Nick Carter - The Defector

Nick returned to his seat watching the backs of heads. No one seemed to have missed him.

The stewardess came to him just as he was lighting one of his gold-tipped cigarettes.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Wilson?” she asked.

“Couldn’t be better,” Nick replied, giving her a wide grin.

She was English, small-breasted and long-legged. Her fair skin reeked with health. Bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, she had the type of bubbly personality that everything she felt, thought and wanted was shown in her face. And there was no doubt as to what was written on her face right now.

“Is there anything I can get you?” she asked.

It was a leading question, meaning anything at all, just ask: coffee, tea or me. Nick considered it seriously. A crowded plane, more than forty-eight hours without sleep, too many things were against it. He needed rest, not romance. Yet, he didn’t want to close the door completely.

“Maybe later,” he said finally.

“Of course.” A trace of disappointment showed in her eyes, but she smiled warmly at him and moved on.

Nick settled back in his seat. Surprisingly, he was becoming used to the gelatin belt around his waist. The glasses still bothered him, though, and he removed them to wipe the lenses.

He felt a little sorrow over the stewardess. He didn’t even have her name. If “later” did come about, how would he locate her? He would get her name and where she would be for the following month before he got off the plane.

The chill hit him again. Damn it, he thought, there should be some way to find out who was watching him. He knew if he really wanted to there were ways of finding out. He doubted the person would try anything on the plane. Maybe they expected him to lead them straight to the professor. Well, when they reached Hong Kong he had a few surprises for whoever. Right now he needed rest.

Killmaster wished he could explain the odd feeling he had about Mrs. Loo and the boy. If they had told him the truth, Professor Loo was in trouble. It meant he was in fact defecting strictly because of his work. And that, somehow, just didn’t set right, especially considering the professor’s past performance in dermatology. His discoveries, his present experiments, didn’t point to a man unhappy in his work. And the less-than-cordial reception Nick received from Mrs. Loo made him lean toward the marriage as a reason. Surely the professor had told his wife about Chris Wilson. And unless Nick had blown his cover when talking with her, there was no reason for her hostility toward him. Mrs. Loo was lying for some reason. It was a feeling he had, the “something wrong here” attitude of the house.

But Nick needed rest now, and rest he was going to get. If Mr. Whatsit wanted to watch him sleep, let him. When he reported to whoever had told him to watch Nick, he’d be an expert on watching a man sleep.

Killmaster relaxed his body completely. His mind went blank except for the one compartment which always remained aware of the surroundings. This part of his brain was his life insurance. It never rested, never blacked out. It had saved his life on many occasions. He closed his eyes and was asleep immediately.

Nick Carter came awake instantly one second before the hand touched his shoulder. He let the hand touch him before he opened his eyes. Then he put his own big hand over the slim feminine one. He looked into the bright eyes of the English stewardess.

“Fasten your seat belt, Mr. Wilson. We are about to land.” She tried weakly to withdraw her hand, but Nick held it to his shoulder.

“Not Mr. Wilson,” he said. “Chris.”

She stopped trying to withdraw her hand. “Chris,” she repeated.

“And you are…” He let the sentence hang.

“Sharon. Sharon Russell.”

“How long will you be in Hong Kong, Sharon?”

That trace of disappointment came back into her eyes. “Only an hour, I’m afraid. I have to catch the next flight out.”

Nick ran his fingers along her arm. “An hour isn’t enough time, it it?”

“That depends.”

Nick wanted more than an hour with her, a lot more. “What I have in mind would take at least a week,” he said.

“A week!” She was curious now, it showed in her eyes. Something else was there too. Delight.

“Where will you be next week, Sharon?”

Her face brightened. “Next week I begin my holiday.”

“And where will that be?”

“Spain. Barcelona, then Madrid.”

Nick smiled. “Will you wait in Barcelona for me? We can do Madrid together.”

“That would be wonderful.” She pressed a slip of paper into his palm. “That is where I’ll be staying in Barcelona.”

Nick could hardly contain his chuckle. She had expected this. “Until next week, then,” he said.

“Until next week.” She squeezed his hand and moved on to the other passengers.

And when they had landed, and as Nick was leaving the plane, she squeezed his hand again, saying softly, “Ole.”

From the airport, Killmaster took a taxi straight to the harbor. In the cab, with his suitcase on the floor between his legs, Nick deduced time-zone changes and set his watch. It figured to be ten-thirty-five P.M., Tuesday.

Outside, the streets of Victoria remained unchanged since Killmaster’s last visit. His driver tooled the Mercedes unmercifully through traffic, relying heavily on the horn. A chill hung icily in the air. Streets and cars sparkled from a rainstorm just past. From curbs to buildings people mingled aimlessly, covering every square inch of sidewalk. They slouched, heads bent low, arms locked across their stomachs, and shuffled slowly along. Some sat on the curbs shoveling with chopsticks food from wooden bowls to their mouths. As they ate their eyes darted from side to side suspiciously, as though they were ashamed of eating when so many others were not.

Nick sat back in his seat, smiling. This was Victoria. Across the harbor lay Kowloon, every bit as crowded, every bit as exotic. This was Hong Kong, mysterious, beautiful and, at times, deadly. Countless black markets flourished. If you had the contact and the right amount of money, nothing was priceless. Gold, silver, jade, cigarettes, girls; everything was available, everything was for sale, if you had the price.

The streets of any city interested Nick; the streets of Hong Kong fascinated him. As he watched the crowded sidewalks from his taxi, he noticed sailors threading quickly through the throng. Sometimes they moved in groups, sometimes in pairs, but never alone. And Nick knew what they were hurrying to; a girl, a bottle, a piece of tail. Sailors were sailors everywhere. The action would be heavy on the streets of Hong Kong tonight. The American fleet was in. Nick wondered if the watcher was still with him.

As the taxi approached the harbor, Nick saw sampans packed like sardines against the docks. Hundreds of them were tied together, forming a miniature floating colony. Because of the cold, ugly blue smoke belched from crude stacks cut into the cabins. People lived their whole lives on these tiny boats; they ate, slept and died on them, and there seemed to be a hundred more since the last time Nick had seen them. Larger junks were dotted here and there among them. And farther out were anchored the huge, almost monstrous ships of the American Fleet. What a contrast, Nick thought. The sampans were small, cramped and always crowded. Lanterns gave them an eerie, bobbing look, while the gigantic American ships shined brightly with generator-powered lights, making them look almost deserted. They sat like boulders in the harbor, unmoving.

In front of the hotel, Nick paid the taxi driver and walked briskly into the building without looking around. Once inside he asked the desk clerk for a room with a view.