Tonaka came close to him. She bent and kissed him, pressing her mouth to his for a long time. She smoothed his cheek. "Of course I want to go to Japan, Nick, darling. Hurry now. We'll help you get dressed and packed. You just tell us where things are."
He felt like a king as he sat naked on the bed and watched them scurry around. Japan was going to be a lot of fun. It had been a long time, too long, since he had had a real vacation like this. Without any responsibilities at all. Free as air. He might even send Hawk a post card. Or maybe not. To hell with Hawk.
Tonaka was riffling through a dresser drawer. "Where is your diplomatic passport, Nick, darling?"
"In the closet, honey, in the lining of the Knox hat box. Let's hurry, shall we! Japan is calling."
And then, suddenly, he wanted that drink again. Wanted it worse than he had ever wanted a drink in his life. He snatched a pair of white boxer trunks from Sato, who was packing a suitcase, and went into the living room and took a bottle of Scotch from the portable bar.
Chapter 4
Very rarely did Hawk call Nick in for consultation on a top level decision. Killmaster wasn't paid to make top level decisions. He was paid to carry them out — which he usually did with the stealth of a tiger and the fury thereof when it was needed. Hawk had every respect for Nick's abilities as an agent and, when need be, a killer. Carter was just about the best in the world today; top man in that bitter, dark, bloody and often mysterious back alley region where decisions were implemented, where directives were finally transmuted into bullets and knives, poisons and rope. And death.
Hawk had a very bad night. He hardly slept, most unusual for him. At three in the morning he found himself pacing his slightly dreary living room in Georgetown and wondering if he had the right to involve Nick in this decision. It wasn't Nick's load, really. It was Hawk's. Hawk was the head man at AXE. Hawk was paid — not enough — to make the decisions and bear the onus of mistakes. On his own stooped, seventy-odd-year-old shoulders lay the burden and he really had no right to shift part of that burden to another.
Why not simply make up his mind whether to play Cecil Aubrey's game or not? It was a shabby game, admittedly, but Hawk had played at worse. And the gains were beyond measuring — a man of his own in the Kremlin. Hawk, professionally speaking, was a greedy man. Also a ruthless one. In time — though he kept speculation at a distance now — he knew that he would find means to gradually take over the Kremlin man, more and more, from Aubrey. But that was all in the future.
Had he the right to involve Nick Carter — who had never killed a man in his life except for his country and in the performance of his sworn duty? Because it would be Nick Carter who would have to do the actual killing.
It was a tricky moral question. Slippery. It had a million facets and it was possible to rationalize and come up with almost any answer you wanted.
David Hawk was not accustomed to tricky moral questions. For forty years he had fought the good fight and had put hundreds of his and his country's enemies under the sod. To Hawk's mind they were one and the same thing. His enemies and his country's enemies were exactly the same thing. Interchangeable.
On the surface it was simple enough. He, and the entire Western world, would be safer and sleep better with Richard Philston dead. Philston was an arch-betrayer who had caused unlimited damage. There was really no arguing with that.
So, at three in the morning, Hawk made himself a very mild drink and argued with it.
Aubrey was going against orders. He had admitted as much in Hawk's office, though he had given specious reasons for going against his orders. His superiors wanted Philston taken and brought back to face a proper trial and, one supposed, execution.
Cecil Aubrey, though wild horses would not have dragged it from him, was afraid that Philston would somehow slip the hangman's knot. Aubrey was thinking as much of his dead young wife as he was of his duty. He did not care about seeing a traitor punished in open court. He only wanted Richard Philston dead in the shortest, quickest, ugliest way possible. To do this, and to obtain AXE help in gaining his revenge, Aubrey was prepared to bargain away one of his nation's most valuable assets — an unsuspected pipeline into the Kremlin.
Hawk freshened his drink just a mite and clutched his faded bathrobe around a neck that got scrawnier every day. He glanced at the ancient ormolu clock on the mantel. Nearly four. He had promised himself a decision before he got to the office that day. Had promised Cecil Aubrey, too.
Aubrey was right about one thing, Hawk admitted as he paced. AXE, almost any Yank service, could handle this matter better than the British. Philston would know every gin and snare that MI6 had ever used or dreamed of using. AXE might have a chance. Certainly if he used Nick Carter. If Nick couldn't do it, it couldn't be done.
Could he use Nick in a private vendetta for another man? The problem made no attempt to go away or to solve itself. It was still there when Hawk at last sought his pillow again. The booze had helped a bit and he fell into an uneasy sleep at the first peeping of birds in the forsythia outside his window.
Cecil Aubrey and the MIS man, Terence, were due again Tuesday, in Hawk's office at eleven- Hawk was in the office at a quarter of nine. Delia Stokes was not yet in. Hawk hung up his light raincoat — it was beginning to drizzle outside — and went straight to the phone and called Nick's apartment in the Mayflower.
Hawk had made his decision while driving to the office from Georgetown. He knew he was weaseling a bit and shifting the burden a little after all, but now he could do it with a fairly clear conscience. Tell Nick all the facts, with the Englishmen present, and let Nick make his own decision. It was the best Hawk could do, considering his greed and his temptation. He would be fair. He swore it to himself. If Nick turned down the mission that would be the end of it. Let Cecil Aubrey seek elsewhere for an executioner.
Nick did not answer. Hawk swore and slammed the phone down. He stripped his first cigar of the morning and put it in his mouth. He tried Nick's apartment again, letting the ring go on and on. No answer.
Hawk slammed the phone down again and stood glaring at it. Screwing again, he thought. Shacked up. In the hay with some beautiful.doll and he'll report in when he gets damned good and ready. Hawk scowled, then nearly smiled. Couldn't blame the boy for reaping his rosebuds while he could. It didn't last long, God knew. Not long enough. Been a long time since he'd been able to reap any rosebuds. Ah, golden girls and lads alike must come to dust…
To hell with that! When Nick did not answer on the third attempt Hawk went out to look at the logbook on Delia's desk. The night duty officer was supposed to keep it updated. Hawk ran his finger down the list of neatly penned entries. Carter, as were all top AXE men, was on call twenty-four hours a day and was supposed to call in and check every twelve hours. And to leave an address or phone number where they could be reached.
Hawk's finger stopped on the entry: N3 — 2204 hrs. — 914-528-6177… It was a Maryland prefix. Hawk scribbled the number on a scratch sheet and went back into his own office. He dialed the number.
After a long series of rings a woman said, "Hello?" She sounded sleepy and hungover.
Hawk barged straight into it. Let's get Romeo out of the sack.
"Let me speak to Mr. Carter, please."
Long pause. Then, coldly, "To whom did you wish to speak?"
Hawk bit his cigar savagely. "Carter. Nick Carter! This is very important. Urgent. Is he there?"
More silence. Then he heard her yawn. Her voice was still cold as she said, "I'm sorry. Mr. Carter left some time ago. I really don't know when. But how on earth did you get this number? I…"