“We must presume,” the high-pitched voice keened on, “that both Chang and Feng are dead. That means our entire link with the plant has been wiped out overnight. It is most unfortunate that we are unable to make further substitutions in the plant, but I suppose we must consider ourselves lucky to have done what we did. When L-Day comes we will take the plant without difficulty. In the meantime, we have all the supplies we need for the dress rehearsal.” The parchment face split.again into the death’s-head grin and the heavy shoulders bunched. “You four have your instructions in front of you. Read and burn as usual. I shall contact the rest myself. From now on we will step up all activities, especially those in connection with the material from the plant. Our three men in the field will handle its distribution. You, A.J., will add to their efforts, and you will also take the LSD. You will see that I have arranged its use to coincide with a power failure. You, C.F., will handle the pollutants. O.D., the same, but you will concentrate on water supplies. H.M., you will remain here for two days. You have the remote power-tripper in place? Good. You will activate it according to instructions, and then come back to the hotel to man the transmitter and receive calls. I myself will travel and make sure that all our plans work out. We will no longer meet here. It may be dangerous. Another of your duties, H.M., will be to report any investigative activities here in Canada for the next couple of days, at which time you will receive further orders. Remember — we are working now toward the final rehearsal. There can be only one. It must be a success, it must be devastating! And after that… ah, after that!” Again the hideous smile, like Death gloating in a charnel house. “After that, the final darkness. L-Day, and the end. All of North America will be ours.”
He gave a rich, satisfied sigh and leaned back, thinking of the glory that lay ahead for him and for the Chinese masters who were paying him so richly. And well they should, he thought; well they should.
And then he leaned forward abruptly and his slightly stiff fingers dipped into his briefcase.
“I, too, have pictures,” he fluted. “Study them. Memorize the faces. These arc the people we must look for. These are the people we must avoid or kill. Preferably kill. Five faces. Five. Study them!”
Nine minus two leaves seven, plus one makes eight. And the eighth was Judas. There was no doubt in his mind.
Nick leaned back in the U.S. Air Force jet and closed his eyes. Thank God for Hakim, he thought wearily, Too bad the reunion had been so brief and joyless, but when this whole snarled-up mess was sorted out they would have one helluva bash to make up for it — Nick and Hakim and Valentina and Julia, and maybe even Hawk.
There were pictures in his mind and in his pocket. Ten of them. Nine were copies of the photographs Hakim had discovered in von Kluge’s home, and among these were the faces of the phony Parry and Hughes. The tenth was a sketch, done from memory by Hakim, and Nick’s mental image of it was colored by his own, sharp recollections of the man. Valentina had confirmed the basic story; her nine were the same as Hakim’s. Nine minus two leaves seven… plus one makes eight… and the eighth living man was the ubiquitous, murdering Judas, the man who had offered his services so many times before to the highest bidder — so long as that bidder shared Judas’s scaring hatred for the Western world.
Nick cat-napped. New York and West Valley lay far behind him; West Valley swarming with extra guards and AXEmen and J. Egbert’s hard-faced boys; New York once again blessed by the presence of Valentina. But this time she had consented to disguise herself, and Hakim, too, was wearing a strange face.
Julia, beside Nick, stretched in her sleep, and a lock of new-blond hair fell over her new-blue eyes. She looked as Scandinavian as Nick himself; AXE’s Editing Department had made them look as much as possible like Viking brother and sister.
Nick stirred and peered at her. “ ‘S practically incestuous,” he murmured.
Julia stretched again. “No incest right now, brother baby,” she crooned sleepily. “Your little Inger needs her rest.”
“You’ve had it, love,” said Nick, glancing at his watch. “We’ll be coming into Montreal in just about ten minutes. Nap time is over.”
Which it was. Not only for then, but for many hours to come.
They checked into adjoining single rooms at the modest Hotel Edward and left almost at once on a sightseeing tour. But they were armed with more than cameras, and the sights they saw were police stations, municipal offices, travel bureaus, airline offices, hotels, restaurants, and — faces. Most of all they looked for faces. After a while they separated, agreeing to meet for drinks at the Princess Bar of the Hotel Monte Royale.
The panic in the States began to build.
First, there had been the weeks of intermittent blackouts, the smog, the filthy water, the lakes that were blood-red beneath the morning sun. Then, suddenly, the talk, the wild rumors about what had happened at West Valley.
At the same time, a new sighting of flashing flying saucers in a midwestern state.
Another lake, blood-red.
Smog, in Darien, Connecticut. In Darien!
Then a nurse in a Denver hospital found a strange container far back in a linen closet. She called the duty intern for her floor. He reported it to his chief. His chief called the police.
What the police said about it was in the afternoon papers.
It was not long before mysterious containers were being reported in junkyards, restaurant kitchens, rooming houses, railroad stations and checkrooms througout the nation. Most of diem were harmless. But some of them were not.
They were hundreds, even thousands, of miles apart, the harmless boxes and the dangerous ones. But the news spread quickly. And the very fact that the boxes were so widely scattered helped to build the fear into a near hysteria. It meant — so people said — that the enemy was countless in their midst. Or how else could they spread their treachery so far and wide? By this time they were very sure that there was an enemy, and those who did not believe in visitors from outer space began — inevitably — to connect all the disasters, large and small, with one source. The Reds.
And they were right. But they had no way of knowing, because of their own innocence, that what was happening to them was caused by nothing more than a small band of super-skilled saboteurs armed with chemicals, battery-operated motion-picture projectors, dye, simple electronic devices, and the lethal loot from the West Valley plant. Nor did it occur to them that the enemy was widespread only because it made swift, effective use of the airlines readily available to all.
Nick arrived at the Hotel Monte Royale several minutes early. It was only natural to use the time making the same inquiries that he had made elsewhere throughout the day, but he made them automatically and with very little hope. His biggest lead had been the airline that had issued Parry’s ticket, and that had proved to be a dud. So had all his other efforts.
And so, when the hotel manager and the house detective shook their heads regretfully, he was not at all surprised. They looked at all the pictures, including Hakim’s sketch of Martin Brown, and there was not one among them that they recognized.
“Bland-looking men,” the hotel dick commented. “Only the fellow with the beard and this skull-faced chap look like anything at all. But you stick around and I’ll check with reception and the bell captain.”