Nick Carter - Double Identity

“How considerate of them. I’ll bet I can guess, too. Why fool around with a fake Nick Carter when you can have the real thing, eh? Get me and brainwash me and turn me loose again in about five years. I’d play hell with Uncle’s security then, wouldn’t I? That it?”

Her perfect teeth flashed. “About. No matter. I’ve got you — now I can stop playing house with that other fool. That’s what gave you away, you know.” Her smile was sly and tinged with lust. “You’re terrific! My God — the Turtle was never like that. In a way it’s a shame that I have to turn you over to them.”

Nick was enjoying himself. Fun while you wait If it was coming the explosion should be any minute now.

Nick gave her a maddeningly slow smile. “What if I don’t go with you? You really wouldn’t want to shoot me. Peking wouldn’t like it. Also, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. There’s not going to be a jehad. Your tribesmen are not going to use those two sets of uniforms to keep the war going. And if you’re expecting help from your Turtle — don’t. He’s a bit tied up at the moment.” He leaned toward her. She moved away and pushed the pistol at him. “Stay away!”

Nick went on, “I’m going to make you a proposition— give you a chance. You’d better take it. All hell is due to break loose around here. You’ll be in the middle of it, with a lot of mad Pathans after your lily white hide. You would be smart to come with me. Right now. I’ll get you back to the States and you can stand trial. After I kill your boy, of course. The Turtle. Well — think fast, Miss Cravens. I’m a temperamental guy — I may withdraw that offer any time.”

She spat at him. Sudden hate glared in her eyes. “You lousy, crummy superior bastard! You come in here, throw your stinking weight around and think you can bulldoze and fast talk me into going back to the States. That stinking idiotic country! I’d die first!”

“You might at that. If the Pathans get you afterwards.”

“After what?” she screamed. “After what? Y — you moron! I’ve got the gun, remember. Jesus — I wish I dared kill you now!”

Nick waggled a finger at her. “Ah-ah — Peking not like.”

He had her mad enough now. Raving. But why didn’t the goddamned fort blow? Come on, grenade! Come on!

As if in answer, it started right then. A gradually rising, high keening blast superimposed on the basso of the explosion. The cottage twisted on its foundation. A giant hand lifted it and put it down askew. Walls cracked and big chunks of ceiling came down. A small chandelier came down with a crash.

Beth Cravens screamed. Nick reached and flicked the little gun out of her hand. He made a fist and tapped her behind the ear, hard but not too hard. She slumped on the bed. He gazed at her for a moment, feeling no pity now. Next stop a Federal prison. He didn’t suppose they would shoot her. Not in so-called peace time.

“Get your hands up! Drop the gun!”

N3 dropped it. It was no good to him anyway — not enough gun to handle this situation. He put up his hands and stared coldly at the man in the doorway. His double. The Turtle. And he was carrying a shield — Mike Bannion!

The impostor was behind Mike, one brawny arm around the little man’s throat to hold him in position. It wasn’t difficult. Mike was very drunk. His eyes rolled wildly and his knees sagged.

Mike’s old Webley was in the double’s hand. It was sighted firmly on Nick Carter’s naked belly. God damn it! To come so far, to be so close, and then be destroyed by a well-meaning drunk! Mike must have been looking for him, to help, and had somehow stumbled into the phony agent.

The Chinese agent held Mike in a vise of muscle that so nearly matched Nick’s. He looked at the unconscious girl. “You kill her?” His eyes were clear and his voice firm and he looked every inch the killer. Nick guessed that he was out of hypnosis — it had worn off or the man had been shocked out of it.

“She’s not dead,” he told the man. “Just knocked out. You intend to kill me?”

“What else?” The eyes, so very like Nick’s own, were cold and empty. The only expression in them was that of wariness.

Cautiously, not moving, thinking furiously, Nick said, “Won’t it be sort of like killing yourself?”

The Webley did not waver. The man watched Nick with cold contempt. The AXE man could see the final decision to kill arriving in the man’s eyes.

He nodded toward the girl. “She told me that Peking wants me alive.”

“So I make a mistake. I got the orders wrong. And for God’s sake cut the crap — don’t try to con me! We’re both pros and you lost, so shut up and die like a pro.” The finger tightened on the trigger of the Webley.

Nick Carter’s admiration was not all feigned. “You’re a hard case,” he said. “Where are you from in the States? You still got any people there?”

“None of your screwing business!” The finger moved on the trigger.

Mike Bannion began to squirm and thrash around. He was helpless, held by the massive arms of the impostor as though he were a rag doll. But the struggle prolonged Nick’s life for another second. The man applied a powerful pressure to Mike Bannion’s throat. The little man tried to fight back, tugging and pulling at the muscular arm that was throttling him. His eyes found Nick for a moment and he tried to grin and panted, “I–I shorry, Nick. I found him — thought he you! I be good guy, untie and now… I so shorry…” He passed out.

His double grinned evilly at Nick. “Let that be a lesson to you! Never hire drunken help. Now you get—”

Nick clasped both hands. “If you’re really going to kill me I’d like to pray for a minute. Surely you won’t deny me that — no matter what you are now. You were once an American. I’d guess you were a soldier once. You must have had buddies who died in battle. You wouldn’t deny a man the right to a last prayer?”

It was corny and he knew it, but he was gambling for his life. He had to get off the bed and on his knees. The Luger was under the bed, at the foot, where he had dropped it when he climbed into bed with the woman.

Contempt flickered in the other man’s eyes. He scanned the bedroom rapidly. If he looks under the bed, Nick thought, I’ve had it. I’ll have to jump the gun and this time I won’t make it.

The cold eyes came back to Nick. The man tightened his grip on the sagging flesh shield that was Mike Bannion. It was the shield that finally decided him. He couldn’t see how Nick could get at him.

The man said: “I’ll make a bargain with you, Carter. You want to pray? So pray. But first you answer a question — and if I think you’re lying I’ll kill you right now. Bang! No prayers. Okay?”

“Okay. What’s the question?”

The man’s smile was as mean as Nick’s own could be. “I had to kill a couple of guys because I couldn’t come up with something they called a Golden Number. At first it was just routine — they didn’t even ask me until after I had what I wanted — but after, when I couldn’t come up with that damned number, they got suspicious and I had to kill them. So what’s the Golden Number? If I can take that back to Peking it might help square me for this mess.” The Webley twitched at Nick. “You talking or you want to die noble? Without prayer? Tell the truth and I’ll let you pray. Maybe a whole minute.”

“I’ll tell you.” It was another gamble. If he lost now he would louse up a lot of other agents. Get them killed. Nick decided not to lie, though he was good at it In this bind he simply couldn’t chance it.

“It’s the number of the year in the old Metonic Cycle. That’s nineteen years. So the number can be anything from 1 to 19. Every agent’s number varies, depending on who is asking the identifying question. The contact gives the agent a year, any year, and the agent identifying himself adds one to it. Then he divides by nineteen. The remainder is the Golden Number. Nineteen is the golden number when there is no remainder. Simple?”