Nick Carter - Run, Spy, Run

"If anyone can, he can. He's an extraordinary agent."

"I know that. I hope our Mr. Judas finds out, too. Let me know tomorrow, Hawk."

He was dismissed.

Twenty-four hours, at best.

Hawk went back to the Georgetown brownstone that served as his Washington headquarters and drafted a cable to Max P. Cane. All it said was: PILATE WANTS HARCOURT FOUND JUDAS CRUCIFIED 2400 FAILURE MEANS PILATE CRUCIFIES SELF WEDNESDAY ACT IMMEDIATELY.

It was a restless Tuesday. Late in the afternoon Nick picked up the cable from Hawk at the Strand branch office. Twenty-four hours to go. Less, by now. PILATE CRUCIFIES SELF! Unthinkable!

He and Julia waited in their rooms at the Rand. And had heard nothing.

Nick called the Consulate to remind them where he was and that he was expecting a message from the States. Sorry, no message. Of course there wouldn't be.

The call came after the sun had gone down and lights were trimming the streets.

"We will not spar, Mr. Cane," said the metallic voice. It sounded even thinner, less real than before. "This is J. I have H. If you wish to see him alive, you will listen carefully."

"J. for Judas, this is C. for Cane. So you have H. for Harcourt." Nick took an almost childish pleasure in repeating the names. He waved to Julie and she picked up the extension phone. "Go ahead, Judas."

The voice sounded pained. "There is no need to broadcast all these names. If anyone is listening..."

Nick cut him short. "I'm listening. What do you have to say?"

"Do you know Piccadilly?"

"Yes."

"Good. At nine this evening, you and the lady will be standing on the northeast corner of the square. My car will pick you up."

"Indeed it won't," said Nick. "No more gas rides, thank you."

Judas chuckled without humor. "Open touring car this time, Cane. No tricks."

"Just give me the address. We'll get there by ourselves."

"You don't care to see Harcourt, then?" The voice was almost a whistle.

"Oh, I wouldn't mind seeing Harcourt," said Nick, "but naturally, I'd like to hear him first."

"You can't," the voice said flatly.

"Too bad," said Nick, and put down the phone.

It rang again.

"Mr. Cane."

"Yes?"

"If you hear Lyle Harcourt's voice, will you come to a meeting tonight?"

"Perhaps."

"I think you'd better, Mr. Cane. I have a most extraordinary proposition for you. One that will benefit all parties. I'm sure you will be interested. Suppose I send the car..."

"Suppose you let me talk to Harcourt. And don't tell me I can't. No talk, no meeting. Understand?"

The line went dead again.

This time the phone did not ring again immediately.

When it did the quality of Judas' voice had changed, as if he were speaking from a different room.

"Cane?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Harcourt wants to speak to you."

The second voice was anguished. It sounded far away. It was Harcourt's and it said: "Don't listen to him, Cane. Whatever he wants of you, don't listen to him."

There was a creaking chuckle and Judas was back.

"You see, Cane? Mr. Harcourt is not only alive but full of spirit. Now let's stop this fencing. You will get here as I say or not at ail. Nine o'clock, northeastern corner, Piccadilly. The driver has instructions to deliver you unharmed. I guarantee that. It suits me, this time, to be sure that you're alive. Understood?"

"Check."

"One more thing. One false note, one ruse from you, one phone call even — and Harcourt dies before you even enter the car. And if this call is being tapped or traced, you run a very grave risk of ruining everything. You've been warned." The phone clicked off.

Julie's eyes shone with excitement. "We've hooked him!"

"Or he's hooked us. I'm glad I decided not to have a wiretap. We'd never have gotten past Piccadilly. What did you think about Harcourt's voice — was that him?" His own expression was noncommittal.

She nodded decisively. "That was Harcourt, all right. I'm sure of it. Aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. I just wanted to get your unbiased verdict... Come on, sit down. I don't suppose I'd trigger off a bomb if I called down to Room Service, do you?"

Ice, Scotch and mixer appeared shortly.

"You don't look terribly pleased," Julie observed.

"I'm not terribly pleased. As you yourself said earlier, we're hardly likely to get a bargain. Judas isn't risking anything. He knows we'll do anything to save Harcourt, even walk into his death trap without cover."

"I'm sure there must be a way to get a message to the Police or to Security," said Julie, "short of using the phone. The waiter, elevator operator, someone like that. Surely the Security people could follow us without being obvious..."

Nick shook his head firmly. "Too risky. I believe him — one slip, and Harcourt's dead. We play this alone."

Julie was silent, but she nodded faintly.

Nick eyed her and took a long, slow swallow.

"Julie, we had some luck last night. But tonight may be for the money."

"I know it."

"We're up against a monster. God knows what he's got lined up for us. Boiling oil, buzz saws or bombs — whatever it is, it'll be rough."

"Well, I can't very well stay home," she said lightly. "Think how he'll miss me. At least Braille won't be around to lurk in the shadows." He smiled at her. "You did beautifully last night. I'm proud of you." Nick gently squeezed a lovely knee. "Why did you choose this business, anyway?"

"Why does anyone? I don't like spies, so I became one. Isn't that funny? I lost my family a long time ago because some maniac wanted to change a government with bombs. Don't ask me the details — I don't even care about them any more. The moral is, of course," she went on lightly, "don't expose your children to bombings at an early age if you want them to follow a respectable career."

"That's a very funny moral," said Nick. "I think you need another drink."

They talked of such irrelevant things as autumn weather and the colors of Vermont and Maine, of Chinese junks on shining seas and sailboats off Bermuda, of ski slopes in Switzerland and the beaches of Tahiti.

At last she put down her glass and sighed. "How much time do we have left?"

"Enough," he said. He rose to his feet and pulled her to him, folding her in his arms. She yielded to his kiss.

Without being aware of moving they found themselves on his bed, bare, supple bodies touching.

This time their lovemaking was as lingering and tender as a farewell kiss.

Piccadilly Circus at nine o'clock was a Times Square of bright lights and bustle: the same streams of cars emitting irritable toots, the same gaudy neon splashes and the same murmuring tide of voices, whistles, wheels and muffled music.

They waited on the northeastern corner, an attractive American couple seeing the sights. A friendly bobby, strolling by, touched his helmet in a warm salute. Nick nodded and Julie unleashed a devastating smile. Nick tightened his grip on her arm. "Not so goddamn friendly. He'll fall down at your feet, and then we've had it."

Julie turned it off.

Piccadilly throbbed with noise and movement.

Nick was the first to see the car, a long, foreign one that was new to him. The chauffeur was the same man who had driven them to and from the Consulate.

The car purred to a stop. The man waited quietly, staring straight ahead. Nick strolled over and tapped him on the shoulder.

"We don't want to miss the sights tonight, Mac. So just behave, won't you? We will, if you do."

The man nodded.

Nick handed Julie in and closed the door.

The car surged forward and clawed its way through Piccadilly and turned sharply down an avenue. Julie leaned back and scrutinized the chauffeur's head and hands. Nick's right hand found Wilhelmina's friendly butt and stayed with it.