Nick Carter - Run, Spy, Run

"Flight 601," Nick suggested.

"That's it. A Mr. Harcourt is flying on that plane. Lyle Harcourt, our Ambassador to the U.N. And we know where he stands with the Red Chinese, don't we? Well, so do they. As far as they're concerned, he talks too much and makes too much sense. With him out of the way, they at least can hope for a replacement who talks less — and then only a nice soft line about Red China. So we can't have Flight 601 blowing up over the Atlantic."

"Would they move so fast after the Valdez incident?"

Hawk shook his head. "We can't guess, and we can't afford to take a chance. We have to move on the assumption that Lyle Harcourt's life is in danger."

Julia stirred. "Why doesn't Harcourt take an Army plane and keep away from crowds?"

Hawk smiled briefly. "The flight is ostensibly a personal one. Vacation. You know how we citizens scream about congressmen and other civil brass using funds for pleasure jaunts. So, in defense of our way of life, and to avoid calling attention to himself by any change of plan, Mr. Harcourt is making a point of flying like any ordinary citizen."

"And scholarly Mr. Cane and the beautiful Julia will be blown to bits while holding hands in the air. America, it's wonderful."

"Yes, it is," Hawk said sternly. "Now tell me your version of what happened at the Elmont."

Nick outlined the evening's events in succinct phrases, leaving nothing out except the exact circumstances of his meeting with Julia and the initial coolness between them. He dwelled on the perfumed envelope.

"Miss Baron's way of preparing you for her appearance, no doubt. That's another thing..."

"Yes, Mr. Hawk," Julia said demurely. "Tomorrow, Yardley's Lavender."

"Anything new on my gentlemen callers?" Nick went back to business, but his eyes were smiling. Julia might get in the way, but he was going to like her.

"Nothing at all on tonight, of course. Not yet. As to the rest, the police have been cooperative, but we haven't made much headway since this morning. The Biltmore corpse revealed nothing more than I told you this afternoon. Apparently just another gun — or knife — hired for dirty work. The hansom carriage pair were East Side hoods, who kill for anyone with enough money to hire them. Just murder for profit, even in the case of Seersucker. The difference with him is that he was closer to the source."

"The source being, in this case, the inscrutable A. Brown."

"Yes. We may have something there. A few more questions at the airport elicited the interesting fact that someone they thought was the same man who'd asked questions about Flight 16 was seen talking to a tall fellow with, they said, 'a mean and calculating eye.' Now, that doesn't tell us much, but it does suggest that Seersucker got his orders at the airport after X had seen something on the field. You, perhaps, and Rita Jameson."

"Oh." Nick fell silent. There was no use cursing himself now. But a picture of Rita leapt to his mind. A lovely vision that shimmered, as in a nightmare, into a sharp image of the mutilated, blood-drenched figure on the carriage seat. Damn Judas, then!

Hawk was still talking. "Brown, whoever he is, is going to be our concern at this end. You know the enemy, Cane. Why waste valuable espionage agents on mere executions when there's plenty of local talent for hire? Very confusing and very clever operational technique. Too bad we don't know how to use it."

Nick pulled his wandering thoughts together. "Doesn't it strike you that someone's been a little careless with his ambushes and killings?"

"No, I don't think so, Cane." Hawk's voice was grim. "Who could have guessed that the whole of AXE would be down on his neck if he killed one airline hostess and one playboy private eye?"

He reached into a pocket and withdrew a set of keys. Handing them to Nick, he said: "Front door. I'm afraid you'll both have to stay here tonight. It's the safest place in town for you. There are two army cots in the bedroom. That's the best we could manage. Set them up as you wish."

Hawk walked slowly to the door, then turned suddenly to face them.

"Oh, Miss Baron. You'll have to leave the Jaguar. We'll look after it. You'll find a thermos of coffee in the kitchen and some cigarettes. You both should try to make the best of a somewhat embarrassing situation. Miss Baron, you're here because Washington wants you in on the operation. It's up to Cane to decide your value and call the shots. I, personally, am very proud to have you with us — I know your services to this country. So please cooperate with each other. Keep Lyle Harcourt in one piece." He unlatched the door. "Mr. Judas is no joke. Good luck to you."

In the brief silence that followed. Carter and Julia Baron surveyed each other with measured looks.

"Cooperate with each other! The old buzzard. I'll see about those cots. You can have the bedroom. I'll sleep out here."

Nick left Julia standing in the middle of the blank living room, looking like a newly arrived tenant wondering why the moving van was late.

His survey showed him that Hawk had done all he could to offer them comfort without spoiling the illusion of an unoccupied apartment. Heavy shades were pulled down everywhere. The bathroom's frosted window was locked and barred. The cots were made up and looked almost good enough to sleep in. The thermos was comfortingly warm and the cigarettes were Players.

He carried one of the cots into the living room and set it up. Julia drifted past him into the bedroom and made suitcase-opening noises. She came out carrying something filmy and gave him a quick glance before closeting herself in the bathroom. He stripped down to his shorts and put his clothes on top of the two-suiter.

Julia emerged, looking a good five years younger than the femme fatale who had strolled so confidently into Yankee Stadium and waited for him, later, in the dashing Jaguar. The dark hair was loose over her shoulders and her face was scrubbed and as smooth as a child's. Yet her cat's eyes were far from childlike. Nick saw a lovely young woman with a tawny skin, high, proud breasts and a tall, exquisitely shaped body draped loosely in something that only a woman, and a very beautiful woman at that, would regard as something appropriate to sleep in.

She saw a tall, hard-faced man with an almost classic profile and a magnificently muscled body. An Apollo with a knife-scarred shoulder, wide-set steel gray eyes, and a crew-cut that somehow managed to look unruly.

"Julie, you are beautiful. How about some coffee?"

"I'd like that very much."

"Here, you maneuver these nasty little cups while I clean off the grime."

He vanished into the bathroom and splashed briskly for a while. When he came out the coffee was poured into the two plastic cups and Julie was sitting on the bed. He sat down beside her and they sipped the still-scalding brew.

"So you're O.C.I.?" he began formally.

"Uhuh." Her eyes slid over his body, then turned quickly away.

Carter noticed the glance and enjoyed the feel of it.

"Suppose you fill me in on your own immediate background. What you saw and heard in Peking; things like that."

She told him rapidly, in the crisp, incisive style of one accustomed to giving vital reports and having them listened to. Nick's mind absorbed every word, though his eyes wandered from hers down to her lips and then to the firm, exciting breasts that rose and fell with her measured breathing as if issuing invitations.

When she had finished her story she asked him: "Who is Rita Jameson? Hawk didn't tell me about her."

He told her. Her eyes widened with horror as he described the scene in Central Park. She reached over and touched him gently when his forehead clouded with the memory of what he thought was his own guilt. He found his breath quickening.