Laura cut a fine figure standing in her bra and panties, her hand on her hips.
“So?” she said with raised eyebrows. Her face held the look of a small child watching something she wanted being taken away from her.
Nick wished to make this as painless and short as possible. “If you’re going to Puerta Vallarta, you’d better start packing. Goodbye, Laura.”
Her hands dropped to her sides. Her lower lip began to quiver slightly. “It’s over, then?”
“Yes.”
“Completely?”
“Completely,” Nick knew she could never be another one of his girls. The break with her would have to be final. He put out the cigarette he’d been smoking, and waited. If she was going to explode, he was ready for it.
Laura shrugged, gave him a weak smile and began unfastening her bra. “Then let’s make this last time the best ever,” she said.
They made love, gently at first, then violently, each taking from the other everything there was to give. It was their last time together; they both knew it. And Laura cried the whole time, her tears running down her temples wetting the pillow under her. But she had been right. It was the best ever.
At ten past ten Nick Carter entered a small office in the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services building on Dupont Circle. It was snowing in Washington, and the shoulders of his topcoat were damp. The office smelled of stale cigar smoke, yet the short black stub stuck between Hawk’s teeth remained unlit.
Hawk sat behind a dimly lit desk, his icy eyes studying Nick closely. He watched Nick hang up the topcoat and take a seat opposite him.
Nick had already filed Laura Best along with his Arthur Porges cover in the memory bank of his mind. He could recall the memory when he wanted it, but most likely it would merely rest there. He was Nick Carter now, N3, Killmaster for AXE. Pierre, his tiny gas bomb, hung in its favorite place between his legs like a third testicle. Hugo, the thin stiletto, was firmly fixed on his arm, ready to fit his hand if he needed it. And Wilhelmina, his 9mm stripped Luger, rested snugly under his left armpit. His brain was tuned to Hawk, his tight-muscled body waited for action. He was armed and ready for work.
Hawk shut the folder and leaned back in his chair. He pulled the ugly black stub out of his mouth, studied it with distaste and threw it into the trash can alongside his desk. Almost immediately he had another cigar between his teeth and his leathery face became clouded by smoke.
“Nick, I’ve got a tough one for you,” he said suddenly.
Nick didn’t even try to hide his smile. Both men knew N3 always got the tough ones.
Hawk went on. “Does the word ‘melanosomes’ mean anything to you?”
Nick recalled reading the word some time ago. “Has something to do with skin pigment, doesn’t it?”
Hawk’s genial face creased in a smile of satisfaction. “Close enough,” he said. He opened the folder in front of him. “Don’t let these ten-dollar words throw you.” He began reading. “In 1966, using an electron microscope, Professor John Loo discovered a method of isolating and characterizing such skin diseases as melanoma, cellular blue Nevus, albinism and others. While important in itself, the true value in this discovery was that by knowing and isolating these diseases, diagnosing more serious ailments became easier.” Hawk looked up at Nick from the folder. “That was in 1966.”
Nick leaned forward, waiting. He knew the chief was building up to something. He also knew everything Hawk said was important. Cigar smoke hung in the small office like a blue fog.
“Up until yesterday,” Hawk said, “Professor Loo was working as dermatologist with NASA’s Venus program. Working with ultraviolet light and other forms of radiation, he was perfecting a compound more sophisticated than benzophenones in screening harmful rays from the skin. If he’s successful, he will have a compound that protects the skin from sunrays, blisters, heat and radiation.” Hawk closed the folder. “I don’t have to tell you the value of such a compound.”
Nick’s brain digested the information. No, he didn’t have to be told. Its value to NASA was obvious. In the tiny cockpits of space vehicles, astronauts were sometimes subjected to harmful rays. With the new compound the rays could be made harmless. Medically, its use could be extended to blisters and burns. The possibilities seemed unlimited.
But Hawk had said up until yesterday. “What happened yesterday?” Killmaster asked.
Hawk stood, crossed to the bleak window. With light snow flurries and darkness there was nothing to see but the reflection of his own wiry frame clothed in a loose-fitting, wrinkled suit. He took a deep drag on the cigar and blew smoke at the reflection. “Yesterday, Professor John Loo flew to Hong Kong.” The chief turned to face Nick. “Yesterday, Professor John Loo announced he was defecting to the Chi Corns!”
Nick lit one of his gold-tipped cigarettes. He understood the gravity of such a defection. If the compound was perfected in China, its most obvious value would be skin protection against nuclear radiation. China already had an H-bomb. Such protection for them might be the green light for using their bombs. “Anyone know why the professor decided to defect?” Nick asked.
Hawk shrugged. “Nobody — not NASA, the FBI, the CIA — nobody can come up with a reason. Day before yesterday, he reports for work and the day goes fine. Yesterday he announces in Hong Kong that he’s going to defect. We know where he is, but he won’t see anyone.”
“How about his past?” Nick asked. “Anything Communist there?”
The cigar had gone out. Hawk chewed on it while he talked. “Nothing. He’s a Chinese-American, born in San Francisco’s Chinatown. Got his degree at Berkeley, married the girl he met there, went to work for NASA in 1967. He has a twelve-year-old son. Like most scientists, he has no political involvements. He’s devoted to two things: his work and his family. His son plays shortstop in the Little League. On his vacations he takes his family deep-sea fishing on the Gulf in their eighteen-foot outboard.” The chief sat back in his chair. “No, there’s nothing in his past.”
Killmaster mashed out the stub of his cigarette. Smoke hung thick in the tiny office. The radiator put out a moist heat and Nick felt himself sweating slightly. “The reason has to be either his work or his family,” he said.
Hawk nodded. “That’s the way I figure it. We have a bit of a problem, though. The CIA has informed us they have no intention of letting him work on that compound in China. If the Chi Corns get him in, the CIA will send an agent to kill him.”
Nick had figured something like that. It was not an uncommon practice. AXE had even done it occasionally. When everything failed to get a defector back, and if he was important enough, the final move would be to kill him. If the agent didn’t make it back — too bad. Agents were dispensable.
“The point is,” Hawk said, “NASA wants him back. He’s a brilliant scientist, and he’s young enough so that what he’s working on now will be just the beginning.” He gave Nick a smile without humor. “That is your assignment, N3. Use anything short of kidnapping, but get him back!”
“Yes sir.”
Hawk pulled the cigar stub from between his teeth. It joined the other in the trash can. “Professor Loo had a fellow dermatologist working with him at NASA. They were good working friends, but because of security they never got together socially. His name is Chris Wilson. That will be your cover. It might open the door for you in Hong Kong.”
“What about the professor’s family?” Nick asked.
“Far as we know, his wife is still in Orlando. We’ll give you her address. She’s already been interviewed, though, and she couldn’t give us anything useful.”