Hawk tossed Nick a thick brown envelope. “Here are orders and traveling instructions. No time to read them now. Read them on the plane. Goodbye, son. Good luck.”
There were times, though the world was never allowed to see it, when Nick Carter, as realistic and hard-boiled as the two-legged tiger he was, felt like a motherless child.
He had time, barely, to call Melba in New York. She was still in his bed in the penthouse. Warm and sleepy, but with an icy edge to her voice. Nick knew what the trouble was, but it was not a thing you discussed on the phone. He had left Melba hanging again, and not for the first time. When Hawk called you moved — and Hawk called at the goddamndest times! It was too bad, really. Melba was a doll. But she wanted a man there when she needed him. Nick, as he hung up and walked to the waiting jet, had an idea that he wouldn’t be seeing Melba again. Not in bed, anyway. He sighed as they strapped a chute on him — what matter? It would be the same with any woman. AXE was his real true love.
AXE planes took him as far as Mandalay, where he was turned over to the Air Force. The next stop was in Thimbu, in Bhutan, where the plane fueled at a secret airbase which, it was hoped, neither the Russians nor the Chinese knew about. Then over the Hump— Everest was pointed out to him — and he was dropped in a black parachute onto the Soda Plains in the midst of a magnificent wilderness. Hawk, with his shouting and his phones, had wrought a logistical miracle. Hafed, with his Sherpas, was there to meet him. Killmaster did not examine the miracle. He was content to accept it. You dropped into the night, twelve thousand miles from home, and there was Hafed awaiting you. Sherpas, ponies, smell and all. Formidable!
Hafed’s odor filled the tent now and Nick lit another cigarette against it. He was still nauseated and light-headed and each of his arms and legs weighed a ton. The mug from which he drank tea and Scotch must weigh at least ten pounds. Actually N3 was much sicker than either he or Hafed knew; high altitude is a killer of men if the exposure, without oxygen, is long enough. A lesser man, without Nick Carter’s superb body and razor-edge condition, would have been raving and helpless long before this.
Hafed finished his tea and whisky and put down the mug. “Is also big storm coming,” he said. “That scare men too. Is first snow of winter — is not so bad, I think, but men not like. Anyway is excuse. Maybe they not be here when we wake up in morning, I think.”
Nick was too tired and sick to care much. There was, however, the mission to be considered. He couldn’t accomplish much if he were stranded in a Himalayan pass in & blizzard. In these parts they didn’t even send around the St. Bernards with a cask of booze.
Hafed sensed his concern and said, “Not to worry, sar. They will leave us ponies and supplies. Sherpas honest people. Take only what is theirs. Anyway the lamasery — what you call convent — is only maybe five, six miles up the pass. We be much okay there until storm over.”
“That’s nice to know,” said Nick wearily. “I hope the girls there have learned about tubs and hot water and soap. I’ve got a few guests I’d like to get rid of.”
As though on cue Hafed began to scratch. His cigarette glowed in the little Blanchard tent, double-lined against the wind and cold. Hafed’s next words were a blunt question. “Why you go to Lamasery of She Devils, sar?”
N3 considered for a moment. Hafed was probably to be trusted— most likely was working for CIA — yet he could not be sure. Nick could not afford to give anything away.
Nick tapped the breast of his quilted jacket. “Orders. That’s all I know, Hafed. I’m to go to this place — the Lamasery of the She Devils — and make a contact with someone called Dyla Lotti. A woman, I guess. Probably the High Priestess or whatever they call her. That’s all I know.”
It wasn’t quite all he knew, but it was enough for Hafed to know.
Hafed appeared lost in thought for a moment. Finally, “How much you know about this place, this lamasery? About this woman, Dyla Lotti, sar?”
Nick lit a cigarette and tossed the pack. “Nothing. Not a damned thing!” Again this was not quite true. Dyla Lotti was, in fact, working for AXE. It was she who had gotten the message through to Hawk about the murder of the AXE man in Tibet.
Hafed’s cigarette sparked in the gloom of the tent. Outside the men and ponies had bedded down for the night and the only sound was the rising wail of the wind down the pass.
“It is a bad place, this lamasery,” said Hafed at last. He sought for his English. “Is real reason the men will not go on — they are afraid of the women there. They are all bad women!”
Nick, in spite of his aching head, felt interest kindle in him. What was Hafed trying to tell him?
“How do you mean — bad? The place isn’t a prison is it?”
Again Hafed hesitated before answering. “No — not real prison. But is place they send bad girls — priestesses who go with men. Is against religious law, to be with man, but these girls do it anyway and so they are sent to this place for punish. To Lamasery of She Devils! You see now why my men not want go there?”
N3 had to chuckle. “Not exactly, Hafed. Seems to me they would want to go there — with all those bad girls running around loose!”
Hafed made a sucking noise with his lips which Nick interpreted as Tibetan for disapproval. “You not understand, sar. My men all good men— much married. You notice little leather boxes they all carry on string around neck?”
“I’ve noticed. Charms of some kind, aren’t they?”
“Yis — good charms. Usually only Sherpa woman wear them — but when men go away for a long time they take dablam with them. Is like — like taking spirit of wife with them. You see, sar? Spirit of good wife watch over man— he can do nothing bad then? Understand?”
Nick laughed. “I understand. They’re afraid they might be tempted in a lamasery full of loose women?”
Hafed joined in the laugh for a moment. “Is maybe part of it, sar. But is more — lamasery have bad name for happenings. Is no men there, you see, only women! And are many stories also — sometimes when men stop there, travelers, they do not leave again. No one ever see them more. That is bad, no, sar?”
As sick as he was Nick still had a bit of impishness left. “Depends on your viewpoint, Hafed. Some men I know would consider it a lovely way to die! And maybe they don’t die — maybe the girls just keep them in cells, or something, and use them whenever they feel like it. It might not be such a bad life — while it lasted!” Nick smiled in the dark. He could think of a dozen old jokes based on just such a situation, but it was no use wasting them on Hafed.
A thought struck him. “How come you’re not afraid to go to the place of the She Devils, Hafed?”
“Not married,” said the little man succinctly. “Not have dablam with spirit of wife in it. I not afraid of yellow priestesses. Maybe even I like! Goodnight, sar.”
In a moment or two Hafed was snoring. Nick lay and listened to the menacing voice of the wind and knew that he had been right — he would not sleep much tonight. To pass time he checked over his weapons, working by feel in the dark — he could field strip and reassemble the 9mm Luger in just under thirty seconds, working by touch alone. He did so now, patting the weapon affectionately. Wilhelmina, as he called the Luger, had been living a quiet life of late. As he slipped the pistol back into the plastic holster on his belt Nick thought that perhaps things would liven up soon. Certainly, when he caught up with the impostor, there would be work for the Luger.