"Why not? Since 1938 we've been creating a new crop of Asian millionaires every year. Most of them arrive here sooner or later with the family and the loot."
"But they stay out of sight. There are others. We assembled the guest lists from over six hundred and fifty functions during the past two years and put them on the computer. Among Oriental females six charmers top the list for attendance at parties of international or lobbying importance. Here…" He handed Nick a memo form.
Jeanyee Ahling
Suzie Quong
Anne We Ling
Pong-Pong Lily
Ruth Moto
Sonya Ranyez
Nick said, "I've seen three of them plus Ruth. Probably just wasn't introduced to the others. The number of Eastern girls caught my attention but it hasn't seemed important until you showed me this pattern. Of course I've met about two hundred other people during the last six weeks, of every nationality in the world…"
"But not including other lovely flowers from the Orient."
"True."
Hawk tapped the slip of paper. "Others may be in the group or whatever it is but didn't show up in the computer pattern. Now for the nugget…
"One or more of these darlings was at least at one gathering where they could have met the dead men. The computer tells us that Tyson's garage man tells us he thinks he saw Tyson leave in his car about two weeks ago with an Oriental girl. He's not sure but it's an interesting piece for our puzzle. We're checking Tyson's habits. If he had a meal at any major restaurant or hotel or surfaced more than a few times with her, well find it out."
"Then we'll know we're on a possible track."
"Although we won't know where we're going. Keep your ears open for mention of the Confederation Oil Company of Latakia. They tried to do some business through Tyson and another of the dead men, Armbruster, who told his law firm to turn them down. They own two tankers and charter three more with a lot of Chinese in the crews. They are prohibited from carrying U.S. cargoes because they've made trips to Havana and Haiphong. We can't pressure them because there is high-level French money involved and they have tight Baalh connections in Syria. Confederation is the usual five corporations stacked one on the other and exquisitely tangled in Switzerland and Lebanon and London. But Harry Demarkin got word to us that something called the Baumann Ring is the center of power."
Nick repeated it "The Baumann Ring."
"You're on."
"Baumann. Bormann. Martin Bormann?"
"Possible."
Nick's hard-to-surprise pulse quickened. Bormann. The mysterious aged vulture. As elusive as smoke. One of the most wanted men on earth, or off it. It sometimes seemed as if he operated from outer space. His death had been reported dozens of times since his boss died in Berlin on April 29, 1945.
"Is Harry still probing?"
Hawk's face clouded. "Harry died yesterday. His car went over a cliff above Beirut."
"Genuine accident?" Nick felt a sharp pang of regret. AXEman Harry Demarkin had been his friend, and you didn't develop many in this business. Harry had been fearless but cautious.
"Perhaps."
It seemed to echo in the moment of silence — perhaps.
Hawk's thoughtful eyes were as bleak as Nick had ever seen them. "We're about to open a bag of big trouble, Nick. Don't underestimate them. Remember Harry."
"The worst of it is — we're not sure what the bag looks like, where it is or what's in it."
"Good description. Nasty situation all around. I feel as if I'm sitting you down at a piano with the seat full of dynamite that goes off when you hit a certain key. I've got to ask you to play and I'm unable to tell you which is the deadly key because I don't know either!"
"There's the chance it's less serious than it looks," Nick said, not believing it but as cheer for the older man. "I may discover that the deaths are astonishing coincidences, the girls a new play-for-pay group and Confederation the usual crowd of promoters and ten percenters."
"True. You're relying on the AXE maxim — only the stupid are sure, the intelligent are always in doubt. But for God's sake be very careful, the facts we have point in many directions and that's the worst kind of a case." Hawk sighed and took a folded paper from his pocket "I can give you a little more help. Here are dossiers on the six girls. We're still digging into their backgrounds, of course. And here…"
He held a small bright metal pellet, about twice the size of a baby lima bean, between his thumb and forefinger. "A new beeper from Stuart's department. You squeeze this green dot and it will activate for six hours. Range about three miles in the country. Depends on conditions in a city. Whether you're shielded by buildings and so on."
Nick examined it "They're getting better and better. Another suppository type?"
"Can be used that way. But the real idea is to swallow it A search reveals nothing. Of course if they have a monitor they know it's in you…"
"And they have up to six hours to cut you open and silence it," Nick added dryly. He put the device in his pocket "Thanks."
Hawk reached down behind his chair and brought up two bottles of scotch whisky, an expensive brand in rich-looking, dark-brown glass. He handed one to Nick. "Look that over."
Nick examined the seal, read the label, inspected the cap and base. "If it was a cork," he mused, "there could be almost anything hidden in it but this looks absolutely kosher. Is it really scotch in there?"
"If you ever pour yourself a drink of it, enjoy it. One of the finest blends." Hawk tipped the bottle he was holding up and down, watching the liquid form tiny bubbles with its own trapped air.
"See anything?" Hawk asked.
"Let me try." Nick watchfully turned his bottle over and over, and he got it. If your eyes were extremely sharp and you looked at the bottom of the bottle, you'd discover that the oily bubbles did not appear there when the bottle was upside down. "The bottom is wrong somehow."
"Right. There's a glass partition. Top half scotch. Bottom half one of Stuart's super-explosives that looks like scotch. You activate it by breaking the bottle and exposing it to air for two minutes. Then any flame will set it off. As it is now, under compression and airless, it is relatively safe, Stuart says."
Nick set his bottle down carefully. "They may come in handy."
"Yes," Hawk agreed, standing up and carefully brushing an ash from his jacket "In a tight spot you can always offer to buy a last drink."
At precisely 4:12 p.m. on Friday afternoon Nick's telephone rang. A girl said, "This is Miss Rice of the telephone company. Did you place a call to…" She quoted a number ending in seven, eight.
"Sorry, no," Nick answered. She excused the call sweetly and hung up.
Nick turned over his telephone, removed the two base screws and attached three wires from a small brown box to three terminals, including the 24-volt power input. Then he dialed a number. When Hawk answered he said, "Scrambler on code seventy-eight."
"Correct and clear. Report?"
"Nothing. I've been to three more boring parties. You know which girls were there. Very friendly. They had escorts and I couldn't pry them loose."
"Very well. Carry on at Cushing's tonight. We're in deep trouble. There are big leaks in the top company."
"Will do."
"Report please ten-o-nine a.m. via number six."
"Will do. Good-bye."
"Good-bye and good luck."
Nick hung up, removed the wires and replaced the phone base. The little brown portable scramblers were one of Stuart's most ingenious devices. Scrambler patterns are infinite. He designed the little brown boxes, with transistorized circuits packed into a package smaller than a pack of regular-size cigarettes, with a ten-contact switch. Unless both were set on "78" the audio modulation was gibberish. Just in case — every two months the boxes were exchanged for new ones with new scrambler patterns and ten new selections. Nick donned his dinner jacket and departed in the Bird to pick up Ruth.