Run, Spy, Run

by Nick Carter

  "He'll find out. The word'll get around. Once he puts the facts together, he'll realize that someone has caught on to his plane-bomb routine. Which means he'll either have to change his technique or give up the whole business. There's another possibility. He may very well try to remove the immediate threat to his operation."

  "Meaning us?" It was more a statement than a question.

  "Meaning us."

  Her eyes met his and saw that they were troubled. "I won't get in the way. Don't worry, Peter."

  "What — me worry?" He managed an enviably accurate expression of smiling idiocy. "Now you'd better get dressed, or I'll never get my mind on work."

  "I think it's there already." She rose and went slowly to him. "I mean it, though. I've been in this business a long time. I won't get underfoot, and I'm not going to get hurt. I'm a fellow agent, here to help. That's all I am to you."

  "Is it?" He cupped his hands beneath her chin. "All right then, Agent Baron. Get on your jockey shorts and dinner jacket. We're going to spy out something to eat."

  She laughed. "Are you always hungry?" She drew herself away and made for the connecting door.

  "Certainly not. I drink, too." He pulled on the plain dinner jacket supplied by Hawk to middle-income Peter Cane. It sat surprisingly well on the muscular shoulders.

  The phone rang.

  Nick scooped it up.

  "Yes?"

  "Cane. This is Henry Judson."

  "Good to hear from you, sir. You've had news?"

  Judson sounded regretful. "Not yet, I'm afraid. But we're expecting word momentarily. Your report has been studied — on both sides of the ocean, I imagine — and these things take a little time."

  They're taking a damn sight longer than usual, thought Nick.

  The mellow voice continued. "We've been in touch with Munich to check out the history of Paul Vertmann, if recorded, and we may just turn up something there. Presumably Washington is doing the same thing. So at the moment I'm waiting as anxiously as I'm sure you are."

  "Well, if there's nothing new yet, Miss Baron and I will go out for dinner and check in with you in the course of the evening."

  There was a slight pause. "As a matter of fact, we may get orders any minute, and I'd like to be able to reach you at once. In fact, I've taken the liberty of arranging a little dinner for you tonight at the Consulate. We'll try to make you feel at home and perhaps relieve the boredom a bit. I hope you don't mind."

  Nick smiled. He was quite sure that an evening in London with Julie and without Judson would be far from boring, but he couldn't very well say so.

  "That's very kind of you, Mr. Judson. It'll be a pleasure. What time?"

  "I'll send the consular car around to your hotel at, oh, eightish. That all right?"

  "The time is fine, but are you sure we should be riding around in an official car?"

  "Safe as houses, Cane. Better than an unknown cab."

  "As you say, sir. We'll be waiting."

  "Splendid. See you later, Cane. My warmest greetings to Miss Baron, by the way."

  Nick thought he detected a note of envy in the anglicized voice.

  "I'll pass them on, sir. I know she'll appreciate your invitation. Goodbye."

  Julie came in, half dressed, and wrinkled her nose at him. Nick was staring thoughtfully at the receiver as if expecting it to offer some sort of revelation.

  "Something wrong?"

  "We're invited to dinner at the Consulate."

  "Well, you're hungry, aren't you?"

  "Naturally. But I'm not so sure I like this. Consular car, and all. Royal carpet treatment for a couple of spies."

  Julie perched on the arm of a chair, shaking her head.

  "For a couple of cleancut young American citizens who managed to foil a dastardly plot. It would be strange if we didn't get some kind of thank you. It was Judson, wasn't it?"

  "Oh, yes." Nick nodded. "I'd know that fruity half-English voice anywhere. But he says he hasn't heard from Hawk yet, and that is strange."

  "Maybe it is. But perhaps Hawk couldn't be located right away, or perhaps he isn't ready with the next move."

  He shook his head. "He'd be ready and waiting. But it's been more than two hours since we sent our message, and a TELEX answer doesn't take that long."

  She came to him, placing her cool hands on his jaws.

  "Judson is the Consul here, correct? Not an imposter?"

  "Of course not. He's been here for years. British Security knows him, three or four of his staff were with him, even Harry Byrnes whom I knew in OSS during the war. Of course, he's Judson. But I still think it's funny that he hasn't heard from Hawk. Well. Powder your nose and let's go have a drink while we wait."

  A few minutes later they were sitting in a quiet, candlelit bar-lounge in the mezzanine, having left word at the desk that they were expecting a limousine.

  It was impossible to avoid talking about the assignment. They sipped a pair of very dry martinis and murmured intimately to each other.

  "Julie. You know our cover's as good as blown already. Nobody who cares to stop and think about it is going to buy the story of a couple of innocent bystanders butting into the bomb affair. Oh, I know people were told not to talk about it, but word is bound to get around. Which suits us, in a way."

  "Speak for yourself, friend. I'd just as soon remain anonymous."

  "No, look. No one in the world's more slippery than Judas. How're we supposed to find him when practically every intelligence agency on earth has been trying and failing for more than twenty years? Only one way. We'll go on being Miss Baron and Mr. Cane but we'll skip the usual elaborate precautions. No British Museum for me and no Tate Gallery for you. We'll spy like mad and let 'em know it."

  "How do we do that?"

  "I don't know yet. We'll just have to play it as it comes. But we're hired hands, understand? We never heard of AXE or OCI. We don't know anything or anybody except our immediate superior in... uh, let's see... in Army Intelligence, and our job was to fly with Harcourt. We did, and now we're busily investigating the would-be bombing. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  They talked some more, worrying away at the discrepancy between Rita's story of Valdez' artificial hand and the facts as officially recorded, the identity of A. Brown, and the fanaticism of those who would blow themselves to bits for a cause.

  They ordered again, and waited, and talked about the last time they'd seen London.

  * * *

  Promptly at eight o'clock a vintage Rolls drew to a smooth stop outside the Hotel Rand. A uniformed chauffeur sprang from the wheel, entered the hotel with the neat precision of a onetime military man, and informed the desk that Mr. Cane's transportation had arrived.

  Moments later, Mr. Peter Cane, handsome and distinguished in his dark dinner jacket and black horn-rimmed glasses, appeared in the lobby with a breathtaking vision on his right arm. The vision was recognizable as Miss Julia Baron, dazzlingly beautiful in a simple black evening gown. Her lush, dark hair peeked over the upturned fur collar of her cape. The staff of the Hotel Rand eyed her appreciatively.

  The chauffeur was no less appreciative and much more attentive. He handed her into the back seat and crisply closed the door after her and Nick.

  The evening air was crisp and cool. Street lights blurred fuzzily in the darkness.

  From the roomy rear of the limousine, Nick kept his eyes fixed on the chauffeur's head and hands. A preliminary survey of the car had satisfied him that it either was an official car or a very good imitation of one — thoroughly appropriate looking, US Consular plates, and a driver of unmistakably American origin. The voice could not have been faked by any actor — certainly not well enough to fool someone so attuned to accents and intonations as Carter.

  "You look wonderful, Julie. Did I tell you? Like a princess."

  "I like the looks of you, too, Peter."

  They locked fingers and lapsed into silence, watching London pass by through the windows. Julie seemed calm and happ
y. Perhaps she was neither. Nick was uneasy.

  The high, stone shadow of the American Consulate loomed up through the windshield and the Rolls glided into a driveway and stopped. Nick relaxed a little. At least they hadn't been taken for the legendary "ride."

  Julie grinned and pressed his hand.

  "Do you suppose there'll be poison in the soup?"

  The Enemy Within

  The soup was excellent.

  So was the delicate pate, the crisp bread fingers, the fine filet, and the succulent green salad. So were the varicolored wines that accompanied each course.

  Henry Judson was cordiality itself. There was no sign of a wife, and he mentioned none. In spite of his borrowed anglicisms, picked up in the course of his many years in London, he was wholeheartedly American, crisply executive and charmingly attentive. He was sensitive to political trends and nuances; he spoke knowledgeably but. not condescendingly about many things. Nick answered in kind, with assists from a remarkably well-informed Julia. Judson went on to talk of life in London and of world affairs with all the impressive familiarity of the true diplomat. Nick sensed that he enjoyed the talking, that he liked their ready answers. He began to feel that he had been foolish and melodramatic.

  Hawk's message arrived with the cherries jubilee and fragrant sherry. An aide came in and whispered briefly. Judson nodded, dismissed him, and they finished their meal without haste.

  "If the circumstances had been different," the Consul said, setting down his sherry glass, "I should like to have arranged a more elaborate dinner party. But until this thing is done with, we can't afford to call attention to you. I hope we'll have occasion for a celebration later. Coffee?"

  It was the first time since he had greeted them that he had alluded to the reason for their presence in the misty city.

  They had their coffee in a high-ceilinged, paneled den room somewhere beyond the formal dining room. There was a roaring fireplace flanked by American and English flags. Julia sank into a deep stuffed chair to listen while Nick and Judson examined Hawk's coded message. It was imprinted on a streamer of teletype and incomprehensible to anyone but the party for whom it was intended:

  BROWN CONFIRMS BIBLE IS RIGHT ISCARIOT TAKING SILVER IN STEEL HAND SAME 707 INTENDED ELIMINATION LINE ON LOCATION RED PROCEED UNIVERSITY BUSINESS AWAIT FRIENDS WATCH BIG BEN WEDNESDAY GERONIMO.

  Henry Judson smiled ruefully.

  "I get a lot of these. I must confess I've never learned to make heads or tails out of most of them. We have a decoding staff, of course, and they interpret for me. But I suppose it's basic English to you, Cane."

  Nick nodded thoughtfully. "Fairly basic. Sometimes open to conflicting interpretations, of course." He passed the streamer to Julie. She read it swiftly and returned it to Nick. He re-read it, went over to a metal ash tray and took out his cigarette lighter. Too bad, he thought, that he didn't have any of Hawk's Quantity K to play with. He applied the flame to the streamer and watched the coarse paper shrivel.

  Judson pulled deeply on his cigarette.

  "Am I a security risk, too?"

  "No, of course not. But one gets in the habit of not leaving things of that sort lying around." Nick stirred the hot ashes. "Anyway, except for sending and receiving messages, I think it would be best to leave the Consulate out of this as much as possible."

  "Oh, quite," said Judson, nodding his acceptance. "I couldn't agree with you more. But we will need to work together to a degree, and I'm always bothered by these cloak-and-dagger melodramatics. I can't be of use if I have to work completely in the dark."

  Nick frowned. "I see your point. Naturally you have a right to know what's happening." He knew, as well as anyone, that the American government representative in any country was, as the President's envoy, the American government on that country's soil. He reached into his pocket for a pack of Players and offered one to Julie. She took one and inhaled gratefully. As he lit his own, Julie turned to Judson and reached for her coffee cup.

  "This must be American coffee, Mr. Judson. I wonder if I could trouble you for some more."

  "Of course, my dear. Oh! How forgetful of me. I meant to offer you some Drambuie, or a Cointreau. Any takers?"

  They agreed to make it Drambuie all round, and Judson took Julie's coffee cup over to the bar. He busied himself with coffee tray and tiny glasses.

  Nick stared at Julie. Her right eye was twitching in the strangest way. The eyelid batted away with alarming speed. One short, two long, one...

  He blinked, himself. He had never before, in all his experience, received a Morse Code message via the eyes.

  The message itself was haix-raising.

  He's phony! Watch him!

  Nick Carter found it hard to keep himself in check as Judson returned with the tray. What the hell had she seen that he hadn't noticed?

  He was very careful with his drink. Judson was drinking the same thing, and the bottle was on the tray.

  It smelled all right and it tasted all right.

  "Now, Mr. Cane, you were going to tell me.?.."

  "Oh, yes. The message." It flashed through his mind: BROWN CONFIRMS BIBLE IS RIGHT. That meant they had found Brown and extracted from him the information that the operation did indeed involve Judas as Hawk had so strongly suspected. ISCARIOT TAKING SILVER IN STEEL HAND. Judas was selling his services to a foreign bidder. STEEL HAND was a bit puzzling... STEEL HAND SAME 707 INTENDED ELIMINATION. Hmm. Valdez was Steel Hand and had been eliminated on that Boeing 707 flight. "SAME" could only mean that Mr. Judas had a steel hand, too. LINE ON LOCATION RED meant that Hawk had a clue as to Judas' whereabouts. PROCEED UNIVERSITY BUSINESS AWAIT FRIENDS. Continue with investigation but expect further, more detailed orders. WATCH BIG BEN WEDNESDAY GERONIMO. Stay in London until Wednesday when they'd get a "Go, Go" sign.

  Judson was eyeing him with politely concealed impatience.

  Nick smiled apologetically. "As I said, sometimes these messages are subject to interpretation. Since it's a word code, rather than a letter substitute or number code, there's a limit to what one can say in them and still make sense. Roughly, it means this: We have a suspected traitor in our midst who is taking money from the enemy..." Was it his imagination, or did the lean face tighten? "The incident on today's flight was to have had the same purpose as the one on the 707 — the elimination of a public figure. Evidence points to a Red sabotage plan. Our instructions are to stay out of it from now on because friends will be arriving on Wednesday to take over the operation. Unless I misread that last line," he added, playing his deception to the hilt. "Perhaps it means there's to be another important flight on Wednesday, and therefore another attempt. I'll just have to wait for further instructions on that one."

  "Ingenious," murmured Judson, his eyes admiring. "A traitor, eh? To whom, I wonder. To the entire western world?" He sighed and shook his head. "I must say, (though, it's amazing the way you people work. Speak your own language, arrange your own systems. Here at the Consulate I'm afraid we're duller than cold coffee. Oh, we like to think of ourselves as important, and quite capable of solving the problems of the world... but I'm very much afraid it all breaks down to routine, red tape and hypocrisy."

  Julia laughed melodiously.

  "Come, now, Mr. Judson. Consular work is very important."

  "You are kind, my dear, and flattering. But my task shrivels in comparison with that of yours and Mr. Cane's. May I toast you both, and your continued success in foiling the plots of the ungodly!"

  They raised their nearly empty liqueur glasses. Nick's eyes were swiftly measuring doorways and distances. If Julie was right — and his instinct told him that she was — they'd better be moving along.

  He set his empty glass down. "I hope you'll forgive us, sir, if we eat and run. It's been a long, tiring day. I'd think we'd better be on our way."

  Julie took his cue and stifled a ladylike yawn.

  "It's been marvelous, but I am a little tired."

  "Of course you are," said Judson remorsefully. "
I'll call the car."

  He pressed a buzzer and spoke into a mouthpiece.

  "Harper. Have the car ready. My guests are leaving now."

  Judson turned back to them. "I'm sorry you have to go so soon."

  "Thank you, sir, for your hospitality."

  "Delightful. Very kind," murmured Julie sleepily.

  Judson escorted them easily to the great oak-and-iron front door.

  Nick was mildly surprised that no move was being made to detain them.

  The high, circular marble staircase rose like an exquisite monument. The Consulate was ablaze with light. A portrait of a sober-faced President Johnson hung in the great foyer beneath the seal of the United States. There was no suggestion of anything remotely sinister in the lofty hall.

  Judson opened the door.

  "Thank you both for coming."

  "Our pleasure, sir. If you hear anything further, you can reach us at the Rand."

  "I'll keep in touch. It's always good to talk to fellow Americans."

  The car was waiting. Judson saw them to the great stone steps, shook Nick's hand, and bowed to Julie. The chauffeur was waiting with his hand on the open rear door of the limousine, touching his cap.

  "How did you know?" said Nick affectionately and very, very quietly. He adjusted her cape around her shoulders.

  "The TELEX," she whispered, smoothing her hair. "Dateline, Washington, 1:45 p.m. Hours ago. What a marvelous night!"

  Nick cursed softly. "A bit cool, though. Come on, honey, let's not keep the driver waiting."

  They walked arm in arm down the high stone steps. Nick nodded pleasantly to the chauffeur and handed Julie into the car. The connecting window was closed. A cool breeze drifted through the open rear windows. They settled back against the cushions and the limousine purred out through the high iron gates of the great town house.

  Nick pulled Julie to him. "Anything else strike you?"

  "Look in the mirror," she murmured, putting her head on his shoulder. "I think the bastard is a lip reader."

  The driver's expressionless eyes seemed to be staring into his. The thin lips were forming shapes, as if he were talking to himself or trying on words for size. Nick fought the impulse to reach for Wilhelmina.