Temple of Fear (19 page)

Nick shook his head. It was as tangled a web as he had ever clawed his way out of. He was dying for a cigarette but no chance. He hit another detour and began to skirt a swamp that must have once been a paddy field. They had put down logs and covered them with gravel. From the paddies beyond the swamp the breeze brought an odor of rotting human feces.

Philston had been watching the Chicoms, probably a routine precaution, and his men had picked Nick up without any trouble. Philston thought he was Pete Fremont and Tonaka hadn't told him any differently. She and Johnny Chow must have gotten a real charge out of that — snatching Nick Carter right out from under Philston's nose. Killmaster! Who was as hated by the Russians, and as important to them as Philston himself was to the West.

Meantime Philston was getting his charge too. He was using the man he thought was Pete Fremont — with the Chicoms knowledge and permission — to set them up for the real payoff. To smear the Chinese with the onus of killing the Emperor of Japan.

Figures in the maze; each one intent on his own plan, each one trying to figure out how to double-cross the other. Using terror, using money, moving the little people around like pawns on the big board.

The road was blacktop now and he stepped on it. He had been to Fujiyoshida once before — a girl and saki pleasure jaunt — and for this he was now grateful. The shrine grounds had been closed that day, but Nick recalled seeing a map in a guide book, and now he sought to recall it. When he concentrated he could remember nearly anything — and he concentrated now.

The shrine was just ahead. Maybe half a mile. Nick turned off his headlights and slowed. He might still have a chance; he couldn't know, but if he did he mustn't blow it now.

A lane led off to the left. They had come this way, that time before, and he recognized it. The lane skirted the grounds to the east. There was an ancient wall, low and crumbling, which would present no problems even to a one-armed man. Or to Richard Philston.

The lane was muddy, hardly more than two ruts. Nick ran the Lincoln in a few hundred feet and cut the engine. Painfully, stiffly, cursing a little under his breath, he got out without making any sound. He put the hunting knife in his left jacket pocket and, working awkwardly with his left hand, slipped a fresh clip into the Browning.

It had cleared off now and a crescent moon was trying to sail through the clouds. It gave just enough light for him to feel his way down off the lane, into a ditch and up the other side. He walked slowly through wet grass, already tall, to the old wall. There he stopped and listened,

He was in the umbrella gloom of a giant wisteria tree. A bird cheeped sleepily somewhere in the green cage. Nearby a few peepers were making their rhythmic castrati song. A strong scent of peonies tinged the faint breeze. Nick put his good hand on the low wall and vaulted over.

There would be security guards, of course. Maybe police, maybe the military, but they would be few and they would be less than alert. The average Japanese was incapable of thinking that the Emperor might be harmed. It simply would not occur to them. Not unless Talbot had worked a miracle in Tokyo and somehow gotten through.

The silence, the quiet darkness, belied that. Nick was still on his own.

He remained under the big wisteria for a minute, trying to visualize the map of the grounds as he had seen it that one time. He had come in from the east — that meant the little shrine, the
chiisai,
where only the Emperor was allowed to go, was somewhere off to his left. The larger shrine, with the arching
torii
over the main entrance, was straight ahead of him. Yes — that had to be right. The main gate was on the western side of the grounds and he was coming in from the east.

He began to follow the wall to his left, going cautiously and angling in a bit as he walked. The turf was springy and moist and he made no sound. Neither would Philston.

It struck Nick Carter then, really for the first time, that if he were too late and he walked into the little shrine and found the Emperor with a knife in his back or a bullet through his head AXE, and Carter, were going to be in one hell of a spot. It could be damned messy and it had better not happen. Hawk would have to be put in a strait jacket. Nick shrugged and nearly smiled. He hadn't thought of the old man in hours.

The moon showed itself again and he saw the glitter of black water off to his right. Carp pool. The fish would live longer than he would. He went on, slower now, alert for sound and light.

He came to a graveled path leading in the right direction. It was too noisy and after a moment he left it and walked along the verge. He fished the hunting knife from his pocket and put it between his teeth. There was a cartridge in the chamber of the Browning and the safety was off. He was as ready as he was ever going to be.

The path coiled through a stand of giant maple and keaki trees, laced together by thick vines to form a natural arbor. Just beyond was a small pagoda, roof tiles reflecting the faint sheen of the moon. Nearby was a white-painted iron bench. Sprawled near the bench was, unmistakably, the body of a man. Brass buttons glinted. A small body in blue uniform.

The policeman's throat had been cut and the sward beneath him was stained black. The body was still warm. Not long ago. Killmaster ran now, on his toes, across an open stretch of lawn and around a copse of flowering trees until he saw faint light in the distance. The little shrine.

The light was very dim, as tenuous as a will-o'-the-wisp. It would be over the altar, he supposed, and it would be the only light. It was hardly a light at all. And somewhere in the gloom might be another body. Nick ran faster.

Two paved narrow paths converged on the entrance to the small shrine. Nick ran softly on the grass to the apex of the triangle formed by the paths. Here a thick growth of bushes separated him from the door of the shrine. The light, a streaky drugget of amber, oozed from the door onto the pavement. No sound. No movement. The AXEman felt a surge of belly sickness. He was too late. There was death in that little building. He had the feeling and he knew it did not lie.

He pushed through the bushes, not worrying about noise now. Death had come and gone. The door of the shrine was half open. He went in. They lay halfway between the door and the altar. One of them moved and groaned as Nick entered.

They were the two Japanese who had gun-hustled him off the street. The short one was dead. The tall one still lived. He was belly down and his glasses lay nearby, casting twin reflections of the tiny lamp glowing above the altar.

Trust Philston not to leave any witnesses. And yet something had gone wrong. Nick turned the tall Japanese over and knelt beside him. The man had been shot twice, gut and head, and he was just dying. That meant that Philston was using a silencer.

Nick put his face close to the dying man. "Where is Philston?"

The Japanese was a traitor, he had sold out to fhe Russians — or perhaps a lifelong Commie and faithful after all — but he was dying in terrible pain and had no idea who was questioning him. Or why. But his fading brain heard the question and gave the answer.

"Go to — to big shrine. Mistake — Emperor not here. Change — he — go big shrine. I..." He died.

Killmaster was out the door and running, taking the paved path off to the left. There might be time. Christ almighty — there
might
be time!

What vagary had prompted the Emperor to use the big shrine and not the little shrine on this particular night he did not know. Or care. It gave him one last chance. It would have upset Philston, too, who would be operating on a meticulously thought-out schedule.

It hadn't upset the cold-blooded bastard so much that he had overlooked the chance to get rid of his two confederates. Philston would be alone now. Alone with the Emperor and that was just as he had planned it.

Nick came to a broad tiled walk bordered by peony trees. Off a way was another pool and beyond that a long stretch of barren garden with black rocks arching into grotesques. The moon was brighter now, so bright that Nick saw the body of the priest in time to vault over it. He caught a glimpse of staring eyes, a bloodied brown robe. Philston had been this way.

Philston did not see him. He was intent on his business and he was loping along, light footed as a cat, about fifty yards in front of Nick. He was wearing a robe, a brown priest's robe, and his shaven head caught the moonlight. The sonofabitch had thought of everything.

Killmaster moved closer to the wall, in under the arcade that skirted the shrine. There were benches here and he twined his way among them, keeping Philston in sight, keeping the same distance between them. And making a decision. To kill Philston or take him. It was no contest. Kill him. Now. Get in range and kill him here and now. One shot would do it. Then go back to the Lincoln and get to hell out of there.

Philston turned to his left and vanished.

Nick Carter turned on a burst of speed. He could still lose this battle. The thought was like cold steel in his guts. There wouldn't be much satisfaction in getting Philston after the man had murdered the Emperor.

He came to. where Philston had turned off. The man was now only about thirty yards ahead of him, walking stealthily down a long corridor. He was moving slowly and on his toes. There was a single door at the end of the corridor. It would lead into one of the larger shrines and the Emperor would be there.

A faint light was coming from the door at the end of the corridor and Philston was silhouetted against it. A good shot. Nick raised the Browning and took careful aim at Philston's back. He did not want to risk a head shot in the uncertain light and he could always finish the man off afterward. He held the pistol at arms length, sighted carefully and squeezed off the shot. The Browning clicked dully. Bad cartridge. A million to one chance and the old, lifeless ammo had come up with a big zero.

Philston was in the door now and there was no more time. He couldn't clear the gun in time with only one hand. Nick ran.

He was at the door. The room beyond was spacious. A single flame guttered over the altar. Before it a man sat cross-legged, his head down, deep in his own thoughts and unaware of Death stalking him.

Philston still had not seen or heard Nick Carter. He was tiptoeing across the room, the pistol in his hand made larger, snoutier, by the silencer screwed onto the muzzle. Nick put the Browning on the floor without sound and took the hunting knife . from his pocket. He would have given anything for the little stiletto. All he had was the hunting knife. And about two seconds.

Philston was halfway across the room now. If the man before the altar heard anything, if he was aware of what was in the room with him, he made no sign. His head was sunk on his chest and he breathed deeply.

Philston raised the pistol.

Nick
Carter
called softly: "Philston!"

Philston "whirled gracefully. Surprise, malice, rage flickered in amalgam on his too sensitive, top feminine face. For once there was no sneer. His shaven head sparked in the light from the torch. His cobra eyes widened.

"Fremont!" He fired.

Nick took one step to the side, turned to present a narrow target and hurled the knife. He did not, could not, wait. He went in to follow it up.

The pistol clattered on the stone floor. Philston stared down at the knife in his heart. He looked up at Nick, then back at the knife and then he fell. In dying reflex his hand reached for the pistol. Nick kicked it out of reach.

The little man before the altar had risen. He stood for a moment, quietly glancing from Nick Carter to the corpse on the floor. Philston was not bleeding very much.

Nick bowed. He spoke briefly. The man listened without interruption. Admiration grew in the AXEman. This was a cool hand.

The man was wearing only a light brown robe, loosely caught about his slender waist. His hair was thick, dark, cut
ebrosse
and streaked with gray at the temples. His feet were bare. He had a neatly trimmed moustache.

When Nick had finished speaking the little man took a pair of silver-rimmed glasses from the pocket of his robe and put them on. He peered at Nick for a moment, then down at the body of Richard Philston. Then, with a little indrawn hiss, he turned to Nick and bowed very low.

Nick bowed very low. It hurt his back but he did it.

The Emperor said: "You are free to go, as you suggest. You are right, of course. This must be kept secret. I can arrange that, I think. You will leave everything to me, please."

Nick bowed again. "Then I will go. There is very little time."

"One moment, please," He took a jeweled and golden sunburst from around his neck and handed it to Nick by the golden chain.

"You will accept this, please. I wish it."

Nick took the medal. The gold and jewels sparkled in the faint light. "Thank you."

He saw the camera then and remembered that this man was a famous shutter bug. The camera was lying on a small table in a corner of the room and had, must have been, brought along absent-mindedly. Nick went to the table and picked up the camera. A flash cube was in the socket.

Nick bowed again. "May I use it. A record, you understand. It is important."

The little man bowed deeply. "Of course. But I suggest haste. I think I hear a plane now."

It was a helicopter but Nick did not say so. He straddled Philston and snapped a picture of the dead face. Another one for safety, then he bowed again.

"I will have to keep the camera."

"Most certainly.
Itaskimashite.
And now — sayonara!"

"Sayonara!"

They bowed to each other.

He had reached the Lincoln when the first helicopter blatted in and hovered over the grounds. The landing lights, bars of blue-white brilliance, smoked in the damp night air.