The Vulcan Disaster

“The hell it is,” I said. “You wouldn’t know an IBM from an ICBM on the best day of your life. Hello, Basil, this is Nick Carter. I’m in town for a couple of days and I thought I’d call in and make everything okay between me and the Department.”

“Oh,” Basil Morse said. “What have you done now?”

“Me? Well, let’s see. In no particular order, I... ah... came in sort of sub rosa. Got myself shanghaied in the middle of some sort of assignment back in Saigon. I...”

“Oh, God. Don’t tell me about it.”

“I won’t. None of your business anyhow. May even be none of my business now, for all I know. I’m not quite sure about my employment status. I...”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about that.”

“You wouldn’t tell me more.”

“Later, perhaps. Right now you’re frozen in service, frozen in grade, frozen in your retirement-pay level. There is some popular support for finishing the job...”

“Now, now.” Close as Basil ever comes to a joke... “but wherever you go we find bodies — always have. You’re a problem, Nicholas. You were telling me, though. Keeping in mind that this line isn’t secure.”

“Okay. I came here on one job and seem to have stumbled on another. About an hour ago — no, make that two — I bumped off a certain South Vietnamese ex-general who seems to have been moving his heroin business to Hong Kong. I left him in his car, moving slowly but purposefully down Queens Road, over in Victoria.”

“Ah, yes. We just got a call from our man in the police station. The car ran into a police vehicle at the foot of Ice House Street, causing something of a flap. We might have known it was you. Go on.”

“The rest... well, you’d better come over here. I went through his pockets. I have all his junk spread out on the bed right now. I have a few other leads, too. Maybe you’ll want to have a look at it and tell me just what sort of mess I’ve wandered into.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I were to bring a whole shipload of hijacked American guns, virgin stuff still stinking of cosmoline, into the Colony, now, where would I hide it?”

“Say that again.”

I did, with flourishes.

“That explains... there was something our informant couldn’t talk about. Yes, yes. That’d be... Look, Carter. Don’t you move so much as a muscle. I’ll be there three minutes ago. Don’t do anything to attract attention. Just sit tight. Don’t let anyone in.”

I started to say something, but he’d already hung up.

Chapter Eight

So I waited.

Basil Morse wasn’t exactly my type of guy: a little too much Eastern private school and Ivy League accent and most of the attitudes that come with that kind of upbringing. But I was determined to give Basil the time of day when he arrived, no matter how mad he made me. I’d even offer him a drink, if he’d take it. I’d put up with his patronizing attitude — after all, he probably couldn’t help it — and I’d try not to needle him. Well, not too much, anyhow. There are things I can’t help, either.

He wasn’t quite as good as his word. It took him thirty-two minutes to get there, and he must have really poured on the steam. Imperturbable Basil Morse, a splendid physical specimen who put in an hour of handball every morning and an hour of tennis every evening and hadn’t gained an ounce in years, was actually puffing when he came in the door, and there were beads of sweat dripping down that long patrician nose.

“Hello, Basil,” I said. “Sit down. Scotch?”

“Where’s the material?” he said. “Oh, I see.” He headed for the bed, all business. He sat down and started picking through the General’s papers. Then he spotted the funny Oriental weapon on the bedside table. “Where did you get this?” he said. He didn’t touch it.

“Took it off his bodyguard after I’d slit his gullet. What the hell is it? I’ve never seen one before.”

“It’s a weapon of Okinawan origin called the sai. You don’t see much of them down here. Sort of replacement-species version of the Chinese butterfly knife, and I suppose it’s making a comeback the same way. You’d better hope you don’t run into one of those. This was mainly developed as a self-defense weapon at a period when the Okinawan warlords prohibited the ownership of swords or spears. You could also use it as a kind of small plow. Most of the weapons used in Okinawan karate were made to look like harmless farm implements. The kama, for instance, was shaped like a sickle. You can imagine how it was used.”

He picked it up. “This is a little more lethal than most. It’s the fashion to blunt the point these days, and to do away with the sharp blade. This is the weapon of a grand master of the art. They won’t even sell you one for practice unless you’re a brown belt.” He looked up at me, a bland noncommittal look in his eyes. “Oh, by the way. Tamura — the man you killed carrying this thing — was fifth dan black belt. He was also a renegade in the art, a professional assassin. My compliments.” He wasn’t saying it in any complimentary fashion. That was Basil. But I could read a new respect behind his words. He knew better than to sell me short, either.