Nick Carter - Double Identity

He heard the footsteps then. A moment later Mike Bannion paused at the arch and peered in. “Nick?”

“Yeah. Where are they?”

Bannion stepped into the gloom. “At the Peshawar Hotel right now. In the bar. They looked like they were settling in for a time, so I took a chance.”

“Good man,” said Nick. “I was just doing you an injustice in my thoughts.”

He heard Bannion tug at the bottle in his coat pocket Then the gurgle. He couldn’t see the impish grin, but he knew it was there. Mike Bannion was afraid — Nick Carter knew fear when he saw it;—but so far the guy was bearing up well.

Mike said: “You think I’d taken off for the boondocks?”

“It occurred to me.”

Gurgle.

“I won’t let you down,” Bannion said. “I’ll try hard not to — but I wish the hell I knew what went on. That guy I was following — I damned near soiled myself when I got a closeup of him. That’s you!”

“I know,” said Nick. “It’s a little confusing. Don’t try to figure it out, Mike. If we get out of this maybe I’ll tell you about it.”

“ If we get out of it?”

Gurgle.

“I warned you it might be dangerous,” snapped Nick. “Now lay off the booze! We’ve got work to do. I think things are going to break tonight — and break fast. We mustn’t lose them, whatever happens. What do you know about the woman with him?”

Mike Bannion lit a cigarette. He was letting his red beard grow again. “Only that she’s a doll, a real dish. Blonde, in her late twenties — maybe thirty — swell legs and a pair of knockers that makes a man ashamed of his thoughts. Beautiful face, too!”

“You didn’t miss much,” said N3 dryly. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask her for her autograph.”

“I did better than that! I found out her name.” Bannion paused to gloat a moment. He was, Nick considered, as drunk as he’d been since they started. But as yet he was holding it well enough.

“Fine work,” he praised. He tried to sound enthusiastic. “How’d you do that?”

“I told you I knew a little Pashto. When they left the coppersmith’s stall they went to a tobacco shop. The guy— you — got to looking through some magazines, Russian and Chinese, and I had a little time. I cut back to the coppersmith and slipped him some baksheesh. The woman’s name is Beth Cravens, as near as I could make out. She’s an American. Works for the Peace Corps here — helps with the schools. The old guy was a talker but that was all I had time for. I didn’t want to lose them.”

“Amen to that! Let’s get back to the Peshawar Hotel. They have a car?”

“She does. An English Ford. It was in the lot behind the hotel when I left.”

“Come on!” N3 was curt. “And lay off that sauce from now on — until I tell you different!”

“Yes, sahib.”

“It’s for your own good,” Nick told him dourly. “There’s nothing funny about a shiv in the back!”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Bannion. “Don’t worry. Every time I feel the urge to get blotto I think of those Paks buried in the ground with their eyes and noses gone. It’s a real soberer-up!”

It was getting close to eight as they made their way through the narrow crowded streets toward the Peshawar Hotel. As they skirted the spacious square in which the mosque Mahabat Khan stood, Nick said: “I want you to give me your impressions of the man, Bannion. Right off the top of your head. Don’t think, don’t embroider it. Suppose you didn’t know me. Didn’t know I had a double. What would you think of him then?”

Bannion scratched at his red stubble. He was nearly running to keep up with Nick’s long strides.

“Impressive,” he said at last. “Damned impressive. Good-looking bastard. Handsome without being pretty, if you know what I mean. Big, tall, lean. Looks like he’s made of concrete. Looks tough, too. Like he could be very mean. Graceful. Moves like a tiger.”

“You’re a good observer,” N3 admitted. He was a little flattered and admitted it. He also admitted the Chinese had done a good job — a number one, excellent, first-rate professional job. His double was so near like himself it was a little frightening.

“I can tell you something else about him,” said Bannion. He snickered. “The guy is a real heller with the women. At least with this one — she’s all over him! When I left she was playing with him under the table in the bar!”

N3 said nothing during the rest of the walk. His thoughts were busy with the girl. Beth Cravens. The Peace Corps! Jesus — where would the rats gnaw into next?

It had already occurred to him that the woman might be an innocent dupe. It was quite possible. The Chinese agent had fooled Pei Ling in Tibet and Sam Shelton in Karachi. Fooled them at first — for some reason both of them had had second thoughts — and doubts. They had been killed.

So this Beth Cravens could be innocent. The man had introduced himself as Nick Carter and she had believed him. But why? What in hell was Nick Carter, the real AXE man, supposed to be doing in Peshawar?

His heart, his intuition, whispered the truth. The woman was a Red agent. Another American who had sold out! A spark of anger moved in N3—another lousy traitor! Somehow it seemed worse because the treason came wrapped in a lovely package.

From a doorway across from the Peshawar Hotel they could see into the little bar. The quarry was still there. No monkey business under the table now — they were openly holding hands and the girl was gazing at the big man with adoration. If it’s phony she’s a good actress, Nick Carter admitted.

A sudden thought struck him. A hunch so overpowering that he would have almost bet his life on it. He turned to Bannion. “You sober enough to go into the hotel and act like a gentleman? Like you’re looking for an old friend?”

“Sober as a judge,” averred Bannion. “Some judges I’ve known. Why?”

“Go in and throw your Pashto around and see if you can get a look at the register. I think he’s staying there. Just look at the last half-dozen names.”

Bannion was back in five minutes. “You’re so right. You’re staying there! Big as life — signed in as Nicholas Carter. On business.”

“Dirty business.”

Nick pulled the collar of his sheepskin coat up against the rain. He pulled down the Aussie type hat. Now that the phony had established himself, he mustn’t be seen. Especially by cops or the military. It would only engender confusion and he wanted no more of that. Get the thing over with and get out.

“Go get the jeep,” he told Bannion. “Find a tonga if you can and don’t let him spare the horse. If you can’t find a tonga run for it — get back here as soon as possible. I’ll be in the back someplace — you say she drives an English Ford?”

“Yes. It’s black. Nearly brand new.”

When Bannion had gone trotting off Nick went around the hotel to the parking lot. The Ford was there, shiny with rain. The only other car was an ancient Chrysler with a flat tire.

N3 stood in deep shadow and let the rain soak him. It was coming down a bit harder now. He studied the Ford — it had a luggage rack on top. If worst came to worst, and Bannion didn’t return in time with the jeep, maybe he could—

A moment later the decision was forced on him. The woman and the false Nick Carter came around the corner of the hotel and headed for the Ford. Nick retreated a bit more into the shadows. Damn! What now? He just couldn’t afford to lose them. For the moment he had just the faint edge of advantage and he didn’t want to lose that, either. But unless he took them now — too early for his liking — he would have to let them drive away. Nick automatically checked his weapons. The Luger was ready to snarl. Hugo lurked in his sheath. Pierre, the gas bomb, was as lethal as ever. But to what purpose? He could kill the man, certainly, and maybe make the woman talk. Maybe! But he had no time to fool around. That arms shipment had come into Peshawar, or through it, and then vanished. Nick had to find it With the guns and ammo as his ace he could go to the Pakistani Government and start clearing matters up. Without it—