Nick Carter - Double Identity

Somehow he thought not. Admittedly he wasn’t thinking too clearly at the moment, drugged as he was, but he agreed with Hawk that part of this business, at least, was a trap to draw him within killing distance. If that were true the phony agent would leave a clear trail. Another thing was that the agent, and his bosses in Peking, wouldn’t have expected their subterfuge to be discovered so soon. They would know that the CIA, and AXE, apparatus in Tibet was crude and primitive at this stage. They must have been gambling a little, depending on luck, and it had failed them.

Aloud Nick said: “I’m only four days behind him. I’ll get him. Thanks to you, Dyla Lotti.”

She rose and came around the bed to stand beside him. Her fragile red-tipped hand reached to touch his and lingered for a moment. Her skin was cool.

“I hope so, Mr. Carter. Now I must go. And you — you must take your medicine again and remain quiet.”

Nick found that he was clinging to her hand. “You said you would come back, Dyla Lotti. And can’t you stop calling me Mr. Carter? Nick would be better — more friendly.”

The long dark eyes regarded him through the slits in the devil mask. “I keep my word— Nick. I will come back. In an hour or so. But only if you are obedient and take your medicine — you will never catch this Chinese devil if you are ill.”

Nick grinned and let go of her hand. “Okay — I’ll take it. But I warn you — that potion of yours is pretty deadly. You may be sorry you made me drink it!”

She was at the opening in the wall now. She turned and again he could sense a smile beneath the mask. “I will not be sorry,” she said softly. “I know about the sanga root. And you must not forget, Nick, that if I am a High Priestess I am also a woman. I will return to you.”

As she was disappearing into the wall Nick said, “How about my guide, Hafed? I hope you’re taking good care of him.”

She laughed and the sound was like silver bells in the chamber, thin but resonant.

“I am not taking good care of your guide, Nick — but my priestesses are. I do not forbid it — they are also women. Young women. They drew lots and there were ten lucky winners.”

She disappeared. There was a faint grind of machinery and the brass monkey began to swing back into place.

N3 lay back on the bed and contemplated the ceiling. Ten lucky winners! Good God! He hoped Hafed was in form.

Minutes later the old crone came to him with another large mug of yak’s milk. Nick drank it down without dissent. Might as well play along, go the whole route. He knew, now, that sanga root, whatever else it was, was also an erotic drug. An aphrodisiac. Probably they had fed Hafed some of the same stuff. No wonder the girls were lining up.

He examined his professional conscience — the only sort he ever bothered about — and found it clear. He had done everything he could do for the moment. He had made his contact. He knew what there was to know. Not even Hawk would expect him to push through Karakoram Pass in a blizzard.

So bring on the music and the dancing girls, N3 told himself as he relaxed and watched the old priestess heap more charcoal on the brazier. He had nothing to lose but his virtue and that was more than a little tattered as it was. Yes — it looked like quite a night ahead. He never doubted for an instant that Dyla Lotti would return — the promise had been in her voice.

One tiny itch remained in his brain. She had shown him no sort of identification and had asked for none. She could not be expected, of course, to know about the Golden Number, but still—

He dismissed the thought. Dyla Lotti was an amateur, a novice, who had been pulled in in an emergency. Not to worry about it. Anyway he had his weapons and his wits—

Or did he have his wits? He found that he was laughing and rolling on the bed. The old priestess looked at him and smiled benignly and left, locking him in again.

Nick was aware of a high hyena sound in the chamber. His own laughter. If only Hawk could see him now! Probably he would get a lecture on morals and the dereliction of duty! Nick went off into another peal of laughter. His head was a feather pillow floating on his shoulders. The room was soft and fleecy and warm and snug — and what was the world outside to do with him?

“I might just decide to stay here forever,” he told the room. “Never leave! A thousand man-hungry women!” Ye Gods! He and old Hafed could have the ball of their lives!

It occurred to him that he had no idea what Dyla Lotti looked like. He couldn’t have cared less. She was a woman, soft and curved and perfumed. Maybe that hadn’t been a mask after all — maybe it was her real face! He still didn’t care. A man could learn to love a face like that in time — and the way he felt right now it wouldn’t take long!

Nick Carter stuffed one of the covers in his mouth to stifle his giggles. He felt so good — good — good…

Nick dozed off but awoke immediately when he heard the brass monkey swing on its pivot. He sat bolt upright on the bed, dimly understanding what was happening to him — and caring nothing for it or any consequences. Lust simmered in him.

A single butter lamp flickered in the chamber. The brazier glared with a great red eye. Dyla Lotti came into the room and the monkey creaked shut behind her. She advanced to within a few feet of the bed and halted. Unspeaking, they gazed at each other.

Even without the devil mask she was tall. She would come nearly to his chin. She wore a single sari-like garment of translucent jade silk. Beneath it her skin, well oiled and scented, glistened with the shimmer of old ivory. A delicate pale yellow. Her hair was a burnished mass of black silk caught high and held with amber combs. Her mouth was small, a moist crushed rosebud, and when she spoke at I last her teeth glinted white in the semi-gloom.

“You like me, Nick?” There was a tease in her tone.

“I love you!” said Nick Carter. “Come here.”

“Not yet. Do not rush me.” Her smile was languid. “One does not hurry love — one lingers with it and enjoys it more.”

Desire welled in Nick. Such impetuosity might ruin everything — yet he could not control himself! He had to have her. Now! This minute — this second! He leaped from the bed and dropped his robe and slipped out of his shorts.

His lungs hurt with the effort of speech. “Come here,” he croaked again. “For God’s sake!”

Dyla Lotti gasped at the sight of him. Her red mouth formed a round O of surprise. She laughed, “You were right, Nick, dear. The sanga root does have side effects!”

Nick took a step toward her. Rage flared in him. What the hell — if this pale yellow bitch turned out to be a tease after all the buildup he — he would strangle her! So help him he would!

Dyla Lotti pointed a long scarlet fingernail at him. “Sit down on the bed,” she commanded quietly. Nick found himself obeying. It seemed right that he should obey her. Without question. His anger of a moment before faded and was lost.

N3 sat naked on the bed and stared at her. Dyla Lotti i, approached him slowly. He noted for the first time that she was wearing a pair of red high-heeled slippers. At the moment they did not appear incongruous.

She halted a scant twelve inches from him. He could see the gleaming fire of a huge sapphire, affixed to her navel, shining through her diaphanous gown like a beckoning eye. Her belly was flat and taut and the color of rich cream. It was cool and velvety when he leaned to kiss it.

Dyla Lotti put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him gently away. She kissed him on the forehead with moist hot lips, then drew back a little. She raised her arms and the garment fell away, a slithering froth washing the long perfection of her legs. N3 gazed at her in awe. Every pulse in his body clamored for her. This was perfection in a woman at last! The ultimate — the plus! What every man, in every time, had dreamed of and yearned for! For a moment doubt and fear struck at him — she was not real! He was dreaming her — under the power of the drug he was only dreaming her!