Nick Carter - Run, Spy, Run

"Not so big that he doesn't have to turn when Hawk is pushing. He's a hired hand like us when it comes to Security. And Hawk won't waste any time after hearing about Vertmann and his kamikaze bomb. We've blocked Judas, and he'll know it too."

"You think he'll know how he was blocked?"

"He'll find out. The word'll get around. Once he puts the facts together, he'll realize that someone has caught on to his plane-bomb routine. Which means he'll either have to change his technique or give up the whole business. There's another possibility. He may very well try to remove the immediate threat to his operation."

"Meaning us?" It was more a statement than a question.

"Meaning us."

Her eyes met his and saw that they were troubled. "I won't get in the way. Don't worry, Peter."

"What — me worry?" He managed an enviably accurate expression of smiling idiocy. "Now you'd better get dressed, or I'll never get my mind on work."

"I think it's there already." She rose and went slowly to him. "I mean it, though. I've been in this business a long time. I won't get underfoot, and I'm not going to get hurt. I'm a fellow agent, here to help. That's all I am to you."

"Is it?" He cupped his hands beneath her chin. "All right then, Agent Baron. Get on your jockey shorts and dinner jacket. We're going to spy out something to eat."

She laughed. "Are you always hungry?" She drew herself away and made for the connecting door.

"Certainly not. I drink, too." He pulled on the plain dinner jacket supplied by Hawk to middle-income Peter Cane. It sat surprisingly well on the muscular shoulders.

The phone rang.

Nick scooped it up.

"Yes?"

"Cane. This is Henry Judson."

"Good to hear from you, sir. You've had news?"

Judson sounded regretful. "Not yet, I'm afraid. But we're expecting word momentarily. Your report has been studied — on both sides of the ocean, I imagine — and these things take a little time."

They're taking a damn sight longer than usual, thought Nick.

The mellow voice continued. "We've been in touch with Munich to check out the history of Paul Vertmann, if recorded, and we may just turn up something there. Presumably Washington is doing the same thing. So at the moment I'm waiting as anxiously as I'm sure you are."

"Well, if there's nothing new yet, Miss Baron and I will go out for dinner and check in with you in the course of the evening."

There was a slight pause. "As a matter of fact, we may get orders any minute, and I'd like to be able to reach you at once. In fact, I've taken the liberty of arranging a little dinner for you tonight at the Consulate. We'll try to make you feel at home and perhaps relieve the boredom a bit. I hope you don't mind."

Nick smiled. He was quite sure that an evening in London with Julie and without Judson would be far from boring, but he couldn't very well say so.

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Judson. It'll be a pleasure. What time?"

"I'll send the consular car around to your hotel at, oh, eightish. That all right?"

"The time is fine, but are you sure we should be riding around in an official car?"

"Safe as houses, Cane. Better than an unknown cab."

"As you say, sir. We'll be waiting."

"Splendid. See you later, Cane. My warmest greetings to Miss Baron, by the way."

Nick thought he detected a note of envy in the anglicized voice.

"I'll pass them on, sir. I know she'll appreciate your invitation. Goodbye."

Julie came in, half dressed, and wrinkled her nose at him. Nick was staring thoughtfully at the receiver as if expecting it to offer some sort of revelation.

"Something wrong?"

"We're invited to dinner at the Consulate."

"Well, you're hungry, aren't you?"

"Naturally. But I'm not so sure I like this. Consular car, and all. Royal carpet treatment for a couple of spies."

Julie perched on the arm of a chair, shaking her head.

"For a couple of cleancut young American citizens who managed to foil a dastardly plot. It would be strange if we didn't get some kind of thank you. It was Judson, wasn't it?"

"Oh, yes." Nick nodded. "I'd know that fruity half-English voice anywhere. But he says he hasn't heard from Hawk yet, and that is strange."

"Maybe it is. But perhaps Hawk couldn't be located right away, or perhaps he isn't ready with the next move."

He shook his head. "He'd be ready and waiting. But it's been more than two hours since we sent our message, and a TELEX answer doesn't take that long."

She came to him, placing her cool hands on his jaws.

"Judson is the Consul here, correct? Not an imposter?"

"Of course not. He's been here for years. British Security knows him, three or four of his staff were with him, even Harry Byrnes whom I knew in OSS during the war. Of course, he's Judson. But I still think it's funny that he hasn't heard from Hawk. Well. Powder your nose and let's go have a drink while we wait."

A few minutes later they were sitting in a quiet, candlelit bar-lounge in the mezzanine, having left word at the desk that they were expecting a limousine.

It was impossible to avoid talking about the assignment. They sipped a pair of very dry martinis and murmured intimately to each other.

"Julie. You know our cover's as good as blown already. Nobody who cares to stop and think about it is going to buy the story of a couple of innocent bystanders butting into the bomb affair. Oh, I know people were told not to talk about it, but word is bound to get around. Which suits us, in a way."

"Speak for yourself, friend. I'd just as soon remain anonymous."

"No, look. No one in the world's more slippery than Judas. How're we supposed to find him when practically every intelligence agency on earth has been trying and failing for more than twenty years? Only one way. We'll go on being Miss Baron and Mr. Cane but we'll skip the usual elaborate precautions. No British Museum for me and no Tate Gallery for you. We'll spy like mad and let 'em know it."

"How do we do that?"

"I don't know yet. We'll just have to play it as it comes. But we're hired hands, understand? We never heard of AXE or OCI. We don't know anything or anybody except our immediate superior in... uh, let's see... in Army Intelligence, and our job was to fly with Harcourt. We did, and now we're busily investigating the would-be bombing. Okay?"

"Okay."

They talked some more, worrying away at the discrepancy between Rita's story of Valdez' artificial hand and the facts as officially recorded, the identity of A. Brown, and the fanaticism of those who would blow themselves to bits for a cause.

They ordered again, and waited, and talked about the last time they'd seen London.

Promptly at eight o'clock a vintage Rolls drew to a smooth stop outside the Hotel Rand. A uniformed chauffeur sprang from the wheel, entered the hotel with the neat precision of a onetime military man, and informed the desk that Mr. Cane's transportation had arrived.

Moments later, Mr. Peter Cane, handsome and distinguished in his dark dinner jacket and black horn-rimmed glasses, appeared in the lobby with a breathtaking vision on his right arm. The vision was recognizable as Miss Julia Baron, dazzlingly beautiful in a simple black evening gown. Her lush, dark hair peeked over the upturned fur collar of her cape. The staff of the Hotel Rand eyed her appreciatively.

The chauffeur was no less appreciative and much more attentive. He handed her into the back seat and crisply closed the door after her and Nick.

The evening air was crisp and cool. Street lights blurred fuzzily in the darkness.

From the roomy rear of the limousine, Nick kept his eyes fixed on the chauffeur's head and hands. A preliminary survey of the car had satisfied him that it either was an official car or a very good imitation of one — thoroughly appropriate looking, US Consular plates, and a driver of unmistakably American origin. The voice could not have been faked by any actor — certainly not well enough to fool someone so attuned to accents and intonations as Carter.