Run, Spy, Run

by Nick Carter

  "Watercress! What a diet for a growing boy."

  "Good for the tummy," said Julia placidly. "By the way, it struck me that our friend's plaster cast was just a little loose to be effective."

  "Oh." Nick raised an eyebrow. "Something struck me, too. But nothing very conclusive. I don't think he used the bathroom. Not for its primary purpose, anyway. Of course, people have been going in and out all morning, and I've seen Janet go in a couple of times to keep things tidy, so I can't be sure. The bowl was damp, but not wet. The soap was dry. Tissue unbroken on the roll."

  "You mean he just went in to look around?"

  "That, or more likely he wanted to be alone to look at something he brought in with him. No, he didn't leave anything there," he caught her glance, "I'm sure of that"

  "Then he did something to the cast."

  "I would say yes. But we don't have enough to go on. If I were sure of anything I might be able to get the Captain's cooperation. But as of now, we're stymied."

  The jet engines throbbed smoothly. Occasionally someone rose to stretch his legs. People talked and dozed.

  Nick settled back and watched. His two main objectives were Lyle Harcourt's seat and the general area occupied by the man with the broken arm. The latter was too far forward for Nick to see directly; Nick could only see him when he stood up.

  Flight 601 was two hours out of London when the bandaged man stood up again. Nick shook Julie. Her head was resting on his shoulder, and he breathed in the fragrance of her hair and skin.

  "Julie, honey."

  She came awake instantly. "Is this it?"

  "I think so." The closer they got to London, the sooner somebody had to make his move.

  The man with the bandaged arm went into the lavatory. Julie stiffened.

  A woman with a crying baby opened the door opposite and entered. Both signs read "Occupied."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Much the same thing as before, but this time I'll go first. With any luck the baby'll keep that one busy for a while. But follow me down the aisle in a minute and get yourself a forward seat — his, maybe — and be ready to beat me to the punch if the woman comes out first. I've got to see what's going on in there. Okay?"

  She nodded.

  He kissed her lightly on the cheek and left his seat. Several passengers looked at him as he passed. His jaw was working and his face was pale. It was Yoga, not airsickness, that brought about the pallor, but they were not to know that.

  He brushed against Janet Reed in the aisle again, turning his body sideways and avoiding her eyes.

  "Mr. Cane," she began solicitously.

  He shook his head dumbly and went on his way. When he got to the pair of occupied cubicles, his expression was that of a man praying for death to deliver him. He sighed, and leaned against the outside wall of the one occupied by the man with the cast and strained his ears for whatever there was to be heard. From the corner of his eye he saw Julie coming toward him, her purse open and a comb in her hand. She reached the vacated forward seat and stopped, looking at him with lovely, sympathetic cat eyes.

  "Oh, sweetheart," she whispered, "can't you get in?"

  He shook his agonized head and turned away.

  His ears were primed for the slightest sound.

  The baby was still crying. Water splashed into a sink.

  Three minutes crawled by in which the only sounds were coughs, low conversations and the pulsing of the jet engines.

  Then he heard something else.

  Faint, slapping, sliding sounds. The soft, clothy sounds of someone dressing or undressing.

  Carter tensed. Still not enough to go on. If he were wrong and burst in like a fool, he'd lose all hope of stopping whatever was going to happen. If anything was going to happen.

  Then he heard the sound that removed all doubts.

  It was a coarse, tearing, cracking sound. Given his memory of the lavatory as he had last seen it, and his suspicions of the man who had just entered, there was only one conclusion to be drawn.

  Nick had heard that familiar combination of sounds, too many times, in dressing stations all over the battlefields of Europe. The tearing, ripping sounds of bandagesbeing removed and plaster-of-paris casts being cracked apart.

  Why should anyone remove a brand-new bandage?

  The baby gurgled and stopped crying.

  Right or wrong, he had to act — now.

  The belt around his waist slipped quickly off into his hands. He adjusted it rapidly and clamped the metal buckle over the doorknob, fitting it over the lock mechanism like a vise.

  Carter adjusted the tongue of the buckle and stepped to one side. Julie had taken her .22 lighter out of her bag and was watching with rapt attention.

  It took only two seconds for the power train of fulminate of mercury— similar to that of the U.S. MI grenade — to ignite and energize a quarter ounce of nitro starch.

  The lock blew and the door caved inward neatly, almost noiselessly. But not completely. Nick flung the battered barrier to one side and threw himself past it into the tiny room. Behind him, the Jetliner came alive. Someone screamed. Not Julie. He could hear her speaking in a calm reassuring voice.

  A clutter of trailing white bandage and plaster lay discarded on the floor. The broad-shouldered man had swung around to face him, his right hand free of its bandage and raised to his mouth as if in a gesture of shock. The hard edge of Nick's palm slashed at the thick neck, and two sinewy arms turned the square body and snaked about the man's back. A strangled foreign oath split the air. Suddenly, the man's back undulated powerfully and Nick found himself slamming backward until he was cruelly checked by the wall.

  The man's face loomed close to his. It was mottled with rage and surprise. A knife, point upward, sprang into his fist and jabbed viciously forward. Nick rolled swiftly and the blade clanged against the wall. The man lost his balance and staggered, clutching the metal rail of a shelf, leaving himself wide open.

  Nick brought his right knee up in a savage jab which found the lower vitals. There was a high-pitched groan of agony and the man doubled over, clutching his body and wheezing bitterly. Nick followed up with a chopping thrust of his hand into the base of the man's skull.

  The man lay inert, crumpled into a half-sitting position against the seat. The main job was still to be done.

  Ignoring the clamor at the door and an insistent male voice demanding to know what the hell was going on, Nick crouched beneath the sink and found what he was looking for.

  The man with the false broken arm had lined the underside of the sink with the plaster of paris which had bound his arm. It clung damply to the curvature, dropping little fragments to the floor. There was no mistaking the copper blasting cap device and the connected watch timer that jutted ominously from the doughy mass of plaster.

  Nick worked swiftly, removing the cap and timer.

  Julia stood in the doorway, a restraining hand on the arm of an angry pilot. In a controlled, authoritative voice, she was saying something about security, government agents and enemy saboteurs.

  Nick filled the sink with water and doused the detonating mechanism. Then he scraped off the remaining plaster from underneath the sink. Wrapping the hardening mess in the bandage he placed the innocuous bundle in a waste container.

  "Captain," he said, not stopping in his work, "Is there some way we can jettison this stuff? It's out of action now, but I shouldn't like to take a chance."

  The pilot was pushing Julia to one side. He was a stringy, tanned young man with a moustache and sharp, intelligent eyes.

  "When you've explained all this. And you'd better do that now."

  "In a minute," he answered crisply. Nick was leaning over his victim. He went through the pockets. The wallet, passport and driver's license identified one Paul Vertmann, Munich businessman. That was all. There was no weapon of any kind other than the knife that had failed to kill him.

  Nick rose. A knot of people clustered in the forward aisle. Janet Re
ed's beautiful face was white with fear and incomprehension.

  "Please ask everybody to return to their seats. I'll see you in your compartment — this isn't for the passengers."

  "You'll tell me now — in front of everyone. And come out of there."

  Nick sighed and stepped through the doorway.

  "All right, then, say this much. An attempt was made to kill one of us on board. To blow up the plane and everybody with it, just to get one man. That won't happen now. Now please have the passengers go back to their seats."

  The Captain barked an order. Janet pulled herself together and began shepherding the passengers back to their seats.

  "Now what is this, and who are you?" The tanned face bristled at him.

  "I'll show you the proper identification in your cabin, if you don't mind. Meanwhile, if you have some manacles on board, or rope, we'll tie this fellow up for delivery in London."

  "Henderson!" the Captain rapped, without turning. "Handcuffs!"

  "Right!" a voice came back.

  Lyle Harcourt walked firmly down the aisle toward them.

  "Excuse me, madam." He gently pushed his way around Julia.

  "Captain, I think this may have something to do with me. What happened, Cane?"

  The young Captain's manner changed. "You, sir?" he said, amazed but respectful.

  Harcourt nodded. Nick explained in a rapid undertone.

  "The man on the floor had what we call an Aunt Jemima kneaded inside his false cast. Enough to blow this plane and all of us to kingdom come. Harmless by itself, but when triggered with a blasting cap — well, it's over now. But I'd like to talk to you in more privacy, sir."

  "By all means." Harcourt looked dazed but in full control.

  "Peter! Peter!" It was a scream from Julie. "Look!" She was pointing at the figure on the floor.

  Nick swung around, his hand on Wilhelmina.

  The man had rolled slightly in his huddled position. The face he turned to the ceiling was a ghastly suffusion of black and purple mottling. A strangled gasp escaped the tight throat. Nick cursed and bent over him. It was too late.

  Harcourt and the Captain spoke at once.

  "Good Lord, what's happening to him?"

  "Now what, for the luvva God?"

  Nick stood up, defeat shining bitterly from his eyes. He looked past them at Julia. Her eyes were downcast, her face was pale.

  "L-pill. He won't be doing any talking. Skip the 'cuffs."

  "I thought he was unconscious," Julie said helplessly. "How did he do it?"

  "Roof of the mouth," said Nick. "Fixed in place with a layer of gelatin. Body heat dissolves the gelatin... and that's it."

  Harcourt frowned. "I don't understand. Why, that would only take minutes, and a man wouldn't have to be unconscious..."

  "It's the way they play," Nick answered. "He may not have taken it if I hadn't forced his hand. Perhaps he would have waited to be sure his bomb worked, and gone up with us in a blaze of patriotic glory. But I rather think he meant to go before the rest of us. Cheating, to the end," he finished bitterly.

  "The true fanatic." Lyle Harcourt shook his head. "Captain, Mr. Cane... let's seal that door and do our talking somewhere else."

  "Right. Henderson, get this door closed and wait right here. Don't let anybody near."

  A uniformed youngster nodded and stepped forward.

  "Now let's go forward and get this whole thing sorted out. Because so far, I don't get it."

  "That's what I wanted to do in the first place," Nick said drily. He motioned for Ambassador Harcourt to precede him and closed his hands over Julia's fingers.

  It was the curse of espionage, that people very seldom "got it."

  London Idyll

  Peter Cane and Julia Baron, newly arrived from New York and wearing their hearts on their sleeves, registered at the small but glamorous Hotel Rand in the heart of Piccadilly. For a "love-nest," it was ideal. The carpets were soft, the management discreet, the decor quietly luxurious, the pulse of the city within easy reach, the rooms charmingly intimate. They took adjoining suites with a connecting door.

  Julia luxuriated under the warm shower, recovering from the tension of the trip and the question period that had followed. A squad of officials and a worried United States Consul had met the plane at London Airport. Nick, Julie and Harcourt had answered questions for well over an hour. Security Service was impressed with Nick's credentials, congratulated him and Julie, and indicated their total cooperation in tracking down the moving force behind the attempted murder. Consul Henry Judson had expressed deep concern over Harcourt's safety and had begged him to stay at the Consulate, but Harcourt courteously pleaded a preference for his usual quiet hotel and left in the company of the U.N. official who had come to meet him.

  "I'm hungry!" Nick's voice came through the connecting doorway.

  "What?" Julie poked her head out between the shower curtains. Nick padded damply over the thick carpet of her room and peered into the bathroom.

  "I'm hungry. So I called down for champagne and caviar. All Fve had today is one lousy watercress sandwich."

  "And tea and a pill." She laughed and ducked back under the shower. "But champagne and caviar! Do you think that'll fill up the spaces?"

  "It'll do until dinnertime. Besides, it's romantic. Remember why we're here. Oh, there's the door. They don't keep lovers waiting, do they?" Nick enveloped himself in the huge bath towel and went back to his room.

  Julie did remember why they were there. A small frown creased her forehead.

  She stepped out of the shower. Wrapping herself voluptuously in an enormous, feather-soft towel, she trailed into the companion suite. Iced champagne and a silver tray waited on the low-slung table in front of the couch.

  Nick was standing on his head.

  "What in the world are you doing?"

  He lowered himself neatly and sat down with his legs folded beneath him.

  "Yoga exercises. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night nor lovely lady nor waiting bottle of champagne can stay me from the swift completion of my appointed rounds. And now I have completed them."

  He smiled and stood up his muscles rippling smoothly under the light tan that never left him.

  "And very quickly, too," she said approvingly. "What's that scar on your right thigh? And the one on the shoulder?"

  She touched his shoulder lightly.

  "Knife up there, shrapnel down below. He kissed the tip of her upturned nose and wrapped his giant towel around his waist. "Ready for champagne?"

  "Dying for it." The cat eyes crinkled with amusement. "You look like one of the new delegation heads at the United Nations. Down on First Avenue you could go out and not a single head would turn. Correction. All the girls would look."

  "I must try it some time."

  The cork popped.

  They sank down on the soft, inviting couch and toasted each other.

  "What now, Peter? What do we do next?"

  "Hmmm?" He eyed her languorously.

  "I mean the job."

  The smile went out of his eyes. He had drafted a code message to Hawk and Judson had undertaken to see that it went off immediately. The reply should not be long in coming. "Hawk will get in touch and the Consul will get some kind of code message which he'll refer to us. Don't worry about it now. Time enough when official orders come."

  "How will we find Judas? God, he must be a monster. And that — that fanatic on the plane, with the Betty Crocker."

  "Aunt Jemima."

  "Peter, why did he take off the cast? He knew he couldn't get away if the explosive did go off. Couldn't he have just — sat there — and..."

  Nick took her hand. "Someone might have seen him. And then, I suppose, even the most diehard fanatic must find it difficult to sit calmly and wait to explode. An L-pill is easier. Now don't think about it. There's a time to worry and a time to spy and a time to — to be almost ourselves."

  The towel slid gently from her pale-copper shoulders
. She leaned back and pulled him to her. He could feel her heart thudding as his head came down on the twin pillows of her bosom. Cool fingers traced the scar on his shoulder. He moved his head. The marvelous breasts responded to his touch. He covered her mouth with his, and her body with his body.

  Shadows lengthened across the floor. Big Ben rumbled metallically. Julie stretched like a cat.

  "Isn't Yoga wonderful?" Deep contentment filled her eyes.

  Nick stroked her hair and rose as smoothly as a panther.

  "No more wonderful than you. Please stay there — I want to look at you."

  He had known many women in his life, but very few so truly beautiful; and none before with Julie's exciting tiger-like quality of controlled and sinuous strength, none who could melt so slowly and softly and then burst into a vital, blazing flame of passion that stimulated, thrilled, licked hungrily, hung for long moments on the high precipice of desire, then burst into a blinding flame-shower of fulfillment.

  She could laugh, too. They had loved and laughed and brought to each other the soul-filling satisfaction and body release of a perfect sexual union. She was almost dangerously desirable. With her, it was easy to love and forget the murderous hand of the man who had reached around the world to blow up planes, smash lives and damage the tenuous links of national policy. The red shadow in the background made the lovemaking all the more urgent, all the more compelling.

  He began to dress, paying special attention to the harnesses and holsters that held his lethal friends.

  "I should think he would have called by now."

  "Judson? Perhaps we didn't hear the telephone." She propped herself on one elbow and watched him dress.

  "Oh, we'd have heard all right. But it's getting late. Hawk's had plenty of time to reply."

  "Perhaps the Consul downs tools at five. Maybe he won't call until tomorrow. After all, he's a fairly big wheel."

  "Not so big that he doesn't have to turn when Hawk is pushing. He's a hired hand like us when it comes to Security. And Hawk won't waste any time after hearing about Vertmann and his kamikaze bomb. We've blocked Judas, and he'll know it too."

  "You think he'll know how he was blocked?"