by Nick Carter
NICK CARTER
The Defector
Copyright Notice
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The Defector
Rats! Hundreds of them, leaping at his throat, his face, all over his body.
Nick Carter tore at his attackers, shaking his body to free himself. He raised his head and came face to face with two more of the rodents, big as alley cats, squatting on a box. He slashed at them with his stiletto, and both fell. Then something furry landed on his neck. Nick whirled, aiming his weapon backwards with deadly accuracy.
The rickety sampan reeked from the stench of the rats. They must have been locked in for days, perhaps even weeks, without a morsel of food. Their ferocity attested to that.
And he was locked in this damned hellhole for the rest of the night . . .
Table of Contents
Copyright Notice
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER ONE
The sun always shines in Acapulco. In a small hotel room overlooking a white-sand beach, Nick Carter, number one Killmaster for AXE, watched the red ball of setting sun splash its color over the sea. He enjoyed the sight and rarely missed it, but he’d been in Acapulco a month now and he felt uneasy restlessness building inside him.
Hawk had insisted he take this time off, and Nick was all for it at first. But a month was too long for the idle life. He needed an assignment.
Killmaster turned from the window, already darkening in dusk, to gaze at the ugly black phone on the nightstand. He almost wished it would ring.
A rustle of bed sheets sounded at his back. Nick completed his turn to face the bed. Laura Best held her long tanned arms out to him.
“Again, darling,” she said in a voice husky with sleep.
Nick went into her arms, his powerful chest crushing her perfectly formed naked breasts. He worked his lips over hers, tasting sleep on her breath. Laura moved her mouth eagerly. With her toes she inched the sheet down from between them. The movement excited them both. Laura Best was an expert at making love. Her legs, like her breasts—indeed like all of her—were perfectly formed. Her face held a childlike beauty containing both innocence and wisdom and, at times, open desire. Nick Carter had never known a more complete woman. She was all things to all men. She had beauty. She was rich, thanks to the oil fortune left to her by her father. She had brains. She was one of the international Beautiful People, or as Nick preferred, Jet-Set leftovers. Making love was her sport, her hobby, her vocation. For the past three weeks she’d been telling her international friends she was madly in love with Arthur Porges, buyer and seller of government surplus goods. Arthur Porges happened to be Nick Carter’s present cover.
Nick Carter also had few equals in the love-making department. Few things satisfied him quite as much as making love to a beautiful woman. Making love to Laura Best satisfied him completely. And yet—
“Oh!” Laura cried. “Now, darling! Now!” She arched against him, raking her fingernails across his tight-muscled back.
And when they had completed their love act together, she went limp and fell away from him, panting.
She opened her large brown eyes, looking up at him. “God, that was good! That was the best yet.” Her eyes swept over his chest. “You never get tired, do you?”
Nick smiled. “I get tired.” He lay beside her, pulled one of his gold-tipped cigarettes from the nightstand, lit it and offered it to her.
Laura raised herself on one elbow to see his face better. She shook her head at the cigarette. “The woman who makes you tired will have to be more woman than I am.”
“There aren’t any,” Nick said. He said it partly because he believed it and partly because he figured she wanted to hear it.
She returned his smile. He’d been right.
“That was clever of you,” she said tracing his nose with her index finger. “You always say the right thing at the right time, don’t you?”
Nick took a deep drag from the cigarette. “You’re a woman who knows men, I’ll give you that” And he was a man who knew women.
Laura Best studied him, a faraway glaze filming her large eyes. Her auburn hair cascaded over her left shoulder, almost covering her breast. The index finger slid lightly over his lips, his throat; she spread the palm of her hand on his massive chest. Finally she said, “You know I love you, don’t you?”
Nick didn’t want the conversation to go in the direction it was heading. When he first met Laura, she told him not to expect too much. Their relationship was going to be strictly for laughs. They’d enjoy each other fully, and when that paled they’d part good friends. No emotional hang-ups, no sticky theatrics. She went for him and he went for her. They’d make love and have fun. Period. It was the philosophy of the Beautiful People. And Nick more than went for the idea. He had a break between assignments. Laura was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever met. Fun was the name of the game.
But recently she’d become moody. At twenty-two she had already been married and divorced three times. She spoke of her past husbands as a hunter speaks of his trophies. For Laura to love, Laura had to possess. And for Nick, that was the one flaw in her perfection.
“Don’t you?” Laura repeated. Her eyes were searching his.
Nick mashed the cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand. “Feel like a moonlight swim?” he asked.
Laura flopped down on the bed beside him. “Damn it! Can’t you tell when I’m trying to propose to you?”
“Propose what?”
“Marriage, of course. I want you to marry me, to take me away from all this.”
Nick grinned. “Let’s go for a moonlight swim.”
Laura did not return his grin. “Not until I get an answer.”
The phone rang.
With relief, Nick moved toward it. Laura caught his arm, holding it.
“You’re not picking up that phone until I get an answer.”
With his free hand, Nick easily loosened her tight grasp on his arm. He picked up the phone, hoping to hear the voice of Hawk.
“Art, dahling,” a female voice said with a slight German accent. “May I speak to Laura, please?”
Nick recognized the voice as Sonny’s, another Jet-Set leftover. He handed the phone to Laura. “It’s Sonny.”
Angrily, Laura jumped out of bed, stuck her pretty tongue out at Nick, put the phone to her ear. “Damn you, Sonny. You picked a hell of a time to call.”
Nick stood by the window looking at but not seeing whitecaps faintly visible over the dark sea. He knew this would be the last night he would spend with Laura. Whether Hawk called or not, their relationship was over. Nick was slightly angry with himself for allowing it to go as far as it had.
Laura hung up the phone. “We’re taking a boat to Puerta Vallarta in the morning.” She said it easily, naturally. She made the plans. “I guess I should start packing.” She stepped into panties, picked up her bra. Her face had a concentrated look, as though she were thinking hard.
Nick crossed to his cigarettes, lit another one. This time he didn’t offer her one.
“Well?” Laura asked. She was fastening the bra.
“Well what?”
“When do we get married?”
Nick almost choked on the cigarette smoke he’d inhaled.
“Puerta Vallarta would be a good place,” she continued. She was still making the plans.
The phone rang again.
Nick picked it up. “Yes?”
He recognized Hawk’s voice immediately. “Mr. Porges?”
“Yes.”
“This is Thompson. I understand you have forty tons of pig iron for sale.”
“That’s right.”
“If the price is right, I might be interested in buying ten tons of it. You know where my office is?”
“Yes,” Nick answered with a broad smile. Hawk wanted him at ten o’clock. But ten o’clock tonight, or tomorrow morning? “Will tomorrow morning be soon enough?” he asked.
“Well,” Hawk hesitated. “I have several meetings tomorrow.”
Nick didn’t have to be told any more. Whatever the chief had for him, it was urgent. Killmaster stole a glance at Laura. Her lovely face was tense. She watched him anxiously.
“I’ll catch the next plane out of here,” he said.
“That will be fine.”
They hung up together.
Nick turned to Laura. If she had been Georgette, or Swee Ching, or any other of Nick’s girls, she would pout and kick up a small fuss. But they would part friends and promise each other that next time would last longer. It wouldn’t work that way with Laura, though. He had never known anyone quite like her. With her it had to be all or nothing. She was rich and spoiled, and used to having her own way.
Laura cut a fine figure standing in her bra and panties, her hand on her hips.
“So?” she said with raised eyebrows. Her face held the look of a small child watching something she wanted being taken away from her.
Nick wished to make this as painless and short as possible. “If you’re going to Puerta Vallarta, you’d better start packing. Goodbye, Laura.”
Her hands dropped to her sides. Her lower lip began to quiver slightly. “It’s over, then?”
“Yes.”
“Completely?”
“Completely,” Nick knew she could never be another one of his girls. The break with her would have to be final. He put out the cigarette he’d been smoking, and waited. If she was going to explode, he was ready for it.
Laura shrugged, gave him a weak smile and began unfastening her bra. “Then let’s make this last time the best ever,” she said.
They made love, gently at first, then violently, each taking from the other everything there was to give. It was their last time together; they both knew it. And Laura cried the whole time, her tears running down her temples wetting the pillow under her. But she had been right. It was the best ever.
At ten past ten Nick Carter entered a small office in the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services building on Dupont Circle. It was snowing in Washington, and the shoulders of his topcoat were damp. The office smelled of stale cigar smoke, yet the short black stub stuck between Hawk’s teeth remained unlit.
Hawk sat behind a dimly lit desk, his icy eyes studying Nick closely. He watched Nick hang up the topcoat and take a seat opposite him.
Nick had already filed Laura Best along with his Arthur Porges cover in the memory bank of his mind. He could recall the memory when he wanted it, but most likely it would merely rest there. He was Nick Carter now, N3, Killmaster for AXE. Pierre, his tiny gas bomb, hung in its favorite place between his legs like a third testicle. Hugo, the thin stiletto, was firmly fixed on his arm, ready to fit his hand if he needed it. And Wilhelmina, his 9mm stripped Luger, rested snugly under his left armpit. His brain was tuned to Hawk, his tight-muscled body waited for action. He was armed and ready for work.
Hawk shut the folder and leaned back in his chair. He pulled the ugly black stub out of his mouth, studied it with distaste and threw it into the trash can alongside his desk. Almost immediately he had another cigar between his teeth and his leathery face became clouded by smoke.
“Nick, I’ve got a tough one for you,” he said suddenly.
Nick didn’t even try to hide his smile. Both men knew N3 always got the tough ones.
Hawk went on. “Does the word ‘melanosomes’ mean anything to you?”
Nick recalled reading the word some time ago. “Has something to do with skin pigment, doesn’t it?”
Hawk’s genial face creased in a smile of satisfaction. “Close enough,” he said. He opened the folder in front of him. “Don’t let these ten-dollar words throw you.” He began reading. “In 1966, using an electron microscope, Professor John Loo discovered a method of isolating and characterizing such skin diseases as melanoma, cellular blue Nevus, albinism and others. While important in itself, the true value in this discovery was that by knowing and isolating these diseases, diagnosing more serious ailments became easier.” Hawk looked up at Nick from the folder. “That was in 1966.”
Nick leaned forward, waiting. He knew the chief was building up to something. He also knew everything Hawk said was important. Cigar smoke hung in the small office like a blue fog.
“Up until yesterday,” Hawk said, “Professor Loo was working as dermatologist with NASA’s Venus program. Working with ultraviolet light and other forms of radiation, he was perfecting a compound more sophisticated than benzophenones in screening harmful rays from the skin. If he’s successful, he will have a compound that protects the skin from sunrays, blisters, heat and radiation.” Hawk closed the folder. “I don’t have to tell you the value of such a compound.”
Nick’s brain digested the information. No, he didn’t have to be told. Its value to NASA was obvious. In the tiny cockpits of space vehicles, astronauts were sometimes subjected to harmful rays. With the new compound the rays could be made harmless. Medically, its use could be extended to blisters and burns. The possibilities seemed unlimited.
But Hawk had said up until yesterday. “What happened yesterday?” Killmaster asked.
Hawk stood, crossed to the bleak window. With light snow flurries and darkness there was nothing to see but the reflection of his own wiry frame clothed in a loose-fitting, wrinkled suit. He took a deep drag on the cigar and blew smoke at the reflection. “Yesterday, Professor John Loo flew to Hong Kong.” The chief turned to face Nick. “Yesterday, Professor John Loo announced he was defecting to the Chi Corns!”
Nick lit one of his gold-tipped cigarettes. He understood the gravity of such a defection. If the compound was perfected in China, its most obvious value would be skin protection against nuclear radiation. China already had an H-bomb. Such protection for them might be the green light for using their bombs. “Anyone know why the professor decided to defect?” Nick asked.
Hawk shrugged. “Nobody—not NASA, the FBI, the CIA—nobody can come up with a reason. Day before yesterday, he reports for work and the day goes fine. Yesterday he announces in Hong Kong that he’s going to defect. We know where he is, but he won’t see anyone.”
“How about his past?” Nick asked. “Anything Communist there?”
The cigar had gone out. Hawk chewed on it while he talked. “Nothing. He’s a Chinese-American, born in San Francisco’s Chinatown. Got his degree at Berkeley, married the girl he met there, went to work for NASA in 1967. He has a twelve-year-old son. Like most scientists, he has no political involvements. He’s devoted to two things: his work and his family. His son plays shortstop in the Little League. On his vacations he takes his family deep-sea fishing on the Gulf in their eighteen-foot outboard.” The chief sat back in his chair. “No, there’s nothing in his past.”
Killmaster mashed out the stub of his cigarette. Smoke hung thick in the tiny office. The radiator put out a moist heat and Nick felt himself sweating slightly. “The reason has to be either his work or his family,” he said.
Hawk nodded. “That’s the way I figure it. We have a bit of a problem, though. The CIA has informed us they have no intention of letting him work on that compound in China. If the Chi Corn
s get him in, the CIA will send an agent to kill him.”
Nick had figured something like that. It was not an uncommon practice. AXE had even done it occasionally. When everything failed to get a defector back, and if he was important enough, the final move would be to kill him. If the agent didn’t make it back—too bad. Agents were dispensable.
“The point is,” Hawk said, “NASA wants him back. He’s a brilliant scientist, and he’s young enough so that what he’s working on now will be just the beginning.” He gave Nick a smile without humor. “That is your assignment, N3. Use anything short of kidnapping, but get him back!”
“Yes sir.”
Hawk pulled the cigar stub from between his teeth. It joined the other in the trash can. “Professor Loo had a fellow dermatologist working with him at NASA. They were good working friends, but because of security they never got together socially. His name is Chris Wilson. That will be your cover. It might open the door for you in Hong Kong.”
“What about the professor’s family?” Nick asked.
“Far as we know, his wife is still in Orlando. We’ll give you her address. She’s already been interviewed, though, and she couldn’t give us anything useful.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to try.”
Hawk’s icy stare had approval in it. N3 accepted little on the words of others. Nothing was exhausted until he personally had tried it. That was only one reason why Nick Carter was AXE’s number-one agent. “Our departments are at your complete disposal,” Hawk said. “Get whatever you need. Good luck, Nick.”
Nick was already standing. “I’ll do my best, sir.” He knew the chief never expected any more, or less, than his best.
From AXE’s Special Effects and Editing Department Nick got the two disguises he figured he’d need. One was Chris Wilson, which was merely a matter of clothing, some padding here and there, and a few changes in mannerisms. The other, to be used later, was a bit more complicated. He had everything he needed—clothing and make-up—stored in the secret compartment of his luggage.
At Documents he committed to memory a two-hour, tape-recorded lecture on Chris Wilson’s work at NASA, along with everything personal AXE knew about the man. He received the necessary passport and papers.
