Nick Carter - Double Identity

In late afternoon of the same day N3 lay in a rope bed — no thick mattress here to conceal an assassin — and pondered the immediate future. One thing was certain— he must get out of Karachi that night. The police had found the Hindu girl’s body and a new hue and cry was on. The afternoon papers had it, along with another picture of the phony Nick. There had also been a flash on the radio. The murdered girl was a Hindu, and of no importance, but the Karachi police were nettled. They had been made to look bad!

Only one thing about the entire situation really pleased Nick Carter — his double would have to leave Karachi too. He wouldn’t dare hang around with all the heat on. The man had made one try at killing Nick and had failed — he would try again — but Nick was sure it would not be in Karachi. He wouldn’t be in Karachi if his luck held. If it didn’t he would be in jail — charged with two murders!

He finished the last of his tea — cold now — and gnawed at a slab of nan, the flat circular bread of the country. Bannion’s wife, Neva, had fed him well since his arrival. There had been birayni, rice, and a blistering mutton curry called keema, and all the goat’s milk he could drink.

Nick lit a cigarette and lolled back in the uncomfortable rope bed, more like an oversize hammock than a true bed. His feet were high and wrapped in dirty bandages on which Mrs. Bannion had smeared some vile smelling salve. It did seem to help. His feet were a mess, still chafed and peeling from frostbite, but he would just have to make do on them. The Air Force in Ladakh had issued him socks and a pair of shoes two sizes too big, and that helped. His feet still hurt like hell!

The minor wounds he had gotten in the scuffle last night were nothing! Mere bullet burns which Bannion had patched up with iodine and plaster. He hoped his double was feeling worse than he was — he had gotten the man once with the stiletto for sure — and maybe again with that flurry from the Luger. He could hope! Anyway the fellow had gotten away — the police had found only the butchered corpse of the maid.

Thinking of his feet, of pain, made Nick think again of his journey through the Karakoram Pass after Hafed had been killed. That had been a narrow thing. Close. After the pony, Kaswa, died of exhaustion Nick had been in one of the tightest binds of his fantastic career. He was very close to the end of that career when the Carter luck returned and he stumbled into the camel caravan. Normally the caravan — it was the last from Sinkiang Province into Kashmir that year — would have been on its way the day before, after sheltering from the blizzard, but a camel had taken sick and they had lingered to treat it.

Nick had made it to the camel camp, but he could have gone no farther. The caravan had taken him with them, on the back of a shaggy bactrian, into Leh where they had turned him over to the U.S. Air Force.

It was strange, Nick thought now, to owe your life to a sick camel!

He snapped a piece of bread at a gecko which was staring at him with beady eyes from a rafter. He felt himself getting restless again. Mike Bannion should be back soon. He had been gone all day, following Nick’s orders and spending AXE’s money. True the man had a million things to do, but he should be back. Nick damned his own impatience and hobbled to the single window to peer out, keeping well back out of sight. It would be dark soon and he and Mike Bannion could leave. He mustn’t be spotted now. The backyard on which he gazed was a slum in the midst of even worse slums. There was a mango tree full of monkeys and kids and the incessant chitter-chatter of both. There must be a million kids, he thought, all dirty and ragged and some nearly naked. N3 lit another cigarette and grimaced. Even with all his own problems, with the sour taste of failure in his mouth, he could feel for the kids. Poor little bastards! Not much future for them. Mike Bannion should have his drunken ass kicked for bringing more of them into the world — with no means of caring for them.

The door opened and Bannion’s wife came into the room to get the tea things. She nodded to him but did not smile. There was no communication — she had no Hindustani and Nick Carter spoke no Urdu — and Nick had wondered if she could be trusted. Certainly Mike thought so, but then husbands didn’t always know everything about wives. Especially husbands like Mike.

Nick glanced at his watch. It was after five and no police yet. So she could be trusted. He watched moodily as she gathered up the tea things and, after nodding again, left the room and closed the door softly behind her. He heard a bar fall into place. That was a precaution against nosy kids.

Nick went back to the rope bed and stretched out again. He flipped his butt at the gecko still fixing him with its evil glare. Goddamn it, Bannion! Come on!

He was not afraid of Bannion betraying him. The little drunk had visions of lakhs of rupees to come. He would not throw money away. But he could have been picked up by the police for routine questioning. Suppose his ancient jeep had been noticed in the Mauripur district last night? Nick felt cold. Bannion would talk in the end, however reluctantly. Sweat prickled on N3’s neck — all that money Bannion was carrying! If the cops got him they would never give up until he explained it — and if he did that he would have to betray Carter! A fury raging in his big, outwardly calm body, Nick forced himself to be calm and think of other things. If it happened that way it happened. Karma!

Karma. Tibet. The Lamasery of the She Devils!

N3 scowled at the tiny lizard on the rafter. So the Chinese soldiers had found Yang Kwei in time. Must have — and had relayed her information on to the impostor — else the man wouldn’t have known Nick was coming to Karachi. Wouldn’t have been able to set the trap which had so nearly caught the AXE man. Nick cursed under his breath and wished the She Devil a short life and an unhappy one. Then he remembered her sexual technique and almost relented — she’d be okay if she would get out of the profession, out of agentry and politics, and make somebody a good wife! He had to grin at his own whimsy, then forgot the She Devil. Where in the everlasting hell was Mike Bannion?

The object of his concern entered the room a minute later, bringing with him the smell of good whisky. He had shaved, and gotten a haircut, and donned clean clothes. He was, as near as Nick could tell, still sober. He did not look quite like the same man except for his grin. Once again, briefly, Nick — wondered why and how the man had gotten stranded in Karachi. His speech betrayed him as an educated man, and he did not lack intelligence. Why? Whom had he betrayed, sold out, murdered?

Bannion tossed a carton of American cigarettes at Nick. “Behold! Black market. Many rupees. I got a case of Scotch, too. I know you like it and I don’t care what I drink.”

Nick had to smile. The little man was irrepressible. “I hope you were discreet — spread the buying and spending around?”

Mike sank into the room’s single chair and elevated his feet to a battered table. He was wearing new shoes of the heavy duty type. He winked at Nick. “I was most circumspect, boss man. I spread it around. I hit a lot of the secondhand merchants and the surplus stores — you can even get World War I stuff from them, and I was careful. I didn’t even get new tires for Gae — got used ones, but they’re in good shape. Got a used battery, too, and some spare gas cans. In fact I got everything on the list you gave me. You’re ready to roll, Nick, and so am I.”

Nick broke open the carton of cigarettes. He had been down to his last pack. “You’ve decided to come along, then?” Until now Bannion had not committed himself past a willingness to help Nick get ready for the trip.