"You will join Major Nutashi at Andrews Field in two hours," Hawk said, his tone crisp. "You will both be flown to Hokkaido. There his people will prepare you for scouting the Kurile Islands. A fleet of four Russian submarine chasers of the S.O.I. Class will be standing by off the Kuriles. We decided against the use of submarines because of their lack of deck guns, which you may need. Also, these sub chasers can move in fasten Ostrov said there would be three W Class patrol submarines standing by below the surface if needed. Chung Li gave us a special frequency on which to contact him directly. He agreed to have all Chinese coastal forces alerted for any unusual activity, such as Carlsbad trying to make it to the Chinese mainland by boat. In radio contact with anyone, use the code name Operation DS."
Hawk paused and his lips tightened. "The rest is up to you, Nick," he said. "All this background cooperation won't be worth a damn unless you get to Carlsbad. Everyone's agreed to stay quietly in the background and wait for word from you. But at least you know that no matter which way Carlsbad jumps, you can go after him fast, without worrying about being stopped. Just clear your moves through Operation DS."
"Good enough," I said. "All assuming that Carlsbad is not holed up right here."
"Oh, I forgot to mention," Hawk said. "We're pretty sure he's left the country. We got a report on a series of six private planes, left abandoned from here to Portland. Each plane had been reserved from a different charter service over a month ago, all by a Mr. Kiyishi." I grimaced. That name again. They'd set up a series of short hops and skips across the country, changing planes each time just to play safe. Neat, I had to admit.
"We think they slipped by our people in Portland and took a commercial airliner overseas," Hawk concluded. He stood up and walked to the door with me.
"This isn't just a matter of getting Carlsbad," he said. "If X–V77 is let loose in the process, we will have lost everything."
"What you're saying is I've got to move fast and hard and slow and careful," I grinned. "Tell me how I do that, O Wise One."
I should know never to underestimate the old fox. "Make believe you're after one of your top-heavy blondes," he said. "It'll come back to you."
IV
The Kurile Islands were given to Russia by the Yalta Agreement and are still a sore point with the Japanese. The Japanese still fish their rich waters despite the control of the Russians, and the small, hardy, independent fishermen are a constant problem to the Soviets. Stretching from the very tip of Japan to the long Sredinny finger pointing downward from Russia, the islands are swept by cold currents from the Bering Sea and spend many of their days in bone-chilling fog.
In one small, single-sailed fishing dory, three Japanese fishermen hauled in full nets and put out new ones, moving their little craft close to the island shores. One of them was an old man, stooped but still strong and able, the other his son, young and the mainstay of the boat. The third man was big for Japanese. Actually he was not even Japanese — he was me, Nick Carter.
I stayed hunched over like the others, clothed in the same oilskin work clothes under which I wore the long Japanese shirt with short, knee-length trousers. My eyes had the oriental fold, my skin was tinted a faint amber, and I knew I would easily pass for just another fisherman to anyone watching from shore. Major Nutashi had explained to the two fishermen that they were to go about their work as usual but to do whatever I ordered them to do, no matter how strange it sounded.
What we'd done for the first day was to get in the fish during the morning fogbound hours and then sail around listlessly while the sun burned through. When that happened, they'd repair nets and I'd scrounge down in the bottom of the dory and survey the islands as we moved in and around them. I thanked God there wasn't a helluva lot to survey on most of them or we'd still be surveying as time ran out.
It was late in the second afternoon and the sun's rays were moving low across the water as we steered past a small island with a screen of trees rising a hundred yards inshore. I caught the sudden flash of sun reflecting off field glasses.
"Just keep on sailing past," I said quietly from the bottom of the boat. The old man nodded as we moved on and then slowly circled as though heading back. As we passed the island again, I was sitting up piling one of the nets into the bow of the dory. Once more I caught the brief glint of the sunlight on the glasses. We moved on until night fell, and then I ordered the little dory to come around and head back. The two fishermen didn't ask any questions. When we were off the little island again it was pitch black. The moon hadn't come up high enough yet and I didn't wait around for it.
"Go back to your homes now," I said to the old man and his son as I lowered myself over the side of the dory, leaving the oilskins with them.
They nodded gravely and I heard the faint sound of the water hitting the sides of the dory as she swung around. I swam for the dark mound that was the island, my shoes tied onto my belt, my fancy socks stuck into a pocket. The tide was coming in and helped me along. Soon I felt the pebble bottom under my feet and I crawled out onto a stone beach. I waited a moment, moved further up from the beach and brushed my feet dry on the grass that rose up at the edge of the trees. Then I put on my socks and shoes. It wasn't the best of manners to go calling barefooted. I moved carefully through the trees. I'd gone about a hundred yards inland when I saw the flicker of light.
I crept forward in a crouch, moving closer to what turned out to be a crumbled mass of rock that had once been some kind of temple. But the decay had been arrested by new stone blocks placed in strategic positions and wooden planks filling up holes. The remains of the temple stretched back into a cleared area and I saw the roof had been well repaired with gutters and drains running along the edges. A figure emerged from a narrow, arched doorless entranceway — an old man, crippled and deformed. He lit a torch stuck in a wall holder and then moved along the side of the temple to disappear around the back. He was Japanese, or at least oriental. I waited and saw two men in monk-like robes emerge, gather some firewood and go back inside.
Through cracks in the stones and boards and by the reflected light of an open square that had once been a window, I saw the flicker of torchlight from inside and heard the sounds of chanting. If Carlsbad was here, I had to admit he'd picked a helluva spot to hide in. If his pals hadn't lost that identification locket we could have spent a decade searching for this place. If he was here, he had to feel pretty secure. Except for watching the fishing boat with glasses, they hadn't a guard posted anywhere.
I crossed the short space to the temple wall as the chanting stopped. My back pressed against the wall, I slipped into the dark of the arched doorway and then moved inside, into an area of deep shadows. The floor was plain dirt at the entrance, but a stone floor began just inside the arched area. Before moving farther inside the temple I placed the little relay power pack in the deep shadows of the doorway and flipped on the switch. I heard voices inside, women's voices, and I could hear the movement of people.
Instinctively my arm pressed against Wilhelmina, secure in her holster, the hard flatness of Hugo against my right forearm. Taking a deep breath, I started to move forward. I was doing fine until I stepped on the first stone past the arched doorway; it was a wide, flat stone and I found out why they didn't post guards. The damn thing was on some land of swivel — it flipped over and I felt myself being sent half-skidding forward to make a grand entrance.