Run, Spy, Run

The Enemy Within

The soup was excellent.

So was the delicate pate, the crisp bread fingers, the fine filet, and the succulent green salad. So were the varicolored wines that accompanied each course.

Henry Judson was cordiality itself. There was no sign of a wife, and he mentioned none. In spite of his borrowed anglicisms, picked up in the course of his many years in London, he was wholeheartedly American, crisply executive and charmingly attentive. He was sensitive to political trends and nuances; he spoke knowledgeably but. not condescendingly about many things. Nick answered in kind, with assists from a remarkably well-informed Julia. Judson went on to talk of life in London and of world affairs with all the impressive familiarity of the true diplomat. Nick sensed that he enjoyed the talking, that he liked their ready answers. He began to feel that he had been foolish and melodramatic.

Hawk's message arrived with the cherries jubilee and fragrant sherry. An aide came in and whispered briefly. Judson nodded, dismissed him, and they finished their meal without haste.

"If the circumstances had been different," the Consul said, setting down his sherry glass, "I should like to have arranged a more elaborate dinner party. But until this thing is done with, we can't afford to call attention to you. I hope we'll have occasion for a celebration later. Coffee?"

It was the first time since he had greeted them that he had alluded to the reason for their presence in the misty city.

They had their coffee in a high-ceilinged, paneled den room somewhere beyond the formal dining room. There was a roaring fireplace flanked by American and English flags. Julia sank into a deep stuffed chair to listen while Nick and Judson examined Hawk's coded message. It was imprinted on a streamer of teletype and incomprehensible to anyone but the party for whom it was intended:

Henry Judson smiled ruefully.

"I get a lot of these. I must confess I've never learned to make heads or tails out of most of them. We have a decoding staff, of course, and they interpret for me. But I suppose it's basic English to you, Cane."

Nick nodded thoughtfully. "Fairly basic. Sometimes open to conflicting interpretations, of course." He passed the streamer to Julie. She read it swiftly and returned it to Nick. He re-read it, went over to a metal ash tray and took out his cigarette lighter. Too bad, he thought, that he didn't have any of Hawk's Quantity K to play with. He applied the flame to the streamer and watched the coarse paper shrivel.

Judson pulled deeply on his cigarette.

"Am I a security risk, too?"

"No, of course not. But one gets in the habit of not leaving things of that sort lying around." Nick stirred the hot ashes. "Anyway, except for sending and receiving messages, I think it would be best to leave the Consulate out of this as much as possible."

"Oh, quite," said Judson, nodding his acceptance. "I couldn't agree with you more. But we will need to work together to a degree, and I'm always bothered by these cloak-and-dagger melodramatics. I can't be of use if I have to work completely in the dark."

Nick frowned. "I see your point. Naturally you have a right to know what's happening." He knew, as well as anyone, that the American government representative in any country was, as the President's envoy, the American government on that country's soil. He reached into his pocket for a pack of Players and offered one to Julie. She took one and inhaled gratefully. As he lit his own, Julie turned to Judson and reached for her coffee cup.

"This must be American coffee, Mr. Judson. I wonder if I could trouble you for some more."

"Of course, my dear. Oh! How forgetful of me. I meant to offer you some Drambuie, or a Cointreau. Any takers?"

They agreed to make it Drambuie all round, and Judson took Julie's coffee cup over to the bar. He busied himself with coffee tray and tiny glasses.

Nick stared at Julie. Her right eye was twitching in the strangest way. The eyelid batted away with alarming speed. One short, two long, one...

He blinked, himself. He had never before, in all his experience, received a Morse Code message via the eyes.

The message itself was haix-raising.

He's phony! Watch him!

Nick Carter found it hard to keep himself in check as Judson returned with the tray. What the hell had she seen that he hadn't noticed?

He was very careful with his drink. Judson was drinking the same thing, and the bottle was on the tray.

It smelled all right and it tasted all right.

"Now, Mr. Cane, you were going to tell me?.."

"Oh, yes. The message." It flashed through his mind: BROWN CONFIRMS BIBLE IS RIGHT. That meant they had found Brown and extracted from him the information that the operation did indeed involve Judas as Hawk had so strongly suspected. ISCARIOT TAKING SILVER IN STEEL HAND. Judas was selling his services to a foreign bidder. STEEL HAND was a bit puzzling... STEEL HAND SAME 707 INTENDED ELIMINATION. Hmm. Valdez was Steel Hand and had been eliminated on that Boeing 707 flight. "SAME" could only mean that Mr. Judas had a steel hand, too. LINE ON LOCATION RED meant that Hawk had a clue as to Judas' whereabouts. PROCEED UNIVERSITY BUSINESS AWAIT FRIENDS. Continue with investigation but expect further, more detailed orders. WATCH BIG BEN WEDNESDAY GERONIMO. Stay in London until Wednesday when they'd get a "Go, Go" sign.

Judson was eyeing him with politely concealed impatience.

Nick smiled apologetically. "As I said, sometimes these messages are subject to interpretation. Since it's a word code, rather than a letter substitute or number code, there's a limit to what one can say in them and still make sense. Roughly, it means this: We have a suspected traitor in our midst who is taking money from the enemy..." Was it his imagination, or did the lean face tighten? "The incident on today's flight was to have had the same purpose as the one on the 707 — the elimination of a public figure. Evidence points to a Red sabotage plan. Our instructions are to stay out of it from now on because friends will be arriving on Wednesday to take over the operation. Unless I misread that last line," he added, playing his deception to the hilt. "Perhaps it means there's to be another important flight on Wednesday, and therefore another attempt. I'll just have to wait for further instructions on that one."

"Ingenious," murmured Judson, his eyes admiring. "A traitor, eh? To whom, I wonder. To the entire western world?" He sighed and shook his head. "I must say, (though, it's amazing the way you people work. Speak your own language, arrange your own systems. Here at the Consulate I'm afraid we're duller than cold coffee. Oh, we like to think of ourselves as important, and quite capable of solving the problems of the world... but I'm very much afraid it all breaks down to routine, red tape and hypocrisy."

Julia laughed melodiously.

"Come, now, Mr. Judson. Consular work is very important."

"You are kind, my dear, and flattering. But my task shrivels in comparison with that of yours and Mr. Cane's. May I toast you both, and your continued success in foiling the plots of the ungodly!"

They raised their nearly empty liqueur glasses. Nick's eyes were swiftly measuring doorways and distances. If Julie was right — and his instinct told him that she was — they'd better be moving along.

He set his empty glass down. "I hope you'll forgive us, sir, if we eat and run. It's been a long, tiring day. I'd think we'd better be on our way."

Julie took his cue and stifled a ladylike yawn.

"It's been marvelous, but I am a little tired."

"Of course you are," said Judson remorsefully. "I'll call the car."

He pressed a buzzer and spoke into a mouthpiece.

"Harper. Have the car ready. My guests are leaving now."

Judson turned back to them. "I'm sorry you have to go so soon."

"Thank you, sir, for your hospitality."

"Delightful. Very kind," murmured Julie sleepily.

Judson escorted them easily to the great oak-and-iron front door.

Nick was mildly surprised that no move was being made to detain them.

The high, circular marble staircase rose like an exquisite monument. The Consulate was ablaze with light. A portrait of a sober-faced President Johnson hung in the great foyer beneath the seal of the United States. There was no suggestion of anything remotely sinister in the lofty hall.

Judson opened the door.

"Thank you both for coming."

"Our pleasure, sir. If you hear anything further, you can reach us at the Rand."

"I'll keep in touch. It's always good to talk to fellow Americans."

The car was waiting. Judson saw them to the great stone steps, shook Nick's hand, and bowed to Julie. The chauffeur was waiting with his hand on the open rear door of the limousine, touching his cap.

"How did you know?" said Nick affectionately and very, very quietly. He adjusted her cape around her shoulders.

"The TELEX," she whispered, smoothing her hair. "Dateline, Washington, 1:45 p.m. Hours ago. What a marvelous night!"

Nick cursed softly. "A bit cool, though. Come on, honey, let's not keep the driver waiting."

They walked arm in arm down the high stone steps. Nick nodded pleasantly to the chauffeur and handed Julie into the car. The connecting window was closed. A cool breeze drifted through the open rear windows. They settled back against the cushions and the limousine purred out through the high iron gates of the great town house.

Nick pulled Julie to him. "Anything else strike you?"

"Look in the mirror," she murmured, putting her head on his shoulder. "I think the bastard is a lip reader."

The driver's expressionless eyes seemed to be staring into his. The thin lips were forming shapes, as if he were talking to himself or trying on words for size. Nick fought the impulse to reach for Wilhelmina.

Nick held Julie close and kissed her hard. Then he placed his mouth in the hollow of her ear. "You may be right, sweetheart. About that TELEX — are you sure? What about the time difference?"

She giggled softly and nuzzled him seductively. "Even with the time difference, he got that message at least two hours before we got there tonight."

"And spent the time trying to figure it out, I suppose. And doing what else, I wonder?"

"Contacting someone, perhaps."

"Perhaps." A little shadow of doubt had formed into a black cloud of almost-certainty. "Wonder why Harcourt wasn't there tonight? And why we were, when he knows we're top secret? My God, any spy with any sense at all would've been watching that Consulate to see who comes and goes. And he was pretty interested in that message, wasn't he?"

"Much too interested, lover. And why does he have a lip-reading chauffeur?"

They straightened, breaking apart, as two lovers will when bright lights and staring eyes burst in upon them. They were entering the city's heart, and crowds thronged the sidewalks and the streets.

He peered out of the window. "We must be nearly there." He reached for her again and pulled her head on to his shoulder. "Chances are Judson doesn't know we're on to him. So let us both be casual and charming to the nice man when we leave his car, or he may tell tales."

She pulled herself away and busied herself with a fresh lipstick.

The limousine shot forward in a sudden burst of speed and darted down a side street. Nick instinctively reached for the door handle. Before he got there he heard two sharp clicks. The door was locked. With astonishing abruptness the two rear windows rolled themselves up and snapped shut. Julie gasped. Nick whipped Wilhelmina from her holster. The great Rolls swerved sharply to the left and down another secondary street. Julie sat up straight, her eyes wide with alarm.

"Peter. We've got to do something."

"Easy, now." He put an arm about her shoulders and lowered his head, as if reassuring her. "We're hooked. But we wanted to be, remember? It looks like time for sitting ducks."

"Can't you shoot the window out?" she whispered urgently.

"I probably can. But Julie — we've got to ride along with this. It's a little sooner than I expected, but he may be taking us where we want to go."

"Oh." She was silent for a moment. Then: "That was pretty good for a last meal, wasn't it?"

"Uhuh. Let's see if this connecting window opens. Perhaps the driver feels like chatting."

Apparently he didn't. The window was locked and the glass was very heavy, fitting snugly into felt-and-rubber grooving in the framework.

The huge, sturdy car rolled implacably away from the bright hub of London and into a misty dim darkness that bulged with the hazy, angular forms of unlighted buildings.

"From what I remember of Merry Olde England," Julia said distastefully, "we seem to be heading for the waterfront district."

"Yeah. Smells like Limehouse. Now look. I don't know what we're getting into, but we have to be ready for anything. You have that fingernail file?"

Julie nodded.

"Good. In your bag?"

She nodded again.

"Take it out. Pretend to fix your upsweep and stick it in your hair."

She took out a comb and did something to her hair, swiftly rearranging the firm, invisible pins. Nick bent over her, shielding her from view. But the stony eyes in the rearview mirror were momentarily averted. The driver's hand was in the glove compartment.

"What's he doing?" Julie put the comb back into her bag.

"Don't know."

The hand came out, empty.

Neither of them saw or heard the odorless, colorless gas that seeped through the tiny air vents in the upholstery surrounding them. Swiftly, irresistibly, it choked the air in the back of the limousine.

"Awfully sleepy," Julie yawned, tugging helplessly at the window.

Nick was mildly conscious of a sense of torpor, a pleasant feeling of drowsy relaxation.

"Hey!" He sat up suddenly shook his head. "Julie! Your shoe against the window!"

He searched desperately for the source of the gas, cutting off his breath although he knew it was too late for that. Julie swung feebly at the glass pane with her shoe. It rebounded and dropped, useless. She fell across Nick's lap, red lips parted, slender fingers clawing the expensive upholstery.

Nick felt resolve slipping from him like a sheet unwinding. He took Wilhelmina by the barrel and slammed the butt against the window glass. The glass crystallized and spider-webbed but did not break. He tried again, strength ebbing from his arm and reason from his mind. Wilhelmina's butt end was back in his hand. He raised her and squeezed the trigger. Once, twice, at the window next to him. Once at the glass partition. The noise thundered, volleyed around the confines of the car with ear-shattering echoes. The stinging smell of cordite hung in the air, filling the nostrils, blinding, choking, rasping, lulling, anesthetizing...

Nick slumped back, joining Julie in unconsciousness, Wilhelmina dangling from his trigger finger.

It was only then that the driver turned around and let the corners of his mouth twist in a frosty smile. The inner layer of the partition's shatter-proof glass held a tiny puncture and a miniature network of spidery lines. The glass immediately behind his own head was untouched. One rear window was in the same condition.

The chauffeur was pleased. Nothing like a specially designed Rolls for a good, neat job. Satisfied with what he had seen, he reached into the glove compartment and turned a switch. Then he applied himself to his driving.

Wilhelmina dropped from Nick's nerveless fingers.

Mr. Cane and Miss Baron were ready for delivery.