Double Identity
Authors: Nick Carter
NICK CARTER
Double Identity
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Synopsis
The message over the CIA hot-line sent AXE into an uproar. CIA’s top man in Tibet had been killed. His dying words had identified his assassin— “Nick Carter!”
AXE made their own Nick Carter’s briefing short:
1. A fake Killmaster at large in the East meant something explosive in the works, while the obvious lure to trap the super-agent was intriguing but probably of secondary importance.
2. Highest authority wanted the matter investigated and settled, fast!
Within hours, N3 had jumped into Tibet to pick up the trail of his mysterious double. In India the path ran through streets thronged with those seeking the fortune offered in reward for Nick Carter’s arrest. It led to the remote Pakistani border region where Nick found the fuse which, once ignited in India, would set off a holocaust that would destroy all the nations of the East.
Double Identity
The beautiful, golden-skinned High Priestess of the Lamasery of the She Devils looked up at Nick Carter. Her gaze had been steady as she told him all she knew of the man who was N3’s double and posed as AXE agent Nick Carter. Then she smiled, for she had promised him an artful tour through the strange pleasures of the
Kama Sutra,
India’s ancient guide to the delights of love.
Killmaster was helpless before the woman’s skill and the powerful effects of the mysterious potion he had been given. He had a vague thought that things were not exactly as they seemed . . . but by the time he could take action, he had already made his first mistake—and it was the only one he would be allowed on this mission!
Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the
United States of America
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Peep Show
From modern Peking Airport to the center of the ancient Forbidden City is about forty kilometers. That is the linear distance. Reckoned in terms of time, or in any other possible fourth dimension a traveler might conjure up, it could as easily be forty millenniums! Once through the busy Outer City where tall chimneys belch clouds of smoke and long rows of new apartments remind one strangely of Los Angeles—white stucco and red tile—the traveler can enter into the comparative peace and quiet of the Purple City. Beyond this, at the very center of the great yellow web that is China, is the Imperial City. Or, as the masters of China today prefer to call it, the Tartar City.
Wang-wei, Chief of Coordination of Chinese Secret Services, glanced impatiently at the watch on his slim wrist. It would never do to be late to
this
conference! The Celestial Twins—upon occasion Wang-wei permitted himself a sense of humor—the Twins themselves had summoned him. Mao and Chou.
Wang-wei glanced at his watch again and muttered impatiently to the driver of the small, black, Russian-built sedan, “Faster! T’ung-chih!”
The driver nodded and prodded the car. Wang-wei’s well-manicured nails played a busy tattoo on his pigskin briefcase, that inevitable badge of officialdom. He was a neat little man in his early fifties with a thin, sardonic copper-skinned face. He wore dark trousers and handsome British-made shoes and a black high-buttoned blouse in the para-military style. Because of the nip in the bright October day, he was wearing a conservative sport jacket. He was hatless, his graying hair neatly
en brosse.
Wang-wei was handsome and well preserved for his age, and he was vain of it.
The black car sped through a series of gates and came to T’ien An Men, the entrance to the Tartar City. Here, surrounded by golden-tiled roofs, was a large public square. The driver slowed and glanced back at Wang-wei for instructions.
For a moment Wang-wei paid him no attention. He was thinking that it would be a pity if he could not see his mistress, Sessi-yu, while he was in Peking. His eyes narrowed and he felt his loins stir as he thought of Sessi-yu and her Golden Lotus! What a Lotus it was—almost a thing apart from herself, an entity well versed in the tender arts, rich with the lore of ten thousand years of exquisite venery.
The driver grunted something, and Wang-wei returned to the mundane world. He had best keep his wits about him for the next few hours. Soon now he would find out what the Celestial Twins wanted with himself—and with his prize Turtle.
Across the square stood two drab government office buildings. Between them was a compound fenced by a high, blue-painted wall. Wang-wei left the car and entered the compound through a wooden gate guarded by a soldier of the Security Troops. The man carried a tommy gun slung over his shoulder. He scowled at the pass Wang-wei showed him, but waved him in.
It was very quiet in the compound. An ancient house, three-storied with a tiled roof and curved eaves in Old China style, stood in the center of the compound. For a moment Wang-wei stood and surveyed the house with an enigmatic little smile. Even had he not been quite familiar with it, he would have known from the style of architecture and the curvature of the eaves that it was a house of felicity. Many spirits had been consulted before it was built in this exact spot.
Another tommy-gunbearing guard came down a graveled path to meet him. Wang-wei displayed his pass again, after which he was escorted into the house and upstairs to a small anteroom on the third floor.
Because he had been ushered to this particular room Wang-wei knew that something very special was up. The main room, just beyond the sliding door of saffron paper, was a very special room indeed. Wang-wei had visited it many times before on both business and pleasure. It was, in a very real sense,
his
room! A mainstay of his work when he was in Peking. That the Twins had chosen it for this meeting meant that something of vast importance was afoot!
Wang-wei allowed himself to guess. Counter-espionage? Wang-wei permitted himself a small dry smile. What else? His Turtle, Turtle Nine, had also been brought to this place. Was probably downstairs at this very moment. Turtle Nine, so carefully groomed for so many years. So well trained. So meticulously indoctrinated and brainwashed. And, less than a year ago, the skillful plastic surgery! Wang-wei permitted his smile to become full blown. He was right. He
must
be right. They were going to use Turtle Nine at last. Use him on the one mission for which he had been trained for years.
The saffron paper door slid back with a hiss. A high ranking officer crooked a finger at Wang-wei. “Come,” said the officer in a soft Cantonese accent, “you are wanted.” He closed the paper door after Wang-wei, but did not follow him into the large rectangular room.
Wang-wei hesitated a moment at the entrance, clutching his briefcase to his narrow chest. He glanced down at the floor and felt the same start of surprise he always did, even though he had been in the room many times. The floor was of clear glass, looking into a large apartment below. It was, in effect, nothing more than a huge two-way mirror of the type used for peep shows—and spying—the World over. From below it appeared that the ceiling was a mirror intended for obvious uses.
At the far end of the room two men sat in comfortable chairs. On a low table between them were tea things and a bottle each of whisky and soda. There were glasses and ashtrays, but neither of the men was smoking or drinking. Both of them stared at the newcomer with interest.
The oldest of the men, a round little fat man with the bland face of a Buddha—which, in a modern version, he sometimes supposed himself to be—waved to a third chair and said, “Come, Wang-wei. Sit down. Things are about to start. We have only been waiting for you.”
As Wang-wei sank into the armchair he was aware of cynical amusement in the dark eyes of the other man. He had not yet spoken, this man. He was younger than the Buddha type, thinner, healthier looking. His dark hair was thick and glossy and blazed at the temples with a tinge of gray. Now he leaned forward, well-kept hands on his knees and smiled at Wang-wei. “So—it is the little Master of the Turtles! And how are all your slimy charges keeping these days, comrade?”
Wang-wei’s answering smile was nervous. He knew that Chou had never liked him, that he questioned Wang-wei’s competence for the high and important office he held. And that name— Turtle Master! Only Chou ever dared to taunt him with that. But then Chou could do pretty well as he liked—he was heir apparent.
Wang-wei kept his face impassive and, with an inward prayer that Mao’s decaying kidneys would hold out forever, he snapped open his briefcase and extracted a thick sheaf of papers. As he did so he glanced down through the glass floor into the apartment below. There was activity down there now, but nothing important. Merely a servant turning on soft lights and arranging bottles and glasses on a little bamboo bar in one corner.
Chou saw his glance and chuckled. “Not yet, Master of Turtles. The fun hasn’t started yet I hope you’re up to it. It might be a little bloody, you know. And if the blood turns out to be your Turtle’s—”
The Buddha type waggled a fat finger at Chou. “Enough!
Save your jokes for later. With all that I have on my shoulders I have come, in person, to see this thing. I am almost convinced that it will work—almost, but not quite. So let us get on with it.” He turned to Wang-wei. “What of this Turtle Nine of yours?” The fat little man tapped some papers on the table. “I know much of him already, but I wish to hear it from your lips. It is you, after all, who bears the ultimate responsibility.”
Wang-wei did not like the sound of that, nor the glint in Chou’s obsidian eyes, but he was helpless. It was
not
his plan, only his Turtle, yet he was to be held responsible! With an inward sigh of resignation he riffled through his sheaf of papers. He began to read in his harsh, clipped north China accent:
“Turtle Nine”—name is William Martin. Born and raised in Indianapolis, Indiana, USA. Nineteen when captured in Korea. Now thirty-three. Listed by the Americans as dead in action. Death insurance paid his widow, who is now re-married and lives in a town called Wheeling, West Virginia. There were no children. This Turtle has always had Number One status, has always been highly cooperative. He is considered completely trustworthy and—”
“Considered trustworthy by whom?” Chou leaned to stare at Wang-wei, his mobile lips curled in a half-smile.
Wang-wei flushed. “By me, sir! This Turtle has been a prisoner now for fourteen years and, though I have not had charge of his training all that time, I will stake my life that he is the best Turtle we have.”
Chou leaned back in his chair. “That is exactly what you are doing, little Master of Turtles.”
Mao made an impatient gesture. “Never mind all the details, Wang-wei! Get on with it. This Turtle has been subjected to all the usual procedures?”
Wang-wei ran his finger down a typed page. “Yes, Comrade Leader. He has been completely re-educated! That, of course, was done long ago. He is now politically reliable, has been for years.”
Chou crossed his legs and lit a long Russian cigarette. He winked at Wang-wei. “What the Americans crudely describe as brainwashed?”
Wang-wei ignored him. He focused his attention on the Buddha, the father figure of all China. The fat man was frowning now. He plucked at a petulant little mouth with a finger. “There is something I do not understand—why has this Turtle Nine never been used before? As I understand it you number these Turtles in the order of their capture? So this particular Turtle, this William Martin, was the ninth American soldier captured in Korea?”
“That is true, Comrade Leader.”
Mao frowned. “Then I ask—why has he never been used before if he is so reliable? Nineteen fifty-one was a long time ago—you must have taken many Turtles since then, yes? One is a little, er, surprised at the life span of this Turtle.”
It was a tight bind and none the less so because Wang-wei had half-expected the question and had prepared for it. Turtle Nine
had
been around a long time. The plain truth was that Turtle Nine was a handsome and superbly built specimen and had long ago taken the eye of a very high ranking official in another department. This aging official, enamored of the young man, had made it worth Wang-wei’s while to keep Turtle Nine at home and safe. As simple as that, really, yet it was not a thing he could tell the Buddha figure. Hardly. Mao was a strict puritan; he had had men shot for lesser perversions.
