A bare foot touched Nick’s hand. He struck like a cobra, coming up from his crouch with the man’s foot in his hand, his left hand, while the stiletto flashed in and out like a steel ferret. The guard emitted one dying gurgle, lost in the gale, while Nick held him aloft, using both hands now, and let the body exsanguinate. It does not take long for a man to bleed to death. He felt the spurt of arterial blood On his own bare flesh.

  When the guard hung limp, bloodless and porcine in his grasp, Nick took the body back to the beach and buried it in the sand. He went into the water to wash blood from himself. The stuff was sticky—and he didn’t want blood odor on him in case there were dogs.

  He had brought the man’s rifle along. Now he sat on the sand and examined it with his fingers in the dark. His expert touch soon told him that it was an old model weapon—Lee-Enfield, MK1, Caliber 303. A long-ago— and he had thought forgotten—gunnery lecture flitted through his mind. Ball ammo—170 grain. It was a fine old rifle. The BEF, in the first war, had made fools of the Germans with it. An expert, using his middle finger on the trigger and his index finger on the bolt, could get off forty shots a minute. Nick tossed the rifle into the sea. He doubted that the raggle-taggle Sir Malcolm Drake had collected were experts.

  Hawk had said: “One of the aspects of this thing, the fact that Drake is collecting men, makes it look like another banana revolution. But it has to be more than that. There are too many angles. And if Drake is planning a revolution, a takeover, where? What country? Certainly the man wouldn’t be fool enough to think he could grab Puerto Rico.”

  Hutchinson, the CIA man who had been in on this particular conference, said: “But we know, sir, that the Nationalists are stirring again. They’re a crazy lot—don’t forget the attack on Truman!”

  Hawk had snorted. “I’ll believe it when I see it. It could be a red herring.”

  Now, with the smell of cooking again strong in his nostrils, Nick began to crawl toward the old fortress. Soundlessly he hummed a few bars of the little French song. Let Hawk and the other brass worry about the complications. His job was simple and straightforward, the way he liked it.

  Raise hell.

  Chapter 7

  WHEN DAVID HAWK broke off radio contact with Nick Carter he left the radio shack of the destroyer and went back to the wardroom, which had been turned over to him. There were two armed sailors on guard at the entrance.

  Hawk was greeted with expectant looks by the little group of men assembled in the wardroom, some of whom were drinking coffee served by a white-jacketed mess steward. Hawk dismissed the messman and went straight to the littered table he was using as a desk. He glanced around at the waiting men as he fitted the cheap cigar into his thin mouth. Hutchinson was there, and of course the two Englishmen—though only as observers now, since the British were no longer a power factor in the Caribbean. There was also a man each from the FBI, the Secret Service, G2—and another AXEman, Mike Henry, second-ranking Killmaster to Nick Carter. The two men had never met. Hawk had no intention that they ever would.

  Hawk picked up the little book that Nick Carter had brought back from the bloody rendezvous at the wreck of El Conquistador. It was all in the book. Enough words outlined, circled, to complete a message from the grave. Or, Hawk thought now, from the belly of a shark.

  It had been a simple enough job. The lab report said that the woman, Monica Drake, had used ordinary lemon juice for invisible ink. A child’s trick. But it had worked. Applied heat brought lemon juice up in a brown stain.

  Hawk said: “Hang on to your hats, gentlemen. Here it is.” He tapped the book with a finger.

  “There is a plot to assassinate the President of the United States!”

  Hawk held up a hand for silence, anticipating, but it was needless. There was absolute silence in the wardroom. Every white face was an exclamation mark.

  Hawk addressed the Secret Service man. “Your people have already been notified. Plan D is going into effect right now, at this moment. You will remain under my orders.”

  The Secret Service man nodded. He had a stunned look. Plan D. D for Doppelganger. For the first time in the history of the United States the President would go into hiding while a double took his place. The double, a Hollywood actor, was en route to Texas where the switch would be made. The President would then come down with a heavy cold that would curtail most of his activities and all his important appointments. The American public would never know.

  Hawk switched his attention to Hutchinson, the CIA man. “The idea is to make it look like a Cuban job. Your contact, Sugarcane, is right. The Beard has got a right to be worried! If another President were to be killed so soon after Kennedy—well, I don’t have to say what the temper of the American people would be. Especially if it looked like Cuba was behind it.”

  Hutchinson’s voice quivered a bit. “They’d want blood! Cuba’s blood. Invasion—all out war! There wouldn’t be any way to stop it!”

  Hawk’s face was like a gray, weathered stone. “Exactly. The Chinese Reds are counting on that. They’re selling Brother Beard down the river—because while we’re busy here in the Caribbean they’re planning to go in and take over North Vietnam to keep Ho from surrendering.”

  The G2 officer looked startled. “Ho Chi Minh surrender?”

  Hawk stared at him with unblinking eyes. He tapped the book. “That appears to be it. According to my, our, informant Ho is very close to tossing in the sponge. The bombings are murdering them, despite all the propaganda to the contrary, and they aren’t getting any real help from the Chinese. Ho wants to come to the peace table. The Chinese can’t allow that. So they’re willing to gamble big, to move in and take over. They’re counting on the assassination, and our subsequent war with Cuba, to divert us until they’ve brought it off. They’ve moved their atomic installations from Lop Nor, in Sinkiang Province, to God knows where. A lot of their heavy industry has been decentralized—that isn’t exactly news to us—but what they’re really doing is gambling that we’ll be so busy and so mad at home that we’ll let them get away with the move into North Vietnam. That we, in short, won’t drop the Bomb on them, even if we do decide to drop it on Castro.”

  One of the Englishmen, M.I.5, said: “I had a report this morning sir, that the Russians are moving a dozen armored divisions to the borders of Sinkiang and Manchuria. What do you make of that, in the light of what you have just told us?”

  Hawk permitted himself a brief smile. “International chess. I imagine our State Department suggested it, and the Russians are playing ball because it suits their purpose. They don’t want the Chinese in North Vietnam any more than we do. They’re obliging us by putting a little pressure on the northern borders. But if the Chinese really intend to invade North Vietnam it won’t make any difference.”

  The G2 officer spoke again. “We haven’t got enough over there to stop them. They’d pour down the Red River valley like a flock of locusts. Our boys wouldn’t have a chance.”

  “Unless we use the Bomb,” said the FBI man.

  Hawk stood up. “That’s it for now, gentlemen. Matters are being handled in Washington. You are all under my command and will remain aboard this ship until further orders.” He pointed a skinny finger at Hutchinson and Mike Henry. “I want to see you two in my stateroom.”

  Hawk motioned the two men to chairs and stretched out on the bunk. A stateroom in a destroyer is not very stately. He was beat. It had been over forty-eight hours since he had slept.

  “Now we concentrate on our business,” he told them. “The rest of it will be taken care of, and anyway it’s out of our hands. Our little problem is just thirty miles down the coast, on Gallows Cay. Name of Sir Malcolm Drake.”

  Mike Henry, the other AXEman, said: “I might have something on that tramp steamer for you, sir. A beatup rustpot, the Victory Girl, cleared the Canal a week ago for Baltimore. She’s Liberian registry, out of Hong Kong with a cargo of toys and clothing and supposed to stop at Jamaica for sisal. She didn’t. Didn’t arrive at Baltimore, either.”

  “That might be our baby,” Hawk acknowledged. “With a billion in Chinese gold aboard her. Toys and clothing, eh? Easily enough jettisoned to make room.” A blast of wind scalped the destroyer just then, heeling her over a bit. Hawk knew the ship was double-anchored, with a sea anchor out to boot, but a destroyer is a skittish craft.

  “Could be,” he added with a trace of wishful thinking, “that she’s already down. From the Canal she would have to come all the way across the Caribbean, transversely, right in the path of this blow. Save us all a lot of trouble.”

  Mike Henry shook his head. “You’re dreaming, sir. She’s had plenty of time. My guess is that she’s hove to somewhere out beyond the twelve-mile limit, waiting for this Sir Malcolm, and we couldn’t touch her even if we could find her. Which we will as soon as the blow lets up.”

  “That might be too late,” Hawk said. “From all I’ve heard about this Drake he’s a tough bastard. I think he’s going to try to use this hurricane as cover. We’re just in a fringe area. He can still operate.”

  Hutchinson, the CIA man, looked a bit nettled. “You sound like you’ve got it figured, sir. I wish you’d let me in on it! Cover for what, sir? What operation?”

  The old man turned a little sly. “You forgetting, Hutchinson? Your four Cuban murderers? All sprung cleanly and spirited out of Cuba. I think Drake has them— I think he’s been paid to set up the assassination for the Chicoms!”

  Hawk had read Monica Drake’s message. They had not.

  Mike Henry let out a low whistle. “One billion bucks in gold!”

  “If their plan works it will be worth a thousand times that to them.” Hawk took two glossy photos from beneath his pillow and tossed them to Hutchinson. “Hope you don’t mind looking at corpses. The woman is Monica Drake, the agent that started all this. Maybe you know the man. An agent of mine had to kill him just before this picture was taken.”

  The CIA man stared at the swarthy bearded face with the blood leaking from the open mouth. “I know him. That’s Ramon Ramirez. Used to be a big shot in Cuba. Head of the Secret Police and a great pal of Che Guevara. When Che went Ramirez disappeared, too.”

  Hawk nodded. “It all fits. Chances are this Ramirez engineered the escapes of those four murderers. We know he was working for Sir Malcolm Drake. Probably recruiting for him. A man like Ramirez would know a lot of odd types, bums, free lancers, crooks and adventurers.”

  Hutchinson scaled the photo back at Hawk. “Nice to know where he is, sir. We had lost him. Now I can file him under SF—shark food.”

  Hawk glanced at his watch. It would be time to contact Nick Carter again soon. Nick was to check in every two hours.

  To Mike Henry he said: “You know I’ve got an agent on Gallows Cay, of course. I think he’ll be able to handle it. But just in case he can’t I want you to set up a rescue operation. Not a raid, mind you, but a sneak in and sneak out operation. We’ve got to play this one very close to the vest, and never forget it. This one is as hush-hush as they’ll ever get. Rumors of a planned assassination of the President by Cuba would be nearly as bad as the assassination itself. Am I clear?”

  Mike Henry looked reproachful. “Of course, sir. Goes without saying. We sweep this one under the carpet and forget it.”

  Mike Henry left to set up the rescue operation that, all three hoped, would not be needed. Hutchinson asked Hawk a question. “Just what do you think Drake is up to, sir? With those men, I mean? Why is he recruiting? What does he intend to do with this small army he’s building?”

  Hawk got up from the bunk, groaning a bit and complaining about his old bones, and went to where a map of the Caribbean was stuck to the wall of the stateroom with scotch tape. Hawk ran a finger around the area and looked at the CIA man.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, and I think we can eliminate any British or United States territory. He’ll be after an independent country. Weak, but independent, with no colonial or commonwealth ties.”

  Hutchinson frowned. “I don’t follow you at all, sir. You say that Drake is after a country?”

  “Of course, man!” Hawk was impatient. “Don’t you see it yet? Sir Malcolm Drake wants to be a king or a dictator, though he’ll probably call himself a president. That’s all a part of the deal with Red China. They’ve given him a billion in gold so he can buy himself a country, invade it, and set up housekeeping for himself. The only question is—which country?”

  Chapter 8

  NICK CARTER could have answered Hawk’s question. Sir Malcolm Drake intended to invade Haiti. He had a rag-tag army of over three hundred men concealed in the casements and dungeons of the old fortress. Nick had killed another guard, taken his uniform, and circulated for an hour without being challenged. The men were cooking, gambling, sleeping. They were armed with a hodgepodge of weapons the like of which the AXEman had never seen before. Sir Malcolm’s agents must have scoured the world for them: modern grenades, Mills bombs from World War I; rifles that included the Enfields, Mausers, carbines, and the M 14 and M 16 now being used in South Vietnam; old Browning machine guns, water cooled, BARs, Stens and Thompsons, bazookas, and a 90mm recoilless antitank gun. Nick had even spotted a few flame throwers.

  There was just one little catch. Killmaster wasn’t likely to be talking to Hawk in the near future, if ever again. He was in a comfortable, neatly furnished cell in the basement of the villa.

  Lady Luck had turned on him, given him a nasty kick in the pants. After scouting the fortress he had headed for the villa, on its hill at the narrow gut of the Cay, and had been on the point of calling Hawk again when the dogs hit him. Four of them. Giant Dobermans with slavering fangs and murder in their eyes. Four! Nick did the only thing he could do—he ran. Ran squarely into the waiting pit. It was twelve feet square, covered with palm leaves laid over fragile sugarcane stalks. Nick’s two hundred plus went smashing down like an anvil. As he fell he felt his body tripping wires. Lights flashed on and a bell began to clang. Killmaster knew, for the time being, that he had damned well had it!

  A score of men, all with Tommy guns, had ringed the pit and tossed him a rope ladder. He came up slowly, carefully, knowing how useless, and fatal, any resistance would be.

  Now he sat, naked but for his swim trunks, in the cozy cell—it had furniture, a bathroom, rugs on the floor and pictures on the wall—and listened to the coaxing whisper of the woman’s voice from the loudspeaker. He guessed that the voice was that of the dead Monica Drake. It was not intended for Nick. He had noted five other cells in the block as he was brought in, and he would have bet a year’s pay that the five escaped Cuban murderers were, at the moment, listening to the voice also. Had been listening to it for weeks, no doubt. It explained the lush cells— always treat your hired assassins well—and it showed how much Sir Malcolm Drake had trusted his wife until near the end.

  The woman was speaking in flawless Spanish. A tape, of course. Nick wondered how many times the putative assassins had heard it. Probably hundreds of times, over and over, twenty-four hours a day. The technique was not a new one. Quasi hypnosis, sleep indoctrination, call it what you pleased. It had been known to work.

  “… you will each receive one million dollars in United States currency—I repeat, one million dollars—when you have done your job faithfully. When you have killed the great enemy of your country and your people, the President of the United States. It will be much easier than you think. Plans are complete. Nothing has been overlooked. When it is over you will have every assistance in escaping to a country of your choice. You will be great heroes. In time your wives or children or any relatives, even your friends, will be given our assistance in joining you. You will live like kings, in wealth and happiness, for the rest of your lives. But remember, and remember well—if you betray us you will be tracked down and killed. Your families will be killed. You will not be known as heroes, but as traitors. But let us not speak of that again. Sufficient that you remember the price of betrayal. …”

  There was a click and buzz as the tape ended. An electronic silence for a second or two. Nick rubbed his scalp and wondered how he would react to the damned thing—supposing he had to listen to it all day and night, even as he slept, day in and day out. Hard to tell. The brain played tricks at times—dirty tricks. I just might, he thought sourly, go up to Washington and shoot the President myself!

  The tape began to play again. The woman’s voice was low, dulcet, sweet. “Hello, my friends. I hope you are comfortable? If you wish anything you have only to ask for it. We regret that you must be confined for the moment, but you will soon understand why. Now to business. …”

  Nick stopped listening. He had already heard it a dozen times. Details of training, of false papers—all a Puerto Rican needed to get into the States was proof of nationality. Thousands of them streamed between San Juan and New York every day. Flying time was a little over three hours. They could get lost, in another hour, in the ghetto of Spanish Harlem. Killmaster gave Sir Malcolm a grudging compliment. The man had the genius of simplicity.

  The corridor in the cell block was carpeted. He did not hear them until they were at his door. He stood up, feeling suddenly more naked than ever. A skimpy pair of swim trunks wasn’t much to fight back with.

  The door of the cell swung open. Nick recognized the man instantly. The Aussie who had shot at him on the beach. He was wearing the same rakish bush hat with the pinned up brim. The bush jacket was soiled now, the shorts wrinkled, but the man was freshly shaven. He put his hand on the big revolver in the web holster as he came closer to Nick. The AXE agent caught a whiff of soured rum. This character was still drinking!

  “On your feet, cobber,” said the Aussie. “The boss wants to see you. Sir M himself requests the pleasure of your company in his study.”

  “Well,” said Nick, “if it isn’t the digger. So we meet again.”

 

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