Macao (KM031), page 9
part #31 of Killmaster Series
Hawk jabbed a cigar in his traplike mouth. “Partly. Boulanger, certainly. He’s the rat fink type. Playing both ends against the middle. If the Angolan rebellion is successful he’s planning to cut Askari’s throat and take over. About Prince Askari I’m not so sure—our intelligence on him is a little scant. The way I read him he’s an idealistic type, honest and well meaning. Maybe a dummy, maybe not. I just don’t know. But you’re getting the idea, I hope. This is a real shark pool I’m tossing you into, son.”
Killmaster stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one. He began to pace the little office. “This thing is, at best, on the devious side. More so than usual.”
“The understatement of the year,” Hawk agreed. “Just look at how Ted Blacker, who was only a pawn and didn’t really know what was going on, look how he figured in it!”
Nick was not cognizant of all the Blacker angles and said so now, with some heat. He was a superbly trained agent and better at his killing job—quite literally—than any man in the world. But he hated wheels within wheels.
Hawk chomped on his dry cigar, put his feet on the desk and expounded with the air of a man who was enjoying himself. Hawk liked intricate puzzles.
“Fairly simple son. Some of this is guess work, but I’d bet on it. Blacker started out to drug the Princess and blackmail her over the dirty movies. Nothing else. He finds that she’s broke. No deal. But he also finds out, somehow, that she has this very important uncle, Luis da Gama, in Lisbon. Cabinet rank, money, the works. Blacker thinks he’s in.
“I don’t know how Blacker worked it, maybe a film clip, by mail or maybe personal contact. Anyway this uncle played it smart and alerted Portuguese Intelligence. The last thing the Portuguese want is a Profumo-type scandal. Especially with her uncle so high in government. The Profumo thing, remember, nearly toppled the British Government—and how solid can you get?
“But something happens—it must have been this way— that neither Blacker nor the Portuguese counted on. Prince Askari, the rebels, have got spies in Lisbon. They find out about the film and what Blacker is up to. They tell Askari and, naturally, General Boulanger finds out.
“Prince Askari sees immediately how he can use the film, and the Princess, against the Portuguese Government. He can blackmail them, raise hell in general, maybe upset the Government. All of which helps the rebels. So he sends some of his black men to London.
“But General Boulanger, I told you he was playing a separate hand, wants the girl and the film too. He wants the girl because he has seen her pictures before and he’s hot for her; he wants the film so he’ll have it and Askari won’t. But he can’t use Angolan rebels, he’s got no organization of his own, so he asks his Chinese friends for help. They oblige and give him the use of a hatchet squad in London. The Chinese killed Blacker and those two Cockneys! Tried to make it look like a sex thing. General Boulanger has got the film, or soon will have, and now he wants the girl in person. He’s waiting for you in Macao now. You and the girl. He knows we’ve got her. I’ve told you the deal—we give him the girl and buy some diamonds and he sets up Chun Li for you.”
“Or he sets me up for Chun Li?”
Hawk grimaced. “I told you it was a shark pool, son.”
The lights came on in English, French, and Chinese: Fasten Your Seat Belts—No Smoking.
They were coming into Kai Tak Airport. Nick Carter nudged the sleeping Princess and said, in a whisper: “Wake up, beautiful wife. We’re almost in.”
She scowled at him. “Do you have to use that word?”
He scowled back. “You bet I do. It’s important and you keep that in mind! We are Mr. and Mrs. Frank Manning, Buffalo, New York. Newlyweds. Honeymooning in Hong Kong.” He smiled. “Did you have a nice little nap, dear?”
It had been raining. The air was warm and humid as they deplaned and headed toward Customs. Nick, for once, was not particularly happy to be back in Hong Kong. He had a very nasty feeling about this mission.
The sky did nothing to reassure him. One look at the sullen, tarnished bronze clouds and he knew that storm signals would be flying at the Navy Yard on Hong Kong Island. Maybe just a storm—maybe tai fung. Bitch wind. It was the end of July, heading into August. Typhoon was possible. But then anything was possible in Hong Kong.
Customs went smoothly. Just as well, since Nick was carrying the Luger and the stiletto now. He knew that he was being well covered by AXE personnel, but made no effort to spot them. Useless in any case. They knew their job. Killmaster knew, also, that he was being covered by General Boulanger’s men. Possibly by Colonel Chun Li’s men as well. Both would be Chinese and impossible to spot in an exposed, public place.
His orders were to go to the Blue Mandarin Hotel in Victoria. There he was to sit tight and wait until General Auguste Boulanger made a contact. It would not, Hawk had assured him, be a long wait.
There was a Mercedes taxi with a lightly bent fender and a small blue cross chalked on a whitewall tire. Nick hustled the girl toward it. The driver was a Chinese Nick had never seen before.
Nick said: “Do you know where the Rat Fink Bar is?”
“Yes, sir. The rats are gathering now.”
Nick held the door open for the girl. His eyes met those of the taxi driver. “What color are the rats?”
“Many colors, sir. We have yellow rats, white rats and just lately we have black rats.”
Killmaster nodded and slammed the door. “Okay. Take us to the Blue Mandarin. Drive slowly. I want to see if I can get the parade figured out.”
As they pulled away Nick put the handcuffs on the Princess again, linking her to himself. She glared at him. She was looking better, much better, and a lot of her spirit had come back.
“For your own good,” he told her gruffly. “A lot of people are interested in you, Princess.”
She narrowed her green eyes at him in disdain, then looked away. The AXEman wondered briefly about her thoughts. Hong Kong couldn’t hold many pleasant memories for her.
He spotted Johnny Wise Guy then and forgot the girl for the moment. Johnny was driving a little red MG and he was hanging back in traffic, three cars behind the taxi. Nick lit a cigarette and pondered. Johnny wasn’t doing a very subtle tag job. Johnny knew that Nick knew him—they had once been quasi-friends, both in the States and around the world—and so Johnny knew that Nick would mark him immediately. He didn’t appear to care. That meant that his job was simply to find out where Nick and the girl were staying.
Killmaster moved so he could observe the red MG in the mirror. Johnny had dropped five cars back now. Just before they reached the Star ferry he would move up again. He wouldn’t risk being cut off at the ferry. Nick smiled grimly. How in hell did Johnny Wise Guy—not his real name—expect to avoid Nick on the ferry? Hide in the men’s room?
Johnny—Nick could not remember his Chinese name— had been born in Brooklyn and had graduated from CCNY. Nick had heard a thousand stories about the man: he was a born BTO, con man and black sheep. Johnny had been in trouble with the cops a few times, always beating the rap, and in time he had come to be known as Johnny Wise Guy because of his flip, brash, know-it-all attitude.
Nick, smoking and thinking, at last came up with what he wanted. Last he’d heard Johnny had been running a private detective agency in Hong Kong. Nick grinned ruefully. The guy was an operator, all right. It had taken a lot of potent magic, or money, for Johnny to get a license.
But it figured. Nick kept his eye on the red MG as they began to get into the thick Kowloon traffic. Johnny Wise Guy had moved up again, only two cars behind now. Killmaster wondered what the rest of the parade: Boulanger’s Chinese, Chun Li’s Chinese, Hawk’s Chinese—he wondered what they all made of Johnny Wise Guy.
Nick smiled. He was glad to see Johnny, glad he was getting into the act. It might be an easy way to get some answers. He and Johnny were, after all, old friends. Nick’s smile turned a little grim. Johnny might not see it that way at first—but he would come around.
The Blue Mandarin was a spanking new luxury hotel on Queen’s Road overlooking the Happy Valley race track. Nick took the handcuffs off the girl in the car and patted her hand. He smiled and indicated the dazzling white highrise building, the blue pool, the tennis courts and gardens and thick clusters of pine, casuarina and Chinese banyan.
In his best honeymoon voice he said: “Isn’t it lovely, darling? Just made to order for us.”
A tentative smile tugged at a corner of her full red mouth. She said: “You do make a fool of yourself, don’t you?”
He took her arm in a firm grasp. “All in the day’s work,” he told her. “Come on, Princess. Let us wander into Paradise. At 500 bucks a day—Hong Kong, that is.”
As he opened the door of the taxi he added, “Do you know that that is the first time I’ve seen you smile since we left London?”
The smile widened a trifle, the green eyes examined him. “Could I, would it be possible, for me to have a drink soon? Just to—to celebrate the start of our honeymoon?”
“We’ll see,” he said curtly. “Come on.”
There was no sign of the red MG. A blue Humber with two men in it had stopped on Queen’s Road. Nick gave the taxi man brief instructions and took the girl into the lobby. He did not let go her arm as he checked their reservation at the desk. She stood docilely, eyes cast down most of the time, playing her role well. Nick was aware that every male eye in the lobby was appraising her long legs and trim buttocks, the slender waist, the good full breasts. They were probably envying him. He leaned to brush her smooth cheek with his lips. With a perfectly straight face and loudly enough for the desk man to hear, Nick Carter said, “I love you so much, darling. I can’t bear to take my hands off you.”
From the corner of that lovely red mouth, spoken like an old-time con, she said, “You stupid stooge!”
The clerk smiled and said, “The bridal suite is ready, sir. I took the liberty of having flowers sent in. I hope you will enjoy your stay with us, Mr. and Mrs. Manning. If there is anything—anything at all that we can—”
Nick cut him off with a quick thanks and guided the girl to the elevator, following the two boys with their luggage.
Five minutes later, in the posh suite which had been decorated with magnolia and wild roses, the girl said: “I really think I’ve earned a drink. I have been very good, haven’t I? Don’t you agree, Mr—whatever your real name is?”
Nick glanced at his AXE wristwatch. He was on a very tight schedule, but there would be time for this. He had to make time for it. He pushed her down on a divan, not too gently. She stared up at him in amazement, too surprised to show resentment.
Killmaster used his rough voice. The voice that had put the fear of God and the chill of death into some of the toughest customers in the world.
“Princess da Gama,” he said now. “Let us have a little chat. Get a few things straight. One—there will be no drinking. No, repeat no, drinking! No drugs! You will do exactly as you are told. Exactly. I hope you understand that I am kidding you not—I don’t want to get physical.”
The green eyes were stony and she flared at him, her mouth a thin slash of scarlet. “You—you stooge! You ape! That’s all you are—a—a muscle man. A big good-looking ape! You like to push women around, don’t you? You think you’re God’s gift to the ladies, don’t you?”
He stood over her, staring down, his eyes hard as agates. He shrugged. “If you’re going to have hysterics,” he told her, “have them now. Hurry up. Get it out of the way.”
The Princess lay back along the sofa. The faille skirt rucked up to expose her stocking tops. She took a deep breath, smiled and pushed her breasts out at him. “I do need a drink,” she purred. “It’s been a long time. I—I’ll be awfully nice to you, terribly nice to you, if you’ll only let me have a bottle.”
With dispassion, with a smile that was neither cruel nor kind, Killmaster slapped her lovely face. The slap sounded in the room and left red stains on her pale cheek.
The Princess sprang at him, her nails clawing at his face. Nick pushed her down again, held her on the divan with one big hand while she squirmed and twisted and spat at him. He liked that. This kid had plenty of moxie left. Chances were she would need it.
When she was exhausted he said, “You signed a contract. You’re going to live up to it for the duration of this mission. After that I don’t care what you do, what happens to you. You are nothing but piao, so don’t put on airs with me. Do your job and you’ll be paid well. Don’t do it and I’ll turn you over to the Portuguese. In a minute, without hesitation, just like that!” He snapped his fingers.
At the word piao she had gone deathly white. It meant the worst, the cheapest of prostitutes. To a Chinese it was worse than being called a turtle or a running dog. The Princess turned on the divan and began to cry softly.
Killmaster was glancing at his watch again when the knock at the door came. About time.
He admitted two white men, big but somehow nondescript looking. They could have been tourists, business men, Government clerks, anything. They were AXEmen, shunted down from Manila by Hawk. At the moment AXE personnel in Hong Kong was stretched pretty thin.
One of the men carried a small suitcase. He extended a hand, saying, “Preston, sir. The rats are gathering.”
Nick Carter nodded assent. “What color are the rats?”
The other man, who introduced himself as Dickenson, said: “White and yellow, sir. They’re all over the place.”
Nick frowned. “No black rats?”
The men exchanged glances. Preston said, “No, sir. No black rats. Should there be?”
Liaison was never perfect, even in AXE. Nick told them to forget the black rats. He had his own ideas about that.
Preston opened his suitcase and began readying a small radio transmitter. Neither of them paid any attention to the girl on the divan. She had stopped crying now and lay with her head buried in pillows.
Preston stopped fussing with his equipment and looked at Nick. “How soon do you want to contact the helicopter, sir?”
“Not yet. I can’t do a thing until I get a phone call or a message, something. They must know I’m here.”
The man named Dickenson smiled. “They should, sir. It was quite a cavalcade from the airport. Two carloads of Chinese. They seemed to be watching each other as well as you. And Johnny Wise Guy, of course.”
Killmaster nodded approval. “You made him, too? Would you happen to know his angle in this?”
Both men shook their heads. “No idea, sir. We were a little surprised to see Johnny. Could be it’s got something to do with the black rats you were asking about?”
“It’s possible. I plan to find out. I know Johnny from way back and—”
The phone rang. Nick held up a hand. “That must be it.” He picked up the receiver, “Yes?”
“Mr. Frank Manning? The honeymooner?” It was an Oriental voice speaking perfect English.
Nick said: “Yes. This is Frank Manning.” They hadn’t been fooled long by that ploy. Which was as it should be. The object had been to contact General Boulanger without alerting the Hong Kong or Macao authorities.
“You will,” said the voice, “find it both interesting and profitable to visit Macao on your honeymoon, Mr. Manning. At once. Without waste of time. A hydrofoil will take you there from Hong Kong in only seventy-five minutes. If you wish we will arrange transportation.”
I’ll just bet! Nick said: “I’ll arrange my own transportation. And I don’t think I can make it today.” He looked at his watch. A quarter after noon.
The voice sharpened. “It must be today! There is no time to waste.”
“No. I can’t make it.”
“Tonight then?”
“Possibly, but it will have to be late.” Nick smiled at the phone. Night was better. He would need darkness for what had to be done in Macao.
“Very well, then. There is an inn, the Sign of the Golden Tiger, on the Rua Das Lorchas. You must be there at the Hour of the Rat. With the merchandise. Is that understood? With the merchandise—she will be recognized.”
“I understand.”
“Come alone,” said the voice. “Just the two of you. If you do not, or if there is any trickery, we cannot be responsible for your safety.”
“We’ll be there,” said the AXEman. He hung up and turned to the two AXE operatives. “That was it. Get on your radio, Preston, and get that ‘copter in here. Fast. Then give orders to start your traffic jam on Queen’s Road.”
“Yes, sir!” Preston began to fiddle with the transmitter dials.
Nick looked at Dickenson. “What’s the Hour of the Rat? I’ve forgotten.”
“Eleven at night, sir.”
“Thanks. You got any handcuffs with you?”
Dickenson looked a little startled. “Handcuffs, sir? No, sir. I didn’t think—I mean I wasn’t told there would be a need.”
Killmaster tossed his own handcuffs to the man and nodded to the girl. The Princess was sitting up now, her eyes red from crying, but looking cool and aloof. Nick would have bet that she hadn’t missed much.
“Take her up to the roof,” Nick commanded. “Leave her baggage here. It’s only window dressing anyway. You can take the cuffs off when you get her aboard the junk, but keep a sharp eye on her. She’s the merchandise and we’ve got to be able to show it. If we don’t the entire deal falls through.”
The Princess covered her eyes with long fingers. In a very small voice she said: “Can’t I have just one drink, please? Just one?”
Nick shook his head at Dickenson. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing unless I give the word. And don’t let her con you. She’ll try. She’s very cute that way.”
The Princess crossed her legs with a slither of nylon, exposing a great length of stocking and creamy flesh. Dickenson grinned at Nick. “I’m a happy married man, sir. I work at it, too. Don’t worry.”
Preston was talking into a mike now. “Hatchet One to Spinner One. Begin mission. Repeat—begin mission. Do you read me, Spinner One?”
A tinny voice whispered back. “This is Spinner One to Hatchet One. I read you. Wilco. Coming in now. Out.”
