Temple of Fear

Chapter 10

Killmaster was not particularly surprised. Pete Fremont was, and had to show it. Had to show surprise and dismay and disbelief. He paused in the act of conveying a cigarette to his mouth and let his jaw droop.

"Jesus Christ! You must be out of your mind."

Richard Philston, now that he had finally said it, was enjoying the consternation he had caused.

"Not at all. Quite the contrary. Our plan, a plan we have been working on for months, is the essence of logic and sanity. The Chinese are our enemies. Sooner or later, unless they are forestalled, they will make war on Russia. The West will enjoy that. They will sit by and profit by it. Only it is not going to happen that way. That is why I am in Japan, at great personal risk to myself."

Fragments of Philston's file glittered in the AXEman's mind like a montage. An assassination specialist!

Pete Fremont contrived an expression of awe mingled with lingering doubt. "I think you really mean it, by God. And you're going to kill him!"

"That is none of your affair. You will not be present and none of the responsibility, or blame, will be on your head."

Pete laughed sourly. "Come on, Philston! I am mixed up in it, as of now. If I get caught I won't have any head. They'll slice it off like a cabbage. Let's not kid around. I want that money, sure, but even a drunk like me wants to keep his head."

"I assure you," said Philston stiffly, "that you will not be implicated. Or need not be if you use your head to keep it on your shoulders. After all, I expect you to exercise some ingenuity for fifty thousand dollars."

Nick Carter let Pete Fremont sit sullen and unconvinced while he let his own mind range free and fast. For the first time he became aware of the ticking of a tall clock in a corner of the room. The phone on Philston's desk loomed twice its normal size. He hated them both. Time and modern communications were working inexorably against him. Let Philston find out that the real Fremont was dead and he, Nick Carter, was just as dead. Never doubt it. Those two goons outside the door were killers. Philston undoubtedly had a gun in his desk. A light sweat broke out on his forehead and he fished out a grubby handkerchief. This could easily get out of hand. He had to put the spurs to Philston, put on the pressure for his own plan and get the hell out of here. But not too fast. It would not do to show too much anxiety.

"You realize," Philston said silkily, "that you cannot back out now. You know too much. Any hesitation of your part simply means that I must have you killed."

"I'm not backing out, damn it. I'm trying to get used to the idea. Jesus! Kill the Emperor. Rig it so the Chinese get the blame. It isn't exactly a game of squat tag, you know. And you can run afterward. I can't. I have to stay and sweat it out. I can't plant a big lie like that if I'm on the lam to Lower Slobbovia."

"Slobbovia? I don't think I quite…"

"Skip it. Give me a chance to figure it out. Just when is this killing going to come off?"

"Tomorrow night. There will be riots and mass sabotage. A great deal of sabotage. Tokyo will be blacked out, also many other large cities. This is cover, you understand. The Emperor is in residence at the Palace now. That is my responsibility."

Pete nodded slowly. "I begin to get it. You're working with the Chicoms — up to a point. For the sabotage bit. But they don't know anything about the assassination. Right?"

"Hardly," said Philston. "It wouldn't be much of a coup if they did. I explained that — Moscow and Peking are at war. This is an act of war. Pure logic. We intend to cause so much trouble for the Chinese that they will not be able to trouble us for years."

It was very nearly time now. Time to bring the pressure to bear. Time to get out of there and get to Johnny Chow. Philston's reaction was going to be important. Maybe life or death important.

Not yet. Not quite yet.

Pete lit another cigarette. "I'll have to set this thing up," he told the man behind the desk. "You understand that? I mean I can't just rush in cold afterward and yell that I've got the scoop. They wouldn't listen to me. My reputation isn't so good, as you know. Which brings up another point — how am I going to prove this story? Confirm and document it? I hope you've thought of that."

"My dear chap! We are not amateurs. Day after tomorrow, as early as possible, you will go to the Ginza branch of the Chase Manhattan. You will have a key to a safe deposit box. In it you will find all the documentation you will need. Plans, orders, signatures, vouchers of payment, everything. These will back up your story. It is these papers that you will show your friends on the wire services and the newspapers. They are, I assure you, absolutely perfect forgeries. No one will doubt your story after reading them."

Philston chuckled. "It is even possible that some Chinese, those opposed to Mao, will believe it."

Pete fidgeted in the chair. "That's another thing — I'll have the Chicoms after my skin. They'll know I'm lying. They'll try to kill me."

"Yes," agreed Philston. "I imagine they will. I am-afraid I must let you worry about that. But you have survived this long, against all odds, and now you have twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. I think you will make out."

"When, and how, do I get the' other twenty-five thousand if I bring it off?"

"It will be deposited in a Hong Kong account — when we are satisfied with your work. I am sure it will prove an incentive to you."

The phone on Philston's desk rang. The AXEman slid his hand into the trenchcoat, forgetting for the moment that the Colt was gone. He cursed under his breath. He had nothing. Nothing but his muscles and his brain.

Philston was speaking into the instrument. "Yes… yes. I have him. He is here now. I was, in fact, just going to call you."

The big man listened, staring down at his shabby rundown shoes. Call who? Was it just possible that…

Philston's voice turned snappish. He was frowning. "Look, J, I am giving the orders! And you're disobeying them at this moment by calling me. Don't do it again. No, I had no idea that the matter was so important, so urgent to you. In any case I have finished with him and will send him along. The usual place. Very well. What? Yes, I have given him his full instructions and, what is more to the point, I have paid him."

There was an angry metallic gabble in the phone. Philston scowled down at it.

"That will be all, J! You know your job — he is to be kept under constant surveillance until this thing is accomplished. I hold you responsible. Yes, everything is proceeding on schedule and as planned. Hang up now. No. I will not be in contact again until this thing is over. You do your job and I will do mine." Philston put the phone down with a bang.

Pete Fremont lit a cigarette and waited. J? Johnny? Johnny Chow? He began to hope. If it worked out that way he wouldn't have to use his own half complete plan. He watched Philston warily. If the Fremont cover was blown things were going to get hot. If he had to go he wanted to take Philston with him.

Richard Philston looked at him. "Fremont?"

The AXEman breathed again. "Yeah?"

"Do you know, or have you heard, of a man called Johnny Chow?"

Pete nodded. "I've heard of him. Never met him. The word is that he's honcho for the local Chicoms. I don't know how true it is."

Philston came around the desk. Not too close to the big man. He scratched bis chin with a plump forefinger.

"Listen well, Fremont. From now on you'll be walking the razor's edge. That was Chow on the phone just now. He wants you. The reason he wants you is that he, and I, decided some time ago to use you as a newspaperman to plant a story."

Pete watched him narrowly. It was beginning to jell.

He nodded. "Sure. But not the story? This Johnny Chow wants me to plant another story?"

"Precisely. Chow wants you to plant a story blaming the Eta for everything that is going to happen. I agreed to that, naturally. You will have to take it from there and play it that way."

"I see. That's why I was snatched off the street — you had to talk to me first."

"Right again. No real difficulty there — I can cover that by saying, as I have said, that I personally wanted to give you instructions. Chow will not know what instructions, naturally. He should not be suspicious, or no more than usual. We don't really trust each other and we each have our separate organizations. By turning you over to him I will appease him a bit. I had intended to do so in any case. I have few men and I cannot spare them to watch you."

Pete gave him a sour grin. "You feel that you have to watch me?"

Philston went back to his desk. "Don't be a fool, Fremont. You are sitting on one of the great stories of this century, you have twenty-five thousand dollars of my money and you have not yet done your job. Surely you didn't expect me to let you run around free?"

Philston pressed a button on his desk. "You shouldn't have any trouble. All you really have to do is stay sober and keep your mouth shut. And since Chow thinks you have been hired to plant the Eta story you can go about setting it up, as you say, just as you would have to do normally. The only difference is that Chow won't know which story you are setting up until it is too late. There will be someone here in a minute now — any last questions?"

"Yeah. A great big one. If I'm going to be under constant surveillance how am I going to get away from Chow and his boys to plant the story? As soon as he knows the Emperor has been assassinated he'll kill me. It will be the first thing he does."

Philston stroked his chin again. "That is a difficulty, I know. You must depend a great deal on yourself, of course, but I will help all I can. I am sending a man with you. One man is all I can spare, and all that Chow will permit. As it was I had to insist, on the grounds of maintaining liaison.

"You will be taken to the riot scene at the Palace grounds tomorrow, of course. Dimitri will go with you, ostensibly to help guard you. Actually, at a time best determined between the two of you, he will help you break away. You two will have to work it out together. Dimitri is a good man, very tough and dedicated, and he will manage to get you free for a few moments. After that you will be on your own."

There was a tapping at the door. "Come," said Philston.

The man who entered was a fugitive from a pro basketball team. The AXEman figured him at a good six feet eight. He was as thin as a slat and his long skull was mirror bald. He had acromegalic features and little dark eyes and his suit hung on him like an ill-fitting tent. His jacket sleeves were much too short and revealed dirty cuffs.

"This is Dimitri," said Philston. "He will watch you, and over you, to the best of his ability. Don't let his appearance fool you, Fremont. He is very fast and not at all stupid."

The tall scarecrow stared dully at the AXEman and nodded. He and Philston went to a far corner of the room and conferred briefly. Dimitri kept nodding and saying, "Da… Da…"

Dimitri went to the door and waited. Philston extended a hand to the man he thought was Pete Fremont. "Good luck. I will not see you again. Certainly not if all goes as planned. But I will be in contact and, if you deliver the goods, as you Yanks say, you will be paid as promised. Just keep that in mind, Fremont. Another twenty-five thousand to come in Hong Kong. Good-bye."

It was like shaking hands with a can of worms. "Good-bye," said Pete Fremont. Kick Carter thought: "I'll see you again, you sonofabitch!"

He managed to brush against Dimitri as they went out the door. There was a shoulder clip, a heavy gun, under the left shoulder.

The two Japanese gunmen were waiting in the foyer. Dimitri growled something at them and they nodded. They all went out and got into the black Mercedes. The sun had broken through the overcast and the lawn was a sparkling new green. There was a delicate smell of cherry blossoms in the steamy air.

Some comic opera country, thought Nick Carter as he climbed into the back seat with the giant. A hundred million people in an area smaller than California. Picturesque as hell. Paper umbrellas and motorcycles. Moon watchers and murderers. Insect listeners and rioters. Geishas and go-go girls. The whole thing a bomb that was fizzing on a short fuse and he was sitting on top of it.

The tall Japanese rode in front with the chauffeur. The short Japanese sat in back on a jump seat and watched Nick. Dimitri watched Nick from his corner. The Mercedes wheeled left out of the gate and headed back for central Tokyo. Nick sank back in the cushions and tried to sort it all out.

He thought about Tonaka again and it was not pleasant. There might still be a chance, of course, that he could do something. He was, even if a little late, being turned over to Johnny Chow. That was what Chow wanted — Nick now knew why — and it should be possible to save the girl from further torture. Nick scowled at the floor of the car. He would pay off that debt when the time came.

He had gotten one enormous break. He was the beneficiary of the mistrust between the Chicoms and Philston. They were uneasy allies, their liaison was faulty and that could be exploited farther.

They both thought they were dealing with Pete Fremont, thanks to Tonaka's guts and brains. No one could really stand torture for very long, not when it was administered by an expert, yet Tonaka had screamed and given them a false lead.

A thought occurred to Killmaster then and he cursed his own stupidity. He had been worrying about Johnny Chow knowing Fremont by sight. He didn't. He couldn't — otherwise Tonaka would never have given him the name in the first place. So his cover with Chow was unbroken. He could play it, as far as possible, the way Philston had indicated, all the time watching for a way to save the girl.

She would have had that in mind when she screamed his name. He was her only hope and she knew it. She would be hoping now. Bleeding and sobbing in some hole and waiting for him to come and get her out.

His guts felt a little sick. He was helpless. No weapons. Watched every minute. Tonaka was clinging to a frail reed. Killmaster had never felt lower.

The Mercedes skirted the Central Wholesale Market and headed for a causeway leading to Tsukishimi and the shipyards. The weak sun vanished behind a coppery haze overhanging the harbor. Air seeping into the car was laden with a brazen industrial stench. A dozen freighters lay at anchor out in the bay. They passed a drydock on which loomed the skeleton of a.supertanker. Nick caught a flash of the name — Naess Maru.

The Mercedes rolled on past an area where dump trucks were tilting garbage and trash into the water. Tokyo was always building new land.

They turned onto another causeway that led to the water's edge. Here, set a little apart, was a rotting old warehouse. End of journey, thought Nick. That's where they've got Tonaka. It was a good site, cunningly selected. Right in the middle of all the industrial hurly-burly, with no one paying any attention. They would have a good reason for coming and going.

The car pulled in through a ramshackle gate that stood open. The chauffeur kept going across a yard that was stacked with rusting oil drums. He pulled the Mercedes up alongside a loading dock.

Dimitri opened the door on his side and climbed out. The short Japanese showed his Nambu to Nick. "You also get out."

Nick got out. The Mercedes wheeled and drove back out the gate. Dimitri had one hand inside his jacket. He nodded toward a short flight of wooden stairs at the far end of the dock. "We go there. You first. Do not try funny stuff." His English was bad, thick with Slavic mistreatment of the vowels.

Funny stuff was furthest from his mind. He had one intent now, and only one. Get to the girl and save her from the knife. Somehow. Anyhow. With guile or force.

They went up the stairs, Dimitri hanging back a little and keeping his hand in his jacket.

Off to the left a door led into a tiny shabby office, derelict now. A man stood in the office, waiting for them. He stared hard at Nick.

"You are Pete Fremont?"

"Yeah. Where's Tonaka?"

The man did not answer him. He stepped around Nick, pulled a Walther pistol from his belt and shot Dimitri in the head. It was a good, professional head shot. Amateurs went for the body.

The giant crumpled slowly, like a skyscraper being demolished. He seemed to fall in pieces. Then he was all on the splintered floor of the office and blood was running from his shattered head into a crack.

The killer pointed the Walther at Nick. "You can stop lying now," he said. "I know who you are. You're Nick Carter. You're AXE. I'm Johnny Chow."

He was tall for a Japanese, too light of skin, and Nick guessed at Chinese blood. Chow was dressed for the hippie bit — tight chino pants, a psychedelic shirt that hung outside, a string of love beads around his neck.

Johnny Chow wasn't kidding. Or bluffing. He knew. So Nick said: "Okay. I'm Carter. Now where is Tonaka?"

The Walther moved. "Through that door just behind you. Move very slowly."

They went down a littered corridor illuminated by open skylights. The AXE agent noted them automatically as a possible way out.

Johnny Chow pushed open a plain deal door with a brass knob. The room was surprisingly well furnished. A girl sat on a divan with her slim legs crossed. She was wearing a red chcongsam slit nearly to the hip and her dark hair was piled atop her head. She was heavily made up and the white teeth glinted behind scarlet as she smiled at Nick.

"Hello, Carter-san. I thought you would never get here. I've missed you."

Nick Carter regarded her impassively. He did not smile. Finally he said, "Hello, Tonaka."

There were times, he told himself, when he was not very bright.