Nick carter killmaster.., p.1
Nick Carter - Killmaster 002 - The China Doll, page 1
part #2 of Killmaster Series
Annotation
Nick Carter is the top agent of "Axe," America's super-secret intelligence force that reports only to the National Security Council, the Secretary of Defense and the President of the United States. Nick Carter lives by the code of the spy: He is suave… and he is ruthless. Among fellow-agents, he is known as… KILLMASTER
In this exciting new Nick Carter novel, the master-spy is pitted against CLAW, most brutal and subtle of all enemy organizations. He is sent to penetrate the Forbidden City, where no while man has ever set foot, to seek out and destroy the legendary agent who threatens American security. In the climactic scenes, Nick Carter must also make his choice between Yasunara, "Daughter of the Dragon," and Taka, concubine whose Oriental training in the arts of sex are the double-agent's most devastating weapon.
* * *
Nick Carter
They Knew He was Coming
A Crowd of One
Letter from the Lost
Kill Him with Karate
Assignment Death
Hot Time in the Old Town
Comrade
Taka
Of Love and War
Dangerous Encounter
The Forbidden City
The Curious Concubines
The Hand of Claw
The Specialty of the House
Sky Above and the Snakes Below
Farewell, Good Friend
* * *
Nick Carter
Killmaster
The China Doll
Dedicated to The Men of The Secret Services of the United States of America
OCR Mysuli: denlib@tut.by
They Knew He was Coming
KHRUSHCHEV TO VISIT NEW YORK WILL ADDRESS UNITED NATIONS GENERAL ASSEMBLY
There was nothing in the headline or the accompanying story to cause the average New Yorker to do anything but shrug. Some of them, notably cabdrivers and barbers — who thrive on captive audiences — expressed vociferous disapproval, usually starting out with something like: "That bum! Why in the hell should we let him into our country, you tell me that?" Others wondered idly if there would be a repetition of the bad manners of a previous year, when Mr. K had all but thrown a tantrum before a startled assemblage in the East Side palace of peace. But most people simply didn't give a damn. They were bored with Khrushchev and his antics, cold war thaw or no cold war thaw.
On the other hand, there were people who read the brief news story with delighted anticipation, and some who saw in it a signal. In a dozen places throughout the city — flophouse, office, mansion — and several places in another town, hearts beat just a little faster and minds began to buzz with old instructions and new plans.
Nick Carter belonged to the great majority that didn't care, personally, if Khrushchev addressed the General Assembly or Disneyland, if he lived to be a hundred and ten, or if he keeled over with apoplexy the day after tomorrow. He did wonder, though, as any professional would, if trouble was expected.
Nick sat in the spacious living room of his West Side apartment appreciatively sniffing Robyn's elusive perfume and clinking ice in a glass that also contained a good three ounces of very fine Scotch, much finer than anything obtainable in godforsaken Petropavlovsk. His right shoulder still ached with the impact of enemy agent Sven Larson's fist, although he had been treating it very gently with hot baths, melting massages (administered by Robyn in such a way as to make the gods themselves cry out for more), and eight-year-old medication. But though the pain was intermittent hell, the cure was heaven. The blow could have killed a man in less superb condition but the job had been a success, and he was very much alive. Hawk, head of AXE and the only man to whom Nick was accountable, had been worried about the base in the Aleutians and the sudden acquisition of American military information by the Communists. Nick had gone in and found Sven Larson. The hotel room in Petropavlovsk had been the end of the trail on Operation Ice Pack. Larson was no more; special agent Carter had come home to New York for a breather between assignments.
He had spent the last couple of days at the AXE branch office off Columbus Circle. The small brownstone formed little more than a foyer to the complex of linked buildings that housed the operations rooms, communications center, crime lab, and temporary sleeping quarters for AXE men working around the clock. His session with the files and the briefing officer had brought him up to date on current rumor and ugly fact, though J-2 had indicated that Hawk's reason for sticking so closely to Washington Headquarters at this time was a recent upsurge of Red Chinese subversive activity that was still being documented and analysed. Whatever there was that was so Top Secret, Nick would find out when Hawk was ready to tell him.
Tonight was his — his and hers. Tonight he was Nick Carter, private citizen, with little more on his mind than romance, cocktails, dinner, and more romance. And tonight, the girl with eyes like deep blue pools and hair as black as a raven's, was Robyn Tyler, actress-playwright and companion in romance — not the hardbitten Gertrude Miles of the Rand goldfields, nor the shy secretary to importer Lao Tze Tung — but the real and lovely Robyn with the magic voice and melting touch. Actress she may be, but with him she was herself. Petropavlovsk seemed as far away as if it had never existed.
"Nick, honey." Robyn reached over to him and lightly flicked the newspaper to the floor. "Let's not even think about shop. To hell with Khrushchev. Let's think about us. Better still, let's do something about us." Cool fingers brushed his cheek and drifted down past his ear. "Something nice."
Nick grinned and caught her hand. "Like what?" His lips caressed her hand and wrist, and then wandered over her face in amorous exploration.
"Mm-hmm. Like that."
"Just for a start. The main feature comes later." He kissed a long-lashed eyelid and drew back, one eye on his watch. "Fix me a refill, Robyn baby. It's seven o'clock."
"So?" She raised an exquisitely arched eyebrow. "Is seven o'clock refill time? Or do you now throw yourself on the floor and entertain me with your Yoga exercises?"
He laughed. "No, that's not the way I plan to entertain you." He crossed to the television set. "News time. Sorry, but it's part of the ritual. You know that." The set clicked on. Robyn sighed and reached for the ice bucket. She knew the ritual.
Hawk insisted that his operatives keep up with all news developments. There was no knowing when a nugget of information might prove to be the simple key to a complicated case.
Nick took his place beside Robyn on the immense, deep-cushioned sofa and laid a hand on her shapely knee. Bunter and Hinkley faded in on the screen.
"Washington officials agree that in all probability there is no truth to the rumors. Their position is that every visit to our shores by a prominent personality, particularly such a controversial figure as the Soviet Chairman, is bound to be accompanied by a rash of threats and outcries. Nevertheless, precautions will be taken. New York City Police only too well remember the visit of Yugoslavia's Tito — and other more recent and infinitely more disastrous events in another city — and will be constantly on the lookout for disturbances of any kind. And now, here's Pete Hinkley in New York."
Pete Hinkley's measured tones took up the refrain.
"Once again, city officials will be faced with the unpleasant task of shielding an unpopular personality from contact with those who hold personal grudges or fanatically strong political beliefs. Plans have not as yet been announced for the protection of Mr. Khrushchev, but whether or not the rumors have some basis in fact, the task of the city Police and the Security forces of the U.N. will be unenviable."
Nick gave less than half of his mind to the rest of the news. He put his glass down and gently detached Robyn's from her fingers. Her hand crept to his shirtfront and loosened a button. "Unenviable" was right, thought Nick. Thank Heaven it wasn't his problem. Bodyguarding political personages was way out of his field, and he was glad of it. Of course, there had been the case of American Ambassador Harcourt, but that was different. Foreign dignitaries were no concern of his. He had one assignment on hand: Assignment Robyn, the most beautiful brunette in New York.
One after the other, clothes dropped to the floor.
"Hope you're not too hungry, because I have a feeling dinner's going to be late tonight," he murmured, and tasted her earlobe.
"Dinner can wait. It's you I'm hungry for." Her fingers roamed over his bare chest and down his sides. The provocative perfume of her wafted into his nostrils. His senses took possession of the fragrance. His body tingled with the urgent need to possess the compellingly desirable being who smelled and tasted so dangerously wonderful. He pulled her toward him; his probing lips and fingers sought the bared wonders of her lissome body.
"Turn the light out, Nick. Just the one. I want to see you, darling. All of you."
He turned a switch. Only a low light remained to bathe the two beautifully matched human bodies.
Television voices spoke, unheeded.
"Goodnight, Steve."
"Goodnight, Pete."
For a moment the man and woman lay almost motionless beside each other, at least one of them thinking of the night in Dublin when they had discovered how sweet love could be when each partner knew without speech what would please and excite the other. She felt the hard strength and masculine sensuousness of his superbly muscled but limber body; he felt her graceful silky softness, the controlled vigor of her perfect feminine form. Then their lips and bodies met and moved in unison. Th
"Nick… my darling. Ah…"
"Robyn. My love."
Then there was silence but for the quiet movement of their bodies and their rising breath. The television set was a murmur a million miles away. Two bodies undulated in rising passion. He was not gentle with her, nor she with him. They were abandoned, urgent and urging, giving and demanding, for their world was one of danger and they lived each moment to the limits of what it had to give.
He lay beneath her, muscular arms encircling her and holding her strength to him. Her breasts seemed to melt into his chest and her long dark hair caressed his face. They lay for moments, he taking what she gave, both hungry bodies pulsing. Then he turned so that she lay trapped beneath him, begging wordlessly to be lifted to that exquisite peak of voluptuous frenzy where only he could take her. She demanded, and he gave; he demanded, and he took. A sudden mutual surge, the ultimate contact, and they clung together rejoicing in the sweet, singing sharpness of absolute and perfect union. He closed his eyes and released his strength and breath. Robyn gave a tiny moan, and sighed.
It would be like this, he thought happily, as he stroked her hair and felt her warm breath on his face, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. There was no need to think of anything but her. To hell, indeed, with Khrushchev. To hell with all the distant, unimportant problems in the world. None of them had anything to do with him.
And then the phone rang.
* * *
The checkered cab picked its way through the Washington traffic from Dulles Airport to the heart of the nation's capital. Nick paid off the driver on 14th Street and walked several blocks to a quiet bar where he made one swift phone call and drank one swift drink. His first reaction to J-2's guarded call had been one of fierce resentment, but that had given way to curiosity when the agent-chauffeur from AXE had whisked him to Newark Airport and seen him aboard a Washington-bound plane. There were no instructions except that Hawk had requested Carter's immediate presence at Headquarters.
Nick left the bar and took a second cab to the building on Dupont Circle.
Hawk was waiting for him in the sixth-floor offices of the Amalgamated Press and Wire Service. In shirtsleeves, pencil behind right ear and sheaf of papers in hand, he looked for all the world like the tough and stringy editor of a small-town newspaper. But the small-town air was pure deception. His crisp voice rose above the clatter of the teletypes.
"Time you got here. Let's go into my office. How's the shoulder?"
"Fine." Nick pulled up a chair and sat down. "What's the emergency?"
Hawk opened a drawer and took out a cigar.
"You may not like this one," he said. "It's hometown stuff, and it's not quite up your alley."
Nick raised his eyebrows. "Then why give it to me? I don't mind a change of alley, but hasn't our policy always been to live one place and work another? And if it's not quite in my field, maybe someone else is better equipped to handle it."
The head of AXE stared coldly at him. "Oddly enough, those thoughts have already occurred to me. Do I take it that you're turning down the assignment before you know what it is?"
"No." Nick shook his head and reached for a cigarette. Hawk always had a field day with elaborate answers. Let him do the talking.
There was a brief silence while Hawk waited for Nick to bluster and Nick waited for Hawk to explain. He wondered why Hawk was playing this testing game with him. It was, as a rule, a stalling device, like his lectures on subversion or deadly poisons, to postpone saying something he didn't much want to say.
Nick realised what the answer was: this assignment was going to be a bastard.
Hawk lit his cigar and puffed at it.
"Khrushvhev's coming to New York, as you know," he began. "You've probably also heard the rumors about an assassination plot. You haven't?" He stopped.
"Not really. I've heard rumors about rumors, but no mention of a plot. In fact, the word 'assassination' wasn't used. I gathered it was the usual sort of thing — hated Communist leader, threats of vengeance from all sides, and then pphhht! Nothing but pickets and scuffles."
"Well, I hope it'll be pphhht this time too," the old man said drily. "But we have reason to believe we're in for trouble. We've been getting reports — mostly from Cuba — that if Khrushchev came to the States again an attempt would be made to assassinate him."
"By whom? Free Cubans? Obviously not just some outraged individual, or you wouldn't have had reports on it. An American group?"
"I don't know," said Hawk testily. "If I did, you probably wouldn't be sitting here right now. All I can tell you is this: For several months, brief, non-explicit reports have been coming in regarding some vague plan to assassinate Khrushchev in the United States. That's all we know. In a way it's nothing, and in a way it's a great deal. What is important is the way these reports have been persisting. They keep coming. We hear it from our man in Cuba, we hear it from refugees, and we get it occasionally from news editors in Asia. We can't discount the story.
"And it's not just its persistence that interests us. There are two other facts that are of vital importance: one, most of these rumors originate in Cuba, which is not exactly our staunchest ally and which is tending these days toward a very hardline Communism. Two, the plan apparently calls for Khrushchev to be not in China, not in Cuba, not anywhere but in the United States, and almost certainly in New York. Unless he is invited to other parts of the country, his reason for coming at all is to attend the opening meetings of the U.N. Precisely what he's planning to do."
"I take it, then," said Nick thoughtfully, "that you think the plan has a dual objective — getting rid of Khrushchev, and putting either the U.S. or the U.N. in a bad light. Maybe both the U.S. and the U.N."
"That's about it," Hawk nodded. "The result could mean the end of the world organization. It could even mean the end of the world. Almost certainly, if Russia feels the United States is responsible, deliberately or otherwise, for the death of the Soviet Premier, there will either be a cold war so cold that we will freeze to death or there will be a hot war that'll finish us all."
"I expect you're right," said Nick. "But that wouldn't make sense. They wouldn't gain anything by it."
"It's not a question of sense. Whoever takes over from K is going to have to show his toughness and 'avenge' the murder. Russia couldn't afford to lose face by not going to war. We've had a number of far less serious incidents that have taken us dangerously close to disaster. No, don't look for sense." Hawk chewed at his cigar. "International politics is like a ballgame played on a minefield. Both sides insist on playing until one of them blows up. And if they both go, well — they know they're taking the other side with them. No, I think if the attempt is successful, we can look forward to a constant downhill slide in our relations with Russia that'll be impossible to stop. So we stop it now. We can't, under any circumstances, let anything happen to Khrushchev. I don't care if he drops dead ten minutes after he gets back to Moscow as long as he's all right while he's in our hands."
"Not so sure about that, either." Nick shook his head. "Granted, the problem would be a lesser one if his death couldn't be blamed on us. But we could still be deep in trouble. Who's next, after K? Another Stalin, maybe? Uh-uh. Better the devil we know." He dug into his pocket for a Players cigarette. "But who stands to gain the most from assassinating Khrushchev? It's just possible that it isn't anyone thinking in terms of war at all. Fanatics don't always think of the end result. It could be a Fascist group. It could be a group of honest — stupid but honest — anti-Communists. It could be a Cuban crowd, disenchanted with Russia and particularly Khrushchev. It could be a rival Communist group, Chinese or even Russian. What a dandy way for an ambitious Russian to come into power! If he wasn't afraid of war, of course."
"That's exactly it," said Hawk. "Maybe that's our answer. But there's no point in any more theorizing. We have to get more facts, and we have to protect Khrushchev. Fortunately we have a little time. Before we get down to business I would just like you to file away in your mind a couple of items. One is the amazing speed with which the news media picked up the story of an assassination attempt, which has so far been confined to our own files. Someone leaked it at this curiously appropriate time. The leak didn't come from our side. The other thing that you might chew on is the present icy snap in the cold war. You'll remember that the hand-holding stopped along with those incidents on the Autobahn. Since then things have been getting even worse because of manufactured incidents, calculated to cause friction between the United States and Russia. We must not have any more of them. Least of all one so monstrous as a successful attack on Khrushchev."
