Spy Killer by L. Ron Hubbard Page B

bucko mate, hero of many a barroom brawl and sea fight, was stepping into his own: fast action.
    He headed straight for Varinka’s house. To hell with the guards! Varinka was in danger. He knew it without thinking. He couldn’t let her down. Without that automatic he would have been an easy victim for the Death Squad.
    He came to her gate, threw back the iron and stepped arrogantly through, ready to blast down the first foe he saw, bayonets notwithstanding.
    It came to him as a shock that the courtyard was deserted. He walked straight toward the hut, expecting a challenge which refused to come. He stopped irresolutely before the door, staring about him.
    Something had happened here. Something was wrong.
    He kicked in the panel and stepped into the room. The fireplace had burned down to a pulsating red pile of coals. The shadows of the room were deep. The lamp was still overturned, spilling bean oil across the Oriental black and tan carpet.
    The sound of a sob came to Kurt. Instantly he felt better. Maybe Varinka was still here. Perhaps . . .
    Something moved in the corner. He strode toward it and beheld Varinka’s amah huddled behind a drapery. Disgusted, he hauled her forth and in a machine-gun tattoo of Chinese, demanded news of the Russian girl.
    “They take her away. They arrest her. I know nothing.”
    Varinka arrested? Then he was right. His own release was likely to cause her death. The Japanese did not question a victim for long. The Japanese were more likely to hold the trial after the firing squad.
    Varinka was arrested and Kurt knew that she would die. For a moment he felt a helpless nausea and then, hefting the Colt .45, he went out into the courtyard and walked swiftly toward the Japanese headquarters. . . .

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    Sentenced to Death
     
    T HE building did not shed a great deal of light. It clutched shadows to its cold walls and gave off a feeling of menace. Two windows sprayed yellow jets into the street. Kurt heard the wind moan past a cornice.
    Japanese voices came from within, purring, assured voices. Outside a car stood, its driver slumped wearily over the wheel. Behind the car was a truck, but no one was in the cab.
    Kurt came as close as possible to the window. By standing on a loose paving block he could see in without being seen himself.
    Varinka stood before a group of men, who sat indolently in chairs. Their caps and red bands showed that they were officers and their faces displayed a merciless arrogance which was heightened by the effect of their black, bristly hair. Two of them puffed on cigarettes which they held before their sharp faces with nicotine-stained fingers. Guards with fixed bayonets were posted about the room.
    They were questioning Varinka in Japanese and their tone was ugly, showing that her guilt was a foregone conclusion. But they were not trying her for the thing Kurt thought.
    Varinka’s broad face was without fear. Her slightly slanted eyes were scornful. Her high cheekbones were stained with the crimson of anger. She looked regal—a lionness pulled down by jackals.
    “What you say is not true,” said Varinka.
    A small, bony officer giggled. “ Takeki would go well in a No drama, sayo ?”
    A bitter-faced fellow with eyes as black as the pit, obviously the ranking yakunin, probably a taisho, silenced the bony one with a scowl.
    “You have lied out of this two times, Takeki . You told us that this was some sort of intrigue you were planning. The officers believed you—I did not. They see now that I should have been more determined in my condemnation.”
    “Bah,” said Varinka, coldly, “you hate me, taisho, because I would have nothing to do with you and with none of your officers. You hate me, all of you, because I had too much power.”
    The taisho smiled cruelly. “This time you cannot escape. This afternoon I received a letter from Shanghai. Some of the things you reported to us were lies, and you know that they were lies. Your own men there, when