Temple of Fear (6 page)

Could he use Nick in a private vendetta for another man? The problem made no attempt to go away or to solve itself. It was still there when Hawk at last sought his pillow again. The booze had helped a bit and he fell into an uneasy sleep at the first peeping of birds in the forsythia outside his window.

Cecil Aubrey and the MIS man, Terence, were due again Tuesday, in Hawk's office at eleven- Hawk was in the office at a quarter of nine. Delia Stokes was not yet in. Hawk hung up his light raincoat — it was beginning to drizzle outside — and went straight to the phone and called Nick's apartment in the Mayflower.

Hawk had made his decision while driving to the office from Georgetown. He knew he was weaseling a bit and shifting the burden a little after all, but now he could do it with a fairly clear conscience. Tell Nick all the facts, with the Englishmen present, and let Nick make his own decision. It was the best Hawk could do, considering his greed and his temptation. He would be fair. He swore it to himself. If Nick turned down the mission that would be the end of it. Let Cecil Aubrey seek elsewhere for an executioner.

Nick did not answer. Hawk swore and slammed the phone down. He stripped his first cigar of the morning and put it in his mouth. He tried Nick's apartment again, letting the ring go on and on. No answer.

Hawk slammed the phone down again and stood glaring at it. Screwing again, he thought. Shacked up. In the hay with some beautiful .doll and he'll report in when he gets damned good and ready. Hawk scowled, then nearly smiled. Couldn't blame the boy for reaping his rosebuds while he could. It didn't last long, God knew. Not long enough. Been a long time since
he'd
been able to reap any rosebuds. Ah, golden girls and lads alike must come to dust...

To hell with that! When Nick did not answer on the third attempt Hawk went out to look at the logbook on Delia's desk. The night duty officer was supposed to keep it updated. Hawk ran his finger down the list of neatly penned entries. Carter,
as
were all top AXE men, was on call twenty-four hours a day and was supposed to call in and check every twelve hours. And to leave an address or phone number where they could be reached.

Hawk's finger stopped on the entry:
N3 — 2204 hrs. — 914-528-6177...
It was a Maryland prefix. Hawk scribbled the number on a scratch sheet and went back into his own office. He dialed the number.

After a long series of rings a woman said, "Hello?" She sounded sleepy and hungover.

Hawk barged straight into it. Let's get Romeo out of the sack.

"Let me speak to Mr. Carter, please."

Long pause. Then, coldly, "To whom did you wish to speak?"

Hawk bit his cigar savagely. "Carter. Nick Carter! This is very important. Urgent. Is he there?"

More silence. Then he heard her yawn. Her voice was still cold as she said, "I'm sorry. Mr. Carter left some time ago. I really don't know when. But how on earth did you get this number? I..."

"Sorry, lady." Hawk snapped the phone down again. Damn! He sat down, put his feet on the desk and stared at the bilious puce walls. The Western Union clock ticked in defense of Nick Carter. He wasn't overdue on his call in. Still some forty odd minutes to go. Hawk swore under his breath and could not understand his own unease.

Delia Stokes came in a few minutes later. Hawk, masking his anxiety — for which he could produce no good reason — set her to ringing the Mayflower every ten minutes. He got on another line and began making discreet inquiries. Nick Carter, as Hawk well knew, was a swinger and his range of acquaintances was long and catholic. He might be in a Turkish bath with a senator, having breakfast with the wife and/or daughter of some diplomatic VIP — or he might be in a crap game in Goat Hill.

Time passed without results. Hawk kept glancing at the clock on the wall. He had promised Aubrey a decision todays Goddamn the boy anyway! He was now officially overdue on his call in. Not that Hawk gave a damn about a niggeling matter like that — but he wanted to get this affair settled, one way or the other, and he couldn't do it without Nick. He was as determined as ever that Nick have the final say-so in killing, or not killing, Richard Philston.

At ten of eleven Delia Stokes came into his office, a puzzled look on her face. Hawk was just tossing away a half-masticated cigar. He saw her expression and said, "What?"

Delia shrugged. "I don't know exactly what, sir. But I don't believe it — and you're not going to believe it."

Hawk scowled. "Try me."

Delia cleared her throat. "I finally got on to the bell captain at the Mayflower. I had a hard time finding him, and then he didn't want to talk — he likes Nick and was trying to protect him, I suppose — but I finally wormed something out of him. Nick left the hotel a little after nine this morning. He was drunk. Roaring drunk. And — this is the part you won't believe — he was with four Girl Scouts."

The cigar drooped. Hawk stared at her. "He was with who?"

"I told you — he was with four Girl Scouts. Japanese Girl Scouts. He was so drunk that the scouts, the Japanese Girl Scouts, had to help him through the lobby."

All Hawk did was blink. Three times. Then he said: "Who have we got standing by for local duty?"

"There's Tom Ames. And..."

"Ames will do. Send him over to the Mayflower right away. Get that bell captain's story confirmed or denied. Put a top hush on this, Delia, and start the routine procedure for missing operatives. That's all. Oh, when Cecil Aubrey and Terence show up let them come straight in."

"Yes, sir." She went out and closed the door. Delia knew when to leave David Hawk alone with his bitter thoughts.

Tom Ames was a good man. Careful, thorough-going, overlooking nothing. It was one o'clock when he reported back to Hawk. In the meantime Hawk had stalled Aubrey once again — and had been keeping the wires hot. So far nothing.

Ames sat in the same hard chair Nick Carter had occupied yesterday morning. Ames was a rather sad-looking man with a face that reminded Hawk of a lonely bloodhound.

"It's true about the Girl Scouts, sir. There were four of them. Japanese Girl Scouts. They were selling cookies in the hotel. It isn't allowed, normally, but the assistant manager let them slip through. Good neighbor relations and all that. And they did sell
some
cookies. I..."

Hawk restrained himself, barely. "Skip the cookies, Ames. Stick to Carter. He left with these Girl Scouts? He was seen going through the lobby with them? He was drunk?"

Ames swallowed. "Well, yes, sir. He was certainly noticed, sir. He fell down three times getting through the lobby. He had to be helped up by the, er, Girl Scouts. Mr. Carter was singing and dancing, sir, and yelling a little. It also appears that he had a lot of cookies, sorry, sir, but that's the way I got it — he had a lot of cookies and he was trying to sell them in the lobby."

Hawk closed his eyes. This profession got nuttier every day. "Go on."

"That's about it, sir. That's what happened. Well confirmed. I got statements from the bell captain, the assistant manager, two chamber maids and a Mr. and Mrs. Meredith Hunt who were just checking in from Indianapolis. I..."

Hawk held up a hand that trembled slightly. "Skip that, too. Where did Carter and his — his entourage go after that? I presume they didn't soar away in a balloon or anything sensible like that?"

Ames shoved his sheaf of depositions back into an inner pocket.

"No, sir. They took a taxi."

Hawk opened his eyes and looked expectant. "Well?"

"Nothing, sir. The usual routine didn't turn up anything. The bell captain watched the Girl Scouts help Mr. Carter into the taxi, but he didn't notice anything in particular about the driver, and he didn't think to get the license number. I talked to the other drivers in the rank, of course. Bad luck there. There was only one other cab there at the time and the driver was napping. He did notice it, though, because Mr. Carter was making so much noise and, well, it was a little unusual to see Girl Scouts with a drunk."

Hawk sighed. "A little, yes. So?"

"It was a strange cab, sir. The man said he'd never seen it around the rank before. He didn't get a good look at the driver."

"Just as well," said Hawk. "It was probably the Japanese Sand Man."

"Sir?"

Hawk waved a hand. "Nothing. Okay, Ames. That's all for now. Stand by for new orders."

Ames left. Hawk sat staring at the puce walls. On the face of it Nick Carter was now contributing to the delinquency of minors. Four minors. Girl Scouts!

Hawk reached for the phone, intent on putting out a special AXE APB, then drew back his hand No. Let it cook awhile*. See what happened.

One thing he was sure of. It was just the opposite of how it looked. Those Girl Scouts were, somehow, contributing to the delinquency of Nick Carter.

The little man with the mallet was merciless. He was a dwarf and he wore dirty brown robes and he swung a mean mallet. The gong was twice as big as the little man, but the little man had big muscles and he meant business. He swung the mallet again and again against the sounding brass —
boinggg
—
boinggg — boinggg — boingggg...

Funny thing. The gong was changing shape. It was beginning to look exactly like Nick Carter's head.

Nick opened his eyes, then closed them as fast as possible. The gong started again. He opened his eyes and the gong stopped. He was lying on the floor, on a
futon,
with a quilt over him. Near his head was a white enameled pot. Foresight on someone's part. Nick got his head over the pot and was sick in it. Very sick. For a long time. When he had retched himself empty he lay back on the floor pad and tried to get the ceiling in focus. It was just an ordinary ceiling. Gradually it stopped whirling and settled down. He began to hear music. Frenetic, far-away, stamping go-go- music. It was, he thought as his head cleared, not so much a matter of sound as of vibration.

The door opened and Tonaka came in. No Girl Scout uniform now. She was wearing a brown suede jacket over a white silk blouse — obviously with no bra under it — and tight black slacks that clung with love to her slim legs. She was slightly made up, lipstick and a trace of rouge, and her lustrous black hair was piled with feigned carelessness atop her head. She was, Nick admitted even in his agony, quite a dish.

Tonaka gave him a quiet smile. "Good evening, Nick. How are you feeling?"

He touched his head tenderly with his fingers. It didn't fall off.

"I just might live," he said. "No thanks to you."

She laughed. "I'm sorry, Nick. I really am. But it seemed the' only way to carry out my father's wishes. The drug we gave you — it not only makes a person extremely docile. It also gives him an enormous thirst, desire, for alcohol. You were really quite drunk even before we got you on the plane."

He stared at her. It was all flooding back now. He rubbed the back of his neck gingerly. "I know it's a stupid question — but where am I?"

Her smile vanished. "In Tokyo, of course."

"Of course. Where else. Where are the gruesome threesome — Mato, Kato and Sato?"

"They have their work. They are doing it. I doubt that you will see them again."

"I think I can bear that," he muttered.

Tonaka knelt on the
futon
beside him. She ran her hand over his forehead and stroked his hair. Her hand was as cool as a Fuji brook. Her soft mouth brushed his, then she pulled away.

"There is no time for us now, but I will say this. I promise it. If you help my father, as I know you will, and if we both live through this, I will do anything to make up to you what I have done. Anything! That is understood, Nick?"

He was feeling enormously better. He restrained the impulse to pull her slim body down atop his own. He nodded. "Understood, Tonaka. I will hold you to that promise. Now — where is your father?"

She stood up and moved away from him. "He lives in the Sanya district. You know it?"

He nodded. One of the worst slum areas in Tokyo. But he did not understand. What was old Kunizo Matu doing in such a place?

Tonaka guessed his thought. She was lighting a cigarette. She Bung the match carelessly on the
tatami.

"I told you my father is dying. He has cancer. He has come back to die with his own people, the Eta. You knew he was
Burakumin?"

He shook his head. "I had no idea. Does it matter?"

He had thought her beautiful. The beauty vanished now as she scowled.
"He
thought it mattered. He left his people long ago and passed as a non-Eta. Now that he is old and dying, he wants to make amends." She shrugged fiercely. "Perhaps it is not too late at that — this is certainly the time for it. But he will explain all that to you. Then we will see — I think now that you had better take a bath and get cleaned up. It will help your sickness. We have a little time. A few hours until morning."

Nick stood up. His shoes were missing but otherwise he was fully clothed. The Savile Row suit was never going to be the same. He did feel grimy and had the beginnings of a stubble. He knew what his tongue must look like and he did not want to face it. There was a distinct taste of ditch digger's glove in his mouth.

"A
bassu
might just save my life," he admitted.

She pointed to his crumpled suit. "You'll have to change clothes anyway. That will have to be gotten rid of. It's all arranged. We have other clothes for you. Papers. A whole new cover. My lather worked it out, of course."

"Father seems to have been very busy. And just who are 'we?' "

She threw a Japanese phrase at him that he did not catch. Her long dark eyes narrowed. "It means Militant Women of Eta. It's what we are — wives, daughters, mothers. Our men won't fight, or very few of them, so the women must. But he will tell you all about that, too. I'll send a girl about your bath."