Nick Carter - Double Identity

He saw the dark eyes widen behind the mask. She approached another step, her arms crossed now over her breast. Firm, full breasts, Nick guessed. Must be strapped down now. The scent of Chanel was stronger.

“You sound as though you do not entirely trust me, Mr. Carter.” Was there a hint of mockery in the voice?

“It isn’t a question of trust, Dyla Lotti. Just a matter of mechanics. I want to know how it could happen. I want, I’ve got to know, as much about this thing as possible. Some little matter, something you think of no importance, might be vital. You understand?”

“I understand, Mr. Carter. You will have to excuse me — I am very new at this sort of thing. I am a High Priestess, not a spy. I only agreed to work for you, for your people, because the Chinese are in our country and I want them out. It is against our creed to hate, Mr. Carter, or to preach hatred — but I am a sinner. I hate the Chinese! They are swine. Dogs!”

N3 felt more relaxed. The drug was still working in him, but now he felt his urgent desire for a woman, any woman, fading away. His mind was clearing; the room, the woman in the mask, everything was coming through clear and sharp again.

Somewhat to his surprise Dyla Lotti went to the opposite side of the bed and sat down. Primly, he thought. He twisted to face her, grinning. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you took that thing off — the Halloween bit, I mean? It looks heavy.”

The mask swayed toward him and he was aware of the close scrutiny of the dark eyes. There was an odd note in her reply. “I prefer to keep it on for the time being, Mr. Carter. Perhaps — later? You must sleep again, and drink more medicine — and then I will return to see you. Then I will take off the mask. You agree?”

The formality had lightened. Nick smiled and lit another cigarette. “I agree — but I don’t know about the medicine bit. That last blast of yak’s milk was loaded! What did she put in it, anyway?” He glanced furtively down at his now quiescent loins. “It — er — It has some weird effects.”

If Dyla Lotti knew what he meant she made no sign. Yet her voice was warmer, more friendly, when she said, “It is sanga root — a sort of wild mushroom that grows on the mountain tops. Very rare. You must take it, Mr. Carter. I know. I have had the altitude sickness myself. The sanga root eases the strain on your heart — otherwise it will wear itself out in this thin air.”

N3 eyed the devil mask. “It has certain side effects,” he said with an innocent expression.

There was no doubt about it this time — the dark eyes flashed and twinkled. “Perhaps,” Dyla Lotti admitted. “And perhaps the side effects are beneficial also. But we must get back to business, Mr. Carter. Soon I must go. I have my duties, you know.”

Nick wondered what those duties could be, well after midnight in a lonely and storm-besieged lamasery, but he did not ask. He listened, interrupting only now and then to ask a question.

A week before, one day before the fake Nick Carter had arrived, a runner had reached the lamasery. He bore a chit of paper in a cleft stick and he died from exhaustion half an hour later. But he had been a Sherpa, with incredible lungs, and he had come all the way from another lamasery at Kaitse. The message he bore was scrawled in blood — a dying man’s blood. The Chinese agent had made another mistake — after shooting Pei Ling he had not checked to see that the Lama was quite dead.

Nick asked, “You still have the message?”

Dyla Lotti took a coarse sheet of paper from her wide sleeve and handed it across the bed to him. Their fingers touched for a moment and Nick felt as though an electric current had jolted him. He raised the note to eye level with fingers that trembled faintly. God — he must be careful! The yearning was coming back!

He could make nothing of the note. It did seem to be written in blood, by a dying man, a wobbly scrawled mess of chicken tracks. He got the impression that it was meant to be read from right to left. He handed it back to Dyla Lotti with a baffled expression. “Afraid you’ll have to read it to me.”

He could not see her smile behind the devil mask, but he sensed it. “It is in Urdu,” she explained. “A high form of Hindustani — educated priests use it at times. It does not say much — he had no time left. Just that he was killed by a man posing as you, Mr. Carter. A Chinese agent. He asks me to communicate this to your people — to AXE — and warns me that the Chinese agent would probably stop here on his way through the pass into Kashmir. He also suggests that I pretend ignorance and, how do you say it—?”

“Play along — go with the gag.”

Her nod was doubtful. “Yes— I suppose something like that. I did so. In due time the imposter arrived, looking exactly like you, Mr. Carter. I, er, played along. He asked many questions. So did I. I think he trusted me — he did not suspect that I knew the truth — but I do not think he told me anything of importance. Neither did I tell him anything that he did not already know, or could easily find out. My reason was simple— I did not know anything that would have been of interest to him. As I told you I am a High Priestess, not a spy or a secret agent. My role was to be secondary, passive — I was to pass on information from time to time if I thought it important. That is all. But Pei Ling was dying and had no one else to turn to — so he sent the runner to me.”

“And you sent it out to us — that means you’ve got a transmitter here in the lamasery!”

The devil mask nodded. Her voice sounded reluctant. “Yes — there is a transmitter. Well hidden. I was warned never to use it except in case of grave emergency — there are always Chinese patrols around and some of them have machines — whatever it is that they use to locate hidden transmitters?”

“DF — directional finding equipment,” said Nick. “Yes, the b — they would have those. But you seem to have gotten away with it, Dyla Lotti. You haven’t had any Chinese callers?”

“Not yet. I hope I never do. And I will be glad when this is all over— I am not well equipped for this work. I am a woman and I am afraid!”

“You’ve done fine so far,” N3 told her. “Great — we’d have been lost without you, Dyla Lotti. Really in a mess. We wouldn’t have known anything about this fake agent but for you — at least not until he had done a lot of damage;. As it is I’m not too far behind him.”

“He left four days ago.”

“Through the pass into Kashmir?”

She nodded. “Yes. He had a guide and ponies and five or six men. They did not stay here at the lamasery — the weather was good then and they camped in the gorge. I think they were Chinese soldiers without their uniforms. But that is only a guess — they kept to themselves. They would not even have anything to do with my girls, which is most unusual for soldiers.” Dyla Lotti permitted herself the slightest chuckle. Nick also thought he detected a note of slyness in her voice, but he ignored the opening — if it was that — and kept determinedly to the business at hand.

He rubbed his eyes; he was feeling drowsy again. Then he said: “So you didn’t tell him anything — you couldn’t. But what did he tell you? I’ve got to know that.”

“Not much. Only that he was going from here to Karachi on a highly secret mission. He did not say what it was, naturally. I pretended to believe him and I did not ask too many questions — I was afraid he would become suspicious and I did not wish to join Pei Ling.”

Karachi! Pakistan! N3 remembered Hawk’s words now. The Chinese Reds might attempt to put a finger into the India-Pakistan pie. Keep the pot boiling. It began to look as though Hawk had guessed right. Unless, of course, it was a deliberate plant, a feint, to draw Nick out of the way while the real monkey business was consummated elsewhere.