Carter Nick : другие произведения.

Dragon Flame

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  THE FINE ART OF GENERAL SMUGGLING.
  
  The situation couldn't have been worse. The Communists had the border sealed up so tight, not even a fly could slip through. On the Hong Kong side, the vicious Tiger Tong waited, ready to kill anyone attempting the General's rescue.
  
  The General — badly wounded, unable to walk — was holed up in a temple barely a mile from the camp with a thousand Chinese soldiers itching to move in.
  
  Only a fool would have tried to cross that border to get to the General. A fool — or AXE agent N3, who — in spite of the prodding of the delectable Fan Su — knew he would have his work cut out for him to get in… and out again… alive!
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Chapter 1
  
  Chapter 2
  
  Chapter 3
  
  Chapter 4
  
  Chapter 5
  
  Chapter 6
  
  Chapter 7
  
  Chapter 8
  
  Chapter 9
  
  Chapter 10
  
  Chapter 11
  
  Chapter 12
  
  Chapter 13
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Killmaster
  
  Dragon Flame
  
  
  
  
  Dedicated to The Men of The Secret Services of the United States of America
  
  
  
  
  
  OCR Mysuli: denlib@tut.by
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  Chance Encounter
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter, senior ranking Killmaster for AXE, was enjoying one of his rare moments of euphoria. Even a hangman, it is said, must be permitted his moments of reverie and calm reflection. And while Nick was no hangman he was, in a very real sense, an executioner. Resting at the moment. On vacation. Death, insofar as Killmaster was concerned, was taking a holiday. This is not to say that Carter had grown careless or dropped his guard. He was quite aware that the bony old gentleman was at his elbow every moment, matching him stride for stride.
  
  Now, sitting in a deep rattan chair on the afterdeck of his borrowed yacht, Corsair, Nick watched another of Hong Kong's wondrous sunsets fade to glowing embers in the west. To the north the last shards of sun smashed themselves to a rose and purple glory on the sere mountains beyond the Sham Chun River. The Bamboo Curtain began at the Sham Chun. Twenty miles of it, straight across the peninsula from Hau Hoi Wan to Junk Bay.
  
  Nick drained the last of his cognac and soda and thought idly that Bamboo Curtain was indeed a euphemism. In reality the Chinese Reds had dropped a barrier of steel and concrete across the base of the peninsula — pillboxes, bunkers, tank traps and dragons' teeth.
  
  A high-pooped junk, its patched brown sail flapping lazily, glided past Corsair and Nick saw that the figurehead was that of a dragon spouting flame. N3 allowed himself a wry smile. Dragons were very big in the Orient. The important thing was to be able to distinguish between the two main types of dragons — paper and real.
  
  He had been in Hong Kong three days now and, as an old China hand, it had not taken him long to pick up the poop. Rumors were racing through the Crown Colony like a forest fire and there was scuttlebutt to please every taste and ear. Something big, very big, was going on in Kwangtung Province across the border. The Chinese had sealed off the border and moved up troops and tanks in large numbers. It was easy enough to get into China — at least for the peasants and merchants — but getting out was another matter. Nobody, but nobody, was getting out!
  
  Some of the pessimists around the bars and clubs, the perennial woe-cryers, were saying that this was it. The big dragon was at last going to gobble up the little dragon.
  
  Killmaster thought not. He had tried not to think about it at all — he was on vacation and it was none of his affair — but his complex and highly trained mind, attuned to such politico-military matters, kept harking back to the rumors and their basis in fact. Such as it was.
  
  The Chinese were in a sweat about something. They had moved in a couple of divisions and a few tank companies. They appeared to be making a fine tooth comb search for something, or someone, on their side of the border. What or who?
  
  Nick sipped his cognac and soda and stretched his big sleek muscles. He couldn't care less. This was his first real vacation in years. He felt fine, in the pink. His feet, badly frostbitten on his last mission in Tibet, were healing at last. He had fully recovered his energy and along with it his tremendous urgency to enjoy life. A new desire, a longing, was beginning to itch in him. Nick recognized it for what it was — and he intended doing something about it that very evening.
  
  He tapped a little silver gong on the table beside him, unable to repress a grin of pure sensual pleasure. This was the sweet life indeed. He still found it hard to believe. Hawk, his chief back in Washington, had actually insisted that Nick take a month off! So here he was on Corsair, anchored in the basin of the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club. Well offshore. He had not wanted to plug into shore facilities. The ship-to-shore radiophone worked well enough and, though his body might be on vacation, his professional agent's brain was not. It was just as well to keep a moat between Corsair and the shore. Hong Kong was a hotbed of intrigue, the spying crossroads of the world, and Killmaster had far more enemies than friends.
  
  His cover was playboy, pure and simple. He was Clark Harrington from Tulsa, loaded with inherited oil money, and he had all the papers to prove it. Hawk had been most obliging in all these matters and Nick had wondered vaguely — was Hawk fattening him up for something?
  
  The slip-slop of small rubber shoes interrupted his thoughts. It was Boy, bringing another cognac and soda. Nick had borrowed Boy in Manila, along with Corsair and the Filipino crew.
  
  Ben Mizner, who had lent Nick the yacht, had had to interrupt his own cruise to fly back to the States on urgent business. He and Nick had talked briefly at the airport bar.
  
  "I picked up the poor little bastard in Singapore," Mizner had explained. "Starving in the streets. From what I gather, he's trying to get to Hong Kong to find his parents, and he's had bad luck. They were separated trying to get out of China. Boy — he won't tell his real name — Boy tried to make it alone in a rubber boat from Macao. Imagine a nine-year-old trying that! Anyway, he got caught in a typhoon and a freighter picked him up and took him down to Singapore. I promised him I would try to get him to Hong Kong somehow, sometime, and this is as good a time as any."
  
  Ben Mizner had gone on to explain that Corsair needed work and it was to be done in Hong Kong.
  
  "I bought her there," he said. "And I want to drydock her with the same firm. So you take her down and have yourself a ball. When you're through with her turn her over to the builders and I'll pick her up one of these days. S'long." And Ben Mizner, who had been a millionaire from birth and had known Nick in college, waved goodbye and ran for his plane. Ben had not, of course, the faintest idea of Nick's real profession.
  
  Boy took a tall frosted glass from a silver salver and placed it on the table. He picked up the empty glass, regarding Nick with narrow dark eyes. "You go byemby dancee house? I fixee clothes, maybe, yes?"
  
  Nick and Boy got by very well in pidgin. Boy was from the north of China and did not speak Cantonese. Nick, fluent in Cantonese, was deficient in the northern dialects. So they compromised on the lingua franca of the Orient.
  
  Now N3 fixed the kid with an unsmiling stare. He liked Boy and was amused by him, yet during the voyage from Manila he had tried to instill a little discipline. It was not easy. Boy was a free soul.
  
  "Maybe go dancee house one time, maybe not go," Nick said. He indicated the cigarette dangling from Boy's lips. "How many piecee cigarette you smokee today?" He had set a limit of six per day. Sort of a weaning process.
  
  Boy held up four fingers. "Smokee four piecee only, Missa Clark. I swear by damn only four piecee!"
  
  Nick picked up the fresh cognac and soda. He had never caught Boy in a lie yet. "Good boy," he said. "You also no steal drinkee?"
  
  He had forbidden liquor to Boy, who had a weakness for gin, and kept a close watch on the liquor cabinet. Now Nick held out his hand. "Key to drinkee, please."
  
  Boy smiled and handed him the key. "I not lie, Missa Clark. I have one drinkee. But not steal — take! I swear by damn only one drinkee."
  
  Nick, trying to keep a straight face, considered the lad over his drink. Boy wore a miniature sailor suit, cut down for him by one of the crew, and rubber shoes. His hair was thick and tar black and cropped short. He looked like a frail saffron-skinned doll, a toy that might break at a touch, and never had appearances been more deceptive. Boy was nine — with the wisdom of ninety. He knew most of what there was to know about the seamy side of life. He had been raised in a brothel and had been on his own since he was five.
  
  Nick said mildly, "You swear too much. And you drink too much. One drinkee too much. You'd better watch it, kid, or you'll be the youngest alcoholic in the world."
  
  Boy screwed up his small features. "Not understand. What is alcoholic?"
  
  Nick patted his shoulder. "Alcoholic is what you'll be if you don't cut Out the boozing. Muchee bad. Now you go and lay out my dinner clothes one time, eh? I think I go byemby dancee house. You put out dinner clothes — dancee clothes. You catchee?"
  
  Boy regarded him with eyes that were somehow old and wary in the young, petal-smooth face. The stub of Nick's gold-tipped cigarette still smoldered in his lips. He would, like all Chinese poor, smoke it down to the last micro-inch.
  
  "I catchee," said Boy. "Do many times for Missa Miser. I go now." He gave Nick a grin that disclosed small pearly teeth, and vanished.
  
  Nick sipped his cognac and soda and wondered why he was so loath to move. A man could get lazy this way, succumb quite readily to this soft life. He watched a green and white Star ferry plowing toward Kowloon. The ferry passed close to Corsair and the trim 65-footer rocked gently in the bow waves. A whiff of harbor stench struck N3's nostrils and he winced. Hong Kong meant "fragrant harbor" — but it wasn't. Idly he wondered just how many bodies were floating around in the scummy water at the moment. Hong Kong was a great spot for efficient hatchet jobs and nocturnal splashes.
  
  Nick stretched in the chair and tensed his great muscles. Then he relaxed with eyes half closed and admitted the truth to himself — his vacation was beginning to spoil. Somehow, in the past few hours, a thin dagger of unease had begun to prick him. Or was it only boredom — that insidious wedge of boredom that always plagued him when he was too long away from his work? He was not a man to sit in the quiet byways of life. I have, he admitted now, just about had the vacation bit.
  
  A million golden lamps were springing to life on the nine dragon hills of Kowloon. To his right, in the Yau Ma Tei typhoon anchorage, paper lanterns were glowing like fireflies at every masthead. They were burning joss to Tien Hau, the sea goddess, and Nick could smell the acrid tang of it on the slight breeze. Hong Kong, its rich and its poor, the water people and the roof people, the beggars on the ladder streets and the wealthy in their villas on the peak — they were all Hong Kong and they were getting ready for another night. A typical Hong Kong night of intrigue and treachery and deceit and death. Also of life and love and hope. Men would die in Hong Kong tonight and children would be conceived.
  
  Nick let the cold drink slide down his throat. There was no doubting the symptoms now. His own personal signals were flying. He had been celibate too long. What he needed tonight was a lovely girl who would enter into the spirit of things, see the world and love as he saw them. A lithe, fragrant, tender-fleshed, young and beautiful girl who would give of herself without stint. As Nick did. Who would give, and take, in joy and pleasure throughout the tender hours of the night.
  
  Swee Lo?
  
  No. Nick Carter shook his head. Not Swee Lo. Not tonight. Swee Lo was an old and valued friend, as well as lover, and he must see her before he left Hong Kong. But not tonight. Tonight it must be a stranger, a beautiful and exciting stranger. Adventure beckoned him tonight. So he would, after all, accept Bob Ludwell's invitation to the ball at the Cricket Club and see what happened.
  
  Nick flexed his muscles and got out of the deep rattan chair without using his hands. His muscles were back in shape. His brain was clicking. He would look for adventure tonight, female type, and then tomorrow he would call Hawk and ask for an assignment. Nick went down the companionway three steps at a time, whistling a little French tune. Life was good.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  His suite in the stern of Corsair was luxurious beyond anything Nick had ever seen aboard ship. Ben Mizner did himself more than well — he lived like a caliph.
  
  Nick, soaping his bronzed body in the glass-stalled shower, told himself again that it was time to move on. He was only human — there were many dead men who, if alive, would contest that — he was only human and it would be only too easy to grow accustomed to luxury. It could ruin a man, especially an agent. Luxury could corrupt. How well the old Romans had known that! You began to value your life too much and, in his profession, that was the surest way to lose it. You might get away with it for a long time, but one day you would hesitate, waver, stop to think when there was no time to think. That would be the day you got killed.
  
  Nick toweled himself dry and began to shave. He frowned at his image in the steamy mirror. Not for him. When he got killed it would be by a better man, not because he had let his reflexes rust and his muscles go to jelly.
  
  The lean face in the mirror was still a little haggard from the Tibet mission. The dark brown hair was growing out and now could be parted on the left, thick and glossy and growing to a mildly satanic widow's peak. The forehead was high and, when in repose, unlined. The nose was straight and, though there were some slight traces of battering, it had never been broken. The eyes were wide-set over high cheekbones. They were strange eyes, hardly ever still, and changing color as often as the sea. The mouth, firm and well shaped, with a hint of the sensual, was usually reserved. It could smile and laugh when occasion justified, but it was not a mouth that smiled too readily and it did not laugh at fools' jokes. It could also be bitter and hard and unforgiving, that mouth.
  
  On the whole the face in the mirror was mobile and expressive, intimating the capacious and highly resourceful brain behind it. In moments of urgency, of great stress, when the die of life or death was cast, that face could assume the rigid implacability of a skull.
  
  The body beneath the face was all that years of cruel and demanding conditioning could make it. The body was, after all the wear and tear and countless tortures, self and otherwise imposed, still in near mint condition. The shoulders were massive, but without the clumsiness that ruins clothes; the waist was narrow and tight, the legs tanned pillars of smooth muscle. Nick's muscles did not bulk large, did not especially call attention to themselves, but they were like steel cables. They moved as easily beneath his sleek pelt as oiled ropes.
  
  Nick left the bathroom, a towel bound around his lean middle, and went into the spacious bedroom. Boy had laid out his evening things on the bed: dark trousers with satin stripe, white dinner jacket, pleated shirt with turn-down collar, maroon tie, a maroon cummerbund. No club in the world was more formal than the Hong Kong Cricket Club. Evening dress was mandatory, even for charity balls.
  
  Boy, with another of Nick's long, gold-tipped cigarettes dangling from his mouth, was busily polishing a pair of patent leather shoes. As usual, he gazed in awe at Nick's torso. Boy did not know what a Greek god was, and he had never heard of Praxiteles — many a near-to-swooning woman had voiced the thought that Nick Carter was not quite real, but a piece of sculpture — but Boy knew what he admired. Tiny and fragile himself, he longed with all his little gutter soul to possess a body like the AXEman's.
  
  Now he tried to encircle Nick's bicep with both his tiny hands. His fingers did not meet. Boy grinned. "Number one muscle, I think. Okay I feelee one time?"
  
  Nick grinned down at him. "You already feelee one time. Why askee?"
  
  "I polite boy, Missa Clark. I likee one time have muscles same-same you. Go back to my village and kill all bad mens."
  
  Nick shook off the little fellow and stepped into a pair of white boxer shorts of Irish linen. "You lay off the cigarettes and the booze and maybe you'll one time grow some muscles. You try, huh?"
  
  Boy shook his head sadly. "I try okay. But no damned good. I not grow big one time likee you — I always be sonbitch little Chinese man."
  
  "Don't let it worry you," said Nick. "There are things known as equalizers in this life." He glanced at the bed. "Hey, you forgot a handkerchief. Hingkichi. You want me to be tossed out of the Cricket Club for improper dress?"
  
  Boy slapped his brow. "By damn I forget one time. I have go irong one. No have."
  
  Nick gave him a gentle shove. "Okay — you go irong one and make it hubba. And watch that language."
  
  As Boy left the room the ship-to-shore phone buzzed. Nick picked it up. "Hello. Clark Harrington here."
  
  A light tenor voice said, "Clark? This is Bob. How's everything?"
  
  It was Bob Ludwell, an old friend. He was, in fact, one of Nick Carter's very few real friends. From BA. Before AXE. It had been a purely chance encounter that afternoon. Nick had just left his tailor, in Nathan Road, and had literally bumped into Bob Ludwell. They had had a couple of drinks at the Peninsula Hotel in Kowloon — Bob had been on some strange errand and Nick had gone along for the ferry ride — and Bob had mentioned the dance at the Cricket Club tonight.
  
  Now Ludwell said: "You coming to the dance tonight?"
  
  "Yes. I'm getting dressed now. Plenty of time. You did say nine, didn't you?"
  
  "That's right. Nine. But I–I thought we might meet a bit early, Clark. I'd like to talk to you about something."
  
  Again Nick felt the slightest nip from the dagger of unease. There was something about Ludwell's tone that puzzled him, worried him. Coming from any other man, it wouldn't have meant much. But he knew the truth about Bob Ludwell.
  
  "Swell with me," he said easily. He told his professional self to get behind him and stay there. This was probably nothing. "Where, Bob?"
  
  There was a little silence. Then Ludwell said, "You'll be taking a walla-walla in, I suppose?"
  
  "Probably. There are only two men aboard, on watch, and I can't very well ask them to man the launch. Yes, I'll take a water-taxi."
  
  "Good. I'll meet you on the dock at the foot of Mandrake Road. You know it? It's in the Wan Chai sector."
  
  Nick chuckled. "You believe in living dangerously, fella. A white man in evening clothes in Wan Chai is asking for it, no?"
  
  Ludwell's laugh sounded forced. "I think we can take care of ourselves, don't you? Especially you!"
  
  Nick did not miss the veiled remark. It was, in all the years he had known Ludwell, the closest the man had come to disclosing what he, in his turn, knew about Nick Carter.
  
  He let it pass now. "Okay," he said curtly. "I'll be there in half an hour or so."
  
  They chatted for another moment and then Nick hung up. As he turned back to dressing he was frowning slightly. He didn't quite like the way the evening was shaping up. Nothing tangible, of course, nothing he could put his finger on, but he was adept at reading «below» a voice. And Ludwell's voice worried him. He sounded worried and afraid, did Bob Ludwell. Probably with cause. Bob Ludwell was the top CIA man in this part of the world.
  
  It was a game he and Ludwell had been playing for years. Bob knew that Nick was AXE and never mentioned it. Nick knew that Ludwell was CIA and would never dream of mentioning it. It was policy. Hawk was dead set against any intermingling of the services unless in dire emergency. But it was more than policy. It was common sense, good tradecraft. Agents did fall into enemy hands now and then and no man could stand torture forever.
  
  Bob Ludwell was working. Nick had known that from the moment of their chance encounter that afternoon. Blandly, with a straight face and knowing Nick would accept the professional he, Ludwell had told him that he was working as a minor clerk at the American Consulate. It was cover pure and simple. Nick had immediately switched the conversation to other things.
  
  Boy came back with the hingkichi, freshly ironed, and Nick told himself to forget it. Stop fretting. Probably it was nothing. Maybe Ludwell only wanted to borrow some money. If he was holding down a cover job he would have to live on cover job pay, and that wouldn't be easy in Hong Kong. Yet it would have to be done. Both CIA and AXE were meticulous in those matters. Nothing could betray an agent as quickly as too much money.
  
  That must be it, Nick thought. He just wants to borrow a few bucks. He had another cigarette and had a fast cognac and soda as he finished dressing. Boy fastened his cummerbund and stood back to admire his work. "Number one, I think."
  
  Nick glanced in a long cheval glass and agreed. He would not disgrace himself among the pukka-sahibs tonight. He was not above a little vanity and found himself almost wishing he had brought along some of his medals — medals given him very sub rosa and which he never dared to wear. They would have graced the white dinner jacket. More important, they might have attracted the right feminine eye.
  
  He fished a wad of Hong Kong dollars from his wallet and handed them to Boy. At the moment a HK buck was worth about 17 cents.
  
  "Maybe you go ashore tonight one time and look for mama and papa," he. suggested. "Maybe tonight find."
  
  Boy's thin little face screwed into an expression of disgust. "Maybe not find, I think. Same-same as yesterday and day before. Too goddamn many mamas and papas in Hong Kong! I think maybe Boy be sonbitch orphan till he die maybe."
  
  Nick had to grin. He shoved the kid toward the door. "I know one thing, Junior. I'm going to get big piecee soap and washee mouth."
  
  From the door Boy fixed him with a look of juvenile cunning. "You maybe have lady tonight, I think. You not want Boy around in way?"
  
  "You are so right, Confucius. Now take off one time. Beat it before I beat you."
  
  Boy grinned. "You muchee big bluff, Missa Clark. Not beat. You good man." He vanished.
  
  Nick locked the door. He went to the huge bed, fished beneath the mattress and brought out a large pouch of oiled silk. From this he took his weapons.
  
  There was the Luger, 9mm, stripped down, sleek and oiled and deadly. Wilhelmina. His favorite girl. And Hugo the stiletto. Needle sharp. Grooved for blood, perfectly balanced for throwing. With an appetite for heart's blood. And lastly there was the specialist, Pierre, the little gas bomb. A pellet no larger than a golf ball. Instant death.
  
  Nick glanced at his wrist. Still plenty of time. Out of long habit he field stripped the Luger and assembled it again, working by touch as he pondered the events of the day and the evening ahead. He was still uneasy, edgy. The feeling would not go away. And N3, Killmaster, had learned to trust his forebodings. Years of danger, of close escapes from death, had built a sort of psychological tuning fork in him. The fork was quivering ever so slightly now, emitting little danger waves.
  
  Nick chose the stiletto for tonight. He took off the white dinner jacket and adjusted the soft chamois sheath on his right forearm, on the inside between elbow and wrist. He tested the release spring by flexing his wrist suddenly inward. The stiletto dropped easily and precisely into his palm, ready for throwing or stabbing. Nick replaced it and donned the dinner jacket. He put the Luger and Pierre back in the oiled silk pouch and hid them beneath the mattress again.
  
  By the time he went on deck he was once more whistling the little French tune. His spirits were high and he was looking forward to the evening, come what may. This was a comfortable time of year in Hong Kong with temperatures in the sixties, and little rain. He stood in the brisk December night and breathed deep of the harbor smells. An olla podrida of fish and diesel oil, of joss and cooking rice, of decaying wood and newly painted steel, of paint and turpentine and hemp, of tourists and habitués. Of good guys and bad guys. Of life and death and loving and hating.
  
  Kowloon glistened like a multihued Christmas tree, matching the myriad stars in the clear sky. The full moon was a yellow skull, mirroring itself in the unruffled harbor. From a Kowloon dock a tethered white liner bellowed a last call for passengers bound for the States.
  
  Nick summoned one of the Filipino watch and asked the man to hail a walla-walla. Corsair was moored perhaps 500 yards offshore. A matter of five minutes if he got a motor launch, a little longer if it was one of the blue-clad sampan women who sculled their little crafts.
  
  Bob Ludwell would be waiting for him at the foot of Mandrake Road, near Hennessy Road with its looming godowns. Nick fingered his fat wallet and found himself hoping fervently that all Bob wanted was a loan.
  
  He breathed deeply again and thought he detected a new fragrance in the air. Perfume? A subtle odor, soft and sensual as a pleasant minor sin could be. Nick Carter smiled. Life was good. And somewhere in all this spangled beauty that was Hong Kong there must be a woman. Waiting. Waiting just for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  The Red Ricksha
  
  
  
  
  On the way in, the walla-walla girl — she was at least fifty, with a trim figure and a brown wrinkled face, wearing clean blue denim — asked Nick if he wanted a girl for the evening. She knew he didn't, at least not the type of girl she had to offer, but she felt duty bound to tout the merchandise anyway. This handsome round-eye looked prosperous and warm hearted. The sampan woman knew that he was not of the English — little could be expected from the cold-eyed, curt-spoken sahibs.
  
  Nick laughed mildly at the query and admitted that he was indeed looking for a girl. But not, he added quickly, one of the girls in Shanghai Gai. The latter was a «street» of sampans in the Yau Ma Tei typhoon shelter. The girls, while not exactly licensed by the British police, were not bothered as long as they kept their pretty noses out of trouble.
  
  "Nice girl," the sampan woman persisted. "Nice for make love. Nice clean. You like, I promise. For you I find number one special girl."
  
  Nick smiled at her. "Not tonight, Granny. Tonight I find my own girl. Very number one special — I hope. Thanks anyway, but no thanks. Here, have a little meat with the rice tomorrow." He gave her a sizable tip.
  
  Her toothless face creased in appreciation. In soft Cantonese she said, "M'goy. May the bird of love sing sweetly for you."
  
  "Hoh wah," Nick replied, also in Cantonese, and saw the surprise in her beady eyes. His fluency in Cantonese was a secret he usually kept to himself.
  
  She put him ashore on a rickety pier at the foot of Mandrake Road. The tender mauve of twilight had given way to a brisk dark blue, a chill brocade encrusted with the million golden gems of Hong Kong's lights. For a moment Nick lingered in a little enclave of silence and shadow near the blank wall of a large godown. A single yellow bulb in a tin shade illuminated stenciled black letters on the small postern door of the godown: Hung Hin Hong, Chandler.
  
  The sign reminded Nick that he must see about getting Corsair into drydock, as he had promised Ben Mizner. Tomorrow, perhaps, before he called Hawk and asked…
  
  Something moved in a blot of shadow near the go-down. A shoe scuffed dirt. Nick moved swiftly for the cover of a rotting bollard, flexing the stiletto into his palm. Behind the godown a scarlet wash of neon from Wan Chai blurred his vision for a moment. He waited, silent and ready. Probably nothing. A solitary opium sniffer, perhaps, building sensual dreams against the reality of a night in the open.
  
  "Nick?"
  
  Bob Ludwell's voice, high pitched and tense, with just a hint of quaver. Killmaster cursed softly to himself. Damn! The greeting, the "Nick," was all he needed to know. Ludwell was dropping cover. He didn't just want to borrow money. He was in trouble, probably bad trouble, and he wanted to share it with Nick. N3 grinned wryly and swore again under his breath. His instincts had been right. But friends were friends and he didn't have too many. And rules were made to be broken — in certain circumstances. Nick Carter had never lived entirely by the book.
  
  He snapped Hugo back into the sheath and stepped from behind the bollard. "Hi, Bob. Why all the creeping around? That can be dangerous, man!"
  
  "I know… I know. But I'm working, as you must know, and I've got to be damned careful."
  
  Ludwell left the shadow of the godown and crunched toward the pier. He was a short man, but broad and powerful, and his width of shoulder made him appear shorter than he really was. He was in evening clothes, as was Nick, but was wearing a black Homburg and a white silk scarf. A lightweight topcoat was tossed around his big shoulders, cloak style.
  
  As he drew close Nick saw a muscle twitching in one of Ludwell's smoothly shaven cheeks. He had noticed the same tic that afternoon in the bar of the Peninsula Hotel. His friend had a very bad case of nerves.
  
  Suddenly in that brief instant, Nick knew that it was more than just nerves. His sure intuition told him that Ludwell had had it. Fear was written all over the man. Ludwell had run out his string, was at the end of his tether. A man, any man, only had so many nerves, so much guts, and when they were gone — they were gone! Forever. It was time for Ludwell to quit. Go outside.
  
  Ludwell touched Nick's arm lightly. "Let's get out of here. Too dark. I've got to talk to you, Nick, and I'm going to have to talk out of turn. Break security and cover. Okay?"
  
  Nick regarded his friend with a bland stare. "You've already cracked it badly, old friend. My name is Harrington, remember? Clark Harrington. Who is this Nick character?"
  
  Ludwell fumbled for a cigarette and lit it with fingers that trembled just perceptibly. He peered at Nick over the brief tassel of flame. "Let's forget the con for the next half hour, huh? You're Nick Carter and I'm — well, I'm still Ludwell. I'm not using a cover name. The PTB didn't think it necessary. Anyway you're AXE and I'm CIA and that's the way we'll play it for a while. Okay?"
  
  "Okay," said Nick. "It must be important or you wouldn't do it. But the powers that be aren't going to like it. You know that."
  
  Ludwell pulled at Nick's sleeve again. "I know that. Can't be helped this time. Come on. There's a passage over here that leads out to Hennessy Road. We can get a taxi."
  
  They moved along a narrow passage between go-downs. There was a smell of fish and tung oil in the crisp air. Nick said, in a faint effort to lighten his companion's mood, "A taxi? I'm in sort of a romantic mood tonight. How about a ricksha?"
  
  Ludwell shook his head. "Too slow. We've only got about half an hour. I have to make a contact at the Cricket Club. Anyway, ricksha men have long ears. We can close the partition in a cab."
  
  Minutes later they emerged into the garish crescent that was Wan Chai, a tawdry district of cabarets, bars, and cheap hotels. Humanity seethed in the streets like molten lava — the dross would have to be swept up in the morning.
  
  At this early hour Hennessy Road was a riot of traffic and pedestrians tangled in an apparently hopeless jumble. Little Chinese cops, wearing white armlets, strove frantically to cope with it from their high kiosks. Traffic crawled like a wounded dragon. Huge red double-decker buses spewed their noxious fumes into the maze of rickshas and pedicabs and taxis and private cars. The night air was redolent with the oily smell of frying food. Above the braying of a record shop could be heard the constant clatter of mah-jongg tiles. Beneath a neon Tiger Balm sign a slim Chinese prostitute was trying to entice a disheveled member of the Royal Hong Kong Regiment.
  
  Ludwell paused to regard the scene with distaste. "Hell! This is a mess. We'll never find a taxi in this." He took Nick's arm and guided him toward the mouth of a narrow street leading upward. "Let's cut through here up to Queen's Road. Stand a better chance there."
  
  They ducked into the narrow medieval ladder street and started to climb. Nick saw that Ludwell was casting wary backward glances.
  
  "You expecting company, Bob?" He kept his voice casual, but he was nevertheless a little concerned. Ludwell was obviously ducking a tail. The chances were that he had ducked it efficiently — he was an old and experienced operative. But if he hadn't, if he had failed to lose the tail, then Nick was inexorably tied in with the CIA man. The thought did not please him. It would please Hawk even less.
  
  Nick sighed inwardly and shrugged his massive shoulders. Too late to worry now. His friend was in trouble and if he could help, without compromising AXE, he would. And take the consequences.
  
  In answer to his query Ludwell said, "Nothing to worry about. I've had a tail now for a couple of days, but I lost him this afternoon. That was one of the reasons for the ferry ride we took. I'm sure we're private now. But I've got the habit, damn it. I can't even go to the bathroom without looking behind me!"
  
  N3 could only chuckle in sympathy. He knew the feeling.
  
  At the top of the street, near a snake shop where a solitary housewife was sorting through the snakes for tomorrow's breakfast, they spied a Mercedes taxi prowling their way on Queen's Road. It was one of the new diesels. Ludwell hailed it and gave the driver instructions in Cantonese. Then he carefully rolled up the glass partition.
  
  Nick Carter crossed his long legs and adjusted the razor-sharp creases of his trousers. He lit a gold-tipped cigarette and offered the case to Ludwell, who refused. Instead the CIA man fumbled a cigarette from a crumpled blue pack of Great Wall and lit it. Nick sniffed at the harsh tang of sook yen. He had not noticed it in the open air. The native tobacco was murder to an Occidental throat.
  
  Carter waved away the acrid fumes. "How can you smoke that stuff? It would tear my head off."
  
  Ludwell inhaled deeply. "I like it. I've been in China too long, that's the trouble. I've got to get out, Nick. I'm going to get out — after this last job. If…"
  
  He broke off. They passed a street light and Nick saw the tic working furiously in Ludwell's cheek. "If what, Bob?"
  
  The light passed and they were in shadow again. He heard Ludwell sigh. Somehow it reminded Nick, unpleasantly, of a man expiring.
  
  "I've had a nasty feeling lately," Ludwell said. "Call it a premonition if you like. And don't laugh, Nick, until you hear me out."
  
  "Who's laughing?"
  
  "Good, then. As I say, I've had this feeling that I'm not going to get out of this one. I'm so damned sure of it that it's driving me nuts. I… I don't suppose I have to tell you that my nerves are pretty well gone?"
  
  "No," said Nick softly. "You don't have to tell me that."
  
  The taxi turned right at the ornate façade of the Daimaru store with its festoons of bright paper lanterns. They were now headed for Tai Hang. As they made the turn Nick glanced back, thinking with faint amusement that he was nearly as bad as Ludwell.
  
  There was nothing behind them but a solitary red ricksha. It was empty, the coolie padding along with his head down. No doubt going home to his pallet and rice in some packing-case slum.
  
  Ludwell took off the black Homburg and mopped his high forehead with a clean folded handkerchief. The night was crisp, nearly chill, yet Nick saw droplets of sweat on the pale flesh. He noticed that Ludwell was fast going bald. Nick pushed a big hand through his own thick hair and thought: He must be damned near fifty now.
  
  Ludwell mopped the sweatband of his hat and put it on. He lit another of the harsh Chinese cigarettes and flipped the match out the window. Without looking at Nick he said: "Do you know how many times I've been into Red China? And out again?"
  
  Nick said he didn't know. Couldn't guess.
  
  "Twenty times," Ludwell said. "This old pitcher has gone to the well twenty times! And always gotten back in one piece — or nearly so. I've got a few scars. But now I've got to do it again and I've got a feeling that this time I won't make it. And this trip is the most important of all-real big stuff, Nick. The top! I've got to do it, yet somehow I don't think I can. This time the old pitcher is going to be broken, Nick."
  
  This was a badly troubled man. Nick considered, briefly, what he could say or do, if anything, to lighten his friend's mood. Not much, probably. Perhaps better to keep his mouth shut. Ludwell was a veteran, an experienced and highly capable agent. He was no neurotic, certainly no coward. Yet Nick thought he had better try.
  
  In a flip tone he said: "What sibyl have you been consulting lately?"
  
  Ludwell nodded. "I know — it's hard to take seriously. I wouldn't myself, ordinarily. But this time it's different. I know! And it's like carrying a hundred pounds of concrete around in my gut."
  
  Nick grinned at him and patted his knee. "Come on, Bob. This is all a lot of nonsense and you know it. About the presentiment, I mean. If your number is up, then it's up and there's not a damned thing you can do about it. None of us can. And no one can help us. Remember that line from Faust: 'Send not to me, whatever sounds you hear, for no one can help me'? That's part of an agent's life, boy. But that was a case of hard fact. Faust was facing the Devil in person. The premonition bit I don't believe in. I don't think it happens that way. When you do get it you get it fast, from an unexpected source. You never know what hits you."
  
  Ludwell shook his head. "No. You're wrong, Nick. You and I think very differently. And anyway, I haven't got your nerve structure."
  
  Nick fished for a fresh cigarette. "Who has?" he said lightly.
  
  Ludwell considered him somberly. "Yes. You're blessed — you're sort of a superman. But I'm not. And it isn't only me, Nick. All the signs point to bad luck."
  
  Nick paused in the act of lighting his cigarette to stare at his companion. His eyes slightly narrowed, he asked, "What signs?" Had Ludwell indeed been visiting the sibyl?
  
  Ludwell turned in the seat to face the AXE man. His eyes searched Nick's face for reaction to his next words. "I Ching," he said. "The Book of Changes. I went to a Buddhist temple last week, Nick. I talked to the head priestess. She confirmed what I've been feeling — I've had it, Nick!"
  
  Nick Carter did not laugh. He had never felt less like laughing. While he did not believe in this sort of prophecy, yet he did not deride it. He was too much of an old China hand for that. Now he whistled softly and contemplated his friend with a long stare that contained a mixture of pity, sympathy, and a soupçon of contempt. The latter was studied, intentional. Ludwell was badly in need of a little stiffening, a little rough talk from the right person.
  
  "You've had it, all right," Nick said. "How you've had it! What did the priestess use — yarrow stalks or fortune sticks? Or maybe fortune cookies?"
  
  Ludwell merely smiled, a sad smile, and Nick knew then that argument was hopeless. If he couldn't make the guy angry there was just no use.
  
  "I told you," Ludwell said. "I've been in China too long. I don't quite know what I believe any more — except that I'm going to die on this mission. And that's where you come in, Nick. I want you to do something for me. Something personal, nothing to do with the operation. I can't, and won't, involve you in that. Strictly CIA business."
  
  "That's nice to know," N3 said a little acidly. "At least you haven't completely blown your top."
  
  Ludwell reached into his dinner jacket and brought out a long thick brown envelope. He handed it to Nick. "It's all very simple, really. And all aboveboard. Nothing sneaky or illegal. It concerns my wife and kids."
  
  The slow-moving taxi had made the turn around the stadium by now and was rolling past the race course on their right. Soon they would be into the Kennedy Road.
  
  Nick Carter stowed the envelope away in his inner breast pocket. He felt the crackle of thick paper in the envelope. "What am I supposed to do with this?"
  
  "Just hold it for me. If I'm all wrong about this feeling, if I get in and out again, I'll be around to pick it up. If I don't contact you within a week, you're to open it. There are instructions inside. That's all I want from you."
  
  Nick flipped his butt out a window. "Okay, it's a deal. But you're going to feel damned silly when I hand it back to you."
  
  "I hope so, Nick. God knows I hope so."
  
  They rode for a little time in silence. Nick glanced back. There were a couple of cars behind them, their lights brilliant moons, but no sign of the red ricksha. Ludwell cleared his throat. "I want to tell you one more thing, Nick. Something I never thought I would tell anyone. But maybe it will help you understand about me and this — this premonition I have."
  
  "Why not?" Nick snapped his cigarette case open. "While we're at it, get everything off your chest, pal. Old Father Confessor Carter, they call me."
  
  Ludwell's face was bleak, livid, in the few passing lights. "Would you call me a coward? An unreliable agent? Even maybe a traitor? Would you call me any of those things?"
  
  Nick could answer that truthfully. Off the record, without being supposed to know, he knew a lot about Bob Ludwell. Top CIA man in the Far East. Trusted. Beyond reproach, like Caesar's wife. A skilled and experienced old hand at his demanding job. If there were any such ratings, Nick thought now without a trace of false modesty, Ludwell would rate very close behind himself. And Nick considered himself the best.
  
  "No," he said at last, "I wouldn't call you any of those things. No one could. So?"
  
  Ludwell relaxed against the leather seat. He let out a long, tired sigh. "Because I was supposed to bring off this mission last week. I should have. I could have. I had it all set up. But I didn't go."
  
  He put his hand over his face, as if to shield it from the AXEman. "I couldn't go, Nick! I lost my guts. Chickened out. I flubbed it, but good. I hung up my people on the other side and put them in terrible danger. What I did was unforgivable. But I just couldn't help it — I couldn't make myself go. Not then."
  
  Nick's keen professional brain was racing, sopping up details and nuances like a thirsty sponge. He knew Ludwell was telling the truth — the man was ridden with guilt and fear.
  
  One factor leaped immediately to N3's attention. All that Ludwell had told him was beginning to form a nexus, a tie-in, with the rumors floating around the Crown Colony.
  
  He stared at Ludwell. "But now you're going? Maybe tonight?"
  
  "Yes. I must. I'm all right now, I think. I stayed drunk a couple of days, then I snapped out of it. I was lucky. I'm handling this all alone. It's very delicate, and anyway we're short-handed just now. Nobody knew I funked it. If I can bring it off no one ever will know. Except you."
  
  Nick felt a surge of real pity for Ludwell. The man must have been to hell and back. Even now, if the facts ever got out, he was liable to disgrace and dismissal. Maybe even prison.
  
  "You can see," Ludwell continued, "why I have to do this mission. Even feeling the way I do about it. If I'm going to die I want to be able to look at myself again first. Look at myself without puking. And I've promised myself, and I promise you, that if I bring it off I'll resign immediately. Go outside. I must, of course. I could never trust myself again."
  
  N3 nodded. "Yes, you'll have to resign. You're overdue now. Call it quits and go home to your wife and kids." Privately he thought that any man with a wife and kids had no business in the profession in the first place. That was giving hostages to Fate with a vengeance. But then he knew very little about it, really. He was hardly the pipe and slippers type.
  
  Ludwell was lighting another of the acrid sook yen cigarettes. His fingers were trembling.
  
  The professional in Nick said: "It will be tougher now, won't it? Getting in and out, I mean. Tougher than if you had gone last week? I hear the Commies have moved in a couple of divisions and some tanks — the poop is they're looking for someone."
  
  Ludwell did not look at him. "I can't talk about that, Nick. I've already bolixed it up enough. So thanks for letting me bend your ear, and let's consider the subject closed. Just don't forget the envelope. Hey, here's the club now."
  
  The taxi swung into a long drive leading up to the low, rambling clubhouse. Arc lights played over a parking lot and strings of bright paper lanterns fringed a path leading to the main entrance. A drift of dance music floated on the air.
  
  Ludwell flipped away his butt and grinned at Nick. Not much of a grin, but the man was trying. Nick gripped his friend's arm and squeezed. Ludwell flinched away. "Watch it! Those damned muscles of yours."
  
  Nick laughed. "I'm sorry. I forget now and then. How about a drink before we start mingling? Afterward you can introduce me to a very pretty and very unescorted girl. There will be some around this shindig, I trust?"
  
  Ludwell finished paying the driver. "Should be. Especially tonight. This is for sweet charity and they're after money — dates aren't mandatory. But as I remember, you usually do all right."
  
  "Usually." Nick glanced at the yellow moon floating like a huge paper lantern over a distant stand of pine and Chinese banyan. Skillfully arranged lights and lanterns twinkled like courting fireflies in the formal gardens. The faint breeze carried a waft of camphorwood.
  
  The taxi wheeled and left them. They followed the lanterns toward the entrance. "The Limeys are a bit old fashioned," Ludwell said, "but they do permit a stag line. That's more than the Consulate does. Of course you must know the girl before you can cut in — the sahibs insist on that. But don't worry — I've gotten to know quite a few dolls around the Colony. You'd be surprised at the things a Consular clerk has to do! Anyway there's a man shortage. Now let's head for that bar, eh? I could do with a couple."
  
  Ludwell preferred their tickets to an angular English maiden lady behind a table at the door. In the brief moment, out of long habit, Nick glanced back.
  
  The ricksha coolie did not move quite fast enough. He was 50 yards away, in the shadows of a clump of eucalyptus off the drive. Nick turned just as the man was pulling his red ricksha into the shadow. An incoming car picked up the man in its lights at that moment and Nick got a good look at him. It told him nothing. Just another blue ant in a straw rain hat.
  
  His face impassive, he followed Ludwell into the clubhouse. The band was playing "China Nights" on a small dais at the far end of a long, narrow dance floor. The air was thick with a mingled effluvium of tobacco and perfume and powder and well-scrubbed upper-class bodies. Clusters of colored balloons clung to the low ceiling like shattered nuclei.
  
  Nick did not mention the ricksha coolie to Ludwell. The man had enough on his mind. Yet the AXEman, in his private thoughts, had to contend with the possibility that Ludwell was blown without knowing it. He shrugged his big shoulders beneath the well-fitting dinner jacket. Maybe not. There were a lot of ricksha men in Hong Kong. And a lot of red rickshas. An old French axiom occurred to him: Dans la miit tons les chats sont gris.
  
  All cats are gray at night. And most strange Chinese look alike at night. Still Nick could not afford to forget it. The taxi had been moving slowly. A ricksha could have kept up. And even the most ignorant of coolies knew how to use a phone. Nick let the barb of doubt remain in his mind, to prick him just a bit lest he grow careless.
  
  They went into the bar, a long room opening at right angles off the ballroom. Men with red faces and white dinner jackets were standing three deep at the bar, some drinking steadily, some seeking refreshment for their ladies. The decibel count was high. Conversation surged in the room like muted surf, bright shuttlecocks of trivia arching to and fro.
  
  Ludwell found an opening at the bar. They darted into it and ordered their drinks. The Chinese barmen were working like automatons.
  
  Nick Carter lit a cigarette and turned, his back to the bar, to survey the scene. He saw her immediately.
  
  She was leaning down to say something to the spinster at the door. The view was for the moment unobstructed and Nick caught his breath. She was regal! No other word for it. Or perhaps there was: Valkyrie. It came to the same thing.
  
  His eyes slightly narrowed, every sensual part of him aware of the impact of her, he drank in the sight of this woman. Valkyrie indeed. Tall and strong and firm of shoulder, thigh and breast. Her hair was a golden helmet, worn high. She was wearing an unadorned black strapless sheath and elbow-length black gloves. From this angle he could not see her décolletage, but the dress was slashed to her waist in back, revealing one of the loveliest shimmering white spines he had ever seen. A little tremor traced through Nick and he acknowledged its meaning. He wanted this woman. He could already imagine the marvelous flexure of that spine beneath his fingers. And he had not yet seen her face.
  
  Athletic girl, he thought, watching the play of supple muscles beneath that white pelt. He noted that, even though a tall girl, she wore golden slippers with spike heels. She was not ashamed or apologetic about her stature. He liked that.
  
  He nudged Bob Ludwell and inclined his head slightly toward the girl. "That one," he said. "Who is she?"
  
  Ludwell had benefited by the first infusion of alcohol. His color was better, his smile more genuine, as he followed Nick's glance. Then the smile faded. He stared at Nick and slowly shook his head. "No. Oh, no! Not unless you're looking for a wife. And even then I would say no!"
  
  Nick was watching the Valkyrie again. She broke off her conversation with the spinster and turned to greet some new arrivals. Her flashing smile was a thing of beauty. This courtesy over, she paused for a moment, alone in the throng. She glanced into the bar. Her glance met that of Nick Carter, moved on, then came back. Their eyes locked and held. Nick felt his pulses pick up tempo. This, beyond all doubt, was the one!
  
  His face expressionless, he returned her candid stare. He missed no detail of her face. It was as lovely as her long-legged, full-breasted body.
  
  Her face was a perfect oval, the prime requisite for authentic female beauty. A Giotto face drawn with a masterly variation of the round. The features were no less pure: the nose Grecian with no hint of arch, wide-set eyes with no color at this distance, yet betraying their awakening interest in the big man at the bar.
  
  Her mouth was firm and regular, yet soft and tempting. As her eyes still held Nick's she ran a pink tongue around her lips, leaving a faint sheen of moisture. Her teeth were small and even and very white.
  
  Nick won the contest, if such it was. She looked away at last, a faint flush of color in her face, and spoke to a passing couple. She followed them into the ballroom. Nick gazed after her. She gave him one backward glance as she disappeared into the throng of dancers.
  
  He turned to Ludwell. "What do you mean — no? She's lovely. Stunning."
  
  Ludwell rapped his glass at the barman. "I agree," he said. "Most heartily I agree. She is. But she is also known, among the bachelors of Hong Kong, as the Ice Maiden. Or Ice Virgin. Take your pick. What I'm trying to convey, friend, is that Miriam Hunt is a poor choice if you're looking for a bit of dalliance. She doesn't dally. Miriam is a swell girl, one of the best, but she is serious minded. Dedicated. She has a very important job with the WRO — World Rescue Organization — the outfit that's giving this little soiree. All proceeds go to the orphans and poor of Hong Kong. You see that paper badge on her lovely chest?"
  
  N3 glanced sharply at Ludwell. The guy had had three drinks, no more. It was good for his friend to get rid of some of his tension, but he hoped he wouldn't overdo it. But then Ludwell had never been a lush.
  
  He had indeed noticed the paper badge — as well as the magnificent breasts so precariously holding up the black gown.
  
  "That badge means she's working tonight," Ludwell explained. "Official stuff. I think she's chairlady or something. When I said dedicated I meant it. No nonsense, ever, about our Miriam. My advice is to forget her, Nick. There are plenty of other girls here. Beauties, too. Come on and I'll find one for you. I'll have to be cutting out pretty soon."
  
  They pried their way out of the mob at the bar. As they reached the ballroom Ludwell said: "I'll make my real goodbyes now, Nick. Thanks for everything. You know what to do if I don't show in a week. Now, after I introduce you around I'll just quietly fade away. Wish me luck."
  
  In Cantonese, softly so that only Ludwell could hear him, Nick said: "Yat low sun fong." May your road be straight.
  
  "Thanks," said Ludwell. "I hope so. Straight back and out. But that, as our Chinese friends say, is in the lap of Buddha. Now for a girl."
  
  Nick grinned at him. "Not just any girl. That one! Introduce me to her; and don't forget, my name is Clark Harrington. Playboy."
  
  Ludwell sighed. "I should have known I couldn't tout you off. Okay, it's your evening to waste. But I'd better warn you — she especially takes a dim view of playboys. Likes their money for the orphans and refugees, but despises the source. You sure you wouldn't…"
  
  Nick spotted her again. Sitting on a fragile ballroom chair, alone in a small niche in the wall, working with pencil and paper. Her long legs were crossed, the black gown pulled taut to reveal an amazing length of firm thigh. He saw her frown down at the paper in her hand and her white brow, pale and high beneath the golden coronet of hair, creased. She wet her lips with a pink tongue. Nick was a little surprised at the instant desire flaming in him. He was, he admitted, not much better than a callow schoolboy in the presence of such beauty. From that moment none of the scores of other lovely and laughing young ladies existed. He had made his choice. Certainly for the evening — perhaps for much longer. Who knew? Under the ice that Ludwell spoke of there must be a spark of flame somewhere. And Nick Carter was a man who loved challenge, who settled for nothing but the best, who lived out of the top drawer and always traveled first class.
  
  Now he winked at Ludwell. "I'm sure I wouldn't. Come on and do your duty. Introduce me."
  
  At that moment the band struck up a lively tune. The mass of dancers began to separate into lines of men and women facing each other.
  
  "What's this?" asked Nick as he pushed through the crowd.
  
  "The Eightsome Reel," said Ludwell. "Sort of a Limey square dance. You wouldn't know it."
  
  "I can learn it," said the man from AXE. "With her."
  
  He hardly waited for Ludwell to finish introducing them. He swung her to her feet, heedless of the little gasp of protest, noting that her eyes were of purest gentian with tiny flecks of amber in them.
  
  "This," Nick Carter said firmly, "is our dance."
  
  She put her black-gloved hands against his big chest as though to push him away. Her smile was dubious. Half afraid? "I really shouldn't," she said. "I'm working, you see. I'm in charge. I have a million things to…"
  
  Nick led her toward the line of dancers. "They can wait," he told her. "As I have waited — for this."
  
  She came into his arms gracefully. An elfin smile touched the corner of her red mouth. "I think, Mr. Harrington, that you are a stubborn man. And you are new in Hong Kong."
  
  Her cheek was velvet against his. Nick said, "Right on the first count, Miss Hunt, but wrong on the second. I have been in Hong Kong many times. But I think I know what you mean, so let me reassure you. I like ice maidens."
  
  He glanced down at her. That flawless face was slowly turning pink.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  The Tender Buccaneer
  
  
  
  
  Being rebuffed by a woman was a new experience for Nick Carter. He was a fastidious man, where women were concerned, but once he had made his choice he had a natural expectation that matters would be followed through to a gratifying conclusion for both parties.
  
  Such, it seemed, would not be the case tonight. So far he had definitely been rebuffed, kept in his place with a cold smile and skillful evasive movement that bespoke long practice. Naturally this served to excite him even more. And Nick found that, for a man of vast experience and savoir faire, he was more than a little nettled. Amused, perhaps, but also growing a little angry. With himself. He must be fumbling it somehow! No creature as lovely as Miriam Hunt could be all ice. Be that cold.
  
  He had had such high hopes for the evening. After the dance she had readily consented to have a late supper with him. They had danced a lot and laughed a lot. She seemed to like him.
  
  He had taken her to the Pearl Restaurant, a tiny place on Wing On Street run by an ancient Chinese whom Nick had known for years. The food was the best in Hong Kong and you didn't have to endure tourists.
  
  In the taxi, on the way to the restaurant and then back to the waterfront, Nick had made no attempt to pierce her defenses. That they were defenses, barriers already firmly in place, he could not doubt. Her friendliness had a gelidity about it that spoke louder than words — do not touch!
  
  All this made him even more determined, in the gentle, persevering way he had with women he desired. They found a walla-walla and were sculled out to Corsair. If the girl was impressed by the yacht's magnificence she made no sign. Nick had not expected her to be. They had talked a lot and he knew that she was from a well-to-do Chicago family, had gone to Smith, and for a time had worked in New York as a social worker. She had been in Hong Kong less than a year, working for WRO, and she talked of little else. Nick, who had as much pity for orphans and refugees as any man, had begun to find it a little oppressive. Moreover, he suspected that the constant chatter about her work was only another of the barriers.
  
  They fingered on deck for a few minutes, smoking and watching the diminishing lights of Kowloon, then went below to Corsair's ornate saloon. Nick persuaded her to have a crème de menthe — she had explained that she rarely drank — and fixed a cognac and soda for himself. There was no sign of Boy. Presumably he was still ashore, looking for his parents, and the two Filipinos on watch were either asleep in their quarters or entertaining sampan girls from Shanghai Gai. None of Nick's affair.
  
  So time and the supply of trivia had run out at last and they were face to face in a situation which both knew, despite all the trappings of civilization, was a basic and primitive one. Nick still had high hopes that this lovely girl would prove amenable. She had, after all, come to Corsair with him. And she was anything but a fool.
  
  Miriam Hunt was seated on a low divan as far as possible from where Nick stood by the record player. She smoked one of his long gold-tipped cigarettes, her golden head tilted and her eyes narrowed against the smoke, and watched him coolly. Her long legs were crossed, the beautiful line of thigh revealed beneath the tight black gown, and the thrust of her full round breasts was enticing. The strapless gown clung to those creamy upper globes like a lover's caress and Nick felt a dryness in his throat as he selected a record and slipped it on the machine. He had drought to play Ravel, the Bolero, at first but had decided against it. This was an educated girl. She might very well know that Bolero had originally been called Danse Lascive. He settled on The Firebird Suite. It was not his personal choice in music — he was a jazz man himself — but he was betting that it would be hers.
  
  He was right. As the strains of Stravinsky's music filled the dimly lit saloon she appeared to relax. Nick found a chair and smoked, watching her. She settled deeper into the divan, leaning back and closing her eyes. She had, he thought, a magnificent bone structure. Her body flowed beneath the gown like liquid velvet. She was breathing deeply, her breasts rising and falling in a hurried rhythm, and her lips were half parted. He could see the tip of her tongue, as pink as a kitten's. He wondered if the music was exciting her. He needed no further excitation, he was already tense and filled with longing. Yet he restrained himself. He must know, first, just how much of the ice maiden bit was genuine. If she were genuine he would soon know. If the coldness was only a mask to conceal inner fire he would know that, too.
  
  The music halted. Miriam Hunt said: "That was lovely. And now, I suppose, the seduction begins?"
  
  The unexpected punch shook him, but N3 managed to keep his tanned features impassive. He even managed a crooked little smile that, he hoped, covered his momentary discomfiture. He crossed his long legs and took a cigarette from a jade box on a teakwood stand. He gave her a mild grin. "Touché, Miriam. I'll admit that I had, still have, something like that in mind. I think I can hardly be blamed. You're a very lovely girl. I — and I'll admit to a very healthy ego — I am not exactly a leper. Certainly the time and place couldn't be better."
  
  She leaned forward, put her perfect chin in her hand, and narrowed her eyes at him. "I know. That's one thing that bothers me. It's all much too perfect. You set a good stage, Clark. You have the professional touch. Excellent design — only it isn't going to work."
  
  Nick Carter recognized the gambit. He had encountered it many times. She was going to talk the evening to death. There was little he could do about it. The fact irritated him, but it was true. Probably Miriam Hunt had had great success with this gambit in the past, when she had been cornered. And yet he could not be positive. Was she only another no-sayer who really meant yes? He did not think so. She was, on the surface, much too intelligent for such games. Yet you never knew.
  
  So all he said now was, "It isn't — going to succeed?" And he gave her the smile that had melted so many feminine hearts. "May I ask why, Miriam? You find me unattractive?" The scene, he thought, was beginning to resemble a bad drawing room comedy. Yet he must let the lady set the pace.
  
  Miriam Hunt shivered. She hugged her arms across her breasts as if she were cold. "I find you devastating, Clark. That's the real trouble, I think. You're magnificent and I think you know it. I certainly do. I admit it freely. My legs kept turning to rubber all the time we danced. But that's just it, you see. You're just too much! If I give myself to you now, tonight, I'll fall in love with you. And I'll be ruined. My work will be ruined. Everything will be ruined."
  
  Nick regarded her. He had certainly not been prepared for anything like this, had thought of her as a sophisticated woman. At the moment she sounded like anything but. He had been on the verge of going to sit beside her on the divan, but now he relaxed in the chair. "Tell me one thing, Miriam?"
  
  She was relieved, he saw. She had gained a respite and knew it. She crossed her beautiful legs with a swish of nylon. "If I can."
  
  "Why did you come to Corsair with me tonight? You admit that you knew what I had in mind."
  
  "I was curious. And, as I say, fascinated by you. There's something very odd about you, Clark Harrington. You're supposed to be a playboy, just another useless human being with too much money, but somehow you don't quite fit the role. You don't even look like a playboy. You look more like a pirate, a buccaneer. You've got muscles like a galley slave — I felt them beneath your jacket. You seem to be made of iron. But it isn't just that. You just don't look like a playboy, an idler. I… I think you frighten me a little."
  
  Nick got up from his chair and went to the record player, thinking that he must give himself a demerit or two. Obviously he was not playing his role well. He was displeased with himself. Hawk would have been displeased with him.
  
  He arranged a group of dance standards on the player and turned to her. "Dance? I promise no passes until you're ready for them."
  
  She let her tall softness sway against his hard body without reluctance. Her cheek was sweet smelling and tender against his lean jaw, her firmly muscled back like a camellia petal beneath his fingers. Her perfume was delicate, evanescent, with a strange headiness he could not identify.
  
  Gradually, as they danced, unspeaking, the lithe lines of her body melded closer to his. She whispered in his ear, "I'm terrible. I know it. I love this, even though I'm scared half to death. Maybe I want you to ravish me. Rape me. I just don't know. I don't think I do, but I'm terribly confused just now. Oh, Clark, please be gentle and understanding with me. Be tender and kind. Don't make me do anything that I don't really want to do."
  
  His native cynicism, gained in a tough school, told him that it was yet another ploy. She was playing on the tender part of him, forestalling and disarming him. She had probably learned that one at her mother's knee.
  
  They danced. Nick was silent. He made no attempt to kiss her. After a minute or so she pulled away a bit and looked up at him. Her face was pink. "I… I have a confession to make."
  
  "Yes?" By now nothing much would have surprised him.
  
  "You'll think I'm terrible. I am, I suppose. But it seemed like such a marvelous opportunity."
  
  Nick grinned slightly. "That's what I thought. Only I seem to have been wrong."
  
  The pink turned to crimson. "I didn't mean that! I… well, I thought I might be able to get some money out of you."
  
  Nick pretended to misunderstand her. He said, "Well, well. One never knows. I am surprised. You're the last girl in the world I would have thought of as a professional."
  
  She buried her face on his shoulder. "For my refugees and orphans, you silly man. I thought I might get a nice contribution out of you."
  
  With a wicked, teasing glint in his eye he said, "You might yet. If you play your cards right."
  
  She glued her cheek against his. "I suppose it does sort of make me sound like a prostitute, doesn't it?"
  
  "Not quite. Say just a sing-song girl. So you're on the make for a good cause. Nothing immoral about that. Not even illegal."
  
  She leaned back to look up at him again and he felt the liquid fire of her firm pelvis move against his. His body, he told himself, was getting a bit out of hand. It was paying less and less attention to the dictates of his mind. This was unusual for him, who had always been able to keep his mind and body under the sternest discipline. This girl was beginning to get under his skin in more ways than he liked to think.
  
  "You will, then?" The gentian eyes, amber flecked, were close to his. For a moment he was lost in those blue pools, wandering in a faery wilderness, torn between desire and tenderness.
  
  "Will what?"
  
  "Make a contribution to WRO? Oh, Clark, it's such a worthy cause. And you've got so much money. You'll never miss it."
  
  That, he thought a little wryly, was not quite true. He had a checking account in the name of Clark Harrington — it was part of his cover — but it was his own money and scant enough at the moment. AXE paid well, even generously, but Nick Carter was a man who liked high living when he wasn't working. Still…
  
  "Yes," he told her. "I will."
  
  Then his flesh could bear no more and he kissed her.
  
  She stiffened and gasped and tried to pull away from him. Nick held her gently but firmly and kept on kissing her. Her lips were scarlet honey. She ceased to struggle and sagged against him. Her lips moved on his own and she began to moan. "No. Oh my God, no! You mustn't. I can't… oh, don't… don't."
  
  The saloon was spinning now. It was as if a typhoon had struck them both. A torrent of desire washed over them like waves, battering away all inhibitions. Her mouth opened under his and their tongues met and entwined. Nick felt the hurried spasm of her breathing sweet in his nostrils. She had gone limp in his embrace, leaning back, her arms dangling limply by her side, her mouth and his the focal point of the universe. Her eyes were closed. He saw a blue vein beating in her white temple.
  
  Nick picked her up and carried her to the divan. She clung to him, her lips avid for his, and kept wailing: "No… no… you can't. We can't. Please, please…"
  
  He laid her gently on the divan. She lay inert, lovely legs flung wide and defenseless, passive and unresisting. The black gown had given up the struggle and slipped from her breasts and they were bared to his sight and touch, twin rounds of veined marble, the pink nipples taut in anticipation.
  
  Nick stood for a moment regarding this loveliness. It was a mistake to give her even a moment's respite, but at the moment he did not think of that. His sharp, oddly quirked mind, so fine and yet at times so coarse, was thinking that here indeed was Sleeping Beauty. The true symbolism of the old tale was never more apparent. Here was beauty about to be awakened. To stir at last. And he knew, with sure knowledge in that final moment, that she was indeed a virgin.
  
  He knelt beside the divan and kissed her warm breasts. Miriam Hunt muttered, "Darling, oh darling, you really mustn't. We mustn't."
  
  "But we must," Nick said gently. "We must." His hand sought beneath the black gown, encountered a long glissade of tender inner flesh, a tangle of elastic. The girl moaned as if in pain. Then she suddenly twisted away from him. Her thighs closed with a viselike grip on his questing hand. She sat up on the divan, brushing golden hair from her eyes, staring at him with an odd mixture of terror and desire. She sought under her skirt for his hand and thrust it away. "I can't," she said. "I just can't, Clark. I… I'm so sorry!"
  
  Nick Carter stood up. His anger was keen but well under control. A gentleman knows how to lose as well as win. And certainly he did not want a woman who did not want him.
  
  "I'm sorry, too," he told her with a faint smile. "More than you know. I think perhaps I had better take you home now."
  
  He saw a glint of moisture in her eyes and hoped to God she wasn't going to cry. That was all he needed.
  
  But the girl did not cry. She wiped her eyes and slid off the divan. Her blue eyes met his squarely. "I did want to, Clark. With you I wanted to. But I just can't — not this way. I know it's ridiculous and corny, but that's the way I am. I want the whole thing — one man, just one, and marriage and children and the forever-after bit. Can you understand?"
  
  "I can understand," said Nick. "Better hurry now. It's getting late and we have to find a walla-walla. While you're getting freshened up I'll make out that check."
  
  While she was in the bathroom he wrote a check on the account of Clark Harrington for a thousand dollars. It was all he could afford at the moment. He wished it could have been more.
  
  Miriam Hunt took the check, glanced at the amount, and then kissed his cheek. "You're such a nice person, Clark. I really wish I were the right girl for you."
  
  "If it is written," said Nick, "then it is written and nothing can change it. This is China, remember." He arranged her fight coat about her shoulders, understanding without bitterness that he had lost a lot tonight. A bit of Proust occurred to him: The only Paradises are the Paradises we have lost.
  
  Or have never known, one might add.
  
  Then he had to smile at himself. He had gotten only what he deserved — for choosing to be such a romantic tonight. Let it be a lesson to him.
  
  They hailed a passing walla-walla and were put ashore at the ferry landing. Miriam lived clear across the island, in a modern apartment overlooking Repulse Bay, and she now insisted that he not accompany her. He put her into a taxi and gave the driver instructions.
  
  She extended her hand from the taxi window and Nick shook it, though he did not particularly relish shaking hands with a woman. It was so often an admission of defeat. Not that he had known many defeats.
  
  "I'm really sorry," Miriam Hunt said again. "I know it would have been a marvelous experience. I guess I'm just a Midwestern virgin after all. Will I see you again, Clark?"
  
  A faint smile tilted one corner of Nick's mobile mouth. "Who knows? There seems little point in it — but who knows? We both might look in the I Ching."
  
  Her dubious smile said that she did not understand. Then she was gone and Nick walked across the ferry plaza to a phone kiosk. It would have to be Swee Lo after all. Certainly he was not going to go back to Corsair and try to sleep!
  
  As he searched in his wallet for the unlisted number that Swee Lo somehow always managed to retain, no matter how many times she moved, he wondered who her current protector was. Swee Lo always called them that — her "protectors." She had, Nick knew, had quite a string of them. Yet she was, and he always felt a little guilty at the thought, as much in love with Nick Carter as ever. As she had been when they had first met in this very Hong Kong, more years ago than he liked to remember.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  Blood on the Morning
  
  
  
  
  It was after four in the morning. Outside the old villa that clung to a raw crag overlooking Harlech Road, cloud cover was swirling in to mantle the peak, masking the stars and diminishing sound. The villa seemed to float in air, disembodied, alone and aloof in this rarefied stratum.
  
  Nick Carter rolled out of the huge Victorian fourposter, careful not awaken Swee Lo, and slipped into a heavy brocade robe. He thrust his feet into slippers. Both robe and slippers were the property of Swee Lo's present "protector," and Nick wondered now, with no real interest, who the man was.
  
  But whoever he was, he was loaded. This old villa, with its 30-odd rooms, had once been the property of the Cardine family. You couldn't get any more pukka than that. Now it was inhabited by Swee Lo, a Eurasian sing-song girl from Manchuria.
  
  She did not look her 26 years as she slumbered lightly beneath the scarlet silk sheet. She was an exquisite fragile doll, a beautiful miniature, her body perfection in small scale. Her Russian blood was predominant. Her eyes were nearly as round as his, her little nose as straight, with no trace of the Mongol in her cheekbones. Her skin was as white as lilies.
  
  N3 regarded her with affection as he fumbled in the pocket of the robe for cigarettes. The sheet had fallen away from her breasts, small and firm and not much larger than lemons. He bent and lightly kissed one breast, Swee Lo moved and moaned in her sleep. Nick stroked the sleek black hair for a moment, wondering at the ambivalence of his feelings toward her. At times she was still the winsome, wise beyond her years Oriental child he had helped so many years ago; in many respects she reminded him of Boy. Both had been introduced to the rawest side of life at an early age.
  
  Nick found that he had no cigarettes and went toward the door of the bedroom. Swee Lo, he thought, was luckier than Boy. At least so far. She had been given something far more in demand in this sinful world than anything Boy could offer.
  
  He went down a long, lushly carpeted hall and into a great living room. Black arching crossbeams supported the high ceiling. At one end a huge picture window was draped in golden Thai silk. There were Chinese glass paintings on the walls and an ancient Peking screen where the living room — Swee Lo had called it a drawing room — flowed beneath an arch into a long dining room. The thick carpet was Tien Sin.
  
  Yes, thought Nick, Swee Lo has come a long way from Mukden. Shenyang, as the Chinese called it. And, if the stories she had told him after their lovemaking were true, she was going even farther. Her protector was going to make a movie star of her!
  
  Nick smiled faintly. It was quite possible. A lot of movies were made in Hong Kong and not many of the stars were real actresses. Lo could certainly rival any of them in beauty and intelligence.
  
  He had, very carefully, not switched on any lights. He found a teakwood table with a marble top and fumbled in a Ming jar. He had noticed cigarettes there earlier. He put several cigarettes in his pocket and crossed the room to the draped picture window, moving without sound on the thick carpet.
  
  N3 paused at the edge of the picture windows and stood listening. Really listening. Each one of his senses, honed to an edge far surpassing the average man's, was alert. He did not think the danger was great. Not yet. But it was there.
  
  When he had left the kiosk and hailed a taxi in the ferry plaza his tail had been clear. But Nick Carter was too old a hand to take anything for granted. He kept a careful watch as the taxi ground up the narrow winding road to the peak. At the hairpin curve on Robinson Road be had spotted a ricksha following him. At that distance, in the bad light, it was impossible to discern the color, but he would have bet a million Hong Kong dollars that it was red.
  
  Nick did not let the fact that he was being dogged change his plans. He had more than half expected it. Bob Ludwell had been wrong, he hadn't lost his tail. So in a way it was guilt by association, he supposed. Whoever was interested in Ludwell was now also interested in Nick Carter. Or — and here Nick was really concerned — in Clark Harrington. He had no reason to think his own cover was blown, even if Ludwell's was, and if someone chose to be interested in the fact that Clark Harrington and Bob Ludwell were old friends, let them.
  
  So he had thought earlier. Then he had reached the villa and Lo, ravishing in mandarin coat and high slit cheongsam which revealed a lot of perfect small leg, had thrown herself at him. After the first excited burble of greeting, Nick and Lo wasted no time. They were old and experienced lovers who had been apart a long time. Her protector was away on business. By some miracle of timing her servants, all six of them, were taking advantage of the master's absence to visit their families.
  
  Nick, primed to the point where he must find surcease or explode, guided Lo gently toward the nearest bedroom. She went without demur — it was what she expected — shedding her clothing as they went. Even so, the acquisitive strain in her babbled on about her new position, her villa, her possessions, her prospects. In the bedroom Nick listened patiently as he finished undressing her. She had always been a covetous little wench and you could not fault her for it. Life for her had been hard.
  
  While she was kissing him and pointing out the Chagall, the Dufy and the Braque — on the bedroom walls, of all places! — Nick was slipping off her silver gossamer panties.
  
  Then, his patience at an end, he stopped her mouth with a lass and carried her to the big Victorian bed. They made love with a tender fury.
  
  Now N3, his cigarette still unlit, pulled aside the drape a half inch and peered out. Nothing. A gray fluff of moist cloud was pasted to the glass. Tiny beads of water lazed down the pane. It was practically zero visibility out there.
  
  This needed a bit of thinking over. Nick went into a large foyer, shielded and windowless. He sank down on an opium bed strewn with pillows and pondered as he smoked the cigarettes.
  
  By the third cigarette he had made up his mind. He wanted to know what was going on. It was probably none of his business, but he still wanted to know. It must be somehow tied in with Ludwell and his mission, and N3 wanted no part of that. But he himself was being dogged, and he was beginning not to like it. It would be cold and wet out there now for the watcher, or watchers, and Nick enjoyed the thought. Let them be cold and miserable for a time; very soon he was going to heat it up for them.
  
  He went to the bedroom for his clothes. Swee Lo was sleeping on her belly now, her round little behind exposed. Nick pulled the coverlet over her.
  
  He dressed in the ornate bathroom. The fixtures were of gold plate and the tub a vast swan. Nick again found himself wondering who the man was. White man or Chinese? English? Portuguese, Jap, or Russian? You could find them all in Hong Kong. Nick shrugged. What matter? Lo was doing all right, and he was glad for her. Now to business!
  
  He had to chuckle at his image in the long mirror. White dinner jacket, maroon bow tie, maroon cummerbund and dark trousers. Just the outfit to go stalking in the fog. The spy, whoever he was, might be too astounded to put up much of a fight.
  
  He checked Hugo, the stiletto, flexing it in and out of the sheath. The perfect weapon for close work in a fog.
  
  N3 went soft-footed down a long corridor leading into the kitchen and butler's pantry at the rear of the house. He was not, actually, expecting much trouble. If the watcher was still out there — and Nick was sure he was — then it was only as a watcher. A reporter. A spy. Someone was interested enough in Nick's movements to keep tab. That was all, or so Nick reasoned. If the man were an assassin, a hired killer, he would certainly have struck before now.
  
  But who would want to kill Clark Harrington, playboy?
  
  He felt his way through what must have been a vast kitchen and found a back door. He twisted the Yale and the lock tongue chunked oilily. For a moment Nick hesitated, wishing he had Lo with him. He knew nothing of the layout of the grounds. His unknown opponent, waiting outside, would have the advantage there.
  
  Nick tried to recall what he knew of the old peak villas. He had been in many in his time. There was usually a large patio behind the house, with a pool. Perhaps an arching bridge. Even a grotto, a pagoda or two?
  
  He cursed under his breath. He just didn't know! To hell with it, then.
  
  On his hands and knees now, he cautiously pushed the door open. The mist was chill and steamy against his face. The visibility, he reckoned, was about three or four feet. He saw that he was indeed on a patio floored with large tiles inlaid with mosaic. He could see a rattan chair and part of a table. Beyond that, nothing.
  
  He let the door swing noiselessly to behind him. He waited for five minutes, scarcely breathing, taking air with his mouth when he must. A man's nostrils can be loud in total silence.
  
  Nothing stirred in the bleak, gray, wet wilderness. Nick sighed inwardly. Okay. They had a good man on this job. He would have to initiate matters. Put down a little bait.
  
  He flexed the stiletto down into his palm and rapped sharply with the hilt on the tile. At the same instant he moved swiftly and silently a couple of yards to his right. This brought him up against the rattan chair and he crouched behind it, listening. Nothing but the sleepy cheep of a nesting bird. A smart bastard, Nick thought. He wasn't going to fall for any amateur tricks.
  
  His roaming fingers found a small chunk of broken tile, a corner that had been dislodged. He tossed the shard into the opacity before him, throwing it in a high arc. He had counted five when he heard a slight splash. So there was a pool of some sort! That probably meant a bridge, a lotus and lily pond, a pagoda.
  
  Nick lay on his belly and listened and thought. If there was a pagoda it was the logical place for the watcher to hide. It would afford some slight shelter from the weather and a raised vantage point, though that wasn't much good in this soup.
  
  Nick slithered toward the pool, using his elbows, as silent as a snake. He reached a tile coping and put his hand out and down. His fingers brushed cold water.
  
  A man coughed somewhere in the steaming mist. It was a painful, racking cough that persisted in spite of desperate efforts to silence it. Finally it was choked off and Nick heard a long rattling sigh. He lay as still as death, because he had just heard death, and it was time to think again.
  
  His mind raced in re-assessment of the situation. The man was in a pagoda — probably it was built in the center of the bridge overlooking the pool or pond — and he must have been dozing. Certainly he had not heard Nick strike the ground or toss the shard of tile. Had he been fully awake, and heard, he would not have coughed. Nick had heard that kind of coughing before; there was a lot of ТВ in Hong Kong. So the man was sick, not too alert, and probably only a simple coolie paid to do a job. If it was the same ricksha man, he must be very tired by now.
  
  It also meant that there must be more than one watcher. They would never leave the front of the villa unguarded. But in all likelihood that watcher would be on the road, down a way from a tall iron gate barring the short drive that led up to the villa's porte-cochere. He would be, no doubt, near the red ricksha and hidden in trees or a thicket.
  
  First things first. Nick began to worm his way around the pool, the tiles clammy and slippery beneath his hands. He had to find the bridge leading out over the pool.
  
  He moved steadily, silently, alert for obstacles, brushing the area before him carefully with his hands before he moved. Like feeling for mines in the dark. He wasn't expecting mines, but Swee Lo had a lot of servants, and servants had kids, and kids left a lot of junk around. The man in the pagoda was awake now.
  
  Nick wanted to get him alive and in shape to talk. His grin was hard, and in the mist his lean face had tautened into an oddly skull-like appearance. He was Killmaster now and he was on a stalk and everything but the work at hand was forgotten.
  
  He found the damp wood of the bridge. Iron stanchions and duckboarding leading up at a gentle slant. He eased his big body onto the bridge an inch at a time, afraid it might creak or sway beneath his 200 plus. But it was a solid structure, well anchored.
  
  A faint salt breeze began to stab through the fog. Nick felt it cold on his left cheek. That way lay high cliffs and then the harbor. Nick increased his pace of crawl as much as he dared. He was so near the pagoda now that he could hear the man breathing. Any good gust of wind would shred the fog away and reveal him.
  
  A moment later the fickle breeze did just that. It puffed strongly around the pagoda and swept away the mist. Nick Carter swore and flattened himself on the bridge, trying to hide the maroon tie and cummerbund. He was a fool to have worn them. But the white dinner jacket, in the white swirl of fog, might just get him by. If it didn't, the stalk was over. He was within ten feet of the watcher.
  
  It didn't work. The man saw him. He came to his feet with a strangled "Hai yii!" He was in silhouette against the mist, a thin angular man in blues wearing a straw rain hat. Nick, still hoping to take him alive, leaped up the last incline of bridge. The stiletto was in his hand, ready for throwing, but he did not want to use it. One chop across the neck should do for this one.
  
  It was not to be. He saw the big black automatic in the man's hand. It was a Colt.45 — enough gun to tear his guts out. The hand came up and the Colt spat a blossom of orange flame. The booming report tore the silent mist into a million tatters.
  
  It was kill now or be killed. Nick flicked the stiletto from a point just before his ear. Hugo sang his little whirring death song as he turned over twice and went home over the heart. The man dropped the automatic, his eyes wide with terror and pain, and squealed as he picked at the hilt of the stiletto. He swayed and began to topple. Nick sprang to catch him, already thinking far ahead. The body must be gotten rid of and he didn't want to have to fish it out of the pond.
  
  He caught the man and eased him to the floor of the pagoda. He was dying fast, blood running from the gaping mouth and staining his brown stubs of teeth. It was no use, and Nick knew it, but he had to try. He bent over the dying man and spoke in rapid Cantonese.
  
  "Who are you? Why do you follow me? You are going to mount the dragon, so it will be well to speak truth."
  
  The man's muddy eyes fluttered open. His wispy beard was stained with blood. There was a vast disinterest in the dying eyes as he looked at Nick and spoke, also in Cantonese.
  
  "Not the dragon," said the man, his words strangely distinct through the burble of blood. "I ride the tiger!" He died.
  
  Nick straightened up with a soft curse. No time to worry about it now. He had to move fast. That shot…
  
  His eyes saved him again — those keen eyes with the marvelous extraperipheral vision that enabled him to see very near to a right angle. He was facing the villa when, to his right, he saw the ghost of a figure in the mist, halfway up the other side of the bridge. He saw the grotesque figure raise its arm and hurl something.
  
  There was no time to duck. Death came hissing out of the white smoke with incredible speed. Nick had time only to turn away, to begin his fall, when the object struck him over the heart. He grunted and staggered back, clutching at the rail of the pagoda for support. The ghostly figure turned and ran into the mist. Nick could hear it crashing through the thick undergrowth and shrubbery.
  
  Breathing hard, conscious of sweat on his brow and trickling into his eyes, Nick Carter gazed down at his chest, at the weight still pendant there. It was a hatchet, short handled and razor sharp. It clung to the white dinner jacket like a limpet, embedded there. Embedded in the thick envelope Ludwell had given him. Nick had intended to leave it on the yacht, had forgotten it, and now it had saved his life.
  
  He had a few moments. He doubted that the other man would come back, or lurk about. It would be better if he did, but Nick knew he could hope for no such luck. The man was on his way by now with his news. Nick cursed as he reached for the hatchet and pulled it out. He seemed to be getting in deeper and deeper.
  
  It was a tong hatchet. He had seen enough of them to know. The handle was short, scarcely the breadth of a man's hand, and the head was broad, with a razor edge. The hammer head had been sharpened to a spike point. It was a vicious weapon, perfectly balanced for throwing.
  
  Nick scooped up the.45 automatic and put it in his jacket pocket. He dropped the hatchet beside the body and, kneeling, stripped down the blue singlet the man wore. The man had been a skeleton even before he died — the arms like sticks, emaciated ribs, the chest hollow and covered with gray fuzz.
  
  Nick picked up one of the matchstick arms and peered at it. Yes. Just over the elbow on the right arm was a red tong mark. A crude stencil of a tiger. The Tiger Tong? Nick had never heard of it, and he knew a little about the tongs.
  
  He did not dress the man again, but wrapped the blue singlet around the skinny torso in such a way as to prevent the blood from dripping. The stiletto didn't make much of a hole, but Nick didn't want blood on his dress skirt. God knew what would happen next! He might even run afoul of the police, which would make everybody unhappy. Especially his boss, Hawk.
  
  He picked up the body, which weighed nothing at all, and slung it over his shoulder. With the Colt in his hand, he felt his way around the villa to the porte-cochere, walking on grass when he could, and very alert. He only thought the other watcher had run away.
  
  The mist was patchy now. Thick in spots, nearly vanished in others. Nick tried to stay in the thick patches as he made his way down the drive to the high iron gate. He was playing a bit of a hunch.
  
  He was right. He found the red ricksha just outside the gate. It had been thrust into a thick growth of pink heather beneath dwarf pines. As Nick dropped the body in the seat he looked at the scrawny legs and thought: these Chinese are stronger than they look, all of them. It must have been quite a drag, following me all the way up the peak.
  
  He wiped the Colt carefully with his handkerchief and put it in the seat with the body. Likewise the hatchet. As he dropped the latter he conceded that there was a bit of irony concealed somewhere here if one had time to pursue it. The hatchet was very like the miniature tattoo he carried on his own arm, above the elbow. In a gesture that was typical of him he patted the dead man on the head. They both, in a way, belonged to tongs!
  
  "I'm kind of sorry," he told the corpse. "Too bad. But you were small fry — and the small fry always catch the worst of the hell."
  
  It was a fact he had always regretted. The little people, the small timers, petty crooks, usually got the dirtiest end of the stick. The big fish frequently got away. Nick deplored that. He didn't like to kill the little people.
  
  The mist was still holding over the roadway and immediate vicinity. He pushed the ricksha across the road, opposite the gate, and went along cautiously until the ground began to fall away. There were cliffs here, he knew, but just where?
  
  The wheels of the ricksha slipped off into emptiness. Just here was the cliff. Nick let go the shafts and the ricksha plunged down into a sea of billowing mist. He stood near the edge, head cocked, listening to the sound of its fall. The noise continued for a long time and he could visualize the ricksha, and the corpse, bouncing from rock to rock. There were squatters down there, in their tin and tarpaper shacks, and Nick sincerely hoped he wasn't disturbing anybody's breakfast.
  
  He went back to the house, stopping in a downstairs bathroom to check himself for blood. There was one tiny fleck on the dress shirt, but there was nothing he could do about it. He went up to the bedroom. As he went he glanced at the AXE watch on his wrist. Barely half an hour had passed.
  
  Swee Lo was awake. She gave him a sleepy smile over covers pulled to her chin. "Good morning, my sweet Nick. Perhaps you have made coffee, since I have no servants today?"
  
  Nick stooped to kiss her lightly. Her breath was clean and sweet. If she noticed the spot of blood on his shirt she gave no sign. She wound her soft little arms around his neck and tried to pull him down on the bed. "Forget the coffee. Make love to me now, please!"
  
  Nick forced himself to pull away. Passion in the morning was one of Lo's sexual idiosyncrasies.
  
  He detached her tender tentacles with a wry grin. "Not this morning, honey. I just came in to say goodbye. I've got to cut out. Something has, er, come up." He wanted her just then, very much, but he dared not risk it. Love, with its aftereffects of inertia and tristesse, could be dangerous. He had a nasty feeling that, for the immediate future, he was going to need every bit of alertness he could muster. What a weird life he lived; in what a strange ambiance he moved! At times he had the odd sensation of living several lives in parallel. For a moment he was tempted to tell Lo he had just killed a man — to see how it would affect her throbbing little libido.
  
  Probably not at all. She would still want to make love.
  
  For a moment Lo persisted. Nick kept out of reach and went to perch on a ye-ye chest. Lo sought to entice with a show of her delectable small breasts. "I have found a new way," she challenged. "It is called the monkey seat. You, as a great hulking roundeye, would not know it. But it is beyond the seventh paradise." She giggled and even reddened a bit.
  
  Nick eyed her over a cigarette. It was a familiar bone of contention with them. "You are an oversexed little wench," he told her. "Worse than that, you are a racial snob. You think only Orientals know the proper ways of making love."
  
  Swee Lo sat bolt upright in bed, her little breasts quivering. "It is sol Occidentals do not know how to make love — not until an Oriental teaches them. Then, but only then, some of them are very good. Like you, Nick." And she broke into a series of giggles.
  
  Nick went to a window and opened it. The mist was lifting fast now. He heard the distant sound he had been waiting for. The trams were running down the peak. From half a mile he could hear the growling clink of the funicular.
  
  He kissed Lo again. This time she did not cling to him. "I'll be in touch," he said as he started for the door. It occurred to him, as he touched the doorknob, that it was the same thing he always said to her. Had always said, over all the years.
  
  "Nick."
  
  He turned. She was not smiling now. Her dark eyes were somber and she was frowning, a thing she did not often do. Nick realized, with a small sense of shock, that he did not really know much about Swee Lo any more. He knew nothing of her recent life. Something moved in his mind which, at the moment, he did not trouble to examine. He did not trust her, of course. He trusted no one — with the possible exception of Hawk and God. But trust had never entered into their relationship. Lo never asked questions and never saw anything she was not supposed to see.
  
  Now she said, "I do not think you had better come here again, Nick."
  
  His gaze was quizzical. "The bird of love has flown?"
  
  "No, you big fool. I will always love you! But my — my protector is very jealous. If he knew about you he would be very angry and he might do bad things."
  
  She saw his amused smile and hurried on. "I mean it, Nick. This one is different, not like the others. He is a very powerful man and, in many ways, he is a vicious man. I–I am afraid of him."
  
  What was she trying to tell him? On the surface it was only warning, implementing a decision already made by her. Yet there seemed something more. Based on what she knew — or did not know — about Nick himself?
  
  "If you are afraid of him," Nick said, "why do you stay with him?"
  
  Lo waved a tiny hand around the luxurious room. It was answer enough, but she added, "He is very rich. Immensely. He gives me everything. He is going to make me a movie star. It is what all my life I have been fighting for, my Nick. Ever since I understood that you do not return my love. That you would never take me to the States with you. But none of that matters now. I only wish that you will not spoil this for me, please."
  
  Through the open window he heard the clanking of another tram car. Caution urged him to hurry.
  
  "I'll try not to," he promised. He turned toward the door again. "Maybe you're right. I won't bother you again."
  
  "I did not mean that." He was surprised to see tears glinting in the dark eyes. "I will see you, Nick. Only I must make the plans, must come to you when it is safe. Okay?"
  
  "Okay." He blew her a lass and was gone.
  
  He walked the half mile to the tram, keeping in the middle of the road, expecting no trouble and finding none. There would be a short respite now, he thought, while things simmered a bit. New plans would be laid and new intrigues hatched. By whom, and for what purpose, he had no idea — except that they must in some way tie in with Ludwell's mission into Red China.
  
  Nick cursed cheerfully as he caught a down-going tram. How in hell had he allowed himself to become embroiled in this?
  
  At the moment, he thought, he had little to fear from the police. He had just killed a man, but it was unlikely that the spy's employers, whoever they might be, would kick up a stink, if nothing else, the man had been trespassing. He had tried to kill Nick. It was clear self-defense, if worst came to worst.
  
  But it mustn't come to that. Nick was a very small mouse at the moment and he did not want to come to the attention of the big police cat.
  
  He caught a walla-walla at the ferry pier and was rowed out to where Corsair glistened in the weak sunlight beginning to leak down through the clouds. He noted a small sampan tethered to Corsair's bow. The Filipinos did have girls aboard, then, and it was still none of his affair. Later, after he decided what he was going to do, he might have to roust them out.
  
  He paid the sampan woman and went aboard. No sign of Boy, though the kid must be back by now. Nick wanted to get out of his clothes and take a long hot shower. He went lightly down a companionway and along a corridor to his bedroom. He opened the door and stopped short. He stared. He felt as though someone had struck him a terrible blow over the heart. Sweat was like ice on his brow and for that long awful moment he stood motionless, drained of action by the sight of Boy's body. Never had the child seemed so fragile as he looked now in death.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  Claws of the Tiger
  
  
  
  
  There is an attitude of sleep — and there is an attitude of death. Poets tend to confuse the two. Nick Carter never had. He was an old hand at death, could smell it on the freshest wind, and knew it instantly when he saw it. Boy was dead, strangled with a thin cord which was still imbedded deep in the tender child's flesh of his throat. His hands and feet were bound. He lay on the huge bed, face up, his dark eyes rolled back to show the whites. There was a sheet of paper on his chest. An ordinary sheet of cheap typing paper, 8 1/2 by 11, and there was typing on it. A brief message.
  
  N3's first move was entirely typical of him. He dropped to his knees and searched beneath the mattress for his weapons. They were still there, the Luger and the gas bomb, safe in their oiled silk. Rapidly Nick stripped off the stiletto and sheath and placed them in the silk with the other weapons. He shoved them away again, Boy's small body moving in simulation of life as he tilted the mattress.
  
  Nick went to the bedroom door and locked it. He clanged the porthole covers to and screwed them tight. Then he went back to the bed and picked up the note. It had been crisply typed with a fresh ribbon.
  
  Mr. Harrington: You have become mixed in something which does not concern you. You have killed one of our people. We have killed one of yours. This is of no real importance, but let it serve as a warning. We do not want to kill you. Dispose of the body secretly and leave Hong Kong by sundown and you will be safe. Say nothing. We will be watching. Disobey, or go to the police, and you will die. Obey and the matter will be forgotten. This is the will of — The Society of the Red Tiger.
  
  
  
  Beneath the last sentence was a «chop» mark, a round red ideograph made by a wooden or rubber stamp. The old Chinese character for tiger.
  
  Nick stood at the foot of the bed gazing at Boy and felt the rage building in him. It was wrong. It would do no good now, and he couldn't afford the luxury of rage, but this time he lost the battle. He felt sweat trickle on him and was convinced that he was going to vomit. He went into the bathroom but did not throw up. Instead, he looked at himself in the mirror and hardly knew the face there. He was absolutely livid and his eyes were staring and seemed much larger than usual. His pallor was tinged with green and the bones of his face were thrusting through the hard flesh. His eyes were hot and rough in his skull, sandpapery, and for a moment he wished he could find a tear. There were no tears. For years now there had been no tears.
  
  It was a full five minutes before he went back into the bedroom, over it now, the rage still there but tucked away for use when wanted. He partitioned off the softer part of his mind and put the rest to work like the fine computer it was.
  
  He held a match to the note and watched it burn to carbon in an ashtray. He lifted the little body and put it under the bed, then pulled down the brocade coverlet so it swept the floor. He smoothed out the small indentation. He unlocked the door and opened the ports again. Then he built himself a drink and sat down to smoke a cigarette. The yacht was quiet except for the normal ship's noises as she swung gently in the tide. There was no sound forward. Presumably the Filipinos and their girls were still sleeping, or…
  
  Nick brushed the thought away. They did not matter. He was sure of it. They would not have heard or seen anyone come aboard in the early mist. One or two men at the most, he supposed, in a silently moving sampan. It must have been so easy. No task at all to strangle a child.
  
  Rage began to claw at his brain again and he fought it back. He must save that for later — when he had found the men who had done this thing. If he found them. If he even tried to find them. He was not, after all, a free agent. He was an AXE agent and personal revenge was a luxury he could seldom afford.
  
  Revenge. Vengeance. They were strange words in the vocabulary of a professional. Yet Nick looked at the bed, seeing what was under it, and the veins in his forehead knotted into little purple snakes. Again, with the rare discipline that was his, he forced his mind back to the barren cold facts.
  
  One thing stood out. He was not yet blown as Nick Carter. The note was trying to frighten him out of Hong Kong. If they knew his real identity they would not have bothered to make the effort. Too, the note had been addressed to Harrington. So to the Tiger Tong he was still Clark Harrington, playboy and international loafer.
  
  Yet with a difference. He had killed one of their men. Playboys didn't usually carry stilettoes or know how to use them.
  
  Could they have found the body of the ricksha coolie so quickly? Could there have been another watcher? A third man whose presence Nick had never suspected? Spying as silently as a bird from a tree, watching Nick examine the body and dispose of it? Nick frowned sourly. That had to be it. He had fluffed that one!
  
  So they were an efficient crew, these Tigers. Efficient and speedy and deadly as serpents. Nick began to pace the room, glancing out a port at the weak, mist-filtered sunshine. His grin was hard. This was, after all, the Year of the Snake in China. Aptly named.
  
  They were not sure just who he was. Or what. That was their problem. Perhaps, by association with Bob Ludwell, they had him tagged as CIA. Nick could find it in his heart to curse Ludwell bitterly. The man, by his own admission, had goofed badly on this job, this mission, whatever it was. And this whole mess had started with the chance encounter with Ludwell.
  
  Nick took the brown envelope from his breast pocket and looked at it. The hatchet had slashed entirely through the thick, tough paper. Nick fingered the rent in his shirt front. Beneath it the skin was turning purple and green. There was a red line of broken skin across his left nipple. The damned packet had saved his life!
  
  He thrust the envelope beneath the mattress with the weapons. A week, Ludwell had said. Nothing to do with the CIA. Strictly personal. The wife and lads. Nick straightened the mattress again and cursed his friend yet another time, though not so bitterly. How he wished he could yank Ludwell out of Red China at the moment and have five minutes' conversation with him! Provided, of course, the man had gone in this time. Shortly after introducing Nick to Miriam Hunt last night, Ludwell had kept his promise and vanished as quietly as a ghost.
  
  Nick began to strip off his clothes. Enough of speculation. He had things to do. Get rid of the body, for one thing. Going to the police would be sheer madness. He might be tied up for weeks, even jailed, and his cover blown from Hong Kong to Moscow. Hawk would disown him.
  
  As he stood beneath the hot shower Nick admitted the cleverness of the Tiger Tong. They weren't sure of him, didn't know just who he was or how he tied in with Ludwell. So they had led from strength, gambled that he was only a friend and they could frighten him off. The fife of one small refugee child meant less than a Hong Kong penny to them. They wanted Ludwell's friend out of Hong Kong and they were giving him his chance.
  
  At least now they would know, Nick thought as he soaped. If he ran scared he was Clark Harrington. If he stayed to fight he was something else, perhaps CIA, and they would know and try to kill him as quickly as possible. Why? He hadn't the faintest idea. Only Ludwell could have answered that at the moment.
  
  He put on clean slacks and a fresh white shirt and a tweed sports jacket. He could not find the socks he wanted for a moment, and nearly called for Boy, but remembered in time. Habit was a funny thing. Odd that he had grown so accustomed to Boy, had grown to like the kid so much in so short a time.
  
  When he finished dressing he went quietly forward. The little covered sampan — the rice straw matting used to conceal the girls — still nibbled at Corsair's bow. The Hong Kong police didn't care about the girls, per se; it was what they might smuggle ashore that bothered the police.
  
  Nick went softly down iron stairs to the crew's quarters. The door was half ajar. Even before he reached it he could hear the raucous snores. He peered in. There were only the two Filipinos who had remained on watch, each sharing a bunk with a girl. Both couples slept naked under sheets. On a table was a litter of greasy plates and full ashtrays and empty bottles that would have contained rice wine of the first distillation. Nick grimaced. Those boys were going to have some heads!
  
  He closed the door softly and went back up the companionway. No use disturbing them now. It was early; they would awaken and get rid of the girls in their own time and way. He would pretend not to see. Not that any of it mattered; he had to figure a way to get rid of Boy's body. It could hardly be done in broad daylight, so that meant waiting for darkness. It came early in December in Hong Kong.
  
  Tiger Tong, like Big Brother, would be watching, waiting to see what he would do.
  
  Nick Carter allowed himself to think a few very nasty things about Tiger Tong. Then he allowed himself to grin faintly. They might have a long wait, because at the moment even he did not have the faintest idea what he was going to do. He only knew what he wasn't going to do. He wasn't going to run!
  
  It might, however, be good tactics to make the Tigers think he was running. Maybe…
  
  He broke off his thoughts as he noticed the police patrol boat throbbing toward Corsair. It was coming fast, its sleek bow kicking up a wave in the harbor chop. A Union Jack fluttered from a stubby mast. Nick could see the two Chinese ratings manning a machine gun in the bow. His heart stepped up a beat and then turned a little cold. There was something deliberate about the patrol boat; from the first moment he had never doubted that it was coming to Corsair. He stepped to the rail amidships and waited. A fine time to get a visit from the Limey cops. And him with a body under the bed!
  
  With a muffled roar the patrol boat came alongside. The engines were rung down and foam swirled yellow at the stern as the big diesels reversed. The patrol boat drifted toward Corsair. Three ratings with boat hooks stood ready to fend off.
  
  A British officer wearing crisp blues and a peaked cap came out of the wheelhouse and peered up at Nick. He had a round, fattish face, shiny from a recent shave, and his eyes were slightly pouched. He looked tired but his smile was bright as he shouted up at Corsair.
  
  "Permission to come aboard, sir? I want to talk to a Mr. Clark Harrington. Official business."
  
  Nick tapped his chest. "I'm Harrington. Come aboard."
  
  He walked to where the gang steps led down to water level. The patrol boat was backing water, sidling skillfully in to the platform.
  
  Now what the hell? The officer's smile was reassuring, but not much. The British were always courteous, even when they were conducting you to the gallows.
  
  The officer came up the stairs with a sprightly step. His face looked fat but he was not. He was carrying a swagger stick and as he came on board he touched it to his cap. "Senior Inspector Smythe, sir. Hong Kong Harbor Police. You say you're Mr. Harrington?"
  
  N3 nodded. "I am. What's it all about?"
  
  Inspector Smythe had clear light-blue eyes above the faint pouches. He surveyed Nick for a moment, a cold impersonal glance of appraisal.
  
  "Do you know a Mr. Robert Ludwell, sir? I believe he was a clerk at the American Consulate here."
  
  Was? Nick kept his face impassive. "I know Bob Ludwell, yes. We're old friends. I saw him last evening — in fact I went to a dance with him. At the Cricket Club. Why?"
  
  Inspector Smythe took off his peaked cap and rubbed at his balding forehead with a forefinger. It was a mannerism that Nick would come to know.
  
  "I'm afraid, sir, that I have some rather bad news for you. Mr. Ludwell is dead. He was murdered last night." Nick stared at him. This really did it! He had the sensation of sinking deeper and deeper into quicksand. He was not, really, much surprised at the news. But he knew he must put on an act, play for time, stall until such time as he could begin to make sense out of this crazy, bloody mess. Three men dead now. Correction — two men and a little boy.
  
  Nick let what he hoped was shock and agitation show on his face. "My God!" he blurted. "Murdered? Bob? I… I can't believe it. How? Why?"
  
  The officer replaced his cap. His eyes were steady on Nick's. "It's early times yet for that, sir. We know how, well enough. He was chopped to death with hatchets. Why is another question. We thought you might be able to help us there."
  
  This time Nick's surprise was quite genuine. "Me? What makes you think that? I only saw Bob for a few hours yesterday. Before that I hadn't seen him for years." All true. A good liar always kept as near the truth as possible.
  
  Inspector Smythe tapped on the rail with his swagger stick. "We had an anonymous phone call early this morning, sir. Our man thought it was a woman, though the voice could have been disguised. Anyway, we were told to go to a deserted godown on Shanghai Street where we would find the body of a white man in a basket." Muscles moved below the fat along the inspector's jawline. "We did, and we found the basket right enough. A rather small basket!
  
  The anonymous caller said you were a friend of the deceased, Mr. Harrington, and that if we questioned you we might find out something about his death."
  
  In deeper and deeper, Nick thought with irritation and a sense of mild despair. No use trying to puzzle it out now. Just play it straight, brazen it out, and hope for a clue later.
  
  He met the inspector's level stare. "I can't tell you anything, I'm afraid. Bob left the dance early last night and I haven't seen him since. So I don't see how I can help you, much as I'd like to."
  
  Inspector Smythe tapped the rail again with his swagger stick. "It's only routine, sir, but I'd like you to come along to T-Lands Station with me. There's the identification to be made, in any case; I'm sure you won't mind doing that. We'll just have a nice chat and maybe we can get to the bottom of this."
  
  Nick thought of Boy's body beneath the bed. "Right now, you mean?"
  
  Inspector Smythe did not smile. "If it's convenient, sir.
  
  It was goddamned inconvenient. If someone got to nosing around and found the body he would be in big trouble. It might take weeks to clear himself, and a caged hawk catches no snakes.
  
  "Okay," said Nick. He started aft. "I suppose I had better bring my passport and all that?"
  
  Smythe nodded. He was following along just behind Nick. "And the ship's papers, if you will, sir. Routine, you know. Just for the record."
  
  The inspector waited just inside the bedroom door as Nick got his passport, Customs clearance, and health papers. He was careful not to glance at the bed. The inspector tapped a smooth chin with his little baton and said, "Smasher of a yacht."
  
  Nick explained how he had borrowed it from Ben Mizner. That part of his cover was solid rock, at least. He found the ship's papers in a drawer in Mizner's private stateroom — he had been told where to find them — and he and the inspector went topside again. The officer did not appear too much interested in Corsair, except as a "smasher," and if he noted the sampan at the bow he said nothing.
  
  "Probably shan't have to keep you long," he told Nick as they climbed aboard the patrol boat. "A formality, you know. But there are some rather puzzling aspects about all this, and you might be able to help."
  
  Nick merely nodded and watched the harbor water bubble and boil as the powerful screw bit into it. He could foresee, pretty well, at least part of what was coming. They probably suspected Ludwell had been CIA and were hoping he could be trapped into confirming it.
  
  The very fact that they didn't know Ludwell was CIA meant that he hadn't been working with them, and the Limeys didn't like free-lance operations in their backyard.
  
  At his side, Inspector Smythe said, "I hope you've a strong stomach, Mr. Harrington. What you've got to look at isn't very pretty."
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  A Missing Hand
  
  
  
  
  The morgue was in a sub-basement of T-Lands Station, that grim castello overlooking the harbor from the Kowloon side. The inspector and Nick walked the short distance from the police pier and, as they turned off Salisbury Road, the inspector said: "I think we'll have you identify the body first. It won't take long. Then we'll go to my office and chat while your papers are checked out."
  
  They made their way through a maze of dank, dimly lit corridors. Nick wondered if the inspector was playing a little game of cat and mouse. He shrugged inwardly. He wouldn't worry. He couldn't see how they could possibly have enough to hold him — not Clark Harrington. Killmaster might be another matter! They could blow his cover and make Hong Kong very unpleasant for him.
  
  It took a lot to shake Killmaster, but he was shaken now. They were alone in the morgue room and the inspector pulled the sheet completely off the body instead of merely revealing the face. Nick immediately understood why, and he kept his face impassive, knowing the inspector was watching him carefully for reaction.
  
  Nick was shaken not so much at the death of Ludwell, but at the manner of it. The body was in six pieces, chopped and mangled. Two legs, two arms, the head and torso. All in their proper places on the grooved porcelain autopsy table. Nick took in the horror with one swift glance. There was not much resemblance to the friend he had known.
  
  Inspector Smythe, the sheet still in his hand, was waiting for Nick to comment. The AXEman took the sheet from Smythe and covered Ludwell's remains.
  
  "The right hand's missing." His stare was cold and Smythe, for some reason he could not explain, felt a slight chill trace through him. Later, in trying to describe the sensation to another officer, he said: "It was rather like having one quick glance into Hell. Then the door clanged shut."
  
  Now he said, "Yes, it's missing. It wasn't in, er, in the basket with the rest. That's not unusual in cases like this. I'll explain it later, Mr. Harrington. But just now — do you positively identify this body as that of a Mr. Robert Ludwell, employed as a clerk at the American Consulate here?" The inspector's tone was dry and official.
  
  Nick turned away from the autopsy table. "I do. It's Bob, all right. I suppose you've been in touch with the Consulate?"
  
  "No," said the inspector. "As a matter of fact we haven't. Not yet. Oh, we will, of course, but we wanted to talk to you first. The anonymous phone call and all that, you know."
  
  The inspector's small and rather bleak office overlooked the harbor. After being offered a drink, which he refused, Nick lit a cigarette and lounged indolently in a battered leather armchair. He must now play Clark Harrington to the hilt.
  
  The inspector tossed his cap on a rattan sofa and smoothed fair hair over his bald spot. He lit a cigar and fussed for a moment with a small pile of papers on his desk. Finally he looked at Nick. "Just how much do you know about the Orient, Mr. Harrington? About Hong Kong in particular?"
  
  Careful here. Nick shrugged. "Not too much, I guess. Just what any American tourist knows, I suppose. This is my first visit in years."
  
  Smythe pursed his lips around the cigar and stared at Nick. "Yes, of course. You'll admit, then, that we have a right to be puzzled as to why you, or your friend Ludwell, should be mixed up in a tong killing?"
  
  "A tong killing? Is that what it was?" Nick wondered just how his expression of curious innocence was going over.
  
  Smythe nodded curtly. "Definitely a tong killing. And we know the tong — a terror organization known as The Society of the Red Tiger. They're number-one tong in Hong Kong, have been for years. Their finger is in every dirty pie, from murder on down to extortion and the protection racket. Nothing is too small, or too dirty, if it's profitable. Dope, girls, gambling, blackmail — you name it and they do it."
  
  Nick knew better, but as long as he was posing as an innocent he had to act like one. "You admit you know all this, you even know they killed Ludwell, yet you're wasting time questioning me. Why aren't you out rounding up these killers?" He hoped the naiveté bit was coming off.
  
  The inspector smiled a bit sadly. "I won't go into that, except to say that there are a lot of Red Tigers and I have very few policemen. Fine men, but not enough of them. We could round up some tong members easily enough, but it wouldn't do any good. They never talk. Never. If they do they end up in a basket like your poor friend. In any case, Mr. Harrington, we are more interested in why Ludwell was killed rather than how or by whom. Why? It is most unusual for the tongs to kill a white man. Most unusual. Like gangsters everywhere, they never go looking for unnecessary trouble. And killing a white man in Hong Kong is trouble with a big T, Mr. Harrington. The Tigers must have had a very powerful motivation."
  
  Nick agreed silently. He would have liked to know why himself. But only Ludwell could have told him — and Ludwell was on an autopsy table with his right hand missing.
  
  He asked Smythe about the hand now.
  
  "One of their peculiar trademarks," the inspector explained. "Sometimes they leave a crude picture of a tiger on a victim, or maybe just a chop, an ideograph meaning tiger, but sometimes they take the right hand. A bit of Chinese psychology, you might say. Very effective with the coolies and peasants.
  
  "Most Chinese, especially the poor and ignorant, have a great fear of being maimed. They'll resist amputation, for instance, at the cost of their fives. They want to be buried in China earth and they want to be buried whole. They believe that if part of them is missing their spirits won't be able to rest — that their ghosts will have to wander the world looking for the missing arm or leg or whatever. The Tigers take advantage of that."
  
  The inspector's smile was grim. "Very effective, too. When the Tigers really want to spread terror they take a bit of the victim and throw it in the harbor, where his ghost will never be able to find it because the fish will eat it."
  
  They hadn't mutilated Boy. Nick knew why. It was simple. They hadn't been sure he would understand what it meant. You can't frighten a person unless he recognizes the trappings of terror.
  
  The inspector tossed away his cigar and lit a fresh one. "We seem to be getting a bit off the subject, Mr. Harrington. Let's go on. Now, and I want you to think hard, can you think of any conceivable reason why your friend should be murdered by a tong? Did he ever say anything to you, or had you heard anything, anything at all, to indicate that he was mixed up with such a tong?"
  
  Now the real lying would begin.
  
  "No to both questions," said Nick Carter. "As I told you before, Inspector, I'm completely in the dark about all this. I know nothing. Nothing at all."
  
  Smythe nodded. "You did tell me that you hadn't seen Ludwell in a long time before last night?"
  
  "That's right." Nick explained the chance encounter with Ludwell in Nathan Road. And from that, he thought wryly, all this has stemmed. The dance at the Cricket Club. Miriam Hunt. Swee Lo. The dead ricksha coolie. Boy murdered. Now Ludwell hacked to bits. Himself on the carpet and in imminent danger of having a body found beneath his bed and, worse, his cover blown to hell. Call it cause and effect, a chain of events, or merely Fate throwing loaded dice. Call it what you would, it all added up to one stinking mess!
  
  Inspector Smythe, in his own way, was as relentless as Hawk. His light-blue eyes were as cold as marbles as he stared at Nick. "So, since you hadn't seen Ludwell in a long time, he could have been mixed up in almost anything and you wouldn't have known it?"
  
  Nick nodded in slow agreement. "I suppose he could have. And if he was — mixed up in something, as you put it — I don't think he would have mentioned it to me. We weren't that intimate."
  
  "Hmm — yes. Of course. It wouldn't be likely."
  
  Smythe took a sudden new tack. "As I told you, we think it was a woman who made the anonymous call. Would that mean anything to you? Anything at all?"
  
  Killmaster regarded him blandly. "No. Why should it? Bob must have known a lot of women. I understood, from the little we talked, that he had been in Hong Kong quite a while."
  
  Smythe caressed his balding forehead with a finger. "Yes. That, you see, is one of the most puzzling aspects of this matter. We, I, don't think any of the Tigers made that call, or had it made. They do have female members, of course."
  
  Nick thought of Swee Lo and of how much he didn't know about her. It was a possibility to be investigated. Later.
  
  "It's not the tong way," Smythe was saying. "For one thing, they would want as many people as possible to see the body. In that, er, condition. That's why they left it in an old godown where as many Chinese as possible would see it, know it was a Tiger execution — the death of a white man would especially impress them — and it would be a long time before anyone had the nerve to call the police. Normally we might not have found that body for two or three days."
  
  Nick said, "So someone wanted it found immediately. And wanted me tied in with it."
  
  Smythe rubbed his forehead again. "So it would seem, Mr. Harrington."
  
  A Chinese sergeant, his uniform spotless and pressed and his silver buttons shining, came in. He saluted Smythe and laid some papers on the desk. Nick recognized his passport. He saw the sergeant give his superior a barely perceptible nod.
  
  The sergeant left and Smythe pushed the papers toward Nick. "Your papers seem to be in order, sir. But if you don't mind, there are just a few more questions."
  
  Nick relaxed in the armchair. He was over the first hurdle. At least they weren't going to hold him. That meant they hadn't sent a party to search the yacht and found Boy's body. He had been sweating that out.
  
  He said he didn't mind at all.
  
  The inspector fit yet another cigar. "Did Mr. Ludwell seem his normal self yesterday? Last night, when you two attended the dance at the Cricket Club, did he seem in any way disturbed? Upset? Frightened or nervous, perhaps?"
  
  "No," Nick lied. "At least I didn't notice anything. He seemed perfectly normal."
  
  "And afterward — did you two leave the club together?"
  
  Careful here. Nick told the exact truth. Ludwell had simply vanished and Nick had taken Miriam Hunt for supper and, later, to Corsair.
  
  The light-blue eyes blinked at the mention of Miriam Hunt's name. But the inspector only said, "Oh yes, Miss Hunt. A very lovely girl. Doing fine work here. I've met her on occasion. I rather envy you, Mr. Harrington."
  
  You wouldn't, Nick said to himself, if you knew the end of the story. He reached for his passport and papers and tucked them away in his jacket pocket.
  
  Inspector Smythe stood up and came around the desk. "We will, of course, turn the body over to the American Consulate as soon as possible. I don't know just how soon that will be, but I presume they will make all the arrangements. I'll keep you posted if you like, though maybe you would like to attend to that yourself, since he was a friend of yours?"
  
  "Yes," said Nick. "I will. As a matter of fact I'm going to the Consulate when I leave here. A little business. But I'm sure they will handle everything."
  
  And so they would. With the utmost discretion. Ludwell's cover would remain unbroken now, forever, with never a whisper of his CIA background. The Consulate, as a matter of security, would not know and no one who did would talk. Ludwell would be shipped back to the States as a minor clerk who had suffered a regrettable mishap. The end of the matter.
  
  Yet not quite the end. Killmaster knew that now. During his brief stay in this office he had made up his mind. It was still not the death he resented so much as the manner of it — a man chopped to bits and a hand cast into the sea. It was a filthy death, and Bob Ludwell had been a good man. His death in such a manner, coupled with the callous slaying of a child, had tipped Nick away from his usual discipline and calm professionalism. They, he or she, whoever, was going to pay!
  
  He made the decision quite irrevocably and was scarcely aware of it.
  
  The inspector held out his hand. "I'm giving you back your passport, Mr. Harrington, but I'll ask you not to leave Hong Kong for a time yet. Not without notifying me personally. There just may be other questions."
  
  They shook hands. Smythe's hand was dry and cold and his grip surprisingly strong.
  
  Nick said: "Speaking of questions, Inspector, may I ask a couple?"
  
  Smythe blinked at him. "By all means. What would you like to know?"
  
  Nick lounged against the door, his big frame indolent, his sleek flow of muscle masked by the slightly too large jacket and slacks. He sometimes liked strangers to think him a bit flabby.
  
  He said, with a smile of deprecation, the layman asking what was probably a stupid question, "This Bed Tiger outfit, Inspector — they must have a leader? Or leaders?"
  
  Smythe went back behind his desk. His smile became a little fixed. Or was it wary?
  
  "Oh, yes," he replied. "They do have a leader. A real bastard of a leader, I might say. His name is James Pok. Jim Pok, his friends call him. If he has any friends. Not that he needs them — he does all right without. He's the wealthiest Chinese in Hong Kong. Lives on the peak. Lives like a bloody sultan!"
  
  The inspector sounded bitter.
  
  Nick hoped he sounded hopelessly amateurish and vague. He said, "Then why can't you pull him in? Surely these tong men, these killers, don't kill without orders from above?"
  
  He watched Smythe closely. The man picked up his swagger stick from the desk and toyed with it. His knuckles were white around the little baton.
  
  "Mr. Harrington," said the inspector at last, "I don't think you quite understand. Of course Jim Pok gave the order for your friend's death. Or his lieutenant, a man named Huang, did. Every coolie in Hong Kong knows that by now. But they don't know why, any more than we do. And until we know why, and so have a chance at tracing a motive, it would be a great waste of time to haul Jim Pok in and question him. In any case, on my best information he's in Bed China just now. He does a lot of business with the Beds, does Jim. But we can never catch him at it. We can never catch him at anything. We get a few small fry now and then, we jail a few, and once in a great while we hang one, but we don't touch Jim Pok. He's as slippery as a snake. But I still have hopes. And now, Mr. Harrington, if you'll excuse me I'll get back to work. Your poor friend isn't the only corpse on hand, I'm sorry to say. Corpses are always in plentiful supply in Hong Kong."
  
  "This Jim Pok," Nick asked. His tone was soft. "I suppose you know where he lives, Inspector?"
  
  Wariness was more apparent in the inspector's glance now. His tone was curt. "Of course I know. And you don't, sir. Best keep it that way. You've nothing to do with Jim Pok, nothing at all. He's our problem."
  
  "Of course," said N3. "Of course, Inspector. I was just being curious. Sorry."
  
  Rather wearily the inspector put down a cigar he was about to light. His voice was cold when he spoke. "Mr. Harrington! I want you to understand something quite clearly. I don't know much about you yet — I'll find out more — and maybe this warning isn't needed, but I'll give it. I don't want anyone interfering in this matter. I don't think, from what I've seen of you, that you would be so brash and foolish as to take any personal interest in avenging your friend. But if that is what is in your mind — don't! I'll throw you into the deepest dungeon I've got.
  
  "We have rather peculiar problems in Hong Kong, Mr. Harrington, and we have a lot of them. We have an illicit gold problem and a narcotics problem and one hell of a refugee problem. We have more than our fair share of problems, believe me. I shouldn't like to think, sir, that you are going to add to them. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Harrington?"
  
  "Very clear," said Nick Carter. And left.
  
  On his way to the ferry landing Nick did not bother to check his back trail. Smythe would have a man on him, of course, and he would no doubt be a good man. In all that throbbing humanity it wasn't worth the effort to try to spot him.
  
  A ferry was about to leave. Nick loafed on a rail-side bench next to an ancient Chinese gentleman and speculated on the rushing tide of late arrivals. Which of them was Smythe's man? Which was the Tiger's man? They also would be having him dogged. One more, he thought, and it will be quite a parade. He wondered if they would know each other, the tong spy and the police spy. Would they know they were both following the same man? Nick grinned. If they could agree to cooperate they could both save a lot of shoe leather and wind.
  
  As the ferry pushed out into the yellow waters of the harbor, threading through a frenetic scurry of walla-wallas and junks and tugs and sampans, Nick admitted that his position was a little ambivalent. Tiger Tong said get out by sundown. The cops said don't leave Hong Kong. What was a man to do?
  
  Vanish. Fade away like the old agent he was. Fold his tent and silently steal away. There were plenty of hiding places on the island, or in Kowloon, or out in the New Territories for that matter. It shouldn't be too hard. But the timing would have to be right. Exactly right. When the ferry docked he walked to the American Consulate and asked to see a certain personage. To this man Killmaster muttered a word and a number. There was a short wait while the man looked through a code book. Then the man nodded and smiled and ushered Nick to a very small room with no other furniture than a table, a chair, and a red telephone. There were half a dozen pencils on the table, sharpened to lancelike points, and a «one-time» pad. The wastebasket beneath the table was fited with a slotted top and an electric shredding machine.
  
  The man pointed to a bell near the door. "Ring when you've finished." He went out and locked the door from the outside.
  
  N3 sat in the chair and stared at the red scrambler phone for a long time before he picked up the instrument. He was taking a chance and he knew it. Hawk might not go along. His chief could be most irascible and trying at times, and he was dead set against any overlapping of the services. Hawk might just give him a direct negative order.
  
  In which case, Nick told himself, he would just have to disobey said direct order. He had made up his mind now and not even Hawk was going to stop him.
  
  N3 sighed and began to dial. It would be a direct scrambler line into Hawk's office.
  
  More than Hawk's permission, Nick thought, he needed information. Information that only Hawk could get for him — if he would. His boss had a short way with red tape when it interfered with him, and he knew all the angles.
  
  He finished dialing and waited. He must remember to ask Hawk to put a check on Miriam Hunt. Better not to mention Swee Lo. He doubted there was anything on Lo in Washington anyway. Probably nothing on Miriam Hunt, but he couldn't overlook it.
  
  Nick glanced at his watch. Still early. Plenty of time, if nothing went wrong aboard the yacht. He couldn't move until dark anyway, couldn't get rid of Boy's body until then. But he would have to hang around, be close at all times, to keep an eye on matters.
  
  Killmaster hummed his little French tune. The hot rage had left him now. It had been replaced by a cold fury that was more patient, more deadly, than his rages ever were.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  The Strangest Mermaid
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter took a walla-walla back to Corsair. It had been a damned rough fight, but he'd won. Hawk protested mightily at pulling CIA's chestnuts out of the fire. CIA, he said, was capable of burning its own fingers. Let them handle it. In any case something was about to flare in Italy and Nick had better get back and…
  
  N3 exercised what was, for him, monumental tact and patience. He didn't think CIA could handle it. Not just at the moment. Really, he insisted, he had better take over and finish matters up. It was of utmost importance and urgency. He pledged his professional honor on that. He did not, of course, obscure matters by telling Hawk the entire and exact truth.
  
  His boss, very much the reluctant dragon, finally gave permission. He was a canny old man and he knew his number-one boy well. He sensed that Nick was going to do the job anyway, permission or not. He promised to set the wheels in motion and to garner what information he could. He would call Nick on Corsair, in clear, as soon as possible.
  
  As the walla-walla approached Corsair Nick was relieved to see that the sampan was gone. The watch had sent their girls ashore at last. There was no sign of any activity on the yacht. Good. The Filipinos had probably gone back to sleep and it was doubtful that any of the rest of the crew would return before sundown. The captain, a Swede named Larsen, was probably drunk somewhere in Wan Chai. Ben Mizner had warned him about the captain.
  
  Nick paid the sampan woman and climbed aboard. He glanced only casually at the junk moored about 200 yards astern of Corsair. A casual glance was all he needed and, in any case, he had been expecting it. Tiger Tong was on the job. Jim Pok might be in Red China, as the inspector claimed, but his boys were carrying on.
  
  With a great air of nonchalance Nick went about his business. He made himself a cognac and soda and lounged on the afterdeck, smoking his long cigarettes and giving the impression of a man deep in thought. Which he was. Now and again he caught a glint of sunlight on glass from the junk. They were keeping careful watch. In a way, Nick mused, that might work out to his advantage.
  
  Covertly he studied the junk. It was shiny new, and obviously not a working craft. It looked like one of the junks built for export to the States. They sent them over in cargo ships. It would have all the comforts demanded by Americans. It would also have a powerful concealed engine. Made of Burma teak, she probably had cost a small fortune. Jim Pok could afford it, Nick thought as he watched a scarlet tiger banner flutter from the junk's single tall mast. Nothing subtle about Jim, either. He believed in flaunting his chop mark!
  
  Nick dallied over two drinks, then went below. He went forward and checked on the Filipinos. Both were asleep and snoring, exhausted by their binge. The quarters smelled in equal parts of cheap perfume, cheap rice wine, cheap cigarettes and cheap women. Nick sighed and went aft. At least they were alive.
  
  He checked beneath the bed. Boy slumbered undisturbed. Rigor was just beginning to set in. The small body had settled in death, the meager flesh appearing to collapse on the tiny bones. He looked infinitely frail and pitiful. Nick had not closed the boy's eyes. He did so now.
  
  After locking the door and the ports, he checked over his weapons again. This time he kept them ready to hand. He did not think he would have to shoot his way off Corsair, but it was best to be ready.
  
  A glance at his watch told him it was going to be a long dull afternoon. Barely twelve now. He was conscious of a terrible impatience, of a nagging restlessness. Once Killmaster started a thing he was anxious to come to grips, to get it over with. But now he must wait until just before dark. He would make his final preparations then.
  
  He stripped to his shorts and stretched his big frame on the bed. It was safe enough for the moment, in the locked bedroom. He had until dusk, if Tiger Tong kept their word, and he thought they would. They didn't want any more trouble. They just wanted him out.
  
  Nick's smile was very faint, very cold. He'd show them trouble!
  
  He had neglected his Yoga for the past few days and now he began the preliminary deep breathing, sinking gradually into the savasana pose of complete relaxation. He did not wish to achieve trance — though he had advanced that far in Yoga — but merely to rest his body and cleanse his mind for the ordeal ahead. Gradually the movement of his huge chest slowed, his lean features relaxed without softening, the lids dropped to conceal eyes that could be either cruel or tender. Hawk, long ago in an emergency, had come upon Nick Carter in this state. He had, Hawk swore, looked like a dead knight in an ancient Norman cathedral.
  
  It was after four when Nick awoke without hesitation, instantly alert, knowing what he had to do. He stood beneath an icy shower for five minutes, but did not dress. Instead he pulled on a pair of black swim trunks, thinking that he could have done with an aqua-lung outfit, but there was none available. It troubled him little. He could swim 20 miles without tiring. He could stay under water for over four minutes. The swim to shore was going to be the easiest part of this affair; it was the timing that was important. The timing and the smoke screen he intended to lay down.
  
  It had always been a habit of Killmaster to prowl his environment, wherever and whatever it was at the moment. On the trip down from Manila he had prowled Corsair. He knew the layout of the yacht thoroughly. Now he went forward again, avoiding the crew's quarters, to the ship's storeroom in the bow.
  
  He found a large tarp and a coil of quarter-inch line. They would do to make a shroud for Boy. Now he needed a weight. Something really heavy. He found a small drag anchor, weighing perhaps 150 pounds. It had never been used; the gray paint was still fresh and glistening. Nick hoisted it to his shoulder and went back aft.
  
  After locking himself in again, he put the small body into the tarp, with the anchor at the feet, and wrapped the little canvas coffin securely. As he worked Nick wondered idly if the kid had been a good Buddhist. Probably not. Boy probably hadn't been much of anything along those lines, and he would never have a chance to explore life now. Nick decided, if the opportunity afforded, to burn a candle for the kid in some temple. It was the least he could do.
  
  When he had finished with the tarp he opened a port. Dusk was sliding in from the east. It wouldn't be long now. Riding lights were already winking on the junks and sampans. A ferry plodded by like a moving string of yellow beads.
  
  Nick got Bob Ludwell's letter and ripped it open. He didn't expect much help from it and he was right. Ludwell had told the truth — it had nothing to do with CIA business. He scanned the brief note.
  
  Dear Nick: If you read this I will probably be dead. Enclosed you will find an insurance policy with my wife, Laura, as the beneficiary. It is for two hundred thousand dollars and I had to pay a hell of a premium! I am not too sure about the company, and anyway you know what insurance companies are. I am probably breaking my oath and contract with CIA, possibly even security, but I am determined that Laura and the kids be taken care of. If I am killed on duty CIA will never acknowledge me, of course, and the company may try to weasel out. In any event there will be vast red tape. Will you hire a lawyer and see that Laura collects? Laura will settle with you when she collects. Your friend, Bob. PS — I hope to God you never read this!
  
  
  
  Nick glanced at the thick, parchmentlike insurance policy with its pages of fine print. Hong Kong Life Assurance, Ltd. Japanese owned, based in London and Hong Kong. His smile was faint. Might be fly-by-nighters, might not. It would have to wait.
  
  He went to a writing desk in one corner of the bedroom and put the brown envelope in a lower drawer that had a key. He threw the key out the porthole. Inspector Smythe and company were going to search this yacht, no doubt of that, but he doubted they would force a drawer. Very proper, the Limeys. Unless, of course, they thought Nick was hiding in the drawer. He grinned at the feeble jape and went to the bed. It was nearly full dark out now.
  
  He strapped the chamois sheath on his right arm and tucked Hugo away. He stripped down and arranged the little gas bomb, Pierre, in its metal container between his legs. It hung there like a third testicle. Those two should ride in place safely. About the Luger he wasn't so sure. He didn't want to lose Wilhelmina. She would never forgive him.
  
  He wrapped the Luger in the oilskin along with a heavy packet of Hong Kong and United States dollars. He held back a few notes of each sort.
  
  N3 switched off the fights in the stateroom. The ports gleamed, luminescent dioramas of Kowloon. He could not wait much longer for Hawk's call.
  
  The phone rang. Nick reached it in one long stride. "Hello. Harrington here."
  
  Hawk's voice was metallic. It was a tape being played into the phone in Washington. Hawk said: "Procab femnull… procab femnull…" That was all. Nick hung up.
  
  Proceed. Cable following. Feminine null.
  
  So he had the go sign. Nick lit a cigarette and frowned at the portholes, darkening by the second. Cable following. Hell! No good to him now. Have to pick it up at the Consulate later — if he still needed it. And if he were still alive.
  
  Nothing in Washington on Miriam Hunt. It was about what he had expected. Checking had been only a precaution, a hedge against coincidence and chance.
  
  Nick stubbed out his cigarette. He had made a neat little bundle of his slacks, shirt, and a sweater. He put the oilskin with the Luger in the bundle and fashioned a harness with the remainder of the manila line. The clothes would get wet, of course, but that didn't matter. It never got really cold in Hong Kong and anyway cold did not bother him. Very little bothered Nick Carter, in fact, except baby killers and hatchet men.
  
  He lifted the tarped body of Boy as easily as though it were a doll — it so very nearly was, a little dead doll — and left the bedroom. He kept the afterdeck housing between himself and the sentinel junk as he went forward to the starboard bow. He put the tarp bundle down beneath one of the yacht's small lifeboats and went down a companionway to the crew's quarters. The Filipinos would be surprised at his appearance, but that did not matter now. There was the matter of a slight diversion.
  
  Only one of the watch was awake, yawning and rubbing his eyes and testing what must have been a very nasty tongue. He looked at Nick with amazement and a touch of fear — this huge bronzed giant in black trunks with a knife strapped to his wrist.
  
  Nick hauled the man out of the bunk with one easy motion. He smiled to reassure the sailor, who was little more than a boy himself. He handed him a Hong Kong hundred dollar bill.
  
  "Listen closely. Obey orders. Do it fast and do it right and there'll be another hundred when I see you again. Okay? You awake now?"
  
  The man stared stupidly down at the money in his hand. Then he grinned. "Sί, Señor Harrington. I am awake. The money, she always makes me to be most awake."
  
  "Good." Nick patted his bony shoulder. "Now listen carefully. I want you to wake your buddy. I want you to turn on the riding lights, the deck lights, as many lights as you want to. I want you and your pal to run around like crazy, understand, and act like we're getting ready to sail…"
  
  The man gaped. "Sail, Señor? But we cannot. The captain and the others, they…"
  
  "Shut up and listen! You're not really going to sail. But act like you're getting the yacht ready. Run around blowing whistles and yelling, that sort of thing. You must have a certain job when you get up anchor. Do it. Just so you look busy and make a lot of noise — and show lots of lights. Now, you got it?"
  
  The man scratched his head and for a moment Nick thought he was going to make the loco sign, but he grinned and said, "Sί, Señor. If you wish it. What time? Now?"
  
  Nick glanced at the AXE watch on his wrist. "Not right now. In ten minutes exactly. You have a watch?"
  
  The man extended a hand. "Sί."
  
  "Okay. Remember, stay here for exactly ten minutes. Then do as I've told you."
  
  The sailor rubbed a hand through his greasy hair. He was more intelligent than he looked. "For how long we do this, Señor?…"
  
  "Fifteen minutes should be enough." Nick ducked out the steel door.
  
  Fast now. He had to get into the water, drop Boy's body, and put as much distance as possible between himself and the yacht before things started popping. He shot a glance at the junk as he went forward along the starboard side. She was riding easily in the harbor chop, showing all her riding lights but no others. Nick wondered if they were sharpening hatchets in that dark cabin.
  
  He was about to lower the body over the bow, holding it carefully by a line because he did not want a splash, when he heard a splash. A very gentle splash, more of a ripple, but unmistakably the sound of someone swimming. Someone heading for the bow and the anchor chain?
  
  Nick pulled up the body and tucked it away under the lifeboat again, his face tight in a nasty grin. Tiger Tong didn't waste any time, did they? Well, two bodies wouldn't cause a jam in this ancient Hong Kong harbor. It had seen so many of them.
  
  The spring mechanism snicked quietly as the stiletto slid into his hand. Bare feet made no sound as he moved to a position just over the starboard hawsehole. Any intruder would come over the rail just here. Nick crouched in the dark and waited.
  
  Corsair swung gently to her chain. There was a faint rattle of metal and the sound of heavy breathing. Nick flattened himself on the deck. Another ferry was passing, and though it was some distance off it still cast a fan of light in Corsair's direction.
  
  The figure, in blurred silhouette against the distant ferry's lights, came up and over the rail in swift and coordinated motion. Light glinted on a knife blade. A slip-slop of bare wet feet, then silence. Nick heard water dripping.
  
  He moved in, the stiletto in his left hand, his right fashioned into a chopper. His foot rustled on the scrubbed deck. He heard a gasp of fright and the dark figure swirled toward him. The knife flashed up. Nick knocked the knife spinning with one chop of his big hand and followed through to encircle the man and pull him forward on the stiletto. There must be no sound…
  
  His nerves, his muscles, reacted before his brain could. There was something wrong here! His groping fingers encountered a soft breast, a nipple rigid with cold. A woman!
  
  Nick dropped the stiletto. He put one hand over her mouth and held the struggling, squirming woman close to his brawny chest.
  
  It was indeed a woman. She felt like a young woman, her wet pelt as firm and sleek as a seal. A lithe and well-formed and very naked young woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  The Harbor Orphans
  
  
  
  
  Nick had her in a bearhug now, squeezing her slim damp body against his big one. She ceased to fight him, went limp in his fierce embrace, her open mouth panting against his: "F…friend! Do not kill me! Ludwell!"
  
  He relaxed just enough to prevent crushing the slim bones. "What about Ludwell? Lie and you're dead!"
  
  Words poured from her. Good English with a faint American accent. Obviously she had spent some time in the States. It meant nothing. Smythe had said the Tigers used women.
  
  "I knew him," she panted. "I swear it! I was working with him. He was supposed to come into China last week. He did not. I came to Hong Kong to find him, but I was too late. I saw them take him, and later he was killed. I saw you with him. I came to ask you for help."
  
  Nick tightened his grip. The girl uttered a soft scream of agony. "You He," snarled N3. "Admit it. The Tigers sent you. Admit it! Admit it and I will let you live. I am softhearted." There was so little time. Any minute now the Filipinos would be carrying out their orders.
  
  She tried to snarl back and he liked that. He loosened his grip a bit and she sought to strike at him with her little fists. "Fool! I do not He! But I cannot waste time — either kill me or help me or let me go to seek help elsewhere."
  
  Nick released her. She had known that Ludwell was to have gone into China and had not gone. It was enough at the moment.
  
  "You will seek nowhere," he said gruffly. "Listen. Go back into the water and wait for me at the anchor chain. Quietly. We must get away from here fast. Go!"
  
  She stopped to pick up the knife. Nick put his bare foot on it and pushed her away. "Oh, no! Ill take care of that. Go."
  
  She vanished over the rail. Nick tossed the knife over the opposite bow. He retrieved Hugo and stowed him away in the sheath. Sand was running fast through the glass now. He went back to the lifeboat, got the body, and swung it over the side by the line. When it touched water he let it go easily. There was no splash, only a suck and gurgle as the little bundle plummeted down. The anchor would keep Boy down a long time.
  
  N3 went over the rail in one easy movement, got a toehold on the flange running beneath the ports, then dropped and caught the flange with hooked fingers. He entered the water silently.
  
  The girl was waiting, clinging to the anchor chain. Nick put his mouth against her ear. "Start swimming. West. Toward Sai Ying Pun. Go first and don't try anything — like getting away. Go quietly and stop and tread water if we get too close to a ferry or a sampan or junk." As an afterthought: "You're all right? You can do it?"
  
  She nodded. Then all hell broke loose on the deck of Corsair. Lights flashed on everywhere, brilliant fingers clawing the murky surface of the harbor. There was the sound of running feet, shrilling whistles, much loud yelling. The boys were certainly giving Nick his money's worth.
  
  "Hell!" Nick pushed her under. "Swim underwater, straight out from the bow."
  
  He took a deep breath and went after her. He groped for her, felt her nakedness, then hooked his fingers into the waistband of a fragile pair of panties, her sole garment. He held her so, at arm's length, feeling the strong thresh of her legs against his own. He wondered how long she could remain under. He was good for four minutes but he couldn't expect that of her. No matter, if they could go far enough to escape the fights of Corsair. The attention of the watchers on the junk would be riveted on the yacht.
  
  The girl lasted for over a minute; then he felt her twist upward. He went with her, still holding her firmly by the elastic of her panties. They broke water quietly, a good 50 yards from the reflected pool of light from Corsair. So far so good. He let go her panties.
  
  She was breathing hard, coughing a little and spitting water. She clung to him, her hands on his broad shoulders and her naked legs twined about his. "Y… you'll have to help me a little! My wrist — I think you broke it when you hit me."
  
  Nick trod water easily, supporting her. "Can't be helped," he said. "Don't worry about it. I'll tow you. Now, no more talking. Get your breath and we'll start." Then a thought struck him. She might be able to help. "Where are your clothes? I mean have you got a base, a hideout, anywhere we can go?"
  
  "I have nowhere," she said softly, her mouth close to his. Her breath was sweet. "I left my clothes under a pier in the Wan Chai district. They were nothing — a cheap dress and a pair of shoes. I thought we would have time to talk on the yacht, that you could get me some things."
  
  There was no time to explain about the junk. "Never mind that now," said Nick. "Let's get out of here." A searchlight sprang into life on the junk and began to probe the waters around Corsair with a white finger. Those bastards didn't miss much.
  
  She caught the significance of the searchlight immediately. "Someone is looking for us."
  
  "For me only. Come on — put your good hand on my shoulder and hold on. Flatten out and try to keep your legs away from mine."
  
  It was a two-mile swim from Corsair to the shabby piers and godowns of Sai Ying Pun. The distance itself was nothing — Nick Carter could swim 20 miles without breathing hard. The secret was, indeed, in the breathing. Once you mastered that, swimming was as easy as walking.
  
  But the girl was an encumbrance, for all her slimness, and it was a good two hours before they halted beneath a lonely and deserted pier in Sai Ying Pun. The girl was shivering, her teeth chattering as she clung to a crosstie.
  
  "I'm so cold!" she said. "So damned cold! Can't we do something, quick? I mustn't get sick — I just mustn't! I've still got a job to do."
  
  N3 clung to another crossbeam, slimy with weed and barnacle, and tried to see her face. Opposite them, at an adjacent pier, an ancient rusty tramp was moored. A single deck bulb sent a faint wash of saffron light beneath the pier. Still he could make little of her, except that her eyes were huge and dark and her teeth very white.
  
  His mind was racing. He was beginning to think he could trust her now, whoever she was, whatever she wanted. Not really trust her, of course. Not yet. But give her the benefit of the doubt. She had come to Corsair on her own, she knew something about Ludwell, and she had not tried to get away. It was enough for now.
  
  He tried to cheer her. "Hold on a little longer," he told her. "I know this district. It's pretty quiet after dark and there are a lot of little shops around. I'll leave you here and go foraging. Okay?"
  
  "Leave me alone?" She sounded afraid.
  
  "I'll have to. I've got clothes in my pack. I'm afraid you'd attract a little attention walking around naked. Ill try to get some clothes and some food and I'll be right back. You'd better stay right here. I know it's cold and nasty, but it's safe. Right?"
  
  To his surprise she laughed. "All right. We're really harbor orphans, aren't we?"
  
  Nick patted her smooth shoulder. He could feel the gooseflesh. "We sure as hell are! Now hang on. I'll he back as soon as I can."
  
  "Hurry!" Her teeth rattled. "Please hurry. I'm numb all over."
  
  A pretty tough kid, Nick thought as he made his way through the stinking, slimy water to the base of the pier. He felt his way from piling to piling, through the sea filth, wary for projecting spikes and broken timbers. The smell told him that a sewer emptied nearby.
  
  He found a rickety ladder and climbed it. A rusty gantry ran along the pier. A crane cast stark shadow over stacked cargo. From the tramp came a waft of voices. Dim light glowed from the forecastle. No trouble there. They would all be drunk or entertaining women, or both.
  
  Nick dressed rapidly. His clothes were soaked and he had no shoes, but that did not matter. If anyone noticed him they would only think he was a drunken sailor off the tramp. He checked the stiletto; the Luger, now in his belt with the sweater pulled well down over it; and the gas bomb between his legs. He had plenty of money.
  
  He made his way off the pier, down a wharf, and up a flight of rotting wooden stairs to Des Voeux Road. A starving dog cringed at his approach and a couple of cats stopped fighting and fled. Otherwise he encountered no one. His luck was holding. Now for the immediate needs and then — it struck him suddenly and he grinned. He even had a place to go! Swee Lo was going to have a couple of uninvited guests tonight. What better place to hide than in the very heart of enemy country? Because he knew now — he was so sure he would have bet a year's pay — who Swee Lo's protector was. Jim Pok.
  
  It was an educated guess. In such matters N3 seldom guessed wrong. Everything pointed to it. How convenient it was that Jim Pok was in Red China at the moment! Buddha grant that he remained there for a while.
  
  He found a cubbyhole shop and bought clothes for the girl and shoes for both of them. Cheap rubber shoes with upturned toes. If the bespectacled proprietor saw anything strange about this huge wet man with bare feet, he kept it to himself.
  
  In another shop Nick bought cigarettes, genuine American, and a large bottle of rice wine. In a tiny food stall he found pancakes wrapped around savory hot pork. He bought four. An army travels on its stomach. So do harbor orphans.
  
  On the way back to the pier he passed a catch-all shop. There was an old leather wrist strap in the window. He went in and bought it. He hoped her wrist wasn't really broken, but if it was he was going to have to set and splint it himself. They couldn't go to a doctor. Tiger Tong was looking for him and pretty soon the Hong Kong police would be looking for him. He wasn't leaving spoor if he could help it.
  
  Back at the pier, he left his purchases in a cavelike hollow in a stack of baled cargo. He went down the ladder and whistled softly. Her answering whistle came back, very faint. Nick went into the water, cursing it, and made his way to her. She was still clinging to the crosstie. Nick put his arm around her shivering body. "It's okay now. I've got food and clothing topside. Let's go."
  
  She clung to him, shivering and gasping. "S-so cold! I don't think I could have h-held on m-much longer."
  
  "You're doing fine. Put your arms around my neck and just hold on. Watch out for spikes and stuff."
  
  He got her up the ladder and into the little cave in the cargo. She stood trembling, lax, making no effort to cover her firm breasts. Nick fell to his knees and began to massage her long legs, moving upward from the ankles in firm, strong-fingered strokes. "This might hurt a little but we've got to get the blood flowing again. Do the same thing to your arms."
  
  She began to chafe her arms. Nick turned her around and kneaded her thighs and hips, the taut little buttocks. "I should have gotten a thick towel," he said. "Didn't think of it."
  
  "I feel better now," she said. She firmed her legs beneath his hands, testing them, and he felt the smooth muscles come alive. He gave her fanny a friendly little pat. "I think you'll live. Get dressed and let's eat. Then we'll go. We've been lucky so far, but I don't want to press it."
  
  He had bought her a coolie suit of black denim, a sweat shirt, and a white bra. The bra had been an afterthought. Her breasts were firm and pointed enough, but a bit heavy for a Chinese girl. She would need a bra.
  
  Without a word she slipped her breasts into the cups and turned for him to clasp her. Then she pulled on the Donald Duck sweatshirt — it had been the only one — and donned the coolie suit. She put her narrow feet into the rubber slippers. "Cinderella, new version," murmured Nick. "They fit." His own were too tight.
  
  The girl squatted on her heels in traditional Chinese fashion. "You mentioned food? I'm starving."
  
  Nick handed her a pancake wrapped in a sheet of newspaper. "Eat one, then we go. We can eat the rest on the run."
  
  She bit into the pancake and ate half of it before she looked up at him. "We are really on the run, aren't we? I wonder if we're running from the same thing?"
  
  "Later," said Nick through a mouthful of pancake. "A Bullion questions later. Right now — what's your name?"
  
  "Fan Su. That is my milk name. In the States I use Frances. Frances Suon. Is Clark Harrington your real name?"
  
  N3 did not even blink. "For now it is. Now finish eating and shut up. I've figured out a place we can go, at least for tonight. We'll talk it all out later."
  
  The girl nodded. "I see that you are accustomed to giving orders, Mr. Harrington."
  
  "I am." Nick finished his pancake and wiped his mouth on the newspaper. "Just one more thing — you say you knew Bob Ludwell? You know how he was killed and who killed him? Do you also know why?"
  
  "Yes. I know all those things."
  
  Nick touched her shoulder. "Fine. Now let's cut out. I'm glad we met tonight, honey. You're going to help me a lot."
  
  She was close to him, so near that her breasts touched his big chest. In the dim light he saw that, at least in this poor light, she was beautiful. Her eyes were brown, with shadows beneath them now, her nose straight, her ears small and set close to her head. There was a soft pleading in her voice as she said, "I have to trust you, Mr. Harrington. And you me. There is much work to do, very dangerous work, and there is no time to do it in. I am desperate. Most extremely desperate!"
  
  Only now and then, he thought as they made their way off the pier, could you tell that English was not her native language.
  
  They crossed Des Voeux Road and climbed a narrow street to Belcher's Street. Nick hailed a taxi and gave the man directions. Now he could light a cigarette. He inhaled luxuriously and lay back in the seat. Things were moving at last.
  
  But the girl sat rigid beside him. Her eyes searched his face. "We are going to the peak? Where?"
  
  "To the villa of a man named Jim Pok."
  
  He heard the hiss of her indrawn breath. "Jim Pok! But he, I mean I can't go there — he is…"
  
  N3 regarded her blandly. "I know who and what he is. I also know that he is in Red China at the moment. I think you knew that too, Fan Su."
  
  After a moment she nodded. "Yes. I did know. But I still do not understand why we go to his villa. It is dangerous. Most dangerous."
  
  "Life is dangerous," said Nick Carter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  Undertong
  
  
  
  
  Nick dismissed the taxi three blocks from the villa. The weather was turning sour again, misty, and a chill drizzle was falling. They walked along Harlech Road in silence. Nick thought of that morning and the coolie he'd killed, and of Boy and Ludwell. It had been a hell of a day, all in all. But at last the show was on the road and, if he didn't know exactly where he was going, at least he was moving.
  
  The villa was dark except for a few night lights. "No matter," he told the girl as they skirted the house to the back patio. She kept close to him, a small hand on his arm. "This is really Jim Pok's house?"
  
  He nodded. "I'd swear to it. It's a hunch, but it figures. If I know my Swee Lo — and I do."
  
  Her pretty mouth tightened. "She lives dangerously, your friend. Dangerously and uselessly." He had told her something of Swee Lo in the taxi.
  
  The kitchen door was locked. Nick tore a plastic envelope from his wallet and, using the plastic as a probe, slipped the tongue of the Yale. The door swung open. He looked at the girl. "Let's get one thing straight, Fan Su. I'm in command. Lo is an old friend of mine. Her character and morals are no concern of yours. If you meet her I will do the talking. You will be courteous and very, very quiet. Understood?"
  
  "Understood, Mr. Harrington."
  
  Fan Su remained in the kitchen while Nick prowled the house. He was careful not to turn on lights, and did not turn off the night lights. No servants. Swee Lo was probably out on the town. She drove her own car now. Nick wondered if she was playing the field. She was a passionate little woman and he had left her wanting that morning. He grimaced. Playing around would be dangerous, with a «protector» like Jim Pok.
  
  Nick made the girl take a long hot shower while he made coffee. The house was well shuttered and all the draperies drawn. For the moment he felt safe. The Tiger's men, in the absence of the Tiger, would hardly think to look in the Tiger's lair. He had gained a little time. Not much, but perhaps enough to sort matters out and come up with some sort of plan.
  
  They sat in the dark bedroom and drank coffee and smoked. Nick Carter said: "Okay, Fan Su, start talking. I'll ask, you answer. How did you know Bob Ludwell? Why?"
  
  She was a blob of shadow sitting crosslegged on the big bed, wearing pajamas and a happicoat belonging to Swee Lo.
  
  "I have been working with Mr. Ludwell for months. He was CIA, you know. I am chief agent for Undertong in Hong Kong and the New Territories."
  
  "Just a minute. What's Undertong?"
  
  She said something in Mandarin which he did not understand. He recognized the Peking dialect, but did not understand the words.
  
  "It translates as underground," the girl said. "Under cover — a resistance group. Like the FFI or the Maquis in France. Partisans, you might say, though we are not well enough organized to fight as guerrillas. That will come."
  
  Nick lit a cigarette and stared long at her in the wavering flame. Her eyes met his without flinching. "I think you're lying," he said. "There is no Chinese underground. The Chicoms are too well organized, their counterintelligence is too good, and your peasants won't fight." This was the sum of all briefing he had had on the subject. He cared little for the book, for the opinions of Washington. He wanted her reaction to his scoffing.
  
  She flared. "That is a lie! Our people will fight — if they are given weapons and properly led. We have only just started, it is true, but we are making progress. It is very dangerous and very slow. There are Peking agents everywhere — doubles and provocateurs." She sighed in the gloom. "If you are a Peking agent I am a dead woman."
  
  Nick's chuckle was grim. "That you are, honey! You'll just have to take my word that I'm not. Now go on. How are you tied in with Ludwell's killing?"
  
  "I'm not, really. But he was supposed to meet me last week, in China, and he did not come. It was a routine meeting at that time. He was to bring money and information."
  
  "Ludwell was the paymaster for this operation? The case officer?"
  
  "I suppose so, if that is what you call it. He was working alone with us, our only contact with the CIA."
  
  My God! thought Nick. No wonder the poor bastard was nervous. Trying to foment a revolution in Red China, build an underground apparatus, all by himself!
  
  "So he didn't show up last week. Then what?"
  
  "A lot happened," said Fan Su. "Very much happened and it happened very quickly. A top Red general defected and got in touch with us, with Undertong. He wants us to get him out of China. There was no time to get in touch with Ludwell. It was my decision to make and I decided to try it. Then I sent word into Hong Kong, to Ludwell, by our regular network. He sent word back that he would come and help me get the general out. And that he would bring the money, or some of it, that the general was demanding."
  
  This news did not surprise Nick. China was the land of the squeeze. "How much money?"
  
  "Half a million dollars. Ludwell was to bring a hundred thousand cash as an earnest."
  
  It was little enough, Nick thought, for a top Chinese general who was willing to talk freely. CIA never had to account publicly for money. Nor did AXE, for that matter.
  
  "Why did you come into Hong Kong, then? You had it all set up, or thought you did. Ludwell was coming to pick up the general. He would have the money. Why you?"
  
  A little silence. He saw her shrug her slim shoulders. "Coming into Hong Kong is nothing for me — I have perfect cover. Good papers. Sometimes I cross the border two or three times a week, bringing vegetables to market. I am supposed to work on a farm near the village of Paoan, on the China side. All the guards know me by now."
  
  He was not satisfied. "Yet you did not really have to come. I know of these things — every time you cross over you take a risk, use up a little luck. Why did you come this time? Don't lie to me."
  
  "I will not lie. I cannot afford to lie. I need your help too desperately. I came to check on your friend, on Ludwell. I… I had gotten not exactly to trust him. Not his motives, but his abilities. He drank a lot and — well, I know when a man is afraid."
  
  Granted what Nick knew of Bob Ludwell, it made sense. "You were right," he admitted. "Ludwell was a good man once, but he stayed too long. He paid for it."
  
  "I know. I saw them take him. I could do nothing."
  
  Nick leaned toward the bed. "Tell me about that."
  
  "I had strict orders," the girl continued, "not to try to contact Ludwell personally in Hong Kong. Not under any circumstances! I was not even to call him on the phone. So I followed him, watched him. It was all I could do. I was going to break security, disobey orders, if he did not keep his word and go after the general. More than anything I needed the money. The general will not come over until he has it."
  
  "We'll see about that," said Nick. He was thinking far ahead, already trying to spin a plan from his fertile brain.
  
  "You haven't got the money now," he said. "Maybe the Red Tigers have."
  
  "Yes." She sounded discouraged. "Jim Pok has the money. Or soon will have."
  
  "Maybe he won't live to enjoy it," Nick told her. "Never mind him now. You followed Ludwell? You saw the Tigers get him?"
  
  "Yes. I was never far behind. I was close by when he met you and when you went to the Cricket Club to the dance. I was following the ricksha coolie who was following you."
  
  The less said about that the better, Nick thought. He was on the verge of trusting her now — to a point and with certain reservations.
  
  "You followed Ludwell when he left the dance? What did he do? Where did he go?"
  
  "He left the dance about eleven. The ricksha man followed him. I followed both of them. Ludwell went to his home, an apartment near the university, and changed his clothes. While he was in the apartment the ricksha man made a phone call. Then he left, just trotted away."
  
  Back to the club to pick me up, Nick thought. They were already curious about me.
  
  "Did another tong man pick up Ludwell when he left the apartment?"
  
  "Yes. I followed them both again. I was beginning to get very worried. I thought that Ludwell must have the money with him now, and I knew the Tigers. Yet there was nothing I could do. The Tiger never let Ludwell out of his sight. I couldn't warn him without blowing myself."
  
  Nick agreed. "Did Ludwell appear to know he was followed?"
  
  "No. He acted as though he were in the clear. I still don't understand it."
  
  "I can." He thought of the drinks the man had had at the club. God knew how many others he had had at home. For his nerves, of course. And there was his fatalistic state of mind. He probably hadn't cared much, one way or the other.
  
  Now N3 said, "Ludwell must have been blown for weeks, the way I see it. And didn't know it. The Chicoms knew he was CIA. But it was Tiger Tong who killed him, not Chinese counterintelligence. I don't quite get that. How does Tiger Tong get into the act?"
  
  Her little chuckle was mirthless. "That's simplest of all, Mr. Harrington. The Society of the Red Tiger is a gangster organization. They work for anyone who pays them. The Chinese Reds pay them well. It is easier, and probably cheaper, for the Chinese to hire the Tigers to do their dirty work in Hong Kong than it would be to set up a complex apparatus. As simple as that."
  
  "But they knew exactly when to kill Ludwell. Just before he was going into China, and when he had all that money on him."
  
  "They are not fools in Peking," she said dryly. "They get what they pay for. Jim Pok is very efficient."
  
  "I believe it. He's also a lot richer today. But go on. When and how did they get Ludwell?"
  
  "He took a ferry to Kowloon. There was a little wait before the ferry left and the Tiger made a phone call. Then he followed Ludwell aboard the ferry. I also. When we reached the Kowloon side Ludwell went to the Peninsula Hotel for a drink. Or so I suppose. He went into the bar. A few minutes later he came out and walked to the railroad station. Not the passenger, but the freight station…"
  
  "Freight?"
  
  "Yes. That is a dark and lonely district at night. He made it easy for them. Too easy. I saw it all from the shadow of a godown. A big car screeched up beside him and he was hauled in. He tried to fight and they knocked him out with clubs. I knew he was as good as dead then and there was nothing I could do. But I had to follow them. I took a chance and got a taxi and went after them — it was breaking my cover badly as a poor beggar woman, but I had to do it. The driver of the taxi thought I was crazy. He would not move until I showed him money."
  
  "Where did they take him?"
  
  "Not very far. That puzzled me a little, until I saw that the building was one owned by Jim Pok. It is in the freightyards. I waited then, knowing what was happening inside, until some of Pok's men, Tigers, came out carrying a basket."
  
  For the first time her voice broke. "I…I knew what was in the basket. I know the work of the Tigers well. I followed them again, saw them leave the basket in the old godown on Shanghai Street. Then they drove off. I did not follow them this time. I was desperate and frightened. I didn't know what to do without Ludwell and the money. I…"
  
  "And then," Nick interrupted softly, "you thought of me. Right?"
  
  He heard her gasp in the dark. Her cigarette glowed as she inhaled. "Yes. B… but how did you know?"
  
  "I didn't exactly know," admitted Nick. "I guessed. You were desperate and you had seen me meet Ludwell on a deserted pier. Did you think I was CIA too?"
  
  "I thought you might be. I got a pretty good look at you and, well, you looked more capable, stronger and tougher than Ludwell. Anyway, I thought it had to be more than just a social meeting, under the circumstances."
  
  "You were wrong," Nick told her gently. "It was purely social. Or nearly so. He wanted me to do him a personal favor, that's all."
  
  "As you say, Mr. Harrington." She sounded unconvinced.
  
  Nick lit another cigarette for both of them. He could have done with a drink but he decided to skip it. He had a nasty feeling that the work was just beginning. As he handed the cigarette to her he said, "So you called the police and tipped them about the body? You mentioned me. You wanted to see what would happen. Why?"
  
  "I couldn't chance speaking to you cold. You might be CIA and you might not. You might have been working for Peking, or Jim Pok, and you might have been the one to blow Ludwell. You might even have set him up to be killed. I just didn't know!"
  
  "But why the police?"
  
  "I thought I would watch and see how they treated you. If they gave you the pukka treatment, and let you go soon, and then you went to the American Consulate to make a report — well, I thought it would be pretty sure that you were also CIA. That maybe you were even Ludwell's boss that he hadn't told me about. He wouldn't have, naturally. But there was something about you, when I watched you and Ludwell, that made me think you were in command. I took a chance."
  
  "You sure did, girl. But your luck is good. I think I'm going to get your general for you. Where is he now?"
  
  She was off the bed and on her knees before him. She put her arms on his knees and buried her face in them. "You will? You will really help me bring him out? Oh, God! I'm so glad. So glad. It — it's so terribly important, and since Ludwell was killed it has all been on my shoulders. I've been scared half to death." She was crying.
  
  Nick patted her smooth head. "I know. Cry it out, Su, And stop worrying. My shoulders are just a little bigger than yours. But where is the general?"
  
  He heard her fumbling in the darkness. The soap and woman smell of her was sweet in the gloom. Her hair gave off a delicate fragrance.
  
  "Damn it," she told him. "What a fool I am. And no handkerchief."
  
  Nick crossed the room in the dark and got a handkerchief from Swee Lo's vanity table. He came back and handed it to her. She got up and went back to the bed. "I'm sorry. I won't do that again."
  
  "You've been under a strain," he said. "You'll be under more. Saying isn't doing, and we've got a hell of a job before us. Now, damn it, where is the general?"
  
  "He's hiding in a deserted Buddhist temple near the village of Hengkanghau. It's not far from the railroad, but of course that's no good to us."
  
  "None at all. How far is this village from the border?"
  
  "About ten miles in a straight line, but the terrain is bad. There are mountains and then a lot of swampland just before you get to the border. It will be very dangerous trying to get him over the Sham Chun. I was hoping that perhaps with your yacht, or even a junk, we could…"
  
  "That's out," he told her curtly. "We could never do it. I've got my reasons for saying that."
  
  No use telling her that Smythe would probably arrest him the moment he tried to move Corsair. Smythe would probably arrest him anyway, on sight, if he caught him in Jim Pok's house. And there was the Tiger junk; it would dog Corsair every mile, even if he could sail. He didn't want to stage a sea battle in Hong Kong harbor. He was in enough trouble as it was.
  
  "There's just one little thing you haven't mentioned," he told her a bit slyly. It amused him in a way. You couldn't blame her for trying to put the best face on things.
  
  "What?"
  
  "That the Chicoms know, or suspect, that your general is somewhere close to the border. That's why they've sealed off the border and moved in so many troops, isn't it? Everyone in Hong King knows that. The Reds stand to lose a lot of face if the general gets away and writes his memoirs in Washington. They can't stand to lose more face. They've had a lot of rotten luck lately, in Africa and Indonesia and even in Pakistan. If your general gets away it could blow things sky high. All that is true, isn't it?"
  
  "Yes," Fan Su admitted. "And that isn't the worst of it. The general's wounded. Badly hurt. He and two men with him ran into a patrol on the way down from Canton. The men were Undertong workers. They were both killed, I think. I hope so. But if one of them lived he would be made to talk and the Chinese will know that the general is in the vicinity. He was badly hurt in the shooting, but he got away and hid in the Buddhist temple. If they suspect he's anywhere near they'll search everything. It's only a matter of time till they find him. We've got to hurry."
  
  "Well hurry a little slowly right now. I said I'd get him out and I will, but first things first. Before we get out of China we've got to get in. You got any ideas on that?"
  
  "No. I won't have any trouble, but a white man couldn't do it. Not now. Not as a white man. Ludwell said he had a foolproof way of getting in, but he never told me what it was."
  
  Nick had to admit that he could never pass as a Chinese. Not with such tight security in effect.
  
  "You're much too big and powerful," Fan Su agreed. "They would spot you in a minute. And they search everything now, coming and going. I couldn't hide you under my vegetables."
  
  Nick's brain was working at high speed. There had to be an answer. Getting in was the tricky part — he figured to bulldoze his way out if necessary.
  
  Slowly he said, "You could get in alone okay?"
  
  "Yes. No trouble there. They're used to me and my oxcart. But I wouldn't dare try to smuggle…"
  
  "No. We won't try that. But you can go in separately and join me. Question is — how do I get in?"
  
  An idea glimmered in N3's brain and began to grow. Ludwell must have had it all worked out, must have had some sort of trick or gimmick. Maybe he could pick a dead man's brains.
  
  "You say Ludwell was at the freight shed in the yards?" Nick rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Ludwell must have had a very good reason for going to the freightyards at night. "Think hard," he told Fan Su now. "Everything you can remember. Everything!"
  
  Silence. He could hear her light breathing. Then: "Well, he didn't go to the main freight shed. A smaller one — I remember now, it is where they keep perishable goods. I could hear the refrigeration machinery."
  
  "Hmmm… not much there. That would be all incoming stuff, anyway. Hong Kong doesn't ship food out. And Ludwell was going out. He would need…"
  
  "Wait!" There was excitement in her tone. "They do keep something else in that shed — corpses!"
  
  Nick snapped his fingers. "Of course. That's it, Su! Bodies waiting to go back to China to be buried. They come from all over the world. They must ship them back every day. By God, I think we've got it. Ludwell was going over the line in a coffin!"
  
  "You are going to try it?" She sounded doubtful.
  
  "That depends." Nick was cautious now, weighing all the angles. Ludwell had had his own organization. Everything had been set up. He was running a spur or the moment, free-lance operation, with time pressing. There was a big difference.
  
  "It depends on you, Su. Everything at this stage depends on you. How well is your Undertong organized in Hong Kong? Is it efficient — can you get things done in a hurry?"
  
  "We are efficient, I think. There is a cadre only, as yet, but if you do not ask too much perhaps we can do it. But I will have to do it alone, you understand. I cannot reveal…"
  
  Nick broke in with a hard laugh. "Don't trust me yet, huh? Good girl. Now listen — can you get a cheap coffin brought up here, with air holes" that can't be spotted? Can you get clearance papers from the Chicom agency here to take your poor old grandfather back to China? That's most important, the papers."
  
  "I can have them forged. It will take an hour or so."
  
  "Do it. Get some burial clothes. Isn't there a custom of painting the faces of the dead to make them look young again?"
  
  She thought a second. "Not so much any more, but it used to be done."
  
  "My face will be painted. I was an old-fashioned grandfather. A death request, you know. That should work. What do you know about train schedules?"
  
  "That is easy. There is only one train a day. It leaves the terminus in Hong Kong at noon and gets to Lo Wu about one. Everyone must walk across the border and have their papers inspected."
  
  "What about freight cars?"
  
  "If they are going into China they are inspected at the border and then sealed. That is a difficulty in your plan. I think the first stop after the border would be Camphor Head Junction. I would have to send the coffin there. The trains will not stop at small villages. So I will have to come to Camphor Head Junction to get you out."
  
  Smart girl. She was already thinking ahead, going along with the plan. It might just work, Nick told himself. It was audacious enough. And his luck had been running strong and good.
  
  "How far back from this junction to the temple where the general is hiding?"
  
  "Twenty miles or so. We will have to walk it, and the country is rough."
  
  "It's nothing. We'll do it at night and get to the temple around daybreak. That'll give me a whole day to think things out while we lay up. Be sure you bring a good map and a compass — if you can do it without danger. Otherwise skip them."
  
  "They have not searched me or my cart for a long time. I play up to some of the border guards — they are stupid turtles and think they are going to coax me into their barracks one day."
  
  Nick got up and paced the bedroom. "That does it, then. At least we'll start this plan. You leave now and start things moving. I'll stay and take care of Swee Lo when she comes home. If she does. We're taking a hell of a gamble, but we have to do it. We have to bet that Jim Pok won't come barging in, that the servants won't come back, and that Pok's men won't figure out where we are. That's a lot of ifs. Now you go. You'll have to walk down to the cable car — better not take a taxi from this neighborhood — and get the coffin and the papers back here before dawn, if you possibly can. Be sure to use people you can trust. We'll work out the timing later. I don't want to spend any more time in that coffin than I have to."
  
  He let her out the back door. The rain had stopped but it was still misty and dank. She was again wearing the black denims and the rubber shoes. He had examined her wrist and found it was not broken, only badly bruised and strained. She was wearing the wrist strap.
  
  As she was about to slip out into the mist she hesitated. "The girl who lives here — you are not going to kill her?"
  
  "No, of course not. It will not be necessary. But I must protect her if I can. I plan to stage a fake robbery and leave her tied up. That will cover our tracks a little and might even fool Jim Pok."
  
  "I doubt that."
  
  "So do I," said Nick dryly. "But it's the best I can think of. Why do you worry about her?"
  
  "I don't, really. But if she is innocent in all this I would not like to see her hurt."
  
  "Nor would I. I will do my best. And Swee Lo is a type who knows how to take care of herself. Now go."
  
  She leaned toward him and kissed him lightly on the mouth. Her lips were as sweet as lotus buds. "Yat low sun fong."
  
  "And your road also," said Nick. He closed the door and went back to the foyer to wait for Swee Lo.
  
  As he waited he pondered, a bit uneasy. He was going to have to put himself into deep trance, the Yoga pratyahara which induces a semblance of death. He had never done it before. It was, as he had told the girl, a hell of a gamble. He was going to sleep and, if the luck went against him, he would never wake up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  The Walking Corpse
  
  
  
  
  His brain came awake before the rest of his body. He was immediately conscious of the mouth. The mouth and the bellows. A soft, red, disembodied mouth on his own. A panting bellows pumping hot sweet air into him. Crazy! He must still be in trance, though you were not supposed to dream in a Yoga trance. They were wrong, then. His old guru had been wrong. Because he was surely dreaming this hot panting mouth and this bellows.
  
  Nick Carter opened his eyes. He felt the touch of light rain on his face. A jagged stone pressed into his back and his fingers, as the afferent nerves came slowly back to life, could feel pine needles. His mind began to catalog the stimuli: he was alive, he was in open country, it was raining, it was dark — and someone was kissing him!
  
  It all came flooding back. He was alive! It had worked. He had come across the border in a coffin, in a freight car with a score of other coffins, all containing Chinese going back to rest in their native province. But why the kissing? It was pleasant, but why? This was a hell of a time for kissing! And the hot bellows pumping him up — was he, after all, a prisoner? Was this some new Chinese torture, subtle and devious?
  
  Nick put up a hand and felt a softness. A woman's breast. She was lying on him, her mouth glued to his, breathing into him. He pushed her away gently and sat up. "I'm all right."
  
  "Thank God! I was so frightened. I thought you were really dead. I didn't know what to do, so when I got you out of the village I tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I didn't really think it would work. I, oh, I don't know what I thought!" She began to laugh harshly and he heard the beginnings of hysteria.
  
  Nick slapped her gently across the face. She recoiled, then stopped laughing and, still on her knees, regarded him. One hand nursed the cheek he had slapped. "You did look dead, you know! They opened the coffin at the border."
  
  "Christ!"
  
  She laughed again, still nervous but now with a sane note in her voice. "I thought I would die too! But you fooled them. You fooled everybody. You looked so dead!"
  
  Nick got to his feet and stretched. His big muscles were stiff and sore with returning life. "That pratyahara really works," he said. "How it works. I feel like I've been dead. Where are we?"
  
  "A few miles south of Camphor Head Junction. I could not pull you any farther, and I remembered this place." She pointed to a small cliff face behind Nick. They were in a dense thicket of bamboo and giant banyan. "There is a little cave there, and a stream nearby. But I do not think we should stay here. It is too close to the road and there are soldiers everywhere. Regulars and the militia and even tanks. I think it is now certain that one of the couriers talked before he died, and they know the general is somewhere around here. It is only a matter of time until they find the temple."
  
  As if to prove her words Nick heard a growl of trucks from the road. He peered through bamboo and saw their fights, at least a dozen of them in convoy, heading south.
  
  "You're right. We'd best be on our way. Where's the coffin?"
  
  She pointed. "Over there. I couldn't lift you so I had to push it off the cart. It broke open and I hauled you out."
  
  He patted her arm. "Good girl. You've done a swell job, Fan Su. I think we're going to make it. But we'll talk later. Right now we move!"
  
  From a false bottom in the coffin he recovered his weapons, along with some clothing, a map, a compass, and a flat box containing a first aid kit. The false bottom had been Fan Su's idea, and Nick admitted it was a good one. Better than bringing the things over in an oxcart. If the border guards went so far as to search the coffin for a false bottom the game was blown to hell anyway.
  
  Near the shattered coffin was the two-wheeled cart with long shafts on which she had transported him from the train station. Nick found the stream and plunged his face into the chill water, washing off the corpse paint, while she drank and told him how it had been at the station.
  
  Fan Su was inclined to make light of it, but now and then he could detect a tremor in her voice. He wondered just how long she could hold out under the strain. Hopefully until they got the general over the border, but Nick knew he could not count on it.
  
  "It was really very easy," she concluded now. "The papers were in order and the real search is always made at the border, so the militia are careless and lazy. I waited until just after dark, when the lights are poor. They paid hardly any attention to me. I rubbed filth on my face and in my hair, and I shambled and whined. You were on the platform with two other coffins. I had to give some young lout five Hong Kong dollars to help me load you on the cart. Then I came away. No one paid any attention. The people are all frightened and staying indoors. It has been very easy until now."
  
  Nick was strapping the stiletto sheath on his arm and putting the Luger in its plastic holster in his belt. He had shucked off the grave clothes and now wore a quilted suit and a mangy dogskin cap. At a distance he just might pass muster for Chinese — a very big and thick Chinese — but in a close-up he was dead. Literally.
  
  He went into a little copse of pine to relieve himself and adjust the gas bomb, Pierre, between his legs. He heard Fan Su go into the underbrush in the opposite direction. When he got back he found her washing her face in the stream. Nick had pondered well and now he made a decision. He told her who he was and who he worked for. The bare essentials, all she needed to know to understand and trust him.
  
  The girl stared at him, her great brown eyes awe-stricken. "Y-you're really the Nick Carter! Of the AXE, of the murder organization?"
  
  "We're much maligned," Nick replied with a grim chuckle. "By our enemies. We're not murderers, you know. Only executioners. We operate by sort of a golden rule, you might say — we do unto others before they can do unto us!"
  
  He added, "This is strictly between us, you understand. You will call me Nick — nothing else. When this is over you will forget that you ever saw me, and I have told you nothing. Understood?"
  
  Su had dried her face on her sleeve. Now she combed her tangled dark hair with her fingers. "Understood, Nick. But it will not be easy — to forget such a man as you. But I promise to try."
  
  Nick pulled her into his arms and kissed her lightly. She clung to him, her arms about his neck and her slim body pliant against the massiveness of his bone and sinew. "There will be a little time for us," he whispered. "Later, when this is over, Su."
  
  He pushed her gently away. "And now, MacDuff, lead on. I want to be within yelling distance of that temple by dawn."
  
  It was a night to remember. Even his great strength was taxed; he was never to understand how the girl managed to endure. The trek was a nightmare plotted in Hell. After the first hour neither had wind to spare for talk. Nick followed and she led, doggedly, stumbling and falling. Sometimes Nick would carry her for a mile or so, until she insisted on being put down.
  
  They did not dare use the Hengkang road. It was alive with troops and trucks and occasionally they heard the sinister roar of tanks moving. They tried to parallel the road, a thousand yards to the west, and were soon into a morass of paddy fields, dykes, and ditches knee drop in gumbo mud. The miserable thin drizzle continued without letup. There was no hint of moon and the sky was a dank black smothering blanket. Nick marveled at Su's ability to keep her bearings.
  
  During a brief rest stop she explained. "I was born near here," she panted. "In Waichow. I grew up in this country — until I went to live with my grandparents in the States and go to college."
  
  Nick pulled his face out of the mud to inquire the name of her college.
  
  "Bennington. In Vermont. Do you know of it?"
  
  "I know it" Once, long ago, he had known a sweet little maiden from Bennington. Maiden, he remembered now, had been the operative word. The muck on his face cracked as he smiled. Odd to think of that now!
  
  The helicopters came over just as they were about to leave the ditch. They flattened in the mire again and listened to the cycling swash-swash of the rotors as the craft passed directly over them, very low, their choppers beating the rain and mist into a pudding.
  
  "Until now," Nick said, "I've been cussing the rain and fog. Now I hope it lasts all day. I must be slipping — I hadn't counted on 'copters."
  
  Su was lying in his arms for warmth. She nodded against his chest. "There's a pad near the border. They'll be out again as soon as it clears."
  
  They went on. Soon the girl led the way from the road and they began to skirt, or climb, a succession of small peaks, and scramble through a series of deep narrow ravines. Once Nick slipped on shale, nearly turned his ankle, and swore with feeling and great artistry. Su put her finger to her lips. "We must be more silent. This mist cuts two ways, Nick. We can't see them either. If we stumble on a sentry post it will be bad."
  
  "For them," he told her grimly. But she was right. After that he cursed under his breath.
  
  They began to climb steadily. They reached a plateau studded with pines, camphors and cedars. The sparse grass underfoot had already been winter killed. Here and there boulders clustered in grotesque formation. They halted for another breather, snuggling together in a shallow cave formed by two arching rocks.
  
  Su was trembling with cold. He held her close. "We must be extra careful from here on," she said. "Not only of patrols. There are wolves around here, and wild boar and, from what I hear, a lot of bandits."
  
  "Bandits?" He laughed harshly. "I thought the great government in Peking had cleared out all the bandits. But maybe that's good. Can you use them in this Undertong of yours?"
  
  "No. They are not reliable. Most of them are not really bandits anyway, just men who can't get across the border. Or who have escaped and been sent back and then escaped again from the Chicoms. They never stop trying to get to Hong Kong."
  
  N3 said that it was indeed a hell of a Paradise — no pun intended — when you had to build walls to keep people in instead of out.
  
  When it was time to move on he said, "How far to the temple now? It can't be long until dawn." Neither of them had a watch. Such a luxury might easily give them away.
  
  Fan Su got up with a little groan, arching her back and chafing her arms. "Not far now. Perhaps two miles. We will come to a steep cliff, where this plateau ends, and the temple is below in a valley." She forced a little laugh. "We will not be able to see it, though, in this — this smog! It is worse than Los Angeles." "You have lived there too?"
  
  "I have lived many places, Nick. I will live in more — so long as I live and do this work. That will be all my life, or until China is free."
  
  And that, Killmaster thought a little sadly, will probably be all your life. The way things were going. Chiang, little better than an ex-bandit and warlord himself, and now a burst bladder, would never make it back to the mainland without U.S. help. Washington wasn't about to get bogged down in a land war in the Land of Chin. Vietnam was trouble enough. He stroked her mudcaked hair, which somehow still smelled fresh, and gave her a hug.
  
  Come on. The sooner we get your general out the sooner you can start planning the invasion."
  
  She studied his face in the first faint pallor of dawn. "You are laughing at me! You think I am a hopeless amateur?"
  
  "I don't. You've been terrific, Su. We wouldn't be here now without you. But from now on things are going to get rough. Really rough. Come on."
  
  The weather turned perversely cruel. As they gained the rim of the plateau the rain ceased and the clouds began to move out with amazing rapidity. Nick cursed the weather gods fiercely and without regard for syntax or grammar.
  
  "Rains and fogs all night, when we don't need it, and now it clears! Now! Those goddamned 'copters will be buzzing around like bees all day."
  
  They had taken cover in a dense growth of wet bracken near the rim. The deep ravine below them was still filled with writhing and coiling white mist, clinging to ridges and boulders like lost ghosts. It reminded Nick of one of Dante's minor pits.
  
  "We'll be in the temple," Fan Su said. "They can't spot us there."
  
  "We'll also be immobile and helpless," Nick said grimly. "That won't do. We've got to stay mobile. I've got to be able to prowl and figure a way out. How far would you say it is from the temple to the border?"
  
  "Maybe five miles."
  
  His laugh was curt and cold. "That's liable to be the longest five miles of our fives, honey."
  
  She tugged at his arm. "You may be right. So let's start. I can find my way down to the temple easily enough now. The path is slippery and dangerous but I know it well. Why do you wait?"
  
  He pulled her down. "Because I want to be sure that everything is all right down there. We'll wait until the mist clears and we can see the temple. Suppose they've already found your general. You think they would broadcast it? No. They'd wait, set a trap, knowing someone would come for him. They want all they can get, those bastards. They'd love to smash your Undertong! And you would help them, sweetheart, after they'd worked on you for a time. You would tell them everything. Believe me."
  
  She settled down in the bracken beside him He felt her shiver. "Yes," she admitted, "you are right. It could be a trap. I'm sorry, Nick. I am not a professional like you.
  
  He squeezed her knee. "No. But you'll do until one comes along, honey.
  
  She crept into his arms and he kissed her Gently As near to tenderness as he could come. When he felt his body beginning to conquer his mind he put her away from him. Time enough for that later, he thought.
  
  If they made it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  The General
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter cleared a little circle of earth and thrust a stick upright to make a crude sundial. Reckoning the time of year, and the latitude, it was after nine before the mist lifted sufficiently for them to see the temple. They lay burrowed deep in the bracken while Nick studied the scene. It was still cloudy and dark to the west, but in the east a weak sun was struggling through the overcast. The helicopters would be buzzing around soon.
  
  The temple was small, built of dirt-colored brick and stone, and stood about halfway through the valley which ran from east to west. They were on the northern rim. A narrow rocky path, wide enough for oxcarts, ran through the ravine. The temple stood back from this path in a large clearing fringed by bamboo and long untended banana and tangerine trees. The rear of the temple was apparently set into the hill behind it, which was covered with upward marching conifers. There was no sign of life in the little valley or around the temple itself.
  
  Fan Su explained that the temple had been forsaken for nearly a hundred years. "The people around here think it has been taken over by evil spirits. The priests were unable to exorcise the spirits, so the people moved away. None of the villagers or farmers will go near the temple."
  
  "That helps," Nick acknowledged. "We won't have to worry about snoopers. I doubt that it will stop the Chicoms, though."
  
  A dog barked somewhere to his right, to the west, and he heard a ragged cacophony of geese disturbed. He looked askance at Fan Su.
  
  "A little village there. A hamlet, really. About ten houses, I think. There is a tavern and a brothel also. The soldiers use them sometimes. No great danger to us. The villagers do not come near the temple."
  
  Nick filed the information away. Where there was a tavern, and a brothel, there would be soldiers. Naturally. Might be bad. Or it might be good.
  
  He stood up and brushed earth and twigs from his clothes. "Let's go, then. It's probably as clear as it will ever be. We'll just amble down the path to the temple. I'll use a stick and pretend to be old and crippled. You lead me. If we are observed maybe we can pass as a couple of beggars, or someone on the lam from the Chicoms."
  
  "Lam?"
  
  He grinned and winked at her. "They neglected your education at Bennington. Come on."
  
  But as she started to rise he pushed her down again. His ears, incredibly acute, heard it long before she did. They burrowed in the bracken again and Nick pulled some of the stringy, still damp foliage over them. "Don't move," he warned. "Don't look up, whatever you do. Bury your face. I think our clothes are cruddy and muddy enough to get us by, but don't move!" Movement was the deadly betrayer.
  
  The helicopter, like a whirring moth with faint sunlight burnishing its body, came chop-chopping in from the south. It was very low. Nick reckoned the altitude at about a hundred feet. Damn!
  
  The helicopter buzzed down the little valley. Nick dared not look, but he could figure it well enough. The damned thing was hovering over the temple. If it landed, if they searched the temple now, the jig was up. He would just have to ditch the mission and try to get back to Hong Kong.
  
  His mouth was against Fan Su's small soft ear. "If your general wanders outside now he's had it."
  
  He could barely hear her reply above the blatting of the rotor blades. "He won't. He's badly hurt. Probably in a coma, or even dead. Anyway he's in a cave in back of the temple. Even if they search they might not find him."
  
  The helicopter's engine increased its beat. Nick caught a glimpse of the craft as it tilted upward and veered away. It continued on to the north. Might be a good sign, he pondered. They were going on with the search. But then he didn't know where their command post was — and they would be in radio communication. It meant nothing. They had the temple spotted now and Nick did not like that. It gave him a cold and uncomfortable feeling.
  
  When the helicopter was out of sight to the north he pulled the girl erect. "Hubba," he ordered. "Let's get down there and under cover."
  
  They were startled only once on the way to the temple. There was a grunting and rustling in some bamboo and Nick caught a glimpse of rusty brown hide. He drew the Luger, but Fan Su merely whispered, "Wild boar," and kept going.
  
  They entered the temple under a decaying arch. It was small, filthy, and smelled of time and rat dung. Sharp red eyes watched their entrance and they heard warning squeaks.
  
  Fan Su went directly to the rear of the temple. Here was a large boulder, its top chipped off to form sort of an altar. The girl looked at Nick. "I hope you can move it. It took all the strength of four men to put it there. There is no counterweight, no trick."
  
  She had made no mention of such men before and Nick realized, without surprise, that she still wasn't telling him everything. He approved. She might make a good agent yet, if she lived long enough.
  
  He put both hands against the giant stone and leaned into it, testing. It did not budge. Must weigh five or six hundred pounds. He glanced around for help, for anything that might serve as fulcrum and lever. Nothing. It would have to be sheer muscle, then.
  
  N3 put his big hands against the rock, took a deep breath, and pushed. He attacked with fury, with every ounce of strength he had, the veins traced in purple relief on his forehead and cheeks. The stone moved an inch or two, no more.
  
  Nick stopped, gasping for breath. "Those were four strong men," he told her. "Stand back. I'll have to use my legs."
  
  The girl was watching quietly, admiration and awe in her eyes. "We should have brought a lever," she said. "I didn't think."
  
  "Never mind. I'll get it. But get back now — it might roll."
  
  She retreated nearly to the entrance. Nick stood with his back against the hill face, really the rear of the temple, and braced himself. He flattened his massive shoulders, leaped and put both feet against the stone. The long muscles in his thighs knotted and moved under the flesh, like snakes in the act of striking. Slowly the boulder began to move. It halted, moved again as Nick strained in agony, halted and moved again and began to sway. It fell away with a crash, rolled a few feet and stopped.
  
  Nick mopped his brow with the back of his hand and grinned at Fan Su. "I must be a little out of condition."
  
  She was already past him and crawling into a small black hole which the rock had concealed. Nick went after her on his hands and knees. She stopped abruptly and he rammed his head into her small hard buttocks. Her voice, muffled by the close black confines of the little cave, came back to him.
  
  "He's alive! I can hear him breathing."
  
  "Okay. Let's get him out of this hole. He can't be getting much air."
  
  "In a moment. There are matches in here somewhere." He heard her fumble and swear under her breath. Then a match flared yellow. He watched her light a stub of candle. The tiny flame revealed a low-ceilinged round hole dug out of the hillside. It couldn't have been more than ten by ten. In the middle of the earth room a man lay on a pallet of dirty straw. Near the pallet was a broken pot half full of water and something that might have been a packet of books wrapped in torn and stained newspapers.
  
  "Go back to the entrance and keep watch," Nick commanded. "Ill bring him out. He's alive now, all right, but I don't know for how long."
  
  When she had scuttled back past him he took the candle and held it for a better look at the old man on the pallet. His heart sank. General Sung Yo Chan, late of the Chinese General Staff, didn't look as though he were going to make it.
  
  The general was a scrawny, lemon-colored skeleton. His head appeared much too big for his fragile old body. He wore a pair of dirty white baggy trousers secured to his skinny middle with a twist of straw rope. His feet were bare. His only other clothing was a torn T-shirt and a gray quilted jacket from which all the buttons had been torn. He lay all askew on the pallet, his huge head too heavy for the stalklike withered neck, and his eyes were closed. N3 did not like the sound of the heavy breathing, a rasping congested sound that came too seldom.
  
  Most of all Nick did not like the irregular plaque of blood and pus on the general's chest, just below the emaciated ribs on the right side. A gut wound! Plus, no doubt, pneumonia. If they saved the general it would be a miracle. A hint of wry smile flitted across Nick's face. If they got out at all it was going to take a miracle! Well, he was pretty good at miracles. Had brought a lot of them off.
  
  He knelt beside the old man and lifted him gently, making a cradle of his big biceps. He would guess about 90 pounds. Fan Su would weigh more than that.
  
  He laid the general near the entrance where he could get as much light and air as possible. They had no food and no water except that in the broken pot, but it did not matter. Gut wounds couldn't eat or drink. The water could be used to bathe the wound, though by now it might be septic.
  
  Fan Su got the water and the first aid kit and squatted by him as Nick sniffed at the wound. The old man had not opened his eyes or spoken.
  
  Fan Su knew what he was doing. Wide eyed, she asked, "Gangrene?"
  
  "I don't know. I'm not doctor enough to be sure. It doesn't smell too bad. But it is bad — a gut wound and the slug's still in him. If we can get him over the border and into a hospital he might make it. Might not. I…"
  
  The general opened his eyes and stared up at them. They were very dark small eyes, murky and feverish now, but with a light of intelligence in them. He said something that Nick could not understand. The girl replied and nodded, smiling down at the old man. He closed his eyes again.
  
  Nick had taken a square of gauze from the kit. He decided against using the water. "What was that all about?"
  
  Still squatting, she picked up the general's dirty, fragile, long-fingered hand and held it. "Mandarin. He understands a little English but does not speak it. He said that if the long road beckons he must follow it. And he asks a favor of you."
  
  "What favor?" Nick taped the gauze into place over the wound, after sprinkling sulfa on the torn and festering flesh. It was all he had, all he could do. The first aid kid was an old one, probably black market, and had never been meant to combat gut wounds or gangrene.
  
  "He wants you to kill him if we are taken," the girl said. "Shoot him. He would regard it as a great favor. He is afraid of being dragged in the public square in Peking, of being stripped and humiliated before he is executed."
  
  Nick nodded. "If he can't save his body he wants to save his face, eh?"
  
  "He is a Taoist. That is why he has survived so long, I suppose. Lao-tsze preached that — survival at almost any cost. It would explain why he has played along with the Chicoms for so long." Fan Su shrugged. "We in Undertong know much of this man. We have been watching him. He is old now, in his seventies, I think, and he is ready to make his peace. He was a boyhood friend of Chiang, you know. And he has been on the General Staff for years."
  
  Nick regarded the corpselike figure of the old general. In the distance a jet seared past. Somewhere out in the ravine a dove mourned.
  
  "He's a prize," Nick admitted. "I just hope we can keep him alive. There must be a lot of secrets stored away in that bald old skull." He remembered the packet that had been beside the pallet in the hiding-hole. He sent her for it. She was smiling when she returned. She tossed the packet to him. "I think this is very important. Feel the weight!"
  
  He nearly dropped the package. He ripped away the newspapers and found three books in lead covers. He stared at Fan Su. "Code books. Naval code, or at least they belonged to the Navy. The lead is to sink them in an emergency. This is important, almost as important as he is, unless they're missed and the Chinese know they're compromised. In that case they'll never use them again."
  
  The general opened his eyes again. This time he stared up at Nick. There was more life in the old eyes now. He spoke rapidly to the girl in Mandarin. She listened and nodded, and Nick noted that she seemed amused.
  
  "What's so funny?"
  
  "Excuse me. I do not mean to be rude. But I think it is good to laugh at a time like this."
  
  Nick smiled and patted the general's frail shoulder. "I agree. But let me in on it. What's the joke?"
  
  "No joke, really. But he says that you are not the man he was supposed to meet. He is a little suspicious."
  
  "I suppose he means Ludwell? Explain it to him, then."
  
  Before Fan Su could explain, however, the general put one of his bony hands into the top of his filthy white trousers. He brought out a small square of paper and handed it to the girl with a trembling hand. Nick reached for it.
  
  It was a faded snapshot of Bob Ludwell. Taken a few years before, Nick thought, because Ludwell was not so bald. For a moment his thoughts were somber, seeing the dead man's picture and remembering the backed body on the autopsy table. Then he handed the snapshot back to the girl. "Explain it to him."
  
  The girl spoke rapidly in Mandarin. The old man looked a long time at Nick, then nodded and replied.
  
  "He asks if the dead man was a friend of yours."
  
  "Tell him yes. Tell him I am doing the job my friend can no longer do. And tell him he's talking too much. He must save his strength."
  
  Fan Su translated. But the old man spoke again, rapidly, his eyes rolling and his thin claws twitching. Fan Su laughed. She looked at Nick. "He wants his money!"
  
  Killmaster scratched the itching stubble on his lean jaw. "He wants his money! A hundred thousand dollars, just like that? He's a greedy old character, isn't he? Nervy, too. A real Chinese. He's practically dying and he's worrying about money."
  
  Fan Su was still laughing. "I know. I think his mind is wandering a little. He says that even if he dies the money can be buried with him."
  
  "Washington would love that," Nick muttered.
  
  She put a hand on Nick's arm. "Can't we tell him something, do something, to put his mind at ease about the money? It just might help keep him alive, you know. He's such a fragile old thing — all mind and spirit. Not much body. He is very serious about it. He does not want to live and then have to beg on the streets in the United States."
  
  "I doubt it will come to that," Nick said dryly. "But I'll see what I can do — I've just had a horrible idea. At least my boss will think so. Back in a minute."
  
  He went to a dark corner of the temple, opened his trouser front and took out the little metal capsule containing Pierre, the gas bomb. Wrapped around the bomb was a single AXE seal, an inch square of gummed paper. It bore the AXE symbol and the legend: KILLMASTER. In a way, Nick thought as he replaced the metal capsule, the seal was his chop, just as the Tigers had their chop. The seals, of course, had been planned with an eye to effective psychological warfare. A flagrant taunting of the enemy. Killmaster came, saw, conquered! That was the message of the seals. This one would be put to a different use. Nick couldn't help chuckling as he went back to where Fan Su squatted by the general. Hawk was going to blow his top!
  
  He showed her the seal. "You got anything to write with?"
  
  She produced a Hong Kong ball point. They cost a penny and no beggar would be caught without one. "I bought it from a guard at the border," she explained. "Part of my friendly act. But what…"
  
  "You'll see. Anything to keep the old boy happy." In minuscule script he wrote on the seal: In the name of The U.S. Government I. O. U. $100,000, — signed, Nicholas H. Carter.
  
  Fan Su looked doubtful. "Will they honor it?"
  
  Nick grinned at her. "They'd better! If they don't, and we make it, I'll be paying off for the rest of my life. Here, give it to him and explain what it is."
  
  Fan Su handed the seal to the general. He took it in one prehensile yellow claw, studied it, nodded at Nick and then appeared to fall asleep, the seal clutched tightly in his hand.
  
  Nick inspected the bandage again, then told the girl, "That's all I can do. From now on it's your job to keep him alive, my job to get us out of here. I think we should have a plan in case the soldiers come — and here it is. There would be no point in trying to run for it, not with him." He pointed to the general.
  
  "We should have a little warning if they come. You and the general will get back in the hiding-hole and I'll push the rock back. Then I'll make a break for it, start a fire fight, and draw them off. They may take the bait and forget to search the temple. Even if they do search it they might miss the hole. Anyway, it will give you a second chance. You understand all that? There won't be any time for rehearsals."
  
  "I understand." She did not look at him. "You will be killed. You know that!"
  
  Nick Carter shrugged. "Don't worry. I will meet my death when I meet it. I do not speculate about it. We will do it my way." He lay back and stared at the ceiling of aged hand-worked beams.
  
  "You talk like a Chinese," Fan Su said.
  
  "Perhaps. What is that hole in the ceiling?"
  
  "It leads to the bell tower. Not a tower, really. Just open work. A platform where there used to be a big gong. The priests struck it with wooden mallets."
  
  Nick got up. "I'm going to take a look. Stay with him. Call me if anything goes wrong."
  
  He leaped for a beam and swung himself easily up into the dark rectangle cut in the ceiling. He found a narrow catwalk leading the width of the temple. It led to a shuttered window overlooking the valley. Beyond the window was a platform. Nick, squinting through the shutters, could see a stout A-frame made to hold a gong. He could also see the tiny village at the far end of the valley. It was, as the girl had pointed out, nothing more than a cluster of squalid houses. Most were built of mud bricks with a thatch of straw. One house, bigger and more substantial than the others, stood a little apart in a thick growth of juniper and camphor. Behind the house was a large meadow slanting down to a stream.
  
  The big house, Nick mused, must be the tavern and brothel the girl had mentioned. A house of pleasure. He grimaced. He could imagine what the girls would be like in a village like this. And yet it might prove useful. If soldiers did come they would inevitably be attracted to the inn, to the house of pleasure. Soldiers were the same in any army, all over the world.
  
  He went below again. The general was still sleeping. Nick thought he looked a little better. There seemed to be more color in the old saffron flesh. Nick took a position as near the door as he dared and stretched out on the dirt floor. A rat ran along a rafter. Nick said: "I'd give half of that money I promised him for a cigarette."
  
  She did not smile. "It is a small hardship."
  
  "Yes." Nick took Wilhelmina, the Luger, from his belt holster and began to check it over. "Tell me about this Jim Pok," he said. "You've seen him?"
  
  "Twice. When I was working in Hong Kong. Working for Undertong. Then I saw him only at a distance — he is hard to get close to. His Tigers are always with him."
  
  "What does he look like?" Nick rubbed the Luger with the sleeve of his jacket. It would have to be reblued one day.
  
  Fan Su said that Jim Pok looked the perfect image of an American-Chinese businessman. A very successful one. Short, slim, always impeccably dressed. His English was also beyond reproach.
  
  "He went to Harvard," she said. "His family is very wealthy and respectable in the States. Dry-cleaning shops, I think, and importing. He has an uncle who was once Mayor of Chinatown in New York. Most respectable and good, his people."
  
  Nick Carter slitted his eyes against the sun that was creeping in the doorway, a butter-colored bar alive with motes, and the girl thought there was something weirdly catlike about the big AXEman.
  
  Nick said, "You know a lot about him."
  
  "We keep a file. Undertong has marked him for extermination when the time comes. When we are strong enough."
  
  There was something cruel about his smile. For just an instant she thought of a skull, a grinning skull. "Don't wait too long," he told her softly. "He might not be around."
  
  "You plan to kill him, Nick?"
  
  He only stared at her. His eyes seemed to change color as she watched. "Maybe," he said shortly. "Go on. How did he get started in Hong Kong? What makes him so tough, so powerful?"
  
  "Money. What else?"
  
  Nick yawned. Along with a cigarette he could have used a nice soft bed. "Where did he get his money?"
  
  "That we do not know. No one seems to know. It has been said that he was originally financed by a syndicate in the States. He came to Hong Kong about five years ago and took over Tiger Tong. The old leaders were found floating in the harbor. Since then Jim Pok has never stopped. He is like an octopus. His tentacles are everywhere."
  
  "And now he works for the Chicoms. He's good, too. I give him that. No wonder Chinese Counterintelligence uses him."
  
  Nick nodded at the sleeping general. "When he defected the Chicoms got panicky. But good old Jim Pok was right on the ball. He must have spotted Ludwell as CIA — either that or the Chinese tipped him — and he went right to work. He knew Ludwell was the logical one to go in and bring the general out, so he cut that off at the source. Got himself a nice little bonus, too. And that isn't all. I'll bet the real reason Pok went on his visit to Red China was to set up things, to coordinate, in case the general did get over the border. They won't give up. Jim Pok and his Tigers will get the job of killing the general in Hong Kong."
  
  Her dark eyes met his. "I had thought of that. But you won't let them."
  
  "No. I won't let them. Now enough talking. Try to get some sleep. This is going to be a long and, I hope, quiet day. You sleep first. I'll wake you in a couple of hours, then I'll sleep."
  
  "I do not know if I can sleep."
  
  "Try," he ordered. "We both need it. That was one hell of a night."
  
  She was asleep in seconds, stretched on the dirt in a corner, her grimy cheek pillowed on her hands. Killmaster regarded her with half-closed eyes. She was a good kid. Tough as old leather and beautiful, too. That combination didn't happen often. Fan Su was dedicated, too. Nick smiled faintly. That made two dedicated women he'd met in 24 hours — he had not thought of Miriam Hunt since this crazy adventure had begun. He marveled that he was thinking of the Ice Maiden now. That had certainly been a mistake!
  
  He wakened Fan Su after two hours and went to sleep in the same corner. He could imagine that the ancient dirt smelled faintly of her body. Absurd. He enjoyed the fantasy for a moment, then fell into oblivion. It was one of his strong points — he could sleep any time, any place, and he always awoke refreshed and ready for action.
  
  Nick awoke now to a tugging at his shoulder. The girl was whispering, "Nick — Nick! Wake up. Something is happening. I hear trucks and cars — I think in the village."
  
  He sat upright. One glance at the door told him it was late afternoon. She had let him sleep long past the time he had set. But this was not the time for reproach. He could hear the sounds from the village. Definitely truck engines.
  
  Nick shot a glance across the barren room at the general. "How is he?"
  
  "I think not so good. He has a much higher fever and he is more and more delirious. He talks a lot, all in Mandarin, and none of it makes sense."
  
  Nick swore. It was all he could do. It would be hell to lose the general now. "I'll take a look upstairs," he said. "Stay with him. Use that water in the pot to make a compress. Don't let him drink any of it." His own mouth was arid and swollen and he saw that her lips were cracked. They would have to have water soon.
  
  What he saw from the shutters cheered him. The sun was already lowering behind burnt ochre hills beyond the hamlet. It stood in sharp silhouette in the vivid crepuscular light. A large company of soldiers was making camp in the meadow behind the inn. Nick felt delight and hope grow in him. If they were bivouacking it probably meant they wouldn't search the little valley or the temple today. The soldiers would be eager to get to the tavern, to the rice wine and beer and the ladies of pleasure. It meant, also, that the helicopter hadn't spotted them. The soldiers would be here now if it had.
  
  A lot depended on the type of officers in charge of the soldiers. Nick hoped they would be sloppy and inept, but he couldn't count on it.
  
  His eyes glued to the shutters, he counted the soldiers as best he could. There were over a hundred of them. That meant a full company. There were half a dozen trucks. One, judging by the long whip antenna, was a radio vehicle. The mess truck was already being unloaded. Long tables were being set up and kettles and garbage cans were being brought out. A group of soldiers were busy building a fire. Nick scratched his stubble thoughtfully. This was a crack outfit, not militia. These were regulars. People's Army! Still — soldiers were soldiers and there was the tavern and the house of pleasure.
  
  He spotted it then — the tank. It was a little apart from the main camp, down the meadow near the stream, and he noted that the tankers, four of them, were a choosey lot. They were not mingling with the common soldiery. They were already eating from pans and cups, sprawled on the. ground near their tank. An idea, insane, mad, audacious, began to burgeon in the mind of the man from AXE. It was just crazy enough to stand a chance.
  
  He studied the tank carefully. It was in silhouette and he recognized it immediately. It was one of the big ones, Russian made, a T 54. A real monster. They couldn't have many of these, he thought, not with the present deep freeze between Russia and China. But they had this one. And one was all he needed.
  
  His keen eyes roved over the tank again. The light was going fast now, but he could make out a scarlet dragon painted on the tank's turret. The dragon was rearing, clawing, and flames spouted from its open maw. Could it be?
  
  It could. Nick spotted the projecting nozzle beside the turret gun. It was a flame-throwing tank.
  
  The sun slid behind the lowest hill, a dusky oriflamme shot through with color. Nick took a last look at the soldiers — some of them were digging a latrine not far from the tavern — and went back to the open hatch. He dropped easily to the floor of the temple. The girl, squatting beside the general, looked up.
  
  "The soldiers — they are coming?"
  
  Nick grinned at her. "Not tonight. Our luck is in. They're not coming, but we're going. As soon as it's dark."
  
  Her face darkened. "But where, Nick? He cannot walk at all. We will have to carry him. I do not think we can run far."
  
  "Get him ready to travel," N3 told her. "We're not running. Not right away, anyway. They've got a tank down there and I want it. We're going across the border the easy way."
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  Dragon Flame
  
  
  
  
  The moment it was dark enough they left the temple. A hazy scythe of pale moon floated in the east, a friendly moon shedding enough light for travel, yet not enough to drench the landscape. Nick and Fan Su studied the map before they left, then burnt it, along with anything else that might have betrayed their presence, in the hiding-hole. With a gargantuan effort Nick rolled the stone back before the hole. The effort cost him dearly. He was ready to admit that even his tremendous endurance and vitality had begun to flag.
  
  Nick carried the general on his back. After the weight of the boulder, the general seemed lighter than a feather. They started along the narrow track leading to the village. They could see lights flaring in the tavern and hear the wild hubbub of soldiers, already drunk on cheap wine and beer. It began to look promising.
  
  They nearly walked into the arms of the patrol.
  
  Nick heard them first and dragged Fan Su off the track into a patch of bamboo. They lay huddled in the poor cover, Nick's big hand over the general's mouth, while a dozen men passed with rifles and tommy guns in sling position. Most of the soldiers were grumbling loudly in Cantonese because they were on duty, missing all the fun back at the tavern.
  
  When they had passed, Killmaster whispered to the girl, "That was close! Their officer is more alert than I thought. They've gone to seal the other end of the valley — put the stopper in the bottle. We got out just in time. They'll spot the temple now and either search it right away, or post a couple of men there."
  
  There was no going back now even had he wanted to. And no point in skirting the village and making for the main road beyond, the road that led to the border and freedom. With the good weather, the road would be crawling with military traffic and there were sure to be checkpoints. It would have to be the tank. With the tank and a lot of gall, a colossal bluff, plus his own peculiar brand of luck, they just might make it.
  
  The general was in a coma, for which N3 was grateful. They had used his straw belt to bind his hands around Nick's neck, and Nick carried him on his back like a child.
  
  Cautiously, listening, ready to scurry off the track at a moment's notice, they made their way into a thick patch of conifer, banyan and bamboo. The ground was still sodden, but covered with withered sedge and fern. Nick sniffed the air. There was a faint marsh smell. Probably the marsh was beyond the stream at the far end of the meadow.
  
  "We'll go to ground here while I get this thing figured out," Nick told Fan Su. "Don't talk unless absolutely necessary; then whisper." He touched her thin, smooth arm. "All you have to do now is keep him quiet. If he starts muttering, or having nightmares, he can give us away."
  
  Fan Su huddled over the general. "He's terribly hot, Nick. His fever must be way up."
  
  "Nothing we can do," Nick muttered. "He's a tough old cookie — he might make it. Now quiet. I'll be back for you as soon as I can."
  
  The rear of the tavern was a good 50 yards away. Nick studied it for a moment before leaving the cover of the thicket. There were two windows in the rear of the place, one on either side of a door. One window was dimly fit. He saw dark figures move in shadow play on the straw matting covering it. The other window was dark. As he watched, someone came to the door and hurled a basket of trash into the yard.
  
  Nick was about to start when two soldiers came around a corner of the tavern. He huddled low again. The soldiers were drunk and happy, chatting in a dialect Nick did not understand. They went to the latrine Nick had watched being dug earlier, where one squatted while the other remained upright and said something which made the squatting man laugh and nearly lose his balance. Nick did catch the word "beer." It must be lousy.
  
  When the soldiers had gone back into the tavern he left the thicket. He shambled toward the rear of the tavern. He walked bent over, to conceal his height, and pulled the shabby dogskin cap low over his features. He weaved a bit and mumbled to himself. In the faint moonlight he might pass as a drunken Chinese, at least until he could get close enough to use the stiletto. Death was going to have to be very, very quiet tonight.
  
  Nick reached the rear of the tavern. Behind the lighted window he could hear a mumble of voices, a man and a woman speaking softly and laughing now and then. Nick crouched below the sill and considered. An inn such as this did not offer much privacy; they would be running the peasant soldiers through like something on a conveyor belt. Automated sex, you might call it.
  
  But there was a coziness, an air of some small privacy, about the room just beyond him. There seemed to be only two people talking, a man and a woman. No question of what they had been doing, or had just finished doing, or were about to do.
  
  All this flicked through Nick's agile brain in a split second and the answer came as if from a computer: Officer!
  
  He had been able to identify only one officer as he spied that afternoon. Probably, for a single company, there would be only one. The man Nick watched that afternoon had worn no insignia of rank — that was forbidden now — but his manner had been indicative enough.
  
  Inside the room the woman giggled. The man laughed and there were the sounds of a friendly scuffle. Then a little silence, broken at last by a gurgling moan of pleasure from the woman. Silently, very slowly, Nick drew back a corner of the mat dangling just inside the window.
  
  A thick candle burned greasily on a table near the floor pallet on which the man and woman were making love. The candle guttered and smoked as Nick lifted the mat, and he stopped breathing, but the couple were far beyond noticing anything so unimportant as a draft.
  
  The woman was on her back, her eyes closed, her fat legs outflung. She was a fleshy slut with a tangled mass of dark hair. The man was slim, small, and Nick immediately spotted the holstered pistol by the side of the pallet. It was the officer.
  
  Nick did not hesitate. If he could kill the officer and dispose of the body, all without creating a disturbance, it would be a giant leap along the escape route. Chinese soldiers were mostly recruited from among the peasants, and thinking for themselves was not one of the things they did best. They were brave, hardy, but also a little stupid. If he could get the officer it might prevent an alarm, and immobilize pursuit, for a long time. It would give them a good head start in the tank.
  
  There was only one means of killing them both silently — Pierre, the gas bomb. Nick took the little pellet from his trousers and turned a dial slightly to the right. Pierre was ready now. As soon as he released it the tiny spring cap would fly off and the deadly gas would spew out under pressure. Instant death!
  
  Nick did not allow himself to think about the woman. Another whore in the world, more or less, did not matter when so much was at stake. He did not like to kill innocents, but he could not hold himself responsible for them. Her luck was bad.
  
  He peeked again. The two on the pallet were approaching the end in a frenzy of writhing sound. Nick put a hand stealthily through the window and flicked the gas bomb with a deft wrist movement, aiming for the foot of the pallet where it would land without sound. The least outcry would be fatal.
  
  Not a bad way to die, he thought. He ducked beneath the window and pulled the mat down taut, breathing deeply of the cool night air, readying his lungs for what he must do. And do very swiftly. His luck had been phenomenal so far.
  
  Nick counted off a slow minute. From the tavern came a fortissimo gust of drunken laughter. Nick wondered if the tankers were drinking with the others, or still remaining aloof. He hoped they were staying close together. If they separated it was going to present a problem. He took a deep breath.
  
  The minute was up. N3 held his breath and went into the room like a big cat, replacing the window mat carefully behind him. He crossed the squalid room in three strides and tried the door. It was held on the inside by a simple latch of wood and thong. Anyone might come in at any time. But the man had been an officer; maybe he had given orders not to be disturbed.
  
  He lifted the dead man off the dead woman. For some reason — he never thought of it again — he pulled the woman's dirty shift down over her nakedness.
  
  The man was totally naked. Nick cradled the limp warm body in his big arms, catfooted to the window and peered out. The moon was a little brighter. It made a delicate silverprint of the thicket where Fan Su and the general waited. There was no one at the latrine.
  
  Nick put the body down for a moment and went back to gather the man's clothing and the belt and pistol. He wanted nothing found that would betray foul play — nothing but the body of the woman. That, he thought with a hard grin, would give the simple soldiers something to think about for a long time. The officer missing, gone into thin air, and his pleasure girl dead! It would give him time — and time now was life itself.
  
  He went through the window with the body in his arms. The next 50 yards were going to seem like a mile. If he were seen now there could be no dissembling. He would have to kill again. Kill or run.
  
  No one came. Nick threw the body into the latrine and turned to where a long-handled shovel was thrust into a pile of damp yellow earth. A few shovelfuls and the body was covered. Face down in excrement, Nick thought, but with the good earth of China over him. His shrug was minuscule. He had not wished this struggle into existence — he was an instrument, nothing more. Carrying the man's uniform and pistol, he went rapidly back to the thicket of fir and bamboo. He had been gone a long time. Fan Su might be worried.
  
  Fan Su was worried, but not about Nick. She was squatting beside the general, chafing the thin arms. The old man was still in a coma, his breathing labored and harsh. "I'm afraid," the girl whispered to Nick. "Sometimes he nearly stops breathing. Oh God, I don't want to lose him now! It will mean so much if we can get him across — for him and for the West and for Undertong. Maybe we could get some real support then."
  
  Nick tossed the dead officer's uniform at her. "You sound like you're getting a little hysterical, kid. Cut it out. Put those on — the pistol and belt, too. You're going to be in charge of this tank, if we get it. You'll ride in the turret in that uniform and give orders. Hurry, woman! All hell is going to break loose in that tavern any minute now."
  
  He wanted to get the tank and get moving before the dead woman was discovered. With the officer missing the soldiers would be confused. They might think anything — perhaps even that the officer was in the tank and that it was moving out under legitimate orders.
  
  He saw the shimmer of the girl's white panties and bra as she stripped and put on the uniform. "Lucky you," he said quietly. "Clean clothes. Reasonably so, anyway. Me now, I'll never dream of a white Christmas again. Only of a hot shower and lots of soap. You ready?" He was kidding her intentionally, to ease some of the tension he sensed in that slim lovely body.
  
  "I'm ready." In the moonlight she might pass for the officer at a distance. She had put her dark hair up beneath the felt khaki cap with its big red star. The pistol belt hung on her too loosely and Nick made a new hole with the stiletto, then pulled the belt snugly around her slim waist.
  
  "You'll do," he told her gruffly. "Follow me and don't make any noise."
  
  He stooped to pick up the general. The old man moaned loudly. Nick swore and put him down again. "This won't do. Tear a strip off your old clothes and gag him."
  
  This done, they left the thicket. No outcry from the tavern yet. The soldiers would hesitate to disturb their officer at his love-making. But sooner or later it would come.
  
  Nick headed toward the stream at the bottom of the meadow, keeping in a thin fringe of bamboo and willow. Damp earth and leaves underfoot deadened their footfalls. They reached the steep bank of the stream and Nick motioned the girl down into a clump of thick growing brake. The marsh smell was thicker here. He put his mouth against the girl's ear and whispered, "I'll leave you again now. Watch the general; don't let him move or make a sound. We're only going to get one chance at this."
  
  She nodded and, for a fleeting moment, nuzzled his rough cheek with her lips. Then he left her, stealing out of the bracken and along the lip of the stream like a wraith. He flexed the stiletto into his hand. More silent work ahead.
  
  He could see the iron loom of the big tank in the moonlight. The dragon, rampant in moonlight, appeared to move. The long snout of the gun cast an ugly thick shadow, jutting from the larger shadow like a deadly phallus.
  
  Nick heard nothing as he crawled toward the tank. He went inch by slow inch, flat on his face in the sere meadow grass, hating the moon now. If the tankers spotted him he would just have to charge and start shooting. He doubted he could get away with it.
  
  Beneath the tank, something stirred. Nick froze. A very long minute oozed past. He relaxed a trifle. A man turning and mumbling in his sleep, that was all. The tankers, or some of them, were sleeping under their tank. It was common practice.
  
  How many? Nick wanted them all. They were an elite little group and none of the others would dare question their movements, except the officer. And he was dead.
  
  Nick was close to the tank now, within the blobby shadow of the monster. He could hear men breathing, twisting restlessly. There was a gentle snore.
  
  Nick crawled forward until he was beneath the long jutting gun. He could see the shorter nozzle of the flamethrower. The painted dragon leered down at him.
  
  It was dark beneath the tank. Too dark. He could see the face of only one of the three sleeping men. Only three. Damn it! But there was no help for that. The fourth tanker was probably up at the tavern. Very likely it would be the sergeant in charge — and he would be sure to give the alarm when he heard the tank move out. Unless he was drunk. Passed out. Nick could only hope.
  
  He studied the face he could see in the moonlight. Only a kid. A thin young face framed by a fur hood. These were not local troops, not even local regulars. They had cold-weather equipment. They must have been sent down from the north to aid in catching the general.
  
  Nick put the stiletto between his teeth and crawled a little nearer the sleeping boy. The pale brown face was bland, guileless, in the mellow moonlight. Now, as Nick watched and made his decision, the boy smiled in his sleep.
  
  N3 decided to let the boy live. No sentiment or pity influenced his decision, only pure reason and self-interest. A kid would be easier to handle. Easier to frighten — especially after he saw what Nick was going to show him.
  
  Nick skirted the boy and crawled farther in under the tank. His very acute vision divided the two sleeping men into distinct and separate packets of shadow. Now for it — and very, very quiet about it.
  
  Working by touch as much as sight, he located the first man's throat, felt gently with his fingers for the jugular. The man stirred restively beneath Nick's feather touch. A long burbling snore came from his parted lips.
  
  Now!
  
  Nick put the stiletto deep into the flesh beneath the left ear and drew it rapidly across the throat to the right ear. At the same time he clamped his big hand over the man's nose and mouth with tremendous force. He felt the hot gush on his hand. The man moved, strained, twisted for only a second. Then he went limp, air bubbling and sighing through the rent in his throat.
  
  Nick lay quietly for a moment. Then he killed the other tanker in the same silent fashion. The boy was still sleeping peacefully, though now he frowned at something in his dreams.
  
  N3 pondered for a short moment. He crawled back to where the girl and the general waited. He didn't think the kid would wake — the tank must have come a long way today. And he needed Fan Su. If the boy was from the north he wouldn't speak Cantonese.
  
  Rapidly he explained to the girl. He picked up the general. "Hurry," he snapped. "Walk to the tank. Slowly, but don't make a noise. Keep an eye out for anyone coming this way from the tavern." The fourth tanker bothered Nick. He could spoil everything if he came on the scene now.
  
  The old man was still wrapped in a coma. Nick put him gently down near the tank, then motioned to the girl. The stiletto was in his hand and he saw her staring down at it. The blood looked black in the moonlight.
  
  "I'm going to wake him now. You'll probably have to talk to him. But he's only a kid and I think we can scare him into playing along. You ready?"
  
  Her eyes were still on the stiletto. "Y-yes. Go on; wake him."
  
  Nick bent over the sleeping boy. He put the point of the stiletto into the tender flesh of the throat, then pressed it harder, deeper, until the slant eyes opened. The boy stared up at him in terror, the whites of his eyes flashing in the moonlight.
  
  Nick put a finger to his own lips and pressed the stiletto a bit harder. After a moment the boy nodded, screwing his eyes downward, trying to see the thing that was hurting him.
  
  Nick whispered to Fan Su, "Quickly now. Ask him if he wants to live. Try a Peking dialect."
  
  She spoke rapidly, using the harsh twang of the north. The boy rolled his eyes and nodded again and again.
  
  "He says that he wishes to five very much. He will do anything the foreign devil says. He's spotted you already."
  
  "No matter now. Ask him if he can drive the tank."
  
  "He says that he is not the regular driver. He is a gunner. But he knows how."
  
  "Good. Hold this on him a minute." Nick handed her the Luger. He ducked beneath the tank and hauled out the two dead tankers, one by each leg. Their slit throats gaped black in the limpid moonlight. He heard Fan Su gasp. He stared at the boy and pointed to the bodies.
  
  "Tell him he'll be like that if he makes a sound, or tried to cross us in any way."
  
  Fan Su translated to the trembling tanker. He kept glancing at his dead comrades, then back again to Nick. Looking for my tail and horns, Nick thought.
  
  The girl turned back to Nick, but kept the Luger leveled at the young tanker's head. "He's scared to death. He'll obey. I told him that we are going to Hong Kong and if he gives us no trouble he can go also. He seems to think it's a good idea. He says that he has wanted to desert for a long time."
  
  Nick laughed harshly. "This is his big chance, then. Now let's get out of here."
  
  Five minutes later the tank rumbled out of the meadow and past the tavern. The general had been tied into one of the gunners' seats. Nick sat next to the driver, the Luger covering him, while he figured out the trigger mechanism of the big gun and the flamethrower. Both, he discovered, were simple enough.
  
  Fan Su, in the dead officer's uniform, sat in the open turret. Her rubber shoes were on the driver's shoulders to give commands. The tank was going as slowly as possible to hold down the noise, though even so the iron dragon was clanking and rumbling like a boiler factory.
  
  They passed the tavern without incident. Nick was beginning to breathe a little easier when he saw the tavern door open. A flood of yellow light poured out. Nick, peering through a slit in the turret, saw the stocky figure of a man appear in the doorway and peer after the tank. The man swayed and clung to the doorjamb and Nick knew he was drunk. For a moment the man came outside, lurching and nearly falling. Then he turned and plunged back into the tavern.
  
  Nick cursed under his breath. The stuff was due to hit the fan now. That must have been the tanker sergeant — it was he who was missing — and he would not be so drunk that he wouldn't know something was wrong. He would first look for his officer, and he would find only the dead whore. Then he would run to the meadow, no doubt, to see what there was to see. He would find two of his men with cut throats. He would have to be pretty damned drunk, Nick told himself, if that didn't sober him up and goad him into action.
  
  He jammed the Luger into the kid driver's back, pointed to the throttle, and made a rapid motion with his fist. "Full speed ahead, buster!"
  
  The big engine roared as the tank leaped ahead. The driver flicked a switch and a powerful beam of light lanced down the narrow road. The light would attract planes like moths, Nick knew, but it had to be risked. If they ditched or got stuck they were finished. And maybe the Chicoms didn't have any night fighters around here.
  
  Fan Su's face appeared in the hatch. She cupped her hands and yelled at Nick, "We're coming to the main road now. We turn left. It's a little over four miles to the Sham Chun. But the bridge there…"
  
  Nick held up his hand. "I know," he yelled back. "Only one bridge, and it's a railroad bridge, and narrow. So what? We go over it, that's all. Just hold tight and pray, Su, to any gods you believe in. Any sign of a checkpoint yet? That's going to be our first real trouble."
  
  She leaned farther down into the hatch, her pale lemon face livid now. "Not yet, but I saw lights a moment ago. We're bound to hit one soon. What do we do, Nick? Try to bluff our way through — or crash it?"
  
  "Do you think you can bluff it? Are there any girl tank commanders in the Chinese Army?"
  
  Fan Su had ducked back to guide the driver. She thrust her face into the hatch again. "I don't know. I doubt it. Anyway they're bound to be suspicious, the Chinese don't move much at night. They may want to see our papers, with the tight security in force." She glanced back at the general, who was rolling and swaying in the gunner's seat, held only by the straw rope. "How is he?"
  
  "He was breathing the last time I looked. We can't worry about him now. If we don't get through he's a dead man anyway. We all are."
  
  Fan Su straightened up. She shouted down the hatch: "We'll have to run for it, Nick! They've been warned. Trucks are blocking the road."
  
  "Get down here and button up the tank," he commanded. "Hurry. Tell this guy to slow down until I give the word, then to go all out."
  
  The girl clambered down into the tank and slammed the turret hatch shut. Nick pushed her into a gunner's seat and handed her the Luger. "Keep this on him. And use those machine guns. You know how?"
  
  She nodded.
  
  "Shoot at anything that gets in our way. But keep an eye on the driver. I'm going to be busy with the big gun and the flamethrower." He gave her knee a squeeze. "We're going to make it, honey."
  
  Fan Su exchanged a few sharp words with the driver. He replied in a firm voice and his dark stare met Nick's without fear.
  
  "I don't think we need to worry about him now," the girl told Nick. "He wants to make it as much as we do. He says they will kill him now, no matter what. He has not been a good soldier of China."
  
  Nick Carter's smile was grim. "He'd be dead if he had been. All right — tell him to open her up. Full speed. Everything she's got, right at the barrier!"
  
  Nick jammed a shell into the breech of the big gun. He peered down the road. The checkpoint was a blaze of light. Trucks had been moved into the center of the road, at least half a dozen of them, two deep.
  
  The tank was picking up speed now. These T 54's could do about 40 at top speed. The tank began to bounce and yaw as the tracks slammed into holes in the rough dirt road.
  
  From a sandbagged revetment Nick saw a machine gun winking blue-orange flame. There was a pock-pock-pock-pocking on the steel turret. Nick grinned. Boys with sling shots! He swiveled the gun in the direction of the revetment, shooting point blank without aim, and let her go. There was a wham-blam roar and flash. The gun bucked and leaped back and the stink of high explosive mingled with the familiar tank smell of grease and hot oil and stale breath. Part of the revetment went sailing upward.
  
  Not a had shot for an amateur!
  
  Nick swiveled the flame nozzle around and aimed it into dead center of the trucks blocking the road. He pulled the release trigger. Come on, Dragon!
  
  A hundred feet of fire lanced ahead of the tank and into the center of the trucks. Flaming dragon's breath. The oily flame curled and crackled and incinerated everything it touched. Gas tanks in the trucks ignited and went up with a scarlet leaping whoooosh. The trucks were already burning like kindling.
  
  Beside him, Nick heard the steady rattle of the machine guns. Fan Su was firing first one, then the other. He saw men running and screaming and beating at their flaming clothes. They would stop running and bend, sprawl, claw the flaming earth as the hose of lead cut them down.
  
  They smashed into the center of the truck pyre. The big tank jolted, leaped, ground its tracks into the earth, then bulldozed ahead. Nick felt a sudden blast of searing heat through the turret. They had scooped up one of the binning trucks and were carrying it along with them.
  
  They were through. The truck fell away. Nick swiveled the gun around and pumped five fast shells into the blazing chaos behind them. He wanted to disrupt their communication as much as possible. Not that it mattered much now; the cat was completely out of the bag.
  
  The guns fell silent. He looked at Fan Su. Her face was grimy and oily and a few locks of black hair had stolen from the cap down over her eyes. She flashed her white teeth at him. Her eyes were wide and had a strange look that Nick recognized. Battle fever. "That was good," she said quietly. "Oh, God, that was so good. Killing some of them!"
  
  The driver spoke sharply. The girl told Nick, "The light has been shot out. It's hard to see through the driver's slit at night. Someone has to go up and direct. I will go." She started to climb into the turret again.
  
  Nick pulled her down. "You will stay! I will go. I almost trust him now, but keep an eye on him anyway. Use the machine guns or the big gun when you can. I'll yell as loud as I can."
  
  She reached for his hand and squeezed it. She slammed a shell into the breech of the big gun and went about feeding new belts into the machine guns. Nick patted the driver on the shoulder and smiled at him. The boy gave him a quick smile in return.
  
  Nick opened the turret and got his feet firmly on the driver's shoulders. The night air was fresh and sweet after the stinking closeness of the tank. He took a deep breath and glanced back. Long yellow tongues of flame were lancing up into the sky from the checkpoint.
  
  Less than a mile ahead he could see the lights of Lo Wu just across the narrow Sham Chun. The lights of Paradise. Freedom. So it must seem to the hundreds of thousands of Chinese who tried to make it every year. So it seemed to him now.
  
  Less than a mile. The tank was racketing downhill now, getting into the outskirts of the village of Sham Chun. Most of the houses were dark. When there was trouble in the streets the villagers stayed inside. That was all to the good. No use killing innocent people.
  
  They reached a cobbled street and the tank began a long downward glissade. This street ran right into the bridge across the river. The tank began to pick up speed on the downgrade. Nick felt sweat run on him. A straight shot now — if nothing happened. But it couldn't be this easy. It just couldn't.
  
  He saw the lights of the bridge, saw running figures on the Chicom side. A cold wind blew through him. If they had had time to blow the bridge! If they thought of it. That would cook them for good.
  
  Flame shot from the Chicom end of the bridge. They had set up a barrier and fired it. Wood, piles of straw, anything that would burn. There was nothing to worry about in that. They couldn't burn the bridge in time, the fools. If only they didn't blow it! But it took time to plant explosive and lay wires and…
  
  Nick saw it. The snout of another tank poking from a side street. It was coming out to block the narrow road. His mind raced even as he jammed his feet down on the driver's shoulders. More speed! Full ahead! If that damned tank got squarely across the narrow street, they were finished. It would not be moved as easily as the trucks.
  
  The Chicom tank fired. Nick saw the ugly blast of muzzle flame. The shell screamed like a banshee within a foot of his head. The air concussion nearly rocked his head from his big shoulders. The tank edged farther into the street.
  
  The big T 54 hit the other tank at an angle. There was a clanging and grinding of metal. The smaller tank was slewed around and flung back, but the progress of the T 54 was stopped for a moment. Soldiers ran yelling from the shadows and pelted the bigger tank with small-arms fire. Nick fired back with the Luger, and saw men fall. The air around him was alive with lead bees. One stung his arm. He heard the machine guns in the tank raving as the girl poured it on.
  
  Two soldiers leaped on the tank. A burp gun exploded in Nick's face, but the man was off balance and missed. Nick shot him in the belly and then turned and saw the other soldier tossing a grenade into the hatch. Nick lunged without thinking — if he failed they were all dead in the tank — and caught the grenade. He fumbled it, for a horrifying moment thought he was going to drop it, then flung it away with a backhand motion. It fell into another knot of soldiers trying to climb on the tank. Flesh pelted in all directions as it blew.
  
  The man who had flung the grenade leaped at Nick with his bare hands. Nick snapped the Luger at him, heard it click empty. He caught the man by the throat and flung him away.
  
  From the window of a nearby shop another machine gun went into action. Nick dropped into the hatch and slammed the turret shut just as the tank began to move again. Nick took over one of the machine guns and razed the line of shops and small homes. The smoke haze in the tank was so thick he could barely see the others.
  
  The big tank lurched forward and picked up speed. The driver was doing the best he could with very limited vision. He took out an entire line of shops and houses before he could get the tank back on the road. They went down like bowling pins before the iron juggernaut.
  
  They were close to the bridge now. The near end was a single great sheet of flame. They would just have to go through it, risk being roasted to death if the tank stalled.
  
  Nick spotted a staff car racing ahead, filled with screaming and gesticulating officers. He pressed the trigger of the flame nozzle. Shhhhhhhhhoo — the greasy tongue of the dragon licked ahead. The staff car exploded in a ball of livid flame and turned over. Nick saw one officer land on his feet and begin to run, his back a mass of flame.
  
  Lead was hailing against the sides of the tank now. Mostly small arms. Then a crumping thud and the tank lurched sideways, shuddering. Another. The Chicoms had an anti-tank gun in action, but the caliber was too small. The shells were bouncing off.
  
  The tank slammed through the wall of flame and into clear air at the far end of the bridge. They were over the Sham Chun.
  
  Nick kicked the driver to slow. They coasted 500 yards into British territory before he kicked him to stop. Strangely enough, he found himself almost reluctant to open the turret and get out and start explaining. God, what explaining! Miles of red tape. But there was the general — he must be gotten to a hospital as soon as possible. Sooner. Then on a hospital plane and to Washington. Along with the precious code books.
  
  Nick opened the hatch and peered out cautiously. The Limeys were going to be as confused and riled as the Chinese. He was simply exchanging one chaos for another.
  
  He was totally unprepared for the reception he got. A British armored car raced toward the tank, its guns spitting flame. Bullets bounced and slammed off the turret.
  
  "Goddamn!" Nick ducked below again. They weren't taking any chances with a dragon tank. Shoot first and inquire afterward seemed to be the order of the day.
  
  Nick looked at Fan Su. "As I recall, your panties are white?"
  
  Her red mouth opened wide and she stared. "M — my panties?"
  
  "Yes. I need a flag of truce. Hurry up, will you? I'd hate to get shot by our friends at this late date."
  
  "Must you have them, Nick? T — They're dirty."
  
  He played it straight, without smiling. "Of course. I'm sorry. We wouldn't want that, would we? The bra, then. I hate to be an Indian giver, but there it is. Hurry now."
  
  While the kid driver stared in open amazement, the girl turned so Nick could unhook her bra. Shielding her breasts from the boy, she pulled her jacket together. She nodded back at the general. "I just checked him. The moment we were across the bridge. Get him to a hospital, Nick!"
  
  With an odd feeling of letdown, now that the action was over, Nick put the bra on the end of his Luger and waved it out the turret. The armored car rolled alongside and bereted soldiers leaped out with tommy guns at the ready.
  
  Nick gave them a weary, grimy smile. "Don't shoot. I come in peace and bearing gifts. Who is in command here?"
  
  "I am," said Senior Inspector Smythe. He came around the armored car, as impeccable as ever, the swagger stick tucked beneath his arm. His ruddy fat cheeks glinted from a recent shave.
  
  Nick stared at him. "Little off your beat, aren't you? This has nothing to do with the harbor police. I've got a package…"
  
  The inspector's eyes were neutral. "In this instance I'm doubling in brass, sir. Quite literally. Our governments have been in communication and I am, er, instructed to offer you every cooperation. The fullest possible cooperation!"
  
  Good old Hawk. A glow of relief traced through N3. The old man had come through, then. It would certainly smooth the way. Hawk could muster a lot of power when he wanted to exercise it.
  
  Nick called down to the girl, "Hand up the package, honey. The boy and you. And take it easy. We don't want to break it now."
  
  He leaped down to stand beside the inspector, who was examining the battle-scarred tank with interest. "Looks like you came through a bit of hell, sir."
  
  Nick laughed. "We left some of it behind, too. About this package of mine — you understand it's marked extremely fragile?"
  
  "I do. An ambulance is on the way now. I've been given half a company to guard it. It will be in hospital here only as long as absolutely necessary, then it will be flown direct to Washington. But I'll be wanting to have a long talk with you, sir. And with the girl."
  
  Nick grinned at him. "Okay. You can have me and you can have her. For a reasonable time, Inspector. But I want us both back as soon as possible. Okay?"
  
  Later, on the way to T-Lands Station, Nick asked the inspector a question. "Would you say, Inspector, that Jim Pok is a proud man? Or merely arrogant?"
  
  The reply was prompt. "Both. Why?"
  
  Nick smiled to himself. "Just wondered. He couldn't stand to lose a lot of face, then?"
  
  It was dark in the police car. He could not see Smythe's face, but the voice was stern. "I see you know more of the Orient than you pretended at first, Mr… Mr. Harrington. No, Jim Pok would not like to lose face. And I, Mr. Harrington, would not like anything to happen to Pok while you're in Hong Kong. It would be highly unfortunate, I assure you. Leave him to me."
  
  "I intend to," said Nick Carter. "Oh, I intend to. Or, perhaps, to someone else. Forget it."
  
  "I shan't forget it," said Smythe stiffly. "My cooperation, Mr. — er — Harrington, does not extend to taking the law into your own hands."
  
  Nick smiled sweetly. Hawk had been known to call it his Undertaker's Smile.
  
  "I wouldn't dream of it," he told the inspector.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  The Quiet Vengeance
  
  
  
  
  It was a soft lavender evening in Hong Kong harbor, with a benign temperature in the seventies. Nick lolled on deck with a cognac and soda in his hand and tried, with some success, not to think of Boy. He had a great many other things to think about.
  
  He had spent two hours with Smythe at T-Lands Station, then nearly that long at the Consulate talking to Hawk. Nick smiled quietly at the flaming sunset. He had told his chief everything — well, almost everything. He had neglected to mention the IOU for a hundred thousand dollars he had given General Sung Yo Chan. It never did to test Hawk's choler too severely.
  
  The general was going to live, at least long enough for Washington to pick his brains. Nick shrugged. The general was one tough old boy! He might even live to write his memoirs. He was, along with the code books, on a hospital plane at this very moment. Nick wished him bon voyage. He had become quite fond of the general.
  
  His keen eyes, appearing sleepy behind narrowed lids, searched the busy harbor. Jim Pok would come. Nick was betting on it, staking his knowledge of the Orient and of Orientals on it. Jim Pok would have to come. He was an arrogant, prideful man, and he would come. Nick Carter only wished he would hurry. He wanted to get this part over with and get on to the good part. Fan Su.
  
  And here he was. Nick walked to the rail and watched the walla-walla approach. He was alone on the yacht.
  
  The sampan halted, bobbing at the foot of the gang stairs. The single passenger looked up at Nick. "May I come aboard, Mr. Harrington?"
  
  So they were keeping up the pretense. "Come," said the man from AXE. "I have been expecting you."
  
  The man spoke in soft Cantonese to the sampan man, telling him to tie up and wait. Then he climbed to the deck. At the head of the gangway he paused. "I am not armed, Mr. Harrington. I wish to make that quite clear. Would you care to search me?"
  
  Nick shook his head. "No. I am not armed, either. Please sit down. A drink?"
  
  "No drink," said Jim Pok. "Don't you think we should go below? This is quite public."
  
  "I prefer it that way," said Nick. "I think Inspector Smythe does, too. I should warn you that I think he has people watching this yacht — entirely his idea, I assure you." He pushed a deck chair toward Jim Pok with his foot. "Sit down. Don't be afraid of violence from me. I would dearly like to kill you, Pok, but at the moment it is impossible. I'm sorry."
  
  Pok sat down. He was a short, slim man with a round melon of a face. His eyes were shrewd and dark. He wore an exquisite gray tweed suit and a white shirt with a blue tie in a Windsor knot. His teeth sparkled. His black shoes were glossy.
  
  "We appear to think alike in some things," he said. "I called the good inspector just before I came here. I told him I was coming. If anything happens to me they will arrest you immediately."
  
  Nick inclined his head. "I'm sure of it. So nothing will happen to you — at my hands."
  
  Jim Pok considered that for a moment. "At your hands? Is there an implication there, Mr. Harrington?"
  
  "If you like. Work it out yourself."
  
  The man shrugged. "We waste time. This whole thing has been bungled from the beginning, Mr. Harrington. My lieutenant, one Huang Ki, was overzealous. I did not want Ludwell killed. I merely wanted him followed into China. He would have led us to — well, you know to whom."
  
  Harvard accent, Harvard grammar. Altogether, thought N3, an impeccable murderer.
  
  "Huang has paid for his error," Jim Pok went on. "He is dead. I am in great trouble with my, er, with my current employers."
  
  "I'll bet," agreed Nick. "This fiasco isn't going to do you any good in Peking. You've lost face all over the place."
  
  The bland little face tightened. The shiny dark head nodded. "True. I admit that. I have lost face and I stand to lose more, and money, unless I can recoup. This is why I am here, Mr. Harrington. To make a deal."
  
  Nick Carter smiled his sweetest smile. "I'd sooner deal with a snake. They're cleaner."
  
  "No need for insults, Mr. Harrington. Let us conduct ourselves as two businessmen. I have the girl, Swee Lo. I have been keeping her as my mistress, as you must have guessed. Your fake robbery did not fool me, though it was well done. Swee Lo has been tortured. She has told me all she knows of you, which I admit is very little. But I think you have known her a long time and that you are very fond of her. This is correct?"
  
  Nick lit a cigarette and considered Pok through the smoke. He had been afraid the robbery ruse would not work. There had been no time. He had waited and knocked out Swee Lo from behind. She had not seen his face. Then he had ransacked the house and he and Fan Su had left. So it hadn't worked. He had failed to give Swee Lo a clean bill of health.
  
  "Correct in part," Nick said at last. "I am fond of Swee Lo. And she is innocent. She has nothing to do with anything I have done."
  
  Pok nodded. "I know that. She is too clever to get mixed up in such matters. But that does not matter. I have her and I am going to have her killed if you do not give me the other girl. The one who was with you on your, er, adventure. A simple trade, Mr. Harrington."
  
  "I don't know any such girl," Nick lied easily. "You must be dreaming."
  
  "You are a bar, Mr. Harrington. I have just found out about her. She is of a thing called Undertong. One of her men was taken and he talked before he died. I admit that I do not know her name, or what she looks like, but I know she exists. She is dangerous. She has already done much damage. I want her."
  
  "You mean," said Nick softly, "that the Chicoms want her. And if you can give her to them you will buy your way back into their good graces. You need that. You need it badly. I'm sorry, Pok, but I don't know any girl."
  
  The man's bland façade was cracking a bit. "I must have that girl. I must! Why not give her to me? She can mean nothing to you."
  
  "Nothing at all. How can she? I don't know such a girl."
  
  Jim Pok leaned toward Nick, his well-kept hands clenched on his knees. "Swee Lo will die a slow and horrible death. And you have been lovers, I think. You would not like to think of her dying, Mr. Harrington."
  
  Nick stared at him, his eyes cold now. "Like the kid, you mean. Like Boy?"
  
  Jim Pok shrugged. "That was Huang again. I do not permit such things."
  
  Nick stood up. He was growing very tired of Jim Pok. He towered over the little man. "I think we've talked enough. You are lying. I have told the inspector all about Swee Lo. You will not dare touch her. First because she has told me nothing, has not helped me. And if you hurt her the police will get you. Goodbye, Pok. It hasn't been nice knowing you." Nick turned his back and walked toward the rail.
  
  Pok came after him, a hint of panic in his voice now. "Please — you must reconsider. I will give you a lot of money for the girl. I must have her!"
  
  Nick grinned like a wolf. "You must be in worse with Peking than I thought. Tell me, did you happen to mention to them that Ludwell had a hundred thousand dollars on him when he was murdered?"
  
  He saw the shot go home. "Naughty of you," said Nick. "Very bad. They probably consider you well enough paid as it is. They won't like it when they know. They might even suspect you of playing double — working for both sides. But of course you do, don't you?"
  
  Jim Pok began to sputter. His Oriental reserve was badly splintered now. "I… I…"
  
  "Goodbye," said Nick Carter. "Allow me the pleasure. The inspector threatened me if I hurt you. He didn't say anything about giving you a little bath."
  
  He picked Jim Pok up by the coat and pants of his perfectly tailored suit and flung him into the harbor.
  
  Without a backward look Nick went forward to the signal cabinet. It was nearly full dark now. Fan Su would see the flare from the window of her hotel room in Wan Chai. So they had agreed. A pity it would have to be a red flare. She would have to swim it again. It was safer.
  
  He slipped a shell into the flare pistol and pulled the trigger. The flare exploded in a blaze of red stars over the harbor. Nick grinned. Let the inspector figure that one out! He went below to wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Fan Su came out of the bathroom wearing only a huge towel. Her black hair curled damply on her slim neck. Nick, lounging on the bed and smoking a cigarette, watched with approval. "You're lovely," he told her. "Very lovely. It's the first time I've seen you without dirt on you."
  
  She dropped the towel and preened a bit for him, utterly without self-consciousness. She wrinkled her pretty nose. "I still smell like jail."
  
  Nick smiled. "No, you don't. You smell like lotus blossoms."
  
  "Stop it. Don't try to act like a Chinese wolf. It doesn't become you." She came to the edge of the bed. Nick reached for her lazily. "You become me, Fan Su. Come here."
  
  She fell atop him and he kissed her. Her mouth was warm and sweet. Her tongue nipped at him. "Oh, Nick! Nick, Nick, darling. I think I wanted this the first time I ever saw you."
  
  He kissed the firm breasts. "Liar. The first time you saw me you tried to stab me."
  
  "No — I mean before. When I first saw you with — but let's not talk just now. I want you to make love to me, Nick. For hours. Then I want to sleep for weeks. Don't you dare wake me! If you do I'll claw you like — like a tiger."
  
  "That's a dirty word."
  
  "I'm sorry. Kiss me again."
  
  The phone rang. Nick swore softly and padded naked to the instrument. It was Inspector Smythe. "Everything all right there, Mr. Harrington?"
  
  "It was," Nick said crossly.
  
  "Huh? Oh, yes, I see. Good, then. I saw you toss our friend into the harbor, you know. Good show."
  
  "Thanks. Keep an eye on him just for luck, but I don't really think he is going to be around long. One day he'll go into China and never come back."
  
  Nick smiled at the phone. He had worked it out with Hawk already — the quiet vengeance. Already rumors were being spread, agents were planting lies so they would be sure to come to the ears of Peking. Jim Pok, the lies would say, had been a double all along. It would take time, this slow poison, but it would work. N3 had seen it work before. Jim Pok was still walking around, but he was already dead.
  
  "Goodbye, Inspector. Don't worry. I'll keep my word. I'll leave Hong Kong in the morning." He hung up and went back to the bed. Fan Su held out her arms.
  
  Nick was kissing the softness of her tender belly when the phone rang again. Without opening her eyes the girl said, "Damn!"
  
  "Second the motion." Nick went to the phone. It was Hawk. He was in a surprisingly genial mood. Before Nick could get in a word he was told that the general was already in Honolulu and doing okay, the CIA was deeply grateful and, more important, owed AXE a favor. It was well done all around and…
  
  "Sir," broke in Nick, "I just can't talk now."
  
  "Can't talk? Why not?"
  
  "Private, sir."
  
  A little pause. Then Hawk sighed over 6,000 miles. "I suppose I should have known it. Okay, boy. When you can get out of bed let me know about it. There's this thing coming up in Italy and…"
  
  "Goodbye, sir," said Nick firmly. He hung up and went to the bed again. Fan Su was pouting dangerously. "You try a girl's patience, Nick."
  
  "I'm sorry. But don't blame me. Mr. Bell started the damned thing."
  
  The phone rang. Nick did a fast about turn and marched back to it. He heard a smothered giggle from the bed. He picked up the phone and barked into it "Yes?"
  
  "Clark?" It was a female voice.
  
  "Speaking. Who is this?"
  
  Her little laugh was shaded with doubt. "You mean you've forgotten me so soon? Not very gallant of you. This is Miriam. Miriam Hunt."
  
  "Ah," said Nick. "The Ice Maiden!"
  
  "Not so much any more, perhaps. I… I've been thinking things over, Nick. If you're not doing anything this evening I would like to come out to the yacht again. I think I've changed a bit since the other time."
  
  Nick stared at the phone a little sadly. It had happened to him before. It would again. Now and then he had the dream — the dream of slippers and pipe and kids. All that bit. He should know better by this time. He glanced over his shoulder at the impatient young body of Fan Su. His kind. Leave the other sort alone. It would never work.
  
  "I'm sorry," he told Miriam Hunt. "I am busy. And I'm leaving Hong Kong in the morning. Goodbye, Miriam. I'll send you a check from time to time — for the orphans." He hung up.
  
  He was kissing her again when the phone rang. Fan Su pushed him away. "Ill do it."
  
  He watched the slim body as she ran to the phone. As slim and firm fleshed as a boy, but there any resemblance ended.
  
  Fan Su did not answer the phone. Instead she pulled the cord out of the wall. She took the instrument to a porthole and tossed it through.
  
  She came back to the bed. "Now," she said. "Now, damn it, now!"
  
  
  
  
  
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