Temple of Fear

Chapter 9

Killmaster had rarely been in a colder, more murderous rage. He gave the girls curt orders in a voice like ice, then left the geisha house and walked over to Shimbasi dori. His fingers caressed the cold butt of the Colt. At the moment he would have. emptied the clip into Johnny Chow's gut with all the pleasure in the world. If indeed it was Tonaka's breast that had been sent him — the three girls were convinced of it, because that was the way Johnny Chow played — then Nick meant to exact an equal amount of flesh from the bastard. His stomach churned at what he had just seen. This Johnny Chow must be a sadist to end all sadists — even for a Chicom.

There was no taxi in sight so he kept walking, eating up the distance with angry strides. There was no question of not going. There might still be a chance to save Tonaka. Wounds did heal, even the most drastic, and there were such things as artificial breasts. Not a very appealing solution, but it was better than death. He thought that to a young and lovely girl anything, very nearly anything, would be better than death.

Still no taxi. He wheeled left and started walking toward the Ginza-dori. From where he was now it was about a mile and a half to the Electric Palace club. Kato had given him the exact address. As he walked he began to sort it out in his mind. The cool, experienced, crafty and calculating mind of a top professional agent.

It was Pete Fremont who had been summoned and not Nick Carter. That meant that Tonaka, even in the agony of torture, had managed to cover for him. She had had to give them something, a name, and so she had given, them Pete Fremont. Yet she had known that Fremont was dead of alcoholism. Ail three girls, Kato, Mato and Sato, swore to that. Tonaka had known that Fremont was dead when she gave him the man's clothes.

Johnny Chow did not know that Fremont was dead! Obviously. Which meant that he did not know Pete Fremont, or knew him only slightly, perhaps by reputation. Whether or not he knew Fremont by sight would soon be revealed — when they met face to face. Nick touched the Colt in his belt again. He was looking forward to that.

No taxi yet. He paused to light a cigarette. Traffic was heavy now. A police car cruised past without paying him the slightest attention. Not surprising. Tokyo was the second largest city in the world and if the cops were sitting on the Fremont thing until they could find the body again, it was going to take them a little time to get organized.

Where were all tie goddamned taxis? It was as bad as New York on a rainy night.

Far down the Ginza, still a mile away, loomed the glittering silo structure of the San-ai Department Store. Nick shifted the Colt to an easier position and began walking again. He did not check his backtrail because now he did not give much of a damn. Johnny Chow must be pretty sure that he would come.

He remembered Tonaka saying that Pete Fremont had helped the Eta girls occasionally, when he was sober enough. The chances were that Johnny Chow knew that, even if he did not know Fremont personally. Chow must want to make some sort of a deal. Pete Fremont, though a bum and an alcoholic, was still a newspaper man of sorts and might still have connections.

Or Johnny Chow might just want to get his hands on Fremont — give him the same treatment that he had given Kunizo Matu. It might be as simple as that. Fremont was an enemy, he helped the Eta, and Johnny Chow was using the girl as bait so he could get rid of Fremont.

Nick shrugged his big shoulders and kept walking. One thing he did know — Tonaka had covered for him. His identity as Nick Carter, AXEman, was still safe. A dead man was fronting for him.

He did not notice the black Mercedes until it was much too late. It swooped out of a swirl of traffic and edged to the curb beside him. Two neatly dressed Japanese leaped out and began to walk alongside Nick, one on either side. The Mercedes crawled after them.

For an instant Nick considered the possibility that they were detectives. He discarded that idea at once. Both men were wearing light topcoats and kept their right hands in the pockets. The taller of them, wearing thick glasses, nudged Carter with the gun in his pocket. He smiled.

"Anata no onamae wa?"

Cool hands. He knew they were not cops now. He was being offered a ride, true Chicago style. He carefully kept his hands away from his belt.

"Fremont. Pete Fremont. What's it to you?"

The men exchanged glances. The one with the glasses nodded and said, "Thanking you. We wished to be sure of the right man. You will get into the car, please."

Nick scowled. "What if I don't?"

The other man, short and muscular, did not smile. He poked Nick with the concealed gun. "Would be most regrettable. We kill you."

The street was thronged. People pushed and bustled around them. Nobody was paying them the slightest attention. It was how a lot of professional murders were committed. They would shoot him and drive off in the Mercedes and no one would see anything.

The short man shoved him toward the curb. "In the car. You come quietly and you will not be harmed. You not come we kill. So?"

Nick shrugged. "So I come quietly." He got in the car, alert to catch them in an unguarded moment, but the chance did not come. The short one followed him in, not too closely. The tall one went around and got in from the other side. They sandwiched him and the pistols came into view. Nambus. He was seeing a lot of Nambus these days.

The Mercedes pulled away from the curb and slipped deftly into traffic again. The driver was wearing chauffeur's livery and a dark, peaked cap. He drove like he knew his business.

Nick forced himself to relax. His chance would come. "Why all the rush? I was on my way to the Electric Palace. What's Johnny Chow so impatient about?"

The tall man was frisking Nick. At the name Chow he hissed and stared at his companion, who shrugged.

"Shizuki ni!"

Nick shut up. So they weren't from Johnny Chow. Who the hell then?

The man who was frisking him found the Colt and pulled it out of his belt. He showed it to his companion, who stared at Nick coldly. The man tucked the Colt away under his topcoat.

Under his calm Nick Carter was raging and anxious. He didn't know who they were or where they were taking him or why. It was a development out of the blue, impossible to foresee. But when he didn't show up at the Electric Palace Johnny Chow was going back to work on Tonaka. Frustration clawed at him. For the moment he was as helpless as a babe. There was not a goddamned thing he could do.

They drove a long time. They made no attempt to conceal their destination, whatever it was. The driver never spoke. The two men kept Nick under close watch, the pistols barely concealed by their topcoats.

The Mercedes ran out past the Tokyo Tower, slanted east on Sakurada briefly, then made a sharp right turn into Meiji dori. The rain had stopped now and a weak sun was trying to peer through low hanging gray clouds. They made good time even in the cluttered, boisterous traffic. The driver was a genius.

They skirted Arisugawa Park and in a few moments Nick spotted Shibuya Station off to the left. Just ahead now lay Olympic Village, with the National Stadium a little to the northeast.

Beyond Shinjuku Garden they made a sharp left past the Meiji Shrine. They were getting into the suburbs now and the country was opening up. Narrow lanes led off in various directions and Nick caught an occasional glimpse of big houses sitting well back from the road behind neatly barbered hedges and trim small orchards of plum and cherry.

They left the arterial road and slanted left into a blacktopped lane. After a mile, they took another, narrower lane that ended in a tall iron gate flanked by stone pillars covered with lichen. A plaque on one of the pillars said: Msumpto. It meant nothing to the AXEman.

The short man got out and pressed a button set into one of the pillars. After a moment the gate swung open. They drove through and up a winding macadamized road bordered by parkland. Nick saw a.flutter of movement to his left and watched a small herd of tiny white-tailed deer romp through squat umbrella-shaped trees. They rounded a line of peony trees, not yet blooming, and the house came in view. It was huge and it spoke quietly of money. Old money.

The drive curled into a crescent before broad stairs that led up to a terrace. Fountains played to right and left, and off to one side was a large swimming pool not yet filled for the summer.

Nick looked at the tall man. "Mitsubishi-san is expecting me?"

The man prodded him with his gun. "Out. No talk."

The shorter man thought it was reasonably funny. He looked at Nick and chuckled. "Mitsubishi-san? Ha-hah."

The central block of the house was enormous, built of dressed stone in which mica and veins of quartz still sparkled. Two lower wings angled back from the main block, paralleled by the balustrade of the terrace which was dotted here and there by vast urns in the form of amphorae.

They ushered Nick through arched doors into a vast tessellated foyer. The short man rapped on a door opening off to the right. From within a British voice, high with the nasality of the upper classes, said: "Come."

The tall man put his Nambu in the small of Nick's back and prodded. Nick went. He was eager now. Philston. Richard Philston! It had to be.

They halted just inside the door. The room was cavernous, some sort of a library-study with half-paneled walls and a groined shadowy ceiling. Battalions of books marched up the walls. Far back in a corner a single light glowed on a desk. Out of the light, in shadow, sat a man.

The man said: "You may go, you two. Wait just outside the door. Would you care for a drink, Mr. Fremont?"

The two Japanese gunmen left. The big door clicked oily behind them. There was an old-fashioned tea cart near the desk, laden with bottles and siphons and a large Thermos. Nick stalked toward it. Play it to the hilt, he told himself. Think Pete Fremont. Be Pete Fremont.

As he reached for the Scotch bottle he said, "Who are you? And what the hell do you mean having me snatched off the street like that! Don't you know I could sue hell out of you?"

The man behind the desk chuckled throatily. "Sue me, Mr. Fremont? Really! You Americans have a bizarre sense of humor. I learned that in Washington many years ago. One drink, Mr. Fremont! One. We are going to be perfectly candid and, you see, I know your failing. I am going to offer you a chance to make a great deal of money — but to earn it you must remain absolutely sober."

Pete. Fremont — it was Nick Carter who was dead now, and Fremont who lived — Pete Fremont dropped ice in a tall glass and tipped the Scotch bottle, poured heavily, defiantly. He swizzled it, then walked to a leather armchair near the desk and sat down. He unbuttoned the filthy trenchcoat — he wanted Philston to see the bedraggled suit — and kept the ancient hat on.

"All right," he growled. "So you know I'm an alcoholic. So? Who are you and what do you want with me?" He drank. "And take that damned light out of my eyes. That's an old trick."

The man tilted the lamp away. There was half shadow between them now.

"My name is Richard Philston," said the man. "You may have heard of me?"

Fremont nodded curtly. "I've heard of you."

"Yes," the man said smoothly. "I suppose I am rather, er, infamous."

Pete nodded again. "It's your word, not mine."

"Exactly. But now to business, Mr. Fremont. In perfect candor, as I said. We both know what we are and I see no reason to fence or to spare each others' feelings. You agree?"

Pete scowled. "I agree. So stop the damned fencing and get to the point. How much money? And what do I have to do to earn it?"

With the bright light shunted away he began to see the man behind the desk. The suit was a light pepper and salt tweed of impeccable cut, a little worn now. No Moscow tailor would ever duplicate it.

"I am talking about fifty thousand American dollars," said the man. "Half of it now — if you agree to my terms."

"Keep talking," said Pete. "I like the sounds you're making."

The shirt was lightly blue striped with a tab collar. The tie was knotted small. Royal Marines. The man who was playing Pete Fremont ran the files through his mind: Philston was no social poacher. He had once held a commission in the Royal Marines. That had been just after he had come down from Cambridge.

The man behind the desk took a cigarette from an exquisite cloisonneé box. Pete refused and fumbled for his crumpled pack of Pall Mall. Smoke spiraled upward toward the groined and coffered ceiling.

"First things first," said the man. "Do you remember a man named Paul Jacobi?"

"Yes." And he did. Nick Carter did. Sometimes the hours, days, of toiling through photographs and files paid off. Paul Jacobi. A Dutch Commie. Minor agent. Known to have worked in Malaya and Indonesia for a time. Dropped out of sight. Last reported in Japan.

Pete Fremont waited for the man to do the leading. How did Jacobi fit into it?

Philston opened a drawer. There was. a rustle of paper. "Three years ago Paul Jacobi tried to recruit you. He offered you a job, working for us. You refused. Why was that?"

Pete scowled and drank. "I wasn't ready to sell out then."

"Yet you never informed on Jacobi, never told anyone he was a Russian agent. Why?"

"None of my damned concern. Maybe I didn't want to play with Jacobi but that didn't mean I had to blow the whistle on him. All I wanted, all I want now, is to be left alone to drink myself to death." He laughed harshly. "It's not as easy as you might think."

Silence. He could see Philston's face now. A soft handsomeness blurred by sixty years of indulgence. A hint of jowl, the nose blunt, the eyes wide set and void of color in the semi-gloom. The mouth was the betrayer — loose, a trifle moist, a whisper of effeminacy. The flaccid mouth of the too tolerant bisexual. The files clicked over in the AXEman's brain. Philston was a lady killer. Man killer, too, in more ways than one.

Philston said: "You have not seen Paul Jacobi lately?"

"No."

A hint of smile. "That is understandable. He is no longer with us. There was an accident in Moscow. Too bad."

Pete Fremont drank. "Yeah. Too bad. Let's forget Jacobi. What do you want me to do for the fifty thousand?"

Richard Philston was setting his own pace. He crushed out his cigarette and reached for another one. "You would not work for us at the time you turned Jacobi down. Now you will work for me, so you say. May I ask why this change of heart? I represent the same, er, clients that Jacobi did. As you must know."

Philston leaned forward and Pete got a good look at his eyes. Pale, washed-out gray. Brushed in with limpid water color.

Pete Fremont said: "Look, Philston! I don't give a damn who wins. Not a single damn! And things have changed since "I knew Jncobi. A lot of whisky has gone under the bridge. I'm older. I'm broker. Right now I've got about two hundred yen to my name. That answer your question?"

"Hmmmm — to a degree, yes. All right." Paper rustled again. "You were a newspaperman in the States?"

It was a chance for a little bravura acting and Nick Carter let Pete leap at it. He exploded in a nasty little laugh. He let his hands tremble a bit and he looked with longing at the Scotch bottle.

"Good Christ, man! You want references? All right. I can give you names but I doubt that you'll hear anything good."

Philston did not smile. "Yes. That I understand." He consulted the paper. "You worked for the Chicago Tribune at one time. Also the New York Mirror and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, among others. You also worked for the Associated Press and the Hearst International Service. You were fired from all these positions for drinking?"

Pete laughed. He tried to touch up the sound with just a hint of mild insanity. "You missed a few. The Indianapolis News and a few country papers." He remembered Tonaka's words and went on, "There is also the Hong Kong Times and the Singapore Times. Here in Japan there's Asahi and Osaka and a few others. You name the paper, Philston, and I've probably been fired from it."

"Hmmmm. Just so. But you still have connections, friends, among newspaper men?"

Where was the bastard heading? Still no light at the end of the tunnel.

"I wouldn't call them friends," Pete said. "Acquaintances, maybe. An alcoholic hasn't got any friends. But I know a few guys I can still borrow a buck from when I'm desperate enough."

"And you could still plant a story? A big story? Let us suppose that you were given the story of the century, a really tremendous scoop as I believe you chaps call it, and it was exclusive with you. Only you! You could arrange that such a story would get immediate and full worldwide coverage?"

They were beginning to get to it.

Pete Fremont pushed back the battered hat and stared at Philston "I could do that, yes. But it would have to be authentic. Fully confirmed. You offering me such a story?"

"I may," said Philston. "I just may. And if I do, Fremont, it will be fully confirmed. No worry about that!" The high, fluting, Establishment laugh was at some private joke. Pete waited.

Silence. Philston moved in his swivel chair and stared at the ceiling. He stroked a well-manicured hand through silver gray hair. This was the crux. The sonofabitch was about to make up his mind.

While he waited the AXEman pondered the vagaries, the breaks, the chancy bits of his profession. Timing, for instance. Those girls snatching the real Pete Fremont's body and hiding it in the few moments that the cops and Pete's girl friend were off stage. A one in a million chance, that. And now the fact of Fremont's death hung over his own head like a sword. The minute that Philston, or Johnny Chow, found out the truth the fake Pete Fremont was in the soup. Johnny Chow? He began to think along a new line. Maybe it was a way out for Tonaka…

Decision. Richard Philston opened another drawer. He came around the desk. In his hands was a thick packet of green bills. He tossed the money into Pete's lap. There was contempt in the gesture which Philston did not bother to conceal. He stood nearby, teetering slightly on his heels. Beneath the tweed jacket he wore a thin tan sweater that did not conceal a small paunch.

"I've decided to trust you, Fremont. I've no choice, really, but perhaps it isn't such a risk after all. It has been my experience that every man looks out for himself first. We are all selfish. Fifty thousand dollars will take you a long way from Japan. It means a new start, my friend, a new life. You've reached rock bottom — we both know that — and I can't think that you'll refuse this chance to get out of the gutter. I am a rational man, a logical man, and I think that you are too. This is absolutely your last chance. I think you realize that. So I'm gambling, you might say. Gambling that you will do the job efficiently and that you will stay sober until it is done."

The big man in the chair kept his eyes hooded. He riffled the crisp notes through his fingers and registered greed. He nodded. "For this kind of money I can stay sober. You can believe it, Philston. For this kind of dough you can even trust me."

Philston paced a few steps. There was something dainty, mineing, about his walk. The AXEman wondered if the guy really was queer. There was no proof in his files. Only hints.

"It is not," said Philston, "altogether a matter of trust. As I am sure you understand. For one thing, if you do not carry out the assignment to my complete satisfaction you will not be paid the remainder of the fifty thousand. There will be a time lapse, naturally. If everything works out — then you will be paid."

Pete Fremont scowled. "Looks like I'm the one that has to trust you."

"To a point, yes. I might also point out something else — if you betray me or in any way attempt to double-cross, you will most certainly be killed. I am much esteemed by KGB. You will have heard of their long arm?"

"I know." Sulkily. "If I don't come through they'll murder me."

Philston regarded him with his washed gray eyes. "Yes. Sooner or later they will murder you."

Pete stretched for the Scotch bottle. "Okay — okay! Can I have one more drink?"

"No. You are in my employ now. No more drinking until the job is completed."

The big man sank back into the chair. "Right. I was forgetting. You just bought me."

Philston went back behind the desk and sat down. "You are regretting your bargain already?"

"No. I told you, damn it, that I don't care who wins. I've got no country any more. No allegiance. I've just got me! Now suppose we cut the horsing around and you tell me what I have to do."

"I told you. I want you to plant a story in the press of the world. An exclusive story. The biggest story you or any other newspaperman ever had."

"World War three?"

Philston did not smile. He reached for a fresh cigarette from the cloisonne box. "Possibly. I do not think so. I…"

Pete Fremont waited, frowning. The bastard was having a little trouble screwing himself up to the point of saying it. Still dabbling a toe in the cold water. Hesitant to commit himself beyond the point of no return.

"There are many details to be worked out," he said. "A lot of background that you must understand. I…"

Fremont stood up and snarled, the irascible rage of a man who was dying for a drink. He slapped the packet of money against his palm. "I want this money, damn it. I'll earn it. But not even for this much dough will I go into anything blind. What is it?"

"The Emperor of Japan is going to be assassinated. Your job is to see that the Chinese are blamed for it."