The Defector Read online

  By noon a slightly pudgy, bespeckled, new Chris Wilson boarded the Boeing 707, Flight 27, to Orlando, Florida.

  CHAPTER TWO

  As the plane circled Washington for the turn south, Nick noticed the snow had let up slightly. Patches of blue sky peeked through the clouds, and as the plane gained altitude, his window brightened with sunlight. He settled himself in his seat, and when the No Smoking light went out, he lit one of his cigarettes.

  Several things seemed odd about Professor Loo’s defection. For one, why wasn’t the professor taking his family with him? If the Chi Corns were offering him a better life, it seemed logical that he’d want his wife and son to share it with him. Unless, of course, his wife was the reason behind his defection.

  Another puzzling thing was how the Chi Corns knew the professor was working on that skin compound. NASA had a strict security system. Everyone who worked for them was screened thoroughly. Yet the Chi Corns knew about the compound, and convinced Professor Loo to perfect it for them. How? What could they offer him that the Americans couldn’t match?

  Nick intended to find answers. He also intended to get the professor back. Once the CIA sent their agent to kill the man, it would mean Nick had failed—and Nick had no intention of failing.

  Nick had had dealings with defectors before. He found they defected for greed, or they were running from something, or they were running to something. In the case of Professor Loo there could be several reasons. Number one, of course—money. Maybe the Chi Corns promised him a lump-sum deal for the compound. Certainly NASA wasn’t the highest paying outfit around. And everyone can always use a little extra scratch.

  Then there were marital troubles. Nick guessed every married man had problems with his marriage at one time or another. Maybe his wife was sleeping around. Maybe the Chi Corns had someone better for him. It could be he was just disgusted with his marriage and this looked like the easiest way out. Two things were important to him— his family and his work. If he felt his family was breaking up, that might be enough to send him over. If not, it was his work. As a scientist, he probably demanded a certain amount of freedom in his work. Maybe the Chi Corns offered unlimited freedom, unlimited facilities. That would be an incentive for any scientist.

  The more Killmaster thought about it, the more possibilities cropped up. The relationship the man had with his son; overdue bills and repossession threats; disgust with American political policies. All maybes, perhaps, and probablys.

  Of course the Chi Corns could actually be forcing the professor to defect, threatening him in some way. To hell with it, Nick thought. As always, he would play it by ear, using his talents, weapons and brains.

  Nick Carter stared at the slow-moving landscape far below his window. He had not slept in forty-eight hours. Using yoga, Nick concentrated on the complete relaxation of his body. His mind remained tuned to his surroundings, but he forced his body to go limp. Every muscle, every fiber, every cell completely relaxed. To anyone watching, he looked like a man in deep slumber, yet his eyes were open, his brain conscious.

  But his relaxing was not to be. The stewardess interrupted him.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Wilson?” she asked.

  “Yes, fine,” Nick said. The muscles in his body tightened again.

  “I thought you had fainted. Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She was a lovely creature, almond-eyed, with high cheekbones and rich, full lips. The airline’s liberal uniform policy allowed her blouse to wrap itself tightly around her large protruding breasts. She wore a girdle because it was demanded by all airlines. But Nick doubted if she wore one except while working. She certainly didn’t need it.

  The stewardess grew embarrassed under his gaze. Nick’s ego was enough to know that even with thick glasses and a thick middle, he still had an effect on women.

  “We’ll be in Orlando soon,” she said, a slight flush in her cheeks.

  As she moved down the aisle in front of him, the short skirt revealed long, nicely tapered legs, and Nick blessed short skirts. He thought momentarily of asking her to dinner. But he knew there would be no time. When he had finished his interview with Mrs. Loo, there was a plane to catch for Hong Kong.

  At the small airport in Orlando, Nick stored his baggage in a locker, and gave the professor’s home address to a taxi driver. He felt slightly uncomfortable as he settled in the back seat of the taxi. The air was muggy and hot, and although Nick had shed his topcoat, he still wore a heavy suit. And all that padding around his waist didn’t help much, either.

  The house sat squeezed between other houses just like it that lined both sides of the block. Because of the heat, sprinklers were going in front of almost every one. The lawns looked well manicured and richly green. Gutter water flowed down both sides of the street, and concrete sidewalks usually white had darkened with wetness from the sprinklers. A short sidewalk ran from the front porch to the curb. As soon as Nick paid the taxi driver, he had a feeling he was being watched. It started with the fine hair bristling on the back of his neck. A slight, prickly chill went through him, then quickly left. Nick faced the house just in time to see a curtain flow back into place. Killmaster knew he was expected.

  Nick didn’t particularly care for this interviewing business, especially with housewives. As Hawk had pointed out, she’d already been interviewed and could offer nothing useful.

  As Nick approached the door, he fixed his face to reveal his widest, boyish grin. He pushed the bell once. The door opened immediately and he was face-to-face with Mrs. John Loo.

  “Mrs. Loo?” Killmaster asked. When he got a short nod, he said, “My name is Chris Wilson. I worked with your husband. I wonder if I might chat with you awhile.”

  “Chat?” Her brow wrinkled into a frown.

  Nick’s grin remained frozen on his face. “Yes. John and I were good friends. I can’t understand why he would do such a thing.”

  “I’ve already talked with someone from NASA.” She made no move to open the door wider or to invite him in.

  “Yes,” Nick said. “I’m sure you have.” He could understand her hostility. The husband’s leaving was hard enough on, her without being pestered by CIA, FBI, NASA, and now him. Killmaster felt like the ass he was pretending to be. “If I could just talk to you . . .” He let the words trail off.

  Mrs. Loo sighed deeply. “Very well. Come in.” She opened the door, stepping back slightly.

  Once inside, Nick stood awkwardly in the foyer. It was slightly cooler in the house. He had his first real look at Mrs. Loo.

  She was short, under five feet. Nick guessed her age to be in the middle or late thirties. Her raven hair lay in thick swirls on top of her head, trying to give an illusion of height but not quite carrying it off. The curves of her body blended into a stout roundness, not thick especially, but heavier than normal. She looked about twenty-five pounds overweight. Her Oriental eyes were her most outstanding feature, and she knew it. They were meticulously made up with just the right amount of liner and shadow. Mrs. Loo wore no lipstick, no other make-up. Her ears were pierced, yet no earrings hung from them.

  “Step into the living room, please,” she said.

  The living room contained modern furniture, and, like the foyer, was thickly carpeted. An Oriental design swirled this way and that through the carpet, but Nick noticed the carpet design was the only Oriental thing in the room.

  Mrs. Loo motioned Killmaster to the fragile-looking divan, and took a chair opposite him. “I think I told the others everything I know.”

  “I’m sure you did,” Nick said, breaking his grin for the first time. “But this is for my own conscience. John and I worked closely together. I’d hate to think he did this because of something I said or did.”

  “I don’t think so,” Mrs. Loo said.

  Like most housewives, Mrs. Loo wore pants. On top she had on a man’s shirt too large for her. Nick liked baggy shirts on women, especially the kind that buttoned down the f
ront. He disliked pants on women. They belonged in dresses or skirts.

  Serious now, the grin completely gone, he said, “Can you think of any reason why John would want to defect?”

  “No,” she said. “But if it will set your mind at ease, I doubt if it had anything to do with you.”

  “Then it must have been something here at home.”

  “I really couldn’t say.” Mrs. Loo had become nervous. She sat with her legs tucked under her, and kept twisting the wedding band around her finger.

  The glasses Nick wore felt heavy on the bridge of his nose. But they reminded him of who he was pretending to be. In a situation like this it would be too easy to start asking questions like Nick Carter. He crossed his legs and rubbed his chin. “I can’t get over the feeling that somehow I caused all this. John liked his work. He was devoted to you and the boy. What reason could he have had for Mrs. Loo said a bit impatiently, “Whatever his reasons, I’m sure they were personal.”

  “Of course,” Nick knew she was trying to conclude this conversation. But he wasn’t quite ready yet. “Did anything happen here at home in the last few days?”

  “What do you mean?” Her eyes narrowed and she studied him closely. She was on her guard.

  “Marriage problems,” Nick said bluntly.

  Her lips tightened. “Mr. Wilson, I don’t think that is any of your business. Whatever reason my husband has for wanting to defect can be found at NASA, not here.”

  She was growing angry. That was all right with Nick. Angry people sometimes said things they wouldn’t normally say. “Do you know what he was working on at NASA?”

  “Of course not. He never talked about his work.”

  If she didn’t know anything about his work, then what made her blame NASA for his wanting to defect? Was it because she felt their marriage was so good it had to be his work? Nick decided to pursue another line. “If John does defect, will you and the boy join him?”

  Mrs. Loo straightened her legs and sat stiffly in the chair. The palms of her hands were sweating. She alternated between rubbing her hands and twisting the ring. She had checked her anger, but she was still nervous. “No,” she said calmly. “I’m an American. My place is here.”

  “What will you do, then?”

  “Divorce him. Try to find another life for me and the boy.”

  “I see.” Hawk had been right. Nick wasn’t going to learn anything here. For some reason Mrs. Loo was on her guard.

  “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time.” He stood, thankful for the chance. “May I use your phone to call a taxi?”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Loo seemed to relax a little. Nick could almost see the tension go out of her face.

  As Killmaster was about to reach for the phone he heard a door slam somewhere toward the back of the house. A few seconds later a boy came bounding into the living room.

  “Mom, I . . .” The boy saw Nick and froze. He shot a quick glance toward his mother.

  “Mike,” Mrs. Loo said, nervous again. “This is Mr. Wilson. He worked with your father. He’s here to ask questions about your father. Do you understand, Mike? He is here to ask questions about your father.” She had emphasized those last words.

  “I understand,” Mike said. He looked up at Nick, his eyes holding the same guarded look as his mother’s.

  Nick gave the boy a friendly smile. “Hello, Mike.”

  “Hello.” Tiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead. A baseball glove hung from his belt. The resemblance to his mother was obvious.

  “Getting a little early practice?” Nick asked, pointing to the glove.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nick took a chance. He took two steps so that he stood between the boy and his mother. “Tell me, Mike,” he said. “Do you know why your father left?”

  The boy shut his eyes. “My father left because of his work.” It sounded well rehearsed.

  “Did you get along with your father?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mrs. Loo stood. “I think you had better leave,” she said to Nick.

  Killmaster nodded. He picked up the phone, called for a taxi. When he had hung up, he faced the pair. Something was wrong here. They both knew more than they were telling. Nick guessed it was one of two things. Either they were both going to join the professor, or they were the cause of his defection. One thing was certain, he wasn’t going to learn anything from them. They didn’t believe or trust him. All they would tell him were their canned, rehearsed speeches.

  Nick decided to leave them with a mild shock. “Mrs. Loo, I’m flying to Hong Kong to talk with John. Any messages?”

  She blinked once, and for an instant her facial expression changed. But the instant passed and the guarded look returned. “No messages,” she said.

  The taxi pulled up outside and honked. Nick started for the door. “No need to show me the way out.” He felt them watching him until he closed the door behind him. Outside, in the heat once again, he felt rather than saw the curtain being pulled aside from the window. They watched him as the taxi pulled away from the curb.

  In the muggy heat once again, rolling toward the airport, Nick removed his thick, horn-rimmed glasses. He was not used to glasses. The gelatin padding around his waist, formed to look like part of his skin, was like a plastic bag around him. No air got to his skin, and he found himself sweating heavily. The heat in Florida was not like the heat in Mexico.

  Nick’s mind was filled with unanswered questions. They were a strange pair, those two. Not once during the visit had Mrs. Loo said that she wanted her husband back. And she had no message for him. That meant she was probably joining him later. But that didn’t sound right either. Their attitude suggested that as far as they were concerned he was already gone, and for good. No, there was something else, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Killmaster had to change planes twice, once in Miami and again in Los Angeles, before he caught a direct flight to Hong Kong. Once over the Pacific, he tried to relax, to get some sleep. But again this was not to be; he could feel the fine hair on the back of his neck bristle again. A chill ran through him as before. He was being watched.

  Nick stood and walked slowly down the aisle toward the rest rooms, his eyes scanning faces on each side of him. The plane was more than half-filled with Orientals. Some slept, others stared out their dark windows, still others glanced at him idly as he passed. None turned to look at him after he had gone by, and none had the look of a watcher. Once inside the rest room, Nick splashed cold water on his face. In the mirror he looked at the reflection of his handsome features, deeply tanned by the Mexican sun. Was it his imagination? He knew better. Someone on the plane was watching him, all right. Had the watcher been with him in Orlando? Miami? Los Angeles? Where had Nick picked him up? He wasn’t going to find the answer looking at his face in the mirror.

  Nick returned to his seat watching the backs of heads. No one seemed to have missed him.

  The stewardess came to him just as he was lighting one of his gold-tipped cigarettes.

  “Is everything all right, Mr. Wilson?” she asked.

  “Couldn’t be better,” Nick replied, giving her a wide grin.

  She was English, small-breasted and long-legged. Her fair skin reeked with health. Bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, she had the type of bubbly personality that everything she felt, thought and wanted was shown in her face. And there was no doubt as to what was written on her face right now.

  “Is there anything I can get you?” she asked.

  It was a leading question, meaning anything at all, just ask: coffee, tea or me. Nick considered it seriously. A crowded plane, more than forty-eight hours without sleep, too many things were against it. He needed rest, not romance. Yet, he didn’t want to close the door completely.

  “Maybe later,” he said finally.

  “Of course.” A trace of disappointment showed in her eyes, but she smiled warmly at him and moved on.

  Nick
settled back in his seat. Surprisingly, he was becoming used to the gelatin belt around his waist. The glasses still bothered him, though, and he removed them to wipe the lenses.

  He felt a little sorrow over the stewardess. He didn’t even have her name. If “later” did come about, how would he locate her? He would get her name and where she would be for the following month before he got off the plane.

  The chill hit him again. Damn it, he thought, there should be some way to find out who was watching him. He knew if he really wanted to there were ways of finding out. He doubted the person would try anything on the plane. Maybe they expected him to lead them straight to the professor. Well, when they reached Hong Kong he had a few surprises for whoever. Right now he needed rest.

  Killmaster wished he could explain the odd feeling he had about Mrs. Loo and the boy. If they had told him the truth, Professor Loo was in trouble. It meant he was in fact defecting strictly because of his work. And that, somehow, just didn’t set right, especially considering the professor’s past performance in dermatology. His discoveries, his present experiments, didn’t point to a man unhappy in his work. And the less-than-cordial reception Nick received from Mrs. Loo made him lean toward the marriage as a reason. Surely the professor had told his wife about Chris Wilson. And unless Nick had blown his cover when talking with her, there was no reason for her hostility toward him. Mrs. Loo was lying for some reason. It was a feeling he had, the “something wrong here” attitude of the house.

  But Nick needed rest now, and rest he was going to get. If Mr. Whatsit wanted to watch him sleep, let him. When he reported to whoever had told him to watch Nick, he’d be an expert on watching a man sleep.

  Killmaster relaxed his body completely. His mind went blank except for the one compartment which always remained aware of the surroundings. This part of his brain was his life insurance. It never rested, never blacked out. It had saved his life on many occasions. He closed his eyes and was asleep immediately.