Run, Spy, Run

by Nick Carter

  Nick brought the car to a smooth halt before a line of brownstones lying on the rise between 79th and 80th.

  "Stop Judas!"

  Nick followed Julia Baron up a short flight of stone steps into a baroque lobby. They hadn't far to go. The girl beckoned quietly to the left to a broad, paneled mahogany door. A metal doorknocker, fashioned like a lion's head, yielded three spaced knocks followed by two short ones as Julia gave some prearranged signal. Nick stood behind her holding his briefcase. Hugo twitched in his sleeve as the door opened. Gloom rushed out at them.

  Julia Baron hurried in with Nick on her heels and his right hand ready for defensive action.

  The gloom vanished in a sudden blaze of electric light.

  Nick blinked.

  Mr. Hawk came away from the light switch, a taut smile on his leathery face, and secured the door behind them. He nodded to Julia and offered a half-apologetic look to Nick.

  "Sorry I can't offer you chairs, but this won't take long. Sorry, too, about the melodrama, but it can't be helped. There are fleets of the enemy abroad, and I don't intend to bring you to headquarters at a time like this. You may sit on the floor, if you wish."

  Nick did not wish. He found a fireplace mantelpiece and leaned on it. Julia sank gracefully to a cross-legged position.

  The three of them — Nick, Hawk and the girl — congregated awkwardly in the empty room. There wasn't a stick of furniture in the place. Nick saw a foyer leading into darkness. Bedroom, kitchen or bathroom. It wasn't important right now.

  "Very good cover." Hawk sighed heavily, as if he disliked the whole business. "The apartment is for rent and I'm interviewing prospective tenants. A bit late at night, of course, but it's the only time I had available. As you see, it's easy to make sure that we're not wired for sound. Not a bug in the place, except for the roaches. Now, down to business."

  "Do you think you could bring yourself to offer an explanation?" Nick asked pointedly, eyeing the lovely in the picture hat.

  "Later," Hawk said briskly. With that, he strode energetically into the dark room, reappearing with two pieces of gray luggage. He set them down on the floor, the American Tourister two-suiter and overnight case, and smiled at Nick without much humor.

  "These are for you. Try not to lose them. You'll find all the clothes you'll need, plus the latest text on Israeli archaeological discoveries of the last decade and a couple of notebooks for your innermost scholarly thoughts. One of them has already been half-filled for you, so you don't have to write — just read."

  Nick opened the bags, looking up at Hawk as he did.

  "You've heard about this evening at the Elmont?" he asked.

  Hawk nodded. "I got the police report just before you arrived. I trust you examined the parcel before the floor show began?" Nick nodded, admiring the carefully packed bags and the extraordinary thoroughness with which Hawk always operated.

  "Memorized it. But I left in a hurry, so I didn't switch the contents." He snapped open his briefcase and took out Hawk's package.

  "Yes, do it now," approved Hawk. "And since you've committed it all to memory, we will dispose of the dossiers right away.

  "That's the longest crewcut I've ever seen," he said, watching as Nick removed Peter Cane's possessions and transferred them to his own pockets. "But it's not a bad idea for you to look a little overgrown. I don't suppose it's necessary to remind you, Miss Baron, of your obligations?"

  "I don't suppose it is," said Julia haughtily, then had the grace to look a little shamefaced.

  Hawk was clearly in no mood to bandy words. He waited until Nick was ready, then took the file from him and set it down in the fireplace.

  "What about Miss Baron?" Nick asked him pointedly.

  "I'm sorry, Cane," said Hawk, sounding as though he really was. "Miss Baron was wished on us by a branch other than our own. By the Asian OCI, as a matter of fact." He busied himself with the parcel, making sure that it was precisely beneath the open flue. "It's a bit irregular, of course. I wasn't aware of her involvement until after I'd made my plans for you as Peter Cane. However. It may turn out to be for the best. Now. I want you both to watch this." He assumed his most pedantic expression. "It may come in handy for you both when it comes to the proper disposal of incriminating information."

  Hawk gave these little lectures periodically, usually choosing the oddest times for them. Nick suspected he used them as a device to cover up embarrassment or hesitation. Sometimes he had to ask the impossible of one of the chosen twenty-four that made up AXE; then he would stall for time, fumble with his cigar, and give a lecture on molecular metamorphoses, poisonous lichens, or desert survival. This one would be short, apparently. Hawk had not started by making a production of lighting his cigar.

  Almost in unison, Nick and the Baron woman moved closer to the fireplace. Hawk had drawn a phial of something from his inside coat pocket and removed the stopper.

  He paused, looked at Nick and Julia, and stepped back. The hand holding the phial remained extended above the parcel.

  "Acid," he said in a schoolroom voice. "Highly volatile, with an increased effectiveness of better than seven hundred percent above the norm for such liquids. Chemical War sent me a batch for just such occasions as this. You'll be surprised, I can assure you."

  Silvery drops of liquid trickled from the phial and splattered gently on to the burlap-and-paper parcel.

  The effect was magical.

  There was a hiss of sound, a barely perceptible spreading of dissolution, and — no smoke at all. Within fifteen seconds — Nick timed it by his wrist watch — the parcel containing all the background information shriveled and collapsed into withered shreds. Hawk nudged the pile with his shoe tip and looked pleased with himself. The pile flattened into powdery ashes.

  "Quantity K, they call it," Hawk said. "Impossible to make anything at all out of those scraps now. The chemicals reduce all printed matter and textures to meaningless ciphers. An improvement, I'd say. Wouldn't you?" He carefully plugged in the stopper and deposited the phial back in his pocket.

  "Dandy," said Nick. "If I ever have access to Quantity K, I'm sure I'll make good use of it"

  Julia Baron smiled. The high cheek bones stood out in relief, emphasized by the harsh overhead light.

  "Hadn't you better tell Cane what he wants to know, Mr. Hawk? The atmosphere's a little chilly, and I think it comes from that cold shoulder."

  "Cane is my best man, Miss Baron," Hawk said evenly, "because he doesn't even trust himself. He's wondering right now if you haven't managed to pull the wool over my old eyes. If he's not convinced that you're authentic, you may just never leave here." He reached for a cigar, suggesting to Nick that he himself needed a cigarette.

  Julia shifted uncomfortably. Damn this old man! He was a hard case.

  He clipped, scraped matches, puffed.

  "When you left the stadium, Cane, Miss Baron approached me with the usual interdepartmental identification. She had been told where to find me and she produced credentials that are unshakeable and unarguable. Until recently she has been at the Asian desk of the OCI, which you will recall is the Office of Confidential Information. She flew into Washington with a useful scrap of information and was sent up here to see me. Word from Washington reached me later in the day. I had heard of her, of course, but we had never met. Washington insists that we make use of her." He mouthed his cigar reflectively. "It occurred to me that your cover might be less easy to penetrate if you were traveling together. Therefore, Miss Baron will be on Flight 601 with you tomorrow."

  "Why, Mr. Hawk," said Nick, pained. "You know I'm not married. And what about my girl friend, Myra?"

  Hawk permitted himself a faint smile. "Myra is a memory, a lovely thing of the past. Miss Baron has swept you off your feet and you are flying to England, determined to spend several beautiful days together in a London love nest. You will approach your research conscientiously, of course, but your free time is your own. There is no reason why information of that nature
should appear on Peter Cane's official records. You would, in fact, have been very careful to see that it did not. When you are not immersed in your work you will be immersed in the girl."

  Nick looked at her appraisingly. Yes, perhaps he would. She was very decorative, indeed. There was spirit in those luminous, slanting eyes, and strength in that supple body.

  There was a glint of amusement in Hawk's eye as he asked: "Is everything clear so far?"

  "So far," Nick said. The girl nodded and studied the tip of the cigarette she had lit.

  "Very well. These two pieces of luggage are yours, Cane. Miss Baron has her own. And, as I indicated earlier, I shall expect her to tone down her appearance. Appropriately sober clothes have been provided. A somewhat less apparent aura of sophistication would be in order. In other words, Miss Baron," the old man finished crisply, "I want you to look a little less like Mata Hari."

  Julia raised her eyebrows and stretched languidly.

  "Dragon Lady, they used to call me in Peking." She laughed with genuine pleasure, and took off her hat. Nick noticed that her front teeth were slightly crooked. The lady of mystery was transformed into a gamin. Dark hair fell over her forehead, released from hat and pins, and she swept it back with a toss of the head and a slender hand. The earrings came off, revealing small, delectably shaped ears. Nick watched with growing approval. Hmmm. Perhaps this wouldn't be bad after all.

  "That's better," Hawk grunted. "All right, Miss Baron — enough."

  "What about Miss Baron's information, sir?" Nick prodded.

  Hawk took a slow puff on his cigar. "As I said, it was a scrap, not a hard-and-fast fact. But it ties together with what we've begun to suspect. We think we know who we're dealing with now. Do you remember the old files on Mr. Judas?"

  "Judas!" Nick was caught by surprise.

  "Yes," Hawk said grimly, and tasted the name. "Mr. Judas. Our old friend of the European wars. Miss Baron's duties on the other side led her frequently — and quite dangerously, I might add — into high places. On several occasions she caught fragments of conversation, and even of action, that led her to conclude that a man named Judas was working, in some capacity, for the Red Chinese. Now, am I right, Miss Baron: you had never heard of Judas before?"

  "That's right," she said seriously. "The name meant nothing to me. Until I checked with Washington and they sent a courier with the background information. Then I thought I'd better fly in at once."

  "So it wasn't just an assumption on your part that the man they were talking about was Mr. Judas?"

  "No, it wasn't. I wasn't even sure I had the name right, at first."

  "It ties in, Cane. While you were away AXE and the CIA were adding to their trouble-pattern files. It looks as though Judas is still trying to play all countries against each other, still selling to the highest bidder. It would appear that he has found a market for his wares with the Chinese Reds. Just as he did with the Italian Fascists, the Nazis and the Communists during the war. The man has a genius for the subversive, for anything aimed at the perpetuation of world strife. We believe he's shown his hand again; this thing has his stamp on it."

  Nick frowned. "It does. It's just the bastard's style. But I thought he was dead?"

  Hawk nodded. "We did too. That last touch-and-go in the Alps should have been his sign-off. But his body was never recovered in the wreckage of the Chalet Internationale. So, even though we thought we detected his hand in that business at Puerto Blanco and the revolution in Hidalgo, we couldn't very well pin it on him. But things have been boiling in the last day or two. Interpol and the combined security services have finally managed to put together enough data to convince Washington that we have a target. Miss Baron's story turned the trick. And your accidental involvement in the last explosion, Cane, brought everything to a head. Lucky you were there. Of course, we still can't be positive that it's Judas we're after, but everything points to it."

  "Red!" said Nick suddenly.

  "What?" Hawk stared at him.

  "The cable from 'Red.' Judas-colored. The first Judas is supposed to have had red hair."

  "You're not suggesting..."

  "No, I haven't the faintest idea what Judas looks like. Maybe he's bald, I don't know. But for a code name meaning Judas, it's not bad. Especially for someone working for the Reds."

  "Perhaps that's all it means. No, I think you're right." Hawk frowned thoughtfully. " 'Red' for 'Communist' is just a bit too pat. 'Red' for 'Judas,' though... I like that Yes, I like that. Judas is back, all right, and we have to get him."

  Julia reached silently for another cigarette.

  "Let's recap," Hawk went on. "Someone, almost certainly Judas, has now manufactured four aeronautical coups, under cover of accidental occurrence, to eliminate four powerful enemies of Red China." He ticked them off on his leathery fingers. "Burns, Tal Barin, La Dilda and Valdez. Four staunch allies of the U.S. and all peace-loving countries, at least one of which is now in turmoil. But the accident theory doesn't wash any more. The CIA has come through with information unavailable to CAB and local officials. Those disasters were not crashes. All four were almost certainly deliberate explosions. On that premise, we can move ahead. Four planes were somehow bombed, and there may be more."

  "Three planes," Nick reminded. "Valdez blew up. Not the plane."

  Hawk's eyes hardened. "I was coming to that. Who bombs a man if he's the prime target? Suppose you take it from there."

  "Well, if we begin with the premise that all the so-called accidents were caused by planted explosives, and that three took place on planes and one took place after a passenger debarked, we could assume that passengers have been used to take explosives aboard. Probably unknowingly, and certainly unknowingly in the case of Valdez. What a wicked bit that would be! Having your victim carry his own death around with him." He was silent for a moment as he sorted out the facts. "On the other hand, Rita Jameson's story would indicate that, in one case at least, explosives were sent on board, not carried. Who uses bombs on airplanes? Somebody who doesn't give a damn about human life as long as he gets his own victim. Why make an exception in the case of Valdez? It wasn't supposed to be an exception. He was also supposed to take the plane with him. And why — to kill everybody with him? I don't think so. To destroy the plane and, with it, evidence that the explosion was aimed at any particular individual."

  "I think you've got it there, Cane. The break from the pattern is the very thing that made us certain there is a pattern." Hawk started pacing. "We only suspected foul play in the other three crashes. Valdez's ill-timed death takes the accident out and puts the design in. The fact of your presence on the scene helped, too." He shook his head and made a futile gesture. "I'm sorry about that girl, I really am. I wish she could know that she's helped us. Because her story to you about her pilot friend and the unexplained baggage tag helped us extract some information from London that they hadn't realized was important. Then we were sure of two deliberate, wholesale murders. And the attacks on you, because of your association with the girl, perhaps because of your mere presence on the scene, have been of inestimable help."

  "Glad to be of service," murmured Nick ironically.

  Hawk ignored that. "But it looks as though Valdez is the main key. He has to be. If we know how that bomb was secreted on his person, and how it was possible to do that without his knowledge, then we'd know a lot. It might be, as you say, that he was tricked in some way. Still, your account of the explosion does seem to indicate the blast originated in that steel hand..."

  Nick shook his head slowly.

  "I could be mistaken, sir. It happened pretty fast. Perhaps it had something else to do with his hand. Maybe when he raised it, the movement acted as some sort of signal to — well, perhaps to Seersucker on the observation deck. Or maybe it activated some land of remote control device."

  Hawk thought it over. "I wonder what 'A. Brown' was doing at the time. Seersucker strikes me as more of a gun-and-grenade killer. No, I can't buy that. It has to fit the
plane bombings."

  Julia Baron gave a small, attention-getting cough. "Can't the airport people determine the source of the explosion?"

  The old man stopped pacing and sighed. "Plane wreckage is one thing. Big pieces to go over, surfaces to study — shrapnel parts and the like. But when the human body is ripped apart by a concentrate of nitroglycerin, well..." He shrugged expressively. 'There isn't very much left, I'm afraid."

  "Nitro?" Nick echoed.

  "Yes. That's one thing CAB experts are sure of."

  Nick pondered. Nitroglycerin could be detonated with the slightest jar or shake. It could not have been ready on the plane; they had hit airpockets and bumpy weather several times over the ocean. Now what did the back of his mind mean by "ready?"

  "Think of something, Cane?" Hawk's eyes pierced him.

  "Ye-es. Maybe. Wouldn't that mean a timer? Because without it, we'd all have been dead and gone — even supposing he'd made the Jamaica airport in one of those crazy taxicabs."

  "Which he probably wouldn't have," Hawk said quietly. "Yes, I think you have it."

  "If the explosive was on him."

  "All right," Hawk said wearily. "We don't have time to go back over that track tonight. We know enough to prepare for the next move."

  "Flight 601," Nick suggested.

  "That's it. A Mr. Harcourt is flying on that plane. Lyle Harcourt, our Ambassador to the U.N. And we know where he stands with the Red Chinese, don't we? Well, so do they. As far as they're concerned, he talks too much and makes too much sense. With him out of the way, they at least can hope for a replacement who talks less — and then only a nice soft line about Red China. So we can't have Flight 601 blowing up over the Atlantic."

  "Would they move so fast after the Valdez incident?"

  Hawk shook his head. "We can't guess, and we can't afford to take a chance. We have to move on the assumption that Lyle Harcourt's life is in danger."

  Julia stirred. "Why doesn't Harcourt take an Army plane and keep away from crowds?"