The Asian Mantrap

Sixteen

Willow followed intently while I outlined my plan. At one point she held up a hand to silence me. She cocked her head to one side, listening. I heard it then too: scraping sounds and stealthy footsteps.

We flanked the shed door, pressing flat against the wall on either side. Each of us had handguns ready, Willow nodded when I indicated they were to be used for sapping, not shooting.

I relaxed the moment the door was pushed open from the outside. Anyone unaware of our presence would have hesitated upon finding the padlock gone and hasp standing open.

Bu Chen came in wearing his big-toothed grin. It evaporated when he saw me with a gun in my hand. “Guess I should have come up whistlin’ Yankee Doodle.” He held out two take-out food cartons. “I felt guilty for stuffin’ my gut without bringing you any before.”

Willow stepped out from around the swung-back door. “You could have told us where you were going!” she noted.

“When I saw your September morn act under the water hose, I figured Nick here would be giving you a little hosin’ of his own and I’d be back before you knew I was gone. Sorry.”

Willow’s eyes flashed. I stepped between them. “We haven’t got time to get into a hassle. Willow’s got a point, though. From now on, anyone that goes out of sight tells someone first. No more silent disappearing acts.” Bu Chen bobbed his head. “Thanks for bringing the food,” I added.

“I brought more than that. The old guys playing pin gow in the noodle shop were gossiping about some special mobile army patrols staking out homes of members of the Central Committee. The old codgers were whispering things like ‘purge’ and ‘liquidation.’ Folks are uptight with rumors that a Party housecleaning is underway. So the word is filtering down that bigwigs in the government are being knocked off and security is being tightened.”

Bu Chen had brought back valuable news, but it didn’t cheer me. If anything, it was more important now than ever before to corner and curb Martin. While Willow and I stuffed ourselves with hot, spicy noodles mixed with bits of pork in a piquant sauce, I repeated once more what I had in mind. Neither Bu Chen nor Willow found fault with the plan.

The first time I pedalled along the street past the high wall, lights were burning in the windows of Phu Thone’s bedroom. It was close to two o’clock in the morning. I knew the king pimp wasn’t up there reading a book. Phan Wan had guaranteed that the lights would be off as soon as her zaibatsu fell asleep. She had ways of exhausting him even though having his fat, heaving body ramming against hers in a crude, lustful act of love disgusted and sickened her.

Thinking of what Phan Wan was tolerating heightened my resolve. Only moments after the bedroom lights went out I was picking the simple lock on the front gate. Bu Chen remained behind just inside the gates. Willow crept alongside me across the lawn to the house. Outside light fixtures above the main door and over the kitchen entrance around in back were aglow. I left Willow at a darkened corner of the house near the rose bushes bordering the veranda.

The six-tumbler Japanese locks on the multipaned french doors were tricky. I spent five minutes on one before I gave up.

Phan Wan was going to leave one of the veranda doors unlocked. None were. Either she hadn’t had the opportunity, or the night guard had discovered it open. I padded back to Willow and had a consultation.

Interior night-lights were burning in the entry foyer which cast some illumination through the large, interconnected rooms on the ground floor. A lone light burned in an upper hallway. By pressing my face up against one door windowpane, I could see through a broad, long room and a wide archway at its end into the lighted foyer. A thick-necked man with weight-lifter’s arms sticking out of his short-sleeved, open-collared white shirt sat in a straight back chair close to the foot of some stairs. A credenza next to him held a telephone, a clock radio, and a reading lamp. He was awake. I saw him turn a page of the paperback book he was reading.

I backed away and padded over to Willow to describe what I’d seen. We held a conference. Willow made a sound suggestion. We crept around to the back of the house. She pointed up. The high, second floor windows were the jalousie type, their horizontal slats partly opened to let in the cooling night air. Willow pointed out one that was different. It was a side-hinged, cat-size window left slightly ajar. Its frame angled outward, leaving no more than a six inch gap.

“Must be a closet, a scrub room, or a toilet,” Willow surmised. “But it’s a way in,” she added.

I peered up. “Even with a thirty foot ladder we’d need to reach it, it’s too high under the eave to get in.”

“Watch me,” she whispered confidently. “If I make it to the window ledge, you scoot around to the veranda and keep your eye on the guard by the front door. When he leaves his chair to see what made the upper hall light go out, you punch out a door pane and get inside. Hopefully, we’ll bracket the guard if you don’t waste time getting up the stairs behind him.”

Willow kicked off her thonged sandals. Where she found the breaks in the walls that gave fingernail and toe tip purchase was a mystery. She inched her way up astride the corner of the house. Spiderlike, she felt and tested every hand and toe hold. It was slow work demanding utmost concentration and strength. When her head came level with the eave, she stopped. I thought she was stymied, but she went on. Soon only her legs were visible, feet pigeon-toed as if hammered into the wall surface. She could go no further. She was scrunched up under the overhead eave. It was impossible for her to get up onto the roof. The tiny window was thirty feet away with an impassable, tile-smooth wall separating it from Willow.

At first I thought she had slipped and was falling. She leaped backward, her arms outstretched, her body dropping. Then it hung in midair. She had somehow managed to grab hold of the metal eave trough. I heard a metallic groan as it stretched and sagged under her weight. Monkeylike, smoothly and silently, Willow hand-worked her way to the high-perched window. Opposite it, she moved her supple body like a trained athlete on the flying rings. Her legs lifted, speared out straight ahead from her hips as she swung from outstretched arms, gaining momentum. It took three arcs before her thrust-out toe reached far enough to catch under and draw open the window. With the forth swing, she was suddenly gone. She had released her grip on the eave trough and shot through the small aperture like a well-aimed arrow.

I stared up dumbfounded at the spot where she had been. Then I saw a waving hand that was hardly more than a darker shape against the shadow under the eave.

The guard acted exactly as programmed. He glanced up the moment the upper hall became dark. He studied the stairs for a moment. His mouth moved as if speaking, then his head tilted to listen. He shut off the radio and called again. Almost wearily, he put down the book and rose from his chair.

I waited ten seconds after he disappeared from view, then pressed my elbow against the pane. I leaned hard. The glass cracked, then splintered. Now I made haste. The barrel of my pistol knocked the jagged glass out of the frame. I reached inside to unlock the door and entered. My footsteps were muffled by the thick carpeting all the way up to the head of the stairs. I rounded the dark corner of the upper hallway and was immediately blinded. Willow turned on the hall lamp at that instant. The hard-muscled guard lay prone, unconscious and breathing sonorously through his half-opened mouth.

“Paramount Pictures would pay top dollar for that stunt,” Willow said proudly, nodding toward the doorway behind her. “I almost broke my butt on the toilet stool when I zipped in through the window. It’s a wonder you didn’t hear me.”

I looked at the gun in her hand. “Did you dent the barrel? He looks like he won’t be coming around for a week.” I looked up and down the wide hallway, gaining an appreciation of the layout of the massive house. “I’ll help you drag him into this bathroom so he’ll be out of the way until we can round up his buddies downstairs.”

“I’ll manage,” she answered firmly, picking up her victim’s heels. “Go on, I’ll be right behind you.”

I left her. We had to _work fast in case one of the off-duty guards was a light sleeper. I gathered up the inert man’s fallen revolver and tucked it in my waistband. I went down the stairs and through a galleylike butler’s pantry to get to the restaurant-size kitchen. The first closed door I eased open turned out to be a well-stocked pantry. I passed up what was obviously a heavy, spring-latch door to a walk-in cooler.

The mild rumble of snores coming through a closed door on the opposite side of a wide landing at the top of the stairs leading down to the cellar marked my target. Two adjacent doors that I checked led into a servant’s bathroom and a linen closet.

I synchronized my movements with the noisy breathing. With the door partly open, I saw two men on cots placed foot to foot in the far corner of the stifling, smelly room. Both men were naked. One was snoring, the other groaning in the grip of a sensual dream.

The light switch was on the inside wall to the left of the door jam. I shut my eyes so I wouldn’t be blinded when the light came on. I flicked the switch and dropped flat. I held the heavy Webley taken from their companion in a double-handed vise grip.

The snoring one woke so quickly that he choked on his flaccid tongue. His partner, reluctant to leave the dream that held his penis erect, was slower to gain consciousness. I jumped up as the snorer made an automatic response move to reach under his pillow. I brought the butt of the Webley down like an executioner’s axe. The lanyard swivel spearheaded a smashing blow that shattered the lateral condyle of his kneecap. It produced a howl of excruciating pain. The man writhed, totally incapacitated. His companion now lay wide-eyed with fright and wonderment. Except for his instantaneously deflated member, he remained rigid and immobile.

Willow made a face as the stench of the room struck her. I gave her the Webley. “Just hold them here for a moment. That yell could have carried to the other end of the house.”

I turned and ran up the back stairs two steps at a time. There was no need to be quiet. I rammed through the last door at the end of the long hallway. As I did, a light came on in a room beyond the sitting room in which I found myself. I ran forward, Wilhelmina at the ready.

Phan Wan was sitting upright on one side of the king-size bed, a satin sheet drawn up to her chin. A blob of a man lay beside her, a gross, obese figure with shaven head and protruding stomach whose girth was equal to the more generous proportions given to some statues of Buddha. My intrusion brought life to the small eyes buried in Phu Thone’s fat-puffed face. They viewed me as more of an inconvenience than a threat. Phu Thone heaved his naked torso up, blinking in the light. His scornful gaze rejected me. He appeared fully confident that I would be seized and dealt with, or gunned down from behind by his bodyguards.

Phan Wan, smooth-skinned and curvaceous, slipped out of bed and ran into a dressing room without a sound. I spoke French to Phu Thone. “Make no sound, mon ami. Your home has been taken over by persons who mean you no harm, despite the appearance otherwise. You understand me, n’est-ce pas?”

The hunk of blubber nodded. “Oui. Who are you?”

“Your new protectors. We wish to keep you from meeting the same end as Minister Ban Lok Huong, General Limpak Tunk and two or three in between. There is reason to believe you are scheduled to die, too.”

“Who are you?” he repeated. A sliver of respect tinged the tone of his voice.

“That is unimportant,” I said firmly. “All we ask is your cooperation. We hope to leave soon.”

His nearly lidless eyes left mine to look over my shoulder. The shift was not intended to distract me; Willow had come into the room. Phu Thone’s sensuous gaze backtracked when he saw the revolver in her hand. “The bicycles have been brought in,” she advised me speaking in English. “Bu Chen is looking after the boys in the back room. We lashed them to their cots for temporary safekeeping. Where’s Phan Wan?”

I indicated the dressing room. “She’s all right. We’ve got to put Phu Thone where he won’t get in the way. The cellar seems like a good place. I’ll bring him down when he’s dressed.”

It worked out fine. Wooden kitchen chairs backed against vertical supports in the wine cellar made perfect stanchions to which Phu Thone and his three house guards could be tied. Willow splinted the injured man’s leg. She was as familiar as I with field treatment of broken bones.

After the prisoners were secured, I suffered the usual let-down that accompanies the completion of adrenaline-pumping action. Bu Chen went up to stake out a claim in the kitchen. Willow was about to join him. Phan Wan lagged behind. “Are you sure he’s tied up tight?” she said, walking toward Phu Thone.

He was, but my mind was dulled to the point where her remark carried no real impact. Almost... not quite. I spun around. Phan Wan was lunging at Phu Thone, a thin-bladed letter opener held daggerlike in her fist. I leaped and threw out my hand to deflect her thrust. She screeched wildly, mouthing obscenities as her forearm came down.

I was partially successful. The slim blade dug into Phu Thone’s fat-padded deltoid muscle instead of his heart. I jerked both hand and weapon back. Phu Thone shreiked in a thin, whiney voice. His face turned ashen at the sight of his blood. Willow came running back down the stairs. She led Phan Wan away, consoling rather than condemning her. The vengeance of women that grows out of long-term, simmering hate is a strong unpredictable force. Willow understood it better than I.

We took turns sleeping. One of us always occupied the kitchen, barring access to the basement door. Phan Wan was locked in an upstairs bedroom. Willow occupied an adjoining one. I was up-and-down throughout the remainder of the night. My beard was growing and itching under the makeup layer on my face. The eyelid covering was showing signs of wear. It’s falseness would soon become evident.

Morning came. I checked the prisoners. I ignored Phu Thone’s demands for an explanation. His troubles were small compared to my own. The day dragged on, but none of the complications that could have developed ever did. To keep busy, I consolidated and pared down our supplies, repacking only the barest essentials into compact loads. The slim bail-out bottles of oxygen and the breathing masks went in first. According to the recovery code tacked onto his last message, they would be the last things we would need... if our luck lasted that long.

The ploy was working. A number of phone calls came in. All sought clarification of Phu Thone’s abrupt decision to leave town. Phan Wan handled them masterfully. She also sent home the yard workers, kitchen staff, and day-servants because of the indisposition of the master. None questioned her authority; she had given similar instructions many times before. She explained that Phu Thone used the same reason to assure privacy whenever he desired clandestine meetings with various dubious characters or cautious government officials with whom he had nefarious dealings.

Willow or I listened in on an extension each time the phone rang. One caller spoke French so precisely that I was certain the inquiry came from the French Embassy. Two calls brought no response when Phan Wan answered the phone. There was silence on the other end. These intrigued me. Martin, I thought, calling to find out if Phu Thone’s home had been closed down. The second test call lasted longer. I could picture Martin, possibly recognizing Phan Wan’s voice, being tempted to speak up. The caller was on the phone long enough for me to identify street traffic noises in the background. The call was originating from a curbside public telephone booth.

Following that late afternoon call, I was more convinced than ever that the evening would bring some interesting developments.

The night air turned stagnant, warm and humid. The sky was partly overcast. When it became dark, I had Phan Wan turn on the normal amount of house lighting. As soon as possible, without appearing too obvious, I had them turned off again. I placed myself in a darkened upstairs front bedroom. From its window, almost half of the protective wall around the villa was in sight. Willow covered the back. Phan Wan watched with her. Bu Chen took up a position in the foyer behind the front door. Upon my signal Willow extinguished the lights in the master suite.

A deep silence fell upon the house.

My eyes might have been playing tricks on me. I thought I saw movement along the top of the wall. Only for a moment, then it was gone. I strained my eyes. A break in the clouds let a sliver of moonlight fall across the lawn. I saw a shadow cross it.

I left my second floor observation post. I positioned myself well back in the large living room, but where I could still see out through the freshly-cleaned panes of the double french doors. A new square of glass replaced the one I had broken to make my entry. The stealthy, hunched-over figure moved rapidly — a shadow in shadows. A glint of moonlight shined on the weapon it carried. It was a nine-shot Soviet Lekoyev machine pistol fitted with a silencer.

The next minute was going to be a crucial one. I knew how spring-tight Martin must be. He was geared to instant, intuitive action. If I moved too soon, I could lose him. Too late and he’d sieve me without a second thought. He was cautious, but wasted no time. Finding the doors locked, he applied strips of adhesive to one edge of a window pane, then ran a glass cutter around the other three sides. The pane swung in like a hinged door when he thrust his hand through the frame to reach the locked latch.

That’s when I moved.

With one of his hands stuck through the window frame groping for the lock and the other hanging onto the machine pistol, he was hampered by his awkward stance. He was as vulnerable as he was going to get. I grabbed the wrist of his outstretched hand and jerked forward. He and the door lurched toward me, the hand grasping the deadly weapon flying outward in a counter motion. I kicked out at his gun-carrying arm. The Soviet machine pistol went flying.

“General Martin,” I shouted in his ear. “Don’t fight me. I’m a friend. Sent by General Jarrett and the president. Martin! Do you understand?”

The struggling intruder was snarling and fighting both me and the door against which I held him fast. With his shoulder and head pulled painfully tight against the door frame, his feet couldn’t find purchase. I almost dragged his arm out of its socket as I held him firmly in place. I kept talking. “I’m Nick Carter from Washington. I work for AXE. I’m only trying to help.”

It must have been my midwestern accent more than my grunted words that finally registered. Martin knew it was useless to struggle. I had the upper hand. A half twist with my double-handed grip would dislocate his shoulder.

“All right. All right!” he gasped.

I didn’t let go. I eased off the pressure slightly, testing. I continued to talk, saying everything I thought would be convincing. “I traced you to Gloria Grimes. Sergeant Layton met me at Dulles airport. I know how Colonel Jeleff helped you. Phan Wan is here.”

I should have mentioned her name first. Martin ceased any resistance. I released his arm. He drew it back through the windowpane frame slowly.

I drew back, taking out Wilhelmina as I did so. “Please come inside, General Martin,” I invited.

He stepped into the room. He stood erect, massaging his shoulder. “I will listen to what you have to say,” he intoned in a deep, impressive voice. It was clear that he was making no promises. He was conceding to a truce, no final surrender. He eyed the gun in my hand.

“I must tell you, General Martin, that my instructions are to bring a halt to your current activities. I will not hesitate to use this weapon if you give me cause.”

“I’m sure you will, Mr. Carter. I’m quite aware of your reputation.” He used thumb and forefinger to draw a combat knife from its sheath and slid it across the floor toward me. “I am disarmed. May I see Phan Wan now.”

Someone turned on a lamp behind me. It illuminated Martin. His angular features were indistinguishable behind the black shoe polish smeared over them. His dark-dyed hair was mostly covered by a black beret. He wore stretch pants tucked into combat boots. A black, turtleneck, long-sleeved pullover fit tightly to his broad chest.

His bright eyes were questioning as they saw my shadowed features. I grinned. “My camouflage is more expert than yours, General. Under this theatrical makeup you’ll find a honest-to-God American citizen.”

He looked over my shoulder. “She’s not Phan Wan,” he said. I knew it was Willow standing behind me.

“Miss Willow Kane,” I said by way of introduction. “My colleague on this assignment.”

“Phan Wan and I came down the back stairs,” Willow’s voice said. “I told her to wait in the kitchen.”

“She’ll show you the way, General,” I waved him into motion using Wilhelmina as a magic wand. I stopped to pick up Martin’s discarded knife. When half-bent over I heard shouts and shrieks coming from the cellar. Willow called out Phan Wan’s name and broke into a run. Martin crowded her heels. I rammed past both of them, pushed a confused, indecisive Bu Chen aside, and plunged pell-mell down the cellar stairs.