The Death Strain (6 page)

I looked back at the stately lines of the White House as I got outside. The venerable structure had seen many history-making meetings since 1800, but none more vital and unusual than the one I'd just left. At AXE offices, Stewart greeted me at the doorway of the cavernous laboratories of Special Effects. "Nothing terribly unusual for you this time, Nick" he said in his usual professorial monotone, "The Chief said that communications would be the problem."

"One of the problems," I corrected him. "Got anything in the line of germ repellants?"

Stewart ignored me, which is what he usually did. He was always like a mother hen, protectively fussing over his products of highly specialized destruction, and I knew he thought me irreverent I didn't really deprecate his fantastically clever concoctions. Hell, they'd saved my life more than once. I just thought he ought to be less holy about them, especially since they were as unholy as hell.

Stewart halted at one of the white-topped tables where a belt and a pair of socks were set neatly side by side.

"Something new in men's wear?" I asked and he permitted himself a fleeting smile. "I'd like to see a three-button jacket in a quiet check," I joked.

"Put this belt on " Stewart said. "Press the center of the buckle in the rear first." The buckle was thick silver with a scroll design in the front. As I pressed the rear, the back portion slid sideways and I found myself holding a square panel with a tiny grill in the center.

"Microelectronics," Stewart said. "It's a tiny sending set. No reception. Transmission only. The Chief said to fit it into something they wouldn't be apt to take away from you."

As I looked at the little device, he picked up a small package about the size of a pack of king-size cigarettes. "It goes with the belt," he explained. "There isn't enough power in the sending unit to carry any substantial distance. But this little pack carries plenty. Set it down anywhere within a mile of where you're going, flip up the switch at the side, and the unit will receive your signals from the belt sender. It will then relay them up to two hundred miles. It's waterproof, too."

I'd switched belts after sliding the rear panel of the buckle back in place when he handed me the socks. "No need to put these on now," he said. "Inside the decorative ribbing on the sides they contain explosive wire. Just put a match to the whole sock and you'll get enough for one good blast out of each."

I stuffed the socks in my pocket. "Send me a dozen in brown and a dozen in blue. I hope nobody gives me a hotfoot while I'm wearing them." Stewart's severe face remained expressionless, and I decided he'd never develop a sense of humor. I left and went upstairs to Hawk's office. There was a message for me to wait and wait I did. The pretty little thing in the outer office had a name and a telephone and an address where she lived alone. I got all three before Hawk came back. I followed him into the inner office.

"You will join Major Nutashi at Andrews Field in two hours," Hawk said, his tone crisp. "You will both be flown to Hokkaido. There his people will prepare you for scouting the Kurile Islands. A fleet of four Russian submarine chasers of the S.O.I. Class will be standing by off the Kuriles. We decided against the use of submarines because of their lack of deck guns, which you may need. Also, these sub chasers can move in fasten Ostrov said there would be three W Class patrol submarines standing by below the surface if needed. Chung Li gave us a special frequency on which to contact him directly. He agreed to have all Chinese coastal forces alerted for any unusual activity, such as Carlsbad trying to make it to the Chinese mainland by boat. In radio contact with anyone, use the code name Operation DS."

Hawk paused and his lips tightened. "The rest is up to you, Nick," he said. "All this background cooperation won't be worth a damn unless you get to Carlsbad. Everyone's agreed to stay quietly in the background and wait for word from you. But at least you know that no matter which way Carlsbad jumps, you can go after him fast, without worrying about being stopped. Just clear your moves through Operation DS."

"Good enough," I said. "All assuming that Carlsbad is not holed up right here."

"Oh, I forgot to mention," Hawk said. "We're pretty sure he's left the country. We got a report on a series of six private planes, left abandoned from here to Portland. Each plane had been reserved from a different charter service over a month ago, all by a Mr. Kiyishi." I grimaced. That name again. They'd set up a series of short hops and skips across the country, changing planes each time just to play safe. Neat, I had to admit.

"We think they slipped by our people in Portland and took a commercial airliner overseas," Hawk concluded. He stood up and walked to the door with me.

"This isn't just a matter of getting Carlsbad," he said. "If X–V77 is let loose in the process, we will have lost everything."

"What you're saying is I've got to move fast and hard and slow and careful," I grinned. "Tell me how I do that, O Wise One."

I should know never to underestimate the old fox. "Make believe you're after one of your top-heavy blondes," he said. "It'll come back to you."

The Kurile Islands were given to Russia by the Yalta Agreement and are still a sore point with the Japanese. The Japanese still fish their rich waters despite the control of the Russians, and the small, hardy, independent fishermen are a constant problem to the Soviets. Stretching from the very tip of Japan to the long Sredinny finger pointing downward from Russia, the islands are swept by cold currents from the Bering Sea and spend many of their days in bone-chilling fog.

In one small, single-sailed fishing dory, three Japanese fishermen hauled in full nets and put out new ones, moving their little craft close to the island shores. One of them was an old man, stooped but still strong and able, the other his son, young and the mainstay of the boat. The third man was big for Japanese. Actually he was not even Japanese — he was me, Nick Carter.

I stayed hunched over like the others, clothed in the same oilskin work clothes under which I wore the long Japanese shirt with short, knee-length trousers. My eyes had the oriental fold, my skin was tinted a faint amber, and I knew I would easily pass for just another fisherman to anyone watching from shore. Major Nutashi had explained to the two fishermen that they were to go about their work as usual but to do whatever I ordered them to do, no matter how strange it sounded.

What we'd done for the first day was to get in the fish during the morning fogbound hours and then sail around listlessly while the sun burned through. When that happened, they'd repair nets and I'd scrounge down in the bottom of the dory and survey the islands as we moved in and around them. I thanked God there wasn't a helluva lot to survey on most of them or we'd still be surveying as time ran out.

It was late in the second afternoon and the sun's rays were moving low across the water as we steered past a small island with a screen of trees rising a hundred yards inshore. I caught the sudden flash of sun reflecting off field glasses.

"Just keep on sailing past," I said quietly from the bottom of the boat. The old man nodded as we moved on and then slowly circled as though heading back. As we passed the island again, I was sitting up piling one of the nets into the bow of the dory. Once more I caught the brief glint of the sunlight on the glasses. We moved on until night fell, and then I ordered the little dory to come around and head back. The two fishermen didn't ask any questions. When we were off the little island again it was pitch black. The moon hadn't come up high enough yet and I didn't wait around for it.

"Go back to your homes now," I said to the old man and his son as I lowered myself over the side of the dory, leaving the oilskins with them.

They nodded gravely and I heard the faint sound of the water hitting the sides of the dory as she swung around. I swam for the dark mound that was the island, my shoes tied onto my belt, my fancy socks stuck into a pocket. The tide was coming in and helped me along. Soon I felt the pebble bottom under my feet and I crawled out onto a stone beach. I waited a moment, moved further up from the beach and brushed my feet dry on the grass that rose up at the edge of the trees. Then I put on my socks and shoes. It wasn't the best of manners to go calling barefooted. I moved carefully through the trees. I'd gone about a hundred yards inland when I saw the flicker of light.

I crept forward in a crouch, moving closer to what turned out to be a crumbled mass of rock that had once been some kind of temple. But the decay had been arrested by new stone blocks placed in strategic positions and wooden planks filling up holes. The remains of the temple stretched back into a cleared area and I saw the roof had been well repaired with gutters and drains running along the edges. A figure emerged from a narrow, arched doorless entranceway — an old man, crippled and deformed. He lit a torch stuck in a wall holder and then moved along the side of the temple to disappear around the back. He was Japanese, or at least oriental. I waited and saw two men in monk-like robes emerge, gather some firewood and go back inside.

Through cracks in the stones and boards and by the reflected light of an open square that had once been a window, I saw the flicker of torchlight from inside and heard the sounds of chanting. If Carlsbad was here, I had to admit he'd picked a helluva spot to hide in. If his pals hadn't lost that identification locket we could have spent a decade searching for this place. If he was here, he had to feel pretty secure. Except for watching the fishing boat with glasses, they hadn't a guard posted anywhere.

I crossed the short space to the temple wall as the chanting stopped. My back pressed against the wall, I slipped into the dark of the arched doorway and then moved inside, into an area of deep shadows. The floor was plain dirt at the entrance, but a stone floor began just inside the arched area. Before moving farther inside the temple I placed the little relay power pack in the deep shadows of the doorway and flipped on the switch. I heard voices inside, women's voices, and I could hear the movement of people.

Instinctively my arm pressed against Wilhelmina, secure in her holster, the hard flatness of Hugo against my right forearm. Taking a deep breath, I started to move forward. I was doing fine until I stepped on the first stone past the arched doorway; it was a wide, flat stone and I found out why they didn't post guards. The damn thing was on some land of swivel — it flipped over and I felt myself being sent half-skidding forward to make a grand entrance.

Wilhelmina was in my hand as my knee hit the floor and I fell into a large, central room where figures came at me from all sides. I glimpsed one huge figure, stripped to the waist, off to the side, but I hadn't time to take inventory. Cursing the damn stone, I let go a fusillade of shots, scattering them, and I heard cries of pain and alarm as I saw three figures go down. The room was lighted by the flickering glow of wall torches and filled with moving shadows and nearly dark areas. As the others scattered, I whirled to head for the doorway, this time stepping over the stone. When I reached the outside, I saw that people had rum out of various side exits and were rushing at me. I fired again and saw two more go down. A shot pinged off the stone an inch from my head and I emptied Wilhelmina and ran back into the temple, again leaping over the moveable stone.

Men were coming toward me inside while I heard the rest rushing in through the doorway. I decided against using Hugo. There was a good chance that, as had often happened, he'd go unnoticed and be of more use later. Right now, he'd just remove a few and the remainder might still get me. Their people didn't seem afraid of being killed — they were coming in from all sides.

I streaked for the far wall as two shots rang out, whizzing past my ear and sounding like cannons in the cavernous interior of the temple. I dived, hit the floor and came up running again. Three men came in to cut me off and I bowled into them, feeling my blows striking flesh and bone. Two of them went down. The third clasped arms around my left leg and I kicked out hard with my right I felt my foot smash into his face and the arms let go. I changed course and tried for the other side of the big room.

Another shot rang out This one creased my forehead, and I felt the sharp pain of it as it seared the skin just below the hairline. I ducked, stumbled and fell as another shot crossed over me. I rolled over to avoid the third shot I was sure would follow. It did and so did a huge Japanese. I saw his bulk fill the space above me. The sonofabitch had a positive talent for getting to me when I was off my feet.

I rolled over to get away from him but he brought both arms down, hands held together, like a sledgehammer. The blow caught me between the shoulder blades with tremendous force and I spread-eagled against the floor. His foot followed, catching me alongside the temple, and I felt myself skitter two feet sideways. More hands had come up to rain blows on me. A sharp blow from something metal, probably a gun barrel, caught me on the top of the head. I saw purple flashes and then blackness closed down.

It could have been an eternity, or only five minutes, but I began to slowly struggle out of the blackness. As I started to come around, I felt the soft touch of a wet rag on my face, patting my eyes, being drawn across my forehead, then my cheeks. That's damn nice of them, I thought fuzzily. When I got my eyes to open I saw that they weren't being gentle but merely wiping away my makeup. An old, one-armed woman was doing the rubbing with a wet cloth.

I felt my arms tied around behind my back at the wrists. My ankles were also tied together, and I was propped up against a wall. Behind the old woman I saw faces and shapes as I started to focus. The eye picks out the biggest things first; in this case the huge form of Carlsbad's Japanese, his flesh in folds over his tremendous chest and stomach, truly a mountain of a man. Beside him, looking thinner than he actually was, stood a gray-haired man with intense blue eyes and next to him Rita Kenmore, now in black slacks and a yellow jersey top. I looked at Carlsbad. At least I knew he was really here.