"You've lied to me since we met, darling. But I understand because you had a role to play and you didn't know me. Now I'm being honest with you."
She lost some cool. "Stop trying to turn the tables and say something that makes sense."
"I love you."
"Save that for later if you mean
that.
I can't believe
anything
you say."
Her voice was hard. The gloves were coming off. Nick said, "Remember Lebanon?"
"What?"
"Remember Harry Demarkin?"
"No."
"And they got a picture of you with Wheel-and-Deal Tyson. Bet you didn't know that." That shook her. "Yes," he followed it up — a live lead. "Hans is so stupid. He wanted to throw you to the other side. Using the picture. Imagine if you talked."
He had never used the small version of the automatic pilot designed for general aviation and small planes, but he had been checked out on it He set the course — locked the ship on. It seemed efficient. He lit a cigarette and sat back. Jeanyee refused one. She said, "Everything you have said is a lie."
"You said yourself I was too strong for an oil peddler."
"You're too much all around."
She was strikingly beautiful with those dark brows arched low and her mouth taut and the eyes glowing in concentration. She was pressing too hard. She wanted to solve this herself in case he wasn't one of the gang and she'd be in double trouble after they landed. She must have a weapon. What? Where?
At last she said, "You're some kind of cop. Maybe you did get a picture of me with Tyson. That's where your lead started."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Interpol, Jerry?"
"The U.S. has twenty-eight intelligence arms. Run through them. And half of them are looking for me."
"Maybe you're British then, but you aren't one of us. Silence. "All right..." Now her voice was low and hard, as biting and keen as Hugo after he honed the shining blade on a fine stone. "You mentioned Harry Demarkin. That makes you AXE more than likely."
"Sure. And CIA and FBI." Both sets of gloves were slipping off now. In a moment you tossed them into each other's faces and went for your Derringers or Pepperboxes.
Nick felt regret. She was so gorgeous — and he had hardly begun to explore her talents. That spine was made of flexible steel cable, all covered with dense foam rubber. You could... She moved a hand suddenly and he alerted. She flicked a bead of sweat from the neat valley under her lips.
"No," she said bitterly. "You aren't amateur night or a law clerk marking time until he can make a connection."
Nick's eyebrows went up. He must tell Hawk that one. "You did a perfect job on Demarkin. Dad approved."
"Stop that crap."
"Now you're angry with me."
"You're a fascist bastard."
"You jumped to that idea awful fast. I saved your life. We were — very close in Washington, I thought. You're the kind of a girl I could..."
"Bullshit, buster," she interrupted. "I was soft for a few hours. Like almost everything else in my life, it's gone sour. You're law. But I wish I knew which and what."
"All right then. Tell me how it went with Tyson. Did you have any trouble?"
She sat sullenly in an attitude of simmering rage, her arms folded. He tried a few more remarks. She refused to reply. He checked the course, admired the new autopilot, and sighed and slumped in his seat He put out his cigarette.
A few minutes later he mumbled, "What a night. I'm pooped." He relaxed. Sighed. The day was cloudless. He glanced down at the forested mountains, undulating under them like billows of green, unevenly rising bread. He peeked at his watch, checked course and speed, and estimated wind and drift. He mentally computed the aircraft's position. He dropped his eyelids and pretended to doze.
When he next risked a glance through slitted eyes her arms were unfolded. Her right hand was out of sight and that worried him, but he dared not move and stop whatever she was doing. He could feel the tension and menace of her purpose. Sometimes he thought that, because of his training, he could smell danger like a horse or dog.
He lost sight of her other hand.
He gave a dull sigh and murmured, "Don't try anything, Jeanyee, unless you're a hot pilot yourself. This thing is on a new autopilot that I'll bet you aren't checked out on." He sank lower in the seat. "Flying through these mountains is tough anyway ..."
He breathed deeply, his head tilted away from her. He heard tiny movements. What was it? Perhaps her brassiere was 1000-1b. test nylon and made a garrote. Even if it had a self-locking clip he could handle that Explosive? Not in a plane. Blade? Where? The feeling of danger and evil became so strong he had to make an effort to keep from moving, looking, acting in self-protection. He kept his eyes slitted, watching.
Something moved at the top of his small field of vision and came down. Instinctively he stopped breathing on an intake as some sort of film lowered over his head and he heard a tiny "Phut." He held his breath — thought
gas.
Or a vapor of some kind. So that's how they did it! With the Hood of Death! It must be instantaneous, murderous stuff with fantastic expansion to enable a girl to take men like Harry Demarkin and Tyson. He exhaled a few cubic centimeters to keep the stuff from getting at his nasal tissues. Drew up his pelvis to keep pressure in his lungs.
He counted. One, two, three ... she had closed it around his neck ... held it tight with a strange gentleness. 120, 121, 122, 123 ...
He let every muscle and tissue go limp, except those of his lungs and pelvis. Like a Yogi he commanded his body to be utterly relaxed and lifeless. He let his eyes drift open a little. 160, 161, 162...
She lifted one of his hands. The arm lay as limp and lifeless as wet paper pulp. She dropped it — again with the strange tenderness. She was talking. "Good-bye, baby. You were something else. Please forgive me. You're a rat bastard like all the others but I guess the nicest rat bastard I ever met. I wish it was different I'm a born loser. Someday the world will be different If I ever get up to those Catskills I'll remember you. Maybe I'll remember you anyway ... for a long time." She gave a small sob.
He had little time now. His senses were dulling quickly, the blood flow was slowing. She opened a window. Lifted from his head a hood of silk-thin plastic. She rolled it between her palms, looking at it as it compressed and vanished like a magician's scarf. Then she held it up between a thumb and forefinger. Attached to its bottom dangled a colorless capsule no bigger than a clay marble.
She waggled the small ball back and forth. It was attached to the postage-stamp-size packet in her hand by a tiny tube, like an umbilical cord. "Nasty thing," she said bitterly.
"It sure is," Nick agreed. He blew out his remaining air with a blast, leaned over her to breathe only the fresh flow from her window. As he sat back in his own seat she screamed. "You!..."
"Yeah, me. So that's how you got Harry and Tyson."
She crawled to the side of the small cabin like a newly captured chipmunk in a box trap, avoiding a grab, searching for a way out.
"Relax," Nick said. He made no effort to grab her. 'Tell me all about Geist and Akito and Baumann. Perhaps I can help you."
She got the door open against the wind pressure. Nick turned off the autopilot and throttled down. She squirmed out of the cabin feet first. She looked directly at him, with an expression compounded of horror and hate and a strange weariness.
"Come back," he said — authoritative and loud and clear. "Don't be a fool. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not dead. I held my breath."
She balaneed half out of the plane. He could grab her wrist, and with his strength and a left tilt of the ship probably tumble her in whether she wanted to or not. Should he? She would be as valuable to AXE dead as alive, because of the plan he was making. If she survived she'd spend drab years in the secret Texas compound few Americans guess about, fewer see, and none mention. Years? She was entitled to a choice. His jaw hardened. He glanced at the bank-turn indicator and held the ship level. "Come back in, Jeanyee."
"Good-bye."
Her two words seemed softer and sad; without heat or hate — or was it his illusion? She was gone.
He estimated position again, went down a few hundred feet. Near a narrow country road he saw a sign on a barn, OX HOLLOW, located it on an oil company map and marked it on his chart.
* * *
When he landed the owner of the charter outfit was on duty. He wanted to talk about flight plans and business difficulties. Nick said, "Good ship. Lovely trip. Thank you so much. "Good-bye."
Either Jeanyee's body hadn't been found or the airport check hadn't reached this far yet. He called a cab from the telephone booth on the edge of the road. Then he called Hawk's current floating number — a circuit changed at random for use when scramblers were unavailable. He reached him in less than a minute. Hawk said, "Yes, Plunger."
"Suspect number twelve committed suicide about fifteen miles, 290 degrees from Ox Hollow which is about eighty-five miles from last action point."
"Well find it."
"No link to the firm or me. Better connect and cool, though. We were in my transportation. She left."
"Understood."
"We should meet. I have interesting points."
"Can you make it Fox time? Point Five?"
"See you there."
Nick hung up and stood with his hand on his chin for a moment. AXE would provide the Ox Hollow area authorities with an acceptable explanation for Jeanyee's death. He wondered if anyone would claim her body. He must check that. She was on the other team, but who has a chance to choose?
Fox Time and Point Five were a simple code for time and place, in this case a private meeting room at the Army and Navy Club.
Nick rode in a cab to within three blocks of the truck terminal near Route 7. He got out and walked the remaining distance after the cab was out of sight. The day was sunny-hot, traffic a thundering stream. Mr. Williams vanished.
Three hours later "Jerry Deming" rolled the Thunderbird into the stream of cars and mentally marked himself "present" in current society. He stopped at a stationery store and bought a common black marking pencil and a block of notepaper, along with a packet of white envelopes.
In his apartment he scanned his odds and ends of mail, opened a bottle of Saratoga water, and wrote five notes. Each was the same —
And then there were five.
From the data sheets Hawk had given him he took the likely addresses of Ruth, Suzi, Anne, Pong-Pong and Sonya. Likely because Anne's and Sonya's file included the notation subject may use this address for mail only." He addressed the envelopes by printing and fastened the packet together with a rubber band.
Carefully he studied the cards and papers he had taken from the two men in the lounge of the house in Pennsylvania — he thought of it as the "private sporting annex." They seemed to be legitimate members of the cartel which controls the eagle's share of Mideast oil.
Then he set his alarm-radio and went to sleep until 6:00 P.M. He had one drink at the Washington-Hilton, dined on steak, salad and pecan pie at DuBarry's, and at ten minutes of eight strolled into the Army and Navy Club. Hawk was waiting for him in the comfortably furnished private room — a room engaged and used for only one month, then they would switch to another location.
His chief was standing near the small unlit fireplace and he and Nick exchanged a firm handshake and a long look. Nick knew the tireless head of AXE must have done his usual long day's work — he usually reached the office before eight Yet he seemed as calm and fresh as a man who has had an afternoon nap. There were tremendous reserves in that spare, stringy body.
Hawk's genial, leathery features focused on Nick as he made his own evaluation. It was a mark of his perception that he withheld their usual banter. "I'm glad you came out all right, Nicholas. Barney and Bill said they heard faint sounds of considerable — ah, target practice. The county coroner has Miss Ahling. The death won't make the wire services."
"She chose death. But you might say I allowed her the choice."
"Then it was not technically a Killmaster termination. I'll report it so. Have you written your report?"
"No. I was dead tired. I'll do it tonight. Here's the way it was. I drove up the road we marked on the map..."
He told Hawk exactly what had happened, using sparse phrases. When he finished he gave Hawk the cards and papers taken from the oil men's wallets.
Hawk looked at them bitterly. 'The name of the game seems always to be money. The information that Judas-Bormann is somewhere in the nasty web is priceless. Can he and Command One be the same?"
"Possibly. I wonder what they will do now? They'll be puzzled and worried about Mr. Williams. Will they go to ground?"
"Perhaps. But I believe they may blame the British and carry on. They're doing something far too big to dismantle their apparatus. They'll wonder if Williams was a thief, or a lover of Jeanyee's. They'll consider stopping whatever they're up to, and then they won't."
Nick nodded. Hawk was logical, as always. He accepted a small brandy which Hawk poured from a decanter. Then the senior man said, "I have a bit of bad news. John Villon had a strange accident. His rifle discharged in his Jeep and he drove over a bank. The slug went right through him of course. He's dead."
"Those devils!" Nick pictured the neat farmhouse. A retreat from society that had turned into a trap. "He thought he could handle them. But those listening devices were a giveaway. They must have grabbed him, searched the place carefully and decided to eliminate him."
"That's the best answer. His sister Martha is entangled with a rightest outfit in California. She's a queen in the Squires of the White Camellia. Ever hear of it?"