Run, Spy, Run

by Nick Carter

  Nick held Julie close and kissed her hard. Then he placed his mouth in the hollow of her ear. "You may be right, sweetheart. About that TELEX — are you sure? What about the time difference?"

  She giggled softly and nuzzled him seductively. "Even with the time difference, he got that message at least two hours before we got there tonight."

  "And spent the time trying to figure it out, I suppose. And doing what else, I wonder?"

  "Contacting someone, perhaps."

  "Perhaps." A little shadow of doubt had formed into a black cloud of almost-certainty. "Wonder why Harcourt wasn't there tonight? And why we were, when he knows we're top secret? My God, any spy with any sense at all would've been watching that Consulate to see who comes and goes. And he was pretty interested in that message, wasn't he?"

  "Much too interested, lover. And why does he have a lip-reading chauffeur?"

  They straightened, breaking apart, as two lovers will when bright lights and staring eyes burst in upon them. They were entering the city's heart, and crowds thronged the sidewalks and the streets.

  He peered out of the window. "We must be nearly there." He reached for her again and pulled her head on to his shoulder. "Chances are Judson doesn't know we're on to him. So let us both be casual and charming to the nice man when we leave his car, or he may tell tales."

  She pulled herself away and busied herself with a fresh lipstick.

  The limousine shot forward in a sudden burst of speed and darted down a side street. Nick instinctively reached for the door handle. Before he got there he heard two sharp clicks. The door was locked. With astonishing abruptness the two rear windows rolled themselves up and snapped shut. Julie gasped. Nick whipped Wilhelmina from her holster. The great Rolls swerved sharply to the left and down another secondary street. Julie sat up straight, her eyes wide with alarm.

  "Peter. We've got to do something."

  "Easy, now." He put an arm about her shoulders and lowered his head, as if reassuring her. "We're hooked. But we wanted to be, remember? It looks like time for sitting ducks."

  "Can't you shoot the window out?" she whispered urgently.

  "I probably can. But Julie — we've got to ride along with this. It's a little sooner than I expected, but he may be taking us where we want to go."

  "Oh." She was silent for a moment. Then: "That was pretty good for a last meal, wasn't it?"

  "Uhuh. Let's see if this connecting window opens. Perhaps the driver feels like chatting."

  Apparently he didn't. The window was locked and the glass was very heavy, fitting snugly into felt-and-rubber grooving in the framework.

  The huge, sturdy car rolled implacably away from the bright hub of London and into a misty dim darkness that bulged with the hazy, angular forms of unlighted buildings.

  "From what I remember of Merry Olde England," Julia said distastefully, "we seem to be heading for the waterfront district."

  "Yeah. Smells like Limehouse. Now look. I don't know what we're getting into, but we have to be ready for anything. You have that fingernail file?"

  Julie nodded.

  "Good. In your bag?"

  She nodded again.

  "Take it out. Pretend to fix your upsweep and stick it in your hair."

  She took out a comb and did something to her hair, swiftly rearranging the firm, invisible pins. Nick bent over her, shielding her from view. But the stony eyes in the rearview mirror were momentarily averted. The driver's hand was in the glove compartment.

  "What's he doing?" Julie put the comb back into her bag.

  "Don't know."

  The hand came out, empty.

  Neither of them saw or heard the odorless, colorless gas that seeped through the tiny air vents in the upholstery surrounding them. Swiftly, irresistibly, it choked the air in the back of the limousine.

  "Awfully sleepy," Julie yawned, tugging helplessly at the window.

  Nick was mildly conscious of a sense of torpor, a pleasant feeling of drowsy relaxation.

  "Hey!" He sat up suddenly shook his head. "Julie! Your shoe against the window!"

  He searched desperately for the source of the gas, cutting off his breath although he knew it was too late for that. Julie swung feebly at the glass pane with her shoe. It rebounded and dropped, useless. She fell across Nick's lap, red lips parted, slender fingers clawing the expensive upholstery.

  Nick felt resolve slipping from him like a sheet unwinding. He took Wilhelmina by the barrel and slammed the butt against the window glass. The glass crystallized and spider-webbed but did not break. He tried again, strength ebbing from his arm and reason from his mind. Wilhelmina's butt end was back in his hand. He raised her and squeezed the trigger. Once, twice, at the window next to him. Once at the glass partition. The noise thundered, volleyed around the confines of the car with ear-shattering echoes. The stinging smell of cordite hung in the air, filling the nostrils, blinding, choking, rasping, lulling, anesthetizing...

  Nick slumped back, joining Julie in unconsciousness, Wilhelmina dangling from his trigger finger.

  It was only then that the driver turned around and let the corners of his mouth twist in a frosty smile. The inner layer of the partition's shatter-proof glass held a tiny puncture and a miniature network of spidery lines. The glass immediately behind his own head was untouched. One rear window was in the same condition.

  The chauffeur was pleased. Nothing like a specially designed Rolls for a good, neat job. Satisfied with what he had seen, he reached into the glove compartment and turned a switch. Then he applied himself to his driving.

  Wilhelmina dropped from Nick's nerveless fingers.

  Mr. Cane and Miss Baron were ready for delivery.

  Judas: Myth and Man

  "Non-toxic, Mr. Cane. An effective sleep-inducer, but not permanent." It was the most peculiar voice Nick had ever heard, like the high, tinny whine of a cheap transistor radio. It was distant yet close; in his ear, yet on a different plane. "Do open your eyes. Two minutes more and I will know you are shamming."

  Nick opened his eyes suddenly, as if he had automatically responded to the commanding quality of the strange voice. In one second he snapped from the black well of the unconscious to a reality in which his shoulders and ankles burned horribly.

  There is no pain. No pain, he told himself.

  But for a moment, there was pain, and his knees tried to sag.

  It was a weird sensation.

  Weirder still was the tableau before him.

  He was in a cellar of sorts, it seemed. The light of a single dangling bulb flung a circle of illumination over rotting wallboards, stone floor, and mouldy-looking barrels. The only furniture was a rickety table and two unstable looking chairs. No one was using them. The smell of the place was damp and close, almost intolerable.

  There were four people in the room.

  Julia was several feet away from him. Seeing her condition alerted him to his own.

  Julie was naked.

  Her tall lithe body had been anchored to one of the beams which supported the ceiling above. Rough cord bound her cruelly to the coarse wooden post. Her arms were pinned back over a sort of crossbar that he couldn't see too well, but it seemed to be some kind of metal rod attached to the beam. She hung, in effect, from the rod, her shoulders uncomfortably raised and her dangling wrists lashed to the post. Her feet barely touched the floor; her ankles were confined with the same abrasive cord. She was awake now, too, and straining in a useless effort to get free. He could see the fierce red welts where she had surged her soft, copper-colored flesh against the searing bonds, and felt an almost blinding wave of anger. For God's sake, had it been necessary to tear the clothes off her? He had a fair idea how she was feeling.

  The fluting voice spoke again. "The lady is a tigress, Mr. Cane. If you care to imitate the action of the tiger — to paraphrase Shakespeare — it will come to nothing. Your bonds, if anything, are even more secure than hers."

  He could feel the truth of it. The cold, damp feel o
f rough-grained wood behind him, the taut suspension of his arms and legs, and the sharp bite of the cord were all the proof he needed.

  He blinked under the dazzling light of the unshielded bulb. Two dark, shadowy figures swam into focus, rimmed with light, featureless.

  He swallowed a foul taste and the impulse to be sick.

  "Judas, I suppose."

  A high, humorless laugh rang hollowly in the bare cellar. One of the dim figures came forward and stood beneath the bulb. Its full glow splashed upon his head.

  "Yes. I am Judas. Take a good look, Mr. Cane. You and the lovely lady. Drink your fill of my face. It is the last time you will see it. Anyone who has ever looked upon me is long since dead. With the exception, of course, of my faithful Braille, who is always with me. Braille is blind. I trust that you appreciate the joke."

  Braille was a vague silhouette beyond the perimeter of the bulb.

  Judas, the legend, the obscure, stood revealed in the harsh light.

  There was nothing ordinary about the legendary Judas. If Nick had ever formed any impression of him at all through the years that echoed with his infamous name, it dissolved at once with the impact of the man himself.

  Judas was a symmetrical man. Short, well-proportioned, compact; body as militant and cut-from-the-mould as a Prussian Junker. In action, it would be a flying wedge of strength and iron control. The face and the strange right hand compelled attention.

  Judas' face was a shining globe of hairless, bloodless features, a one-color, one-surface mask of precision that might have been cast from an assembly line die. The eyes were slits which showed no more than narrow, unfathomable pools of liquid fire. The nose was small in the globular face, hardly raised above the flat cheek bones, finely chiseled, ruler-straight. The huge, permanently-grinning mouth beneath it would have looked more appropriate on a skull; some of Judas' face had been lost in a long-ago accident and had never been quite replaced. Apart from the hideous grin, there was no expression on the face, save a fixed one of watching, of waiting, of preparedness to strike. The head, brows and lids were completely bald. It was not a view to be savored up close.

  Julie made a stifled sound in her throat. It echoed through the dank cellar and came back like a whimper. The figure called Braille turned to her, arm upraised, but Judas made a restraining gesture with the glittering device that was his right hand.

  "Wait, Braille."

  The light bulb sent dancing arrows of silver reflection off five metallic, rigid fingers, that simulated the human hand in all but color and texture. The fingers curved, as if the muscles were real, and the hand was lowered.

  "The lady is correct," said Judas. "I am not pretty."

  "So I see," Nick agreed. "What do you want with us, aside from a discussion of your appearance?"

  The eye slits narrowed. "A good question. The answer is in your own hands. And I want more than names, ranks and serial numbers. I know that you are American agents who have successfully counteracted my aircraft operations, making it necessary for me to find another way. But in the meantime I intend to get all I can out of you. Everything that is in you." The inhuman eyes suggestively raked Nick's body. "I already know enough to assure you that nothing will be gained by prevarication."

  "Judson," Nick said bitterly.

  "Judson," Judas agreed evenly.

  "Judson is a fool," said Nick. "And we played him for the fool. There's no secret about our job. We were told to take a certain flight. We did. It's over. If there's any stupid melodrama of agents, ranks, and serial numbers, it came from him."

  "Judson is indeed a fool," Judas said agreeably. "It has always been my good fortune to find fools in high places who place money above patriotism. And now Judson's services are at an end. Your government will wonder why two of their operatives have disappeared after contacting him. I cannot — I'm sure you understand — afford investigations. But I can afford to spend a little time with you."

  "I've already told you," snapped Nick, "that we've nothing to say. Judson was an idiot with spy stories in his head and lots of conversation and very little else." He tested his bonds as he rapped out the impatient words. Whoever had trussed them up was an expert.

  "And I've already told you, Mr. Cane — I'm sure that is not your name, but it will do for the moment — that lies will get you nowhere." The weird, mechanical voice had climbed in pitch. "I may not know all about you, but I do know that you're working for the CIA and that you were sent to look for me."

  Quick relief flashed through Nick Carter. Almost certainly, he had not heard of AXE or Operation Jet. Nick had been wondering for a moment just how much Judson knew. Not much, to judge by their evening with him; not much, to judge by Judas.

  "We were sent to prevent an assassination and find out who gave the orders. Now we know. It was Judson, of course, who first mentioned your name."

  "That's enough Mr. Cane! This is not the first time that one of my plans has been foiled. I have people working in America who — but you're the one who should be talking." Judas controlled his breath with a hiss. "You will tell me all you have heard or guessed about my plane-bomb operations — the names and plans of your superiors. You will tell me if there are other agents here in London working on the same assignment. And if you won't tell me, I'm sure Miss Baron will."

  He pivoted on his heels and looked at her, the skull-mouth gaping.

  "Oh, sure," said Julie, and she laughed. "Get out your steno pad and we'll just reel them off."

  "Easy, Julie," Nick said warningly. He had heard the note of hysteria in her voice. "Don't let him get you with this garbage of his."

  "No, let her talk," said Judas, his voice sounding hollow. "Her nerves begin to show erosion. Always a good sign. A very beautiful woman. She could be very useful with a little problem we have on our hands. Braille has not had a — shall we say — satisfying woman since our little bit of business in Argentina. Braille is amazing, Mr. Cane." He turned to Nick. "Incredibly virile and most interesting in his methods. None of your gentle lover's tactics for him. He likes to brutalize his women. Rip them apart, you know, tear them. It gives him great pleasure. He enjoys screaming, too. You see, he is built quite like a bull, and there isn't a woman alive who can — uh — accommodate him without a certain amount of quite unbearable..."

  "You're filth, Judas. Nothing but dirt." Nick controlled his voice. Julie's eyes were sick and the skin was tight over her jaw. "Is that how you lost the hand — mouthing obscenities like that?"

  The gash of a mouth almost smiled. Judas took a few gliding steps toward Nick. The light of the bulb fell behind him.

  "I'm glad you asked me that, Mr. Cane. A bomb did that. Carelessly handled, I regret to say. My own fault. A year ago. The second one was much better; the intended party died. Tragedy does have its compensations. Braille, for instance is blind, but in the dark he is unerring. Of course it's always dark for him. I find him far more effective in many ways than a highly-skilled normal man. As for this hand — kindly watch."

  The five fake fingers extended stiffly, shot toward Nick. Suddenly they halted, inches from his chest. There was a click, and a nasty little miracle occurred. The forefinger grew. The covering silver receded and a switchblade knife of gleaming steel paused a hair's breadth from Nick's throat.

  "That is only one of my five weapons," said Judas. "Another is a delicate little gouge. For eyes, you know, and things like that. A third is a device that a Borgia would envy. Ah, but I'm taking too much of your time. I should like to show you more, but we must get busy. Now."

  Weapons. Nick's mind raced. But Judas had spotted the giveaway flash of his eyes.

  "Yes, Mr. Cane. We relieved you of your choice collection. Braille and I made a very thorough search of both your clothes and persons. Braille in particular is very good at feeling his way around in — ah — places I may have missed. Yes, we found the clever Luger, the interesting Italian knife and that peculiar round ball. Not to mention not one but two small flashlights. Are you afraid o
f the dark, Mr. Cane?"

  Nick glanced at Julie. The nailfile knife! Her taut expression had relaxed slightly and she gave a slight nod and an almost cheerful wink. Ha! So much for Braille and his feelies. Judas was saying, "I must confess the ball resisted our best efforts. What is it?"

  "Souvenir," said Nick. "Good luck piece."

  "So? What kind, might I ask?"

  "It's a new compound. Manufactured in our labs. You could drop ten tons on it and it wouldn't break. Just a keepsake." His mind began to stir with an idea.

  "You're lying," Judas suggested easily.

  "Well, Baldy," said Julie helpfully, "why don't you let Peter bounce it off your head and see which one is the phony?"

  Judas turned to her. His tapering body with the globular head and the lethal steel hand looked too ugly to be real.

  "I see that you have fire, my dear. Braille will like that."

  "Tell me about Valdez," Nick interjected. "The late Senor had a steel hand, too. Coincidence?"

  Judas' intent look was quietly dangerous.

  "How do you know about Valdez?"

  Have I made a mistake? Nick wondered swiftly. "Why, I was briefed, of course. I was told that a recent explosion had been caused by a man with a steel hand, and that I should look for something of that sort on our flight. That's really how I spotted that fellow with the broken arm," he said easily, trying to look a little complacent.

  Judas stared at him.

  The dank cellar was getting steadily more foul. The waterfront location of their prison was unmistakable. It seemed to be some kind of basement storage room, long unused. Judson's chauffeur, had unloaded them somewhere among the docks of London, in that backyard area of abandoned sheds and antiquated warehouses. Nick fought down a rising tide of helplessness. Nick shot another sidelong glance at Julie. An unkempt ringlet of long, dark hair hung past one shoulder. Shorter, loose tendrils dangled over her forehead and down the back of her neck.