A Korean Tiger (13 page)

The door opened and Tonaka came into the room. Her getas whispered on the straw matting as she crossed to where Nick stood at the single window, gazing into a silver curtain of rain. The monsoon had come to Korea. It rained for at least twelve hours out of every twenty-four, dispersing for the moment the stinks and aridity of this Land of the Morning Calm.

The woman was carrying a tray with tea things and a bowl of fish and rice. She put it down near a brazier in which a few coals glowed lividly, then came back to stand near Nick. He put an arm about her tiny waist. He had aot wanted a woman — he was in no shape, physically or mentally, for sexual sport — but here he had run into the house rules. Shanghai-Gai was adamant; you had a woman, you paid her, or you did not stay. Nick paid. The
gesang
house was safe and good cover. It kept him out of Pusan, where he was sure to be noticed, yet he could get into the docks and the railroad station in half an hour. Tonaka, instead of a sexual companion, had become comrade and nurse. She did not seem to mind. Until this moment, when she rather startled Nick by saying: "I have feeling you go soon, Nick-san. You think you can maybe love me before you go?"

It was an embarrassing question as well as an unexpected one. The AXEman had no desire to make love to Tonaka, even had he been able to do so without pain, yet he did not wish to wound her feelings. He sensed that she had become much attracted to him during his brief stay.

Gently he said, "I'm afraid I can't, Tonaka. I would like to — but there is still much pain."

Tonaka put her hand down and touched him lightly. Nick, faking a little, said "Ouch!"

"I hate them for doing bad things to you, Nick-san. For hurt you so we cannot make love. I am sad for us, Nick-san."

"I am sad also," said Nick. He had told her nothing, of course. She had invented her own fantasies.

He glanced at his wrist. Nearly two. The ferry from Shimonoseki, in Japan, got into Pusan Harbor at two. Jimmy Kim would be watching the ferry slip. It was only a short walk from the slip to the railroad station. The trait for Seoul left at four. It was a good train, the best the Koreans had — all that was left of the old Asia Express from Pusan to Mukden. Now it stopped at Seoul.

Nick patted Tonaka's arm and kissed her lightly on the forehead. She was wearing a heady Occidental perfume which somehow did not clash with her
gesang
clothes: tiny felt slippers and socks, a long red skirt with a little jacket of yellow brocade. She was tall for a Korean girl — actually she was in her early thirties, a woman — and she kept her breath clean and free of
kimchi.
She had a round, bland face the color of lemons, with a pronounced epicanthic fold and small dark eyes as alert as a raven's.

She clung to the big man for a moment, burying her face in his chest. Nick was wearing only a white silk kimono with a golden dragon emblazoned across the back. It is, at times, hard for an Occidental to tell when an Oriental woman is aroused. Nick Carter had been around and he sensed that Tonaka was in the tender travail. He felt an answering stir in himself and he walked her quickly toward the door. "Maybe later, Tonaka. I have some business now."

She nodded but did not comment. She knew he had a radio in his suitcase. She stood on tiptoe and pressed her moist rosebud mouth against his cheek. She shook her head. "I do not think it, Nick-san. I told you I have a feeling — you will leave this place soon." She patted his cheek and the dark eyes twinkled. "It is too bad. I like the way you big noses make love. You are better than Korean man."

Nick patted her behind.
"Com-mo-semni da.
Thank you. Now beat it."

Tonaka laughed at his atrocious Korean — they usually conversed in either Japanese or broken English — and left. Nick closed the door after her. As he did so he heard the buzzing in the suitcase, like a boxed rattler. He waited until he heard the clatter of the girl's getas on the tile passage, then he went to the suitcase, opened it and flicked a switch on the small receiving set. Jimmy Kim's voice came into the room. "Testing — il, ees sahm, sah, oh —
Mansei?"

Nick spoke into the little hand mike. "Long live Korea! You doing any business?"

Jimmy Kim sounded excited. "Maybe. Just could be this is it. A couple of live ones — just got off the ferry. Better get in here fast."

"I'm on my way."

On the way into Pusan in his borrowed jeep, sweating under a heavy black poncho, he kept telling himself that this had better be it. Had to be! Washington was getting very nervous. Even Hawk was nervous, and that was most unusual. Killmaster knew his boss would string along with him as far as possible, but there was a limit to everything. Ten days now. Ten days with only one faint hint that Nick's thinking was right, that he was on the right track. Word had finally leaked out of Albania that the Yellow Widow had gone to ground there. She had a man with her. That had been an inspired guess on Nick's part — he winced even now as he remembered the circumstances — and he was careful not to tell the assembled brass that it had been only a guess. A frantic clutch at a straw to save himself more pain. What the brass didn't know wouldn't hurt them. And he had been right.

Immediately after getting the word from Albania Nick had made his first move, taken his first gamble. He'd had to move while his credit was still good with the Powers That Be, and he got a somewhat reluctant Hawk to state his case.

They would make no move while Bennett, and the Widow, were in Albania. The country was tiny, desolate, with rugged mountains, the population fierce and suspicious of strangers. Neither AXE nor the CIA had ever been able to maintain a respectable apparatus there. Even British Intelligence couldn't do it. All that was available were scraps, a few bits and pieces sent out now and then by native agents who would risk their lives for a few
leks.

Leave them alone, Nick urged. Depend on Soviet pressure to winkle them out of their hiding place, set them on the run again. Colonel Kalinski, that horror of a woman, would be panting on their trail. The trail that Nick had so inadvertently revealed. He grimaced at the thought now. In a way the torture had worked — he had lied to her and the lie had turned true. So far it had worked to his advantage — at least Kalinski had flushed the birds again.

The road was narrow here, deep in mud, and he had fallen in behind a column of honey carts. There was no room to pass. The carts, drawn by bullocks that could not be hurried, creaked along on solid wooden wheels. The ungreased axles squealed like stuck pigs. Each cart was loaded with kegs of human feces, collected each morning and spread on the rice paddies. You never got used to it, Nick thought now as he held his breath. Not even the Koreans got used to it. It was one reason, he supposed, why they loved to walk on their mountain tops.

By the time he got around the honey carts he was in the outskirts of Pusan, crawling through the native market at Pusan-Ju, and it was twenty-five after two. Another ten minutes would get him to the railroad station where he was to meet Jimmy Kim.

As he followed a rickety, swaying streetcar — shipped over from St. Paul — he thought of that moment of truth in the huge briefing room in the Pentagon. The CIA had been brought into the Bennett hunt by this time — Hawk stating dourly that soon the Girl Scouts would be in — and Killmaster, with a pointer in his hand, stood before an enormous map of the world that covered one wall. He tapped the red pin jabbed into Tirana, the capital of Albania. He felt like a salesman about to go into his pitch. Which he was. He had to sell this select group a bill of goods, ie: leave AXE alone. Let us finish the job. It wouldn't be easy. There were nay-sayers' among them.

"This is a gamble," Nick admitted. "A long shot and an educated guess." He tapped Tirana on the map. "The Russians are putting the squeeze on. They want Bennett and the Widow as badly as we do. But the Russians have to operate very carefully in Albania, under cover, and I don't think they'll be able to surprise the Widow. She'll know when they get close — and she'll run!"

He moved the pointer slightly to the southeast and tapped Athens. "I think she'll try to get out of Athens by air. She and Bennett will be in heavy cover, well disguised, and they'll travel tourist class. I think they'll go to Dakar first, then over the Atlantic to Panama. Or maybe Mexico City. From there over the Pacific to Manila and up to Japan. From Japan into Korea, where they'll try to slip over the 38th into North Korea. If they can they'll be home free."

One of the listeners, a top man in CIA, spoke up. He barely managed to keep the sneer from his voice. "You seem pretty damned positive, Carter! What did the Widow do — send you her itinerary? Any why Korea? It seems the least likely spot,"

"That's precisely the point," said Nick. "It is the most unlikely place. That's why I think she'll try it. But it isn't all hunch — there are other reasons, too. More concrete reasons." He could not risk telling them just how clearly he had seen matters while in the yoga trance. They would send for the men in the white coats.

So he jabbed deftly back at the CIA man. "You people, CIA, haven't been able to come up with much on the Yellow Widow, but what little you have given us is a help. She's half Korean, remember. Born in Taejon. Went to high school in Seoul. When the Commies took Seoul the first time she married a high-ranking Chinese officer, her first husband. She went back to China with him. And that's about all you people have come up with."

The CIA man scowled. "She's had excellent cover for years. I'll admit we didn't know about her until you, AXE, tipped us. But getting information out of China isn't exactly shooting fish in a barrel, Carter! They don't use this Widow much — only on highest priority missions. But okay — I still don't see why you're gambling on Korea."

Nick indicated the world map with a sweep of the pointer. "Because she knows Korea well. Because most of the world is closed to her — under either Soviet influence or our influence. Where we can operate freely and most efficiently. Tibet is too rugged and Hong Kong is too obvious. I don't think she can run to the east — it will have to be west, the long way round, and she'll stick as much to small neutral countries as she can. Where neither we nor the Russians can operate best. Countries like Greece, Senegal, Panama, the Philippines. I give them an even chance until they get to Manila. Getting in and out of Japan will be the toughest for them. I doubt they will dare risk flying into Tokyo or any other large city. But it's only 1400 miles from Manila to Pusan. They could charter a private plane or a fast boat."

A Lieutenant-Colonel of Army Intelligence spoke up. "If they can do that, they why bother with Japan at all? They could go directly into the Sea of Japan, or the Yellow Sea, and land in North Korea. Or do the same thing with a private plane."

Nick shook his head. "Too risky. Too many patrols, especially now that our people there have been alerted. In any case I doubt they could hire a skipper, or a pilot, to take them into Commie territory. The Widow can get plenty of help, of course, especially if she makes it to Manila. I doubt that she'll ask for it. Our people watch their people, and she'll know that and stay away from them. They'll be like a couple of little mice, gentlemen, trying to sneak into China through the smallest and most unlikely hole. If she gets to Seoul without being spotted, she's got it made. She'll contact her people then, probably not before, and a plane or 'copter will pick them up at night. I..."

At that moment a guard came in and handed a message to Hawk. Nick watched his boss. The old man stood up, cleared his throat and took the dead cigar from his mouth. "Just in from Albania, gentlemen. From one of our most reliable agents there — our only one at the moment, in fact. He tells me that the Yellow Widow and the man Bennett are presumed to have left Tirana. The villa where she was staying has been burned to the ground, but no bodies were found. Two Russians agents are being held by the Albanian police. End of message." Hawk glared about him for a moment, then shook his head at Nick. He sat down.

Killmaster knew what the head shake meant. Colonel Kalinski had not been involved. Naturally. She was far too shrewd an operator to be taken by the Albanian police. Those had been muscle boys — highly expendable.

Now, as he turned the jeep into the parking lot of the Railroad Hotel, he told himself again that this must be it. The timing was right. They would have gotten from Athens to Manila in about three days — plenty of time — and spent the remaining week coming up from Manila. That meant a boat. They would have landed at some obscure Japanese port, a fishing village, and made their way overland to Shimonoseki and the ferry. The ferry took eight hours for the trip, leaving Japan at six in the morning.

Nick Carter went into the Railroad Bar. Jimmy Kim was at the far end of the gloomy room, drinking a can of American beer. Jimmy was young, but very talented in the business. Somewhat brash, an operator and a quasihipster, Jimmy operated a decrepit airline with a partner by the name of Pok. They called the airline the Flying Turtles, a jape in which there was a great deal of truth, and they had only two planes. By cannibalizing both, and much ingenuity, they managed to keep one flying. At present the plane was an Aeronca, a 65 TL that was twenty-six years old. Nick devoutly hoped that he would never have to fly in it.

Nick took off has heavy poncho and draped it over the bar. Jimmy Kim was still wearing his poncho — he had a small, flat transmitter and receiver slung beneath it.

Jimmy Kim finished his beer. As he passed Nick on the way out he said, softly: "Train shed."

Nick glanced at his watch. Quarter of three. Plenty of time before the Seoul train pulled out. He had no set plan. First things first, then play the cards as they fell. If, of course, it wasn't just another false alarm. He felt a little sick at the thought. His stomach had been queasy for a week now, and the thought of goofing it again brought a sharp pain to his gut. He tossed down a shot of bad bourbon — Korean bars seldom had scotch — and shrugged back into his poncho. At the door, as he stopped to light a cigarette, he checked over his weapons. He was carrying the Luger, and the stiletto in the arm sheath. Arms had wanted to give him a new shiv, a heavy throwing knife, but he had raised hell and insisted that a new point be ground on the stiletto. It was shorter now, but it was still Hugo. Between his legs, in its metal container, he was carrying a new gas bomb. Had they had an accident with that bomb in the lab in Moscow? He could hope.