Dragon Flame

by Nick Carter

  In a flip tone he said: "What sibyl have you been consulting lately?"

  Ludwell nodded. "I know — it's hard to take seriously. I wouldn't myself, ordinarily. But this time it's different. I know! And it's like carrying a hundred pounds of concrete around in my gut."

  Nick grinned at him and patted his knee. "Come on, Bob. This is all a lot of nonsense and you know it. About the presentiment, I mean. If your number is up, then it's up and there's not a damned thing you can do about it. None of us can. And no one can help us. Remember that line from Faust: 'Send not to me, whatever sounds you hear, for no one can help me'? That's part of an agent's life, boy. But that was a case of hard fact. Faust was facing the Devil in person. The premonition bit I don't believe in. I don't think it happens that way. When you do get it you get it fast, from an unexpected source. You never know what hits you."

  Ludwell shook his head. "No. You're wrong, Nick. You and I think very differently. And anyway, I haven't got your nerve structure."

  Nick fished for a fresh cigarette. "Who has?" he said lightly.

  Ludwell considered him somberly. "Yes. You're blessed — you're sort of a superman. But I'm not. And it isn't only me, Nick. All the signs point to bad luck."

  Nick paused in the act of lighting his cigarette to stare at his companion. His eyes slightly narrowed, he asked, "What signs?" Had Ludwell indeed been visiting the sibyl?

  Ludwell turned in the seat to face the AXE man. His eyes searched Nick's face for reaction to his next words. "I Ching," he said. "The Book of Changes. I went to a Buddhist temple last week, Nick. I talked to the head priestess. She confirmed what I've been feeling — I've had it, Nick!"

  Nick Carter did not laugh. He had never felt less like laughing. While he did not believe in this sort of prophecy, yet he did not deride it. He was too much of an old China hand for that. Now he whistled softly and contemplated his friend with a long stare that contained a mixture of pity, sympathy, and a soupçon of contempt. The latter was studied, intentional. Ludwell was badly in need of a little stiffening, a little rough talk from the right person.

  "You've had it, all right," Nick said. "How you've had it! What did the priestess use — yarrow stalks or fortune sticks? Or maybe fortune cookies?"

  Ludwell merely smiled, a sad smile, and Nick knew then that argument was hopeless. If he couldn't make the guy angry there was just no use.

  "I told you," Ludwell said. "I've been in China too long. I don't quite know what I believe any more — except that I'm going to die on this mission. And that's where you come in, Nick. I want you to do something for me. Something personal, nothing to do with the operation. I can't, and won't, involve you in that. Strictly CIA business."

  "That's nice to know," N3 said a little acidly. "At least you haven't completely blown your top."

  Ludwell reached into his dinner jacket and brought out a long thick brown envelope. He handed it to Nick. "It's all very simple, really. And all aboveboard. Nothing sneaky or illegal. It concerns my wife and kids."

  The slow-moving taxi had made the turn around the stadium by now and was rolling past the race course on their right. Soon they would be into the Kennedy Road.

  Nick Carter stowed the envelope away in his inner breast pocket. He felt the crackle of thick paper in the envelope. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

  "Just hold it for me. If I'm all wrong about this feeling, if I get in and out again, I'll be around to pick it up. If I don't contact you within a week, you're to open it. There are instructions inside. That's all I want from you."

  Nick flipped his butt out a window. "Okay, it's a deal. But you're going to feel damned silly when I hand it back to you."

  "I hope so, Nick. God knows I hope so."

  They rode for a little time in silence. Nick glanced back. There were a couple of cars behind them, their lights brilliant moons, but no sign of the red ricksha. Ludwell cleared his throat. "I want to tell you one more thing, Nick. Something I never thought I would tell anyone. But maybe it will help you understand about me and this — this premonition I have."

  "Why not?" Nick snapped his cigarette case open. "While we're at it, get everything off your chest, pal. Old Father Confessor Carter, they call me."

  Ludwell's face was bleak, livid, in the few passing lights. "Would you call me a coward? An unreliable agent? Even maybe a traitor? Would you call me any of those things?"

  Nick could answer that truthfully. Off the record, without being supposed to know, he knew a lot about Bob Ludwell. Top CIA man in the Far East. Trusted. Beyond reproach, like Caesar's wife. A skilled and experienced old hand at his demanding job. If there were any such ratings, Nick thought now without a trace of false modesty, Ludwell would rate very close behind himself. And Nick considered himself the best.

  "No," he said at last, "I wouldn't call you any of those things. No one could. So?"

  Ludwell relaxed against the leather seat. He let out a long, tired sigh. "Because I was supposed to bring off this mission last week. I should have. I could have. I had it all set up. But I didn't go."

  He put his hand over his face, as if to shield it from the AXEman. "I couldn't go, Nick! I lost my guts. Chickened out. I flubbed it, but good. I hung up my people on the other side and put them in terrible danger. What I did was unforgivable. But I just couldn't help it — I couldn't make myself go. Not then."

  Nick's keen professional brain was racing, sopping up details and nuances like a thirsty sponge. He knew Ludwell was telling the truth — the man was ridden with guilt and fear.

  One factor leaped immediately to N3's attention. All that Ludwell had told him was beginning to form a nexus, a tie-in, with the rumors floating around the Crown Colony.

  He stared at Ludwell. "But now you're going? Maybe tonight?"

  "Yes. I must. I'm all right now, I think. I stayed drunk a couple of days, then I snapped out of it. I was lucky. I'm handling this all alone. It's very delicate, and anyway we're short-handed just now. Nobody knew I funked it. If I can bring it off no one ever will know. Except you."

  Nick felt a surge of real pity for Ludwell. The man must have been to hell and back. Even now, if the facts ever got out, he was liable to disgrace and dismissal. Maybe even prison.

  "You can see," Ludwell continued, "why I have to do this mission. Even feeling the way I do about it. If I'm going to die I want to be able to look at myself again first. Look at myself without puking. And I've promised myself, and I promise you, that if I bring it off I'll resign immediately. Go outside. I must, of course. I could never trust myself again."

  N3 nodded. "Yes, you'll have to resign. You're overdue now. Call it quits and go home to your wife and kids." Privately he thought that any man with a wife and kids had no business in the profession in the first place. That was giving hostages to Fate with a vengeance. But then he knew very little about it, really. He was hardly the pipe and slippers type.

  Ludwell was lighting another of the acrid sook yen cigarettes. His fingers were trembling.

  The professional in Nick said: "It will be tougher now, won't it? Getting in and out, I mean. Tougher than if you had gone last week? I hear the Commies have moved in a couple of divisions and some tanks — the poop is they're looking for someone."

  Ludwell did not look at him. "I can't talk about that, Nick. I've already bolixed it up enough. So thanks for letting me bend your ear, and let's consider the subject closed. Just don't forget the envelope. Hey, here's the club now."

  The taxi swung into a long drive leading up to the low, rambling clubhouse. Arc lights played over a parking lot and strings of bright paper lanterns fringed a path leading to the main entrance. A drift of dance music floated on the air.

  Ludwell flipped away his butt and grinned at Nick. Not much of a grin, but the man was trying. Nick gripped his friend's arm and squeezed. Ludwell flinched away. "Watch it! Those damned muscles of yours."

  Nick laughed. "I'm sorry. I forget now and then. How about a drink before we start mingling? Afterward
you can introduce me to a very pretty and very unescorted girl. There will be some around this shindig, I trust?"

  Ludwell finished paying the driver. "Should be. Especially tonight. This is for sweet charity and they're after money — dates aren't mandatory. But as I remember, you usually do all right."

  "Usually." Nick glanced at the yellow moon floating like a huge paper lantern over a distant stand of pine and Chinese banyan. Skillfully arranged lights and lanterns twinkled like courting fireflies in the formal gardens. The faint breeze carried a waft of camphorwood.

  The taxi wheeled and left them. They followed the lanterns toward the entrance. "The Limeys are a bit old fashioned," Ludwell said, "but they do permit a stag line. That's more than the Consulate does. Of course you must know the girl before you can cut in — the sahibs insist on that. But don't worry — I've gotten to know quite a few dolls around the Colony. You'd be surprised at the things a Consular clerk has to do! Anyway there's a man shortage. Now let's head for that bar, eh? I could do with a couple."

  Ludwell preferred their tickets to an angular English maiden lady behind a table at the door. In the brief moment, out of long habit, Nick glanced back.

  The ricksha coolie did not move quite fast enough. He was 50 yards away, in the shadows of a clump of eucalyptus off the drive. Nick turned just as the man was pulling his red ricksha into the shadow. An incoming car picked up the man in its lights at that moment and Nick got a good look at him. It told him nothing. Just another blue ant in a straw rain hat.

  His face impassive, he followed Ludwell into the clubhouse. The band was playing "China Nights" on a small dais at the far end of a long, narrow dance floor. The air was thick with a mingled effluvium of tobacco and perfume and powder and well-scrubbed upper-class bodies. Clusters of colored balloons clung to the low ceiling like shattered nuclei.

  Nick did not mention the ricksha coolie to Ludwell. The man had enough on his mind. Yet the AXEman, in his private thoughts, had to contend with the possibility that Ludwell was blown without knowing it. He shrugged his big shoulders beneath the well-fitting dinner jacket. Maybe not. There were a lot of ricksha men in Hong Kong. And a lot of red rickshas. An old French axiom occurred to him: Dans la miit tons les chats sont gris.

  All cats are gray at night. And most strange Chinese look alike at night. Still Nick could not afford to forget it. The taxi had been moving slowly. A ricksha could have kept up. And even the most ignorant of coolies knew how to use a phone. Nick let the barb of doubt remain in his mind, to prick him just a bit lest he grow careless.

  They went into the bar, a long room opening at right angles off the ballroom. Men with red faces and white dinner jackets were standing three deep at the bar, some drinking steadily, some seeking refreshment for their ladies. The decibel count was high. Conversation surged in the room like muted surf, bright shuttlecocks of trivia arching to and fro.

  Ludwell found an opening at the bar. They darted into it and ordered their drinks. The Chinese barmen were working like automatons.

  Nick Carter lit a cigarette and turned, his back to the bar, to survey the scene. He saw her immediately.

  She was leaning down to say something to the spinster at the door. The view was for the moment unobstructed and Nick caught his breath. She was regal! No other word for it. Or perhaps there was: Valkyrie. It came to the same thing.

  His eyes slightly narrowed, every sensual part of him aware of the impact of her, he drank in the sight of this woman. Valkyrie indeed. Tall and strong and firm of shoulder, thigh and breast. Her hair was a golden helmet, worn high. She was wearing an unadorned black strapless sheath and elbow-length black gloves. From this angle he could not see her décolletage, but the dress was slashed to her waist in back, revealing one of the loveliest shimmering white spines he had ever seen. A little tremor traced through Nick and he acknowledged its meaning. He wanted this woman. He could already imagine the marvelous flexure of that spine beneath his fingers. And he had not yet seen her face.

  Athletic girl, he thought, watching the play of supple muscles beneath that white pelt. He noted that, even though a tall girl, she wore golden slippers with spike heels. She was not ashamed or apologetic about her stature. He liked that.

  He nudged Bob Ludwell and inclined his head slightly toward the girl. "That one," he said. "Who is she?"

  Ludwell had benefited by the first infusion of alcohol. His color was better, his smile more genuine, as he followed Nick's glance. Then the smile faded. He stared at Nick and slowly shook his head. "No. Oh, no! Not unless you're looking for a wife. And even then I would say no!"

  Nick was watching the Valkyrie again. She broke off her conversation with the spinster and turned to greet some new arrivals. Her flashing smile was a thing of beauty. This courtesy over, she paused for a moment, alone in the throng. She glanced into the bar. Her glance met that of Nick Carter, moved on, then came back. Their eyes locked and held. Nick felt his pulses pick up tempo. This, beyond all doubt, was the one!

  His face expressionless, he returned her candid stare. He missed no detail of her face. It was as lovely as her long-legged, full-breasted body.

  Her face was a perfect oval, the prime requisite for authentic female beauty. A Giotto face drawn with a masterly variation of the round. The features were no less pure: the nose Grecian with no hint of arch, wide-set eyes with no color at this distance, yet betraying their awakening interest in the big man at the bar.

  Her mouth was firm and regular, yet soft and tempting. As her eyes still held Nick's she ran a pink tongue around her lips, leaving a faint sheen of moisture. Her teeth were small and even and very white.

  Nick won the contest, if such it was. She looked away at last, a faint flush of color in her face, and spoke to a passing couple. She followed them into the ballroom. Nick gazed after her. She gave him one backward glance as she disappeared into the throng of dancers.

  He turned to Ludwell. "What do you mean — no? She's lovely. Stunning."

  Ludwell rapped his glass at the barman. "I agree," he said. "Most heartily I agree. She is. But she is also known, among the bachelors of Hong Kong, as the Ice Maiden. Or Ice Virgin. Take your pick. What I'm trying to convey, friend, is that Miriam Hunt is a poor choice if you're looking for a bit of dalliance. She doesn't dally. Miriam is a swell girl, one of the best, but she is serious minded. Dedicated. She has a very important job with the WRO — World Rescue Organization — the outfit that's giving this little soiree. All proceeds go to the orphans and poor of Hong Kong. You see that paper badge on her lovely chest?"

  N3 glanced sharply at Ludwell. The guy had had three drinks, no more. It was good for his friend to get rid of some of his tension, but he hoped he wouldn't overdo it. But then Ludwell had never been a lush.

  He had indeed noticed the paper badge — as well as the magnificent breasts so precariously holding up the black gown.

  "That badge means she's working tonight," Ludwell explained. "Official stuff. I think she's chairlady or something. When I said dedicated I meant it. No nonsense, ever, about our Miriam. My advice is to forget her, Nick. There are plenty of other girls here. Beauties, too. Come on and I'll find one for you. I'll have to be cutting out pretty soon."

  They pried their way out of the mob at the bar. As they reached the ballroom Ludwell said: "I'll make my real goodbyes now, Nick. Thanks for everything. You know what to do if I don't show in a week. Now, after I introduce you around I'll just quietly fade away. Wish me luck."

  In Cantonese, softly so that only Ludwell could hear him, Nick said: "Yat low sun fong." May your road be straight.

  "Thanks," said Ludwell. "I hope so. Straight back and out. But that, as our Chinese friends say, is in the lap of Buddha. Now for a girl."

  Nick grinned at him. "Not just any girl. That one! Introduce me to her; and don't forget, my name is Clark Harrington. Playboy."

  Ludwell sighed. "I should have known I couldn't tout you off. Okay, it's your evening to waste. But I'd better warn you — she es
pecially takes a dim view of playboys. Likes their money for the orphans and refugees, but despises the source. You sure you wouldn't…"

  Nick spotted her again. Sitting on a fragile ballroom chair, alone in a small niche in the wall, working with pencil and paper. Her long legs were crossed, the black gown pulled taut to reveal an amazing length of firm thigh. He saw her frown down at the paper in her hand and her white brow, pale and high beneath the golden coronet of hair, creased. She wet her lips with a pink tongue. Nick was a little surprised at the instant desire flaming in him. He was, he admitted, not much better than a callow schoolboy in the presence of such beauty. From that moment none of the scores of other lovely and laughing young ladies existed. He had made his choice. Certainly for the evening — perhaps for much longer. Who knew? Under the ice that Ludwell spoke of there must be a spark of flame somewhere. And Nick Carter was a man who loved challenge, who settled for nothing but the best, who lived out of the top drawer and always traveled first class.

  Now he winked at Ludwell. "I'm sure I wouldn't. Come on and do your duty. Introduce me."

  At that moment the band struck up a lively tune. The mass of dancers began to separate into lines of men and women facing each other.

  "What's this?" asked Nick as he pushed through the crowd.

  "The Eightsome Reel," said Ludwell. "Sort of a Limey square dance. You wouldn't know it."

  "I can learn it," said the man from AXE. "With her."

  He hardly waited for Ludwell to finish introducing them. He swung her to her feet, heedless of the little gasp of protest, noting that her eyes were of purest gentian with tiny flecks of amber in them.

  "This," Nick Carter said firmly, "is our dance."

  She put her black-gloved hands against his big chest as though to push him away. Her smile was dubious. Half afraid? "I really shouldn't," she said. "I'm working, you see. I'm in charge. I have a million things to…"

  Nick led her toward the line of dancers. "They can wait," he told her. "As I have waited — for this."