Nick Carter: Run, Spy, Run

"Such as?"

"On each plane, a noted diplomat died. The FBI suspects sabotage. The fellow in the White House has asked me personally to investigate."

"Mr. Burns of Great Britain, wasn't it? Ahmed Tal Barin of India. La Dilda of Peru. I remember now."

Hawk nodded approvingly. "That's right. And from all indications, you've just sat in on the fourth."

"Not exactly. The bomb went off on the ground. After the flight was over."

"They make mistakes too." Hawk looked grim. "I don't know of any diplomat with a steel hand, but it's my guess that the man on Flight 16 was somebody. Unless..." His eyes narrowed. "Unless he was the killer, a walking bomb who meant to take the plane with him. You did say the explosion seemed to come from him — or anyway, he was closest to it?"

Nick shook his head decisively. "That won't wash. Not the type. And the actions don't fit at all. He was as surprised as anyone. And he didn't take the plane with him."

"Then the chances are he was the target. We'll know more when the airport people step out of the way and let the machinery roll. CAB is in our hair at this point."

"I've checked into the Biltmore," Nick said. "Room 2010. As long as I'm on the job there's no sense in going to my little gray home on the west side." He grinned almost apologetically. "And I'll be needing some money."

Hawk checked his program again.

"You'll need more than money. You'll get a package tomorrow morning. Complete dossier, all details, and a set of identification papers. This time you'll have to change your name. I don't want the Nick Carter of Flight 16 mixed up in this thing any more."

"Ha. Secret Agent X-9," snorted Nick scornfully.

"That's not really very much funnier than N-3. is it, Carter?" Hawk asked coldly. "A number isn't a game. It's protection. So is a false name. And not just for you." He stabbed a bony forefinger at Nick. "For the Service."

"Yes, sir."

"And stop that idiotic grinning. Now. Get back to your hotel room and get some rest and oil your weapons, or whatever you do with them. You'll be very busy from now on."

"There's the girl," Nick said.

"Oh, yes. The girl." Hawk eyed him thoughtfully. "There always is, isn't there? Are you sure of her? Are you sure of your friend Max Dillman?"

"I'm sure of Max," said Nick. "And I'll soon find out about the girl."

"I'll bet you will," said the old man.

Nick hid a smile. "If she's one of theirs, whoever 'they' may be, I may as well know it now. I may have to — um — take steps. If not, I may learn something about Steel Hand. I gather the girl has traveled with him before. And we were both pretty close to him just before he blew out of this world."

"What kind of woman is she?"

"Ah!" said Nick. "Knockout. Name's Rita Jameson. Twenty-fiveish, five-seven, about a hundred and twenty-five pounds, natural blonde, blue eyes, small mole..."

"I meant her character, if you noticed it," Hawk said huffily.

"I know you did." Nick laughed. "Hard to say until I know why she wanted to see me. But I'd say she had a genuine problem and she was really scared."

"And you have a date with her tonight. I imagine you'll have a clearer picture before the evening's over."

"Oh, I imagine so," agreed Nick.

Hawk eyed him suddenly, his keen eyes narrowing.

"Are you armed as of now?"

"Yes. Usual equipment, plus one. The blast gave me my own ideas."

"Very good. You look as if you're carrying nothing larger than that fountain pen in your breast pocket."

Nick shook his head. "Nothing much larger, but much more lethal. Right now I could blow up everything in this room, including us. And of course I have my old friends Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre. Glad you can't spot them."

"So am I, boy, and glad I don't have to." Mr. Hawk closed his program decisively. "On your way. Stay as neat as you are."

He raised a hand in farewell and moved away.

Carter smoked a cigarette before taking his leave of Tyrannosaurus Rex. It had proved an unpopular day for the scaly king who had terrorized the earth in the dawn of time. His only visitors had been Nick, Mr. Hawk, and the woman with the teenager. Rex's day was over. And now Man was doing the terrorizing. Nick's brow furrowed. He seldom philosopriized, but he hated the brutal slaughter he had seen today.

On the sunny steps of the Museum, Nick hailed a cab for his trip to the Hotel Biltmore.

Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre lay close together on the big bed in Room 2010 of the Biltmore. Nick Carter, naked, moved from the tiled bathroom to the thick pile of the bedroom carpet. A stinging shower had followed a luxurious soak and the tension had gone out of his body, although there was a gathering welt on his forehead, a stiffness in his shoulders, and several small scratches and abrasions on wrists and ankles. But apart from that, and a minor graze running down his cheek to his chin, he had been almost untouched by the blast. Fifteen strenuous minutes of Yoga and a dab of talcum powder would cure whatever ailed him.

On the bed, Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre waited for his attention.

The room was soundless. The heavy drapes were drawn, and not even the street noises filtered through the high windows. Nick threw himself prone on the heavy carpet.

It was a pity that the occupants of the bed were such unappreciative spectators. The marvelously fashioned specimen of male architecture that was Nick Carter deserved a living audience for his daily exercise. True, he often had one. In Jamaica, for instance, the glossy eyes of the Countess had followed every move of his supple body. For no matter where he was, Nick found the time to coordinate every nerve and muscle in his body to the physical science of Yoga. Fifteen concentrated, straining minutes of complete muscular control enabled a man to breathe miraculously under abnormal conditions. Trained him, too, to contort his abdomen and hips to an almost impossible degree of narrowness, so that he was capable of squeezing himself in and out of areas denied the average man. Exercises for eyes and ears and limbs and heart and diaphragm, tried and tested throughout the years, had made Nick Carter a man who never had an earache, an eyestrain or a headache. The muscle exercises were the fieldwork in his campaign for perfect control; the Yoga philosophy of mind over matter consummated the feat. There is no pain, Nick had told himself again and again. Soon this had become a fact. There was no pain — even during one endurance-straining ordeal when his arm had been nearly crushed in a death struggle with the mammoth murderer, Tilson of Berlin. Tilson had died of a broken neck at Nick's hands. Hawk, who seldom allowed himself to be impressed, had never ceased to marvel at how Nick had managed to accomplish the deed with a mangled arm.

Yoga was also responsible for Nick's great prowess in more amorous exercises. In love as in war, the superb masculine body performed with grace and power.

Nick snapped erect, his labors over. A fine sheen of perspiration covered his litheness. He flicked the towel over his body and let it fall as he went over to the bed.

Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre could do things that even Yoga could not do.

He inspected his trio of lifesavers. Three delicately balanced instruments that were the great equalizers in the war of Spy versus Spy.

Wilhelmina was a 9mm. Luger, the spoils of World War II. She came from the SS Barracks at Munich. Nick had killed Colonel Pabst, a Himmler aide, to get her, and not only because he considered the Luger the finest hand automatic weapon ever devised: Wilhelmina was a very special Luger. The Colonel had gone in for some refinements. Wilhelmina was stripped to no more than barrel and frame, making her feather-light and easy storage for the waistband of the trousers or the taper of a hip beneath the tail of a coat. She had killed for Nick — several times.