Double Identity

Chapter 1 Peep Show

From modern Peking Airport to the center of the ancient Forbidden City is about forty kilometers. That is the linear distance. Reckoned in terms of time, or in any other possible fourth dimension a traveler might conjure up, it could as easily be forty millenniums! Once through the busy Outer City where tall chimneys belch clouds of smoke and long rows of new apartments remind one strangely of Los Angeles — white stucco and red tile — the traveler can enter into the comparative peace and quiet of the Purple City. Beyond this, at the very center of the great yellow web that is China, is the Imperial City. Or, as the masters of China today prefer to call it, the Tartar City.

Wang-wei, Chief of Coordination of Chinese Secret Services, glanced impatiently at the watch on his slim wrist. It would never do to be late to this conference! The Celestial Twins — upon occasion Wang-wei permitted himself a sense of humor — the Twins themselves had summoned him. Mao and Chou.

Wang-wei glanced at his watch again and muttered impatiently to the driver of the small, black, Russian-built sedan, “Faster! T’ung-chih!”

The driver nodded and prodded the car. Wang-wei’s well-manicured nails played a busy tattoo on his pigskin briefcase, that inevitable badge of officialdom. He was a neat little man in his early fifties with a thin, sardonic copper-skinned face. He wore dark trousers and handsome British-made shoes and a black high-buttoned blouse in the para-military style. Because of the nip in the bright October day, he was wearing a conservative sport jacket. He was hatless, his graying hair neatly en brosse. Wang-wei was handsome and well preserved for his age, and he was vain of it.

The black car sped through a series of gates and came to T’ien An Men, the entrance to the Tartar City. Here, surrounded by golden-tiled roofs, was a large public square. The driver slowed and glanced back at Wang-wei for instructions.

For a moment Wang-wei paid him no attention. He was thinking that it would be a pity if he could not see his mistress, Sessi-yu, while he was in Peking. His eyes narrowed and he felt his loins stir as he thought of Sessi-yu and her Golden Lotus! What a Lotus it was — almost a thing apart from herself, an entity well versed in the tender arts, rich with the lore of ten thousand years of exquisite venery.

The driver grunted something, and Wang-wei returned to the mundane world. He had best keep his wits about him for the next few hours. Soon now he would find out what the Celestial Twins wanted with himself — and with his prize Turtle.

Across the square stood two drab government office buildings. Between them was a compound fenced by a high, blue-painted wall. Wang-wei left the car and entered the compound through a wooden gate guarded by a soldier of the Security Troops. The man carried a tommy gun slung over his shoulder. He scowled at the pass Wang-wei showed him, but waved him in.

It was very quiet in the compound. An ancient house, three-storied with a tiled roof and curved eaves in Old China style, stood in the center of the compound. For a moment Wang-wei stood and surveyed the house with an enigmatic little smile. Even had he not been quite familiar with it, he would have known from the style of architecture and the curvature of the eaves that it was a house of felicity. Many spirits had been consulted before it was built in this exact spot.

Another tommy-gunbearing guard came down a graveled path to meet him. Wang-wei displayed his pass again, after which he was escorted into the house and upstairs to a small anteroom on the third floor.

Because he had been ushered to this particular room Wang-wei knew that something very special was up. The main room, just beyond the sliding door of saffron paper, was a very special room indeed. Wang-wei had visited it many times before on both business and pleasure. It was, in a very real sense, his room! A mainstay of his work when he was in Peking. That the Twins had chosen it for this meeting meant that something of vast importance was afoot!

Wang-wei allowed himself to guess. Counter-espionage? Wang-wei permitted himself a small dry smile. What else? His Turtle, Turtle Nine, had also been brought to this place. Was probably downstairs at this very moment. Turtle Nine, so carefully groomed for so many years. So well trained. So meticulously indoctrinated and brainwashed. And, less than a year ago, the skillful plastic surgery! Wang-wei permitted his smile to become full blown. He was right. He must be right. They were going to use Turtle Nine at last. Use him on the one mission for which he had been trained for years.

The saffron paper door slid back with a hiss. A high ranking officer crooked a finger at Wang-wei. “Come,” said the officer in a soft Cantonese accent, “you are wanted.” He closed the paper door after Wang-wei, but did not follow him into the large rectangular room.

Wang-wei hesitated a moment at the entrance, clutching his briefcase to his narrow chest. He glanced down at the floor and felt the same start of surprise he always did, even though he had been in the room many times. The floor was of clear glass, looking into a large apartment below. It was, in effect, nothing more than a huge two-way mirror of the type used for peep shows — and spying — the World over. From below it appeared that the ceiling was a mirror intended for obvious uses.

At the far end of the room two men sat in comfortable chairs. On a low table between them were tea things and a bottle each of whisky and soda. There were glasses and ashtrays, but neither of the men was smoking or drinking. Both of them stared at the newcomer with interest.

The oldest of the men, a round little fat man with the bland face of a Buddha — which, in a modern version, he sometimes supposed himself to be — waved to a third chair and said, “Come, Wang-wei. Sit down. Things are about to start. We have only been waiting for you.”

As Wang-wei sank into the armchair he was aware of cynical amusement in the dark eyes of the other man. He had not yet spoken, this man. He was younger than the Buddha type, thinner, healthier looking. His dark hair was thick and glossy and blazed at the temples with a tinge of gray. Now he leaned forward, well-kept hands on his knees and smiled at Wang-wei. “So — it is the little Master of the Turtles! And how are all your slimy charges keeping these days, comrade?”

Wang-wei’s answering smile was nervous. He knew that Chou had never liked him, that he questioned Wang-wei’s competence for the high and important office he held. And that name— Turtle Master! Only Chou ever dared to taunt him with that. But then Chou could do pretty well as he liked — he was heir apparent.

Wang-wei kept his face impassive and, with an inward prayer that Mao’s decaying kidneys would hold out forever, he snapped open his briefcase and extracted a thick sheaf of papers. As he did so he glanced down through the glass floor into the apartment below. There was activity down there now, but nothing important. Merely a servant turning on soft lights and arranging bottles and glasses on a little bamboo bar in one corner.

Chou saw his glance and chuckled. “Not yet, Master of Turtles. The fun hasn’t started yet I hope you’re up to it. It might be a little bloody, you know. And if the blood turns out to be your Turtle’s—”

The Buddha type waggled a fat finger at Chou. “Enough!

Save your jokes for later. With all that I have on my shoulders I have come, in person, to see this thing. I am almost convinced that it will work — almost, but not quite. So let us get on with it.” He turned to Wang-wei. “What of this Turtle Nine of yours?” The fat little man tapped some papers on the table. “I know much of him already, but I wish to hear it from your lips. It is you, after all, who bears the ultimate responsibility.”

Wang-wei did not like the sound of that, nor the glint in Chou’s obsidian eyes, but he was helpless. It was not his plan, only his Turtle, yet he was to be held responsible! With an inward sigh of resignation he riffled through his sheaf of papers. He began to read in his harsh, clipped north China accent:

“Turtle Nine”—name is William Martin. Born and raised in Indianapolis, Indiana, USA. Nineteen when captured in Korea. Now thirty-three. Listed by the Americans as dead in action. Death insurance paid his widow, who is now re-married and lives in a town called Wheeling, West Virginia. There were no children. This Turtle has always had Number One status, has always been highly cooperative. He is considered completely trustworthy and—”

“Considered trustworthy by whom?” Chou leaned to stare at Wang-wei, his mobile lips curled in a half-smile.

Wang-wei flushed. “By me, sir! This Turtle has been a prisoner now for fourteen years and, though I have not had charge of his training all that time, I will stake my life that he is the best Turtle we have.”

Chou leaned back in his chair. “That is exactly what you are doing, little Master of Turtles.”

Mao made an impatient gesture. “Never mind all the details, Wang-wei! Get on with it. This Turtle has been subjected to all the usual procedures?”

Wang-wei ran his finger down a typed page. “Yes, Comrade Leader. He has been completely re-educated! That, of course, was done long ago. He is now politically reliable, has been for years.”

Chou crossed his legs and lit a long Russian cigarette. He winked at Wang-wei. “What the Americans crudely describe as brainwashed?”

Wang-wei ignored him. He focused his attention on the Buddha, the father figure of all China. The fat man was frowning now. He plucked at a petulant little mouth with a finger. “There is something I do not understand — why has this Turtle Nine never been used before? As I understand it you number these Turtles in the order of their capture? So this particular Turtle, this William Martin, was the ninth American soldier captured in Korea?”

“That is true, Comrade Leader.”

Mao frowned. “Then I ask — why has he never been used before if he is so reliable? Nineteen fifty-one was a long time ago — you must have taken many Turtles since then, yes? One is a little, er, surprised at the life span of this Turtle.”

It was a tight bind and none the less so because Wang-wei had half-expected the question and had prepared for it. Turtle Nine had been around a long time. The plain truth was that Turtle Nine was a handsome and superbly built specimen and had long ago taken the eye of a very high ranking official in another department. This aging official, enamored of the young man, had made it worth Wang-wei’s while to keep Turtle Nine at home and safe. As simple as that, really, yet it was not a thing he could tell the Buddha figure. Hardly. Mao was a strict puritan; he had had men shot for lesser perversions.

Wang-wei launched into his prepared story. Turtle Nine was of much value in instructing other Turtles. He had, also, suffered a series of illnesses. Lastly, and most important, Turtle Nine had been saved for a really important job, a mission of the first rank, such as that now at hand.

Mao appeared to accept this. Chou shot an ironic glance at Wang-wei with his dark eyes and contented himself with saying, “One sometimes wonders if you allow yourself to become attached to the Turtles, Wang-wei?”

Wang-wei forced a hard laugh from his thin lips. “With all proper respect, Comrade, that is ridiculous!” He made a little moue of distaste. “They are, after all, Turtles!” It was enough, his expression seemed to say. In China there is nothing lower than a turtle! It is a mark of disgrace and a deadly insult, to call a man a turtle. It was quite natural that the captured Americans, those chosen for re-education and brainwashing, should be so called. At the moment Wang-wei had over a hundred such Turtles in his cage.

Mao consulted his papers again. “Turtle Nine has undergone deep hypnosis, yes? He is a good subject?”

Wang-wei nodded. “The very best, Comrade Leader. He is in hypnosis at the moment. He will not be so again until he reaches Peshawar. Only our agent there, Turtle Nine’s control, can trigger him. She is now awaiting his arrival to put Segment One of Dragon Plan into operation.”

Chou grinned at Wang-wei. “Our agent in Peshawar is a woman?”

“Yes, Comrade. An American girl. A member of their Peace Corps who is sympathetic to us.”

“But why a woman?” Mao stared intently at Wang-wei, a frown on his chubby features.

Wang-wei explained, his coppery face intent, ignoring Chou’s knowing smile. “We thought it best, Comrade. For many reasons. First the American woman is on the spot, the most strategic spot, exactly where we want her — in Peshawar at the mouth of the Khyber Pass. She really works for the Peace Corps — she is quite genuine. Another thing of importance is that she is known to be promiscuous, she has had many lovers, and one more will excite no comment. But most important is that Turtle Nine’s hypnosis has been sexually oriented. He will, er, react only to commands given in a certain manner and in a certain place.”

This latter had been Wang-wei’s own idea and he was quite proud of it.

Chou, always a little faster on the uptake than his master, looked at Wang-wei with a grin. “What could be more secret than a lady’s bedroom, eh?”

“Exactly, Comrade.”

Mao held up a hand for silence. He picked up a sheet of paper and looked at it “So much for that. I presume you people know what you are doing. You had better! Now— this Turtle Nine has also undergone extensive plastic surgery in the past year?”

“True, Comrade Leader.”

Mao stared at Wang-wei with round, cold little eyes. “It was a success, this surgery? And also the special training? The personality indoctrination? This Turtle Nine now is a double for the AXE agent, Nick Carter? He looks and walks and talks like Nick Carter?”

Wang-wei hitched his chair a little closer to the throne. He was on firm ground now. “Comrade Leader,” he said, “Turtle Nine even thinks like Nick Carter! He thinks he is Nick Carter! The one called Killmaster. At the moment, that is. Before he starts his journey he will, of course, be de-controlled. Until he reaches Peshawar. Our agent there, the American woman, will be able to trigger him back into full hypnosis at any time. He will then assume, as planned, the full identity of Nick Carter, of this Killmaster.”

Mao picked at his mouth. “Just how familiar are you with the details of Dragon Plan?”

Wang-wei shrugged in a courteous manner. It was not wise to appear too knowledgeable. He could guess most of it, naturally, but that was kept to himself.

He said: “My own part mostly, Comrade Leader, as is natural. I have had Turtle Nine under close personal supervision for the last six months. He has studied films and pictures of the real Nick Carter. Also records of the man’s voice which we had to beg from the Russians — they did not wish to share with us.”

Chou, in a malevolent voice, said, “The Russians — they are also turtles!”

Wang-wei continued, “Turtle Nine now dresses as Nick Carter. In what the English call conservative good taste. His haircut is the same, and all his personal belongings, as nearly as we could come. He has been trained in the use of this agent’s weapons — a 9mm Luger, stripped down, and a throwing stiletto which the real Nick Carter carries in a sheath on his right forearm. He will, under the controlled hypnosis, be as ruthless and as deadly a killer as the real AXE man.”

“And that,” interrupted Chou, “is as deadly as you can get. The man is a fiancé I hear. Nothing of paper about this one! If your Turtle can kill him, Wang-wei, you will be doing all of us a great service. The Russians, those fools, have been trying for years without success.”

Again Mao lifted a pudgy hand. “That is all true, of course. This Nick Carter is worth a dozen divisions to the West. He must be killed, naturally. That is Segment Two of Dragon Plan. But Segment One is still the most important — the war between India and Pakistan must go on! There must be no cease-fire! If, despite all our efforts, there is a cease-fire it must be continuously violated — by both sides. That, of course, is the essence of Segment One of Dragon Plan — to keep the pot boiling! When both India and Pakistan have exhausted themselves, then we will know what to do.”

Chou said, in a soft voice, “And Segment Two, I believe, is to lure the real Nick Carter? To draw him into following the double, the Turtle, and then kill him? Dispose of Killmaster once and for all?”

Wang-wei nodded. “That is so. Comrade. At least we hope so. We are counting on the AXE organization’s learning that their precious Nick Carter has a double who is working against them. We think that then AXE will send the real Carter to find the double and dispose of him— only we hope it will be the other way around.”

Chou smiled. “I hope you are right, Wang-wei. For your own sake.”

The Buddha type played patty-cake with his fat hands. “That should be amusing— Nick Carter killing Nick Carter! Too bad that it will probably take place in some obscure corner of the world where we cannot watch it.”

Wang-wei smiled and nodded. Then he pointed down through the glass floor. “They are starting, Comrade Leader. Now you will see my Turtle Nine in action. Four men will try to kill him as he makes love to a woman. My Turtle knows nothing of this, of course. He thinks this is routine, all a part of his privilege day for good behavior. My senior Turtles, you know, have a day off every week for, er, for relaxation.”

Chou gave an oily chuckle. “You are indeed a great one for euphemism, Turtle Master. And I will tell you something else, my little friend. You are a liar and a hypocrite! You have staged these peep shows many times in the past — and always you pretend to be bored with them. You even seem to disapprove of your own methods, as though they were not quite moral.” Chou lit another of his long cigarettes. “Do you know, Master of Turtles, that I do not believe in your little act? I think you enjoy these little shows — as much, for instance, as I do.” Chou leaned back in his chair, crossed his long legs, and blew smoke at Wang-wei with a crooked smile. “Now — get on with it!”

Mao, the bland fat little Father of China, gazed from one to the other. His frown was slight but his voice was cold. “Yes — get on with it. And I give you two a warning now— this dissension between you will cease! I do not know the cause of your quarrel, nor do I wish to know, but if it continues I will take steps! The People’s Republic cannot afford your bickering. Is that clear?”

Chou said nothing. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Wang-wei nodded anxiously to the Leader. He had just realized. It had just come to him in a blinding flash of intuition — Chou coveted Sessi-Yu! What a fool he had been to introduce them…

Mao pressed a button on the table. A servant glided un-obtrusively in to draw the jalousies and turn off the single light. Each man made himself comfortable in the darkened room. Wang-wei shot a furtive glance at Chou and saw him unfasten his collar and wipe his high forehead with a clean white handkerchief. Wang-wei reached to unhook his own collar. He had noticed that he had a tendency to sweat during these peep shows.

The apartment below was like a brightly lit stage, every detail of which was visible from above. It was much used, this apartment, and the setting could be changed at will. Wang-wei had never been in New York and never hoped to be — even in its most absurd flights the Propaganda Ministry had never suggested that the United States could be physically invaded. But Wang-wei had read the script. The apartment into which he was now staring was supposed to be in an expensive and swank Park Avenue hotel. Small but elegant, with a luxurious decor.

At the moment the apartment was empty. Then a door opened and a man entered. Wang-wei stiffened with something akin to pride. It was Turtle Nine. His Turtle — his own exquisite handiwork! He leaned forward, his head between his knees, and stared down through the glass floor at this creature which he, and fourteen years of captivity, had wrought. As a schoolboy he had read Frankenstein in translation and he thought of it now. He, and of course many others, had created this thing that now walked to the little bar and poured itself a drink. A Scotch and water, Wang-wei noted. The real Nick Carter usually drank Scotch.

The man at the bar was wearing a light gray tweed of conservative and expensive cut, made to order in one of the best establishments in Regent Street, London. The shoes were also British, tan, hand-lasted and boned. The shirt was a Brooks Brothers button-down. The tie, a dark wine knit, had cost twenty dollars. Beneath the beautiful suit, Wang-wei knew, his man was wearing boxer shorts of crisp Irish linen. Five dollars a pair. Wine dark socks of Scottish wool — eight dollars. Wang-wei would have made a fine merchant — he had a memory for such details.

Mao broke the silence. “Your Turtle looks like the pictures I have seen of this Nick Carter, Wang-wei. That I admit. But I cannot see his face closely. Have the surgical scars healed?”

“Nearly so, Comrade Leader. There is a little pink tissue still — but one would have to be very close to him to notice it.”

“Such as, perhaps, being in bed with him?” Chou’s little laugh was oily.

Wang-wei could not help wincing in the gloom. He was thinking of his elderly compatriot, he who had been enjoying Turtle Nine’s favors and paying so well for the privilege. Chou, of course, was not alluding to that. Nevertheless Wang-wei felt a dew of perspiration creeping-out on his forehead.

But his voice was steady as he agreed. “Exactly, Comrade. But he will go to bed with no one until he reaches Peshawar. Our agent there, the American girl—”

Mao shushed them. He sounded impatient. “When does this little show begin, Wang-wei? There are a few other matters which demand my attention today.”

Wang-wei dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief. “Soon now, Comrade Leader. I wanted you to have a good look at the man alone first.”

“Then let us be quiet,” said Mao petulantly, “and watch!”

The man at the bar sipped at his Scotch and water. He snapped open a silver case and lit a long cigarette with a golden tip. An East German agent had salvaged a butt two years before in a Berlin hotel and sent it on. You never knew, in the profession, when little things would prove important.

The man at the bar sat in an attitude of seeming relaxation, yet his eyes roved ceaselessly and the body beneath the expensive suiting gave the impression of a powerful spring coiled for action. He was a trifle over six feet with not an ounce of fat on him. The shoulders were a great muscular wedge tapering to a slim waist, the legs long and sinewy beneath the well-fitting trousers.

As the three men watched from above the man at the bar took out an automatic pistol and inspected it with the ease of long practice. He took out the clip, thumbed cartridges onto the bar, and tested the feeder spring. He inspected the clip for Aug and grease, then reloaded it, and snapped it back into the pistol. He put the weapon into a plastic holster which he wore on his belt and buttoned his coat. There was no tell-tale bulge. The jacket had been properly tailored.

Chou broke the silence.

“Let me understand this properly. This man we see, this Turtle Nine, is now under hypnosis? He believes himself to be Nick Carter? He really thinks he is Killmaster?”

“Yes,” said Wang-wei. “He is convinced of it—”

Mao hissed at them. “Quiet! Watch this — the man is as fast as a snake.”

The man below, seemingly bored, had left the bar and taken a stance about twenty feet from a cork dart board fixed to one wall. With a barely perceptible movement he lowered his right shoulder, flexed his right hand. Something shiny dropped from his sleeve into the hand. So fast was the throwing motion that Wang-wei could not follow it— but there it was, the little stiletto, quivering near the center of the dart board!

“Admirable,” chortled Mao. “Very near the bull’s eye.”

Wang-wei sighed and kept silent. No use telling the Leader that the real Nick Carter would have hit the bull’s eye. His Turtle would have to work a little on the knife throwing. After all, if matters arranged themselves properly, his Turtle would have to go up against the real Nick Carter.

Below them the apartment door opened and a girl entered. Chou sighed audibly. “Ahhhb — now we can get down to it.”

The girl was tall and slim and exquisitely dressed in Western style. She wore a chic little hat and suit and her legs were smooth perfection in dark nylons and high heels. Around her slim shoulders was a mink stole.

There was no audio from the apartment below — it could be turned on at will, but at the moment was inoperative at Mao’s wish. The Leader did not care what was said. Only what was done. This was nothing more than a test of Turtle Nine’s efficiency and readiness for his job.

Wang-wei could hear Chou’s breathing thicken as they watched the intimate tableau unfold beneath them. He had to admit that it was exciting. He did enjoy these little shows, and not always in the way of duty. Chou was right about that! For a moment Wang-wei permitted himself fleeting thoughts of Sessi-Yu and her Golden Lotus, then he forced himself to pay attention. This love making now going on below them, while exciting to the more vulgar senses, was of no real importance. The real test was yet to come. When Turtle Nine, in a very real sense, would be fighting for his life.

The girl had taken off her little hat and flung the mink stole on a sofa. She refused a drink. Her slim arms coiled around the tall man’s neck and she pressed her lithe body hard against his. They stood kissing for a long time. The girl had her eyes closed. She raised one neatly shod foot from the floor, then the other. She began to wriggle and undulate against the man.

“She knows her work,” said Chou in a stifled voice. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Hsi-chun,” said Wang-wei. “Of no importance. A prostitute we have sometimes used. She is not even Chinese. Half Korean, half Japanese. But you are right — she is most efficient.”

“Most,” said the fat Leader. “But in a matter of this sort — is she discreet? Can she be trusted?”

Wang-wei nodded, though realizing they could not see him. “I think so — but it does not signify, Comrade Leader. We take no chances. When this is over Hsi-chun will be disposed of.”

The couple below had gone into the bedroom. The girl stood laxly, arms drooping by her sides, as the man disrobed her. Her head was thrown back, her narrow dark eyes staring at the mirrored ceiling, as the man slipped off her little jacket, her blouse, and kissed her tawny shoulders as he removed her bra.

Wang-wei felt a slight pang. She was a lovely little thing, even though a whore. She seemed to be staring directly at him now. Almost as though she knew he was there, knew what was going on, and was begging him to help her.

Wang-wei sighed. It did not do to get sentimental over whores. Still — maybe he could help her a bit. He would have to see. Perhaps she could be shipped south to the troops along the Vietnamese border. It would, he supposed, be a little better than death!

The girl stood now in only garter belt and dark stockings. Her long legs were the color of honey. The man kissed her breasts, small and round and firm as little melons. She smiled and ran her slim fingers through his close-cropped dark hair, caressing the well-shaped head. She appeared to be enjoying her work, thought Wang-wei. And why not? Turtle Nine, now the complete double of Nick Carter, would naturally be a fine lover. The real Carter’s prowess as a lover was well known to Chinese Intelligence.

The man and woman were on the bed now, deeply engrossed in the hot preliminaries of love. The lithe body of the woman contorted in passionate arabesques. Her little red tongue flickered like a lizard’s as she sought to arouse the man further.

“Part of her instructions,” whispered Wang-wei. “She is trying to make him forget everything but her.”

“She seems to be succeeding,” said Chou dryly.

“Not altogether,” said Wang-wei. “Watch!” There was a note of pride in his voice. Turtle Nine had learned his lessons well.

The man below pulled himself away from the woman’s embrace. His lips moved in a smile. She pouted and sought to hold him, but he shook her off and went back into the living room. He was naked except for the stiletto in a sheath attached to the inside of his right forearm.

The three watchers saw him try the door, checking the lock. He went to each window and checked it.

Mao hissed in the darkness. “He is very careful, your Turtle. You are sure he does not suspect what is coming?”

He suspects nothing, Comrade Leader. These are merely routine, elementary precautions that the real Nick Carter would take in such a situation.”

Chou said: “Who are the men who are going to try to kill your Turtle? Not good Chinese, I hope?”

“They are Chinese,” answered Wang-wei, “but not good. They are all criminals who have been sentenced to death. They have been promised their lives if they win.”

Chou laughed softly in the gloom. “And if they do win— if they kill your prize Turtle? What will you do then, Wang-wei?”

“Find a new Turtle and start over, Comrade. It only requires patience. You should know that.”

“I know that I grow impatient with this chatter,” barked Mao. “Be quiet and watch!”

The pseudo Nick Carter had taken a ball of twine from his jacket pocket. He fastened one end of the twine to the chain pull of a tall lamp near the door. Then, placing a chair in the proper position, he brought the twine down vertically to the floor, beneath the chair legs and across the door to yet another chair where he tied the end of twine. The twine now formed an ankle high trip-line just inside the door. The man tested the trip-line once or twice to make sure it worked, then left the room in darkness and returned to the small bedroom where the girl lay impatiently stroking her soft breasts.

“Clever,” acknowledged Mao. “But the door is locked. How will your men, the criminals, get in?”

“They have a passkey, Comrade Leader. Just as a real enemy might have. They will be coming soon now.”

Wang-wei heard the rustle of linen as Chou mopped his face. “I am glad I am not in your service,” he told Wang-wei. “There are too many precautions to take — how does one ever find time to enjoy anything?”

“It is necessary,” the little Intelligence man told him. “Otherwise an agent would not live long enough to enjoy anything.”

They watched as the man sank on the bed beside the woman. He took the stiletto from its sheath and plunged it into the bed near his right hand. The Luger was placed beneath a pillow near his left hand. A radio, which must have been playing on a bedside table, was snapped off. Just before the man covered the woman with his stalwart body he reached out and snapped off the single light.

Mao moved in the darkness. He pressed a button on the table and the audio came alive. First only a low electronic buzz, then they began to make out the individual sounds.

Chou cursed softly. “Why did he have to turn out the light!”

Wang-wei felt a little superior. “It is necessary, Comrade. So if the outer light is tripped on he will be at an advantage in the dark.”

Mao shushed them again. They sat and listened to the varied sounds coming from a loud-speaker in the wall of the room.

A gentle twanging of bed springs. A muffled cry from the woman. A sudden high panting sound from the woman, then her long groan of pleasure…

The lamp in the living room went on. Four Chinese, all wearing blue coolie suits, stood for a moment blinking in surprise. Above them Wang-wei felt his own heart give a great leap. This was the real test!

Not a tenth of a second passed before the coolies, recovering from the sudden shock of light, went into action. They all carried long cruel knives. Two of them had revolvers. One, in addition to his knife, wielded a deadly little hatchet.

They scattered about the room, calling softly to each other, and began to converge on the dark bedroom. The watchers above saw only a faint shadow of movement in the room. The woman’s scream was abruptly stifled. The Luger spat flame at the coolies from the protection of shadow, the slapping reports loud in the speaker. One of the coolies who had a revolver stumbled and fell sprawling, his blood soaking the carpet. The revolver spun from a dead hand across the floor. A coolie leaped for it. The Luger snapped again and the man fell.

The remaining armed coolie crouched behind a sofa and sent a fusillade of lead into the bedroom. The coolie with the hatchet dropped to his hands and knees and, under his companion’s covering fire, began to crawl around the walls toward the bedroom door. These were desperate men, with their lives doubly in the balance, and they were not giving up easily.

The Luger snapped again and again from the bedroom. Tufts and chunks of the sofa flew through the air but the man with the revolver was not hit. He kept firing into the bedroom. The crawling man with the hatchet was near the door now. He glanced up, saw a light switch, and shouted to his companion as he stood to click it on. The lights flared on in the bedroom.

Wang-wei’s Turtle Nine came through the bedroom door like a naked bolt of lightning. In his right hand was the stiletto, in his left the flaming Luger. The coolie with the hatchet gave a little cry of rage and triumph and flung his weapon. It glinted in the bright light, spinning end over end. The thrower was an accomplished tong killer — for which he was to die — and had never been known to miss.

He did not actually miss now! Turtle Nine ducked swiftly and the spinning hatchet passed over him. The girl, her soft mouth wide open in a scream, took the little axe squarely between the eyes. She sank back on the bed, the hatchet embedded in her lovely face.

Turtle Nine was thinking like the automaton he was. He ignored the hatchet man for the moment and leaped toward the sofa, weaving and ducking. He fired twice and the Luger went dry. The coolie behind the sofa fired once and missed and his gun also clicked empty. He stood up and leaped to one side, thinking to avoid the rushing Turtle Nine.

But Turtle Nine did not rush. His arm went up and back and something sang through the air. The coolie stood by the sofa, gazing stupidly down at the stiletto pinned to his heart like an ornament. Slowly he toppled, clutching with both hands at the stiletto in his flesh, caressing the shiny hilt with bloody fingers.

The remaining coolie had had enough. He leaped for the door with a cry of terror. Turtle Nine smiled and threw the empty Luger. It clipped the man at the base of the skull and he fell stunned.

Turtle Nine walked slowly toward the writhing figure. He stood over the man for a moment, contemplating him, then raised a bare foot and delivered a deliberate and vicious kick to the side of the man’s neck. The watchers above heard the spine break.

For a little time there was silence in the glass-floored room. Then Mao said: “I think your Turtle is ready, Wang-wei. Even for Nick Carter, Killmaster. You will put Segment One of Dragon Plan into operation tomorrow morning.”