The Weapon of Night

by Nick Carter

  A vast voice boomed across the field and a huge figure emerged, with surprising suddenness, from behind the baggage truck — a target as big as a barn, with a bellow like an outraged dinosaur.

  “You put that young man down at once, but immediately!” Valentina roared. “There will be no more of this nonsense —!”

  Wilhelmina, the stripped-down Luger, exploded into sound and fury, for in that one instant, the gunman had raised his gun from the mechanic’s back and aimed it over the young man’s shoulder directly at Valentina, leaving his head profiled sharply against the morning sky as he bared his teeth and squeezed the trigger.

  When he dropped, his profile was gone with the shattering of his skull.

  Valentina rolled over gracefully, like an elephant taking a mud bath, and landed on her feet. The young mechanic fell to his knees, pale-faced and trembling, and reached for a fallen gun. The assassin lay faceless in gore.

  Nick ran to Valentina. Blood was clotting on the collar of her blue serge suit but her eyes were as bright and lively as blue seas under a summer sun.

  “Good shooting, Carter!” she roared cheerfully. “But I gave you that one little moment that you needed, yes?”

  “Next question,” Hawk said criply. “A small point, but I am interested.” His steely gaze roamed over the small group of people assembled in his suite at the Hotel Pierre: Valentina the vast, AXE agent Alec Greenberg of London, and Nicholas J. Huntington Carter.

  “How,” said Hawk, and now his gaze was fixed on Nick, “did Madam Sichikova know your name? It was my impression that you are known to her, and always have been, as Thomas Slade. And yet she was able to address you by the name of Carter. It seems to be something of a breach in our security — and not the only instance, merely the least of them. Can you explain?”

  Nick shrugged helplessly. “Madam Sichikova has her methods. I don’t know what they are. Perhaps she’s always known. Just as we’ve known her name, and Smirnov’s.”

  Valentina rumbled happily deep down in her throat. The bandage round her neck was like an extra collar and it did not seem to bother her at all.

  “Ah, yes, we have our methods, Comrade Hawk,” she chortled, and if she noticed how Hawk flinched she pretended not to. “Once upon a time, when we had reason to ask you for your help, we expected you to send your very best, and of course we knew you had an agent Nicholas Carter.” Her benign smile fell warmly upon Nick. “So when the man called Thomas Slade did such brilliant work with us we did at least suspect that he was not Slade at all.”

  “Suspect?” said Hawk. “But at the airport today you called Carter by name. By that time, you were sure?”

  Valentina chuckled and studied a pattern in the carpet.

  “But naturally I was sure.”

  Hawk drew in an exasperated breath.

  “But how —”

  Alec Greenberg scuffled his feet and said, “Ahem. Ah, sir, I believe I — ah — addressed my colleague here as Nick in the — uh — heat of battle, sir. An oversight for which I —”

  “May be hanged by the neck,” Hawk interrupted savagely. And then he smiled. “Madam Sichikova, I see it does not pay to underestimate you. But now that we have resolved that question, we have others of more importance to occupy us. First, there is the question of the complaint, which you will no doubt wish to lodge against us. You will be justified. I can only ask you to see it in the light of your own wish for minimum precautions. Second, the reason for the attack upon you. Your arrival was not known to the general public, few if any of whom would have reason to harm you. And because there were two professional assassins, we can be virtually certain that we are not dealing with the lunatic fringe. Therefore the question is Who? Why? Third, we must take steps to prevent further such occurrences. Either you must cancel your stay here and return quietly, or you must permit us to arrange a cover for you. If you would, for instance, change your appearance somewhat and take lodgings in a private home —”

  “Ho. ho! Oh, no, my friend.” Valentina shook her head emphatically. “You think perhaps that I should disguise myself as the maiden aunt of Nicholas and stay with friends of yours or his? I can assure you that that will never work. If I am looked for, I cannot be disguised. Not me. Not ever. It is impossible. I answer your last question first, and the answer is No. I do not leave here, and I do not attempt some foolish disguise. Now I am warned. Already I have made several unforgivable mistakes. Ah! How angry Dmitri will be!” She heaved a huge sigh that seemed to shake the furniture, and clucked in self-reproach. “He will be quite right. But I will make no more. I accept that I am not private citizen, and I will take care. As to lodging a complaint, I have none. The fault was mine. I can assure you there will be no repercussion. You handle your American press; I will handle my Dimitri. No, I shall proceed with my plans . . . .”

  Nick left her big voice behind him as he rose to answer the signal at the door. When he came back he had a sheaf of papers in his hand and he was frowning thoughtfully.

  “Yes? What is it?” Hawk demanded.

  “Report from Castellano,” said Nick. “Fass in hospital, bullet in gut, will recover. Two assassins shot dead identified as inhabitants of village with no known political affiliations. Homes searched, large sums of money discovered in each, little else. But for this.” He handed Hawk a photograph. “Found in home of John Snyder, assassin number two.”

  Hawk took the photograph and scrutinized it silently. Then he handed it to Valentina. “Name John Snyder mean anything to you?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Bought and paid for, I suppose,” she said shortly, and her blue eyes narrowed to sharp slits as she stared at the photograph.

  It was a head-and-shoulders shot of Valentina Sichikova. Assistant Commissar of Russian Intelligence.

  “From official files,” she said distantly, and her voice was like the echo of thunder rolling through a cavern. “Available only to Soviet Press and to our allies for official publications. You do not perhaps have copy yourselves?”

  Her eyes were beady now, and searching.

  “No,” said Hawk. “Believe me. We have no such picture in our files. This was not obtained through us. But it seems that someone made it available to Snyder — and what was the other fellow’s name? Ah, Edwards, yes — for a somewhat obvious purpose. Edwards, it seems destroyed his copy. Sensible. But it makes no difference. Evidence is clear. Hired killers, as you say, supplied with portraits of you. But why? Why you? Why here? To once again discredit the United States? Perhaps. But supposing there’s another reason. Maybe one that points more directly at you. You, Valentina Sichikova. Russian, yes, but individual also.” He waited.

  Valentina’s eyes gazed into a distance that she alone could see.

  “I would have a moment to think,” she murmured brusquely. “Give me but one moment.”

  “It’s yours,” said Hawk. “Greenberg, you will delay your return to London and work with Castellano until we know all there is to know about those two men. Take these files into the other room, read them, and leave. At once.”

  Alec nodded and left with Castellano’s report.

  The old man was unusually peremptory, Nick thought. But no doubt he had reason. And the look in Hawk’s eye indicated that Agent Carter had scarcely lived up to his advance notices.

  “Carter,” Hawk said quietly. “One more question of you. If you don’t mind.”

  Indeed the old man was in a prickly moot!.

  “Sir?” said Nick politely.

  “Tell me,” said Hawk, even more quietly, “just tell me this. Why did you find it necessary to toss Madame Sichikova over the stair rail instead of assisting her back into the plane? I should think that the latter course would have been infinitely more sensible.”

  “Well,” said Nick. “Well. Um. Well, you see, sir, the traffic on the stairway was — that is to say, Greenberg was in the doorway and so was the stewardess, and for a moment there the way was blocked. Yes, that’s it. There wasn’t a clear path so I
did the next best thing. Not very chivalrous, I know, but—”

  Valentina’s deep-throated chuckle rolled and swelled. Her body shook like a mountain of jelly.

  “But now you are being most chivalrous, dear Nicholas. If you will not tell the truth, then I will.” Her smile spread over Hawk like a broad sunbeam. “It was not that the others were blocking the door, don’t you see? He was afraid that I would! And then what a target I would have made, with my . . . Then also you must not forget the difficulty of pushing me back up the stairs. No, Comrade Hawk. Your Carter did the only possible thing. You must commend him, not be angry with him. Ho, ho, ho! It was magnificent, the way he tossed me, I wish you could have seen it. Ho, ho, ho, ho!”

  Hawk’s leathery face crinkled slowly into a smile and his wiry frame shook with silent laughter.

  “Comrade Sichikova,” he said warmly, “you are all that Carter said you were, and more — in terms of character, of course.”

  “Of course!” Valentina roared again. But when the boom of her laughter had subsided, her pleasant peasant’s face was suddenly serious. “I like you, Hawk,” she said. “Just as I like Carter. I think that I must trust you. And you must try to trust me, please. For I have a little bit of ulterior motive in coming here to your country. Not, you understand, to do you any harm. But I had reason of my own.”

  “So?” said Hawk, and now the smile had vanished from his eyes. But there was no distrust in his reposing face, and he was a man who thought that trust was for children and fools.

  “So,” said Valentina. Her huge bulk shifted uncomfortably in the undersized chair. “It is not easy for me to phrase myself but I will try. First, I am woman, therefore interfering. Second, I am Russian Intelligence, therefore suspicious of small things. And I was most suspicious of small blackouts and other disturbances in Moscow and the nearby cities that took place a year or so ago. Small, I say, because under our system it is impossible to have large-scale power failure — I interest you?”

  “You interest us,” Hawk said tersely. “Please go on.”

  “But then the incidents ceased. It was as if they had come under control. Yet, no one could explain them. No one could say how they started, no one could say why they corrected themselves, and no one could begin to suggest why they suddenly ceased altogether.” The genial, peasant woman’s look was gone from Valentina’s face and in its place was the look of a woman of intellect and perceptivity. “Then with the cessation of those events I noticed something else. In the course of several weeks a number of men left Moscow. Many people do, of course. But they come back. Those men did not. They left without return clearance. Ordinarily, that would mean nothing. But to me it meant something that two of them left a certain restaurant, another two a laundry, three of them an embassy, one a trade mission and one a gift shop. All of them left for what seemed to me most trivial reasons — and they have vanished into limbo.”

  She paused a moment, her lively eyes raking across Hawk’s face and Nick’s.

  “You ask, So what?” she went on, with a gesture of one enormous hand. “I will tell you. For several months I put my thoughts in the back of my mind Then things begin to happen in your United States. Many power failures. What you call smog. Much pollution, much more even than you people consider normal. Many strange things, too many of them impossible of explanation. I think back to the big power failure of November, Nineteen-sixty-five. Already I have noticed with interest your nuclear West Valley plant — I have liaison with scientific circles, and I indulge in little hobby of nuclear physics. Also cooking. But I talk some other time of cooking. Now, I am making point that I have long had interest in nuclear power, and therefore in West Valley. And when I am thinking back to the big blackout, I recall reading reports of where the trouble started. Not far, it occurs to me, from the West Valley plant.”

  “Not very far, true,” Hawk interjected, “although several miles beyond the border. But the plant was not affected. There was no hint of trouble there.”

  “Of that I am aware,” Valentina rumbled. “The proximity means nothing, perhaps. On the first occasion, at least, I think it very likely was coincidence. But what if it should happen again, and what if the plant is then affected? Does it not cause you concern that it happens to be in the sector of your country most frequently disturbed by power failures? Coincidence again, perhaps. But so many things happening lately’ — and her big hand slammed down upon a tabletop — “all these things are not coincidence. There are too many of them. They are too puzzling. There is too much at once. Yes? It makes for an uneasiness. I myself think — no, I cannot tell you all I think. It is too much. Flights of fancy, Smirnov said. Suspicions of a woman. Not my business. Yet, he, too, was curious about the vanishing Chinese.”

  “Chinese?” said Nick; and Hawk sucked in a deep breath and sat back in his chair, eyes half-closed but his lean body almost vibrating with interest.

  “Chinese,” said Valentina. “The nine men who left Moscow after our little “power failures ceased. As if they had been practicing on us. And had left us, then, for other pastures. Yes, they were all Chinese.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hakim The Hideous

  Agent D5 sat in the palmy lobby of the Semiramis Hotel and looked at his watch for the tenth time. Damn the fellow for being late, when there was pressing AXE business waiting back in Baghdad! And damn Hawk, too, for sending him scurrying off to Cairo like some messenger boy.

  Now cut that out, Eiger, he told himself. The old man wouldn’t have sent you here if it hadn’t been pretty urgent. It’s not for long, anyway. One quick meeting with him, may-, be a little sightseeing with him for window dressing, and that’s it.

  Agent Eiger settled back behind his newspaper and turned to the editorial pages. But his mind was on the coming meeting, and where they should go once they had met. Obviously they couldn’t talk here. Nor did Sadek want the meeting in his own home, which was understandable if there was something in the air. He wondered briefly if he could have missed the fellow, then decided almost at once that he could not. Hawk’s descriptions — Carter’s, too — had a way of being devastatingly accurate. As for Eiger himself, he was wearing the prescribed light suit and dark blue tie, reading the London Times and carrying a worn leather camera bag. No, impossible that they should miss each other.

  Two blocks away, Hakim Sadek was paying his third taxi fare of the evening and wondering if he had not, after all, chosen the wrong place to meet when Eiger had called him. But it was natural to meet a so-called tourist in a hotel lobby at this hour of the evening, and such places were, in any event, more suitable than, say, a lonely mosque or Sadek’s own small house.

  Hakim walked briskly part way around the block and into an arcade. Two minutes later he entered a side door of the Semiramis and headed for the lobby.

  Yes, that would be Eiger. A little pompous-looking, as Nicholas had warned him, but craggy-jawed and hard of eye as all good AXEmen should be.

  Eiger had lowered his newspaper to look at the trickle of people entering the main door of the lobby. Sadek was more than half an hour late. Concern was building in him; concern and curiosity about this man who was Carter’s trusted friend. It would be interesting to see what a friend of Carter’s would be like. If he ever showed up.

  Maybe he had better call the fellow’s home.

  Then he saw the man who was walking toward him with that curious shambling stride, and he knew it must be Sadek.

  But Godalmighty! How could Hawk and Carter trust such a man? The description had been accurate, as usual, but it paled beside reality.

  The figure that came toward him was tall and slightly hunched, and the face that seemed to hover suspiciously above it would have made an Arab slave-trader look benign by comparison. The flickering, unmatched eyes, the pockmarked, skin, the cruelly curved thin lips, the sidling walk, all added up to a picture of unbelievable depravity.

  A clawed hand came toward him and a sibilant voice outraged his ears: “Feelthy peectu
res, meester?”

  Oh, my God, no! thought Eiger. It’s too much.

  Although it was a code phrase that he had been expecting to hear, coming from this evil-looking man, this caricature of a purveyor of filth, this epitome of smutty malevolence, it was indeed too much.

  “Only if they’re sharp,” said Eiger, “showing all the details.”

  Involuntarily he brushed away the hand that reached for his, as if it were as slippery as this man looked. The hand rose and clapped down on his shoulder in a surprisingly crisp and muscular grip.

  “Hakim Sadek, at your service,” said the loathsome man before him. The tall, hunched body seemed to straighten, almost to fill out, and the incredibly awful face split sud denly into an even more incredible attractive grin. “And you are — you must be —?”

  “Dan Eiger, at yours,” said Eiger, staring. This astounding man seemed to be transforming himself before his very eyes. He was still impossibly ugly, but he was no longer a furtive creature of the back streets; he was now a man who stood upright and foursquare, a man of culture and breeding and intelligence and . . . wholesomeness, by God! The change was indefinable, but it was there. Pock marks, thin lips, squint of eyes, none of these had changed. And yet . . .

  “Friend of my friend, I greet you,” Hakim said warmly, with one eye on Eiger’s face and the other going off at an almost right-angle tangent. “How good of you to take time out from your trip to visit with me. I see you recognized me without difficulty.”

  “Well — ah . . .” Dan hesitated briefly. He had no wish to be offensive to this preposterous man, and he could scarcely tell him that it would have been impossible to find another man so ugly. Nor could he say that he had been so thoroughly repelled, at first sight, that he had thought there must be some mistake. “Yes, I recognized you, all right, but for a moment there you had me a little puzzled. So help me, I can’t help saying it — maybe it was a trick of the light or something, but you did look a bit more villainous than I’d expected.”