The Judas Spy

  Annotation

  MR JUDAS — master spy for hire by anyone, this time by Red China; a man of incredible cruelty and savagery, torturing people at whim, killing them for sport.

  NICK CARTER — America's top operative, the dreaded agent N3; tougher, faster, deadlier than any man, except perhaps Mr. Judas, his oldest enemy.

  The prize they fought for was the free world and the fate of millions of lives. Their arena of violence — Indonesia, torn apart by savage rebellions and war.

  Judas was depending on his usual ugly crew: Nife, the man child who killed on command… Geitsch, who cared only for the huge bounty the job would bring… Muller, the ex-Nazi, whose preference ran to young boys. Nick Carter had Tala, the exotic Indonesian assigned to help N3. Tala — too beautiful to resist and too dangerous to trust!

  * * *

  Nick Carter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  * * *

  Nick Carter

  Killmaster

  The Judas Spy

  Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America

  OCR Mysuli: denlib@tut.by

  Chapter 1

  "How about their general outline, Akim," Nick said, "can't you recognize anything?"

  "Just islands. We're so low in the water, it slaps the glass and I can't see clearly."

  "How about that sail on the port side?"

  Nick was concentrating on dials, his hands busier than an amateur pilot's on his first instrument flight. He squeezed his big frame aside to let the little Indonesian youth twist the periscope mount. Akim sounded weak and scared. "It's a big prau. Sailing away from us."

  "I'll take her in further. You watch for something that'll tell you where we are. And for reefs or rocks…"

  "It'll be dark in a few minutes and I won't see anything at all," Akim replied. He had the softest voice Nick had ever heard from a man. The pretty little youth was supposed to be eighteen. Man? He sounded as if his voice hadn't changed — or there could be another reason. That would make everything perfect; lost on a hostile shore with a gay first mate.

  Nick grinned and felt better. The two-man submarine was a skin diver's plaything, a rich man's toy. It was well made but hard to handle near the surface. Nick held course on 270°, fighting to control buoyancy, pitch, and direction.

  Nick said, "Forget the periscope for four minutes. I'm going to let her settle while we close in. At three knots we can't get into much trouble anyway."

  "There aren't supposed to be any reefs here," Akim answered. "Fong Island has one, but not on the south. It's a gentle beach. Usually we have good weather. This is one of the last storms of the rainy season, I guess."

  In the soft yellow lights of the cramped cockpit Nick peeked at Akim. If the youngster was scared, he was keeping a tight jaw. The smooth planes of his almost pretty face were quiet and composed as ever.

  Nick recalled Admiral Richards' confidential comment just before the helicopter took them off the carrier. "I don't know what you're looking for, Mr. Bard, but the place you're going to is a bubbling hell. It looks like paradise but it's pure poison. And watch that little guy. He says he's a Minankabau, but I think he's Javanese."

  Nick had been curious. In this business you picked up and remembered every scrap of information. "What could that mean?"

  "Beats me. Like a New Yorker claiming he was a dairy farmer from Bellows Falls, Vermont. I spent six months in Djakarta when it was Dutch Batavia. I was interested in the races. One study says there are forty-six types."

  After Nick and Akim had boarded the 99,000-ton carrier at Pearl Harbor it had taken Admiral Richards three days to warm up to Nick. The second radio message, delivered on top-secret red paper, had helped. "Mr. Bard" was undoubtedly a nuisance to the Navy, like all State Department or CIA operations, but an admiral led a lonely life.

  When Richards discovered that Nick was reserved, pleasant and knew something about ships, he invited the passenger to his spacious cabin — the only one with three portholes on the vessel.

  When Richards discovered that Nick knew his old friend, Captain Talbot Hamilton of the Royal Navy, he warmed up to his passenger. Nick rode the elevator from the admiral's cabin up five decks to the flag bridge, watched the catapults hurl Phantom and Skyhawk jets off on a clear-day practice mission, and had a brief look at the computers and complex electronic equipment in the big combat-operations room. He was not invited to try the admiral's white-upholstered revolving chair.

  Nick enjoyed Richards' chess and pipe tobacco. The admiral enjoyed testing his passenger's reactions. In fact, Richards had wanted to become a doctor and a psychiatrist, but his father, a shellback Marine colonel, averted that move. "Forget it, Cornelius," he had told the admiral — then a J.G. three years out of Annapolis, "stay with the fleet where promotion begins till you get a crack at a COMCENTER. A Navy doc is a nice spot but a dead end. And you weren't made to hit the outside and have to go to work."

  Richards thought that "Al Bard" was a cool customer. An attempt to pump him beyond certain points met with an observation that "Washington has the say on that," and of course you were stopped in the shallows. But Bard was regular — he kept out of the way and respected the Navy. You couldn't ask for much more.

  On Nick's last night aboard Richards had said, "I took a quick look at that little sub that came with you. Nicely built but they can be tricky. If you get in trouble right away after the copter puts you in the water, fire a red rocket. I'll ask the pilot to watch for it as long as he can."

  "Thank you, sir," Nick replied. "I'll remember that. I checked out the craft for three days in Hawaii. Spent five hours operating it in the sea."

  "Was the little guy — what's his name, Akim — with you?"

  "Yes."

  "Then your weight will be the same. Did you have it in rough sea?

  "No."

  "Don't take chances…"

  Richards had meant well, Nick thought as he tried to run at periscope depth using the horizontal fin-planes. So had the designers of this tub. There was a stronger swell as they closed on the island and he could never quite match buoyancy and sailing depth. They bobbed like a Halloween apple.

  "Akim — you ever get seasick?"

  "Of course not. I learned to swim when I learned to walk."

  "Don't forget how tonight."

  "Al, I assure you, I can swim better than you can."

  "Don't bet on it," Nick answered. The lad might be right. He had probably been in the water all his life. On the other hand Nick Carter, as N3 of AXE, practiced working-in-the-water, as he called it, every few days of his life. He stayed in top condition and practiced a great many physical skills to increase his chances of staying alive. The only professions or arts, Nick believed, that demanded a more rigorous life schedule than his were those of circus athletes.

  Fifteen minutes later he ran the small sub right onto a hardpan beach. He tumbled out, secured a hawser to the nose hook, and with a lot of help from the rollers tumbling into surf-mist and with some willing but weak tugs from Akim, he got the vessel part way above the waterline and secured it with two lines to a kedge anchor and a giant, banyan-like tree.

  Nick used a flashlight to finish the bowline knot in the hawser around the tree. Then he put out the light and stood erect, feeling the coral sand give to his weight. The tropic night had dropped like a blanket. Stars spattered the purple above. From the shoreline the phosphorescence of the sea flickered and reformed. Above the thud and rumble of the breakers he heard jungle sounds. Bird calls and animal screams that were endless if you listened for them.

>   "Akim…"

  "Yes?" The answer came out of the blackness a few feet away.

  "Any idea which way we should go?"

  "No. Perhaps I can tell in the morning."

  "Morning! I wanted to reach Fong Island tonight."

  The soft voice replied, "Tonight — tomorrow night — some night next week. It will still be there. The sun will still rise."

  Nick snorted with disgust and clambered onto the sub, dug out two light cotton bush blankets, an axe and a folding saw, a packet of sandwiches and a Thermos of coffee. Mariana. Why did some cultures develop such a strong taste for the indefinite future? Relax, was their password. Leave it till tomorrow.

  He put the gear up on the beach near the edge of the jungle vegetation, using his flash sparingly. Akim helped as much as he could, stumbling in the blackness, and Nick felt a pang of guilt. One of his own mottoes was easy does it, you'll last longer. And certainly, since they had met in Hawaii, Akim had behaved admirably and worked as hard as he could, practicing with the submarine, teaching Nick the Indonesian version of Malay and briefing him on local customs.

  Akim Machmur was either very valuable to Nick and AXE — or likely to be the death of the former and of inestimable trouble to the latter and the United States. On his way to school in Canada, the youth had slipped into the FBI office in Honolulu with a hair-raising tale of kidnapping and blackmail in Indonesia. The bureau had advised the CIA and AXE, formal procedure in international matters, and David Hawk, Nick's direct superior and director of AXE, had flown with Nick to Hawaii.

  "Indonesia is one of the world's hot spots," Hawk had explained, handing Nick a briefcase of reference material. "They just had a gigantic blood bath, as you know, and the Chicoms are desperately trying to salvage their political power and regain control. The youngster may be describing a local crime ring. They have some beauties. But with Judas and Heinrich Muller on the loose in a big Chinese junk, I detect a smell. Just their game to kidnap youngsters from wealthy families and demand cash and cooperation with the Chicoms. Of course they'd steal the cash and take Chicom money too. The Chicoms aren't stupid, they know it. But where else can you find two international operators who would murder their own relatives for the right price?"

  "Akim is genuine?" Nick had asked.

  "Yes. CIA-JAK radioed us a picture. And we flew a faculty member all the way down from McGill just for a quick verification. He's the Machmur boy all right. Like most amateurs, he ran and sounded the alarm before he had enough data. He should have stayed with his family and gathered facts. That, Nicholas, is where you come in…"

  After a long talk with the soft-spoken Akim, Hawk made a decision. Nick and Akim would go to the key point of activity, the Machmur enclave on Fong Island. Nick was to retain the role in which he was introduced to Akim and which he would use as a cover in Djakarta; he was "Al Bard," an American art importer.

  Akim was told that "Mr. Bard" often worked for something called the American secret services. He seemed properly impressed, or perhaps Nick's rugged, tanned appearance and air of firm but gentle confidence helped.

  When Hawk produced the two-man sub and they began intensive practice with it, Nick briefly questioned Hawk's judgment. "We could fly in through normal channels," Nick protested. "You could have the sub delivered to me later."

  "Trust me, Nicholas," Hawk countered. "I think you'll agree with me before this case is much older, or after you've talked with Hans Nordenboss, our man in Djakarta. I know you've seen a lot of intrigue and corruption. In Indonesia it's a way of life. You'll appreciate your subtle approach, and you may need the sub."

  "Is it armed?"

  "No. You'll have fourteen pounds of explosive and your regular weapons."

  Now, standing in the tropic night with the sweet-musty smell of the jungle in his nostrils and the roaring jungle sounds in his ears, Nick wished Hawk had come along. Some heavy animal crashed about nearby and Nick whirled toward the sound. He had his special Luger, Wilhelmina, under his arm, and keen-bladed Hugo-would slip into his palm at a touch, but this world felt big, as if it could take a lot of firepower.

  He said into the blackness, "Akim. Can we try and go along the beach?"

  "We can try."

  "Which way would be logical to reach Fong Island?"

  "I don't know."

  Nick made a depression in the sand halfway between the jungle-line and the surf and flopped down. Welcome to Indonesia!

  Akim joined him. Nick sniffed the sweet aroma of the boy. He rejected his thoughts. Akim had behaved like a good soldier taking orders from a respected sergeant. What if he used perfume? The kid was always in there trying. It wasn't fair to think…

  Nick slept with a cat's alertness. Several times he was awakened by jungle sounds, once by a heavy roller that boomed spray on their blankets. He noted the time — 4:19. That would be 1219 hours in Washington, the previous day. He hoped Hawk was enjoying a good lunch…

  He awoke blinded by the glare of a brilliant dawn sun and startled by a big black shape standing near him. He rolled in the opposite direction, came up with Wilhelmina aimed. Akim shouted, "Don't shoot."

  "I wasn't going to," Nick growled.

  The shape was the biggest anthropoid ape Nick had ever seen. It was brownish, with small ears, and after a good look through the sparse, reddish-brown long hair Nick saw that it was a female. Nick straightened cautiously and grinned. "An orangutan. Good morning, Mabel."

  Akim nodded. "They are often friendly. She's bringing you presents. Look on the sand there."

  A few yards from Nick were three ripe, golden papayas. Nick picked one up. "Thanks, Mabel."

  "They are the most human-like of apes," Akim offered. "She likes you."

  "I'm glad. I need friends." The big animal hurried into the jungle and reappeared in a moment with a strange, oval red fruit.

  "Don't eat that," Akim warned. "They can, but it makes some humans sick."

  Nick tossed a delicious looking papaya to Akim as Mabel returned. Akim instinctively caught it. Mabel emitted a horrified screech and leaped at Akim!

  Akim whirled and tried to dodge but the orangutan moved like an NFL quarterback with the ball and a clear field. She dropped the red fruit, grabbed the papaya away from Akim, hurled it into the sea and began to tear Akim's clothes off. Shirt and pants were ripped away with a single, powerful rending tear for each. The ape was grabbing for a handful of Akim's shorts when Nick yelled, "Hey!" and ran forward. He cuffed the ape alongside the head with his left hand, holding the Luger ready in his right.

  "Get away. Allons. Vamos!…" Nick continued to yell scram in six languages and gesture toward the jungle.

  Mabel — he thought of her as Mabel and actually felt embarrassed as she stumbled backward, holding out one long arm with the palm up in a pleading gesture. She turned slowly and stumbled away into the tangled undergrowth.

  He turned to Akim. "So that's why you always seemed odd. Why did you pose as a boy, sweetie? Who are you?"

  Akim was a girl, a small-model, beautifully formed female. She was fumbling with the ripped jeans, naked except for a tight band of white cloth that compressed her breasts. She did not hurry or appear flustered as some girls might — she gravely turned the ruined pants this way and that, shaking her pretty head. She had the matter-of-factness and sensible frankness about her lack of clothing Nick had observed at a Balinese party. Indeed, this compact cutie resembled one of the perfectly formed, doll-like beauties who served the temple operators as attractive artists, entertainers or just delightful companions.

  Her skin was the shade of light mocha, and her arms and legs, while slim, were molded with hidden muscle as Paul Gauguin would have painted them. Her hips and thighs were an ample frame for her small, flat belly, and Nick realized why «Akim» always wore longish, loose sport shirts, to conceal those beautifully shaped curves.

  He felt a pleasant warmth in his own legs and loins as he watched her — and suddenly caught himself as he perceived that the little bro
wn minx was actually posing for him! She was examining the torn cloth over and over again while giving him ample opportunity to examine her! She was not being coquettish, there wasn't the slightest hint of simpering condescension. She was just behaving with gamin-like naturalness, because female intuition told her it was an absolutely perfect time to take it easy and impress a handsome man.

  "I'm surprised," he said. "I can see you're a lot prettier as a girl than as a boy."

  She tilted her head and peeked sideways at him, a mischievous sparkle adding luster to the bright black eyes. As Akim she had, he decided, tried to hold her jaw muscles firmly. Now she looked more than ever like the prettiest of the Balinese dancers or the startlingly lovely Eurasians you saw in Singapore and Hong Kong. Her lips were small and full with just a trace of a pout when composed, and her cheeks were firm, high ovals that you knew would feel wonderfully pliant when you kissed them, like warm marshmallows with muscles. She lowered her dark lashes. "Are you very angry?"

  "Oh, no." He holstered the Luger. "You spin a yarn and I wind up lost on a jungle shore and you've cost my country maybe sixty or eighty thousand dollars already." He handed her her shirt, a hopeless rag. "Why should I be angry?"

  "I am Tala Machmur," she said. "Akim's sister."

  Nick nodded without expression. Probably another he. A confidential report from Nordenboss had said that Tala Machmur had been among the youngsters grabbed by the kidnappers. "Go on."

  "I knew you wouldn't listen to a girl. Nobody does. So I took Akim's papers and pretended to be him to get you to come and help us."

  "Long way around. Why?"

  "I… I don't understand your question."

  "Your family could have slipped word to an American official in Djakarta or gone up to Singapore or Hong Kong and seen us."

  "That's just it. Our families don't want help! They just want to be left alone. That's why they pay and keep quiet. They are used to it. Everybody is always paying somebody. We pay the politicians and the army and on every business deal. Our families won't even discuss their problems with each other."