by Nick Carter
"I only say that to the beautiful, unique ones. And you're…" I winced at the sudden pain lancing into my right shoulder.
"Nick! What's wrong? You jumped so and your face turned deathly pale. Are you alright?"
Her hands moved along my body to make things alright, but Kristine couldn't know that she would be unable to ease the pain I felt The physical pain was minor — only a dull throbbing remained under the spot where my emergency signal was implanted. The real pain came in telling this sexy blonde that I had to leave her now.
Being a secret agent can be a real drag at times.
* * *
"You'd better have a damn good reason for calling me," I said.
The man seated in the lounge chair beside the hotel swimming pool appeared to be on the verge of swallowing the stub of a cigar in his mouth. He chewed so hard that shreds of tobacco fell onto his vest. Even in the desert heat, David Hawk wore a three-piece suit with the tie slightly askew.
"I only use the emergency signal when it is an emergency, N3," he said in a dour voice. "I don't like this any better than you. At least you didn't have the President dragging you out of bed at four AM."
I bit back a nasty reply about Hawk not missing out on as much as I had when he dragged me from Kristine's bed. Hawk didn't care about my personal life, neither approving nor disapproving. To him business was all that mattered. If my love life suffered, it was none of his concern.
"Is it wise calling me by my code number?" I asked, glancing around the pool area as casually as I could. The bright lights focused primarily on the swimming pool, where two attractive women swam back and forth, cavorting like dolphins in the open sea. The lifeguard had gone off duty. The only others in sight were a couple necking under one of the broad umbrellas on the far side of the pool.
"Those two whose amorous activities you seem so engrossed in are ours. And the frolicking water sprites in the pool, as much as they look like chorus girls, are operatives from the Denver office. The entire area is electronically secured, and no one can see our lips from the hotel windows. Satisfied, N3?"
"I see I should pay more attention to our Denver office," I said, nodding in appreciation. "So the entire area is safe?"
"Definitely." Hawk gnawed a bit more on his cigar and shifted his weight in the creaking lounge chair. "Have you heard of Eighth Card?"
"Sounds like a game in one of the casinos."
"I am not amused by your attempts at levity. The United States of America is in a race with Russia to successfully develop a laser cannon capable of destroying intercontinental ballistic missiles. With the advent of the MIRV…"
"MIRV? You mean multiple, independently targeted reentry vehicle?"
"Yes, MIRV. With every ICBM carrying a half dozen or more warheads, it has become imperative that we have an invincible defense system. Just one missile getting through could destroy the entire country. A laser capable of reaching out into space while the missile warheads are still on the delivery vehicle is vital."
I let Hawk continue. I'd heard most of this before. It was hardly classified information.
"Project Eighth Card has designed such a laser weapon. It has a range of some two hundred miles, delivers more energy in a split second than is needed to keep even this neon Mecca lit for a year, and it never misses."
"Never?"
"If it misses, a laser can fire again rapidly. This is the importance of Eighth Card, the ability to fire rapidly. Any fool can build a terawatt laser."
"If you say so." I wished he would get to the point. Kristine wouldn't cool off but she might cool off toward me if I didn't keep her interested in my scars. Any number of men would be willing to take my place. I'd worked hard for those scars. I deserved some pleasure from them.
"N3, this is serious. There is strong indication that the Soviets are sabotaging Eighth Card. The project physicist was murdered, we think. He was examining the laser immediately after a test. The laser somehow fired and set the bunker ablaze. Richard Burlison died in the inferno."
"Why is it the Russians? We've got lots of enemies around the world these days."
"Many items, mostly dealing with things they've said at the disarmament talks. They seemed willing to swap agreements about curtailing our laser program in exchange for their cutbacks in the Salyut space station."
I leaned back and stared into the nighttime desert sky. Stars winked here and there, mostly obscured by the glow from the Las Vegas lights. Somewhere orbiting overhead was the new Russian Salyut space station, filled with military men spying on us. More cosmonauts would be put into the station within a month or so, making it the largest permanently orbited space station ever. The military advantages the Russians gained from it were enormous.
"And now they won't dicker on that point?"
"Exactly, Nick," he said, leaning forward, gesturing with his hands. The cigar stub never left the corner of his mouth. I suppressed the urge to light it for him. "It's as if they know the laser program is in trouble with Burlison's death."
"One man can't be that important," I pointed out. "Most huge government projects are committee efforts. They have to be since they're so complicated."
"True. Burlison was a genius, but others can take over. He was the one responsible for the crucial control circuits that allow the laser to recharge and fire rapidly. Luckily, he had finished his design work. The prototype was destroyed in the fire, but his plans were properly stored. A new laser cannon is being assembled at the lab in Albuquerque."
"And?" I felt Hawk was near to the heart of this little discussion.
"And you are going to impersonate Burlison."
I laughed. There was no way I could pass myself off as a scientist in a highly technical field like laser physics, and I told Hawk this. I added, "Besides, if this is so imperative, we don't have time for plastic surgery." I fingered hairline scars at the sides of my face where prior face-changing had been done. Plastic surgery isn't easily done and it hurts like hell afterward. I wasn't too enthused about swapping my face for anyone else's, even on a temporary basis.
"I realize this. The President realizes this." Hawk's emphasis hinted at worlds of hidden detail, all backed by the full power of the President. "We need you out there tomorrow morning. It's less than an hour's flight to Albuquerque from here. You'll assume Dr. Burlison's identity by wrapping surgical gauze around your face and hands. Your general build is about the same, though you're considerably more muscular. Wear clothes a size too large for you. Explain the lack of girth as due to being in the hospital."
"The bandages cover my face and hands, the most easily identifiable portions of my anatomy," I said, "but how do I cover otherwise? I know nothing about the man's background."
"Here's a dossier on him. Read it." I glanced at the manila folder and saw that the report inside was printed on flash paper like stage magicians use. I was to read the report and then burn it, no trace of ash remaining.
"Well and good, but I can't fool all his friends."
"You've been badly burned in the fire, you're confused some of the time, dazed but eager to return to the lab. Once there, you can't do anything but insist on watching everything."
"This is ridiculous," I exclaimed. "Burlison's got a wife." My finger tapped lightly on the notation in the dossier. "I'm supposed to fool his wife? She probably knows he's already dead, unless you've done some really swift work. Even then, wives sometimes have a psychic link with their husbands. They know when their husbands have burned to death."
"True, I have noticed similar occurrences," Hawk said, his voice musing. "Not this time, though. Marta Burlison worked for the Defense Intelligence Agency before marrying Burlison. She knows her husband is dead and will cooperate fully in your impersonation to catch the people responsible for his death."
"Is she a good actress?"
"She is," Hawk confirmed. "Other operatives have not uncovered evidence that anyone is suspicious of her so far. Marta Burlison appears happy, even cheerful, that her husband su
rvived. She grieves that he is hideously burned. She is pleased he is coming home tomorrow. You will take it from there."
I heaved a sigh. This entire assignment seemed sour to me, and I trust my instincts. They've kept me alive through some pretty rough action in the past.
"I don't like it but I'll do it. Who are the ones you suspect most in this? Any obvious contact with the Russian agents in the area?"
"That's what makes this so ugly, Nick. The Russians appear as much in the dark as we are. That can mean their brass has brought in a complete unit operating independently of the locals."
"Like in Hong Kong and London last year?"
"Exactly. They don't trust their people on the spot, so they bring in top operatives without informing anyone. We need the best we have to ferret out the spy and protect the laser cannon. This is big, Nick, as big as anything you've ever done."
"I understand this is an important defense project, but it can't be that important." I saw the fleeting expression of — fear? — cross Hawk's face. I felt a cold lump form in the pit of my stomach. In all the years I had worked for him, never had I seen him show such bleak emotion.
This wasn't big, it was big.
"I might as well tell you, Nick. Top secret. Not ten people in the country know this. We desperately need the assurance that the project will be successful. As long as we can knock down all the incoming Russian ICBMs, they won't consider a preemptive strike on us."
I had no words. I understood now what he meant.
"Yes," Hawk said grimly, "if we don't succeed. the Russians are going to push the button and start World War III."
"But why?" The shock was obvious in my voice.
"Our rapprochement with China is part of it. The Soviets have the military edge right now. Now. But not tomorrow, if we begin another big arms program. They've coldly calculated the risks. With their space station to target in their missiles, they don't need the sophisticated inertial guidance systems and electronics hardware we use in our missiles. They can knock out every single one of our retaliatory missiles — now. The balance will shift back in a few years, perhaps in a few weeks."
"With the laser cannon operational they wouldn't dare hit us." I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. If I didn't find the Soviet spy and stop him, Project Eighth Card would be a failure.
And World War III would be a matter of days away.
Chapter Two
The ambulance pulled up in front of the modest house in the suburbs of Albuquerque. The attendant leaned back over the seat and called out, "We're here, Dr. Burlison. And it looks like you've got one hell of a welcoming committee waiting for you." There was a tinge of envy in the man's voice, telling me that he impressed easily.
I pulled the last of the bandages firmly around my hands. The wrappings on my face caused sweat to puddle and itch against my skin. I cursed silently, making sure I didn't leave anyone or anything out. Most of all, I wanted to make sure that Hawk got his fair share of imprecations. This was a crazy idea and one which didn't seem too likely to work. Yet, I had to give it a try. Orders are orders — and the penalty for failure was nothing less than global destruction.
Getting out of the ambulance caused a minor sensation among the gathered reporters. Cameras thrust for my face and more than one flash gun went off, in spite of the brightly shining sun lighting everything from above. Instincts are sometimes hard to control. My bandaged hand jerked toward my Luger, Wilhelmina, snugly tucked under my left arm. But there wasn't any danger in this crowd, unless being misquoted counted. "Dr. Burlison, do you plan to retire from research?" asked one of the closer news hawks.
"No," I said, my voice low and muffled by the bandages crossing my mouth. The dry desert air helped pull away some of the perspiration, cooling me a little, but the bandages themselves held in my body heat. Roasting in my own juices, I prayed for a speedy end to this impromptu news conference.
My prayers were answered by an angel. Hair as dark as a raven's wing, she rushed out into the crowd, pushing reporters back with more energy than I could have mustered in the heat. For her diminutive size, Marta Burlison proved a real juggernaut.
"Leave him alone!" she cried. "He's been severely injured. Don't hassle him! He needs his rest. When he's able, he'll give you all the information you want."
The reporters responded swiftly to this new irritant, much like an oyster turning a grain of sand into a pearl. They closed on the woman and thrust their microphones into her face, training cameras on her as they asked their impertinent questions. Seeing momentary fear cross the woman's face — my wife's face, I corrected myself mentally — I acted. Pushing two of the reporters aside, I put my arm around the quaking shoulders and pulled her close.
She made quite an armful. The assignment began to take on new and more interesting prospects.
"Project information officer will give a statement," I said, hoping I sounded both brusque and tired. "Now please go. My wife is distraught, and I am very tired after my ordeal."
Without waiting to see if there would be any further questions, I steered Marta into the house and made a point of slamming the door as hard as I could. It surprised me when I found this wasn't possible. The thick bandages on my hands prevented me from getting the proper grip on the edge of the door. I'd have to do something about that. Wilhelmina required a certain amount of finger mobility even though I had the trigger filed down to a hair-pull. And if my Luger was difficult to use, Hugo, my knife, would be even more of a chore to hang onto in a fight.
Malta's trembling hands gripped my arms, more to steady her than me. She shook her head, dark hair flying in wild disarray around her shoulders. The strong afternoon sun filtering in the windows caught and highlighted her hair, making it shimmer like a halo. She wore a simple dress, unbuttoned just enough to show the snowy white flare of her breasts. A trim waist, womanly hips, and model-slender legs completed a very attractive package.
"Dr. Burlison was a very lucky man," I said.
"What? Oh, yes, that's right. You've never seen me before, have you?" Her voice betrayed her emotions even more than the visible manifestations. "Do I pass your inspection? Is the dead man's wife adequate for the super-spy?"
"I am Richard Daniel Burlison, Ph.D., Cal Tech, class of 69, not anyone else," I said, making sure that my tone told her that she would have to live the lie of my existence as surely as I was going to.
"Oh, sorry — Rich," she said with fine contempt in her voice. She turned and fumbled out a cigarette from a pack on the table. Seeing that she wasn't going to get it lit without burning herself, I clumsily steadied the lighter for her. Startlingly blue eyes glared up at me. I knew then that this assignment would be harder than any other I'd ever attempted. Without her complete cooperation, I was caught between a rock and a hard place.
"Look, Marta, I know this isn't easy for you. The very idea of having someone take your husband's place — even temporarily — would be a strain. Knowing he's dead and pretending he's still alive has to be the hardest thing you've done in your life."
"You're telling me?" she snapped. Her voice softened a little as she continued. "Look, super-spy, the only reason I'm going along with this charade is to get Rich's murderer. I don't give a damn about that project of his or the people at the labs or anything. I want revenge, pure and simple."
"Is that the way the Defense Intelligence Agency trains its people?"
"I'm not with the DIA any longer. Thank God, I'm not. What nerve-racking work! And I had to marry Rich and get all caught up again in the Q clearances and the top secret material, all neatly filed with the red and white stripes around the borders, and all the rest of it. No matter what they say, I know that's why he was killed."
"You have suspects?" I asked. The dossier on Marta Burlison barely lived up to the actual woman. Nothing had been said about the coals of revenge burning so brightly in her. I'd have to watch her every second, or she would jeopardize the assignment in favor of only wreaking her vengeance. While that would b
e nice from an emotional viewpoint, I had bigger fish to fry. I had to find a Russian agent and eliminate him, making sure he failed totally in his mission.
"All of them. None of them. I don't know. I was enjoying being a middle-class, suburban housewife. I didn't even bug Rich about his work. Not that he would have told me much, anyway. He was devoted, and if the security people said jump, he'd only ask how high. But there was some socializing at the labs." She puffed hard on the cigarette. I watched the ash creep toward the filter and then go out with a tiny flare. She viciously stubbed out the cigarette and lit another one. This time her hands obeyed her.
I unconsciously rubbed the back of my hand across hidden lips. The bandage tasted medicinal and sterile. A drink would help put me back into the right frame of mind. I went to the small wet bar at the end of the room and fixed myself a Kahlua on the rocks. Not a favorite of mine, but Burlison didn't seem to be able to get enough of this coffee liqueur. Since Nick Carter had ceased to exist in favor of reanimating Richard Burlison, if only for a short while, I drank the liqueur through a straw, wishing it were a bourbon on the rocks instead.
Marta tensed when she noticed my choice of drink, then laughed. It was a sterile laugh, devoid of real humor.
"You've done your homework."
"Super-spy's training," I said, slowly circling the room. Small details pointed to the AXE debugging crew that had worked over the place just hours before. An untrained eye might have missed the clues. A slight amount of dust disturbed on the top of a picture frame, a new nick on the rim of the telephone where they had examined the microphone assembly, small scratches at the baseboards. I'd have to tell Hawk that the crew had been hasty and left behind too many indications of a debugging. It is impossible not to show some sign of a careful search, if you know what to look for, but they hadn't been meticulous enough. We weren't playing against amateurs.
"Don't worry," said Marta. "The crew was authorized by the lab. They come through once every six months or so on general principles. It wasn't too far off their scheduled appearance — and the men were very thorough. It embarrassed me that I hadn't dusted."
