The Code (2 page)

"Our man shot the film from a hotel window across the street from the restaurant. The girl works there as a waitress," Hawk said. This was eight days ago. Our man didn't try to make contact. That's your job. To establish contact with Sheila and if necessary a relationship. We need to know what she knows. All of it."

The projector clicked off and lights burst on, filling the room with brightness.

"Well, did the film tell you anything?" Hawk asked me.

"You were right. She is frightened. She was carrying a weapon in the right hand pocket of her coat. Also, she has good legs."

"I thought you'd notice all of that," said Hawk dryly. "Make sure you keep your eye on her right hand as well as her legs."

He handed me the folder he'd been holding in his lap. It contained AXE's file on Sheila and a summary of my cover story. I had the rest of the day to commit them to memory, to get my phony identification prepared, and to familiarize myself with the special equipment I'd be taking with me to Idaho.

I left the Sheila Brant file in the living quarters to which I had been assigned, then picked up my phony identification. The Ned Harper pictured on the driver's license looked exactly like Nick Carter. He had a hard face, but I rather liked it. Along with the identification, I got a suitcase packed with personal belongings appropriate to the part I would be playing in Idaho. The clothing looked neither new nor tailored, but it fit me perfectly.

I spent an hour in the arms room. I checked out a case that contained, among other deadly items, a high-powered rifle with a long range sight. Together with my personal arms the case gave me as much firepower as some police departments.

Another of my stops was the base's electronics department. Acting on orders from Hawk, our experts had packed a kit for me. It looked like a shaving kit but it contained sensitive bugging devices, a camera, and a tiny tape recorder. I doubted that I would need any of this equipment, but Hawk wasn't overlooking anything.

I had one more visit to make — to the shed where mechanics had been working on the car I'd be driving when I became a man named Ned Harper. One of the mechanics was a sturdy little man in his forties who said he'd heard a lot about Nick Carter and had been wanting to meet me. I decided not to tell him that half of what he'd heard probably wasn't true.

"Our orders were to give you a car that looked like it came off a cheap second-hand lot, but one that would really scat," he said with a grin. "That's what we've done. This baby isn't pretty, but I think you'll fall in love with her. She responds like a French whore."

We walked to the other side of the shed. The mechanic pointed toward a short stretch of obstacle-littered road. "That's where we try her out. A test driver is about to put her through her paces."

A three-year-old Ford, the paint flecked in spots and one of the fenders dented, sat purring at the end of the obstacle course. The driver, wearing a crash helmet, waved a hand to us, then abruptly slammed down the accelerator. The car took off like a scalded cat.

"I promise you can get 120 per hour out of her in a pinch," the little mechanic said proudly. "We've got her tuned like a concert violin."

The car was bearing down on the obstacles. I thought it would hit the first one, but the driver cut the wheel at the last minute. He zigzagged the car along the course, tires screeching. At the end of the course, he slammed the brakes and skidded the car into a deliberate spin, whipping it around with a Hollywood stuntmans flair before he straightened out and drove back to us.

"That man should be driving at Indianapolis," I said.

The mechanic's grin widened. "Do you like surprises, Carter?"

I saw what he meant when the driver got out of the car, removed the crash helmet, and shook out a mane of bright red hair. Even with her body concealed by shapeless coveralls, there was no doubt that the test driver was entirely female. Built on a large frame, the redhead was my height and would have made almost two of the little mechanic. In fact, she could probably have packed him on a five-mile hike without breathing hard.

Her cheeks flushed, she walked over to us, the helmet swinging in her hand.

"What do you think, N3?" she said, using my Killmaster rank instead of my name. Among girls who looked as striking as she did, I tried to encourage a little more familiarity than that.

"Of the car, or the driver?" I asked.

Fire flared in her green eyes. "The car, of course. I don't give a damn what you think of the driver."

I glanced at the mechanic, who shrugged, then beat a diplomatic retreat. He didn't want to be a witness when this magnificent redhead chopped the famed Nick Carter into little pieces with her scorn.

"What have I done to you?" I asked her, slightly bewildered.

"Nothing at all. Let's see that it stays that way, N3."

There it was again, the rank instead of the name. I took this and the glint of fire in her eyes as a challenge. "I thought you were showing off a little bit when you were behind the wheel of the car," I said. "Was it for my benefit?"

"Of course you'd think that. You were probably astonished to see that a woman could handle a car better than you can." Her proud lip curled, but it only made her full mouth more inviting. "Let's get the obvious out of the way right now, N3. You may be worshiped as a bedroom athlete by some of the girls around here, but I'm not impressed by your reputation."

"What does impress you — performance? Maybe we can arrange a demonstration."

She laughed as though the suggestion amused her. She tugged at the zipper that ran down the front of her baggy coveralls. "Do you know what I was told, N3? I was told that if you were on a plane that was crashing, you'll still find time to proposition the stewardess."

That's true," I told her. "In fact, I'm the one who said that."

She shrugged the coveralls off her shoulders and wriggled out of them, managing to make the procedure as titillating as a strip tease. Underneath her work clothes, she was wearing hip-hugging pants and a sweater that clung to her curves like the skin on a grape.

"I respect you as a professional. The rank N3 means something," she said. "But let's keep our conversation on the professional level, shall we?"

I couldn't think of anything that interested me less, except possibly delivering a temperance lecture at a home for old maids.

"The car handled well for you, but I'd like to try it out for myself," I told her.

I got under the steering wheel, awoke the motor, and backed the car up. Then I gunned it. I took the course as fast as the girl had and finished up by braking the car into a tire-screeching double spin. When I got out, tossed her the keys, and said, "It'll do," I thought she'd spit in my face.

"Now who's the show-off?" she said, but there was a hint of surprise mixed with the sarcasm in her voice.

"The car doesn't look like much, but it's got a lot under the hood. You look like a lot of woman, but maybe you aren't so much. I'm curious enough to wonder about that." I dropped the duplicate key to my quarters into her hand. "If you want to use this it'll have to be tonight. I'm leaving the base in the morning."

"What makes you think I'd even consider using it?"

"Maybe you're as curious as I am," I said.

Back in my quarters I tugged off my coat, baring the stripped-down Luger in the quick-draw rig under my left arm. The armament I checked out from AXE varied from assignment to assignment, but I was never without my personal weapons: the Luger I called Wilhelmina; the stiletto, Hugo, up my sleeve; and taped to my inner thigh, the tiny gas bomb, Pierre. The bomb could kill everyone in a closed room within seconds; all that was required was a hard twist that snapped its shell.

Opening the desk drawer, I took out the folder Hawk had given me. I flipped back the cover and frowned in annoyance. I thought I remembered leaving the copy of my cover story on top of the file. Now the first page was the sheet containing Sheila's physical description and a still photograph excerpted from the film I'd seen earlier that day.

I told myself I had to be mistaken. I shuffled through the contents of the folder, but there was no sign of the single-page story. Well, no use worrying about it now, I reflected. An outsider would find infiltrating an AXE base as difficult as smuggling a steamboat into a football stadium.

Still vaguely uneasy, I settled down to read over the file on the Brant girl. As Hawk had said, there were no details on her past. She might have been born the weekend Frank Abruze had picked her up in Las Vegas. After AXE discovered her in Idaho, however, the data was painstakingly complete — the hours she worked as a waitress, what time she usually went to bed, and even a penciled sketch of the floor plan of the house she rented.

Many times I had wished that I had a photographic memory. Since I didn't have one, I'd developed my own methods for anchoring key facts in my mind. I jotted down notes in the pocket notebook I carry and read them over, scanned the floor plan of Sheila's house, then stretched out on the bed, pushing everything out of my thoughts except the material I'd been reading.

I must have dozed off. I awoke in darkness, alerted by a sound so tiny I couldn't define it.

It came again, just a faint scratching sound, metal touching metal. I surged off the bed and landed in a crouch with the Luger in my hand.

The door opened and a yellow stripe of light raced across the floor. The redhead said, "You have quick reflexes, N3."

I relaxed, realizing the sound I'd heard had been her key turning in the door. I wasn't embarrassed to be caught with a gun in my hand. The instinct that had brought me off the bed had saved my life more than once.

"Turn on the light. The button's on the wall behind you," I told the girl.

She flicked the switch, then tossed me the key. "If you're leaving tomorrow, I won't be needing this again, will I?"

I palmed the key, grinning. "So you got curious."

She shrugged. "I guess I just had to find out if you're all that I've been told."

"Why don't you close the door and introduce yourself?" I said.

She closed it without taking her eyes off me. The challenge still glinted in their green depths.

"Patricia Steele," she said.

Removing my shoulder rig, I hung it on the back of a chair and slid the Luger into the holster. "How long have you been working for AXE?"

"A year, approximately. Now ask how a nice girl like me got into this business."

"Let me hazard a guess. You wanted to prove you could do anything a man could do."

"Oh, you're a cunning bastard," she said without a noticeable degree of malice.

"I have a bottle of Scotch," I said. "A gift from our boss. Shall I break it out?"

"I didn't come here to drink," she said. She peeled her sweater over her head and pitched it at a chair.

She wore a black lace bra. Well, half a bra. Her cups were running over. Well-endowed was one of the inadequate descriptions that sprang to mind as I eyed her.

Shaking out the bright red mane of hair, she smiled at me. The smile was part taunt, part promise.

I remembered her line from that afternoon. I repeated it. "Now who's showing off?"

"I am," she admitted. "But you like it."

Still smiling, she tugged down the zippered fly of her slacks, wriggled out of the heap they made at her feet. Now she wore only the black bra and a matching splash of black lace below.

Calmly she walked to the bed and sat down on the edge. She unfastened the bra and pulled it away from her large breasts. With a casual movement of her arm, she draped the garment across the headboard, then lay back on my pillow.

"I'll leave the pants for you," she said. "I thought you might like to tear them off me."

Something other than a challenge was shining in her eyes now. Excitement, desire.

When I shed my clothing, and she saw the stiletto and the gas bomb, she exclaimed, "My God, you re a walking arsenal."

I grinned lewdly. "You re packing a pair of cannonballs yourself."

Her laugh was husky and uninhibited. She might be out to prove she was the equal of any man, but she certainly didn't mind being regarded as a sexual object "Come on, N3," she urged.

"Nick," I told her. "The bed is no place for formality."

"Nick. Nick," she said, "I'm ready."

I tore the lace pants off her. She had been right. I enjoyed doing it.

Pat was a strong girl. I felt muscles ripple in her back as we embraced. Her mouth was soft and warm, her tongue quick and darting. I buried my face in her breasts and her fingers clawed in my hair. When I toyed with her hard nipples, she writhed and growled like a hungry cat.

My hands slid down to her buttocks and I raised her to meet my opening thrust. I sank deep inside her and heard her moan. Her body ground against me. When I sped my movements, she bucked and shook the bed. She had the lithe power of an animal.

"Nick," she gasped. "Let's finish together."

As far as I was concerned, her timing was perfect. All of it, as a matter of fact, had been perfect.

Her hand slid down my thigh, exploring. "Muscles. You're quite a hunk of meat, Mr. Carter."

"So are you."

"I wasn't prepared for this. You're even better than I'd been told."

"I take it. I've earned more than your professional respect."

She laughed. "May I sleep here tonight?"

"You can stay the night," I said "I don't know how much sleep you'll get."

In the morning I rose early and started gearing up before the redhead awoke and turned over in the bed.

"Nick," she said, "it was great. Especially the last time."

I taped the gas bomb to the inside of my thigh. Last night had been last night. Today it was back to business as usual. I strapped the stiletto to my forearm and tested the spring mechanism. I flexed my arm and the thin knife popped down into my hand, ready for use.