Nick Carter - The Living Death

Buckingham Palace and "birds," miniskirts and majesty, tradition and Twiggy, Carnaby Street and King s Row. That's what I was seeing, that strange admixture that is London today. I'd been walking the streets of the "Colossus astride the Thames" and there was one thing I'd definitely concluded. It was no accident, no vague, straying wind of fashion that the miniskirt originated in London. The English girls have the legs for it and the hips for it and, most of all, the walk for it. I know; I'd been watching them all day, ever since I had arrived at the airport that morning and found Denny wasn't home. It wasn't time for killing yet, so I was killing time.

There's a walk the English girls have, a way they have of striking out. They talk with their legs. They say; "These legs are lovely and they're mine and they could be yours, if I want them to be." In a way, I couldn't help thinking, those legs and hips were a twentieth-century physical reaffirmation of the Magna Carta. "I'm English, I'm a free soul and I'm my own master," they seemed to say. "I've a right to wear my skirt short, to go where I please, to sleep with whoever takes my fancy, King, Crown and commoner be damned." I exchanged glances with one free-swinging, long-legged lovely, her mini just covering the bottom of her swinging little rear.

It would be nice, I told myself, if just once I could get a week in London without being on assignment for AXE. Just little old me, Nick Carter, and not agent N3, working. And this trip was bound to make me look longingly at all the open, direct young things. On this trip I was feeling like a duck in a shooting gallery. That's why I'd wangled the extra day to see Denny, only to find her not home. Of course, according to Hawk, I ought not to be feeling this way and, in all honesty, you couldn't ignore the old fox's sixth sense. I have pretty damn good antennae of my own, but compared to Hawk, they're strictly a crystal set. Behind those steely blue eyes, behind that calm, unruffled exterior, there's a collection of antennae, sounding boards and sensitized reactors that would make an interstellar listening post envious. Let's face it, that's what makes Hawk the top exec for AXE. He's shrewd, smart, resourceful and uncanny. As I strolled about Trafalgar Square I saw the scene once again in Hawk's office at AXE headquarters in Washington. It had been only a day ago but I wasn't likely to forget it.

Hawk had fixed me with his bland, casual expression, his soft-sell approach. We'd worked together for so many years that it was hard for him to find a tactic I couldn't recognize.

"The message is ambiguous, I'll admit, Nick," he said. "The woman called our source and said she had something extremely important and would speak only to a top AXE agent. She set up the complicated meeting procedure I outlined to you."

"Obviously she feels she may be under surveillance," I went along. "But you haven't any idea what it could be. It might even be a hoax."

Hawk smiled indulgently, his smile telling me I was being childish to think he hadn't considered that one. I smiled back. I wasn't being childish and he knew it.

"She could be an advance agent for someone who wants to defect, perhaps her husband, a man of prominence," he went on. "Or perhaps her own self. Maybe she is someone with valuable information to sell. She might even be someone who wants to work for us, someone in a sensitive position. Or, frankly, it could concern any number of things."

That's when I threw mine in, with some stuffiness, I'll admit.

"What if it's a clever setup to kill top AXE agents, me in particular?" I asked. Hawk remained silent for a long moment. Finally, he unpursed his lips and commented. Give him credit for his uncompromising New England honesty, even when it hurt.

"It's a possibility. I have to admit that," he said. "But I don't think it's a probability. Our source has always been a most reliable one. We must proceed on the assumption that a woman has something very valuable to give us and has requested a meeting."

I was waiting for him to toss the ball back to me. He did.

"But, if what you brought up should be true, Nick," he said, "then it's even more important you put a stop to that kind of foolishness at once."

He smiled, so damned pleased with himself that I had to break into a grin along with him. So here I was in jolly London town on what might be a hoax, a very important meeting for America, or a deadly trap. I still leaned to the last one and looked forward to being wrong in this instance. Luck hadn't been running my way, though. Denny being away all day after I'd managed to get here a whole day early was more than disappointing. Denny Robertson was more than a memory. She was a very special page from the past. We'd met some years ago, when she was a lot younger than I'd realized. It was immediately apparent that she was not someone to meet and turn into a memory. I'm hardly the kind that women easily get to. It has always been my firm belief that girls, the true-love, waiting-by-the-picket-fence kind of girls, had no place in the life of an international agent. Girls, other than in that way, had a helluva big place. They were the best damned way to wipe away all the ugliness, the taste of death, the glimpses into hell that made up this business. But Denny Robertson had been different from all the others. Not that she could make me change my opinions on the place of girls in my life, or that she'd tried, but she'd reached me in a way no other girl ever had. As I said, she was a lot younger than I'd realized. I found that out the night we made love. I also found out how naturally talented she was. I'd been called away a day later and the whole brief interlude had left us both like two music lovers who had heard only half a symphony. They both desperately want to hear the second half.

The list of girls I'd enjoyed and left, for one reason or another, was a mile long. Brief interludes were a built-in part of my life. And some, of course, stayed longer in the memory than others, each for their own reasons. But only with Denny Robertson had I felt the unfinished symphony syndrome, the feeling of having to go back. Not that we'd had an idyllic relationship. She'd called me every name under the sun on a couple of occasions and her temper and her jealousy matched. In the letters she'd written to me two or three times a year since then, she'd never been maudlin, never been anything but gay. But she had put into words an echo of the things I had felt. She had never been able to forget that one night, or me. Everything since, for her, had been second best, she'd written in one letter. I could see her fine, delicate handwriting in my mind.

When are you going to stop by and visit me again, Nick? Why are the absolute rotters like you so unforgettable? Please try. I know it'll only be en passant, and I know I'll no doubt get terribly angry at you for something or other, but do try. Who knows, maybe you've reformed and become a thoroughly likable chap.

I had tried, a few times, and we'd always missed connections. Denny wasn't one to sit around and stare into space. She was very British and had grown up with plenty of money and all it could buy. Finishing schools, ballet schools, riding academies and the very best of British gentlemen as escorts. But she also had the things money can't buy — breeding, honesty, intelligence. Denny was equally at home in a miniskirt, jodhpurs or an evening gown, a feat few girls can equal. The frank, open British girls who unabashedly showed their interest in me as I passed diem couldn't know that their chances had been made even slimmer by a memory. I saw a phone booth and called Denny again. I had till two o'clock in the morning to wait for a phone call, the first step in the contact procedure. It would be much pleasanter if I were waiting with Denny. This time the phone was answered by a voice that opened the floodgates of memory.