I was partially successful. The slim blade dug into Phu Thone’s fat-padded deltoid muscle instead of his heart. I jerked both hand and weapon back. Phu Thone shreiked in a thin, whiney voice. His face turned ashen at the sight of his blood. Willow came running back down the stairs. She led Phan Wan away, consoling rather than condemning her. The vengeance of women that grows out of long-term, simmering hate is a strong unpredictable force. Willow understood it better than I.
We took turns sleeping. One of us always occupied the kitchen, barring access to the basement door. Phan Wan was locked in an upstairs bedroom. Willow occupied an adjoining one. I was up-and-down throughout the remainder of the night. My beard was growing and itching under the makeup layer on my face. The eyelid covering was showing signs of wear. It’s falseness would soon become evident.
Morning came. I checked the prisoners. I ignored Phu Thone’s demands for an explanation. His troubles were small compared to my own. The day dragged on, but none of the complications that could have developed ever did. To keep busy, I consolidated and pared down our supplies, repacking only the barest essentials into compact loads. The slim bail-out bottles of oxygen and the breathing masks went in first. According to the recovery code tacked onto his last message, they would be the last things we would need... if our luck lasted that long.
The ploy was working. A number of phone calls came in. All sought clarification of Phu Thone’s abrupt decision to leave town. Phan Wan handled them masterfully. She also sent home the yard workers, kitchen staff, and day-servants because of the indisposition of the master. None questioned her authority; she had given similar instructions many times before. She explained that Phu Thone used the same reason to assure privacy whenever he desired clandestine meetings with various dubious characters or cautious government officials with whom he had nefarious dealings.
Willow or I listened in on an extension each time the phone rang. One caller spoke French so precisely that I was certain the inquiry came from the French Embassy. Two calls brought no response when Phan Wan answered the phone. There was silence on the other end. These intrigued me. Martin, I thought, calling to find out if Phu Thone’s home had been closed down. The second test call lasted longer. I could picture Martin, possibly recognizing Phan Wan’s voice, being tempted to speak up. The caller was on the phone long enough for me to identify street traffic noises in the background. The call was originating from a curbside public telephone booth.
Following that late afternoon call, I was more convinced than ever that the evening would bring some interesting developments.
The night air turned stagnant, warm and humid. The sky was partly overcast. When it became dark, I had Phan Wan turn on the normal amount of house lighting. As soon as possible, without appearing too obvious, I had them turned off again. I placed myself in a darkened upstairs front bedroom. From its window, almost half of the protective wall around the villa was in sight. Willow covered the back. Phan Wan watched with her. Bu Chen took up a position in the foyer behind the front door. Upon my signal Willow extinguished the lights in the master suite.
A deep silence fell upon the house.
My eyes might have been playing tricks on me. I thought I saw movement along the top of the wall. Only for a moment, then it was gone. I strained my eyes. A break in the clouds let a sliver of moonlight fall across the lawn. I saw a shadow cross it.
I left my second floor observation post. I positioned myself well back in the large living room, but where I could still see out through the freshly-cleaned panes of the double french doors. A new square of glass replaced the one I had broken to make my entry. The stealthy, hunched-over figure moved rapidly — a shadow in shadows. A glint of moonlight shined on the weapon it carried. It was a nine-shot Soviet Lekoyev machine pistol fitted with a silencer.
The next minute was going to be a crucial one. I knew how spring-tight Martin must be. He was geared to instant, intuitive action. If I moved too soon, I could lose him. Too late and he’d sieve me without a second thought. He was cautious, but wasted no time. Finding the doors locked, he applied strips of adhesive to one edge of a window pane, then ran a glass cutter around the other three sides. The pane swung in like a hinged door when he thrust his hand through the frame to reach the locked latch.
That’s when I moved.
With one of his hands stuck through the window frame groping for the lock and the other hanging onto the machine pistol, he was hampered by his awkward stance. He was as vulnerable as he was going to get. I grabbed the wrist of his outstretched hand and jerked forward. He and the door lurched toward me, the hand grasping the deadly weapon flying outward in a counter motion. I kicked out at his gun-carrying arm. The Soviet machine pistol went flying.
“General Martin,” I shouted in his ear. “Don’t fight me. I’m a friend. Sent by General Jarrett and the president. Martin! Do you understand?”
The struggling intruder was snarling and fighting both me and the door against which I held him fast. With his shoulder and head pulled painfully tight against the door frame, his feet couldn’t find purchase. I almost dragged his arm out of its socket as I held him firmly in place. I kept talking. “I’m Nick Carter from Washington. I work for AXE. I’m only trying to help.”
It must have been my midwestern accent more than my grunted words that finally registered. Martin knew it was useless to struggle. I had the upper hand. A half twist with my double-handed grip would dislocate his shoulder.
“All right. All right!” he gasped.
I didn’t let go. I eased off the pressure slightly, testing. I continued to talk, saying everything I thought would be convincing. “I traced you to Gloria Grimes. Sergeant Layton met me at Dulles airport. I know how Colonel Jeleff helped you. Phan Wan is here.”
I should have mentioned her name first. Martin ceased any resistance. I released his arm. He drew it back through the windowpane frame slowly.
I drew back, taking out Wilhelmina as I did so. “Please come inside, General Martin,” I invited.
He stepped into the room. He stood erect, massaging his shoulder. “I will listen to what you have to say,” he intoned in a deep, impressive voice. It was clear that he was making no promises. He was conceding to a truce, no final surrender. He eyed the gun in my hand.
“I must tell you, General Martin, that my instructions are to bring a halt to your current activities. I will not hesitate to use this weapon if you give me cause.”
“I’m sure you will, Mr. Carter. I’m quite aware of your reputation.” He used thumb and forefinger to draw a combat knife from its sheath and slid it across the floor toward me. “I am disarmed. May I see Phan Wan now.”
Someone turned on a lamp behind me. It illuminated Martin. His angular features were indistinguishable behind the black shoe polish smeared over them. His dark-dyed hair was mostly covered by a black beret. He wore stretch pants tucked into combat boots. A black, turtleneck, long-sleeved pullover fit tightly to his broad chest.
His bright eyes were questioning as they saw my shadowed features. I grinned. “My camouflage is more expert than yours, General. Under this theatrical makeup you’ll find a honest-to-God American citizen.”
He looked over my shoulder. “She’s not Phan Wan,” he said. I knew it was Willow standing behind me.
“Miss Willow Kane,” I said by way of introduction. “My colleague on this assignment.”
“Phan Wan and I came down the back stairs,” Willow’s voice said. “I told her to wait in the kitchen.”