Nick eased the door open just a crack. A mouse could not have been more stealthy. He peered in. The man was seated at a desk, about half down the central corridor between rows of desks. The man's back was to Nick. He was eating from a tin lunch bucket as he listened to the small radio.
So it would have to be a stalk!
Nick knew that if you watch an animal, or a man, long enough it will sense your presence. He wasted no time. At the last possible moment, when Nick was just behind him the guard turned with instinctive nervousness. Nick chopped him across the back of the neck with the edge of his hand, not hard enough to kill, and caught the slumping figure as it slid out of the chair.
Now he worked with great speed. He took a roll of tape from his pocket and bound the guard's wrists and ankles. He stuffed a handkerchief into the man's mouth and taped it shut. He took the man's revolver from its holster, emptied the chambers and put the shells in his pocket, then put the revolver back in the holster. Then he shoved the unconscious man into the capacious kneehole of the desk and left him.
N3 walked blithely to the stairs leading into Maurice Defarge's suite. As he bounded up them his smile was grim and even beneath the Mongoloid makeup Hawk would have recognized his number One boy on a death mission. It was time, Nick thought, as he tried a padded leather door at the top of the stairs — it was time to begin repaying a few debts! Fat man — you are first!
But there was a little play-acting to be done first, too. Hawk had hinted that it might just work. If the CIA had the right information — and Hawk said a CIA man had died in China to get said information — then the Chinese Reds were moving in on the Syndicate! Play it that way, Hawk had said. So N3 would play it that way — at first.
N3 went softly down a short, thick carpeted hallway and stood looking into the bedroom. It was very quiet in the suite. He had locked the leather door behind him. They were alone — just he and the fat man now reading in bed.
Nick did not announce himself at once. He stood in a patch of shadow and studied the room and the man in bed. There was a faint medicinal smell in the air, tinged with what might be incense. On a bedside table was an array of medicines — bottles, glasses, a spoon, a box of pills. Nick recalled that this fat man had a serious heart condition. He smiled without a trace of mirth. That heart condition was due to get much worse before long!
Maurice Defarge wore tent size magenta pajamas. Nick counted four chins and stopped. The man was a great tub of flab that surrounded and bound him like moulded custard. He had a full head of crisp silvery hair, cut en brosse, above a flaccid doughy face. The nose alone was distinctive — it was a parrot's beak, jutting sharp and hooked over a stingy little mouth, a pale and anus-like mouth. Crumpled and shapeless now because of the absence of teeth. Nick saw the teeth in a glass of water on the bedside table.
N3 stepped softly into the room, careful not to get into the full glare of the bedside lamp. His disguise had been hasty and improvised — best not test it too far.
"Good evening," said Nick in crisp Chinese. "I am sorry to come on you so suddenly, but I thought it best that our first meeting be in complete secrecy."
The fat man started and dropped his book. His hand slid under a pillow. His pale eyes, hooded by fat, stared at Nick in alarm. "Who… who are you? What do you want?"
Nick smiled. Gun under the pillow, he noted. He said: "Gori!"
Now he would know. Know if the death of the CIA man had been worth while. Gori, the name of Stalin's birthplace, was supposed to be the password for this operation. So said Hawk — so said the CIA.
The fat man relaxed visibly. He kept his hand under the pillow, but the little mouth creased in an attempt at a smile. "Gori," he said. "You scared me half to death, sir. Bad for me, too. I've a very bad heart. Couldn't you have had yourself announced properly? There's a guard on duty out there and — " A new wariness flashed across the fat face. "You did see the guard?"
N3 nodded. Quite truthfully he answered, "I saw him." He spoke Chinese.
The fat man looked irritable. "I don't speak much Chinese. They know that! Can't you speak Turkish — or French?"
Nick shook his head. "English, sir?"
Defarge nodded. "English, then. Now what do you want? I am a very sick man! Anyway I, we, hadn't expected you so soon. And why are you in Istanbul? That could be dangerous. Most unwise! Especially right now. We're having a lot of trouble here — if you people are suspected it will only make it worse!"
Nick smiled and bowed slightly. He was in — for the moment. If he could get the information he was after the easy way, good. If not — there was always the stiletto!
"We have heard something of your difficulty," he told the fat man. "The Americans again, of course. Those dung turtles! But you seem to be handling matters well enough — not that it is any concern of ours. You know what we want." As he spoke he watched the fat man carefully, trying to see the effect of his words. Knowing as little as he did of this setup it would be easy to slip.
So far Defarge seemed to have accepted him as genuine. This, N3 knew, was simply because the fat man had been taken off guard and had not yet had time to think. Plus the fact that he had been expecting either a Chinese, or someone representing them. Nick knew he would have to push matters while he could.
"We must know the date and route of the next opium convoy," he told the man bluntly. "It is most essential that we know this. You will oblige, please. At once. I had better not stay too long."
Maurice Defarge struggled to sit up in bed. "I don't understand this at all," he complained. "We made an agreement — to sell you the entire apparatus for ten million Turkish pounds! We've only had a million out of you people so far! Anyway the agreement was that this last shipment belonged to us — vour people not to take over, or bother us, until the fall! What about that?"
Nick shrugged and smiled, keeping in the shadows. "Things change rapidly, sir. I do not understand myself all that goes on — I only obey orders. Those orders were to see you and obtain the date and the route of the next opium shipment. You will tell me now, please?"
Maurice Defarge lost his temper. He struggled farther up in the bed, his face swollen and crimson. "I'm damned if I will! You bastards are all alike — and you Chinese bandits are the worst! I… we, have worked for years to build this thing up! Now you come along and tell us to move over, you're so sorry, but it's your apparatus now! Well, I'm damned if I will. A bargain is a bargain, by God and… and…"
The fat man fell sideways in the bed, clutching at his heart. He clawed at the coverlet and pointed with a trembling finger at the bedside table. "I… guuuugg… I… having… ohhhhh… heart attack! Medicine! My… my medicine! Green bottle!"
Nick walked out of the shadows to the bedside table. He picked up the little green bottle. Digitalis. He extended the bottle. The fat man reached with a pulpy trembling hand. "That… that it! I… I be all right now."
Nick stepped back, still holding the bottle. He kept it out of reach of the frantic hand. His smile was cruel. "You will tell me the date and route of the next opium shipment, please. And do not lie! I will know if you do — I have a way of testing."
Defarge sprawled across the bed like a stranded whale, gasping and fighting for every breath. A bluish tinge crept over his features. His little mouth twisted in agony. His eyes implored and he reached again for the bottle. "N… no time! I… I dying…"