Double Identity (19 page)

His double grinned evilly at Nick. “Let that be a lesson to you! Never hire drunken help. Now you get—”

Nick clasped both hands. “If you’re really going to kill me I’d like to pray for a minute. Surely you won’t deny me that—no matter what you are now. You were once an American. I’d guess you were a soldier once. You must have had buddies who died in battle. You wouldn’t deny a man the right to a last prayer?”

It was corny and he knew it, but he was gambling for his life. He
had
to get off the bed and on his knees. The Luger was under the bed, at the foot, where he had dropped it when he climbed into bed with the woman.

Contempt flickered in the other man’s eyes. He scanned the bedroom rapidly. If he looks under the bed, Nick thought, I’ve had it. I’ll have to jump the gun and this time I won’t make it.

The cold eyes came back to Nick. The man tightened his grip on the sagging flesh shield that was Mike Bannion. It was the shield that finally decided him. He couldn’t see how Nick could get at him.

The man said: “I’ll make a bargain with you, Carter. You want to pray? So pray. But first you answer a question —and if I think you’re lying I’ll kill you right now. Bang! No prayers. Okay?”

“Okay. What’s the question?”

The man’s smile was as mean as Nick’s own could be. “I had to kill a couple of guys because I couldn’t come up with something they called a Golden Number. At first it was just routine—they didn’t even ask me until after I had what I wanted—but after, when I couldn’t come up with that damned number, they got suspicious and I had to kill them. So what’s the Golden Number? If I can take that back to Peking it might help square me for this mess.” The Webley twitched at Nick. “You talking or you want to die noble? Without prayer? Tell the truth and I’ll let you pray. Maybe a whole minute.”

“I’ll tell you.” It was another gamble. If he lost now he would louse up a lot of other agents. Get them killed. Nick decided not to lie, though he was good at it In this bind he simply couldn’t chance it.

“It’s the number of the year in the old Metonic Cycle. That’s nineteen years. So the number can be anything from 1 to 19. Every agent’s number varies, depending on who is asking the identifying question. The contact gives the agent a year, any year, and the agent identifying himself adds one to it. Then he divides by nineteen. The remainder is the Golden Number. Nineteen is the golden number when there is no remainder. Simple?”

His double scowled. “Like hell it’s simple. No wonder I couldn’t come up with it. Okay—you can pray now. One minute.”

“Thanks.”

Nick Carter slipped off the bed to his knees, as near the foot of the bed as possible. He kept his hands clasped and well in sight. He closed his eyes and began to murmur.

The phony agent said: “Just one sign of monkey business, just one, and you get it. Then I’ll kill your friend here. Be good and die with no trouble and I might let him go. He’s just a lush—no reason I should kill him.”

Liar. An obvious play to Nick’s own feeling as a decent American. The innocent shall not suffer. When would they realize that the Americans could play just as rough as they could.

Somewhat to his own surprise Nick found that he really was praying after a fashion. For the success of this crazy gambit.

Then it was go! He rolled to his right, snatching the Luger from beneath the bed and kept on rolling across the floor as he fired. He got in the first shot. Then the Webley roared at him. Nick never stopped moving, rolling, crouching, scuttling. He let the clip empty into Mike Bannion’s chest.

The din of Death was stilled. The room was hazy with smoke from the Webley’s old-fashioned cartridges. Mike Bannion lay near the door, across the body of the man he had not shielded from death after all. The Luger, at such murderous range, had put slugs through Mike’s body and well into Nick’s double. The Webley lay on the carpet, halfway to the bed, where a dying hand had tossed it.

Nick slipped another clip into the Luger. Wilhelmina was hot. He inspected the bodies. Both stare-eyed dead. He lingered for a moment over Mike Bannion. “I’m sorry, Mike. I’ll keep that promise—see that your wife and kids get some of Uncle’s sugar.”

He went to the bed. Damn it! She would never serve her time now. One of the double’s wild shots had gotten her right in the face.

Nick dressed rapidly and turned off the lights. Bannion must have come back to the Peshawar Hotel, found him gone, and somehow found out where Beth Cravens lived. He had come out to help, poor little bastard. Loyal enough in the end. Drunk, too.

But it meant that the jeep should be someplace around.

Nick found it parked on the old caravan trail. Most of their gear was back at the camp but he couldn’t worry about that now. Time to fold his tent and softly fade away. There was a sweetish stench of high explosive in the air and from the direction of the old fort he could see flames staining the rainy black sky. Sooner or later officialdom would get around to investigating—and sooner or later, probably sooner, the Pathans would come for their revenge. Best be gone when they did.

He was about to climb in the jeep when a thought struck him. A devilish, typical Nick Carter thought. Why not? It was crazy as hell, but again why not? Sort of garnish the salad as it were. He went back to the blast-racked cottage, found a mattress cover in a closet, and set to work. As he worked he pondered the possibility of bringing it off— this wild scheme. He should be able to do it if the luck held.

He could skirt Peshawar and get out of the Khyber and head for Rawalpindi. It was about a hundred miles. No sweat if the old jeep held up and there was still plenty of gas.

Sooner or later he was going to run into a Pakistani patrol. So be it. He was in the clear now, or would be when he got out of the Pass, and he could probably sweet talk them into letting him contact the Air Force in Ladakh. They would remember him. Through them he could contact Hawk in Washington. Once he explained matters Hawk would start pulling wires and making his famous phone calls.

He was sure his Chief would go along with the gag. Hawk’s sardonic sense of humor was much the same as Killmaster’s.

Nick Carter picked up the body in the mattress cover, threw it across his shoulder, and strode out of the cottage.

Chapter 12

Return Of The Turtle

The first light snow of the year had drifted down on Peking during the night. It was nothing much, merely an October frosting, and Wang-wei did not even notice it as he drove to the house in the Tartar City. His thoughts were on something other than the weather and they were not easy or happy thoughts. He had not liked the tone in which Chou had summoned him to this meeting.

He did not, in fact, like Chou. The man might be heir apparent, but he was also a thief. No less! He had indeed taken Sessi-yu and her marvelous Golden Lotus. The fact that Wang-wei had already found a new concubine did in no way assuage his hurt. He had nearly loved Sessi-yu.

As he left his car and entered the compound he was admitted by the same guards. As he climbed the stairs to the anteroom Wang-wei knew that it was not
deja-vu—
this had all really happened before. Of course. Not much over a week ago he had sent his Turtle on the mission, put Dragon Plan into effect. New uneasiness stirred in the little Chief of Secret Services. There had been nothing from Peshawar now for two days.

Yes, he had certainly been here before. Many times. But as he entered the long room with the mirrored floor Wang-wei had a strange premonition. He would not be here again!

Chou and the Leader were waiting for him as before. There was the same table and chairs, the same refreshment on the table. Only this time the Leader did not offer him a drink or smoke. His tone was curt as he pressed a button and lights went on in the apartment below.

“Your Turtle is back,” said the Leader in his cold small voice. “I thought you would like to see him—since it so intimately concerns you.”

Wang-wei stared at them. “Turtle Nine? Back so soon —I—I had not heard. He did not report to me.”

“He did not report to anyone,” said Chou. His voice was mean, nasty. “He came by way of the British Trade Commission. Well sealed and packaged. I am convinced that the British did not really know what they were delivering—they did it as a favor to the Americans.”

“I do not understand.”

“You will. Watch.”

A door opened in the apartment below and four coolies entered. They were carrying something. Wang-wei felt the sweat start on him. A coffin! A plain pine box.

“Take a good look,” said Chou softly. “It is the last time you will ever see your favorite Turtle. Turtle Nine! Remember how you bragged of him?”

Wang-wei could not answer. He automatically loosened his collar as he stared down through the glass floor. It was his Turtle, right enough. Turtle Nine. The perfect double for Nick Carter. Now pale and still in the box, his hands crossed on his big chest.

“He was even embalmed,” said the Leader crossly. “Courtesy of the American Air Force. How they must be laughing at us!”

Wang-wei wiped his sweaty face. “I—I still do not understand! I have heard nothing. I—”

Chou leaned to hand him something. A small slip of paper with a gummed back. A seal of some kind. “Perhaps this will enlighten you, friend Wang-wei. The coffin was sealed with many of them. All signed. Read it.”

Wang-wei stared down at the little paper seal in his hand. It bore the AXE symbol—a murderous little hatchet! Across the seal, scrawled in a bold hand, was:
Worst wishes, NC.

“Phase One and Two of Dragon Plan have failed,” said the Leader. “We shall have to think of something else.”

Wang-wei mopped the inside of his collar. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the coffin. “Yes, Comrade Leader. I will begin planning at once.”

“Not you,” said the Leader.

To Wang-wei the words sounded oddly, and terribly, like a firing squad.

The End