Double Identity (16 page)

Mike Bannion lit a cigarette. He was letting his red beard grow again. “Only that she’s a doll, a real dish. Blonde, in her late twenties—maybe thirty—swell legs and a pair of knockers that makes a man ashamed of his thoughts. Beautiful face, too!”

“You didn’t miss much,” said N3 dryly. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask her for her autograph.”

“I did better than that! I found out her name.” Bannion paused to gloat a moment. He was, Nick considered, as drunk as he’d been since they started. But as yet he was holding it well enough.

“Fine work,” he praised. He tried to sound enthusiastic. “How’d you do that?”

“I told you I knew a little Pashto. When they left the coppersmith’s stall they went to a tobacco shop. The guy— you—got to looking through some magazines, Russian and Chinese, and I had a little time. I cut back to the coppersmith and slipped him some
baksheesh.
The woman’s name is Beth Cravens, as near as I could make out. She’s an American. Works for the Peace Corps here—helps with the schools. The old guy was a talker but that was all I had time for. I didn’t want to lose them.”

“Amen to that! Let’s get back to the Peshawar Hotel. They have a car?”

“She does. An English Ford. It was in the lot behind the hotel when I left.”

“Come on!” N3 was curt. “And lay off that sauce from now on—until I tell you different!”

“Yes, sahib.”

“It’s for your own good,” Nick told him dourly. “There’s nothing funny about a shiv in the back!”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Bannion. “Don’t worry. Every time I feel the urge to get blotto I think of those Paks buried in the ground with their eyes and noses gone. It’s a real soberer-up!”

It was getting close to eight as they made their way through the narrow crowded streets toward the Peshawar Hotel. As they skirted the spacious square in which the mosque Mahabat Khan stood, Nick said: “I want you to give me your impressions of the man, Bannion. Right off the top of your head. Don’t think, don’t embroider it. Suppose you didn’t know
me.
Didn’t know I had a double. What would you think of him then?”

Bannion scratched at his red stubble. He was nearly running to keep up with Nick’s long strides.

“Impressive,” he said at last. “Damned impressive. Good-looking bastard. Handsome without being pretty, if you know what I mean. Big, tall, lean. Looks like he’s made of concrete. Looks tough, too. Like he could be very mean. Graceful. Moves like a tiger.”

“You’re a good observer,” N3 admitted. He was a little flattered and admitted it. He also admitted the Chinese had done a good job—a number one, excellent, first-rate professional job. His double was so near like himself it was a little frightening.

“I can tell you something else about him,” said Bannion. He snickered. “The guy is a real heller with the women. At least with this one—she’s all over him! When I left she was playing with him under the table in the bar!”

N3 said nothing during the rest of the walk. His thoughts were busy with the girl. Beth Cravens. The Peace Corps! Jesus—where would the rats gnaw into next?

It had already occurred to him that the woman might be an innocent dupe. It was quite possible. The Chinese agent had fooled Pei Ling in Tibet and Sam Shelton in Karachi. Fooled them at first—for some reason both of them had had second thoughts—and doubts. They had been killed.

So this Beth Cravens
could
be innocent. The man had introduced himself as Nick Carter and she had believed him. But why? What in hell was Nick Carter, the real AXE man, supposed to be doing in Peshawar?

His heart, his intuition, whispered the truth. The woman was a Red agent. Another American who had sold out! A spark of anger moved in N3—another lousy traitor! Somehow it seemed worse because the treason came wrapped in a lovely package.

From a doorway across from the Peshawar Hotel they could see into the little bar. The quarry was still there. No monkey business under the table now—they were openly holding hands and the girl was gazing at the big man with adoration. If it’s phony she’s a good actress, Nick Carter admitted.

A sudden thought struck him. A hunch so overpowering that he would have almost bet his life on it. He turned to Bannion. “You sober enough to go into the hotel and act like a gentleman? Like you’re looking for an old friend?”

“Sober as a judge,” averred Bannion. “Some judges I’ve known. Why?”

“Go in and throw your Pashto around and see if you can get a look at the register. I think he’s staying there. Just look at the last half-dozen names.”

Bannion was back in five minutes. “You’re so right.
You’re
staying there! Big as life—signed in as Nicholas Carter. On business.”

“Dirty business.”

Nick pulled the collar of his sheepskin coat up against the rain. He pulled down the Aussie type hat. Now that the phony had established himself,
he
mustn’t be seen. Especially by cops or the military. It would only engender confusion and he wanted no more of that. Get the thing over with and get out.

“Go get the jeep,” he told Bannion. “Find a
tonga
if you can and don’t let him spare the horse. If you can’t find a
tonga
run for it—get back here as soon as possible. I’ll be in the back someplace—you say she drives an English Ford?”

“Yes. It’s black. Nearly brand new.”

When Bannion had gone trotting off Nick went around the hotel to the parking lot. The Ford was there, shiny with rain. The only other car was an ancient Chrysler with a flat tire.

N3 stood in deep shadow and let the rain soak him. It was coming down a bit harder now. He studied the Ford—it had a luggage rack on top. If worst came to worst, and Bannion didn’t return in time with the jeep, maybe he could—

A moment later the decision was forced on him. The woman and the false Nick Carter came around the corner of the hotel and headed for the Ford. Nick retreated a bit more into the shadows. Damn! What now? He just couldn’t afford to lose them. For the moment he had just the faint edge of advantage and he didn’t want to lose that, either. But unless he took them now—too early for his liking—he would have to let them drive away. Nick automatically checked his weapons. The Luger was ready to snarl. Hugo lurked in his sheath. Pierre, the gas bomb, was as lethal as ever. But to what purpose? He could kill the man, certainly, and maybe make the woman talk. Maybe! But he had no time to fool around. That arms shipment had come into Peshawar, or through it, and then vanished. Nick had to find it With the guns and ammo as his ace he could go to the Pakistani Government and start clearing matters up. Without it—

As it turned out he needn’t have worried. They weren’t going anywhere for the moment. He watched them climb into the car. The back seat! Curtains were pulled. The English still put curtains or shades in some of their cars!

In a few moments the little car began to rock gently. N3 could hear the faintest whisper of springs. Just like the good old States, he told himself with a hard little smile. Every car a traveling boudoir!

He made his decision without hesitation, praying that Bannion would not show up now with the noisy jeep. It would spoil everything. What they were doing in there shouldn’t take them long—then they would be off to somewhere, perhaps to the arms cache, and Nick Carter was going to be with them. Bannion would just have to look out for himself.

N3 tiptoed carefully across the parking lot. The car was still swaying gently and he could hear the low mumble of voices. They wouldn’t have heard the Trump of Doom!

Carefully, slowly, with each movement carefully gauged in advance, he climbed on top of the Ford and flattened himself. He accomplished it in utmost silence, as stealthy as Death creeping. Not once did the couple within break their lubricious rhythm.

It was pitch dark now and rain was slanting down in black wet ropes. In such visibility Nick thought he had a good chance of going undetected as they drove through the streets of Peshawar. The rain would drive people inside.

The test came sooner than expected. The scrabbling within the car ceased and Nick heard them talking. In Chinese! His last doubts about the woman, about Beth Cravens, vanished. She
was
a traitor.

The door opened and the man got out. He stopped to kiss the woman and said, still in Chinese, “I’ll see you later, Beth. At your place. I want to check with my people who are watching that bastard’s camp.”

“All right, my love. Oh, Nick, how marvelous you are! I am so happy. You will be careful? This man is dangerous. Even for you, Nick. He may be in Peshawar right now!”

“Maybe,” said the man. “Maybe, but I doubt it. These Chinese agents are stupid. He’ll run pretty true to form, I think Anyway my men are watching the camp and the jeep is still there, I hear. This fake Nick and the redhead will have to go back for it, and to make their plans. That’s one reason why I want to stay around the hotel for a time—he may even have the gall to come in and register as me. As Nick Carter! I hope not, it would cause complications, but at least I would like to study him for awhile. Figure out how best to kill him.”

There was an odd note of command in the woman’s voice as she spoke, “You’re forgetting again, darling! You’re not going to
kill
him. The plans were changed, remember? You’re going to take him prisoner, take him back to the States for questioning. Try to remember, my love.”

For a moment the man hesitated. He appeared to be thinking, to be struggling to get something clear in his mind. Then, “Of course. I did forget. Capture, not kill! New orders from Washington. All right, then—I’ll see you at your place later. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, sweetheart, I’ll be counting the minutes. If I’m not there wait for me. I must go to the fort and talk to Mohammed Cassim. He says the tribesmen are becoming impatient for action.”

“Handle him gently,” said the man. “Remember he’s Number One with all the tribes, the Wali. We need him right now. Later it won’t matter.”

“I will, love. I know what to say. But now that they’ve got the guns they’re fighting the bit. I’ll be so glad, Nick, when this is all over and we can go back to the States and get married.”

“And me, Beth, love! Goodbye now.”

The big man, Nick Carter’s double, stalked away into the rain without looking up or glancing back. Nick kept his face against the roof of the car. The man turned the corner and was gone. Rain still slatted down.

Nick could hear the swish and rustle of feminine garments being adjusted. A faint curse. An impatient tug. When she got out of the back and climbed behind the wheel N3 noted a briskness, an alertness, about her actions which belied the dreamy after-love mood she was supposed to be in. She was humming to herself.
When the Saints Come Marching In.
It hardly seemed to fit the occasion.

The car started with a lurch. She was a poor driver. Nick clung precariously to the rails of the luggage rack.

She found a narrow alley, deep in mud, and slid the car through it onto a deserted street. Good. She was not going through the main part of town after all. She appeared to be avoiding it as much as possible.

Nick Carter wondered, for just a fraction of a second, about his own sanity. Or at least his hearing. Then he smiled in the rain and shook his head—
he
was all right. The man
had
said those things and the woman—playing along with the gag?—had been right with him.

Nick Carter. Chinese agent. The bastard’s camp. New orders from Washington. Not kill but capture. Back to the States and get married.

The car hit a nasty bump and Nick hung on for life. He let the whole conversation he had just heard swirl about in his brain. One thing he was beginning to understand— this phony didn’t
know
he was a phony. Not at the moment, anyway. The guy thought he really
was
Nick Carter.

Somebody, thought the man from AXE, is crazy. And it isn’t me. But wait a minute! Just a minute—maybe not so crazy after all. He recalled the odd moment when the man had been confused and the woman’s voice had changed, had been both wheedling and hard.

Nick grinned in the rain. It could be. It just could be. You had to hand it to the clever rat bastards!

The man was hypnotized!

Chapter 10

The Fort

Today there are three routes through the Khyber Pass, a modern blacktop road with two lanes, a railroad, and the caravan trail which has been there for thousands of years. Shortly after Beth Cravens left Peshawar she swung off the blacktop and down a steep, rutted decline to the ancient trail. The going was rugged and Nick Carter’s big frame was battered unmercifully. He comforted himself with the thought that the lady couldn’t be going far.

He was right. The Ford swung off the caravan trail and began to climb a winding drive. Gravel crunched beneath the tires. The darkness was total except for rain-filled tunnels of light cast by the car; Nick got a fleeting impression of stunted trees and dense undergrowth and a bald, flat-topped hill.

The little Ford toiled around the last spiral and stopped. The lights went out. Nick huddled in the rain, fighting a sneeze, and heard the door open and slam. She was not humming now.

Footsteps going away. Another door opened and shut. The moment he heard the door close Nick was off the car and running for a blob of shrubbery he had noted before the lights went out. He crouched in the wet bushes and waited.

Lights flicked on in the house. Nick saw a small stone patio, a water tank, metal awnings, a neat wooden fence. The Peace Corps lady lived pretty well! By reflected light he saw that the house was of stone, long and low and comfortable looking. Another light came on and he saw her move across a window. Bedroom? He crouched and ran softly through the pelting rain.

A damp raincoat lay across the bed. The girl was in the act of pulling her damp, rumpled dress over her head as N3 peered in the window.

He saw immediately why Mike Bannion had been so impressed. She was a stunning creature. Rather tall, with long legs and large hard breasts. She dropped the dress to the floor and stared at herself for a moment in the mirror over the vanity. She leaned to lipstick her wide mouth, then ran a strong, capable-looking hand through her damp blonde hair. She was wearing only long beige stockings, gartered nearly to her hips, and black bra and panties. N3 noted the play of the good muscles in her smooth pale back and shoulders. A big, strong girl. Fine body. Lovely face. Too bad she was a Red. A traitor. She wasn’t going to look so well in prison garb!