Double Identity (10 page)

The ponies, fed and rested, were being led out of the stables. Hafed grabbed Nick’s arm and pointed. “Look, sar. She not lie okay—soldiers come now! Better we make fast, I think.”

“I think you’re right,” Nick agreed. “Damn it!” He glanced to the east along the snow-choked pass. “You think the ponies can make it through that?”

Hafed, with a choice assortment of Oriental curses, said that the ponies would. They’d better or he and Nick had had it. He did not phrase it exactly so, but it was the gist He was speedily packing his pony. Nick did likewise, wasting no time. It was growing darker by the second—that might save their lives.

He took a pair of binoculars from his pack and trained them on the soldiers. There were about fifty of them in the patrol with twenty or so heavily laden ponies. Metal sparked in the dying sunlight. Several of the ponies were carrying long tubes. Mountain guns! Mortars!

Hafed saw the mortars too, with his naked eye, and swore again.

“Is very bad place we must pass—much narrow. Good for big guns. They know, too. Come, sar! Not time to waste!” He was already kicking his laden pony east into the pass.

Nick lingered for half a minute. He caught a flash of sun on lenses and saw a Chinese officer watching them through binoculars. On impulse he put his thumb to his nose and waggled his fingers. He saw the officer snap a command and soldiers were running to the ponies bearing the mortars. Nick made a rapid estimate of the distance—a little over half a mile. He smiled. They should be safe enough. The mortars could range it easily enough, but they weren’t likely to be accurate in this poor light. He kicked Kaswa and took off after Hafed, already vanished around a bend in the pass.

N3 couldn’t have been more wrong. He had forgotten that the Chinese were familiar with this country. In all probability they had the narrowest section’ of the gorge zeroed in, had firing stakes planted along the way.

It was his lagging behind that saved N3. He was three hundred yards behind Hafed when the first mortar shells came in.
Sssshhhhhhss— shssssss— shsssssss— shsssssss—
a clutch of four whispered into the narrow waist of the gorge and exploded with a whanging bang. Nick grabbed the pony’s bridle and led it into the shelter of an overhang. Four more mortars exploded. Rock chips whined through the air, mineral shrapnel as deadly as metal.

The trail crooked just ahead. He could not see Hafed. More mortars poured into the gorge. Nick crouched and cursed and waited for the deadly fire to cease. They
must
have this spot zeroed in—they were firing blind and yet pinpointing the narrow gut with devastating precision.

It grew darker. The mortars ceased to whisper in the chilling air. Nick waited ten minutes, then kicked Kaswa into life. He doubted the Chinese would come after them in the dark, but he could take no chances. And Hafed would be waiting, impatient and afraid, crouching in some hole just as Nick was.

Hafed would wait a long time on this desolate slope of the Himalayas. Nick found him lying in a great splotch of blood on the snow. The same burst had gotten both Hafed and his pony. The pony was gutted, its pink entrails smoking in the crisp air. Half the guide’s head was missing.

Kaswa nosed at the dead pony and whinnied, a plaintive sound. Nick tugged him out of the way and began heaping snow over the blood and bodies. There was no time to do more. The snow would protect Hafed’s corpse from the wolves at least until spring—then perhaps the She Devils would find him and bury him. Or the Chinese. It did not really matter.

Yang Kwei had taken her revenge after all. Part of it! She had held them just minutes too long. Nick gazed into the darkness of the pass leading east—he still had a far piece to go. He was alone now. Five days behind his quarry.

His face began to stiffen in the wind and he pulled the yaks kin cover over it and chucked to the pony. He would make it He had to make it Death was in the wind that was rising, but not for him. Not yet He had a job to do first.

He had lost the first round. But there would be a second— and it would begin in Karachi.

Karachi was blacked out!

The sprawling city on the Arabian Sea was as black as the future of Operation Deuce. Nick Carter had talked to Hawk from the airstrip at Ladakh and had learned, along with a great many other things, that his mission now had a name. DEUCE. It was a great help! N3 couldn’t see just how—his mood was exceedingly bitter at the moment—but it only proved that even in AXE red tape and bureaucracy sometimes prevailed. Right now Nick would have settled for something more practical than a mission tag—say some first class diplomatic immunity!

He was wanted for murder!

Now, in what was even for him a new low in harbor joints, he skulked in a dirty corner and buried his face in a tattered copy of
The Hindi Times.
It helped not at all that his own picture—blurred but fully recognizable—was on the front page of the paper.

His Hindustani was not fluent, but he could make out the gist of the caption:
Nicholas Carter, murderer and suspected secret agent, wanted for murder and escape!

Chapter 6

Death

Nick sighed and ordered another bottle of Pakistani beer. It wasn’t good but it was cold. And he needed an excuse for hanging about the place. So far he hadn’t seen any cops—maybe the owner was paying off—and he needed a haven for the next few hours. He had to figure out his next move. Quickly! And when he had it figured he had to move just as quickly. He would have to venture out of this safe hole—defying the curfew—and he would be damned conspicuous in the deserted streets. But there was no help for that. He had to get out to the Mauripur district, where the murdered man had lived, and do a little on-the-spot investigating. It should be most interesting to know
why
his double, the impostor, had killed again! This time his victim was an American: Sam Shelton, confidential attaché to APDP— Arms Procurement and Distribution Program. It had been Shelton who had implemented Washington’s order to shut off the flow of arms to the Pakistanis when the war with India flared. High policy, that, and Sam Shelton only the tool! Only carrying out orders. Yet the fake Nick Carter had killed him! Why?

Nick lit a Goldflake—American cigarettes were unobtain-able in Karachi’s cheap
boites
—and glanced furtively around. No one was paying him any attention. Or so it seemed. You never knew.

The dirty little bar was situated in the Malir-Landhi district on the muddy Indus River near Karachi Airport where, a few hours before, Nick had said a hurried goodbye to the crew of the Hercules C-130 who had flown him in from Chushul Airstrip in Ladakh. They had been a nice gang of young Americans, bent on raising a little hell in Karachi—maybe visiting one of the infamous bath-houses where the entertainment was varied and continuous before, during, and after your bath. Nick would have liked to have accepted their invitation to join them—even though their youth and effervescence made him feel a thousand years old.

He hadn’t, of course. Mission Deuce lay heavier on him by the passing second. He was a good week behind his quarry now—or so he had thought at the time. He had a man to find and kill and he had best be getting on with it. He said goodbye and plunged into darkened Karachi, improvising now and doubtful about his next move. It had been sheer luck that he had picked up a discarded copy of
The Hindi Times
and found that he was wanted for murder and escape! There it was, his picture, on the front page.

It was, of course, a picture of the phony Nick Carter—but the Karachi cops didn’t know that!

Nick finished his beer and lit another cigarette. He kept his face shielded by the paper and again surveyed the bar. It was jammed and smoke-filled now. Most of the patrons were men, though here and there Nick saw a prostitute in cheap Western finery. The men were a polyglot crew, mostly river and harbor workers with a scattering of lean Pathan tribesmen wearing pa jama-type trousers and dirty turbans. The stench of unwashed bodies was overpowering.

From the rear of the place came the sudden twanging of stringed instruments playing—to Western ears—a most unmelodic dance tune. There was a great surge by the crowd toward the music and Nick found himself and his corner deserted. Suited him fine. He stared down the bar and, through the mob, could see a fat woman wriggling her belly in a very basic version of the
jhoomer,
a Pakistani folk dance. The folk, N3 thought, would never recognize it! The layer of fat just above the woman’s scant covering wobbled and gleamed with sweat as she gyrated. Little cries of encouragement came from the crowd of men, most of whom were drunk. It was strictly a Moslem crowd, Nick noted with a sardonic little smile. What else? You didn’t see many Hindus around Karachi these days. If they were around at all they kept well out of sight.

He glanced at his AXE watch—it had survived the terrible passage out of the Karakoram Pass better than he had, his feet were still aching from frostbite—and saw that it was a quarter after twelve Karachi time. No point in stalling around here any longer. He was only postponing the trouble. He had to get out to Mauripur, find Sam Shelton’s house, and see what he could find in the way of a clue. Probably nothing—yet he must try. Reluctantly he began to push back from the table, dreading the empty streets, when he saw the incident at the bar. N3 remained in his chair, watching, as a hunch began to grow and develop in his quick brain. The man at the bar sounded like an American.

Certainly he was angry—and drunk. And broke. That was the real trouble. The man was broke and the bartender, a huge fellow in a dirty purple-striped shirt and a red fez, would not serve him. As Nick watched the bartender reached across the bar and shoved the smaller man brutally. The man fell amidst a clutter of butts, waste paper and spittle, his head nearly in an old petrol tin serving as a spittoon. He lay there for a moment, unable to rise, mouthing a string of foul curses in Hindustani—Nick caught the word
bap,
father, coupled with what seemed to be a species of incestuous monkey. Then the man on the floor swung into English, Americanese, and the result was delightful to hear. Nick grinned openly and enjoyed it, thinking that even Hawk could learn a word or two from this derelict!

N3 made his decision and acted immediately. It was his way. He had little to lose and possibly a great deal to gain. Even a bum like this must have a home of sorts—someplace to hide for the night. Anything was better than a hotel, even the cheapest, where he would have to show identification —and where sharp eyes would spot him as a wanted man.

He went to the fallen man and pulled him up roughly. The bartender looked on without interest, his swarthy face conveying his boredom and impatience with Yankees who were broke and on the beach. They were pigs! Useless pigs! One never got
baksheesh
from such as these. They drank cheap beer only and did not patronize the whores.

Nick tossed a 100 rupee note on the bar. “Bring whisky. Good whisky— American if you’ve got it!
Tez!
Hurry up!”

The barman was immediately servile. He had misjudged, then. This big one had money after all! And something else —an air of authority that was not to be trifled with. And yet another thing! The bartender pondered as he fumbled for the single bottle of precious American whisky—had he not seen the face of this big one somewhere before? Recently—quite recently! The bartender summoned his assistant and conferred with him for a moment in rapid Pashto. Both he and the assistant were Afghans.

The assistant studied the face of the big American who by now had gotten the drunk back to his table and succeeded in propping him up. “No,” said the assistant, “I have never seen him before. But if he is a friend of the Bannion, of that one, how can he be anyone important or worth anything? You are mistaken, boss. He can be of no consequence. I doubt they have a
naye poise
between them.” He went back to watch the belly dancer.

The owner crumpled the 100 rupee note in his pocket and took the whisky and two dirty glasses to the table. His assistant was, in fact, supposed to be a junior partner— but if he did not find out about the 100 rupees so much the better. And Ali could be wrong, too. He would keep an eye on this big American with money—just in case.

There was a folded copy of
The Hindi Times
on the dirty table. The owner used it to brush away the flies and ashes. The big American reached to take the paper from his hand. “Mine,” he said. “I haven’t finished with it yet.”

“Dwkh
,” said the owner. “My sorrow, sir. Will there be anything else? You wish perhaps to view the dancing? I could, er, arrange a private performance!”

Bannion, the derelict, raised his head from the dirty table. He stared at the owner with red-rimmed eyes. “Get lost, you greasy fat son of a bitch! Who needs you? Beat it!” He turned to Nick. “Better watch him if you got any money. He’s a thief. They’re all thieves!”

The owner retreated a step, but did not lose his servile expression. He dry-washed his hands and stared at Bannion with disdain. To Nick he said, “I must warn you against this one,
sahib.
He is worthless—for many years now. He is a cadger, a dead beat! I—”

Bannion tried to struggle out of his chair, his face working with rage. “You’re gonna be a dead Afghan sonofabitch if you don’t get that lousy fat carcass out of here!” He collapsed into the chair again.

Nick Carter nodded to the owner. “Leave us alone.”

When the man had gone he studied the man called Bannion. Pretty far gone, he thought. Way down in a deep hole. At the bottom of the ladder. Hopeless. Still he might prove useful.

Bannion was on the short side, squarish in build, with a little pot belly. His three-or four-day growth of stubble was reddish mixed with gray. What was left of his lank hair, around a smooth pink tonsure, was of the same color. His eyes, as he stared back at Nick now, were watery and inflamed. He looked like a bad case of pinkeye! He wore a filthy old GI field jacket covered with grease stains and a pair of equally disreputable OD pants. Beneath the field jacket a ragged tee shirt was the color of dirt. Nick, very deliberately, making a thing of it, glanced down at the man’s feet. He wore old Army shoes, one with a heel gone. He was sockless.