Nick Carter - Istanbul

Nick had to grin. "Don't knock the play-acting," he said. "Sometimes it means life or death — but I agree with you now, it's time for a break." He went close to the bed and leered down at her in his best fat man's manner. "A love break, eh, baby?"

He bent to kiss her. Mija pulled away, covering her mouth with her hand to choke back laughter. "No! I will not make love with a fat old man! Go and take it off, please."

Nick stood by the bed, arms akimbo, looking down at her with mock anger. "So you're a tease! A gold-digger! You don't care anything about me — all you want is my money."

Mija rolled over on her flat stomach and stuck out her tongue. Nick slapped her firm little behind, letting his hand linger for a moment on the soft warmth of flesh through nylon. Mija squealed softly and twisted over. One of her tawny melon breasts slipped completely from the black brassiere and dared Nick to kiss it.

He did and for a moment Mija permitted it and her hands came up to cradle his head. Then she squirmed away again. "No! Not until you are the real Nick. Please? Cabuk! Hurry — darling? That is right, no — darling?"

"That is right," said Nick. He smiled down at her, lingering a moment, feeling his sense being flogged to action by the sensual impact of her. She lay splayed on the bed, the black bra and panties mere filmy shadows across the gold-cream nakedness of her. Her hair was short black silk on the pillow, her face in the dusk an oval with a crimson flower for a mouth. Mija looked up at him, unsmiling now, her lashes hooding the great long brown eyes.

"Cabuk darling. Doha cabuk!"

When Nick came out of the bathroom more dusk had gathered in the room. He saw a filmy pile of black beside the bed. He approached and stood beside her. "Asleep?"

Mija looked at him a long time before she answered. Then, very softly, she said, "You are beautiful. So beautiful."

"Not many people call me that," Nick said. "They call me a great many things, but not that. From you I accept it as a compliment." He sank onto the bed beside her.

She stroked the great muscles with her fingertips. "You are a great monster, you know. Not at all like the other one — Mr. Stout? What is happen to him?"

Nick kissed her breasts. Both peaks were rigid. He slid his mouth across hers in a soft kiss. Her lips clung to his, moist, eager.

"Mr. Stout went home to Indiana," he told her. "He's a respectable married man with two kids. This is not for him."

Mija clung to him, pressing her breasts to his face. "You are a big fool when you wish to be. I… I am a fool also. A different kind of fool."

Nick kissed her ear. "What kind?"

He could barely hear her whisper. "The worst kind — I think perhaps I am fall in love with you."

Nick shook his head without taking his mouth from hers. "Don't! Never do that. Worst mistake a girl can make."

He could feel her trembling. Her flesh was hot against his and he could hear the pounding of her heart beneath the tender plum-smooth flesh of her left breast. Her fragrance, compounded of fragile perfume and the musk odor of an excited woman, enveloped him. This, he knew, was going to be good. By this time he well knew the connection between danger and sex, at least in himself. The blend made a raging stallion of him. Sex just before he put his life on the line was sex at its best.

They kissed for a long time. Their tongues were melding now. Mija arched her back, bowing her long spine into a curving bridge, trembling and shaking and gasping. She forgot her English and lapsed into soft Turkish. Her hands were avid for his muscular body. His big hands found out every secret of her soft one. Then at last they were one and the beautiful and terrible battle began. Together they savaged each other and the wide bed — on and on and on. As though this meeting of flesh in the night should never end.

Mija began to weep. "Daha cabuk," she sobbed. "Doha cabuk! Faster!"

Nick had forgotten everything in the universe but this red cave into which he. must plunge deeper and deeper. He struggled frantically on now in love-hate and tenderhurt with a terrible obsession to cleave and rend and utterly subdue her.

Mija squealed like a proud Arabian mare that had been conquered at last.

Half an hour later Nick awoke from a light slumber. Mija was lost in heavy dreams beside him. Nick took the Luger from beneath the pillow — she had not suspected its presence — and went into the bathroom. He glanced at his watch. Nearly time to listen to Singing Sam.

He took his electric razor from its case. Then an electric toothbrush which he despised and never used, but which made a splendid antenna. Old Poindexter, of Special Effects, said it added at least two thousand miles to the razor-radio's effective range. Nick smiled to himself. They would see now. He seldom used the razor gadget — but now it was the only contact he would have with Hawk for a time. And that would be one way. Nick could only listen, not reply.

He adjusted a tiny, nearly invisible knob on the razor, twiddling with it a moment. He hooked the electric toothbrush into the circuit — a tiny jack into a miniscule hole. A metallic buzzing came from the razor. Nick put it to his ear and listened. A miniature storm of static roared in his ear for a moment, then Hawk's voice came through clearly. Nick glanced at his watch again. Right on the nose!

Hawk's voice was small but perfectly clear, as though a doll was talking in a lucid, flowing, and very tiny voice.

Nick Carter sat on the toilet seat and listened. He was naked, stripped of all makeup, six feet of muscular bomb that could explode at any moment. As he listened to Hawk's voice crackle on and on his facial expression changed ever so slightly. The fine high brow creased and the lean face tightened over the good bone structure. Jaw muscles bunched beneath the flat, close to the head ears. For just a fleeting moment N3 looked like a death's head. Then he relaxed, sighed, and flicked off the razor-radio.

Nick was disturbed, deeply disturbed by what he had heard. Part of what Hawk had said might be helpful — another part had torn a large chunk out of his world.

N3 slid off the toilet seat to the floor and assumed the primary yoga position. He must think this out. He breathed deeply, pulling the flat muscle banded belly into arching concavity. Slowly he entered a state of semi-trance. His breathing slacked off to a mere whisper.

As he drifted inward, into the adyta of innermost being. Nick asked one question.

"Why, Mousy? Goddamnit — why?"

There was a gibbous moon, just past the half, and the pale radiance produced in turn a great many shadows atop the Divan Hotel. There was the larger shadow of a half completed structure — it did seem to be a penthouse going up — and there were the many smaller shadows of water tower, elevator machinery housing, and the children's playground. There was also one tall, angular, wideshouldered shadow that was as silent and unmoving as the others. For a good half hour this latter shadow stood without movement and watched the gold glowing rectangles that were the windows of Defarge & Co., Ltd.

There were only three lighted windows now. The private suite of Maurice Defarge himself, the watcher presumed. Very private indeed. He had seen an armed guard making his tour of the empty offices. The man did a thorough job, but when he reached a short flight of stairs leading up to a single door he stopped. Beyond that, the watcher thought now with a dry little smile, would be the private domain of Maurice Defarge. Where a fat, sick old spider lay in bed and continued to spin webs.

That privacy would be invaded tonight!

At last N3 moved from the shadows into the moonlight. Moved lightly, as stealthy as a ghost. He wore black trousers, very tight fitting, black sneakers and a black sweat shirt. He was bare headed and his close-cropped hair was stained a darker hue than usual. But it was the face that had undergone the most striking change. Here was nothing of the lecherous, late and unlamented Mr. Stout, nor of the real Nick Carter. These were Mongol features — a pale saffron skin, slant eyes, flat nose. Here, indeed was a Chinese gentleman skulking among the shadows atop the Divan Hotel.