“Enough of this nonsense,” snapped Hurtada. He fixed The Bitch with a cold black stare. “We, I, expect absolute obedience from you from now on. No more messages to Brazil. They cannot help you. It is the Serpent Party, with Chinese backing, that is going to take over Mexico. Not the new Nazi party. You had better make up your mind to that, woman.”
Nick could see the tremors running through her big frame. She was as pale as a corpse, her mouth a stark red slash. With a sudden fierce movement she broke the riding crop in two. “You dare to talk to me like that? You dare! Here, on my own ground!”
“I dare,” said Hurtada softly. “From now on you will take orders like anyone else. I am running things now.”
It was fascinating. Nick had trouble restraining his glee as he watched and listened. Pieces of the jigsaw were falling into place with crisp satisfying sounds.
He happened to be watching Harper’s face as Hurtada made his last statement. He read surprise and shock on the fat pink features.
“Since when?” growled Harper. “Since when are you running things, Hurtada? I haven’t heard anything about it.” Both of them were ignoring The Bitch now. There was an almost visible tension between them. Nick rubbed his hands together. This kept getting better and better.
Hurtada took a yellow flimsy from his pocket and tossed it at Harper. “Since just one hour ago, my friend. This was relayed to me from the Sea Dragon. From Peking.”
Boingggggg — right on target again. There was a Chinese sub lurking off the California and Mexican coasts.
Harper glanced at the flimsy. His lip curled. He threw the paper to the floor. “It’s in code groups. You know I can’t read this code. How do I know you’re telling the truth? You could be lying! You’ve been wanting to take over ever since this operation began.”
Nick switched his scrutiny to The Bitch. She was quiet now, peering from one man to the other, apparently sensing the deep friction between them, alert for any opening the friction might afford her. She had regained her composure and her face was placid. She still had Jamie, her ace in the hole. What matter how these two quarreled? They would both be dead in a few minutes. Nick could see her mind working behind that lovely arrogant façade.
She did not have to make an excuse to leave. Hurtada, never taking his eyes from Harper, made it for her. He said: “Please to leave us alone for a little time, Gerda. There are some matters I must discuss with my friend here. In private. I will speak to you later about what we have been discussing.”
A made-to-order exit cue. Gerda von Rothe skirted the desk and started for the door. She cast a single glance in Nick’s direction. He saw the green eyes flicker, a barely perceptible movement, yet the message was loud and clear. Get on with it, Jamie boy. Murder! Blood! I wish to find two warm corpses when I return...
She passed out of sight. From the door he heard her say: “There is one other thing — my guards report a lot of movement in the hills across the highway. Bandits, they think. We must not overlook—”
“Screw the bandits,” said Harper loudly. “Just so it’s not the police. We can handle bandits all right, for God’s sake. Between our guards and yours we’ve got machine guns all over the place. So who cares about a few lousy bandits!”
“I thought you should know.” The door closed behind her. The oily cluck of the lock came through the earphones. Nick hardly heard it. His eyes were glued to the slit in the wall.
Hurtada walked around the desk to where The Bitch had been standing. He was fast. So fast that even Nick Carter’s experienced eye could not see where the little automatic had been concealed. It was a .32, deadly enough at that short range, and Hurtada was pointing it at Harper.
“Your little game is all over,” said Hurtada. “You fat bastard. You pig! I should have known all along.”
Nick gave the American credit. He did not flinch. He sat, a new drink at his side, and stared at the gun in Hurtada’s hand. “What in hell are you talking about, Chung? What’s the matter with you? You sore because I questioned your word on that code message? Okay — I take it back. You’re in command now. Good luck to you. Now I’ve got to get started for Mexico City or I’ll miss my plane. I have got a business to look after, you know. I’ve got to keep up a front, make it look good. So if you’ll excuse me—”
Harper started to get up. Hurtada, or Chung Hee, jabbed the gun at him. “Do not move. And do not bother to lie. Peking knows the truth about you at last and they have passed it on to me.” Chung indicated the yellow flimsy on the floor beside Harper. “Besides giving me command of the mission, Peking notified me that you are a double agent. I have authority to dispose of you as I see fit.”
Nick would cheerfully have nominated Maxwell Harper for an Oscar. The man was superb. He settled back in his chair and frowned at Chung Hee.
“I just don’t get this! Have you lost your mind? Or has Peking? If this is your idea of a joke, Chung, then you picked a damned poor time to—”
“Be quiet,” hissed the Chinese. “No use trying to lie yourself out of it, Harper. Peking has proof that you are a Russian agent, have been one for years. Ever since the Serpent Party was set up, you fat bastard, you have been feeding the Kremlin information about it. And you have been sabotaging it! I understand now what I could not understand before. Why our progress was so slow, why we lost so many good party leaders to the police on trumped-up charges. Why the distribution of the counterfeit was so mishandled — though surely your real bosses would profit by that, too! With care, with a little cunning, we could still be circulating the bad money in the States and reaping good money to finance the Party. But you insisted on dumping it all at once. And no wonder you were not very concerned about the drunk, about Vargas. If he was caught and loused up the Party all the better for you. Well, pig, you have earned your Kremlin pay — and you have earned your death!”
Harper’s bulk and fat fooled even Nick. He would have bet on Chung Hee. He would have lost.
Harper flung his glass at the Chinese in a blur of motion. Chung ducked and fired, but in ducking he lost balance and his sighting. He missed Harper’s gut and got him high on the right arm. Harper went sprawling into the shelter of the big desk and fired around the corner. The heavy black gun leaped and bellowed in his hand. Chung managed to get off one more shot and chips flew from the desk. Chung dropped the .32 and walked slowly backward, clutching at his belly with both hands. He stared down with amazed dark eyes at the scarlet leaking between his fingers. It was plain that he did not believe it.
Harper came out of his crouch behind the desk and walked slowly toward the still retreating Chung. He leveled the black pistol. The Chinese held out his hands, palms up, in entreaty and as though he hoped to seize the bullets before they could harm him.
Harper shot him three times in the belly at close range. The blast whirled Chung around and flung him against the bookcases. He slid down, his clutching fingers slipping and sliding on the spines of the books, leaving a bloody trail. He flopped once like a gaffed fish and turned over on his face, still twitching. Harper shot him again in the back of the head.
If The Bitch was listening, and Nick was pretty sure she was, she would be exulting now. She would think that Jamie had come through for her. And she would be here any minute.
He watched Harper take off his jacket and examine the wound in his upper arm. The freshly laundered shirt was turning red. Harper fished for a handkerchief, made a pad of it, and pressed it against the wound. Then he took a spare clip from his pocket and reloaded his gun. Nick nodded in cold professional approval. He very much doubted that The Bitch was going to catch this character off guard. A sly and slippery one, and tough; Nick had no doubt whatever that Chung Hee had been right. Peking was right. Harper was a double. Working for both the Kremlin and Peking. Where his real allegiance lay if he had any, did not much matter. Men such as Harper worked for money, and money only. He probably had his own ideas about the counterfeit and the plates.