The Code

Two

In the morning I rose early and started gearing up before the redhead awoke and turned over in the bed.

"Nick," she said, "it was great. Especially the last time."

I taped the gas bomb to the inside of my thigh. Last night had been last night. Today it was back to business as usual. I strapped the stiletto to my forearm and tested the spring mechanism. I flexed my arm and the thin knife popped down into my hand, ready for use.

"The look on your face is a little frightening," Pat said.

I gave her a grin that failed to reach my eyes. "I'm not exactly the boy next door."

Then I put on the clothes that went with the role of Ned Harper, donned the Luger, slipped a zippered jacket over it, and examined myself in the mirror. As far as I could tell, I looked like a down-at-the-heels truck driver. When I drifted into the town where Sheila Brant was hiding out, my story would be that I was looking for work.

"I'm not supposed to ask this," said Pat, "but what happened to N1 and N2?"

"Their luck ran out," I told her. Like David Kirby's, I thought.

I snapped shut the suitcase AXE had furnished me. I was ready to leave. All I had to do was say goodbye.

The redhead saved me the trouble. "I know. Ships that pass in the night and all that. Stay lucky, Nick."

I drove into Bonham, Idaho, at two o'clock in the afternoon. The town had 4,700 inhabitants and this looked like the day 4,695 of them had decided to stay home.

Turning in at a gas station that advertised instant service, I pulled up to the tanks. The instant service failed to materialize. I got out of the car and went inside, where I found a man napping behind a desk cluttered with dust, roadmaps, cracker jars, and boxed auto parts. I rapped my knuckles on a clean edge of the desk.

His eyes cracked. "Yessir?" he yawned.

I pointed to my car. "I want some gas."

"Oh," he said as though the possibility hadn't occurred to him.

While he yanked loose the hose and thrust the nozzle into the Ford's almost empty tank, I stood nearby and glanced along a drowsy street brightened by the pale sunlight of late spring.

I saw no traffic signals, no neon signs. Bonham looked like a Norman Rockwell painting of a small town. I felt out of place, my assorted deadly weapons strapped to my body and locked in the trunk of my car. Bonham looked nothing like the spot a Mafia chieftain's former mistress would choose to hide out. That was probably the very reason Sheila Brant had chosen it. Give her credit for brains, I thought.

I flexed my tired shoulders. I had been driving fast and for long hours every day since I left AXE's base on the Carolina coast. Later in the day I'd be contacting the AXE agent who'd been watching Sheila to make sure i she didn't skip out on us.

The service station attendant was getting around to swabbing the car's windshield. "You've got enough dead insects on here to fill a bucket," he complained. "You must have driven all night."

"Yeah," I said. He was observant, if not instant.

"Tourist?"

"No," I said.

His head turned and his eyes weren't sleepy anymore.

"I'm a truck driver," I said. "I'm hoping to land a job here."

"Any special reason you picked Bonham?"

"I like small towns."

"There's lots of other small towns."

Damn, I thought. He was certainly curious. I said, "I like the looks of this one."

While he was checking the oil, I went into the men's room and slid the bolt on the inside of the door. I splashed cold water in my face. I was tired from being glued to the seat of a car so long, I told myself, or the service station attendant's questioning wouldn't have irritated me.

He knocked on the door. "Hey, mister, I need to see you."

I unzipped my jacket so I could reach the Luger quickly, then opened the door. "What about?"

"About Sheila Brant," he said, then grinned. "I'm the agent you're supposed to meet, N3."

I had never seen my contact and I was taking no chances. "What are you talking about?"

Pushing the door shut, he dipped a hand in his pocket and produced a cigarette lighter identical to mine. He pitched it to me. "I've talked to a couple of people who worked with you in the past, Carter. I thought I recognized you from their descriptions. Then I raised the hood of that battered car you're driving and spotted a motor that's a piece of art. Some of Hawk's gimmickry, I told myself. My name's Meredith, by the way."

I turned the lighter over. What looked like a manufacturer's serial number on the bottom was actually a code that identified the owner as an AXE operative. "All right, Meredith. But I'd be more careful if I were you. Don't forget that the cause of this whole business is the loss of a damn good agent." I didn't press the matter further. It wasn't my place to chew him out "What's the latest on our girl Sheila?"

"She's still here, playing it cool. I've tried to avoid getting too close so I wouldn't arouse her suspicion. I took this job because I was afraid the townspeople would begin to wonder why I was sticking around. I'm staying at the hotel. I'll see you there tonight and we'll talk some more." He hesitated. "I understand I'm to be the backstop on this assignment and I'm looking forward to working with you. Don't judge me by what just happened. I'm usually not so casual."

"I hope not," I said.

I drove slowly along the town's main street, noting the location of the two-room police station, the post office, and the economy size city hall. You could have packed the whole town in a shoebox, I thought. Tucked between two larger buildings was a cubbyhole bar with a sign reading "Cold Beer" propped in the window. Four storefronts down I found the hotel, a relic of days when Bonham had been a railroad stop and had been larger and more prosperous. Now the two-story building needed paint and I saw that screens were missing from some of the upper windows.

As I got out of my car, I took a good look at the restaurant across the street from the hotel. Sheila Brant did not come on duty until 4 p.m. and if business didn't pick up, she wouldn't be needed even then. The place appeared to be empty of customers.

I entered the dim lobby of the hotel, where the furniture bore a quarter-inch of dust and the wear and tear of advanced age. There was no elevator, only a flight of stairs, and the potted plants I walked past needed water as much as Bonham needed a breath of new life.

The desk clerk greeted me as if he was a politician greeting the deciding vote. He said they had long since closed down their dining room, but I could get a good meal at the restaurant across the street "Try it, you'll like it," he said.

In my room, I peeled off my clothing and gear and took a shower. Although my features didn't show it, my insides were coiled like a spring. Turning in my mind was the thought that I was near the girl who could give me some answers about David Kirby's death.

From my second-floor window I had a good view of the restaurant. As I buttoned my shirt and put on my trousers, I thought about Sheila Brant. I wondered if she had managed to escape from that cottage in the Keys on her own or if the killers for some reason had permitted -her to leave alive.

Meredith had given me the number of his room, which was a few doors from mine. I walked down the corridor to it. Meredith appeared to be the genuine article, but I was the suspicious type and I was going to check him out.

What with my AXE training and a great deal of practical experience as well, I had become an expert at picking locks. The door to the hotel room proved no challenge at all. A twelve-year-old could have sprung the lock with a penknife.

I turned the knob, and stepped quietly inside the room. A man was seated in a chair near the window. He gave me a broad smile. "It would have been just as easy to knock."

I couldn't think of a clever opening line. All I managed was, "Who are you?"

"Meredith, of course. And you must be Nick Carter."

If he wasn't Meredith, he was a hell of a good liar. He seemed completely at ease. "I've been waiting for you. I guess you just got in," he said. "Have you seen the girl yet?"

"Not yet."

If he had known he was the second Meredith I'd met in the past hour and a half, he wouldn't have been so relaxed, I thought. I produced a cigarette. "Got a light?"

"Sure." He felt around in the pocket of his wrinkled brown coat. He was a round-faced man, beginning to bald and go to fat, but appearances don't tell anything. AXE agents come in all sizes, shapes, and ages. "Here you are, Carter."

He handed me a book of matches.

"Don't you have a lighter?" I asked casually, lighting my cigarette.

"Never carry one. The damn things are always running out of fuel."

I grinned and tossed the matches back to him. "I guess if I could pick the lock, so could you."

He crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair, his hands cupped on his knee. His eyes hadn't left me since I entered the room. "You mean you don't believe I'm Meredith?"

Unzipping my jacket, I said, "I know damn well you aren't."

His relaxed smile was still in place. He had plenty of poise. "What did I do wrong?"

"The important thing is that you did it. Who are you really?"

"I'm the man who's carrying your death warrant," he said. With a deft movement, he pulled up his trousers leg with one hand. With the other he plucked a revolver out of a scabbard strapped to his calf.

I dropped to one knee as he drew. His revolver was equipped with a silencer and I heard a soft cough as the gun went off. The bullet thudded into the wall.

I flexed my arm and the stiletto popped into my hand. I threw it as he moved to get me in his sights again. The knife sank into his throat and quivered like a dart. His eyes bugged and he leaned over as though he intended to look under his chair.

I caught him as he sagged toward the floor. He was heavy. I stretched him out and frisked him. His wallet contained five thousand-dollar bills and some identification that said his name was Coogan and he came from Denver. That didn't necessarily mean anything. His papers were probably as phony as mine. Stuffing his driver's license into my pocket. I stood up. Things were off to a bad start. Someone knew why I was in Bonham, AXE's security had clearly been breached.

I had to do something about the body. I couldn't leave it in the genuine Meredith's room. Making sure the corridor was empty, I chose a door at random and sprung the lock. Apparently the room was unoccupied. I picked Coogan up and carried him across the hall and put him on the bed.

No Chamber of Commerce would be interested in hiring me, I thought. I had been in town less than two hours and already a man was dead.

I went downstairs and struck up a friendly conversation with the desk clerk, who welcomed the opportunity to leave his crossword puzzle. I told him I'd met a man in the hallway, a round-faced, jovial fellow.

"That's Mr. Hobbs. A salesman. Checked in today. Room 206."

"What does Mr. Hobbs sell?"

"I don't believe he said."

After five minutes, I extricated myself from the conversation, mounted the stairs again, and picked another lock. Room 206 was empty except for a sample case. Mr. Hobbs had barely touched down before he took up his wait for me. I slapped the case on the bed and opened it. The only sample it contained was a stripped down rifle with a silencer and a scope. Mr. Hobbs, also known as Mr. Coogan and briefly as Meredith, had been selling death. The well-oiled rifle was the kind of hardware packed by a professional assassin.

I could guess at his game plan. He was to intercept me and kill me as soon as I arrived, pick off the girl from the hotel window when she came to work, then leave Bonham in a hurry. The lie about his being Meredith had been a quick ruse to pull me off guard and possibly to find out if I'd talked to the girl. Mr. Hobbs, or Mr. Coogan, had been a clever pro, cool-headed and good at his business. But even the best have their bad days.

I faded quietly out of room 206 and down the stairway. Because telephone calls from the rooms went through the hotel switchboard, I used a pay phone in the lobby to call Meredith at the gas station. "Don't walk in any dark alleys. The opposition has hit town," I told him when he came on the line.

"Damn. Have you got a fix on them? I mean, on who they are?"

"Just that they aren't amateurs."

"Well, no reason to be surprised," he said. "If we could find the girl, so could they."

"I'm afraid we led them to her," I said.

I could picture Hawk's reaction when I told him someone must have entered my quarters on the AXE base, rifled the Sheila Brant file, and used our information to get a line on the girl. He'd blow up like a sabotaged missile.

The events of the day had changed the situation radically. I couldn't play my cards slowly and patiently as Hawk had recommended. Sheila's life was in jeopardy. I had to make contact and win her confidence fast.

I was standing outside the hotel when she arrived at the restaurant. I watched her open the door of a red Volvo, and caught a glimpse of sleek thigh as she slid out of the car. The legs were as good as I remembered, the sexy walk even better.

She took note of me as she moved around the car with long, graceful strides. Apparently the sight of any stranger tensed her up. She paused, eyed me briefly, and I returned her gaze with my most winning smile.

After she'd vanished into the restaurant, I smoked a cigarette. I wanted to give her time to shed her coat and start waiting on tables. As I stalled, three motorcycles roared into town. The cyclists were as out of place in Bonham as I was. They wheeled past the hotel, looking me over through goggles clamped to their bearded faces. They wore jackets with leering devils painted on the backs. Their destination was the bar. Talking loudly, they dismounted and went inside. I knew they didn't live in Bonham. The town didn't hold enough excitement for their kind.

"Outlaws and bums," said the hotel clerk disgustedly. He was leaning in the doorway behind me. "They're part of a gang that comes through here a couple of times a year. Call themselves Satan's Brood. They camp out on the old fairgrounds. Folks in town would like to run them off the property, but the police don't want to stir up a riot."

I threw my cigarette away. If the bikers were regular visitors, that meant they were no concern of mine. I crossed the street to the restaurant, where business was picking up. I counted a total of four customers. All were men, and three of them couldn't take their eyes off Sheila. The fourth, I thought, must have been half-blind.

I took a corner table away from the other diners. Even before Sheila moved toward me, I caught her gaze drifting in my direction, sizing me up.

"Welcome to Bonham. Plan to stay long?" she said when she reached my table.

"That depends on you, Sheila."

The expression to her fragile face froze. "My name is Susan."

"It's Sheila Brant and until Frank Abruze was killed, you were his mistress." My hand flashed across the table and I pinned her wrist. "Don't get up-right. Plaster a smile on that lovely face and pretend we're talking about what's on the menu,"

"The smiling part won't be easy. You're about to crush the bones in my wrist."

I loosened up on my grip, but didn't let her go. "The people you're running from know where you are. I can't imagine why they'd want to eliminate you, but that seems to be what they have in mind. You need help."

"And you're going to give it to me?" Her pretty mouth twisted. That's the story of my life. Men are always going to help me. And the more help I get, the more trouble I find myself in."

"I'm the man who's going to change all that."

"I was wondering who you are. Now I know. You must be Mandrake the Magician."

"The name is Ned."

"Well, Ned the Magician, it'll take a couple of miracles to clear up the complications in my life." Despite what she said, there was a stirring of interest in the dark eyes. "You want something in return for your help, of course."

"We'll discuss the terms later."

"Oh, I'm sure we will," she said in a sardonic voice.

Business or no business, I was hungry. I told her to bring me a thick steak and black coffee.

"You trust me not to make a run for it?"

"Cinderella didn't run out on her fairy godmother, did she?"

She laughed. "I'm no Cinderella."

She could have played the part, I thought. She looked like a girl a prince would bring a slipper to, and carry away even if the slipper didn't fit. Only her Prince Charming had turned out to be Frank Abruze, Mafia capo.

When she returned with my coffee, she brushed against me as she placed the cup near my hand. I interpreted that as a sign that we were going to get along.

"Apparently you aren't the fuzz. And you aren't one of Abruze's friends. So who are you?" she asked.

"I'll explain that later, too."

The door banged and the three bikers came in, bringing a stench with them. None of them had touched a bar of soap in weeks. The man behind the cash register, presumably the restaurant's owner, regarded the trio with displeasure. He could have done without their business for at least the next ninety years.

They decided to sit at the table next to mine. They talked loudly, guffawing at each other's jokes. To amuse myself, I tried to determine which of them was the ugliest. The contest ended in a dead heat between the one with a knife scar curling down his cheek and the one seated nearest to me, a stocky man wearing a bead necklace, a greasy headband, and leather wristbraces. The one in the middle, who had long hair and a copper-colored beard, was the most presentable.

While Sheila was taking their orders, Scarface ran his hand up her leg. She took the offense with remarkable cool. Copper Beard slapped his companion's hand away. "Behave yourself," he said in an even voice.

The one seated near me caught my gaze and showed his teeth, several of which were missing. "What are you looking at, buster?"

"You," I said. "I was admiring your dental work." "A cop once stepped on my face. Would you like some of the same?"

"Not especially," I said, resisting the temptation to shove my coffee cup down his throat.

Copper Beard clamped a hand on his friend's shoulder. He squeezed so hard that the man with the missing teeth winced. "Don't kid around with the gentleman, Georgie. He might think you're serious. The last thing we want is a misunderstanding. Right?"

"Right" echoed Georgie. He didn't sound sincere. He sounded scared of the man with the hand clamped on his shoulder.

I finished my steak in peace and told Sheila I'd be waiting when she got off work at midnight. Returning to my hotel room, I settled down in the chair near the window to keep watch on the restaurant. For all I knew, the dead assassin had confederates who'd make a try for the girl.

The cycle bums emerged and meandered down the street in the soft dusk, still exchanging loud boasts and laughter. Only the one with the copper-colored beard was silent, striding between the others, a head taller than they were, smooth-moving as a catamount. They were heading back toward the bar. I watched them until they were out of sight.

Long before Sheila appeared, I was beginning to worry about Meredith, who hadn't shown up and hadn't called. Without taking my eyes off the restaurant's door, I placed the telephone on my lap and asked the night clerk to give me an outside line. I dialed the number of the gas station and got no answer. I sat in the darkness listening to the buzz and I had the feeling that events had taken another abrupt change in course.

Sheila came out of the restaurant, walking at a fast clip, glancing around as she made for the Volvo at the curb. A light mist of rain had started to fall. I could see drops forming on my window pane. Sheila was wearing the long coat she had worn in the film made by Meredith. I could guess that she was carrying a gun in her pocket.

"Baby, you are a tricky one," I said softly.

It wasn't midnight; it was only 10 p.m. She was leaving early — running out on me.

I kicked back my chair and reached the door in three quick strides. I went down the stairway fast, passed a startled desk clerk, and hit the street as Sheila drove away.

The sound of bike motors starting up merged with the pulse of the Volvo's motor. The cyclists charged past without seeing me. They were following the car. I saw the red glow of their taillights sweep around a distant corner as I sprinted for my battered Ford.

I picked them up as they sped out of town in pursuit of the Volvo, which was moving very close to its limit. As the town fell behind us, I cursed. Sheila was setting herself up for whatever the bikers had in mind.

I gave the Ford some more gas and closed in on them, and saw that the leader had forged up alongside the Volvo and was waving for the girl to pull over. She ignored him and tried to get greater speed out of her car.

When the beam of my headlights splashed over them they became aware that someone was horning in on the party. One of the bikers turned back, whipping into my path so suddenly that I slapped at my brakes to avoid a collision. I saw the ugly face of the man called Georgie as I slid into a spin on the rain-slicked pavement. I gritted my teeth and rode the spin out, bringing the Ford around again. I resumed the chase.

My headlights caught Georgie first. He was purring along between me and the others, maintaining a slower pace in order to see if I'd stuck with them. As he glanced back, he showed his missing teeth in a crude burlesque of a grin. He seemed almost glad I hadn't wrecked the Ford. Now he had another chance at me.

He turned his bike and from somewhere behind the seat produced a short length of chain. With the chain dangling in his hand, he gunned the bike and shot toward me.

I didn't hit the brake and I didn't slow down. I bore steadily forward, the beam of my lights licking through the night. Georgie drew nearer. When he saw that I intended to hold to my course even though he was in my path, he swung the cycle over into the other lane of the highway.

I could have swerved the car and struck him, but I was afraid to do that on the slick pavement. I didn't want to go into another skid. Giving the Ford more gas, I picked up speed instead. Georgie flashed past my window and I saw his arm move. He snapped the chain like a whip.

The unexpected burst of speed I urged out of my car caused Georgie's timing to go awry. The hard-swung chain smashed into the window behind me and not the one alongside my face. I winced involuntarily as I heard the glass crack. Then I was putting distance between us because he had to slow down in order to get the bike turned around again. I saw his light hanging on behind me as I streaked around a curve and up a rolling hill.

Cresting the hill, I spotted Sheila and her pursuers. The man on the lead bike was running alongside the Volvo. He gained on the car and started swerving into the driver's path, causing her to draw over toward the shoulder of the road in order to avoid a collision.

She was so engrossed in the duel with the cyclist that she failed to make the next curve. Leaving the road, the Volvo bounced and swerved like a paper boat in a swift gutter current. I was afraid it would turn over when it struck the ditch, but the jolt only slowed it down. Sheila had the sense to avoid a sudden use of the brakes. From the shimmy the car made, I could guess she'd thrown it into a slower gear. Then she sawed on the brake. The Volvo bucked and slid, but it didn't go over.

As she finally brought the car to a halt in an open field, the bikers were turning around. One of them jumped the ditch, a beautiful piece of riding, and raced across the field toward the car he'd been pursuing. His wheels churned up dirt.

The second biker didn't have the guts to jump the ditch. He stopped on the shoulder of the road, then saw me coming up out of the night. He killed his motor and got off the cycle.

Slowing down, I glanced into the rear view mirror to check on Georgia He was still on my tail and gaining. Soon he'd catch up with me.

I turned onto the shoulder near the field and shut off the car. I left the headlights burning when I got out. The waiting biker was the one with the scar curling down his cheek. He reached inside his jacket and brought out a knife. Light gleamed on the blade as he stepped toward me.

"Mister, you'd better get back into that car and get the hell away from here."

"If I don't?"

"I'll slice you up like bacon ready for the frying pan."

One knee bending, I half-turned. My left foot shot out. I felt the sharp contact with his kneecap. A Japanese master of karate had taught me that move and it was a good one. Scarface went down as if the ground had been jerked out from under his feet.

Rising to a crouch, he made a pass with the knife. I shifted and the blade whipped in front of me, an inch short of my belly. I clamped both hands onto his arm and brought it down over my knee and broke it. Scarface howled.

I picked up his knife and threw it into the darkness on the other side of the highway.

Then Georgie arrived on the scene. He rode straight for me, swinging the chain. I knew that if he hit me in the face I'd be blinded or scarred for life. I heard the chain whine as I ducked. Then Georgie had passed me. Before he could turn around, I had tugged down the zipper of my jacket and pulled the Luger.

I shot him out of the saddle and the bike kept going, careening into the middle of the highway before it fell on its side and slid.

Without giving Georgie another glance, I walked back to the car, shoved it in reverse, and flashed my headlights on the field.

Copper Beard had dismounted and was hammering on the window of Sheila's car with his fist. He stopped when the yellow beams of my headlights spilled over him.

I put the Ford in low and drove across the ditch. The bounce jarred me off my butt. Copper Beard started running back toward his bike. I got there first. I wrenched the wheel at the last minute so that only my bumper hit the bike, but the impact sent the machine spinning. Copper Beard was sprinting toward his friends now, probably hoping to reach one of their bikes. I turned the Ford so that I could see him clearly in the headlights. I got out and drew a bead with the Luger and shot the fleeing man in the leg.

Sheila Brant shoved open the door of her car. She was holding a .38 in one hand. Copper Beard didn't know it, but I might have saved his life.

"Mister," Sheila said in an awed voice, "you are something else."

I pointed the Luger at the Volvo's left rear tire and shot a hole in it. I walked past the staring Sheila and shot the left front tire. Then I raised the hood and yanked out some wiring.

"Are you crazy?" she demanded.

"You ran out on me once. I'm making sure you don't do it again."

"I didn't know if I could trust you. I don't even know who you are."

"I told you. The name is Ned."

"I'm used to running. I thought it was the thing to do."

"You can probably use that gun," I said, "but could you have handled all three of these Boy Scouts? Use your head, Sheila. You need protection."

Plucking the keys out of my own car and pocketing them, I walked back to Copper Beard, who was lying on the ground clutching his leg.

"You'll live," I told him. "If I decide to let you."

He licked his lip. "What does that mean?"

I leaned down and put the point of the Luger between his bushy eyebrows. "Tell me the reason for the night's activity."

"We wanted the blonde. What else?"

I prodded him with the gun barrel. "I thought you might tell me something else. Something more interesting"

"Man, I'll tell you anything you want to hear. But the truth is, we wanted the broad. She gave us frostbite in the eating place, so we decided to hang around and have some fun with her when she got off work."

"No one hired you to take care of her?"

"Like who?" He forced a shaky grin. "Man, what did we get ourselves into anyway?"

I wasn't sure I believed him. I said, "I can't be bothered with gathering you freaks up and taking you to jail. But stay out of my sights. If I get you in them again, I'll kill you."

"Man, I'll avoid you like the draft."

Sheila was standing at the open door of my car. "What were you two talking about?" she asked when I returned.

"I gave him the name of my doctor," I said. "Get in the car. We're going back to Bonham."

She hesitated, then obeyed me. She slid under the steering wheel and over to the passenger's seat with her skirt climbing up her legs. I grinned at her, holstered the Luger, and got in. Then she punched her .38 into my ribs.

"I know this is a poor way to show my gratitude," she said, "but a girl has to look out for herself."