Dr. Death by Nick Carter - [Killmaster 100] Page B
Authors: Nick Carter - [Killmaster 100]
Tags: det_espionage
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mile, but it also emits an electronic signal which anyone with the proper receiving equipment can use to determine our position to within a few feet."
"You mean," Michelle straightened up, looking startled, "whoever planted that not only knows where we are, but heard everything we've been saying?"
"Exactly," I replied. And that, I knew, was why the Chinese girl hadn't bothered to tail us. Not within sight, anyway. She could do it at her leisure, from a half-mile or so away, all the while getting an earful of our conversation.
Including my detailed statement to Michelle as to where we were going and why.
Michelle looked at me.
"OAS," she half-whispered.
"No." I shook my head. "I don't think so. We were tailed all the way from Tangier to New York by a very good-looking Chinese girl. She bumped into me on the plane from Paris. I had a half-empty pack of cigarettes in my shirt pocket, and an unopened one in the pocket of my jacket. She managed to substitute her pack for my full one."
And, considering that I smoke only my own custom-made cigarettes, with the initial NC printed on the filter, she had gone to a lot of trouble to do so. And had the use of some pretty extensive facilities.
"What do we do now?" Michelle asked.
I examined the bug closely. The front half had melted from the heat of my match. The complex micro-circuits were destroyed, and the bug had obviously stopped transmitting. The question was, which match had done it, the first or the second? If it had been the first, there was a good chance the Chinese girl hadn't gotten enough information to know where we were going. If it had been the second…
I grimaced, then sighed and ground the bug to a deformed metal mess beneath my heel. It gave me a certain amount of emotional satisfaction, but didn't accomplish much else.
"What we do now," I informed Michelle, as the elevator door opened and we stepped inside, "is to get down to Puerto Rico. Fast."
There wasn't much else I could do. Again I returned the Chinese girl to her own particular compartment in my mind. Again.
It was getting to be a pretty big compartment.
I wished to God she'd stay inside it.
Six
Mr. Thomas C. Dobbs, of Dobbs Plumbing Supplies, Inc., Grand Rapids, Michigan, and his French-Canadian born wife, Marie, emerged from the. main terminal at San Juan airport; they were laden down with cameras, snorkel gear, all the other equipment necessary for their Caribbean vacation, including a floppy straw hat with
Puerto Rico
woven across it which Mr. Dobbs had purchased in the terminal immediately upon arrival. They were going to have, as Mr. Dobbs put it to anybody who would listen, a "roaring time." They were going to "paint this little old island red." They were going to "turn little old San Juan inside out, and that includes those casinos."
They were, as anybody could tell, a pair of typical, moderately obnoxious, American tourists.
"Cab! Cab!" bellowed Mr. Dobbs, waving his arms madly.
Mrs. Dobbs was quieter. She looked a little tired. But she was obviously enjoying the sun and warmth.
"Ummm," she remarked to her husband, turning her attractive face upward. "Isn't that sun beautiful? And you can smell so many flowers. Oh, Nick…"
I grabbed her arm, as if to usher her into the cab which had pulled up in front of us.
"Tom," I muttered, without moving my lips. "Not Nick. Tom."
"Tom," she repeated dutifully. "Isn't it beautiful, though? I just want to put on my bathing suit and lie on a beach somewhere in the sun and listen to the ocean." Then she grimaced. "Except, I suppose you have other things to do, and you need me to go with you."
"Hell yes, sweetie," I bellowed. "That's exactly what we're gonna do. Flop ourselves down on that beach and get one hell of a tan. We're paying enough for it."
The porter finished loading our bags into the trunk of the cab. I under-tipped him outrageously, making up for it with a brutally hearty slap on the back and a shouted "Don't spend it all in one
"You mean," Michelle straightened up, looking startled, "whoever planted that not only knows where we are, but heard everything we've been saying?"
"Exactly," I replied. And that, I knew, was why the Chinese girl hadn't bothered to tail us. Not within sight, anyway. She could do it at her leisure, from a half-mile or so away, all the while getting an earful of our conversation.
Including my detailed statement to Michelle as to where we were going and why.
Michelle looked at me.
"OAS," she half-whispered.
"No." I shook my head. "I don't think so. We were tailed all the way from Tangier to New York by a very good-looking Chinese girl. She bumped into me on the plane from Paris. I had a half-empty pack of cigarettes in my shirt pocket, and an unopened one in the pocket of my jacket. She managed to substitute her pack for my full one."
And, considering that I smoke only my own custom-made cigarettes, with the initial NC printed on the filter, she had gone to a lot of trouble to do so. And had the use of some pretty extensive facilities.
"What do we do now?" Michelle asked.
I examined the bug closely. The front half had melted from the heat of my match. The complex micro-circuits were destroyed, and the bug had obviously stopped transmitting. The question was, which match had done it, the first or the second? If it had been the first, there was a good chance the Chinese girl hadn't gotten enough information to know where we were going. If it had been the second…
I grimaced, then sighed and ground the bug to a deformed metal mess beneath my heel. It gave me a certain amount of emotional satisfaction, but didn't accomplish much else.
"What we do now," I informed Michelle, as the elevator door opened and we stepped inside, "is to get down to Puerto Rico. Fast."
There wasn't much else I could do. Again I returned the Chinese girl to her own particular compartment in my mind. Again.
It was getting to be a pretty big compartment.
I wished to God she'd stay inside it.
Six
Mr. Thomas C. Dobbs, of Dobbs Plumbing Supplies, Inc., Grand Rapids, Michigan, and his French-Canadian born wife, Marie, emerged from the. main terminal at San Juan airport; they were laden down with cameras, snorkel gear, all the other equipment necessary for their Caribbean vacation, including a floppy straw hat with
Puerto Rico
woven across it which Mr. Dobbs had purchased in the terminal immediately upon arrival. They were going to have, as Mr. Dobbs put it to anybody who would listen, a "roaring time." They were going to "paint this little old island red." They were going to "turn little old San Juan inside out, and that includes those casinos."
They were, as anybody could tell, a pair of typical, moderately obnoxious, American tourists.
"Cab! Cab!" bellowed Mr. Dobbs, waving his arms madly.
Mrs. Dobbs was quieter. She looked a little tired. But she was obviously enjoying the sun and warmth.
"Ummm," she remarked to her husband, turning her attractive face upward. "Isn't that sun beautiful? And you can smell so many flowers. Oh, Nick…"
I grabbed her arm, as if to usher her into the cab which had pulled up in front of us.
"Tom," I muttered, without moving my lips. "Not Nick. Tom."
"Tom," she repeated dutifully. "Isn't it beautiful, though? I just want to put on my bathing suit and lie on a beach somewhere in the sun and listen to the ocean." Then she grimaced. "Except, I suppose you have other things to do, and you need me to go with you."
"Hell yes, sweetie," I bellowed. "That's exactly what we're gonna do. Flop ourselves down on that beach and get one hell of a tan. We're paying enough for it."
The porter finished loading our bags into the trunk of the cab. I under-tipped him outrageously, making up for it with a brutally hearty slap on the back and a shouted "Don't spend it all in one
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