Nick Carter - Double Identity

Hafed pointed to the closet. “She old! And all She Devils say have not seen Dyla Lotti in long time— she much sick and stay in her own rooms. Lamasery is run by Number Two She Devil — name of Yang Kwei! That Chinese name, I think. I ask — find that Number Two Abbess is half Chinese. Not here long. My She Devil say that real Dyla Lotti get much sick as soon as Yang Kwei come — they never see her again. Stay room. Yang Kwei fix all meals, take care of old woman.”

Hafed jabbed his knife into the floor. “You see, sar?”

“I see.” N3’s face was grim. What a dope he had been— in more ways than he cared to think. Yang Kwei had posed as the real Dyla Lotti. It had been easy enough. He was a stranger, following a most tenuous lead, and he had been secluded. He spoke no Tibetan, had no means of communication with the other She Devils even if they had been permitted to speak with him.

Nick pointed to the door which concealed the dead old woman. “Poisoned her, eh? Anyway weakened her and then brought her down here and chained her in there to die. Nice girl!”

“Chinese,” said Hafed. As if that explained everything.

Nick, rearmed now, shrugged back into the orange robe. He must find his clothes. And get to hell out of the Lamasery of the She Devils — but not before he had another little talk with the phony Dyla Lotti!

“We’ve got to get her,” he told Hafed. “Get her and make her talk! So lets—”

The guide’s answer died in a little hissing sound. Nick swung to face the door. Dyla Lotti, or Yang Kwei, was pointing a small automatic pistol at them.

“Put your hands up,” she said in her lilting, soft, too perfect English. “Carefully, Nick. I do not wish to kill you now. After all the trouble I have gone to — to keep you for my friends. They will be here soon to collect you, AXE man!”

Nick put up his hands. Wait and see what developed. He had a little time and he was too far away to grab her gun. He glanced at Hafed. The guide was still sitting on the floor, his knife sticking in the floor before him. He had raised his hands.

The girl also glanced at Hafed. Her red lips curled in a snarl. “You, animal, have been too lucky! I will not mind killing you, so be very careful. I would prefer to have the soldiers cut off your head, in public as an example, but I would not mind killing you. So keep your hands high! Try nothing!”

Hafed nodded humbly. He kept his hands high. “Yes, High Priestess. I obey. I will do anything — anything! Only do not kill me! Please do not kill me!” Hafed’s voice fell into an abject whine. He spat toward Nick. “I only helped the foreign devil because he pays well, High Priestess. I would be most glad to work for you instead. Only give me a chance! I know much of this fool’s private business!” Hafed squirmed and groveled on the filthy floor.

Yang Kwei regarded the guide with contempt. “You are a Turtle!” she snapped. “And a stupid Turtle at that. Do you think you can fool me with such idiot’s talk? I know that you have worked for the Americans, for the CIA. But you will not again. Now be quiet, Turtle!” She turned her attention to Nick.

“They will be very pleased with me in Peking,” she told him. “And very glad to see you — they will ask you many questions, Nick. All of which you will answer — in time!”

“Maybe,” said N3 quietly. “They do say that no man can stand up to torture for long. And I don’t carry a cyanide pill, either.”

The girl regarded him with a mean smile on her rosebud mouth. “I thought not. I searched you while you slept and I did not find one. You are the big, brave, murdering American gangster type, Nick. I have heard all about you. But you will not be so brave when they finish with you in Peking.”

Nick risked a glance at Hafed from the corner of his eye. What was the man up to? He was easing one foot from a yakskin boot. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Hafed was drawing his foot out of the boot. The knife was still jutting from the floor in front of him. His hands were stretched high over his head. What the hell? What did the man think he could accomplish with one bare foot?

Hafed’s right eye, the one with a slight cast in it, caught Nick’s and the AXE man saw the faintest of winks. Keep her busy, Hafed seemed to say.

Nick Carter nodded toward the closet behind him. “You kill her?”

Yang Kwei showed her pearly teeth in an unpleasant smile. “I had to. She was taking much too long to die and I had to have her out of the way before you arrived. We were expecting you, but not quite so soon.” She shifted the little automatic from her right hand to her left, as though her hand was tiring. Nick shot another glance at Hafed. His foot was nearly out of the boot now. Absurdly, considering the moment, Nick noted that Hafed had had a bath.

His eyes roamed back to Yang Kwei. She was wearing the same orange robe of silk, belted in between her slim hips and the hill-pointed breasts. She was wearing boots again instead of the red slippers. Her head, without the black wig, was closely shaven. Somehow the absence of hair in no way detracted from her beauty. Her eyes were narrow and dark, sparkling dangerously now, and her nose was delicate. Her skin had the sheen of slightly aged porcelain. Not a wrinkle marred it. Nick studied that small vivid mouth and remembered what it had done to his body. It was really going to be a shame to kill her— she was, after all, only fighting for her country as he was for his. Then he remembered the thing in the closet behind him! In that fleeting moment he became both judge and jury and tried her and found her guilty. He sentenced her to death — after she talked! Something of his composure, his confidence, communicated itself to the woman. She frowned at him and her finger tightened on the trigger of the pistol. She scowled at him. “You are thinking that you will win after all. You goddamned Americans are all so superior! Like the British bastards used to be.” The profanity had an odd sound, coming from that small red mouth. Nick grinned, relaxed and contemptuous, trying to anger her further. Distract her. Hafed had the boot off now.

She caught Hafed’s motion and whirled, the pistol jutting at the guide, her trigger finger whitening with pressure. A hair trigger would have killed Hafed then.

“What are you doing? Remain quiet, dog, or I'll kill you!”

Hafed shrank from the lash of words. He rubbed his bare toes and whined, “I am sorry, High Priestess. I did not mean — it is that my feet hurt so badly. They ache. I must rub them. I—”

“Quiet, fool!” She spat at Hafed. “You are an idiot! You and your stupid feet! Annoy me again and it will be the last time!” She turned back to Nick. He had nearly jumped her gun while she berated Hafed, but had decided against it. Hafed was working toward something. Wait and see.

He saw. Hafed’s toes were long and slender and nearly prehensile. Nick got it then. The man had a foot like a monkey! And Hafed, while scratching and groveling on the floor, was working his bare foot nearer the knife. So that was it. N3 readied himself.

The small black eye of the pistol was steady on his belly. In a soft interrogative tone Yang Kwei said, “I wonder why I do not shoot you now, Nick? Shoot you in the stomach and watch you suffer for a long time.”

“Your natural kindness of heart,” said Nick. “You couldn’t hurt a fly — maybe an old helpless lady, but not a fly. It might bite you back.” He watched Hafed from the corner of his eye. Now!

Hafed slid his long toes around the upright knife. He rolled backward on his shoulders, his leg coming high, the knife flashing in an arc. He spun the knife at Yang Kwei, screaming, “Get her!”

She tried to duck and fire at the same time. The instinctive movement ruined her aim. The little gun flashed and spat. Hafed grabbed his arm with a curse. Nick was across the room like quicksilver. He smashed at the pistol with a thick forearm. It flew from Yang Kwei’s hand to the floor. Hafed scrabbled for it.