Again Mao lifted a pudgy hand. “That is all true, of course. This Nick Carter is worth a dozen divisions to the West. He must be killed, naturally. That is Segment Two of Dragon Plan. But Segment One is still the most important — the war between India and Pakistan must go on! There must be no cease-fire! If, despite all our efforts, there is a cease-fire it must be continuously violated — by both sides. That, of course, is the essence of Segment One of Dragon Plan — to keep the pot boiling! When both India and Pakistan have exhausted themselves, then we will know what to do.”
Chou said, in a soft voice, “And Segment Two, I believe, is to lure the real Nick Carter? To draw him into following the double, the Turtle, and then kill him? Dispose of Killmaster once and for all?”
Wang-wei nodded. “That is so. Comrade. At least we hope so. We are counting on the AXE organization’s learning that their precious Nick Carter has a double who is working against them. We think that then AXE will send the real Carter to find the double and dispose of him— only we hope it will be the other way around.”
Chou smiled. “I hope you are right, Wang-wei. For your own sake.”
The Buddha type played patty-cake with his fat hands. “That should be amusing— Nick Carter killing Nick Carter! Too bad that it will probably take place in some obscure corner of the world where we cannot watch it.”
Wang-wei smiled and nodded. Then he pointed down through the glass floor. “They are starting, Comrade Leader. Now you will see my Turtle Nine in action. Four men will try to kill him as he makes love to a woman. My Turtle knows nothing of this, of course. He thinks this is routine, all a part of his privilege day for good behavior. My senior Turtles, you know, have a day off every week for, er, for relaxation.”
Chou gave an oily chuckle. “You are indeed a great one for euphemism, Turtle Master. And I will tell you something else, my little friend. You are a liar and a hypocrite! You have staged these peep shows many times in the past — and always you pretend to be bored with them. You even seem to disapprove of your own methods, as though they were not quite moral.” Chou lit another of his long cigarettes. “Do you know, Master of Turtles, that I do not believe in your little act? I think you enjoy these little shows — as much, for instance, as I do.” Chou leaned back in his chair, crossed his long legs, and blew smoke at Wang-wei with a crooked smile. “Now — get on with it!”
Mao, the bland fat little Father of China, gazed from one to the other. His frown was slight but his voice was cold. “Yes — get on with it. And I give you two a warning now— this dissension between you will cease! I do not know the cause of your quarrel, nor do I wish to know, but if it continues I will take steps! The People’s Republic cannot afford your bickering. Is that clear?”
Chou said nothing. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Wang-wei nodded anxiously to the Leader. He had just realized. It had just come to him in a blinding flash of intuition — Chou coveted Sessi-Yu! What a fool he had been to introduce them…
Mao pressed a button on the table. A servant glided un-obtrusively in to draw the jalousies and turn off the single light. Each man made himself comfortable in the darkened room. Wang-wei shot a furtive glance at Chou and saw him unfasten his collar and wipe his high forehead with a clean white handkerchief. Wang-wei reached to unhook his own collar. He had noticed that he had a tendency to sweat during these peep shows.
The apartment below was like a brightly lit stage, every detail of which was visible from above. It was much used, this apartment, and the setting could be changed at will. Wang-wei had never been in New York and never hoped to be — even in its most absurd flights the Propaganda Ministry had never suggested that the United States could be physically invaded. But Wang-wei had read the script. The apartment into which he was now staring was supposed to be in an expensive and swank Park Avenue hotel. Small but elegant, with a luxurious decor.
At the moment the apartment was empty. Then a door opened and a man entered. Wang-wei stiffened with something akin to pride. It was Turtle Nine. His Turtle — his own exquisite handiwork! He leaned forward, his head between his knees, and stared down through the glass floor at this creature which he, and fourteen years of captivity, had wrought. As a schoolboy he had read Frankenstein in translation and he thought of it now. He, and of course many others, had created this thing that now walked to the little bar and poured itself a drink. A Scotch and water, Wang-wei noted. The real Nick Carter usually drank Scotch.
The man at the bar was wearing a light gray tweed of conservative and expensive cut, made to order in one of the best establishments in Regent Street, London. The shoes were also British, tan, hand-lasted and boned. The shirt was a Brooks Brothers button-down. The tie, a dark wine knit, had cost twenty dollars. Beneath the beautiful suit, Wang-wei knew, his man was wearing boxer shorts of crisp Irish linen. Five dollars a pair. Wine dark socks of Scottish wool — eight dollars. Wang-wei would have made a fine merchant — he had a memory for such details.
Mao broke the silence. “Your Turtle looks like the pictures I have seen of this Nick Carter, Wang-wei. That I admit. But I cannot see his face closely. Have the surgical scars healed?”
“Nearly so, Comrade Leader. There is a little pink tissue still — but one would have to be very close to him to notice it.”
“Such as, perhaps, being in bed with him?” Chou’s little laugh was oily.
Wang-wei could not help wincing in the gloom. He was thinking of his elderly compatriot, he who had been enjoying Turtle Nine’s favors and paying so well for the privilege. Chou, of course, was not alluding to that. Nevertheless Wang-wei felt a dew of perspiration creeping-out on his forehead.
But his voice was steady as he agreed. “Exactly, Comrade. But he will go to bed with no one until he reaches Peshawar. Our agent there, the American girl—”
Mao shushed them. He sounded impatient. “When does this little show begin, Wang-wei? There are a few other matters which demand my attention today.”
Wang-wei dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief. “Soon now, Comrade Leader. I wanted you to have a good look at the man alone first.”
“Then let us be quiet,” said Mao petulantly, “and watch!”
The man at the bar sipped at his Scotch and water. He snapped open a silver case and lit a long cigarette with a golden tip. An East German agent had salvaged a butt two years before in a Berlin hotel and sent it on. You never knew, in the profession, when little things would prove important.
The man at the bar sat in an attitude of seeming relaxation, yet his eyes roved ceaselessly and the body beneath the expensive suiting gave the impression of a powerful spring coiled for action. He was a trifle over six feet with not an ounce of fat on him. The shoulders were a great muscular wedge tapering to a slim waist, the legs long and sinewy beneath the well-fitting trousers.
As the three men watched from above the man at the bar took out an automatic pistol and inspected it with the ease of long practice. He took out the clip, thumbed cartridges onto the bar, and tested the feeder spring. He inspected the clip for Aug and grease, then reloaded it, and snapped it back into the pistol. He put the weapon into a plastic holster which he wore on his belt and buttoned his coat. There was no tell-tale bulge. The jacket had been properly tailored.
Chou broke the silence.