"I know." Sulkily. "If I don't come through they'll murder me."
Philston regarded him with his washed gray eyes. "Yes. Sooner or later they will murder you."
Pete stretched for the Scotch bottle. "Okay — okay! Can I have one more drink?"
"No. You are in my employ now. No more drinking until the job is completed."
The big man sank back into the chair. "Right. I was forgetting. You just bought me."
Philston went back behind the desk and sat down. "You are regretting your bargain already?"
"No. I told you, damn it, that I don't care who wins. I've got no country any more. No allegiance. I've just got me! Now suppose we cut the horsing around and you tell me what I have to do."
"I told you. I want you to plant a story in the press of the world. An exclusive story. The biggest story you or any other newspaperman ever had."
"World War three?"
Philston did not smile. He reached for a fresh cigarette from the cloisonne box. "Possibly. I do not think so. I…"
Pete Fremont waited, frowning. The bastard was having a little trouble screwing himself up to the point of saying it. Still dabbling a toe in the cold water. Hesitant to commit himself beyond the point of no return.
"There are many details to be worked out," he said. "A lot of background that you must understand. I…"
Fremont stood up and snarled, the irascible rage of a man who was dying for a drink. He slapped the packet of money against his palm. "I want this money, damn it. I'll earn it. But not even for this much dough will I go into anything blind. What is it?"
"The Emperor of Japan is going to be assassinated. Your job is to see that the Chinese are blamed for it."
Chapter 10
Killmaster was not particularly surprised. Pete Fremont was, and had to show it. Had to show surprise and dismay and disbelief. He paused in the act of conveying a cigarette to his mouth and let his jaw droop.
"Jesus Christ! You must be out of your mind."
Richard Philston, now that he had finally said it, was enjoying the consternation he had caused.
"Not at all. Quite the contrary. Our plan, a plan we have been working on for months, is the essence of logic and sanity. The Chinese are our enemies. Sooner or later, unless they are forestalled, they will make war on Russia. The West will enjoy that. They will sit by and profit by it. Only it is not going to happen that way. That is why I am in Japan, at great personal risk to myself."
Fragments of Philston's file glittered in the AXEman's mind like a montage. An assassination specialist!
Pete Fremont contrived an expression of awe mingled with lingering doubt. "I think you really mean it, by God. And you're going to kill him!"
"That is none of your affair. You will not be present and none of the responsibility, or blame, will be on your head."
Pete laughed sourly. "Come on, Philston! I am mixed up in it, as of now. If I get caught I won't have any head. They'll slice it off like a cabbage. Let's not kid around. I want that money, sure, but even a drunk like me wants to keep his head."
"I assure you," said Philston stiffly, "that you will not be implicated. Or need not be if you use your head to keep it on your shoulders. After all, I expect you to exercise some ingenuity for fifty thousand dollars."
Nick Carter let Pete Fremont sit sullen and unconvinced while he let his own mind range free and fast. For the first time he became aware of the ticking of a tall clock in a corner of the room. The phone on Philston's desk loomed twice its normal size. He hated them both. Time and modern communications were working inexorably against him. Let Philston find out that the real Fremont was dead and he, Nick Carter, was just as dead. Never doubt it. Those two goons outside the door were killers. Philston undoubtedly had a gun in his desk. A light sweat broke out on his forehead and he fished out a grubby handkerchief. This could easily get out of hand. He had to put the spurs to Philston, put on the pressure for his own plan and get the hell out of here. But not too fast. It would not do to show too much anxiety.
"You realize," Philston said silkily, "that you cannot back out now. You know too much. Any hesitation of your part simply means that I must have you killed."
"I'm not backing out, damn it. I'm trying to get used to the idea. Jesus! Kill the Emperor. Rig it so the Chinese get the blame. It isn't exactly a game of squat tag, you know. And you can run afterward. I can't. I have to stay and sweat it out. I can't plant a big lie like that if I'm on the lam to Lower Slobbovia."
"Slobbovia? I don't think I quite…"
"Skip it. Give me a chance to figure it out. Just when is this killing going to come off?"
"Tomorrow night. There will be riots and mass sabotage. A great deal of sabotage. Tokyo will be blacked out, also many other large cities. This is cover, you understand. The Emperor is in residence at the Palace now. That is my responsibility."
Pete nodded slowly. "I begin to get it. You're working with the Chicoms — up to a point. For the sabotage bit. But they don't know anything about the assassination. Right?"
"Hardly," said Philston. "It wouldn't be much of a coup if they did. I explained that — Moscow and Peking are at war. This is an act of war. Pure logic. We intend to cause so much trouble for the Chinese that they will not be able to trouble us for years."
It was very nearly time now. Time to bring the pressure to bear. Time to get out of there and get to Johnny Chow. Philston's reaction was going to be important. Maybe life or death important.
Not yet. Not quite yet.
Pete lit another cigarette. "I'll have to set this thing up," he told the man behind the desk. "You understand that? I mean I can't just rush in cold afterward and yell that I've got the scoop. They wouldn't listen to me. My reputation isn't so good, as you know. Which brings up another point — how am I going to prove this story? Confirm and document it? I hope you've thought of that."
"My dear chap! We are not amateurs. Day after tomorrow, as early as possible, you will go to the Ginza branch of the Chase Manhattan. You will have a key to a safe deposit box. In it you will find all the documentation you will need. Plans, orders, signatures, vouchers of payment, everything. These will back up your story. It is these papers that you will show your friends on the wire services and the newspapers. They are, I assure you, absolutely perfect forgeries. No one will doubt your story after reading them."
Philston chuckled. "It is even possible that some Chinese, those opposed to Mao, will believe it."
Pete fidgeted in the chair. "That's another thing — I'll have the Chicoms after my skin. They'll know I'm lying. They'll try to kill me."
"Yes," agreed Philston. "I imagine they will. I am-afraid I must let you worry about that. But you have survived this long, against all odds, and now you have twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. I think you will make out."
"When, and how, do I get the' other twenty-five thousand if I bring it off?"
"It will be deposited in a Hong Kong account — when we are satisfied with your work. I am sure it will prove an incentive to you."
The phone on Philston's desk rang. The AXEman slid his hand into the trenchcoat, forgetting for the moment that the Colt was gone. He cursed under his breath. He had nothing. Nothing but his muscles and his brain.
Philston was speaking into the instrument. "Yes… yes. I have him. He is here now. I was, in fact, just going to call you."
The big man listened, staring down at his shabby rundown shoes. Call who? Was it just possible that…
Philston's voice turned snappish. He was frowning. "Look, J, I am giving the orders! And you're disobeying them at this moment by calling me. Don't do it again. No, I had no idea that the matter was so important, so urgent to you. In any case I have finished with him and will send him along. The usual place. Very well. What? Yes, I have given him his full instructions and, what is more to the point, I have paid him."