Ник Картер - The Asian Mantrap

“I can’t believe that any one-star general could be so indispensible as to stir up so much concern.”

“You always did have a way of putting things to make a person uncomfortable, Nick.” Hawk’s remark struck me as being a non sequitur. He was staring down at his ash-sprinkled desk blotter.

I waited through a long period of silence. It’s not often that I risk needling Hawk, but his out-of-character hesitancy made me bold. “You mentioned being contacted by someone on a strictly personal basis.”

Hawk took a long drag on his vile-smelling cigar. “Yes, that’s right. And it’s got to be kept that way. I’m sending you out to locate Keith Martin. Not just to determine where he might be, but to find him and remain with him until you turn him over to a proper escort. Though I don’t expect you to run into any unusual... ah, complications, I’m giving you an open-end Killmaster authorization.”

That seemed a little drastic to me. A Killmaster project provides unlimited and unquestioned funding to carry out an assignment. That was fine with me, but it also has a built-in aspect which allows the use of extreme measures to assure success of the mission. That seemed superfluous, especially when the missing person was a general. The army had enormous resources of its own. If Martin was truly a concern of the White House, the president could turn loose a dozen federal agencies that would make short work of turning up a person in hiding. The whole thing didn’t track right for me. My mouth was partly open to ask Hawk one of the hundred questions that came to mind when he spoke. This time his voice was precise and confident.

“This will be a full-scale trace effort, Nick. No restrictions apply other than carrying it out in such a way that no one suspects an issue is being made of Keith Martin’s absence. I want this absolutely low key, nothing flamboyant. And wrap it up fast. Any questions?”

I bit back the ones on the tip of my tongue. When Hawk got to this point, I knew he’d told me everything he knew. It was clear that I was already on the job. I needed to know if there were any local leads. I braved Hawk’s acerbity. “Where do you suggest I begin, sir?”

Surprisingly, Hawk accepted the question as being quite rational. “Martin was last seen at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco.”

A taxi was waiting in front of the building entrance when I reached the street. Ginger Bateman was leaning forward from the back seat, conversing with the driver. Two of her more attractive features all but nudged the grinning driver’s head. She was having no trouble detaining him until I arrived. Upon my approach she slipped out of the cab, gracefully and wholly unconscious of flashing a brief, pleasing display of shapely thigh.

“I tidied up your apartment before I left,” she said lightly. From the knowing way she was smiling and shaking her head, I knew she had enjoyed ejecting my overnight companion. Ginger grew serious immediately after the jibe. “Everything you’ll need is there in your small valpack.”

The leather bag was on the front seat next to the driver. “Everything?” I asked.

Both of us were referring to my unique, private arsenal which would never pass the airport security metal detector scan. “In the right hand compartment, as usual, Nick. A ticket on Flight 131, non-stop and direct to San Francisco is waiting for you at the TWA check-in counter.”

“And—”

“That’s it, Nick. That’s all I was told to do — pack for you and get you on your way. Putting your friend out in the corridor was a bonus I threw in on my own.” Her impish, admonishing smile contained no real rancor.

“C’mon, Mac,” urged the cabdriver. “This is a No Parking, No Standing Zone. The fuzz over there cruisin’ around the Circle are givin’ me the eye. Let’s move it.”

Ginger stepped aside. I climbed into the back seat. The tantalizing perfume she wore left a pleasing fragrance behind.

The half-hour ride to Dulles International Airport presented me with an opportunity to think. I tried to, but my mind and body rebelled. I would have gotten more sleep last night had I known what was in store for me today. What little I did get was constantly being interrupted by teasing, titilating hands. I had responded too often and too energetically to be mentally sharp now. I did doze — fitfully — on the way, but arrived at the Dulles terminal still fatigued. I looked forward to a long, restful flight in the first-class compartment of the transcontinental jet.

My ticket and boarding pass were waiting for me as Ginger promised. I checked my bag through, even though the counter agent said it was compact enough to fit under the seat as hand luggage. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I rejected his suggestion. He took it in stride; he had been trained to expect capriciousness among first-class passengers.

As the accomodating ticket agent stapled the baggage claim stub to my boarding pass, he said: “Flight 131 will be boarding in about fifteen minutes at Gate D-3. You’re welcome to wait in our VIP lounge where a hostess will be serving complimentary refreshments.”

I thanked him. I could use a cup of strong coffee.

The coffee wasn’t much help. As I was tossing the used Styrofoam cup into the waste bin, the pert hostess came up to me. “Mr. Carter?”

“Yes?”

“There’s a telephone call for you on the lounge extension.”

“Thanks.” I followed her. She took me to a wall phone located behind the well-stocked refreshment bar.

The caller was the clerk at the TWA check-in counter. “Two gentlemen are here to see you, Mr. Carter. They asked to see you in private, so I asked them to wait in our security office. That’s just off the VIP lounge. The hostess will show you where it is.” I waited so long without speaking that the clerk addressed me again. “Mr. Carter?”

“I’m here,” I answered. “Hold on a moment.” I forced my brain into gear. “Did these two men identify themselves?”

“Ah... yes. A Mr. Layton and a Mr. Wyler... those were the names. I didn’t ask for credentials. They looked sort of... ah, official, if you know what I mean.”

I didn’t. It sounded reasonable enough, although it was Unlikely that Hawk would waste manpower by sending two men when one would do. The names Layton and Wyler meant nothing to me. They could be aliases. I figured not much could go wrong in an office belonging to the airport security police. If anything, that was a wise choice. “Thanks, I’m on my way.”

The office door was ajar. Another good sign. Through the opening the two men were visible. Both were dressed in conservative business suits. From the cut of their clothing, they could be anything from bank executives to professional football players. They were big enough to be running backs which made them about six feet tall — matching my height — but carried a good twenty pounds more than my own one hundred eighty five. Aside from being overweight, they were a pleasant-looking pair. The one who spoke to me as I entered had broad, Slavic features. “Mr. Nick Carter?” His tones were brittle with a marked New England twang.

“That’s me,” I admitted.

“We’re glad we found you.” His voice was firm, but not demanding. Neither man had made a move. They were measuring me. They seemed square enough, but I don’t readily accept strangers who seek me out. I prefer to be the aggressor. “To come directly to the point, Mr. Carter,” he continued, “we have an important message for you.”

“Just who are you?” I asked.

“We’re here on behalf of a group of responsible individuals who want to advise you to give up your plan to contact General Martin. Believe us when we say you will be wasting your time in endeavoring to locate the general. There are a number of reasons why you should cancel your effort, the main one being that you will certainly fail. More importantly, he is in complete control of his actions and does not wish to be located.” Something about the man’s clipped, parade-ground speech and erect bearing suggested General Martin was no stranger to him.