The Vulcan Disaster

I was standing there, blinking in the half-light, when the Oriental silently moved forward to open the door of the Rolls. The passenger, still in shadow, hesitated; then he climbed slowly out, just as I became aware of “Meyer” coming up behind me.

It was time, I decided, for a little brass. After all, nothing else I’d tried had worked half as well so far. I waited and let him take my face in; I watched the eyes narrow in recognition, the mouth purse slightly, the hands tense up on the swagger stick he carried even in mufti.

“Hello, General,” I said. “You’re absolutely right. I’m not Cowles. There isn’t any Cowles.”

“Go on,” he said. I heard an angry intake of breath behind me, and the Webley dug hard into my kidney.

“But that’s okay,” I said. “Welcome to the tea party. We’re all phonies here. I’m a phony. Probably you’re a phony; I’ll lay a hundred bucks you’re not registered here under your real name and your bank account says James Bond.”

“Shut up,” the voice behind me said. The gun dug harder into my back.

“Let him talk,” the quiet voice of the little man said.

“Thank you,” I said. “Anyhow, the biggest phony of all is ‘Meyer’ here.” My hand went to my pocket, but that didn’t alter the position of the gun in my back. They’d searched me, hadn’t they? “He isn’t Meyer, you know. Meyer’s dead, back in Saigon. These birds killed him and cleaned out his desk. Now they’re here impersonating...”

The gun barrel went up, then down. I ducked, just in time. It caught me a nice hard one on the neck — a wallop that would have brained me if I’d stood still. Then I came out of the half-crouch, pulled my hand out bearing Pierre and, giving “Meyer” a shove, heaved Pierre into the air, aiming at that naked light-bulb. Then I dived for the shadows as two shots rang out in the echoing warehouse. I missed the bulb; one of the wild shots “Meyer” got off must have hit it by mistake. The light went out. I hit and rolled. Pierre went off, nearly silently as usual, and there was a lot of coughing and cursing going on between the cars. The .44 Magnum squeezed a round off in my approximate direction, sounding for a moment like one of those French 75’s Fred had been talking about. I rose to hands and knees, puffing, and struggled up, into a bent-over shuffle, heading for what I fervently hoped would turn out to be a far wall. My shoes made just enough sound to tell me by their echo that I still had quite a way to go.

Then their voices stopped me dead.

“Meyer”: Let him go. That’s a blank wall. Spread out and we’ve got him...

The General: No, no, never mind. I will fetch him myself...

“Meyer”: But...

The General (raising his voice): Mr. Cowles. (Sotto voce again.) Bring the girl. (Louder again.) Mr. Cowles, we have the girl. I’m sure you wouldn’t want us to hurt the girl, now, would you?

Phuong’s voice: No! No, Nick! Stay away! They’ll kill you! They... No! Please! Don’t...

Her voice broke; faltered; then rose in a shrill scream of unbearable pain.

Chapter Seven

“Mr. Cowles?” the General said again. “Mr. Cowles? Or is it perhaps Mr. Carter?”

I didn’t answer. The only allies I had in that room were silence and the almost total darkness. I circled quietly to my right. If I could pick off the big Oriental first...

“Carter?” said “Meyer”. “Who is this Carter?”

“Shimon,” his partner said. “Let’s go. Let’s...”

“One might as well ask,” the General’s calm voice was saying, “who is this Meyer? Well, we shall get to that later. Meanwhile, the man you have brought here — the man about whom you telephoned — I had been curious to meet him again. It appears the girl has, under pressure, been quite talkative, within her limitations. It appears he is an American agent named Nick Carter. For some reason I seem to have heard of the name somewhere, I can’t think why. Alas, my dossiers are long since burned. He...”

“Shimon, I don’t like this.”

“One moment, Zvy... it seems there is more here than meets the eye. American agent? Carter? How did he...”

Phuong was silent now; I could hear nothing of her at all.

I could hear something else, though: the Oriental was near, and it appeared he’d been well trained. I almost didn’t pick up the tiny scuffing sound of his slippers — soft kung fu shoes, all but soundless on the concrete. I slipped Hugo into my fist, underhand, and moved forward more slowly in a crouch. The ribs ached like hell from that dive and roll.

The General was saying: “Carter, it appears, blundered into the middle of your operation — and mine as well, it seems. More yours than mine so far, though. It seems you are not Meyer: the girl was telling the truth. No matter.”

“But I... I assure you...”