Nick Carter: Temple of Fear

It was the first time that Nick Carter had ever been bored with sex.

He had not thought it possible. Especially not on a mid-afternoon in April, with the sap moving in trees and people and the sound of the cuckoo, at least metaphorically, drowning out the agonizing of Washington's traffic.

Yet this dowdy dame behind the lectern was making sex a bore. Nick settled his lank frame a little deeper into the uncomfortable study chair, stared at the tips of his handmade English shoes and tried not to listen. It wasn't easy. Dr. Murial Milholland had a light but penetrating voice. Nick had never, as far as he could recall, made love to a girl named Murial. Spelled with an "a." He sneaked a covert glance at the mimeographed agenda on the armrest of his chair. Yep. Spelled with an "a." Like a cigar? And the lady, the speaker, was just about as sexy as a cigar…

"The Russians, of course, have been operating sex schools in conjunction with their espionage institutions for some time. The Chinese, as far as we know, have not yet emulated them, perhaps because they consider the Russians, as well as ourselves in the West, a decadent people. Be that as it may, however, the Russians do make use of sex, both heterosexual and homosexual, as a most important weapon in their espionage operations. It is just that, a weapon, and it has proven very useful to them. They have invented, and implemented, new techniques that make Mali Han look like a teenage amateur.

"The two most important actual sources of information obtained by use of sex are, as far as timing goes, information obtained by slips of the tongue during the excitant foreplay, and in the lulled, lethargic and very much off-guard moments immediately following orgasm. Taking Kinsey's primary figures and conjoining them with those of Sikes in his important work, "Ratio of Foreplay to Successful Coition Leading To Dual Orgasm," we find that the average foreplay is slightly under fifteen minutes, the average time to active coitus is about three minutes, and the average time of, or duration of, aftermath of sexual euphoria, is slightly over five minutes. Now let us strike a balance and we find that in the average sexual encounter between persons — in which at least one of the participants is an agent seeking information from the partner — there is a period of some nineteen minutes point five seconds, during which the participant, whom we shall call the 'seekee', is most off guard, and during which the advantage and the opportunity are all on the side of the 'seeker.' "

Nick Carter's eyes had closed long ago. He heard the scratching of chalk on a blackboard, the tapping of a pointer, but he did not look. He did not dare. He did not think he could bear any more disenchantment. He had always thought that sex was fun ! Damn Hawk anyway. The old man must be losing his grip at last, as unlikely as that might seem. Nick kept his eyes tightly shut and scowled, shutting out the drone of the "teach" and the rustling, coughing, scratching and throat clearing of his fellow sufferers attending this so-called Seminar on Sex as a Weapon. There were a lot of them — CIA, FBI, CIC, T-men, Army, Navy, and Air people. There was also, and this was a source of deep wonder to the AXEman, a high-ranking official from the Post Office! Nick knew the man slightly, knew exactly what he did at the PO, and his bafflement increased. Had the enemy come up with a gimmick to use the mails for sexual purposes? Mere prurience? If the latter was the case the PO man was going to be a most disappointed fellow. Nick dozed, sinking deeper into his own thoughts…

David Hawk, his boss at AXE, had fired the idea at him that morning in the scabby little office in Dupont Circle. Nick, just back from a week's rest on his Indiana farm, had been lolling indolently in the room's one hard chair, dropping ashes on Hawk's linoleum and listening to the clatter of Delia Stokes' typewriter from the outer office. Nick Carter was feeling very fit. He had spent most of the week chopping, sawing and cording wood on the farm, drinking a little and have a mild fling with an old Indiana girl friend. Now he was wearing a light tweed suit, sporting a discreetly daring Sulka tie and feeling his oats. He was ready for action.

Hawk said: "I'm sending you to sex school, boy."

Nick dropped his cigarette and stared at his boss. "You're sending me to what?"

Hawk rolled a dry, unlit cigar around in his thin-lipped mouth and repeated: "I'm sending you to sex school. They call it a seminar on sexual what-you-ma-call-its, something like that, but we'll call it school. Be there at two o'clock this afternoon. I don't know the room number, but it's somewhere in the basement of the old Treasury Building. I'm sure you'll find it okay. If not, ask a guard. Oh, yes — the lecture is being given by a Dr. Murial Milholland. They tell me she is very good."

Nick regarded his fallen cigarette still smoldering on the linoleum. He was too stunned to reach a foot and crush it out. Finally, weakly, all he could summon was…"You've got to be kidding, sir?"

His boss regarded him with a basilisk stare and crunched his false teeth around the cigar. "Kidding? Not in the least, son, I feel, in fact, that I have been remiss in not sending you before. You know as well as I do that the essence of this business is in keeping up with the other guy. Here at AXE it has to be more than that. We have to stay ahead of the other guy — or we're dead. The Russians have been doing some very interesting things with sex lately."

"I'll just bet," muttered Nick. The old man wasn't kidding. Nick knew Hawk's moods, and this was a serious one. With just a soupcon of malicious needling in it somewhere: Hawk could play it pretty deadpan when he chose.

Nick tried another tack. "I've still got a week of vacation coming."

Hawk looked innocent. "Of course. I know that. So? A couple of hours an afternoon will in no way interfere with your vacation. Be there. And pay attention. You might learn something."

Nick opened his mouth. Before he could speak Hawk said, "That's an order, Nick."

Nick closed his mouth, then said: "Yes, sir!"

Hawk leaned back in his creaky swivel chair. He stared at the ceiling and bit on the cigar. Nick watched him narrowly. The canny old bastard was up to something! But what? Hawk never told you anything until he was ready.

Hawk scratched his scrawny, cross-hatched old farmer's neck, then glanced at his Number One boy. This time there was a hint of benignity in his gravel tones and a glitter in the frosty eyes.

"We all of us." he said sententiously, "have to keep up with the limes, my boy. If we don't we are left behind and, in our work here at AXE, that is usually fatal. You know that. I know that. Our enemies all know that. I love you like a father, Nick, and I don't want anything to happen to you. I want you to stay sharp, keep up with the latest techniques, don't let the cobwebs gather and…"

Nick stood up. He held up a hand. "Please, sir. You wouldn't ' want me to throw up on this beautiful linoleum. I'll be going now. with your permission?"

Hawk nodded. "With my blessing, son. Just be sure you show up at that seminar this afternoon. That's still an order."

Nick tottered toward the door. "Yes, sir. An order, sir. Go to sex school, sir. Back to kindergarten."

"Nick!"

He halted at the door and glanced back. Hawk's smile had altered subtly, from the benign to the enigmatic. "Yes, old massa?"

"That school, seminar, is an eight-hour deal. Four days. Two hours each afternoon. Same time. This is Monday, right?"