“Die you lousy rat fink chink,” the henchman said.
Two of his bullets whizzed very close to Khodo, one of them singing past his brow. But the athletic agent, hanging from the platform, got to the edge of it and swung his legs out and up. This caused the platform to tilt, upsetting the man’s balance on the thing. Those few seconds of distraction allowed Khodo to hook his feet on the platform’s railing. Just then one side gave way, the twin cables snapping—the exploding stem grenade having weakened them. Khodo was in the process of doing a sit up, hanging by his feet but it all went haywire as the damaged platform banged against the building.
His feet lost their hold and Khodo fell away. But like a trapeze artist, he flipped his body over in mid-air and was able to get a hand hold on the damaged platform. The other man was at the top end of the platform, the end still held by cables. He’d dropped his gun when, in a panic, he’d reached out with both of his hands to hold on.
The hoodlum could do little but swear at Khodo who got himself up and around, and onto the platform. The rigging was stuck in place.
“You’re through,” Khodo said. “You’re going to tell me about your boss Andor Solango.”
“Go to hell,” the other man yelled. “My old man fought you Japs in the Big One and I’ll be damned if I’d tell you the time of day if I was wearing an armful of Timexes.”
The Hawaiian born Khodo sighed. “I’m part Chinese too as if that makes a difference to you, haole.”
The angry hood gritted his teeth. “You aren’t gonna make fun of me.” He let go of the cable and, partly sliding and charging, got his arms around Khodo. The two went over backwards, falling from the tilted platform. Khodo was able to latch onto the end of the thing, the hood holding onto his legs.
The dangling man began hitting Khodo about the legs and gut with a fist.
“You idiot,” Khodo yelled. “You’ll kill us both.”
“If that’s the way it has to be,” he replied nihilistically. “Remember the Alamo,” he yelled, renewing his xenophobic attack.
The two were struggling outside the large window of an architectural firm. Several personnel were at their draft tables, watching the struggle. A handsome older woman in pearls was talking into a phone to the police. The dark-haired, bikini wearing surf bunny marched purposefully through the office to the window. She was barely noticed.
“Excuse me,” she told a heavyset man in rolled up shirt sleeves at the window. She gently touched him on the shoulder to move him aside. He ogled her, complying.
Calmly the woman aimed a pistol she’d taken off one of the goons at the window and shot the glass out. Tucking the gun back into the bikini’s waistband, she then used both hands to simultaneously chop at either side of the hood’s knees.
“Ugghh,” he moaned as this action caused several nerve endings in his body to go to sleep. He let go of Khodo and was caught by the woman, who falling backward, got him inside the office. Then one of the other two cables broke lose from the platform. It began to twist around.
“Bret,” she said, concerned.
Khodo swung back and forth holding the platform. As he competed his third arc, gauging his momentum would be enough, he let go, propelling himself feet first inside as well. The platform completely gave way and fell to the earth. He and the woman left the office unmolested. Using a fireman’s carry, Khodo transported the unconscious thug as well.
“You okay, Ida?” Khodo asked the supposed surf bunny.
Dr. Ida Canaris Pradesh, Ph.D. in quantum physics and Agent 82 of CODE smiled casually at him. “I’m good to go, Tarzan.”
She’d been sent in undercover a week before as Barabos’ personal secretary. He had a thing for exotic women. The doctor, of East Asian Indian and German descent, had passed for a Mexican jet-setter from Guadalajara as per the dictates of her cover. They re-entered the shot up office. Khodo dumped the unconscious man on the floor.
“In fact I think we can find out where they’ll be bringing Professor Rodar tonight.” She stepped over one of the goons, who’d been killed in the barrage. A wall safe hidden behind a Buckhorn Buck Girl of the month calendar had been exposed and she began dialing the combination.
“It was only this morning that I was able to finally surreptitiously watch Barabos when he opened this safe earlier today and discerned its combination. I intended once I had a minute alone to go through the contents.”
Standing behind her, Khodo breathed onto her neck. “You’re a gas, Doc.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Agent 77.” While she worked the safe’s dial, Khodo searched Barabos’ body. Pradesh got the door open. Inside were packets of money, a tin of cocaine, and some folded papers. She took the documents and the two hurried from the office at the sound of approaching sirens. Pradesh also took an oversized woven beach bag from the side of the bullet drilled couch. In the stairwell Pradesh removed a miniskirt from the bag and put it on.
“I’m trying not to drool,” Khodo cracked as she also buttoned a cotton shirt into place.
“Isn’t getting me out of these clothes your objective?” she teased.
“Our duty comes first, Dr. Pradesh.”
She patted his cheek, smiling. “Indeed.”
The two managed to get out of the building and blend in with the crowd that had gathered in front looking up at the shot up office. Police cars blocked the Strip as armed officers rushed into the building.
“We better drift,” Khodo whispered in Pradesh’s ear.
“Right.”
The two spies walked along and found a googie-style coffee shop called the Tik-Tok two blocks away. There Khodo had coffee, her tea, and they went over the papers.
Ida Pradesh had on her reading glasses and was perusing an insurance document. “Solango must have had Barabos lease various properties around town for various reasons. But,” she continued, “unless we’re going to check each address out, how do we narrow down where they’ll be bringing Rodar tonight?”
Khodo, sitting opposite her in the booth, smiled and slid an ornate gold key across the table. It was topped with a ram’s head.
Pradesh picked up the key, frowning at it. “What is this?”
“They give those to members of the Buckhorn Den, also on the Strip by the way.”
“This is what you took from Barabos’ pocket?”
“Yep.”
She put the key down. “And…?”
“And,” he added, tapping the table, “We know Solango owns a piece of the Buckhorn magazines and clubs. The club here in L.A. includes a hotel, and just happens to have a helipad on its roof. This has to be where they’ll bring our kidnapped big brain tonight for the auction.”
She nodded. “Makes sense. They sell off Rodar in a private room there, and the winning bidder can leave with their prize via helicopter. But this assumes, given Solango now knows we’re on the hunt for him, he doesn’t postpone the auction.”
“I don’t think he has a choice, Ida. That conniving bastard Malachinko, head of the Soviet space command was spotted sneaking through Canada. We also have to figure a Red Chinese representative is in town and possibly an oil rich sheik as well. They won’t be hanging around cooling their heels and risking exposure. Solango will double the guards but the sale has to go on.”
“Okay, so what’s the plan?”
He smiled crookedly and said, “My dancing prawn is to die for.”
“Hmmm?” she murmured.
“Would you mind getting HQ on the line? Operations desk.”
“No problem,” she said, taking a compact out of her bag. She opened it and pressing a hidden button, the powder puff and such flipped over. Revealed on the underside of a metal disk were several tiny knobs, switches, and a speaker grill. She turned a dial and fiddled with the knobs. The disguised two-way communicator hummed. The mirror of the compact fuzzed over like a TV screen with electronic snow on it. The video link cleared, showing a handsome forty plus woman with a beehive on the other end. She wore a leopar
d spotted eye patch.
Khodo was now sitting next to Pradesh. “Miss Beauclair, how’s the weather in DC?”
“Agents 77 and 82. What shenanigans are you two up to today?”
“I need what only you can give, my dear,” Khodo cracked.
Miss Beauclair touched her beehive, smiling wryly. “He’s quite the charmer, isn’t he?”
“He thinks he is,” Pradesh said, grinning broadly. She gave his thigh a squeeze under the table.
Khodo said, “Miss Beauclair, would you please work your magic, and get me any leverage you can over one of the managers at the Buckhorn club out here. I need an in.”
Eyebrow raised, she said, “Is this just an excuse for you to ogle scantily clad women?”
“Probably,” Pradesh interjected.
“Nonetheless, do get back to me with all possible speed.”
“Of course. Beauclair out.” The screen went to gray fuzz then back to its mirrored surface. It was believed among CODE personnel that the one-eyed woman was one of the few who knew Zero-One’s true identity. Some had even speculated the two were married.
Khodo and the doctor were soon in his Mustang heading toward her cover apartment in Hollywood.
“I think we have a tail,” she said, looking from the side view mirror.
“The crème and tan Chrysler Imperial two cars back.”
“Yes. Seems there was a back-up to the men who stormed Barabos’ office.”
“Car has a whip antenna on it,”” Khodo added.
“Meaning it’s probably outfitted with a radio-telephone and he’s been in contact with Solango.”
“No doubt.” Khodo was cruising along Highland, having intended to go east on Hollywood Boulevard. Instead he kept heading north, passing his intended turn. Giving the big block Fastback some pedal, he revved forward and sped through a red light at Franklin. Drivers honked and cursed. A TV repair panel truck had to screech the brakes, its back tires smoking to avoid slamming into the hurtling car. As the Chrysler came up it was slowed from running the light due to the tangle in the intersection. Ahead, Khodo zoomed past one of the parking lots to the Hollywood Bowl and, taking the slight rise of road to the left of the entrance onto the 101 freeway, he kept going.
Pradesh unlimbered her sidearm, a small and efficient Beretta.
Khodo reached where Mulholland Drive began on its eastern end. He took the shifter out of gear and put the vehicle into a drift as he turned the body sideways, making his left, screeching through another red light and reengaging the clutch. This time a car traveling in the opposite direction didn’t stop and clipped the rear bumper of the Mustang. The vehicle wobbled but Khodo got the car back under control and headed west on the two lane road that ringed the Santa Monica Mountains.
The Chrysler was behind them now and looking to close the gap. On the passenger side a man in sunglasses stuck his head out of the window and let loose with a shotgun. Buckshot tore into the side panel and destroyed the right side mirror, but Khodo and Pradesh were unhurt. There was armor plating beneath the machine’s hull.
Pradesh reached over to the radio dial and, twisting it one way then rotating it back to a specific point, engaged one of the custom features of the CODE-issued sports car. The rear lights flipped down and out popped twin machine gun spouts that ripped a fusillade at the oncoming vehicle. The spouts were swivel mounted and they went side-to-side, up and down laying down their fire. The windshield of the oncoming car was spider-webbed from the onslaught but neither hood in the car was killed.
“Get their front end,” Khodo advised as he veered around a station wagon and hurried to get back in the proper lane to dodge a bobtail truck descending Mulholland.
Pradesh adjusted the machine guns and stitched a rapid burst across the Chrysler’s grill despite the other driver’s attempts at evasive maneuvers. But his vision was partially obscured by the condition of his windshield and over compensating, he sideswiped the car along the guard rail. Khodo took a right onto a residential street, the Chrysler bearing down. Steam sputtered from his shot up radiator, the temperature gauge’s indicator steadily moving into the red.
“You do know this is a cul-de-sac, don’t you, darling,” Pradesh said evenly.
“Then let’s hope this works.” Khodo bore the Mustang toward a Gregory Ain type low slung house at the apex of the cul-de-sac. The shotgunner was shooting at them again and a grenade hit the roof and blew off part of the top. Only the armor kept the two from being ripped apart by shrapnel. Still some got through and cut Pradesh on her shoulder, Khodo on his neck.
A grim-faced Khodo flipped open the top of the stick shift exposing a button that he pushed while it looked as if he was going to drive the Mustang through the front of the house. Jetting out the Mustang’s exhaust pipe was a chemical compound with a silicone base. This super slick solution coated the roadway.
At the last possible moment, Khodo cranked the wheel viciously. The Mustang’s body shuddered but its racing struts and heavy duty ball joints did their job and, churning up the well-manicured lawn underneath his tires, the car turned away. Behind him the front tires of the Chrysler contacted the slick stuff on the asphalt and it was evident there was no stopping the hurtling two tons of steel, cloth, glass, and rubber. The car kept going and its trajectory took it past the side of the house, through shrubbery and wooden fencing, into a backyard pool below street level. The large pool was shaped like a grand piano. The tiered house was constructed partially into a hillside. The Chrysler soared head first into the pool, causing a huge geyser of water.
The driver was knocked unconscious, his head poking out of what remained of the damaged windshield. The shotgun man had gotten out and swam toward the side of the pool. Soaked and hauling himself out, he was met by Dr. Pradesh who in three swift karate chops had him subdued. Khodo rescued the driver and flopped him onto his stomach on the wet tile deck, coughing water. The owner of the house came out. It was the famed pianist Liberace and he gaped wide-eyed at his visitors. He was dressed in an off white robe of luminescent quality embroidered with musical keys as if they’d been spilled all over the material.
“Sorry about the mess, Lee,” Khodo said. “Your Uncle will get the damages repaired.” The secret agent hadn’t picked this street by accident.
The other man chuckled. “There’s always such delicious excitement with you, Bret.” Behind Liberace through the glass doors, a man with dark, long hair and a broad chest, like a denizen from a paperback cover about a barbarian, could be seen in swimming trunks.
“When you’re done, come on in for some mimosas and crepes. Looks like you two could use a bracer.” The piano man traipsed back into his home.
“How do you—” Pradesh began.
“Lee’s done contract work for us. He gets invited to a lot of interesting places.” Khodo put the gasping gangster on his back and, bending, placed the muzzle of Pradesh’s handgun under his jaw. “You’re going to call your boss and tell him you were successful. That me and Ida are dead.”
Any objections he was going to raise died in his throat as he looked from the set features of Khodo and Pradesh. “Sure, whatever you say,” he replied.
* * *
That evening at the Buckhorn Den, less than a mile west of where the shooting had happened that afternoon, a new hibachi chef entered the busy kitchen. It was Khodo wearing an orange conical hat and matching apron over his white pants and shirt. He had several types of kitchen knives from tapers to a saw and raker combination tucked into pockets of the apron and his waistband. He was introduced by the manager, Mike Yoshida.
“Everybody, this is Chen. He’ll be filling in for Ayoki tonight on table two,” Yoshida said to the staff.
There were brief acknowledgements and everyone got back to their tasks of chopping, mixing, baking, and what have you. The dinner crowd would soon descend in full force. Yoshida pulled Khodo aside.
“I hope this squares me with the IRS,” he whispered.
Straight-faced Khodo sai
d, “I’ll put in the good word as promised, my man,” the agent said. When Pradesh and Khodo radioed into headquarters for background information on key personnel at the club, the manager’s troubles with back taxes had been reported by Miss Beauclair.
“Good evening.” Khodo bowed slightly in his outfit as people sat around the large flat hot steel griddle of table number two. Part of the establishment’s attraction was watching your steak, vegetables, noodles, fish, and so forth being cooked on the grill in an entertaining fashion by the chef expertly wielding his various knives to chop and slice the ingredients.
A greater attraction was the Ramettes, the scantily clad waitresses with their little furry tails and little furry lamb ears that poked out of their hair.
“Here we go,” Khodo said, “a pretty garnish for the pretty lady.” He cut a radish into the shape of a rose and added it next to a piece of properly seared tuna on a customer’s plate. He continued his patter as diners sipped their cocktails and murmured, dazzled by the speed and preciseness of his hands and blades. He received brief applause now and then after particular flourishes.
“Hey, you chop-chop pretty good, Hop Sing.”
Khodo sought to ignore the drunk bigot.
The patron, a red-faced middle-aged white man in a loud plaid jacket kept it up. “You no sloppy-sloppy with brades,” he joked in a movie Chinese accent, laughing and flailing his hands about.
His companions giggled some but a couple of them gave Khodo a chagrined look.
Khodo calmly reached over, took hold of the man’s tie, and sliced it neatly into sections he flung on his broad knife away from the hot grill. Somebody gulped audibly.
He said quietly, “I’m very precise when I cut.”
The drunk dipped his head slightly and remained quiet.
Khodo cooked and entertained for more than an hour, expertly preparing food for the patrons while engaging in fast banter. He finally spotted a face he was familiar with from past surveillance footage. Doctor General Xiang Lin-Wu of the People’s Liberation Army was moving through the restaurant on the far end. He wore a tailored Savile Row suit and three body guards were in step with him—one of them a striking looking woman in a slit dress.
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