Cecil Aubrey motioned to the quiet man in the corner. "All right, Terence. You can take over now. Explain just what we've got so far and why we think Philston is coming out."
To Hawk he said, "Terence is MI5, as I said, and he is handling the superficial aspects of this Peking-Kremlin thing. I say superficial because we think it is a front, a cover, for something bigger. Terence…"
The Scot took the foul pipe from between large brown teeth. "It's as Mr. Aubrey says, sir. The wee bit of information we've got so far, but this we're sure of, is that the Russians are sending Philston to help the Chicoms organize a giant sabotage campaign all through Japan. Especially in Tokyo. There they plan to stage a massive blackout, the same as you had yersels not too long back in New York. The Chicoms plan to play almighty hob, you see, and either stop or burn everything in Japan. Most of it, anyway. One story we've had is that Peking insists on Philston running the 'job or no deal. That's why he has to come out of Russia and…"
Cecil Aubrey broke in. "There's also another story — that Moscow insists that Philston be in charge of the sabotage, so it won't be botched. They don't much trust the Chinese for efficiency. That is still another reason why Philston would have to risk his neck and come out."
Hawk looked from one man to the other. "Something tells me that you don't buy either story."
"No," Aubrey said. "We don't. At least I don't. The job just isn't big enough for Philston! Sabotage, yes. Burning down Tokyo, all that, will have a hell of an impact and be a coup for the Chicoms. I agree. But it really isn't Philston's line of work. And not only isn't it big enough, important enough, to entice him out of Russia — I know something about Richard Philston that very few people know. I knew him, remember, worked with him in MI6 when he was riding high. I was just a sub then, but I haven't forgotten a thing about that bloody damned bastard. He was an assassination man! An expert."
"I'll be damned," Hawk said. "Live and learn. I didn't know that. I always thought of Philston as a sort of tea-and-crumpets sort of spy. Efficient as hell, deadly, but the striped-pants kind."
"Not at all," said Aubrey grimly. "He planned a lot of murders. Planned them well, too. That's why I'm certain that if he is coming out of Russia at last it is for something more important than sabotage. Even big-time sabotage. I've got the feeling, David, and you should know what that means. You've been in this business longer than I have."
Cecil Aubrey went to his chair and sank into it. "Carry on, Terence. Your ball. I'll keep my big mouth shut for a time."
Terence had reloaded his pipe. To Hawk's relief he did" not light it. Terence said: "The fact is that the Chicoms haven't been doing all their own dirty work, sir. Not very much of it, in fact. They do the planning, but they force the Eta to do the really dirty and bloody jobs. They use terror, of course."
Hawk must have looked puzzled, for Terence halted a moment, frowned, then went on. "You know about the Eta, sir? Some call them the Burakumin. They're the very lowest cast in Japan, the untouchables. Pariahs. There are more than two million of them and very few people, even Japanese, know that they even exist. The Jap government keeps them in ghettos and out of the sight of tourists. The fact is that the government, up to now, has tried to ignore the problem. The official policy is fure-noi — don't touch. Even though a majority of the Eta are on public relief. It's quite a problem, and naturally the Chicoms are exploiting it lo the utmost. A discontented minority like the Eta — they would be fools not to."
It all had a familiar ring to Hawk. Ghettos had been very much in the news of late. And the Commies, of one stripe or another, had been doing a little exploiting of minorities in the States.
"It's a beautiful setup for the Chicoms," he admitted. "The sabotage, especially, carried out under the guise of riots. It's a classic technique — the Commies plan it and let the, this Eta group, carry it out. The Etas get all the blame. But aren't the Eta Japanese? Like all the rest of the country? I mean if there is no color problem, such as we have here and…"
Cecil Aubrey could not keep his big mouth shut after all. He interrupted.
"They are Japanese. One hundred percent. It's really a matter of traditional caste prejudice, David, and we haven't time for anthropological tangents. But the fact that the Eta are Japanese, and look and talk just like anyone else, helps the Chicoms enormously. The Eta can go anywhere and do anything. No problem there. A lot of them 'pass,' as you say here in the States. The fact is that a very few Chicoms, well organized, can control a huge number of Eta and use them for their own purposes. Sabotage and murder, mostly. Now, with this big…"
Hawk broke in. "You say the Chicoms control the Eta by terror?"
"Yes. They use, among other things, a machine. A sort of device, an improved version of the old Death of a Thousand Cuts. Its called the Bloody Buddha. Any Eta man who disobeys them or betrays them is put into the machine and…"
But for once Hawk was not paying too close attention. It had just come to him. Out of the mists of years. Richard Philston was, had been, one hell of a ladies' man. Hawk remembered it now. It had been well hushed up at the time.
Philston had taken Cecil Aubrey's young wife away from him and then deserted her. A few weeks later she 'committed suicide.
His old friend, Cecil Aubrey, was using Hawk, and AXE, to settle a private vendetta!
Chapter 3
It was a few minutes after eight in the morning. Nick Carter had left Murial Milholland's apartment an hour before, ignoring the curious glances of a milkman and newsboy, and cabbed back to his own suite in the Mayflower Hotel. He was, for him, a little beat. He and Murial had switched to brandy and, between lovemaking — they had eventually adjourned to the bedroom — he had put away a lot of the grape. Nick never got drunk and he had the capacity of a Falstaff; he never had hangovers. Yet, on this particular morning, he was feeling just a tiny bit fuzzy.
Thinking back, later, he was also to blame it on the fact that he was more than a little bemused by Dr. Murial Milholland. Plain Jane, with the sumptuous body, who had been such a demon in bed. He had left her snoring very softly, still attractive in the morning light, and as he left the apartment he knew he was coming back. Nick couldn't understand it. She just wasn't his type! And yet… and yet…
He was shaving slowly, pensively, wondering with half his mind what it would be like to be married to an intelligent, mature woman who also happened to be an expert in sex, off the lectern as well as on it, when the door buzzer rasped. Nick was wearing only a dressing gown.
He did glance at the big bed as he went through the bedroom to answer the door. He did think of the Luger, Wilhelmina, and of Hugo, the stiletto, concealed in a zipper opening in the mattress. They were resting for the moment. Nick did not like to walk around Washington loaded for bear. Nor did Hawk approve of it. At times Nick did carry a little Beretta Cougar, a .380 that packed wallop enough at close range. For the past two days, because the shoulder clip was being repaired, he had not carried even that.
The door buzzer went again. Insistent. Nick hesitated, glanced at the bed where the Luger was snuggled away, then thought to hell with it. At eight in the morning on an ordinary Tuesday? Anyway he could take care of himself, there was a safety chain and he knew how to approach a door. It was probably only Hawk sending a mass of briefing material by special messenger. The old man did that occasionally.
Buzzzzz— buzzzzzz— buzzzz
Nick approached the door from the side, close to the wall. Anyone firing through the door would miss him.