The Defector

CHAPTER FIVE

Killmaster moved away from the doorway. For an instant he thought of walking down the sidewalk instead of approaching the rickshaw. But he would only be putting it off. Trouble had to faced sooner or later.

The man saw him coming and leaped to his feet. He still wore his coolie outfit.

“Rickshaw, mister?” he asked.

Nick said, “Where’s the boy I told to wait?”

“He go. I good rickshaw boy. You see.”

Nick climbed into the seat. “You know where the Dragon Club is?”

“I know, you bet. Good place. I take.” He began moving down the street.

Killmaster didn’t care for the setup. His followers weren’t together anymore. Now he had one in front of him and one behind, which put him right in the middle. Obviously there was another way in and out of Bar Wonderful besides the front door. That was how Ossa had got in and changed clothes before Nick arrived. Ossa would have left the place by now, and would be waiting someplace for his friend to deliver Nick. There was little choice left to them now. They couldn’t get Chris Wilson to defect; they couldn’t buy him out of Hong Kong. And they knew he was there to persuade Professor Loo to return home. There was no other way. They had to kill him.

The mist grew heavier, beginning to soak through Nick’s coat His glasses became spotted with moisture. Nick removed them and placed them in the inside coat pocket of his suit. His eyes searched both sides of the street. Every muscle in his body relaxed. He quickly judged the distance between the seat he was sitting on and the street, trying to figure the best way to land on his feet.

How would they try it? He knew Ossa was waiting somewhere up ahead. A gun would be too noisy. After all, Hong Kong did have its police. Knives would work better. They’d probably kill him, rob him of everything he had, and dump him someplace. Quick, neat and workable. To the police it would be just another tourist robbed and killed. It happened often in Hong Kong. Of course Nick had no intention of letting them pull it off. But he figured they’d be as professional a pair of street fighters as they were amateur followers.

The small man trotted into an unlighted destitute section of Kowloon. As far as Nick could tell, the man still headed in the general direction of the Dragon Club. But Nick knew they would never reach the club.

The rickshaw went into a narrow alley, lined on both sides with four-story unlighted buildings. Except for the steady slap of the man’s feet on wet asphalt, the only other sound was the spasmodic dripping of rainwater from roofs of the buildings.

Even though Killmaster expected it, the move came suddenly, catching him slightly off-balance. The man pushed the front of the rickshaw up high. Nick twirled and jumped over the wheel. His left foot hit the street first, throwing him more off balance. He went down, rolling. On his back, he saw the smaller man rushing toward him, the ugly dagger high in the air. The man lunged with a scream. Nick brought his knees to his chest, and the balls of his feet caught the man’s stomach. Grabbing the wrist holding the dagger, Killmaster pulled the man toward him, then stiffened his legs, throwing the man over his head. He landed with a loud grunt.

As Nick rolled over to get to his feet, Ossa kicked his side, the force knocking him back down. At the same time Ossa swished the air with his own dagger. Killmaster felt the sharp point slice across his forehead. He rolled, and kept rolling until his back hit the wheel of the overturned rickshaw. It was too dark to see. Blood began oozing from his forehead into his eyes. Nick got his knees under him and started to rise. Ossa’s heavy foot glanced along his cheek ripping the skin. The force was enough to knock him off to one side. He was pushed over on his back; then Ossa’s knee with all his weight behind it plunged into Nick’s stomach. Ossa had aimed for his groin, but Nick had brought his knees up, deflecting the blow. Still, the force was enough to take Nick’s breath away.

Then he saw the dagger coming down to his throat. Nick caught the fat wrist with his left hand. With his right fist he punched toward Ossa’s groin. Ossa grunted. Nick swung again, a little lower. This time Ossa yelled in agony. He fell away, taking the pressing knee with him. Nick caught his breath, and using the rickshaw for support, got to his feet. He wiped the blood from his eyes. Then the smaller man came from his left. Nick caught a glimpse of him just before he felt the blade slice into the muscle of his left arm. He backhanded the man across his face, sending him cartwheeling into the rickshaw.

Hugo was in Kill master’s right hand now. He backed to one of the buildings, watching the two shadows coming toward him. Now, gentlemen, he thought, now come and get me. They were good, better than he thought they’d be. They fought with vengeance, and left little doubt that their intention was to kill him. With his back to the building, Nick waited for them. The cut on his forehead did not feel serious. The bleeding had diminished. His left arm felt painful but he’d had worse wounds. The two men widened their positions so that each came at him from opposite sides. They were crouched low, determination on their faces, the daggers pointing upward at Nick’s chest. He knew they would try to plunge their blades up under his rib cage, high enough so the point would pierce his heart. There was no chill in the alley. All three men were sweating and panting slightly. The silence was broken only by raindrops falling from roof tops. It was as dark a night as Nick had ever seen. The two men were mere forms, only their daggers glinting now and then.

The smaller man lunged first. He came in low from Nick’s right, and because of his size, he moved quickly. There was a metallic clink as Hugo deflected the dagger. No sooner had the smaller man retreated than Ossa moved in from the left, only slightly slower. Again Hugo deflected the blade. Both men fell back. As Nick began to relax slightly, the small man lunged again, lower. Nick sidestepped, clicking the blade aside. But Ossa came in high, aiming for the throat. Nick twisted his head, feeling the point slice his ear lobe. Both men again fell back. The panting grew heavier.

Killmaster knew in a fight of this type he would come out third. These two could alternate lunges until they wore him down. When he was tired he’d make a mistake, and then they’d have him. He had to change the course of this thing, and the best way would be for him to become the attacker. The smaller man would be easier to handle. That made him first.

Nick feigned a lunge at Ossa, making him fall back slightly. The smaller man took advantage and moved in. Nick sidestepped as the blade creased his stomach. With his left hand, he caught the man’s wrist and with all his strength pulled him across and into Ossa. He hoped the man would be thrown onto Ossa’s blade. But Ossa saw him coming and turned sideways. Both men collided, staggered, and went down. Nick moved in a half-circle around them. The smaller man swung his dagger behind him before he got up probably thinking Nick was there. But Nick was at his side. The arm stopped its swing in front of him.

With a movement almost quicker than the eye could see, Nick sliced Hugo across the top of the man’s wrist. He let out a scream, dropping his dagger, and clutched the wrist between his legs. Ossa was on his knees. He swung the dagger in a long arc. Nick had to jump back to keep the point from ripping open his stomach. But for one instant, one fleeting second, Ossa’s entire front was exposed. His left hand hand pushed down on the street supporting him, his right was almost behind him in the completion of the swing. There was no time to aim for any section of the body, the second would soon pass. Like a striking rattlesnake. Nick moved in and struck with Hugo, pushing the blade up almost to the handle into the man’s chest, then quickly moved out. Ossa let out a short cry. He tried vainly to swing the dagger back, but made it only as far as his side. The left arm supporting him collapsed, he fell to his elbow. Nick looked up to see the smaller man running out of the alley still clutching his wrist.

Nick gently pulled the dagger from Ossa’s grasp and tossed it a few feet away. Ossa’s supporting elbow gave way. His head fell to the crook of his arm. Nick felt the man’s wrist. His pulse felt slow, erratic. He was dying. His breathing became strained, bubbly. Blood colored his lips and flowed freely from the wound. Hugo had cut an artery, its point had pierced a lung.

“Ossa,” Nick called softly. “Will you tell me who hired you?” He knew the two men did not attack him on their own. They were working under orders. “Ossa,” he said again.

But Chin Ossa was through telling anybody anything. The bubbly breathing had stopped. He was dead.

Nick wiped the scarlet blade of Hugo clean on Ossa’s pants leg. He was sorry he had had to kill the heavy man. But there had been no time to aim the blade. He stood and surveyed his own wounds. The cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding. Holding his handkerchief out in the rain until it was soaked, he wiped the blood from his eyes. His left arm was painful but the scrape on his cheek and the scratch across his stomach weren’t serious. He came out of it better than Ossa, maybe even better than the other man. The rain came heavier now. Already his jacket was soaked.

Leaning against one of the buildings, Nick replaced Hugo. He pulled out Wilhelmina, checked the clip, and replaced the Luger. Without a backward glance at the battle scene or the corpse which had once been Chin Ossa, Killmaster walked out of the alley. There was no reason why he shouldn’t see the professor now.

From the alley, Nick walked four blocks before he found a taxi. He gave the driver the address he had memorized back in Washington. Since the professor’s defection was no secret, neither was the place he was staying. Nick settled back in his seat, took out the thick glasses from his coat pocket, cleaned them, and put them on.

The taxi pulled up in a section of Kowloon as rundown as where the alley had been. Nick paid the driver and once again stepped into the chilled night air. It wasn’t until the taxi had driven away that he realized how dark the street looked. The houses were old and run down; they seemed to sag under the rain. But Nick knew the Oriental philosophy of building. These houses had a fragile strength, not like a boulder along the seashore taking the constant pounding of waves, but more like a spiderweb in a hurricane. No lights brightened any windows, no people walked the street. The area seemed deserted.

Nick had no doubt the professor would be well guarded, if only for his own protection. The Chi Corns expected someone would probably try to contact him. Whether to persuade Mm not to defect or to assassinate him, they wouldn’t know. Killmaster didn’t think they’d bother to find out.

The door had a window just above its center. A black curtain was draped over the window, but not completely enough to keep out all light. Looking at it from the street, the house looked as deserted and dark as all the others. But as Nick stood close to the door at an angle, he could barely make out a yellow splinter of light. He knocked on the door and waited. There was no stir inside. Nick pounded on the door. He heard a chair squeak, then heavy footsteps growing louder. The door jerked open, and Nick faced a mountain of a man. His massive shoulders touched each side of the doorway. The undershirt he wore revealed huge hairy arms, thick as tree trunks, hanging apelike almost to his knees. His broad, flat face was ugly with sleep and had a nose misshapen by repeated breakings. His eyes were razor slices in two marshmallow puffs of flesh. Across the middle of his forehead his short black hair was combed down and cut straight. He had no neck; his chin seemed to be supported by his chest. Neanderthal man, Nick thought. A few steps in evolution were missed by this one.

The man grunted something that almost sounded like “What do you want?”

“Chris Wilson to see Professor Loo,” Nick said matter-of-factly.

“He no here. You go,” the monster grunted, and slammed the door in Nick’s face.

Killmaster fought an impulse to kick the door open, or at least smash the glass in it. He stood for a few seconds letting the anger seep out of him. He should have expected something like this. To be invited in would have been too easy. The Neanderthal’s heavy breathing came from the other side of the door. He’d probably be delighted if Nick tried something cute. Killmaster was reminded of a line from Jack and the Beanstalk: “I’ll grind your bones to make my bread.” Not tonight, friend, Nick thought. He had to see the professor, and he would. But unless there was no other way, he’d rather not have to go through that mountain.

Raindrops dropped onto the sidewalk like watery bullets as Nick circled to the side of the building. There was a long, narrow space about four feet wide between buildings, littered with cans and bottles. Nick easily scaled the locked wooden gate and started toward the rear of the building Halfway along, he found another door. He gently tried the knob Locked. He continued, picking his way as quietly as possible. At the end of the passageway was another gate, unlocked. Nick opened it and found himself in a tiled patio.

A single yellow bulb glowed on the building, its reflection shimmering on the wet tile. In the center of the patio a small. fountain overflowed. Mango trees were dotted around the edges. One was planted next to the building, the top of it just under the only window on this side.

Under the yellow bulb was another door. That would be the easy way, but the door was locked. He stood back with his hands on his hips, eying the weak-looking tree. His clothes were soaked, he had a gash across his forehead, his left arm ached. And now he was about to climb a tree that probably wouldn’t hold him, to reach a window that was probably locked. And at night, yet, in the rain. At times like these he had minor thoughts of taking up shoe repair for a living.

There was nothing to do but get on with it. The tree was young. Since the mango sometimes reached ninety feet, the branches on this one should be pliable rather than brittle. It didn’t look strong enough to hold him. Nick began to climb. The bottom branches were sturdy and took his weight easily. He made rapid progress until about halfway up. Then the branches thinned and bent dangerously as he put his foot on them. By keeping his footholds close to the trunk, he minimized the bending. But as he approached the window, even the trunk had thinned. And it was a good six feet away from the building. When Nick was even with the window, the branches closed out all light from the yellow bulb. He was enclosed in darkness. The only way he could pick out the window was as a dark square on the side of the building. He couldn’t reach it from the tree.

He began rocking his weight backhand forth. The mango groaned its protest but reluctantly started to move. Nick lunged again. If the window was locked he’d break it in. If the noise brought the Neanderthal man. he’d deal with him too. The tree was really beginning to sway now. This was going to be a one-shot deal. If there was nothing there to grab onto he was going to slide headfirst down the side of the building. That would be a bit messy. The tree leaned toward the dark square. Nick pushed sharply with his feet, his hands groping air. In that instant when the tree swung away from the building to leave him hanging onto nothing, his fingers touched something solid. Walking the fingers of both hands, he got a good grip on whatever it was just as the tree left him completely. Nick’s knees banged into the side of the building. He was hanging on the edge of some sort of box. He swung his leg over the lip and pulled himself up. His knees sank into mud. A flower box! It was connected to the window sill.

The tree swung back, its branches brushing his face. Killmaster reached for the window, and immediately thanked all good things on earth. Not only was the window not locked, but it was open slightly! He opened it the rest of the way, then crawled through. His hands touched carpeting. He pulled his legs through and remained in a crouch under the window. Opposite Nick and just to his right came the sound of deep breathing. The house was a thin, tall, square-shaped structure. Nick figured the main room and kitchen would be downstairs. That left a bathroom and bedroom upstairs. He removed the thick, rain-spotted glasses. Yes, this would be the bedroom. The house seemed quiet. Except for the breathing coming from the bed, the only other sound was the splatter of rain outside the open window.

Nick’s eyes now were used to the dark room. He could pick out the shape of the bed and the lumpy form on it. With Hugo in his hand, he moved toward the bed. The dripping from his wet clothes made no sound on the carpet, but his shoes squished with each step. He made his way around the foot of the bed to the right side. The man lay on his side, his face turned away from Nick. On a nightstand next to the bed was a lamp. Nick touched the sharp blade of Hugo to the man’s throat and at the same time clicked on the lamp. The room exploded into light. Killmaster kept his back to the lamp until his eyes could get used to the brilliance. The man’s head turned, his eyes blinked and watered. He brought up a hand to shield his eyes. As soon as Nick saw the face, he moved Hugo just slightly away from the man’s throat.

“What the hell is…” The man focused his eyes on the stiletto just inches from his chin.

Nick said, “Professor Loo, I presume.”