Double Identity (6 page)

Hafed grinned. “Sort of, sar. Much tough. You go now do like they tell—we not want trouble. I think Dyla Lotti come and see you maybe tonight soon!”

So Killmaster followed the fat old priestess down a series of long cold corridors lit by butter lamps. Finally they entered a room where it was actually warm and a great cauldron of water boiled. Here more old women were in attendance. Overcoming his initial resistance with deft skill and much chatter, they had given Nick a bath. Eventually he relaxed and enjoyed it. They bathed his private parts with no more ado than if he had been a piece of meat on a butcher’s hook, though one old crone did tickle him and cackle something that made the others laugh. Nick thought it was probably uncomplimentary.

He managed to retain his weapons, but only after a fierce struggle and much altercation. One of the old priestesses was sent to check—presumably with the High Priestess herself—and came back with word that the weapons were permitted. At least they gave up trying to snatch them from him.

On the lighter side was the awe with which the elderly priestesses regarded Pierre, the little gas bomb he carried between his legs in a metal cylinder. This occasioned as much cackle as a fox in a chicken run! They stared at him and spun prayer wheels at a great rate. Here was a foreign devil with three balls—and one of them of metal! N3 could almost hear the rumors starting, and visualize the clack that would run through the lamasery that night . . .

Now, as he fretted on the soft bed, he wondered about the barred door. Was he a prisoner, as he had thought at first, or was the barred and locked door to keep the younger She Devils out? He grinned. Once they had heard about his third testicle they might come looking, if only out of curiosity.

He lit another cigarette from his butt, stubbing the butt out on a couple of thousand dollars worth of rug. There were no ashtrays. He stared at the monkey again. Was that a glint of white behind the brass eyes? A watcher? Nick yawned and hitched the orange robe closer around his big frame. It was coarse and scratchy, but it was clean. God only knew what they had done with his clothes. All he had left was the robe and a pair of yakskin boots and his weapons.

He was about to field strip the Luger again, for lack of something to do, when he heard the door being unlocked. Hastily he thrust the pistol beneath the covers. If this was Dyla Lotti he didn’t want to meet her with a gun in his hand. Might violate protocol or something.

It was only another old woman, one he had not seen before. She bowed and cackled and handed him a large bowl of warm milk. She made drinking motions and stood waiting. To get rid of her Nick drank the mixture. Warm yak’s milk to which something had been added, something he could not recognize, at once tart and sweet. A mildly pleasant taste.

The old crone smiled with approval as he finished the milk and handed her the cup. She thumped one withered breast, over her heart, and gummed words at him that sounded, vaguely, like “make well.” She left and Nick heard the door being barred and locked again.

Almost immediately he began to feel drowsy. A lovely warm euphoria stole over him. His heart, which on the final trip up the lamasery stairs had been about to burst his chest, slowed to a steady normal beat. N3 closed his eyes and sank into delicious deep contentment Whatever dope he had been given it was certainly effective. She Devil’s Own Home Remedy—maybe he should try to get the recipe and bottle it for sale in the States. It beat any six martinis he had ever drunk.

N3 had no idea how long he slept. He did not come awake instantly, alert and ready, his usual manner of wakening. Instead he drifted back to consciousness slowly on a pleasant pillow of dreams, only just aware of where he was and who he was. It was very quiet in the lamasery now. It must be late. Most of the butter lamps had gone out; the remaining few shed a thin tawny light that wavered fitfully. The charcoal in the brazier was a sullen red glow.

Flickering lamps! Strange. They had burned with a clear straight flame before. Nick pushed himself up on the bed, fighting off lethargy, and glanced across the room at the great statue of the brass monkey. It was moving away from the wall, swinging slowly around on a pivot. A chill little draft invaded the room, causing the butter lamps to flicker again. N3 felt for his weapons with a touch of panic.

Then he relaxed. They were all there— Luger, stiletto, and Pierre the gas bomb. He was not defenseless!

The brass monkey was still swinging out from the white brick wall. When it was at right angles to the wall it halted with a little click. Nick rubbed his eyes, trying to rid them of sleep. He still felt drugged and fuzzy, yet he did not mind. He felt good. Fine! As though he were neatly wrapped in some downy insulation, shielded from any impact of reality. He was aware, too, of one other thing—he was immensely ready for physical love! And that, some yet undrugged part of his mind told him, is just plain absurd. Ridiculous. At this moment in time and space, just beginning what could be the most chancy and dangerous mission of his life, that he should suddenly become a raging stud . . .

He saw her then. There was a black oblong in the brick wall, where the brass monkey had been, and a figure was standing there now. A waft of perfume came to Nick. More absurdity. No rare Tibetan perfume this—he recognized it immediately. Chanel No. 5 !

The figure stepped out of the black shadows into the room. Had he not been drugged, N3 probably would have exclaimed. As it was he took the apparition in stride—nearly. Even the drug could not ward off entirely the sudden chill and feeling of evil present in the room.

Without speaking the figure came into the room and halted by the brazier. Behind it the brass monkey slid silently back into place. Some kind of automatic counter-weight, Nick told himself furiously. He was fighting the drug tooth and nail now, struggling to clear his mind. This must be Dyla Lotti. The High Priestess herself whom he had been instructed to contact. Why didn’t she take off that damned leering mask!

The devil mask was hideous enough to chill the blood of any man. The eyes were terrible red slits, the nose a purple hook, the mouth a grin of sheer horror. Serpents twined instead of hair. This was nightmare stuff!

Killmaster summoned all his will. He flipped a casual hand at the bed side. “Come and sit down. I’ve been expecting you. Sorry about the chairs, but you people don’t seem to run to them. You know who I am, of course? Why I’m here?”

From behind the mask a pair of narrow dark eyes regarded him. Still she did not speak. She wore the traditional orange robe, but it was of silk instead of rough homespun and was belted in at the waist. This revealed just enough of her body for Nick to guess that it was superb. On her feet were tiny yakskin boots with silver tassels on the curled-up toes. Around her neck, below the mask line, he saw a long string of wooden prayer beads.

By now Nick knew he was fighting a losing battle against the drug. God—that milk must have been loaded. He fought to keep the weird devil mask in focus. The white-washed walls kept folding and wrinkling and re-aligning themselves. And he was still aching, hurting, with the physical manifestations of love. And that, he thought dimly, is sure as hell not protocol. If I let myself get out of hand I’ll louse up the whole deal.

He fell back on a simple, inane remark. “Think you’ll know me again?”

Dark eyes flickered behind the devil mask. She had not moved. Now she took a single step toward him. Her voice was soft, well modulated, speaking English with hardly an accent—the good, grammatically pure English of one who has studied it assiduously as a second language. The soft tones, coming from behind the grotesque mask, gave Nick Carter a second shock.

“I must be very careful, Mr. Carter. As you must. Only a week ago another man lay on that same bed and assured me that
he
was Mr. Nicholas Carter. He looked exactly like you. He spoke exactly as you speak now.”

Nick swung his legs out of bed and pulled the orange robe about him, fighting off languor. Wilhelmina, the Luger, was snug in her plastic holster in the waistband of his shorts. Thank God the old crones had left him those.

Nick said: “This other man—this phony Nick Carter? You say he was
exactly
as I am? Think hard now, Miss—er— what do I call you?”

Had the dark eyes twinkled behind the mask? He couldn’t be sure. There was something familiar and reassuring about the Chanel No. 5 now. This was, after all, only a woman. And he was Nick Carter—the real one. He could handle it.

“Call me Dyla Lotti,” she said. “That is my name. And yes—he
did
look exactly like you. Except, possibly . . .” She took a step nearer the bed and peered at Nick. “Possibly the eyes—his were a little colder. But that is an emotional, a subjective judgment. But he was enough like you to pass any but the most severe test.”

“He fooled you? You thought he was the real Nick Carter? At the time?”

The devil mask moved in negation. “No. I was not fooled. I pretended to be, but I knew that he was really a Chinese agent posing as you, Mr. Carter. I had been warned, you see.”

Nick fumbled with his remaining cigarettes. “You mind?”

A tiny hand, daffodil yellow, appeared from the copious sleeve of the robe. It waved assent. Nick saw that her nails were long and curving and stained a blood red.

He lit a cigarette and arranged the robe again. He was a little more at ease, a bit less excited now that they were down to business, but desire still haunted him.

He exhaled blue smoke and said, “We’re a little blurry on that at AXE, you know. You’d better put me straight for the record—just how were you warned? This agent, this Chinese phony, killed our man Pei Ling in Kaitse— that’s in central Tibet. There are a h—a lot of mountains between here and there. How could you get word about Pei Ling’s murder so fast?”

He saw the dark eyes widen behind the mask. She approached another step, her arms crossed now over her breast. Firm, full breasts, Nick guessed. Must be strapped down now. The scent of Chanel was stronger.

“You sound as though you do not entirely trust me, Mr. Carter.” Was there a hint of mockery in the voice?

“It isn’t a question of trust, Dyla Lotti. Just a matter of mechanics. I want to know how it could happen. I want, I’ve got to know, as much about this thing as possible. Some little matter, something you think of no importance, might be vital. You understand?”

“I understand, Mr. Carter. You will have to excuse me — I am very new at this sort of thing. I am a High Priestess, not a spy. I only agreed to work for you, for your people, because the Chinese are in our country and I want them out. It is against our creed to hate, Mr. Carter, or to preach hatred—but I am a sinner. I hate the Chinese! They are swine. Dogs!”

N3 felt more relaxed. The drug was still working in him, but now he felt his urgent desire for a woman, any woman, fading away. His mind was clearing; the room, the woman in the mask, everything was coming through clear and sharp again.

Somewhat to his surprise Dyla Lotti went to the opposite side of the bed and sat down. Primly, he thought. He twisted to face her, grinning. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you took that thing off—the Halloween bit, I mean? It looks heavy.”

The mask swayed toward him and he was aware of the close scrutiny of the dark eyes. There was an odd note in her reply. “I prefer to keep it on for the time being, Mr. Carter. Perhaps—later? You must sleep again, and drink more medicine—and then I will return to see you. Then I will take off the mask. You agree?”

The formality had lightened. Nick smiled and lit another cigarette. “I agree—but I don’t know about the medicine bit. That last blast of yak’s milk was loaded! What did she put in it, anyway?” He glanced furtively down at his now quiescent loins. “It—er—It has some weird effects.”

If Dyla Lotti knew what he meant she made no sign. Yet her voice was warmer, more friendly, when she said, “It is
sanga
root—a sort of wild mushroom that grows on the mountain tops. Very rare. You
must
take it, Mr. Carter. I know. I have had the altitude sickness myself. The
sanga
root eases the strain on your heart—otherwise it will wear itself out in this thin air.”

N3 eyed the devil mask. “It has certain side effects,” he said with an innocent expression.

There was no doubt about it this time—the dark eyes flashed and twinkled. “Perhaps,” Dyla Lotti admitted. “And perhaps the side effects are beneficial also. But we must get back to business, Mr. Carter. Soon I must go. I have my duties, you know.”

Nick wondered what those duties could be, well after midnight in a lonely and storm-besieged lamasery, but he did not ask. He listened, interrupting only now and then to ask a question.

A week before, one day before the fake Nick Carter had arrived, a runner had reached the lamasery. He bore a chit of paper in a cleft stick and he died from exhaustion half an hour later. But he had been a Sherpa, with incredible lungs, and he had come all the way from another lamasery at Kaitse. The message he bore was scrawled in blood—a dying man’s blood. The Chinese agent had made another mistake—after shooting Pei Ling he had not checked to see that the Lama was quite dead.

Nick asked, “You still have the message?”

Dyla Lotti took a coarse sheet of paper from her wide sleeve and handed it across the bed to him. Their fingers touched for a moment and Nick felt as though an electric current had jolted him. He raised the note to eye level with fingers that trembled faintly. God—he must be careful! The yearning was coming back!

He could make nothing of the note. It did seem to be written in blood, by a dying man, a wobbly scrawled mess of chicken tracks. He got the impression that it was meant to be read from right to left. He handed it back to Dyla Lotti with a baffled expression. “Afraid you’ll have to read it to me.”

He could not see her smile behind the devil mask, but he sensed it. “It is in Urdu,” she explained. “A high form of Hindustani—educated priests use it at times. It does not say much—he had no time left. Just that he was killed by a man posing as you, Mr. Carter. A Chinese agent. He asks me to communicate this to your people—to AXE—and warns me that the Chinese agent would probably stop here on his way through the pass into Kashmir. He also suggests that I pretend ignorance and, how do you say it—?”