Nick Carter - The Defector

Nick moved around his cubicle, touching the walls.

There was no crack, no break, just solid concrete. And the floor was the same as the walls. The hinges on the steel door were outside and cast into the concrete. There would be no escaping the cell. The silence was so complete he could hear his own breathing. He squatted in a corner and lit one of his cigarettes. Since his lighter was out of fuel, he had taken a book of matches from the junk. There were only two matches left.

He smoked, watching the ember of his cigarette glow with each drag. Sunday evening, he thought, and he only had until Tuesday at midnight. He still hadn’t located Kathy Loo and the boy Mike.

Then he heard Sheila Kwan’s soft voice, sounding as though it came from the walls.

“Nick Carter,” she said. “You are not working alone. How many others are working with you? When will they be here?”

Silence. Nick mashed out the remains of his cigarette. Suddenly the cell brightened with light. Nick blinked, his eyes watering. There was a naked light bulb in the center of the ceiling protected by a small wire cage. Just as Nick’s eyes grew used to the brightness, the light went out. He judged it had been on maybe twenty seconds. Now he was in darkness again. He rubbed his eyes. A sound came from the walls again. It sounded like a train faraway whistle. Steadily it grew louder, as though the train came toward the cell. Louder and louder the sound came, growing in pitch until it was a screech. Just as Nick thought it would pass by, the sound was shut off. He figured that at about thirty seconds. Then Sheila spoke to him again.

“Professor Loo wants to join us,” she said. “There is nothing you can do to prevent it.” There was a click. Then, “Nick Carter. You are not working alone. How many others are working with you? When will they be here?”

It was a recording. Nick waited for the light to come on. But instead, he got the train whistle again. It was even louder this time. And the screech began to hurt his ears. As he put his hands over them, the sound stopped. He was sweating. He knew what they were trying to do. It was an old Chinese torture trick. They had used variations of it against the GIs in Korea. It was the mental break-down process. Make the brain like mush, then mold it as you wish. He could tell them he was alone until rice harvest time but they wouldn’t believe him. The irony of it was there was little defense against this type of torture. An ability to stand pain was useless. They by-passed the body and shot directly to the brain.

The light came on again. Nick’s eyes watered against the brightness. This time the light was on only ten seconds. It went out. Nick’s shirt was soaked with sweat. He had to come up with some kind of defense. Already he was anticipating, expecting, waiting. Would it be the light?

The whistle? Or Sheila’s voice? There was no way to judge, not what was coming or how long it would last. But he knew he had to do something.

The whistle didn’t come from far away any more. It was high-pitched and loud immediately. Nick got to work. His brain wasn’t mush quite yet. He tore a large strip from his shirt. The light came on and he shut his eyes tight. When it went off again, he took the torn portion of his shirt and tore it again into five smaller strips. Two of the strips he tore again in half then wadded them into tight little balls. He worked the four balls into his ears, two in each.

When the whistle came on he could barely hear it. With the three remaining strips, he folded two of them into loose pads and placed them over his eyes. The third strip he tied around his head to keep the pads in place. He was blind and deaf. He leaned back into his concrete corner, smiling. By feel, he lit another one of his cigarettes. He knew they could strip him of all his clothes, but right now he was buying time.

They increased the volume of the whistle, but the sound was deadened so much it didn’t bother him. If Sheila’s voice came on, he didn’t hear it. He had just about finished his cigarette when they came for him.

He didn’t hear the door creak open, but he smelled the fresh air. And he felt the presence of others in the cell with him. The blindfold was ripped from his head. He blinked, rubbing his eyes. The light was on. There were two soldiers, one standing over him, the other by the door. Both rifles were aimed at Nick. The soldier standing over Nick, pointed to his own ear, then at Nick’s. Killmaster knew what he wanted. He removed his ear plugs. With the rifle, the soldier motioned him to his feet. Nick stood, and, with prodding from the rifle barrel, walked out of the cell.

He heard the generator as soon as he stepped outside the building. The two soldiers were behind him, their rifles pushed into his back. They walked under the naked light bulbs between the huts and straight to the end hut, closest to the concrete building. As they entered, Nick noticed it was partitioned into three sections. The first was a sort of foyer. To his right a doorway led to another room. Although Nick couldn’t see it, he heard the squawk and screech of a short-wave radio. Directly ahead of him, a closed door led to still another room. He had no way of knowing what was there. Two smoky lanterns hung from bamboo rafters above him. The radio room glowed from more lanterns. Nick realized then that most of the juice from the generator was used to run the radio, the lights running between the huts, and all the equipment in the concrete building. The huts themselves were lit by lanterns. While the two soldiers waited with him in the foyer, he leaned against the hut wall. It creaked against his weight. He ran his fingers over the rough surface. Splinters of bamboo came away where he rubbed. Nick smiled slightly. The huts were tinder boxes waiting for a match.

The two soldiers stood on each side of Nick. Next to the door leading into the third room, two more soldiers sat on a bench, their rifles between their legs, their heads nodding, trying to fight sleep. At the end of the bench, four boxes were stacked on top of each other. Nick remembered them from the hold of the junk. The Chinese symbols stenciled across them stated that they were grenades. The top box was opened. Half of the grenades were missing.

A voice came over the radio. It spoke Chinese in a dialect Nick didn’t understand. The radio operator answered in the same dialect. One word was spoken that he did understand. It was the name Loo. The voice over the radio must be coming from the house Professor Loo was being held in, Nick thought. His mind absorbed, digested, discarded. And like a computer spitting out a card, a plan came to him. It was rough, but, like all his plans, flexible.

Then the door to the third room opened and Ling appeared holding his trusty .45. He nodded a greeting to the two soldiers, then motioned for Nick to enter the room. Sheila was waiting for him. As Ling followed Nick in, shutting the door behind him, Sheila ran to Nick, wrapping her arms around his neck. She kissed him passionately on the mouth.

“Oh, darling,” she whispered huskily. “I just had to have you one last time.” She still had on the same silk shift she’d worn on the junk.

The room was smaller than the other two. There was a window in this one. It contained a cot, a table, and a basket-weave chair. There were three lanterns, two hanging from the rafters, and one on the table. On the floor next to the chair lay Hugo and Wilhelmina. Two Tommy guns were with them. The table was next to the cot, the chair against the wall just to the right of the door. Nick was ready any time they were.

“I kill,” Ling said. He sat in the chair, the ugly snout of the .45 zeroed on Nick.

“Yes, pet,” Sheila cooed. “In a little while.” She was unbuttoning Nick’s shirt. “Are you surprised we found out your real identity?” she asked.