Temple of Fear

Chapter 13

He awoke in total darkness. His head ached badly and his body was one huge bruise. His lacerated right wrist throbbed with a sharper pain. Through the tiny window overhead drifted occasional harbor sounds.

For a quarter of an hour he lay in the darkness and tried to bring his jumbled thoughts together, to fit the jigsaw pieces into a clear picture of reality. He tested the cuff and the pipe again. Nothing had changed. Still trapped, helpless, immobile. He had an idea that he had been unconscious a long time. His thirst was a live thing clawing at his throat.

Painfully he got to his knees. He took the matches from his jacket pocket and, after two failures, managed to keep one of the paper matches glowing. He had had visitors.

There was a tray on the floor near him. There was something on it. Something covered with a napkin. The match burnt his 6ngers. He lit another one and, still on his knees, reached for the tray. Tonaka might have thought to bring him water. He snatched away the napkin.

Her eyes were open and staring at him. The tiny flambeau of the match was reflected in the dead pupils. Kato's head lay on its side, on a plate. Dark hair strayed wildly down to the severed neck.

Johnny Chow getting his kicks.

Nick Carter was sick without shame. He vomited on the floor beside the tray, retching and spewing until he was empty. Empty of everything but hate. In the fetid dark his professionalism went by the board and he wanted only to find Johnny Chow and kill him as painfully as possible.

After a time he lit another match. He was covering the head with the napkin when his hand touched the hair. The elaborate geisha hairdo was a wreck, straggling and collapsed, thick with oil. Oil!

The match went out. Nick thrust his hand deep into the massy pile of hair and worked it around. The head moved to his touch and nearly fell and rolled beyond his reach. He pulled the tray closer and wedged it with his feet. When his left hand was thickly coated with the hair oil he transferred it to his right wrist, rubbing it up and down and around on the inside of the steel cuff. He did this a dozen times, then he pushed the tray away and stood erect.

He took a dozen deep breaths. The air filtering in through the window was tinged with shipyard smoke. Someone moved in the corridor outside the room and he listened. After a time the sounds fitted into a pattern. A guard in the corridor. A guard wearing rubber shoes as he walked his post. No mistaking that Oriental slip-slop-slip-slop as the man paced up and down the corridor.

He moved as far to his left as he could, pulling steadily against the manacle that bound him to the pipe. Sweat started on him as he put every ounce of his great strength into the effort. The cuff slid down on his greased hand, slid a little more, then locked at his big knuckles. Killmaster strained again. Agony now. No good. It wasn't working.

All right. He admitted that it was going to mean broken bones. So get it over with.

He stepped as close to the pipe as he could, pulling the cuff up the pipe until it was level with his shoulders. His wrist, hand and the cuff were all slimed with bloody hair oil. He should be able to do it. All it needed was resolution.

Killmaster took one deep breath, held it, then lunged away from the pipe. All the hate and fury that was boiling in him went into the lunge. He had been an All-American halfback once and men still spoke with awe of the manner in which he smashed opposing lines. The way he exploded now.

The pain was brief and terrible. The steel gouged cruel furrows in his flesh and he felt the bones go. He reeled against the wall near the door, clinging for support, his right hand a dangling bloody wreck at his side. He was free.

Free? There was still the metal door and the heavy bar. It was going to take guile now. Courage and brute power had brought him as far as they could.

Nick leaned against the wall, panting, listening intently. The guard in the corridor was still slip-slopping up and down, the rubber shoes sibilant on the rough boards.

He stood in the dark and weighed the decision. He was only going to get one chance. If he muffed it everything was lost.

Nick glanced at the window. Dark. But what day? What night? Had he slept the clock around and more? He had a hunch that he had. If so then this was the night set for the riots and the sabotage. That meant that Tonaka and Johnny Chow would not be around. They would be somewhere in central Tokyo, busy with their murderous plans. And Philston? Philston would be smiling that upper-class, epicene smile of his and getting ready to assassinate the Emperor of Japan.

The AXEman was aware of a sudden desperate urgency. If his thinking was correct it might already be too late. In any event there was no time to lose — and he must stake everything on a single cast of the die. It was pure gamble now. If Chow and Tonaka were still around he was dead. They had brains and guns and they wouldn't be fooled by his tricks.

He struck a match, noting that he only had three left. It should be enough. He dragged the bed mat over near the door, and stood on it and began ripping it to pieces with his left hand. His right was useless.

When he had enough cotton out of the thin pad he pushed it into a pile near the crack beneath the door. Not enough. He pulled more cotton from the pad. Then, to conserve his matches in case the stuff did not catch at once, he reached into his pocket for the money, meaning to twist a bill into a spill and use that. The money was gone. The match went out.

Nick cursed softly. Johnny Chow had taken the money when he slipped in with Kato's head on the tray.

Three matches left now. New sweat broke out on him and he could not keep his fingers from trembling as he carefully lit another match and held it to the cotton. A tiny flame flickered, wavered, nearly went out, caught again and began to grow. Smoke began to curl upward.

Nick wriggled out of the old trenchcoat and began to fan the smoke with it, directing it out under the door. The cotton was blazing now. If this didn't work he just might kill himself by asphyxiation. It was easy to do. He held his breath and kept waving the trenchcoat. sweeping the smoke under the door. That was enough. Nick started yelling at the top of his voice. "Fire! Fire! Help — help — Fire! Help me — don't let me burn. Fire!"

Now he would know.

He stood away from the door, flattened against the wall to one side. The door opened outward.

The cotton was blazing merrily now and the room was filling with acrid smoke. He didn't have to fake the coughing. He screamed again: "Fire! Help — tasukete! Tasuketel Hi — Hi!"

Slip-slop-slip-slop-slippety-slop-slop. The guard was running down the corridor. Nick let out a wail of terror. "Tasuketel"

The heavy bar dropped with a bang. The door opened a few inches. The smoke billowed out. Nick had tucked his useless right hand into the pocket of his jacket, to keep it out of the way. Now he snarled deep in his throat and rammed his big shoulders at the door. He was like a massive spring that has been coiled too long and is at last released.

The door slammed outward with a bang, knocking the guard backward and off balance. It was the Ainu he had seen earlier. He had the Tommy gun in front of him, at the ready, and as Nick ducked in under it the man squeezed off a burst by reflex. Flame seared the AXEman's face. He put everything he had into a short left hand to the man's gut. He bulled him back against the wall and put a knee in his groin and butted him in the face. The guard let out a bubbling groan and began to fall. Nick slashed him across the Adam's apple with his hand and butted him again. Teeth broke and blood gushed from the man's ruined mouth. He let go the Tommy gun. Nick grabbed it before it hit the floor.

The guard was still only halfway down, leaning drunkenly against the wall. Nick kicked his legs from under him and he went crashing down.

The machine gun was heavy even for Nick, with his one good hand, and it took him a second to get it balanced. The guard tried to get up. Nick kicked him in the face.

He stood over the man and put the muzzle of the Tommy gun within an inch of his head. The guard was still conscious enough to look past the muzzle and up the barrel to the clip where the heavy .45's waited with deadly patience to tear him apart.

"Where is Johnny Chow? Where is the girl? One second and I kill you!"

The guard did not doubt it. He kept very quiet and stammered out the words in a bloody froth.

"They go Toyo — go Toyo! Go for make riots, fires, I swear. I tell — you not kill!"

Toyo must mean central Tokyo. Downtown. He'd guessed right. He had been out over twenty-four hours.

He put a foot on the man's chest. "Who else is around here? Other men? Here? They did not leave you to guard me alone?"

"One man. One man only. Now sleep in office, I swear." Sleep. Through all this? Nick slammed the guard over the skull with the butt of the Tommy gun. He turned and ran down the corridor toward the office where Johnny Chow had shot the Russian, Dimitri.

There was a spurt of flame from the office door and a slug made a nasty noise past Nick's left ear. Sleeping, hell! The bastard was awake now and he had Nick cut off from the yard. There was no time to go exploring, to try to find another way out.

Blam-BLAM…

A hornet sound, too close. A slug gouged the wall just beside him. Nick turned, shot out the single dim light in the corridor and ran back toward the stairs that led down to the dungeons. He vaulted the body of the unconscious guard and kept running.

Silence now. Silence and darkness. The man in the office was reloading and waiting.

Nick Carter stopped running. He fell to his belly and crawled until he could look up and see, barely see, the lighter rectangle of an open skylight above him. A waft of cool air came down and he saw a star, a single faint star, glittering in the center of the square. He tried to remember how high up the skylights were. He had noted them yesterday when they brought him in. He couldn't remember and knew it didn't matter. He had to try it anyway.

He tossed the Tommy gun up through the skylight. It hit and bounced and made a hell of a racket. The man in the — office heard it and opened fire again, pouring lead down the narrow corridor. Nick hugged the floor. One of the bullets ticked through.his hair without touching the scalp. He exhaled silently. Christ! That was close.

The man in the office emptied his magazine. Silence again. Nick stood up, tensed his legs and leaped, reaching with his good left hand. His fingers locked over the coaming of the skylight and he hung swaying for a moment, then began to pull himself up. His arm tendons cracked and complained. He grinned bitterly in the dark. All those thousands of one-arm chin-ups were paying off now.

He got his elbow over the coaming and swung his legs out. He was on the roof of the warehouse. Around him the shipyards were silent and desolate, but here and there lights were on in warehouses and the docks. One especially bright light glittered like a constellation from the top of a crane.

No blackout yet. Over Tokyo the sky was brilliant with reflected neon. A red warning winked from the top of Tokyo Tower and far to the south searchlights were radiating over the International Airport. Some two miles to the west was the Imperial Palace. Where was Richard Philston at this moment?

He found the Tommy gun and cradled it in the crook of his good arm. Then, running softly, the way a man runs over freight cars, he went down the length of the warehouse. He could see well enough now to leap each skylight as he came to it.

After the last skylight the building widened and he knew he was over the office and near the loading dock. He went on tiptoe, making very little sound on the tar paper. A single dim light gleamed on a standard in the yard where the rusty oil drums marched like globular phantoms. Something near the gate caught the light and reflected it and he saw that it was a jeep. Painted black. His heart leaped and he felt the beginning of real hope. There might yet be a chance to stop Philston. The jeep meant a way into town. But first he had to get across the yard. That wasn't going to be easy. The single light gave just enough illumination for that bastard in the office to see him. He didn't dare try to shoot out the light. Might as well send in his calling card.

There was no time to ponder. He just had to barge ahead and take his chances. He ran on, over the roof extension that covered the loading dock, trying to get as far from the office as possible. He reached the end of the roof and looked down. There was a stack of oil drums directly under him. They looked rickety.

Nick slung the Tommy gun over his shoulder and, cursing his useless right hand, let himself gently over the edge of the roof. His fingers clutched the gutter. It began to sag and tear away. His toes touched the oil drums. Nick let out a breath of relief — then the gutter tore away in his hand and his full weight came down on the drums. The stack swayed perilously, sagged, gave way in the middle and came crashing down with the sound of a boiler factory in full production.

The AXE agent was lucky he wasn't killed then and there. As it was he lost a lot of skin before he managed to scramble free and start running for the jeep. Nothing else for it now. It was the only game in town. He ran awkwardly, limping because a half full drum-had bruised his ankle. He carried the Tommy gun half on its side, the butt against his belly and the muzzle trained on the loading dock near the office door. He wondered how many bullets he had left in the clip.

The man in the office was no coward. He ran out of the office, spotted Nick zigzagging across the yard and let go with his pistol. Dirt kicked up around Nick's feet and a slug kissed his. cheek as it passed. He ran on, not firing back, really worrying about the clip now. He should have checked it.

The gunner left the loading dock and ran toward the jeep, trying, to cut Nick off. He kept sniping at Nick as he ran, but his fire was erratic and way off.

Nick still did not shoot back, not until they nearly met at the jeep. The range was point blank. The man whirled and took aim this time, holding his pistol with two hands to steady it. Nick dropped to one knee, balanced the Tommy gun over his knee and let the clip go.

The machine gun raved in the night. Most of the slugs took the man in the belly and blew him backward to drape him over the jeep's hood. His pistol clattered to the ground.

Nick dropped the Tommy gun and ran to the jeep. The man was dead, his guts shot out. Nick pulled him off the jeep and went through his pockets. He found three spare clips and a hunting knife with a four-inch blade. His smile was cold. This was more like it. A Tommy gun wasn't the weapon to cart around Tokyo.

He picked up the dead man's pistol. An old Browning .380 — these Chicoms had a weird assortment of weapons. Collected in China and smuggled into various countries. Ammo would be the real problem — but they seemed to solve that somehow.

He slipped the Browning into his belt, the hunting knife into a jacket pocket and legged into the jeep. The keys were in the ignition. He twisted, jammed the starter and the old vehicle came to life with a shattering roar of exhaust. No muffler!

The gate was open. He shoved his foot down and the old rat-

tletrap went banging and skidding over the oily concrete. He headed for the causeway. Tokyo glowed in the misty night like a huge iridescent bauble. No blackout yet. What in hell time was it?

He reached the end of the causeway and found the answer. A clock in a window said: 9.33. Beyond the clock was a phone kiosk. Killmaster hesitated, then jammed on the brakes, leaped out of the jeep and ran to the kiosk. He really didn't want to do it — he wanted to follow through and clean this thing up himself. But he'd better not. Too risky. Things had gone too far. He would have to call the American Embassy and ask for help. For a moment he racked his brain, trying to remember the recognition code of the week, got it and went into the booth.

He didn't have a coin to his name.

Nick stared at the phone in rage and frustration. Goddamnit! By the time he could explain to a Japanese operator, coax her into putting him through to the Embassy, it would be too late. It was probably too late now.

At that moment the light in the kiosk went out. All around him, up and down the street, in the shops and stores and houses and taverns, the lights went out.

Nick picked up the phone and listened for a second. Dead. Too late. He was right back on his own. He ran back to the jeep.

The great city lay in darkness except for a central smudge of light near Tokyo Station. Nick switched on the jeep lights and drove as fast as he could toward that solitary swatch of brilliance in the gloom. Tokyo Station must have its own power. Something to do with the electric trains that ran in and out.

As he drove, leaning on the jeep's harshly croaking horn — for people were beginning to come into the streets now — he saw that the blackout was not as total as he supposed. Central Tokyo was out, except for the Station, but around the perimeter of the city there were still patches of light. It was a matter of individual transformers and sub-stations and Johnny Chow's people couldn't knock them all out at once. It would take time.

One of the patches on the horizon flickered and went out. They were getting around to it!

He got into a boil of traffic and had to slow down. Many drivers had pulled over and were waiting to see what would happen. A stalled electric tram blocked an intersection. Nick steered around it and kept inching the jeep through the crowd.

Candles and lamps were flickering like big fireflies in the houses. He passed a group of laughing kids on a corner. To them it was a real ball.

At Ginza dori he swung left. He could make a right at Sotobori dori, go a couple of blocks, then turn north on a street that would take him straight into the Palace grounds. He knew a postern there that led to a bridge over the moat. The place would be crawling with cops and the military, of course, but that was all right. He just had to find someone with enough authority, make them listen to him and get the Emperor into hiding and safety.

He wheeled into Sotobori. Just ahead, beyond where he intended to swing north, were the spacious grounds of the American Embassy. Killmaster was sorely tempted. He needed help! This thing was getting too big for him. But it was a matter of-seconds, precious seconds, and he couldn't afford the loss of even one second. As he pushed the jeep, tires screaming around the corner the lights in the Embassy came on again. Emergency generator. It occurred to him then that the Palace would also have emergency generators, would use them, and Philston must have known this. Nick shrugged his big shoulders and stamped hard on the gas, trying to push it down through the floorboards. Just get there. In time.

He could hear the sullen murmur of the crowd now. Nasty. He had heard mobs before and they always scared him a little, as much as anything ever frightened him. A mob was unpredictable, a crazed beast that might do anything.

He heard shooting. A ragged scatter of shots in the dark, just ahead. Fire, raw and savage, stained the blackness. He came to an intersection. The Palace grounds were only three blocks ahead now. A burning police car lay on its side. It exploded and the blazing fragments trailed up and out like miniature rockets. The mob surged back, screaming and running for cover. Farther down the street three more police cars were blocking the way, their moving spotlights playing over the packed throng. Behind them a fire truck was moving into place beside a hydrant and Nick caught a glimpse of a water cannon.

A thin line of police came down the street. They wore riot helmets and carried batons and pistols. Behind them more police were firing tear gas over the line and into the crowd. Nick heard the gas shells break and diffuse with the typical damp thuuckk — thuuckk. The stink of the lacriminators wafted through the crowd. Men and women gasped and coughed as the gas took hold. The retreat began to turn into a rout. Nick, helpless, swung the jeep to the curb and waited. The throng broke on the jeep, like sea on a headland, and flowed around it.

Nick stood up in the jeep. Looking over the mob, beyond the pursuing police and the high wall, he could see lights here and there in the Palace and grounds. They were using the generators. That was going to make Philston's job tougher. Or was it? Uneasiness plagued the AXEman. Philston would have known about the generators and discounted them. How did he expect to get to the Emperor?

He saw Johnny Chow then, behind him. The man was standing on top of a car and screaming at the mob streaming past. One of the spotlights on a police car picked him up and held him steady in a bar of light. Chow kept waving his arms and haranguing and, gradually, the mob's flow began to slow. They were listening now. They had stopped running.

Tonaka, standing near the right fender of the car, was splashed by the spotlight. She was all in black, slacks, sweater, her hair done up in a kerchief. She stared up at the screeching Johnny Chow, her eyes narrowed, an odd composure about her, paying no heed to the crowd that jostled and pushed about the car.

It was impossible to hear what Johnny Chow was saying. His mouth opened and words came out and he kept pointing around him. But the mob had stopped running now. It began to thicken and clot. They were listening again. From the police lines came a shrilling of whistles and the line of cops began to fall back. A mistake, Nick thought. Should have kept them on the run. But the cops were far outnumbered and they were playing it safe.

He saw the men in the gas masks, at least a hundred of them. They swirled around the car where Chow was preaching and they all carried some sort of weapon — clubs, swords, guns and knives. Nick caught a flash of a Sten gun. This was the hard core, the real trouble-makers, and with the weapons and gas masks they meant to lead the mob through the police lines and into the Palace grounds.

Johnny Chow was still yelling and pointing toward the Palace. Tonaka watched from below, her face impassive. The men in gas masks began to form a crude front, shifting into ranks.

Killmaster glanced around. The jeep was caught in the press of the mob and he was looking over a sea of angry faces to where the spotlight still limned Johnny Chow. The police were showing restraint, but they were getting a good look at the bastard.

Nick eased the Browning out of his belt. He cast a glance down. No one in all the thousands was paying him the slightest attention. He was the invisible man. Johnny Chow was the cynosure. He was in the limelight at last. Killmaster smiled briefly. He would never get another chance like this.

It would have to be fast. This mob was capable of anything. They would tear him into bloody bits.

He guessed (he range at about thirty yards. Thirty yards with a strange gun he had never fired.

The police spotlight was still pinned on Johnny Chow. He wore it like a halo, unafraid, reveling in it, spitting and shouting out his hate. The ranks of armed and gas-masked men formed into a wedge and began to move toward the police lines.

Nick Carter brought the Browning up and leveled it. He took a quick deep breath, let half of it out, then pulled the trigger three times.

He could barely hear the shots over the mob's sound. He saw Johnny Chow spin atop the car, grab at his chest, then fall. Nick leaped from the jeep, as far out into the throng as he could push himself. He came down into a writhing mass of shoving bodies, struck out with his good hand, smashing a space clear, and began to work his way to the fringe of the mob. Only one man tried to stop him. Nick put an inch of hunting knife into him and kept going.

He had worked his way into the partial shelter of a hedge lining the beginning of Palace lawn when he caught 'the new note of the crowd. He crouched in the hedge, disheveled and bloody, and watched the mob charge the police again. The cadre of armed men was in the van, led by Tonaka. She waved a small Chinese flag — all her cover gone now — and she ran screaming at the head of the tattered, irregular wave of humanity.

A scatter of shots came from the police. No one fell. They were still firing high. The mob, again enthusiastic, mindless, came on behind the spearpoint of armed men, the hard core. The din was terrible and bloodthirsty, a manic giant screaming out his kill lust.

The thin line of police parted and the horsemen came out. Mounted police, at least two hundred of them, rode hard at the point of the mob. They were using sabers and they meant business. Police patience was at an end. Nick knew why — the Chinese flag had done it.

The horses smashed into the crowd. People reeled and went down. The screaming began. The sabers rose and fell, catching sparks from the spotlights and tossing them like bloody motes.

Nick was close enough to see it plainly. Tonaka turned and tried to run to one side to elude the charge. She tripped over a man already down. The horse reared and plunged, as frightened as the humans, nearly unseating its rider. Tonaka was halfway up, fleeing again, when the steel-shod hoof came down and pulped her skull.

Nick ran for the Palace wall that stood beyond the lawn fringed by the hedge. No time for the postern now. He looked like a bum, like a rioter himself, and they would never let him in.

The wall was ancient and mossy, covered with lichen and with plenty of finger and footholds. Even with one arm he had no difficulty getting over it. He dropped inside the grounds and ran toward a blaze of lights near the moat. There was a blacktop drive leading to one of the permanent bridges and a barricade had been set up. There were cars behind the barricade, people milling around and a low-keyed shouting of military and police voices.

A Japanese soldier stuck a carbine in his face.

"Tomodachi," Nick husked. "Tomodachi — friend! Take me to Commander-san. Hubba! Hayai!"

The soldier pointed to a knot of men near one of the cars. He prodded Nick toward them with the carbine. Killmaster thought: This is going to be the toughest part — looking the way I do. He probably wasn't speaking any too well, either. He was nervous, tense, beat up and damned near defeated. But he had to make them understand that the real trouble was only beginning. Somehow he had to do that…

The soldier said: "You put hands on head, please." He spoke to one of the men in the group. A half dozen curious faces turned Nick's way. He recognized one of them. Bill Talbot. Attaché at the Embassy. Thank God!

Nick had not known, until then, how much his voice had suffered from the beatings he'd taken. He was croaking like a raven.

"Bill! Bill Talbot. Come here. It's Carter. Nick Carter!"

The man came to him, slowly. There was no recognition in his stare.

"Who? Who are you, fella? How do you know my name?"

Nick fought for control. No use blowing his top now. He took a deep breath. "Just listen to me, Bill. Who will buy my lavender?"

The man's eyes narrowed. He came closer and peered at Nick. "Lavender is out this year," he said. "I want cockles and mussels. Sweet Jesus, is it really you, Nick?"

"It is. Now listen and don't interrupt. No time…"

He rattled out his story. The soldier had retired a few paces but he kept the carbine trained on Nick. The group of men by the car stared at them in silence.

Killmaster finished. "You take it now," he said. "Quick does it. Philston must be somewhere in the grounds."

Bill Talbot frowned at him. "You've been misinformed, Nick. The Emperor isn't here. Hasn't been for a week. He's in retreat. Meditating. Satori. He's at his private shrine near Fujiyoshida."

Richard Philston had duped them all.

Nick Carter swayed, then caught himself. You did what you had to do.

"Okay," he croaked. "Get me a fast car. Hubba! There might still be a chance. Fujiyoshida is only thirty miles and a plane is no good. I'll go ahead. You organize things here. They know you and they'll listen. Call Fujiyoshida and…"

"Can't. The lines are out. Damned near everything is out Nick, you look like a corpse — don't you think, that I had better…"

"I think you had better get me that car," Nick said grimly. "Right this goddamned minute."