Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America.
I
Buckingham Palace and "birds," miniskirts and majesty, tradition and Twiggy, Carnaby Street and King s Row. That's what I was seeing, that strange admixture that is London today. I'd been walking the streets of the "Colossus astride the Thames" and there was one thing I'd definitely concluded. It was no accident, no vague, straying wind of fashion that the miniskirt originated in London. The English girls have the legs for it and the hips for it and, most of all, the walk for it. I know; I'd been watching them all day, ever since I had arrived at the airport that morning and found Denny wasn't home. It wasn't time for killing yet, so I was killing time.
There's a walk the English girls have, a way they have of striking out. They talk with their legs. They say; "These legs are lovely and they're mine and they could be yours, if I want them to be." In a way, I couldn't help thinking, those legs and hips were a twentieth-century physical reaffirmation of the Magna Carta. "I'm English, I'm a free soul and I'm my own master," they seemed to say. "I've a right to wear my skirt short, to go where I please, to sleep with whoever takes my fancy, King, Crown and commoner be damned." I exchanged glances with one free-swinging, long-legged lovely, her mini just covering the bottom of her swinging little rear.
It would be nice, I told myself, if just once I could get a week in London without being on assignment for AXE. Just little old me, Nick Carter, and not agent N3, working. And this trip was bound to make me look longingly at all the open, direct young things. On this trip I was feeling like a duck in a shooting gallery. That's why I'd wangled the extra day to see Denny, only to find her not home. Of course, according to Hawk, I ought not to be feeling this way and, in all honesty, you couldn't ignore the old fox's sixth sense. I have pretty damn good antennae of my own, but compared to Hawk, they're strictly a crystal set. Behind those steely blue eyes, behind that calm, unruffled exterior, there's a collection of antennae, sounding boards and sensitized reactors that would make an interstellar listening post envious. Let's face it, that's what makes Hawk the top exec for AXE. He's shrewd, smart, resourceful and uncanny. As I strolled about Trafalgar Square I saw the scene once again in Hawk's office at AXE headquarters in Washington. It had been only a day ago but I wasn't likely to forget it.
Hawk had fixed me with his bland, casual expression, his soft-sell approach. We'd worked together for so many years that it was hard for him to find a tactic I couldn't recognize.
"The message is ambiguous, I'll admit, Nick," he said. "The woman called our source and said she had something extremely important and would speak only to a top AXE agent. She set up the complicated meeting procedure I outlined to you."
"Obviously she feels she may be under surveillance," I went along. "But you haven't any idea what it could be. It might even be a hoax."
Hawk smiled indulgently, his smile telling me I was being childish to think he hadn't considered that one. I smiled back. I wasn't being childish and he knew it.
"She could be an advance agent for someone who wants to defect, perhaps her husband, a man of prominence," he went on. "Or perhaps her own self. Maybe she is someone with valuable information to sell. She might even be someone who wants to work for us, someone in a sensitive position. Or, frankly, it could concern any number of things."
That's when I threw mine in, with some stuffiness, I'll admit.
"What if it's a clever setup to kill top AXE agents, me in particular?" I asked. Hawk remained silent for a long moment. Finally, he unpursed his lips and commented. Give him credit for his uncompromising New England honesty, even when it hurt.
"It's a possibility. I have to admit that," he said. "But I don't think it's a probability. Our source has always been a most reliable one. We must proceed on the assumption that a woman has something very valuable to give us and has requested a meeting."
I was waiting for him to toss the ball back to me. He did.
"But, if what you brought up should be true, Nick," he said, "then it's even more important you put a stop to that kind of foolishness at once."
He smiled, so damned pleased with himself that I had to break into a grin along with him. So here I was in jolly London town on what might be a hoax, a very important meeting for America, or a deadly trap. I still leaned to the last one and looked forward to being wrong in this instance. Luck hadn't been running my way, though. Denny being away all day after I'd managed to get here a whole day early was more than disappointing. Denny Robertson was more than a memory. She was a very special page from the past. We'd met some years ago, when she was a lot younger than I'd realized. It was immediately apparent that she was not someone to meet and turn into a memory. I'm hardly the kind that women easily get to. It has always been my firm belief that girls, the true-love, waiting-by-the-picket-fence kind of girls, had no place in the life of an international agent. Girls, other than in that way, had a helluva big place. They were the best damned way to wipe away all the ugliness, the taste of death, the glimpses into hell that made up this business. But Denny Robertson had been different from all the others. Not that she could make me change my opinions on the place of girls in my life, or that she'd tried, but she'd reached me in a way no other girl ever had. As I said, she was a lot younger than I'd realized. I found that out the night we made love. I also found out how naturally talented she was. I'd been called away a day later and the whole brief interlude had left us both like two music lovers who had heard only half a symphony. They both desperately want to hear the second half.
The list of girls I'd enjoyed and left, for one reason or another, was a mile long. Brief interludes were a built-in part of my life. And some, of course, stayed longer in the memory than others, each for their own reasons. But only with Denny Robertson had I felt the unfinished symphony syndrome, the feeling of having to go back. Not that we'd had an idyllic relationship. She'd called me every name under the sun on a couple of occasions and her temper and her jealousy matched. In the letters she'd written to me two or three times a year since then, she'd never been maudlin, never been anything but gay. But she had put into words an echo of the things I had felt. She had never been able to forget that one night, or me. Everything since, for her, had been second best, she'd written in one letter. I could see her fine, delicate handwriting in my mind.
When are you going to stop by and visit me again, Nick? Why are the absolute rotters like you so unforgettable? Please try. I know it'll only be en passant, and I know I'll no doubt get terribly angry at you for something or other, but do try. Who knows, maybe you've reformed and become a thoroughly likable chap.
I had tried, a few times, and we'd always missed connections. Denny wasn't one to sit around and stare into space. She was very British and had grown up with plenty of money and all it could buy. Finishing schools, ballet schools, riding academies and the very best of British gentlemen as escorts. But she also had the things money can't buy — breeding, honesty, intelligence. Denny was equally at home in a miniskirt, jodhpurs or an evening gown, a feat few girls can equal. The frank, open British girls who unabashedly showed their interest in me as I passed diem couldn't know that their chances had been made even slimmer by a memory. I saw a phone booth and called Denny again. I had till two o'clock in the morning to wait for a phone call, the first step in the contact procedure. It would be much pleasanter if I were waiting with Denny. This time the phone was answered by a voice that opened the floodgates of memory.
"I don't believe it!" she gasped over the phone.
"Believe it," I said. "I'm at the Gore Hotel, really only passing through. I thought we might squeeze in a few hours."
"Damn it all!" she swore. Denny could swear like a Grenadier Guard and make it sound terribly proper. "I've a dinner dance I must attend — the school where I teach."
"You're a schoolteacher now?"
"It's a riding school," she said quickly, "But I'll sneak away early — as close to ten as I can."
"Wonderful," I said. "I'll be waiting in my room."
"Nick!" she said, adding hurriedly, "How are you? Still the same?"
"I've changed," I laughed. "I'm older, more mature. I'm that thoroughly likable chap you wrote about. Isn't that what you want?"
"I'm not sure," she said, thoughtfulness creeping into her voice. "Besides, I don't believe you. Oh, Nick, it'll be so wonderful seeing you again. Tonight — ten-ish."
I walked from the phone booth seeing only a tall, regal girl with deep red hair, auburn, she always called it, framing a peaches-and-cream complexion. I went directly to dinner at a fine restaurant, and though I don't especially enjoy eating alone, I thoroughly enjoyed the meal. Perhaps because I wasn't alone. Denny and memories of her were an almost physical presence. It was a damn good dinner, too, Cock-a-leekie and roast ribs of beef with Yorkshire pudding, topped by a good brandy. I returned to my room, stretched out on the bed and briefly reviewed the contact procedures to be followed later in the night.
The woman was to phone me at two a.m. and use the identification code she had set up herself. Once that was cleared, she would give me further instructions about where to meet her. The brandy was still with me and I closed my eyes. I guess I'd walked more than I'd realized during the day, for I fell asleep almost instantly. The ringing of the phone woke me. Instantly glancing at my watch, I saw that it was just ten o'clock. I answered, expecting Denny's voice. It was a girl but it sure wasn't Denny. In fact, to one expecting Denny's precise, impeccable English, the voice was a rude shock to the ear — flat, somewhat nasal, the distinctive dialect I recognized as a Liverpool accent. It has often been said that an Englishman's accent reveals far more than the part of the country he hails from; it is a fairly accurate guide to his educational, social and economic background. In a half-dozen words, my caller had revealed herself as what the English call a working-class girl, or perhaps something a little less.
"Mr. Carter?" the voice said hesitantly. "Can you come to the lobby? There's been a change in plans."
"In what plans?" I asked, my naturally suspicious nature leaping to the fore.
"In the plans for your meeting," she said. "I'm down here in the lobby. Can you come down? Time is important."
"Who are you?" I questioned.
"Nobody important," she said. "My name is Vicky. I've been sent to drive you to a new meeting place. Please come down."
I agreed to go down and found her still standing beside the house phones, a round-busted little thing, a manufactured blonde, with a sexy shape beneath a too-tight, red dress. She had a round, youthful face and I guessed her age at not more than twenty-one. Her round breasts were made even higher and rounder by a platform bra that pulled the dress almost to the breaking point. Beneath the makeup and paint there was an air of underlying scrounginess that refused to be hidden. Her hands nervously fingered a small, shiny leather purse. I didn't see her as a trollop. She merely looked like one, a not uncommon condition with many girls. I saw her eyes, light blue, look me over expertly and automatically, involuntary approval in her glance.
"What's this all about, Vicky?" I smiled down at her.
"I don't know anything," she said. "I only know I'm to drive you someplace and I was told to tell you there'd been a change in plans. They told me you'd understand."
I turned it over in my mind and had to come up with one conclusion. This whole bit had been a weird one from the beginning, shrouded in mystery and uncertainty. No one knew what, why or who. The change in plans fitted right into the picture. Just to check her again, I tossed her another one.
"A woman sent you?" I asked sharply.
"A man," she answered with hesitation. I pierced her with a speculative gaze which she returned evenly.
"That's all I know, luv," she said, a touch of defiance in her tone. I believed her. She was a messenger. Whoever was behind this wouldn't tell her anything beyond her immediate instructions.
"Okay, doll," I said, taking her by the arm. "I'll go with you. I just want to stop at the desk for a second."
I'd intended to leave a note for Denny but before we got to the front desk I saw Denny enter, radiantly lovely in a white satin evening gown and rich, red velvet cape. She saw me at the same instant I saw her and I saw her brown eyes take in Vicky at my side. Her lips, finely edged, grew tight and her eyes narrowed. I could see her temper skyrocketing. It had always been an instantaneous thing and I had to admit it looked as though I was on my way out on a date with Vicky.
"I can explain," I said, attempting to head off the explosion. "I'll call you tomorrow and explain the whole thing to you."
She had stopped directly in front of us and her eyes flashed as she looked at me. I could see that beneath the anger there was hurt.
"I'm sure you'll come up with something absolutely brilliant by then," she said, her words wrapped in ice. She always looked so gorgeous when she was angry. "But don't bother calling because I won't be listening. You haven't changed a bit, I see. You're still a tomcat on two legs."
"Denny, wait!" I called after her but she was already stalking out the door after throwing me one of those I-might-have-known looks. I glanced at Vicky and cursed inwardly. There was no question what I wanted to do and no question what I had to do. I hustled the little blonde through the door, noting the fleeting expression of sly, bitchy pleasure that had crossed her face. Even though she hadn't really a damn thing to do with it, she enjoyed the role of superiority over another female. It was a reflex action, a built-in part of the female organism.
"She your bird?" she commented with studied blandness. "Bit of a problem explaining this to her, I fancy."
"She's not my bird" I said gruffly. "She's an old friend. Where's your car?"
She pointed to a little Sunbeam Imp standing at the curb and I slid in beside her, feeling as though I might split the sides on it.
"Lord," Vicky exclaimed, glancing at me. "You fill up a seat, you do." There was a hint of interest in her glance again, a glance which said that under other conditions, another time, another place, she'd be more than friendly. I sat quietly, watching London go by. She was following Victoria embankment, through the inner City, past Billingsgate Market and the old Tower, still grim and forbidding. She paid no attention to her dress, which was riding up high on her lap. Her legs, a little too short of calf and thick of thigh, would be stubby and dumpy in another five or more years. Right now, they had enough youth and firmness to exude a raw sexuality. As we drove on, I tossed a few more questions at her, just to see what they might elicit.
"Am I going to meet the woman now?" I asked casually.
"Lord, you're a persistent one," she exclaimed with some heat. "I told you I don't know nothing at all and that's the bloody truth of it."
"Little jumpy yourself, aren't you, Vicky?" I grinned.
"What if I am?" she retorted. "I'm just doin' a job, that's all. Throwing a bloody lot of questions at me isn't helping any."
She turned the Sunbeam when we reached a large sign reading: "Royal Albert Docks." She swung the little car into the narrow streets of the first of the dock sections, streets that led past warehouses, rows of crates and bales and vessels ablaze with lights illuminating the night unloading. The London docks, unlike any others in the world, did not jut out from the Thames but consisted of five huge, man-made areas set back from the river and reached by narrow passageways. In these vast complexes, London could accommodate over a hundred oceangoing liners and cargo vessels at one time. Vicky threaded the Sunbeam through the sections alive with lights and activities, turning into an area that was dark, deserted and silent. The vessels moored there were equally silent and dark, obviously out of service. I felt a warning chill sweep over me, the hairs on the back of my neck starting to rise. It was a reliable sign of trouble and danger. There was no explaining it. Call it extra-sensory perception, sixth sense, experience, give it any name you like, but it was a built-in part of me that defied rational explanation. I was damned glad for it, don't get me wrong, but every now and then even I wondered what made it operate so unfailingly. Right now, for example, there was no reason for it to start ticking. It was only logical that the kind of meeting that was planned would be held in some dark, out-of-the-way spot. The whole business, by its very nature, would be a dark and secret thing. It was to be expected, and yet I felt that sense of impending danger, a premonition that it was twelve o'clock and all was not so well. I felt for Wilhelmina, my Luger, safely in my shoulder holster. It was reassuring. Along my right forearm, in its leather sheath, Hugo, the thin stiletto, added a further touch of reassurance.
Vicky stopped the car, peered out the window, and in the darkness I could see her chewing her lips nervously.
"This is the place," she said. "Pier 77." The dark hull of a freighter loomed up on one side, its cargo booms giant claws reaching up into the night. A low, flat warehouse lined the opposite side of the dock. A half-dozen crates and boxes stood at one edge, alongside the hull of the ship.
"You first," I said. "I'll get out on your side."
"Me?" she said, her voice both fearful and defiant. "Not me, luv. I've done me job. I'm not getting out, not in this creepy place."
"You're getting out," I said, putting one hand behind her back. She looked at me and I could see her eyes were round and wide with fright. What she saw in mine frightened her more. She pulled the door open and swung out of the car. I was right behind her and I'd just straightened up beside her when the shots came, two, maybe three of them. They whizzed past my ear and plunked into the car with a dull thud. Vicky screamed and I threw her to the ground with me. Despite her terror, I saw her squeezing herself under the car. I lay quietly, face down. It had happened too fast for me to see where the shots had come from, except to note that they came from different directions. Only the fact that I had gotten out of the car on Vicky's side and blended in with the dark shape of the car had prevented them from being directly on target. They'd been fractions away from it, as it was. If I tried to get up and run for it they'd ventilate me in seconds. I continued to lie still, still as a dead man.
In a minute, I heard footsteps approaching, one pair of footsteps. They were cautious and competent. I'd been mentally reconstructing what little I'd been able to take in of the spot. The dark hull of the merchantman was closest to me, just beyond the row of packing crates. The footsteps stopped and a hand reached down to turn me over. Certain the other hand would have a gun in it, I let him turn me half over, limply, and then, pressing into the cobblestones of the dock with my heels, I flung myself into a roll, catching him at the ankles with the full weight of my body. His feet were swept out from under him and he toppled forward across me. I heard the gun explode and the high-pitched whine of the bullet as it richocheted off the pavement at close range. Before he could get to his knees I'd reached the row of packing crates and dived behind them. I heard the thud of two more bullets hit the crates, and now I saw that there were two more men, positioned at opposite ends of the dock, three of them in all. I ducked low behind the crates and raced along the dock until I was alongside the gangway ladder running down the side of the merchantman.
I leaped onto it and raced up, a dark blur against the black bulk of the hull. It took them half a minute to zero in on me and then I was a lousy target. Their shots were wild and I vaulted onto the deck. They'd be coming after me, I knew that, too. I was aboard the darkened vessel. I could go down into the hold and hide from them. They might not find me there, but it could also be a certain death trap. I elected to stay out in the open where I could maneuver. I raced up to the bridge and lay flat on my stomach. I hadn't long to wait before the three dark forms came up the gangway ladder and onto the deck. They separated at once, ending my thoughts of gunning them down with a quick burst. I watched one head aft, another to the bow. The third one started to climb up the companionway toward the bridge. I let Hugo drop into my palm and lay flat. The minute his head appeared over the top step he saw me and started to raise his gun hand. But I'd been expecting him and Hugo flew with deadly speed. I heard him gag as the stiletto struck deeply into the side of his neck. He started to topple backwards but I was on my feet, catching him and pulling him onto the bridge. I retrieved Hugo and went down the steps to the main deck. Moving in a crouch, I went forward. The second one was searching behind every boom, every deck winch and ventilator. I managed to move close enough to him so that when he saw me, there was not more than six feet between us. I dived, catching him in a flying tackle, but my objective of silence failed. He got off one shot which, though it missed, exploded deafeningly on the silent vessel. The tackle sent him backwards against a deck cleat, and I heard the grunt of pain. He was bigger than the other one, heavier. I grappled for the gun with him, and as he slid from the cleat it fell away from both of us.
He pushed up against me, his hand pressing into my face. I twisted away and brought a short right around that only grazed his jaw. He tried to roll away but I stayed with him. I could hear the sound of running footsteps approaching. I grabbed an arm and twisted to find he was strong as an ox. He managed to pull away from me and I felt his hands on my throat. I brought a knee into his groin and he let go with a gasp. The other one had come up but, as I'd hoped, couldn't get off a shot at the two dark figures grappling on the deck. I felt his hands grabbing my jacket to pull me away from his friend. I let him and as he lifted me, I caught the other one with a kick that landed right at the point of his jaw. I could feel the jaw give way and he lay still. Twisting backwards and reaching to one side, I gave the newcomer a hip flip that sent him sprawling. He came up with gun in hand but I had Wilhelmina out and ready. She barked once, and he fell sideways over a chock.
I didn't bother to search them. I knew they'd have nothing revealing on them. They had been professionals. Their silent, efficient manner tipped that off. It was over, and that was all I knew. Who sent them, who they were, whether they were involved in the original message to AXE, were unanswered questions. There'd been enough shots fired to bring the London Bobbies or the Thames Division of Scotland Yard, who patrol the waterfront and dock areas. I was starting down the gangway ladder when I saw the small figure emerging from under the Sunbeam. I'd forgotten about little Vicky in the tumult of events. She had the engine coming to life when I reached her, had the car in gear when I got a hand in and snapped off the ignition. I felt her teeth sink into my wrist. It hurt, but instead of tearing away I pressed up against her mouth, snapping her head back. She let go with a cry of pain and I grabbed her dyed blonde hair and shoved her across the seat. I had one hand on her throat and her eyes were beginning to bulge from more than fear.
"Don't kill me," she pleaded. "Oh, Lord, please! I didn't know about thisl I didn't!"
"Who were they?"
"Blimey, I don't know," she gasped. "It's the truth."
I increased the pressure. She would have screamed if she had the breath. All she could do was half whisper the words.
"I only did what they paid me to do," she said. "I'm telling you the truth, Yank." I remembered her scream of terror and surprise as the first shots nearly killed me. I let up so she could talk and the words spilled out of her.
"They never said anything like this was up. God, I swear it to you, luv. They just gave me the money and told me what to tell you and where to bring you. It was a lot, more than I could make in a year. Here, look, I'll show it to you."
She reached for her purse but froze as my hand clamped down on hers.
"I'll get it," I growled. I was taking no more chances. The little purse revealed no gun but a roll of bills was there. I handed the purse to her. She was half sobbing.
"I couldn't turn it down," she said. "I couldn't. But I would have if I'd known they were up to somethin' like this."
I wasn't so sure about that last bit but it was unimportant. She was genuinely terrified and not just of me. The whole affair had her shaking. I'd seen plenty of good actresses, but you can tell the real thing. She was essentially what I'd concluded earlier, a dupe, a pawn, a scroungy little bird out to make a fast pound without asking too many questions. But she had been contacted somehow and that she hadn't revealed to me, yet. I put a big hand at the back of her neck again and her eyes immediately widened in fear.
"How did you meet these men?" I growled. "No fancy talk, doll. You're on very thin ice."
"My boyfriend introduced me," she said quickly. "I'm a B-girl at the Jolly Good Pub and he hangs out there a lot. He told me I could earn a real big wad by doing a favor for some men he knew."
"What's his name? Your boyfriend."
"Teddy. Teddy Renwell."
"Then we're going to visit your boyfriend Teddy," I said, glancing at my watch. It was just one o'clock. I had time to make it back to the hotel. "But I've something else to do first. I'll drive."
I wanted to be in my room and waiting when two o'clock came. If the phone call didn't materialize, it could mean I'd been right all along about the whole thing being a trap. Or, it could mean that whoever they were, they'd gotten to the woman who originally called. But if it came, it was damned important I be there to get it.
II
Vicky sat quietly beside me as I tooled the little car back through the streets of London. Her glances at me, I noted, were a mixture of apprehension and a kind of grudging admiration. After a while, she began to open up.
"You're a bit of all right in a pinch, aren't you?" she commented. I let the remark go without answering.
She lapsed into silence again for another long moment.
"What are you going to do with me?" she asked a little later.
"Nothing, if you're telling the truth," I answered. "And well find that out when we visit your boyfriend. But till I'm certain of it, I'm going to keep you out of trouble."
More silence followed. I could feel her trying to decide whether to go along quietly or try to break for it. She kept glancing at me and she had more than enough street wisdom to read the score right. She also had enough guttersnipe in her to use everything she could in self-protection.
"I'll bet you re a bit of all right in other ways, too," she said, giving me a sly, sidelong glance.
"Maybe," I said. "Would you like to find out?" Two could play her little game, what the hell.
I might," she said, gaining immediate confidence at my rising to the bait. Her cleverness was of such a low-grade transparency I felt almost ashamed.
"Maybe well look into it," I said. "But I've got to wait for a phone call first."
She settled back and I could feel the tension go out of her, confident she had bought a degree of safety with the age-old weapons of woman.
When we reached my room at the hotel, my watch read five minutes to two. Vicky obediently sat down in a stuffed chair, letting me see plenty of leg. At precisely two a.m., the phone rang. It was a woman's voice again, but this time the accent Hawk had described was there, heavy, Russian or Slavic. I had thoroughly memorized the identification code she had set up and I waited.
"You have come to see me?" the woman's voice asked.
"I have come to see you," I echoed.
"Why?"
"Because you wanted me to come."
"Why did I want you to come?"
"Because the world needs help."
There was an almost inaudible sigh of relief, and then the heavily accented voice went on.
"You will go to Alton. Walk along the west bank of the Wey River. A quarter of a mile above Alton, you will find a rowboat. Take it and row toward Selborne. Stop at the second stone bridge. At dawn, six o'clock, I will meet you there. Do you understand clearly?"
"Perfectly," I answered. The phone clicked off and went dead. But the call had proven three very important things. First, that the original message to AXE had indeed been legitimate. Two, the woman was still alive, and three, she was being closely watched. Whoever was watching her had known about her call to AXE and decided to play it through, watch for my arrival and nail me. The question now was whether they'd get to her before I did. It all depended on how soon they found out their trap for me had backfired. I turned to Vicky.
"Take your stockings off, honey," I said. She looked up at me, indecision in her eyes and then, as I watched, she stood up, lifting her dress to unclasp her garter belt. She had a round little belly under white, modest panties.
"I'll take them," I said, reaching for the stockings. Sudden uncertainty tinged with apprehension leaped into her eyes. "What for?" she said. "What are you up to? I thought we were going to get chummier, luv."
She was still in there pitching. I grinned inwardly.
"The answer to that is still 'maybe, " I said. "Right now I have to go somewhere and I want to be sure you'll be here when I get back."
I tied her to a straight-backed chair, using the stockings to securely bind her ankles and wrists. Women's stockings make excellent bonds for a short period of time. They are resilient but tough. I put a handkerchief gag in her mouth, taking care to see that it was tight enough to keep her quiet and loose enough to keep her from suffocating.
"Don't bother answering the door," I said to her as I left. Her eyes glowered at me from above the gag. To add insurance, I hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside of the door and hurried downstairs. It was a quarter to three and I hadn't any time to waste. Vicky's little Sunbeam Imp was no Aston-Martin either.
The London streets were deserted now, except for a few girls still hopefully wandering about. Alton was south and a little west of London and I took the Old Brompton Road through Kensington and Chelsea. There was little traffic and hardly any when I got out of London. I bore down on the little car and winced as the engine strained. The ever-present curves of the English country roads kept me plenty alert as I passed road signs with the very English names of Brookwood, Farnborough, Aldershot.
Alton, when I reached it, was silent and sleeping. I found the wandering river Wey, really not much more than a large, placid stream, and pulled the Sunbeam off the road under a cluster of sturdy oaks. I began to walk along the west bank and saw that the sky was beginning to hint at the coming dawn. The woman's instructions had failed to mention the English fog which, alongside the river, was thick and constant I had to walk slowly to avoid going into the river by accident. Occasionally, the fog would lift enough for me to get a glimpse a few feet ahead. It was at just such a break that I avoided falling over the rowboat pulled halfway up on the bank. I pushed off into the water and began to row. Fogbound, silent, the only sound the soft splash of the oars in the water, I was in a world of my own. The gray of dawn was coming up, but it did nothing to dispel the fog. That would take the sun, which in England seldom burned it away until mid-morning. Then, looming up ahead, barely visible, I saw the arch of a footbridge over the river and caught a brief glimpse of the heavy stones that formed the arch. I passed underneath, rowing a little faster.
My eyes hurt from trying to peer through the fog. About a third of a mile on I dimly made out another bridge span. When I passed under it I saw it was a wooden bridge, with rails of wood and sides of log. I kept rowing and then, around a curve, I saw another arched bridge, ghostly, ethereal, substance made shadow by the fog. When I reached the bridge I saw the stones forming the arched sides. Only the walkway was wood planking. I stopped the rowboat and waited in the silent, shrouded river. My watch read six o'clock. I counted the minutes that passed. Two, three, five, ten. I wondered. Had they gotten to her first? Then I heard the sound of oars dipping into the water. I took Wilhelmina out and held her in my hand. The other boat, my ears told me, was coming from upriver and would pass under the bridge to get to me. Slowly, the rowboat began to materialize, more a shadowy shape than anything else. All I could see was the upright form of someone seated at the oars. The boat halted a distance from me, the voice across the water the same one I'd spoken to on the telephone. Obviously, the woman had chosen this spot because of the fog. She wanted to be sure I didn't see her.
"Good, you have come," she said. Her accent in person was, if anything, heavier. From her voice, I guessed she was not a young woman.
"First, you must understand something," she said, speaking with deliberate slowness for emphasis. "I am not a traitor. Do you understand that?"
"I have nothing to understand so far," I answered.
"I know they are watching me," she went on. "I spoke out too freely about how I felt They might decide to send me away any moment. That's why I had to arrange this meeting."
I decided to say nothing about the attempt on me, at the moment. She plainly was unaware how closely she was being watched. If I told her what had happened I had the feeling she might clam up and take off. The woman transmitted great inner torment, even in her fogbound, disembodied voice.
"I would not betray my country, do you understand?" she said again. "You must not ask me any questions that would do that. I will tell you only what I have decided to tell you. Is that clear?"
The thought of her being a traitor was bothering her tremendously. She seemed to be trying to convince herself, more than me, that she wasn't being disloyal. I wanted her to get on with it. The iog would be lightening before long and God knows what other complications might set in then.
"I will understand when you tell me what you have to say," I answered. "Suppose you start at the beginning.
"I just cannot sit by and watch it go on any longer," the woman said. "These men have a value to the world that comes before anything else. I cannot see it any other way."
"What men?" I pressed.
"It is a terrible thing," she said. "I thought long about it before I made up my mind."
She never went any further. The shot split the foggy air and I saw her figure topple silently forward, face down, into the rowboat. I dived to the bottom of my boat as the second shot thunked into the wood of the seat Whoever he was, he was a helluva a good shot, and he had a rifle. He was too accurate for a hand gun in this fog. The boat was drifting toward the bridge where he obviously was. In moments he'd be able to shoot right down at me. My fingers found the edge of the gunwale. Pressing down hard with my leg muscles, I half jumped, half flipped myself over the side. His shot sent slivers flying from the gunwale where my hand had been but I was underwater already. Fully clothed, I knew I hadn't much time underwater and I struck out for the bridge, surfacing underneath it just as my wind gave out. I treaded water, listening to the footsteps above on the wooden walkway of the little bridge. He'd already figured out where I would head and he was on his way to the end of the span. I swam for the same end, the wet clothes feeling as though I'd bags of cement tied to me.
Where the bridge arched down to the shore, I pressed myself against the flat underside of the span, still in the water but at the very edge of the bridge underside. I heard a loose stone roll into the water. He was carefully moving down the embankment. I hung there, waiting. The muzzle end of the rifle appeared first as he came carefully nosing down to the water's edge. Then he appeared, crouched over, his eyes searching the wispy fog floating beneath the bridge. He was a slender, wiry man wearing a one-piece coverall. Pushing off against the underside of the bridge, using the strength of my shoulder muscles, I dived at him. He spun at the sound but I was on him, catching him around the waist. He lost his footing and went backwards off the bank into the river with me hanging onto him. The rifle went slithering from his grip to sink at once. I drove a fist into his face and he went backwards in the water. He made a quick, shallow dive and tried to come up underneath me. I managed to move away, and he was on the surface again in front of me. We struck at each other and I felt the pain of his blow, felt my head go back. Again I swung and again he beat me to the punch. His one-piece coverall, not soaked through, spelled the difference. I might as well have had weights tied to my arms. He knew it, too, and he came at me, treading water and swinging. I backed water. Even if I struck out for the bank, he'd still have the advantage ashore. My arms were already tired. I backed again and dived, wrapping both arms around his right leg, pulling him under with me. I'd done some hard long-distance swimming on occasion. I was hoping he hadn't. That plus the fact that I'd taken him quickly. He'd had no time to draw a long breath. He was raining blows on my back but underwater they were nothing more than harmless taps. I clung to his leg, hunched over, like a crab hanging onto a fish. He was using up precious wind trying to twist away, while all I had to do was hold on. His struggles grew rapidly weaker, and my own lungs were burning now. Suddenly I felt his body grow limp. I hung on five seconds more, and then let go and struck out for the surface. I burst into the air a second before my lungs were ready to burst, drawing deep draughts of the precious stuff, fog and all. His body floated up alongside me and I pulled him onto the bank with me.
I unzipped the coverall and looked for identification. There was none, as I'd figured. But under the coverall he had a transistorized walkie-talkie hanging by a leather belt It was becoming increasingly clear that they, whoever «they» were, hadn't missed any bets. The man had been covering the woman all along, while the others were out trying to nail me. When I showed up, he knew something had gone wrong. No doubt he radioed his central immediately and was told to go into action. This was a professional outfit and their methods smelled of the Russians. The Russians had learned a lot about espionage since World War II, and while they were still pretty heavy-handed with anything that called for imagination, they were efficient enough at this kind of operation. The fog had lightened enough for me to see that both rowboats had drifted onto the far bank. I raced across the bridge and hurried to the woman. She was dead, of course. I knew that the minute he'd gotten off that first shot. I climbed into the rowboat and lifted her to a sitting position. She had on a light brown coat over a simple print dress. her face, wide and Slavic, was framed with gray-streaked brown hair. She was a woman of about forty-five, I guessed. There was no purse, nothing to identify her. Then my eye fell on the lining of the coat that had come open. A name tag was sewn into the inside. Maria Doshtavenko, it read. The name imprinted itself on my memory. I lowered her body gently to the bottom of the rowboat. I suddenly felt sorry for this woman. She had been disturbed about what she wanted to tell me. She was a woman who had been trying to do what she felt was the right thing. There weren't too many like that.
I felt the anger rising inside me. As I rowed back to where I'd left the Sunbeam, my mind raced and my plans crystallized. I wouldn't contact Hawk and tell him what had happened. Not yet, not until I had something more. I could just see the severe, disapproving set of his face, those steely eyes, if I reported in now. They'd nearly killed me, they'd shot the contact out from under me, and I still hadn't the faintest idea what the hell this was all about. But I did have a little blonde dish waiting in my hotel room. She was my one remaining lead, she and her boyfriend. I gunned the Sunbeam back toward London as the day lightened and the morning traffic began to crowd the roads. Anyone watching the Sunbeam would figure I was awfully late for work.
III
Vicky was still there, neatly trussed up. I left her that way while I shed my watersoaked clothes, letting her watch as I stripped, enjoying the appreciative look in her eyes. After I dried and changed into a fresh suit, I untied her. From the condition of the stocking, I saw she hadn't just sat there quietly.
"Blimey, I hurt," she said, rubbing her wrists. "And my mouth feels like it's full of cotton."
"Go into the bathroom and freshen up," I told her. "Run some cold water over your wrists. It'll bring back the circulation. Then we're going to visit your boyfriend, Teddy."
"He'll be asleep at this hour," she protested. "Teddy always sleeps in the mornings."
"This morning will be different," I said laconically.
She stood up and I watched her unzip the red dress, tossing it over her head with a quick motion. She had the round, young figure I'd expected, with that unvarnished sexiness to it, round breasts pushed high by her bra, rounded belly and a short waist. She walked toward the bathroom, throwing me a glance that asked if I were more interested. I smiled and watched her as she reached the bathroom door. She saw the smile was both hard and cold and the beckoning look in her eyes faded. She closed the bathroom door.
I sat down and stretched out in the stuffed chair, moving my muscles in cat-like fashion, using a system of muscular relaxation I'd come upon years ago in India. There was a knock on the door. It was probably room service but my hand was positioned to draw Wilhelmina as I opened. It wasn't room service. It was a tall girl with deep red hair, a gorgeous face and body to match, a girl called Denny Robertson. She wore a sheepish half-smile that would have melted an iceberg in seconds.
"I was on my way to work but I had to stop by and apologize for last night," she said, entering the room. "You told me you were here on business but I guess I just saw red, that's all. You know that damned temper of mine."
Her arms were around my neck and she was hugging me, her body soft, her breasts, even through the tweed jacket she wore, excitingly sensuous against my chest.
"Oh, Nick. It's unbelievably wonderful to see you," she breathed in my ear. That's when Vicky decided to walk out of the bathroom in bra and panties. I didn't have to see her. I knew it by the way Denny stiffened. When she stepped back her eyes were blazing pinpoints of dark fire.
"I can explain," I said quickly. She swung, fast, hard and on target. My cheek stung but she was already out the door. "Bahstad!" she flung back at me, making it sound as only the English can make it sound. I thought of going after her but I cast a glance at Vicky. She had the dress on and I knew she'd take off at the first chance. Once again I knew what I had to do and what I wanted to do. I swore under my breath at Vicky, at Denny, at bad timing, at everything in general.
I took Vicky by the arm and pushed her out the door.
"Let's move," I growled. "Let's get the show on the road." Once again that fleeting expression of smug satisfaction crossed her face but this time I got the impression that it was my discomfort she was enjoying. Her smugness did a fast fade as, some twenty minutes later, we neared her boyfriend's flat in the Soho district. She was back to the nervous, hand-twisting stage as we entered the narrow streets of Soho. Behind the night glitter, behind the strip joints, the betting shops, the mod centers, nightclubs and pubs, Soho was a grimy district of one-room flats and transient boarding houses.
"Can't we wait?" Vicky asked nervously. "Teddy's a sound sleeper and he doesn't like his mornings disturbed. He'll be smashingly mad, you know."
"I'm all upset," I answered, catching the flash of anger in her eyes. I knew damn well what Teddy would be smashingly mad about; her fingering him, that's what. It turned out that Teddy lived on the third floor of a run-down tenement, a dingy, gray building.
"You knock and you answer," I said to the girl as we stood outside the door of his flat. She was right about him being a sound sleeper. She was practically pounding on the door when a sleepy male voice answered.
"It's me, Teddy," she said, casting nervous glances up at me. I remained impassive. "It's Vicky."
I heard the lock being turned and the door opened. I shoved, pulling Vicky along with me into the room. Teddy was wearing pajama bottoms only, his hair long, curly and disarranged. There was a surly handsomeness to him and a cruel set to his mouth. He was pretty much what I'd expected him to be.
"What's all this?" he demanded, looking at Vicky.
"He made me come," she said, gesturing to me. "He made me bring him here, that's what." The alley cat in her was coming out quickly. The glower which I suspected was a part of Teddy grew deeper. A little sleep was still clinging to him but he was trying to shake it.
"What the hell's this all about?" he growled. "Who's this bloke?"
"I'll ask the questions, Teddy," I cut in.
"You'll get the hell out, that's what you'll do," he said.
"Careful, Teddy," I said evenly. "I just want a few answers and I'll leave. Be smart and you won't get hurt."
"I told him you'd be smashingly mad, Teddy," Vicky threw in, still bent on protecting herself.
A practiced glance had taken in the dingy room. The large double bed took up most of it There was also a dresser, with a porcelain dish, a water pitcher and an empty ale bottle on top of it. Teddy's clothes were carefully hung over the straight back of a wooden chair that stood beside the dresser.
"You get the hell out," Teddy said directly to me, an ugly note in his voice. It wasn't his fault that I didn't scare easily.
"The men you introduced Vicky to last night," I said, "who were they?"
A subtle change came over Teddy's eyes, a dangerous glint, immediately masked. He began to back away from me, at the same time snarling defiance.
"You've got three seconds to get out," he said. He was up against the dresser and I watched him reach back and pick up the porcelain dish. Though I was watching him, he still surprised me as with one quick motion he sent the dish skimming across the room. The dish became a wicked missile, skimming through the air viciously and accurately. I just managed to duck away, the hard, flat edge of it grazing my head to smash into the wall behind me. Teddy followed the dish with his body, diving across the room at me, leaping like a jaguar. The skimmed dish was a good, unexpected move that almost paid off. The follow-up was a mistake. I was in a crouch and he expected to take advantage of that. Instead, I came up on fast on my legs to meet his leap with a hard right. I heard the crack of his jaw, his cry of pain, and he arched backwards to land atop the big, double bed. I reached for him but he rolled off the other side.
Vicky had pressed herself into a corner of the room, but I kept one eye on her. Self-centered little alleycat that she was, I couldn't be sure how deep her loyalties ran. Teddy was on his feet again, his jaw swelling like a balloon. The knowledge of it seemed to infuriate him and he came at me like a windmill. He fought out of a crouch and he was quick, cat-like in his movements. Speed was his greatest asset and even that wasn't too great. I parried his blows, sneaked a hard left in that rocked him and brought through a sharp right to the gut. He doubled over but managed to half avoid a chopping right that nonetheless caught him hard enough to send him crashing into the dresser. Clinging to the dresser, blood trickling from his mouth, his face now swollen and misshapen, he looked back at me, eyes dark with hatred.
"All I want is some answers, Teddy," I said quietly. "Are you ready to give them to me?"
"Sure, cousin," he gasped, breathing hard for someone as young as he was. "I'll give you yer bloody answers." He grabbed the empty ale bottle from the dresser top, smashed the end of it against the wall and came at me, the jagged half in his hand. It was an old barroom brawl technique and made one of the deadliest of weapons, far worse than the ordinary knife. The jagged glass could slash equally well in any direction, leaving a much uglier wound than the sharpest knife.
"Put that down, Teddy," I said quietly. "Put it down or I'll cut your damned head off with it."
He was grinning, or trying to anyway, and his eyes were cold and cruel. His willingness to kill told me one thing, at least. He was more than casually involved. I backed away as he slowly came toward me. I could blow his head off with one shot, I knew, but I didn't want that. I wanted him alive, or alive enough to answer questions. But I was trying to walk a very dangerous road. I didn't want to kill him but he sure wanted to kill me. He swiped out at me in an arc, fast, almost too fast for the eye to see. I jumped backwards and felt my legs hit the edge of the bed. He laughed and drove forward with the bottle. I did a back-flip onto the bed, somersaulted and landed on my feet on the other side. I yanked the top sheet off the bed and held it before me, quickly pressing it into three folds. As he came around the end of the bed, I met him, tossing the sheet over his hand and the bottle. He ripped upwards and the sheet tore apart. I jumped back in time to avoid my stomach taking part.
I could have skewered him with Hugo, and my hand itched to let the pencil-thin shaft of the stiletto drop into my palm. I resisted the impulse. I still wanted the bastard alive, though it was beginning to look more and more like an impossible goal. Teddy feinted to the left, once, twice, and then slashed out from the right. The jagged glass ripped the button from my jacket. I grabbed for his arm at the end of its arc but he swung the bottle backhanded and I had to twist away again. This time I retreated fast to put some air between myself and the wicked, slashing weapon. The wooden chair with Teddy's carefully draped mod outfit on it stood in the corner. I grabbed it, dumping his clothes on the floor. I saw him stop in the center of the room as I advanced with the chair upraised.
"That's it, mate," he breathed. "Come on, now. Sock it to me." Of course the sonofabitch wanted me to swing the chair at him. One swing and I'd be ripped apart. He'd duck from the swing and come in on me before I could recover position. I let him think that was just what I was going to do. I moved toward him, the chair upraised, holding it with both hands. He waited on the balls of his feet, ready to duck away and counter. I came at him, and then, dropping the chair halfway, I drove forward, using it as a battering ram, putting all my strength and weight behind it. The four legs hit Teddy full face, driving him halfway across the room and into the wall with such force the whole flat shook. I had lowered my head, putting my shoulder behind the seat of the chair. When we hit the wall I looked up to see the blood spurting from Teddy s mouth. One leg of the chair had driven halfway into his throat. I pulled back and he slumped to the floor, his eyes open in the staring sight of the dead.
"Damn the luck," I growled. I was conscious of Vicky moving over, one hand on her mouth, eyes wide in horror.
"He… he's dead," she breathed. "Teddy's dead. You killed him."
"Self-defense," I said automatically. While she stood there transfixed, looking down at Teddy's lifeless form slumped on the floor, propped up against the wall, I went through the pockets of his clothes. They contained the usual trivia, money clip, loose change, driver's license, credit cards. Inside the inner jacket pocket I came upon a small, white card with a single name handwritten on it: Professor Enrico Caldone. It rang an immediate bell. Professor Caldone was an Italian, an expert on space biology. He'd recently gotten some award, I recalled, for his work on protecting astronauts from possible microorganisms in space and the possibilities of man contaminating other planets. What was a two-bit punk like Teddy doing with Professor Caldone's name on a card — handwritten, yet? I held it out to Vicky, who had finally torn her eyes from Teddy's inert form.
"What do you know about this?" I asked sharply. "Who was he dealing with? If you're holding out on me I'll find out, honey. I've had it with you."
"I don't know anything more… hardly," she said.
"What's 'hardly' mean?"
"Teddy told me about being paid to take messages back and forth," she half-sobbed. "He was paid real well by these people. He said there was someone else on the other end and that's all he ever told me. Teddy wasn't a bad sort."
"A matter of opinion," I said. I pocketed the card and opened the door. She called after me.
"What do I do now, Yank?"
"Get lost and find a new boyfriend," I flung back at her as I took the stairs three at a time. The little card with the name on it burned in my pocket. Maybe I had something at last. Maybe I had nothing, but I'd reached the end of the line here. It was time to dump this collection of bits and pieces into Hawk's lap. A woman with an important message to deliver. I had her name, Maria Doshtavenko. That much was to the good. I also knew that someone didn't want that message delivered. The last thing was a cheap punk with the name of an important scientist on a card in his pocket, handwritten by someone. Maybe Hawk had something that could make a picture out of the pieces.
I called Denny from the airport but there was no answer and I felt really sorry about that. The unfinished symphony would stay that way for us, for a while longer at least. I boarded the airliner and sat back. It had been a frustrating two days with bad luck and bad timing all around but I was onto something damned important. Too many people had taken too much effort for it to be anything else but important.
* * *
Not too many hours later I sat across the desk from Hawk, watching those steel-gray eyes as he listened to my briefing. He was digesting what I'd laid out before him, his face impassive. He hunched low in his chair, studying the little slips of paper on which he'd noted each item separately. He shifted them around as one shifts the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. He had already called Vital Statistics for a check of the woman's name, Maria Doshtavenko. Vital Statistics kept a fantastic file of names on all known personnel employed by foreign governments in any capacity. Most of the major intelligence outfits keep a similar one on us. On some people, of course, they have quite a dossier of information. On others, nothing more than a name. As I watched, Hawk picked up the index card I'd taken from Teddy's pocket.
This could be the key item, Nick," he said. "This could be a light in the dark, a connection we'd never have made otherwise."
"Light it up a little more," I said. "I'm still in the dark."
"We don't know what this Maria Doshtavenko wanted to tell us," he answered. "But from this, we might deduce what it was about."
"From just that name?"
"This, my boy, is not an ordinary name, as you know. Take a look at these names."
He took a sheet of paper from the top drawer of the desk and pushed it at me. There were seven names on it, each one that of a leading scientist who I recognized at once. These were men whose contributions to the world covered a vast area, medicine, physics, metallurgy, abstract theory and applied science. Hawk's tone was grave, almost sad.
"The whole thing's been kept semi-quiet for obvious reasons but each one of these men is, today, nothing but a vegetable," he said. "A mysterious and terrible illness has hit each one of them during the past year, resulting in a complete mental deterioration. They exist today in a kind of living death, vegetables, their minds lost to mankind."
"Medical research hasn't come up with an explanation?" I asked. "A brilliant scientist doesn't become a vegetable without some reason, to say nothing of seven of them."
"The neurological reason is that their minds have absolutely disintegrated," Hawk said. "They are in the total mental collapse that comes only with congenital retardation or massive brain damage. The scientific community is terribly concerned, of course. Scientists like the rest of us, are human and subject to the same fears and alarms as everyone else. A team of leading neurologists and psychiatrists have examined each of these men. They're completely baffled."
"No theories at all?"
"Well, they've come up with a couple of theories, which, as they've admitted to me, are more conjecture than anything else. However, they support these theories with the kind of scientific reasoning which fills the vacuum. In other words, what they have to say holds up because that's all we have."
"What are they saying?" I asked.
"Two things; one of them presupposes tie existence of a form of virus unknown and undetected as yet. The other is based on the development of an electrical ray capable of inflicting enormous physical harm. They theorize that the mind is essentially like any other organ in the body. When it is harmed in some manner — either through so-called natural means, that is, by a virus, or man-made means, such as, for example, the electric ray — it can be drastically weakened or even destroyed. A hitherto unknown virus of a specialized strain could theoretically bring on such a neurological collapse. So could an electrical ray, if you think of it as an extra-strong X-ray mechanism."
I found myself grimacing. "I suppose they're possibilities," I said. "But I don't buy them. Maybe I'm out of my depth here."
"We do know one fact," Hawk added. "They have all been stricken right after a monthly meeting of the International Science Scholars."
The International Science Scholars was, I knew, a worldwide scientific association of very advanced scientific thinkers from every country on the globe.
"The fact that these men have collapsed after the meetings does lend credence to the virus theory," Hawk said. "Something picked up at the meetings, just as all viruses are picked up. At least it did lend credence to it."
I picked up the inflection at once. He was being cute.
"What do you mean by that?" I questioned. "What are you driving at?"
"Look at the list again," Hawk said. I studied the names again. For a while they were just names, but then my years of training in suspicion, in perceiving things differently than anyone else sees them, came to the fore. Two highly interesting facts took shape and grew like a genie coming out of a bottle. There was not a Russian or a Chinese scientist among the seven names. Nor was there even one who had associated himself politically with the leftist position. Secondly, every one of the seven men had been in some manner associated with the Western powers. The ISS was a worldwide group. Their monthly meetings involved heavy thinkers from almost every country. How come, if it were a virus or a weirdo X-ray, none of the leftist eggheads have been affected?
"I get it," I nodded to Hawk. "It seems to be a highly selective mode of destruction."
He smiled thinly. "Every one of those seven men had contributed or had been working closely with scientific development in the Western powers," Hawk said. "Dunton had developed the electronic advances we use in the latest military hardware. Doctor Ferris, the advanced method of treating battlefield injuries. Horton had worked on the new molecular theories. I could go on but you've got the picture, Nick. Frankly, I had sniffed around at this fact but until this card with Professor Caldone's name and the statements the woman made to you, I hadn't come up with enough to satisfy me. But now, I believe we're putting together a picture here."
The intercom sounded with a message from Vital Statistics. They had done their usual fast, efficient job, and it made the picture even clearer. Maria Doshtavenko was an office worker in the Russian Information Bureau in London, a cover, we knew, for all kinds of Russian activities, including the NKVD.
"Most interesting, I'd say," Hawk said, chomping down on a cold cigar. I was recalling how disturbed and tormented Maria Doshtavenko had been about not being considered a traitor. Yet something disturbed her even more, something she wanted to tell us. I kept thinking of one line she had uttered. "These men have a value to the world that comes before anything else." It tied in more than neatly.
"You think the Soviets are causing these men to become vegetables?" I asked Hawk directly. "How the hell could they do it?"
"I wish I knew the answer to both of those, Nick," the Chief admitted. "But I am convinced there's a connection and something is very rotten here. We are being robbed of our most valuable men — the Soviets are stealing the minds of our scientists before our eyes. Professor Caldone must not be the next victim."
He picked up the index card again and gazed at it. "This card is very disturbing, Nick," he said. "If this living death is man-made, Professor Caldone may be next on the list. He's working on an advanced space-biology grant from the NASA people and the next ISS meeting is in a few days on the Italian Riveria — Portofino. You'll go there and stick with the professor. We'll contact him and you'll be given a firm list of instructions but they'll all add up to one thing — see that nothing happens to him."
I stood up and Hawk also rose. "We've stumbled onto something," he said. "Up to now we, and the world, have lost seven brilliant minds. That's a loss beyond measuring. Whatever this is, Nick, we've got to get at it and get at it fast. I want you here tomorrow morning. We'll have a session with Tom Dettinger and our plans will be formulated then."
I left, feeling that this whole business was something apart from anything I'd ever faced before. There was a quality of latent horror to it, of something shadowy and unreal yet all too real. I knew Hawk would have me on a plane as soon as our briefing was ended in the morning so I spent some time packing and then got off a cable to Denny Robertson. I told her I'd be in Portofino on business for a few days but I'd try my damnedest to come back via London and see her. I had a lot of explaining to do and was still feeling lousy about the whole business with Vicky. As I sent the cable mentioning the Italian Riveria visit, I couldn't help thinking that the ISS held their meetings at very «in» spots.
Outside of a call from a girl I knew just outside Washington, Linda Smythe, the rest of the day was quiet, and I appreciated the opportunity to do nothing and do it slowly. Linda had wanted to do the town, and under other circumstances I would have leaped at the chance. But I couldn't shake the picture of seven brilliant men becoming vegetables practically overnight. It was a chilling, flesh-crawling thought. Our meager facts certainly pointed to the Soviets being involved but the nature of it didn't even fit their operations. When you've been in this game long enough you learn that every outfit has its own character to its operations. This one, in fact, didn't really fit into any niche, unless possibly the Chinese Communists. While the Russians could be ruthlessly cruel, they were esoterically diabolic. Perhaps the Russians were involved, but not the way we were thinking. I was still wondering about it when I went to sleep.
Tom Dettinger was the AXE expert on procedures and techniques for protecting important people. I listened carefully to him, making mental notes as he went on. Hawk sat by, seemingly lost in his own thoughts but, I knew, not missing a word.
"This is a little unusual, Nick," Tom said. "There's really nothing to guard against in a specific way. There's no direct threat of assassination, for example, or no known groups to watch for. We're working against something which we don't know even exists, or if it does, in what form or shape. Therefore, the only approach is the one we call the blanket approach where you become more than a bodyguard. You become glue. I'll detail it for you."
As he went on, I was tempted to ask how you protect someone against a virus, or an invisible X-ray, but I held back. They weren't theories I had bought and neither had Hawk, which just proves that people in different professions see things in very different ways.
What really made the difference about this affair was that Hawk and I usually could indulge in a fine exchange of thinly veiled jabs and banter. Neither of us felt like it this time. When Tom finished, he gave me a few routine protective devices to take along, and Hawk walked to the elevator with me.
"You'll be dealing with something completely unknown and frankly, rather horrible, Nick," he said. "Exercise as much personal caution as possible within the framework of duty."
"You mean I should be careful," I grinned. He coughed nervously. His essential concern broke through that mask every so often. I maintained my casual air. Anything else would have added to his embarrassment.
"I'll watch it," I told him. "I'm not so crazy about vegetables that I want to become one."
His eyes found a twinkle. "Really?" he said. "It seems to me that you're very fond of tomatoes."
I grinned. This was more like it. It gave me a good feeling, a lift I'd been missing.
IV
The Alitalia flight put me down in Milan and from there I rented a car and drove south to Genoa. Portofino was still further south and I continued on without stopping. The ISS meeting was quartered at the Excelsior and a room had been arranged for me adjoining Professor Caldone's quarters. I was to have the only key to both rooms. To add insurance, my instructions were to meet the Professor at a designated service station outside Portofino. He was driving up from Rome to meet me there. AXE had contacted him and thoroughly briefed him and he had agreed to cooperate fully. I turned the car in at Portofino and took an old and uncertain taxi to where I was to meet him.
I found Professor Caldone leaning against the hood of his car, a small Fiat sedan. He was short white-haired and genial with a small, round stomach from "too much pasta," as he put it, patting it fondly. He was immediately likable, a thoroughly unpretentious little man, I quickly concluded. He had an unexpected nugget for me when he announced that his wife and niece were with him to enjoy the Riveria while he attended the meetings. They had botl gone to the washroom in the little service station while he waited for me.
"Other than that," Professor Caldone said, "I am completely in your hands, Mr. Carter. I have been told I must do whatever you say."
I had to smile. He said it like a little boy. Only the twinkle in his small blue eyes set in the faintly cherubic face belied the quick mind at work. Signora Caldone emerged first, a short, square woman, a little more severe than her husband, but polite and pleasant enough.
"This is Signor Carter," he introduced me. "The American gentleman who I told you would be meeting us."
"Ah, si," the woman said. "The one you are supposed to obey." She turned to me and looked up somewhat skeptically.
"I hope you have more success with him than I have had in forty years," she said in mock seriousness.
"He will" the Professor replied before I could say anything. "He is a lot bigger than you, Mama."
I saw the girl approaching over Signora Caldone's shoulder and I tried not to stare. I'm afraid I didn't make it. To say she was beautiful would have been incomplete. To say she exuded sex would have been oversimplifying it. I saw black hair framing an olive-skinned face, falling loosely to her shoulders. Her lips, full and luscious, held the hint of a pout which disappeared when she saw me. Into those black-brown eyes I saw a dark fire suddenly leap as her eyes met mine. Full breasts billowed over the top of a white, scoop-necked peasant blouse, and thrust hard against the fabric. Wide hips emphasized a small waist, softly curving thighs and well-formed legs. I thought of what Byron had said about Italian women wearing their hearts on their lips. This kid wore a lot more than her heart on those full, red, lambent lips. She was sensuality incarnate. She throbbed. She was a smoldering volcano.
"This is Amoretta," the Professor said. Amoretta held out a hand that stayed in mine just a fraction longer than it need have, and I saw her eyes appreciatively examine my over six feet of hard-muscled body. I had a quick talk with myself. You, Nick Carter, I said, are here on a very sticky assignment. You can just ignore this luscious dish. Fat chance, I answered myself. She wouldn't get in the way of my work. They never did that, no matter what they looked like. But to ignore her would be equally impossible. Maybe, if I were lucky, some nice compromise would work itself out. Professor Caldone and his wife clambered into the front seat of the Fiat, leaving me to share the back with Amoretta. I felt the warmth of her thigh pressing lightly but definitely against my leg as she sat down beside me. There are advantages to the smaller European cars which their manufacturers should advertise more.
"I hope you do not mind Amoretta being along, Mr. Carter," the Professor said. "She is not happy to come with us but we didn't want to leave her alone in Rome." I could see why, I thought silently. "Amoretta is visiting us from her home in the hills of Calabria. She visits with us twice a year even though we bore her."
Amoretta answered quickly in Italian, her voice flaring in protest and I was happy to see that my Italian had remained good enough to understand.
"Zio Enrico," she said to her uncle. "That's not fair. You know I love visiting with you and Zia Theresa. It's these stuffy scientific meetings I hate."
"Even when they're at the Italian Riveria?" I cut in.
"Even there," she answered, giving me a long, sideways glance. "Though maybe this one will be better."
I read her right but I didn't say anything. She'd learn, soon enough, that I'd have less free time than Uncle Enrico. But I'd learned where that throbbing, undisguised sensuality came from — the hills of Calabria where the people wore all their emotions in the open, a region of passionate hates and loves where the old ways of life still held on. Amoretta, obviously, had more than a peasant girl's education, with knowledge and desires awakened of more worldly things.
The drive to Portofino was pleasant and short and I briefed the Professor on the basic procedures he would have to follow. They were simple enough but absolutely rigid. Special, bottled drinking water had been flown in and placed in his room. He was not to drink or eat anything during the formal luncheons and dinners that was not served to everyone. He was to take no pills of any kind. Most important, he was not to go anywhere without me or be alone with anyone unless I was there. I excepted Signora Caldone and he thanked me with that little twinkle in his eyes again. After we checked in, I went over the Professor's rooms, a living room and a bedroom, and checked out all the windows and door locks. There were afternoon seminars scheduled and the Professor wanted to rest a while first so I went into the adjoining room that was mine, closed the door and unpacked my one, small bag. I usually traveled light. I wasn't alone more than twenty minutes when there was a knock on the door and I found Amoretta standing there wearing a bikini of bright orange and a clear, plastic jacket over it. The bikini was valiantly clinging to her, fighting a lost cause for modesty. In the brief suit, I really got a look at her magnificent figure, an hour-glass come to life, glowing, olive skin, wide hips and magnificent thighs. She stood with her legs slightly apart, a stance that only emphasized the throbbing sensuality of her body. She took one step into the room, just enough so that her breasts were tantalizingly close to me. She carried a beach towel over one arm.
Tin going down to the beach," she said to me, making the statement an invitation.
"I'm not," I answered, and watched the surprise flare in her eyes. She gazed at me as though I were out of my mind. I half thought so, too.
'But this is the place for it, the time for it and the weather for it," she said logically. "Unless perhaps it is me you do not care to go with."
She threw in the last sentence with her lower lip forming the slight pout I'd first noticed at the service station. It was a typically female ploy and an old one. I wasn't going to go for it.
"You know better than that," I told her. The pout went away at once and she gazed seriously up at me. God, those eyes were enough to make anyone forget home and mother.
"All right, I heard you explaining everything to Zio Enrico," she said. "But there must be some time we can see each other. To be here in Portofino with a man like you and spend it alone would be more than a waste. It would be a sin."
'My sentiments exactly in regard to you, Amoretta," I agreed. "Let me work on it. Maybe something will turn up."
Amoretta turned away slowly, her eyes telling me that I'd better work on it. I watched her walk down the hall, slowly, her hips undulating with each step. I had to hold myself back from going out after her, grabbing that soft, seductive rear and dragging her back into the room. I hoped Hawk appreciated the sacrifices I made in the line of duty.
Letting Amoretta walk away was not all. By the end of the afternoon I'd attended three seminars with Professor Caldone, and I had scientific papers coming out of my ears on everything from the Interaction of Enzymes in Globular Disturbances to Reproduction Studies of the Hydroids. I never knew anything concerning sex could be so damned dull. But I also met a good number of the others attending the meeting. The list roughly broke down into four Norwegians, two Frenchmen, three Germans, four Russians, two Yugoslavs, three Chinese, four Americans and a scattering of other nationalities. There were a few I hadn't met attending other seminars being held concurrently. I also met Karl Krisst, a round, jovial-faced man, taller than his round shape indicated, with small, darting eyes that hinted at a shrewd, fast mind behind the surface blandness.
"Karl, here, is our most valuable man," Professor Caldone said as we were introduced. "As Secretary of the ISS his task is to arrange every one of our monthly meetings. He chooses the site, arranges for accommodations, plans the seminars and the dinners, sees that everyone gets an invitation and generally makes our get-togethers what they are."
Krisst beamed and squeezed the Professor's shoulder. He looked up at me with a mixture of interest and speculation in those small, quick eyes.
"I understand your accommodations were specially arranged, Mr. Carter," he said suavely. "But if there is anything I can do, anything you wish, please do not hesitate to call on me. Karl Krisst is always on call for the members and their guests."
Krisst had a faint accent I correctly diagnosed as Swiss and, had I met him in Chicago, I would have taken him for the typical convention glad-hander and back-slapper. He exchanged little asides with almost everyone, I'd noticed, was always smiling and seemingly pleased with everything. He slapped the professor on the back, gave my arm a squeeze and hurried off. I saw him often during the afternoon and at the dinner that night, hovering over everything, checking one thing or another, making quick shifts when necessary, tending to the personal whims of his distinguished assortment of guests. The eminent scientists plainly got a charge out of him and Karl Krisst did his job exceedingly well. He was just a type I never could warm to, the surface joviality always a hollow element to me. But, I knew, the world was full of Karl Krissts and they seemed necessary to this kind of thing. I had stuck with the professor like glue, carefully watching everything he ate and drank, and when the dinner was ended I found Karl Krisst at my elbow again.
"Do the meetings usually run like this one?" I asked.
"You mean this badly?" he returned, breaking into a storm of laughter at his little joke.
I went along with what I knew he wanted me to say. "I mean this well," I said. "Are the programs at each one similar to this?"