Nick Carter - The Defector

Nick restudied each boat larger than a sampan as he made his way back to the ferry landing. The clouds had broken up; they hung high in the sky looking like scattered popcorn over a deep blue tablecloth. And the afternoon sun warmed the docks, steaming moisture out of the asphalt. Some of the boats were connected to sampans; others were anchored a little farther out. Nick noticed water-taxis chugging to and from the huge ships of the American fleet at regular intervals. Because of the afternoon tide, the big ships had swung around on their anchor chains so that they sat sideways across the harbor. Sampans were gathered like leeches around the ships, their occupants diving for nickels being thrown by sailors.

Nick saw the junk just before he reached the landing. He had missed it earlier because its bow had been pointed into the dock. It was anchored just away from a row of sampans, and because of the afternoon tide, it too sat sideways. From where Nick stood, he could see the port side and the stern. And in bold yellow block printing across the stern was the word: Kwangchow!

Nick stepped back in the shadow of a warehouse. A man stood on the deck of the junk looking up and down the dock through a pair of binoculars. His right wrist was heavily wrapped in white bandage.

In the shadow of the warehouse, Nick grinned broadly. He permitted himself a deep sigh of satisfaction. The man on the junk was, of course, Ossa’s sidekick. Nick leaned against the warehouse and slid to a sitting position. Still grinning, he pulled out one of his cigarettes and lit it Then he chuckled. He cocked his handsome head to one side and roared with laughter. He’d just gotten his first break.

Killmaster permitted himself this strange luxury for exactly one minute. He wasn’t worried about the man with the binoculars; the sun was in the man’s face. As long as Nick remained in the shadows, it would be almost impossible to see him from out there. No, Nick had something else to worry about. The police had undoubtedly found the body in his room and were probably looking for him now. They’d be looking for Chris Wilson, American tourist. It was time Nick became someone else.

He stood up, put out his cigarette, and moved off toward the landing, staying within shadows. There would be no chance for him to get close to the junk in daylight, at least not as long as Binoculars was on deck. Right now he needed a place to change.

The ferry landing was crowded when Nick got to it. He passed the people warily, keeping an eye out for police.

When he’d crossed it he stepped onto the first finger of dock pointing into the harbor. He walked slowly past rows of sampans, watching them closely. They extended in lines like growing corn, and Nick continued until he found the one he wanted.

It sat next to the dock in the second row from the harbor. Without hesitating, Nick stepped onto it and ducked under the small cabin roof. He noticed signs of abandonment right away, absence of any clothing, a roof that had leaked rain soaking the bunk and small stove, tin cans with a trace of rust on the lips. Who knew why or when the occupants had left? Maybe they had found a place to stay inland until the storm had passed. Perhaps they were dead. The sampan smelled musty. It had been abandoned for some time. Nick went through the crooks and crannies, coming up with a handful of rice and an unopened can of string beans.

He could not see the junk from the sampan. There were about two hours of daylight left It was taking a chance, but he had to make certain that was the right junk. He stripped and removed the padding from around his waist. He figured that in four minutes he could swim under the first row of sampans and be well into the harbor before he had to come up for breath. If Binoculars was still on deck, he’d have to approach the junk from the bow or the starboard side.

Naked except for Hugo, Nick slipped over the side of the sampan into the icy water He waited a few seconds until the first shock of cold left him; then he dipped under and began swimming. He passed under the first row of sampans and turned right toward the water side of the ferry landing. Then he surfaced just long enough for two deep breaths of fresh air. He caught a glimpse of the junk as he went under again. The bow was pointed toward him. He swam toward it, careful to stay about six feet under. He had to come up for air one more time before his hand touched the fat bottom of the junk.

Edging along the keel, he let himself come up slowly on the starboard side, almost astern. He was in the shadow of the junk but there was no handhold, nothing to hang on to. The anchor chain lay over the bow. Nick placed his feet on the keel, hoping that would help hold him. But the distance from the keel to the surface was too far. He couldn’t keep his head out of the water. He moved to the stem on the starboard side of the basket-woven rudder. By holding the rudder he could stay in one position. He was still in the shadow of the junk.

Then he saw a dinghy being lowered over the port side.

The man with the bandaged wrist climbed into it and began rowing clumsily toward the dock. He favored the wrist and couldn’t get equal pull on the oars.

Nick waited, shivering with cold, for about twenty minutes. The dinghy returned. This time there was a woman with the man. Her face had a hard beauty to it, not unlike that of a professional whore. The lips were full and a brilliant red. Her cheeks had rouge where the skin tightened over the bone. Her hair was raven black, tight, and pulled to a bun on the back of her neck. The eyes had the beauty of emeralds, and were just as hard. She wore a tight-fitting, flower-patterned lavender shift, slit along both sides well up her thighs. She sat in the dinghy with her knees together, her hands locked around them. From Nick’s position, he saw she wore no panties. In fact he doubted if she wore anything under that bright silk.

When they reached the side of the junk, the man scurried on board, then reached a hand to help her.

In Cantonese dialect, the woman asked, “Do you have any word from Yong yet?”

“No,” the man answered, same dialect. “Perhaps tomorrow he will complete his mission.”

“Perhaps nothing,” the woman snapped. “Perhaps he has gone the way of Ossa.”

“Ossa…” the man began.

“Ossa was a fool. You, Ling, are a fool. I should have known better than to head an operation surrounded by fools.”

“But we are dedicated!” Ling cried.

The woman said, “Louder, they cannot quite hear you in Victoria. You are an imbecile. A newborn babe is dedicated to feeding itself, but it does not know how. You are a newborn babe, and a crippled one at that.”

“If ever I see that…”

“You will either run or die. He is but one man. One man! And all of you are like frightened rabbits. Right now he may be on his way to the woman and boy. He cannot wait much longer.”

“Yong will…”

“He has probably killed Yong. I thought that out of all of you, at least Yong would be successful.”

“Sheila, I…”

“So, you want to put your hands on me? We will give Yong until tomorrow. If he does not return by tomorrow night, we load up and leave. I would love to meet this man who has you all frightened. Ling! You paw me like a puppy dog. Very well. Come into the cabin and I will at least make you half a man.”

Nick had heard what was to follow many times before. There was no need for him to freeze in icy water to hear it again. He dipped under and moved along the bottom of the junk until he reached the bow. Then he filled his lungs with air and pushed off back toward the sampan.

The sun had almost set when he came up for another lungful of air. Four minutes later he had passed once again under the first row of sampans and was back to his borrowed one. He climbed aboard and dried himself with his business suit, rubbing the skin vigorously. Even after he was dry, it took quite a while for him to stop shivering. He stretched out almost the full length of the small boat and closed his eyes. He needed sleep. Since Yong was the dead man in Nick’s room, it wasn’t likely he would show up tomorrow. That gave Nick until tomorrow night at least. He’d have to figure some way to get on that junk. But right now he was tired. That cold water had sapped his strength. He drifted away from himself, letting the rocking sampan carry him. Tomorrow he would begin. He would be well rested and ready for anything. Tomorrow. Tomorrow was Thursday. He had until Tuesday. Time raced quickly.