Istanbul

Chapter 13 A Drink for Nick

He was swimming back toward the world, fighting up from a dark and sticky pit, and the struggle was killing him. There were stones where his lungs should be and an iron vise was clamped about his middle; the long curving slide up which he was struggling was greased, he would take a step and then slip back, cursing and crying. Finally, by dint of super-effort, he made it to the top of the slide only to meet a thick wall of dark green glass. He was stopped, trapped, imprisoned behind the thick green glass. He knew then that he was some sort of fish — a poor fish in a gigantic bowl of green glass. Beyond the bowl the real world moved, distorted and thrown into caricature by the lens-like green glass.

Figures moved beyond the glass. Nick rested at the top of the greasy slide and watched them with apathy. He waved to them and tried to cry out, but his voice was a dismal croak and they ignored him. Suddenly he envied those beyond the glass with a terrible envy! They were alive, set apart, of the real world!

He rested and watched them. Vague remembrance stirred in his mind. The one in the dinner jacket! Surely he had seen that one before. He watched now as the figure in the dinner jacket came closer. The sleeked back shiny black hair, the coal dark eyes, the little wisp of moustache — a chiseled hard and handsome face!

The probe of memory slashed deeper — he did know this man from someplace! But wait — surely this was a clue! The man in the dinner jacket was going to shave! Shave? No — that couldn't be it! Nick clung to the top of the greasy slide that led back down to Hell and watched the man. He had taken a razor from his pocket, an old fashioned straight razor, and now he was approaching Nick. Nick felt no alarm. He was safe behind the thick green glass. The man with the straight razor could not get through!

Another figure swam into the confused picture. A tall, angular, spidery figure wearing some sort of white smock; a tall man with a vulture's face. Nick watched with great and consuming interest. The two figures were talking now, arguing about something. Nick knew, without knowing how or why, that they were discussing him.

The spidery man with the vulture's face won the argument. He was taking the man in the dinner jacket by the arm now, was leading him to the door, pushing him out of the room. Nick felt an odd sense of relief. Perhaps the vulture man was a friend!

The man in the white smock came back to the green glass barrier. He stood just the other side of it and peered in at Nick. He had something in his hand now. A small cup! Poison? thought Nick.

The white smocked man was reaching now, the small cup steady in his hand. Nick did not shrink away. The thick green glass would protect him. He began to laugh.

The glass shattered in a soft and noiseless explosion. Nick felt himself catapulted back to reality. He stared up at the vulture faced man just as the contents of the cup was forced down his throat.

"Well," said the man bending over him. "So you've come back to us at last." He was speaking English. He stared down at Nick for a moment, false teeth shiny behind bloodless thin lips. In Turkish he said, "Tunaydin." Good afternoon.

Nick tried to sit up. The man pushed him gently back down on the white hospital bed. He patted Nick's shoulder, an avuncular gesture that Nick, somehow, knew was very wrong. Swift instinct warned him — everything was wrong! Yet this was a hospital room, no doubt of that, and this man must be a doctor! That plane — the plane he had heard just before he passed out — that must have been either a Syrian or Turkish plane. It or a patrol must have found him and brought him out of the wilderness to a hospital. And yet — the man with the razor! Or had that been a crazy dream?

The man in the white doctor's smock was gazing down at him, an odd little smile on his face. He stroked his pointed chin with tapering, fingers. He did look like a vulture, Nick thought. A sort of evil, intellectual vulture. Coldness formed around his heart. He knew where he was now! And he knew who this man was! That plane — it had not been either Syrian or Turkish. It had been their plane!

The doctor must have read something of Nick's thoughts. He smiled, showing all of his perfectly fitting false teeth. "I see that you have figured it out, Mr. Carter. I thought you would in time. You are very quick, especially for a man in your condition."

Nick closed his eyes for a moment. He had to think. He was aware of a cloying, persistent drowsiness. Something in the drink he had just been given? His earlier thoughts came flashing back — truth serums and sharp little knives. The AXE man felt slow rage begin to build in him — goddamn it, after all he had been through! Now he would have to stand up to torture! He wasn't at all sure that he could do it — not in his present state.

He said: "My name isn't Carter. I don't know anyone named Carter. Who are you, anyway? And where am I?" Just to check, he thought bitterly. He knew!

The doctor bent over Nick and pulled back the sleeve of the surgical gown. He pointed to the little AXE tattoo. "You do not deny that you are an AXE agent?"

N3 would have liked to spit in his eye, but he was too weak. The sleepiness was growing. "I deny nothing," he said harshly. "I affirm nothing. Now either answer my questions or leave me alone. I'm sleepy as hell."

The doctor smiled again. He fumbled in his pockets for cigarettes, lit one, offered one to Nick who refused. The doctor stroked his chin again.

"You will get sleepier," he said. "You have, in fact, about one hour to live! I have just given you a massive dose of morphine, Mr. Carter!"

"I'm not Carter," N3 said stubbornly. "But I know who you are, you bastard! You're Dr. Joseph Six, aren't you? And I'm in your sanitarium on the Bosphorus. How soon does the torture start, Doc?"

"I don't think you understood me, Mr. Carter. I just told you that I gave you a massive dose of morphine! You are dying now."

Nick grunted. "So you say."

The doctor shrugged. "Very well. You will find out. But as to torturing you, Mr. Carter, we have decided against that. You are much too dangerous to leave alive any longer than absolutely necessary! You claim you are not Carter, of the AXE murder section? Perhaps we are wrong, but I don't think so! You must be Carter, though we have no definite proof. Everything we have heard, and seen, points to you being Carter! It may please you, Mr. Carter, and I don't mind telling you now that you are to die shortly, that you have succeeded in wrecking a very important and costly operation!"

"Good for me," said Nick. "But I'm not finished yet. Two more to go — and I'm not Carter!"

Dr. Joseph Six built a little steeple with his long fingers. He peered at the man in the bed. "I think I understand. But you don't, not yet. You are dying, Mr. Carter. I am not lying or trying to trick you. Very shortly you will die and we will dress you and leave your body to be found by the Turkish police in Istanbul. You will have died of an overdose of morphine. There will be nothing to point to us — which is the reason I could not let Johnny have his way. He wanted to cut your throat — like all the others. I thought it unwise, however. We are getting out — the Chinese are taking over the setup — and I — " here the doctor laughed, a shrill neighing sound, "I for one would like to spend my money in peace. I am an old man now — I should like to retire to the Greek islands and bask in the sun without fear of retribution. So I, er, dissuaded Johnny from cutting your throat. No easy task, mind you. He is something of a sadist, our Johnny. I might even say a psychotic!"

Nick began consciously to fight off sleep. Maybe this bastard was telling the truth! One thing, the man liked the sound of his own voice! Liked to talk. Let him, then. Find out all he could. The chances were that the man was lying — they wouldn't kill him so soon! He had been given something, of course, that was making him hellishly sleepy, probably a new form of truth serum. It would gain them little enough. Hawk's policy, AXE poli-

cy, was to tell an agent nothing more than absolutely necessary. What you didn't know you couldn't tell — not even under torture. Of course he might admit to being Nick Carter, but they seemed pretty sure of that already.

Now he said, "So that guy was really here? The man wearing the tux, the dinner jacket? I thought I was dreaming."

"It was no dream," said the doctor. "He wanted to cut your throat here and now and have done — but as I say it would never do. We want the heat off, as you American gangsters put it."

Nick was battling sleep with all his might. He had to stay awake, had to keep talking. "How did I get here?"

Dr. Six lit another of his long, Russian style cigarettes. He said: "Our plane got to the scene of the, er, explosion? From what I'm told there was utter devastation — a new sort of bomb, perhaps?"

Nick was silent.

"It doesn't matter," said Dr. Six. "Our people found you unconscious. You had been creased by a bullet. Nothing serious, just enough to knock you out."

Nick put a hand to his head, felt the light bandage swathing his temples. It was the first time he had been aware of it. He saw also that his ankles were neatly bandaged, and in half a dozen other spots he was wearing either gauze or plaster.

The doctor chuckled, a dry sound without mirth. "You were quite a mess, I hear. But you were alive, the only one alive, and vou were obviously a white man. We had a good man in the plane. He used his head. He searched you and found the AXE mark and brought you back to Istanbul. They landed on the Asiatic side. We brought you here by ambulance — an emergency patient, you know." The doctor chuckled again. "I've kept you under heavy sedation until we could decide what to do — you've been out nearly thirty-six hours!"

Thirty-six hours! Nick glanced at the room's single window. Dusk was falling out there on the Bosphorus. He could see the pale glint of water far across toward the Asiatic side, and as he watched a rusty freighter glided by. She was flying the Soviet flag and making for the Black Sea. At least the bastard wasn't lying about that! N3, fighting off unconsciousness, began wondering what was directly under the window?

He made a decision. He asked a question, knowing he was breaking security and not caring at the moment. He had to know.

"There was a girl with me," Nick said. "Never mind who, but there was. The Kurds killed her and cut off her head! At least that's what the Basque said — and I believed him. He was dying. I think he told the truth. You wouldn't know anything about that?"

For a long moment of silence the doctor stared at him with cold pale eyes. Then he shrugged. "What matter? You're dying, too. I'll tell you what I know, even though you won't answer my questions. Our man did not see the girl…"

"There was only her head," said Nick, wincing inwardly. "It was buried under a rock slide. So was the Basque."

The doctor nodded. He seemed sympathetic. "A barbaric people, the Kurds. Most barbaric — uncivilized."

Darkness was creeping over Nick. He pushed it away with a gigantic effort of will. "That's good, coming from you," he croaked. He tried to raise himself in the bed. "I hear you were a Nazi, Doctor? You worked in the camps, didn't you?"

Dr. Six did not actually click his heels, but the effect was there. His vulture's face tensed. "T did what little I could for the scientific glory of the Reich! And my experiments did not involve human beings — they were only Jews! But that is not important now — do you wish to hear about the girl? What little I know?"

I wish to kill you, thought Nick. I wish to take that scraggly vulturine neck of yours between my fingers and squeeze you into everlasting Hell! But darkness was battering the portals of his mind and he could barely move.

"Go on," he said weakly. "Tell me."

"Just as our plane was about to take off three Kurds came in — they had been sent back along the trail for some reason and…"

"The Basque sent six," Nick interrupted. "I saw them."

"If you keep breaking in. Carter, you never will know. You're dying now, you know! It won't be long."

"So you say!"

Dr. Six sighed, then went on, "Our man talked to the Kurds. It was most important, as you will see in a moment. They told him they had found the girl because she had been attacked by wild dogs and was firing the rifle. They heard the shots. She killed one of them and that enraged them — so they had a little sport with her and then cut off her head."

Nick had never really learned to pray. Had never felt the need of it. He did not feel the need now — not for himself. But for Mija! Mija, who had been a nice kid who had gone to Hell once and come back, only to — Goddamn it, girl, Nick thought with savage intensity — goddamn it, Mija, somehow and someway I'll get it even for you!

Dr. Six was talking again. "Two of the remaining Kurds brought the head to the Basque. Probably they expected a reward. The other three stayed to hunt wild dogs and came along later. That's how our man got the story. He had to kill them, of course, just before the plane took off. It wouldn't have done to leave anyone alive! As it is the Turks and Syrians are going to be faced with a first class enigma, I think. A bloody massacre, everyone dead, two Chinese bodies, all the signs of an atomic explosion — and not a soul to tell what happened. It was an atomic explosion, wasn't it, Carter?"

Sly question, slipped in just as N3 was drifting away into darkness.

He aroused himself enough to say, "My name's not Carter. And to hell with you, Dr. Six!"

The black whirlpool caught him and spun him around. He was sinking far down into dark feathers. He knew that the doctor had risen and was standing over the bed, peering down at him. He felt the man's cold fingers as he lifted one of Nick's eyelids and peered into the eve. The doctor grunted. "Ja. Not long now, I think. I will leave you, Mr. Carter. Goodbye. I shall watch you closely. I have never before seen a man die of morphine poisoning. Ironic, Ja? You have fought so hard to prevent the opium trade — now you die of an opium derivative! Ja-Ja! Most ironic! Farewell, Mr. Carter!"

From somewhere down the long twilight corridors of Time and Eternity Nick heard a door close. He was alone. Peace was closing in at last. The feather bed of Death was beckoning. So deep and soft, so utterly desirable. The doctor hadn't been kidding after all. He was dying!

Why not? A gentle voice whispered in his brain. Just let go. Dying isn't hard, nor frightening. People make a big thing out of it, but it's really nothing. Nothing at all. It's peace — perfect and absolute peace forever. Just let go, N3, and slide away down into oblivion. You've done your work — you've earned your rest! Let go — let go…

I will not! Beads of sweat popped out on Nick's forehead. Good sign. He could still feel! I will not die, he told himself again. He marshalled every ounce of will power he possessed. His magnificent body had always obeyed him, but it was reluctant now. He forced himself, by sheer guts, to raise his head from the pillow. I will not die!

He had to get out of bed somehow, get to his feet, get to the bathroom and begin vomiting. He racked his whirling brain for the antidote to morphine poisoning — motion, keep moving, and vomit — spew — get it up and out of you. Above all stay awake!

Then he thought — what's the use. Even if I do make it they'll still have me. They're watching — Dr. Six is! watching — probably a peephole or something. They'll only give it to me again and it will be all to do over! Why struggle? If you can't lick Death — join him!

I will not die!

Nick rolled out of the bed. The floor came up and slapped at him. It was like landing on a misty cloud. Soft. He fought to his knees, then upright, clinging to the chair in which Dr. Six had been sitting. Watch, he thought, watch me, you sonofabitch! / will not die!

The window! It was a single pane of glass, large, a sort of picture window overlooking the Bosphorus. What was beneath it? Who cared! A ledge, a balcony, rocks and bricks — who cared? If he could make it — could crash out that window before the watchers could get into the room and stop him — he might, just might, have a chance. But first the bathroom. He must make himself vomit!

It was such a tiny bathroom, so dimly lit, and so many light years away. He fell, staggered up, fell and stageered up. The good Dr. Six will be getting his jollies out of this, Nick thought fuzzily. He'll like this! Probably remind him of the days when he was killing those poor helpless bastards in the camps.

He fell again. He got up again. He was at last in the bathroom. Brutally he jammed his fingers down his throat and tried to vomit. Nothing! He tried again, willing himself to vomit. A thin trickle of vile tasting slime welled in his throat. Not enough. Not good enough. And he was falling away into darkness again, spinning down into the sleek dark vortex, the black glassy walls closing in.

Nick fell against the basin. He clung to it, his knees trembling, like cotton stalks under him. He fumbled in the medicine cabinet — might be something he could drink to make him vomit!

Bath salts! A bottle of bath salts! And a single rusty razor blade!

Hurry now! The little bathroom was swinging around, swaying, spinning from light into darkness. Not much time left.

/ will not die!

N3 dumped the bath salts into the basin and ran water. He scooped up the mixture, thick and perfumed, and swallowed it. Nasty! He put his head in the basin and sucked up the mixture greedily, like a man dying of thirst. Vile. Filthy. But he was getting sick! Hope moved in him.

Nick spewed violently into the basin. He vomited and went on vomiting. Then he put his head in the basin again and drank his own vomit!

He got sick again. Terribly, unbearably sick, but he must bear it. He must live. He slashed the razor blade across his chest, feeling just a hint of pain. He slashed himself again, feeling the blade cut deep, seeing the blood well red. He vomited again, tearing his throat out, heaving and retching. He fell from weakness and nearly brained himself on the commode. Finally he could stand erect, or nearly erect. He was cramping badly now, his guts pulled into painful knots. But he was over the hump. Now the window!

It would have to be fast. Sneaky. They were watching. Dr. Six was watching. They had not bothered him yet. Probably amused by his antics, his fight against Death. The doctor had probably enjoyed watching the interior of the gas chambers!

But if they saw him making for the window they would guess his intent and stop him. He was too weak to fight. It would have to be fast and smart.

N3 staggered back into the room and fell flat on his face. He lay thus for a moment, shielding his face, gathering his strength. When he got up he would pretend to stagger toward the bed, then reel and fall sideways toward the window. That would be it. That would be GO!

He didn't give a damn what was down there. It was better than staying here to die like a guinea pig for that Nazi sonofabitch. He might impale himself on a fence, or bash his brains out on a rock, or merely land on an awning or another roof. But go he would!

Painfully, not acting now, he got up and staggered toward the bed. He fell, got up, swayed toward the window. Now!

With a rush he went through the plate glass, bursting through with his head and shoulders, not even trying to protect himself. Glass tinkled and showered about him.

He was falling, turning, falling and turning — the world spun twice and he struck water.

Water! He was in the Bosphorus!

He took a deep breath and water rushed into his lungs and the blackness came back.