thought I saw movement along the top of the wall. Only for a moment, then it was gone. I strained my eyes. A break in the clouds let a sliver of moonlight fall across the lawn. I saw a shadow cross it.

I left my second floor observation post. I positioned myself well back in the large living room, but where I could still see out through the freshly-cleaned panes of the double french doors. A new square of glass replaced the one I had broken to make my entry. The stealthy, hunched-over figure moved rapidly — a shadow in shadows. A glint of moonlight shined on the weapon it carried. It was a nine-shot Soviet Lekoyev machine pistol fitted with a silencer.

The next minute was going to be a crucial one. I knew how spring-tight Martin must be. He was geared to instant, intuitive action. If I moved too soon, I could lose him. Too late and he’d sieve me without a second thought. He was cautious, but wasted no time. Finding the doors locked, he applied strips of adhesive to one edge of a window pane, then ran a glass cutter around the other three sides. The pane swung in like a hinged door when he thrust his hand through the frame to reach the locked latch.

That’s when I moved.

With one of his hands stuck through the window frame groping for the lock and the other hanging onto the machine pistol, he was hampered by his awkward stance. He was as vulnerable as he was going to get. I grabbed the wrist of his outstretched hand and jerked forward. He and the door lurched toward me, the hand grasping the deadly weapon flying outward in a counter motion. I kicked out at his gun-carrying arm. The Soviet machine pistol went flying.

“General Martin,” I shouted in his ear. “Don’t fight me. I’m a friend. Sent by General Jarrett and the president. Martin! Do you understand?”

The struggling intruder was snarling and fighting both me and the door against which I held him fast. With his shoulder and head pulled painfully tight against the door frame, his feet couldn’t find purchase. I almost dragged his arm out of its socket as I held him firmly in place. I kept talking. “I’m Nick Carter from Washington. I work for AXE. I’m only trying to help.”

It must have been my midwestern accent more than my grunted words that finally registered. Martin knew it was useless to struggle. I had the upper hand. A half twist with my double-handed grip would dislocate his shoulder.

“All right. All right!” he gasped.

I didn’t let go. I eased off the pressure slightly, testing. I continued to talk, saying everything I thought would be convincing. “I traced you to Gloria Grimes. Sergeant Layton met me at Dulles airport. I know how Colonel Jeleff helped you. Phan Wan is here.”

I should have mentioned her name first. Martin ceased any resistance. I released his arm. He drew it back through the windowpane frame slowly.

I drew back, taking out Wilhelmina as I did so. “Please come inside, General Martin,” I invited.

He stepped into the room. He stood erect, massaging his shoulder. “I will listen to what you have to say,” he intoned in a deep, impressive voice. It was clear that he was making no promises. He was conceding to a truce, no final surrender. He eyed the gun in my hand.

“I must tell you, General Martin, that my instructions are to bring a halt to your current activities. I will not hesitate to use this weapon if you give me cause.”

“I’m sure you will, Mr. Carter. I’m quite aware of your reputation.” He used thumb and forefinger to draw a combat knife from its sheath and slid it across the floor toward me. “I am disarmed. May I see Phan Wan now.”

Someone turned on a lamp behind me. It illuminated Martin. His angular features were indistinguishable behind the black shoe polish smeared over them. His dark-dyed hair was mostly covered by a black beret. He wore stretch pants tucked into combat boots. A black, turtleneck, long-sleeved pullover fit tightly to his broad chest.

His bright eyes were questioning as they saw my shadowed features. I grinned. “My camouflage is more expert than yours, General. Under this theatrical makeup you’ll find a honest-to-God American citizen.”

He looked over my shoulder. “She’s not Phan Wan,” he said. I knew it was Willow standing behind me.

“Miss Willow Kane,” I said by way of introduction. “My colleague on this assignment.”

“Phan Wan and I came down the back stairs,” Willow’s voice said. “I told her to wait in the kitchen.”

“She’ll show you the way, General,” I waved him into motion using Wilhelmina as a magic wand. I stopped to pick up Martin’s discarded knife. When half-bent over I heard shouts and shrieks coming from the cellar. Willow called out Phan Wan’s name and broke into a run. Martin crowded her heels. I rammed past both of them, pushed a confused, indecisive Bu Chen aside, and plunged pell-mell down the cellar stairs.

Seventeen

I came upon a grisly, bizarre scene.

Phan Wan was kneeling in a pool of blood. She was jabbing a double-edged Malayan kris repeatedly into the groin of Nho Phu Thone whose bloody, mutilated head hung down, his glassy, staring eyes contemplating his dagger-punctured chest and stomach. The slim Vietnamese girl was alternately shouting and sobbing incoherently, slashing mechanically at the gory crotch between the huge man’s fat thighs. She was crimson-spattered from head to foot and totally withdrawn from conscious awareness of what she was doing.

The three tied-up bodyguards were babbling excitedly; it had been their shouts we had first heard. Martin let out a low moan and went to Phan Wan. I held out my hand to block Willow’s move toward Phan Wan. “Let him handle it,” I said.

There was no point in demanding an explanation how this could have happened. Willow was no more to blame than myself. The worst part was that it introduced another complication I didn’t need.

Willow was visibly shaken. Her hands were trembling. I couldn’t afford to have her fall apart on me now. The best therapy was to have her do something to take her mind off the gruesome sight. “Come upstairs,” I barked, pulling on her arm. “We’ve got lots to do.”

I put her to work making coffee to help calm her down. “Washington has to be advised of our situation,” I said. “Hawk’s last message indicated that French diplomatic communications channels from their embassy here have been cleared for our use. I’d prefer to make the report myself, but under the circumstances, you’ve got to do it. I’m going to have to stick to Martin like a barnacle. It’s anyone’s guess what he’ll do now, that Phan Wan’s got herself and us in big trouble. He might try something very foolish and irrational. We can’t let that happen.”

Willow’s levelheadedness returned. “I realize what we’re up against, and I agree with you. Anything special you want transmitted?”

“Yes, let Hawk know that he should lose no time in activating the recovery mechanism. Try to get rendezvous specifics before you come back. In any event, telephone here if you’re going to be delayed any length of time. And impress Hawk that we’re hotter than a runaway nuclear reactor. He’s got to move fast.” When I let her out the door, I leaned forward and kissed her. “Thanks, Nick, that helps a lot,” she said seriously.

Bu Chen was in the upstairs hallway standing outside Phan Wan’s bedroom. Martin was inside. “Big as he is,” said Bu Chen when I reached his side, “I somehow thought Martin would be larger. Guess that’s the way it is with heroes. But look at him. You wouldn’t think he had a soft side.”

Phan Wan, pale and exhausted, lay quietly in the double bed. Martin sat on its edge, holding one of her hands in both of his. He was talking to her in low, private tones, his words unheard from where I stood. He glanced over his broad shoulder when he heard Bu Chen speak to me. The white holes in his shoe-black mask contained sad, red-rimmed eyes.

I walked into the room. “If she sleeps, she’ll be all right,” I said. “I hope so. The only sedative we’ve got are some morphine syrettes, but I wouldn’t recommend any. She seems fairly calm now, thanks to you. Stay with her.”

“What comes next?” Martin asked.

“Nothing. Not for a while. As soon as I get word, I’ll let you know.”

He placed Phan Wan’s hand under the blanket that covered her and stood up. He measured me, then shook his head. “You don’t really think you’re going to get out of here, do you? Even I realize I’ve been more lucky than smart so far. It can’t last.”

“We’re all going to get out,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “I’ll know how in a short while. I hope you don’t plan on doing anything foolish in the meantime,” I said with a warning tone.

“I could use something to eat,” he admitted. He jerked his head sideways, struck by a sudden thought. “My bicycle! It’s still out there in the ditch between the wall and the street. Someone could stumble over it. I forgot all about it.”

“Bring it in,” I said to Bu Chen. “Be careful, though.”

“Who’s he?” Martin asked after Bu Chen had gone.

I related more detail of the last few days’ events in which Bu Chen had played a part. The account continued on the way to the country-style kitchen. I took a bottle of beer out of the well-supplied refrigerator. Martin helped himself to everything edible on the storage shelves and wolfed it down. He admitted he had been on lean rations for the past two days. Other than that, he kept silent about his amazing activities during the period. I saw no point in pressing him.

Confident that Martin was emotionally and physically drained to the point where he would make no overt moves, I left him. While on the veranda retrieving the automatic weapon I had kicked out of his hand, I peered across the broad lawn toward the front gate.

Clearing skies admitted more moonlight. One of the driveway gates was ajar. To me that meant Bu Chen had gone into the street to locate and bring in Martin’s bicycle. It shouldn’t have taken him this long.

I bent my head, turning to identify the faint street sounds that a slight breeze brought in my direction. The undertones I heard became sharp, gruff voices. I didn’t like what I was hearing. My legs pistoned me across the grass to the shelter of the thick wall. From the other side I heard an angry-sounding debate. Bu Chen’s identifiable voice was pleading and high-pitched.

I moved along the wall to where I could climb up on a garden tool storage bin. By standing on tiptoe, I could see over the wall into the street below. I looked down on a canvas tarpaulin spread over the bows of a military truck. At its back end, two argumentative soldiers, their rifles unslung, were holding Bu Chen at bay while a third loaded a bicycle into the rear of the truck. Bu Chen was forced to follow.

Tough as the little Vietnamese might be, Bu Chen was no match for what he was about to face. He knew what was in store for him: agonizing torture was inherent in North Vietnamese interrogations of suspicious South Vietnamese. Bu Chen might hold out for two, four hours... half the night, but no longer. For a brief moment I had the Lekoyev’s sights trained on the departing army vehicle. It was an easy target and I was sure I would leave no one in the truck alive to tell tales even though it meant sacrificing Bu Chen. As my forefinger tightened within the trigger guard, reason took over. My hasty action would create a mess in the road and buy no more time than I could expect from Bu Chen’s temporary resistance.

I loped back to the villa. Martin stopped chewing, his mouth full, while I blurted out the bad news. The only reaction I saw in his set face was a hardening of his eyes. He was a cool one, all right, and that’s exactly the kind of person who could help me most. He might have been thinking of Phan Wan when he asked: “How long can we stay here?”

Before I could answer, the telephone rang. It couldn’t be Willow, not so soon. It rang again. The peal of the bell in the front entryway carried through the butler’s pantry into the kitchen. On the other hand, I thought, it could be Willow calling from a phone booth enroute to the French Embassy. It rang a third time. I ran to the phone. With my hand only inches from picking up the receiver, I pulled back. I couldn’t pass myself off as a house servant who spoke French. I doubted if any were fluent in any language but their native tongue.

The fourth shrill ring drove me upstairs to Phan Wan. She was no longer in the bed. She was picking up the telephone in the master bedroom suite as it rang a fifth time.

Martin crowded against me in the doorway. We could only guess about the conversation, but from the worried expression on Phan Wan’s face, she was having difficulty being convincing in whatever she was saying to the caller. There was terror in her eyes when she hung up. I was afraid she was going to retreat behind a wall of silence. Martin pushed past me to get to her. Without him, I would never have learned what the call was about.

“I didn’t know,” she sobbed. Her eyes were flooded with tears. “That was Colonel Ho Lin Tsai wanting to talk to Phu Thone on a very urgent matter that was to be settled by midnight tonight. It involves much money that Phu Thone pays for being left alone. Colonel Tsai is Chief of Regional Security, like secret police. He knew I was lying when I told him Phu Thone could not come to the phone. Phu Thone never refuses. He threatens to come immediately to find what is wrong. I am sure that one of the gardeners in his pay reported that I sent them away today. He insists that Phu Thone be ready to receive him when he arrives. He’s going to — find — you know—”

Martin patted her shoulder and pulled her head down on his. He looked up at me sideways. “It’s time we pulled out,” he said. It was stronger than a suggestion. I agreed with him, but I didn’t think the frying pan was quite warm enough. I looked at my watch. Ten minutes before midnight and enough elapsed time for Willow to be showing up. That she had not yet called reinforced my feeling that she would soon return.

I couldn’t abandon her. She would face certain death if we vacated the villa and let her walk into the arms of Colonel Lin Tsai. The clinching argument was that she would bring back vital instructions from Hawk who was too wise and too suspicious to pass them more than once. He’d been stung before when he’d repeated an agent withdrawal plan to an unfriendly foreign power which had wrested the code key from a captured AXE agent minutes before he succumbed under an overdose of highly-effective and lethal truth drugs. AXE not only lost a key agent, but also twelve members of the highly trained extraction team. If anyone was going to have a nit of a chance to clear Hanoi, Willow had to tell us how.

Martin understood the drill. “Whatever you say, Carter. Only you’ve got to understand Phan Wan goes too.”

That would narrow our chances. The odds never were in our favor. Each additional person reduced success by twenty-five percent. Phan Wan was not cut out for this kind of action. Adding in her trauma and instability, she was a definite negative factor.

Martin must have heard the wheels meshing in my head. He came to my side. Keeping his eyes locked solidly to mine with the hard glint of defiance in them, he reached down and relieved me of the machine pistol I still held. I resisted only a moment, then let go. He stood erect. A brief smile crossed his face. “All right, Carter. We’re ready. I’ll do it your way. I mean that. In a deal like this you can’t have shared leadership. You take charge.”

I slung the pack containing our thinned-out survival gear over my shoulder. “It’ll be your job to see that Phan Wan keeps up,” I said, turning away. “We’ve got to move fast.”

I didn’t bother to look back. When I reached the iron gates at the end of the gravel drive, Martin — dragging Phan Wan at arm’s length — was only two steps behind me.

The residential street was empty, but the sound of at least two approaching vehicles echoed down the wall-lined lane. I remembered details of the area from reconnoitering the street when I first scouted the layout of Phu Thone’s estate. “Follow the ditch to the end of the block,” I said rapidly. “Around the corner there’s a concrete culvert. The opening is screened by high weeds. You should be safe if you hole up there. With any luck Willow will return before anyone comes around to investigate. You keep an eye on this road for her, though it’s not likely she’ll come this way. If I—” I corrected myself. “If someone doesn’t come for you in half an hour, it’s up to you to decide to stay longer — or whatever.”

Martin understood my meaning. He nodded, then bustled Phan Wan off down the quiet street.

I trotted in the opposite direction, coming to an intersection after a dozen steps. I turned that corner and hurried to the middle of the block. This was the street Willow would use to return to Phu Thone’s villa. I huddled in a shallow depression next to a rough stucco-finished wall.

Colonel Lin Tsai’s troops arrived first. They swarmed out of two heavy trucks. Without hesitating, they forced the driveway gates to get inside. Room lights come on throughout the huge house. Then the shouting began.

I was so intent on watching what was happening at the corner that Willow almost got by me. I pivoted my head to focus on a shadowy movement in mid-road and saw it was Willow. She had come up noiselessly. When I called out her name, she stopped dead in her tracks.

She didn’t ask me to explain what had brought on the raid by military troops. I ran along beside her as she rode away from the upheaval going on. “Where are the others?” she asked.

I didn’t gloss over the facts. Willow gave an unladylike curse when she heard of the capture of Bu Chen. I explained how we were now circling the block to join up with Martin and Phan Wan. As I jogged along, I asked: “You had no trouble making contact?”

“I’ve got information you wouldn’t believe. The president went Navy on me and flashed a ‘Well Done,’ but Hawk reserves comment until your feet are firmly planted on U.S. soil.”

“You’ve also got a cloth satchel hung over the handlebars of your bike that you didn’t have before,” I said in a suggestive tone.

“It was waiting for me at the French Embassy. The young man who supplied it said he was well paid to get it together. It’s a gift from AXE and contains some hardware Hawk felt we might need.”

“Hold it!” I said, drawing Willow and her bicycle to one side. A motorcycle roared past, a helmeted rider in uniform astride it. Another followed. The walls paralleling the street trapped and amplified the deafening noise of their engines.

The street in front of Phu Thone’s estate was filling with vehicles. Flashing red lights blinked atop ambulances. Clanging fire truck bells added to the racket.

“From here it looks like this is going to develop into a Keystone cops exercise,” I said. “We can’t go near Martin and Phan Wan now. So we’ll lay low. Martin can handle himself. I just hope Phan Wan doesn’t panic.”

“She won’t,” speculated Willow. “Not with Martin beside her to give her strength.”

“You’re an incurable romantic,” I snorted.

We came upon an alley barely discernible in the thin moonlight. Halfway down it, a cat darted away from us, spitting and snarling as it scampered into the shadows. I relieved Willow of the bicycle and leaned it up against a weather-beaten wooden fence. I drew her down to sit with our backs against the rough boards. “What was Hawk’s bottom line?”

“Naturally, he was pleased to know that you had Martin in tow.”

“Naturally.”

“He warned that Martin will have to be watched very carefully.”

“He’s told me that before.”

“Yes, but some new data has been unearthed on our wayward VIP. An on-going crash program involving psychiatrists, ex-POWs who shared confinement with Martin, and others who knew him well, has produced a new profile on Martin. The upshot is fairly well-documented revelations that Martin, besides being interrogated repeatedly, may have been subjected to more than the ordinary brainwashing techniques.”

“Meaning what?” I was getting impatient.

“Well, there were periods when Martin was taken out of the regular camp and placed in the custody of a radical, politically-motivated North Vietnamese faction that had access to prison camps. They were aware of Martin’s brave disregard for danger and ability as a killer. The new evidence turned up strongly suggests that his power-seeking group in Hanoi could have subjected Martin to intense mind-bending pressures that included deep post-hypnotic suggestion. It’s believed they programmed Martin to kill certain North Vietnamese government officials if he should escape from the prisoner-of-war compound.”

“That sounds weird,” I rapped.

“Hawk thought so, too, until he dug deeper and found strong documentation. Martin did make an unusual number of attempts to escape. Some were coordinated with the escape committee, but there were others apparently engineered and aided from the outside. None were totally successful. This seemed to build up frustration and make Martin more determined to try again. The whole process seemed designed to imbue Martin with a burning obsession. The odd thing is that each time Martin was recaptured, he was not shot as he could have been, nor even given extra punishment.”

“That’s wild,” I said. “If it happened, one would think Martin was being primed to have an uncommon drive to carry out implanted instructions while feeling he was invincible and should suffer no punishment for his actions.”

“Something like that.”

“He seems perfectly normal... not like he’s in a trance. Hawk really believes Martin isn’t responsible for his actions?”

“No mention was made of that. They want him back, though. You can understand how anxious they are to delve into Martin’s psyche.”

“Or court-martial him,” I added.

“Neither will happen unless we get a move on. The recovery unit held on alert has now received action orders. Hawk specified it is to be a Lily Pad pickup with the bubble at sixty feet. The starting gate is Haiphong. East sector bearing one-thirty-five. I had to repeat it and wait for a confirmation, which is why I didn’t get here sooner. Does it make sense to you?”

“It certainly does though I’m not pleased with the prospects of having to get to Haiphong. What’s the time frame?”

“On station for two, two hour periods spaced twenty-four hours apart beginning tomorrow night at 0310 hours local time.”

“We can make that,” I said after figuring how long it would take to cover the fifty or so miles between Hanoi and Haiphong under the adverse circumstances we faced. “We’ll start as soon as the hubbub back at the villa fades away so we can collect Martin and Phan Wan.”

“We can’t leave tonight,” Willow said softly.

My rebuttal was halfway up my throat when red lights started flashing in my brain. I pursed my lips to hold back an explosive outburst. I tried to be calm. “Why not? What sort of tightrope has Hawk strung up for me to walk?”

“A unique opportunity never presented before or apt to happen again — those were the words the president used — exists because we are where we are. You know that all efforts to get a full and complete accounting of American POWs from the North Vietnamese has never been successful. It’s a painful post-war issue, both politically and emotionally. Some believe the North Vietnamese are playing blackmail with this issue in order to force the United States to grant billions in war reparations. There are hundreds of MIA wives and families agonizing over the fate of their loved ones. The few times the Hanoi government releases piecemeal information or turns over a few bodies, hopes run high again.”

“In a war that goes on for years, you can expect to end up with some permanently missing dead,” I injected.

“I know, but some of the nearly one thousand missing men yet to be accounted for were known to be alive when captured. Some were photographed safe in prison camps, yet never returned.”

“Does the president want us to bring someone back in addition to Keith Martin?” It was possible.

“No. But the records of American POWs, and quite possibly an account of the MIAs, are on file right here in Hanoi. You’re to bring them back.” Excitement shaded her voice.

I didn’t get churned up with the idea, but if some dissatisfied Commie government employee was enterprising enough to make photostat copies of official records and offer to sell them to the United States, the least I could do was smuggle them out. “How do we go about picking up the package?” I sighed wearily.

Willow unfastened her peasant coat. She reached down between her lovely breasts and drew out a packet of folded papers. My eyes lit up. “You already have the lists?” I said admiringly.

“No. These are building plans. I don’t have a photographic mind like you, Nick. I had to bring them.”

I unfolded the papers. There were four sheets. Despite the feeble moonlight, I saw that three were architectural drawings. The top two were renderings of floor plans of a large building. Underneath them was a schematic of electrical circuits. The last, a long teletype message, gave detailed instructions on how the hardware in the satchel given to Willow was to be used in conjunction with the other three.

“No!” I blurted out as I realized what Hawk meant for me to do. “What does he think I am... some superhuman comic book character?”

My agonizing growl of protest was drowned by a passing ambulance’s wailing siren. The flashing red roof light laid a crimson screen over Willow’s grave face. “Just think what it would mean, Nick. If all America knew... once and for all—”

“You can stop waving the flag,” I muttered. I folded the plans together and tucked them inside my jacket. “A second-story job in one place can’t be any tougher than in another. There are a couple of things I don’t like about this. There’s not enough time to plan it properly, and I can’t possibly do it alone.”

“I’m here, Nick,” Willow said assuredly.

I looked down into her large brown eyes. “I could use two like you.” I meant it, “Guess I’ll have to settle for the next best thing. Let’s go collect Martin and Phan Wan so we can get this sneak thief operation underway.”

Eighteen

I got to my feet. “Take the satchel, leave the bike,” I advised Willow. With her trailing me, I moved quickly along the alley to the street where I had left Martin and Phan Wan.

The noises of the commotion in front of Phu Thone’s driveway gate seemed to have shifted in our direction. I thrust my head out of the alleyway and looked toward the corner where the buried culvert lay. At first glance, I thought the two figures standing near the open end of drainage tile were Martin and Phan Wan. When they were joined by two others bearing rifles, I knew their hiding place had been found by soldiers.

Shouts went up from the foursome as two bent down and shined flashlight beams into the tunnel.

From across the street where the pipe ended, a rapid drumming of muffled gunshots pierced the night. Martin was blazing away with distracting, covering fire. The upright soldiers dropped out of sight in the weeds of the ditch. At the same time they unloaded repeated volleys of shots into the culvert. The entrapped bullets screamed and whined as they ricochetted through the cylindrical pipe like a swarm of angry wasps.

Phan Wan didn’t appear at the opposite end next to Martin.

The firing stopped abruptly. Martin was down on his knees next to the opening of the spillway. I heard his mournful wail clearly. He reared up again. A single shot from a soldier crossing the street spun him around. He staggered a few steps and dropped to his knees again. Uniformed figures dashed over and huddled around him.

“Good God!” breathed Willow. “Do you suppose—?”

I didn’t have to guess. I pushed Willow back into the alley. Headlights of a vehicle reaching the scene illuminated the clutch of soldiers crowding around Martin. He was dragged to his wobbly feet. His right hand was gripping his left shoulder. Blood trickled through his fingers.

An arriving truck blocked my view for a moment. When it pulled clear of the intersection and stopped, I saw Martin being prodded toward its rear. Without conscious movement on my part, Wilhelmina suddenly was locked in my outstretched hands. Its barrel was lined up to put a bullet between Martin’s eyes as soon as his head became an unobstructed target. I couldn’t miss at this range. I took up the slack in the trigger pull.

What a hell of a way for all this to end, I thought.

So damn close, then this.

I was so intent on finishing off Martin that Willow’s presence beside me went unnoticed until she let out a trembling sob. I was tracking what I could see of Martin’s head, waiting for a clear shot while he was being hoisted into the rear of the truck. I never got one. Soldiers aboard the truck forced him to lay flat on his face. He was shielded from me by the raised tailgate. I lowered my pistol.

Willow leaned heavily against me, blinking back tears. We watched callous soldiers heave the bloody, rag-doll body of Phan Wan into the truck on top of Martin. The driver began honking his horn wildly as he drove away.

Willow had difficulty controlling her emotions. She bore up well, curbing her grief by replacing it with resolution. There’s nothing like a threat to one’s own survival to put aside concern for another’s misfortune. Her rejection of the impact of tragedy bouyed my lagging spirits.

I faced a whole new ball game. There was little chance that I could comply with Hawk’s latest demand. Self-preservation was the key issue of the moment. Discovery was imminent. It would be only a matter of minutes before the entire neighborhood would be scoured. Immediate retreat was the only course of action left.

Willow and I faded into the shadows. Then we began the nerve-racking flight back to the spot that offered any degree of protection — the abandoned construction site.

Reaching it was a nightmare — a seemingly endless hide-and-seek journey that left us bone-weary but still keyed up.

Safe once more in the building foreman’s small shack, I motioned for Willow to use the folded tarpaulin for a bed. “You’ve got to get some rest. You’re worn out.” She was. Her eyes showed fatigue to the point of dull, overall pain. “I want you to be especially alert tomorrow.” Now I was lying. If there was going to be a tomorrow, I figured it would be our last.

“What about you, Nick?”

“I’m going to take a hard look at these building plans.”

“You can’t be thinking—”

“I’m not sure what I think,” I interrupted. “The odds are stacked against one man. Even with two of us, it’s suicide. I’ve just about decided that the smart thing to do is pass it up. Getting caught isn’t the worst part of failing in this case. Getting caught would tip off the North Vietnamese that our government knows where those POW/MIA files are located. Once they know that, the files would disappear again... maybe even be destroyed. I’d say that this is the time to leave well enough alone. Especially with the trouble that’s going to erupt when these hometown monkeys discover they’ve nabbed General Keith Martin, the president’s fair-haired lad. He’s probably been taken off to—” I stopped. There was nothing to be gained by speculating on Martin’s fate.

“You know,” said Willow, showing interest, “I’ll bet we could find out.”

I paid no attention.

“Did you hear me, Nick? I don’t care how tight things are kept in this godforsaken country, they can’t hold the lid on something as exciting as the capture of the mystery killer... especially when he turns out to be a foreigner.”

I heard her that time. “Do you expect to see it on the front page of the morning paper? No way! Not until they’re ready to milk it for every drop of propaganda.”

“You’re not thinking, Nick. Not newspapers. Intelligence. And we’ve got a direct line into it. Right here.” She went to the telephone over which we had conversed with Phan Wan. “The French Embassy. They’ve got a low-grade listening network here that is onto everything. The young man who is acting as liaison between Paris and Washington for us was attentive and talkative with me. I made note of the number, just in case. How about it?”

She deserved another gold star, but I was leery. “The embassy phone is bound to be tapped,” I said.

“I suppose so. So you forget it, or talk in circles and innuendoes to confuse the eavesdroppers. We’re in this so damned deep now, Nick, we haven’t got any way to go but up. How will we know if we don’t try? I’ll be off the line before a trace can be completed.”

“You might as well give it a try.”

Willow made two calls, ten minutes apart. After the first one she was bubbling with elation. “I told you they couldn’t keep it a secret. Maurice already has preliminary frag reports on Phu Thone being killed. He’s sent that on to Washington, so Hawk knows too. And the follow-up that a man and a woman were captured nearby. Bad news travels fast. Maurice was afraid I might have been the girl who was shot to death. And you guessed right, Nick. Martin wasn’t taken to jail or police headquarters. He’s in the custody of the military somewhere. Maurice is going to put apriority call out to the street grapevine. In an hour he’ll know as much as the Premier does.”

The second conversation Willow had with Maurice at the French Embassy was shorter. It contained specifics. Because of his wound, Martin had been taken to an isolated infirmary under control of the army. Maurice’s sources could not pinpoint its location or give an address. Martin would recognize it, however. It was part of an old, fenced-in prison compound where battle-wounded American prisoners were treated so Martin must have been there once. All Maurice could say was that the camp was in the process of being demolished to provide space for post-war construction. Maurice used that bit of news to support his contention that Martin’s identity had been discovered. It was an ironic possibility.

I didn’t hear that observation until later. Willow had to follow me out of the shack in order to tell me all she had heard. The moment she mentioned an abandoned military compound, I guessed the infamous camp infirmary was part of the group of barracks being dismantled in the nearby park.

I walked the ten yards to the base of the bamboo scaffolding surrounding the girder skeleton of the building under construction. I shinnied up to the second tier to get a good view. The sleeping city was bathed in the hush of very early morning. My watch said two o’clock.

I balanced precariously on a breeze-buffeted girder. It provided an excellent panorama of the wartime buildings being razed. Lights were on in one of them. It was situated on an outer row not more than one hundred yards from my perch. A truck similar to the one that had carted Martin away was parked alongside.

My tiredness was forgotten. I slid down the humidity-dampened bamboo poles to the ground.

Willow was waiting for me. “Can you tell if that’s the place?”

“It fits. If he’s there, he’s not well guarded. It looks like a temporary setup until whoever is in charge decides what to do with him. I’ve got to get a closer look.”

I laid out a simple plan. We went over the fence and crossed the street like shadows. Willow trailed me by ten yards. I kept looking back at her. She neither waved nor whistled. Either signal would be a warning.

From a distance I couldn’t see anything revealing through the grimy windows. A dark shape would move within the lighted interior now and again, but I could tell how many occupants there were. The building was an infirmary, all right. The inside walls were white for one thing. A faded caduceus was painted on a plaque nailed next to a closed double door reached by a wooden ramp and loading platform. The truck I’d seen from my lofty perch was parked in front of it.

I jogged up to it, avoiding stubs of concrete pilings which marked the footings of adjacent buildings now removed. The last ten feet were covered by a headlong dive. My roll carried me under the vehicle. I belly-crawled under the rear axle and stood up just beyond the tailgate. I pulled myself up into the back of the truck. I was on my hands and knees. One hand rested in a thick, glutinous substance. I held it up so what little light there was could fall on it. The smear was tacky to the touch and a dull reddish color. That’s all I needed to know that this truck had been used to carry away the wounded Martin and the blood-dripping body of Phan Wan.

A door slammed close by. Voices — two of them — came toward the truck. I dropped flat on the bed of the truck, facing the tailgate. Wilhelmina was in my hand, the safety off.

The two men got into the cab from opposite sides. The driver cranked up the engine. Headlights came on, reflecting off the building’s sides. I’d surely be seen if I jumped out and ran.

The truck was moving, backing up. I looked over the tailgate and directly into the window of the infirmary. It was one large room with no partitions. I could see most of the interior. At the far end, two Vietnamese army officers were engaged in conversation. They stood near the only inside wall. A solid wood partition jutted out from the far side of the building to a point halfway into the main room. The fourth side of the corner alcove was open with what looked like cement-reinforcing mesh bolted to thick studs. Behind the thick wire lattice sat Keith Martin, strapped to a heavy wooden chair. Powerful, blinding lights inside the cage were focused on his face. The preliminary interrogation had begun.

The truck drew away. My glimpse into the building was brief, but enough to tell me that freeing Martin would be no easy matter. I had seen three armed enlisted men in addition to the officers in charge.

At the first opportunity before the truck picked up too much speed, I bailed out. I struck the ground, lost my footing and somersaulted. I got up, massaging one elbow.

Willow answered my low-pitched whistle with one of her own. We huddled together in the darkness beside a pile of rubble. “I saw him. He looks all right. They’ve got him penned up in a cell that needs more than a can opener to break open. Two officers and at least three soldiers are guarding him. We could clean out the troops, but we’d need something like a burning bar or three pounds of plastique to open up that corner room.”

“Any sign of Bu Chen?”

“No.” It took a moment for me to see her point. “No, I’m sure no connection between Bu Chen and Martin has been made. Until someone learns that Bu Chen was picked up only a short distance from where Martin was captured, he’ll probably be held for borrowing a bicycle. That rascal just might sweet talk his way out of the fix he’s in.”

“I wish he were here,” lamented Willow. “He could round up what we need to pry Martin loose... something like a Sherman tank.”

“That’s it!” I beamed. “We’ve got it. Not a tank, but the next best thing.” I grabbed her hand and pulled her up. “Come on! We’re going to get ourselves a battle wagon.”

Willow held the penlight while I hot-wired the ignition. The big diesel powering the bulldozer caught and roared. We surged forward, cleated tracks biting into the ground. The lurching machine was tested in the first fifteen yards. At that point it flattened a twenty foot span of the construction site fence.

Twenty yards from the end of the infirmary building, I brought the mechanical beast to a halt. I set the blade and lined it up with the corner of the building. I showed Willow how to get it in motion and told her to watch for my signal.

I ran forward and around to the far side of the building. Willow responded to the turned-on beam of my flashlight. The bulldozer started forward — straight on target.

I raced half the length of the building and jumped up onto the loading platform. I listened. The sound of the bulldozer was plain. It would become attention-getting louder in moments. After the count of five, I eased open on the door in front of me enough for one eye to see inside. One of the officers, catercornered from my position, was peering out of a window. The second officer joined him, looking over his shoulder.

The three enlisted men, posted about the large, open room, began to fidget. The approaching rumble drew their undivided attention. The sharp edge of the bulldozer blade was no more than ten yards from the building corner now.

One enlisted man made a dash for the window next to the one the two officers were using. The other two soldiers raced over to gaze out as well.

I stepped into the room armed with Pierre. I rolled the tiny gas bomb mid-way between the two clusters of bewildered observers. Then I jumped back as the air became asphyxiating.

I got halfway to the rear end of the building before an explosion sounded. Windows shattered and the side walls buckled and puffed out. Spurts of gray smoke spewed out of empty window casings. The whole building shifted on its concrete footings. The bulldozer had reached its goal.

I reached the corner just as the structure was being sheared away. I saw a figure leave the operator’s cab. Willow hit the ground, lighting with the grace of a ballet dancer. The mechanical giant thundered on.

As soon as it cleared the caved-in corner of the building, I scrambled over splintered, broken boards and twisted reinforcing mesh to reach Martin. His chair had toppled over. He was covered with dust. He was stunned but unhurt. He responded to his name while I set him upright and took off the binding straps. He let me guide him out through the torn-away corner to where Willow was waiting. The bulldozer was waddling on like a monstrous bug, clawing blindly on to a mindless destination.

By lifting Martin out of the proverbial frying pan, I had plunged all three of us into the fire. It wouldn’t take long to reconstruct what had happened. The prisoner had been rescued. The search for him and his accomplices would be immediate, intense, and widespread. There was no place to go. The smashed down fence protecting the construction site was like an arrow pointing to the foreman’s shack.

Willow seemed unconcerned. She drew Martin along, heading directly for our former haven. “There’s no point in going back there,” I objected.

“Trust me, Nick,” Willow replied. “First we’ve got to retrieve what we’ve left there and hang onto it. We’re going to be fine. There’s a trick I remember from Douglas Fairbanks, Sr.’s early movies. He was a master stuntman, you know.”

“We’re going to need more than some old-fashioned gymnastics backed by the right camera angle,” I protested.

“It will work because it plays on the basic character of humans. Man is a ground-oriented being. Most of their world exists at eye level or below. We’re going to use that trait to keep us secure.”

When Willow explained in detail, I went along. Her idea was wild, but better than any I had. In fact, it was the only out that gave us any chance at all.

I didn’t realize how hairy it would be, and afterward I wondered if I could have done it in daylight. For when daylight came, Willow, Martin and I were sixty feet in the air, invisible from the ground, and unreachable by any reasonable means.

We lay stretched out on the uppermost girders of the five story building skeleton. The flimsy bamboo scaffolding which would eventually surround and reach all levels of the structure had been erected only as far as the third floor when active work ceased. That left a terrifying gap of twenty unaccessible feet which could be spanned only by a bird, a cherry picker, a helicopter in flight, or a nerveless, determined acrobat with the skill of Willow. With expertise and sheer guts, she went hand-over-hand up the slimmest of ropes to the very top. Then working fearlessly on unsure, windy footing, she rigged a lift system that took Martin and me up the final treacherous height. Because of Willow, we had accomplished the impossible.

There was not much of the night left. Dawn came early. The morning was long. Search activities started at first light. The effort appeared to be erratic, over-manned, and disorganized. By noon the hubbub below had died down and shifted elsewhere. By noon our torture started. The air was humid, the sun unbearably warm. Our dark clothing captured both heat and moisture. We were miserable — hungry and thirsty — and suffering from deep fatigue. A pelting afternoon thunderstorm brought some relief, but with it came high winds. We hung onto our narrow supports like seamen clinging to a ship’s rigging in a heavy squall. We rode out of the storm and welcomed twilight that came soon after.

We waited until full darkness before descending. Then we went only as far as the uppermost platform. Willow left us after a short rest and returned shortly with water from the spigot near the foreman’s shed. Everything was quiet, she said while gulping down dried rations to revive her strength.

Refreshed and in slightly better spirits, I laid out the whole dismal situation to Martin. He listened and allowed Willow to examine his wound. The frown that grew on her face told me she didn’t like what she saw. The bullet had made an in-and-out wound, but it was not a clean one. Willow sprinkled on a powdered antibiotic then applied a field dressing over the inflamed area. Martin endured the mild discomfort without a sound. He was a man of steel.

Martin listened intently. He grasped our predicament, emphatically endorsed the idea of filching the MIA lists, accepted the attendant dangers offhandedly, and grew impatient to get on with the attempt.

Two hours later, it began.

Nineteen

My watch said ten minutes past midnight when we started up the rust-encrusted fire escape at the rear of the department store next to the government building. I could feel the perspiration breaking out on the back of my neck in the humidity of the warm night as we lugged our equipment up to the roof. With anyone less strong than Keith Martin for a pack-horse partner it would have taken more than one trip.

I paused for a breather on the roof. At that height a slight breeze was both noticeable and welcome. When I perspire, I have a tendency to itch. During the next few hours I expected to itch a good deal, and I didn’t mind postponing it momentarily.

Willow’s last check-in call to the French Embassy brought a rare, clear-text message from Hawk. It mentioned an upcoming rice crop failure. That indicated that something had gone off the rails. His guarded conversation translated into the fact that we had to undertake the effort without delay because what we were after inside the vault might not be there the next day.

It put a definite squeeze on a carefully timed plan. For one thing, we wouldn’t be able to get clear of the country immediately after we completed the job. The getaway arrangements set up by Hawk involved a lot of governmental red tape, and the system was too rigid to react to sudden changes. So now we were committed to play cat-and-mouse with Vietnamese police and alerted military forces for a day and a night until the prearranged transportation showed up. I didn’t like it, but there was nothing I could do about it.

The department store roof was high enough so I could see, against the blackness of the night, the carpet of glittering lights that defined the city. The air around us was heavy and the lights were screened by a thin layer of smog.

“What’s the hangup, Nick?” Martin demanded impatiently. He kept his voice down. Sounds travel well in the hushed tropical night.

“Nothing,” I said. “Let’s move over to the other roof.”

Martin scooped up the heavier of the two canvas bags and walked to the roof edge I had marked on our diagram. He made it look easy as he leaped across the intervening space to the next building. I picked up the other sack and set my teeth as I confronted the eight-foot gap with a litter-filled alley below. Heights don’t bother me, but with more than my own weight to take across the chasm, the distance I had to jump was a challenge. I backed off, took a run at it, and jumped without giving myself time to think.

I landed off balance, stumbled, then righted myself. The staff of the building left at eight o’clock each evening, leaving it vacant. Street and exterior guards patrolled the area, but none were stationed inside. There were several alarm systems scattered throughout the building, all of them sophisticated enough to insure that even a good technician would be almost sure to trigger an alarm at some point during his trespassing. The inside security measures were so sensitive and extensive that no personnel could be placed within the building during its closure.

When I first studied the wiring diagrams webbing the building, I thought we might have to import an expert to knock out the electronic devices. I also knew, with the uproar we had caused, such an attempt would be impossible. Even Hawk couldn’t get a gnat through the defenses that had been erected to search us out. When I examined the schematic further, I realized we could do without special help. The alarms were a handicap only if they kept us from getting into the vault and escaping afterward. The more I studied the circuits, the more sure I became that it was going to take more than flashing lights, TV cameras, or ringing bells to stop us.

The wiring diagrams of the security headquarters had been obtained only through the intervention and pressure by Hawk on some dirty tricks group back home who had obtained access to some contractor’s blueprint room. My guess was that the plans were drawn up either in Moscow or Peking. The burglarized sheets had been photofaxed over a scrambler line between Washington and the French Embassy here in Hanoi. It was these that I held. I hardly needed them for reference. I had them memorized down to the dimensions in the area we intended to infiltrate.

A door led down from the roof into the interior of the building. I checked it automatically, but it was locked as I expected. Close inspection disclosed tiny, silver wires of an alarm system. I turned to the small adjoining structure housing the mechanism for the building’s elevators. The blueprints indicated that it was neither locked nor bugged, and it represented the single major weakness I had found in the entire building’s security system.

Keith Martin crowded in behind me when I pried open the door gently and entered the small, shedlike structure. I turned to him. “Go back and get Willow. Now is when we’ll need her to protect our backs. We’ll post her right here as a lookout.”

While Martin was gone, I worked at the four screws holding down a plate fastened over the elevator shaft’s metal roof. The four rusty screws holding down the access panel finally yielded to the force of the long-shanked screwdriver I used. When Martin returned with Willow in tow, I had the inspection plate set aside. I flashed my penlight downward until its beam found the metal ladder leading into the shaft exactly where it was on the blueprint.

Three elevators rode side by side in the seven story shaft. All three were now parked at basement level. Examination of the wiring diagram had shown me that if any one of them were moved, an alarm would be set off. Similarly, if any of the elevator doors on each floor leading to the shaft were opened, the result would be the same. To avoid setting off an alarm, we had to confine our activities to the shaft itself.

This presented no obstacle. The construction plans revealed that the back wall of the elevator shaft at the reinforced basement level was also the rear wall of the documents vault. It could never happen in the U.S., but evidently the Vietnamese were more casual about that sort of thing. It meant we wouldn’t have to leave the elevator shaft until we were ready to enter the vault.

I hadn’t explained any of this to Martin. Sometimes a deviation from set plans is required in an emergency, and if a participant recognizes the deviation but not the emergency, nervousness results. Despite Keith Martin’s reputation for cool-headedness in tight situations, I hadn’t seen enough of it demonstrated to trust him completely. Which is why I insisted that I be in charge. Martin didn’t like a subordinate role; it was against his nature. But he had the sense to agree.

The task of moving all of our equipment down the long shaft and depositing it on top of the center elevator cab was a lot more work than just getting it on the roof. Martin served as chief loadbearer again. I followed him down the narrow steel ladder after giving Willow some final instructions and then replacing the removed inspection panel back above my head. Standing on the ladder, I fastened it from below with a single metal screw.

We were sealed inside the elevator shaft now until the job was done. Or until something went wrong.

Martin stared at me expectantly when we were standing together on the top of the elevator that operated adjacent to the back wall of the vault. “What happens now?” he wanted to know. His voice echoed hollowly in the shaft.

“We go to work,” I informed him.

Elevators always have an emergency door in their roofs. I raised the door, wriggled through the opening, and dropped down inside. Using the penlight again, I found the car’s control panel and turned on the overhead light. Martin handed our two equipment bags down to me then dropped himself by my side. “Shall I close the door in the top of the elevator?” he asked in a half-whisper.

“No,” I replied in a normal tone. “We’ll need the ventilation.” Martin was going to stand a lot more noise before he heard less.

I unloaded our canvas sacks and spread their contents in a semicircle on the floor of the cab. I picked up a magnetized screwdriver and removed the screws from one of the three-by-seven-foot metal panels making up the back of the car. I lifted it out of the way, thereby exposing the reinforced concrete wall of the vault just a foot away. It was a thick wall, also serving as a part of the building foundation.

Next I cut the heads from the screws I’d taken from the panel and glued them back in place on the face of the panel with quick-drying epoxy cement. Martin watched me with a puzzled look.

I reached up and removed the light bulb in the roof of the car. Martin held my penlight so I could see what I was doing while I installed a two-socket fixture. I returned the bulb to one socket and placed a female plug in the other. Now that I had both light and a power source, I plugged in the masonry drill and attacked the wall of the vault.

The concrete was fourteen inches thick, but the drill chewed through it like a run in a cheap pair of pantyhose. I soon had the walk honeycombed with holes. Martin watched intently. “It can’t be this easy,” he observed.

“It’s not,” I told him. “There’s quarter-inch steel plate behind that concrete.”

From the floor of the cab I picked up three lengths of steel pipe which I screwed together to make a handle. To this I attached a solid, fourteen pound weight to complete the fabrication of a heavy striking implement. I handed the sledge to Martin. “Go ahead,” I invited him. “Bust up that concrete.”

“What about the noise?”

“The drilling I did wasn’t heard, except maybe by Willow. No one is going to hear the thud of that hammer unless they have an ear pressed against the building. And then they couldn’t easily locate where the noise was coming from. Have at it.”

Martin did, with long-armed swings of the sledge that soon had the air laden with a powdery dust. Even before I removed the panel, there was a one-foot space between the vault wall and the back of the elevator cab. Most of the concrete chunks and chips from Martin’s pounding fell into this gap and ended up at the bottom of the shaft, some four feet beneath the floor of the elevator.

Martin worked so rapidly and to such good effect that he soon exposed the latticework of reinforcing rods, which was all that separated us from the steel vault liner. I stopped him while I disconnected the masonry drill we wouldn’t need again. Next I used the whiskbroom to clean up the mess we’d made in the cab.

Anything too large to be brushed away we kicked over the edge into the bottom of the shaft. We also removed the clinging dust on our clothing, paying special attention to the welts of our shoes. When we finished, the floor of the elevator cab was cleaner than when we had entered.

I picked up the miniature acetylene outfit. It was according to my specifications, both light and compact. The hose was cut down to only five feet, the acetylene carried in a small propane tank, and the oxygen contained in a single skin-diving tank. The outfit was just big enough to do the required job with very little margin for error.

I donned a knitted ski mask and dark-lensed goggles. The torch I lighted had a hot, violet flame that took only seconds to turn the reinforcing rods to water. When I heated them up and then increased the oxygen, the metal grew red, then yellow, then ruptured, and ran before the invisible jet of oxygen.

The barrier of rods separating us from the vault liner soon was just short lengths of scrap metal at the bottom of the elevator shaft. I inspected the final obstruction, the steel liner. From outside it looked like any other piece of sheet plate, but from the blueprints I knew there was no way of cutting through it without triggering an alarm.

“When I burn this and climb inside there,” I told Martin, “clean up everything in the cab again after you pass the bagged equipment inside to me. The cab has to look as though it hasn’t been used for anything. Get set to go. When we move now, we move fast.”

Martin got the equipment to one side of the removed cab panel. I relit the torch, took a deep breath, and sliced through the steel vault liner plate in one long cut, following the edges of the sledged-away concrete.

When the outline was completed, I kicked hard at the center portion of the vault liner. The torched section fell inside the vault with a loud noise. “Quick now!” I called to Martin. Bells were ringing all over the city. I didn’t know how many minutes we had before security forces, police and truckloads of combat troops would be surrounding and crawling all over the building.

Martin had the whiskbroom going again feverishly while I sprayed with a can of air freshener. I closed the emergency exit in the cab’s roof and kept using the aerosol bomb before dropping the can into the pit and jumping through the hole we’d made into the vault’s interior. The aerosol spray would remove the last traces of torch heat and cement dust from the elevator.

Martin threw the equipment bags and their contents in to me over the hot edge of the gaping hole in the vault liner. When I had everything, he scrambled down into the vault. I sent him back to turn off the switch controlling the cab’s roof light, then guided him back with the thin beam of the penlight.

Martin held the light for me while I reached back and fitted the previously unscrewed back panel from the cab into place again, working from inside the vault and outside the elevator. I fastened the panel into place firmly using a dozen powerful alnico magnets. From inside the cab there was nothing to show the panel had ever been removed, since I’d glued the cut-off screw heads back in place, and the panel was almost as securely attached from the heat by the magnets as it would have been by the original screws.

“Now what?” Martin asked tensely, looking at the big hole we’d made. We could hear the sound of running feet outside the vault door. I could picture some guard, perplexed at the sudden explosion of alarm sounds, checking to make sure it was unopened. And relieved to find the status quo.

“We wait,” I told Martin.

“Like fat lambs in a slaughter pen?” he demanded. He sounded as though he didn’t care for the idea.

“Like beaver in an aspen forest,” I tried to sooth him. “Until they search the building and satisfy themselves there’s nothing wrong. There never was an alarm system in the world that didn’t kick itself off accidentally at some time or other, and eventually the security guards and the police will conclude that’s what happened now.”

Martin shook his head dubiously. More voices could be heard outside the vault. They seemed to be shouting at each other. Some were close to the vault door, and some sounded as though they were reaching us through the hole in the wall of the elevator shaft. This was confirmed when the elevator started upward suddenly with a grinding noise.

When it was a floor above us, I leaned out through the hole in the vault’s steel liner and aimed my light downward into the shaft. The debris at the bottom didn’t appear at all unusual. There’s often a lot of construction rubble at the base of such shafts, and this one had obviously had quite a bit before we added our contribution. Bricks, boards, mortar, and miscellaneous waste surrounded the large shock absorber in the pit.

Excited voices aboard the elevator harangued each other in biting tones. “They’re going to search every floor,” Martin translated for me. The elevator rose still higher, and we could hear a jumble of voices rising and falling as the order was carried out.

Martin was listening intently as the voices from the shaft called back and forth to each other. “How long is this damned commotion going to last?” he asked irritably.

“Not much longer,” I said confidently. “They’ll get tired of playing hide-and-seek. We’ll have plenty of time before the regular staff turns up for duty in the morning.” I beamed my light around the corners of the vault until I located a steel-strapped box that looked like a money chest. I sat down on it and rested my back gratefully against a wall patterned with wooden as well as metal four-drawer files. The contents of each drawer was identified by a tab on its front.

Time has no measurement in total darkness. I don’t know how long we waited in silence before the sound of voices diminished outside the vault. It didn’t matter; we weren’t going anywhere until they were gone. Martin’s groping hand found my knee in the dark. “I’m curious,” he said softly. “What alternate plan do you have if something goes wrong and we don’t get out of this vault before the building opens in the morning and the elevators start running, pinning us in here?”

“Simple,” I assured him. “I’ll jam the vault’s timing mechanism from inside here. I’ll jimmy it so badly that it’ll take technicians a couple of days to open that ten-ton door. If the door can’t be opened, no one will know we’re here. If it comes to that, we’ll go out over the roof again after the building closes tonight, even if someone is working on the other side of the door. Our transportation will be standing by at the rendezvous point once every twenty-four hours of the next two days. It’s supposed to hold in place for a maximum of two hours each time. We’ll just have to hustle a bit more to meet that schedule if we get tied up an extra day.”

“My God,” gasped Martin. “I forgot. Willow—?”

“Don’t worry. She was off the roof and away at the sound of the very first alarm. She won’t be back until all these snoopers have gone. We’re depending on her giving us the ‘all clear’ to come back up to the roof when we’re ready to go.”

Martin rapped my leg. “Sounds pretty quiet now.”

I agreed. I knew the active search was over when the three elevators were returned to the basement level so that part of the alarm system triggered by their movement could be reset. That had occurred some time ago.

I turned on the penlight and stood up. With Martin looking over my shoulder, I examined the file drawer labels. The contents’ description was written in both Vietnamese and French.

I wished we had brought a truck. The drawers were loaded with classified intelligence data. Finding the American POW list was almost anticlimactic for me; it was a highly emotional experience for Martin. His visibly trembling fingers held it like it was the original Holy Grail. The file folder contained 20 pages listing nearly 800 names of MIAs. The closely typed lines bearing U.S. servicemen’s identity and disposition were held in reverence by the wet-eyed, tight-lipped general. “Let’s go,” he said softly.

“Not yet,” I countermanded. I reached into the satchel for a waterproof plastic bag and began stuffing it with hastily extracted documents from the file drawers. I had to be selective, taking only what I recognized as extremely unique material. The CIA couldn’t reap this kind of intelligence harvest in Hanoi with a hundred trained agents working at it all year. When I had packed as much as could safely be carried and concealed, I handed the bag to Martin.

I then returned to the entrance hole we had made in the back of the vault carrying a heavy twelve-inch screwdriver taken from the remaining tool bag. The magnets holding the elevator’s loosened back wall panel were too strong for me to pull away with my hands. I pried them free with the long screwdriver, shoving the panel out of the way.

I stepped into the cab. Martin followed right behind. I pushed open the emergency door in the cab’s roof and pulled myself up through the opening with Martin assisting me from below. I helped him up in turn by first relieving him of the document-filled sack, then giving him a hand so he could join me on the elevator roof.

The long climb up the steel ladder to the top of the shaft was like scaling Mount Everest. When I reached the top, I tapped lightly on the removable metal panel and waited for a response.

None came. I rapped again, a bit harder. Still no reply from Willow.

Using the long screwdriver, I eased out the single screw I’d left to hold the loosened inspection panel in place, then pushed aside the square of metal. I stuck the upper part of my body through the opening with my feet still on the ladder rungs. No sight of Willow. I leaned forward and gently cracked open the outer door of the small structure housing the elevator mechanism.

It was still dark outside, but not the total blackness of several hours ago. A tinge of gray in the eastern sky marked the coming dawn. Everything seemed quiet on the rooftop. I took a relieved breath and raised a foot to the next ladder rung.

And then through the crack I saw a dim figure at the farthest perimeter of the roof.

It wasn’t Willow.

The heavy, dark face of an armed soldier in uniform appeared in the quick glow of a lighted cigarette being inhaled while held in a cupped hand.

Twenty

The face leaning into the lighted match bent lower and lower until it crashed into the roof. Willow stood over the crumpled soldier, waiting for some sign of life. With her knife shoved up to its hilt so its blade severed the man’s left carotid artery and sliced through his trachea, he was dead before his knees had folded under him.

“I had to do it,” she said regretfully. “There was no other way.”

I knew what she meant. The mess we had left behind the vault would not be discovered for some time. The roof guard, however, would soon be missed. “Just leave him,” I said. “Every second counts now.”

Martin kneeled down next to the body. He extracted the knife, wiped the blade on the dead man’s tunic, then pocketed it. He lifted a limp arm and pulled loose the soldier’s Russian AX-47 rapid-fire automatic and slung it over his shoulder. “How did you get behind him?” he asked Willow. “He was standing at the edge of the roof.”

She pointed over the edge. Four feet down was a five inch ledge that ran the length of the building. No one said anything.

Before I jumped back onto the department store roof, I spent a full minute looking out over the city. It wasn’t because I liked the view. I had to take time to set a course to the river.

For centuries the great Hong Ha, or Red River, had been a lifeline for the people who occupied this land. It was a vast avenue of commerce. Thousands of watercraft of every kind plied the broad, silt-laden waterway. Traffic between Hanoi and Haiphong was thick and constant. A fast pleasure boat could cover the distance in three hours. A tug pushing flatboats could make it in under seven. The trip upstream took a third longer.

I’d made up my mind that we’d go by river. We were in a hurry, but I wasn’t interested in getting to Haiphong too soon. I just wanted to get there for sure.

Once on the ground, we moved quickly along the route I had fixed in my mind. Willow acted as point in case a verbal encounter occurred. As we got closer to the river, we met more people. Movement of goods by waterway is a round-the-clock activity.

Willow was invaluable. She kept her ears open. We were within sight of the docks when she interpreted what an excited passerby was calling out to a friend. “He says that terrorists have vandalized army headquarters. There’s been another brutal murder, this time a lowly soldier. That makes six men in uniform, including two officers, who have been killed in just one day. Extra troops are being called out. The city is going to be sealed off.”

A man driving a small flatbed truck drove up and came to a stop before a quayside saloon and started shouting. Sailors and merchants tumbled out upon hearing his words. Willow pushed us against a plate glass window of a darkened storefront. “Well, joy time is over,” she said.

“Those are reservists running off to join their unit?” I mused.

“Everyone’s going to clear out before the marines show up to put all boats under quarantine until they’re inspected. If we’re going to grab a ride, we’d better take our pick soon.”

I was moving before Willow finished laying on the bad news. There was no time to be selective. Or timid. I strode straight ahead to the end of the dock ahead of us. A sixty foot, self-propelled coal barge — fully loaded — was moving off. The skipper, barely visible in a small pilot house at the stem, was backing his craft into the river proper. His attention was stern. He tugged on a lanyard frequently, sounding whistle warnings as the ungainly craft got underway. He was in no hurry; he had yet to hear the latest news.

I leaped onto the pyramid of apple-sized chunks of coal. Martin let out a low groan when he landed right next to me. Willow did it right, not even losing her balance on the sloping side of the piled coal. The heaped-up load acted as a screen between ourselves and the busy barge master. We squatted in the bow, blending in well with the background because of the dark clothing we wore. Martin cradled his newly-acquired weapon possesively.

The lights on shore receded as the barge backed away from the dock. I realized we had reached the traffic lane when a small freighter crossed our bow from starboard to port. The skipper swung the barge’s nose about to parallel the freighter’s course and reversed his engine. We moved forward, heading downstream.

“Stay here you two,” I said. “I’m going astern to size up the situation. Keep an eye out but stay put.”

I eased back along the gunwale. The barge sat low in the water. The river surface was tar black and smooth. Halfway to the stem I could see a white light atop the pilot house. A bit further on the head of the skipper came into view. I wondered if there was other crew aboard — an engineer, perhaps.

I watched for a long time. The skipper seemed statuelike; only his forearms and hands on the wheel moved, and then only slightly. I was about to return to Martin and Willow when the man in the pilothouse did something I didn’t like. He reached out with one hand and brought a microphone up to his face. The barge had radio communications with other boats and the shore.

I told Martin and Willow. “That’s bad,” muttered Martin. “If he sees us, he’ll have the river patrol here in no time.”

“I wonder if a radio alert will be put out to riverboat captains to look for stowaways?” Willow remarked.

“It appears he’s alone, so he can’t make a search,” I answered.

“I’ll take him out,” Martin said gruffly. He had a wild light in his eyes. Violence was second nature to him.

“There’s no need to kill him,” I objected. “We need him. He knows the river.”

“We can get along without him,” argued Martin. “He’s got charts in the pilothouse. Besides, he’s just another gook.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Martin was plain crazy with his obsession. He still thought of himself as being at war in enemy territory. He had lost touch with reality — driven by a compelling urge to destroy indiscriminately. There was only starlight around us, but I could see his craggy jaw was set, his eyes sunken from weariness and gnawing pain, but mostly his eyes were fixed and over-bright. Fever, I guessed, but not enough to cause that hard, flinty glint in them as well. Martin could become a problem.

I had to be firm. “Keith, you stay right where you are. Keep a lookout down river. Willow and I will handle the skipper.” He accepted the duty, nodding his head sharply. I drew Willow aside and told her what to do.

We moved toward the stem, each of us on either side of the small mountain of coal. I got to a point where I could see the captain’s head. When he turned upon hearing a thump against the side of the pilothouse, I knew Willow had thrown the first lump of coal. I waited. Another thump. This time the skipper lashed the wheel and stepped away to look out the side window.

I ran ahead. The boatman heard my footsteps. He was facing me when I stepped into the wheelhouse. He was middle age with a thin, scraggly beard. A cataract clouded his left eye. One shoulder dipped lower than the other as if he suffered from spine curvature. His head crooked to one side to compensate for the deformity.

His eyes went wide with surprise and locked on the gun in my hand. They narrowed when he looked up. The disintegrating makeup on my face seen in the sidelighting from the binnacle lamp must have been hideous. He was adjusting to the apparition before him when Willow joined us.

She talked to him softly in his language. It took him a while to understand. Then he spoke in a surprisingly strong voice. Willow translated. “He doesn’t know any details, but from radio chatter between riverboats, he’s aware that a manhunt is underway in Hanoi. The search is fanning out and everyone is ordered to report anything out of the ordinary. A total curfew has been imposed in Hanoi. No one is allowed in the streets and all traffic going out of the city has been halted. No trains, no buses, no movement of any kind. Martial law is being declared.”

“What about shipping?”

She asked, then turned to me. “All craft on the river not already underway must remain docked until all vessels can be searched. All downstream watercraft in transit are to put in at the next guard station for inspection.”

“Where’s that from here?”

Willow passed the question. The boatman put a grimy finger on a dog-eared chart spread out on a navigation shelf. “He says it’s just around the next bend about two miles ahead. It’s the first of two between here and Haiphong.”

I made a meaningful gesture toward the skipper with my gun. “Tell him to douse his lights. All of them. I want this scow blacker than the coal he’s carrying.” The man complied. “Now tell him to swing way over away from the guard station so we’ll be harder to see. We’re going to sneak by it.”

The man protested. “That’ll put us in the upstream lane,” Willow translated. “We’ll be bucking traffic and may have a collision.”

“If he won’t do it, I will! Tell him.”

Willow and I took turns overseeing the barge master’s compliance. We passed the guard post unchallenged. I went forward to look at Martin. He was having fever chills although he did his best to conceal them. He refused to come astern to the wheelhouse. He wanted to stay at his lookout post. I didn’t argue that the river ahead could be seen best from the pilot’s position.

The detailed charts of the river were old but useful. From them I calculated the distance to the rendezvous point with the rescue sub. It would end its two hour standby at 5:10 AM. I looked at my watch. “Ask him what our speed is,” I requested.

The answer he gave Willow sounded right, but it didn’t fit my time frame. The river current gave a three knot boost to the coal boat’s speed, but we were still going to arrive too late. Twenty minutes late, I figured. And ten minutes after that, sunrise would be on us.

There was no way we could survive through another day waiting for the time the sub would be on station the second time. Under the circumstances, with the entire Vietnamese countryside and armed forces alerted, I was sure there wouldn’t be a second time. The submarine would be recalled, leaving us stranded.

We had this one opportunity only.

If we missed it, we’d be written off for sure.

“Tell Captain Whiskers to increase to maximum speed,” I said to Willow.

He balked when she gave him the order. “He says we’re going as fast as we safely can now,” Willow repeated the man’s comments.

I believed the old river pirate. The throttle was up to the three-quarters point on the quadrant. I reached over and shoved it all the way forward. The engine picked up speed. It rumbled and whined. The old man snatched back the throttle, raising his voice in protest.

“He’s says the engine can’t take it. It can run at full power for a short time before it will tear itself apart. It sounded like it would. If he loses his engine, he could lose his barge.”

“He’ll lose his ass to the eels if he doesn’t,” I snapped. “Tell him he can either add three knots to our speed or start walking. And he’s got five seconds to make up his mind.”

It looked like he wasn’t going to do it. I reached over again and jammed the throttle ahead. The engine began laboring. The skipper glared at me. He drew the control back a full inch, then held up three fingers and shook them at me.

A half hour later we passed a navigation buoy. I took another fix. We had increased speed a shade over three knots.

I didn’t think I could sleep, but I did — seated on the floor of the pilothouse while Willow kept the barge master company. When I awoke we switched places. Willow got two hours of sleep. Martin was as comfortable as we could make him in the bow. He didn’t want to be moved. The night remained warm with no appreciable wind, but I covered him with a blanket taken from a locker in the wheelhouse anyway. Martin slept fitfully, groaning in his sleep. I felt his forehead. It was warm to the touch, but not feverish. Willow had loaded him with aspirin.

After four o’clock I remained awake. The river widened slowly as we approached the sea. The water surface turned choppy as it mingled with the saltwater of the Gulf of Tonkin. A string of lights dotted the northern shore. The dark land mass on our left six miles away was Pho Cac Ba Island.

I thought our speed was falling off, but it was the change in wave action that made it seem so. All seemed serene and quiet. My spirits lifted. We were going to arrive well within the set time limits for the pickup. We were going to make it after all.

Willow jumped to her feet. She turned up the volume control on the radio receiver. “There. I know I heard it. The river patrol is calling this barge number. There it is again!”

I took Wilhelmina out again and held it two feet from the skipper’s head. I snatched up the microphone and gave it to him. “Tell him I’m very nervous so he’d better be careful of what he says.”

The man’s hand was trembling when he took the mike. I hoped his shaky voice wouldn’t give us away. He answered the call. I watched Willow’s face. She frowned then clamped her lips together. “It’s the second guard watch station. They want a position report.”

I jabbed my finger down on the chart, placing it six miles upstream from where we actually were. It coincided roughly with where we would be if we’d been moving at normal speed. The old man understood, but hesitated. I rammed the gun muzzle into his thin ribs. He grunted, then spoke into the radio mike.

The reply that came back was a series of short orders. Willow briefed me. “We’re to pull in when we come up to the guard station. Seems they know we passed up the first checkpoint.”

I looked at my watch again. “We’ll run the gauntlet. Have him radio back a Wilco.” Willow instructed the boatman who reluctantly acknowledged the instructions.

When he completed his message, I shoved the throttle up to its forward stop. The engine coughed, then surged to full power. I waved Wilhelmina meaningfully at the skipper to let him know my decision was irreversible.

The submarine would hold on station for another eighty minutes. My figures showed we should reach it in fifty-five minutes. Almost half an hour to spare. With the extra speed gained by using maximum power, we’d have even more cushion.

After twenty minutes, I pushed on the wheel, urging the boatman to cut closer to the point. The barge had a shallow raft. Even fully loaded, there was no danger of running aground. I wanted to stay in the lee of the land to avoid any slowdown by gulf currents.

We were close — less than three hundred yards from the Kian An harbor. There the water could hardly be seen because hundreds of sampans and junks were massed together, gunwale to gunwale, and stem to stem in a seemingly endless expanse of floating craft. The bay at that point was almost totally carpeted with boats in an unbelievable demonstration of human togetherness.

It was difficult not to be impressed as we approached. The mind-blowing rows of lashed-together craft stretched all along the shore and into the bay. Every rocking, naked mast had a light at its tip. In the dark, the lights looked like bobbing fireflies. The illusion burst when the straining engine growled, then gave off clanking noises before turning silent. I waited for it to surge back into life, but nothing happened.

The barge began losing headway, although its inertia would carry it a long way. The old skipper, a true sailor, spun the wheel to head for open water.

I brushed him aside. With one hand I jiggled the throttle while reversing the wheel with the other. I pressed the starter button. It churned but the engine refused to start. The heavy, coal-laden barge plowed on, carrying us toward the outer row of junks. We stared silently as the gap between the scow and the anchored boats narrowed. A voice crackled over the radio. “That’s the river patrol calling us again!” Willow cried out.

“Forget it,” I snapped back. “Grab our stuff. We’re getting off. Where’s Martin?”

“Right behind you,” his deep voice told me. I shot him a glance. His chest was puffed out from the wrapped-up MIA documents safely tucked under his knitted turtleneck pullover. The Soviet AK-47 from Willow’s rooftop victim was slung over his shoulder. Willow steadied the helm while I worked my arms into the harness of the knapsack containing the mass of vital intelligence data we had acquired. Willow wore the pack that held the oxygen bottles, goggles, and breathing masks used during the glide-chute descent that now seemed half a lifetime ago.

We were getting close to the bunched sampans. “Get out on the starboard side and be ready to jump,” I ordered. “I’ll try to bring us close alongside. Then we’ll board. Go over the decks to the very last boat. We’ll commandeer that one.”

My words were cut off by a piercing, hooting noise coming from low on the water behind us. Upon hearing it, the barge skipper leered and spit out some contemptuous-sounding words at Willow’s back. She spun around to be met by his triumphant grin. “That hooting — it’s the river patrol!” she hammered at me.

“Get going!” I barked. Willow scrambled out of the wheelhouse. My full attention was bent on easing the scow up beside the line of anchored boats, but I glanced sideways to see what was delaying Martin.

What I saw made me let go of the wheel and lunge at him. He had grabbed the barge captain from behind, holding the crippled man with an arm around his chest. I was too late. The knife in Martin’s free hand was plunged deep into the left side of the old boatman’s throat and moving swiftly across his neck. A spray of warm, frothy blood made a crimson mist before my angry eyes.

Without any show of emotion, Martin dropped the body, and stepped over it as if it were offal. Martin said nothing; he went by me as if I didn’t exist. His lips were set in a thin, arrogant smirk as though he was proud of his needless, barbaric action. Any thoughts I harbored that Martin had the strength to bear up under the ordeal he’d put himself through were worthless. The man’s mind had become warped and shattered by the nightmare he had created. The trauma of Phan Wan’s death could have been the final blow that had put him over the edge.

I heard Willow’s shout. I whirled about. The barge was following a course of its own. Despite full rudder, I couldn’t bring the bow around before it reached the nearest sampan. There was a loud splintering of wood as the corner of the barge smashed into the side of a junk, tearing out a huge gouge. I was thrown off balance but kept my footing.

I jumped from the pilothouse door onto the dew-dampened teakwood deck six feet below. Willow and Martin were on the next boat before the occupants of the first vessel recovered from the shock of being rammed and boarded. I ran at full stride, leaping from boat to boat. When I caught up with Martin we skimmed over mated gunwales like neck and neck hurdlers in a track meet. Ahead of us Willow upset a crate of chickens on a deck. The flimsy bamboo cage burst open, leaving a shower of squawking fowl and airborne feathers in her wake.

A snarling dog came out of nowhere and clamped strong teeth on my right pant leg. I spun completely around in an effort to dislodge the animal. The centrifugal force added weight to the dog. My pant leg gave way. The dog slithered across the deck with a torn piece of cloth between his locked teeth, once again scattering the hysterical chickens.

Martin was half a sampan ahead of me when I got moving again. Our headlong rush was attracting the attention of floating city dwellers. The once sleeping atmosphere became a focal point for shrieks of alarm, yapping dogs, crying children, and every sound possible from disturbed domestic animals. Until everything came to life around us, I hadn’t appreciated how extensive a life-style existed on Haiphong’s floating cells.

Above all was the persistent, weird hooting of the river patrol boat that paced us. It was as if the mournful sound was counting off time that was running out for us. It was then that we ran out of decks leading to freedom. The last boat was a small, pitching sampan. We had to jump down to reach its deck.

Willow and Martin were fumbling with the mooring lines when I caught up. A bare-chested, irate man emerged from under the oilskin-covered bows that formed a deck shelter. He had his eyes on Martin and didn’t see me coming. I hit him with a stunning shoulder block that lifted him off his feet. One foot tagged the deck in his sideways travel. The other snagged on the gunwale, flipping him head over heels as he fell into the bay.

I raced to the tiller. Beside it was the control handle of a ten horsepower Johnson outboard motor. For once I was grateful that the United States had poured every conceivable kind of mechanical equipment into the Vietnamese wastebin of war. I yanked the starter cord, moved the choke lever and yanked again. The first sputterings evened out to a smooth, burbling tempo. Willow shouted: “All clear!”

I took the motor out of neutral and twisted the rubber hand grip. We moved off. I headed straight out. We had a long way yet to go in very little time.

The annoying hooting of the patrol craft sounded louder now. I got a fix on its location. It was directly off to our left. Its lights should be visible.

As I looked for them, a blinding glare struck me full in the face. I was blinded. A powerful searchlight stabbed through the darkness, its just turned-on beam hitting us as it began its sweep. The light, broad-focused and low on the water, illuminated a large area as it slowly scanned the bay ahead of us.

I concentrated on steering what I thought was the proper course. Willow and Martin manned either side of the bow, looking off their respective quarters for the special float marker that meant life or death to us.

The noisy patrol boat whipped its spotlight shoreward to scan across the bunched sampans. Looking behind, I could see people on decks, looking stark in the bright light and pointing in our direction. The light turned and started probing again. It passed back and forth over the water surface ahead of us. It was then that I saw the marker. The bobbing float was barely discernable even when well lit. I steered for it. I tried to twist the outboard’s throttle past the stop.

Just five minutes more! We could make it with five more minutes. I shouted to Willow and Martin. Willow came to the stem and strapped a green bail-out bottle to my thigh. She slung the goggles over my neck and clipped the breathing mask to my jacket. She prepared herself for immersion.

It was like being hit by a meteor. The blazing searchlight flicked over us and returned, pinning the little sampan in its powerful, now-narrowed beam. Then the shooting began. Zinging bullets from hand-held automatic weapons whipped up the dark water around us. Most fell short. The chunk-chunk-chunk of the double-barrel 20 mm. cannon was different. Streams of flat trajectory tracers smashed in our hull. Pieces of wood flew off the boat. Half of the port gunwale disintegrated. The chewed and splintered mast came down like a felled tree. The entire boat shuddered under the repeated impact of the large caliber shells.

“Jump! Into the water!” I yelled, hoping to be heard.

Willow plunged into the bay. I saw Martin rear up, roaring defiance. He faced the attacking patrol boat and fired a long burst. His bullets found the searchlight, knocking it out. At the same instant a 20 mm. round exploded next to him. He lunged overboard.

I surfaced halfway between Martin’s bobbing form and the descent marker buoy attached to the submerged submarine. I swam to see if I could help Martin.

He was dead.

I took his body in tow. Willow swam alongside. We were ten yards from the beckoning end of the lifeline. The blinded patrol boat stood off, continuing to rake and batter the burning, shattered sampan.

Willow went down first. I threw a leg lock around Martin’s body and submerged after her, working my way down the guideline until I was some fifteen or twenty feet below the surface. It would be a cold, lonely wait until the submarine escape hatch was cycled and Willow was taken inside. I concentrated on breathing as evenly as I could. It was the only way I could close out the world that threatened my sanity.

I felt motion next to my weightless feet. Two frogmen suddenly took shape beside me. One took Martin’s body. The other led me down to the waiting escape hatch.

I dripped sea water all over Commander Beckwith’s khaki uniform when we shook hands vigorously. Unsmiling black shoe navy enlisted men filled the control room. Most of the crew were present. Very few of them were young.

A radioman pushed his way through to the submarine captain. The message he handed to Beckwith was read quickly and handed back with an affirmative nod. The commander leaned toward me. “For security reasons and our own safety, we can’t tell Washington you’ve been picked up until we’re well out to sea. So the White House doesn’t know that you’ve been recovered. I have no idea what you’ve stirred up topside in the past twenty-four hours, but it’s enough for us to receive a presidential recall directive. That message cancelled all previous instructions and ordered us to abandon station immediately.”

“You mean, if we hadn’t made it today, you wouldn’t be here tomorrow?”

“That’s what the order intended,” he answered. “But we would have been here. We wouldn’t let General Martin down. Not these men.”

“They’re something special?”

“Yes. All volunteers. Every man served in Vietnam.”

A pair of medical corpsmen came aft carrying a litter bearing Keith Martin’s blanket-covered form. They placed it gently on the deck in front of us. Two waiting Chief Petty Officers laid a spread-out American flag over the blanket.

The crew of war veterans stood sad-faced and quiet with heads bowed.

I saw tears running down the cheeks of one man.

Epilogue

I parked my car in the lot set aside for tourists visiting Lee’s Mansion. The pre-Civil War home stands at the top of a gentle slope in Arlington National Cemetery and faces southeast toward the Pentagon Building and the Potomac River.

Six black horses drew the caisson with its flag-draped coffin. It rolled slowly down Sheridan Drive. The honor guard marching in full dress uniform to the beat of muffled drums and the saddled black horse carrying spur-clad black boots reversed in the stirrups were solemnly impressive.

Willow and I hung back. We stood next to a full-leaved oak tree. Nearby, the perpetual torch marking President John F. Kennedy’s grave flicked orange in the gloom of a cloudy, humid afternoon. Further down the hill, the newly-dug grave was made less obvious by a blanket of over-bright, artificial green grass spread around it. The sides were lined with rows of folding metal chairs. Seated in them were senior military men, government officials, and priviledged representatives of veterans’ groups wearing American Legion, Amvets, VFW and other pseudo-military headgear. Behind the official mourners stood ranks of everyday individuals whose grief was probably the most sincere of all those present.

As the pallbearers lock-stepped uphill with the casket, I felt a hand touching my arm. I turned my head. David Hawk was standing beside us. “Do you recognize the first two men?” he asked me. I narrowed my eyes to sharpen their focus. The men on either side of the coffin had almost identical stony faces. Their dark blue, ribbon-bedecked tunics and lighter blue trousers with the infantry stripe down the outer seam gave a clone effect to the six sergeants of the Fort Myer honor guard. I examined the faces of the lead men closely. “Yes,” I answered. “The one on the right is Sergeant Layton.”

“And the one opposite him is Sergeant Wyler,” Hawk said.

“I thought they were under arrest?”

Hawk rolled an unlit, misshapen cigar between the fingers of his left hand. “All charges against them have been dropped, unless you want to press a personal suit for assault. With no witnesses, though, it might be hard to make stick.”

I was tired of the whole affair. My thoughts were as dull as the sullen sky. The submarine voyage to Subic Bay in the Philippines and the subsequent military air travel with the escort returning Martin’s body to Washington left me unrested and with a strange sense of foreboding. The past three days had been rough. Willow and I had been kept separated, in seclusion, and subjected to interrogation. It was something of a concession for us to be permitted to view the formal funeral proceedings from a distance. I was keenly aware of the two men who kept constant vigilance over us. They were standing within effective pistol range even now.

My unhappiness must have showed. “Looks like the weather is going to clear,” intoned Hawk.

Hawk never wastes words. He had just said something important. I glanced around to look into his face. One corner of his mouth was higher than the other. I also saw that our two bodyguards were no longer in sight.

“You sent our buddies away?” I led off.

“No need for them any longer.”

“We never did need them. We’re capable of looking after ourselves.”

“You know that. I know that. The president—” Hawk shrugged his shoulders. “Well, he felt obligated.”

“So how come we’re suddenly on our own again?”

“Word out of Hanoi. From a contact we know only as Maurice.” Hawk lifted the other corner of his mouth as he looked gratefully at Willow. “Your tracks are covered. Bu Chen said nothing. He never got the chance. His body was found in a sand pit about a mile from Phu Thone’s villa. Killed by the men who took him in custody for stealing a bicycle.”

“For stealing a bicycle?” Willow repeated.

“No, for having six thousand dollars in British gold pounds wrapped around his middle. The soldiers killed and robbed him as soon as they discovered he was carrying a small fortune. So Hanoi can only suspect he might have known something. They’re frustrated. What they can put together is too fragmentary to produce any clear picture. They’ll never uncover the truth.”

“And the documents?” Willow asked.

“Invaluable!” Hawk replied with one of his rare displays of enthusiasm. He immediately restrained himself. “Of course, we’ll have to keep them under wraps for a while, but in time their full impact will be utilized. I needn’t say how pleased a great many people are.”

I looked back to the grave site. The rifle squad was at ramrod attention, receiving orders from a saber-holding officer. At his command, the soldiers brought their weapons up sharply. Tilted at a precise thirty degree firing angle, the guns loosed a volley over the casket.

The procedure was repeated three times.

As the bark of the last blank cartridge volley echoed off the low hill to our rear, a break appeared in the clouds overhead.

For a brief instant, a shaft of bright, golden sunlight slanted down and rested on the flag covering the remains of Keith Martin.

Content

Nick Carter
The Asian Mantrap

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Epilogue