Nick Carter - Run, Spy, Run

"These are for you. Try not to lose them. You'll find all the clothes you'll need, plus the latest text on Israeli archaeological discoveries of the last decade and a couple of notebooks for your innermost scholarly thoughts. One of them has already been half-filled for you, so you don't have to write — just read."

Nick opened the bags, looking up at Hawk as he did.

"You've heard about this evening at the Elmont?" he asked.

Hawk nodded. "I got the police report just before you arrived. I trust you examined the parcel before the floor show began?" Nick nodded, admiring the carefully packed bags and the extraordinary thoroughness with which Hawk always operated.

"Memorized it. But I left in a hurry, so I didn't switch the contents." He snapped open his briefcase and took out Hawk's package.

"Yes, do it now," approved Hawk. "And since you've committed it all to memory, we will dispose of the dossiers right away.

"That's the longest crewcut I've ever seen," he said, watching as Nick removed Peter Cane's possessions and transferred them to his own pockets. "But it's not a bad idea for you to look a little overgrown. I don't suppose it's necessary to remind you, Miss Baron, of your obligations?"

"I don't suppose it is," said Julia haughtily, then had the grace to look a little shamefaced.

Hawk was clearly in no mood to bandy words. He waited until Nick was ready, then took the file from him and set it down in the fireplace.

"What about Miss Baron?" Nick asked him pointedly.

"I'm sorry, Cane," said Hawk, sounding as though he really was. "Miss Baron was wished on us by a branch other than our own. By the Asian OCI, as a matter of fact." He busied himself with the parcel, making sure that it was precisely beneath the open flue. "It's a bit irregular, of course. I wasn't aware of her involvement until after I'd made my plans for you as Peter Cane. However. It may turn out to be for the best. Now. I want you both to watch this." He assumed his most pedantic expression. "It may come in handy for you both when it comes to the proper disposal of incriminating information."

Hawk gave these little lectures periodically, usually choosing the oddest times for them. Nick suspected he used them as a device to cover up embarrassment or hesitation. Sometimes he had to ask the impossible of one of the chosen twenty-four that made up AXE; then he would stall for time, fumble with his cigar, and give a lecture on molecular metamorphoses, poisonous lichens, or desert survival. This one would be short, apparently. Hawk had not started by making a production of lighting his cigar.

Almost in unison, Nick and the Baron woman moved closer to the fireplace. Hawk had drawn a phial of something from his inside coat pocket and removed the stopper.

He paused, looked at Nick and Julia, and stepped back. The hand holding the phial remained extended above the parcel.

"Acid," he said in a schoolroom voice. "Highly volatile, with an increased effectiveness of better than seven hundred percent above the norm for such liquids. Chemical War sent me a batch for just such occasions as this. You'll be surprised, I can assure you."

Silvery drops of liquid trickled from the phial and splattered gently on to the burlap-and-paper parcel.

The effect was magical.

There was a hiss of sound, a barely perceptible spreading of dissolution, and — no smoke at all. Within fifteen seconds — Nick timed it by his wrist watch — the parcel containing all the background information shriveled and collapsed into withered shreds. Hawk nudged the pile with his shoe tip and looked pleased with himself. The pile flattened into powdery ashes.

"Quantity K, they call it," Hawk said. "Impossible to make anything at all out of those scraps now. The chemicals reduce all printed matter and textures to meaningless ciphers. An improvement, I'd say. Wouldn't you?" He carefully plugged in the stopper and deposited the phial back in his pocket.

"Dandy," said Nick. "If I ever have access to Quantity K, I'm sure I'll make good use of it"

Julia Baron smiled. The high cheek bones stood out in relief, emphasized by the harsh overhead light.

"Hadn't you better tell Cane what he wants to know, Mr. Hawk? The atmosphere's a little chilly, and I think it comes from that cold shoulder."

"Cane is my best man, Miss Baron," Hawk said evenly, "because he doesn't even trust himself. He's wondering right now if you haven't managed to pull the wool over my old eyes. If he's not convinced that you're authentic, you may just never leave here." He reached for a cigar, suggesting to Nick that he himself needed a cigarette.

Julia shifted uncomfortably. Damn this old man! He was a hard case.

He clipped, scraped matches, puffed.

"When you left the stadium, Cane, Miss Baron approached me with the usual interdepartmental identification. She had been told where to find me and she produced credentials that are unshakeable and unarguable. Until recently she has been at the Asian desk of the OCI, which you will recall is the Office of Confidential Information. She flew into Washington with a useful scrap of information and was sent up here to see me. Word from Washington reached me later in the day. I had heard of her, of course, but we had never met. Washington insists that we make use of her." He mouthed his cigar reflectively. "It occurred to me that your cover might be less easy to penetrate if you were traveling together. Therefore, Miss Baron will be on Flight 601 with you tomorrow."

"Why, Mr. Hawk," said Nick, pained. "You know I'm not married. And what about my girl friend, Myra?"

Hawk permitted himself a faint smile. "Myra is a memory, a lovely thing of the past. Miss Baron has swept you off your feet and you are flying to England, determined to spend several beautiful days together in a London love nest. You will approach your research conscientiously, of course, but your free time is your own. There is no reason why information of that nature should appear on Peter Cane's official records. You would, in fact, have been very careful to see that it did not. When you are not immersed in your work you will be immersed in the girl."

Nick looked at her appraisingly. Yes, perhaps he would. She was very decorative, indeed. There was spirit in those luminous, slanting eyes, and strength in that supple body.

There was a glint of amusement in Hawk's eye as he asked: "Is everything clear so far?"

"So far," Nick said. The girl nodded and studied the tip of the cigarette she had lit.

"Very well. These two pieces of luggage are yours, Cane. Miss Baron has her own. And, as I indicated earlier, I shall expect her to tone down her appearance. Appropriately sober clothes have been provided. A somewhat less apparent aura of sophistication would be in order. In other words, Miss Baron," the old man finished crisply, "I want you to look a little less like Mata Hari."

Julia raised her eyebrows and stretched languidly.

"Dragon Lady, they used to call me in Peking." She laughed with genuine pleasure, and took off her hat. Nick noticed that her front teeth were slightly crooked. The lady of mystery was transformed into a gamin. Dark hair fell over her forehead, released from hat and pins, and she swept it back with a toss of the head and a slender hand. The earrings came off, revealing small, delectably shaped ears. Nick watched with growing approval. Hmmm. Perhaps this wouldn't be bad after all.

"That's better," Hawk grunted. "All right, Miss Baron — enough."

"What about Miss Baron's information, sir?" Nick prodded.

Hawk took a slow puff on his cigar. "As I said, it was a scrap, not a hard-and-fast fact. But it ties together with what we've begun to suspect. We think we know who we're dealing with now. Do you remember the old files on Mr. Judas?"