Nick Carter - Run, Spy, Run

He already knew about the abandoned warehouse — only too well. It was unlikely that Judas would be using it again, even if he had survived. So "Brown" was dead. Too bad.

Nick looked at Julie. She was putting through another call.

After getting Hawk's message Nick had gone out to find the nearest Post Office and a branch of the Cable and Wireless Company. Perhaps the Consulate's wires were safe now, with Judson gone. Nick wasn't going to take a chance. In a carefully worded cable to ACTION, WASHINGTON, he gave a full report to Hawk asking what he was supposed to make of WATCH BIG BEN WEDNESDAY GERONIMO.

Julie was trying to contact Harcourt, only to run into a barrage of busy signals.

Nick closed his message with a request for all future cables to be addressed to the Cable Company's branch office. He signed it "Max P. Cane." The "Max" was for Hawk and the "Cane" for the Cable Company, in case they required identification.

"What did they say at the Consulate?" Julie was jiggling the telephone hook.

"They haven't seen him. I thought I'd call the Royal Crown and find out if he's had any callers."

"Yes, that's a good idea," Nick said thoughtfully, and frowned. "Better sound official — say you're calling from the Consulate to find out if his messenger came or something. Otherwise they won't give anything away."

Nick tried to figure out a possible next move. Judas had been badly hurt. Frankie Gennaro's little grenade had not been quite as powerful as he'd hoped. On the other hand, if it had been any more powerful, it might have been the end of him and Julie. It had ripped that silver hand off and dug deep gouges into Judas' face and arm. He must have lost a dangerous amount of blood.

"I see," Julie was saying. "Two callers?"

Nick stopped and listened.

"Would you mind telling me their names? He made an appointment through us a little earlier, you see, and I just wondered if... Oh. Yes, those would be the people. Thank you very much."

She hung up and turned to face him.

"He just had two visitors. Us."

"What!"

"About ten or fifteen minutes ago Miss Baron and Mr. Cane went up to his room. They haven't come down and neither has Harcourt."

"Christ! Give me that phone!"

He got through to one of the Security officers he'd talked to at the Airport and swiftly outlined his suspicions. They'd have to work through the Police, they said, but they'd get on to it right away. A call to the house detective and a few enquiries... Where could they reach Mr. Cane if they wanted him?

"Hotel Emerson — ask for Slocombe. But I won't be here for long. Check with you later."

He hung up and started cursing. "Could be dead in his room, for God's sake. I should've gone over there first thing this morning. I'm getting over there. You stay here."

"Peter." Julie's voice was dangerously quiet. "You're letting your hot head run away with your brains. The Police are going to be there. How're you going to explain yourself? Oh, I'm Cane, you say, of AXE. Or Army Intelligence. Oh, yes? they say politely. Well, just come along with us. But you can check me with Security, you say..."

"All right, I get the picture. I hadn't intended to be quite as obvious as that." He grinned suddenly. "But at least I can find out if he's still there."

"We'll find out by waiting here. Why did you call Security in the first place? Because you knew damn well you wouldn't get anywhere if you tried to snoop around and question people."

"Okay. You win. Let's eat. I'm hungry."

The phone rang an hour later.

The clipped voice of British Security informed him that there was no sign of Harcourt or the tall young couple. The bound and gagged figure of the freight elevator operator had been found in the first-floor storage closet. An attendant in the basement garage had told how two young people and a man in chauffeur's uniform had stepped out of the freight elevator supporting a middle-aged man. They had explained that he was very ill and had to be rushed to a hospital. The car was a Rolls. The attendant couldn't remember the license number. The party had driven off some twenty minutes before the police arrived. That was all. There was no need for Cane to involve himself in the inquiry, but if he should run into anything — the clipped voice gave him a number. Every effort was being made to find Harcourt.

"Abducted from his hotel suite in broad daylight!" Nick had started pacing again. Then he stopped. "Wait a minute. Why didn't they kill him then and there?"

He flung himself at the telephone and called the desk. Mr. and Mrs. Slocombe were checking out. Could their bill be ready, please?

"Peter, what are you doing?"

Smiling, he pulled her to her feet. "C'mon, let's get out of here. We're going back to the Rand."

The cat eyes widened. "Why the Rand?"

"Because Judas is still busy. I didn't hurt him enough. Right?"

She nodded, puzzled.

"And why would Harcourt be kidnapped instead of killed outright?"

"Because... well, because maybe they thought he'd be discovered too soon. He's probably lying dead some place right now."

"Uhuh. He's not. They took more risk getting him out than leaving him there. No, Judas could've had him killed right there. He's alive, and there's just one reason for it Us. To flush us out of cover. Remember last night?"

She shuddered. "How could I forget?"

"Judas said we were the only people alive who knew what he looked like. Which means that even his hired hands couldn't describe him to anyone. Certainly not Braille. Maybe Judas deals with the chauffeur through a mail-slot — I don't know. But I do know this: he showed his face to us only because he was ready to kill us. Now he has to. But first he has to draw us out. He wants Harcourt, sure. But he wants us, too. We know his face. He's got to get us."

"I suppose he has to," said Julie, her eyes thoughtful. "But Harcourt can still be dead. If you think Judas is going to try to arrange some kind of hostage swap, don't think we're going to get a bargain."

"If I don't talk to Harcourt myself, then we don't bite. That satisfy you?"

"I guess so," she said reluctantly. "But don't you think he'll figure we'll have left the Rand?"

"Very likely. But still, he'll try us there. So we'll play at sitting ducks again."

Hours later and many miles away, Mr. Hawk sat in a well-known Washington building and looked across the desk at a man he had learned to admire, a man of intelligence and courage. A pile of dispatches, cablegrams and teletypes lay on the polished surface between them. Three messages from Carter lay among them: a TELEX from the Consulate relating the story of flight 601; a cabled message detailing the story of Judson and Judas; a shorter cable describing the physical characteristics of the man called Judas.

"All right, Hawk," said the man, "I'll change the Wednesday flight time. I won't let it be known — on one condition — that Harcourt's found before then. Otherwise I'll fly as planned and see what happens."

Hawk bristled. "Sir, for a man in your position that would be nothing short of criminal bravado." He was one of the few people in the country who could address his chief like that. McCracken of the CIA had leapt up from his corner and said "Good heavens, sir, you can't!" but the man's eyes remained on Hawk. He smiled.

"What can happen? I'll use the private plane. You know I'll be surrounded by Security men."

Hawk shook his head. "No, sir, I can't let you do that. There's no limit to this man's resources. Change your plans. Or you'll be playing right into this maniac's hands."

"Hands, Hawk? I understand the man's disabled. I can't just not be there. The whole disarmament plan will fall through by default. Find Harcourt and find Judas. I don't like to issue ultimatums, but you have until tomorrow afternoon. I hope your man can do the job."