He scratched his crotch and cursed beneath his breath. Fan Su and Wong came toward him. They were speaking in Wu, the local Shanghai dialect, but as they approached Fan Su switched to English. She was still holding Wong's arm. Now she gave him a little push toward Nick.
"Tell him what you have just told me."
Wong, who had been awe-stricken from the first, stared at the foreign devil hunchback. He knew only what Fan Su had told him — that Nick was here to help Undertong, that he was very important in the United States, where the president asked his advice daily, and that his word was law and his anger death. Somewhere, beneath all the rags and dirt, Wong knew there lurked a real Fire Dragon. Now he made a little bow and touched a fist to his sweat rag.
"They put Po-Choy in iron cage," he said now. "Hang him on pole in place of police station. All come to see. He not have clothes, velly cold. Aso they have cut off one piece him."
Nick remained squatting in his nest of filthy straw. He glanced up at Fan Su. "I get the main idea, but it doesn't make sense yet. You want to interpret?"
Before she could say anything Wong spoke again. "True, I tell! Is sign tells also. They cut one piece today, one piece tomorla, one piece day after." Wong held out his hands and shrugged his emaciated shoulders. "Pletty soon Po-Choy hava no, I think!"
Nick stood up. Fan Su patted Wong on the shoulder and gave him a little push. She said something in Wu. The man smiled, bobbed to Nick, and left them.
Nick, remembering even then to crouch and bend his malformed back, said, "Okay, Fan Su. What's it all about?" Remembering their conversation of the day before, he added: "I haven't changed my mind, you know. I'm sorry about Po-Choy, as sorry as you are, but we can't help him. There is nothing we can do. Nothing! It would be senseless to try and we would only endanger the mission."
The dark eyes stared unwaveringly into his own. Dry eyes. This did not surprise him. She might cry in her sleep, or cry for love, but he knew that she would never cry at danger. Her rigid composure, in fact, made him a little uneasy.
She took his arm. "Let me talk to you a moment, Nick. Back here in private. I've got to be honest about this."
He followed her, shuffling and sliding along in his worn rubber shoes, down a narrow brick passage to the wreck of a boiler room. Rusty water stood an inch deep on the floor. A cat carcass floated nearby and somewhere a rat squeaked in triumph.
Nick began, "It's no use, Fan Su. We've got to get out of Shanghai. Tomorrow night at the latest. I can't keep that aircraft carrier out there forever and…"
"Please, darling! Let me talk. Hear me out. I know you're in command, but there is something that I must do. I want you to know about it."
Nick squatted in the nasty water, the way billions of coolies have squatted through the ages. "Okay," he said with resignation. "Spill it."
"Po-Choy is talking," she said, "but he's not talking about us, about Undertong. He knows about this place, probably knows we're here — but we're still free. Don't you see — he's giving them false information. They know that now. That's why they've hung him in that cage and started to cut him to bits. He's doing it for us, Nick, for us — and I've got to help him! I'm going to help him."
He stared at her. "How, for God's sake? He is in an iron cage, on a pole in front of police headquarters with thousands of Red Guards around. You can't help him! And if Wong is telling the truth, and they are really cutting him up a little at a time, then he won't hold out much longer. No man could. We've got to run for it…"
She shook her head. Her face was impassive. "Not until I've killed him, put him out of his pain."
It was not as bad as he had expected. He had expected her to demand that he, they, somehow take on ten thousand Red Guards and get Po-Choy out of his cage. This made sense, in a way. But it was still way out, impossible. In daylight, with a high-powered rifle, maybe. The members of Undertong were armed only with knives and an occasional pistol or revolver. Nick himself had only the Luger and the stiletto.
Nick scratched — damn all lice to hell — and shook his head. "Sorry, baby, but it can't be done."
"It can be done," she said stubbornly. "I'll do it. Alone, if I must. He is of. my blood, Nick, and he is letting himself be cut to pieces for me, for all of us. I must kill him!"
He sensed that she meant it. Absolutely meant it. Killmaster began to examine the matter from another aspect. If she really intended to go through with this crazy thing — and she did — then he would have to go with her. He couldn't afford to lose her. He needed her. Quite apart from anything personal between them — he needed her. Yellow Peril and Yellow Venus, the missions, needed her. The fun and games were over for now, the chips were down, and the missions came first.
Another thing — Po-Choy wasn't going to hold out forever! Not with those sonsofbitches taking him apart bit by bit. Sooner or later — a miracle he had held out so long — he was going to break and tell them about this place.
"I'll ask you only once," Fan Su said now. "I won't beg, Nick. Help me. I'm a bad shot. None of the others can shoot any better, and our weapons are poor. But you could do it. You're the only one that will really have a chance."
He nodded. "I think you're right. And knowing that — you would still try it if I said no?"
"I must." The built-in Chinese fatalism. The sleek lovely surface of her was only a coat of Western lacquer; beneath she was all Oriental, as determinist as Buddha himself.
Killmaster decided. "All right. I'll help you. But only if we clear out of here tonight. Not come back. Can you push up things twenty-four hours? Can your people handle it? And you had better be damned sure!"
Fan Su glanced at the cheap Hong Kong watch she wore concealed high on one wrist. At times like this, among the very poor, even the possession of a watch could be dangerous.
"It will be dark in an hour," she said. "It will take us half an hour to get to the Municipal Center from here, with luck. We do it — kill Po-Choy; then we can get a sampan near Woosung. It will take us north until we meet the truck that will take us to the airfield. Yes, Nick, we can do it. We can be at the airfield at midnight."
He seized her arm in a grip that hurt her, but she did not flinch away from him. "You're sure, damn it? Once I put this operation into go we can't turn back. This has got to be done right the first time."
"You're hurting me, Nick. Please."
He released her, but instead of stepping away she went lax in his arms. "I'm sorry, Nick, but this is something I must do."
Nick held her for a moment, but when he spoke his voice was harsh. "All right! Let's do it, then. Help me off with this damned hump."
He stripped off his dirty black coolie jacket to reveal the flesh-colored monstrosity. Makeup had done a superb job on it, even to including warts with hair growing out of them. There was one flesh-colored strap that ran under his armpits and fastened in front. The edges were so carefully gummed and blended that the hump looked as though it grew from his own flesh. Nick had been concealing a transceiver in it.
He rested the tiny radio on the hulk of a boiler, pulled out a long antenna and plugged in the key that was concealed in the base. The transceiver operated on powerful, long-life silver batteries. He looked at Fan Su.
"You're sure? I'll have to transmit for quite a few minutes. And our information is that the People's Army is pretty good at DFing. As soon as I finish we're going to have to cut and run for it."
She tossed the ball back to him. For the first time in a long time she smiled. "Nothing is really sure in this life, darling. Especially in lives like ours. I think we will succeed, but I do not know what is written. It is for you to decide." She shrugged with all the resignation of the Orient. "But I know what I must do."
Killmaster scowled. He did not touch the key. She was right, of course. Nothing in life was sure. No guarantees. Philosophy was a very thin reed at times. He had visions of himself in an iron cage, being stoned and hooted at by the Red Guards. The Carter File. A reward of one hundred thousan
d dollars. God, what a field day the bastards would have! They would parade him around with a rope about his neck, torture him, cut him up a little at a time as they were doing to Po-Choy now. And when all the propaganda value had been squeezed out they would kill him. As slowly and painfully as possible.
Yet the mission must be accomplished and he had not become top dog in his profession by holding back.
Killmaster grinned at the girl. "Okay, here we go." He began to pound the little key, sending his call letters out across the sea to where the carrier waited.
Yellow Venus calling Sawtooth — Yellow Venus calling Sawtooth…
The dots and dashes came flashing back to him. Go ahead, Yellow Venus.
Chapter 8
The sturdy hunchbacked coolie pulled the ricksha through the winding, narrow Street of The Yellow Storks. It was raining slightly, hardly more than a mist, but he wore a straw li over his big shoulders and he had raised a teng to protect his passenger. The street was dark and deserted. The big coolie could almost smell the fear behind the closed and battened shops. Mao's Red Guards had turned into a monster — and the monster was loose tonight. Not far ahead of them, where the street emptied into Karl Marx Square and vanished in a maze of municipal buildings, the Beast was shouting for blood and flesh.
Behind him Fan Su said: "Remember — you're a deaf-mute. If we have any trouble let me do all the talking."
Nick Carter slowed for a moment and glanced back at her from under the brim of his coolie hat. He smiled with his black teeth and nodded. A deaf-mute. He wasn't likely to forget. He went plunging on toward the blaze of light at the end of the street. He kept his head down and his legs pumped in the tireless slop-slop-slop-slop of the professional. Killmaster had pulled rickshas before.
Fan Su sat primly in the ricksha, neatly clad in a quilted suit and wearing a little green cap with a red star on it. She wore sneakers and the inevitable sanitary mask of white gauze, and in her hand she carried the red book of Mao — the Bible of the Red Guard. Snugged between her slim legs she also carried a deadly little Nambu pistol.
Killmaster was carrying the Luger and stiletto in their usual places beneath his baggy black coolie uniform. Now, as they drew nearer the square and could hear the raucous bellowing of sound trucks and loudspeakers over the menacing hum of the crowd, he thought that it was something like going up against an elephant with a slingshot. If they were to accomplish their task — kill Po-Choy — it would have to be done by guile. Not raw force. She understood that.
To the left of where the Street of The Yellow Storks debouched on the square, there was the curving façade of a large department store. Here several street cars were hopelessly jammed in the surging, singing, shouting and howling throng. Every available light in the square and in the surrounding buildings had been turned on, and from trucks and speakers' platforms powerful searchlights prowled back and forth across the skies and over the crowd. Two of the searchlights, each beamed from a separate spot, were unmoving. They crossed, melded, on an iron cage that dangled from a steel beam affixed to a tall pole before the police station.
Nick saw at once that, until he made his move, he had nothing to worry about. Nor did Fan Su. There were possibly a hundred thousand Red Guard fanatics shouting and screaming about them, pushing and shoving, cursing and laughing, and they were completely lost. Just another ricksha coolie and a neat Girl Guard.
They abandoned the ricksha and made their way toward one of the stalled street cars that still had a little space atop it. Nick helped the girl up on his shoulders, then pulled himself up for a first survey of the situation. He had to decide if this thing was really possible. As he looked out over the jammed square, down into thousands of shouting angry faces, he knew that he was afraid. That was good. It was healthy fear, not bravado and fool-hardiness, that kept a man alive in his profession. This mob was a deadly weapon. One mistake, one slip of the tongue, one voice raised in spite, and they would tear you to little red pieces.
He felt Fan Su's hand on his arm, squeezing hard, quivering. He did not look at her. He was seeing the same thing she was seeing.
The cage was forty feet from the ground, suspended from the end of a steel arm that joined the pole at right angles. It was a cunning and merciless trap, that cage. Medieval. The Italians had once made great use of it. It was of a size, and so constructed, that the prisoner could neither stand up nor lie down.
The thing in the cage moved now, as they watched. One of the hands was thrust through the bars. In the brilliance of the searchlights it was easy to see that the first two fingers of the hand were missing. The bandages were neat and clean. Nice of the bastards!
The head was also bandaged. Nick guessed that an ear had been cut off. For a moment the crowd around the foot of the pole parted enough for him to see a large glass box, something like a showcase, fastened to the pole at eye level. The distance was too great for him to see what lay behind the glass, but he could guess. They were putting the parts of Po-Choy on display as a warning.
Nick could feel the girl trembling. He guessed it was with rage, not fear.
Again the naked thing in the cage moved, turning restlessly, trying to adjust its racked and tormented body. Nick could not make out the face even in the bright glare of the lights. He did not particularly want to see it. It was just another Oriental face.
No. It was more than that. It was the face of a fellow human being. There was a man in that cage. A man. Being tormented. Nick's heritage took over. He must do what he could.
It took him less than a minute to size matters up. The only possible chance was to get into the police station itself. The cage was about fifty yards from the station entrance and on a level with the fourth floor. There were no really tall buildings in Shanghai because of the marsh and silt on which it was built.
Nick's practiced eye scanned the scene once more. It was the only way. Get into the police station, gain entrance to one of the offices on the fourth floor, and he would have a level shot at the cage from fifty yards. That was it. He nudged Fan Su.
They found a doorway out of the crowd and he told her how he was going to do it. "There are fire escapes in front," he explained. "I'm betting there will be others in back. There should be corridors running straight through from front to back. If we can get to the fourth floor, and I can get into an office, we might have a chance. You can cover me from the corridor. In all this mob and excitement it shouldn't be hard to get in."
She said what they were both thinking. "Yes. It will be easy, getting in. Even shooting him. Getting away afterward will be hard."
Killmaster shrugged. "One thing — if that mob gets us it will be a quick death. Come on."
They began to worm their way around the fringe of the crowd, past stalls where women were selling flags and tiny busts of Mao. Wall posters were everywhere. Death to All Decadent Bourgeois — Honor Mao's Thought — Down With Bloody Revolutionists — Death For All American Running Dogs and Turtles…
"They do not love us," said Nick under his breath.
Step by step they fought their way through the mass of packed humanity to the front entrance of the police station. Space around the doors and wide stairs was being kept clear by members of the People's Militia armed with rifles and Tommy guns. They wore floppy tan uniforms and red starred caps, and had red tabs on their collars. They looked alert and well disciplined, for militia, and Nick did not like it. The Tommy guns gave him a cold feeling. If the rear of the building was as well guarded as the front they were in real trouble.
Fan Su hissed at him. "You are my stupid cousin who has been working in the city. Now you are sick and I am trying to help you get back to your village. Keep your head and eyes down, but don't overdo it. Look as stupid and nervous as you can."
Nick showed his black teeth in a grimace. The last part wouldn't be hard. He was nervous.
They approached a guard who stood beneath a great red-and-gold banner bearing a hammer and sickle. At first he paid them no attention. He w
as staring up at the cage and obviously did not wish to be bothered.
Fan Su tugged at the guard's sleeve. He glanced at her in annoyance. "What is it, comrade?"
The girl indicated Nick, who stood hunched and shuffling his feet, his mouth half-open and his eyes vacant. At the same time his hand was near the Luger — he had pulled the holster around to the front so he could get to it faster — and the stiletto was ready to snap from the sheath down into his hand. If he had to use them, of course, it would already be too late, but if he went he meant to take a few of them with him.
Fan Su was explaining that her cousin was sick and needed a road pass so he could travel. Her second cousin, really, and she moved a little away from Nick. He was a moron, a deaf-mute as well, and if someone did not help him he would get lost and die in the gutter.
The guard appeared to share her feelings about the big filthy hunchback. He stared at Nick, then back at the girl. "Yieee — I see what you mean, comrade. This one is an excrescence on the face of China! He should be hidden in a cave."
Fan Su smiled sadly. "I know. But he is helpless and of my blood, though distantly. I cannot let him perish. So if you will please to help me…"
The guard was eyeing Fan Su appreciatively now, looking her up and down, and Killmaster found himself hoping that there wouldn't be a lot of boy and girl palaver. He was tense now, but at the same time loose and ready for action. Come on, he thought furiously. Get it over with.
Fan Su thrust her papers at the guard. "Please? If you could hurry matters along a bit for me I would be grateful. I know you are an important man and have your duties, but I also have duties." She cast a disdainful glance at Nick. "Besides, he offends me. I wish to be rid of him. He smells bad."
The guard laughed. "You speak truth there, comrade." He gave her back the papers without glancing at them. "You are not leaving Shanghai? Then it is his papers I must see."
The Red Guard Page 10
