A Korean Tiger (6 page)

"Wait a minute." Westcott tapped his pipe on his teeth. "I do know something the cops don't. Because I didn't tell them. I... I don't like to get mixed up in anything, see, so when they asked me questions I just answered those questions, see. I didn't shoot off my mouth any, didn't volunteer anything."

Nick waited patiently. "Yes, Mr. Westcott?"

"I don't see how it would have helped the cops any if I had told them," said Westcott defensively, "but this Bennett was a real nut. He used to dress up and parade around the neighborhood at night, see. In a sort of costume. I used to watch him. Follow him, just to see what he was up to."

Nick smiled again. "And what was he up to, Mr. Westcott?"

"Among other things he was a peeper. A Peeping Tom. He used to prowl the neighborhood and look in bedroom windows, trying to watch women dressing or undressing."

Nick stared at the man. His mobile lips quirked a bit as he said, "You saw him doing this, Mr. Westcott?"

"Yeah. A lot of times — well, anyway two or three times. He didn't come around my place, though, so I..."

Nick picked it up smoothly. "He didn't come around your place, Mr. Westcott, so you didn't bother to report him to the police? Is that it?"

Westcott's face was flushed. "Well, yes. Like I said, I don't like to get mixed up in anything. The guy wasn't really hurting anything and I, uh..." His voice trailed off.

Nick Carter kept a straight face. Obviously Bennett had interfered with Westcott's own peeping and that, while it must have been annoying, was definitely not a police matter!

Westcott must have sensed Nick's thought because he hurried on in an attempt to blur the moment over. "I got a pretty good look at him sometimes, when he didn't know I was watching. He was always dressed like he thought he was in a TV show or something — you know, the trench-coat and the smart aleck hat. He would always have the coat buttoned up under his chin and the hat pulled down over his eyes. And he always kept his hands in his pockets, too. Like maybe he had a gun, you know."

Westcott tapped out his pipe on a birch tree. "After what happened, him murdering his wife, I mean, he probably did have a gun, huh? I'm glad now that I never called him on the peeping stuff. He might have shot me!"

Nick turned away. He flipped a hand in farewell. "I don't think so, Mr. Westcott. The gun wasn't loaded. And now that you've got the field to yourself again — let me wish you happy peeping. And thanks for everything."

He did not turn at the faint sound behind him. It was only Mr. Westcott's pipe dropping from his open mouth.

In the car, on the way back into Washington, he told Hawk what Westcott had revealed. Hawk nodded without any real interest, "It only confirms what we already know. Bennett is a nut. So he liked to peep and play cops and robbers at night — that's not going to help us catch him."

Nick wasn't so sure. But he kept his peace and for a time they drove in silence. Hawk broke it. "I had a thought back there in the room — just before you went off into that trance. I'll tell you if you promise not to die laughing."

"Promise."

"Okay." Hawk crunched fiercely on a dry cigar. "As I was saying back there — if the Kremlin put one over on us, really succeeded in planting Bennett on us, then why in hell haven't they been using him? Contacting him? Milking him for all it was worth? It just doesn't make sense that the Ivans would plant a sleeper on us for thirty years! Five, yes. Maybe ten. That's been done. But thirty! That's a hell of a long sleeper."

Nick agreed. "Yet they seem to have done just that, sir."

Hawk shook his head. "No. I don't think so. And I've got a real screwy theory that just might explain it. Suppose they goofed in the Kremlin. Really goofed, a monumental flub. Suppose they planted Bennett on us way back in 1936 and then forgot about him!"

At least it was a fresh approach to their problem. Certainly it had not occurred to Nick. But it seemed to him a little wild. He wasn't buying it. Not yet. He reminded Hawk of one of the basic facts of life, one of the first things an agent is taught.
Never underestimate the Russians.

"I'm not," said Hawk dourly. "But it is possible, boy! We make mistakes, as you know, and some of them are dillies. So do the Reds. We usually manage to cover our mistakes, hide them, and so do they. The more I think about it the more plausible it becomes. Remember that they must have told Bennett that he was going to be a sleeper. Told him to lie low, quiet like a mouse, and never try to contact them. Never! They would get in touch with him when the time came. Only it never came. They lost his file somehow. They forgot his existence. A lot can happen in thirty years, and Russians die the same as everybody else. Anyway 1936 was a bad year for them — that and the years just after. Their revolution was still pretty new and shaky, they'd had the purges, they had begun to worry about Hitler. A lot of things. And they weren't nearly as efficient then as they are now. I know! I was just a young agent then."

Killmaster shook his head. "It's still pretty wild, sir. I think you're reaching way out into left field to get an explanation. But there is one aspect, one set of circumstances, under which your theory might make some sense."

Hawk was watching him intently. "And that is?"

"If, after they recruited Bennett, they found out he was a nut. A psycho. Or that he had tendencies that way. We know they don't recruit mental cases — they would have dropped him like a hot potato. Probably they would have betrayed him themselves just to get off the hook. There was no risk, no danger to them. Bennett was a loner, a sleeper, not part of a network. He couldn't have known anything to hurt them."

"But they didn't betray him," Hawk said softly. "Never. And we didn't know about him. Yet they've never used him, at least to our knowledge. So if they didn't goof, if it wasn't a Kremlin foul-up, what the hell is the answer?"

"It just could be," said Nick, "that they're playing it straight. That Raymond Lee Bennett was
supposed
to sleep for thirty years. While that freak brain of his sucked up everything like a vacuum cleaner. Now they want him. Some commissar, some high brass in MGB, has decided the time has come for sleeping beauty to awake."

Nick chuckled. "Maybe he got a kiss in the mail. Anyway, if I'm right, the Russians are in a little trouble, too. I doubt they expected him to kill his wife! They certainly don't know, or didn't at the time, how crazy Bennett is. They expected him to vanish quietly, without any fanfare, and turn up in Moscow. After a few months, or years, of squeezing his brain dry they could give him some little job to keep him quiet and happy. Or maybe just arrange for him to disappear. Only it didn't work out that way — Bennett is a wife killer, the game is blown, and every agent in the world is looking for him. I'll bet the Russians are damned unhappy."

"No more than I am," said Hawk bitterly. "This thing has more angles than my maiden aunt. We've got plenty of theories, but no Bennett. And Bennett we must have! Dead or alive — and I don't have to tell you which I prefer."

Nick Carter closed his eyes against the hot glare of the sun on the Potomac. They were back in Washington now. No. Hawk didn't have to tell him.

He left Hawk on Dupont Circle and went to the Mayflower by taxi. A suite was always reserved for him there, a suite that could be reached by a service entrance and a private elevator. He wanted a couple of drinks, a long shower and a few hours' sleep.

The phone was ringing as he entered the suite. Nick picked it up. "Yes?"

"Me again," said Hawk. "Scramble."

Nick scrambled. Hawk said, "It was on my desk when I came in. A flash from Berlin. One of our people is on his way to Cologne right now. They think they've spotted Bennett."

There went the sleep. For now. Nick never slept well on planes. He said, "In Cologne?"

"Yes. He's probably avoiding Berlin purposely. Too dangerous, too much pressure. But never mind all that now — you were right about the woman, Nick. In a way. Berlin was tipped by a prostitute in Cologne who works for us sometimes. Bennett was with her last night. You'll have to contact her. That's all I know right now. Take off, son. A car will pick you up in fifteen minutes. The driver will have your instructions and travel orders and all the dope I've got. It isn't much, I know, but a hell of a lot more than we had ten minutes ago. An Army bomber is flying you over. Good luck, Nick. Let me know how it goes. And get Bennett!"

"Yes, sir." Nick hung up and stared at the ceiling for a moment. Get Bennett. He thought he would — barring death. But it wasn't going to be easy. Hawk thought it was a complex mess now — Nick had a hunch that it was going to get a hell of a lot worse before it was over.

Killmaster took one of the fastest showers of all time, letting the water stream icy cold over his rangy, hard-muscled body. He dried with a huge towel — small towels were a favorite hate of his — and wrapped it around his flat thirty-four-inch middle.

The bed was a double one and the big mattress was heavy, but he flipped it with an easy wrist motion. As usual he had a little difficulty locating the seam which in turn so cunningly concealed the zipper. Old Poindexter, of Special Effects and Editing, had overseen this job personally and the old man was an artisan of the old school.

Nick finally found the zipper and opened it, removed wads of stuffing and thrust his arm full length into the mattress. The arms cache was cunningly placed in the exact center of the mattress, well padded, so that nothing could be felt from the outside.

He took out the 9mm Luger, the stiletto, and the deadly little metal ball that was Pierre the gas bomb. One whiff of Pierre's lethal essence could kill a roomful of people. Now Nick attached the little bomb — about the size of a Ping-Pong ball — to his body. When he had finished the bomb hung free between his legs.

The 9mm Luger, stripped down, a skeleton of a pistol, had been encased in a lightly oiled rag. Knowing that it was in perfect condition, still Killmaster checked the pistol again, pulling a rag through the barrel, testing the action and the safety, thumbing out cartridges on the bed to test the feeder spring in the clip. Finally he was satisfied. Wilhelmina was ready for grim games and nasty fun.

Killmaster dressed rapidly. The stiletto, in the soft chamois sheath, was strapped to the inner side of his right forearm. A flick of his wrist activated a spring that shot the cold hilt down into his palm.

There was a beat-up old dartboard hanging on one wall of the bedroom. Nick walked to the far side of the room, turned rapidly and flung the stiletto. It quivered in the cork, just outside the bull's-eye. N3 shook his head slightly. He was a trifle out of practice. He replaced the stiletto in the sheath, donned a plastic shoulder clip, stowed away the Luger and finished dressing. The desk should be calling at any moment to announce the arrival of his car.

The phone rang. But it was Hawk again. No one but an intimate could have discerned the tension in the voice of the man who ran AXE practically singlehanded. Nick caught it immediately. More trouble?

"I'm glad I caught you," Hawk rasped. "You're scrambling?"

"Yes, sir."

"More on Bennett, son. It's even worse than we thought. Everyone is really digging now and the stuff is flooding in — Bennett was a steno-reporter at some meetings of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Quite recently, I take it. Just before he came to us."

"That does make it nice," said Nick grimly. "That freak brain of his knows the thinking, the bias and prejudice, the likes and dislikes, of every one of our top brass. Damn — that sort of information can be as valuable to the Ivans as any 'hard' stuff he might have picked up."

"I know," said Hawk. "How I know! The bastards might as well have had a bug in the White House. Anyway, I just got the flash and the FBI suggested I pass it on to — to whoever is doing the job for us. They don't know about you, of course. Actually they're just trying to nail home the tremendous urgency of finding Bennett — as though we didn't know it. They now presuppose him to be carrying, somewhere in his crazy skull, information about atomic weaponry, missiles and anti-missile missiles, plans for the defense of Europe, estimates of comparative military capabilities, military intelligence reports and analyses — I'm reading this from a flimsy they sent me — information pertaining to troop movements, retaliation plans of the United States Strategic Air Command and, hold your hat, boy, a tentative extrapolation of the war in Vietnam! Whether or not Bennett realizes he knows all these things — he does! And when the Russians realize he does — if they don't already — they will build the biggest suction pump in the world to dredge our man dry. They won't care how long it takes, either."

"I'd better get cracking, sir. The car must be downstairs by now."

"Right, son. Goodbye again. Good luck. And, Nick — there's a penciled notation on this flimsy. From J.E.H. in person. He suggests that the best solution of our problem is a few ounces of lead in the soft tissues of the Bennett brain. As soon as possible."

"I couldn't agree more," said Nick Carter.

The old name for the street, for the entire district, had been the Kammachgasse. But that had been in the days before the First World War, when the sordid, poverty-stricken neighborhood had attracted prostitutes as naturally as it collected coal grime. Since that time the city of Cologne had been bombed heavily, devastated and rebuilt. Along with the rest of the Rhineland city, the Kammachgasse was also refurbished, shined and polished and given a new image. But, like a palimpsest, the old image could still be seen glowing faintly through the new, like a ghost in a television set. The prostitutes were still there. But where they had been furtive under the Kaiser, and hardly less so under Hitler, in the new Germany they were blatant.

The women now had a street of their very own. It was called Ladenstrasse. Store street! This because the girls sat in little, well-lighted store fronts, behind panes of clear glass, and displayed themselves to the shoppers, not all of | whom were male.