The Defector

CHAPTER THREE

Killmaster had to change planes twice, once in Miami and again in Los Angeles, before he caught a direct flight to Hong Kong. Once over the Pacific, he tried to relax, to get some sleep. But again this was not to be; he could feel the fine hair on the back of his neck bristle again. A chill ran through him as before. He was being watched.

Nick stood and walked slowly down the aisle toward the rest rooms, his eyes scanning faces on each side of him. The plane was more than half-filled with Orientals. Some slept, others stared out their dark windows, still others glanced at him idly as he passed. None turned to look at him after he had gone by, and none had the look of a watcher. Once inside the rest room, Nick splashed cold water on his face. In the mirror he looked at the reflection of his handsome features, deeply tanned by the Mexican sun. Was it his imagination? He knew better. Someone on the plane was watching him, all right. Had the watcher been with him in Orlando? Miami? Los Angeles? Where had Nick picked him up? He wasn’t going to find the answer looking at his face in the mirror.

Nick returned to his seat watching the backs of heads. No one seemed to have missed him.

The stewardess came to him just as he was lighting one of his gold-tipped cigarettes.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Wilson?” she asked.

“Couldn’t be better,” Nick replied, giving her a wide grin.

She was English, small-breasted and long-legged. Her fair skin reeked with health. Bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, she had the type of bubbly personality that everything she felt, thought and wanted was shown in her face. And there was no doubt as to what was written on her face right now.

“Is there anything I can get you?” she asked.

It was a leading question, meaning anything at all, just ask: coffee, tea or me. Nick considered it seriously. A crowded plane, more than forty-eight hours without sleep, too many things were against it. He needed rest, not romance. Yet, he didn’t want to close the door completely.

“Maybe later,” he said finally.

“Of course.” A trace of disappointment showed in her eyes, but she smiled warmly at him and moved on.

Nick settled back in his seat. Surprisingly, he was becoming used to the gelatin belt around his waist. The glasses still bothered him, though, and he removed them to wipe the lenses.

He felt a little sorrow over the stewardess. He didn’t even have her name. If “later” did come about, how would he locate her? He would get her name and where she would be for the following month before he got off the plane.

The chill hit him again. Damn it, he thought, there should be some way to find out who was watching him. He knew if he really wanted to there were ways of finding out. He doubted the person would try anything on the plane. Maybe they expected him to lead them straight to the professor. Well, when they reached Hong Kong he had a few surprises for whoever. Right now he needed rest.

Killmaster wished he could explain the odd feeling he had about Mrs. Loo and the boy. If they had told him the truth, Professor Loo was in trouble. It meant he was in fact defecting strictly because of his work. And that, somehow, just didn’t set right, especially considering the professor’s past performance in dermatology. His discoveries, his present experiments, didn’t point to a man unhappy in his work. And the less-than-cordial reception Nick received from Mrs. Loo made him lean toward the marriage as a reason. Surely the professor had told his wife about Chris Wilson. And unless Nick had blown his cover when talking with her, there was no reason for her hostility toward him. Mrs. Loo was lying for some reason. It was a feeling he had, the “something wrong here” attitude of the house.

But Nick needed rest now, and rest he was going to get. If Mr. Whatsit wanted to watch him sleep, let him. When he reported to whoever had told him to watch Nick, he’d be an expert on watching a man sleep.

Killmaster relaxed his body completely. His mind went blank except for the one compartment which always remained aware of the surroundings. This part of his brain was his life insurance. It never rested, never blacked out. It had saved his life on many occasions. He closed his eyes and was asleep immediately.

Nick Carter came awake instantly one second before the hand touched his shoulder. He let the hand touch him before he opened his eyes. Then he put his own big hand over the slim feminine one. He looked into the bright eyes of the English stewardess.

“Fasten your seat belt, Mr. Wilson. We are about to land.” She tried weakly to withdraw her hand, but Nick held it to his shoulder.

“Not Mr. Wilson,” he said. “Chris.”

She stopped trying to withdraw her hand. “Chris,” she repeated.

“And you are…” He let the sentence hang.

“Sharon. Sharon Russell.”

“How long will you be in Hong Kong, Sharon?”

That trace of disappointment came back into her eyes. “Only an hour, I’m afraid. I have to catch the next flight out.”

Nick ran his fingers along her arm. “An hour isn’t enough time, it it?”

“That depends.”

Nick wanted more than an hour with her, a lot more. “What I have in mind would take at least a week,” he said.

“A week!” She was curious now, it showed in her eyes. Something else was there too. Delight.

“Where will you be next week, Sharon?”

Her face brightened. “Next week I begin my holiday.”

“And where will that be?”

“Spain. Barcelona, then Madrid.”

Nick smiled. “Will you wait in Barcelona for me? We can do Madrid together.”

“That would be wonderful.” She pressed a slip of paper into his palm. “That is where I’ll be staying in Barcelona.”

Nick could hardly contain his chuckle. She had expected this. “Until next week, then,” he said.

“Until next week.” She squeezed his hand and moved on to the other passengers.

And when they had landed, and as Nick was leaving the plane, she squeezed his hand again, saying softly, “Ole.”

From the airport, Killmaster took a taxi straight to the harbor. In the cab, with his suitcase on the floor between his legs, Nick deduced time-zone changes and set his watch. It figured to be ten-thirty-five P.M., Tuesday.

Outside, the streets of Victoria remained unchanged since Killmaster’s last visit. His driver tooled the Mercedes unmercifully through traffic, relying heavily on the horn. A chill hung icily in the air. Streets and cars sparkled from a rainstorm just past. From curbs to buildings people mingled aimlessly, covering every square inch of sidewalk. They slouched, heads bent low, arms locked across their stomachs, and shuffled slowly along. Some sat on the curbs shoveling with chopsticks food from wooden bowls to their mouths. As they ate their eyes darted from side to side suspiciously, as though they were ashamed of eating when so many others were not.

Nick sat back in his seat, smiling. This was Victoria. Across the harbor lay Kowloon, every bit as crowded, every bit as exotic. This was Hong Kong, mysterious, beautiful and, at times, deadly. Countless black markets flourished. If you had the contact and the right amount of money, nothing was priceless. Gold, silver, jade, cigarettes, girls; everything was available, everything was for sale, if you had the price.

The streets of any city interested Nick; the streets of Hong Kong fascinated him. As he watched the crowded sidewalks from his taxi, he noticed sailors threading quickly through the throng. Sometimes they moved in groups, sometimes in pairs, but never alone. And Nick knew what they were hurrying to; a girl, a bottle, a piece of tail. Sailors were sailors everywhere. The action would be heavy on the streets of Hong Kong tonight. The American fleet was in. Nick wondered if the watcher was still with him.

As the taxi approached the harbor, Nick saw sampans packed like sardines against the docks. Hundreds of them were tied together, forming a miniature floating colony. Because of the cold, ugly blue smoke belched from crude stacks cut into the cabins. People lived their whole lives on these tiny boats; they ate, slept and died on them, and there seemed to be a hundred more since the last time Nick had seen them. Larger junks were dotted here and there among them. And farther out were anchored the huge, almost monstrous ships of the American Fleet. What a contrast, Nick thought. The sampans were small, cramped and always crowded. Lanterns gave them an eerie, bobbing look, while the gigantic American ships shined brightly with generator-powered lights, making them look almost deserted. They sat like boulders in the harbor, unmoving.

In front of the hotel, Nick paid the taxi driver and walked briskly into the building without looking around. Once inside he asked the desk clerk for a room with a view.

He got one overlooking the harbor. Directly below, waves of heads flowed and zigzagged like ants hurrying nowhere. Nick stood slightly to the side of the window watching moonlight flicker across the water. When he had tipped and dismissed the bell boy, he turned off all the lights in the room and returned to the window. Salty air reached his nostrils, mingled with the smell of cooking fish. He heard hundreds of voices from the sidewalk. He studied the faces carefully, and not seeing what he wanted, moved quickly across the window to make himself as lousy a target as possible. The view from the other side proved more revealing.

One man did not move with the crowd. Neither did he slice through it. He stood under a street lamp with a newspaper in his hands.

God! Nick thought. Not a newspaper! At night, in the middle of a crowd, under a poor street lamp — reading a newspaper?

Too many questions were unanswered. Killmaster knew he could lose this obvious amateur when and if he desired. But he wanted answers. And Mr. Whatsit following him was the first forward step he’d made since starting this assignment. As Nick watched, a second, heavily built man dressed like a coolie approached the first. His left arm was curled around a brown-paper-wrapped bundle. Words were exchanged. The first man pointed to the bundle, shaking his head. More words were exchanged, becoming heated. The second man thrust the bundle at the first. He started to refuse it, then grudgingly took it. He turned his back on the second man and melted into the crowd. The hotel was now being watched by the second man.

Nick figured Mr. Whatsit would be changing into a coolie costume about now. That’s probably what was in the bundle. Killmaster’s mind clicked off a plan. Good ideas wen digested, formed, worked over, placed into a slot to become part of the plan. But still it was rough. Any plan snatched cold out of the air was rough. Nick knew this. Polishing would come in steps as the plan was executed. At least now he would begin getting some answers.

Nick moved away from the window. He unpacked his suitcase, and when it was empty, he removed the hidden drawer. From this drawer he took out a small bundle not unlike the one the second man had carried. He unfurled the cloth of the bundle and rerolled it lengthwise. Still in darkness, he undressed completely, removing his weapons and laying them on the bed. When he was naked he carefully peeled the gelatin, flesh-toned padding from around his waist. It clung stubbornly, taking some of his belly-hair as he pulled. He worked with it for half an hour and found himself sweating heavily from the pain of pulled hair. Finally, he had it off. He let it fall to the floor at his feet and permitted himself the luxury of rubbing and scratching his belly. When he was satisfied, he took Hugo, his stiletto, and the padding into the bathroom. He slit the membrane holding in the gelatin and let the gooey stuff plop into the toilet. It took four flushings to get it all down. He followed it with the membrane itself. Then Nick returned to the window.

Mr. Whatsit had rejoined the second man. He too now looked like a coolie. As Nick watched them, he felt dirty from the drying sweat. But he smiled. They were the beginning. As he moved into the light of answers to his questions, he knew he would have two shadows.