The Asian Mantrap

Three

A taxi was waiting in front of the building entrance when I reached the street. Ginger Bateman was leaning forward from the back seat, conversing with the driver. Two of her more attractive features all but nudged the grinning driver’s head. She was having no trouble detaining him until I arrived. Upon my approach she slipped out of the cab, gracefully and wholly unconscious of flashing a brief, pleasing display of shapely thigh.

“I tidied up your apartment before I left,” she said lightly. From the knowing way she was smiling and shaking her head, I knew she had enjoyed ejecting my overnight companion. Ginger grew serious immediately after the jibe. “Everything you’ll need is there in your small valpack.”

The leather bag was on the front seat next to the driver. “Everything?” I asked.

Both of us were referring to my unique, private arsenal which would never pass the airport security metal detector scan. “In the right hand compartment, as usual, Nick. A ticket on Flight 131, non-stop and direct to San Francisco is waiting for you at the TWA check-in counter.”

“And—”

“That’s it, Nick. That’s all I was told to do — pack for you and get you on your way. Putting your friend out in the corridor was a bonus I threw in on my own.” Her impish, admonishing smile contained no real rancor.

“C’mon, Mac,” urged the cabdriver. “This is a No Parking, No Standing Zone. The fuzz over there cruisin’ around the Circle are givin’ me the eye. Let’s move it.”

Ginger stepped aside. I climbed into the back seat. The tantalizing perfume she wore left a pleasing fragrance behind.

The half-hour ride to Dulles International Airport presented me with an opportunity to think. I tried to, but my mind and body rebelled. I would have gotten more sleep last night had I known what was in store for me today. What little I did get was constantly being interrupted by teasing, titilating hands. I had responded too often and too energetically to be mentally sharp now. I did doze — fitfully — on the way, but arrived at the Dulles terminal still fatigued. I looked forward to a long, restful flight in the first-class compartment of the transcontinental jet.

My ticket and boarding pass were waiting for me as Ginger promised. I checked my bag through, even though the counter agent said it was compact enough to fit under the seat as hand luggage. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I rejected his suggestion. He took it in stride; he had been trained to expect capriciousness among first-class passengers.

As the accomodating ticket agent stapled the baggage claim stub to my boarding pass, he said: “Flight 131 will be boarding in about fifteen minutes at Gate D-3. You’re welcome to wait in our VIP lounge where a hostess will be serving complimentary refreshments.”

I thanked him. I could use a cup of strong coffee.

The coffee wasn’t much help. As I was tossing the used Styrofoam cup into the waste bin, the pert hostess came up to me. “Mr. Carter?”

“Yes?”

“There’s a telephone call for you on the lounge extension.”

“Thanks.” I followed her. She took me to a wall phone located behind the well-stocked refreshment bar.

The caller was the clerk at the TWA check-in counter. “Two gentlemen are here to see you, Mr. Carter. They asked to see you in private, so I asked them to wait in our security office. That’s just off the VIP lounge. The hostess will show you where it is.” I waited so long without speaking that the clerk addressed me again. “Mr. Carter?”

“I’m here,” I answered. “Hold on a moment.” I forced my brain into gear. “Did these two men identify themselves?”

“Ah... yes. A Mr. Layton and a Mr. Wyler... those were the names. I didn’t ask for credentials. They looked sort of... ah, official, if you know what I mean.”

I didn’t. It sounded reasonable enough, although it was Unlikely that Hawk would waste manpower by sending two men when one would do. The names Layton and Wyler meant nothing to me. They could be aliases. I figured not much could go wrong in an office belonging to the airport security police. If anything, that was a wise choice. “Thanks, I’m on my way.”

The office door was ajar. Another good sign. Through the opening the two men were visible. Both were dressed in conservative business suits. From the cut of their clothing, they could be anything from bank executives to professional football players. They were big enough to be running backs which made them about six feet tall — matching my height — but carried a good twenty pounds more than my own one hundred eighty five. Aside from being overweight, they were a pleasant-looking pair. The one who spoke to me as I entered had broad, Slavic features. “Mr. Nick Carter?” His tones were brittle with a marked New England twang.

“That’s me,” I admitted.

“We’re glad we found you.” His voice was firm, but not demanding. Neither man had made a move. They were measuring me. They seemed square enough, but I don’t readily accept strangers who seek me out. I prefer to be the aggressor. “To come directly to the point, Mr. Carter,” he continued, “we have an important message for you.”

“Just who are you?” I asked.

“We’re here on behalf of a group of responsible individuals who want to advise you to give up your plan to contact General Martin. Believe us when we say you will be wasting your time in endeavoring to locate the general. There are a number of reasons why you should cancel your effort, the main one being that you will certainly fail. More importantly, he is in complete control of his actions and does not wish to be located.” Something about the man’s clipped, parade-ground speech and erect bearing suggested General Martin was no stranger to him.

“How do I know you’re authorized to speak for him?”

“Accept the fact that I am, Mr. Carter. We are here to save you considerable trouble. I can assure you that General Martin intends to return to Washington in good time. At the present, he prefers to be left alone.” The earnest spokesman appeared outwardly calm. His friend, on the other hand, seemed nervous and impatient. He kept shifting his feet and in doing so had moved closer to the office door. My lack of a ready response and immediate agreement to break off my pursuit of Martin did not sit well with him.

I’d already made up my mind that their appeal had no bearing on what I had been instructed to do. Rather than argue the point, I decided that leaving would be the simplest course. I sidestepped to go around the man who had moved beside me. He kicked the door closed with his foot. Then he almost tore my arm out of its socket spinning me around.

“Hold it, Wyler!” snapped his companion. The order came too late to halt my countermove. With near-automatic reaction, I twisted away from Wyler’s grip as my right foot left the ground and lashed out. I used the momentum Wyler had given me to add impetus to my swinging leg. My heel struck him at the knee joint, snapping his fibular ligament. Wyler’s breath hissed through clenched teeth as he sucked in a sharp cry of pain. His hold on me loosened as he bent over to lift his weight from his injured leg. He’d be limping painfully for the next week.

As he staggered back, he reached inside his suit coat. The next instant I was staring into the business end of an army issue Colt .45 caliber automatic. The pained, angry look on his face gave him the appearance of a grimacing gargoyle.

Behind me, Layton’s voice intoned, “That wasn’t necessary. I’m sorry it happened. Since you’ve shown that we can’t reason with you, more direct means will have to be used.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Layton had moved closer. I swung about to face his challenge. That was a mistake. It made my face an easy target for a blast of mace.

Before the stinging spray reached and blinded my eyes I saw the container in Layton’s hand. It was painted olive drab and had black block lettering on it. That and the regulation caliber .45 pistol convinced me that the determined pair had armed forces connections.

Blinded, choking, and wholly disoriented, I stumbled about the room, crashing into the office furniture. I ended up on my hands and knees, completely incapacitated.

It couldn’t have been very long before my mind began functioning again. I felt my way to the door and pulled myself erect using the knob for support. Through tear-curtained eyes I looked out into the terminal. The two assailants had fled. I propped myself against the wall outside of the office door and took deep, regular breaths.

When my vision became less misty, I made my way to a water cooler and soaked my handkerchief. The water washed away most of the irritant, but the debilitating effect of mace left me with a throbbing headache. I was functional again and seething inside. I’d never forget those two. Nor what they did to me.

A quick glance at my wristwatch told me that Flight 131 had departed without me. Intuition made me reach into my pocket for my airline ticket and boarding pass. Both were gone. I patted my other pockets. My wallet was missing as well. Layton and Wyler had frisked me. They hadn’t taken my belt, though; it holds an emergency reserve of cash. Short of breaking my legs, those two thugs had put every possible obstacle in my way which made me all the more determined to reach San Francisco.

I hoped there would be an available seat on the next flight to the coast. When I found a TV monitor displaying airline schedule information I got a surprise — TWA Flight 131 was still posted on the screen. Its delayed takeoff would give me ten minutes to get aboard.

But I had no boarding pass and no ticket.

The TWA counter clerk who had served me initially was taking a twenty minute break. His stand-in, a patient, understanding young woman listened to my predicament. She didn’t get the true story. Besides taking too much time, she’d never believe it. I did get the point across that I wanted a duplicate of the ticket already purchased. She said she couldn’t do that because of some obscure but pertinent Civil Aeronautics Board regulation. There wasn’t time to debate the issue. I asked her to sell me another ticket.

She fingered a keyboard behind the counter putting the request to a remote computer. She stared at the instantaneous read-out. Her smile faded. “Oh, I’m sorry. You know that’s a very popular flight. Every seat is sold.”

I groaned.

“I can put you on stand-by,” she suggested, her smile back in place. “We’ll know if there’s space in just a couple of minutes.”

I stood by... right next to the counter where I could make my presence felt. As the public address system announced the last boarding call, I grew fidgety. When it seemed pretty clear that I was going to have plenty of time very soon to discuss with Hawk my failure, to leave, the clerk answered a ringing phone located behind the counter. She talked briefly, then turned to me. Her smile was set at its widest. “There are three no-shows for Flight 131. First class and coach seats. Which do you want?”

“First class,” I replied. Her smile evaporated and her innocent eyes grew wide as I started unbuckling my trouser belt. I whipped it out, turned it over, and unzipped the money compartment to extract some narrow-folded bills. I removed all of them, pocketing the ones not needed for the ticket purchase.

“Luggage?” she asked politely. I shook my head. She would never understand if I told her my bag was already aboard. “It’s Gate D-3,” she said unneccesarily.

I walked at a brisk pace. There was a slight delay while I waited my turn to go through the passenger checkpoint where detecting rays scanned each person for metal objects. A male flight attendant was standing beside the open aircraft door. He began closing it before I was fully inside. An anxious stewardess hustled me along to the empty aisle seat in the last row of the first-class compartment. They were in a hurry. I was barely settled when the fully-loaded jet began moving.

I sat with my eyes closed. Somewhere high over eastern Pennsylvania I began to feel well enough to set my brain into motion again. Through a stroke of very good fortune, I was back on schedule, but with an entirely different outlook on this job.

The skin of my cheeks and neck itched and burned from the burst of mace. As soon as the Fasten Seat Belts lights went off, I unbuckled and made my way back to the rear of the plane. There was a john in first class, but I wanted to take a good look at the rest of the passengers. I didn’t expect to see Layton or Wyler, but I had to make sure.

I didn’t recognize anyone in the coach section. I waited at the back of the plane until the lavatories were vacant — I didn’t want to miss anyone.

The soap and water helped a lot. On the way back to my seat I decided to check out first class too. I had been rushed down the aisle too quickly and since then, I’d seen only the backs of heads.

The compartment was full. That meant that someone was travelling on my stolen ticket. Layton — or Wyler? My step quickened.

I came to a full stop just before passing through the partition separating the two sections. The extent of my idiocy struck me and I realized that my thinking processes were still dangerously short of optimum.

Of course every first-class seat was occupied.

I came aboard as a stand-by to take the only first-class no-show space.

I was the no-show passenger.

I’d paid twice for the same seat.