Double Identity

Chapter 8 The Long Bloody Trail

In late afternoon of the same day N3 lay in a rope bed — no thick mattress here to conceal an assassin — and pondered the immediate future. One thing was certain— he must get out of Karachi that night. The police had found the Hindu girl’s body and a new hue and cry was on. The afternoon papers had it, along with another picture of the phony Nick. There had also been a flash on the radio. The murdered girl was a Hindu, and of no importance, but the Karachi police were nettled. They had been made to look bad!

Only one thing about the entire situation really pleased Nick Carter — his double would have to leave Karachi too. He wouldn’t dare hang around with all the heat on. The man had made one try at killing Nick and had failed — he would try again — but Nick was sure it would not be in Karachi. He wouldn’t be in Karachi if his luck held. If it didn’t he would be in jail — charged with two murders!

He finished the last of his tea — cold now — and gnawed at a slab of nan, the flat circular bread of the country. Bannion’s wife, Neva, had fed him well since his arrival. There had been birayni, rice, and a blistering mutton curry called keema, and all the goat’s milk he could drink.

Nick lit a cigarette and lolled back in the uncomfortable rope bed, more like an oversize hammock than a true bed. His feet were high and wrapped in dirty bandages on which Mrs. Bannion had smeared some vile smelling salve. It did seem to help. His feet were a mess, still chafed and peeling from frostbite, but he would just have to make do on them. The Air Force in Ladakh had issued him socks and a pair of shoes two sizes too big, and that helped. His feet still hurt like hell!

The minor wounds he had gotten in the scuffle last night were nothing! Mere bullet burns which Bannion had patched up with iodine and plaster. He hoped his double was feeling worse than he was — he had gotten the man once with the stiletto for sure — and maybe again with that flurry from the Luger. He could hope! Anyway the fellow had gotten away — the police had found only the butchered corpse of the maid.

Thinking of his feet, of pain, made Nick think again of his journey through the Karakoram Pass after Hafed had been killed. That had been a narrow thing. Close. After the pony, Kaswa, died of exhaustion Nick had been in one of the tightest binds of his fantastic career. He was very close to the end of that career when the Carter luck returned and he stumbled into the camel caravan. Normally the caravan — it was the last from Sinkiang Province into Kashmir that year — would have been on its way the day before, after sheltering from the blizzard, but a camel had taken sick and they had lingered to treat it.

Nick had made it to the camel camp, but he could have gone no farther. The caravan had taken him with them, on the back of a shaggy bactrian, into Leh where they had turned him over to the U.S. Air Force.

It was strange, Nick thought now, to owe your life to a sick camel!

He snapped a piece of bread at a gecko which was staring at him with beady eyes from a rafter. He felt himself getting restless again. Mike Bannion should be back soon. He had been gone all day, following Nick’s orders and spending AXE’s money. True the man had a million things to do, but he should be back. Nick damned his own impatience and hobbled to the single window to peer out, keeping well back out of sight. It would be dark soon and he and Mike Bannion could leave. He mustn’t be spotted now. The backyard on which he gazed was a slum in the midst of even worse slums. There was a mango tree full of monkeys and kids and the incessant chitter-chatter of both. There must be a million kids, he thought, all dirty and ragged and some nearly naked. N3 lit another cigarette and grimaced. Even with all his own problems, with the sour taste of failure in his mouth, he could feel for the kids. Poor little bastards! Not much future for them. Mike Bannion should have his drunken ass kicked for bringing more of them into the world — with no means of caring for them.

The door opened and Bannion’s wife came into the room to get the tea things. She nodded to him but did not smile. There was no communication — she had no Hindustani and Nick Carter spoke no Urdu — and Nick had wondered if she could be trusted. Certainly Mike thought so, but then husbands didn’t always know everything about wives. Especially husbands like Mike.

Nick glanced at his watch. It was after five and no police yet. So she could be trusted. He watched moodily as she gathered up the tea things and, after nodding again, left the room and closed the door softly behind her. He heard a bar fall into place. That was a precaution against nosy kids.

Nick went back to the rope bed and stretched out again. He flipped his butt at the gecko still fixing him with its evil glare. Goddamn it, Bannion! Come on!

He was not afraid of Bannion betraying him. The little drunk had visions of lakhs of rupees to come. He would not throw money away. But he could have been picked up by the police for routine questioning. Suppose his ancient jeep had been noticed in the Mauripur district last night? Nick felt cold. Bannion would talk in the end, however reluctantly. Sweat prickled on N3’s neck — all that money Bannion was carrying! If the cops got him they would never give up until he explained it — and if he did that he would have to betray Carter! A fury raging in his big, outwardly calm body, Nick forced himself to be calm and think of other things. If it happened that way it happened. Karma!

Karma. Tibet. The Lamasery of the She Devils!

N3 scowled at the tiny lizard on the rafter. So the Chinese soldiers had found Yang Kwei in time. Must have — and had relayed her information on to the impostor — else the man wouldn’t have known Nick was coming to Karachi. Wouldn’t have been able to set the trap which had so nearly caught the AXE man. Nick cursed under his breath and wished the She Devil a short life and an unhappy one. Then he remembered her sexual technique and almost relented — she’d be okay if she would get out of the profession, out of agentry and politics, and make somebody a good wife! He had to grin at his own whimsy, then forgot the She Devil. Where in the everlasting hell was Mike Bannion?

The object of his concern entered the room a minute later, bringing with him the smell of good whisky. He had shaved, and gotten a haircut, and donned clean clothes. He was, as near as Nick could tell, still sober. He did not look quite like the same man except for his grin. Once again, briefly, Nick — wondered why and how the man had gotten stranded in Karachi. His speech betrayed him as an educated man, and he did not lack intelligence. Why? Whom had he betrayed, sold out, murdered?

Bannion tossed a carton of American cigarettes at Nick. “Behold! Black market. Many rupees. I got a case of Scotch, too. I know you like it and I don’t care what I drink.”

Nick had to smile. The little man was irrepressible. “I hope you were discreet — spread the buying and spending around?”

Mike sank into the room’s single chair and elevated his feet to a battered table. He was wearing new shoes of the heavy duty type. He winked at Nick. “I was most circumspect, boss man. I spread it around. I hit a lot of the secondhand merchants and the surplus stores — you can even get World War I stuff from them, and I was careful. I didn’t even get new tires for Gae — got used ones, but they’re in good shape. Got a used battery, too, and some spare gas cans. In fact I got everything on the list you gave me. You’re ready to roll, Nick, and so am I.”

Nick broke open the carton of cigarettes. He had been down to his last pack. “You’ve decided to come along, then?” Until now Bannion had not committed himself past a willingness to help Nick get ready for the trip.

Mike Bannion shrugged. “Why not? I can help you — and God knows I need every pice I can make. In any case I’ve already helped you — so now I’m in as deep as you are. As the Limeys say — in for a penny, in for a pound. Anyway I like doing this — been a damned long time since I did anything worthwhile.”

Nick left the rope bed and hobbled toward the table. Mike gave him the single chair and Nick took it without question. “How are the feet today?” Bannion asked as he helped himself to a pack of cigarettes and threw one short stocky leg over a corner of the table.

“Murder,” Nick admitted. “But never mind the feet— if you’re coming with me we’ve got to have an understanding. Now! About the booze.”

Bannion’s eyes held his steadily. “As I said, Nick, I’ll watch it. One bottle a day, no more. I have to have that or I’ll fold — have the DTs and the screaming meemies! I wouldn’t be any good to you then.”

N3 regarded him for a long moment, his eyes steel hard. Finally he nodded. “Okay. You’re making a bargain. Better stick to it. If you louse me up God help you — I won’t! I’ll leave you out there to die. I mean it, Bannion!”

The little man nodded. “I know you do. You don’t have to threaten me. I know how tough you are. I suppose you have to be in your — er — in your job.”

N3 stared at him. “What is my job?”

“I don’t know,” said Bannion hastily. “I don’t want to know, either. I’m in this only for the baksheesh, remember? Now hadn’t we better be getting on with it — I’ve got the stain and the makings outside. It’s almost dark now.”

“Do that,” Nick said curtly. “You get a map? Did you scout the arms depot?”

Bannion went to the door and bellowed for his wife to bring in the bundles he had left outside. He turned back to Nick with his grin showing again. “I went out to the depot and snooped about as you told me. I wasn’t even noticed — I’ve been there before looking for work and I pulled the same routine again today. No work, of course. They won’t hire white men for coolie labor. But I kept my ears open and got what you wanted — a big shipment of arms went upriver yesterday by steamer. Under guard, of course. Half a company of Pakistani soldiers. That do it?”

N3 said: “That does it! I can tell you this much, Mike— that shipment is headed for the Lahore front and I’ve got to stop it. It’s a mistake — it should never have been sent!”

Neva Bannion came in with her arms full of small boxes and packages which she piled on the table and around it. Her wrists and ankles were still delicate, still fine, though the rest of her had gone to fat. Her light copper-colored skin was smooth and unblemished. Though she was not in purdah she wore a long shapeless burqa, without the hood and eye-slits, which covered her from neck to toe. Her glistening black hair was piled high on her head and held with a cheap, factory-made comb. Nick conceded that she must have been attractive once — before Mike Bannion and the children.

She left without speaking. Mike winked at Nick. “I’m in pretty good at the moment. Food and money in the house, you know. If I was going to be here tonight I could probably—”

Nick broke in, “The map?”

Bannion produced a small-scale map of Pakistan and spread it on the rickety table. He tapped with his finger. “Here we are, in the Goth Bakhsh sector of Karachi. If you’re really going after that shipment all we can do is follow it up the Indus and try to catch it. Though I don’t know what the hell you think we can do against half a company of Pakistanis.”

N3 was studying the map intently. “Leave that to me,” he murmured.

Bannion gave a mock salute. “Gladly, sahib. Mine not to question why, huh? Okay, I won’t. I’ll just have a little shot instead.” He left the room.

Nick shook his head as he pored over the map. It wasn’t good to have to use, to trust, a drunk like Mike Bannion. But there was no help for it. He needed the man — both for his knowledge of the country and as a part of his new cover. He was starting on this venture as a Eurasian oil prospector, a free lance. Mike Bannion was his guide. There was just one big hitch — they had no papers!

N3 shrugged and went back to his map. So they would have to do it on the cuff, without papers. And hope his luck held.

The country through which they were traveling was some of the most rugged terrain in the world. That should help, Nick thought now. It would be scantily patrolled. He traced the northeasterly course of the great Indus with his finger: to their right would be the arid Indian Desert, to their left was a series of rugged mountain ranges running parallel to the river and joining the Himalayas in northern Kashmir. Except for the narrow strip watered by the Indus it was nasty country.

Bannion came back with a bottle of expensive Scotch and two plastic tumblers. He showed the bottle to Nick. “Two drinks gone, see. This will get me through until morning — and I’ll even buy you a drink out of it. Okay?”

N3 nodded. The Scotch tasted good. He pushed the map across the table to Bannion. “This is your department, Mike. How about it? Can they take that shipment all the way to Lahore by water?”

Bannion rubbed his bald spot and frowned at the map. “No can do. The Indus goes west of Lahore. Anyway it isn’t navigable beyond Bhakkar — not this time of year. They’ll have to go overland from there.”

“Maybe that’s where we can catch them,” Nick said. “Two men in a jeep, even your jeep, should be able to catch a convoy.”

He did not think it necessary to explain that, if and when he caught up with the arms convoy, he hadn’t the slightest idea what he was going to do. He would have to figure that out later. All that was important now was — if that shipment of arms was used against the Indians and the world found it out, then the U.S. was in trouble! And the Chinese would see that the world found out! Maybe that was the whole point of the impostor’s foray into Pakistan — to get those arms by trickery and turn them over to the Pakistanis. Then claim the Americans had given them and beam the distorted facts to the world.

N3 pondered that very briefly, then dismissed it. No. It had to be more than that — something bigger. Bigger even than trying to kill him! But what?

Mike Bannion broke into his thoughts. “I don’t know if it’s important or not, but maybe you’d better know. I saw something today at the arms depot that sort of put a chill in me.”

Nick began to take off the OD shirt the Air Force had given him. It was time to get on with the make-up job.

“Such as what?” He was anxious to get going now while Mike was sober. He hadn’t much faith in the man’s promises.

Mike began to smear brown paste on Nick’s face and neck. “Such as a mullah preaching a jehad, a holy war! A lot of the workers at the depot are Pathans, you know. Tribesmen come down out of their hills to make a rupee or two. They’re rough bastards, Nick. Savages. And they were listening pretty good to this old guy today. He got them worked up into quite a lather.”

N3’s first impulse was to forget it. This deal had enough angles now without looking for more. His immediate job was to find that arms shipment and hope the man he was after was somewhere near it. If not, and after he stopped the shipment — how? — he would have to use himself as bait again to lure the double.

Yet he listened. In his job no small thing could be overlooked without danger. Bannion’s next words drove a fertile wedge into Nick’s alert mind.

“The mullah was yelling at them in Pashto,” Bannion said. “I understand a little. Not much, but enough to know that he was promising them the world if they’d go back to the hills and wait He was shouting about food and new uniforms and plenty of guns and ammunition and—”

Bannion broke off what he was doing and stared at Nick. “Hey! That arms shipment! You don’t suppose?”

Nick did not look at the little man. He shook his head. “No. I don’t suppose. That shipment is headed for Lahore. Under guard. You just told me that, remember? Half a company of the Pakistani Army!”

Bannion shook his head. “That wouldn’t stop the Pathans if they wanted the guns. My God! A jehad is all we need now around here. A holy war!”

All the relevant facts were sparking through Nick’s computer mind now and he didn’t like the mental cards he was pulling. Bannion could be right. Could have stumbled on the key to this whole complicated intrigue. But why— why would the Chinese Reds want to aid the Pathans, the Afghan tribesmen, in launching a jehad? What could they gain? The Reds were, nominally at least, on the side of the Pakistanis.

And yet they always enjoyed fishing in troubled waters, the Reds. What had his boss, Hawk, said — that they must keep the pot boiling. The Chinese had been losing a lot of face lately and they were getting desperate. They were in trouble in Africa and Cuba and Indonesia and in Vietnam. The United States tiger had turned out not to be paper after all!

But a jehad! A war in the name of Allah against all infidels! What in hell could the Chinese hope to gain out of that? Unless, of course, they could control the jehad. Bend it to their own uses. But how?

Nick gave it up for the moment. He started to dress. He was dark enough to pass for a Eurasian and he would think of a cover name when it came time. A name wasn’t too important anyway — they had no papers to support a name. They would have to slide through on luck, if at all.

Two hours later they were chugging up the Indus in an ancient freight boat that had never decided whether it was a dhow or a felucca. There was no wind and the big lateen sail was furled, but the rusty, two-cylinder engine was taking them up the broad shallow river at a steady four miles an hour.

The boat was covered amidships with matting which concealed the jeep. The old vehicle was loaded to the collapsing point with their gear. Nick and Mike Bannion remained out of sight as much as possible, stretched out on jute mats near the jeep. They had blankets in the jeep but neither bothered with them. Mike had gotten them a heavy sheepskin coat each, and a bush hat with the wide brim pinned up in the Australian fashion.

They dozed, silent, watching the tiny spark of the boatman’s cigarette at the stern. Nick had elected to bring the owner of the boat along, though he knew he might regret it. Yet he had to risk it. The man, a dirty fat fellow in a red felt hat and long shirt and baggy pants, was deckhand and engineer and sailor and cook all in one. Neither Nick nor Bannion knew much about dhows or whatever this old tub was. There was always the possibility that he would have to kill the man later, to shut him up, but N3 did not allow himself to dwell on the thought now.

So far Mike Bannion had kept his promise. He was drinking slowly. His bottle was still more than half full and it was after midnight.

Nick was checking his weapons, Wilhelmina, Hugo, and Pierre, when he heard the gurgle of the bottle in the dark smelly hold. The boat’s last cargo apparently had been fertilizer.

Mike said: “I said in for a penny, in for a pound, and I meant it — just the same I hope we don’t have to tie up with any Pathans. They’re a lot of bloodthirsty bastards!”

Nick smiled in the gloom. “I think you’re worrying about nothing. I remember my Kipling and Talbot Mundy— aren’t the mullahs always preaching a holy war? Just part of their routine — down with the infidels!”

A match flared as Bannion lit a cigarette. He was not grinning. Nick realized that the little alcoholic was really worried.

“They’re devils from Hell!” said Bannion. “They torture their prisoners. Jesus — the stories I’ve heard! I’ve seen pictures, too, of what they’ve done to patrols they’ve ambushed on the frontier. Only a couple of months ago there were some pictures in The Hindi Times—the tribesmen ambushed a Pakistani patrol in the Khyber Pass. They didn’t kill all of them — the survivors they impaled on bamboo stakes. Ugh! It made me sick. They take off the poor bastards’ pants and then lift them and slam them down hard on a sharp stake! There was one picture of this guy with the stake all the way through him, coming out of his neck!”

The bottle gurgled again. To soothe him Nick said, “You sure that was a Pakistani patrol? Not Indian? The Pathans are Moslems, aren’t they?”

More gurgling sounds. “That don’t make a damned bit of difference to the tribesmen,” Bannion whispered. “Especially when some mullah had got them all heated up. All they care about then is blood and loot! I don’t mind admitting it, Nick— I get the crap in my blood when I think about the Pathans!”

“Take it easy on that bottle,” Nick warned. “And let’s try to get some sleep. I don’t think we’re going to meet any tribesmen. I’m a hell of a lot more worried about Pakistani patrols than I am Pathans. Good night.”

Three days later he found out how wrong even Nick Carter could be!

The kites and vultures gave the first warning. They were soaring in great circles over a bend in the river. It was a desolate, barren stretch halfway between Kot Addu and Leiah. The boatman saw the vulturous diners first. He pointed and sniffed at the air. “Something dead there. Many, I think. Many birds — cannot all eat at once.”

Nick and Mike Bannion ran to the prow. The river was shallow here, curving in a great bend from west to northeast. There was a long sandbar in the middle of the bend. On the bar they saw the gutted, blackened, still smoking wreck of a small river steamer. An old rear-paddle wheeler. It was covered with a wriggling, flapping, obscenely moving mass of vultures. As their boat approached the wreck the cloud of birds rose in a multi-colored swarm, croaking harsh complaints. Some of them were barely able to get airborne because of sagging, heavy bellies.

Nick got the odor then. A battlefield smell. He was familiar with it. Beside him Bannion cursed and took a huge revolver from his pocket. It was an old Webley he had somehow managed to buy in Karachi.

“Put it away,” Nick told him. “There’s nothing alive there.”

Mike Bannion peered beyond the wreck to the westerly shore of the river. The barren land sloped sharply up to rounded, blunt-topped khaki hills. “Maybe they’re still up there, watching. I told you, Nick. I had a feeling. It’s those sonofabitching Pathans — they ambushed the steamer and grabbed the arms shipment. Jesus — that old mullah wasn’t kidding! They are starting a jehad!”

“Calm down,” Nick told him. “You’re jumping to a lot of conclusions. Anyway we’ve got to check it out — if it was the tribesmen we’ll soon know.”

They soon knew. They beached on the sand bar. The boatman would not accompany them. He was in a state of terror. Nick and Bannion made their way through the stink and the sprawled bodies to the steamer. It was a shambles. Blood and brains and decaying guts everywhere. Many of the Pakistani soldiers had been beheaded.

Mike Bannion turned a corpse over with his foot. The face had been shot away, but the turban and dirty singlet, the baggy trousers, were enough to identify it.

Bannion cursed. “Pathan, all right. Stripped, too. Took his bandoliers, rifle, knife, everything. Even his shoes. That’s Pathan for you — they never leave anything behind but stiffs! So what do we do now, Nick?”

N3 covered his nose with a handkerchief and explored the gutted steamer thoroughly. It had been a massacre, all right. The Pakistanis had somehow been caught napping and had been wiped out. The arms were gone. Where? To start a jehad? Probably, he admitted. Bannion was right. The tribesmen were off and running, screaming bloody Allah. They would have their jehad. They would have it— but who would own it?

Very clever, he admitted. Trick the arms out of Karachi and have your boys waiting in ambush. He ticked the list of arms through his mind again, the list he had read in the murdered Sam Shelton’s office.

Rifles — light machine guns — heavy machine guns — grenades — bazookas — anti-tank guns! Five million rounds of ammo!

Nick Carter’s smile was grim. You could have yourself quite a jehad with all that!

Mike Bannion joined him. He was carrying the giant revolver in his right hand and frowning. “They took some prisoners, Nick. I’m sure of it. At least I counted the dead Paks and they don’t make half a company. They must have taken prisoners. I don’t understand it. They never do!”

N3 glanced across the river to the western shore. Even at that distance he could see the broad trail the tribesmen had left leading up into the stubby hills. Pretty sure of themselves. Not afraid of retribution. That figured — the Pakistani Army was busy fighting India at the moment.

An idea moved in his brain. Could there be another reason for that broad trail? An invitation, perhaps?

He turned to Bannion. “Let’s get unloaded. Better hurry before our friend there loses his nerve entirely and shoves off and leaves us.”

Mike Bannion avoided Nick’s eyes. He said: “You’re going to follow them?”

“Yes. I’ve got to. No way out for me. You don’t have to go — you can go back to Karachi with the boatman. But I’ll have to take the jeep and the supplies. Well?”

Bannion took his bottle of Scotch from the deep pocket of his sheepskin coat and tilted it. He drank for a long time, then put the bottle down and wiped his mouth with his hand. “I’ll go with you. I’m a damned fool, but I’ll go. Just one thing!”

Mike’s grin was a little sheepish. “If anything happens— to me — and you get out of it okay, will you see if you can ~get a little of Uncle Sugar’s dough for my wife and kids? They got nothing.”

Nick smiled. “I’ll try. I think I can swing it. Now let’s get cracking — that character is going to shove off any minute!”

It took the Luger to persuade the boatman to put them ashore on the western side. They unloaded the jeep and supplies where the Pathan trail left the river.

Bannion nodded to the boatman and looked at Nick, the question plain in his eyes. The man would talk, of course, as soon as he got back to Karachi.

Nick hesitated a moment, then shook his head. Why kill the poor devil? By the time he got back to Karachi it would be too late for anyone to stop them. It occurred to him that by that time he might be glad, overjoyed, to see Pakistani troops.

Nick watched the craft disappear back downriver as Mike Bannion checked over the jeep. The vultures had returned to their meal.

“Come on,” Bannion told him. “If we’re going let’s go. This old heap is as ready as she’ll ever be.”

A mile inland they found the first Pakistani soldier buried in earth up to his neck. He was dead, his throat slit, and his eyelids had been cut off. Something white glimmered in the gaping dead mouth.

Mike Bannion took one look and was sick over the side of the jeep. He would not go close to the dead man. Nick walked to the grotesque bloody head sticking out of the sandy soil and studied it. He leaned down and took a bit of paper from the mouth. Something was scrawled on it— Chinese ideographs!

His Chinese was rusty but in a moment he made out the message.

Follow me. The way is plain. You will find one of these markers every few miles. I look forward to meeting you. Again!

It was signed: Nick Carter.