Run, Spy, Run Read online

  Mr. Judas. Nick swore softly to himself. The biggest name in international espionage. Nobody knew what he looked like or how old he was. Or his nationality. Just the name. A code name given him years ago because his shadowy presence so often made itself felt in treasonous activity. Interpol had racked its resources for fifteen years in hopeless pursuit. England's Special Branch had turned all its data on him over to Security Service when a national crime wave had assumed the proportions of a political scandal. No result. Argentina had detected his unholy stamp in a monstrous blackmail and murder plot. But the chimera had wavered and disappeared. He was dead; he was not dead. He had been seen; he had never been seen. He was tall, short, hideous, handsome, frying in hell, luxuriating at Cannes. He was everywhere, nowhere, nothing and everything, and all that was known was the name of Judas. Reports filtering down through the funnel of years made it appear that he enjoyed the name "Judas" and wore it with pride.

  Now he was back. The faceless genius of sabotage.

  Nick ached to meet him, to see for himself what the wizard looked like and sounded like. Judas had to be a wizard. How could anyone be so well known and yet so obscure?

  Flight from Idlewild

  "Darling!"

  "Darling!"

  "Sweetheart!"

  "Baby!"

  Julie was waiting for him, her luggage already on the scale. They kissed a little clumsily and blushed at each other, the very picture of pre-married love.

  "I thought you weren't going to make it," she said nervously.

  "Nonsense," he said lightly. "You knew I'd be here. You weighed in?"

  "Yes, there it goes."

  She looked demure and wholesome, like a girl from Slocombe, Pennsylvania. Nick thought he detected a dab of Chanel; that was all right, for a special occasion.

  Their bags glided away on the luggage belt. Passports were checked, tickets scrutinized. The airline official behind the desk looked up at Nick.

  "Oh, Mr. Cane. A message for you. From your father, I believe. He couldn't wait."

  "Oh," said Nick anxiously. "Did you see Dad?" he asked Julia.

  "Oh, no, he was very early," the official interrupted. "Just stopped by, he said, with a farewell note. Wanted to wish you luck with your work." He eyed Julia meaningfully.

  She managed another blush.

  "There you are sir, madam. Enjoy your flight"

  They moved away and Nick opened the envelope. It contained a copy of Flight 601's passenger list and a brief note:

  "Dear Pete,

  Just to wish you good luck and remind you to check in at the Consulate for all mail. Use their facilities if you wish to cable. I shall be in Washington for the next few days, back at the old stand.

  By the way, it seems that your Latin friend was hospitalized only a year ago after an accident, and not several years ago as the lady seemed to think. It appears she was mistaken. No wonder he was not quite recovered.

  Have a good trip, keep sharp, and let us know how things are going. We will keep you posted if there is any news from home.

  from your old man."

  Nick frowned. Why should Rita's story clash with the records on Valdez?

  On the northern runway, a gleaming 710 Jetstar sat poised. Nick watched the airstair being wheeled into place. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes to go. For a moment, he thought about Valdez and Rita Jameson — about the two of them as human beings. Yesterday, they were alive. One evidently resourceful and energetic. The other beautiful, very beautiful, now very very ugly.

  He shook the thoughts away. That kind of thinking was no good. He dug out his airline ticket and picked up his bag.

  "C'mon, Julie. Here, I'll take that."

  They walked to the wire gate squaring the runway, she tall, graceful, with cat-shaped eyes and a sassy, holiday hat; he, taller, serious-looking, youngish, companionably carrying her simple fall coat over his arm. A line of passengers had already begun to form, eager to get on with the flight.

  A jet engine thundered somewhere off to the right. Uniformed personnel began to climb up the airstair with unhurried steps. Nick poked the horn-rimmed bridge higher up on his nose, a characteristic gesture for a man with spectacles.

  Voices broke over the gate. Nick and Julia fell into line behind a woman in a blue print dress and jacket, carrying a clutch bag, and a tall, elderly gentleman with a sandy brown moustache and the penetrating voice of the Middle West. Two men in dark suits walked rapidly toward the airstair. The younger of the two handed an attaché case to the other man, gave a sort of salute, and walked away. The older man ascended the stair. That would be Harcourt.

  Julia moved ahead. The flash of her shapely legs evoked memories. Nick reached for his seat card.

  A pert stewardess, almost as beautiful as Rita Jameson, welcomed him on board. Behind him, a rotund executive was trying not to swear as he fumbled for his boarding ticket.

  The eastern seaboard vanished on the horizon and Flight 601 headed out to sea, nose toward London. Skies were clear and there was no headwind. Julia yawned seductively and let her lovely head, now hatless, loll against the plexiglass porthole. Peter Cane's book on the Israeli discoveries lay unopened on Nick Carter's rangy knees. His hand held Julie's lightly. Every now and then they would smile and whisper affectionately to each other. In fact, Julia was filling him in on her cover background and the so-called circumstances of their first meeting. Some of the details and dialogue they worked out together, laughing quietly at their joint imagination and the memories they were supposed to have.

  Lyle Harcourt was sitting amidships on the aisle. The window seat next to him was unoccupied but for his attaché case and papers. At the moment he was skimming the morning newspapers. Nick sat at a diagonal line from his courtly head and shoulders.

  Harcourt was an imposing man of middle years, very tall, and ruddy of complexion. Nick had seen penetrating blue eyes beneath the shaggy eyebrows. He remembered that Harcourt had been Ail-American decades before, then had given up a lucrative law practice to enter service with his country. His rise from farm boy to state governor and to one of the nation's most influential and best-loved statesmen was one of the legendary tales of American politics. It would be disastrous if anything were to happen to this man.

  It was too early to thoroughly case the rest of the passengers. Nick tallied nearly seventy head of assorted ages, sizes and shapes. Those in the vicinity of Harcourt were the ones that concerned him most, at the moment.

  He squeezed Julia's hand gently. Her eyes opened.

  "I have a tendency to get airsick, did you know that?"

  "Oh, no!" she said, alarmed. "Do you feel bad?"

  Nick grinned. "No. But Mr. Cane has a funny tummy and he may need to go running up and down the aisle to one of those doors up there."

  "Oh." She sounded relieved. "Well, the paper bag's in front of you, if you don't make it. But please try. Sometimes I don't feel so good myself."

  "Push the button, will you? Let's see, the stewardess' name is Janet Reed..."

  Julia gave him a suspicious look and pressed the button.

  "How did you know that?"

  "She told us, didn't you notice?"

  "No, I didn't."

  "Well, I did. She's rather a honey, isn't she?"

  'Two-timer!"

  One or two miniscule clouds were building in the morning sky. He hoped that they, or inexperience, would be sufficient excuse for his plaint.

  "Yes, Mr. Cane?"

  "Oh... er... Miss. Urn, Janet. I feel a little uneasy, I'm afraid. That is, queasy. Could you... suggest something?"

  He swallowed uncomfortably.

  "Oh, yes, Mr. Cane! I'll bring you a pill. They're very good. And some tea. That usually helps."

  Nick shuddered. Coffee and a shot of brandy was what he felt like.

  'Thank you, that'll be fine. You're very kind."

  Janet went off, hips swaying attractively.

  "My hero," said Julie lovingly, offering him a well-faked look
of concern. "Fink, with feet of clay."

  "Stomach of clay. Come on, fuss over me. But not too much; it might upset me more."

  "Here, lover, let me loosen your tie."

  "It is loose."

  "So it is. Then fuss over yourself, damn you."

  Janet came back with tea, sympathy and pill.

  "Now drink that, Mr. Cane, and I'm sure you'll feel much better."

  "My poor baby," Julia cooed.

  Peter Cane managed a brave smile. "Thank you, Janet. Ill be all right."

  Nick managed to choke down the tea. "By the way, did you want something?"

  "Thank you so much for thinking of me in your delicate condition, but the answer's no. At least, not in front of all these people."

  Their eyes met in a secret, knowing glance.

  Down the aisle, Lyle Harcourt had put aside the newspapers and was now immersed in a stack of documents that were piled on the attaché case in his lap. He rarely looked up and he spoke to no one. The flight was as serene as the quiet weather above the ocean. The tiny clouds were thickening but the great plane sliced through their wispy fingers with ease. Not a bump, not a shiver. Well, I can't wait, thought Nick. One cigarette, and I'll make a move.

  He lit one for each of them, and pondered.

  The only action had been the inevitable brief trips to either end of the aisle. The passengers had settled in quickly and sleepily. He couldn't, of course, tell about the personnel of Flight 601. Janet Reed was the only one who had so far shown herself. There was no need for any of the others to emerge.

  It was hard to sit around waiting. Nick's springy muscles ached for some activity.

  The plane itself represented a problem. A bomb could be concealed anywhere. There were a hundred and one hiding places for small, lethal devices.

  "I think I have to throw up," he said inelegantly, and stubbed out his cigarette.

  "Congratulations. But don't do it here."

  He rose abruptly, untangling his long legs from beneath the seat ahead.

  "Keep an eye open while I'm gone," he murmured, clutching his stomach. Julie nodded.

  Nick made his way down the aisle, his eyes skimming along the overhead racks as he passed. No funny looking bundles. But then, he could hardly expect to find anything labeled BOMB.

  He made a precipitous entry into the lavatory.

  His exit, a few minutes later, was more dignified, but his progress down the smoothly carpeted aisle was erratic. He was two paces from Lyle Harcourt's aisle seat when he stumbled, seeming to catch his toe on some invisible lump in the carpeting. He gave a cry of embarrassed surprise as he caught himself on the arm rest of Harcourt's chair and used his other hand to grasp the support of the baggage rack above.

  "Dreadfully sorry! Please excuse me!" he gasped into Harcourt's ear, smiling awkwardly. "Damn clumsy of me..."

  Lyle Harcourt's ruddy face was tolerant. "Quite all right. Think nothing of it."

  Nick righted himself, still smiling.

  "Why, you're Lyle Harcourt. I'd know you anywhere. Embarrassing way to meet you, Mr. Harcourt, but a privilege, sir. My name's Cane."

  Harcourt nodded politely, his eyes wandering back to his papers. But Nick kept on, talking in jerky, admiring phrases, his eyes taking split second pictures that his mind would develop later.

  "...A student, in a way, sir, of your methods. Of course, my field isn't political science, but as a private citizen I, well, I naturally have a deep concern for our foreign policy..."

  Harcourt raised his eyes resignedly and gazed at him.

  "...I was with you to the hilt on our bomb control program..."

  The Ambassador's look became a little wary.

  "...and so were most Americans, I'd say. Oh, I know there are people who insist that the Communists can't be trusted, but / say we have to make a start somewhere..."

  His voice trailed off. Harcourt was smiling patiently but his sharp eyes were staring Nick into silence.

  "Mr. Cane," the Ambassador said courteously, "while I appreciate your interest and support, such discussions are usually held on the floors or platforms of assembly halls. Please forgive me, but I really must pay close attention to a few matters before we land..."

  "Of course, sir. Terribly sorry to intrude."

  He nodded nervously and stumbled away.

  A few people had glanced casually at the clumsy young man with the horn-rimmed glasses towering over the distinguished, older man, but as far as he'd noticed, no one had shown any undue interest.

  Julia eyed him sympathetically as he folded himself back into his seat.

  "Feel better, honey? I don't think you should be wandering around talking to people if you're feeling funny."

  "Any watchers?"

  "Only me, and a few stray glances that didn't seem to mean a thing. How was your scouting expedition?"

  Nick slumped down in his seat.

  "Rack over his head — empty. Not even a matchbox could be hidden there. His seat is the same as ours. The attaché case is clean. No buckles, just a zipper. The papers are just papers. People sitting near him all check out. Milwaukee housewife and child. Insurance salesman from Illinois. Two Roman Catholic priests too devout to do anything but sit and pray. No steel hands, no crutches, no sinister ticking packages. One accountant from General Foods. One middle-aged couple from Westchester..."

  Julia gasped. "You didn't see all that in those few seconds!"

  He sat up. "No. I checked the passenger manifest before we left. But I wish I could check Harcourt's pockets. Even if he's carrying a fountain pen or a lighter, it could be dangerous. Someone could have given it to him as a..." He stopped suddenly, looking startled. Julia caught his expression and her eyes flew to follow his gaze. Nick was sitting erect, his jaw taut.

  "What is it?" Julia whispered. "That man?"

  Nick nodded.

  A passenger had risen to his feet, turned into the aisle and made for the door of the lavatory. Julia saw a short, square-shouldered man in a dark suit; clean-shaven; rather handsome head with wiry hair combed back. Nothing special about him. Except that his right sleeve hung empty and the right arm was bound stiffly in a cast of white plaster reaching past the elbow.

  The injury must have been recent — the whiteness of plaster and bandage shone spotlessly clean.

  Nick started humming tunelessly.

  "What about him?" Julia was looking at him curiously. "The cast, you mean?"

  "Mmm. I think so. I didn't notice it when I went up ahead before; I guess his coat was covering it."

  The man went into the toilet opposite the one Nick had used before.

  "You wait here and... no, hold it."

  The woman with the clutch bag came out of the other door.

  "Look." He spoke in a rapid undertone. "It's your turn now. Go powder your nose. Take as long as you can. I'll follow in a while. But listen for his door opening. He may be through before I get there."

  She nodded, listening intently.

  "When you hear his door open, open yours right away and get a good look at him. Study that cast and let me know what you see. I want to get in right after him even if I have to wait; that means the other one has to be occupied. So you wait until you hear that door. Then get out of there as fast as you can and watch him."

  Julie was already picking her way past him.

  "What if I'm in the middle of something when I hear his door open?" she breathed, an impish grin on her face.

  "Just don't start anything you can't finish," Nick answered.

  She made her way to the vacant lavatory.

  Flight 601 began a gradual climb to escape a wall of storm clouds that had started building in the east.

  Aunt Jemima

  The man with the broken arm spent ten minutes in the lavatory. Nick timed him. He waited restlessly outside the door, evincing all the impatience of an uncomfortable passenger in urgent need of privacy. The plane hit a small air pocket, and he was able to lurch and groan convincingly. Janet Reed
flashed him an anxious look.

  "Mr. Cane," she said in a low voice, "don't you think you'd better go back to your seat and wait? You don't look well at all. How about another pill?"

  "No to both, thank you very much," he moaned. "Now that I'm here, I'll just stay put. Don't worry."

  "All right," she answered doubtfully.

  "Ohhhh!" The muffled sound and his tortured look were sufficient.

  "Well, please call me if I can help."

  The lavatory door opened and the man came out. Behind him, as Nick stood at the ready, he heard the other door click. The man with the cast looked blankly at Nick, said "Excuse me," and stepped sideways into the aisle. Julie moved quickly ahead of him and briefly blocked his path. Nick took the face and body apart in a lightning survey. Bland features, small scar on left side of mouth, heavy beard starting to show under the film of powder that gave the illusion of a clean shave, eyes that held all the expression of a dead fish. He moved stiffly, supporting his bandaged arm in his good hand. Nick wondered why he did not use a sling, then stumbled gratefully into the lavatory and closed the door on the automatic lock.

  The cubicle was no more than a comfortable stall equipped with sink, commode, chair with strap, and shelving for towels. The wall light had an electric razor socket. A small porthole showed a view of blue sky above a bank of clouds. Nick made a rapid inspection. Nothing out of the way on shelves, wall, floor, fixtures. He ran the water from both taps into the shining sink. Steam rose, but nothing else. A clean piece of soap lay in its hollow.

  Nick wrapped a paper tissue round his fingers and felt inside the toilet bowl. Nothing. A fresh roll of tissue hung conveniently near at hand. He took it off its rod, replaced it when he saw there was nothing in the tube. He washed his hands.

  When he returned to his seat, Julie murmured: "You really are beginning to look sick. Find something?"

  He shook his head. "I'm starving to death. Maybe we can order some sandwiches for you, and I'll lap up the crumbs. Let's call dreamboat."

  "I'll call dreamboat," she said, and did.

  They were silent until Janet had come and gone with their order and then the sandwiches. Nick took one from Julia's hand.