Temple of Fear (13 page)

Pete Fremont waited for the man to do the leading. How did Jacobi fit into it?

Philston opened a drawer. There was. a rustle of paper. "Three years ago Paul Jacobi tried to recruit you. He offered you a job, working for us. You refused. Why was that?"

Pete scowled and drank. "I wasn't ready to sell out then."

"Yet you never informed on Jacobi, never told anyone he was a Russian agent. Why?"

"None of my damned concern. Maybe I didn't want to play with Jacobi but that didn't mean I had to blow the whistle on him. All I wanted, all I want now, is to be left alone to drink myself to death." He laughed harshly. "It's not as easy as you might think."

Silence. He could see Philston's face now. A soft handsomeness blurred by sixty years of indulgence. A hint of jowl, the nose blunt, the eyes wide set and void of color in the semi-gloom. The mouth was the betrayer — loose, a trifle moist, a whisper of effeminacy. The flaccid mouth of the too tolerant bisexual. The files clicked over in the AXEman's brain. Philston was a lady killer. Man killer, too, in more ways than one.

Philston said: "You have not seen Paul Jacobi lately?"

"No."

A hint of smile. "That is understandable. He is no longer with us. There was an accident in Moscow. Too bad."

Pete Fremont drank. "Yeah. Too bad. Let's forget Jacobi. What do you want me to do for the fifty thousand?"

Richard Philston was setting his own pace. He crushed out his cigarette and reached for another one. "You would not work for us at the time you turned Jacobi down. Now you will work for me, so you say. May I ask why this change of heart? I represent the same, er, clients that Jacobi did. As you must know."

Philston leaned forward and Pete got a good look at his eyes. Pale, washed-out gray. Brushed in with limpid water color.

Pete Fremont said: "Look, Philston! I don't give a damn who wins. Not a single damn! And things have changed since "I knew Jncobi. A lot of whisky has gone under the bridge. I'm older. I'm broker. Right now I've got about two hundred yen to my name. That answer your question?"

"Hmmmm — to a degree, yes. All right." Paper rustled again. "You were a newspaperman in the States?"

It was a chance for a little bravura acting and Nick Carter let Pete leap at it. He exploded in a nasty little laugh. He let his hands tremble a bit and he looked with longing at the Scotch bottle.

"Good Christ, man! You want references? All right. I can give you names but I doubt that you'll hear anything good."

Philston did not smile. "Yes. That I understand." He consulted the paper. "You worked for the
Chicago Tribune
at one time. Also the
New York Mirror
and the
St. Louis Post-Dispatch,
among others. You also worked for the Associated Press and the Hearst International Service. You were fired from all these positions for drinking?"

Pete laughed. He tried to touch up the sound with just a hint of mild insanity. "You missed a few. The
Indianapolis News
and a few country papers." He remembered Tonaka's words and went on, "There is also the
Hong Kong Times
and the
Singapore Times.
Here in Japan there's Asahi and Osaka and a few others. You name the paper, Philston, and I've probably been fired from it."

"Hmmmm. Just so. But you still have connections, friends, among newspaper men?"

Where was the bastard heading? Still no light at the end of the tunnel.

"I wouldn't call them friends," Pete said. "Acquaintances, maybe. An alcoholic hasn't got any friends. But I know a few guys I can still borrow a buck from when I'm desperate enough."

"And you could still plant a story? A big story? Let us suppose that you were given the story of the century, a really tremendous scoop as I believe you chaps call it, and it was exclusive with you. Only you! You could arrange that such a story would get immediate and full worldwide coverage?"

They were beginning to get to it.

Pete Fremont pushed back the battered hat and stared at Philston "I could do that, yes. But it would have to be authentic. Fully confirmed. You offering me such a story?"

"I may," said Philston. "I just may. And if I do, Fremont, it will be fully confirmed. No worry about
that!"
The high, fluting, Establishment laugh was at some private joke. Pete waited.

Silence. Philston moved in his swivel chair and stared at the ceiling. He stroked a well-manicured hand through silver gray hair. This was the crux. The sonofabitch was about to make up his mind.

While he waited the AXEman pondered the vagaries, the breaks, the chancy bits of his profession. Timing, for instance. Those girls snatching the real Pete Fremont's body and hiding it in the few moments that the cops and Pete's girl friend were off stage. A one in a million chance, that. And now the fact of Fremont's death hung over his own head like a sword. The minute that Philston, or Johnny Chow, found out the truth the fake Pete Fremont was in the soup. Johnny Chow? He began to think along a new line. Maybe it was a way out for Tonaka...

Decision. Richard Philston opened another drawer. He came around the desk. In his hands was a thick packet of green bills. He tossed the money into Pete's lap. There was contempt in the gesture which Philston did not bother to conceal. He stood nearby, teetering slightly on his heels. Beneath the tweed jacket he wore a thin tan sweater that did not conceal a small paunch.

"I've decided to trust you, Fremont. I've no choice, really, but perhaps it isn't such a risk after all. It has been my experience that every man looks out for himself first. We are all selfish. Fifty thousand dollars will take you a long way from Japan. It means a new start, my friend, a new life. You've reached rock bottom — we both know that — and I can't think that you'll refuse this chance to get out of the gutter. I am a rational man, a logical man, and I think that you are too. This is absolutely your last chance. I think you realize that. So I'm gambling, you might say. Gambling that you will do the job efficiently and that you will stay sober until it
is
done."

The big man in the chair kept his eyes hooded. He riffled the crisp notes through his fingers and registered greed. He nodded. "For this kind of money I can stay sober. You can believe it, Philston. For this kind of dough you can even trust me."

Philston paced a few steps. There was something dainty, mineing, about his walk. The AXEman wondered if the guy really was queer. There was no proof in his files. Only hints.

"It is not," said Philston, "altogether a matter of trust. As I am sure you understand. For one thing, if you do not carry out the assignment to my complete satisfaction you will not be paid the remainder of the fifty thousand. There will be a time lapse, naturally. If everything works out — then you will be paid."

Pete Fremont scowled. "Looks like I'm the one that has to trust
you."

"To a point, yes. I might also point out something else — if you betray me or in any way attempt to double-cross, you will most certainly be killed. I am much esteemed by KGB. You will have heard of their long arm?"

"I know." Sulkily. "If I don't come through they'll murder me."

Philston regarded him with his washed gray eyes. "Yes. Sooner or later they will murder you."

Pete stretched for the Scotch bottle. "Okay — okay! Can I have one more drink?"

"No. You are in my employ now. No more drinking until the job is completed."

The big man sank back into the chair. "Right. I was forgetting. You just bought me."

Philston went back behind the desk and sat down. "You are regretting your bargain already?"

"No. I told you, damn it, that I don't care who wins. I've got no country any more. No allegiance. I've just got me! Now suppose we cut the horsing around and you tell me what I have to do."

"I told you. I want you to plant a story in the press of the world. An exclusive story. The biggest story you or any other newspaperman ever had."

"World War three?"

Philston did not smile. He reached for a fresh cigarette from the cloisonne box. "Possibly. I do not think so. I..."

Pete Fremont waited, frowning. The bastard was having a little trouble screwing himself up to the point of saying it. Still dabbling a toe in the cold water. Hesitant to commit himself beyond the point of no return.

"There are many details to be worked out," he said. "A lot of background that you must understand. I..."

Fremont stood up and snarled, the irascible rage of a man who was dying for a drink. He slapped the packet of money against his palm. "I want this money, damn it. I'll earn it. But not even for this much dough will I go into anything blind. What
is
it?"

"The Emperor of Japan is going to be assassinated. Your job is to see that the Chinese are blamed for it."

Killmaster was not particularly surprised. Pete Fremont was, and had to show it. Had to show surprise and dismay and disbelief. He paused in the act of conveying a cigarette to his mouth and let his jaw droop.

"Jesus Christ! You must be out of your mind."

Richard Philston, now that he had finally said it, was enjoying the consternation he had caused.

"Not at all. Quite the contrary. Our plan, a plan we have been working on for months, is the essence of logic and sanity. The Chinese are our enemies. Sooner or later, unless they are forestalled, they will make war on Russia. The West will enjoy that. They will sit by and profit by it. Only it is not going to happen that way. That is why I am in Japan, at great personal risk to myself."

Fragments of Philston's file glittered in the AXEman's mind like a montage. An assassination specialist!

Pete Fremont contrived an expression of awe mingled with lingering doubt. "I think you really mean it, by God. And
you're
going to kill him!"

"That is none of your affair. You will not be present and none of the responsibility, or blame, will be on your head."

Pete laughed sourly. "Come on, Philston! I am mixed up in it, as of now. If I get caught I won't have any head. They'll slice it off like a cabbage. Let's not kid around. I want that money, sure, but even a drunk like me wants to keep his head."

"I assure you," said Philston stiffly, "that you will not be implicated. Or need not be if you
use
your head to keep it on your shoulders. After all, I expect you to exercise some ingenuity for fifty thousand dollars."

Nick Carter let Pete Fremont sit sullen and unconvinced while he let his own mind range free and fast. For the first time he became aware of the ticking of a tall clock in a corner of the room. The phone on Philston's desk loomed twice its normal size. He hated them both. Time and modern communications were working inexorably against him. Let Philston find out that the real Fremont was dead and he, Nick Carter, was just as dead. Never doubt it. Those two goons outside the door were killers. Philston undoubtedly had a gun in his desk. A light sweat broke out on his forehead and he fished out a grubby handkerchief. This could easily get out of hand. He had to put the spurs to Philston, put on the pressure for his own plan and get the hell out of here. But not too fast. It would not do to show too much anxiety.

"You realize," Philston said silkily, "that you cannot back out now. You know too much. Any hesitation of your part simply means that I must have you killed."

"I'm not backing out, damn it. I'm trying to get used to the idea. Jesus! Kill the Emperor. Rig it so the Chinese get the blame. It isn't exactly a game of squat tag, you know. And you can run afterward. I can't. I have to stay and sweat it out. I can't plant a big lie like that if I'm on the lam to Lower Slobbovia."

"Slobbovia? I don't think I quite..."

"Skip it. Give me a chance to figure it out. Just when is this killing going to come off?"

"Tomorrow night. There will be riots and mass sabotage. A great deal of sabotage. Tokyo will be blacked out, also many other large cities. This is cover, you understand. The Emperor is in residence at the Palace now. That is my responsibility."

Pete nodded slowly. "I begin to get it. You're working with the Chicoms — up to a point. For the sabotage bit. But
they
don't know anything about the assassination. Right?"

"Hardly," said Philston. "It wouldn't be much of a coup if they did. I explained that — Moscow and Peking are at war. This is an
act
of war. Pure logic. We intend to cause so much trouble for the Chinese that they will not be able to trouble us for years."

It was very nearly time now. Time to bring the pressure to bear. Time to get out of there and get to Johnny Chow. Philston's reaction was going to be important. Maybe life or death important.

Not yet. Not quite yet.

Pete lit another cigarette. "I'll have to set this thing up," he told the man behind the desk. "You understand that? I mean I can't just rush in cold afterward and yell that I've got the scoop. They wouldn't listen to me. My reputation isn't so good, as you know. Which brings up another point — how am I going to prove this story? Confirm and document it? I hope you've thought of that."

"My dear chap! We are not amateurs. Day after tomorrow, as early as possible, you will go to the Ginza branch of the Chase Manhattan. You will have a key to a safe deposit box. In it you will find all the documentation you will need. Plans, orders, signatures, vouchers of payment, everything. These will back up your story. It is these papers that you will show your friends on the wire services and the newspapers. They are, I assure you, absolutely perfect forgeries. No one will doubt your story after reading them."

Philston chuckled. "It is even possible that some Chinese, those opposed to Mao, will believe it."

Pete fidgeted in the chair. "That's another thing — I'll have the Chicoms after my skin. They'll know I'm lying. They'll try to kill me."