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?"