There was a certain studied carelessness in the movements of Killmaster now. Hawk would have been vastly puzzled at the sloppiness of his Number One Boy. Nick leaped to the roof below. He did it easily, but clumsily. He fell and rolled and allowed himself to curse aloud. He stood in silhouette and brushed himself off, muttering angrily, and made more noise than a bear in a thicket. There was a coldness along his spine that couldn't be helped. If they were around — the other losers, Russian or Chinese — he had to draw them. About the winners, Russian or Chinese, he didn't have to worry at the moment. They would be making time and tracks.
He crossed the roof, shambling noisily, and climbed awkwardly over a parapet leading to the next roof. The buildings were on the same level to the end of the block. Then he would have to descend to the street.
It was on the third building that he found the body of Avatar.
It was lying in deep shadow near the base of a ventilator. Nick saw it in time, but let himself appear to stumble over it. He cursed. If he was being watched — he hoped he was — they must be hard put to contain their laughter, would think they had the world's prize jackass to deal with.
He had never met the Berlin man in person, but he had been shown a picture in Washington. The man had been a top agent, yet without the rank of Killmaster. Only three other men held that rank in AXE, with Nick Carter the senior officer. Yet this had been a good man, a very good man, and now he was dead. Nick knelt beside the body, using his pen light, and made a rapid search of the pockets. There was no wallet, no credentials. They would have taken those for possible future use, for copying and forgery. Everything else was in order. Avatar had not been in disguise. He was wearing an American-made business suit of conservative cut, a white shirt and a dark blue tie. His felt hat had rolled a few feet away when the bullet had taken him between the eyes. Nick let the tiny beam rest for a moment on the black hole, the rictus of death, the staring eyes. He wondered if the guy had had a wife. A family? Few AXEmen did.
With a thumb and forefinger he closed the eyes, patted the still warm cheek and got to his feet. Avatar must have checked at the hotel, found that Raymond Lee Bennett was still there, either seen or somehow heard of the woman and the others and had decided to move without waiting for Nick. Lacking Killmaster rank, still, on the mission, he would have been licensed to kill. Fate had given matters a reverse twist.
Nick Carter went on his way over the roofs. He came to the last building, found a rusty fire escape leading down to a narrow street that ran off toward the dock area. What had been a hunch, a suspicion, became a near certainty. Bennett and the woman must be trying to get out of Cologne by an unusual route — the river. It would be slow — that would be the chief drawback — but there were also many advantages. Roads can be easily blocked; trains, planes, buses, private cars can be easily stopped and searched. It is hard to blockade a river as large and as busy as the Rhine.
As he dropped from the last fire ladder to the narrow cobbled lane he told himself that it must be the Chinese — they had Bennett! Time would have been of the essence to the Russians; it would not matter so much to the Chinese. They were a patient people, and China was a hell of a long way off — they would try to find a safe hole and go to ground. Wait. The Rhine was cluttered with tugs, steamers, barges and sailing boats, cabin cruisers, whatever. It was at that moment Nick conceded that, for the moment at least, he had lost the game. Raymond Lee Bennett was going to get away — for the time being.
He was making for the quays now, walking rapidly, his feet, still in the heavy workman's shoes, banging at the pavement. He turned into an alley that debouched on a wharf, saw the glare of lights and the stark outline of loading cranes. The alley ended at a tall wire fence. Beyond it men were working, unloading a river steamer. Next to the steamer, up river, was moored a long string of barges. The quays there were dark. Nick turned to his right, down a long tunnel formed by warehouses looming on either side. A narrow dark passage.
When he had gone fifty yards he glanced over his shoulder. They were following. Three shadows had just flitted into the tunnel after him.
Killmaster's grin was cold and a little cruel. Right on schedule. They figured to have him cold. It was true, in a way, but he had them, too. It was like the old joke — who was doing what to whom and who was going to pay for it! It was a reckless gamble, but not his first and he hoped it wouldn't be his last. And now he had to put up just enough of a fight to make it look genuine.
He halted just where the warehouses ended, where the alley widened and the light was a little better. He swung around as if only then alerted, and met the rush of the three men. Slav muscle, all of them. Big, burly, rough men with bashed faces and fists like hams. They would, he thought, have orders not to kill him. Not yet. He liked that. It meant that he could rough them up, but good, and he was in just the mood for it. He was tired, frustrated — a failure at his job — and just plain mean and ornery.
He kicked the first man in the crotch. He put four fingers, stiff and hard as railroad spikes, into the eyes of the second man. He threw a rolling block at the knees of the third man, knocked him down and kicked him in the face with the heavy Army shoes. He got the feeling that he was overdoing it. Careful! He had to be taken prisoner.
The man he had kicked in the crotch stayed down, moaning and grabbing at himself, but the second man was up and in again, swinging a sap. Nick took the sap on his left forearm — it hurt — and backhanded the man in the throat with the edge of his right hand. Too hard, damn it! The man folded with harsh animal grunts of pain. Nick cursed again. These characters were too easy! It began to look as though he would have to get the sap and knock himself out.
The man he had kicked in the face rolled in the alley, found the sap his companion had dropped, and came at Nick from behind. Nick pretended not to see him. He concentrated on kneeing one of the men in the face as he was trying to rise. He tensed, steeling himself. It was never easy to take!
The sap got him just over the right ear, an expert blow. Between the time of impact, and the opening of the dark hole beneath his feet, Nick managed to break the nose of the man before him. He felt the bone crunch and was glad about it and then the long spiral into bright gloom began. He was going down the longest laundry chute in the world. Clear to the Gates of Hell.
Chapter 6
Someone was talking. On and on the words flowed. Never ceasing. Incessant chatter. Yackety-yac-yackety-yac… Where in hell was he? Crucified on the Tower of Babel? Certainly he was bound hand and foot, and he was lying on something very hard. That wasn't so bad — it was the talking that was getting him down, bugging him. Didn't they ever shut up? It was like a convention of howler monkeys and myna birds and stuck auto horns — all mixed into one sickening blast of sound. And none of it made sense. The words were all blurred together in a weird electronic screaming. It sounded like the tape on a code machine…
Wait a minute! That voice — that one voice in there? Where had he heard that voice before? Hmmmm — it was very, very familiar. Too familiar!
Nick Carter kept his eyes tightly closed. His massive brain, only beginning to shake off the effects of the drug, just emerging into lucidity, took over. Not a muscle moved in his face, stark in the harsh hot cone of brilliant white light. In his brain the circuits moved and clicked and the little lights went on and off and the questions were shot at the central board and the answers came back — all in less time that it took him to draw a single breath.