Nick Carter - Double Identity

Nick decided not to kill her unless he absolutely must. A living corpse, wasting a life away behind bars, was a better warning and example than a dead body.

The woman swung toward the window and he ducked. She went to a closet and came back with heavy slacks, a fur-lined jacket, a sweater and an old Army fatigue cap. Nick watched as she donned these things, and put her slender feet in a pair of Wellington boots. The lady had business. He recalled the conversation in the parking lot — she had to see a certain Mohammed Cassim, the local Wali, — leader — and calm him down. The tribesmen were impatient.

That makes two of us at least, Nick thought grimly as he left the window and went back to his dripping bush. I’m impatient, too.

He had not long to wait. The lights went out and a door closed softly. He did not hear her lock it. It figured. If lover-boy came before she returned he could get in — probably into bed and wait for her. The idea flashed in his brain then but for the moment he stowed it away. First things first!

He lurked in the bushes until she passed him. He let her take a little lead. She was off guard, unaware, made no effort to conceal her passage. She went noisily, swacking at the bushes with a little stick. Nick followed her with the stealth of a tiger.

Thunder rumbled like distant cannon on the horizon and there was an occasional stroke of pale lightning. Nick blessed the lightning. It was blacker than Satan’s gut!

Beth Cravens never once looked back. She went steadily, surely, and the following AXE man thought that she must have made the trip many times. At last they climbed out of a valley — he saw her silhouetted for a moment on the ridge — and reached a wide plateau. Nick guessed that it would overlook the Khyber Pass at a narrow sector — probably it was one of the old forts built by the British in the last century. The Pathan tribesmen had always been trouble and the English had never really conquered them.

Nick came up a narrow path to the ridge too fast and was nearly caught. He heard the girl speak to someone and ducked behind a huge boulder just as lightning flashed again.

The girl said: “Ynfalla jehad!” If God wills a holy war.

A coarse male voice replied, “Lahewl. Pass, memsahib. They are waiting for you.”

N3 huddled behind his boulder and thought fast. Lightning had given him a glimpse of the huge crumbling old stone fort. And the Pathan guard. Big man. He would be well armed and tough. There would be many others in sound of his voice. This was going to be a little delicate. Nick flexed his right arm and the stiletto, Hugo, dropped into his hand.

The girl had vanished through a small postern in the old wall. N3 stepped from behind his rock and walked steadily toward the same spot. The challenge would come in a moment.

It came. “Who is that? Halt!” The Pathan’s voice was fierce and suspicious.

Nick Carter sauntered coolly onward. He had to get closer. There must be no sound. He gambled. “Comrade Carter,” he said in Chinese. “Comrade Nick Carter. Has the lady passed in yet?” He had no Pashto and was betting that his double hadn’t either. The Chinese should identify him, or at least confuse the guard.

The ruse worked. The Pathan hesitated long enough for Nick to get in close just as lightning tore the dark sky apart. The man sensed something wrong and stepped back. His rifle came up. Nick Carter sprang.

Nick got in close and put the stiletto into the man’s throat. The murderous blade tangled in the thick beard as it went deep into flesh. Nick ripped it across, severing the jugular and turned quickly aside to escape the spurting blood, leaving the blade in the throat to prevent an outcry. The man died quickly and Nick eased him to the wet ground. He yanked out the stiletto and wiped it on the man’s goatskin cloak. He pulled the body out of sight behind some boulders and went back to the postern gate and stood listening for a moment. From deep in the fort came the faint rise and fall of voices. It sounded like a heated discussion.

N3 went through the postern like a drifting shadow. Inside, to his right, a guttering oil torch was thrust into a rusty iron ringbolt. A stink of mutton oil was heavy in the narrow, bricked passage. To his left the floor sloped upward and he could see the reflection of another torch just around a bend. The voices came from that direction.

To his right the passage sloped downward. Nick followed it, guessing that it would lead to the old casemates, thick-walled and iron-doored cells where the British had stored their powder and shot. If what he was looking for was in the fort at all — it should be in the casemates.

The musty dank passage led down and down. Presently he saw another oil torch glimmering where the brick tunnel ended in a cross-passage. He went soft footed, hardly breathing, the Luger in his right hand with the safety off.

N3 peered around the corner into the cross-passage. To his left was a blank wall. To his right he could see tall iron doors on massive hinges. They were nearly closed, just the thickness of a man’s body separating the iron lips. From within the dungeon they guarded came a faint murmur of voices. N3 ran as lightly as a huge cat to the doors and flattened himself against them.

The men in the casemate kept murmuring in subdued tones. Nick could make out an odd slip-slapping sound. It was a moment before he caught on. Then it came — they were playing cards! He applied a furtive eye to the crack between the iron doors.

There were two of them, swarthy and bearded and turbaned. Both were burdened with heavy leather bandoliers and their riffles were standing against a packing case nearby. N3’s quick eye missed nothing. The rifles were old Krags — so the new arms had not yet been doled out? — and the stenciling on the packing case said GRENADES.

This was it. The end of the arms trail.

One of the sentries laughed harshly and slapped down a card. “ Rona , fool! Weep! I win! And is it not time for our relief? Where is that misbegotten son of a sick camel? My belly gapes!”

The other man flung his cards away with a curse. “You have the luck of Shaitan himself! Wait, Omar — wait! Smell that? Is it not—”

Nick Carter cursed softly and fumbled with his trouser. Pierre, the terrible little gas pellet, slipped from his fingers and tinkled on the brick floor. Blood had made his fingers slippery. And blood had given him away to the Pathans. They could smell blood a mile away!

Both men leaped for their rifles. Nick scooped up the gas pellet, twisted the dial, and flung it into the casemate all in one fluid motion. He threw his weight against the great iron doors and strained with every muscle in his powerful body. God — they were heavy! Immense! But they were moving. Slowly. Very slowly.

The guards had time for one shot apiece before they died. The slugs flattened themselves against the iron doors and whined back around the chamber. N3 stood with his back to the massive doors and breathed a silent little prayer — if those shots had been heard—

Five nervous minutes passed and no one came to investigate. Nick breathed a little easier, but not much. A relief was due soon. And soon enough the body of the other guard would be found. There was not a minute to lose. He had made his move now, launched his attack, and he was off and running for his life. Hesitation, a single mistake, a goof of any kind, and he was a dead man. If he was lucky he would die quickly. If not — well, he remembered the buried Pakistanis. N3 shrugged his big shoulders and pried the doors open again. Karma — Kismet — Inshallah! You name it. It all added up to Fate and luck and it never did any good to worry once the battle had started.

He took a deep breath and plunged into the casemate. From that moment on he was too busy to worry.