Run, Spy, Run

Judas: Myth and Man

"Non-toxic, Mr. Cane. An effective sleep-inducer, but not permanent." It was the most peculiar voice Nick had ever heard, like the high, tinny whine of a cheap transistor radio. It was distant yet close; in his ear, yet on a different plane. "Do open your eyes. Two minutes more and I will know you are shamming."

Nick opened his eyes suddenly, as if he had automatically responded to the commanding quality of the strange voice. In one second he snapped from the black well of the unconscious to a reality in which his shoulders and ankles burned horribly.

There is no pain. No pain, he told himself.

But for a moment, there was pain, and his knees tried to sag.

It was a weird sensation.

Weirder still was the tableau before him.

He was in a cellar of sorts, it seemed. The light of a single dangling bulb flung a circle of illumination over rotting wallboards, stone floor, and mouldy-looking barrels. The only furniture was a rickety table and two unstable looking chairs. No one was using them. The smell of the place was damp and close, almost intolerable.

There were four people in the room.

Julia was several feet away from him. Seeing her condition alerted him to his own.

Julie was naked.

Her tall lithe body had been anchored to one of the beams which supported the ceiling above. Rough cord bound her cruelly to the coarse wooden post. Her arms were pinned back over a sort of crossbar that he couldn't see too well, but it seemed to be some kind of metal rod attached to the beam. She hung, in effect, from the rod, her shoulders uncomfortably raised and her dangling wrists lashed to the post. Her feet barely touched the floor; her ankles were confined with the same abrasive cord. She was awake now, too, and straining in a useless effort to get free. He could see the fierce red welts where she had surged her soft, copper-colored flesh against the searing bonds, and felt an almost blinding wave of anger. For God's sake, had it been necessary to tear the clothes off her? He had a fair idea how she was feeling.

The fluting voice spoke again. "The lady is a tigress, Mr. Cane. If you care to imitate the action of the tiger — to paraphrase Shakespeare — it will come to nothing. Your bonds, if anything, are even more secure than hers."

He could feel the truth of it. The cold, damp feel of rough-grained wood behind him, the taut suspension of his arms and legs, and the sharp bite of the cord were all the proof he needed.

He blinked under the dazzling light of the unshielded bulb. Two dark, shadowy figures swam into focus, rimmed with light, featureless.

He swallowed a foul taste and the impulse to be sick.

"Judas, I suppose."

A high, humorless laugh rang hollowly in the bare cellar. One of the dim figures came forward and stood beneath the bulb. Its full glow splashed upon his head.

"Yes. I am Judas. Take a good look, Mr. Cane. You and the lovely lady. Drink your fill of my face. It is the last time you will see it. Anyone who has ever looked upon me is long since dead. With the exception, of course, of my faithful Braille, who is always with me. Braille is blind. I trust that you appreciate the joke."

Braille was a vague silhouette beyond the perimeter of the bulb.

Judas, the legend, the obscure, stood revealed in the harsh light.

There was nothing ordinary about the legendary Judas. If Nick had ever formed any impression of him at all through the years that echoed with his infamous name, it dissolved at once with the impact of the man himself.

Judas was a symmetrical man. Short, well-proportioned, compact; body as militant and cut-from-the-mould as a Prussian Junker. In action, it would be a flying wedge of strength and iron control. The face and the strange right hand compelled attention.

Judas' face was a shining globe of hairless, bloodless features, a one-color, one-surface mask of precision that might have been cast from an assembly line die. The eyes were slits which showed no more than narrow, unfathomable pools of liquid fire. The nose was small in the globular face, hardly raised above the flat cheek bones, finely chiseled, ruler-straight. The huge, permanently-grinning mouth beneath it would have looked more appropriate on a skull; some of Judas' face had been lost in a long-ago accident and had never been quite replaced. Apart from the hideous grin, there was no expression on the face, save a fixed one of watching, of waiting, of preparedness to strike. The head, brows and lids were completely bald. It was not a view to be savored up close.

Julie made a stifled sound in her throat. It echoed through the dank cellar and came back like a whimper. The figure called Braille turned to her, arm upraised, but Judas made a restraining gesture with the glittering device that was his right hand.

"Wait, Braille."

The light bulb sent dancing arrows of silver reflection off five metallic, rigid fingers, that simulated the human hand in all but color and texture. The fingers curved, as if the muscles were real, and the hand was lowered.

"The lady is correct," said Judas. "I am not pretty."

"So I see," Nick agreed. "What do you want with us, aside from a discussion of your appearance?"

The eye slits narrowed. "A good question. The answer is in your own hands. And I want more than names, ranks and serial numbers. I know that you are American agents who have successfully counteracted my aircraft operations, making it necessary for me to find another way. But in the meantime I intend to get all I can out of you. Everything that is in you." The inhuman eyes suggestively raked Nick's body. "I already know enough to assure you that nothing will be gained by prevarication."

"Judson," Nick said bitterly.

"Judson," Judas agreed evenly.

"Judson is a fool," said Nick. "And we played him for the fool. There's no secret about our job. We were told to take a certain flight. We did. It's over. If there's any stupid melodrama of agents, ranks, and serial numbers, it came from him."

"Judson is indeed a fool," Judas said agreeably. "It has always been my good fortune to find fools in high places who place money above patriotism. And now Judson's services are at an end. Your government will wonder why two of their operatives have disappeared after contacting him. I cannot — I'm sure you understand — afford investigations. But I can afford to spend a little time with you."

"I've already told you," snapped Nick, "that we've nothing to say. Judson was an idiot with spy stories in his head and lots of conversation and very little else." He tested his bonds as he rapped out the impatient words. Whoever had trussed them up was an expert.

"And I've already told you, Mr. Cane — I'm sure that is not your name, but it will do for the moment — that lies will get you nowhere." The weird, mechanical voice had climbed in pitch. "I may not know all about you, but I do know that you're working for the CIA and that you were sent to look for me."

Quick relief flashed through Nick Carter. Almost certainly, he had not heard of AXE or Operation Jet. Nick had been wondering for a moment just how much Judson knew. Not much, to judge by their evening with him; not much, to judge by Judas.

"We were sent to prevent an assassination and find out who gave the orders. Now we know. It was Judson, of course, who first mentioned your name."

"That's enough Mr. Cane! This is not the first time that one of my plans has been foiled. I have people working in America who — but you're the one who should be talking." Judas controlled his breath with a hiss. "You will tell me all you have heard or guessed about my plane-bomb operations — the names and plans of your superiors. You will tell me if there are other agents here in London working on the same assignment. And if you won't tell me, I'm sure Miss Baron will."

He pivoted on his heels and looked at her, the skull-mouth gaping.

"Oh, sure," said Julie, and she laughed. "Get out your steno pad and we'll just reel them off."

"Easy, Julie," Nick said warningly. He had heard the note of hysteria in her voice. "Don't let him get you with this garbage of his."

"No, let her talk," said Judas, his voice sounding hollow. "Her nerves begin to show erosion. Always a good sign. A very beautiful woman. She could be very useful with a little problem we have on our hands. Braille has not had a — shall we say — satisfying woman since our little bit of business in Argentina. Braille is amazing, Mr. Cane." He turned to Nick. "Incredibly virile and most interesting in his methods. None of your gentle lover's tactics for him. He likes to brutalize his women. Rip them apart, you know, tear them. It gives him great pleasure. He enjoys screaming, too. You see, he is built quite like a bull, and there isn't a woman alive who can — uh — accommodate him without a certain amount of quite unbearable..."

"You're filth, Judas. Nothing but dirt." Nick controlled his voice. Julie's eyes were sick and the skin was tight over her jaw. "Is that how you lost the hand — mouthing obscenities like that?"

The gash of a mouth almost smiled. Judas took a few gliding steps toward Nick. The light of the bulb fell behind him.

"I'm glad you asked me that, Mr. Cane. A bomb did that. Carelessly handled, I regret to say. My own fault. A year ago. The second one was much better; the intended party died. Tragedy does have its compensations. Braille, for instance is blind, but in the dark he is unerring. Of course it's always dark for him. I find him far more effective in many ways than a highly-skilled normal man. As for this hand — kindly watch."

The five fake fingers extended stiffly, shot toward Nick. Suddenly they halted, inches from his chest. There was a click, and a nasty little miracle occurred. The forefinger grew. The covering silver receded and a switchblade knife of gleaming steel paused a hair's breadth from Nick's throat.

"That is only one of my five weapons," said Judas. "Another is a delicate little gouge. For eyes, you know, and things like that. A third is a device that a Borgia would envy. Ah, but I'm taking too much of your time. I should like to show you more, but we must get busy. Now."

Weapons. Nick's mind raced. But Judas had spotted the giveaway flash of his eyes.

"Yes, Mr. Cane. We relieved you of your choice collection. Braille and I made a very thorough search of both your clothes and persons. Braille in particular is very good at feeling his way around in — ah — places I may have missed. Yes, we found the clever Luger, the interesting Italian knife and that peculiar round ball. Not to mention not one but two small flashlights. Are you afraid of the dark, Mr. Cane?"

Nick glanced at Julie. The nailfile knife! Her taut expression had relaxed slightly and she gave a slight nod and an almost cheerful wink. Ha! So much for Braille and his feelies. Judas was saying, "I must confess the ball resisted our best efforts. What is it?"

"Souvenir," said Nick. "Good luck piece."

"So? What kind, might I ask?"

"It's a new compound. Manufactured in our labs. You could drop ten tons on it and it wouldn't break. Just a keepsake." His mind began to stir with an idea.

"You're lying," Judas suggested easily.

"Well, Baldy," said Julie helpfully, "why don't you let Peter bounce it off your head and see which one is the phony?"

Judas turned to her. His tapering body with the globular head and the lethal steel hand looked too ugly to be real.

"I see that you have fire, my dear. Braille will like that."

"Tell me about Valdez," Nick interjected. "The late Senor had a steel hand, too. Coincidence?"

Judas' intent look was quietly dangerous.

"How do you know about Valdez?"

Have I made a mistake? Nick wondered swiftly. "Why, I was briefed, of course. I was told that a recent explosion had been caused by a man with a steel hand, and that I should look for something of that sort on our flight. That's really how I spotted that fellow with the broken arm," he said easily, trying to look a little complacent.

Judas stared at him.

The dank cellar was getting steadily more foul. The waterfront location of their prison was unmistakable. It seemed to be some kind of basement storage room, long unused. Judson's chauffeur, had unloaded them somewhere among the docks of London, in that backyard area of abandoned sheds and antiquated warehouses. Nick fought down a rising tide of helplessness. Nick shot another sidelong glance at Julie. An unkempt ringlet of long, dark hair hung past one shoulder. Shorter, loose tendrils dangled over her forehead and down the back of her neck.

Judas had decided to answer. "Valdez," he said without animation, "was a man who betrayed not only his own government but the people who paid him well to betray it. Myself, in other words. He was not the anti-Red Chinese hero that he seemed. He fought against them with words in public places, but he helped their cause with deeds. Unfortunately he made the mistake of thinking he could replace me. Replace Judas! The arrogance of the man. So we arranged an ingenious end for him. Unhappily, the bomb was triggered on the ground, not in the air, as planned. I deplore this kind of accident, but nevertheless it turned out fairly well. I had hoped to get two birds with one stone — there was an interfering girl who was making a nuisance of herself — but I have every reason to believe that she has been taken care of."

What did that mean — that he'd heard from "Brown," or hadn't?

"No doubt you know about that too," finished Judas, with a faint inflection of enquiry.

Nick ignored that. "So you somehow persuaded him to blow himself up. How did you manage that?"

"Simple, really. The good Senor Valdez thought he was bringing a clever bomb to your country, which would be used at a later date and in the appropriate company. It was, of course, a device concealed in his artificial limb. He would simply remove the hand under cover of, say, the banquet tablecloth, and quietly excuse himself several minutes ahead of time. But we deceived him." The globular head lowered, as if in shame. Or gloating pleasure. "We told him everything but the time of the explosion. He did not know he was carrying an activated explosive."

"And you yourself were mistaken about the time of the explosion. So your timing was off, too."

Judas chuckled mirthlessly. "Not my timing, Mr. Cane. My hirelings'. Even the best laid plans are open to human error. Our expert in the — uh — portable demolitions department has been diverted to a less responsible position. He neglected to observe the time difference. Something to do with your idiotic daylight saving, I understand."

Well, that certainly explained a lot. But there was still a coincidence unanswered.

"But what about these artificial hands — are there more of them? What is it, a sort of trademark?"

Judas laughed again. "You do ask an awful lot of questions, Mr. Cane. I don't know what possible good you think it's going to do you. But that's really quite a delightful concept: the League of Silver-Fingered Men... Unfortunately, we only had the fortunes of war, Valdez and I, to blame for our common affliction. We met a year ago in the Swiss hospital to which we both had gone for our very difficult and specialized operations — he had had some kind of sordid little accident. It was there that I won him over to my employ. But eventually he got big ideas, as all really small men do. I even used his hand for him! Now, Mr. Cane, I've answered you. It's your turn to talk. Tell me: What is 'Brown' to you?"

"Huh?" Nick was flexing his leg muscles. Were the bonds just a little looser? It was very difficult to do anything about his hands; the rod beneath his shoulders made any useful movement virtually impossible. "A rather dull color. Why?"

The steel hand flashed out and struck Nick's face.

"A man named Brown. What is he to you?"

Nick shook his head as if to clear it. "What Brown? It's a common name."

"The Brown of the message, Mr. Cane. Remember Judson?"

"Oh, yes. He would have relayed that simple message, wouldn't he?"

"He did. The 'simple message' started. Mr. Cane, like this: BROWN CONFIRMS BIBLE IS RIGHT. ISCARIOT TAKING SILVER IN STEEL HAND. I understand you had some very specious explanation of that for our foolish Mr. Judson."

"There's nothing to it," said Nick. "Brown is a New York operative, a private investigator. The message is clear enough." He frowned and looked thoughtful. "On second thought, perhaps Judson didn't realize he was the suspected traitor."

"Why would you think Judson was taking silver in his steel hand, Mr. Cane? You know that Judson doesn't have one."

Nick hesitated just a little too long. "It was meant as a warning to us, that he would kill if he realized we suspected him. 'Steel' means knife or..."

"That'll do. Cane. You've stalled long enough. You'll start telling me now what I want to know, or Braille begins in earnest. You may not find me handsome, but I can assure you that Braille is no picture postcard, either. The lady must be longing to look him over."

"There's nothing to tell you," said Nick. "You know it all."

"Who are your colleagues?"

"We haven't any. We hire out our services, that's all — like you do."

Something like a titter came out of the unlikely mouth.

"A presumptuous comparison. I'm sure the lady's story will be far more sensible."

"The lady's story," said Nick firmly, "will be exactly the same as mine."

Judas turned to Julia, beautiful, pitiful in her nakedness. "You'll speak for yourself, won't you, my dear? After all, it is your body that your gallant colleague so easily ignores for his noble cause. So why not give me the true story, Miss Baron? Perhaps then Braille won't hurt quite so much."

"You can go to hell," said Julie. "I wouldn't give you the lint from my navel. There's no story. Just your sick preoccupation with Braille."

Nick caught his breath. She had said too much.

Judas eyed her coldly. "How extremely coarse." He looked from her to Nick and then back again. Suddenly he stepped back out of the light and his curt, echoing voice snapped: "Braille!"

Something shambled in the shadows.

Nick tensed. The cord cut into his raw body. He was wrong; it was useless; nothing was giving. Julie braced herself. Her firm, smooth body drew erect within the bonds, her chin jutted defiantly.

Braille stepped into view.

Even Nick could scarcely repress a visible shudder of revulsion.

Julie uttered a choked cry which she swiftly bit into silence.

Braille was a travesty of a man, a blasphemous distortion of nature.