Lord Edmond Burns of Britain's labor party — dead over the English coast in an airliner explosion. Replaced by a Red Chinese sympathizer.Ahmed Tal Barin of India's pacifist party — dead over the Pacific Ocean in an airliner explosion. Replaced by a Red Chinese sympathizer.Augusto La Dilda of Peru's moderate party — dead over North Africa in an airliner explosion. Replaced by a Red Chinese sympathizer.…and in the Montego Room of the Cayman Hotel, Jamaica, where the delectable Countess de Fresnaye sipped champagne with her lover (a young man vaguely resembling both Cary Grant and Gregory Peck) a waiter delivered a note. It was unsigned… and addressed to Nick Carter…A novel behind the glamour-mask of international intelligence… pitting young Nick Carter against the world's most vicious spy.
Nick Carter settled back in his forward seat and allowed himself to be lulled by the powerful throbs of the jet-thrust engines. The giant metal bird was moving as easily as a magic carpet. He folded his lean hands across his stomach and relaxed. There was nothing to do but wait. Yet the steel gray eyes remained alert beneath his lowered lids. Flight 16 from Jamaica to New York had long since passed its midpoint,' and still there had been no sign of anyone's interest in him.
Once again he surveyed his fellow passengers, mentally positioning those he could not see without turning his head. It would have to be someone on board, or the message didn't make much sense. Anyway, it was always a good habit to double-check those you were traveling with. And a bad habit to break. Nick had never broken it, which may have been one of the reasons he had survived a World War, five years with OSS, and seven years as Top Secret Operative for Mr. Hawk and the United States.
The assembled company was as before. Everyone was in the expected place wearing the expected expression. The young honeymooners directly in front of Nick were still billing and cooing, being predictably solicitous of each other's needs. Ahead of them, the two noisy executives — apparently business partners on their way back to the home office — were weighing the comparative merits of Mantle, Mays and Musial. The young brunette across the aisle from him was still supporting her thick paper-back textbook whose title had made him glad that his college days were far behind:
He closed his eyes and sighed a little wistfully. The good part of those days was also far behind. And so was Jamaica. Jamaica had been intoxicating. A tough assignment had turned, surprisingly, into a vacation. Two wonderful weeks of fun in the sun, far away from a Mr. Hawk who was fondly supposing his best operative — Nick Carter — to be risking his neck and racking his brains. It had been a breeze and a pure delight. A breeze that, among other things, had blown him a stack of bonus money from Uncle Sam for services rendered. And then there had been the delicious icing of the Countess de Fresnaye, a tall, willful wanton who had not only been the key to the case but its most delectable element. It was while he was dining with her in the Montego Room of the Cayman Hotel that the note had come. It read:
The note had been hastily written on hotel stationery. It was unsigned. A waiter had handed it to him. He had received it from a busboy, who had had it from a porter, who had been given it by… well, he couldn't exactly say. There had been a party at the bar and another at table 23, and all sorts of notes had been passing back and forth all evening. He just couldn't recall where this one had come from.
The Countess had smiled, shaken her head, and raised her glass for more champagne.
"An admirer, Nick. A silly woman with a made-up story. Ignore it. Stay until Friday."
A woman, he thought now, opening his eyes to the small world of the plane. She was probably right. But not the kid on the aisle. She's shy, but she's not nervous. Nothing urgent on her mind. Who had been in the hotel the night before? Impossible to match last night's faces with anyone here.
