They passed through a door and appeared to be in a narrow passage. Their heels rang on the floor. Metal plating. It was a long passage and after a time Nick caught the smell of the river. They must be approaching a wharf or pier, some sort of dock. Probably where the river boats loaded and unloaded the rolls of paper he had seen. He could see nothing through the black scarf tied over his eyes, but he reckoned that it was still dark. He had lost all track of time — the pain had seen to that — but it must be dark. They wouldn't dare to execute him in daylight.
Nick lagged a bit, let his feet drag.-He groaned. "Not so fast, you bastards. It hurts me. Where are you taking me? She said something about a boat — what boat? I'm too sick to handle a boat by myself."
The man to his right spoke softly in German. "You will be all right, Herr. It is a small boat. Very small, and there is an oar for steering. It will be easy. The current will take you down river to one of the passenger quays. You will be able to get a taxi there."
"Enough of talk," said the man behind them. "Get on with it. It will be dawn soon."
Nick saw that they were going to play this little game out to the very end. And now he understood why. Why they hadn't killed him back in the warehouse. They didn't want to shoot him. Or stab him. They were going to sap him when the time came, just hard enough, then drown him. He had to have water in his lungs. It wasn't perfect, of course, but it was better than tossing a bloody corpse into the river. His wallet and money, credentials, would be on him. The river police might suspect foul play but there would be no proof, and no fuss would be made. Quite a few bodies came floating down the Rhine. It was the way he would have done it himself. These were professionals.
They stopped abruptly. The smell of the river was much stronger now and Nick could hear the lap-lapping of water nearby. It wouldn't be long now until they made their move — and the man behind him was still the key man. He would be the one to sap Nick from behind. But they wouldn't do it until the very last second — they wanted the unsuspecting victim to walk to within an inch of the gallows!
"You'll have to take off the blindfold." It was the man behind them. "The catwalk is narrow. He'll have to be able to see."
The blindfold was taken off. It was still very dark, but across the river, to the east beyond the end of the pier under which they stood, Nick made out a thin line of pearl. He stood loosely, relaxed, slumping a bit in the grip of the two men on either side of him. He willed himself to forget the agony in his groin. There was no time for pain now. Death was waiting out at the end of this pier. Death for whom? He thought not for him — but you could never be really sure.
The man behind him prodded with the gun. Good, you sonofabitch! Stay close to me. The closer the better. Now every micro-second was important. He couldn't wait too long. Any moment now the man behind him would raise a hand, bring the sap swishing down…
They were on a narrow catwalk under the long pier jutting out into the Rhine. "Kommen" said the man on Nick's right. He took out a slender flashlight and played the tiny beam on the rough planks underfoot. The catwalk was barely wide enough for them to go three abreast.
In reaching for his flashlight the man had slightly relaxed his grip on Nick's arm. Killmaster guessed that the man behind was still close, not more than two or three feet. Perhaps even now raising the sap. It was time!
Ignoring the blinding flash of pain in his groin, he raised his elbows abruptly. Like muscular wings coming up. He slammed backwards with both elbows, with every ounce of his strength, catching each man squarely in the chest. They staggered back into the following man, knocking him off balance. All were flailing wildly for balance on the narrow catwalk. The man who had spoken to Nick let out a startled yelp. "Gott Verdammt!"
Nick Carter pivoted on one foot, put his head down and dove at the man with the pistol. The Luger flashed and banged just alongside Nick's head. The muzzle flash seared his face. Then the top of his head was in the man's paunch with pile driver force. They went off the catwalk together. As they hit the river Nick flicked the blunted stiletto down into his hand.
The man was fat and bouyant. Nick had a hard time taking him down. But he did take him down, all the way to muddy bottom. He got one powerful arm under the struggling man's chin and lifted it. He put the jagged blunt point of the stiletto into that fat flesh a dozen times, feeling the blood swell hot on his fingers, tasting it in the water. He could easily have drowned the man — Nick was good for four minutes under water — but now that he could strike back at last he found himself in a cold fury. Again and again he rammed the stiletto home.
His flash of rage passed. He let the corpse go and, still with two minutes of air, came back up near the surface. He could see nothing. It was dark and the water was roiled and muddy. He would have to risk a fast look to orient himself, in this case literally, because he must swim to the east away from the pier.
He broke water as quietly as a seal. They were fools, those remaining two. One of them was back on the catwalk, playing his flashlight about as he helped the other one out of the water. Killmaster could have pulled them both down and drowned them, and for a moment he was tempted; then he sank silently beneath the surface. Let them go. They were tools. Muscle heads. Not worth killing unless they threatened him. Nick's smile was grim. They had enough to worry about. Colonel Kalinski wasn't goinh to like this.
He swam underwater until his lungs began to hurt. When he surfaced again he was a hundred feet off the end of the pier. Both men were using flashlights now. Trying to find their dead friend, no doubt.
Downstream he could see a glow in the sky, paling now in the first flush of dawn. That would be the central park of Cologne. He let the current take him, relaxing and floating, swimming only enough to stay close inshore. He had to get out of the river without attracting the attention of the police. He would go back to Ladenstrasse, to the little whore. She might not like it, but she would have to hide him for now. Later he would have her make a contact for him by phone.
The porter's jacket was binding him. He was about to cast it off when he felt something in the pocket. Now what in hell — then he remembered. The shards of the ceramic tiger he had picked up in Bennett's hotel room. Why was he lugging it about? Nick shrugged in the chill water and admitted that he didn't know. Probably it didn't mean anything. Certainly it hadn't meant anything to the Kalinski woman or she wouldn't have put it back in his jacket.
So he might as well take it along. He kept the jacket on. It just might mean something. He would turn it over to Hawk and the lab boys in Washington. If he made it.
Right now he had more important things to worry about. He had to get out of Cologne alive. He had to report failure of his mission. That thought tightened his throat and brought a bad taste into his mouth. Failure. Abject and absolute failure. It had been a long time since he had used that word.
How, and where, was he going to pick up the trail of the Yellow Widow and Raymond Lee Bennett? It must be alone.
Chapter 8
The Shanghai Gai, one of the more exclusive gesang houses in South Korea, stood on a hilltop near the village of Tongnae. It was some ten miles north of Pusan, but the roads to the port were good, for Korea, and the phone service was adequate. Not that adequate was good enough in this instance — Killmaster was gambling, playing a long hunch and an educated guess — and he was in constant touch with his men in Pusan by short-wave radio. Nick Carter was taking the biggest chance of his career — and placing that career in jeopardy. He was betting that the Yellow Widow would try to take Raymond Lee Bennett into China through Korea.