“Let me understand this properly. This man we see, this Turtle Nine, is now under hypnosis? He believes himself to be Nick Carter? He really thinks he is Killmaster?”
“Yes,” said Wang-wei. “He is convinced of it—”
Mao hissed at them. “Quiet! Watch this — the man is as fast as a snake.”
The man below, seemingly bored, had left the bar and taken a stance about twenty feet from a cork dart board fixed to one wall. With a barely perceptible movement he lowered his right shoulder, flexed his right hand. Something shiny dropped from his sleeve into the hand. So fast was the throwing motion that Wang-wei could not follow it— but there it was, the little stiletto, quivering near the center of the dart board!
“Admirable,” chortled Mao. “Very near the bull’s eye.”
Wang-wei sighed and kept silent. No use telling the Leader that the real Nick Carter would have hit the bull’s eye. His Turtle would have to work a little on the knife throwing. After all, if matters arranged themselves properly, his Turtle would have to go up against the real Nick Carter.
Below them the apartment door opened and a girl entered. Chou sighed audibly. “Ahhhb — now we can get down to it.”
The girl was tall and slim and exquisitely dressed in Western style. She wore a chic little hat and suit and her legs were smooth perfection in dark nylons and high heels. Around her slim shoulders was a mink stole.
There was no audio from the apartment below — it could be turned on at will, but at the moment was inoperative at Mao’s wish. The Leader did not care what was said. Only what was done. This was nothing more than a test of Turtle Nine’s efficiency and readiness for his job.
Wang-wei could hear Chou’s breathing thicken as they watched the intimate tableau unfold beneath them. He had to admit that it was exciting. He did enjoy these little shows, and not always in the way of duty. Chou was right about that! For a moment Wang-wei permitted himself fleeting thoughts of Sessi-Yu and her Golden Lotus, then he forced himself to pay attention. This love making now going on below them, while exciting to the more vulgar senses, was of no real importance. The real test was yet to come. When Turtle Nine, in a very real sense, would be fighting for his life.
The girl had taken off her little hat and flung the mink stole on a sofa. She refused a drink. Her slim arms coiled around the tall man’s neck and she pressed her lithe body hard against his. They stood kissing for a long time. The girl had her eyes closed. She raised one neatly shod foot from the floor, then the other. She began to wriggle and undulate against the man.
“She knows her work,” said Chou in a stifled voice. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Hsi-chun,” said Wang-wei. “Of no importance. A prostitute we have sometimes used. She is not even Chinese. Half Korean, half Japanese. But you are right — she is most efficient.”
“Most,” said the fat Leader. “But in a matter of this sort — is she discreet? Can she be trusted?”
Wang-wei nodded, though realizing they could not see him. “I think so — but it does not signify, Comrade Leader. We take no chances. When this is over Hsi-chun will be disposed of.”
The couple below had gone into the bedroom. The girl stood laxly, arms drooping by her sides, as the man disrobed her. Her head was thrown back, her narrow dark eyes staring at the mirrored ceiling, as the man slipped off her little jacket, her blouse, and kissed her tawny shoulders as he removed her bra.
Wang-wei felt a slight pang. She was a lovely little thing, even though a whore. She seemed to be staring directly at him now. Almost as though she knew he was there, knew what was going on, and was begging him to help her.
Wang-wei sighed. It did not do to get sentimental over whores. Still — maybe he could help her a bit. He would have to see. Perhaps she could be shipped south to the troops along the Vietnamese border. It would, he supposed, be a little better than death!
The girl stood now in only garter belt and dark stockings. Her long legs were the color of honey. The man kissed her breasts, small and round and firm as little melons. She smiled and ran her slim fingers through his close-cropped dark hair, caressing the well-shaped head. She appeared to be enjoying her work, thought Wang-wei. And why not? Turtle Nine, now the complete double of Nick Carter, would naturally be a fine lover. The real Carter’s prowess as a lover was well known to Chinese Intelligence.
The man and woman were on the bed now, deeply engrossed in the hot preliminaries of love. The lithe body of the woman contorted in passionate arabesques. Her little red tongue flickered like a lizard’s as she sought to arouse the man further.
“Part of her instructions,” whispered Wang-wei. “She is trying to make him forget everything but her.”
“She seems to be succeeding,” said Chou dryly.
“Not altogether,” said Wang-wei. “Watch!” There was a note of pride in his voice. Turtle Nine had learned his lessons well.
The man below pulled himself away from the woman’s embrace. His lips moved in a smile. She pouted and sought to hold him, but he shook her off and went back into the living room. He was naked except for the stiletto in a sheath attached to the inside of his right forearm.
The three watchers saw him try the door, checking the lock. He went to each window and checked it.
Mao hissed in the darkness. “He is very careful, your Turtle. You are sure he does not suspect what is coming?”
He suspects nothing, Comrade Leader. These are merely routine, elementary precautions that the real Nick Carter would take in such a situation.”
Chou said: “Who are the men who are going to try to kill your Turtle? Not good Chinese, I hope?”
“They are Chinese,” answered Wang-wei, “but not good. They are all criminals who have been sentenced to death. They have been promised their lives if they win.”
Chou laughed softly in the gloom. “And if they do win— if they kill your prize Turtle? What will you do then, Wang-wei?”
“Find a new Turtle and start over, Comrade. It only requires patience. You should know that.”
“I know that I grow impatient with this chatter,” barked Mao. “Be quiet and watch!”
The pseudo Nick Carter had taken a ball of twine from his jacket pocket. He fastened one end of the twine to the chain pull of a tall lamp near the door. Then, placing a chair in the proper position, he brought the twine down vertically to the floor, beneath the chair legs and across the door to yet another chair where he tied the end of twine. The twine now formed an ankle high trip-line just inside the door. The man tested the trip-line once or twice to make sure it worked, then left the room in darkness and returned to the small bedroom where the girl lay impatiently stroking her soft breasts.
“Clever,” acknowledged Mao. “But the door is locked. How will your men, the criminals, get in?”
“They have a passkey, Comrade Leader. Just as a real enemy might have. They will be coming soon now.”
Wang-wei heard the rustle of linen as Chou mopped his face. “I am glad I am not in your service,” he told Wang-wei. “There are too many precautions to take — how does one ever find time to enjoy anything?”
“It is necessary,” the little Intelligence man told him. “Otherwise an agent would not live long enough to enjoy anything.”
They watched as the man sank on the bed beside the woman. He took the stiletto from its sheath and plunged it into the bed near his right hand. The Luger was placed beneath a pillow near his left hand. A radio, which must have been playing on a bedside table, was snapped off. Just before the man covered the woman with his stalwart body he reached out and snapped off the single light.
Mao moved in the darkness. He pressed a button on the table and the audio came alive. First only a low electronic buzz, then they began to make out the individual sounds.