Carter Nick : другие произведения.

Fraulein Spy

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  The spy who mixed love and duty.
  
  The woman teased him, and so skillfully that he almost lost control before realizing that he could plot her every provocative movement in advance!
  
  Several years earlier, in an Oriental port, he had posed as a naval officer and discovered The Heaven of a Thousand and One Delights. Its inhabitants were exquisite members of the oldest profession… especially trained to use their wiles on foreign officials to compromise them into working for the Red Chinese cause.
  
  This woman was no love-possessed secretary: She was a spy.
  
  Well, two could play at that game. For the man was also a spy. In fact, he was Nick Carter, the agent known as «Killmaster» in America's super-secret intelligence organization AXE. And the Yoga-trim body that had mastered every conceivable science of killing could match this harem-trained beauty in her own arts as well.
  
  Nick Carter decided that in this particular assignment, love and duty were going to be mixed…
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Old Scent, New Danger
  
  Death and Consolation
  
  Two Down… And More to Go?
  
  Tomato Surprise
  
  The Man Who Wasn't There
  
  Beauty and the Beasts
  
  Bird Gotta Fly
  
  Bargain in Bombay
  
  A Meeting and a Parting
  
  Special Surprise Number One
  
  Take-off for the Taj Mahal
  
  Special Surprise Number Two
  
  Help Wanted, Male
  
  And on Your Left, Ladies and Gentlemen, a Corpse
  
  Pictures at an Exhibition
  
  The Guided Tour
  
  In a Cavern in a Canyon
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Killmaster
  
  Fraulein Spy
  
  
  
  
  Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America.
  
  
  
  
  
  OCR Mysuli: denlib@tut.by
  
  
  
  
  
  Old Scent, New Danger
  
  
  
  
  Herr Friedrich Hauser stared. His whisky glass thudded down onto the solid oak tabletop and the mellow liquid fountained out to trickle down his bony hand.
  
  "Now just a minute, my good friend," he said thickly. "Please. I think you will have to repeat for me how you reached that particular conclusion." His dry left hand sought the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket and mopped clumsily at the right. "It is perhaps that I am enjoying too much this so splendid beverage that you were good enough to send me, but for some reason I am unable to follow you." He laughed, a fruity little gurgle that contrasted oddly with the bony leanness of his frame but seemed to go well with the slurred tones of too much whisky and well-being. Nick disliked him intensely.
  
  "From which point would you like me to repeat, Herr Hauser?" he said respectfully. "From Bonn? The ranch? Here in Buenos Aires?"
  
  "Oh, Bonn is all right, Gruber," he said munificently. "I understand that you work for the magazine Achtung! I know about the magazine. Sometimes I even buy it, when there is a very sensational story, you know what I mean?"
  
  Nick knew what he meant. That was why he had chosen the Achtung! as his cover, and why he had transformed Nick Carter of AXE into Karl Gruber of West Germany's answer to Confidential. Achtung! was a magazine for lovers of the lurid, for political hysterics, for sensation-starved housewives. Achtung! found a minor government clerk with his fingers in the stamp drawer and enlarged him into Rot in Government; Achtung! found mommy kissing Santa Claus and spotlighted her as Corruption in Society; Achtung! looked through every keyhole and under every bed and found a Communist spy — a depraved and sex-crazed Communist spy — wherever its hot-eyed gaze roamed. All its heroes were cut from cloth that looked vaguely pre-war and all its villains came in tints of pink and red. In the West's battle against Communism, Achtung! was nothing if not loud.
  
  Friedrich Hauser refilled his glass. This fellow Gruber of the magazine had been most generous for the past few days. It was a welcome change to be treated like royalty; even in Buenos Aires, Germans like Hauser did not always feel at home. There was always the sneaking feeling in the back of the mind that someday, someone… But not Gruber; a very sympathetic fellow, he, with all the right ideas.
  
  "Now you were telling me," Hauser said with careful distinctness, "that your magazine is on the track of a very dangerous Communist spy named Judas. That this Judas, working hand in glove with the East German people and their Russian mentors, is planning to destroy the new Germany that is rising out of the ashes of the old."
  
  Nick thought he heard the thin man's heels click.
  
  "That is very much the story," he agreed.
  
  "Ah!" said Hauser. "As I thought. And the new Germany that we are both talking about is not this feeble, decadent alliance with the West, but the true Germany, the real Germany, the German Germany."
  
  "Without a doubt, a German Germany," said Nick.
  
  "So. And this Judas will destroy us before we begin." Hauser got unsteadily to his feet and stood swaying with his glass in hand. "That is, unless we find him first. Yes? Ah, that is the point. You thought you had found him, yes? And then it seems that you lost him at the last minute, yes?"
  
  "Yes," said Nick, beginning to tire of his share in the conversation. "And it was at that point that you asked me to repeat the story, or part of it."
  
  "Ah, part of it. Part of it will be enough," Hauser mumbled, no longer quite so crisply wartime German. He sat down opposite the living room window of his lovely, wifeless Buenos Aires home and stared out of the window as if at a vision of the past or future.
  
  "Judas," he murmured. "Now that is really quite funny. Begin with your friend on the ranch, who thought he had seen the man called Judas." Inexplicably, Hauser started laughing softly to himself.
  
  Nick felt a frown growing inside him. What in hell had Hauser found to laugh about? Maybe he thought it was funny that someone — specifically Karl Gruber of Achtung! — had painstakingly tracked down a vicious master spy only to have him slip through his fingers. On the other hand, Hauser seemed genuinely indignant that a man like Judas should be working to destroy "the true Germany" on behalf of the East German and Russian Communists. In fact, Judas was almost certainly doing nothing of the sort, but that was none of Hauser's business. It made a useful story for Nick, and for his alias, Gruber. Of course, it was possible that Hauser was putting on an act, that in some inexplicable way he was linked with Judas and enjoying the joke of having this earnest Neo-Nazi newsman make enquiries about him.
  
  But Nick's background check of Hauser, plus his cautious, probing approach to him, had turned up an individual who had fled Germany during the final days of the war and settled down in Argentina to build up a used-car business, a growing hatred for Communism, and a hope of eventual return to a Germany miraculously transformed into Hitler's dream. It could be an elaborate cover, but the fellow's manner and lack of discretion suggested otherwise. And his fondness for drink was no cover; he was close to falling-down drunk right now. Chances were he wouldn't shield a Judas any more than he was trying to hide his own abominable master-race ideas.
  
  Nick tried again.
  
  "As I told you, I first met this Judas toward the end of the war. He pretended to be on our side, but he was actually playing both ends against the middle. He had no loyalties except to himself. The treacheries he committed against our people were enormous. But I go back too far." Nick settled into his deep high-backed armchair that commanded the two doors to the room and shielded him from the window. "I mention it again only to explain that at some point in the course of his crimes he lost his right hand and replaced it with a steel device that can play murder in five fingers. His face was also damaged, so that when he is undisguised his hideousness is indescribable. It is quite possible that since I last encountered him — and you understand that my glimpses of him have been brief and accidental — he may have had his looks improved by plastic surgery. Also, I understand that his left hand was badly injured recently, perhaps within the last year or so." Nick knew the date to the day and could have described in lurid detail exactly how Judas' left hand had been injured, having tossed the vicious little grenade himself and watched Judas shield his awful face from it with his one good hand. "It is therefore possible that both of his hands are now artificial, or at least that one is and the other is so horribly crippled that he must cover it with a glove. Then, too, he is built like a Prussian ox — curse him! — and could easily be mistaken for one of us if it were not for his infernally ugly face. Which, as I say, could easily have been disguised."
  
  Hauser nodded and pulled at his drink. He himself, with his string-bean body and cadaverous face, could never have been thought of as "a Prussian ox," yet he obviously knew what Nick meant and admiringly — enviously — identified himself with the breed: bullet-headed, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, narrow-hipped, thick-calved, gloriously arrogant, utterly invincible, cultured, forceful animals. He sat up straighter in his chair.
  
  "So you will understand," continued Nick, "that when Achtung! sent me on this assignment I was most eager to follow up all possible leads. It is not always easy, because to ask questions about a Communist is often to open up a nest of vipers." Hauser nodded again, understandingly. "Nevertheless I persevered. Finally my enquiries led me into the pampas; word had reached me that a man who could be Judas had found himself a hideout somewhere in the trackless plains. Needless to say, I did not find it. But what I did find…" Nick leaned forward and jabbed the air briskly with a pointed forefinger. "What I did find was this man Campos, the rancher. He breeds beef cattle, as I said, and for the last few seasons he has been selling all his stock — he farms on a small scale, you realize, so that if he gets a good price he needs to deal only with one man — all his stock to one man, a man named Hugo Bronson. And the reason he told me about Bronson is that I told him what Judas used to look like."
  
  Nick Carter, alias Karl Gruber, nodded crisply and leaned back in his chair as though he had made a telling point. And yet he was feeling far from as smug as he looked. There was something wrong somewhere. Something as wrong as a sudden knife in the back or a door flying open to reveal a brace of hired killers armed with machine guns and loud mouths identifying him, before he died, as a troubleshooting killer-spy for the United States.
  
  But there was no sound or movement from anywhere in the house, nor from the single low, unshuttered window that was open only a few inches to let in a wisp of the cool evening breeze of May. And he was as sure as he could be without actually searching the man that Hauser was unarmed.
  
  "And what did this man Campos tell you about Bronson?" Hauser's sly smile became an open grin.
  
  Nick suppressed the impulse to clamp his hands around that scrawny throat and squeeze the secrets out of him.
  
  "Campos told me," he said evenly, "that he sometimes met Bronson in the International Club. That he had friends there. That Bronson — just like Judas — has unusually broad shoulders, a barrel chest and a bullet head. That his face is smooth and curiously unlined for a man of his apparent age, except for marks close to the hairline that could be scars. And then, Campos said, there is something very odd about the man's hands. Bronson always wears flesh-colored gloves — is that right?"
  
  "That is right. I knew him well. He always wore such gloves. Sometimes black or white for evenings, depending on the occasion." Hauser laughed outright.
  
  Nick felt a wave of revulsion. Suddenly he had a mental picture of Hauser as a lean and hungry German officer, changing his own gloves for special occasions… special, unspeakable occasions. Perhaps it would be worthwhile to have Hauser more thoroughly investigated. But that would have to keep. Question now was, why did Hauser giggle like a fool when Judas' name was mentioned?
  
  "So. He always wears such gloves," said Nick. "It was Campos' impression that the hands inside them moved stiffly, as if perhaps they were crippled. Or mechanical. Naturally, when I heard this I was interested. I came to Buenos Aires to enquire, only to discover that the Bronson Refrigerating Plant had been sold a short time ago. And that Bronson had left the country, leaving no trace behind."
  
  "And you were sure by this time that my old friend Bronson was your Judas, yes?"
  
  "No. Not sure at all. But I had good reason to believe he might be. So it was only natural that I should make enquiries among his former employees, yes? And at the places Bronson used to frequent, yes? And among the people he used to know, yes?"
  
  "Yes," said Hauser reluctantly, as if hating to have had his favorite word snatched from him. "And so we met. And we found a common interest in our beloved Germany. But you have made a mistake, my friend."
  
  "And what was my mistake?" Nick asked carefully. His hand edged stealthily toward the hidden Luger he called Wilhelmina.
  
  "About Bronson," said Hauser. "Of course it is a well kept secret. But I know it, because his situation and mine have been so very much the same. And I only tell you because you are one of us." He pulled at his drink. "I have known him for years. Under the name of Bronson, under other names." His eyes fixed on his vacated chair and he walked toward it very carefully with only the slightest of staggers. "Ah, no, Bronson is not who you think he is." He laughed his gurgling laugh and sat down suddenly. "Certainly not your Judas, my friend." His thin face contorted and his body wrenched with laughter. "That is the joke, the beautiful, wonderful joke!"
  
  "What is the joke?" Nick's voice lashed at Hauser. "Who is he?"
  
  The rusty laugh came bubbling out.
  
  "He is Martin Bormann, my friend! Martin Bormann became Hugo Bronson! Our own great Martin Bormann! Alive, safe here among so many of his own people, who did not even know him! Do you not think it is very funny? Judas! Judas!" Hauser collapsed with laughter.
  
  Nick felt very still inside. Martin Bormann. Nazi leader, right hand man to Hitler, sometime secret service chief for the Gestapo. Lost at war's end, vanished to safety to turn up — here?
  
  "Bormann," he breathed reverently. "Martin Bormann! Hauser, are you sure? I have dreamed of this day! Why has he left? Where has he gone?"
  
  Hauser gurgled happily. "Where, my Gruber? Where do you think? Oh, you can be sure that he has plans for the Fatherland. And you can be sure that he has not gone alone."
  
  "Not alone?" Nick echoed. "Who has gone with him?"
  
  "Aha! Who knows who they are, and how many?" Hauser's finger jabbed at Nick. "But I can tell you this. Before he left, two men were brought to see him. Separately, but I am quite sure they came here for the same purpose."
  
  "Who were they?" A current of surprise and disbelief coursed through Nick's mind. The man's brain was swollen with his self-importance and Nick's liquor. But if he really knew where Martin Bormann was and who was with him…
  
  "They were scientists," Hauser said proudly. "Our own. Our own. From the old days. And I can guarantee you that they are working with Bormann to put us back where we belong!"
  
  "Herr Hauser, what you are telling me is extremely interesting," Nick said calmly. "Unfortunately, if it is true, it is of such secret nature that it cannot be used in print. If it is true. However, if you can document your story — offer names dates, places and so on — then there may be a way in which you can be of great value to the movement. You realize, of course, that a magazine such as Achtung! is not always merely a magazine." He spoke carefully, even though he spoke nonsense, and he saw Hauser's drink-glazed eyes blink with comprehension. And greed. Nick aimed for the greed. "Nor does it expect loyal Germans to perform their services for nothing. There are few of us left. We must work together and we must receive just rewards for our work. Now if we — you, I, Achtung! can get together behind the movement, great things can happen for all of us. First, though, I must know — and you must understand that I do not doubt you — but I must know the facts. Where is Bormann? Who are the scientists? How were they brought here? Or can you not tell me?"
  
  Hauser rose unsteadily to his feet. "Of course I can tell you! Do you think I know nothing?" He waved a limp hand at Nick's protest. "Oh, I can tell you, all right. Of course it is true! First, where is Bormann now? That is easy. He…"
  
  A pane of glass shattered. Splinters flew onto the thick rug and lay there shimmering while Friedrich Hauser stared incredulously at the window. Nick Carter leapt out of his armchair and flattened himself against the wall near the window. There was the slightest of movements outside. Nick fired twice in rapid succession. The corner of his vision caught Hauser swaying no longer like a drunk but like a felled tree in the forest. One of his eyes was reddened and enlarged and the strangest sound in the world came from him, a living sound from a dead man's throat. Nick fired again into the night as Hauser fell, aiming in the general direction of the first shot. He heard a muffled yelp and edged closer to the window. Peering out cautiously, gun raised, he saw a small figure bounding across Hauser's lawn toward a low wall beyond which a car was waiting. Wilhelmina the Luger spat at the dodging figure. A burst of answering gunfire came from the car. Nick drew back and felt glass slivers tear at his hand. Wilhelmina tried once more but the hand that guided her was torn and bleeding. Nick cursed and thrust the gun into his left hand. A car door slammed; tires squealed under a racing motor. Wilhelmina spat once more at the fleeing car and Nick heard the distant thunk of her kiss against thick metal. The car kept on going.
  
  Friedrich Hauser lay on the floor, the back of his head a shapeless thing oozing something reddish-gray and scrambled.
  
  Nick wound a handkerchief around his glass-torn hand and set to work to find out how Hauser could have known what it seemed he really had known, and if there was anyone else in this city of intrigue and romance who could have known the identity and whereabouts of Martin Bormann.
  
  Or was it Judas, after all?
  
  
  
  
  
  Death and Consolation
  
  
  
  
  "Mark, darling, you are impossible…" Elena Darby stopped in mid-sentence and bit her Up. "I'm sorry, Dr. Gerber. That was very forward of me. It's just that sometimes you exasperate me like a… well, like a…"
  
  Dr. Mark Gerber grinned at her in the dashboard light as he tooled his compact car along one of the highways feeding Los Angeles and its suburbs. Elena really was extraordinarily beautiful; so much more decorative — and intelligent — than the sweet but cowlike Barbara who had left to get married about three months ago.
  
  "Like a what, Miss Darby, darling?" he said lightly, with a tiny flash of his old spirit.
  
  "Like a brother," she said crisply. "Like a stubborn, pigheaded kid brother. Not like a father, at any rate. And not so stubborn that I'll ever refuse to have you call me 'darling, " she said, as unaware as he of the dark-gray Hornet that discreetly followed them into the turnoff. "Dr. Gerber, I'm serious. You must see that your work will suffer if you go on driving yourself so hard. You simply have to take time off to rest."
  
  "Well, the least you can do is call me Mark," he said. "And I suppose Doctors Harrison and Leibowitz have been huddling with you again to pressure me, is that it?" He glanced at her, his face drawn with fatigue. "Don't you think I can take care of myself — at slightly more than twice your age?"
  
  "It isn't a question of age." Elena shook her head with a touch of impatience and her red hair shimmered in the beam of a street light. "Nearly everyone can use a little unsolicited advice once in a while. Why do you keep telling me how old you are? You're not old. And I don't go into huddles with people about pressuring you into anything. All I'm saying is that you're working yourself into the ground, and everybody knows it. You've got to stop it. That's all I'm saying."
  
  He smiled a little sadly. "It's an old story. Anna used to tell me that all the time."
  
  "Your wife?" Elena looked at the strong face that stared at the road ahead as if it were an empty future. "She'd tell you the same thing now, if she were here. Mark, Universal Electronics isn't going to fall apart if you take some time off. But you may, if you don't. I know I'm only your secretary, but if I'm interfering it's only because…"
  
  "My dear Elena. Please!" Gerber swung the car onto a wide boulevard and picked up speed. The gray Hornet behind them turned smoothly as if it knew the intersection well, and let Gerber's compact pull several blocks ahead before accelerating gently. "Don't give me that 'I'm only your secretary' routine." His faint German accent blended pleasantly with his American phrasing. "I am not accusing you of interfering. I appreciate your interest. But the work is about all that I have left." He concentrated on the road ahead. "Now, it is the next street to the right, is it not?"
  
  "Yes, that's it." She eyed him thoughtfully. "I have two nice steaks waiting in the refrigerator. Why don't you have dinner with me?"
  
  Gerber made the turn. "Elena, you are very sweet, but you know I only came out for that quick cup of coffee you promised me. I have to get back to the lab."
  
  "Here we are," she said. They stopped in front of an attractive garden apartment. Gerber slid out of his seat and walked around to open her door. Elena got out with a graceful display of leg that Gerber could hardly help noticing.
  
  "I have a slow coffeepot and a fast broiler," Elena said, "so by the time the coffee's ready we can have eaten our dinner. Now where can you get a better deal than that?" She slammed the car door decisively.
  
  Gerber smiled and took her arm lightly.
  
  "Please, Mark," she said.
  
  He looked into her eyes and nodded slowly. "Thank you, Elena. I shall enjoy dining with you."
  
  They walked up the flower-lined concrete path to her street-level apartment. Neither of them noticed that the gray car had passed them as they talked on the sidewalk and had turned into a side street. Neither of them saw the dark-blue Cruisemaster that was parked on the corner nearest to Elena's home occupied by a man whose eyes were not intent upon the sports page of his newspaper but upon them.
  
  A few minutes short of an hour later Dr. Mark Gerber left Elena's apartment, feeling a glow of well-being he had not felt since Anna's sudden death.
  
  The blue Cruisemaster was slowly moving a block and a half away by the time Gerber started his car, moving as if looking for a street number.
  
  Gerber passed it.
  
  After two or three blocks it picked up speed behind him. The gray Hornet nosed out of its side street and took up the Cruisemaster's watching position.
  
  The driver sat and waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  At least Nick didn't have to worry about fingerprints. Not that he intended being questioned by the police; it was just that he had decided some time ago not to leave his prints scattered around the world for the police of various nations to pick up at scenes of violence, store away for future reference or cross-file with Interpol, and then triumphantly trot out for his embarrassment when he turned up at some later scene and date in a different guise. AXE's Editing Department had devised a pair of incredibly lifelike gloves that looked for all the world like the skin of a healthy human hand. The intricate whorls were nearly all there, along with the short hairs, the nails, the tiny folds and the veins; but the fingertips were smooth and the palms were Editing's own personalized pattern.
  
  Unfortunately the skinlike gloves were so finely fashioned that they were no protection against flying glass.
  
  With his handkerchief wrapped tightly around his bleeding hand, Nick bent over Friedrich Hauser for a lightning search. He was not surprised when he found nothing of interest. Hauser, though, was Hauser down to the skin.
  
  Martin Bormann…! Well, it was unexpected, but it wasn't impossible. For years, rumors had persisted that the missing Nazi was somewhere in Argentina. It looked as though the rumors had been right.
  
  Nick straightened up from the messy lump that was Hauser's body and moved over to the window. Nothing was stirring in the street outside. The sound of the retreating car had faded out and the neighbors hadn't emerged to take its place. Probably all clutching their telephones and yelling murder, Nick thought. He toured the living room briskly and took his glass with him on his hunt for the kitchen and a back door. In the kitchen he washed out the glass, wiped it, and put it away with others like it. It wouldn't take the police long to discover that Hauser had had company, but it wouldn't hurt to stall them off a little.
  
  There was a door leading from the kitchen into a small back garden and another leading from Hauser's study onto a paved walk that curved to the street in front of the house. Neither of them were much good as rear exits but they would have to do.
  
  Nick searched through Hauser's study in the dim light, wishing he could turn a light on but knowing that any change in lighting would be spotted by a watcher. Holding his pencil flashlight in his aching hand he pulled at desk drawers and swiftly sorted through the contents. The top right-hand drawer of the solid desk was locked. Lockpicker's Special, he said to himself, and pulled it out of his pocket.
  
  Why was Hauser shot? he wondered as he worked. Seems obvious at first glance; maybe it's not so obvious. First question: Why would Bormann — if it was Bormann — reveal his secret to a fellow like Hauser? Maybe he didn't. Maybe Hauser accidentally found out something he wasn't supposed to know, least of all tell. Second question: Did he really know where Bormann was, or was he guessing? In that case, third question: If he was guessing, why was he shot?
  
  The drawer slid open. Nick's good left hand probed into it.
  
  Possible answer number one: His killers didn't know how much he knew and didn't want to take any chances. Possible answer number — just a minute, Carter. If you had been in their shoes, wouldn't you have waited to hear what he was going to spill and then shot both Hauser and the fellow he was spilling to? Or could it be that they wanted the so-called Karl Gruber of Achtung! to go around with his fragmentary story and either nurse it to himself or spread it about?
  
  Nick shook his head. Hardly. More likely the killer had an itchy finger and shot before too much truth came out. And then he probably hadn't expected Hauser's visitor to come up shooting. So he and his getaway man had decided to hightail it out of there.
  
  There were personal letters in the drawer and some papers pertaining to Hauser's used-car business. Nick took them. But they scarcely seemed vital enough to warrant locking up. His fingers reached deep into the drawer and upward to stroke the underside of the desktop. A small piece of paper was taped to it. He worked it loose.
  
  Now if I had been in their shoes, he thought to himself, I might have second thoughts about leaving that fellow Gruber around. Maybe he saw something from that window as he was firing back; maybe he could recognize the gunman. And with that thought in mind, what would I do? I think I might just come back very quietly and have another crack at Gruber either before or after he talks to the police.
  
  The paper came out in one piece. Nick shone the pencil beam onto it and stared. My God. What a bloody fool. Keeps his safe combination in his desk drawer. Now Where's the safe? No doubt behind a picture.
  
  And I would certainly make every effort to get here before the police. I would assume that Gruber had called them and was waiting for them — or that he would do exactly what I am doing. And I would catch him at it if he didn't hurry.
  
  There was a safe behind a drab still life that hung at right angles to the outside wall with its side door and one high window. Nick's glove-covered fingers worked at the combination lock.
  
  It was still quiet outside.
  
  What had Hauser actually said about Bormann…? He certainly had given the impression that Bormann might have gone to Germany. Impression to whom? Any listener, inside the room or out of it. Logically, Hauser could have been expected to follow up shortly with — "He is in the Black Forest, my friend!" Or Hamburg, or Munich, or Berlin, or Bonn, or on the other side of the Wall, but in Germany.
  
  The dial clicked softly.
  
  So he was shot to prevent him from saying where in Germany. Or he was shot because the place he was going to name was not Germany. Too devious, Carter. Best ride along — until you have good reason to believe otherwise — with the idea that he was killed to prevent him from telling the truth, and that careful killers cover up their tracks.
  
  The safe swung open.
  
  The very idea of Bormann being alive and perhaps back in Germany with a couple of scientists could be a dangerous little nugget of supposition to carry around. It had been for Hauser. And it could be for writer Karl Gruber.
  
  A pair of binoculars came out in Nick's groping hand. He studied them quickly. Big, old-fashioned but very powerful. Made in Germany maybe twenty-five to thirty years ago. Why keep binoculars in the safe? Perhaps for Hauser they were a treasured reminder of the good old days. And he could reach from the safe, take a half-turn right, and look straight out of the high window at… That's right. Nick had scouted it a couple of days ago, even before meeting Hauser. Branson's house, the Branson he had thought was Judas.
  
  Nick raised the binoculars. A corner of the house next door leapt into his eye. Blank wall. He turned the huge, high-powered lenses slowly to the right. A side doorway, similar to the one near him, sprang into brilliant close-up from almost three blocks away. The arrangement of the houses between, and the angle of the one he watched, made it possible for him to get an unobstructed profile view of the two people who stood talking and gesturing at the study door of what had been Branson's house. One of the strangers was apparently the user of the study and the other a visitor. If the man who had called himself Bronson had received visitors at his side door — a couple of scientists, say — Hauser and his binoculars could have caught them as plainly as if they had been standing outside his own window.
  
  Nick left the binoculars on the desk top. The police might care to try them on for size. His ears straining for any change in the soft night sounds, he went on hunting through the safe.
  
  Money. Bundles of notes in several foreign currencies. A passport; Hauser's picture but another name and nationality. A large manila envelope stuffed with pictures, dog-eared and faded replicas of the stiff groups who had posed while their medals were still shiny and their uniforms still crisp. Jackboots and swastikas. Army vehicles in a parade. A reviewing platform. Close-ups of hard faces. Civilians and military around conference tables. Groups of men with tight clothes and tighter smiles. Familiar, hated faces, some of them; some of them unknown to Nick.
  
  He took what he thought would be of value to AXE and left the rest for the police. He was replacing the passport and the money when he heard the quiet footfalls in the back garden. By the time the footsteps had reached the kitchen door the drab painting was back in place and the desk drawer was locked.
  
  Nick catfooted into the tiny back hallway and listened. Anyone who had known him as the rather languid Karl Gruber would have been surprised to see the alertness of the bland face and the controlled and silent grace of the tall, loose-limbed body. They would have been surprised, too, to know the speed, strength and superb condition of that magnificent body; but that would have been nothing compared to their surprise at finding out that this man's fellow agents and his enemies called him Killmaster, the most lethal and dangerous man of all the lethal and dangerous men in the specialized service of AXE.
  
  There was a soft swishing sound from the back door as of something — celluloid, probably — sliding past the lock. Nick waited in the darkness, quietly tucking the loot from Hauser's safe into the waistband of his trousers and securing it with his jacket. If this fellow took any longer about getting in there might be a chance for a quick look at the bedroom. Nick took a couple of silent steps through the hallway toward the bedroom and heard the back door come open with a faint, creaking sigh. He pivoted and felt a little rush of wind against his face. Soft-heeled shoes came slowly, silently toward him. With any luck he would be able to have a little talk with this fellow before they were interrupted. Wilhelmina slid into his ready hand.
  
  He heard the siren a full two seconds before the small man who was carefully entering the back hallway, and regretfully realized that question-time was over before it had begun. Wilhelmina turned in his hand and became a stripped-down club instead of a wartime Luger.
  
  The man heard the siren, hesitated for a moment, then hurried toward the lighted living room. Apparently he assumed that Gruber was sitting up with the corpse and that he still had time to blow Gruber's brains out before the sirens stopped outside the front door.
  
  Nick flattened himself against the wall and snaked out one long, agile leg, and one long, muscular arm. The little man yelped with surprise and alarm. His feet shot out beneath him and his gun pointed ceilingward for one useless moment before clattering to the floor. He gulped and hissed some vile word. Nick brought a swift, relentless foot down onto his abdomen, shuttled Wilhelmina into his own uncut hand, and brought her down decisively on the man's temple. It really was too bad that he couldn't have put him out without marking him up, but there'd been no time for subtlety.
  
  He stepped over the small crumpled figure and headed for the back door. The sirens sounded as though they were about two blocks away. That was fine. It gave Nick time to duck through Hauser's back garden and somebody else's before windows started opening.
  
  Half an hour later he was back in the International Club, his original meeting place with Hauser, having stopped at the modest hotel room he kept under yet another name and cleaned himself up. Cleaning himself consisted of removing and hiding the filched papers and attending to his cut hand before pulling on half of his spare pair of Editing's gloves.
  
  He sat at the bar nursing his Scotch and talking idly to a fellow he knew only as Ruppert, one of the many Buenos Aires businessmen who hovered on the fringe of the German community without giving away too much about their own background. Nick was hoping that somehow, miraculously, he would get some lead on Bronson before having to go into hiding from the police who, sooner or later, were going to check on the magazine writer who had been so friendly with Hauser for the past couple of days.
  
  "You will be here long?" Ruppert asked, not really caring.
  
  Nick shook his head, his mind on Judas and Bormann and Hauser.
  
  "Leaving tomorrow."
  
  "Oh. Short trip. Enjoy it?"
  
  Nick shrugged. "It's always good to renew old acquaintances."
  
  Ruppert eyed him curiously. "Have you found many? You perhaps knew Hauser before?"
  
  "Hauser? No, just got talking to him. Wanted to find out where to reach Hugo Bronson — I have greetings for him. Speaking of Hauser, I wonder where he is? I was supposed to meet him here tonight."
  
  Ruppert raised a nostril and an eyebrow in unison.
  
  "I'm afraid Friedrich does not always remember his appointments. But if all you wanted was to send greetings to Bronson — did you say from Berlin friends? Or is it Bonn you're from?"
  
  "I am from Bonn," Nick answered. "The message comes from friends in Switzerland. The Von Reineckes," he invented rapidly.
  
  "Von Reinecke? Von Reinecke? I wonder if I have heard him mention that name?" Ruppert drew his brows together and tugged at his chin. "Ah, well, no matter. He has many friends." Ruppert reached into his pocket and drew out a small notebook. "I have it here somewhere." He riffled through the pages. "Ah! Care of Paul Zimmer, Wilhelmstrasse 101B, Berlin. In of course the Western Zone."
  
  Nick stared. "Uh… that's Bronson's address?"
  
  Ruppert looked at him with faint surprise. "Of course. Who else? You did want it, didn't you?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Two Down… And More to Go?
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, I'm glad to have it," Nick said sincerely, and took a large mouthful of Scotch. "The Von Reineckes will be so pleased. You are a good friend of Branson's?"
  
  Ruppert lifted one casual shoulder. "Acquaintance, through the Club. We all knew him."
  
  "Hmm," said Nick, wondering how far he could push all the questions that leapt to mind. "You've been the first man so far who's been able to tell me where I can find him."
  
  Ruppert made another of his shrugging movements. "You know, I'm not even sure if your Bronson is the one I'm looking for," Nick said thoughtfully. "Hauser said something about his hands being crippled. Would you know how that happened? I don't remember that the Von Reineckes said anything about it."
  
  Ruppert's eyes narrowed slightly. "As I said, we were acquaintances, not friends. And one does not ask about that sort of thing."
  
  "No?" said Nick. "I suppose not. Forgive me. But my profession brings with it a natural curiosity."
  
  Ruppert clucked apologetically. "I did not mean you should not ask. I merely mean that I did not. And if you wonder why I should have his address, he simply asked if I would take it in case anyone should ask for it."
  
  "I see," said Nick. He studied Ruppert out of the corner of his eye. What he saw was a paunchy Bavarian with beetling brows and solemn, rather dull eyes that still looked dull even when they were narrowed in thought.
  
  Nick was carefully framing another question when his sixth sense warned him of an alien something in the room. He drained his glass and looked around. He smelled Cop.
  
  He saw Cop. A broad, strong-faced man of about his own age and height was standing at the top of the carpeted stairway leading into the Club lounge talking to the assistant manager. A little wave of awareness and tension went through the room. Nick could almost feel it splash against him.
  
  "One more for me," said Nick, pretending to stifle a yawn. "Join me?" Ruppert nodded eagerly. Nick ordered and produced his forged Club card, mentally counting up his crimes to date: forgery, impersonation, welshing on Club debts, leaving the scene of a homicide, tampering with evidence, assault, robbery, plain and fancy lying… He drank quickly, yawned again and signed his chit.
  
  "Well, that's all for tonight," he said. "My plane leaves early. Thank you for your company, Herr Ruppert." The tall policeman, he saw, had moved inside the room and was asking something of a group of men clustered around a drink-crowded table. Ruppert offered casual goodbyes and Nick ambled off with the loping stride that looked slow but would get him out of there — he hoped — quickly.
  
  There were other people strolling about and he made the top of the stairway knowing that no one was paying any particular attention to him. Then he felt the wave of tension again. When he was halfway down the stairs he heard a voice calling, "Señor! Señor!" He looked up casually, saw the authoritative stranger coming after him, and kept on going as though he knew the call could not be for him. After all, he was from Bonn, wasn't he, and he didn't know the fellow, did he?
  
  He had reached the sidewalk outside the club when the man caught up with him and said in English: "Herr Gruber? Forgive me, I do not speak German. Lieutenant Gomez. A word with you, please."
  
  Nick turned. "Lieutenant?" he echoed, with admirable surprise. "Of police, is it?"
  
  "That is correct," Gomez said crisply. "It is necessary for me to ask you a few questions regarding Friedrich Hauser. Would you mind coming back into the Club?"
  
  "Hauser?" Nick frowned. "I barely knew the man. Is there something wrong?" The street and sidewalks were, he noted, dismayingly full of people.
  
  "He has been shot," Gomez answered quietly. "I understand you have been seeing him lately. So I must ask you…"
  
  "Shot!" Nick breathed, contriving the expression of delighted horror that he thought writer Karl Gruber should wear. "An accident?"
  
  "Please, Herr Gruber. If you will be so kind as to step into the Club. The street is no place to discuss it." Gomez was getting impatient. Nick liked the looks of him. Strong face with the suggestion, now, of a frown; lively intelligent eyes and wide, firm mouth.
  
  One of AXE's cardinal rules stated firmly: Never, never, never, get involved with the police of another country and preferably not even your own unless you have prearranged an impenetrable cover that includes cooperation with them. And this Nick certainly had not done. Karl Gruber was without reality in Bonn or even an address in Buenos Aires. He was "staying with friends;" one friend, actually, name of Nick Carter.
  
  "Lieutenant, I would be glad to. And of course I would like to know, for myself, what happened to poor Hauser, as well as wishing to cooperate as much as I can. But — for a reason which I shall explain when we talk in private — I much prefer not to go back into the Club after what you have just told me." The strain of impatience in Gomez' eyes changed to a glint of interest. "And also," Nick went on, "as you may know, I have to catch an early plane in the morning. So if it is at all possible…" and he made himself sound very reasonable and sincere"…I would appreciate it if you could accompany me to where I am staying. I can start getting ready, perhaps, while we are talking; or we can talk on the way. You have a car? Or there is always the taxicab." His voice was crisp and eager, the voice of a successful magazine writer anxious to get a story and accustomed to conducting interviews on swift cab rides between airplanes.
  
  Gomez scrutinized him. "Where are you staying?" "With friends." Nick gave an address in a nearby suburb that he knew to be quiet, especially at this time of night.
  
  Gomez nodded slowly. "Very well, then. My car." He gestured with his head to indicate the direction and took one swift step along the sidewalk.
  
  A second is a long time even when it's split in two. It was long enough for Nick to think: Too bad. Nice guy. Carter adds to list of crimes and slugs a cop.
  
  For a fraction of that second there was the slightest lull in the swish of passing traffic, and in that same pinpoint of time Gomez was between Nick and the street.
  
  The gunshot and Gomez' gasp of pained surprise were almost simultaneous. Nick saw Gomez hanging poised in air and time for the next of those long seconds. He ran even as Gomez fell.
  
  The good cop, nice guy, landed with a deadened thud and rolled once. Nick dropped to his knees at the tail end of a parked car and saw the gap in the traffic close. Beyond it, a news van gunned its motor. For one incredible moment the driver stuck both his head and his gun out of the window and fired at where Nick had been standing. He hit the driver of another car instead. The car went wild and slammed into the far side of the car Nick had ducked behind.
  
  A wave of black-red anger burned through him. He threw caution to hell where it belonged and stood up tall and unshielded, a target begging to be hit. The driver of the van saw him, slowed, aimed, fired. Nick matched him: watched him, waited, aimed and fired. But he fired first and saw a hard, expressionless face turn into a horror mask of smashed red pulp. The van stopped. Nick ran — ducking and weaving through the hesitant traffic. Around him was a street of curious muted noises, small panic sounds squeaking through the general stunned silence; and the bodies of three men — one killer, one decent-faced cop, one innocent bystander. And he, Nick Carter, had killed the lot of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The head of AXE sat behind his vast desk in one of the inner offices of the Amalgamated Press and Wire Service headquarters on Dupont Circle in Washington D.C. His desk, meticulously clear between the hours of midnight and eight a.m., was an organized chaos of reports, cabled messages and bulging folders. The man himself looked more like the tough but easygoing editor of a rural weekly than the chief of his country's most effectively deadly counter-espionage agency. AXE was not essentially an information-seeking agency; its operatives, supplied with background data by other branches of the secret services, moved into troubled areas, zeroed in on their targets, struck swiftly, mopped up and vanished only to strike again at other times in other places. As the troubleshooting arm of American security forces it had to be able to act quickly, efficiently, and ruthlessly. At its disposal were all the technical advances of a highly developed technological society, and a selected group of skilled, hard men trained to think on "their feet, use all the complex weapons in the vast armory available to them, command their bodies to achieve almost superhuman feats, and kill when necessary. It was known in the combined security services that when an AXE man was sent on a job it meant that those who had sent him were convinced that death was the most likely solution to the problem at hand.
  
  Yet in the course of AXE's specialized but varied operations it encountered certain individuals and situations that demanded long-term and personal investigation by AXE's own personnel. One such individual was the master spy and brutal killer for the Red Chinese, a man whose code name was Judas. His machinations, and those of his masters, were the immediate concern of AXE. And the man who knew him best was Special Agent Carter, who had earned for himself the title of Killmaster. Carter was responsible only to Hawk. Hawk, organizer and controlling hand of AXE, was responsible only to the National Security Council, the Secretary of Defense, and the President of the United States.
  
  Hawk chewed thoughtfully on his cold cigar and studied the report from the F.B.I. whose work, these days, seemed to be overlapping more and more with his own. His spare, stringy body and genial, leathery face gave little hint of the tremendous energy and toughness of the man. Only his crisp, waste-free movements and icy eyes suggested that he was anything but the farm-bred, country newspaperman he seemed.
  
  A buzzer sounded on his desk.
  
  "Yes?"
  
  A dulcet, feminine voice said: "A-4 has N-3 on the scrambler from B.A."
  
  "Thank you," he said, and rose from his desk.
  
  A preference for lovely feminine voices was one of the few things that seemed out of character to those who really knew Hawk. To him, woman's place was in the home and home belonged in the AXE-free suburbs along with children and washing machines and other things that had long since been lost from Hawk's own world. But he did admit that there were certain jobs that men should not be wasted upon, and he insisted that these should be filled by intelligent young women with attractive voices and physical qualities to match. Yet his relations with his «harem» were as crisp and businesslike as his attitude toward the toughest of his hell-hardened male operatives.
  
  A-4 handed him one of the headsets in the communications control center that was labeled Teletype Room. Hawk nodded acceptance and gave the go-ahead signal.
  
  Nick Carter's message came through from Buenos Aires, a scramble of meaningless vibrations along the airwaves that were translated into normal human sounds by the complex machinery of the receiving set.
  
  Hawk listened gravely, now and then frowning. At last he said: "No. I'll send an operative down to take your place. Give me the contact address and keep out of sight until he gets there. I'll send detailed instructions with him."
  
  The sounds twisted through the wires and emerged as Hawk's voice through a receiving set in a modest hotel room in Buenos Aires. Nick's forehead furrowed. "Why a replacement?" he asked, and his words were caught by his sending set and shuffled beyond recognition until they reached its sister set in Washington. "I'm on the spot. Give me a couple of days to set up a new cover and let me dig into this thing."
  
  "No. Give me a couple of days," Hawk interrupted. "I want another man down there, someone who comes in with an unbreakable story. It's too big to take chances. Now. Any suggestions for the new man?"
  
  Brief silence, then Nick's reply.
  
  "An accredited investigator, then. Someone to work with the police. Say that we — you, that is — have a particular interest in Hauser, that he was a suspected escaped criminal, that his murder seems to overlap with some case in the States. Or the same story with Gruber, if you like — they'll be looking for him. But I'd say it was essential to make it an Interpol-type thing. I've already put all the material from Hauser's safe in the drop for you. Something else might suggest itself there. Especially the two pictures I marked. But give our man an official cover he won't have to worry about. They'll want to catch the people who sent the killer after Gomez; we'll have to help them. Is there any reason why I shouldn't stay here and work undercover with the new man?"
  
  "Yes, there is. You're going to Berlin."
  
  "On one phony lead? A plant? Why not investigate Ruppert first?"
  
  "Ruppert will be investigated. And that's not the only lead. While you were trailing after a rumor of Judas, one or two other things were happening in the world." Hawk's tone, unscrambling, was dry. "We think we know who your two scientists might be. There may well be others. But one of them's been missing from an English university lab for some weeks. And we've just had a report saying he was spotted in West Berlin. He is, of course, a German, like the one who's missing from Australia. Now. This Campos of yours, the rancher who steered you toward Branson. You're sure of him?"
  
  "Positive. I've known him for years. He thinks I'm a private eye with some kind of personal vendetta against Judas. I've double, triple-checked him. He's in the clear. But I do think the heart of the matter lies right here in Argentina, in spite of this signposting to Berlin."
  
  "We follow the signposts," said Hawk. "Now. We want to get this under way without waiting for your written report. Tell me exactly what you took from Hauser's house and what was in the pictures that you marked."
  
  Nick told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tomato Surprise
  
  
  
  
  The man in the darkened upstairs office of Universal Electronics in greater Los Angeles shifted his earphones and sat back to listen.
  
  He knew almost all there was to know about Mark Gerber: how he had left his native Germany with his lovely wife more than twenty-five years before when the Nazi menace threatened his unsettled land — and the world. How the Gerbers had made their home in California, raising a blue-eyed, laughing little towhead they called Karen. How Gerber had become one of America's top scientists, known all over the world for his contributions in the field of nuclear physics. How Karen had grown into womanhood, only to die in that shocking automobile accident several weeks before her wedding, and how she had been followed into death days later by Mark's wife, Anna.
  
  And also how Gerber, after the dual tragedy, worked night and day, weekends and holidays, trying to keep his mind off his sorrows.
  
  Past one o'clock in the morning and there they were, hammering at him again. This time it was something about a party he had missed, a social promise he had broken. And now they wanted him to take off on some kind of trip. A vacation, so they said.
  
  One floor below, Dr. Mark Gerber sat at his desk and looked at his two late callers. One, Rick Harrison, whose party he had missed; the other, Elena, whom he'd promised to take to that party. And then he'd somehow forgotten all about it. He felt an unreasonable twinge of envy as he saw them together, even though he knew that Rick was happily married. He should have been standing there with Elena, feeling that togetherness instead of being preached at.
  
  "Clear your mind," Rick Harrison was saying. "Take a few weeks away from here. It'll do you all the good in the world."
  
  "Will it!" Mark laughed harshly. "Take a trip alone — you think that'll do a damn thing for me? Sorry, nothing doing. I've got things to work on here. For heaven's sake, Rick, I know you're trying to help and I don't like dredging my miseries up in front of you, but don't you realize how lonely a man can get?"
  
  He looked at Elena. For some reason there were tears in her lovely eyes.
  
  "I do realize, Mark," Rick said quietly. "We both do. That's why we're trying to help. We'd go with you if we could."
  
  Elena looked up suddenly. "Mark! Why not? Rick can't possibly, I know — but perhaps I could. Why should people talk? I am your secretary! Look, why not a trip around the world? I've wanted to do it myself — I've saved. You'd have company. I'd have the trip, and I could still keep your notes. Why not, Mark? Please say yes!"
  
  He laughed. "You're not serious." But there was a hint of interest in his eyes.
  
  They stayed there talking for an hour and then all three left together.
  
  The man in the dark room upstairs yawned and clicked a switch to the «Off» position.
  
  Three days later, at dinner with Elena in the Harrisons' home, Mark Gerber began to think it would not be such a bad idea to take a trip in the company of an attractive young woman. And a few days after that, in his office, he said: "All right. All right, you've sold me. Where shall we go?"
  
  Half an hour after he had kissed Elena for the first time and agreed to fly around the world with her, a man at a desk many miles away knew all about it.
  
  The man listened to the telephoned report and nodded.
  
  "Good," he said, his face without expression. "Stay with them as closely as you can. Give them absolutely no cause for suspicion, even if it means losing them once in a while. I don't want them alarmed or alerted. I want them on that plane. You're onto the travel agent, are you? Fine. Get everything you can on the hotel arrangements, the other passengers, and so on. What's that? I thought it was one of those organized tours. Hmm. All right, I'll take care of that end myself. May even be convenient for us if they pick up other passengers along the way. Anything else? Very well. Dig up every ounce of background information that you can, and get it to me fast."
  
  He hung up and reached for the transcript of the report that had traveled via microdot from Peking. In seconds he had switched his mind from his quarry in Los Angeles to a semi-desert plain halfway around the world.
  
  Wilhelmstrasse 101B was a narrow, two-story house that had miraculously survived the bombing raids and avoided the unimaginative face-lifting suffered by its neighbors. The adjacent buildings squeezed it so closely that it seemed to be holding its breath; it no longer had any sides of its own but only a front that looked out on a tree-lined street and a back that peered out on a space where there had once been another house.
  
  Nick surveyed it from across the street. Two hours after midnight was an odd time to come calling, but no one had answered when he — as a "salesman — " had openly rung the doorbell during the day — even though the door had been opened to a couple of other callers in the course of the afternoon. Maybe there was a signal, two longs and a short and Adolf sent me. Anyway, two men had gone in and three had come out, and ever since then the house had been dark and silent. If Paul Zimmer was an innocent private citizen — and so he was, according to all available information — he might never even know about his prowler in the night. And if he was not… the visit could be awkward either for him or Nick.
  
  There was a drainpipe around the back, custom-built for night visitors. For all Nick knew it housed an electrical current that could kill a horse, but it was unlikely; short of being downright lethal, it seemed to be a better bet than the doors or ground-floor windows. Nick drifted from shadow to shadow on his ridged rubber shoes with the hard inner lining and angled around the end of the block to the back of Paul Zimmer's house.
  
  If he had been deliberately led to this address, whoever had refused to answer his ring at the door might well expect him to try again in some less orthodox way.
  
  Nick hugged the wall near the drainpipe and waited. The house was as quiet as a crypt and, as far as he could tell, empty. But there was no way for him to know who might have come and gone via the back way while he'd had his eyes glued to the front. He didn't even know what Paul Zimmer looked like. According to the Berlin authorities he had come from Hamburg about a year ago and appeared to be an honest, respectable citizen. They did not have his picture or his fingerprints; they had no reason to. According to his neighbors and the nearby storekeepers, Zimmer was a middle-aged, ordinary looking man who lived alone, only occasionally had visitors though he got quite a lot of mail, and always carried his groceries himself.
  
  Something scuttled near Nick's feet. A healthy looking mouse popped out of the drainpipe, saw the strange foot raised as if in menace, and hurried back into its pipe. Moments later it came out again and had a look around before scampering back in. It was alive, well, and impatient. Nick was pleased; at least the drainpipe wasn't loaded. He tested the pipe for strength. It seemed sturdy enough to hold him. He started up with his feet braced against the wall, his strong hands drawing him upward much as if he were an islander climbing a coconut tree.
  
  His last few days in Argentina had been a frustration of waiting for Agent C-4 to arrive. By the time Nick had left only two things had happened: the killer he had slugged in Hauser's back hallway had strangled himself in his cell; and C-4 had brought him enlargements and identifications of the photographs Nick had marked.
  
  He shinnied past the downstairs windows. Not a creature was stirring, not even the mouse. The thick curtains were motionless, and instinct told him that there was no one in the rooms. Yet he had the feeling that there was someone somewhere in the house.
  
  One of the photographs had shown Hauser himself in uniform on the fringe of a group that included such criminal luminaries as Hitler, Von Ribbentrop, Goebbels, Himmler, Bormann, and several others whom Hawk had identified for him. Someone, presumably Hauser, had very lightly encircled the heads of Bormann and Hauser. A second photograph had shown a group of men in civilian clothes around a conference table. This, too, had revealed two faint pencil marks. According to Hawk, the picture was a group study of Germany's top wartime scientists, and the two figures pointed up by the pencil marks were Konrad Scheuer and Rudolf Dietz. Konrad Scheuer had gone to Britain and had been teaching and doing research at an English University lab for the past few years — until he had mysteriously disappeared only to reappear just as mysteriously (and much more briefly) in West Berlin. Dietz had gone to Australia after the war; now he, too, was missing.
  
  Nick reached the top of the drainpipe and stretched his flexible, Yoga-trained body toward the window on the right.
  
  The implications were that Hauser had identified Scheuer and Dietz as the two scientists who had visited Bronson-Bormann via the study door so clearly revealed by Hauser's powerful binoculars. And Scheuer had since been seen in West Berlin, only to vanish as mysteriously as he had come. The German informer who had revealed the sighting to AXE had heard it from someone who knew someone who had talked to someone who had seen someone… and the start of the trail was lost in the mist of rumor. But that Scheuer had been seen, someone was sure. Nick had studied the enlargements until he felt that he would recognize every figure in the pictures unless age and disguise had changed them completely; and he had followed the informer's trail until the dead end had stared him in the face and he had turned his search to Wilhelmstrasse 101B and the unsociable Paul Zimmer.
  
  He crouched on the window ledge and squinted through dirt-smudged windowpanes at a dim upstairs landing. Still no sound from within. The window was shut but it slid open with a little persuasion. Nick let himself in and waited in a dark corner of the landing for his eyes to become accustomed to the thick darkness.
  
  A carpeted stairway led down; nothing led up. There were four closed doors on the landing. After a long moment of listening and looking, Nick catfooted over to the first of the doors and opened it. A bathroom. Lavishly equipped with gleaming fixtures, soft towels, thick bathmat, and a cupboard full of cosmetics that included some shaving soap and quantities of aromatic powders and liquids. Nick sniffed appreciatively. Very feminine; very expensive.
  
  The second of the doors opened with a creak that made him freeze into silence with one hand on Wilhelmina. But there was no sound after that one plaintive squawk, and when he went in after the probing beam of his pencil flashlight there was nothing to challenge him.
  
  It was a man's room, furnished for a man and full of a man's personal possessions. And yet they were not so personal as to give away anything about the absent occupant: store-bought suits with Berlin labels, carelessly shined but sturdy shoes, underwear, handkerchiefs. No mail, wallet, keys, money, letters… It was for all the world like a room in a boarding house or transient hotel, except that even transients usually left more revealing trivia scattered about. The blank nothingness of the room contrasted oddly with the luxury of the bathroom. Paul Zimmer's room or his guest's? No way of telling. Nothing led back to either Buenos Aires or Munich.
  
  Nick left the room and glided across the landing. Two more doors. One was a walk-in closet jumbled with linen and coats and suitcases. Yet there were no labels, no tags, no small giveaway items to suggest the personality of their owners.
  
  The fourth door, leading to a room which he knew must face the front of the house, opened without the slightest sound. Nick stepped onto a soft carpet and sniffed an aromatic echo of the bathroom scents. The dim light from the street diluted the darkness so that he could see the furnishings. His eyes focused on one of them while his mind turned over two thoughts: One, he could have sworn that the drapes had been shielding the window during the entire length of his seige across the street, and now they were open; and two…
  
  The piece of furniture that riveted his attention was fascinating. It was a bed, and it was occupied. What occupied it was an alluring arrangement of mounds and curves that were only partly hidden by a single coverlet and that were unmistakably, gloriously, lavishly feminine.
  
  Nick's heart lifted a notch and he smiled in the semidarkness. The life of a spy was sordid and savage, but it had its compensations — sweet-smelling surprises, traps laced with honey, delightful detours into dalliance with beauty… He closed the door behind him. A nearby chair moved under his silent grasp and jammed beneath the doorknob.
  
  He moved silently across the carpet and drew the drapes across the window. Next stop, a huge closet full of feminine frippery and a few male suits, and no one hidden within; a little dressing room and more low-cut gowns. Then back into the bedroom, low and even breathing, and the pencil flashlight aiming at the bed.
  
  The coverlet was nothing but a soft sheet reaching no further than the waist. Above it were two superbly rounded breasts, a soft, smooth throat, a cascade of silky, yellow hair, and the face of a sleeping goddess.
  
  She was one of the most incredibly beautiful women Nick had ever seen, and his experience was vast.
  
  The shape beneath the sheet was that of Venus; the bared, twin mounds were invitations to undreamed-of pleasure; the soft skin, gently-molded features, unbelievably long eyelashes and flushed lips were pulse-catching perfection.
  
  The lovely breasts rose provocatively and a sigh came from the parted lips. The exquisite body moved in the bed and lovely arms reached out. The goddess spoke.
  
  "Hugo, my love… my sweet…" a thrilling voice murmured. "You are back, at last. Come to me, my darling."
  
  
  
  
  
  The Man Who Wasn't There
  
  
  
  
  "Mmhmm," said Nick.
  
  He let the light play gently over and around her. Its beam fell onto an unusually well-equipped night table; there were two champagne bottles in the ice bucket and only one of them had been opened. Come to think of it, it was rather warm for May and he was a little thirsty.
  
  "Please, liebchen." The low voice rippled through him. "Are you not coming to bed?"
  
  "Uhmmmm." Nick growled sexily in his throat. This Hugo must really have something; his lady love could hardly wait. There were two glasses on the champagne tray. One was bottoms-up and seemed to be unused, and the other was dewy-looking and positioned where dreamboat would be likely to put it after sipping.
  
  Nick jabbed the flashlight around the room, into the corners, even under the bed. Nothing stirred but the languorous figure inadequately covered — deliciously uncovered — by die sheet.
  
  "Hugo, sweetie, what are you doing? Come to bed, my love, and let me feel you near me. Or shall we have a little drink first?"
  
  "Uh-huh," said Nick, and tried to sound like a man busy taking off his trousers.
  
  "Then you do it," the sleepy vision murmured. "You pour."
  
  "Uh-uh," Nick muttered into his jacket. "You."
  
  "Ahhhh, you are so masterful." The heavenly creature sighed and stirred. Nick doused the flashlight beam and waited.
  
  In the thick darkness he sensed her reaching for the bedside lamp.
  
  "And then we will make love together," she whispered, her breath catching a little in anticipation. Light flooded the bed and the truly beautiful woman who reclined upon it.
  
  "Do you really think we should?" Nick asked hopefully.
  
  She gasped. One graceful, ring-free hand leapt to her mouth and the immense, lash-curtained eyes became pools of alarmed surprise.
  
  "You are not Hugo!"
  
  "No," Nick agreed. "I am not Hugo. But perhaps I will do until Hugo comes along…? Don't be alarmed; Hugo has always said that any friend of his was a friend of mine. You were about to pour?"
  
  "Oh! Oh!" The silky tresses fell forward as the lovely eyes looked down upon the two superbly naked hills that did so much to beautify the landscape. She grasped the sheet and pulled it up to cover her sumptuous bosom — no easy task, for the coverlet was skimpy and she was of a generosity not commonly seen. Nick watched admiringly.
  
  "How did you get in here, anyway?" The brilliant eyes were wide awake and snapping angry fire.
  
  "I thought Hugo would be in here, and I had to come without being seen. It is most urgent that I warn him of his danger. Do you know where I can find him?"
  
  "Danger?" she echoed. The sheet dropped a couple of inches.
  
  Nick perched casually on the edge of the bed. "I am sure you know that he has enemies," he said, eyeing the top of the sheet. "And it is most careless of him to leave you here without protection." He narrowed his eyes and made his tone harden. "That is something else I will have to warn him about."
  
  She stared at him, seeing a strikingly handsome man with steel gray eyes, a generous mouth, and an air of authority. "But I do have… that is, he did leave…" and her words trailed off weakly.
  
  Nick laughed softly. But there was a hint of menace in his tone. "Those men downstairs?" She nodded. "So sorry to disappoint you, my lovely," he said easily. So there were men somewhere downstairs. "But they are not what you think they are — nor what Hugo thinks they are. Now when did you say he'd be back? Not that I'm in such a great hurry now that I've seen you." He smiled down at her very gently, watching her eyes meet his and knowing without conceit that she was sizing up — and approving — his physical attributes.
  
  "Why, I thought he'd be… well, I'm expecting him any minute." The sheet dropped another notch, revealing a cleavage that was big enough to fall into. "You will wait? But what is your name? Who are you?"
  
  "Klaus," said Nick. "As in Nikolaus. And I am a friend, as I have told you." But his tone managed to indicate that he was slightly more than friend, that he was in some way Hugo's superior and somehow displeased though not with Gorgeous. "What is your name?"
  
  "Brigitte," said the dazzling one. "Please do not be angry. He will be back soon. Perhaps you would like a glass of champagne while you wait?"
  
  "That will be most pleasant," said Nick. She reached for the open bottle and the sheet slid down to her waist. Her body was roses and cream, and she looked ready for… practically anything.
  
  "But a fresh bottle, I think," said Nick, miraculously dividing his attention between the marvelous peaks, the ice bucket, and her warm blue eyes. The seductive mounds quivered acquiescently, the bottle was deliciously cold, and Brigitte's eyes seemed to hold a tiny gleam of triumph. Why? he wondered. A mickey in the sealed bottle and not in the open one?
  
  He was certain that neither the wire nor the cork of the bottle had ever been removed before. No false bottom to the bottle; not the smallest hole in the cork. Nick eased the bottle open with the tiniest of pops.
  
  He poured two full glasses and clinked his against hers. "To Hugo's safe and prompt return," he said, and tilted back his head. She drank first; eagerly and thirstily. And quickly. He sipped and watched her.
  
  They were silent for a few moments, and then he said: "How did Hugo manage to find someone as lovely as you? He has certainly managed to keep you secret from me."
  
  Brigitte laughed. "He does not talk much, does he? Not even to me. With me, he does not seem to feel the need of talk." She took a long, slow sip of her champagne. The swelling breasts rose with the movement of her arm; languidly, carelessly, she pulled the sheet up to almost cover herself. "You are slow," she said, handing her emptied glass to him. "Have more."
  
  Nick put both glasses down and reached for the bottle.
  
  "Hugo treats you well, does he?"
  
  "Marvelously," she purred.
  
  "Huh," said Nick. "I don't think much of his care in selecting bodyguards for you. What do you know of those oafs downstairs?" He poured.
  
  She smiled at him, lazy and comfortable as a cat. "Nothing. He is the one who left them here. You had better ask him. But can I ask you something?" The long lashes, surprisingly dark in contrast to her yellow-blonde hair, swooped down over the warm blue eyes.
  
  "Yes, what?" Nick picked up her glass to hand it to her.
  
  "No, put that down, please. For just one moment." Brigitte's eyes — magnetic, sirenlike, hypnotic — stroked over his face. Nick put the glass down and gazed at her. Something stirred inside him. When she spoke, her voice was a throaty, pleading whisper.
  
  "Am I ugly? Are you such a good friend of Hugo's that you can just sit there and — and hardly even look at me? Hugo looks at me." She controlled the slightest of shudders. "But you. Are you ice, like the champagne? Do I revolt you?" She gave him a look that started his pulse pounding like a sledge hammer; a look that mingled longing with a trace of fear, hesitancy with boldness.
  
  "Don't tempt me, Brigitte. I am far from ice. But even if I were, you'd make me melt."
  
  "Then melt — just a little. Do you know that Hugo…" She bit her lip and lowered her eyes. "You said that you were not in such a great hurry to see him. There is no need to be so cold." Her hand brushed his cheek on its way to hide itself under the sheet. "Or are you so important and so tough that you have forgotten how to kiss?"
  
  "I have not forgotten," Nick said gently. He leaned over her and pulled down the sheet, baring her magnificence down to her hips. She gasped a little and brought her arms up to encircle him as he lowered his lips to hers. She kissed like a witch burning in flames of desire; kissed like a passionate woman meeting her lover after months of agonized absense; burned against him as though she would weld the two of them together with her ecstasy. Nick's senses reeled. He was almost unbearably aroused. Her perfume wafted over him like a sweet sedative and the feel of her body made him twang inside. Her tongue was doing things to his that suggested a union far more intimate.
  
  But her right arm didn't seem to be quite with the spirit of the moment. The left was clinging for two while the right was doing something very unloving over the tabletop. Nick saw one eye opening fractionally and closing again as the arm came back and twined firmly around him. Nick burned his kiss hotly into her demanding mouth and pulled away briefly to draw breath and clasp one of her eager breasts with a not-too-gentle hand. His swift glance at the glasses on the tabletop caught a glimpse of a little extra fizz and something white and powdery in his glass.
  
  He bent over her again, closer this time so that the top of his body pinned her to the pillow. And he kissed as he had never kissed before, while his hands went under the sheet and stroked and probed until she trembled and lay bare. Slowly, then, with little false suggestive moves, he drew one hand free while she took the other and guided it where she wanted it. For a moment her body supported his while she went on scaling the peak of passion and his free hand roamed over the tabletop. Carefully, without hurrying, he moved her glass first and then his own. Then he held her closely with both arms and writhed his body against hers.
  
  Suddenly he straightened up, breathing rapidly, harshly.
  
  "No," he said. "No, Brigitte. Not like this. Wait until I have finished with Hugo. Then we will make love property." He trailed his hand up between her legs and over her body, letting it rest beneath one excited breast.
  
  "Don't stop now," she gasped, squeezing his hand against her. "Let us be improper! Love me now and love me hard!" Her eyes sent sparks into his.
  
  He kissed her again. "Later," he murmured into her hair. "Later, when we are sure we will not be disturbed. Then I will make love to you in a way that you never will forget." He freed one hand and reached for the glass he had exchanged with his own. "You have given me a thirst I must cool down. To us!" He raised his glass to her and took one long, slow sip that seemed much bigger than it actually was. "Beautiful Brigitte…"
  
  She propped herself up languorously and let one hand trail over his trousered legs. It seemed to him that she was watching the dispatch of his drink with interest.
  
  "So you don't want to make love to me now. When is later, Klaus? How much later?" She reached for her glass and laughed softly. "If you think you are thirsty now — wait. Just wait. I will love you so that you are drained and dry. Then we will drink, and you will want more love." She drank. "Why do you not forget about Hugo? I see that you have barred the door. If he comes, I will call to him to go away — I am not in the mood for him tonight."
  
  "And does Hugo take that sort of thing from you?" Nick asked.
  
  Brigitte looked thoughtful. Her deep blue eyes seemed to consider. "He takes everything from me," she said eventually. "Too much, I think, sometimes. You know what he is," and a small pinch mark appeared between her eyes. "Hard. Too hard. Almost brutal. And no longer so young. You know." She gulped the cold, bubbly liquid. Nick sipped and nodded gravely. "But because he is old," she went on, "he is a little bit afraid of me. When I tell him stay out, he stays out. Otherwise…" She laughed gaily. "No love tomorrow night or the next night or the next night. So he must behave, is that not so?" She tossed back the dregs and handed Nick her glass. "More. Finish yours. Fill up; let us be cool." She laughed again as Nick finished his drink and thought to himself that she was finding something in the situation inordinately funny.
  
  He refilled the glasses, thinking: Could she have pulled a double switch?
  
  "Tell me," she said, "how you knew where to come. Hugo said he only told his friends in South America where he would be. Are you from South America? You don't look as though you're from South America."
  
  Her words were slurring just a little. To his relief, Nick felt as clear-headed as if he'd just stepped out of a cold shower.
  
  "Hugo seems to have made a number of small mistakes lately," he said smoothly. "But the worst, I think, was leaving you for me to find. What makes the old fool think he'll ever get you back? Here, your glass. A little more…"
  
  "Nice," she gurgled. "Very nice. Yes, more, please."
  
  The landing outside her door and the rooms across the hall were dark and silent. The floor below was as quiet as a grave. But beneath that, in a stone-lined, musty wine cellar, three men sat around a table and played cards. Two, young and thickset, seemed slightly on edge. The third was older, and though his clothes were soiled and in disarray, he bore an air of cold authority. The cards slap-slapped.
  
  One of the young men, Dieter, pushed back his chair impatiently. "It is too slow, this, Paul. How do we know what he is doing upstairs? How can we tell what success the girl is having?"
  
  Paul Zimmer smiled unpleasantly. "Young men are always impatient. You do not understand the niceties of careful planning. We knew the minute he came in, did we not?" He glanced at a signal board on the wall, a cunningly contrived adaptation of the bell-indicator in an oldtime butler's pantry. A blue light glowed next to the number 5. "And we have known, to the second, when he crossed the hall, entered the bathroom, entered my room, entered the other, have we not?"
  
  Dieter nodded. "Yes, but…"
  
  "And what do you think he is doing now, my good fellow? Eh? Curling up with a good book?" Zimmer barked with laughter. "It is all going according to plan, you can be sure. What can go wrong, hah? You tell me — what can go wrong?" With his thin lips curved back over his yellow teeth he looked more like a wolf than ever.
  
  Dieter shrugged sullenly. "Nothing, I suppose. Only I think we should get ready."
  
  "Ja, what are we supposed to do now?" the other massive young man, Hans, rumbled gutturally.
  
  Zimmer flexed his hands into ugly, clawlike shapes.
  
  "Think, Hans. Not too much, not to hurt yourself. Think of your muscles and how you are going to use them." Zimmer's eyes glittered. "Spring the rat from his trap and drag him down here where we can all enjoy him, each in our own way. How would you like that, Hans?"
  
  Hans grinned and rippled his shoulder muscles. "I like that. But what about the woman? Do we divide her up also?"
  
  Dieter snorted. "God, listen to the fool. Is this the animal you have given me to work with, Zimmer?"
  
  "You mistake yourself, Hans. That is not what the woman is for. One hand on her, and you are the one to be divided up. Understand?"
  
  "Ja, I only asked," Hans said with apparent good nature.
  
  "But the man," said Zimmer. Anyone watching him closely would have seen a little dribble of saliva coming from the corner of his mouth. "The man we do with what we will… as long as we keep him alive until he has told us everything we want to know." The saliva trickled down his chin.
  
  It was very much warmer upstairs.
  
  "A li'l more," Brigitte crooned. "Jus' a li'l more. And kiss me, lover. Love me love me love me… mmmmm! But gimme a glass first. Le's drink to us. Us in bed!" She chuckled softly.
  
  Nick refilled her glass. Brigitte was genuinely, deliciously tipsy. And unlike most women when they have had one or two or three too many, she looked even younger and more beautiful than before. Her startlingly blue eyes gleamed with delight and her skin was delicately flushed. She smiled, and endearing little dimples punctuated her cheeks. The intimate explorations of her fluttering hands, the abandon of her lovely, naked body, the obvious eagerness of her voluptuous breasts, all seemed without the guile or shame that would have made her lascivious. Sexy, yes, devastatingly. Lascivious… somehow, no. A baby doll. Lolita plus six or seven years.
  
  She leaned forward suddenly, splashing a few drops of champagne on Nick's knee, and planted a kiss on the side of his nose.
  
  "Handsome," she murmured. "Strong. Want you rape me."
  
  Nick kissed her in return and tickled her ear.
  
  "What's that funny stuff you put in my drink, Brigitte baby?" he murmured. "Makes me feel… makes me feel real good." He felt a little, just to prove his point.
  
  Brigitte giggled. "Oh, that. Tha's supposed to make you tell me story of your life, my Nikolaus, my Nicky."
  
  Scopalamine, sodium pentothal, something of the sort. Certainly was having a curious effect on her.
  
  "A bore, a blank, a waste of time 'til I met you," he answered soulfully. "Brigitte, honey, what is your real name, hmm? And what are you doing in this place?"
  
  She chuckled again. "Elsa Schmidt," she gurgled. "The Club thought Brigitte was such a wunnerful sexy name. Hugo thought so too. Hugo! Thasha laugh!" She matched the action to the words and laughed out loud. "Sho anyway they lemme go. Told them I had a sick aunt. Hah! Sick my foot. Dead three years. But more money than singing, you shee?" She looked up appealingly at Nick.
  
  "Yes, I see," said Nick, and now he almost did see. "And what's so funny about Hugo, honey baby?" He idly stroked her breasts.
  
  Brigitte laughed out loud. "There ish no Hugo. Never knew a man named Hugo in my entire life. Hugo'sh not coming back here tonight or tomorrow night or any night, my shweet, because there isn't any Hugo!"
  
  
  
  
  
  Beauty and the Beasts
  
  
  
  
  "There isn't… any… Hugo?" Nick repeated carefully. "Sweetheart, you're forgetting that I know him. Are you trying to tell me that he's using another name?"
  
  "No, no, you don't undershtand." Brigitte waved her glass emphatically, dribbling the last few drops onto her bare tummy. "Ooh! Cold! I tell you, there ishn't any Hugo. Thish man Zimmer shaw me at the Club one night, shee, and hired me, you know? Jusht a little trick he wanted to play on a vishiting friend, thass what he shaid. Put me up here, nice place to stay, champagne at bedtime… and all I have to do is tell a little shtory about shomebody called Hugo and ashk a few tiny little queshuns. Like, where you from. What you want. All that."
  
  "How did you know who to expect?" Nick probed. "Did this Zimmer describe me to you?"
  
  "No!" she muttered. "I thought you'd be some shriveled up meanface like ole Zimmer himshelf." She yawned suddenly. "Oh, I'm sho sleepy. It musht be terribly late. You come to bed with me now, Nicky? 'Cause you shee, Hugo'sh never going to come."
  
  Brigitte tugged lightly at Nick's sleeve. Her eyes were almost closed.
  
  "No, but Zimmer might," Nick said grimly. "He's downstairs?" Brigitte nodded languidly. "Where?" "Cellar," she murmured drowsily. "How many with him?" Nick persisted. "Two. Only know of two. Shafe down there. Only come up when I signal you asleep. Won't bother ush, Nicky, Klaus, lover…"
  
  "What signal?" Nick demanded crisply.
  
  "No more queshuns, Nicky. I'm sho tired." She fell back against the pillows with her eyes closed and her lashes sweeping her cheeks. But she was not so tired that she didn't have strength left for one little giggle and a swift grab at the zipper in Nick's trousers. He clutched at his pants like an embarrassed boy, and grinned at himself as her hand dropped limply away and her head rolled to one side on the pillow.
  
  Some drug, that. Truth, sex, sleep. And then what — supposing he had taken it and she had given the signal? Down in the damp cellar Dieter stirred impatiently. "I don't like this, Paul." He scowled. "It's taking too long. I think we should go up."
  
  "Ah, ja," said Hans, looking up from the poker-shaped iron he was heating. "Too long."
  
  Paul Zimmer clucked and looked at his watch.
  
  "All right, go then. You may as well if you are going to stand here fidgeting. But help me to get ready first." He took something soft and flexible out of his pocket. Dieter took a rope off what had once been a wine shelf. "But don't overdo it. And remember, if he is fully asleep…"
  
  "I remember everything," Dieter growled. "It will all be very simple once we have him in our hands."
  
  Silence had settled again on the upper floor of the house. There was no sound in the fragrant-smelling bedroom but the girl's regular breathing and the stealthy opening of drawers.
  
  The drawers revealed nothing, nor did the suits in the closet give anything away. The room looked, Nick thought, like one equipped for a woman who was kept by a man who wanted nothing known about himself — or a man who very seldom visited the place. Or even a man who never came here at all.
  
  Only the picture was too phony. Two murders, followed by an address too easily given, a trap baited with one of the most lucious morsels of femininity he'd seen in years, and a soft, champagne-sodden voice saying Shweetie, there ishn't any Hugo… Maybe there wasn't; not here.
  
  He was at the bedroom door removing the barricading chair when he heard an alien sound coming from somewhere across the room. A faint, scrabbling sound, followed by a thump. Nick swung around and pulled Wilhelmina from her hiding place. Hugo, the stiletto, was at his best when he knew what to contend with. Pierre, the deadly gas pellet, was on reserve for special occasions. Wilhelmina was a well-rounded lady of talent who could handle most emergencies.
  
  Nick stalked the sound. It came from the tiny dressing room, and it was getting louder. Muted thumps. Heavy breathing. He flattened himself against the wall. Two men, his ears told him, one much heavier than the other, and from behind that open door they could see the bed and who was sleeping on it. They wouldn't be too pleased. The third man might be trying that locked bedroom door — and as he had the thought he flicked a glance across the room. In that one split second of inattention to the dressing-room door, he lost part of his advantage; the door flew open and a figure that seemed to be made of greased lightning streaked past Nick's outstretched foot and flung itself over to the far side of the bed. Nick had a fraction of time in which to slam the door hard against the incoming second man.
  
  He heard a yell of rage from behind the door and saw the figure across the bed raise its head and point a gun at him. The gun spoke with an angry whine as he threw himself to one side, fell to one knee, and aimed. Wilhelmina exploded into a bark of rage. The other gun fired again wildly; plaster fell from the ceiling above Nick's head and the gunman behind the bed slumped down out of sight. Simultaneously, the door beside him burst open and a gigantic figure threw itself on him with a snarl of animal hatred. Nick was ready, but not ready enough. Midway through his leap to his feet he felt the giant arms twist his body hideously. Wilhelmina barked once more, at nothing, and then she flew out of his hand. Off-balance, he went down, his head slamming against the wall. In a red haze of sudden pain and dizziness he saw the immense hands reaching for him again. He clawed upward, seeking the soft part of the thick bull-neck, and felt his head snap back with a windpipe blow that made him gag and see a thousand eye-tearing stars. Dimly, he knew that he was being lifted up again as if he were a baby in the hands of some horror-movie monster, and then it seemed that he was being spun miles above the earth — and then being flung violently into a canyon lined with jagged rocks. He blanked out.
  
  Then he was swimming up slowly from a vast depth that seemed to be a cave filled with swirling mist. The mist slowly cleared and he saw the room shimmering back into shape. There was no rock in this cave; just a pile of aching bone and pummeled flesh. His own.
  
  A huge man with bulging shoulders and long arms was leaning over the bed, breathing down on a little champagne doll with a delicious body meant for loving. Big hands cupped the magnificent breasts. Brigitte stirred. One of the hands moved to do something to the front of the bulging trousers. When it moved again to the soft breast it revealed the big man's intentions with obscene clarity.
  
  Nick went ice-cold and his eyes clicked into sharp focus.
  
  The creature slid heavily onto the bed and lowered itself over the girl. Big hands pinched the soft flesh and a voice rumbled thickly, "Not for me, hey? Huh… Only for me. Wake up." He thrust her legs apart and maneuvered himself ponderously.
  
  Nick's aching body obeyed him slowly but it did obey. Hugo snaked out of his sleeve. Nick was at the foot of the bed, near the almost-headless body of the gunman, when the giant sensed his movement and slid off the soft white body and turned on him, unsatisfied desire still burning in him like a red-hot poker.
  
  "Aaahhh! The woman is mine!" he snarled. His eyes glittered with passion and hatred, and he lunged.
  
  Nick crouched low and thrust Hugo upward with all his strength. The giant's feet stumbled against the bloodied body of his fellow-killer and threw him hard against Hugo's gut-biting, icepick blade. Nick jerked out the killing steel and stepped back, ready for a second thrust. The big man lurched toward him over the fallen body, holding one hand to his punctured gut and the other in an immense claw that scrabbled for Nick's throat. Nick dodged and struck. Razor-sharp steel sank into the side of the thick neck like a hot knife into butter.
  
  Nick stepped back and let the second body fall into an ungainly heap upon the first.
  
  Brigitte moaned softly as her eyes fluttered open. She looked at Nick, looked down at the crumpled bodies, and opened her mouth wide for what promised to be a piercing scream.
  
  "Be quiet!" Nick rapped. "There's still one more, isn't there?"
  
  She nodded dumbly, her eyes staring.
  
  "Then keep that pretty mouth shut until I find him. Then you can scream all you want. I'm going downstairs."
  
  He turned swiftly toward the dressing room.
  
  "No!" she yelped. "No! You cannot leave me with these — those — things! I will come with you." And she leaped off the bed with surprising agility and threw herself at Nick in all her naked, frightened beauty.
  
  "You can wait in the dressing room if you like," he said firmly, "but you're not coming with me."
  
  There was a moment's rather pleasant delay, in the midst of the carnage, while he persuaded her into the dressing room. She huddled into a chair while he inspected the pneumatically operated trapdoor through which their company had come, and smiled bravely at him as he lowered himself down the narrow ladder.
  
  The wooden steps led down to the ground floor and another open trap. Nick paused to look and listen before stepping into what could turn out to be a nest of poisonous snakes.
  
  It turned out to be a very ordinary looking cellar lit by a very ordinary light bulb, and it was bare. He lowered himself into it with one hand on the ladder and one hand on Wilhelmina. There was no one in the room and the storage closets were exactly what they seemed — repositories for assorted household paraphernalia. But there was a door that led into a small room.
  
  It held a card table, several chairs, and a wall lined with shallow shelves in what had once been a wine cellar. There were also several locked cabinets. A wire-and-pulley contraption extended from the ceiling almost to the floor. Few people would have recognized it for what it was but Nick had seen it before, during his youthful days with the O.S.S. His body twinged with the memory of that hideous pain. A few feet away from it, on a rusting metal grille, was an object intended to produce the same result as the wire: fear, agony, breakdown, and giveaway speech. It was a poker-shaped object with a curiously curved hook on the end, and it was attached to an electric cord that was plugged into the wall. Nick smelled and felt its heat; he unplugged it quickly and pushed the thing into a dark corner.
  
  The cabinet locks could wait until later, but there was one lock that almost shouted to be sprung. A second door led from the wine-cellar cardroom into something that was almost certainly another tiny room. So far there was no sign nor sound of the third man. Either he was somewhere on the ground floor, or he had made a getaway, or he was behind that door. But the door was bolted on the outside.
  
  Nick scouted the area near the trapdoor and found a pushbutton switch with an insulated cord leading to the trap. He caught himself almost in the act of pushing it and stopped. If he left the door open, someone could come down and catch him unawares. If he pushed a switch he wasn't one hundred per cent sure of, he might set off a hidden charge that could bring the whole house down.
  
  He left the switch alone and warned himself to keep well in mind the possibility of a visitor from above. For that matter, he couldn't be too sure of the luscious Brigitte, although both instinct and reason told him she was no more than the pawn she'd said she was.
  
  He slid the bolt on the inner door with silent care, surprised at how easily it glided free. Wilhelmina filled his hand with her cool strength. The door opened inward; a smell of ancient earth and trapped air rushed out to meet him.
  
  Someone in there, in the dark, was groaning.
  
  Nick stepped to the side of the doorway and let the cellar light flood in.
  
  "No, no, not again," the voice moaned. "Kill me and be done with it." It was a male voice, German, and even in its agony it sounded cultured and gentle.
  
  The light fell upon a rough straw pallet on the floor. A gray-haired man in soiled and rumpled clothes lay face down upon it. Nick edged into the room and fumbled for a light switch. None.
  
  "Who are you?" the man asked into the half-light.
  
  Nick felt a tingle running up his spine. He knew the face. It was that of Dr. Konrad Scheuer, missing from his English lab and briefly seen some days before on a downtown West Berlin street.
  
  "Dr. Scheuer," he said, disbelievingly. "Can you get up? Here, take my hand."
  
  The older man cringed away. "No, no! I know how you people work. You will pretend to be kind and then you will hurt me again."
  
  "I've come to help you," said Nick. "I have nothing to do with the people in this house. Even if you don't trust me, what've you got to lose? Here, give me your hand."
  
  He reached out and took the man's hand firmly in his. Scheuer groaned and stumbled to his feet.
  
  "Wait one moment," he moaned. "The light… so bright… my eyes. Where — where are the others?"
  
  "In another part of the house," said Nick. "Busy with something else. What did they want with you?"
  
  Scheuer shook his head and blinked his eyes. "Kidnap," he muttered. His eyes wandered over Nick. "We must — you will take me out of here? Do you perhaps have some… some weapon for me?"
  
  Nick shook his head. "Leave the fighting to me. Let's get you out of here. Think you can walk?"
  
  Scheuer tried. "I'll be all right. Please… go first. With your gun."
  
  Nick stepped sideways into the outer room. "All clear," he said. Scheuer hesitated, and slowly tottered past him.
  
  "We'll have to go up that ladder," Nick said. "Can you make it?"
  
  "I'll… I'll manage the ladder if you help me," Scheuer answered.
  
  Nick nodded. The trap was too narrow for him to carry the man through it; he'd have to go up first and pull Scheuer after him.
  
  He looked at the man standing under the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling, at the worn face and the soiled clothes and the tired, dangling arms, at the collarless neck and the open shirtfront that revealed welts and bruises, at the grizzled chin that slumped down over the chest.
  
  He reached out a kindly hand and grasped the professor on the shoulder. "Hold on just a little longer; we'll be out of here in a matter of minutes." As he withdrew his hand his thumb jerked upward against Scheuer's neck and caught at something just below the ear. Scheuer gasped and pulled away with surprising agility.
  
  "You fool! Have I not been hurt enough already?" He back-stepped without a trace of a totter.
  
  "I'm not sure that you have," Nick said easily, and thrust out one long arm after Scheuer. His fingers caught beneath the older man's chin and pulled upward with a decisive jerk. Scheuer's face distorted hideously and came away in Nick's hand — a soft, flexible mask made by an expert and worn by a man who looked like a hungry wolf.
  
  "Paul Zimmer, I presume," Nick said cheerfully. "Now suppose you put your hands up and turn to face that wall — the one with the outlet for the heating iron."
  
  "You clumsy swine!" Zimmer spat. "You will spoil everything I've worked for. For weeks I have been working on this case, trying to find out what is happening to the missing scientists!"
  
  "You have all my sympathy," Nick said courteously, "and you will even have my thanks if you will tell me all about this case you're working on. In the meantime — put those hands up! Before we have our little discussion I feel I must warn you that I will check every word of what you say with my colleagues upstairs. By now I think they must have extorted — I beg your pardon, persuaded — a considerable amount of information from those hired hands in the lady's bedroom. Now turn…"
  
  "You lie!" snarled Zimmer. "You have no colleagues upstairs. You don't know who I am, you don't know what you're doing…"
  
  "You're too modest," said Nick. "I do know who you are. You've aged, but I'd know you anywhere." His voice grew cold. "Rudolf Müller, onetime aide to Martin Bormann. For some days now I've carried your picture with me everywhere. You didn't know I cared, did you, Rudy baby? Now to the wall, and let us do our talking."
  
  Zimmer-Müller's eyes shot sparks of hatred and the wolfish teeth parted as if to bite a chunk of flesh out of the tormentor. He half-turned and his hand flashed to his waist. It was a move Nick had been expecting. He let Müller complete his useless grab; his muscles waited. The darting hand came out from the waistband holding a small, snub-nosed gleam of metal that pointed at Nick from beneath Müller's left arm. Nick's foot moved in that same instant, arching upward and striking the gun-hand with the numbing kick of an outraged mule. The small gun spat viciously into Müller's own left arm. He screamed shrilly and let the gun clatter to the floor.
  
  Müller stood staring at Nick, one hand clutching the opposite wrist. Then he turned and walked slowly to the wall.
  
  "We'll start by having you tell me where Hugo Bronson really is," Nick said easily, "and what is happening to the scientists. You can get hurt or not, just as you like. It makes no difference to me."
  
  Silence.
  
  "Where is Bronson, Rudy?"
  
  Silence.
  
  "Where is Bormann, then?"
  
  "What'll it be, Rudy — the iron or the wire? Or a knife, to snick little pieces out of you?"
  
  Silence. But the shoulders bunched tightly.
  
  "The wire, I think," Nick said reflectively. "I suppose you have enjoyed its effect on other men." He tugged thoughtfully at the looped wire hanging from the ceiling. "I see it is in good working condition. Fine. Turn around, Müller!" he rapped suddenly. "Take your clothes off. And do it quickly."
  
  Müller's head turned first with his chin almost touching his shoulder, as if he were favoring a crick in his neck. Then the chin ducked and the wolfish mouth tore at the button on the point of his shirt collar.
  
  For a moment Nick was amused by what seemed to be an irrational, demented act. Then he cursed and leaped.
  
  Müller turned on him a grin like the risus sardonicus of strychnine poisoning.
  
  "Too late," he hissed, and the yellow teeth clamped together for the last time. The German sucked in a final, painful gasp of air. His knees folded, and he dropped.
  
  Well, it was too goddamn bad. Three sources of information, and all of them dead. But that was the way the game so often was played: kill or be killed, and so little time for finesse.
  
  Nick searched Müller's body for the usual next-to-nothing, removing a wicked little knife, a wallet, and the remaining collar-point button. Maybe AXE's Editing Department could have fun with it.
  
  The cellar itself yielded undreamed of dividends.
  
  The locked cabinets gave in to the Lockpicker's Special and proved to be goldmines of information. One was a miniature darkroom equipped with sink and faucet as well as 35mm cameras, film, developers, photographic papers, equipment for making microdots, and a high-powered microscope. A slide under the microscope bore two microdots ready for reading. The second cabinet contained a radio transmitter and a box filled with make-up and masks, all of which were incredibly lifelike. One or two of them looked vaguely familiar, but it was impossible to tell who they were supposed to represent without first fitting them onto a living face…
  
  It all took considerable deciphering, and after an hour of engrossment Nick was only able to discover that agents Paul, Dieter and Hans were engaged in a maneuver called Operation Decoy, which was designed to dovetail with the movements of various people from points A, B, C, and others to point XYZ. And from what he could gather, point XYZ was not West Berlin. It was somewhere behind the Iron or Bamboo Curtain.
  
  In the midst of trying to decide how to handle his find so as not to reveal to the enemy how thoroughly they had been uncovered (quickly restaff house with AXE-oriented personnel? stage police raid on so-called brothel, planting headlines in paper about escape of chief pimp and company? expose ring of neo-Nazis planning comeback in heart of Berlin?) Nick belatedly remembered his glamorous and tipsy hostess.
  
  And having decided what to take with him and what to leave behind, he went back up the ladder to the top floor of the house, stopping to make a brisk but thorough survey of the deserted first floor: nothing but a stage-set of dusty furniture. Zimmer's house, it was clear, was like a well-stacked woman: plenty of top and bottom, but no middle.
  
  He scaled the top steps of the ladder into the dressing room.
  
  Brigitte was not there. Neither was she in the bedroom.
  
  Hans and Dieter were there, more awful in death than in life and caked with dried blood; but Brigitte Elsa Schmidt was gone.
  
  The window was apparently untouched but the chair had been moved and the bedroom door was unlocked.
  
  On impulse or by instinct he crossed the landing to the second bedroom. His pencil flashlight flickered around the room and its beam settled on the bed. It was occupied, and what occupied it was an alluring arrangement of mounds and curves that were hidden by nothing at all…
  
  Brigitte stirred and blinked. "Oh, God, who…!" she gasped. "Nicky, sweet! I've been so frightened. I couldn't stay in that awful little room. Oh, hold me, please hold me! Oh, sweetheart, not with all those clothes on!"
  
  Clothes did get in the way a Utile. Especially the skin-thin, fingerprint-free gloves supplied by Editing. They were versatile, but not that versatile.
  
  Nick slid animal-naked into bed beside her. There was plenty of time for abandonment before contacting Washington, where it was now well past midnight and the end of Hawk's long working day. Anyway, if he was going to wait and see who else turned up at this incredible house, he might as well make himself comfortable.
  
  Brigitte sighed beside him, a little bundle of love waiting to be tightened up and then unraveled. They played each other like sensitive instruments, each with an expertise that gradually brought the other to an exquisite, tightly-strung pitch that drew them together in a flaming duet. And suddenly the bold little sex kitten with the double-bed eyes became a clawing wildcat of desire. Nick's superbly muscled body jerked with hers… smoothly, gently, but with a controlled strength and rhythm that captured every sensual need of hers and doubled it. Their bodies burned together and at last convulsed in one long, wonderfully savage moment of sublime, deep satisfaction.
  
  They rested for a moment, drawing breath.
  
  Nick opened his eyes suddenly. Brigitte was tugging at him urgently. "More," she crooned. "More… my animal, my love…"
  
  
  
  
  
  Bird Gotta Fly
  
  
  
  
  Brigitte had told him, in considerable detail, the little that she knew. Yes, these men were all Germans; the big, ugly one was Hans, the languid, slender one was Dieter, and wolf-face was Paul Zimmer. Had he ever given her the impression that Hugo might actually turn up? Absolutely not. Had she known that Zimmer was not Zimmer's real name? Well, no (shrug), but she wasn't too surprised. Did she often get the kind of proposition he had offered? Nicky, baby (pout and wiggle), let's not talk business, sweetie; it was just a way to make a little extra cash… closer, sweetie, closer… mmm-mmm! Did she have any idea what they had been up to in that cellar, and how it was connected with her job upstairs? Not really, but he hadn't really fooled her with that talk about playing a joke on someone. They were gangsters of some kind, maybe counterfeiters. But honestly, Nicky, I swear to you I didn't think they were really bad, and I didn't see any harm in making a little extra…
  
  She proved to be very talkative, quite ignorant of the truth, incredibly athletic, and absolutely insatiable.
  
  Her beauty continued to dazzle, but after a while the entertainment wore off. Nick was satiated. And he didn't particularly like being called sweetie.
  
  And by the time AXE headquarters had received his wealth of information, Nick was ready for his final scene with her.
  
  It was an explosion of abandonment followed by lies (his), tears (hers), and a last goodbye. Brigitte went back to her club and Nick removed his subtle disguise (it was fortunate that Brigitte had preferred to make love in the dark) so that he would be recognized by the man who was to contact him. When he was ready he looked like himself, something he hadn't done for weeks.
  
  Every night he did the nightclub circuit. Between eleven and twelve he would drop in at the Resi and sit at a wall table where he could drink and think in peace and watch the dancers from a distance.
  
  On the fourth night after his visit to Wilhelmstrasse 101B he arrived at the Resi a little earlier than usual, at a time when there was a slight lull in the flow of customers. The sixth sense that had forewarned him of trouble so many times before sent up a sudden flare in his consciousness without giving him any reason why.
  
  Nice table; friendly waiter; no sinister faces peering out from behind the floral decorations; chair of his own choice, not attached to some deadly explosive… He sat down and ordered, identifying the feeling. It was that old familiar skin-tightening sensation of being watched.
  
  He relaxed and waited.
  
  All over the huge room men with telephones on their tables were calling girls with telephones on theirs; old bags were dialing gigolos and sweet young things were buzzing tourist sugardaddies; fags and drags and dates and strangers and visiting schoolteachers were having fun-fun-fun sending messages streaking around the room through the pneumatic-tube mail service provided by the management.
  
  The cylinder whizzed along its appointed course and plopped down decisively into the tubular slot beside Nick.
  
  The hair stood straight out on the back of his neck as he gazed at the cartridge. He could see himself twisting the cylinder open and having the whole damn thing blow up in his face.
  
  He reached for it gingerly, wondering if he should take it to the men's room and drown it, or be brave.
  
  He decided to be brave because he saw the sign when he turned it over. It was a little AXE insignia, a crudely drawn replica of the tattooed axe he wore on his right arm, and he knew that it had been drawn in rapidly fading ink by a nearby AXE-man. Even now the tiny design seemed to be melting at the edges. He opened up the metal chamber and withdrew a folded note.
  
  I AM EAGLE, it said. INTERESTED IN MAKING ACQUAINTANCE OTHER FLYBIRDS, ESPECIALLY ONE WHO TAKES OFF SOON. SUGGEST RENDEZVOUS FIRST TEN MAIN HEADQUARTERS OF THE BIRDS TO CUT PRELIMINARY RED TAPE. REPLY UNNECESSARY.
  
  
  
  Nick smiled thoughtfully and let his eyes flicker around the room as if he were considering a tempting proposition. He folded the note and pushed it carelessly into his pocket, knowing that the writing on the paper would be gone within the next few minutes. He knew, too, that one of Hawk's men was or had been in the dance hall.
  
  Translated, the message read: I HAVE ORDERS FOR YOU FROM HAWK. YOU WILL BE LEAVING HERE SOON. MEET ME AT THE BIRDHOUSE OF THE BERLIN ZOO TOMORROW MORNING AT TEN FOR INSTRUCTIONS. DO NOT REPLY TO THIS NOTE AND DO NOT TRY TO FIND ME NOW. The phrase CUT PRELIMINARY RED TAPE was a security check, as were all the references to birds, but it also suggested a case involving a Communist antagonist.
  
  Nick stayed to watch the dancers for a while and then he left for his comfortable, Brigitte-free and bloodless room at the Bristol Hotel Kempinski.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  It was a blue-skied, invigorating day, far more suitable for children's fun than a meeting between spies. Nick lingered at the monkey cage and watched a group of toddlers chortling with delight at monkey antics so much like their own. Birds were singing with sweet gusto; once in a while a lion roared; way in the distance an elephant trumpeted. Nick felt in no mood for conspiracy. Yet he was curious about his new instructions and how they tied in with his bloody fact-finding in Berlin.
  
  He strolled to the birdhouses enjoying the bright day and the cheerful normality around him.
  
  A few minutes later he saw a tall, wiry old man in a colorful shirt, probably an American tourist, heading slowly toward him. A wave of surprise swept through him.
  
  Nick wandered past the cages, gradually making his way toward the bright shirt and noting that it had stopped in front of a cageful of rather unprepossessing crowlike birds. He halted beside the lone viewer and looked critically at the birds.
  
  "Not too handsome, are they?" said the tourist.
  
  "Not at all," Nick agreed. "Not like eagles. And how did you enjoy your night on the town?"
  
  Hawk raised his craggy eyebrows. "It was not a night, simply a brief excursion."
  
  "It wasn't like you, that rather flamboyant business of sending me a message in a tube," said Nick. "If I'd done it, you would have chewed my head off."
  
  "I suppose so," Hawk admitted, "but I can't resist those gadgets. Or zoos. But our problem is far removed from here."
  
  A French couple stopped nearby and expressed revulsion for the ugly birds.
  
  "What say we go look at the elephants?" said Nick. Hawk nodded. They strolled away.
  
  "How far removed?" asked Nick, picking up where they'd left off. "Argentina?"
  
  The older man shook his head emphatically. "Nothing there. You didn't leave many pieces for us to pick up. The police are baffled. But our man did dig up a couple of small points of interest. One: Just about everybody who knew Bronson had the impression that he was an ex-Nazi intending to go home someday, and that Hugo Bronson — which is not, of course, a German name — was not his real name. The suggestion that he might have been Bormann made them laugh. And there does not appear to have been any facial resemblance. That means nothing, though. Two: You recall the second of the two scientists Hauser supposedly saw in Buenos Aires? Rudolf Dietz? Well. Someone besides Hauser claims to have seen him in Buenos Aires. In a car with another man, whose face he did not see, heading in the general direction of Bronson's house. Now, in the light of what you found, that doesn't mean that Dietz was ever in Argentina. But it does bear out part of Hauser's story. Three: Hauser was a widely-disliked flannel-mouth who made no secret of his desire to see a resurgence of Nazism. Hauser was not his name either, of course. The point is that he was in a good position to recognize Bormann if he saw him. He was strictly a background figure in the Nazi movement, but a powerful one. Fell from grace before the end because Hitler didn't approve of his preference for naked women and hard liquor." Hawk glanced sternly at Nick as if suspecting him, too, of harboring a preference for the same luxuries.
  
  Nick cleared his throat and looked attentive.
  
  "It is also quite possible," Hawk continued, "that he did all he could to ingratiate himself with the man he claimed was Bormann in case of a Nazi comeback. He could have managed to have found out something he wasn't supposed to know. And because Bronson, or Bormann, or whoever he is, left such a clear trail to Berlin, it would seem that his killers were afraid he was going to name some destination for Bronson other than Berlin. Which, I believe, occurred to you at the time. I am now almost sure that you were right.
  
  "Four. Ruppert checked out satisfactorily. The barman at the International Club and several other witnesses vouch for the fact that Bronson, just before leaving, very casually scribbled the Wilhelmstrasse address for him and asked him to give it out to anyone who might ask. Also, Ruppert is neither Nazi nor Communist, but completely apolitical and rather ashamed of his country's wartime record. His acquaintance with Bronson was only casual. So if he steered you to West Berlin, he did so in all innocence."
  
  They stopped in front of a black-maned Hon.
  
  "Beautiful creature," commented Hawk. "All grace and power. Well. I am sorry to say that is all we got from Buenos Aires. Except, I may say, you left quite a bit of a scandal behind you. The police lost days looking for Karl Gruber. And you got the estimable editors of that filthy rag Achtung! into all kinds of trouble."
  
  "That's too damn bad." Nick clucked sympathetically. "But I'm sorry about beclouding the issue for the B.A. cops. I'd like very much — to coin a corny phrase — to avenge Gomez. Christ, I lured the poor guy onto the sidewalk and just let him have it."
  
  "That's nonsense," Hawk said sharply. "It is pointless to indulge in that kind of thinking. Now. About your finds in that cellar…"
  
  They left the Hon to its restless pacing and continued their walk.
  
  "The masks you found were — in addition to that of Scheuer — the exact facial images of several German scientists. One was Dietz, missing from Australia. One was Mark Gerber, a naturalized American anti-Nazi of whom you'll be hearing more later. Another was Otto Lehmann, known to have gone to Russia after the war. The Russians deny that he is missing, but they were worried and evasive when we contacted them. Another was Ernst Rademeyer, who disappeared from his lab in Canada just one week ago. As far as we know, none of these people have any lingering Nazi sympathies. Perhaps they never had. They're scientists, after all. I would say it is fairly clear now that the whole operation is an elaborate decoy — executed with considerable overconfidence and incompetence. We are still trying to pin down exactly who your friends Hans, Dieter and Müller were working for. It is not easy. Berlin is riddled with double and triple spies working for the highest bidder of the moment. But we think we know. Double agents do not die, as Müller did, to protect their secrets. They sell them. From his actions, and from the microdot information, we are reasonably certain that his cell was working on behalf of our old friends CLAW. Or some other branch of the Red Chinese intelligence services."
  
  Nick whistled. "So the whole Berlin plant was set up by the Reds. Wouldn't they have been better off just to cover their tracks and forget all these elaborate red herrings?"
  
  Hawk shrugged and stopped in front of the elephant house.
  
  "You know their devious minds as well as I do — which isn't very well. But if they'd succeeded in planting their decoy idea of neo-Nazism, they could have had us running around in circles for months. As it is, because of Hauser and their own incompetent help, they've given us a clue. It's their bad break, and our good luck."
  
  "And the scientists are presumably being transported to some place behind the Bamboo Curtain?"
  
  "Are there already, I should say. Which brings me to my next point. Why don't we buy some peanuts for that elephant? He looks as though he wants some."
  
  Nick sought out the peanut vendor and came back with two bags.
  
  "And what's your next point?"
  
  Hawk opened the bag and shelled a peanut for himself.
  
  "Dr. Mark Gerber," he said. "He is not yet missing. And because we've had such a heavy guard on him it's been impossible for anyone to put the grab on him. But he's been persuaded to leave the country — oh, yes, he's left already — and though we've got two men traveling on that plane with him he may end up with his fellow-scientists after all. At this point I'll just give you an outline. When Dietz and Scheuer disappeared from their labs we doubled all security precautions in all our top labs, factories, universities and plants. And when Mark Gerber's wife was murdered and a most gorgeous creature took over for his departing secretary…"
  
  "Murdered? How?"
  
  "An electric short," Hawk said impatiently. "Just after a handyman had been around. He killed himself when we got after him, as these bastards so often do. Point is, she was murdered. Part of a detailed plan for softening up Gerber. I have a dossier for you spelling out all these details; you can read it later. We checked into the new and glamorous secretary as soon as we suspected murder. Understand, we had the F.B.I. on this. We couldn't have done it by ourselves. Not enough available manpower. Elena Darby, her name is. Checked back five years and then a blank. But we kept working. Found she'd taken over the identity of an orphan girl. We tailed them both wherever they went, bugged his office, her home, his home, friends' houses. It's paying off."
  
  He fed a peanut to the elephant and took one for himself.
  
  "The Harrisons?" Nick said at last. "Was Rick Harrison in this too?"
  
  Hawk shook his head. "A friend of Gerber's. Honestly thought it would do him good to get away a while with a glamorous companion. The whole idea was hers — we know it from the tapes. And then, just about the time he agreed to go away with her on this round-the-world thing, I got a report from Peking. From your friend Julia Baron."
  
  "Julie?" said Nick, brightening up. A mother and her little boy were nearby talking to the elephants. "How is she?"
  
  "Just fine," said Hawk. "She sends her love. How about the seal pool next?"
  
  They sauntered away eating their peanuts.
  
  "And what did Julie say?"
  
  "That the Chinese Reds have some kind of highly secret plant in Sinkiang or Inner Mongolia or thereabouts. I stuck my neck out there. The whole thing has been kept so very secret that we thought it deserved investigation. The Chief himself had to authorize the flight and one of C.I.A.'s most qualified spy-pilots made it. Got himself shot down on the southern border of Outer Mongolia. He disintegrated his plane on the way down, and himself along with it. We've heard no kicks from the Reds about illegal flights, but we know more or less what — and where — it happened. So we have no evidence from the flight, but we have a very strong suspicion,"
  
  "Uhm. What's the route for Gerber's trip around the world?"
  
  "L.A., New York, London, Cairo, Bombay, Delhi, Agra…"
  
  "Cairo? Lots of German scientists have been winging off to Egypt with no Communist conspiracy in mind at all. Nasser has his own use for them, and it spells no good for Israel. Do we have anyone in Cairo?"
  
  Hawk nodded. "Two on the plane heading for Cairo, as I said, and two more waiting. Not enough, but all we have. That's where you'll be starting from. You're on the staff of PIC Magazine, with cameras. And leaving late this afternoon, so you'll get there before the tour flight."
  
  "There's no plane that I know of going this afternoon."
  
  "There's one. The U.S. Air Force. I told you this was urgent."
  
  They watched the seals in silence for a moment.
  
  "We don't have much more time," Hawk said at last. "Your plane will get to Cairo just before Gerber's flight, which you'll join. Before it goes, I trust you will have met both Gerber and Elena Darby. You'll be staying at their hotel. You will find that most of the passengers on this flight have booked through a travel agency and will go around the world with you. You'll not only see them on the plane but at tourist spots and hotels where they, and you, have been booked. But the plane is not loaded to capacity. Other passengers may be joining along the way. Keep your eye on them. You'll be contacted in Cairo. As soon as you check in there, the responsibility is all yours. Maybe the whole thing will come to a head in Egypt."
  
  "What are we after? Something more than Gerber's safety, I assume. If the end of the trail is not in Cairo, it must be somewhere else. Red China, possibly. But on a flight that doesn't go any closer to Red China than New Delhi?"
  
  "I think," said Hawk, "that somehow or other this flight is going to lead us to a plant or factory we'd very much like to know more about. No matter what happens, you're to stay on that flight to the end. We want to know where scientists like Mark Gerber are going. And it may be necessary to destroy what you find at the other end. Now. I think we've both had enough Zoo for today. You will go from here to the Weber Travel Agency to pick up a package. When you have studied the contents you will know what is expected of you. I myself am going to study the penguins. It has been a pleasure to talk to a fellow American." Hawk inclined his head and stuck out his hand to clasp Nick's. "If I hear any more from Aunt Lizzie, I'll certainly let you know. In the meantime… give 'em the Axe."
  
  Nick watched him go, a tall, stringy man in a bright tourist's shirt… and the mind of a master spy.
  
  He spent another half hour in the Zoo before heading for the Weber Travel Agency. When the smell of fresh hay was out of his nostrils he was once again the man called Killmaster by both friends and enemies, and his memory was telling him things about his next stop — Cairo.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bargain in Bombay
  
  
  
  
  Elena Darby was a dish, all right. And so attentive to Dr. Mark Gerber in a casual, undemanding way.
  
  Nick sat at the almost deserted bar of the Semiramis Hotel in Cairo and glanced down the length of the cool, airy lounge. Elena and Mark had just come in and taken a table. Nick unobtrusively turned his back on them. Either one of them was likely to call him over if they caught his eye, and that wasn't part of his plans at the moment.
  
  He swallowed appreciatively. Egypt had changed drastically, but there was at least one impressive change for the better: it was now possible to obtain an exquisite, extra dry martini.
  
  Someone harrumphed beside him and ordered a Pimm's Cup.
  
  "So you're leaving tomorrow?" said Someone. "Do hope your snaps come out."
  
  Nick looked at the man with faint dislike. Smythe was the hotel bore.
  
  "Photographic studies," Nick corrected coldly. Everyone tried to dodge the man and everyone got cornered by him sooner or later.
  
  Smythe clucked. "Sorry, old boy. Not snaps, of course. That's what I take, isn't it? Yes. Cheers. Lovely girl, that, with Gerber. Gather you've become quite friendly with them, what?"
  
  Nick nodded. "Uh-huh. Market places, Pyramids, Sphinx, camels, and pictures all over the lot."
  
  "Good," said Smythe. "Progress. And nothing untoward?"
  
  "Nothing that I can see."
  
  "Uhm. Nor I. We'll be extra cautious from now until the plane leaves, of course, but I don't think Cairo's the dead end. Wish we could all come with you."
  
  "So do I," said Nick, and meant it. Hawk picked his men with care, and the dreary Smythe was a highly competent operative with a deep zest for life and a flair for acting.
  
  "I gather from Alfred that Gerber, weary though he still looks, has much improved since he left New York," said Smythe. 'Alfred' was the code name for agent A-12, who had joined the flight in New York and come as far as Cairo before dodging out of sight. "Elena's magic seems to be working. A very subtle seductress."
  
  "Very. Experience does pay off."
  
  "And how many of all these pictures do you think your magazine will use?" The bartender was wiping the bar in their direction. "Why, you must have taken positively thousands!"
  
  "They'll do a spread of twelve to fourteen on every place along the route," said Nick. "A tie-in with the airline. They'll put the leftovers in the stock shot file to save the cost of another trip for the next four or five years or until there's some really bloody border incident to cover. Some of the pictures, of course, I'll keep myself."
  
  Smythe smiled slyly. "The bulk of your studies of Miss Darby, I suppose." The bartender bustled off to attend to a customer at the far end of the bar. "I think you might be interested in one little bit of information I've dug up for you. You'll have two new fellow passengers on your plane tomorrow. They bought their tickets about an hour ago so we haven't yet got anything on them." That was interesting. Nick carried in his head the names, backgrounds and faces of all the passengers who had come as far as Cairo, and every one of them checked out satisfactorily for a good fifteen to twenty years back at least… except for orphan Elena Darby. Sudden additions to the passenger list were none too easy to check out in time, especially if passports were impeccable and the travelers paid cash.
  
  "Together?" Nick asked.
  
  Smythe nodded. "Dr. E. B. Brown and his young assistant, Brian McHugh. Archaeologists. Brown doesn't look much like a Brown and McHugh doesn't sound much like a Mc, but we all know about my nasty, suspicious mind and what a melting pot of a world we live in. Anyway, Brown is a scholarly looking chap with a slight limp and McHugh is full of bounce and cheer, altogether too Sunday School-energetic to be quite human."
  
  "No candid study, I suppose?"
  
  "Regrettably, no. It was only luck, actually, that we caught them at the ticket office at all. Can't have jam on it, my boy."
  
  "Another Pimms?" Nick asked, smiling. "Or do you think you've bored me long enough?"
  
  "Shame on you," Smythe said reproachfully. "How can I drink with a man who talks to me like that? I'll find someone else to bore, thank you. One parting note, however. Norm and I will stay here on call in case you find it necessary — or possible — to send for us. Alf will head back home after a day or two. Jack will stay with you as far as Bombay." 'Jack' was the reedy and insignificant young fellow who had dogged Mark and Elena from L.A. to Cairo, overlapping Alfred. "Then in Bombay," continued Smythe, "you will be joined by another operative who will make the trip as far as Calcutta at least and possibly further."
  
  "Well, if that's all, I think I'll leave you now," said Nick. "I see my friends have spotted me. Try to find another ear to bend, will you? And don't make any further contact with me. Anything new, give it to Jack."
  
  "Roger. Happy landings, old boy."
  
  Nick left him with a curt nod and made his way to the table occupied by Mark and Elena.
  
  "Hi," said Mark. "Looking for an escape route? Come and join us."
  
  "Lord, I'm glad to see you two," Nick said, pulling up a chair. "A half-hour with him is like a month in the country. Siberia."
  
  Elena laughed. "He really is a menace, that Smythe. Buttonholes every innocent traveler and latches onto them like the Ancient Mariner. All he needs is an albatross to complete the picture."
  
  Well, he has the next best thing, thought Nick. A Hawk.
  
  Philip Carteret, scion of a very old New Jersey family and ace photojournalist for PIC ordered drinks all round.
  
  By the time the great, sleek plane had been in the air for an hour Nick had identified all his fellow passengers and pinned their names to them. A bevy of school-marms from scattered points in the U.S.A. A travel club of a dozen aging couples under the leadership of world traveler Hubert Hansinger, in person, folks, offering all the experience and friendly courtesies of a man who knows his way around the world and into its out-of-the-way corners; costs a little more than those run-of-the-mill tours, but quality, quality, that's what counts, and with a Hansinger tour there are always special surprises. A couple of earnest looking students, one of whom used the code name Jack. A little old lady with a winning smile and a humorous gleam in her eye, something Japanese in her ancestry. Solitary singles with lonely faces. A few young couples. No children, fortunately. Unusual in a planeload of ninety, capacity one hundred and forty, but just as well. In case. Two lovely stewardesses, one an Indian in a sari, the other apparently English or Canadian; and one purser.
  
  Nick got up to stroll down the aisle. Mark and Elena were talking companionably. Only Elena saw him pass, and she smiled at him as Mark reached for her hand. Dr. E.B. Brown, sitting in a window seat, seemed oblivious to the cloudbanks in the brilliant sky. A book lay closed on his lap and his eyes stared at the seat in front of him. In spite of the wispy gray moustache that wasn't there, Nick was almost certain that in E. B. Brown's strained face he recognized Dr. Ernst Rademeyer, late of Canada. The young man beside him, Brian McHugh, was engrossed in a book that made him smile and chuckle to himself. Nick had not seen him before.
  
  Near the rear of the plane was an Oriental couple of uncertain years and complex background. Nick knew that their home was San Francisco and that they had left Taiwan many years before to start a new life as far away as they could from both Chinas. Now they were on a sentimental journey back to the Orient, if not to their own old home.
  
  He stopped at the water cooler and looked down the length of the one-class plane, wondering when and how the next move would be made. His camera bag, with its combination lock, lay beneath his seat. Inside were three cameras of varying versatility, plus film and filters. They would serve their purpose — in time.
  
  Elena, holding Mark's hand, was doing some wondering. She was wondering which of this crowd would prove to be her accomplices. She rather hoped that one of them would be that virile-looking Philip Carteret.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  That night, in Bombay, Elena gave herself to Mark.
  
  He spent the next day in a glowing, happy daze. Bursting with energy, he insisted that both Elena and Nick join him in a round of sightseeing. It was only when Elena pleaded exhaustion and Nick said that he had to get shots of the Hanging Gardens of Malabar Hill that Mark finally said that he would like to walk around a bit alone.
  
  He was not as alone as he thought; Jack glided quietly behind him.
  
  And, in the meantime, Elena was managing to meet Philip Carteret in the lobby. A few minutes later they went up to his suite together.
  
  They talked for a while, first in circles and then to the point. Nick kissed her once, muttered something, and turned away from her toward his living room window. Elena was beautiful in her low-cut summer dress, and her luminous green eyes glowed with tiny fires.
  
  "Philip, Philip," she said softly. "Oh, my darling, please don't worry so. You'll make me feel shabby if you don't stop talking about Mark."
  
  He stood at the window staring down at Bombay. It was a hot, bright evening that promised to get hotter. "I like Mark. And I don't want to cheat him."
  
  "Philip, sweetheart," Elena said patiently, "don't you understand that Mark and I are not in love with each other? Of course I don't want to force you into bed with me, darling. I'll leave this minute if you're sorry that you brought me here."
  
  Nick swung around and took three long strides toward her. His hands clamped down on her shoulders and trapped her in the chair she was occupying as serenely as a favorite cat. He may have used a little more force than necessary, but he wanted her to feel his strength. He was curious to see if she would enjoy the feel of it.
  
  "You're not leaving," he said harshly. "I may feel guilty, but I'm not a fool. I know what I want. And I'm going to have it."
  
  She smiled faintly and relaxed under his grasp. "You know I wouldn't hurt Mark for the world," said Elena, "but… it's not as if I'm being unfaithful. I'm his secretary, after all, not his — property." Her jade-colored eyes stared straight up into his, and her lips were slightly parted.
  
  Nick bent down and kissed her fiercely. His hands sought her neckline and explored.
  
  Then he pulled her abruptly, almost rudely, to her feet and held her close to him. "Love me, then," he said thickly. "Close to me. Close. Let me make love to you." His hand went down her leg, plucked at the hem of her dress, came up again under the soft and summery cotton, stopped where it should have found the line of even the scantiest panty, moved on when it found nothing to stop it and then at last stayed where it was. He crushed her to him and kissed while he caressed.
  
  At last she released her clinging lips. "But standing up, sweetheart? Is that the way you want it? How impatient you are!"
  
  Nick let her hem drop. "I am impatient," he said huskily, and picked her up easily. He carried her to the sofa and put her down on its soft pillows.
  
  Pieces of clothing dropped one by one, the few dainty things she wore and everything that he had on, until there was nothing left to separate them. Their bodies clung together. If he had only known, she was thinking: If he is the man, why doesn't he tell me? Oh, but he will, before this evening's over! And he was thinking, if she could only know: The treacherous bitch. Wonder if she's the kind who wants to talk afterwards, or just gets sleepy?
  
  He teased her, alternating gentle love-play with a roughness that verged on brutality. Her response was more than gratifying.
  
  She teased him in return, and so skillfully that he almost lost control before realizing that he could plot her every provocative movement in advance. Even the most experienced secretary at Universal Electronics was hardly likely to know the subtleties she employed so expertly.
  
  Once years before he had masqueraded as a sailor visiting a Chinese port and had allowed himself to be lured into a place called The Heaven of a Thousand and One Delights. Its inhabitants were ladies of the night, especially trained to use their wiles on visiting seamen and foreign officials to compromise them into working for the Red Chinese cause. China's spy trainees went there, too, to learn the seductive arts and how best to use them on their chosen targets.
  
  Elena was an expert. Within a few tantalizing moments the simple room in Bombay was transformed into an Oriental harem, with Nick the sultan and Elena the composite of half-a-dozen exotic women he had known. First she was the demure one, waiting to be aroused; then the woman of the world, drawing him on and then holding him back; then the siren, offering him a glimpse of what might be if he only followed her; then the voluptuous concubine, leading him into strange paths and arousing him anew at every sensuous turn; then a willowy wanton, demanding more than she was giving; again the Oriental enchantress, bowing to his every whim and suggesting others that he might not have thought of; and then at last a woman, any woman, arching with desire…
  
  Under his own trained touch her small breasts seemed to swell and her legs seemed to grow longer and more limber. The tricks that were second nature to her gave way to natural longing, aroused to fever pitch by someone at least as experienced as she. Nick felt the change in her and changed his own approach. He became the urgent lover, finished with technique and straining with the need for release. He had to tell himself again and again that he loved her and he wanted her, and at last he let himself stop calculating and become a man with one thought in mind — to sweep her to a peak such as she'd never known before.
  
  Together they caught a rhythm that pulsed for long, exquisite moments, until she gasped and begged and shuddered with passion and then gasped again. He quivered like a taut spring, controlling and maneuvering his Yoga-trained body so that it gave her everything she demanded and more than she had dreamed possible.
  
  "Ahhh, Philip," she moaned. Her legs clasped his and her thighs rose to meet him in one long, reverberating explosion of fulfilled desire. At last she lay back gasping. He held her for a while and then released her gently.
  
  "Oh, God, Philip," she whispered. "How wonderful you are!"
  
  He smoothed her hair back gently. "Not I, Elena," he said softly. "You."
  
  Elena smiled dreamily. "But you… you are superb. I didn't know it could ever be so — so devastating. It's more than just the act, isn't it, Philip? It is love, isn't it?" Her eyes pleaded with all of their new warmth.
  
  "It's love," he lied, and pressed his lips to hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Two new passengers joined the plane on the following morning. The en-route passengers were already settled into their seats. Only Jack and one or two businessmen had left the flight. Nick was standing in the aisle looking down at Mark and Elena and discussing the highlights of Bombay — though not all of them — when, the first of the newcomers boarded. Nick eyed him curiously. He knew, through a discreet enquiry to the airline, that one would be A. J. Wyatt and the other V. Mauriello.
  
  The new arrival was short, thickset, and swarthy. He engulfed the Indian hostess with slightly bloodshot eyes and growled, "Hiya, doll. Where ya gonna put me, huh, Gorgeous?" The hostess smiled politely and pointed out his seat. AXEman? thought Nick. Crude-looking thug, but I guess it takes all kinds. Wyatt? No, more like a Mauriello.
  
  He was heading for his own seat when the second of the new passengers boarded. A kind of stir went through the cabin and Nick heard a low-pitched whistle near him. Hmm. Short, dark and ugly must surely be his contact. AXEmen were seldom whistle-bait.
  
  Nick turned.
  
  The vision at the open door smiled a dazzling greeting that was wasted on another woman. Every man in sight grabbed a little of it for himself.
  
  Nick sat down and tried hard not to stare. A pulse-beat of shock caught at him and gave way to a surge of anger. And anger blended with an almost painful thrill of heart-catching excitement.
  
  A. J. Wyatt undulated down the aisle. Nick saw what he had seen one warm September day in Section 33 of Yankee Stadium: a supple body moving with the grace of a tigress. Soft, copper-tanned skin. High cheekbones, a generous mouth carefully reddened to accentuate its natural beauty, eyes that were almost almond-shaped. Rich, dark hair escaping in little curling tendrils from beneath an impossible but wonderful hat. Subtly curving hips, slender waist and high, tilted breastline that evoked all manner of delicious thoughts… and memories.
  
  The ravishing Miss Wyatt glided past him. And as she did so her lips took on the tiniest of smiles and one almond-shaped eye winked almost imperceptibly. No one else but Nick could have seen it, and his heart leaped.
  
  Deep anger fought exquisite pleasure within him. Not her! Not on an assignment like this. But God, how wonderful to see her!
  
  Miss Wyatt, alias Julia Baron of New York, London and Peking, sat down and stretched out her elegant legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  A Meeting and a Parting
  
  
  
  
  Julie Baron. Either she or Hawk must be crazy. Since Hawk was crazy like a fox, he'd have a good reason for putting her on the job. If he had. Julie was just impulsive enough to worm herself into a spot that looked exciting and be out of it before the brass knew where she'd been. She was the crazy one.
  
  Nick had no intention of making contact with her but he just had to have another look. So A. J. Wyatt had winked. So what? She probably had some kind of tic in her eye.
  
  Hmm. Of course Julie also had some kind of tic in her right eye; she had used it to spectacular effect in a consular living room during the Judas case.
  
  He got up and headed for the magazine rack, passing her without a glance but with an involuntary sniff of appreciation for a fragrance he should have identified when she walked by. The brand he himself had nicknamed "Dragon Lady."
  
  The lady with the tawny skin and almond-shaped eyes was leaning back in her reclining seat. Her eyelids were drooping and the luscious lips were slightly parted. Nick eyed her covertly.
  
  One feline eye opened slightly, closed again. Opened, closed; didn't look at him. Opened, closed, opened, closed, quickly, slowly, quickly, slowly, quickly… Dit dah dit, dit dit…?
  
  Julie Baron was up to her old tricks. She was winking him a message.
  
  The message said: Hi, honey.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Delhi. A noon landing. Check-in at Claridges.
  
  Most of the passengers decided to take the organized afternoon tour. Genial Hubert Hansinger was leading it, and as long as he had gotten his money in advance from his tour party, he certainly didn't mind who tagged along, har har.
  
  Nick tagged along because Mark and Elena were going. As Philip Carteret, with cameras in tow, he thought it would be a sound idea to get a general impression of Old Delhi before searching out picture material on his own. Julie thereupon ingratiated herself with Uncle Hubert Hansinger and managed to get his personal invitation while he stared hopefully down the front of her dress.
  
  Two busloads of tourists rumbled off in the hot afternoon to view the architectural wonders of Old Delhi.
  
  The party gathered at the gates of the old fort and trooped in twittering with anticipation.
  
  "All together, folks, now, all together! Stick with Uncle Hube!"
  
  Uncle Hube clapped his hands and bellowed jovially. But the party was a little too cumbersome for him to handle with his usual ease. Several of his flock detached themselves in twos and threes and drifted off in the direction of the Palace and the Mosque without waiting for his opening spiel.
  
  Nick followed Mark and Elena toward the Palace. From the corner of his eye he could see Julie meandering along behind, jabbing the air with a ridiculous little box camera.
  
  Ah! Camera! Load! He stopped and took a prolonged exposure reading, set his camera stops, and focused on a crumbling spire that stood out dramatically against a cloud-flecked sky.
  
  He clicked. And smelled perfume. "Dragon Lady" was the name.
  
  Julie was standing hesitantly beside him, holding her tiny camera. She looked up at him appealingly.
  
  "I wonder if you'd mind helping me?" she asked, in her most sultry voice.
  
  Nick beamed. His Julie. So seldom seen; so deeply loved.
  
  "Anything," he said. "Anything at all. Camera trouble, Miss Wyatt?"
  
  She nodded. "So you know my name?"
  
  "I've heard it mentioned. I'm Philip Carteret. What seems to be your difficulty?"
  
  "Getting you away from that woman, for one thing. You mean you're the famous, prize-winning Philip Carteret of PIC?"
  
  "The very same," he said immodestly, and grinned. "How marvelous!" she breathed. "What absolute luck!
  
  Then I'm sure you can help me. Tell me, which clicks up and which clicks down?"
  
  He took the tiny camera from her. "The way you shoot, it probably doesn't make the slightest bit of difference. Is it loaded?"
  
  Hubert Hansinger and his Faithful trailed past them.
  
  "Of course it's loaded," Julie said indignantly. Nick slid aside the tiny window-guard. "I may not be very bright, but that much I do — Oh. Now where did I put the film…?"
  
  Nick, with Julie close behind, sought shade and opened up the camera.
  
  But even though the small red window had shown the camera to be unloaded, there was still something inside: A shakily scrawled note in language code that read, when translated:
  
  VITAMIN TO N-3 ("Vitamin" was what all AXEmen called Special Agent B-12): SPOTTED AND IMMOBILIZED IN HONG KONG. UNABLE TO JOIN YOU AND IMPOSSIBLE TO SEND OTHER AXEMAN IN TIME. INTRODUCING HEREWITH OCI AGENT J. BARON. UNFORTUNATE CHOICE BUT NO OTHER COURSE AVAILABLE SINCE SHE WAS ONLY ONE ON SPOT. REMINDER FROM HAWK NOT ABANDON PLANE OR GERBER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES NO MATTER WHAT OTHER LEADS APPEAR TO PRESENT THEMSELVES. HOWEVER MUST WARN YOU TO LOOK OUT FOR SCARFACE MOON GOON. AT DESTINATION USE SHARPEST AXE NO HESITATION. LUCK.
  
  
  
  Nick slid the note into an inside pocket and loaded Julie's camera. "What in the world is a scarfaced moon goon?" he muttered.
  
  "I haven't a clue. And I don't know what happened to Vitamin, either."
  
  Dr. E. B. Brown and his assistant walked slowly past them to the Palace. Brown seemed to be tired, lagging. It was a hot day for an elderly man with a painful limp.
  
  "How'd you get the note?" asked Nick.
  
  "A messenger from the hospital. Oh, he's immobilized, all right. Somebody tried to knock him off. They wouldn't even let me see him. You've done it already? Oh, thank you so much. God, it's hot. I suppose we have to go look at that damn Palace?"
  
  "Not the Palace," Nick said soothingly. "Just the people."
  
  They walked along slowly in the wake of Brown and-McHugh, off into the dimness of the Palace entrance.
  
  "Any time you want help with that camera, please call on me," Nick said, finally.
  
  "You bet I will," she murmured. "Usually it gives me all kinds of trouble late at night. Room 207, or did you know?"
  
  "I knew," he said, and peered into an anteroom lined with mosaic murals. There was no one in there but an antiquated Palace Guard.
  
  But elephantine footsteps shambled in the distance from the floor above. Nick listened. And heard a sound much closer to them. Quick footsteps, clipping hard against the marble of the vast entrance hall.
  
  "Oh, listen, someone's making a getaway from Uncle Hube…"
  
  "Shut up, Julie!" Nick pushed her behind a pillar and looked past its worn smoothness in the direction of the rapid footsteps.
  
  Professor E. B. Brown was hurrying toward them from the back of the great hall, casting anxious glances behind him and dragging his crippled leg with difficulty. Suddenly he froze; Nick heard the second set of footsteps at the same time he did and could almost read Brown's thoughts as he stared desperately at the immense front doors: Too close behind. Doors too far. I'll never make it.
  
  Brown's eyes searched wildly for another exit. Then he spun clumsily and dodged behind a pillar. And disappeared.
  
  The second set of footsteps became a person. Brian McHugh.
  
  McHugh stopped, darting swift, angry glances from side to side as if searching for a fleeing pickpocket.
  
  And then McHugh stepped behind a pillar and disappeared.
  
  Nick hesitated for a fleeting second. Don't abandon Gerber any circumstances. "Julie!" he whispered urgently. "Can you hide the cameras in your bag?"
  
  She nodded. Nick whipped the straps over his shoulders and thrust the cameras at her. "Find Gerber. Stick with him. You armed?"
  
  She nodded again, pushing the camera into her huge pocketbook, as a shadow fell across the marble floor near the immense open door. V. Mauriello, blinking, peered into the gloom. His face was undisguised brutality.
  
  "No questions," Julie said abruptly, and whisked herself away.
  
  Nick kept his head averted from Mauriello and walked rapidly across the hall to the pillars where the two men had seemed to disappear. Beside them, and concealed by them from the doorway, was a crude stone stairway leading down. A very low iron fence barred them from the public.
  
  Within seconds Nick was plunged in almost absolute darkness. There was just enough light for him to see a vault-like room — empty — with passages leading off in three different directions. He stood still and listened.
  
  Stumbling footsteps in the passageway to the right. He followed them, soft-footed as a cat, his eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the darkness.
  
  Light stabbed a curve of passage in front of him and disappeared. McHugh's voice echoed eerily against the stone walls. "Rademeyer. I know you're there there there. Come back here here here. You can't get away ay ay. Rademeyer er er er! There's no way out no way out no way out out out!"
  
  Now how does he know that? thought Nick.
  
  Either there were two sets of footsteps in hearing distance now, or one set, echoing. Stumble run stumble run patter patter patter patter. There were two, all right. Closing in on each other.
  
  The light flashed again. It stayed on this time, brushing the walls with shades of dark and light and weirdly leaping shadows.
  
  The light was a nuisance. It was darkness Nick needed, or he'd tip his hand to McHugh — genial young McHugh with the smiling, college-boy face.
  
  Nick felt in his trouser pocket and pulled out something light and flimsy. He had made an unusual purchase in Cairo — and had half of it with him at all times.
  
  He briskly tucked his sports shirt out of sight under his lightweight jacket and pulled up his jacket collar. Then he pulled the stocking well down over his head. Its thread was thick and dark and a lady of fashion would have scorned it. But it suited Nick perfectly: It distorted and darkened his features beyond recognition.
  
  "No, no, no, no!" shrieked a tremulous voice. "Oh, God, McHugh, leave me alone!"
  
  "Ah!" Thud. The footsteps stopped. Scuffling sounds. "Got you, you damn old fool! What did I tell you would happen to you if you tried to get away from me, eh? Try this for an appetizer!" The light arced down and something tinkled as though McHugh had put something down on the stone floor.
  
  Nick heard a thump and a moan as he angled around a corner.
  
  Brian McHugh's back was toward Nick and his fist was in the stomach of the frail, elderly man he had called Rademeyer.
  
  Nick leaped like a cat and struck a sledgehammer blow at the base of McHugh's neck. But in that instant McHugh straightened up, drawing his arm back for another jab at the old man, and Nick's thrust landed low and to one side. McHugh spun around, his arms up and his feet dancing like a boxer's.
  
  "Jesus God, who are you!" he blurted, and his guard dropped fractionally. Behind him, the old man gasped at Nick's hideously flattened, masked face. Nick's bunched hands flashed. One low, in a feint. One high against McHugh's unguarded face. One low again, not a feint. McHugh staggered back and sideways against the wall. His hand reached inside his jacket while his foot kicked out. Nick crouched low and caught the outstretched leg with both hands and yanked upward with all his strength. McHugh's head slammed against the wall and his upper body slid down against its rough surface. The flashlight rolled and dimmed under his body.
  
  The old man, a dark blob of shadow in the near-darkness, was breathing in little sobs. He turned and made off into the thick blackness of the passageway at a stumbling run.
  
  Nick's arms flashed out and grasped at the hand McHugh still concealed beneath his jacket; he twisted mercilessly. Something snapped in McHugh's wrist. A high-pitched scream of pain tore from his lips. Nick slammed the hard edge of his palm under the man's nose and heard McHugh's head go back against the wall in a satisfying thud. Then he ripped open McHugh's jacket and tore the gun from its shoulder holster. He ejected the cartridges swiftly and dropped the empty gun beside McHugh's prone legs. No sense killing the fellow. Let him suffer, the swine, but let him live, and see what happens — where he goes from here.
  
  The old man's uneven footsteps faded down the passage.
  
  Nick reached under McHugh's body for the flashlight, and smashed its light against the wall. Then he turned to follow the man sometimes called Brown and sometimes Rademeyer.
  
  But McHugh was not through yet.
  
  The darkness beneath Nick's feet became a spitting pit of snarling mouth, flailing legs and reaching arms. McHugh's legs, suddenly alive with violence, snaked out and scissored around Nick's ankles.
  
  It was as if someone had whipped a rug out from under his feet. He fell heavily. Thick fingers grasped his throat and squeezed it savagely. Nick twisted abruptly and brought his own steely grip to bear on the vise at his throat, seeking and finding the twin nerve centers of the clutching hands. McHugh drew breath and gave a piercing, three-note whistle. Nick rolled again so that McHugh was beneath him and the crushing hands clawed at him from below; then he raised his body, one knee bent into a battering ram, and slammed himself down on McHugh.
  
  McHugh's breath belched out in one agonized grunt and his stranglehold became an ineffectual embrace. Nick's arms flashed out toward the other man's throat like a pair of striking vipers. His fingers curved to encircle the windpipe and sensitive carotids; and he squeezed without mercy.
  
  McHugh gurgled hideously. His fingers fell away from Nick's throat and plucked feebly at the stocking mask. Then his head fell back and he was still.
  
  If McHugh made it, fine. If he didn't, too bad. Nick left him sprawled where he was and headed down the dark passage after the professor.
  
  His pencil flashlight stabbed the gloom. The passage was straight and the walls were blank for about a hundred feet. Then narrow openings began to appear in the stone. Nick flicked the fight into them. Cells, their bars removed. Empty. He went on. The passage forked again.
  
  Nick hesitated. If he were on the run and expected to find an exit from this dungeon, he'd take the fork that appeared to lead toward the outside wall. He went down the right-hand passage at a loping run.
  
  It ended in a vast, bare room that might once have been used as a mess-hall for prisoners or Palace staff. There was no one in that dismal, musty room. Neither was there an exit.
  
  He backtracked swiftly to the fork and took the other turn. It was only a few seconds later that he heard the agonized wheezing from the darkness up ahead. And then he heard the three-note whistle again, near at hand and faraway in the same piercing breath. He flicked on his pencil-beam and headed for the wheezing.
  
  The old man was clawing at a heavy barred door at the head of a short flight of steps. An immense, double padlock secured a solid iron bar across door and adjacent wall. The gray head turned into the light, the eyes widened in terror. Dr. Brown, or Rademeyer, or whoever he was, beat frantically against the door with his feeble fists. His Voice crescendoed in a desperate scream for help.
  
  "Dr. Rademeyer, no! You can't get out that way. Don't be afraid of me. I'm here to help you." Nick's voice sounded strangely muffled through the stocking.
  
  "You lie!" whispered the old man, cringing against the bolted door. "A trap! Another trap! God help me…"
  
  "I am an agent of the United States Government," Nick said as crisply as he could. "You can come with me or wait for McHugh to catch up with you." Rademeyer sucked in his breath. "Don't be alarmed by the face," Nick added. "It's only camouflage. Now come on, Professor — let's get out of here."
  
  "Are you — really…?" Rademeyer gasped again and his face contorted.
  
  Nick's pencil flashlight stroked its beam over a tired, anguished face.
  
  "Yes, I am really," he said gently. "Have they hurt you?"
  
  "No… yes… beating…" the old man sighed. The words came out slowly, like drops of blood from a deep puncture wound.
  
  "I'll carry you," said Nick wondering how the hell he'd manage if he met trouble on the way. "Here, put your arm around…"
  
  "Ahh! No, you see…" Rademeyer slumped in Nick's arms and seemed to fold in half. "Cannot… You know… who… they… are?"
  
  "No, I don't." Nick picked the old man up as if he were a baby. "Tell me on the way."
  
  "No! Too late!" The old man stiffened in Nick's arms and suddenly grew heavier. There was a sigh like the last of the autumn leaves fluttering in a breeze. "Bormann… found us… for… Chinese… Comm…" The burden in Nick's arms quivered. All life flickered out.
  
  Nick lowered him to the cold stone floor.
  
  His eyes, his hands, his flashlight found nothing left to save: marble eyes, no pulse, no breath. A heart had taken all the shock and punishment it could bear.
  
  The three-note whistle sounded again. This time it was answered by another, a full-bodied tone that was not an echo.
  
  Nick thought quickly. McHugh had whistled up help and it had come. How could anyone else have heard…? He remembered something Julie had said earlier: Oh, they don't make Palaces like they used to. I'll bet you can hear the bedsprings… And no doubt someone else had already missed the Professor and his cheerful young assistant. It was useless to try to drag a dead shell from this dungeon; Rademeyer had already found his freedom.
  
  Nick would have liked to give the old man a more fitting farewell. To search his pockets seemed a sacrilege. But he did search, and found no more than a few bits of change.
  
  Whooo-wheee-whooo… Whooo-wheee-whooo… Whooo-wheee-whooo…
  
  The whistles and their echoes were getting very busy.
  
  Nick doused the pencil-beam and mentally retraced his steps. When he was sure of his way back he walked quickly down the passage to the fork. He stopped and listened. No more whistling. Not even an echo. This could mean that McHugh and his fellow-whistler had joined forces and were lying in wait for him. One or two of those cells?
  
  He padded along with the swift stealth of a panther in the night, sliding Hugo from his sleeve. But this time he needed his enemies alive, to let them lead him wherever it was that they wanted to take Gerber and Rademeyer. Maybe Elena could do that by herself; but maybe not.
  
  He passed the cells, knowing them by the extra breath of mustiness they gave off. If McHugh and friend were waiting for him there they gave no sign of it. He passed the place where he had left McHugh. McHugh was no longer there. Nor anywhere else in that passage.
  
  Nick reached the vault-like room that had been his introduction to the dungeon and felt a stab of uneasiness. It was close to the end of the trail and he hadn't met the whistlers yet. Either they were in the first turn-off that he'd passed up originally, or they were waiting at the low-fenced entrance.
  
  He found them at the entrance, each one flattened against a wall. One was McHugh, with something bunched in his hand. The other was the gorilla-like Mauriello.
  
  
  
  
  
  Special Surprise Number One
  
  
  
  
  Nick backtracked softly to a point from which he could see the entrance and yet not be seen himself.
  
  The outlines of the two men grew sharper as he watched. McHugh seemed to be holding a blackjack of some sort. Mauriello didn't seem to be armed.
  
  He waited. They waited.
  
  The bolted door that Rademeyer had found had been impregnable, its tremendous crossbar rusted into place and the two huge padlocks impossible to force.
  
  From where he stood he could have shot them both. But Wilhelmina was too noisy, and he wanted them alive. Hugo? No. Pierre…? No; not the place for X-5 gas. Pepito? No, much the same problem as Pierre.
  
  He stood and thought and watched and listened and waited. So did McHugh and Mauriello. But they had done their thinking: There is no other way out; he'll have to come out here.
  
  Maybe there was another way out. And grope around with the flashlight to find it? No. This would have to be it.
  
  He could run like hell past them and take them by surprise.
  
  And have them both on his back in a second. Or show his masked face to a startled public. Or take off his mask with a debonair How-de-do, gentlemen, my name is Carter.
  
  Startled public…? How long had he been in this place, anyway?
  
  As if in answer to his silent question he heard the distant shuffle and clip-clop of a couple of dozen feet. The two dark shadows between him and the only exit came a little closer to him and stiffened against their respective walls.
  
  Nick grinned to himself and reached into an inner pocket. If only he had a small firecracker! Knife. Keys. Matches. Filter case. Pierre. Lighter. Lighter? Pepito… The little marble-shaped pellet, so innocent until activated, came into his hand.
  
  "Come along, folks, come along now. Got a lot to see today!" Hubert Hansinger's voice sang out. "What's that, little lady?"
  
  "That little iron fence there," came a well-known voice. "What's down there? Some kind of dungeon?"
  
  "Oh, that," said Uncle Hube. The herd of footsteps came closer. "This one, you mean? I'm glad you asked me that, Miss Wyatt. It's off-limits to the public, but there's a rather fascinating story behind it. Now when this place was built…"
  
  Oh for Chrissake, blabbermouth. If you're going to talk about it, show it to the people. And show yourself, Hubie baby. C'mon, Uncle Hube.
  
  "…Probably a hundred years older than the rest of the place," said Uncle Hube. "Just let me get in there a minute, folks." His rotund form appeared in the opening. "There, now. What we need is a little light. And I just happen to have here…"
  
  Nick drew back his arm and threw.
  
  "Yuck! What the hell!" roared Uncle Hubie, all geniality swiftly erased by the impact of the little marble-like pellet against his shining forehead. "What stupid sonofabitch threw that frigging what-the-hell-is-it-Guard? Guard! There's someone in that hole!"
  
  Footsteps shuffled inside the doorway. Uncle Hube's flashlight sprayed into the darkness.
  
  "Ahah!" he roared triumphantly. "I see you, both of you! Oh no you don't! Come back here; there's no use running." The swinging flashlight splashed from wall to wall. Nick saw it from behind his concealing corner; and he saw the two men dodging like trapped moths. Mistah McHugh I am surprised at you hoo hoo hoo!" Hansinger's voice rolled through the vault and fragmented down the tunnels. "Come out of there and explain yourself at once."
  
  Brian McHugh turned reluctantly and faced the entrance.
  
  This'll be the moment of truth, thought Nick. Surely he won't take a chance on what anyone else'll find in the tunnel… Well, if he does, there's still Pepito's little sister, after all.
  
  Mauriello growled in his throat and made a move down the passage.
  
  "And you, too!" roared Hansinger. "What goes on here, two grown men playing games?"
  
  "There's someone in here," McHugh said hesitantly.
  
  "I know that!" Hansinger bellowed. "You. Tossing pebbles, for the luvva Pete…"
  
  "No, someone else is in here," McHugh said urgently. "Honestly, Mr. Hansinger, I didn't throw anything at you. I saw someone running in here like a sneak-thief so I came after him with Mr. Mauriello here."
  
  "And so your sneak-thief hides in there and throws pebbles, hey, just to be sure no one will notice him, is that it? Someone else threw it! A sneak-thief!" Hansinger's voice dripped scorn. "I suppose you know you could have hit me in the eye and blinded me?"
  
  "But I tell you, I didn't throw anything!" McHugh said desperately. "Mauriello, you know. Did I? Huh?"
  
  "Me neither," Mauriello grunted. "What's all this throwing something? I didn't see nothing. So what's the matter we can't go down this tunnel. That's maybe where the body's buried, hah?"
  
  "Unauthorized people inside tunnel kindly come out at once," said another voice from outside. "If you do not do so immediately it is my duty to call Police. I myself will search for the man you say is in there." Nick peered out very cautiously from behind his corner and saw the old Guard from the room with the mosaic murals.
  
  "Oh, all right," McHugh said disgustedly. He moved toward the entrance. Mauriello followed reluctantly.
  
  "You won't be welcome on one of my tours again, I promise you that," said Uncle Hube. "All right, come along now, people. Come along. And as for you two, I can only say…"
  
  "My sincere apologies," McHugh said smoothly. "A misunderstanding, I assure you. It was just that I was interested in the stonework down here, and then I thought I saw someone running."
  
  "Humph," said Uncle Hube. "Come on, folks. To the Mosque." Footsteps shambled away.
  
  "You, too, gentlemen," came the voice of the elderly guard. "No more lingering, if you please."
  
  "For God's sake," said McHugh. "T came here to look at the Palace. Who gives you authority to chase me out?" Mauriello followed him over the low guard rail and glowered beside him.
  
  "The City government, gentlemen," came the firm old voice. "I will see you to the doorway."
  
  Hooray! Nick shouted silently. Well done, you tough old buzzard, you.
  
  He inched himself to the low iron fence as the footsteps receded. Nick whipped the stocking mask off his face and stuffed it into an inside pocket. Then he smoothed out his shirt and jacket collar and looked out into the great entrance hall. Nick stepped swiftly over the railing and nipped behind a pillar, waited until everyone was out of sight, and then made a beeline toward the wide stairs at the rear of the main hall.
  
  Five minutes later he had seen enough of the upper levels to be able to talk about them. He came downstairs again with a few stragglers not of Hansinger's paying group.
  
  The old guard was nowhere to be seen. Nick and his group of stragglers walked into the sunlight.
  
  McHugh and Mauriello were standing at the gateway to the fort earnestly discussing something. But stupid of them to talk here in public, Nick thought. Then McHugh turned abruptly and walked out through the gates. After a moment Mauriello followed him.
  
  Julie was standing in the shade of a tree trying to change the film in her tiny camera.
  
  Nick left his borrowed group and joined her.
  
  "Finished that roll already?" he asked.
  
  "Already!" she snapped. "I've shot about thirty-six pictures and there're only twelve on the roll. What kept you?"
  
  He told her rapidly while she delved into her bag for his cameras and another roll of film. Her eyes widened, and grew sad.
  
  "That poor old man," she said. "Wonder what they'll do now?"
  
  "Don't know," said Nick, adjusting his camera straps on his shoulders "Maybe they won't rejoin the plane after all. Unless they find some way to cover up. What happened to Mark and Elena?"
  
  "Went into the Mosque," said Julie. "I think she missed you in the Palace, but nobody said anything."
  
  "I got fascinated with the mosaics and the tapestries," said Nick. "And now I'm going to be busy with exteriors. Go find them. I'll join you in a minute."
  
  She nodded, thanked him graciously for helping her with her camera, and walked away with the graceful swaying motion that he found more provocative than the most seductive hula.
  
  He shot energetically for the next few minutes and managed to insinuate himself into Hansinger's party just as they were coming out of the Mosque.
  
  Mark and Elena came out a few seconds later. Julie glided along behind.
  
  "Oh, there you are," said Nick. "I've been so busy shooting, I thought I'd lost you. Marvelous, isn't it? Great pictures."
  
  "I'm sure they are," said Elena. A little sourly, Nick thought.
  
  "But enough for a while," he added. "What do you say we explore the Chandhi Chowk and then go look for some refreshment?" He flashed his most charming smile at Elena. She brightened perceptibly.
  
  "Good idea," Mark said heartily. "I'm getting rather tired of Uncle Hubie. He's gone a bit broody. Strangest thing happened a while ago…" Mark explained, with sound effects and gestures. Nick chuckled.
  
  "Sorry I missed that. That's what happens when you're sticking your eye into a camera all the time instead of looking at the real world. Well. Shall we go?"
  
  "Let's. Oh, have you met Miss Wyatt?" Mark swept her into the group with a welcoming gesture.
  
  "Briefly," said Nick, and nodded a friendly greeting.
  
  "You'll stay with us, won't you, Miss Wyatt," said Mark. "Phil's a genius at finding out-of-the-way drinking holes."
  
  "Why, yes, I'd love to." Julie turned on a glowing smile that encompassed all three of them. Elena smiled back with her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  He knocked again. Room 207 still didn't answer.
  
  Nick frowned and went to work with the Lockpicker's Special.
  
  He and Mark and some of Hubie's party had become embroiled in a card game that had gone on for hours. Julie and Elena had drifted upstairs, both of them pleading a long day and too much dinner at the Golden Dragon.
  
  Nick worked quickly. Elena's room was 212, Mark's 214. It would hardly do for either of them to see him picking at Julie's door. And Mark would be on his way up any minute.
  
  Her door squeaked open softly and he closed it after him. Julie wasn't in and her room was in disorder.
  
  Nick padded quietly around. The dress she had been wearing was lying on her bed on top of her underwear. Shoes on the floor. Suitcase and bureau drawer open. Slippers discarded halfway across the room. He thought back to the Julie he had known. Quick in her movements, strewing things about her as she moved, tidying up when she was ready for bed. She must have left it voluntarily just before straightening up for the night… He hoped he was right.
  
  Nick pulled a small notebook from his pocket and tore out a page. He wrote: Mother wants to see you the minute you come in. He left the note propped up on the bureau. He was at the door, ready to leave, when he heard knocking across the hall. The door opened silently at his careful touch and he looked through the tiny crack. Mark was rapping at Elena's door. No answer. Nick saw him hesitate, try again, then move to the next door and let himself into his own room. Nick gave him a minute and then stepped quietly out into the corridor, closing Julie's door behind him.
  
  He walked up to his room, hoping to find her there. But it was as empty as he'd left it.
  
  He left the door on the latch and went into his bathroom for a rapid shower. When he came out, stripped and tingling, he stretched out on his bedroom floor and began his Yoga exercises. His body remembered its tangle with McHugh, and he bent every controlled effort of muscle, breath and limb to eradicating the lingering effects. Stretch, breathe, stretch, and breathe again. Stretch, breathe, stretch and breathe…
  
  Fifteen minutes later he sprang to his feet from a prone position and toweled off the sheen of perspiration that covered his lithe, tanned body.
  
  Nick was wrapping the towel around his waist when he sensed the presence at his door. Maybe he wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't been waiting for something; but he was waiting. God, I hope it isn't Elena, he thought, off on a night-time prowl. Tonight of all nights, not Elena. The door answered him. Dit dah dah dah, it said. Dah dit dit dit.
  
  J.B. for Julie Baron. "Come in," he called.
  
  "Well," she said as she came in. "The old Yogi himself. And how's my muscle man tonight?" Nick reached past her and locked the door. His arms went around her and his lips bent to hers in a kiss that released the pent-up passion of the months without her.
  
  "I see you are quite well," she said at last.
  
  "Julie, baby, sweet baby," he whispered. "Where the hell were you?"
  
  "Ah," she said, detaching herself gently. Nick noticed belatedly that she was wearing a summer wrap and casual shoes. "That's the question. Fix us a drink and I'll tell you all about it. You look just the same, Nick darling. Hello, muscles. Hello, scar. Hi, there… Oh, yes, where was I?" She settled herself on his bed. "I had just come out of the bathroom when I heard a knock at someone else's door, and it struck me that it could be Elena's. Now I'm not nosey, as you know, but I did wonder who might be calling at that hour. Mark, perhaps? Or you?" She scowled at him. "That wouldn't be unheard of, would it, lover?"
  
  Nick grinned and poured from a flask.
  
  "Three long raps, and Elena opens the door. Guess who was knocking?"
  
  "Brian McHugh," he guessed, handing her a drink.
  
  "McHugh is right," she said. "Smart aleck. Here's to you, darling." He took her hand and held it lovingly. "And to you, sweetheart," he said.
  
  "They had a whispered consultation," Julie went on. "But he must have asked her to go somewhere with him because she ducked back into her room to get a wrap. Of course I did the same. And then I followed them — but with the utmost care, Nick, lover — and they went off to this seedy little bar down the street. When they got there Mauriello was waiting for them with a tall Indian gentleman who was looking very cross indeed until he saw Elena. Then she smiled that sickening smile of hers, and he seemed to melt a little. Then some men came out of the bar and — and, well, I thought it best to leave."
  
  "I'm glad you did," Nick said thoughtfully. "You don't know if the others stayed there, then?"
  
  "Oh, but I do know. I swooped around the block and saw them coming out. They all climbed into a taxi that just seemed to appear for them, on cue. But then I lost them altogether. There simply wasn't another cab around. They headed away from the hotel. Where to, I wouldn't know. I'm sorry, Nick. I did the best I could."
  
  "You did well," he said. "At least we know for sure that the three of them are working together." He thought for a moment. "The Indian in the bar. Had you seen him before? On the plane, or anywhere?"
  
  Julie shook her head. "Uh-uh. I got the impression that he was a local man — man of connections, with his own tame taxicab. And distinctly annoyed about the meeting, or about something."
  
  "I'll bet he was," Nick said drily. "People usually are when they have corpses dumped into their laps. Man, I'd really like to know how they're going to explain that business in the tunnel… Thanks for everything you did today, Julie. Perhaps you'd better go and get some sleep while I glue my eye to Mark's keyhole." But his eyes Were caressing her face and his hand tightened around hers.
  
  "Mark's keyhole. Elena's, you mean — you rat." But her face was far more gentle than her words and her cat's eyes were dreamy. She smiled, showing the slightly crooked teeth that, to him, made her face perfect. "Yes, it's bedtime, honey. But do you think it's very gallant of you to chase me out?" Her fingers brushed his cheek. "I don't," she murmured. "No, indeed I don't. Do you remember, sweetheart when…"
  
  He remembered. And in a moment, together, they were reliving that memory.
  
  In that pocket of time there was no Mark, no Elena, no watchful hunt; no masks, no dead men, and no killers. Only two magnificent human bodies almost melding into one, and two urgent sparks of passion fanning the other into a single blaze.
  
  Somehow the lights went out. And somehow the darkness was brighter and warmer than the light. Two intense, hard-living and hard-loving people made rapturous love until the ecstatic pleasure of their joint perfection was almost too much to bear. They clung to each other, rocking rhythmically, their bodies instruments of infinite delight. They whispered endearments that trailed off into moans of pleasure. And suddenly a thousand skyrockets burst up through the ceiling and zoomed into the sky, lighting the entire city… perhaps the universe.
  
  Or so it seemed to them.
  
  "Love me, love me, love me… I love you, my darling. Love me."
  
  "I love you. I do love you."
  
  And this time it was no he.
  
  
  
  
  
  Take-off for the Taj Mahal
  
  
  
  
  Nick watched them come aboard.
  
  Some of Uncle Hubie's party. Little part-Japanese lady. Chinese couple. A nothing sort of couple. McHugh, a solemn look on his face and something around his wrist: a bandage. Nick remembered that twist with pleasure. Mauriello, redolent with alcohol that wasn't after-shave lotion. An old man with white hair and two cameras. Nick mentally checked his own cameras; all present and correct, easily accessible. Miss A. J. Wyatt ("Alma Jane — awful, isn't it? Call me Janie"), closely followed by a lively oldster whose eyes popped dangerously whenever they went too high or too low or too anything in Julie's general direction. Mostly he seemed to be a leg man and he liked trailing her up stairs. Uncle Hubie was a breast man, himself. There he was now, with a neat little round lump on his forehead. Serves him right for trying to stick his nose down the front of Julie's dress. Still, if you were going to take a poke at all the males who leered at her lasciviously, her path would be strewn with fallen bodies.
  
  Mark and Elena. More of Hubie's people. Some of the singles, no longer solitary; widows and widowers, with someone to talk to. No one new.
  
  Nick hitched a camera strap around his neck and made his customary stroll down the aisle.
  
  He noticed that the passengers were considerably more relaxed and clubby than they had been when he had joined the flight. The purser was helping Mrs. Adelaide Van Hassel sort out her tangle of bundles, and one of the stewardesses was looking at her watch. Captain Tormey tore himself away from conversation with a recently retired Air Force colonel and walked down the aisle toward the flight deck. And that seemed to be it. No more passengers.
  
  "Hi, Phil," said Mark. "Got ahead of us, I see."
  
  "Hello, you two. Guess we're about ready for take-off. But we seem to be missing someone. What happened to old Brown?"
  
  "You hadn't heard?" Mark asked. "Young McHugh said he'd had a minor heart attack last night. He insisted he'd be well enough to travel, but it looks as though the doctors wouldn't let him."
  
  Nick clucked sympathetically. "I hope the old boy's going to be all right. It did strike me that he's been looking awfully tired."
  
  "Ye-es," Mark said thoughtfully. "Funny, y'know. He looks so much like someone I used to… well, not exactly know, but… well, he just looked oddly familiar." Elena glanced at him sharply. And then caught herself quickly. Mark shrugged. "Now I don't suppose I'll ever have a chance to ask him if he had the same feeling about me."
  
  "I don't suppose you will," said Nick.
  
  He walked back along the aisle to the rear of the plane.
  
  The Chinese couple were giggling and chattering like a couple of newlyweds. Nick grinned at them companionably.
  
  And then the new passenger boarded hurriedly.
  
  It was impossible to hear his name at that distance and through the noise. But his face was indisputably Chinese.
  
  "A fellow countryman of yours," Nick remarked to Mr. Lee. "Not many on this flight, are there?" It was a banal enough comment, but it got a startling reaction. Lee Sob smiled and peered down the aisle. "Ah, so…" he began. His smile froze and hung in the air like a terrified Cheshire Cat's. The parchment-yellow face twisted. The strange shape of his mouth emitted a gasping sound halfway between a sob of absolute terror and a meaningless word. It sounded like "hhuhhgoon."
  
  "You know him, I take it," Nick said mildly.
  
  Both Mr. and Mrs. Lee Soo turned their faces away.
  
  The new arrival walked slowly up the aisle searching for his seat. He carried one bag, a worn black leather affair that looked like a doctor's bag that had grown a size or two. One side of his face was marred by a scar that reached from his eyebrow to his chin.
  
  Nick felt a strange sort of relief. This was the man he had been waiting for.
  
  "Scarface Moon Goon." It had to be. At last the crazy name made sense. A Chinaman with a scar.
  
  Scarface found a seat near the rear of the plane about two rows in front of where Nick stood in the aisle.
  
  The door of the plane closed and the airstair was whisked away. A red sign flashed. The great jet engines roared.
  
  Nick sat down in the aisle seat of the nearest empty double, a warning signal ticking in his brain. A map of their air route formed in his mind. And on his mental map a border stood out clearly. He strapped his seat belt and unstrapped the camera that he sometimes carried but only pretended to use.
  
  The camera came out of its case. And out of the shell of the camera came a small metal container with a single, simple switch. It only needed one switch, for there was only one thing the metal container was equipped to do: send out one steady signal on one single frequency to be picked up by the very few men in the world who were standing by to receive its secretive blip-beep. With any luck it would pinpoint their location when whatever was to happen actually did happen. Nick reached under his seat and felt the two tiny curved hooks clawing into the fabric. When he was sure the little transmitter was firmly attached he leaned back comfortably and waited for the Seat Belt sign to blink out.
  
  Moments later he was back in his own seat, half-hearing the crisp British accent of their Indian stewardess offering flight statistics to a tour-weary crowd.
  
  "…Your hostess Edda… Welcome… flying… thousand feet… time… Agra… Taj Mahal… refreshments… enjoy… Captain Tormey… Thank you."
  
  The soft metal of the camera shell crumpled between his crushing fingers. When he was through with it no one in the world could possibly have guessed what it had been or what it might have contained. He put the empty case into his camera bag.
  
  The galley curtain billowed. Stewardesses and purser were making movements and clinking sounds behind it. McHugh was reading. Couples talked together softly. Snatches of talk… A night arrival… Taj Mahal in moonlight… so romantic.
  
  Nick's spine was creeping with a feeling something other than romantic.
  
  Mauriello's face was set in an ugly granite mask.
  
  Julie was asleep. Mark and Elena had stopped talking. Brian McHugh was no longer reading.
  
  Scarface… Nick turned in his seat, suppressing a yawn.
  
  Scarface was nowhere in sight. Maybe he was slumped, asleep, against the window. No, he wasn't. Ah. Two of the lavatories were marked "Occupied." Well. Mauriello? Still sitting there like a block of stone. Now he was getting up. Walking up the aisle toward Nick. Passing him. Face strangely set, as if — as if he were having trouble breathing.
  
  Someone was coming down the aisle behind Nick. Past him. Scarface. The lavatory lights still read "Occupied." Mauriello was standing outside one of the doors, holding a black bag that looked very much like Moon Goon's. Strange. Then, Mauriello was pulling something over his head. For Chrissake, it was a kind of snout — Nick cursed and caught his breath. Scarface? McHugh?
  
  Scarface had stopped in the aisle alongside McHugh. Both of them had suddenly become transformed into something like monsters from outer space. Goggle eyes and snouts. Gas masks.
  
  Nick rose clumsily in his seat and pawed into his jacket for Wilhelmina.
  
  Scarface and McHugh, monstrously masked, walked down the aisle away from him. He could see something dangling and glinting in their hands. Loops of wire. Garrotes.
  
  His swirling brain fumbled with the thought as he stumbled into the aisle and clutched the seat in front of him for support. Garrotes meant one thing. Kill. Stop them! No, gotta go with plane. Everybody else asleep. No, there was little Japanese lady, practically falling into the aisle. Big man with glasses, standing, dropping in his tracks. Behind, a peculiar muffled voice saying something like: "All right, youse guys. Nobody moves. I got you covered." Nick managed one more step and stopped. He saw the Captain's light flashing for a stewardess. And he saw the two masked men with garrotes opening the door to the flight-deck. His feet were rooted to the carpet between the rows of sleeping passengers. Time froze.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Captain Tormey sensed the opening door and felt his hand slip off the automatic pilot. Thank Christ he'd managed to set it before passing out completely; the oxygen tube had helped a little.
  
  "For God's sake," he said thickly. "What goes on? Stuffy as a prison cell in here. Whattsa matter?"
  
  He heard two crisp, sickening thuds and saw his copilot managing a slow half-turn and then jerking back his head with a gargling cry. Tormey swung around clumsily. His confused eyes caught a nightmare scene. Co-pilot Jack wrenching at something around his throat. Radio operator and flight engineer lying sprawled out like straw men with the stuffing kicked out of them. Two incredible figures in horror masks, one of them relentlessly tightening a wire around Jack's throat and the other reaching out dirty yellow hands and a gleaming cord toward him… Captain Tormey swung out wildly.
  
  The last thing he saw was a hideous close-up of two huge goggles and an elephant-like trunk. He thought he said something about Oh God, all the people, but the only sound that came from his throat was a retching rattle that ended very suddenly. His arms and legs flailed out uncontrollably through the red mist that was wrapping itself around him. One leg struck something, hard, but Captain Tormey didn't know it. The red mist had turned to black.
  
  The giant aircraft bucked and plunged.
  
  Underneath his mask McHugh uttered a sibilant exclamation. He pushed his way past Goon and shouldered Tormey's body aside. He reached for the controls. The jet was losing altitude too rapidly.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Nick struggled desperately. Only to walk a few steps, only to reach for Wilhelmina, open that cabin door and stop the killing he knew was taking place inside. The poisoned breath he had sucked in was telling on him. But if he could just… He didn't know, couldn't figure out, what it was he could «just» do. Oh, yes. Wilhelmina. He could hold his breath another couple of minutes; Yoga training. But Yoga couldn't help him smell odorless gas; couldn't keep his head clear when he had already breathed it in. Just one minute with Wilhelmina. One quick shot would get Mauriello… Nick swayed and peered over his shoulder. Mauriello stood motionless at the rear of the plane, a.45-caliber machine gun clamped into his hands as firmly as if it was growing there. One spray of shots from that thing and half a dozen people could die and the windows be blown out and the pressure would drop and a stray bullet could strike God knows what vital part of the plane. Anyway, Mauriello wasn't on the flight-deck with a garrote.
  
  Flight-deck. Get there. But his muscles rebelled. His mind told him that they were still flying and that he was supposed to stay with it no matter what. The plane shuddered slightly, pitching him forward a couple of feet. Mauriello's muffled voice yelled down the aisle: "Hey, you! Siddown or I blow your head off."
  
  The huge aircraft bucked and plunged. Its movement was so violent, so abrupt, that Nick was flung heavily to the floor. His breath slammed out of his body. His lungs sucked in a long draught of the poisoned air. He rolled once, feeling a sensation of great weight as the airplane plummeted down, and then he went on going down and down and down and down until he saw and heard no more.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  McHugh was sweating behind his mask. Sonofabitch, she wasn't responding. Hell and damnation to Captain, Goonhead, whole damn lot. Ape of a Captain kicking at the auto pilot. Rademeyer for making a break for it and dying practically on his hands. The boss would tear him apart — that is, if he ever got this crate headed where she was supposed to be going.
  
  The man whose full name was Si Moon Goon watched impassively through his heavy goggles. Then, turning away from McHugh, he pulled a knife from the sheath strapped under his jacket. As unemotionally as if he were slicing himself a piece of cheese he thrust the knife into the side of the radio operator's neck. Just as dispassionately he withdrew the bloodied blade and sank it expertly into the unconscious engineer. Then he wiped the blade fastidiously on the man's flight jacket, before sliding it back into its sheath, and picked up the two blackjacks he and McHugh had dropped when they needed two hands each to handle the garrotes.
  
  The plane banked steeply under McHugh's guidance and began a graceful turn.
  
  Scarface Moon Goon opened the flight-deck door and looked out at the sleeping passengers. This time he carried a long-barreled automatic.
  
  In the cockpit four men slowly stiffened in death and the murderer at the controls guided the stolen jet toward the north-northeast and a destination that had nothing at all in common with the Taj Mahal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Special Surprise Number Two
  
  
  
  
  There were voices. Shouts mingled with clanking noises. Doors slamming. Motors throbbing.
  
  But not inside the plane.
  
  Nick stirred. His head was lead and his mouth was coarse-grained sandpaper. He could not understand why he was lying on the floor or why his line of vision should be filled with legs.
  
  Then he heard McHugh's voice, low but intense.
  
  "No one told me the old fool had a weak heart. It would have been all right if it hadn't been for that fellow, God knows where he came from. But Jandi covered for us. Nobody suspected…"
  
  "That will be enough, McHugh. Save your excuses for Bronson. Now get back to your seats, all three of you, before these cattle stop their snoring." The voice was musical, but the tone was muted menace.
  
  Nick opened his eyes the merest fraction of an inch, at last realizing that all vibration and plunging sensation had stopped and that a draft of moderately cool, fresh air was stroking his face. He could see McHugh, gas mask in hand, standing outside the cockpit door facing a short man with a wide, flat face and the drab uniform of a Red Chinese officer. Scarface stood behind them. The officer's eyes swept over the sleeping passengers. McHugh shrugged and started walking up the aisle. Scarface followed, sliding his automatic inside his jacket. Nick closed his eyes.
  
  "Mauriello, you ox!" McHugh's voice whispered savagely. "Put that thing away and sit down."
  
  "Maybe I need it in a minute," Mauriello rumbled.
  
  "Maybe you need a kick in the gut," hissed McHugh.
  
  Mauriello grumbled something and started down the aisle.
  
  There was silence inside the plane. Outside there were big vehicles of some sort, motors running smoothly as if waiting. Nick risked another peek. No one else was stirring yet. The inside lights were dim. But outside a powerful searchlight beam swept across an ink-black sky.
  
  Two Chinese army medics came aboard. The Red officer gave a murmured command and they started up the aisle, bending over the seats and muttering to each other. Nick caught the flash of a needle. For a moment his blood ran cold. Finishing us off one by one in case their gas hasn't done its work, he thought with a stab of impotent fury. And then he realized they were trying to bring the passengers around. The medics worked on stolidly. Their officer watched and waited.
  
  At last, someone stirred. A man groaned and started sputtering "Who-wha-where am I?" The galley curtain bulged and the purser stepped out, looking like a man emerging from one nightmare and falling into another. Mark Gerber yawned. The little Japanese lady yelped as the needle stung her arm. It was time for him to make a move.
  
  He made himself turn over slowly. Then he scrambled to his feet.
  
  "What happened?" he asked frantically. "Where are we? What's going on here?" Nobody answered.
  
  He sought his seat and fell into it, feeling faintly nauseated.
  
  The medics passed him by with a cursory glance.
  
  McHugh, he saw, was putting on a magnificent performance of waking up, stretching, and leaping to his feet.
  
  Julie uncurled like a cat and looked around with faint surprise.
  
  "What the hell goes on here?" A deep male voice, free of fear but bristling with outrage, rolled down the aisle. Old Pete Brawn with the white hair and rugged face. A good man to have around.
  
  "Ladies and gentlemen," the Red Chinese officer's voice boomed out. "Forgive me if I do not introduce myself by name. First let me beg you not to alarm yourselves. As you can see by my uniform, I am an officer in the army of the People's Republic of China." A babble of voices broke out. "No! There is no need for anyone to be afraid. You will be my honored guests. Due to circumstances which are not yet quite clear to us, your plane has gone many miles off course. Some sort of difficulty then developed in the ventilation system — for all we know it may have contributed to the navigating error. In any event, we at our base camp picked up an emergency radio signal and guided your plane down to our base. To our great relief — for we are but human and not nearly so bad as we are painted — your pilot effected a forced landing with great success. For some reason the fumes in the ventilation system were less virulent in the flight deck. And so we have already evacuated your officers and they are now recovering in my personal quarters."
  
  Evacuated! Nick thought bitterly. Mark Gerber had arrived at his destination. And so, therefore, had Nick.
  
  "Now I must explain one thing to you," the big voice went on. "There is not, I believe, any government in the world that encourages, shall we say, strangers, to visit its military encampments. Fortunately we are able to offer you sleeping quarters for however long it may take to repair this aircraft. But, since this is a military camp, you will be confined to your quarters until the time of your departure. We will endeavor to make you as comfortable as we can. Do not be alarmed if you see guards posted outside your quarters. This is normal procedure. And naturally we must be particularly careful when we have guests from foreign countries." He beamed cordially at his listeners. Nick saw Gerber fidgeting nervously.
  
  The Commandant continued. "Since it is rather late at night, I will ask you to put up with the inconvenience of doing without your suitcases. We will unload them, and you shall have them with your breakfast. Please bring your flight bags and your coats. Three transport vehicles are waiting. I thank you for your patience, and I bid you welcome." He ducked his head graciously and smiled.
  
  "But where are we?" Mrs. Adelaide Van Hassel's voice piped up demandingly.
  
  The Commandant looked at her quizzically. "Ah, my dear lady, I am not permitted to tell you. I can only say that you are somewhere in what you people call Red China." He bowed and turned away.
  
  There was a sudden hustle-bustle of excited conversation and reaching for overnight bags. Nick took his two small bags from the otherwise empty seat beside him and snapped open the camera case. Wilhelmina slid into a new hiding place under a sturdy flap. Nick fitted her into place and manipulated the secret catch, in case of a search. It would rather destroy the illusion of hospitality if they did, but they'd be fools if they didn't. He stuffed the now empty case of one camera into the pocket of the seat in front of him.
  
  Four armed Chinese officers boarded and began directing passenger traffic with bland efficiency. Nick attached himself to Mark and Elena. Elena looked frightened and Mark was clearly worried. But he seemed more concerned about Elena's state of mind than his own. Julie joined the three of them, wide-eyed with interest but completely untroubled.
  
  "Greetings, fellow adventurers," she said cheerfully, "Do you suppose we've been hijacked?"
  
  Elena blanched. Rather well done, Nick thought. You're quite an actress, baby. "Don't say things like that," she gasped. "How could we possibly have been?"
  
  "Quite easily," Julie said blandly, "while we were asleep. Still, there's no point in spreading nasty, panic-making rumors. That Commandant seems like a sweetie, even if he is a Red."
  
  But the look she exchanged with Nick a few seconds later made it abundantly clear that she had a pretty fair idea about what must have happened.
  
  One of the junior officers took up the Commandant's place at the flight-deck door, leaving his chief free to stalk the aisle and scrutinize his charges. His eyes searched out every reasonably attractive woman and roved like exploring fingers over breasts and thighs and legs. Then he smiled imperturbably and walked down the steps onto the airfield.
  
  The purser looked around uncertainly. When he saw the soldier against the flight-deck door he seemed to realize it was up to him to organize an orderly debarkation. He and the stewardesses helped the first of the passengers out.
  
  The three transport trucks started loading.
  
  The airfield was immense. Lights blinked along its fringes and the searchlight beam swept a sky in which the bright stars seemed very close. The air was noticeably cooler than the night air of India. Vast black shapes rose in the darkness beyond the lights. Mountains. They were in a valley, then. No, more likely a plateau; the air was too crisp and cool for a low-lying valley. The vegetation, too, seemed very sparse. Now where…?
  
  Nick climbed into a truck behind Mark and wondered when something was going to be done about confiscating the cameras. Surely Commandant Bedroom Eyes wasn't going to let his little band of tourists take pot shots out of their barracks windows.
  
  The trucks drove smoothly along the airstrip and then bumped onto a rougher track for no more than a couple of minutes. Then they stopped in front of an insuperable obstacle — an immense, low-lying hillock that was nevertheless much too high and steep for a truck to climb.
  
  Then the dark face of the hillock opened and light spewed out into the night.
  
  The trucks ground their gears and Indian-filed through the opening, followed by a jeep-load of soldiers and the Commandant's staff car.
  
  Nick's truck was filled with cries of amazement. People crowded to the windows as the cavalcade slowed to a stop.
  
  Soft street lights lit a little village of small houses and long, low, metal buildings. Leafy plants lined the narrow walks that led from house to house. At the far end of the village were two houses that were more elaborate than the others, and yet not so large as the barrack-like buildings that occupied the greater part of the settlement. Where the sky should have been there was a shell of rock. And where cops might have strolled the sidewalks, there were Chinese soldiers, heavily armed.
  
  Three truckloads of startled people piled out into the lamplit night and milled about, uttering little exclamations and breathing in deep, unexpected draughts of cool, clean-washed air.
  
  The hillside closed silently behind them.
  
  The Commandant's voice rose above the whispers. Ninety or so strained faces swung around to listen.
  
  "Ladies! Gentlemen! If you will all kindly separate into groups as I request, my guards will show you to your quarters. Married couples to my left. Yes, please, all married couples — and no cheating, if you will be so kind!" The flat face grinned. "Single ladies to the right. Come, ladies. You have nothing to fear."
  
  Elena cast an imploring glance at Mark.
  
  "Go along now," he said quietly. "I'm afraid we're in no position to argue."
  
  Julie and Nick exchanged swift, meaningful looks.
  
  "C'mon, honey," Julie said, taking Elena's arm. "We'll look after each other."
  
  The Commandant beamed. "Thank you," he said genially. "The couples will have such houses as are available; single ladies and gentlemen will have separate barracks. The other dwellings here are fully occupied by my officers and men." There was something about the way he said it that Nick didn't like. But then, he didn't like much of anything about the Commandant or this underground hideout. No wonder they hadn't bothered to confiscate the cameras. You don't take many pictures when you're sealed inside a mountain.
  
  Then he heard a high-pitched yelp of feminine outrage. Mrs. Adelaide Van Hassel was making ineffectual shooing motions at a guard outside the single women's barracks. The man, his face expressionless, ignored her indignation and ran his fingers expertly over her body. She drew back her handbag and swung it at his face. "You… you creature!" she whooped, as it slammed against his cheek. He took it from her effortlessly and pawed through it.
  
  "Ah! Ladies!" The Commandant's voice pealed through the miniature village. "So sorry. Standard procedure. Nothing personal." He grinned deprecatingly under one of the stage-set street lamps. "Gentlemen too, of course. Anything found will be returned when you leave. I must ask you to accept my apologies."
  
  As Nick's group reached its barrack each man was subjected to the same treatment. And the closer he tried to stick with Mark, the harder it seemed to become. First Scarface stumbled between them. Then McHugh drew Mark aside with a whispered question while a guard prodded Nick along. Then a second soldier stopped both Mark and McHugh while the first one marched along behind Nick and white-haired Peter Brawn. When he looked over his shoulder he saw that Mark was at the tail-end of the group walking toward the barrack between McHugh and the guard. Nick's watchdog shoved him again, none too gently.
  
  "I don't think these bastards are as friendly as they make out to be," Pete Brawn growled between his teeth.
  
  Nick muttered agreement and thought swiftly. If he tried anything now, even called to Mark, he'd achieve nothing but draw attention to himself. And Mark, though ostensibly being led toward the barrack, was slowly but surely getting separated from the group. He'd have even less chance than the others of making a getaway. And the same would go for Carter, if he insisted on sticking with Mark.
  
  "Halt!" The guard at the barrack door released the old man who ogled legs, and snatched at Nick's camera case. He inspected one camera, then the other. Poked at the light meter. Scrabbled through the rolls of film. Pushed aside the filter cases. Probed at the bottom and sides of the case. Closed it and thrust it back at Nick.
  
  "Fright bag," he ordered. Nick gave it to him. Same result.
  
  Then the stubby hands flew over his body. "Hah. What these?" From Nick's pocket the guard withdrew the little round metallic globes called, respectively, Pepita and Pierre.
  
  Nick glanced at them with little interest. "Counters for a game called 'Balls, " he said. "Amelican game."
  
  "Pah!" The guard dropped them back into Nick's pocket and waved him along. "Next! Hully, you."
  
  Pete Brawn swore and submitted to the search.
  
  Hugo safe inside his pencil-like sheath; camera case intact; «balls» still with him, all of them; keychain flashlight unnoticed; and a little transmitter possibly still beeping away on the airplane. Nick's spirits rose fractionally. Things could be worse.
  
  The rooms inside were little more than four-bed cells but they were reasonably comfortable and the doors had conventional locks. There were sixteen of the cells. Apparently the passengers were to be their only occupants.
  
  Mauriello shambled in and stationed himself in a room next to the front door. Nick watched as the search continued. Scarface and McHugh were given very cursory treatment and waved inside. Hubert Hansinger sputtered indignantly. The door slammed shut after him. No guards had come inside. Neither had Mark Gerber.
  
  "Say, buddy," Pete Brawn rumbled softly into Nick's ear. "What say we share a cell? I don't wanna get stuck with a creep like Hubie."
  
  "You have a point there," said Nick, and meant it. "Okay."
  
  Uncle Hubert was still sputtering. "Outrageous!" he sizzled. "I'd like to know more about those pilots, that's what I'd like to know. They've sold us down the river! They've been paid for this, you can be damn sure. We'll be hostages, you'll see. This is the most fantastic, the most intolerable situation…"
  
  "But I thought you'd planned it all for us," Nick said, with an air of mild surprise.
  
  Hansinger stared. His eyes bugged open.
  
  "I… planned… it? I…?"
  
  "Sure, Uncle Hube. Don't you remember what you promised? 'Always special surprises on a Hansinger tour. "
  
  
  
  
  
  Help Wanted, Male
  
  
  
  
  Somewhere in the bowels of the earth an elevator whined to a stop.
  
  Three men stepped out and walked along the passage, the sound of their feet muffled by the hum and scream of machinery.
  
  The Commandant strode ahead. Mark lurched along behind him, his hands cuffed together and his face a stony mask. The third man, uniformed, prodded him with a gun.
  
  They turned down a corridor toward a heavy double door and stopped. The Commandant reached up to what seemed like a blank wall and slid back a tiny panel. Mark craned to see what lay behind. He saw a triple row of pushbutton switches. The Commandant's stubby forefinger selected the second from the bottom in the center row and pushed firmly. Then he slid the little panel back into place. The wall looked as blank as ever. Mark measured with his eyes. Commandant's height about five-five; panel about six feet above the floor and three feet from the door.
  
  The doors opened inward with an almost inaudible swish. And closed again behind the trio.
  
  They were in another corridor with a blank wall on one side and a few widely spaced open doors on the other. These were rooms that Mark recognized. There was a bank of computers; here a gleaming laboratory, bristling with equipment; there a smaller workroom where white-clad men with yellow faces puttered over intricate arrangements of glass tubes; now a closed door; then another shiny laboratory; and then a smaller room that combined the functions of office, computer-room and lab.
  
  The Commandant knocked on the open door and entered.
  
  Two men looked up from a laboratory bench. The one in the wheelchair swung around and glared. The other, standing beside him, pivoted lightly and looked at Mark. He was a short man, but built like a Prussian ox, and his face looked like something that had been stitched on rather carelessly.
  
  "Herr Bronson. Professor Lautenbach." The Commandant slammed his heels together. "Here is Dr. Gerber, from the United States."
  
  The man in the wheelchair threw back his head and screamed. "One man! Where is the other? You promised there would be two. I have worked without help for months. I ask you for scientists, you say you will get them, they come and they do nothing. Why are there not two? Why do you think this one will work when the others have not?"
  
  "Come, now, Lautenbach," said Bronson. "You know that Lehmann is cooperating. And now we have an excellent way of making the others help. I am sure that Dr. Gerber will show Dietz and Scheuer the error of their ways."
  
  "You had better explain what's going on here," Mark said coldly.
  
  "Oh, I will," Bronson said softly. "But you will understand from the beginning that any arrogance on your part will result in a very unpleasant experience… for someone."
  
  "Ach, Gott!" said Lautenbach, running his fingers through steelwool hair. "Gerber, you are here to develop a weapon. One that the West has, one that Russia has, one that we Germans came so close to perfecting in that last fiasco. Now it is finished with Germany. Kaput. We put our skills now where they can be of use. By myself, I have the weapon to such a point that we can wipe out half the world. But suddenly there is difficulty. The control, you understand. Maybe we wipe out the wrong half of the world! Ha! Maybe ourselves and nothing else!" He gripped the arms of his chair and gave a wild cackle of laughter. "The power of the beast — we are in its power!"
  
  "Lautenbach…" Mark said slowly, a chill of horror creeping up his neck. "I thought you were dead. I thought when Berlin fell…"
  
  "That's what they all say!" Lautenbach screeched. "I was in hospital — those British swine, a raid — when I crawled out of that hellhole, where was there to go? To the Russians? Ha! To America! Pfui. I knew where to come. And then years later — years, years later…"
  
  "That is enough, Lautenbach." Bronson's thin voice lashed out. "Doctor Gerber is not here to listen to your life history. Tell him what we want of him."
  
  Lautenbach began with the work he had done to date, describing the trials and errors and successes and failures; and he went on, plaintively now, to detail the faults and what he knew someone with Gerber's advanced training and vast experience with atomic weaponry could do about them.
  
  "We are close," said Lautenbach. "But I do not have access, you understand? Some things I cannot find out for myself. Others, you, have had opportunities. We have machinery, apparatus, organization, everything everything everything we need to take over the world!"
  
  Mark exhaled painfully. "You're mad!" he breathed. "You're so crazy, you don't know how wrong you are. You, building a rocket? With those plans, Lautenbach, you'll be lucky if you end up with one misguided spitball. I couldn't help you even if I wanted to."
  
  Bronson's patchwork face shook gently from side to side. "No, no, Lautenbach. Let me answer. Doctor Gerber, we have Otto Lehmann working with us. We know exactly what we have, and what we need. And you will help us."
  
  Mark shook his head helplessly. He knew how close they were to success; Lautenbach was very close indeed.
  
  "I will not help you," he said flatly.
  
  Bronson produced his weird smile and raised his hands in an oddly supplicating gesture. Mark saw for the first time that the man wore flesh-colored gloves.
  
  "Now, Gerber," he said in his high-pitched voice. "You wouldn't want us to hurt anyone, would you? There were… let me see… some ninety people on that plane with you. Grandmothers, grandfathers, some young people, single ladies." The voice keened like an excited mosquito. "And is there not one young lady of whom you are particularly fond? How would you like it if something horrible should happen to her?"
  
  Mark stared back at him. I'll kill myself, he thought.
  
  Bronson seemed to read the thought. He put one heavy, not quite human hand on Gerber's shoulder in an awful parody of friendliness.
  
  "Don't try to leave us, Gerber. We want you well and healthy. If you should, for instance, die, well… then we'd have no use at all for the others, would we? You do see that, don't you?"
  
  "I won't help you," Mark said tonelessly.
  
  "Indeed you will help," said Bronson gently. "A night's sleep, a little meditation about ninety innocent souls and one very lovely lady, and we'll talk in the morning. Thank you, Commandant. Please see that he joins his colleagues."
  
  The Commandant grinned. "Perhaps I should set his mind at rest about the lady. Possibly she will be more comfortable in my personal quarters. Receiving my personal attention."
  
  "Just what do you mean by that?" Mark demanded.
  
  "You will find out, Doctor. And remember, the less cooperative you are, the more cause you have to worry."
  
  "Get out of here!" Lautenbach roared suddenly. "I have work to do. When you bring him back, see that he is ready to work too." He wheeled around violently and bent his ferocious head over the laboratory bench. Bronson smiled. "I think that we will make progress now," he murmured. One mechanical-looking hand dismissed the Commandant's small party.
  
  They went back the way they had come until they reached the main passage. Then they branched off, passed an elevator and took a stairway instead. When they came to a landing the Commandant snapped an order at Mark's guard. The soldier whipped out a blindfold from under his tunic and tied it tightly around Mark's eyes. Then they went up a few more stairs, made a turn, climbed again, and stopped. Mark felt a jab in the small of his back and stumbled forward. Something slammed behind him.
  
  "What now?" a man's voice said wearily. And then someone gasped. Mark's handcuffed fingers plucked at the blindfold over his eyes. It came off, with someone else's help. Light blazed into his face, so bright for a moment that the two other men were no more than silhouettes.
  
  "Oh, God," said one of them. "It's Gerber, just as they promised. But where is Ernst?"
  
  Mark blinked and brought them into focus, two elderly men who looked vaguely familiar. But their faces were drawn and bruised, and both looked exhausted to the point of dropping.
  
  "Ernst?" said Mark vaguely. "Ernst who?" Then recollection swept through him. "You mean Rademeyer? He had a heart attack in Delhi. We had to leave without him."
  
  "Lucky Ernst," one of the old men said bitterly. "Especially if he is dead, and out of this."
  
  "But who are you?" asked Mark. "Which one of you is Lehmann?"
  
  "Lehmann!" the shorter man barked. "Neither of us. The swine Lehmann has far more salubrious quarters. He has — 'cooperated. »
  
  Mark swayed tiredly, thinking longing and fearful thoughts of Elena. "Yes, but you two, Who are you?"
  
  "Sit down, Gerber. I am Konrad Scheuer. This is Rudolf Dietz."
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Pete Brawn stared down at the lithe, superbly muscled figure on the floor. As he watched, the midriff met the backbone and formed a living cave. Nick rolled backwards and relaxed.
  
  "Man! Now I've seen everything!" Pete exclaimed. "How do you do that, buddy? And what for?"
  
  Nick sprang to his feet with a grin. "I do it to relax," he said. "Helps me think. And I'm thinking about how to get out of here." He had also been thinking about what he knew of Pete Brawn: Stevedore turned engineer turned building contractor; a rough, tough, self-made man who had worked his way up in the world and seen a great deal of it in the process. He was about as American as a baseball bat, and he was still almost as hard. Nick buttoned his shirt and decided to trust old Pete.
  
  Pete looked back at him appraisingly. "I don't know how you think we can get out of here, bud, but I'm willing to try anything."
  
  Nick nodded. "Let's kill the light. Take a look out the window and tell me what you see."
  
  "No guards right outside," Pete said, after a moment. "Two of 'em, armed to the teeth, where we came in. Two — hmm, no — four patrolling. Separately. Lights outside a bit dimmer than they were. Window's too small to get out of. Trucks still parked where we left them. That's all."
  
  "Did you notice what the windows in the back look out on? Blank rock. With about a foot and a half of space between it and this building. And the chances are there aren't any guards in the narrow space. Because there isn't a back door."
  
  Pete's eyes narrowed. "That's right. But what good'll it do us if we can't get out that way?"
  
  "I think I can," said Nick. "Listen, Pete. I've got to get out of here and take a look around. Have you noticed that Mark Gerber isn't with us? They've taken him somewhere. And in case you didn't know it, he's one of America's top men in nuclear physics — the kind of guy the Chinese Reds need desperately. We've got to pry him loose from wherever he is and get ourselves out of here."
  
  Pete sat down on one of the four narrow army cots and stared at him. "That's a tall order, son. So that's why they brought us here. Not as hostages at all. Just for one guy, huh?"
  
  "Oh, I think they'll use us for ransom if they can," said Nick. "And for any number of other things as well. What we're going to have to do is organize ourselves…"
  
  "I'll organize, by God," said Pete, and leapt up from his cot. "We'll pull this lot together and make fighters out of them. You know what I still got on me? A knife those bastards didn't find, and a dandy little set of knuckle-dusters. Between the lot of us…"
  
  "That's the idea, Pete," Nick said approvingly. "Only not the lot of us. You don't really think the pilot sold us down the river, do you? Or went hours off-course because of a ventilation fault? Uh-uh. That plane was hijacked. And I saw it happen. Or beginning, anyway. Then I passed out. Probably only a few seconds after you did — I saw you reaching for the blanket when Mauriello was outside that lavatory."
  
  "Mauriello! The one who acts like he's seen too many American gangster movies? Sure, I saw him there. Say! Now, didn't that Chinaman…"
  
  "Hold it down," Nick begged. "Unless you want to invite him in here and ask him for yourself. Yes, there were three of them. The Chinaman, Mauriello, and McHugh. And they're right in this barrack, probably just waiting for somebody to try to make a move."
  
  Pete's eyebrows beetled downward. "Phil. Buddy. Tell me what you saw. And what the hell it means."
  
  Nick told him all he possibly could without giving himself away.
  
  At the end of it Pete whistled. "But now we're going to have to get rid of them before we can do anything."
  
  "That's right," Nick said calmly. "One or two, I can take. Three at a time may be a little difficult. Especially since they're in separate rooms. You understand that it won't do us any good just to tap them lightly and hope they won't bother us again. We have to put them out of action permanently."
  
  "I understand that," Pete said quietly. "Listen — Collins, that Air Force colonel — he'd be a good man for something like this. He's just two doors down. That's one of us for each of them. Ought to be more; maybe he can pull in someone he can trust. You think those fellows are still armed?"
  
  Nick nodded. "Sure of it. Once we've put them out of commission we'll have at least one machine gun, an automatic and a couple of garrotes for our own use. You going to talk to Collins, or should I?"
  
  "I will. We've gotten to know each other pretty well."
  
  "Fine. I'll take Mauriello first; he has the machine gun. They won't mind how much noise they make, but we do. I've got a knife and so have you. Collins may not have anything, so…"
  
  "He has," said Pete. "Commando training. He'll make out."
  
  "Okay, let's get going, then. Scarface has the room at the far right, facing front. McHugh far left, also facing front. You should be able to make your plans with Collins without alerting either of them. I'll go first, get rid of Mauriello, and join you."
  
  Nick opened their unlocked cell door and peered out. The lights were still on in the narrow hallway and some of the doors were open. From a nearby room he could hear Hansinger's voice. Another room about three doors down seemed to be serving as some sort of meeting place. McHugh lounged in the doorway, grinning as he looked in at the speakers.
  
  Nick strolled out into the hallway, putting an unlighted cigarette between his lips. Hugo the stiletto was sheathed inside his hand.
  
  Mauriello's door was open. Nick strolled past it. Nearly all the other doors were closed and muted voices drifted out from behind them. He stopped. The light was out but the passage light showed Mauriello sitting hunch-shouldered on a cot, puffing a cigarette. Nick uttered an exclamation of impatience and fumbled through his pockets.
  
  "You got a light, mac?" he said. "Christ, what a situation, huh?" And he leaned hopefully into Mauriello's cell.
  
  Mauriello grunted and reached inside his jacket pocket.
  
  Hugo snapped out of his sheath and Nick took one step inside Mauriello's room. His hand lunged forward and thudded against Mauriello's throat. Hugo sank deep into the bull-neck and Mauriello made a sound like a man about to vomit. Nick's left hand closed savagely over the open mouth. Hugo came out and struck again. Mauriello slumped sideways onto the cot.
  
  A shadow flickered past the room: Pete Brawn, on his way to Colonel Collins.
  
  Mauriello's cot gave up a.45-caliber machine gun; his body, a snub-nosed gun and a switchblade knife.
  
  Nick pushed the machine gun under the cot until further notice and put pistol and knife into his own pockets. Then he wiped Hugo, lit his cigarette, and stepped out into the hall.
  
  Scarface was walking down the hall towards him.
  
  
  
  
  
  And on Your Left, Ladies and Gentlemen, a Corpse
  
  
  
  
  Nick sucked in smoke and watched the man approach. From the corner of his eye he could see McHugh still standing in that doorway. But now, instead of looking into the room where someone was holding an impromptu meeting, McHugh was glancing down the passageway at Scarface. And at Nick.
  
  "Thanks, fella," Nick said to the room behind him. His thoughts raced. Scarface to one side of him, approaching the room where Pete was conferring with the Air Force Colonel. Both Scarface and McHugh could see every move he made. But Scarface might be distracted momentarily in Mauriello's room…
  
  "Maybe we'll think of something in the morning," he said to the dead man, and ambled up the hallway toward McHugh.
  
  "Hey, mister," said a voice somewhere behind him. "Moon, is it? Say, we thought of something we'd kinda like to ask you."
  
  "Ah, so, what is it?" Scarface answered politely. His footsteps stopped.
  
  Old Pete, you sonofabitch, Nick thought gratefully. He walked on and came to a stop beside McHugh.
  
  "Meeting?" he asked, one hand on the doorjamb and the other reaching down in a comradely way over McHugh's shoulders. "I'd like to join." Hugo clicked very quietly. Nick's arm hung in the air. "I must ask you all not to cry out or make any sort of noise." His arm flashed downward and thumped heavily against McHugh's back. He saw four or five pairs of eyes staring at him from the room. McHugh reeled and grunted loudly. His face twisted horribly with the pain and he made a lunge at Nick. "You, too, traitor," Nick said evenly, thrusting Hugo deep into the soft spot below the man's left ear. McHugh dropped, twitched once, groaned, and then lay still.
  
  "Sorry, gentlemen," said Nick. "But he's the man who brought us here. And unless you all want to die, we're going to have to cooperate in getting out of here. Now you'll have to excuse me. There's still one left." He turned, leaving a whispered babble of noise behind him.
  
  Pete stuck his white head out of Colonel Collins' door. "Got him!" he whispered triumphantly. "Mauriello?"
  
  "Finished," said Nick. "And McHugh. Time for another conference. Colonel? I'm going to need more help from you."
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  His body elongated strangely. The shoulders that were normally so broad and firm were oddly loose and curiously distorted. His waist was a narrow, rubbery band. Even his rib cage seemed to have contracted.
  
  "Jeeze!" Pete whispered. "Buddy, you should be in the circus."
  
  Nick wormed his narrow hips through the almost-as-narrow opening. He landed lightly on his hands and straightened up in the space between the barrack building and the blank rock wall. No guards. Stone sky above. Dim light showing far up to the right, far up to the left. If he went left he would round the edge of the farthermost house or barrack, whatever it was, and come out in the open near that guarded sliding door in the mountainside. If he went right, he might be able to do an almost full circle around the back of the buildings.
  
  Right it was. He moved off like an agile shadow.
  
  Wilhelmina, Hugo, Pierre and Pepita were back in their appointed places around his body. One of the garrotes was in his pocket.
  
  The men back at the barrack were armed with a machine gun, an automatic, a snub-nosed pistol, a few spare rounds of ammunition, one garrote, half a dozen knives, and an assortment of makeshift weapons. Colonel Collins, Pete Brawn, and a young man named Jacoby had organized their "army."
  
  Nick slid past the next-door barrack. It was not, he knew, one of those selected by the Commandant for the passengers' use. No lights shone from within. He listened, and heard snoring. The building was very much like the one that confined the single male passengers; it probably housed enlisted men. The next building was a two, maybe four-family house. He peered in through a high window and saw a man — Chinese — stripped down to his shorts and getting ready for bed.
  
  Nick moved on stealthily. The next two buildings were the Army's version of semi-detached houses, urban style. This would be where the married couples were quartered. Most of the lights were still on; some of the rear windows open. He heard a woman's voice saying tremulously, "Yes, but they wouldn't have searched us if they were up to any good. I tell you, they're going to keep us here. Brainwash us, torture us, God knows what all." A male voice answered, "Honey, we've just got to keep calm. They have no reason to hurt us."
  
  Carter looked in and saw what looked like a sparsely furnished living room, occupied by Lee Soo, his wife, and a couple named Rieber.
  
  "Sssst!" Nick hissed into the window. "Don't be afraid; it's Carteret." Four startled faces turned to the window. "Please don't make any sudden noises," Nick whispered. "Any guards in the house with you?" Lee Soo looked frightened but managed to shake his head. "N-no," he muttered. Rieber strode to the window. "How in hell did you manage to get out?" he demanded, his voice a low rumble.
  
  "Wiggled through a window," Nick whispered. "Listen. I'm going to try to find a way out of here. I want you to know that the pilot managed to send a radio message before we landed, so we're not completely abandoned." It was only a half-truth, but it might help to jack up morale. "All the same, we've got to try to help ourselves. There has to be a way out of here. And I'm going to ask you to follow my lead — when we're ready."
  
  "Look, Carteret," said Rieber. "No sense doing anything foolhardy and getting ourselves killed. Let's play along…"
  
  "Sure we'll play along," whispered Nick. "As long as we can. But don't kid yourself — they won't let us out of here unless they have to. All I'm asking you to do now is to explain to the rest of the people in there that when the time comes we've all got to be ready to break out. Get together and select one of yourselves as leader. Collect whatever weapons you can. Keep everybody calm. Understand?" Rieber nodded slowly. "I must make you realize," Nick whispered, "that if we play sitting ducks for too long we're going to be dead ducks. Help is coming and we're going to meet it. Barricade all the doors and windows until you hear a signal. Whenever it comes, be ready for it. It'll be me, and it'll mean it's time to act."
  
  "What signal?" asked Rieber. For some reason his face and the others seemed to be alight with dawning hope.
  
  "A whistle," said Nick. " 'Off we go into the wild blue yonder. "
  
  "That man with the scar," Lee Soo said slowly. "I know him from the old days. An evil man, a killer. Is he not still in our midst? He will ruin any plans we try to make."
  
  "He won't," said Nick. "He suffered a sudden attack and he died."
  
  Lee Soo's face brightened like a rising sun. "So," he said. "There is hope. Rieber, let us meet with the others."
  
  A foot scrunched heavily on the gravel much too nearby.
  
  "Draw that curtain," Nick whispered urgently, and dropped, full-length, into the space between the building and the rock wall behind it.
  
  The light dimmed with the closing curtain and spread a thin sheen on the rock above Nick's head.
  
  Heavy footsteps left the gravel and walked up the path between two adjacent buildings. If their owner had a flashlight, Nick was done for. He slithered along through low weeds and fallen stones and offered up a silent prayer.
  
  The footsteps slowed to a stop. Then started again, more slowly. A flashlight beam stroked the back of the buildings.
  
  Nick rose to a crouch facing the oncoming footsteps. There were only two things he could do: run for it and at best get shouted down, or probably shot; wait for whatever was coming and meet it face to face. He readied Hugo.
  
  The window he had left moments before creaked open and billowed light. Rieber's voice drifted out, "Hey, soldier!"
  
  The footsteps stopped. The flashlight pointed downward.
  
  An impatient Chinese voice said the equivalent of: "Shut up, you."
  
  Nick was already rounding the corner of the building when the guard answered. He ducked between the semidetached houses and the next building and flattened himself against a wall. Light flickered in the alley behind him and probed the rock wall nearby. The footsteps turned back in the opposite direction and faded out.
  
  Beads of sweat stood out on Nick's forehead. The next house was one of the larger ones, set back against the rock face. The wall that faced him was bare of drainpipes or windows. To climb over the roof was remotely possible, but it would mean clinging to the rockface and probably bringing down a shower of stones. The only quiet route past that house was around the front.
  
  And a Chinese soldier was planted at the entrance to the narrow path between the building Nick had just left and the house whose blank wall faced him.
  
  He waited for the man to move. Minutes passed and lengthened into half an hour.
  
  Nick studied the bare wall again and the rock behind it. Not a chance. He waited a few minutes longer and then made up his mind. The garrote came out of his pocket.
  
  The guard shifted from foot to foot but stayed in place. Nick stole up behind him like a panther on the prowl. The guard was holding another one of those coveted machine guns.
  
  A guard on the other side of the «village» walked slowly past Nick's line of vision. Nick waited for another moment and then sprang with his arms outstretched.
  
  The garrote looped through the air and bit into the alien throat in one swift, strangling movement. Nick tightened viciously as the guard stumbled backward with a low gurgle and clutched at his neck. The machine gun dropped. Nick loosed one hand with a lightning move and caught the gun as it fell. The taut and sinewy muscles of his left hand clung to the garrote until both hands were free again to finish their major task. He squeezed with all his strength.
  
  The body became a deadweight held up only by the wire. Nick gave one final, killing tug, and helped the body to fall.
  
  He drew the leaden thing deep into the shadows. Then he stripped the body of its uniform and everything that could possibly be used as a weapon. The uniform was much too small for Nick, but maybe someone else could use it. Gathering up his trophies, he padded back along to Rieber's window and whistled a few familiar bars. Rieber answered almost at once.
  
  "Quiet," Nick whispered, before Rieber could say anything. "Take these. And thanks for helping out." He thrust the guard's uniform, the machine gun and a spare round of ammunition through the window. "Maybe Lee can use the uniform."
  
  He padded back along the path to where he'd killed the guard. The village was silent except for the distant footsteps of patrolling guards.
  
  Nick waited for one guard to make a turn, and then he darted silently past the front of the first large house. It was in darkness, and it shielded him. So was the next one, but for a dim light on its far side. He made for the light. It came from a window that was slightly open and almost totally shielded by a thick curtain. Through the tiny parting between the heavy drapes he saw a lavishly appointed bedroom tastefully furnished with a large bed, thick carpeting, and comfortable chairs. Everything, in fact, looked both expensive and in the best of taste, except the pictures.
  
  It was impossible to see more than a few of them, but the samples were unbelievably obscene. Each was a study in sexual crudity; woman alone, man alone, woman with man, man with women; woman with woman, man with man… The combinations seemed to be about as complete as any disciple of the Marquis de Sade could dream of, and there were more pictures out of sight.
  
  There was nobody in the room and not a sound from the house. At the moment he was only interested in finding out what buildings were occupied, and if there was any way he could make contact with Julie.
  
  He moved away from the incredible scene and made for the next building. Like the buildings opposite and unlike the two houses he had just passed, they were set slightly forward of the mountainside so that he could manage to squeeze his way behind them.
  
  A dim light from an inner corridor in the first house showed sleeping figures on the cots in the cell-like rooms. Most of the windows were open.
  
  It struck him again, as it had several times before, that there were very few guards on duty for such a sizable bunch of captives. Maybe their captors were sure that no one would ever get past the heavily guarded doorway in the face of the hillside. And yet there must be another way out. Any reasonably cautious rat would provide itself with at least one hidden exit.
  
  He flitted from the rear of one barrack building to another. The next one ought to be the women's quarters. It was. Most of the fights were on and a low babble of voices came out and met him.
  
  He looked in at each window as he passed. Each was slightly open as if to receive the benefits of the underground ventilation system, and each was screened by a skimpy curtain. He checked off names and faces. Mrs. Adelaide Van Hassel holding forth to a group of sleepy spinsters. Miss Crumm, schoolteacher, yawning, taking a little nip from — well, how about that! — a small flask. Mrs. Loewy and her cronies. The librarian from Tuscaloosa. Miss Pell, Miss Goldfarb. Mrs. Schmidt. Miss Whatsername with the skin condition. The one with the gimpy leg and the one with the falsies. Miss Collyer, Madame Fliegel, chesty Susie Haig. No Elena, no Julie.
  
  At the last window he came close to having a minor heart seizure.
  
  A small brown face met his across the window sill and said: "Mr. Filet Cutlet? So nice to see you, but no noise, please. Both lady friends, they have been taken away."
  
  Nick gaped. The little Japanese lady smiled back at him. "You forget me? You call me Mrs. Nikki. Is for short. You get out same as others?"
  
  "Others?" repeated Nick, feeling lost. "Who else is out?"
  
  "Both lovely ladies. Just as we come in the soldiers leading one away, that Miss Dobby. Then the other lady making much commotion. So they leading both away."
  
  "Look, Mrs. Nikki," Nick began in a low whisper, and told her everything he could.
  
  Her eyes brightened. When he took out the revolver he had taken from the guard along with the machine gun and asked her to find out if any of the ladies knew how to use it, he thought she would burst into song.
  
  "Oh, so easy," she said happily. "I can use. I tell ladies all. You whistle when you want us ready? What is tune?"
  
  He whistled it softly, still feeling as though he had wandered onto the wrong stage set.
  
  "I got," she said. "Now you find ladies. I hear soldiers say Commandant find good use for both of them."
  
  
  
  
  
  Pictures at an Exhibition
  
  
  
  
  He could well imagine what use the Commandant would find for two exquisite women. The pictures on the walls of that luxurious room told him all he needed to know.
  
  The Commandant could do whatever he wanted to with Elena. But not, please God, with Juhe.
  
  Nick left Mrs. Nikki to her charges and melted into the dimness behind the barracks. The window of that obscene room was still lit. But now sounds as well as light were coming from it. Elena's voice, sobbing softly.
  
  "Mark, Mark, don't listen to them. Oh, sweetheart, I don't care what they do to me. I want you to do… whatever you know is right. It's just that — I don't know what they'll do to all the others." Pause. Nick put his eye to the crack between the curtains and saw Elena with her back to the window. He couldn't see Mark. "Oh, darling, no!" whispered Elena. "Don't give in to them. Just because they hit me. I can…" Somebody laughed richly. The laugh turned into the voice of the Commandant.
  
  "That is not very convincing, Elena. Come here; let us make it more authentic."
  
  Nick saw a stubby arm reach out and claw at the front of her dress. "We begin like this." The arm jerked downward and ripped the dress down to the waistline. Elena gasped. "You could have let me change to something less expensive first," she said sharply.
  
  The Commandant laughed again. "There will be many others like this for you, Elena. More expensive, far more beautiful." His hands went under the torn cloth and eased the dress down over her shoulders. "Anyway, you like to be stripped bare, don't you, my lovely Elena?"
  
  Elena made a little sound — of absolute contentment.
  
  Her dress dropped down as far as her waist. The Commandant stepped into Nick's full view and grinned. His hands cupped Elena's breasts; his fingers probed into her bra.
  
  "Ahhh!" he breathed. "But that will come off later." He let the bra go with a little snap of elastic and grasped the dress where it drooped over her hips. It came apart with a harsh tearing sound and fell to her feet. Elena stepped out of it daintily, kicking off first one elegant shoe and then the other. She stood there, then, on the remnants of her expensive dress, in her expensive panties and her lacy bra, her sheer nylons and her tiny little girdle that was hardly more than a garter belt with sex appeal.
  
  "Now you," she crooned, and her graceful arms flashed to the front of the Commandant's tunic. The Commandant grinned and let her tear. "Good, good, good," he muttered. "But you are too gentle. Attack me!"
  
  She attacked. Nick could hear her breath coming in panting gasps. His own seemed to be swallowed up in a wave of disgust. Peeping Tomism wasn't one of Carter's vices, just part of the job.
  
  Nick shifted uncomfortably. Patrolling feet scrunched along discreetly several yards away. He crouched against the wall and let the corner of his eye do the peeping while he stayed on the alert for guards.
  
  The peeping eye took in a vivid picture of a nearly-naked Commandant tearing at the remnants of Elena's flimsy underwear. Elena darted away playfully, stabbing at the man's chest with her long fingernails.
  
  "Ah! Good!" growled the Commandant. "Again. But lower!"
  
  Elena's fingers raked across his lower body. The Commandant yelped, caught her by the arm, and pulled her down with him onto the big bed. There was a brief, mock tussle, and when it was over every single tattered garment lay on the floor. The lovers rolled together, making grunting, snarling sounds, like a pair of copulating animals. Elena's legs flailed wildly. Her sharp teeth sought out little rolls and protrusions of flesh, and she bit each time his hand forced its way between her legs. Then the legs parted as if involuntarily. The Commandant grunted with triumph and made himself into a battering ram.
  
  Nick turned. The measured tread of feet seemed closer. And closer yet.
  
  Nick pulled himself away from the window. No place to hide behind the house; back into that rut behind the barrack. He darted quickly across the space and ducked down into the shadows with Hugo at the ready.
  
  A guard, heavily armed like his fellows, walked quietly up to the Commandant's window and looked about him furtively. And then he put his eye to the crack between the curtains and stood there transfixed.
  
  Nick watched the watcher and wondered what the Commandant would do if he knew that one of his soldiers, or maybe more, was accustomed to sharing the fun. Perhaps he liked being watched. Though probably not by foreign counterspies.
  
  Nick eyed the guard speculatively. The guns were tempting. But another killing seemed an unnecessary risk, and one that couldn't pay off with much except a little more artillery. He decided against it, regretfully.
  
  The guard sighed and moved away. The Commandant wouldn't have noticed; he was much too busy with his fun and games.
  
  Then there was silence. Nick moved back to the window. Elena and her lover were lying, panting, in each other's arms.
  
  "Now we begin," the Commandant said softly. "It is too long without you, Elena. Now you show me some of the love tricks you have learned, eh? In the morning you will see Gerber and put on your little act. But now we play."
  
  Elena stirred drowsily. "I'm tired, Yi," she protested. "Wait until tomorrow."
  
  "Ah, no. For me there is no waiting. Now, Elena." The voice was urgent.
  
  Elena sighed and moved compliantly. They began again.
  
  This time it was too much for Nick to watch or even listen to. Technique number one-oh-five, sometimes called the Thirsty Mare, was not a contortion he found particularly enjoyable. Not even as a third party, which indeed this bedroom trick sometimes called for.
  
  This time Nick looked for a way past the two houses that were set into the mountainside. The Commandant's side window offered a foothold, but not a very tactful one for immediate use. Now why should these two houses be set flush against the wall of the hill? Surely not just to save the trouble and expense of building a fourth wall. And the fact that they were opposite to the entrance seemed to mean something; perhaps they did not end here, but led directly into the hillside.
  
  He leaned an ear against the hillside wall where it formed a corner with the Commandant's house. For a moment he thought he could hear a faint vibration. He ventured very cautiously around the front of the house. Here the curtains were firmly drawn. He dropped down low and snaked his way to the next house. It was still in complete darkness and the windows were firmly shut.
  
  He crawled back to his post near the Commandant's window and lay low in the shadows, hearing the thud of flailing bodies on the bed and little grunts of satisfaction. Then he began to wonder where Elena and the Commandant had been when he had first looked in to see the obscene pictures. Somehow he had the feeling that they had come in from somewhere else. And he was sure that they had not been touring about the village, as he had. He had peered into every building and there'd been no sign of messroom, kitchen, storeroom, or any of the other auxiliary buildings usually associated with army living quarters.
  
  His mind's eye recalled the mountain from outside. It was not so much a mountain as a low-lying hillock that had sprawled out large and shapeless in the darkness. Large. Much larger than this semi-circle that had been gouged out of its heart. Perhaps not all its heart. Maybe only half, or less. In which case it was entirely possible that these two houses did lead directly into a similar cavern. And in all likelihood the Thing that Mark had been brought here to work on was also hidden somewhere inside the hill.
  
  Mark. And the elusive Bronson. There'd still been no sign of them. Someone was in that darkened house.
  
  There were sighs of fulfillment from within. The grunting bed fell silent.
  
  Nick let the silence settle. Then he heard the thud of feet on the floor and a tired whisper from Elena. He put his eye to the window and saw the Commandant getting up and stretching. The Commandant spoke. "Yes, yes, you sleep now. I shall leave you until morning. You will put the torn things on, hah? Oh, yes, one more thing. You must look exactly right." He reached down to her and jerked her head upward by the disheveled hair, striking out savagely with his bunched right hand. Elena cried out. "You bastard! What're you…"
  
  "Hush, my dear," the Commandant growled warningly, and slapped her viciously. "You are supposed to be manhandled, don't forget."
  
  "For God's sake, Yi, you're carrying it too far!" she shrieked, pummeling him with her fists.
  
  "Ah, nice, nice, my dear," he murmured approvingly, brushing her arms aside and cuffing her ear. "But there is no need to call me names. We have our job to do." Her head jerked backward with the impact of his fist. "Swine," she hissed. His hand slashed at her mouth.
  
  "I told you, no names," he said softly. He took one arm and twisted it, his fingers bitting into her flesh, and while he twisted he slammed the heel of his free hand into her eye. She screamed and sought his flesh with her teeth.
  
  Yi threw her back violently on the bed. Her head struck the backboard. She made a moaning sound and slumped down onto the pillows. Yi reached down with both hands and squeezed her breasts ferociously. Then he turned and vanished from Nick's sight. Elena lay on the bed with her eyes closed and her chest heaving spasmodically. She's going to have some spectacular bruises by morning, Nick thought. Then his satisfaction melted. Unless he did something to prevent it, Mark would see those bruises and leap to the obvious conclusion: Elena was being tortured on account of him. No doubt she would put up a brave show, and leave him with the certain knowledge that unless he did whatever they wanted she would die a horrible, lingering death… not to mention what would happen to the others.
  
  Yi came back across Nick's line of vision buttoning up a fresh tunic. This time he came so close to the window that Nick ducked rapidly. Yi walked past the window to the rear of the room. There was a faint sliding noise that repeated itself once and ended with a click. Then there was no sound but the heaving of Elena's breath.
  
  Nick waited for a few moments and then started working at the window. It was much the same as the barracks window only screen-less and somewhat larger, and after a while it yielded to his careful manipulations.
  
  He hoisted himself up and leaned across the sill, looking and listening. No patrolling footsteps anywhere nearby. No one in the room with Elena. One door on the far side of the bed; it was not the way the Commandant had left the room. Walls crammed with incredible pictures.
  
  "Pssst, Elena!" he whispered urgently. "Elena, sweetheart."
  
  Her eyes fluttered open and stared blankly around the room.
  
  Nick wormed his way through the window and dropped quietly onto the padded floor. He heard a gasp as he eased the window shut and firmly drew the heavy curtains.
  
  "Elena, honey! What have they done to you?" he whispered, with what he hoped was a suitably horrified expression. "The filthy brutes!"
  
  "Philip!" she gasped.
  
  "Sshhh." He noticed the door was locked on the inside. "Anybody out there, do you know?"
  
  "No. No, I don't know." She seemed to be almost choking.
  
  "Elena, we've got to get out of here," he said. "Oh, baby, have they hurt you terribly?" He leaned over the bed and drew her into his arms, his eyes searching the room for a second exit.
  
  "Oh, darling, it's been too terrible," she whimpered. "How — how did you get here?"
  
  "Out my window. Been looking all over the place for you. Old lady at the women's barracks said you'd been taken off some place. I had to find you. Saw that swine hit you, then disappear. How did you get in here? Not through the front door. Am I right? There has to be some sort of secret passage through this whole place. How did he bring you here, Elena? Can we get out that way?" She was still badly dazed, and he was glad of it. "Get your clothes on. Oh, God, they're all torn up. Here, put them on anyway. We'll find some way out. God, what they've done to you," he whispered softly, pulling her up toward him.
  
  "In the closet," she whispered. "There're some robes. He's a maniac, a fiend. The place is full of women's — please, Phil, get me a robe."
  
  He bounced off the bed and strode to the closet, one hand close to Wilhelmina. But the only surprise was the contents of the closet. It was half full of tunics and half full of feminine negligees. He took one to Elena.
  
  She was sitting on the bed clutching her aching breasts. Her eyes blazed. "That filthy swine!" she hissed. "Oh, I found out something from him. Passages? Oh, you're so right!"
  
  "I had to find you," he said urgently. "At least we can be together, whatever happens." Hurry, bitch, he begged her silently.
  
  She tightened the robe around her. "I know a way out," she said between clenched teeth. "He gave me the guided tour, the bastard. In fact, if you look in that bureau drawer you'll find a map of the whole damn place. I'd like to kill that sonofabitch!"
  
  But the map yielded up by the bureau drawer was even more worthy of attention. One brief glance at it showed a maze of passages winding underneath the buildings and into the hillside behind the two houses he had speculated about. It was more like a blueprint than a map, and someone had inked in a few X-marks and some Chinese symbols. There was also a gun in the drawer. He took that too.
  
  Elena was waiting for him. "Hurry, Philip! Here," she said, running her fingers over a paneled wall that Nick knew must be flush with the rock outside. "We came in somewhere here." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "He may be somewhere in there now. But I didn't see any guards down there."
  
  Didn't you? Nick thought grimly. God help you if you're lying.
  
  "What's behind that?" he asked quietly. "Just one passageway?"
  
  "No, there's a whole mess of them. But…" And her eyes widened at the thought. "I don't know where we'll go when we get out of here. Oh, Phil, we'll have to find some place to hide!"
  
  "We'll find some place," he said, and smiled at her reassuringly.
  
  Something clicked beneath her probing fingers. The panel slid back a couple of inches and stopped. "I'm afraid," she whispered.
  
  He squeezed her hand and brushed her swelling lips with his. "We've got a chance," he said softly. "Let's take it."
  
  He slid the panel back. They stepped from the bedroom into a broad, dimly-lit passage that smelled of concrete and damp earth.
  
  Nick slid the panel shut behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Guided Tour
  
  
  
  
  They stood there listening for a moment, darting furtive glances down the wide, low tunnel that ran to either side of them and narrowed as it curved downward and out of sight. Across the space in front of them, and separated by several yards of rock face, were two elevator doors of the lattice-work accordion variety. One of the cages was in place, its door locked. The other was apparently lodged on another floor. Nick looked around and tried to transfer his glimpse of the blueprint onto the real thing.
  
  "You came from the right?" Nick whispered. She nodded, clasping her borrowed robe to her like a frightened virgin. "Then we'll try the left," he said. "According to the map, that should eventually lead us right out somewhere near the main gate. C'mon." They began their cautious sidling along the backs of the two houses, the Commandant's and someone else's, and headed for the left-hand downward curve.
  
  A frightened murmur came from Elena. "But what're we going to do when we get out? We can't walk home across Red China."
  
  "Ssssh. Worry about one thing at a time. Did he tell you where those elevators go?"
  
  "Yes. Down into some kind of machine shop. And laboratory."
  
  "Did he tell you what they've done with Mark?"
  
  She glanced at him sharply. "No. What have they done to Mark?"
  
  "I don't know. He's not with the others, that's all I know."
  
  She caught her breath and reached out her hand to Nick. "I don't want anything to happen to him," she muttered. "But how can we help unless we get ourselves out first?"
  
  There didn't seem to be any answer. And her own attitude posed quite enough questions for the moment. Her face was beginning to look more bruised and swollen by the minute. Maybe she was so furious about the Commandant's rough treatment that she really was prepared to doublecross the Reds. But somehow it seemed a little too good to be true.
  
  The passage sloped sharply as it curved down to the left. Another tunnel joined it from a sharp angle leading to a heavy door. Elena pulled him past the junction. "That goes deeper inside," she whispered. "It leads into that factory I was telling you about. We'll have to keep on going." They did. "See those little stairways?" she whispered after a while. He had seen them, set well back against the tunnel wall at irregularly spaced intervals. Each one led up into the rocky roof where it ended in a trapdoor.
  
  "Yes, what are they?"
  
  "Escape hatches," she said softly. "There's one from every one of the buildings upstairs leading down into the tunnel. At least, that's what he told me. He brought me down one of them. Took me next door from the women's quarters into another room, I suppose so that the other women wouldn't see. Then through a trap in the front hallway — it's not easy to see because the boards are all alike and there seems to be nothing but a little sliding button on either side. Anyway, it's there. In all of them, he said. In case of attack everyone comes down here."
  
  "Attack?" he whispered. "When they're already so…"
  
  He stopped suddenly. There was a little clinking sound from somewhere in the corridor up ahead. And then a distant voice. It floated back to them, a disembodied sound that could have been made by man or woman, in triumph or in pain.
  
  Elena came to a full stop, her face a study in something like fear and pleased anticipation. "We'll have to go back," she whispered, almost soundlessly. He barely caught it, but he did catch her expression. She wanted to go on.
  
  "No point in going back," he murmured into her ear. "Stay here if you like. I'll go on."
  
  She shook her head emphatically. "We'll go together. You said so. I won't let you go alone."
  
  "Then stay behind me. And don't talk any more."
  
  They went on in silence. Sounds filtered back to them. One of them was the Commandant's voice. The other was a kind of crackling thud.
  
  And then a sharp cry that broke off with a feminine curse in anything but feminine language.
  
  Julie.
  
  There was not the slightest sound of reaction from Elena. She padded along silently behind Nick and with a certain eagerness that made the back of his neck creep.
  
  They passed a series of heavy doors and glided around a turn in the passage.
  
  A guard stood stolidly with his back to an open door.
  
  Nick back-pedaled hurriedly, pushing Elena back with his outstretched hand.
  
  They heard the guard shifting position and then pacing slowly toward them. Then they swiveled and seemed to be heading away.
  
  Nick motioned Elena to stay where she was and eased himself around the curve. The guard was tramping back along the passage toward the open door. Now, Carter, Nick told himself. Quickly, while his back is turned.
  
  He broke into a light run from his standing position, padding soundlessly over the concrete floor. Yards… feet… the guard was almost at the door. Nick gathered speed and drew his arm up with the hand outstretched, hard and rigid and almost as lethal as the cutting edge of an axe. Only inches now… The hard edge of his palm lashed down and landed like an axe-blade biting deep into a tree trunk. As he struck he heard the whiplash crack again. The Commandant laughed musically. And the guard dropped unheard beneath Nick's killing karate blow. His machine gun scraped against the wall as Nick grabbed for it, but the entertainment in the nearby room was apparently too absorbing for such a trifle to be noticed.
  
  Hugo flicked out at his bidding. Again, the machine gun was tempting, but again it was too risky to splay its noise throughout the eerie underground world. He heard the whip again, and a muffled sound that made his blood boil. He scarcely noticed Elena sidling up behind him.
  
  "But why not run, my lovely?" the Commandant's voice said reasonably. "If you do not like it in here with us, you can easily make it to the door. Hah?" The whip cracked suggestively. "Or perhaps you enjoy this so very gentle removal of your clothes. Piece by piece." Crack. "Strip by strip." Lash. "Torn fragment by torn fragment." Swish and thud.
  
  "Stop that!" It was Gerber's voice, high-pitched and strained almost beyond recognition. "Hit me instead! Why don't you hit me?"
  
  "Oh, because we need you, my dear Gerber," the Commandant said genially. "And we do not need the lady. At least," and he chuckled, "not precisely for the same purpose."
  
  Nick moved his head very, very slowly and very carefully, until he could see into the room. As the whip lashed through the air once more he heard Elena whisper behind him: "Kill him, Philip, kill! Think of what he did to me." And at the same time he saw the scene within. All he could think of was what the man was doing to Julie.
  
  She stood against a wall, still fully clothed, but with her dress in tatters and a sort of collar about her neck. A chain ran from it to the floor and up the wall behind her where it linked with a solid metal fixture fitted into the stone. The Commandant stood facing her, flicking the whip. Against the far wall, directly opposite the doorway, stood three men. Only they were not so much standing as supported by manacles that fastened them directly to the wall.
  
  "But you have room, my little tigress," chuckled the Commandant. "Run on your leash — you can reach the door. And you do not even dance for me, my pretty." The thong lashed viciously at her legs. "Is it because you like the way I tickle you? Or that you want these gentlemen to see what I shall do to you when your lovely body is free of those unnecessary clothes?" The whip curled around her waist and withdrew with a tearing sound. Julie flinched. Her eyes were closed and her anguished face was pale, sweat-gleaming marble. One of the men against the wall sucked in his breath and released it with a shuddering sigh. Julie's knees crumpled and she dropped to the floor. She reminded Nick, as he raised Hugo for the throw, of a caged and beaten puppy. Mark was struggling frantically, uselessly, against his manacles.
  
  The Commandant moved back, looking down reproachfully at the bundle of whipped woman at his feet. Nick lowered Hugo. A fractional error, and the old man with the slightly hunched shoulders would get the knife-thrust meant for Yi. To aim around a corner was not easy.
  
  Yi reached down and jerked the chain. The collar bit into the soft flesh of Julie's neck.
  
  "Up, up, up," he remonstrated, as if to a naughty child, and tugged unmercifully at the chain. Julie rose like a wax doll dangling from an executioner's noose. "So. Better," said the Commandant. Then he kicked her legs out from under her and let her drop. The whip lashed at her where she lay.
  
  "Ah, no, ah, no," the hunched man groaned. "I will not watch this. It must stop. It is a worse crime to let this happen than to work for them. Enough, Yi. I for one will do whatever you say. Only do not touch that girl again. Please — please, Yi!" His voice rose to a scream as the whip came down again.
  
  "No, Dietz!" "He's right! This has got to stop!" The two voices came simultaneously, the first an anguished whisper from the man beside him and the second a furious bellow from Mark.
  
  "Now that is much more reasonable," the Commandant crooned, swiveling toward them. "If you are ready to be sensible…"
  
  "No, you goddamn well won't!" It was a strangled cry from Julie. "Don't you dare do what he says! Don't you dare!" She pulled herself up on her knees and lunged suddenly at the Commandant's legs.
  
  He stepped back with a bark of laughter and the whip curled.
  
  Hugo soared through the air.
  
  But in the instant of release Nick stood revealed in the doorway and there was a telltale gasp from someone at the wall. The Commandant pivoted and half turned toward the doorway with his knees bent in a crouch. Hugo skidded lightly across his temple and clattered to the floor.
  
  Nick leapt.
  
  The full weight of his flying body came down on the Commandant and knocked him sprawling. His knee thrust forward and twisted into the padded gut. The man beneath him rolled with the incredible strength of a buffalo and slammed a ramrod finger-blow against Nick's throat. Nick gagged and saw red. He was aware of being thrown aside and fallen upon by a snarling beast of a man and pounded brutally against the solid stone floor. He let his body go absolutely limp for one deceptive moment. Then he jerked his knees up suddenly and heaved with all his strength. The weight flew off him. Nick jackknifed to his feet and saw Yi leaping up. He caught one outstretched arm, kicked out savagely with his right foot, and twisted Yi's trapped arm until the tunic-covered elbow bent up at a hideously unnatural angle toward the face. Yi gasped painfully and went down under the excruciating pressure. As he landed Yi lashed out with both booted feet and one ramrod arm. Nick's clutching fingers lost the full strength of their grip as he staggered from the blows. From the corner of his eye he could see Julie trying to reach for something behind him.
  
  The Commandant saw it too. With incredible speed he freed his twisted arm in a whirlwind roll-over and caught at Nick's legs, thrusting Nick back against Julie and sending all three of them sprawling. Nick made himself relax with the roll and clawed at the Commandant's throat. Julie moaned softly. Mark was keeping up a steady stream of curses. And then suddenly his jaw dropped open. His eyes were fixed on the door.
  
  "Elena!" he breathed. "Dear God, your face! What have they done to you?"
  
  The Commandant snarled and scrabbled for the thing Julie had tried to retrieve from the floor. Nick heard it tinkle. Hugo. He slammed a side-of-the-palm blow hard against the Commandant's neck, but felt it misfire as the Commandant twisted away. They clinched and rolled together.
  
  Hugo lay out of reach. The two men, so oddly assorted but so alike in strength and technique, heaved and clawed and slugged and twisted on the floor. Julie gave a little sigh where she lay; and she lay still.
  
  "Elena!" Mark cried out. "Oh, Elena, run! Get out of here!"
  
  Anyone else might have suggested that she rush in and grab the knife or do something, anything, to help. Anyone else, that is, who could see through the pose of utter weariness and agony that she managed to maintain as she slumped against the doorway. Mark, of all people, was not the man to recognize the strange, mesmerized look on her face or read the expression in her half-closed eyes. Nor could he hear the words she muttered so softly that only she could hear. "Hurt him, hurt him, make the filthy bastard suffer…"
  
  Nick was doing all he could to make the bastard suffer. He slammed a piledriver of a blow against Yi's heart and an agonizing finger stab into one of the tiny eyes. Yi replied with a karate gouge into Nick's rib cage that was momentary hell and would have killed brutally if properly completed. Nick tried the same treatment, with the same result. Yi recoiled swiftly and bounced back for more. The two of them chopped and slashed with incredible power and speed, landing blows and squirming out of holds that would have killed men less superbly trained in the killing arts.
  
  And then suddenly one of the chopping, yellow hands stopped slashing and went back to scrabbling on the floor. Nick clasped the thick neck and squeezed mightily, kneeing into the groin at the same time. Then something came up from the floor and smashed at the side of his head with such ferocity that for one dazed moment all his senses left him. The Commandant snarled and shook himself free of Nick's clutching hands, throwing him back across the room with a spinning movement that slammed Nick heavily into the wall near Mark and left him with his knees bent low and his head reeling.
  
  Yi leapt.
  
  Nick willed his senses to obey him. His arms reached back to make a springboard of the wall behind him and his foot soared upward in a savage dropkick used not in football but in the killing game of savate. His toe connected with an immensely satisfying thud. Yi's head flew back violently and Carter kicked again. This time he heard the scrunching snap of defeated bone as Yi's neck snapped.
  
  The Commandant dropped.
  
  "Oh, Philip, you were marvelous! Is he dead? Is he really dead?"
  
  Nick shook his head groggily. Elena had come in through the doorway now and her bruised face beamed malicious approval. "You did hurt him, didn't you. For me!"
  
  "Elena, darling…" Mark started to say.
  
  "Help me, Elena," Nick said urgently, feeling like a man who has barely escaped alive from an enraged cement mixer. "Let's get these people loose and out of here."
  
  He dropped to his knees beside Julie. Her eyes were still closed but her breathing seemed fairly normal. His Lockpicker's Special ought to take care of that collar and chain tied around her neck. Glancing up at the three bruised and bemused men, he picked the collar's sturdy lock. "Who're your friends, Mark?" he enquired. "Rudolf Dietz and Konrad Scheuer?" Mark nodded. "They've got a rocket, these people here. Red China's first atomic missile. Only it has bugs in it — major ones — and they want help. So they've been dragooning scientists from all over to give it to them."
  
  "But all German. Or ex-German," Nick said, snapping loose the collar and slapping lightly at Julie's face. "Why's that?"
  
  Mark's face clouded. "It seems that there are still some Nazis left in the world who figure that the only way they can put Germany back where she belongs is to join up with the Chinese Reds. Some fellow named Branson's been tracking us down and having us dragged here. And the threats! What they aren't going to do to everybody — and they've started already…"
  
  "Do you know where the keys of those manacles of yours are?" Nick interrupted.
  
  "The guard has them, I think," said Mark. "My God! The guard!"
  
  "Don't worry about him," said Nick. "Others, maybe; not that one. Elena, have a look."
  
  "Ah, yes, the guard," she said thoughtfully, and glided out of the room with a parting glance at the Commandant's limp and lifeless body.
  
  Mark frowned. "It's all too much for her, I guess," he muttered. "Seems to be acting a little strangely." That, Nick thought, as he propped Julie against a wall and started looking through the Commandant's tunic for anything of use, was the understatement of the week.
  
  Elena may have thought so too, because she changed her act.
  
  "That'll be enough," she said from the doorway, an automatic in her hand. "Now that you've killed that pig for me you've done all I wanted you for. Oh, you'd make a wonderful lover to keep around, but who knows — maybe something can be arranged."
  
  "What do you mean?" Mark rasped, "killed him for you? And what are you doing with that gun? Help us get out of these things, for God's sake."
  
  She laughed. "You can stay where you are. Maybe little Janie Wyatt can get you free. I doubt it. But you, Carteret. You come with me. Just because I let you kill that bastard Yi doesn't mean you're getting any further. You killed him while attempting to escape, y'see, and I caught you at it."
  
  "Elena, you've gone nuts," said Nick, measuring the distance to her, to Hugo, to the whip, to the three helpless men. "If we play this right, we can all get out of here."
  
  "Oh, but we won't all get out of here," she said gently. "The men must work and the women must weep, or however the saying goes. And don't try to kid me, Carteret. You're no innocent photographer. Not a killer like you. And that incident in Delhi. Someone engineered that. Not to mention that little transmitter that someone left beeping away on that airplane until Yi finally discovered it hours after you must have put it there. And then you come looking for me." Elena laughed shortly. "Oh, I'm glad that you did. But you were the only man who managed to break out and snoop around. So I rather think you'll need to explain yourself…"
  
  "The only one that you know of," Nick said, smiling, and flicked a glance at the passageway behind her. "Now, Pete!" he called, and saw Elena's startled movement as he leapt for the Commandant's whip.
  
  Its snakelike thong flickered through the air and coiled around her wrist. Nick jerked as the stinging lash bit into its target and Elena sprawled forward as the automatic fell from her numb fingers and clattered to the floor. He pulled brutally, dragging her along like some ungainly fish until the lash uncoiled, and then he struck again. The lash curled and squeezed around her shoulders.
  
  Nick dropped the whipstock where he stood, ignoring Elena's anguished obscenities and Mark's baffled cry. He scooped up the automatic and stepped quietly out into the passage. Nothing there but silence and a dead guard, short one automatic. He searched for keys, found them, and helped himself to the machine gun. When he got back into the room Julie had aroused herself and found Hugo; Elena was wrestling to free herself from the biting embrace of the whip.
  
  "Carteret," said Mark, in a softly dangerous voice, "I think you owe us all an explanation."
  
  "I do," Nick agreed. "Elena Darby is one of the spies who brought us here. I have a whole lot more to tell you, but you can also tell me a thing or two." Elena crawled to her knees and swore at him. He covered her with the gun. "In the meantime we have some urgent business. We can't let her roam around here. But I find it hard to inflict more damage on a — uh — lady. Suggestions, anyone?"
  
  Julie snorted and scrambled to her feet, pulling off one dirt-stained, high-heeled shoe.
  
  "Sure, I have one. If you find it so hard to hit the goddamn lady, kindly allow me."
  
  The shoe arced through the air and slammed against Elena's head with a loud thunk. Elena moaned and dropped.
  
  "Goodnight, sweetheart," said Julie.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The blueprint was a dream of helpful clarity. Every tunnel and every sliding trap was marked with perfect accuracy. The incongruous, fluting sounds of"… wild blue yonder…" floated through the tunnel. Traps slid open. Voices were raised in surprise and quickly shushed.
  
  One door in the tunnel that had been open was now closed. Behind it lay the Commandant and one dead guard. Elena slumped, manacled, against the wall, a gag stuffed firmly into her mouth.
  
  Scheuer joined the single men.
  
  Dietz, with an extra automatic, added his frail strength to Rieber's group of married couples.
  
  Mark and Julie, armed with a machine gun and the Commandant's gun, eased their way into the single women's quarters and joined Mrs. Nikki in a plan to take the women in small groups through the tunnel to join the single men.
  
  All would then wait, the sliding trapdoors just barely open to catch the sounds from below, for Nick's final call to arms.
  
  A single small camera case swung gently as Nick walked along the underground path suggested by the blueprint. The path ran directly beneath the buildings where all his charges would be waiting. At the end of it there was a sudden upward slope ending in a wide door. He worked for several minutes at the locks and bolts.
  
  And then he felt fresh, cool air brush his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a Cavern in a Canyon
  
  
  
  
  He had to do two things.
  
  Blow this place to kingdom come so that the new weapon that was being developed in it with Nazi know-how and stolen help would be blasted out of existence.
  
  Get Gerber, Dietz and Scheuer out of here along with all the others.
  
  And the devil take the hindmost, like the collaborators Lautenbach and Lehmann. As well as the elusive Bronson, whoever and wherever he might be.
  
  So far the element of surprise was still on Carter's side. Their captors had obviously been so certain of their stronghold as a prison that they were guarding no more than the obvious exits. Or hardly any more, for this exit was far from obvious.
  
  Nick looked out into the night. It was still dark, but the sky held the suggestion of approaching dawn. If anything was to be done, it must be done quickly before the sleeping men awoke.
  
  The door he was peering through was a dirt-and-grass covered flap in the hillside. It was some thirty feet away from the main entrance into the sealed-in village and only about half the size. Yet it was large enough to permit something like a car or a large truck to pass through. Pity he didn't have one, or several. But the only available trucks were still parked in that parody of a village square, and to try hijacking them was to invite instant disaster. Even to put them out of action and risk being caught in the attempt was, he had decided, too much of a chance to take. They'd have one opportunity for a breakout and their single hope was one sudden, concerted move.
  
  There were four guards patrolling outside; four that he could see walking back and forth along a swath of dim light for which he was extremely grateful. Even though the door he was peering through was heavily camouflaged from the outside with overhanging turf and tangled branches, the leaking light would surely have been noticed if the hillside was not already bathed in the soft, artificial glow. He closed the door quickly and swore at himself for his carelessness.
  
  But he needed to know what waited outside. And something Scheuer had said about the layout of the inner plant had given him the beginnings of an idea. And there was one thing about this camouflaged door that he liked very much. It opened outward.
  
  He left the door shut but unlocked and walked quickly back along the passage until he reached the turnoff Elena had told him not to take. This time he took it. It sloped down sharply to another wide door that threatened to resist all his quiet, fumbling efforts to make its lock give way. Sweat beaded his forehead and he was almost in despair when at last the Lockpicker's Special made something click and slide.
  
  He walked through into an even wider hallway that branched out in several directions. To his right were two elevators, one with the cage in place and the other out of sight. From somewhere beyond them, far off to the right, he could hear the steady hum of machinery pierced by the whirring and clanking of smaller equipment. A series of corridors led to closed doors. These, he knew both from the blueprint and from Dietz and Scheuer, were the machine shops. Facing him and to his left was another series of passages. The third one down led to the laboratory office of the man called Lautenbach. It was a temptation to walk down that corridor, find the switch Mark had told him about, and walk in on that half-mad man to see if the legendary Bronson was still with him. Unfortunately, though, it was a move that didn't make much sense. He only had two jobs to do, and that wasn't one of them.
  
  It was the farthermost corridor that interested him the most.
  
  He catfooted toward it, keeping close to the wall and holding Hugo ready.
  
  The corridor he sought was open at the far end. It had no door; Scheuer had told him why. It was because it wasn't necessary. It opened out into a vast cavern with an immense silo-shaped structure in the center. Four narrow catwalks, heavily barred where they reached the main artery, spanned the space between the cavern walls and the immense funnel. All workrooms lining the walls were kept securely locked. Suspended halfway between the floor and ceiling was a huge platform that he knew would interest him.
  
  He reached the open doorway and flattened himself against the side wall to look into the cavern.
  
  A guard turned the corner from inside and looked him square in the face.
  
  The suddenness of it sent a shock chilling down Nick's spine.
  
  But he managed a pleasant smile. The expression on the guard's face was even more ludicrous than his own. Or so he hoped.
  
  "Good evening," Nick said genially. "Herr Bronson, do you know where he is?"
  
  The guard had barely started to open his mouth when Nick's arm struck out and sank Hugo deep into the man's neck. The icepick blade withdrew and struck again. Nick supported the sagging body while he looked through the open doorway. The passage was level for several yards and then it started sloping sharply downhill. A man was walking along one of the catwalks toward the vast circular structure Dietz had told him about. A door opened in the smooth face of the great funnel and the man disappeared within. There was no one else in sight. Nick dragged the guard through the doorway and left him lying just inside the cavern opening, a few feet off the wide ramp that sloped downward. There was no time now to think of places for concealing bodies. And one more machine gun joined the Carter arsenal.
  
  He walked quickly down the ramp to the platform suspended between floor and ceiling, ignoring the stairways that went up and down on either side.
  
  At any moment now — or perhaps it had already happened — one dead guard or another would be discovered. Time was running very short.
  
  When he reached the platform he felt a vast wave of relief. It widened out on one side into a sort of siding crammed with loading bins and flat trailers, some of them built for coupling onto engines and others equipped with motors and steering equipment of their own. And the one thing Dietz had been able to describe only vaguely but that he'd been praying to see was there in all its custom-built perfection, stretched out like a giant centipede with a diesel engine. Behind it, the platform spread out like a fan, with one ramp leading far back to the opposite side of the cavern and several others leading down to the work area. But he was not concerned with what lay beyond. He was concerned with the width of the strange vehicle, its capacity, and getting it out the way he'd come. He measured it with his eyes. It would be a close fit and a wildly hazardous ride. But it would go through the wide doorways and passages he'd come through tonight. The thick rubber treads would be almost soundless. Only the engine would be heard. And the low throb and whine of machinery would help to cover that.
  
  This would be as good a place as any to leave the bomb.
  
  He crouched down in the shadow of a huge loading bin and took the «camera» out of its case. The timing was going to be tricky. He had to get his people out before the thing went off, and only just before, or there'd be nothing on God's earth to keep the whole pack of wolves at bay. Set it off too soon, and one plane load of innocent tourists would take one last, horrible flight into oblivion. He hesitated as he fingered the timer. There was no changing it, once it was set. Half an hour? Maybe. Better too early than too late. There was always a chance that someone might discover it if it lay around too long. And horrifying though the thought was, he had to wreck this monstrously dangerous place even if it meant blowing up the innocents with it. Because, according to Gerber, Dietz and Scheuer, it was the repository of every single atomic secret stolen by the Red Chinese from the Russians and the West. Without it, they would be back where they started — begging and stealing nuclear weapon knowhow. With it — goodbye, world.
  
  Nick set the timer for half an hour and carefully slid the compact but devastating bomb beneath one of the metal loading bins. Then he set a corresponding timer on his own wrist watch and turned his attention to the long series of coupled cars that made up the odd-looking trackless trolley he planned to use as a subway train. Each car looked like a huge metal barrel laid lengthwise, stripped of its flat ends, sawed in half, and then mounted on four wheels. Coupled together as they were, the ten or twelve cars could hold and transport a cylindrically shaped object of considerable length. Or… each could carry, uncomfortably, about ten people.
  
  The couplings gave it a maneuverability that he desperately needed.
  
  The first of the curved flatcars was hitched to a miniature but muscular-looking diesel tractor that seated two, a driver and probably a guard. Nick climbed behind the wheel and quickly examined the controls. The machine gun went down on the floor beside him.
  
  Twenty-eight minutes to go.
  
  He took one more look around the vast cavern with its ramps and catwalks and giant central funnel. The wide entryway near which he'd left the guard was clear. The ramps behind him were clear. The catwalks…
  
  A door opened in the curved side of the immense funnel and two men walked out along one of the spoke-like catwalks talking earnestly. Nick froze. In about four or five seconds they would reach the main, circular catwalk that passed over his head and be out of his sight, and he out of theirs. No reason why they should look down. He stayed where he was, in full view of them and immovable as a statue.
  
  They dawdled. They gestured. They debated. He could hear their voices raised in earnest discussion. They stopped. And one of them leaned on the catwalk rail and looked down into the pit, still gesturing.
  
  Nick's heart tried to climb into his throat. One casual look at that siding, and the talkative one up there would let out a yell of something or other; enquiry, maybe, or a piercing scream for a guard.
  
  The talkative one turned his head away to make a telling point. Nick slid off the tractor seat and down the far side of the vehicle to a crouching position on the platform. From there he watched them talk. And talk. And talk.
  
  Once they seemed on the verge of going back along the catwalk. Then they changed minds in midstream and swung back to their position at the rail. He cursed them bitterly for choosing such an unlikely spot for conversation.
  
  Twenty-three minutes to go. Twenty-two minutes.
  
  Twenty-one.
  
  Well, it looked as though the shooting was about to start. He'd have to get this contraption moving now regardless of what the two men up there saw or said or did. Perhaps two little Wilhelmina-type gunshots wouldn't be noticed? Not a hope in hell. Of course they would.
  
  He slithered back onto the tractor, deciding to get it going first and shoot only when it became absolutely necessary.
  
  And then one of the men looked at his watch and yawned. The two of them nodded at each other and grimaced. Nick looked again at the radium dial of his own watch. It would soon be daylight in the hills.
  
  The men above him walked along the narrow catwalk, onto the main circular walk, and out of sight.
  
  He waited one more precious minute before starting the diesel engine. It made even more noise than he thought it would. But he could still hear the constant humming of machinery. With any luck at all another motor noise would not be noticed… for a while.
  
  The tractor nosed slowly forward, pulling behind it a wavering line of creaking cars. Nick changed gear and led his centipede-like trailer up the sharp slope toward the open entryway, holding the latest of his stolen machine guns at the ready.
  
  The centipede lumbered through the doorway. Coupling creaked and complained. A car scraped loudly against the wall, stuck there for a moment, reluctantly dislodged. The purring of the diesel sounded like a roar that would wake the dead.
  
  Seventeen minutes to go.
  
  The contraption swayed and groaned. Turned left with a clanking of couplings and another scrape against the wall. Straightened out into the main hallway with the elevators, squeaking and wiggling its long, wormlike tail. Stopped at the door to the turnoff Elena had not wanted him to take. It was going to be one hell of a turn.
  
  So far the hallway was clear. He maneuvered his trailing centipede into the best position he could manage and jumped off the tractor to open the door he had left closed but unlocked. For one awful moment he thought that someone had come along and locked it after him. But then it clicked open and he swung it wide and out of his way.
  
  He leapt back on the tractor and sparked the murmuring motor back into full life.
  
  The tractor nosed through the doorway and chugged urgently up the steep slope, hauling its odd burden behind it. Cars screamed and scraped as they slammed against the walls in that almost impossible turn. Something stuck. Sweat stood out on Nick's forehead as he gunned the motor and cursed at it to move, drag that damn stuck car round the bend and up the slope. The cavalcade moved forward with a sudden jerk.
  
  And then he heard the shrill scream of outrage and alarm.
  
  The tail-end of the crawling centipede turned over in the doorway and stuck fast.
  
  Nick wrestled with the gears. Quick reverse, slam forward, and a sudden, grinding halt. Voices gabbled and screamed behind him. And the centipede stuck fast.
  
  Thirteen minutes to go.
  
  Nick ducked low and turned as the spurt of bullets chattered through the tunnel from the doorway. Angry sounds clanged off the metal and little chips of rock splintered about his head. He caught one swift glimpse of the scene at the doorway and reached into his pocket. Frankie Gennaro's custom-built keychain-flashlight could do a better job here than the borrowed machine gun.
  
  His mind held the picture of the scene at the doorway: one man in full view back in the hallway, spraying the tunnel with bullets; the overturned car jamming the doorway; a second man using the car as a shield and firing from behind it.
  
  Nick drew the pin from Frankie Gennaro's tiny brainchild and swung his arm out and forward in a roundhouse pitch.
  
  A bullet ricocheted off the wall and bit into his arm. He winced and threw himself on the floor of the tractor with his injured arm pressing down on the accelerator and the other reaching up to hold the wheel.
  
  A reverberating blast of sound smashed through the tunnel and pounded at his ears. There was one wild, insanely high-pitched scream, and the centipede shuddered like a dying monster. The tail lashed out violently; the heavy door screeched, tottered on its hinges, and slammed down at a crazy angle. The tractor growled viciously and shot forward with a frenzied lurch. Nick cast one lightning glance over his shoulder. The last car was a twisted sheet of metal jutting out of a gaping hole, its shattered coupling dangling like a mutilated handcuff. The two men were no longer men but scattered bits of mangled flesh.
  
  The tractor gathered speed and careened into the tunnel he had glided along so quietly with Elena. Nick gritted his teeth and forced the tractor into top speed. The cars undulated crazily along behind.
  
  Eight minutes to go.
  
  He swerved around a familiar bend, the cars swaying, slamming, back and forth, and he began to whistle. Loudly, urgently, compellingly. He knew that everybody and his brother would hear this crazy cavalcade. But he had one slim advantage — his people were waiting. Their slightly open trapdoors would be the first to open wide.
  
  "…Off we go, into the wild blue yonder…" He felt like an Air Force cadet, off on some incredible spree.
  
  He glanced up as he passed beneath the married couples' quarters. The trap was sliding open. Rieber came down the stairway with his submachine gun, his face a study in amazement.
  
  "In the back, Rieber!" Nick called slowing down. "Load 'em up, fast as you can. Guard the rear — we're in trouble!" He eased his writhing centipede to a stop halfway between Rieber's trapdoor and the trap leading up to the single men's quarters where Mark was supposed to have taken all the women. He hoped to God Mark had made it. And then he realized that he must have, or the tunnel would have been filled with armed guards already and all hell would have broken loose upstairs.
  
  Up ahead he saw a brawny figure coming down a stairway leading Mrs. Adelaide Van Hassel. Pete, his face set determinedly, was guiding her with one muscular old hand and clutching a machine gun with the other.
  
  "Wait!" called Nick. "But be ready with that gun."
  
  The open trap behind him was disgorging anxious husbands and terrified wives. Rieber was lying flat in the last car with his machine gun covering the rear. Mrs. Rieber crouched behind him. The rear cars were rapidly filling up. He started easing slowly forward. There was one closed trapdoor between the two open ones, and he was praying to God it would stay shut. It led into the officer's quarters, and he knew that there were at least a handful of them up there.
  
  Nick picked up speed and slowed again beside Pete. The middle trapdoor was still closed.
  
  "Load, Pete!" Nick rapped. "On the double. Work your way back to help out Rieber. Collins — up front, just behind me. Jacoby, next to me with that gun. Julie! Help the women in. Mark. Center car. Keep your eye on the trap just above it. Hurry! I warn you all now, it's going to be a hellride."
  
  They seemed to be moving in a slow-motion dream.
  
  Four minutes to go.
  
  "Everybody on? Step on it, Mac! Help the lady."
  
  Dietz… Scheuer… the old man who ogled legs… Miss Crumm, breathing out faint fumes of bourbon — no, brandy… Uncle Hubert Hansinger, remarkably subdued… Levinson… Rogers… Lee Soo…
  
  The middle trapdoor was still closed.
  
  Everybody heard the sounds at the same time, and one of the women screamed like a cat on a redhot stove.
  
  "You will kindly shut up," Mrs. Nikki's voice said cordially. "You make awful and most unhelpful noise."
  
  An even more awful noise was the sound of running footsteps and guttural cries. They came from the rear of the tunnel, and they were coming fast.
  
  "Ready, Rieber?" Pete roared.
  
  "You bet I'm ready!"
  
  A chattering burst of fire broke from the back car and was answered with a salvo of shots and screams.
  
  "Is everybody on?"
  
  "Yes!"
  
  Nick threw the tractor forward.
  
  "Down, everybody, down! Save it, Jacoby. Sit down — there's more of them up ahead. Four outside the doors."
  
  Jacoby grunted and sat down beside Nick, clutching the machine gun with a look that meant messy death for anyone who waited up ahead.
  
  Now there was a steady stream of fire. But even through it he heard the woman with the burnt-cat scream giving tongue again. He turned his head as he accelerated. The woman was pointing at the middle trapdoor. It was open. A sleepy-looking, half naked main was standing on the stairway reaching at the nearest car. As Nick watched he clawed at the edge and leapt aboard.
  
  Mrs. Nikki rose to her full height of about four foot ten and calmly grasped the man's outstretched arm. With one incredible movement she flipped him back overboard. His head smashed against the wall and he lay still.
  
  Mrs. Nikki calmly dusted her hands and looked for more.
  
  Two minutes to go.
  
  The cars picked up speed and clattered heavily down the passage.
  
  Three more half-clad men came leaping out of the trap and down the stairway, too late to grasp at the cars but in plenty of time to shoot. Their guns spat in a ragged chorus.
  
  Mark's machine gun roared.
  
  Collins bobbed up and down jabbing the air with his automatic and shooting with calculated precision.
  
  Several voices cried out in agony. Some of them came from the clanking cars.
  
  Nick drove on grimly. The camouflaged door loomed up ahead. The firing behind them was further away and very much less intense. Somebody in the rear car picked up Pete's machine gun and joined Rieber's fire.
  
  Pete himself lay very still.
  
  An alarm bell shrilled so loudly that it sent pulsations through the tunnel.
  
  One minute to go.
  
  Blood was seeping through Nick's sleeve and his arm was beginning to feel numb.
  
  "Down, everybody, hold on tight! This is it!"
  
  Yards to the tunnel exit… hard on the accelerator… head down low… injured arm clasping machine gun… Now!
  
  The door smashed open and the galvanized centipede leapt out into the eerie pre-dawn light.
  
  "Now, Jacoby!" Two machine guns roared from the twin seats of the tractor. Four guards on patrol darted into the shadows outside their swath of light and roared back their answer with four biting streams of bullets. Three. Two. Jacoby grunted suddenly but went on firing.
  
  Nick stamped hard on the accelerator and drove like a man possessed, pulling the great long clanking worm behind him and swerving abruptly to their right and the dark road they had traveled hours before.
  
  Now, thought Nick. Now, now!
  
  The huge and sprawling hillock rumbled like a giant's stomach.
  
  And then it burst with a cataclysmic thunderblast that tore into its heart and sent its rolling echoes reverberating across the valley. The centipede shuddered with the enormous vibration and its coupled parts swayed wildly. For a moment Nick thought the thing was going to twist its tail and overturn. But it kept on going down the road to the airfield and their hijacked jet.
  
  The hillside shook and trembled. Its face crumbled slowly open and the nose of a truck appeared, thrusting its way out through the falling sod like some prehistoric creature lumbering up through the ancient slime.
  
  It shook itself and picked up speed. There were two men in its front seat, one driving and one leaning out the window with a submachine gun. Mark Gerber stood up and fired straight into the man's face.
  
  "Goddamn you, Lehmann!" he yelled. "Take your treachery to hell with you, you creeping bastard!"
  
  The face crumpled into an ugly mess and the machine gun fell from the dead fingers. Mark went on firing. Bullets bit into the truck wheels and into the metal of its body. The driver clawed at the steering wheel and swerved away. Nick caught one dim glimpse of the man at the wheel as he concentrated on his own task of steering the living, the dying and the dead to the plane he only hoped would still be there.
  
  He saw the head and shoulders of a man with stiff, square shoulders and a bullet head fronted by a flat, expressionless face that looked as though it had been carelessly stitched on.
  
  Bronson.
  
  He looked like his description.
  
  But the set of those stiff shoulders and the shape of that ugly head reminded Nick of someone else.
  
  Judas. The man he'd gone to South America to find. The arch-criminal of CLAW, Red China's Special Branch in charge of sowing hatred, murder, and the seeds of war.
  
  A ragged burst of fire came from the airfield. Two guns from Nick's strange cavalcade spoke back. He concentrated on that last lap to the airfield, driving with all the speed and skill at his command. And their plane was there. The truck driven by the man who was built like a Prussian ox sped away in the early morning light.
  
  Whoever he was, he was gone. Maybe Bronson was Bormann; maybe Bronson was Judas. Maybe all three men were one. Right now it scarcely mattered. He still had the second half of his job to finish.
  
  The searchlight no longer sliced the sky, and all the guns were silent. Nick pulled up beside the plane with his cargo — the whole, the wounded, and the dead. Suddenly he was weary almost beyond words.
  
  "Colonel Collins!" he said. The Air Force Colonel lowered his empty automatic and turned to look at him. "Do you," said Nick, "know how to fly this plane?"
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The mountain was a shattered cave. Deep within its wounded belly the dust was settling over a huge structure shaped something like a silo. In a room that had once been a laboratory a wheelchair lay on its back, crumpled and forlorn. Miles away in the semi-desert valley a truck sputtered to a stop beneath the rising sun. The man known by so many names opened the hood and began to tinker underneath it with his gloved hands. He had very little hope… but he had made comebacks before.
  
  High above, and a long way to the south, Nick Carter left the co-pilot's seat of a giant jet and walked back through the passenger's cabin. The cockpit was spattered with blood and memories, but Air Force Colonel Jonathan Collins kept his eyes away from the blood and his mind on reaching Delhi. The busy radio was silent at last.
  
  Pete was dead. The old man who loved to look at legs would never look again. And there were others who sighed and moaned in their troubled sleep. Mark Gerber stared blindly out of a window at pink clouds he did not even see.
  
  Nick slumped down beside Julie with a tired sigh.
  
  She took his hand in hers.
  
  "Hi, honey," she said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
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