cy, was to tell an agent nothing more than absolutely necessary. What you didn't know you couldn't tell — not even under torture. Of course he might admit to being Nick Carter, but they seemed pretty sure of that already.
Now he said, "So that guy was really here? The man wearing the tux, the dinner jacket? I thought I was dreaming."
"It was no dream," said the doctor. "He wanted to cut your throat here and now and have done — but as I say it would never do. We want the heat off, as you American gangsters put it."
Nick was battling sleep with all his might. He had to stay awake, had to keep talking. "How did I get here?"
Dr. Six lit another of his long, Russian style cigarettes. He said: "Our plane got to the scene of the, er, explosion? From what I'm told there was utter devastation — a new sort of bomb, perhaps?"
Nick was silent.
"It doesn't matter," said Dr. Six. "Our people found you unconscious. You had been creased by a bullet. Nothing serious, just enough to knock you out."
Nick put a hand to his head, felt the light bandage swathing his temples. It was the first time he had been aware of it. He saw also that his ankles were neatly bandaged, and in half a dozen other spots he was wearing either gauze or plaster.
The doctor chuckled, a dry sound without mirth. "You were quite a mess, I hear. But you were alive, the only one alive, and vou were obviously a white man. We had a good man in the plane. He used his head. He searched you and found the AXE mark and brought you back to Istanbul. They landed on the Asiatic side. We brought you here by ambulance — an emergency patient, you know." The doctor chuckled again. "I've kept you under heavy sedation until we could decide what to do — you've been out nearly thirty-six hours!"
Thirty-six hours! Nick glanced at the room's single window. Dusk was falling out there on the Bosphorus. He could see the pale glint of water far across toward the Asiatic side, and as he watched a rusty freighter glided by. She was flying the Soviet flag and making for the Black Sea. At least the bastard wasn't lying about that! N3, fighting off unconsciousness, began wondering what was directly under the window?
He made a decision. He asked a question, knowing he was breaking security and not caring at the moment. He had to know.
"There was a girl with me," Nick said. "Never mind who, but there was. The Kurds killed her and cut off her head! At least that's what the Basque said — and I believed him. He was dying. I think he told the truth. You wouldn't know anything about that?"
For a long moment of silence the doctor stared at him with cold pale eyes. Then he shrugged. "What matter? You're dying, too. I'll tell you what I know, even though you won't answer my questions. Our man did not see the girl…"
"There was only her head," said Nick, wincing inwardly. "It was buried under a rock slide. So was the Basque."
The doctor nodded. He seemed sympathetic. "A barbaric people, the Kurds. Most barbaric — uncivilized."
Darkness was creeping over Nick. He pushed it away with a gigantic effort of will. "That's good, coming from you," he croaked. He tried to raise himself in the bed. "I hear you were a Nazi, Doctor? You worked in the camps, didn't you?"
Dr. Six did not actually click his heels, but the effect was there. His vulture's face tensed. "T did what little I could for the scientific glory of the Reich! And my experiments did not involve human beings — they were only Jews! But that is not important now — do you wish to hear about the girl? What little I know?"
I wish to kill you, thought Nick. I wish to take that scraggly vulturine neck of yours between my fingers and squeeze you into everlasting Hell! But darkness was battering the portals of his mind and he could barely move.
"Go on," he said weakly. "Tell me."
"Just as our plane was about to take off three Kurds came in — they had been sent back along the trail for some reason and…"
"The Basque sent six," Nick interrupted. "I saw them."
"If you keep breaking in. Carter, you never will know. You're dying now, you know! It won't be long."
"So you say!"
Dr. Six sighed, then went on, "Our man talked to the Kurds. It was most important, as you will see in a moment. They told him they had found the girl because she had been attacked by wild dogs and was firing the rifle. They heard the shots. She killed one of them and that enraged them — so they had a little sport with her and then cut off her head."
Nick had never really learned to pray. Had never felt the need of it. He did not feel the need now — not for himself. But for Mija! Mija, who had been a nice kid who had gone to Hell once and come back, only to — Goddamn it, girl, Nick thought with savage intensity — goddamn it, Mija, somehow and someway I'll get it even for you!
Dr. Six was talking again. "Two of the remaining Kurds brought the head to the Basque. Probably they expected a reward. The other three stayed to hunt wild dogs and came along later. That's how our man got the story. He had to kill them, of course, just before the plane took off. It wouldn't have done to leave anyone alive! As it is the Turks and Syrians are going to be faced with a first class enigma, I think. A bloody massacre, everyone dead, two Chinese bodies, all the signs of an atomic explosion — and not a soul to tell what happened. It was an atomic explosion, wasn't it, Carter?"
Sly question, slipped in just as N3 was drifting away into darkness.
He aroused himself enough to say, "My name's not Carter. And to hell with you, Dr. Six!"
The black whirlpool caught him and spun him around. He was sinking far down into dark feathers. He knew that the doctor had risen and was standing over the bed, peering down at him. He felt the man's cold fingers as he lifted one of Nick's eyelids and peered into the eve. The doctor grunted. "Ja. Not long now, I think. I will leave you, Mr. Carter. Goodbye. I shall watch you closely. I have never before seen a man die of morphine poisoning. Ironic, Ja? You have fought so hard to prevent the opium trade — now you die of an opium derivative! Ja-Ja! Most ironic! Farewell, Mr. Carter!"
From somewhere down the long twilight corridors of Time and Eternity Nick heard a door close. He was alone. Peace was closing in at last. The feather bed of Death was beckoning. So deep and soft, so utterly desirable. The doctor hadn't been kidding after all. He was dying!
Why not? A gentle voice whispered in his brain. Just let go. Dying isn't hard, nor frightening. People make a big thing out of it, but it's really nothing. Nothing at all. It's peace — perfect and absolute peace forever. Just let go, N3, and slide away down into oblivion. You've done your work — you've earned your rest! Let go — let go…
I will not! Beads of sweat popped out on Nick's forehead. Good sign. He could still feel! I will not die, he told himself again. He marshalled every ounce of will power he possessed. His magnificent body had always obeyed him, but it was reluctant now. He forced himself, by sheer guts, to raise his head from the pillow. I will not die!
He had to get out of bed somehow, get to his feet, get to the bathroom and begin vomiting. He racked his whirling brain for the antidote to morphine poisoning — motion, keep moving, and vomit — spew — get it up and out of you. Above all stay awake!
Then he thought — what's the use. Even if I do make it they'll still have me. They're watching — Dr. Six is! watching — probably a peephole or something. They'll only give it to me again and it will be all to do over! Why struggle? If you can't lick Death — join him!