by Nick Carter
The figure, in blurred silhouette against the distant ferry's lights, came up and over the rail in swift and coordinated motion. Light glinted on a knife blade. A slip-slop of bare wet feet, then silence. Nick heard water dripping.
He moved in, the stiletto in his left hand, his right fashioned into a chopper. His foot rustled on the scrubbed deck. He heard a gasp of fright and the dark figure swirled toward him. The knife flashed up. Nick knocked the knife spinning with one chop of his big hand and followed through to encircle the man and pull him forward on the stiletto. There must be no sound…
His nerves, his muscles, reacted before his brain could. There was something wrong here! His groping fingers encountered a soft breast, a nipple rigid with cold. A woman!
Nick dropped the stiletto. He put one hand over her mouth and held the struggling, squirming woman close to his brawny chest.
It was indeed a woman. She felt like a young woman, her wet pelt as firm and sleek as a seal. A lithe and well-formed and very naked young woman.
Chapter 8
The Harbor Orphans
Nick had her in a bearhug now, squeezing her slim damp body against his big one. She ceased to fight him, went limp in his fierce embrace, her open mouth panting against his: "F…friend! Do not kill me! Ludwell!"
He relaxed just enough to prevent crushing the slim bones. "What about Ludwell? Lie and you're dead!"
Words poured from her. Good English with a faint American accent. Obviously she had spent some time in the States. It meant nothing. Smythe had said the Tigers used women.
"I knew him," she panted. "I swear it! I was working with him. He was supposed to come into China last week. He did not. I came to Hong Kong to find him, but I was too late. I saw them take him, and later he was killed. I saw you with him. I came to ask you for help."
Nick tightened his grip. The girl uttered a soft scream of agony. "You He," snarled N3. "Admit it. The Tigers sent you. Admit it! Admit it and I will let you live. I am softhearted." There was so little time. Any minute now the Filipinos would be carrying out their orders.
She tried to snarl back and he liked that. He loosened his grip a bit and she sought to strike at him with her little fists. "Fool! I do not He! But I cannot waste time — either kill me or help me or let me go to seek help elsewhere."
Nick released her. She had known that Ludwell was to have gone into China and had not gone. It was enough at the moment.
"You will seek nowhere," he said gruffly. "Listen. Go back into the water and wait for me at the anchor chain. Quietly. We must get away from here fast. Go!"
She stopped to pick up the knife. Nick put his bare foot on it and pushed her away. "Oh, no! Ill take care of that. Go."
She vanished over the rail. Nick tossed the knife over the opposite bow. He retrieved Hugo and stowed him away in the sheath. Sand was running fast through the glass now. He went back to the lifeboat, got the body, and swung it over the side by the line. When it touched water he let it go easily. There was no splash, only a suck and gurgle as the little bundle plummeted down. The anchor would keep Boy down a long time.
N3 went over the rail in one easy movement, got a toehold on the flange running beneath the ports, then dropped and caught the flange with hooked fingers. He entered the water silently.
The girl was waiting, clinging to the anchor chain. Nick put his mouth against her ear. "Start swimming. West. Toward Sai Ying Pun. Go first and don't try anything — like getting away. Go quietly and stop and tread water if we get too close to a ferry or a sampan or junk." As an afterthought: "You're all right? You can do it?"
She nodded. Then all hell broke loose on the deck of Corsair. Lights flashed on everywhere, brilliant fingers clawing the murky surface of the harbor. There was the sound of running feet, shrilling whistles, much loud yelling. The boys were certainly giving Nick his money's worth.
"Hell!" Nick pushed her under. "Swim underwater, straight out from the bow."
He took a deep breath and went after her. He groped for her, felt her nakedness, then hooked his fingers into the waistband of a fragile pair of panties, her sole garment. He held her so, at arm's length, feeling the strong thresh of her legs against his own. He wondered how long she could remain under. He was good for four minutes but he couldn't expect that of her. No matter, if they could go far enough to escape the fights of Corsair. The attention of the watchers on the junk would be riveted on the yacht.
The girl lasted for over a minute; then he felt her twist upward. He went with her, still holding her firmly by the elastic of her panties. They broke water quietly, a good 50 yards from the reflected pool of light from Corsair. So far so good. He let go her panties.
She was breathing hard, coughing a little and spitting water. She clung to him, her hands on his broad shoulders and her naked legs twined about his. "Y… you'll have to help me a little! My wrist — I think you broke it when you hit me."
Nick trod water easily, supporting her. "Can't be helped," he said. "Don't worry about it. I'll tow you. Now, no more talking. Get your breath and we'll start." Then a thought struck him. She might be able to help. "Where are your clothes? I mean have you got a base, a hideout, anywhere we can go?"
"I have nowhere," she said softly, her mouth close to his. Her breath was sweet. "I left my clothes under a pier in the Wan Chai district. They were nothing — a cheap dress and a pair of shoes. I thought we would have time to talk on the yacht, that you could get me some things."
There was no time to explain about the junk. "Never mind that now," said Nick. "Let's get out of here." A searchlight sprang into life on the junk and began to probe the waters around Corsair with a white finger. Those bastards didn't miss much.
She caught the significance of the searchlight immediately. "Someone is looking for us."
"For me only. Come on — put your good hand on my shoulder and hold on. Flatten out and try to keep your legs away from mine."
It was a two-mile swim from Corsair to the shabby piers and godowns of Sai Ying Pun. The distance itself was nothing — Nick Carter could swim 20 miles without breathing hard. The secret was, indeed, in the breathing. Once you mastered that, swimming was as easy as walking.
But the girl was an encumbrance, for all her slimness, and it was a good two hours before they halted beneath a lonely and deserted pier in Sai Ying Pun. The girl was shivering, her teeth chattering as she clung to a crosstie.
"I'm so cold!" she said. "So damned cold! Can't we do something, quick? I mustn't get sick — I just mustn't! I've still got a job to do."
N3 clung to another crossbeam, slimy with weed and barnacle, and tried to see her face. Opposite them, at an adjacent pier, an ancient rusty tramp was moored. A single deck bulb sent a faint wash of saffron light beneath the pier. Still he could make little of her, except that her eyes were huge and dark and her teeth very white.
His mind was racing. He was beginning to think he could trust her now, whoever she was, whatever she wanted. Not really trust her, of course. Not yet. But give her the benefit of the doubt. She had come to Corsair on her own, she knew something about Ludwell, and she had not tried to get away. It was enough for now.
He tried to cheer her. "Hold on a little longer," he told her. "I know this district. It's pretty quiet after dark and there are a lot of little shops around. I'll leave you here and go foraging. Okay?"
"Leave me alone?" She sounded afraid.
"I'll have to. I've got clothes in my pack. I'm afraid you'd attract a little attention walking around naked. Ill try to get some clothes and some food and I'll be right back. You'd better stay right here. I know it's cold and nasty, but it's safe. Right?"
To his surprise she laughed. "All right. We're really harbor orphans, aren't we?"
Nick patted her smooth shoulder. He could feel the gooseflesh. "We sure as hell are! Now hang on. I'll he back as soon as I can."
"Hurry!" Her teeth rattled. "Please hurry. I'm numb all over."
A pretty tough kid, Nick thought as he
made his way through the stinking, slimy water to the base of the pier. He felt his way from piling to piling, through the sea filth, wary for projecting spikes and broken timbers. The smell told him that a sewer emptied nearby.
He found a rickety ladder and climbed it. A rusty gantry ran along the pier. A crane cast stark shadow over stacked cargo. From the tramp came a waft of voices. Dim light glowed from the forecastle. No trouble there. They would all be drunk or entertaining women, or both.
Nick dressed rapidly. His clothes were soaked and he had no shoes, but that did not matter. If anyone noticed him they would only think he was a drunken sailor off the tramp. He checked the stiletto; the Luger, now in his belt with the sweater pulled well down over it; and the gas bomb between his legs. He had plenty of money.
He made his way off the pier, down a wharf, and up a flight of rotting wooden stairs to Des Voeux Road. A starving dog cringed at his approach and a couple of cats stopped fighting and fled. Otherwise he encountered no one. His luck was holding. Now for the immediate needs and then — it struck him suddenly and he grinned. He even had a place to go! Swee Lo was going to have a couple of uninvited guests tonight. What better place to hide than in the very heart of enemy country? Because he knew now — he was so sure he would have bet a year's pay — who Swee Lo's protector was. Jim Pok.
It was an educated guess. In such matters N3 seldom guessed wrong. Everything pointed to it. How convenient it was that Jim Pok was in Red China at the moment! Buddha grant that he remained there for a while.
He found a cubbyhole shop and bought clothes for the girl and shoes for both of them. Cheap rubber shoes with upturned toes. If the bespectacled proprietor saw anything strange about this huge wet man with bare feet, he kept it to himself.
In another shop Nick bought cigarettes, genuine American, and a large bottle of rice wine. In a tiny food stall he found pancakes wrapped around savory hot pork. He bought four. An army travels on its stomach. So do harbor orphans.
On the way back to the pier he passed a catch-all shop. There was an old leather wrist strap in the window. He went in and bought it. He hoped her wrist wasn't really broken, but if it was he was going to have to set and splint it himself. They couldn't go to a doctor. Tiger Tong was looking for him and pretty soon the Hong Kong police would be looking for him. He wasn't leaving spoor if he could help it.
Back at the pier, he left his purchases in a cavelike hollow in a stack of baled cargo. He went down the ladder and whistled softly. Her answering whistle came back, very faint. Nick went into the water, cursing it, and made his way to her. She was still clinging to the crosstie. Nick put his arm around her shivering body. "It's okay now. I've got food and clothing topside. Let's go."
She clung to him, shivering and gasping. "S-so cold! I don't think I could have h-held on m-much longer."
"You're doing fine. Put your arms around my neck and just hold on. Watch out for spikes and stuff."
He got her up the ladder and into the little cave in the cargo. She stood trembling, lax, making no effort to cover her firm breasts. Nick fell to his knees and began to massage her long legs, moving upward from the ankles in firm, strong-fingered strokes. "This might hurt a little but we've got to get the blood flowing again. Do the same thing to your arms."
She began to chafe her arms. Nick turned her around and kneaded her thighs and hips, the taut little buttocks. "I should have gotten a thick towel," he said. "Didn't think of it."
"I feel better now," she said. She firmed her legs beneath his hands, testing them, and he felt the smooth muscles come alive. He gave her fanny a friendly little pat. "I think you'll live. Get dressed and let's eat. Then we'll go. We've been lucky so far, but I don't want to press it."
He had bought her a coolie suit of black denim, a sweat shirt, and a white bra. The bra had been an afterthought. Her breasts were firm and pointed enough, but a bit heavy for a Chinese girl. She would need a bra.
Without a word she slipped her breasts into the cups and turned for him to clasp her. Then she pulled on the Donald Duck sweatshirt — it had been the only one — and donned the coolie suit. She put her narrow feet into the rubber slippers. "Cinderella, new version," murmured Nick. "They fit." His own were too tight.
The girl squatted on her heels in traditional Chinese fashion. "You mentioned food? I'm starving."
Nick handed her a pancake wrapped in a sheet of newspaper. "Eat one, then we go. We can eat the rest on the run."
She bit into the pancake and ate half of it before she looked up at him. "We are really on the run, aren't we? I wonder if we're running from the same thing?"
"Later," said Nick through a mouthful of pancake. "A Bullion questions later. Right now — what's your name?"
"Fan Su. That is my milk name. In the States I use Frances. Frances Suon. Is Clark Harrington your real name?"
N3 did not even blink. "For now it is. Now finish eating and shut up. I've figured out a place we can go, at least for tonight. We'll talk it all out later."
The girl nodded. "I see that you are accustomed to giving orders, Mr. Harrington."
"I am." Nick finished his pancake and wiped his mouth on the newspaper. "Just one more thing — you say you knew Bob Ludwell? You know how he was killed and who killed him? Do you also know why?"
"Yes. I know all those things."
Nick touched her shoulder. "Fine. Now let's cut out. I'm glad we met tonight, honey. You're going to help me a lot."
She was close to him, so near that her breasts touched his big chest. In the dim light he saw that, at least in this poor light, she was beautiful. Her eyes were brown, with shadows beneath them now, her nose straight, her ears small and set close to her head. There was a soft pleading in her voice as she said, "I have to trust you, Mr. Harrington. And you me. There is much work to do, very dangerous work, and there is no time to do it in. I am desperate. Most extremely desperate!"
Only now and then, he thought as they made their way off the pier, could you tell that English was not her native language.
They crossed Des Voeux Road and climbed a narrow street to Belcher's Street. Nick hailed a taxi and gave the man directions. Now he could light a cigarette. He inhaled luxuriously and lay back in the seat. Things were moving at last.
But the girl sat rigid beside him. Her eyes searched his face. "We are going to the peak? Where?"
"To the villa of a man named Jim Pok."
He heard the hiss of her indrawn breath. "Jim Pok! But he, I mean I can't go there — he is…"
N3 regarded her blandly. "I know who and what he is. I also know that he is in Red China at the moment. I think you knew that too, Fan Su."
After a moment she nodded. "Yes. I did know. But I still do not understand why we go to his villa. It is dangerous. Most dangerous."
"Life is dangerous," said Nick Carter.
Chapter 9
Undertong
Nick dismissed the taxi three blocks from the villa. The weather was turning sour again, misty, and a chill drizzle was falling. They walked along Harlech Road in silence. Nick thought of that morning and the coolie he'd killed, and of Boy and Ludwell. It had been a hell of a day, all in all. But at last the show was on the road and, if he didn't know exactly where he was going, at least he was moving.
The villa was dark except for a few night lights. "No matter," he told the girl as they skirted the house to the back patio. She kept close to him, a small hand on his arm. "This is really Jim Pok's house?"
He nodded. "I'd swear to it. It's a hunch, but it figures. If I know my Swee Lo — and I do."
Her pretty mouth tightened. "She lives dangerously, your friend. Dangerously and uselessly." He had told her something of Swee Lo in the taxi.
The kitchen door was locked. Nick tore a plastic envelope from his wallet and, using the plastic as a probe, slipped the tongue of the Yale. The door swung open. He looked at the girl. "Let's get one thing straight, Fan Su. I'm in command. Lo is an old friend of mine. Her character and morals are no c
oncern of yours. If you meet her I will do the talking. You will be courteous and very, very quiet. Understood?"
"Understood, Mr. Harrington."
Fan Su remained in the kitchen while Nick prowled the house. He was careful not to turn on lights, and did not turn off the night lights. No servants. Swee Lo was probably out on the town. She drove her own car now. Nick wondered if she was playing the field. She was a passionate little woman and he had left her wanting that morning. He grimaced. Playing around would be dangerous, with a «protector» like Jim Pok.
Nick made the girl take a long hot shower while he made coffee. The house was well shuttered and all the draperies drawn. For the moment he felt safe. The Tiger's men, in the absence of the Tiger, would hardly think to look in the Tiger's lair. He had gained a little time. Not much, but perhaps enough to sort matters out and come up with some sort of plan.
They sat in the dark bedroom and drank coffee and smoked. Nick Carter said: "Okay, Fan Su, start talking. I'll ask, you answer. How did you know Bob Ludwell? Why?"
She was a blob of shadow sitting crosslegged on the big bed, wearing pajamas and a happicoat belonging to Swee Lo.
"I have been working with Mr. Ludwell for months. He was CIA, you know. I am chief agent for Undertong in Hong Kong and the New Territories."
"Just a minute. What's Undertong?"
She said something in Mandarin which he did not understand. He recognized the Peking dialect, but did not understand the words.
"It translates as underground," the girl said. "Under cover — a resistance group. Like the FFI or the Maquis in France. Partisans, you might say, though we are not well enough organized to fight as guerrillas. That will come."
Nick lit a cigarette and stared long at her in the wavering flame. Her eyes met his without flinching. "I think you're lying," he said. "There is no Chinese underground. The Chicoms are too well organized, their counterintelligence is too good, and your peasants won't fight." This was the sum of all briefing he had had on the subject. He cared little for the book, for the opinions of Washington. He wanted her reaction to his scoffing.
