by Nick Carter
"I don't know any Moreau," Claire said again. "I don't know whose body that is. I don't know who buried it there." Hope faded from her as the pain of his blows spread. She was finished. God, was it really worth all this? "There is no message, can't you understand? There isn't any message!"
This time his blow was low, a swift thrust in the midriff that slammed the breath out of her and made the long ends of the belt swing like startled snakes.
"Oh yes, there is a message," he insisted gently. "What have you done with it?"
The rope ends gradually stopped swaying at her waist.
* * *
This last stretch was not so easy as he had hoped it would be. First the mountain passes had slowed him up, then the churned-up mud of the lower road, and then the vehicle itself with its coughing engine. And now these dull-witted peasants! For some reason they were unwilling to guide him across the last few miles. But it didn't really matter. He didn't have far to go and he would manage by himself.
All things considered, Lin Tong was making excellent progress.
* * *
They stood silent at the edge of the canebrake, watching the groping figure come nearer and nearer. By the twisted luck that seemed to be their lot, all but one of the searchers had fanned out to the south and west. And the one that came their way had something stuck between his lips that could be a short blowgun or — a whistle.
Nick restrained Saito's little forward movement. This had to be completely soundless.
Ten seconds more. Five. Three. The feet made tiny scrunching sounds on the fallen cane. The man was almost alongside them.
Now!
Nick reached out his arm and brought it back sharply, angled around the man's neck with the tightness of a vise. And as he tightened, he made Fang go to work. The tiny needle sank into the taut flesh and the body quivered. The straining bundle of muscle pressed against Nick's arm became a flaccid lump of flesh.
Twice in a row. Fang really knew his stuff.
He lowered the body quietly to the ground. There was no hiding place but the natural cover of the cane, so it would have to stay there.
Nick and Saito stood in silence for another minute, listening, and then they set off at a rapid trot.
The crude path sloped upward for a while but then it began to incline downward past the great hulk of the mountain that loomed up on their right. On the other side of the mountain lay the La Farge plantation, still too many miles away. But Nick knew that a narrow road wound through the foothills well below the high passes and that it would lead them — if they could only reach it — to the southwest border of the farm.
Saito led the way like a cat in the night. The foliage thickened and then again thinned out, until at last he stopped and pointed, his face split in an unaccustomed grin.
A village lay ahead of them, a small collection of wooden shacks built in a circle with two outlets. One road lay before them, leading straight into the clearing. The other was much wider. It was impossible to see exactly where it wound, but it went off roughly in the direction of those inviting foothills.
The village was dark and quiet. Those who live on the land have little need to burn the close-to-midnight oil. And there was a battered farm truck parked in the middle of the clearing.
There were only three drawbacks. One was their ignorance of the condition of the truck — it could, for all they knew, be empty of fuel. The other was a man seated on a log with his profile toward them. And the third was another man guarding the road down through the foothills.
"The Viet Cong control this village," whispered Saito. "But as you see, their guards are few. We could creep through quietly, or…"
"We could take the truck," Nick said almost soundlessly. But Saito heard, and nodded in the gloom.
It was time for Hugo. Anything else would give that blunted profile a chance to turn full-face in their direction, and that would be the end of these few welcome moments of silence.
Nick's hand slid down his left shoulder and pulled the small stiletto from its sheath. The blade flicked from the narrow haft without a whisper. Nick crouched. Sighted. And threw. The head turned slightly. Beautiful!
The icepick blade sliced into the bare throat and stayed there, like a skewer through a roast. There was the slightest gurgling sound and a frantic clawing of dying fingers. The man toppled in a slow, languid sort of movement.
The figure on the far side of the glade kept its back turned, unmoving, as though the owner dozed.
Nick glided forward.
"Wait!" Saito hissed. But his warning came too late.
Nick stepped over the log to pull Hugo out of the fallen body. As his left foot joined the right he felt something move beneath him, and then there was a snapping sound that came at almost the same instant as he felt the thing snake up around his body and tighten in a grip that jerked him off his feet and — dropped him with a thud that must have been audible in Saigon.
Saito was standing over him with a machete. A whiplash whistled through the air and the bent trunk of a tall, willowy tree straightened, shuddered through the air, and quivered into stillness.
Goddamn! One of those bent-tree-and-lasso booby traps, and he had stuck his feet right into it! Thank God for Saito and his quick thinking!
He was thinking this while he and Saito rolled down into the shadows alongside the dead body and the log. When he looked up he saw that the second guard was no longer at his post. He was walking slowly toward them, and the thing he held in his hands was not a welcoming bouquet. It was a submachine gun.
There was one chance in hell of hanging onto another minute of silence, and probably of life. Nick took it. He sat up groggily, holding both hands unsteadily above his head. He heard the armed man grunt, saw him step forward with the gun.
And then Nick leapt — high and to one side in a feinting movement, and then low in a dive that was Killmaster's deadly version of a football tackle. The gun fell. So did the man, with a squeaking cry that became a restful little gurgle as Nick's hands clamped about his throat and squeezed. He felt the tiny clicking sensation in his finger. And then the man was dead.
Fang was a handy friend to have around.
He tossed the machine gun into the bushes and ran after Saito, who was already flinging open the door of the truck. A kind of thumping noise came from one of the dark huts.
"Keys!" Saito whispered exultantly. "And there is fuel!"
"Okay. Steer, but don't start," Nick whispered back. He thrust his full strength against the rear bumper and pushed with all his might. At first, nothing. Then the truck began to move. Very, very slowly at first, but picking up momentum as it went.
The door to one of the huts was flung open and a voice called out a question.
"Ah, your fadder's moustache!" Nick yelled back reassuringly, and leapt onto the running board of the ancient truck. "Let's go, Saito!" The truck leapt into rattling life and tore down the narrow road.
A shot clanged into the tailgate. Saito grinned and pumped at the accelerator.
Running feet and stray gunshots fell away behind them. The big Japanese crouched over the wheel and maneuvered the clumsy vehicle over the track with the skill of a stock car racer.
"So much for that. What's our next obstacle?" Nick asked, fingering Wilhelmina hopefully.
"No more!" said Saito, almost singing. "No more! One, two men on patrol at the border. No jeep, no radio. We shoot! Easy! We drive now, easy, then we walk quiet for the last mile, yes?" Yes!
The truck lurched downhill over the pitted road toward the border and the home stretch.
If there were soldiers up there in the hills, they could not care less about the rattling of the truck over the North Vietnamese roads. They knew that all vehicles in this part of the world belonged to North Vietnam.
Which, of course, they did.
* * *
Claire shook her head groggily. There was so much pain in her body that it was almost no pain at all. The agony had become her element, like air. I
t was her body.
But her mind must have been wandering. One minute ago, or was it one hour ago? there had only been Ho Van Minh and his aide with her in the wine cellar. Now there was another man. Tall, quite good-looking, faintly Chinese in appearance. Perhaps he had come in answer to Saito's bid for help! Her heart leapt — and then drooped horribly. The man was talking to Minh as one would to an inferior. An inferior under his command. And he was saying — "Message, General Minh? What message? I can't imagine what you're talking about."
And then his eyes drifted over Claire and fastened on the drab belt she wore at her waist.
She groaned. And fainted.
I Couldn't Help It General; I Lost My Head
Lin Tong looked at her slumped form and felt a warm glow of triumph spread through his tired body. So Moreau had come here, and Madame did have something to hide. The belt she was wearing — was it not a curiously unattractive piece of clothing for a woman like Claire La Farge to wear? Lin Tong knew women, knew them well. What he saw in that crumpled, beaten figure was a woman of great natural beauty wearing a simple but stylish cotton dress casually pulled in at the waist by a piece of knotted cord.
"…the murderer of Ding Wan Chau," the weird little general was saying obscurely. "Coincidence, you say? I say not. He came this way, killing as he passed. And now his body has been found, buried on her land. I tell you he came here, gave her the information, and died. It is too late to make him suffer for the murder. But she will suffer, oh, how she will suffer. Is it not right that she should feel the pain of dying?"
"Hmm?" Lin Tong said absently, wondering how best to get this squawking cockatoo of a creature out of the way so that he himself could go to work. "Oh, yes, General, you are absolutely right. But perhaps we should change tactics, yes? More subtle persuasion might succeed where you have — ah — failed. We can mete out punishment after I have procured the information."
"After you have procured the information?" General Minh looked at him sharply. "This woman is my prisoner, Lin Tong. My orders from Headquarters were to apprehend the man Moreau…"
"And you have found him. Your job is done. From now on, this is up to me." His eyes roamed over Claire, and he saw her stirring. First he would be very gentle, and then…
"Why should it be up to you?" The General's voice rose one full octave. "What is your authority to interfere in military matters?"
Delectable French femininity… mature, yes, but still young… full, firm breasts… high cheekbones… a richly sensuous mouth… He tore his eyes away. If he had been the General, the woman would have been unclothed long ago.
"Chinese Intelligence, my dear General," Lin Tong reminded him smoothly. "You have seen my identification. Surely there is no need for me to tell you that all your orders — direct or indirect — come from us? I should hate to have to report that you have not been cooperative. I expect you realize what your position would be, in that event. Precarious, to say the least." He smiled benignly. "And of course my superiors are waiting for my report."
The General's mouth opened, shut, and opened again. "Of course I shall cooperate. But I ask only that you turn her over to me when you have finished."
"Of course, General. Now please tell me, quickly and very quietly, what has been said and done so far."
The General explained. Lin Tong listened, and watched Claire. A face that knew something of life… and love… and men. Long-lashed, closed eyes under raven-black eyebrows… soft, dark hair… smooth skin… shapely legs… slim waist — belted — and slender arms that looked as though they had the strength to fight him in the way he loved to be fought… Her eyes fluttered open, and closed again.
He made himself concentrate. "Your guards, General. Quite alert — I must commend you. One of them nearly killed me before allowing me to explain. How many men do you have with you, and where are they stationed?"
"Two aides with me in the house. One with us, as you can see; one in the service hall. Nine on duty in the grounds: Sergeant, Corporal, and seven men. The Sergeant can tell you exactly where they are placed, if you must know that, but roughly speaking there should be two near the main gates and one at the rear; one patrolling the northeast sector, another the southwest…"
But the man who was supposed to be patrolling the southwestern border of the plantation had fallen down on the job.
He had fallen dead.
His neck was broken, snapped cleanly by the two steely arms that had snatched at him from the darkness and jerked him into eternity. His dying eyes saw nothing. His killer was already half a mile away, gliding silently over the damp soil of the plantation alongside a big man who had also done his share of killing that night, and who was now praying silently for the safety of "his lady."
The going was easy now and their pace was rapid.
"Is it usual to have their soldiers on the grounds?" Nick whispered.
"No. Only sometimes during the day, when they come to pick up food supplies." Saito's muted voice was grim. "Never at night, and never on patrol. This looks very bad. Perhaps it is best that I first find one of my own men to ask what is happening here. They will help, if we need help."
Nick grunted. "Looks as though we might." He was silent for a moment, then — "What is that light up there on the hills? Didn't you say the camp was a good five miles away?"
Saito looked, and swore softly. "They must have moved," he muttered. "That can be nothing but their camp. What now, my lord?"
"Just what we'd planned. We circle once around the house to see who might be — who else might be waiting for us. If in any doubt, we kill. You show me the best way in. Uh — introduce me, if necessary. Then round up whatever help you can. We'll just have to work it out according to what comes."
They padded through a grove of trees that led to the rear entrance of the house. A light glimmered dimly up ahead. After a few minutes the trees thinned out and Nick could see the squat, square shape of buildings to their left and, directly in front, the rectangle of light that was a large rear window.
"Storage barns," Saito whispered. "Not far behind them are houses for the men. That light, that is the kitchen. It is very late for someone to be using it."
The sprawling shape surrounding the bright rectangle assumed the clear outlines of a large ranch house. Nick catfooted over to the window and looked in. The opening was covered only by a fine mesh screen. Through it he could see a young woman seated at a huge, worn table, her elbows on the table and her head cupped in her hands. There were tear stains on her cheeks.
"Lua!" Saito breathed.
"Sssh!"
Footsteps sounded in the passage beyond. A uniformed man came into the kitchen and stared down at her, his expression sardonic and calculating. He stood there for a moment and then walked over to her with his hands outstretched. There was a gun holster at his hip and a thin red scratch across his face. One hand went under the bowed chin and jerked it up. The other tore roughly at the front of the girl's dress. It was already torn, Nick [saw, and rage welled up within him.
Saito stirred beside him and muttered something.
"Not now," Nick mouthed at him. He drew away from the window and pulled Saito after him. "First we see who else there is."
They skirted the house and found no one until they crossed the sun patio and looked down on the driveway, Then they saw the Royal Roadster and the big staff car. A soldier was patrolling the driveway some yards beyond the two silent vehicles. His eyes were on the house; light spilled from a front window to illuminate the scene for his watchful gaze.
"Enough," Nick muttered. "Get back." They dodged pack along the side of the house toward the storage barns. "Two carloads of 'em, probably scattered all over the plantation. Let's find your men."
"But Lua…"
"Yes. First the men, then Lua. All of us'll have a better chance that way. Including Lua. And Madame."
Saito sucked in his breath and led the way along a long path running past the storage barns to a miniature village.
The dim starlight showed a cluster of dark buildings interspersed with garden plots and fronted by a grassy square. One man patrolled the square. But one man with a submachine gun was enough to hold a squad of unarmed men at bay, especially when they all knew that one clatter from that gun would bring reinforcements running.
They took him with the oldest of tricks — the one that Nick had tried on Lin Tong on the beach outside Saigon. He found a stone and threw it toward the neat, dark houses. It clacked against a hard stone wall and clattered to the ground. The gun swung up; the soldier turned toward the house and stared.
Saito was off and running, apelike and silent on all fours until he reached the grass, then upright as his feet touched its damp softness. The soldier walked slowly away from him toward the fallen stone. Nick slithered toward him in a flanking movement, clutching the one weapon that could be of any use at all if Saito failed.
The big Japanese was halfway across the grass when the soldier shook his head and turned his back to the silent houses. Nick heard a startled grunt and saw the gun swing up against the uniformed shoulder. Saito's tremendous arms were outstretched, ready for the karate attack that could still bring down the soldier, machine gun and all. But he might die in the attempt and there would be noise and there were still seconds and yards left…
Nick swung his practiced arm and threw.
The weapon sang through the air and struck home, horribly. Saito and the soldier seemed to leap apart in three directions. But, in fact, Saito froze where he was and only the soldier leapt apart, in two hideously separated pieces of pulsating flesh. The machete dropped before the head, and the head only toppled when the body crumpled and collapsed in terrible slow motion.
