Web of spies km 011, p.1
Web of Spies (KM 011), page 1
part #11 of Killmaster Series
Web of Spies (1966)
(Book 11 in the Killmaster series)
Version 0.9
Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America
Chapter 1
THE BLACK CARD
His weapons had been sent on to Tangier in a sealed diplomatic pouch. As the big jet approached the African coast now, and the sun-washed blob of white began to resolve into individual buildings of the old and new towns, with the medinah cascading down the hills to fall into the harbor, Nick Carter felt a trifle naked. Carrying the Luger and the stiletto and the little gas bomb had come to be second nature. But Hawk, his chief, had decreed against it! This was a super-ticklish mission of supreme importance and nothing must go wrong. It would go wrong, of course! It always did! But every possible contingency must be guarded against nonetheless. N3 was to go through Customs in the normal way, as speedily as possible, and make his contact with Gay Lord.
Gay! There was a honey of a girl for you! Nick grinned slightly, and a trifle sadly, as he fastened his seatbelt and watched the NO SMOKING sign light up. Careful to preserve the vacuous, half-drunken look on his florid round face, he let his mind slip back a few years. Five years.
The last time he had seen the tall, blonde Gay Lord had been in Hong Kong. They had made some pretty terrific music together—though the midnight swim at a Victoria beach, and the subsequent shacking up in the Wan Chai district could have been disastrous for both of them! They were both working, though on different cases, and hadn’t dared to be seen together. Yet the hot attraction of their individual chemistries had been too much to bear! They had settled for a cheap room in a cheap hotel in the Wan Chai—on the same night the police decided the Purple Dragon Hotel was a den of dope sellers and needed raiding!
Nick’s grin widened. It was amusing now, though not so much at the time. He and Gay racing madly across roofs, he in his shorts and she in only panties and a garter belt, each clutching their clothes to naked breasts! Nick’s grin began to fade and he winced inwardly. If Hawk had ever found out about that! Still, what the Old Man didn’t know couldn’t hurt!
He wondered if Gay Lord was still as lovely as ever. Five years could make a difference, especially in their profession.
One thing—they were both older and wiser now. They had to be—they were both still alive!
“M’sieur Hughes—you ‘ave not yet autograph my book!”
It was the stewardess, a trim French girl, standing by his seat and extending a book with a garish red and yellow dust jacket. She smiled down at him, her round, soft thigh pressing against his elbow. He was a little old, this writer Americain, a little stooped and pudgy, but for all that he was tres distingue. The author of the newest American best-seller, and no doubt rolling in royalties. Nicole half hoped he would ask her out to dinner that night, as she had a lay-over. It might be fun—if he were sober! Because M’sieur Hughes was a drinker formidable! Le Hughes was, in fact, a drunk! But Nicole still hoped he would ask her to dinner. A girl never knew …
Nick Carter, N3, who held the highest rank, that of KILLMASTER, in AXE, forgot the past and came rapidly back to the present. His cover was elaborate and very costly and had been a long time in the making. It must be preserved at all costs. He assumed a slightly idiotic expression and reached for the novel. The book was shiny new and still uncut and smelled of the presses.
“Sure, honey,” he told the stewardess. “Glad to do it.” He patted her soft thigh, a little surprised that she did not flinch away. “I’m happy to oblige. And maybe you’ll oblige me too, huh?” Nick held up his thumb and forefinger, an inch apart. “You suppose I got time for a little quickie before we land? A wee nip? Some more of that Fundador stuff, maybe? I’m going to Spain, you know, and I better get used to their booze!” He laughed too loudly and heads turned.
The girl was doubtful for a moment, then she bent to whisper. Her leg pressed harder against his arm. “For you, M’sieur Hughes! A small one only. I will huiTy.” She glided away, small tight buttocks twitching provocatively beneath the tight-fitting uniform.
Nick opened the book and wrote his “cover” name on the flyleaf. Best wishes and thanks for a pleasant trip—Kenneth Ludwell Hughes.
Nick turned the book over and looked at the photograph on the back of the dust jacket. He wanted to smile derisively, but didn’t. He was “in character” and that way he must stay. You never knew who was watching you, trying to read your face or your lips. But the picture did amuse him. He was dressed in tweeds, smoking a pipe and leaning against a mantelpiece. He looked much as he looked now, with graying temples and a grizzled little moustache, and the rubber in his cheeks to broaden his face. He was stooped and wore the rimless pince nez with the broad, black ribbon fastened to his lapel. (Those damned glasses were inconvenient and hurt his nose. As soon as he got to Spain he would get rid of them and wear dark sunglasses instead. Most of the other writers and artists on the Costa Brava would be doing the same, so he wouldn’t be conspicuous.)
Yes—the cover was both elaborate and expensive. Hawk had been saving this bit for a long time, waiting for just the right mission. The book had been written by a professional, long before, and kept updated. Dummy ads had been planted in the book sections of major papers across the United States, The New York Times included. There had been cocktail parties and radio and TV interviews and, on publication day, an actual press run of five thousand copies. All paid for by AXE. It was a good cover and now he must live up to it. Play the role to the hilt. He was a weary, middle-aged, freelance writer who had hit the jackpot at last. Had written a best-seller, shortly to be made into a movie—so the false ads lied—and he was off to the Costa Brava in Spain to do a little drinking and start his next book.
The stewardess came back with Nick’s Spanish brandy. He drank it down and smiled at her. “Merci, honey. That was good.” He pronounced it mercy, playing the role of midwestern hick to the end. During the trip he had carefully screened his fellow passengers, and found nothing to alert him. They had paid little attention to him. He had established his character as the plane drunk early, and they had been tolerant if not friendly. Which suited N3 to perfection.
The big jet ghosted down. The nose wheel screamed and smoked blue on sun smitten concrete. Nick took his portable typewriter from under the seat. The last drink had made him a little woozy. He had a very high tolerance for alcohol, and the AXE doctors had given him some pills to offset the effects of heavy drinking, but playing the part of a drunk without being drunk is not easy. He was going to have to dump a lot of drinks, water a lot of plants with the sauce, if he was to stay on his feet and alert.
Still in character, he pinched the stewardess as he left the plane. She smiled at him, not angry, and in fact looked a little disappointed. “Goodbye, M’sieur Hughes,” she called after him. “Sank you for the book. I ‘ope we meet again.”
Women are odd creatures, Nick thought as he waited near Customs for his baggage. He had given the girl every right to scold him, even to slap him, yet she had done neither. Had in fact seemed disappointed. What had she expected? That he would try to date her?
He stared into the plate glass window of a shop, studying the image of Kenneth Ludwell Hughes, writer. What did the old phony have that attracted pretty girls to him? Hard to say. He was tall enough, but stoop-shouldered and the gray orlon suit did not fit well. The snapbrim felt might have added a certain dash, a touch of elan, had he not worn it squarely on his head and pulled down low on his forehead. His face was fattened by the rubber pieces, and made florid by the booze. Over his eyes—of ordinary glass with no magnifying power—were brown contact lenses that lent him a wistful, and washed-out, appearance. The moustache was a salt and pepper grizzle—a masterpiece from AXE’s makeup department and guaranteed for a month. No—there was nothing much about Kenneth Ludwell Hughes to attract pretty young women. Except money and, possibly, the smell of success. Nick sighed. It was unpleasant even when his alter ego made a fool of himself! Perhaps one day he and the little stewardess could meet on more even terms.
In the meantime there was the mission. Mission Sappho! Job—to kidnap a distinguished English Lesbian, a famous scientist, who had already been kidnapped by the Russians and didn’t know it!
All the time Nick had been thinking, he had been watching. Behind the brown contact lenses his eyes roved and sought for danger and found none. The cover was holding up so far. As well it should. AXE had gone to great pains to ensure that it did.
A porter in a ragged brown djellaba plunked a huge suitcase down before Nick. The man was frail, panting now from exertion. Against the merciless sun he wore a tattered red chicia. His few teeth were stained a deep shade of walnut and the sickly sweet effluvia of kif clung to him. He leaned close to Nick Carter and spoke in a harsh whisper.
“I think this is yours, old man. Rhino hide, and the stickers are arranged properly. But what is it that you’re going to give the poor people for Boxing Day?”
Nick took out a briar pipe and began to stuff it with rough cut. Damn! Something had gone wrong already! This was a prearranged, just in case procedure—in case something happened to Gay Lord and she could not meet him as planned.
He held a match to the pipe and, without looking directly at the man, mumbled, “Cany Nation is going to give them the axe on Boxing Day!”
“That’s the right answer,” said the ragged Arab. “You win the bleeding coconut, old chap. I’m Rogers, of M.I. 5. Things have gone just a bit screwy so I was told to mee
Nick produced his wallet and a handful of Moroccan francs and waved them about in the air. “I’m not supposed to know any Arabic,” he whispered. “I’ll have to cuss you out in English.”
“That will do fine,” said Rogers of M.I. 5. He raised his scrawny arms and called on the world and Allah to witness that the rich American effendi was trying to cheat him. He, Ahmed, who had ten children to feed, with yet another on the way! The effendi was indeed the spawn of a diseased camel!
“You’re a goddamned’ lying little thief,” Nick shouted hoarsely. He waved the franc notes in the air. “A hundred francs for carrying a little suitcase a hundred yards! You’re out of your cotton picking mind! I won’t pay it! You take ten francs or nothing!”
There was an occasional smile and chuckle from the passers-by. Nothing more. No one was interested.
Nick, by holding his breath, managed to appear beet red with rage. “What’s up? Has the travel agency blown up?” Gay Lord ran a travel agency in Tangier as her legitimate cover.
Rogers danced about in rage. He kicked at the huge suitcase and yelped in pain, holding his dirty toe. “Not exactly blown up. At least not yet. But they got a black spider in the mail, old man, and that’s bad! Sort of like the jolly old black spot, you know. So we got together, your chaps and ours, and decided the owner had better n6t travel at the moment. If she’s blown you can’t be seen within miles of her, in any case. My orders are to tell you this, fill you in, and then you’re to run along to a ruddy hotel, or whatever, and take it from there. And we’ve done our act enough for now—I’ll meet you on the other side of Customs.”
Nick Carter, as Kenneth Ludwell Hughes, got through Customs with no difficulty. The huge old rhino-hide suitcase excited comment, but only about its size. The inspection of its contents was brief and cursory, which was as well. Gladstone, as Nick called the suitcase, was something very special. There were a dozen secret compartments cunningly built into it. It could be locked and a mechanism set that would sound an alarm and spew a would-be burglar with tear gas. Nick took it with him wherever he possibly could. Now he breathed a sigh of relief as a native policeman, watched by a French Customs official, scrawled a clearance in chalk.
The French officer smiled at Nick. “Passeport, s’il vous plait?”
Nick handed him the shiny new little book with the picture of Hughes, author, in it. The passport was a work of art, turned out in AXE’s own studios.
The officer stamped the passport and handed it back to Nick without comment. He turned to the next in line, a tired-faced woman dressed all in black. “Passeport, s’il vous plait?”
As Nick lugged the typewriter and big suitcase out to the taxi rank, fighting off a dozen other porters in djebbalas of every hue and condition, he was thinking fast. And not liking his thoughts. Gay Lord was in some sort of trouble, that much was clear. Pretty bad trouble, otherwise the British would not have stepped in. The British had every right to be in, of course, because it was their baby to begin with—Mission Sappho. They had asked AXE for help, pleading a scarcity of expert and experienced agents. This, Nick knew, was only too true. The British had been having it rough lately. Half a dozen of their prime networks had been blown; four of their top agents had been compromised and another one killed. They had asked the CIA for help and the CIA, in this particular case, had passed it on to AXE. This meant only one thing—killing was involved! Just who, and how, Nick did not yet know.
That was just the trouble! He knew damned little! Gay Lord was the one who knew, and she had been supposed to pass it on to him. Now he was warned to stay away from her! Go it on his own. The flaccid features of Mr. Hughes tightened. For a split instant Nick was out of character. Damned if he’d just calmly take their word for it and bypass Gay! Anyway if she was in trouble she might also be in danger! Sure to be! He had no idea what getting a black spider in the mail was supposed to mean—AXE agents were loners, usually, and their missions did not overlap. And no agent was told more than he must absolutely know to do his job. Torture would make any man talk, in the end, and though Nick did not himself carry the cyanide pill, he knew its value. And the wisdom of AXE policy that no agent ever know another agent’s business! Still this was an exception—if Gay was in danger he was going to help her! If he could. And it was no damned business of the Limeys’ either!
The ragged Arab was waiting at the taxi rank. He seized Nick’s bag and portable and hurled them into the taxi. The driver, a fat Frenchman with the swarthiness of Arab blood in his face, sat waiting patiently while Nick and Rogers resumed their haggling.
Nick pressed twenty francs into Rogers’ filthy sweating palm.
“Here, you bandit! That all you get! All of it—all—all—”
“Christian dog,” said Rogers in fluent Arabic that Nick was not supposed to understand. “Pig of an unbeliever! A thousand sacks of camel shit! The rich rob the poor!”
The taxi driver smiled in sympathy. The American sonofabitch obviously did not understand Arabic.
To the driver Nick said: “The Minzah. Hurry.” It was the most luxurious hotel in Tangiers. The driver nodded. A rich one, this American.
The Arab let out a scream of rage. “The Minzah! This dog stays at the Minzah, fit only for Sultans, yet he steals bread from the mouths of my children. Allah strike him!”
Nick leaned close to him. “Where did this order originate— to stay away from the travel agency? Washington or your people?” The answer would be important.
“Washington,” Rogers whispered. “Your Johnnies! Most urgent and important. Stay away and go on your own. That’s all I was told. Good luck, old man. Better get on now—this damned airport has a thousand eyes!”
“Thanks,” said Nick. “I’ll probably need the luck.” He tossed another twenty franc note to the Arab. “There, you bandit. Go feed your mangy kids.” He climbed into the taxi and was driven away. He glanced out the rear window and saw Rogers, the Arab, still cursing him. He never saw him again.
At the Minzah he took a suite instead of a mere room, as befitting a nouveau riche American writer, and carefully locked the doors. He made a routine check for bugs and found none. Hadn’t expected any. His cover was good and he expected it to hold up for a time. Perhaps a long time. If he stayed away from Gay Lord!
He showered and changed into a fresh suit and shirt, then went out. He walked a little way from the hotel, checking back on his trail. No one was dogging him. Either that or they were so expert it was no good trying to fool them anyway. After a time he caught a taxi, letting the first three empties pass him. Rogers would have picked a safe cab at (tie airport, but Nick alone in Tangiers had to be more careful.
He went to the Rue d’Amerique and into a handsome building on which was a bronze plaque reading: Etats-Unis—Estados Unidos—United States Legation.
A somewhat puzzled clerk with a pasty indoor complexion gave him a small pouch of opaque plastic. Nick signed for it and said goodbye. He felt the clerk’s eyes on him as he left. Mr. Kenneth Ludwell Hughes permitted himself a small grin. It was rather an unorthodox diplomatic pouch at that—one stripped down 9mm Luger, with four extra clips; one small stiletto, made by Cellini over four hundred years ago and as sharp and deadly now as it had been then; one small pellet, nicknamed Pierre and about the size of a Ping-pong ball and cariying a lethal load of an odorless killing gas.
Just the heft of the weapons in the opaque pouch made him feel better. Not so naked. He would have liked to walk awhile, to stretch his legs and explore a bit. He had not been in Tangier for a long time and there was much that was new. Since he was going into Spain he had thought to go down to the harbor and loaf about in some of the Spanish cafes and get the sound of the language in his ears again. It had also been a long time since he had been in Spain. The way this divided world was spinning at present, most of his recent assignments had been in the Near and Far East.
He did stop at a small bar in a dingy street off the Place de France and have coffee and a fine. He left the fine after only one sip. He was over the drunk feeling now—indeed he had never been drunk, only woozy, but it was a relief not to have to play the part of a lush for a little time.
