“Talon — weight — topaz — willow — greensleeve — track — martini — bo — that’s all we got of that particular transmission. But as you see it’s code, not cipher, and we haven’t a prayer of cracking it.” He grinned without mirth. “We’ve got some good men in China, but they haven’t yet managed to steal the master code book.”
Hawk chewed his cigar for a moment. Then, “You’re positive this is a Chinese sub? Not the other people’s?”
The Director tossed the flimsy aside. “That was a possibility at first, but we had the tapes analyzed at the National Security Agency in Fort Meade and they tell us it is definitely a Chinese fist.”
Nick knew that every country, every military or para-military organization, had its own peculiar way of sending code, of handling a key. You could usually tell the nationality of a radioman, or at least that of his outfit, by the way he handled a key. This individual style was called his “fist.”
Nick asked a question: “These transmissions — do they use a bug, tape, or manual?”
The Director glanced at another slip of paper. “The shore to sub transmissions are manual, very slow and amateurish. The sub to God knows where transmissions are sent by a bug, automatic key, and done by an expert.” He glanced at a watch strapped to one hirsute wrist. “Come to the map now, gentlemen, and I’ll tell you about a few more complicating factors in this operation. Matters which will have to be handled very delicately. They involve a very important American citizen, or should I say citizeness, who just happens to have a castle right square in the middle of the area we’re interested in.”
“A castle?” It was Hawk, skeptical.
“The real McCoy,” said the CIA man. “Makes Camelot look like a stage set. It was built in the early part of the century by some millionaire publisher who wanted to get away from it all. There have been several owners since then, but the one who owns it now, the lady we’re going to have to be very careful with, is known locally as The Bitch. You’ll recognize her real name, I’m sure, when I tell you...”
Nick listened intently, missing nothing, yet in another and independent part of his mind there was the ghost of sardonic laughter. He had but recently finished a brushup course in the newest developments in “electronic intelligence,” during which the instructor had made it very clear that the day of the individual human agent was nearly over. The gadgets were fast taking over. Spy satellites were circling the globe at 17,000 miles an hour. An agent could sit with his feet on the desk, nursing a tall drink, and count the ICBMs in Kazakhstan. He could monitor the traffic between the Kremlin and a Russian sub in the Arctic. The magnificent U-2 jets were already obsolete. And, according to some people, so were human beings.
Nick Carter knew better. So did Hawk. The CIA Director was proving it at the very moment. There came a time, inevitably, when the devices and gimmicks were not enough. When there was a specific dirty job to do, usually involving killing or being killed, and then only a human being would suffice. A man. A real blood-and-guts man with muscle and brain to suit the occasion. When the dangers and the difficulties snowballed and assumed the aspect of the unbeatable — only such a man could win.
The CIA man was saying, “You’ll go in tonight, Carter. Sort of a wetback in reverse, you might, say. Just remember one thing — from the time you’re put ashore until you are picked up you will be strictly on your own. Planning has devised a good heavy cover for you, and it should work, but if it fails and you get into trouble we won’t be able to help you. The Mexican Government is not being advised of your presence in their country, so you’ll have to avoid the Federal Police as best you can. Above all, if what we suspect is correct, and the Chinese are involved in this, you must not be made to talk! If you are taken and tortured you must kill yourself before you reach the limit of your endurance. Is that very clear?”
N3’s nod was a little curt, his smile a little sour. It was very clear indeed. Wasn’t it always? He was probably the best all-round “killer” agent in the world — and nearly as expendable as the guy who cleaned the AXE offices.
Hour after hour the briefing went on, until even Nick’s supply of nervous energy began to flag. Hawk became irascible, nearly petulant, insistent on each small detail of preparation. The CIA Director maintained a massive calm — easy enough when it wasn’t his man that was going in.
It was well after dark when Nick boarded a cutter at a deserted pier. A submarine was waiting for him in the outer harbor. Hawk was with him. The CIA man was already flying back to Washington.
Hawk, dry as an old leaf, held out his hand. “Buena suerte, son. Take care.”
Nick winked at his boss. “I was just thinking, sir. If I can get my hands on a few million of that lovely counterfeit let’s you and I go to Pago-Pago for the rest of our lives. Nothing but gin and brown-skinned maidens under the palms.”
“Dream on,” said Hawk.
Chapter 4
A Well-Preserved Corpse
The United States submarine Homer S. Jones surfaced quietly in a zone where the Bay of California meets the Pacific. Homer, as the crew called her, had waited until the moon was down. Now she came awash like a sleek, steel whale and a hatch clanged open. A young lieutenant preceded Nick Carter down the ladder to the wet deck.
“This is it. The men will have the boat ready for you in a minute.” The lieutenant peered toward the shore, half a mile away. There were a few lights scattered up and down it, dim beacons of civilization in the gloom.
“We should be dead on target,” the lieutenant said. He pointed to his left. “Those lights should be Eldorado. The ones on the right are La Cruz. My orders were to land you between them.”
By this time a rubber boat had been lowered into the calm seas lapping at the sub. Nick shook hands with the lieutenant. “Thanks, lieutenant. You’ve done a fine job. Now let’s check out our recovery plan once more.”
“Right. We he doggo around the coast here, out beyond the limit, and wait for your beeper signal. Ostensibly we’re on a test cruise. We wait two weeks. If we get the beeper signal we come to this same spot and pick you up on the recognition signal. If we don’t hear from you in two weeks we go home.” The lieutenant did not see fit to mention his private and personal orders: stooge around and see if you can find another submarine in the area. If you do, and she can’t identify herself, sink her. Ram her if you must! Those were his secret orders from the Navy and, as far as he knew, had nothing to do with this odd deal of putting a bum ashore on the Mexican coast.
“Okay,” said Nick Carter. “Fine. I’ll be seeing you, then. Before two weeks, I hope.” He went down the deck to where the rubber boat was waiting. The lieutenant noticed again that, although this man looked like a bum, he moved like a tiger. There was something about his eyes, too, which could give a man the creeps. They changed colors, those eyes, but always they were steady and cold on yours when he spoke.
The big man wasted no time. He leaped into the rubber boat, poised and skillful, and pushed away from the sub. He looked back once, raised a hand, and a soft-voiced adios came across the water. The lieutenant waved, then turned toward the conning tower. “All hands below. Prepare to submerge.”
Killmaster paddled toward the beach, a glittering evanescent white line in the star glow. Behind him he heard the swish and gurgle as Homer submerged, but he did not look back. Overhead the constellations spun and tilted, bright against a black velvet sky. A fine and peaceful evening. But for how long? Killmaster’s grin was hard. His job was to disrupt this all-pervading calm, this peaceful land and seascape. He was the grain of sand in the oyster, the irritant that might, or might not, produce the pearl the CIA and AXE were seeking.