It wasn't going to work. He saw the mallet strike down again. His body exploded in a gust of flame and he felt new vomit spew from his lips and down over his chin to trickle on his bare chest.
"You are a fool," said the voice. "We know all about Avatar. We killed him as he was following us across the roof. We took his wallet which, as you know, will be of some help to us. Not much. That is minor. As for his network in Berlin, Carter, you lie! You would not know of that — not unless you Americans are even bigger fools than we think."
All true. He couldn't buy himself out of torture that way.
The voice went on: "It is the Yellow Widow that we. must know about. She, and only she, is the key now. She will try to hide now until this thing has time to cool. Where will she hide, Carter? Where would you look for her — if you were free to look?"
He still had enough brain left to think of a plausible lie. It would have to do. Maybe it was even true. He had no way of knowing — he only knew that somehow he must gain respite from the pain for a time. Time to pull himself together. Time to gain strength for the new ordeals. But it had better be a good lie!
"In Albania," he gasped. "In Albania! That's a ChiCom stronghold. You must know that. According to our files this Yellow Widow has got a villa on the Adriatic. She'll probably take Bennett there. She'll have plenty of protection and she'll lie low until the heat is off and she can make the run for China."
It was purest moonshine, of course, but it didn't sound so bad. Even a little plausible. As a guess it might be better than most. And it was buying him time, time which he sorely needed. For Killmaster was nearly at the end of his tether.
He heard her laugh and say something to the doctor. There was triumph in her voice and Nick clutched at the sliver of hope. Maybe if he could keep it up, keep feeding her plausible lies, he would black out. He cudgeled his pain-mangled brain, trying to think of a city, a town, in Albania. Anything. Damn — damn! He couldn't think — What in hell was the capitol of Albania? Wasn't it near the Adriatic? He'd better be right or it would be the mallet again.
"Tirana," he gasped. "She's got a villa on the sea near Tirana. I'm telling the truth — I swear it!"
She tapped him very gently with the mallet. A bare touch. The pain shivered through him in little modulated waves. Bearable. Only just bearable.
She laughed. To his surprise it was rather a pleasant laugh. Not at all what he would have expected from this monstrous woman.
She said: "At this point, Carter, you would tell me anything. Anything at all. But you may be telling the truth. It is just possible. Albania is plausible enough — perhaps too plausible. A little too obvious. Hmmm — yes. And yet it just may be. We shall have to check it out. All right, Carter, no more torture for the moment. But just in case you are lying — and so you will remember…"
Colonel Kalinski swung the mallet one last time. Hard.
Killmaster fainted at last. Never had he welcomed darkness more.
Chapter 7
When he came to he was on his feet. He had been dressed again in the porter's outfit and the heavy Army shoes were on his feet. Nick swayed, but did not fall. He was being supported on either side by the colonel's muscle men. Their fingers bit into his biceps as they hauled him upright. Somehow he managed to straighten his sagging knees.
As the pain mists gradually cleared he saw her seated on the table where he had been bound. Her stubby legs were crossed and he saw that she was wearing thick black lisle stockings. Fiat, sensible shoes. Her feet were as enormous as her behind.
The yellow teeth flashed at Nick as she waved a slip of paper. "I have just received orders from Moscow, Mr. Carter." So it was "Mr." again. Immediately he was suspicious.
The Colonel was speaking. "I cannot say that I agree with my superiors, but I must obey orders. You are to be released immediately. My men will take you from this place and let you go. Naturally you will be blindfolded."
Nick swayed between his guards. He was coming back fast, recovering his mental and physical balance, a fact which he wished to conceal. He didn't believe they were letting him go. They were conning him, trying to lull him. They couldn't, or didn't want, to kill him here in the warehouse. They were soft talking him so that he would go quietly to his place of execution. He decided to play along. His enormous strength was coming back — the bundle of pain he carried would just have to be ignored. He could function.
He let his knees buckle again. The men held him up. "I don't get it," Nick croaked. "It's a trick. Why would you let me go?"
She was a good actress. She tapped the slip of paper against her discolored teeth. "I am as puzzled as you are, Mr. Carter. We have been trying to get you, to kill you, for years. Now they insist that you are to be set free. The order comes from the very highest level in my government. It would appear that your government, and mine, have agreed to work together after all. Your own idea, Mr. Carter, if you remember."
It was possible, he admitted. Barely possible. Both governments were admittedly desperate. He had failed. The Colonel had failed. The Yellow Widow, Madame whatever it was, had Raymond Lee Bennett and was off and running. Yes — it was very nearly credible and he didn't believe a word of it. He knew what was in the message from the Kremlin — kill Carter! They wouldn't miss a chance like this.
Colonel Kalinski nodded to the emaciated doctor. "Give him his possessions. His arms. Everything but the little metal ball. I am going to send that back to be analysed."
So Pierre, the little gas bomb, was going to end up in a Kremlin laboratory. Nick hoped there would be an accident.
The doctor handed Nick's Luger and stiletto to one of the men. The man was about to thrust the pistol into the shoulder holster when the woman spoke sharply. "Take out the clip, you fool!" She hunched her big shoulders in disgust and made a face. "You see, Mr. Carter, how it is? I must think of everything. I sometimes wonder where they find the oafs they send me."
The clip was removed and tossed into a comer. The man on Nick's left, who had the stiletto, found a crack in the concrete floor and thrust the slim weapon into it. He bent it over until the point broke off, then slipped it into the arm sheath with a grin. Nick swung at him, very feebly, and fell flat on his face. The man kicked him in the ribs.
"None of that! For the moment we are to be allies. Does he have his wallet? His papers, handkerchief, change — he must have everything he had when you brought him in."
"Thank you," Nick muttered as the men picked him up and supported him. "You are an angel of mercy, Colonel."
Again the strangely pleasant laugh. "We do not, as you say in the States, kid ourselves, Mr. Carter. But orders are orders. And I must say goodbye now. Blindfold him and take him to the boat. Goodbye, Mr. Carter. Perhaps we shall meet again."
She could not, completely, conceal the note of gloating in her voice. Nick had been sure before; now he was positive. They were going to kill him.
He accepted the knowledge and did not fret. He would worry about dying when the moment came. Meantime he did a most unprofessional thing — he allowed his bitterness, his hate, his desire for revenge, to show. To become vocal. A thing he had never done before.
"I hope we do meet again," he told her coldly. "I hope we meet and that I am in command of the situation, Colonel. I would enjoy that. But there is one great problem…"
They put a black cloth over his eyes then. He sensed that she had moved away from the table and the light, that she was in the act of leaving.
When she had gone, Nick was punched in the spine with a hard object that was undoubtedly a gun. The men on either side gripped him hard and led him along. Three of them. Two on each side and the one behind — he was the important one. He would keep his distance and his gun would be ready. They weren't expecting any trouble from Nick — but the third man was there just in case he hadn't gone for the allies bit.