Spy Killer (Stories from the Golden Age)

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “I cannot read it,” he said. “It is in English.”

  Varinka looked down at it and was about to pick it up. An officer came from nowhere and pushed her aside. He sent a thin scornful glance at Varinka and took the note.

  “I can read it,” said the officer. He scanned the letters for a moment and then read them aloud.

  For a full minute the room was silent, and then Varinka spun on Kurt, her fists clenched. “I understand now, you beast. I understand. You were sent here by Lin Wang to murder me. You want to kill me! And outside Captain Yang is waiting for you to see that you do the job. And if you fail he will murder you!”

  The officer gained in height. He slowly pulled his automatic from its holster and slid off the safety catch. His wiry hair bristled out from under his cap like an angry dog’s.

  “No,” said Varinka, bitterly. “We need not stain our hands with such as he. Captain Yang is waiting, Mr. Reid. He will be disappointed if you are late.”

  Kurt looked at the door and the square of blackness it embraced. He started to move away. But Varinka would not so easily let him go. She was upon him in an instant. She struck him with her right hand and then thrust him away from her.

  “You filthy beast! Get out! Get out!”

  Kurt turned on his heel, amazed, and went through the door. The Japanese officer laughed behind him. The guards raised their rifles hopefully.

  Kurt went on across the yard toward the gate. Captain Yang was waiting. Captain Yang had tried to kill him once, and now . . .

  He started through the entrance, staring bleakly at the dark, deserted street. From any corner death might strike.

  Not until then did he notice that his jacket pocket was sagging. He put his hand inside and encountered an automatic pistol. Astounded, he fingered it, turning it over before his face. Suddenly he understood. He looked back toward the hut.

  Varinka Savischna had put that there. She had not sent him away unarmed. She had made him go because no chance was left at Japanese hands.

  He knew, standing there, already expecting the numbing shots of bullets through his back, that Varinka loved him and that he loved her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Any Man’s Prey

  KALGAN, at the hour of two AM, had the appearance of a tomb. The darkness, in spite of the brisk wind which came down from the mountains, had a clammy, dismal air, like waiting death.

  The houses, square against the lighter sky, stood out in regimental rows. The walls which hid private gardens from the public eye were black scowls along the street.

  Kurt had the feeling, and rightly, that he was being watched. He went slowly, following the deepest shadows. The convict under the executioner’s knife knew that death was coming, and from whence it would come, and at what instant—but Kurt did not know. He could only guess, and wait for the stab of thunder and sparks around the next wall. He did not think he would ever hear the shot or feel the impact of the bullet.

  Captain Yang, in a rage against Lin Wang and Kurt, unable to carry out the duty assigned to him, not quite sure just who this Takeki might be, would deal a death of vengeance. The mountain of flesh undoubtedly felt that Kurt was to blame for everything that had happened here in Kalgan. One of Lin Wang’s men was already dead, his body in the possession of the Japanese. Yang had given Kurt one last chance and, in Yang’s eyes, Kurt had failed.

  Kurt had a feeling of fatalistic helplessness. The gods of China were against him and he could do nothing to extricate himself. Perhaps he would be able to fight his way out, but knowing that the Japanese would get him if Yang did not, anything he did was futile.

  He could only walk close to the wall, silently waiting, and watch for the powder flame which would mark his finish.

  He thought about Varinka for a while. She was a brave kid and she might have incurred the wrath of the Japanese when she gave him a chance at freedom. Sooner or later, if Kurt managed to stay alive throughout the night, the suspicious men would come to the conclusion that she was not being above-board with them. Perhaps even now her power was slipping. He had noticed but little courtesy displayed toward her. The guards were not so much guarding her life as guarding her.

  Kurt stopped then, brought up sweating with a terrible knowledge. If he lived out the night, then the Japanese would think that he had gone free with information destined for the enemy. They could not help but think that.

  But if he was found cold and dead in the filth of the street, then Varinka might have a chance.

  His sense of humor came to his rescue then. He laughed silently, harshly, leaning back against the gray wall. He had thought earlier that his own safety depended upon Varinka’s death. And now Varinka’s life depended upon his own demise. Fate had spun the tables.

  Anne Carsten would think . . . He paused then, and wondered what she would think. He hadn’t meant anything to her, but Anne Carsten recurred constantly in his thoughts. She was beautiful, even more so than Varinka. Of all the women Kurt had known, those two seemed to him the finest, the most desirable. Perhaps he did think a great deal of Varinka, perhaps he even loved her, but it was unthinkable to marry a White Russian woman in China.

  He laughed again, feeling light-headed, his thoughts very clear. Here he was worrying about Anne Carsten and Varinka when he would not live another hour.

  What he wouldn’t give for a shot at Lin Wang now. The twisted, scaly leper had taken Kurt in, right enough. But Lin Wang had not been smart. He could not have known that Kurt knew the one called Takeki. Lin Wang had not suspected that a man would stay his killing hand for the sake of gallantry, even when the killer’s life itself was at stake. Lin Wang, in his warped cruelty, did not know many things.

  For a moment Kurt wondered at his own stupidity. Things were clear enough to him now. He was going to die. An electric light bulb, before it burns out, flares into sudden, final brilliance.

  The reason, Kurt knew, for Lin Wang’s sending him here to Kalgan to kill Takeki was sound enough. Funny Kurt hadn’t thought about it before. Of course. Yang had his orders. When Takeki was dead, Yang would turn Takeki’s killer over to the Japanese, at no risk to himself. That would simplify matters for Lin Wang. Takeki’s murderer would not be looked for in China. The Japanese, all too often, had demanded huge indemnities for the killing of one of their people—and Varinka was certainly that.

  And now that Kurt had refused, Yang would kill him, having no further use for him. Again Kurt laughed. He had been a fool. The confession had meant nothing. Kurt would not have lived anyway.

  Pausing there in the shadow of the wall saved his life.

  From the next corner came the whisper of slippers on the paving stones.

  The Death Squad had tired of waiting.

  Kurt saw a black blot detach itself from the building ahead and start down toward him, groping along. Something shiny glittered in the outstretched hand.

  The man came slowly, a step at a time, undecided as to Kurt’s position. Kurt sank deeper into the shadow.

  The Chinese came on, an inch at a time. A shaft of light from a high window struck the untroubled face. The Chinese came placidly enough, unworried by his mission. Killing had become second nature to the Death Squad.

  Kurt drew out the automatic and determined to make a stand. Where were the others? Was this one alone? Did Kurt dare risk a shot?

  The ominous silence of Kalgan blanketed the street. The wind moaned a little around a corner. The sound of Kurt’s automatic slide sounded like a sledgehammer blow.

  The Chinese stopped, listening, probing the shadows with narrow, killer’s eyes.

  The sound of Kurt’s automatic slide sounded like a sledgehammer blow.

  The Chinese stopped, listening, probing the shadows with narrow, killer’s eyes.

  Kurt raised the pistol, extended it to full arm’s length. The shadow covered the groove down the slide. Carefully Kurt compressed his whole hand. Odd how steady he was. He knew that he could not miss.

  Flame and sparks ribboned
like a lightning flash. The Chinese cried out, threw up his hands and stumbled forward. His arms were down again, clutching his chest. His own gun clattered to the paving. He tripped and sprawled, spread-eagled.

  A shout came from the corner. Two men leaped into sight and came running. Kurt started to race away, and then knew that he would make too good a target out of his shadow.

  Kurt spun about and leaped up to the top of the wall. Broken glass had been set up in the cement to discourage robbers. Kurt’s hands were gashed into a slippery mess.

  But he had no thought of pain. He swung over. A gun roared below him as he crouched for an instant at the top, silhouetted against the sky.

  He dropped to the garden and whipped his way through a line of shrubs against the wall. Water shimmered in front of him. He skirted it, tripped on a loose stone, and for a moment pushed himself along across gravel on his hands and knees.

  The Death Squad had found the postern. Already they were hammering against it with their brawny shoulders. Kurt’s one thought was to get across the garden and over the other wall.

  He heard wood splinter and knew that the postern gate had given way. He scrambled through a flower bed and stepped through another pool. Before him, dimly seen, a one-legged iron stork gazed wisely at him. At his right a metal turtle seemed to bob up and down. But it was only the water lapping.

  Kurt reached the other wall. Feet were grinding the gravel paths in rapid pursuit. With only one thought—to get away—Kurt tried to scale the wall.

  He looked up then and his heart dropped within him. This was no wall at all, but the side of a house. There was no getting away.

  Men floundered through a pool and came on. Kurt turned to face them.

  The Chinese loomed hugely against the lighter gray of the far wall. But they did not seem to have faces or hands, only arms. They were great shadows come to life without wits, with only the will to slaughter. They knew that they had to be fast. The Japanese guard would be coming soon to locate the firing.

  With his back pushed against the chill stone, Kurt raised the automatic and fired.

  A shadow in the lead went down and stumbled back to splash into the pool beside the iron stork.

  Kurt moved hastily to one side. An answering shot whined away from the stone beside his head.

  Crouching low, steadying his gun on his arm, Kurt drew a bead on another Chinese to the left. The man and his two mates faltered. That was all Kurt wanted. While he was in the dark, the others were in relief, whether they knew it or not, against the lighter gray wall.

  Kurt’s target leaped sideways, crying out and stumbling. His two mates changed their position hastily and started to close in toward the man they could but dimly see.

  Rock chips flew beside Kurt’s arm. He shifted his position. One of the Chinese was almost on him. Kurt leaped out, straight into the fellow’s face. Kurt jammed the muzzle catch deep into the yielding stomach and pulled the trigger. The shot sounded dead.

  A blast of pain went through Kurt’s shoulder. He whipped away, carrying a knife with him, embedded in his flesh. With a roar the last Chinese flung himself upon Lin Wang’s victim.

  They went down into shrubbery with a crash, the Chinese on top. Kurt, anger setting red balls dancing before his face, felt that he embraced a clawing tiger. Kurt kicked hard with both feet. Fingers were locating his throat. Kurt’s gun was gone.

  He realized dimly that something was white hot in his shoulder. The man’s knife.

  Kurt rolled to one side, struggling. The fingers sank deep into his windpipe. The stars above him began to spin crazily. His chest was burning for lack of air.

  He reached across the Chinese’s arms, toward his own shoulder, trying to think, forcing himself to do the thing. With a tremendous effort, Kurt clutched the knife hilt and tugged the weapon free from his own flesh.

  He twisted again, trying to get arm room. He held the knife high above the other’s back and brought it down. He pulled it out and brought it down a second time. The blade would not move.

  The world was black for seconds, and then the fingers eased up. Throat rattling, the Chinese slumped down on the man he had almost killed.

  For seconds Kurt lay dragging in precious air. He had never before known how good it was to just breathe. But after a little he assembled his strength and thrust the body away from him. The Chinese was like an overweight tree, already rigid.

  Kurt got to his feet and fumbled about for his gun. He could not find the one he had been given. In its place he took a Colt .45 which had fallen from the hand of the second man he had killed.

  He went through the garden toward the shattered gate, stopped beside each body, looking for Yang.

  But Yang was not there. Yang was still alive, still waiting for the kill.

  From the street came the sound of running men. Equipment clanked. The Japanese guards were on their way to determine the reason for the shooting. Kurt knew that death waited for him at their hands.

  He ran down the wall and found another gate. Shouts echoed through the garden. Kurt fumbled with the lock and finally opened it. He slipped out into an alley and quietly eased down its length to another street.

  From the direction of the garden came the shouts of the guards. Soon all Kalgan would be searched. Kurt wondered if they would realize who had fought there, and why. But whoever had, would find the going hard before a Japanese court.

  Kurt was still mad. He did not give his sliced hands and his gouged shoulder a thought. He felt that he could whip the whole Japanese army with a pop gun and that if he met Lin Wang in the midst of all his guards, it would be an easy matter to blow the man down.

  For a long while the bucko mate had been tossed about by worry and by cross purposes. But now he was mad. He didn’t care what happened to him. He was walking out to even up the score, and if he kept going like he started, nothing short of beheading would stop him.

  He took the middle of the street with a swagger. His face, usually so handsome, was twisted up into a hard-boiled scowl. His gait was a sea roll and he carried the automatic in plain sight. He was insane and he knew it and didn’t care.

  The bucko mate, hero of many a barroom brawl and sea fight, was stepping into his own: fast action.

  He headed straight for Varinka’s house. To hell with the guards! Varinka was in danger. He knew it without thinking. He couldn’t let her down. Without that automatic he would have been an easy victim for the Death Squad.

  He came to her gate, threw back the iron and stepped arrogantly through, ready to blast down the first foe he saw, bayonets notwithstanding.

  It came to him as a shock that the courtyard was deserted. He walked straight toward the hut, expecting a challenge which refused to come. He stopped irresolutely before the door, staring about him.

  Something had happened here. Something was wrong.

  He kicked in the panel and stepped into the room. The fireplace had burned down to a pulsating red pile of coals. The shadows of the room were deep. The lamp was still overturned, spilling bean oil across the Oriental black and tan carpet.

  The sound of a sob came to Kurt. Instantly he felt better. Maybe Varinka was still here. Perhaps . . .

  Something moved in the corner. He strode toward it and beheld Varinka’s amah huddled behind a drapery. Disgusted, he hauled her forth and in a machine-gun tattoo of Chinese, demanded news of the Russian girl.

  “They take her away. They arrest her. I know nothing.”

  Varinka arrested? Then he was right. His own release was likely to cause her death. The Japanese did not question a victim for long. The Japanese were more likely to hold the trial after the firing squad.

  Varinka was arrested and Kurt knew that she would die. For a moment he felt a helpless nausea and then, hefting the Colt .45, he went out into the courtyard and walked swiftly toward the Japanese headquarters. . . .

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sentenced to Death

  THE building did not shed a great deal of light. It c
lutched shadows to its cold walls and gave off a feeling of menace. Two windows sprayed yellow jets into the street. Kurt heard the wind moan past a cornice.

  Japanese voices came from within, purring, assured voices. Outside a car stood, its driver slumped wearily over the wheel. Behind the car was a truck, but no one was in the cab.

  Kurt came as close as possible to the window. By standing on a loose paving block he could see in without being seen himself.

  Varinka stood before a group of men, who sat indolently in chairs. Their caps and red bands showed that they were officers and their faces displayed a merciless arrogance which was heightened by the effect of their black, bristly hair. Two of them puffed on cigarettes which they held before their sharp faces with nicotine-stained fingers. Guards with fixed bayonets were posted about the room.

  They were questioning Varinka in Japanese and their tone was ugly, showing that her guilt was a foregone conclusion. But they were not trying her for the thing Kurt thought.

  Varinka’s broad face was without fear. Her slightly slanted eyes were scornful. Her high cheekbones were stained with the crimson of anger. She looked regal—a lionness pulled down by jackals.

  “What you say is not true,” said Varinka.

  A small, bony officer giggled. “Takeki would go well in a No drama, sayo?”

  A bitter-faced fellow with eyes as black as the pit, obviously the ranking yakunin, probably a taisho, silenced the bony one with a scowl.

  “You have lied out of this two times, Takeki. You told us that this was some sort of intrigue you were planning. The officers believed you—I did not. They see now that I should have been more determined in my condemnation.”

  “Bah,” said Varinka, coldly, “you hate me, taisho, because I would have nothing to do with you and with none of your officers. You hate me, all of you, because I had too much power.”

  The taisho smiled cruelly. “This time you cannot escape. This afternoon I received a letter from Shanghai. Some of the things you reported to us were lies, and you know that they were lies. Your own men there, when properly coerced, owned the hoax.” He drew a slip of paper from his pocket and passed it around to the others.