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  When he had called the Dupré home a fat voice had told him that Miss Antoinette had not yet risen for the day. On his second call he was told that Miss Antoinette was out.

  For the third day in a row his projected trip North with an Army medical team had been postponed. Red tape here, snafu there, official incoherence somewhere else. Tomorrow, Dr. Carter, they had promised him. Or maybe Saturday or Tuesday. Disease and death is always with us; no need to be impatient. There was nothing for him to do in the meantime but go on picking up rumor, gossip, and the strident sounds of anti-Government demonstrations. He was bored, frustrated, and innately curious.

  So he answered the ad in The Vietnam Times.

  Meet Mr. Fang

  The clerk was very helpful, much to Nick's surprise. "You are to contact Saito at the Long Hue Hostel. Thank you, sir. Good day."

  It was so simple that Nick felt he was making progress. Unfortunately, he was wrong.

  Since he had no excuse at all for mixing into the affairs of La Petite Fleur, whoever he or she might be, it seemed most unwise to just phone up and say "Hello, there, Saito. Saw your ad and thought I'd call." Anyway, the Long Hue Hostel didn't have a phone.

  It was an unpretentious building only a block or two away from the business center, but in the wrong direction. Tourists would avoid the locale instinctively, even though the street was shabbily clean and its inhabitants were clearly not cutthroats. It was just a non-touristy street, that was all. And any stranger stood out like a sore thumb. The hostel itself seemed to have been ingeniously built so as to allow its tenants to see without being seen. Anyone making enquiries in its foyer could be fingered from a dozen different angles before he'd even spotted the reception desk.

  Nick walked past it once and decided to make other arrangements. A lad loitering alongside the canal agreed to offer an invitation on Nick's behalf.

  Actually Nick didn't even want to talk to this Saito. Not yet. Just see him and mark him down for future reference. And maybe find out who else had reacted to the name of La Petite Fleur.

  He felt conspicuous even in the rumpled suit he'd thought was suitable for Nicholas Carter, M.D., and let his returning messenger walk past him and out of sight before catching up with him. By then he was sure that the boy was not being followed.

  "He would not come with you?" asked Nick.

  "No, Monsieur. It is a mystery." The boy grinned, enjoying his encounter with this foreigner. "He was not there. But he left a message."

  "Oh? For whom — for me?" Impossible, of course, but a natural question.

  "For anybody who asked, Monsieur. He is to be found by one who knows him, and one he knows himself, in the market on Nguyen-Hue Street."

  That sounded like two people, but presumably it meant a mutual recognition between this Saito and his caller.

  He thanked the youth and paid him. Then he took a roundabout route to Nguyen-Hue Street and the huge flower market, wondering how in the world he was going to spot a man called Saito in the crowds that always milled around the stalls.

  Two hours later he was still wondering, and almost ready to give up. His only clue was that «Saito» was a Japanese name. He peered through banks of flowers at Oriental faces until he saw a small Japanese lurking behind every exotic blossom, and then he gave himself a rest. A small cafe bordering the market served the strong local beer ice-cold. Nick drank it gratefully and let his gaze wonder idly down the long, brilliantly colored block. There were farmers from Central Vietnam, seamen fresh off the river junks, Vietnamese women with pantaloons and Parisian accents, faces of all hues and casts.

  By the time another half-hour had passed he was ready to admit defeat. He would somehow have to spot Saito at the hostel, or drop this whole ridiculous quest. It served him right for trying to stick his nose into other people's business.

  It was then that he saw someone he had seen before. A short, very fat man who walked hurriedly with waddling steps and looked quickly to all sides. Nick had seen the man open the door of Raoul Dupré's house several nights before, when he and several other friends of the evening had dropped Antoinette after a party at the Caravelle Skyroom. The fat man had struck him as being the old retainer type, one who ran the house, lorded it over the rest of the servants, and felt the entire responsibility for the household on his shoulders. Maru…? Yes, she had called him Maru.

  His interest quickened as the fat man hesitated and then stopped. A long figure uncoiled itself from its squatting position between stalls and showed itself to be a tall, muscular man, with only the slightest trace of Japanese in his bland features. The two men scrutinized each other and spoke briefly. Nick rose from his chair and wandered slowly over to a nearby stall. The two men he was watching started to walk away, Maru several yards in the lead. The man who must be Saito followed lazily, as if he just happened to be going in that direction anyway.

  Nick followed behind, just as casually.

  The trail led straight to Dupré's elegant home.

  Maru waited inside the gate for the tall Japanese to catch up with him. Together they went into a side entrance of the house.

  Nick strolled slowly around the house, wondering if he should call at the front door and find out if Miss Dupré had come home. But it seemed a pointless move. It was most unlikely that he'd find a handy keyhole to put his ear to. So once again he went back, frustrated, to his hotel on Duong Tu-Do. There were two messages in his mail slot. One was notification of a telephone call from an unnamed lady who would call again. The other was an overseas cable.

  Upstairs in his room he read Hawk's cabled message.

  MAKING ARRANGEMENTS TRIP NORTH WITH MEDICAL TEAM. REMAIN IN SAIGON PENDING ARRIVAL DOCTOR LINCOLN.

  FINCH.

  "Finch," this time. A bird by any other name always turned out to be Hawk. The head of AXE, so dry and laconic most of the time, never seemed to tire of his thin little jokes about birds coming home to roost, or laying eggs, or whatever he could think of at the moment. He also had a passion for gadgets. Doctor Lincoln was a gadget; one that had nothing to do with medicine. He was Hawk's latest method of sending information.

  Nick poured himself a double shot of Scotch from his traveling flask and sat down to review his armory for the umpteenth time. Six days here already, and he hadn't used it yet.

  Wilhelmina the Luger. Check. Hugo the stiletto. Check. Pierre the gas pellet. Check. And Hawk's newest bit of lethal fun.

  Nick studied his fingernails. More accurately, he focused his attention on the index finger of his right hand. Another Hawk joke come home to roost.

  "For your armory, Carter," Hawk had said. "You will now be able to finger a man and kill him at the same time."

  "This modem age," Nick had said admiringly, grinning at the leathery old man's evident pride in the horrible little device. "Suppose you hold still while I try it out."

  "It has already been thoroughly tested," the chief of AXE informed him coldly. "Be careful of that release mechanism, Carter. Use the thumb to flick it. Keep that safety on until you need to use the thing or you're liable to die while scratching your own head."

  "I won't scratch," Nick promised.

  He stared at the miniature killer now. It was a perfect extension of his normal index finger, adding only a fraction of an inch to the finger's usual length. A flat tube ran back from the cap fitted over the nail. When the safety was released and the finger jabbed into anything, a hollow needle protruded from the cap and injected, under pressure, the most virulent poison that AXE's laboratories could come up with. The inevitable result was immediate, painful death. And when the finger was pulled back from making contact, the needle reloaded itself from its own deadly reservoir.

  Hawk had smiled with grim pleasure. "You don't even have to waste time reloading your weapon. It's at the ready all the time."

  "A tiger in the tank, huh?"

  "Dragon, I think, is more appropriate. South Vietnam is your next stop."

  In his hotel room in Saigon the man called Ki
llmaster finished checking out his weapons. The last one didn't need a name, because it wasn't really a weapon. Nevertheless it was a tool: a key. Without it message-sending Dr. Lincoln would be useless. Might as well call it Abe.

  And then there was that finger. He decided to call the finger weapon Fang.

  After which decision he poured himself another shot of Scotch, bolted the door, and peeled off all his clothes.

  For some reason he thought fleetingly of Antoinette Dupré, but then he put all such thoughts aside and concentrated on his Yoga exercises.

  Self-control had to be bought at a severe price; there was nothing easy about the trials he inflicted on his body to be sure that it was always in prime condition. He flexed his stomach wall and began. Measured intakes of air filled out his chest with his deep, steady breathing until the upper half of his body stood out like a mountain range and his waist was no more than the width of an arm in thickness. Tingling muscles rose in harsh relief along his chest and thighs and shoulders. The cords in his neck looked like sturdy piano wiring.

  When he had held his breath for five full minutes — beating by a minute the acknowledged record — he slowly expended the wind from his lungs. The blood raced through his body and the weariness of a useless day drained out of him.

  His contortions of the next half hour would have amazed a watcher unfamiliar with the stimulation-relaxation principles of Yoga and intoxicated any admirer of masculine beauty. It was a pity that there was no one to watch.

  A thin, fine sheen washed his bronzed, athletic body, gleaming over smooth skin and battle scars alike. His head felt as clear as a sky full of stars, and he felt an almost overwhelming need to do something with his reborn energy.

  Carter's luck was in. He was pulling his T-shirt down to meet his boxer shorts when the knock sounded at his door.

  Wilhelmina, Pierre, Hugo and Fang were ready. But so was the Carter body. Anyway, what U.N. medical observer would greet a caller with a weapon?

  "Who is it, please?" he called, and padded softly to the door.

  And a woman's sultry voice said brazenly:

  "Let me in, cheri… I don't mind if you are naked!"

  * * *

  Lin Tong was still working on Antoinette Dupré. With his body, his Communist-trained mind, and — drugs.

  His room was definitely the best place in town to get the information he desired.

  "But that is a very strange way for a tea salesman to act," he said, letting himself sound faintly puzzled.

  "Wha…? Tea salesman! He owns a plantation, my funny Won Ton love," Toni gurgled drowsily from the warm nest of his bared shoulder.

  "Of course he does. And I'm the ghost of Fu Manchu." Toni roared appreciatively. He was such a groovy Chinaman. No wonder square Papa disliked him.

  "You're no ghost, my love, my sexy love," she sighed, stroking his muscular chest. "But don't underestimate Papa. He does own a tea plantation. And all sorts of other things. He's frightfully rich and influential. Much, much bigger than you and me. Why, France couldn't do a thing in Saigon without hearing from him first."

  Lin Tong laughed. "Sweetheart, for that he'd have to be a master spy at least," he said lightly.

  Toni raised her eyebrows and looked at him thoughtfully. An idea seemed to brighten her already too-bright eyes. "Do you know, I think he is. That's just exactly what I think he is! How very clever of you. That would explain so many things."

  "Oh, come, Toni! You can't be serious." His heart had leapt so suddenly that he was sure she must have felt it. "He's not the kind of man to take a risk like that. Who would he be spying for? The French? They're finished here!"

  "Oh, don't be too sure of that," she said, with a faint flicker of patriotism. "He has plenty of contacts with the French. They haven't given up. He sees all kinds of people."

  "What people, Toni love? And what did you mean, 'that would explain so many things?»

  "Oh, things, things, all sorts of things. Funny locked-up telephone, trips, messages, all sorts of things. I wouldn't be surprised if he's the very heart of French Intelligence, that Papa of mine. No wonder he's so worried about me!" She began to laugh uncontrollably. "Funny, funny, funny. He so tight and me so loose. Funnee!"

  If she had been less far gone it might have been a sobering thought. But the wondrous drug spreading through her veins had let the reins in Toni's brain fall to the ground. Lin Tong smiled to himself in the darkness. She was mentally unhorsed.

  He would still need proof, of course. But now he was one long step closer to getting it. Toni would help. If properly guided she might be able to find out for him a lot of things worth knowing. Like the whereabouts of the French spy named Moreau, who had vanished with some very important information. God knows what it was, but it was creating hell's own havoc among the Chinese Intelligence chiefs. Bitter Almonds had passed the word along to the Executioner. Find Moreau. Get back the stolen information. No matter what the cost.

  He pressed his mouth to Toni's warm lips, sated though he was, and his hands explored her body passionately.

  Toni moaned. "Oh… oui, oui, mon cheri…"

  Pah, these stupid French. Make love to them and they would give you anything. Even the chieftaincy of Bitter Almonds, if he worked things right. It was high time that Brother Arnold — the overbearing slob — stepped down, anyway. Lin Tong was just the man to show the old fool a thing or two and take his place. Let the Executioner succeed where the rest of Bitter Almonds had failed, and the top spot would be his. It was only a matter of time and patience.

  He called on all his skill to make twin passions rise again. At last he said gently: "You must leave now, Toni. I have work to do. And I want you to do one small thing for me."

  "Leave?" she said wistfully. "Please, please don't make me leave you. I want more — more everything."

  "Soon, my Toni. When we are both ready."

  "I am ready now."

  "Ah, no. You must not be too demanding. But we play a little game, yes? To satisfy my curiosity? You find out more for me about your father. Who visits him, what he says to them, little things like that. I have a feeling that he and I might do business together if you can prove to me that he is with French Intelligence. Perhaps we will discover a mutual interest that he will not yet reveal because he so dislikes me. You will help me, Toni?"

  Her unnaturally bright eyes were suddenly worried. "I am not sure if that would be right, Won Ton. Are you asking me to spy on my own father?"

  "Spy! Have I not explained? Of course it is right. It must be right, because if you do not do it for me, who else will send you off on the little trips you need so much? Hmmm? No more clouds of ecstasy, my Antoinette? Do you not need me any more?"

  Her face mirrored the swift surge of fear within her.

  "Oh, God! Of course I need you. Don't take — yourself away from me. I need you for everything."

  "You enter at your own risk, Mademoiselle," said Nick, sliding the chain lock off the door.

  "Oo, la la," the voice cooed huskily. "Is that a warning or an invitation?"

  Nick's right eyebrow shot up into his hair. No Dr. Lincoln, this, unless Hawk's jokes had improved immeasurably. He opened the door and stepped aside quickly.

  The woman standing on the threshold was incredible.

  If she had not been so beautiful her outlandish attire would have made her look ridiculous. But she was tall and shapely, almost as tall as Nick in her dangerously high-heeled open shoes, and somehow gloriously pagan in her unbelievable costume. Purplish-hued, culotte-styled pantaloons outlined a pair of fabulous legs. Above them, a magenta bolero framed a blouse of some silken stuff that was so close to being transparent that it might have been made of spun window glass. Nick blinked, taking it all in. A superb curve of bosom seemed to strain against the bolero. Bold, dark eyes smoldered provocatively, and an ebony pony tail swept a rich column of hair down her right shoulder.

  She oiled her way into the room, closed the door and leaned against it. Her hips, eve
n in repose, looked irresistibly enticing. "Monsieur Carter," she crooned through sensuous wide lips, "I have come for you."

  "So I see. And what do you want with me, Mademoiselle?"

  "Just you."

  "What a delightful idea," Nick said. "Is this part of the Palace's American Plan?"

  She threw back her head and laughed. "Toni was right. Certainement, you are interesting!" Her eyes traveled lingeringly over his half-naked body, approving the almost classic features and the fine display of athlete's muscle. He let his own eyes wander just as boldly.

  "Interesting? Now you flatter me. But what does Toni have to do with this pleasant visit?"

  "I will explain. May I sit down?" He waved her to a chair. But she walked, instead, to the bed, kicking off her high sandals en route.

  What ho, thought Nick. This is all so sudden. But it seemed like a pleasant enough interlude as it stood. And it was still early enough in the Saigon game to play things by ear.

  She made herself comfortable on the bed. "You remember Toni Dupré? Most men do. She has been wanting to see you again, but she has been rather busy lately. You, too, I gather. I have been trying to reach you on the telephone, but there has been no answer."

  "Forgive me," he said gallantly.

  She smiled languorously. "Later. When you give me reason. Toni, now. She gives the only parties in Saigon to be given properly. Or improperly, for that matter. All attractive, single men are invited. Even all attractive married men if they are so inclined. People come and have what you Yanks call a ball and everybody is happy. Okay? You will see. You come to 14 Duong Versailles on Friday night at nine, and the sky's the limit. Tell me, do you drink, or make love?"

  Nick rubbed his nose reflectively. "I am quite good at both," he said with all due modesty.

  The lady laughed softly. "Which would you rather do now?"

  "I'm afraid I haven't anything to drink," he lied hopefully.

  Her smile was satisfied. "Then come and he down next to me and let me feel that splendid body."