The Defector

by Nick Carter

  He was muscular, big and good-looking. Now he was up on his elbows. The hair on his chest was thick and glowed bright red.

  The window seemed to be stuck. Nick couldn’t get it open.

  The sailor’s blue eyes flashed with anger. “I asked you a question, sport,” he said. His knees were coming up. He was about to leave Vicki.

  Vicki shouted, “Mac! Mac!”

  Mac must be the bouncer, Nick thought. At last he got the window free. He turned to the couple, giving them his widest, boyish grin. “Just passing through, folks,” he said.

  The anger left the sailor’s eyes. He started to smile, then he chuckled and finally laughed out loud. It was a hearty, loud laugh. “This is kinda funny when you think about it,” he said.

  Nick bad his right leg through the open window. He paused, reached into his pocket, pulled out ten Hong Kong dollars. He wadded it and tossed it gently to the sailor. “Enjoy yourself,” he said. Then, “Is it any good?”

  The sailor glanced down at Vicki, then up at Nick, grinning. “I’ve had worse.”

  Nick waved, then eased himself down the four feet to the roof erf the shed. At the end of it, he dropped to his knees and rolled over the edge. It was an eight-foot drop to the street. He rounded the corner of the building, out of sight of the window, then darted across the street and started back. He stayed in the shadows, sticking close to bar fronts until he’d worked his way back opposite the window. He was now directly across the street from the bar where he could see three sides of the building. Keeping his eyes on the window, he stepped into an ally, put his back against the fence across it, and stopped.

  It was just light enough to see the window clearly. Nick saw the wiry man’s head and shoulders poke through it. In his right hand he held an Army .45. This group sure had a passion for Army .45s, Nick thought. The man took his time looking up and down the street.

  Then Nick heard the sailor’s voice. “All right, now. This is gettin’ to be too much. Fun is fun—one guy, okay, but two is just too damned many.” Nick saw the sailor’s arm reach around the man’s chest, yanking him back into the room. “Damn it, clown. Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.”

  “Mac! Mac!” Vicki shouted.

  Then the sailor said, “Don’t point that gun at me, buddy-boy. I’ll cram it down your throat and make you eat it.”

  There was scuffling, the sound of splintering wood, the crack of a doubled fist striking a face. Glass broke, heavy things fell to the floor. And Vicki screamed, “Mac! Mac!”

  Nick smiled and leaned against the fence. He shook his head, reached into his coat pocket and lit one of his gold-tipped cigarettes. The noise from the window went on without letup. Nick calmly smoked his cigarette. A third voice came from the window, deep, demanding. The Army .45 crashed through the upper part of the window and landed on the roof of the shed. Must be Mac, Nick thought. He blew smoke rings into the air. As soon as the wiry man came out of the building, he’d follow him. But that looked as though it was going to take quite a while.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Dawn came without the sun; it remained hidden behind dark clouds. The air still had a chill in it. Early morning people began appearing on the streets of Hong Kong.

  Nick Carter leaned against the fence, listening. Hong Kong was opening its eyes, stretching, getting ready for a new day. All cities were noisy, but somehow the night noise seemed different from that of early morning. Smoke curled from rooftops, mingling with low clouds. The smell of cooking food filled the air.

  Nick stepped on the butt of his seventh cigarette. There hadn’t been a sound from the window for more than an hour. Nick hoped the sailor and Mac left enough of the wiry man to follow. The man was a straw Nick was grabbing for. If he didn’t pay off, a lot of time would have been wasted. And time was something Nick didn’t have a lot of.

  Where would the man go? Nick hoped that once he realized he’d lost the one he was supposed to be following, he’d report to his superiors. That would give Nick two straws.

  Suddenly the man appeared. He sort of stumbled out the front door, not looking well at all. His steps were halting, staggered. The coat of his suit was torn across the shoulder. His face was discolored with bruises, both eyes had begun to swell. He stumbled about aimlessly for awhile, not seeming to know where to go. Then he started off in halting steps toward the harbor.

  Nick waited until the man was almost out of sight, then started after him. The man moved painfully, slowly. Each step seemed to take great effort. Killmaster had wanted the man delayed, not beaten half to death. He could appreciate the sailor’s feelings though. Nobody likes to be interrupted. Especially twice. And he imagined the wiry man was totally without humor. He probably got belligerent, waving that .45 around. Yet, Nick sympathized with the man, but he could understand why the sailor did what he did.

  Once out of the sailor’s playground, the man seemed to perk up a bit. His steps became more deliberate, quicker. It was as though he had just decided where he was going. Nick kept two blocks behind. So far, the man had not once looked back.

  It wasn’t until they had reached the docks along the harbor that Nick realized where the man was heading. The ferry. He was going to cross back to Kowloon. Or was he? The man approached the early-morning crowd at the landing and stood on the fringe of them. Nick stayed against the buildings, keeping out of sight. The man didn’t seem to know what he wanted to do. Twice he took steps away from the landing, only to return. The beating seemed to have affected his mind. He looked at the people around him, then across the harbor where the ferry would be coming. He started back along the dock, halted, then walked purposely away from the landing. Nick frowned, puzzled, waited until the man was almost out of sight, then followed him.

  The wiry man led Nick right to his own hotel. Outside, under the same street lamp where Ossa and the other man had met, he stopped and looked up at Nick’s window.

  This guy just didn’t give up. The man’s actions on the ferry landing became clear to Nick then. He had to work it this way. If he reported what had actually happened to his superiors, they’d probably kill him. Was he really going to cross to Kowloon? Or was he headed somewhere on the dock itself? He had looked across the harbor, then started out along the dock. Maybe he knew Nick was on to him and he thought he’d try a little confusion.

  One thing Nick was sure of—the man had stopped moving. And you couldn’t follow a man who didn’t lead you anywhere. It was time to talk.

  The wiry man had not moved from the lamp post. He looked up at Nick’s room as though praying Killmaster would be in it.

  The sidewalks had become crowded. People moved swiftly along them, dodging each other. Nick knew he’d have to be careful. He didn’t want a crowd around when he confronted the man. In the doorway of a building across the street from his hotel, Nick transferred Wilhelmina from the belt to his right-side coat pocket. He kept his hand in the pocket, his finger on the trigger, just like the old gangster movies. Then he started across the street.

  The wiry man was so wrapped up in his own thoughts and watching the hotel window that he didn’t even see Nick approach. Nick walked up behind him, put his left hand on the man’s shoulder, and jammed the barrel of Wilhelmina into the small of his back.

  “Instead of looking at the room, let’s go to it,” he said.

  The man stiffened. His gaze shifted to the toes of his shoes. Nick could see the muscles twitching in the side of his neck.

  “Move,” Nick said quietly, jamming the Luger harder into the man’s back.

  The man silently moved off. They entered the hotel and, like old friends, climbed the stairs, with Killmaster giving friendly smiles to everyone they passed. Nick already had the key in his left hand when they reached the door.

  “Put your hands behind you and lean back against the wall,” Nick ordered.

  The man obeyed. His eyes watched Killmaster’s moves closely.

  Nick got the door open, then stood back. “Okay. Inside.”

/>   The man moved away from the wall and went into the room. Nick followed, closing and locking the door behind him. He pulled Wilhelmina out of his pocket, leveled its barrel at the man’s stomach.

  “Lock your hands behind your neck and turn around,” he ordered.

  Again, the man silently obeyed.

  Nick patted the man’s chest, pants pockets, the inside of both legs. He knew the man no longer had the .45, but maybe he had something else. He found nothing. “You understand English,” he said when he’d finished. “Do you speak it?”

  The man remained silent.

  “All right,” Nick said. “Drop your hands and turn around.” The sailor and Mac had worked him over pretty good. He looked in sad shape.

  The look of the man made Nick relax a little. As the man turned to face him, his right foot lashed out, catching Nick between the legs. The pain raced like a brush fire through him. He doubled over, staggering back. The man took one step forward, and with his left foot, kicked Wilhelmina out of Nick’s hand. There had been the click of metal against metal when the foot hit the Luger. Filled with pain from his groin, Nick stumbled back against the wall. He silently cursed himself for not noticing the steel tips on the man’s shoes. The man was going for Wilhelmina. Nick took two deep breaths, then moved away from the wall, his teeth clenched in anger. The anger was aimed at himself for relaxing when he shouldn’t have. Obviously the man was not in as bad a shape as he looked.

  The man was bent over, his fingers touching the Luger. Nick kicked him and he went down. He rolled over on to his side and lashed out with those vicious steel-tipped shoes. The blow caught Nick in the stomach, sending him back against the bed. The man again went for the Luger. Nick moved quickly away from the bed, kicked Wilhelmina into a corner, out of reach. The wiry man was on his knees. Nick slapped him on each side of his neck with the side of his open hand, then with his open palm threw a quick jab up to the man’s nose, ripping it open across the nostrils. The man cried out in agony, then slumped in a curl, both hands covering his face. Nick crossed the room and picked up Wilhelmina.

  He said through clenched teeth, “Now you’re going to tell me Why you were following me and who you work for.”

  The movement was almost too quick for Nick to see it. The man’s hand moved to his shirt pocket, pulled out a small round pill and stuck it in his mouth.

  Cyanide, Nick thought He put Wilhelmina into his coat pocket and quickly went to the man. With the fingers of both hands he tried to keep the man’s jaws apart, to keep the teeth from crushing the pill. But he was too late. The deadly fluid had already started through the man’s system. In six seconds he was dead.

  Nick stood looking down at the body. He staggered back and plopped down on the bed. There was an ache between his legs that would be there awhile. His hands were covered with blood from the man’s face. He lay back on the bed and covered his eyes with his right arm. This had been his straw, his one gamble, and he had blown it. Everywhere he went there seemed to be a blank wall. He hadn’t had one decent break since starting this assignment Nick closed his eyes. He felt tired and beaten.

  Nick didn’t know how long he lay there. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Suddenly he jerked to a sitting position. What’s the matter with you, Carter? he thought. There’s no time to be wallowing in self-pity. So, you’ve had a few bad breaks. That was part of the job. There were still possibilities open. You’ve had tougher assignments. Get on with it.

  He began with a shower and a shave, while his mind chewed over the possibilities left. If he couldn’t come up with anything else, there was still the Bar Wonderful.

  When he stepped out of the bathroom he felt much better. He fastened the padding around his waist. Instead of placing Pierre, the tiny gas bomb, between his legs, he taped it in the small hollow just behind his left ankle bone. There was a slight lump showing when he pulled on his sock, but it looked like a swollen ankle. He finished dressing, wearing the same business suit. He pulled the clip from Wilhelmina and replaced the four missing cartridges. He stuck Wilhelmina where it was before, in his belt. Then Nick Carter went back to work.

  He started with the dead man. Carefully he went through the man’s pockets. The wallet looked as though it had been gone through before recently. The sailor, most likely. Nick found two pictures of Chinese girls, a laundry ticket, ninety Hong Kong dollars in cash, and a business card from the Bar Wonderful. That place popped up everywhere he turned. He looked on the back of the card. Scribbled in pencil were the words, Victoria-Kwangchow.

  Nick left the body and walked slowly to the window. He stared outside without really seeing. Kwangchow was Chinese for Canton, the capital of Kwangtung Province. Canton was a little over a hundred miles from Hong Kong, inside Red China. Was that where they had the wife and boy? It was a big city. It sat on the north bank of the Pearl River, which flowed south into Hong Kong harbor. Maybe the wife and boy were there.

  But Nick doubted if that’s what was meant on the card. It was a Bar Wonderful business card. He felt that whatever Victoria-Kwangchow meant was right here in Hong Kong. But what? A place? A thing? A person? And why was this man carrying such a card? Nick retraced in his mind every event that had happened since he saw the man peeking through the dining-room window. One thing stood out—the man’s queer actions on the ferry landing. Either he was going to take the ferry but was afraid to report his failure to his superiors, or he knew Nick was there and he didn’t want to tip off where he was going. And he had started out along the dock.

  Killmaster could see the harbor from his window, but not the ferry landing. He brought a mental picture of the area to his mind. The ferry landing was lined on each side by a floating community of sampans and junks. They were side-by-side almost to the landing itself. To get Kathy Loo and Mike to Canton, they’d fly them from the States to Hong Kong, then—

  But of course! It was so obvious! From Hong Kong they’d take them up the Pearl River to Canton by boat! That’s where the man was heading when he started away from the landing—to a boat somewhere along that community of boats. But there were so many in that area. It had to be big enough to make the hundred or so miles to Canton. A sampan would probably make it, but that didn’t seem likely. No, it had to be bigger than a sampan. That in itself narrowed the field, since ninety percent of the boats in the harbor were sampans. It was another long shot, straw, gamble, whatever. But it was something.

  Nick drew the curtain across the window. He packed his extra clothes in the suitcase, shut off all the lights and left the room, locking the door behind him. He’d have to find someplace else to stay. If he checked out, there would be someone to clean the room right away. He figured it would be sometime in the afternoon before the body was discovered. That might be enough time. In the hallway Nick dropped the suitcase down the laundry chute. He climbed through the window at the end of the hall, went down the fire-escape ladder. At the bottom he dropped six feet from the ladder and found himself in an alley. He brushed himself off and walked quickly to the street, now bustling with people and heavy traffic. At the first mailbox he passed, Nick dropped in the hotel room key. Hawk would straighten things out with the police and the hotel when he got to Hong Kong. Nick blended with the sidewalk crowd.

  The air was still crisp. But the heavy clouds had thinned, and the sun shone brightly through breaks in them. The streets and sidewalks had started to dry out. People scurried around and past Nick as he walked. Occasionally sailors came out of tailor shops looking hung-over, their uniforms wrinkled. Nick thought of the redheaded sailor and wondered what he was doing at this hour; probably still banging away at Vicki. He smiled, remembering the scene as he had crashed into the room.

  Nick reached the docks and headed directly for the ferry landing, his expert eyes searching the multitude of sampans and junks connected like links of a chain in the harbor. The boat wouldn’t be in this section, but on the other side of the landing. If there was a boat at all. He didn’t even know how he’d be a
ble to pick it out.

  The huge ferry was just chugging away from the landing as Nick approached it. He crossed the landing to the docks on the other side. Nick knew he had to be careful. If the Reds caught him poking around their boat, they’d kill first and find out who he was later.

  Killmaster stayed close to the buildings, his eyes studying closely every boat that looked larger than a sampan. He spent all morning and part of the afternoon at it with no results. He went almost as far along the docks as the boats did. But when he reached the section where large ships from all over the world were either loading or offloading cargo, he doubled back. He had covered almost a mile. The frustrating thing was there were just too many boats. Even eliminating the sampans still left a large number of them. He might have already passed it; he had nothing to identify it with. And again, the business card might not mean a boat at all.

  Nick restudied each boat larger than a sampan as he made his way back to the ferry landing. The clouds had broken up; they hung high in the sky looking like scattered popcorn over a deep blue tablecloth. And the afternoon sun warmed the docks, steaming moisture out of the asphalt. Some of the boats were connected to sampans; others were anchored a little farther out. Nick noticed water-taxis chugging to and from the huge ships of the American fleet at regular intervals. Because of the afternoon tide, the big ships had swung around on their anchor chains so that they sat sideways across the harbor. Sampans were gathered like leeches around the ships, their occupants diving for nickels being thrown by sailors.

  Nick saw the junk just before he reached the landing. He had missed it earlier because its bow had been pointed into the dock. It was anchored just away from a row of sampans, and because of the afternoon tide, it too sat sideways. From where Nick stood, he could see the port side and the stern. And in bold yellow block printing across the stern was the word: Kwangchow!

  Nick stepped back in the shadow of a warehouse. A man stood on the deck of the junk looking up and down the dock through a pair of binoculars. His right wrist was heavily wrapped in white bandage.