Ник Картер - The Asian Mantrap

“He sure had guts,” I commented.

“There’s another piece of film you should see,” Hawk continued. “After that action in Hue, no one knew what happened to Martin. He was wounded three times and a Russian tank was bearing down on him, firing and smashing everything in sight. He could have been run over and ground into the dirt. There was no way to tell. So Martin was declared missing in action and presumed dead. Then we saw this film clip.”

It was short. The staged propaganda film showed captured American prisoners being paraded down a Hanoi street lined with jeering North Vietnamese. The prisoners were a sorry lot, barefoot, emaciated-looking, with gaunt faces and their shaven heads bowed. Their ankles and wrists were shackled with heavy, dragging chains. The intentional humiliation was base and degrading. The vacant-eyed prisoners looked more like drugged automatons than freeborn American servicemen.

For a brief moment, the photographer concentrated on one slouching, dejected individual. “Good Lord!” the words escaped me. “You can barely recognize him, but that’s Martin,” I said. “He’s dragging one foot. I thought you said he was only nicked in the leg.”

“He was, but he received almost no treatment for such a relatively minor wound. That’s just another way our captured troops were abused. It went sour, as you can see. Of course, it was properly cared for after he came home.”

I fired up another cigarette. My adrenalin flows easily. Just watching someone in a tight spot stirs up my juices. Hawk says my ability to gear up to a situation so quickly is one of the reasons he holds me in reserve for the more tricky assignments. From experience I knew that the longer Hawk took to brief me on background, the nastier the job would be. He was taking a long time to get to the point.

Hawk got to his feet. To me that was a sign that he was getting close to revealing what there was about Keith Martin’s unexplained absence that was agitating everyone. He took a deep breath. “After the POWs were brought home, there seems to be a period during which no entries were made in Martin’s service record. We know he was hospitalized for some time. During that stay for physical rehabilitation, I suspect he also underwent psychiatric treatment as did many POWs. If he did, it wasn’t recorded, or has been stricken from his personnel file. The outstanding entries are the two emotional promotions given him during and just after his confinement in Hanoi. The first, from major to lieutenant colonel, followed the propaganda film confirmation that Martin was alive. The second, to full colonel, came when he was being flown back home.”

“The gap in the record could be because of leave. He must have had a lot of it accumulated,” I reasoned.

“He had it and he took it. You were out of the country on a job at the time, but you may recall the splash he made here. He really cut a wide swath, showing up in places like Las Vegas and New York with Hollywood starlets, titled divorcées, and a couple of Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. He was a big spender and his family has it. He came close to precipitating a scandal more than once. Then he suddenly cooled it. His uncle, Senator Steadier, had something to do with curbing Martin’s excesses. I mention that name because he has quite a bit to do with you being here right now.”

Hawk was only partly right about that.

It was Ginger Bateman, a picturesque redhead from Atlanta who is Hawk’s proficient girl Friday and whom I always thought would be an especially capable bedroom gal on Saturday nights, that had gotten me moving this morning.

I had been sitting naked on the turned-down toilet seat cover with a towel across my lap when the phone rang. Before that interruption, I’d been applying antiseptic to a red welt running across the fading AXE tattoo on the inner side of my right elbow and debating whether the deep fingernail scratch warranted the use of a Band-Aid.

While padding across the thick pile carpeting of my bachelor apartment in Alexandria’s Landmark Towers, I began concocting a story why I couldn’t give an encore performance for the ardent young socialite whom I’d left dreamy-eyed and languid in my bed. She didn’t want me to leave her, but I had to have a breather. Besides, another session with her might leave me slashed to ribbons, not to mention acquiring more bruises in intimate, sensitive areas. Her surprising endurance and insatiable demands disproved the rumors circulated by her ex-husband. He claimed she was frigid. I knew better. My personal research confirms that there are no frigid women — only inept men. Or drained-out men. Following an especially active night, I was one of the latter.

As I reached for the phone, I vowed that tonight I would sleep long, solidly — and alone.

“Carter, here,” I said into the mouthpiece.

“Hi, Nick. This is Ginger. The Man says you’re to get over to the Pentagon. On the double.” She gave me no chance to protest. She needed none. Both of us knew that orders from David Hawk required an automatic response. Her unscrambled call over my open telephone line verified the message’s urgency. The sketchy details Ginger passed to me included only the time and location of the meeting I was to attend.

I hurried as directed. Getting away before my honey-voiced society chick was awake enough to realize I was running out on her was an extra incentive to waste no time.

Hawk seemed to be in no hurry now. He blew a cloud of bluish smoke toward the ceiling. I’d never seen him look so pensive. For a full twenty seconds the room was so quiet we could hear the whisper of cool, air-conditioned air coming through the ceiling-mounted vents. He sat down again and swiveled his chair to face me. “This is going to be strictly off the record,” he confided.

I can be candid, too, when I think it necessary. “I’ve never seen you take so long to get around to the real issue, chief. Are you somehow involved personally?”

My question seemed to give the lean, intelligent man the opening he was seeking. He thanked me silently with one of his wry smiles. “I wish it were as simple as that. Still, you’re right in a way. A personal appeal has come from a consortium of the highest-placed officials in the administration. The White House is gravely concerned over the unavailability of General Martin. The presidential press secretary fears some reporter will notice Martin’s extended absence and speculate about it, so a ‘leak’ to the media is planned. It will suggest that Martin is off on a binge somewhere and would like to keep it under wraps.”

“Is that the best they could come up with?”

“It’s the least likely to be considered prime news. That story about Martin was run before. If it is printed, minimal reaction is expected. The general public has no idea of Martin’s favored status. Only insiders know how close to the president he is.”

“It was news to me when I heard it this morning,” I confessed.

“Well, there you are,” Hawk remarked. “And the misdirection being issued by the White House is designed to keep it that way. Although no one has come right out and said so, some kind of urgency makes the time element important. And speaking of time, how long did it take Hal Jarrett to get action out of the board this morning?”

I started to make a mental calculation, then realized that Hawk already knew the answer. A conspiratorial glint in his eye gave him away. I smiled back. “So it was rigged. That tirade by old General Bromley was planned, if not rehearsed, wasn’t it? Don’t bother to answer, chief. I recognize a Hawk twister when I’m told to look for one.”

“I wanted you there to analyze how it went. If you didn’t pinpoint the ruse, I doubt if any others present saw through the sham. It wasn’t entirely my idea; General Jarrett was cooperating so that the Strategic Options Board can convene to minimize the impact of Martin’s absence.”