There was an old but sturdy cabin cruiser bobbing beside the sagging planks with only one dim blue light to give away its presence. Beyond it was the boathouse, sagging like the jetty and apparently unusable, but no doubt reinforced from within and quite capable of storing enough material to keep the Ten busy for many weeks. It must have been quite easy to build, say, a false flooring or wall, and give it a weathered appearance. No reason at all why anyone should ever have stumbled on their cache until it had served its purpose. Nor would the ordinary Geiger counter have picked up the message given off by its contents. However, AXE equipment was not ordinary.
Nick picked his way silently along the curve of the inlet toward the pier. The boathouse was behind it, and behind the boathouse was another grove of trees. Somewhere beyond it, Nick judged, there would be a back road leading to a main highway — one that branched off both to Buffalo and to the West Valley plant.
And the cabin cruiser itself made a useful vehicle, especially if those who used it knew a landing place on the Canadian side of the lake where they might slip off, undetected…
He reviewed his mental map as he glided through the darkness. Niagara Falls was only a stretch of lake and a strip of land to the north. Very, very handy to reach from here, if one had business to attend to in that part of Canada — or any part, for that matter and a certain amount of spy’s skill to go with it.
Judas’s skill was a master of record. And there was no doubt at all that his business interests reached across the border.
Nick passed parallel to the jetty and rounded the inner curve of the inlet toward it. The boathouse was a dark and silent hulk. Only the boat alongside the pier showed any sign of life, and that was no more than a rhythmic bobbing on the water and a pale gleam of blue light.
But the boat could wait. Right now he wanted to be sure about the boathouse.
He edged around it cautiously, staring into the grove of trees for any sign of a watcher and feeling with his hands for an entrance to the rickety building. He found it easily enough, but, of course, the doors that should have been as ramshackle as the building were not only firm but securely locked and barred. The rust on the locks seemed genuine, but he was sure that it was not.
The padlock clanked softly at his touch — and something rustled in the trees.
He drew back into the darkest of the shadows and listened to the night. He heard crickets, the flutter of birds’ wings, the sigh of a low breeze in the leaves, a frog, the splat of water as the cruiser gently swayed and rocked. Nothing alarming, nothing out of place. Yet, his muscles were taut with expectancy, and the hair on the back of his neck stood out like porcupine quills.
Someone was near. He was sure of it.
But nothing moved as he strained his eyes and cars into the darkness, and after a long, waiting moment he took the tiny compasslike device from his pocket and trained it first in the direction of the boat and then at the shambles of the boathouse. It gave no reaction to the boat. But as Nick swung it back toward the boathouse he could see the little illuminated needle jerking convulsively around the dial in his cupped hands, and then he was sure the boathouse was the supply depot and the boat was the meeting place.
So. He would attend their next meeting, whenever it might be.
Blue light from the boat spilled across the jetty and made a shining path of it. He would have to turn back around the curve of the inlet, strip, and slide into the water, or he might be seen by… by whatever it was that was making his skin crawl.
He inched his way forward, wishing for the thousandth time in his life that he had eyes in the back of his head, eyes with built-in night sights to turn the darkness into light. But he did not. His night senses were exceptionally acute, but he was only human.
His foot scrunched across a tiny, unseen twig when he was about five feet from the boathouse and heading stealthily for a cluster of tall boulders. He heard the other sound in that same instant and knew that he had given himself away. There was a rustle of cloth behind him and the softest of footfalls; he flung himself sideways and jerked Hugo loose from his sheath. But the two muscular arms were already locking themselves around his neck in a blinding stranglehold. They tightened around his windpipe, squeezing mercilessly. Nick kicked backwards violently as his own hands shot up to claw at the ones at his throat. His kick missed, as the man behind him sidestepped with an agile, twisting movement. The grip became a neck-breaking bear hug.
Hugo’s flicking blade bit deep into the pressing hands. They loosened infinitesimally to change position, but then the grip became a choking armlock. The man was tall and incredibly powerful. His clutch was iron and his determination must have been made of the same stuff, because Hugo was making no impression. The grip tightened further and then there was a sudden savage twist that had Nick almost off his feet. He thrust backward with the stiletto’s ice-pick blade and had the satisfaction of hearing a pained grunt. Then he rolled with his attacker’s own twisting movement and threw himself hard on the ground, dragging the other with him. Again there was a gasp of pain, but the grip still held him. Dizziness began to blur his mind. His throat and chest were burning in a blaze of agony. Even as his mind swirled he grudgingly admired the other man’s tenacity, because apparently Hugo’s bite was beginning to take effect at last, although the iron hold was still choking him inexorably.
He brought his elbow back with all his strength and slammed it hard and deep into the other man’s stomach, and when the loud grunt came and the feet flailed he twisted abruptly and wrenched himself free. A long, bony knee jabbed upward toward his groin and he dodged it with a rapid rollover. It struck his thigh but he brushed it aside with a swift kick of his own that brought a savage sound from the other man and a miraculously swift movement.
The man was on his feet — incredibly, on his feet — and his right hand was thrust inside his jacket.
Nick was up and pouncing. His left hand caught at the other’s reaching arm and twisted it, and Hugo sank into the chest. The tall man uttered an animal sound and kicked out in a whiplike motion that snaked his leg past Nick’s and made his own long body sway like a falling tree. The man swore furiously and chopped out with both hands.
Nick ducked low and kicked upward from his half-crouch even as he rose. His toe connected with the chin and the tall man rocked and grunted. He cursed. In Chinese.
“That was your last chance, friend,” Nick said conversationally, and nailed Hugo through the fellow’s neck.
The man gurgled and kicked out, his lanky body flailing like an injured octopus, and his hands and feet thrashed in motions of attack. Again Nick felt a wave of reluctant admiration. The fellow was refusing to die, prolonging the battle and his own agony.
Hugo drew back and darted forward one more time.
The tall man’s hands clawed wildly at Nick’s face, while his body, still almost upright, teetered crazily, fighting death itself. For a long moment the tall figure stood there, swaying and squirming. Then it dropped like a felled oak.
Nick crouched beside it, waiting, meticulously wiping Hugo’s blade on the other man’s sleeve and probing the darkness with his ears and eyes. The dying heart slowed and stopped. The silence was even deeper than before.
His listening ears caught nothing but normal night sounds.
He hoisted the body over his shoulders and carried it to the nearest clump of rocks. When he had dumped it on the other side he played the thin beam of his flash over the narrow, flat-planed face and powerful body.