Double Identity

Chapter 11 Bedtime Story

This time it was no contest

Nick took his alter ego from behind with a vicious chopping blow across the neck. The man went down like a stone, out cold. Nick dragged the inert body into the shelter of dripping bushes and began to strip it. The only light in the house now was a soft rosy glow from the bedroom. How nice. Like a candle in the window. She must be getting impatient.

Won’t be long now, baby, N3 promised as he stripped the man. He was hoping to take Beth Cravens by surprise, in the dark, but if she did turn on a bright light he wanted to be able to pass as himself. Himself! Nick shook his head. This mixup was making him screwy.

He risked the pencil light to inspect the unconscious man’s features. He felt a little sense of shock — it was like looking in a mirror. The man was so damned near a perfect ringer — if you missed the tiny pink surgical scars and a certain mean cast in the mouth that Nick did not normally have.

Dressed well, too. Nick slipped on the expensive suit, a bit wet and muddy now, and the fine shirt and tie, the good shoes, the fawn Burberry. He transferred his black plastic holster to the new belt, put the Luger in it, and was ready to go. He left the impostor bound with Nick’s belt and strips torn from his old OD shirt and trousers. Should hold him long enough.

What to do with the man’s weapons was a problem for a moment. Nick ran the flash over them quickly. Duplicates of his own. A 9mm Luger, stripped down, and the stiletto — a trifle longer than his own. No one was perfect. He took the clip from the Luger and slipped it in his pocket, then flung the weapons as far as he could into the night. Metal clanked on the stony hillside.

As he started for the house the light in the bedroom went out. Nick whistled a little tune deep in his throat. He felt good. Keyed and on edge. Ready for anything. He was looking forward to this — he remembered how she had looked before the mirror.

He didn’t want to kill her, though she deserved it. She was a betrayer of her country — but such a lovely creature. He knew the Chinese would be merciless with her for failing, and he hated to think how they would deal with her. He must give her a chance to consider defecting. But he would have to do it fast. Climb into bed with her before she could get suspicious. That it would be dangerous he took for granted, as he always did. She might shoot him on sight — or later. A little grin crinkled Nick’s mouth— what a hell of a way to get shot. And he must be careful not to betray himself until the last moment — he could not hope to keep up the deception forever, of course. A single error might give him away. He didn’t know the layout of the house, didn’t know about doors or closets or the kitchen or where anything was. It would be like running a strange obstacle course in the dark.

His voice would pass, he thought. At the parking lot the man had spoken nearly like himself — Nick had wondered at the time where the Chinese spy masters had gotten the recordings or tapes. That might bear looking into — if he ever got back.

He went in a side door, the way Beth Cravens had. He used his tiny light, shielding it with his hand, hoping she wouldn’t see it from the bedroom. He couldn’t afford to fall over anything — be a dead giveaway.

The woman called from the bedroom. “Nick? Darling? What took you so long? I’ve been waiting for ages.”

In his own voice, blurred just a bit by what he hoped she would think was alcohol, Nick said: “I’ve been waiting for that turtle bastard at the hotel — he never did come. I spent too much time in the bar, too. I think I’m a little drunk, honey.” He slurred his words.

Beth Cravens laughed, but her voice sharpened. “That wasn’t very smart, darling! You know you shouldn’t drink too much until this job is over. We can’t afford to take chances with this man.”

Nick was oriented by now. He headed for the bedroom and her voice, taking off his clothes as he went. “I’m not that drunk,” he said, hoping she would think he was. He laughed loudly to cover the sound of his clothes coming off. “I’m not as drunk as you think I am!”

“Well — I hope you’re not too drunk. You know—”

“I’m not.” He was naked now, carrying the stiletto and the Luger. He stooped and shoved them under the bed. What a woman — it hadn’t been over two hours since she had been bouncing around in the car. Now she was avid again!

“You sound sort of funny,” Beth said. He heard her twist and reach for the bedside light. He slid beneath the cool sheets and pulled her to him, clamping his mouth over hers. For a moment she was tense, questioning, then her flesh betrayed her and she slid her tongue into his mouth.

He wasted no time on preliminaries. Not only were they dangerous, but there was so little time.

Beth Cravens welcomed him. She lifted herself to engulf him. Without a trace of tenderness, and yet without hate or malice, he took her. Perhaps a little brutally, but Beth did not appear to object. It was she, in the end, who turned to frenzy and began to inflict pain in her ecstasy.

She began to whimper and claw at his back. He felt her nails rake him, scraping away flesh. She followed his every movement, her moist body glued to his as though she could never bear to part with him.

To Nick she seemed insatiable. She was a trial even to his great endurance. But at last Beth Cravens gave a long convulsive sigh and ceased to move. But not for long. She reached up and wrapped her soft arms around his neck and smothered his mouth with moist kisses. It was, he guessed, her way of telling him not to go away — the best was yet to come.

He knew it was dangerous to linger. He must talk to her now.

Suddenly the bedside light went on and she was staring at him with what might have been fear and awe and amazement — and gratitude? The little automatic in her hand was rock steady on his muscle-corded belly. She had had the gun under her pillow!

“Who are you?” Her voice trembled but the gun did not. She was sitting up, naked from the waist, the fine white breasts bobbling as she fought to control her breathing. Her blonde hair was in wild disarray and her red mouth swollen and smeared. Her face was pink, but the gray eyes were cold. Nick could see the wild beat of a pulse in her milky throat.

N3 smiled at her. He felt relaxed and good and sure of himself. Let her think she had the upper hand. Anytime he felt like it he would take the pea-shooter away from her.

“I’m Nick Carter,” said Nick Carter. “The real McCoy. Not an imitation. Surprised?”

She took it in her stride. He admired her nerve and intelligence. She believed him at once. Then she smiled and moved away a little, her finger tense on the trigger of the little black pistol. “So you did come. I thought you would but I couldn’t be sure. I only know what the turtle tells me— and he’s not very reliable when he’s under hypnosis. He’s really not such a good subject.”

Nick grinned at her. “I bet they think so in Peking.”

“Yes, but they were wrong. They did it under lab conditions — I have to do it in the field.” She was wearing a little silver locket on a fine chain. Absently she began to twirl it, her gray eyes huge and steady on Nick.

The man from AXE stretched luxuriously. “You’re wasting your time, sweetheart. I don’t hypnotize.” No AXE man did. It was a rudimentary requirement for the service.

Her smile had a tinge of pseudo-sweetness in it. The eyes were not quite so cold. But the pistol was as steady as ever. “This is really better than what we had in mind at first,” she said. “My orders have been changed. Peking doesn’t want you killed now — they want you taken alive. They’ve got big plans for you.”

“How considerate of them. I’ll bet I can guess, too. Why fool around with a fake Nick Carter when you can have the real thing, eh? Get me and brainwash me and turn me loose again in about five years. I’d play hell with Uncle’s security then, wouldn’t I? That it?”

Her perfect teeth flashed. “About. No matter. I’ve got you — now I can stop playing house with that other fool. That’s what gave you away, you know.” Her smile was sly and tinged with lust. “You’re terrific! My God — the Turtle was never like that. In a way it’s a shame that I have to turn you over to them.”

Nick was enjoying himself. Fun while you wait If it was coming the explosion should be any minute now.

Nick gave her a maddeningly slow smile. “What if I don’t go with you? You really wouldn’t want to shoot me. Peking wouldn’t like it. Also, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. There’s not going to be a jehad. Your tribesmen are not going to use those two sets of uniforms to keep the war going. And if you’re expecting help from your Turtle — don’t. He’s a bit tied up at the moment.” He leaned toward her. She moved away and pushed the pistol at him. “Stay away!”

Nick went on, “I’m going to make you a proposition— give you a chance. You’d better take it. All hell is due to break loose around here. You’ll be in the middle of it, with a lot of mad Pathans after your lily white hide. You would be smart to come with me. Right now. I’ll get you back to the States and you can stand trial. After I kill your boy, of course. The Turtle. Well — think fast, Miss Cravens. I’m a temperamental guy — I may withdraw that offer any time.”

She spat at him. Sudden hate glared in her eyes. “You lousy, crummy superior bastard! You come in here, throw your stinking weight around and think you can bulldoze and fast talk me into going back to the States. That stinking idiotic country! I’d die first!”

“You might at that. If the Pathans get you afterwards.”

“After what?” she screamed. “After what? Y — you moron! I’ve got the gun, remember. Jesus — I wish I dared kill you now!”

Nick waggled a finger at her. “Ah-ah — Peking not like.”

He had her mad enough now. Raving. But why didn’t the goddamned fort blow? Come on, grenade! Come on!

As if in answer, it started right then. A gradually rising, high keening blast superimposed on the basso of the explosion. The cottage twisted on its foundation. A giant hand lifted it and put it down askew. Walls cracked and big chunks of ceiling came down. A small chandelier came down with a crash.

Beth Cravens screamed. Nick reached and flicked the little gun out of her hand. He made a fist and tapped her behind the ear, hard but not too hard. She slumped on the bed. He gazed at her for a moment, feeling no pity now. Next stop a Federal prison. He didn’t suppose they would shoot her. Not in so-called peace time.

“Get your hands up! Drop the gun!”

N3 dropped it. It was no good to him anyway — not enough gun to handle this situation. He put up his hands and stared coldly at the man in the doorway. His double. The Turtle. And he was carrying a shield — Mike Bannion!

The impostor was behind Mike, one brawny arm around the little man’s throat to hold him in position. It wasn’t difficult. Mike was very drunk. His eyes rolled wildly and his knees sagged.

Mike’s old Webley was in the double’s hand. It was sighted firmly on Nick Carter’s naked belly. God damn it! To come so far, to be so close, and then be destroyed by a well-meaning drunk! Mike must have been looking for him, to help, and had somehow stumbled into the phony agent.

The Chinese agent held Mike in a vise of muscle that so nearly matched Nick’s. He looked at the unconscious girl. “You kill her?” His eyes were clear and his voice firm and he looked every inch the killer. Nick guessed that he was out of hypnosis — it had worn off or the man had been shocked out of it.

“She’s not dead,” he told the man. “Just knocked out. You intend to kill me?”

“What else?” The eyes, so very like Nick’s own, were cold and empty. The only expression in them was that of wariness.

Cautiously, not moving, thinking furiously, Nick said, “Won’t it be sort of like killing yourself?”

The Webley did not waver. The man watched Nick with cold contempt. The AXE man could see the final decision to kill arriving in the man’s eyes.

He nodded toward the girl. “She told me that Peking wants me alive.”

“So I make a mistake. I got the orders wrong. And for God’s sake cut the crap — don’t try to con me! We’re both pros and you lost, so shut up and die like a pro.” The finger tightened on the trigger of the Webley.

Nick Carter’s admiration was not all feigned. “You’re a hard case,” he said. “Where are you from in the States? You still got any people there?”

“None of your screwing business!” The finger moved on the trigger.

Mike Bannion began to squirm and thrash around. He was helpless, held by the massive arms of the impostor as though he were a rag doll. But the struggle prolonged Nick’s life for another second. The man applied a powerful pressure to Mike Bannion’s throat. The little man tried to fight back, tugging and pulling at the muscular arm that was throttling him. His eyes found Nick for a moment and he tried to grin and panted, “I–I shorry, Nick. I found him — thought he you! I be good guy, untie and now… I so shorry…” He passed out.

His double grinned evilly at Nick. “Let that be a lesson to you! Never hire drunken help. Now you get—”

Nick clasped both hands. “If you’re really going to kill me I’d like to pray for a minute. Surely you won’t deny me that — no matter what you are now. You were once an American. I’d guess you were a soldier once. You must have had buddies who died in battle. You wouldn’t deny a man the right to a last prayer?”

It was corny and he knew it, but he was gambling for his life. He had to get off the bed and on his knees. The Luger was under the bed, at the foot, where he had dropped it when he climbed into bed with the woman.

Contempt flickered in the other man’s eyes. He scanned the bedroom rapidly. If he looks under the bed, Nick thought, I’ve had it. I’ll have to jump the gun and this time I won’t make it.

The cold eyes came back to Nick. The man tightened his grip on the sagging flesh shield that was Mike Bannion. It was the shield that finally decided him. He couldn’t see how Nick could get at him.

The man said: “I’ll make a bargain with you, Carter. You want to pray? So pray. But first you answer a question — and if I think you’re lying I’ll kill you right now. Bang! No prayers. Okay?”

“Okay. What’s the question?”

The man’s smile was as mean as Nick’s own could be. “I had to kill a couple of guys because I couldn’t come up with something they called a Golden Number. At first it was just routine — they didn’t even ask me until after I had what I wanted — but after, when I couldn’t come up with that damned number, they got suspicious and I had to kill them. So what’s the Golden Number? If I can take that back to Peking it might help square me for this mess.” The Webley twitched at Nick. “You talking or you want to die noble? Without prayer? Tell the truth and I’ll let you pray. Maybe a whole minute.”

“I’ll tell you.” It was another gamble. If he lost now he would louse up a lot of other agents. Get them killed. Nick decided not to lie, though he was good at it In this bind he simply couldn’t chance it.

“It’s the number of the year in the old Metonic Cycle. That’s nineteen years. So the number can be anything from 1 to 19. Every agent’s number varies, depending on who is asking the identifying question. The contact gives the agent a year, any year, and the agent identifying himself adds one to it. Then he divides by nineteen. The remainder is the Golden Number. Nineteen is the golden number when there is no remainder. Simple?”

His double scowled. “Like hell it’s simple. No wonder I couldn’t come up with it. Okay — you can pray now. One minute.”

“Thanks.”

Nick Carter slipped off the bed to his knees, as near the foot of the bed as possible. He kept his hands clasped and well in sight. He closed his eyes and began to murmur.

The phony agent said: “Just one sign of monkey business, just one, and you get it. Then I’ll kill your friend here. Be good and die with no trouble and I might let him go. He’s just a lush — no reason I should kill him.”

Liar. An obvious play to Nick’s own feeling as a decent American. The innocent shall not suffer. When would they realize that the Americans could play just as rough as they could.

Somewhat to his own surprise Nick found that he really was praying after a fashion. For the success of this crazy gambit.

Then it was go! He rolled to his right, snatching the Luger from beneath the bed and kept on rolling across the floor as he fired. He got in the first shot. Then the Webley roared at him. Nick never stopped moving, rolling, crouching, scuttling. He let the clip empty into Mike Bannion’s chest.

The din of Death was stilled. The room was hazy with smoke from the Webley’s old-fashioned cartridges. Mike Bannion lay near the door, across the body of the man he had not shielded from death after all. The Luger, at such murderous range, had put slugs through Mike’s body and well into Nick’s double. The Webley lay on the carpet, halfway to the bed, where a dying hand had tossed it.

Nick slipped another clip into the Luger. Wilhelmina was hot. He inspected the bodies. Both stare-eyed dead. He lingered for a moment over Mike Bannion. “I’m sorry, Mike. I’ll keep that promise — see that your wife and kids get some of Uncle’s sugar.”

He went to the bed. Damn it! She would never serve her time now. One of the double’s wild shots had gotten her right in the face.

Nick dressed rapidly and turned off the lights. Bannion must have come back to the Peshawar Hotel, found him gone, and somehow found out where Beth Cravens lived. He had come out to help, poor little bastard. Loyal enough in the end. Drunk, too.

But it meant that the jeep should be someplace around.

Nick found it parked on the old caravan trail. Most of their gear was back at the camp but he couldn’t worry about that now. Time to fold his tent and softly fade away. There was a sweetish stench of high explosive in the air and from the direction of the old fort he could see flames staining the rainy black sky. Sooner or later officialdom would get around to investigating — and sooner or later, probably sooner, the Pathans would come for their revenge. Best be gone when they did.

He was about to climb in the jeep when a thought struck him. A devilish, typical Nick Carter thought. Why not? It was crazy as hell, but again why not? Sort of garnish the salad as it were. He went back to the blast-racked cottage, found a mattress cover in a closet, and set to work. As he worked he pondered the possibility of bringing it off— this wild scheme. He should be able to do it if the luck held.

He could skirt Peshawar and get out of the Khyber and head for Rawalpindi. It was about a hundred miles. No sweat if the old jeep held up and there was still plenty of gas.

Sooner or later he was going to run into a Pakistani patrol. So be it. He was in the clear now, or would be when he got out of the Pass, and he could probably sweet talk them into letting him contact the Air Force in Ladakh. They would remember him. Through them he could contact Hawk in Washington. Once he explained matters Hawk would start pulling wires and making his famous phone calls.

He was sure his Chief would go along with the gag. Hawk’s sardonic sense of humor was much the same as Killmaster’s.

Nick Carter picked up the body in the mattress cover, threw it across his shoulder, and strode out of the cottage.