Nick Carter - Run, Spy, Run

Nick was silent for a moment Then he said: "I'd like to say, 'stick with me, kid, and you'll be fine.' But I can't guarantee anything but trouble."

"I know that" She reached for his hand. "I know what I'm doing, even though sometimes I hate it."

The cigarettes were dead, the coffee finished.

Nick stroked her fingers as if counting them.

"It's getting late. We'd better get some sleep. Now. In the morning, you leave first I'll help you get a cab on Broadway, then I'll clock out of here about ten minutes later. I'll meet you at the airline weighing-in counter, looking like a hungry lover. Which, I might add, won't be hard. You look breathless and expectant, as if looking forward to our assignation but wondering what mother would think if she could only know." She laughed quietly. "And then, for God's sake, when we get on the plane you'll have to tell me how we're supposed to have met! What is your cover, anyway?"

"I am an art teacher at Slocombe College, Pennsylvania," she said dreamily. "Destiny — and your best friend — brought us together. It was like a bolt of lightning from a summer sky... Oh, well. Tune in tomorrow for the next thrilling installment. I do draw rather well, by the way."

Nick smiled and kissed her, putting his hands lightly on her silky shoulders.

"Goodnight, then. You might as well stay here — I'll have the bedroom."

He rose silently.

"Peter," she called softly.

"Yes?"

"I still don't want to sleep alone."

"Neither do I," he said huskily.

They didn't.

Dawn was lacing the sky with a ladder of fleecy clouds above the vast expanse of Idlewild as Nick Carter's taxi drew up before the Air America Building.

Julie Baron had pecked his lips in hasty farewell and tucked her long legs into the back of her airport-bound cab. Nick instructed the driver and had watched the Yellow Cab take off. He had gone back to the apartment and checked every inch of it before locking up. The little pile of cinders in the fireplace had become a light powder, as shapeless as dust. Nick carefully collected cigarette butts and ashes into an empty pack of Players. Habit was so strong that his check-up of the place was as natural as breathing.

The American Tourister luggage was neatly packed with the wardrobe and toilet accessories he would need for the flight. This time, he would have to leave his brief case. Peter Cane's notebooks and favorite reading matter were in the overnight bag, which he would keep with him on the plane. The four thousand dollars in bills were in a dual-purpose money belt strapped about his waist; his pockets were filled with items that proclaimed his identity as Peter Cane.

Nick set the black horn rims on his straight nose and surveyed himself in the discolored bathroom mirror. He rather liked the effect. We Professors don't have time to fuss with our appearance. Satisfied, he took his leave, throwing the discarded cigarette pack and the apartment keys into the nearest convenient garbage can. The Jaguar, he noticed, was already gone.

He hailed a cab, and the past was behind him. Only the lingering happiness of the night with Julie remained, and a feeling of fulfillment and relaxation.

The trail behind him was empty. There were no early morning followers to throw discord into the harmony of the pleasant ride to the airfield.

Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre waited patiently in their beds, oiled and ready for maximum effort. The nameless key-chain flashlight just waited.

Mr. Judas. Nick swore softly to himself. The biggest name in international espionage. Nobody knew what he looked like or how old he was. Or his nationality. Just the name. A code name given him years ago because his shadowy presence so often made itself felt in treasonous activity. Interpol had racked its resources for fifteen years in hopeless pursuit. England's Special Branch had turned all its data on him over to Security Service when a national crime wave had assumed the proportions of a political scandal. No result. Argentina had detected his unholy stamp in a monstrous blackmail and murder plot. But the chimera had wavered and disappeared. He was dead; he was not dead. He had been seen; he had never been seen. He was tall, short, hideous, handsome, frying in hell, luxuriating at Cannes. He was everywhere, nowhere, nothing and everything, and all that was known was the name of Judas. Reports filtering down through the funnel of years made it appear that he enjoyed the name "Judas" and wore it with pride.

Now he was back. The faceless genius of sabotage.

Nick ached to meet him, to see for himself what the wizard looked like and sounded like. Judas had to be a wizard. How could anyone be so well known and yet so obscure?

"Darling!"

"Darling!"

"Sweetheart!"

"Baby!"

Julie was waiting for him, her luggage already on the scale. They kissed a little clumsily and blushed at each other, the very picture of pre-married love.

"I thought you weren't going to make it," she said nervously.

"Nonsense," he said lightly. "You knew I'd be here. You weighed in?"

"Yes, there it goes."

She looked demure and wholesome, like a girl from Slocombe, Pennsylvania. Nick thought he detected a dab of Chanel; that was all right, for a special occasion.

Their bags glided away on the luggage belt. Passports were checked, tickets scrutinized. The airline official behind the desk looked up at Nick.

"Oh, Mr. Cane. A message for you. From your father, I believe. He couldn't wait."

"Oh," said Nick anxiously. "Did you see Dad?" he asked Julia.

"Oh, no, he was very early," the official interrupted. "Just stopped by, he said, with a farewell note. Wanted to wish you luck with your work." He eyed Julia meaningfully.

She managed another blush.

"There you are sir, madam. Enjoy your flight"

They moved away and Nick opened the envelope. It contained a copy of Flight 601's passenger list and a brief note:

"Dear Pete,

Just to wish you good luck and remind you to check in at the Consulate for all mail. Use their facilities if you wish to cable. I shall be in Washington for the next few days, back at the old stand.

By the way, it seems that your Latin friend was hospitalized only a year ago after an accident, and not several years ago as the lady seemed to think. It appears she was mistaken. No wonder he was not quite recovered.

Have a good trip, keep sharp, and let us know how things are going. We will keep you posted if there is any news from home.

from your old man."

Nick frowned. Why should Rita's story clash with the records on Valdez?

On the northern runway, a gleaming 710 Jetstar sat poised. Nick watched the airstair being wheeled into place. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes to go. For a moment, he thought about Valdez and Rita Jameson — about the two of them as human beings. Yesterday, they were alive. One evidently resourceful and energetic. The other beautiful, very beautiful, now very very ugly.

He shook the thoughts away. That kind of thinking was no good. He dug out his airline ticket and picked up his bag.

"C'mon, Julie. Here, I'll take that."

They walked to the wire gate squaring the runway, she tall, graceful, with cat-shaped eyes and a sassy, holiday hat; he, taller, serious-looking, youngish, companionably carrying her simple fall coat over his arm. A line of passengers had already begun to form, eager to get on with the flight.

A jet engine thundered somewhere off to the right. Uniformed personnel began to climb up the airstair with unhurried steps. Nick poked the horn-rimmed bridge higher up on his nose, a characteristic gesture for a man with spectacles.

Voices broke over the gate. Nick and Julia fell into line behind a woman in a blue print dress and jacket, carrying a clutch bag, and a tall, elderly gentleman with a sandy brown moustache and the penetrating voice of the Middle West. Two men in dark suits walked rapidly toward the airstair. The younger of the two handed an attaché case to the other man, gave a sort of salute, and walked away. The older man ascended the stair. That would be Harcourt.