But the special agent who lived inside his brain was as deeply disturbed as Nick Carter, the man. The explosion-killing was one of the most inexplicable, as well as one of the most horrifying, things he had ever encountered. He thought of the mangled forms strewing the pitted strip. What maniac could have planned this frightful thing?
As soon as he could, he drifted quietly away from the maelstrom of questions and sobs. In the spacious Coffee Shop, Nick found an unoccupied phone booth and dialed Hawk's unlisted number. His mind quickly turned to the code jargon of Axe.
"Yes?" Mr. Hawk's voice was as crackling as ever, belying his sixty-odd years.
"Your pigeon's home to roost," said Carter.
"Oh, good trip?"
"Until now. Somebody's just chopped down a cherry tree. More than that — an orchard."
"That so? Hatchet?"
"No. An axe."
There was a pause. Then the old man's voice said carefully, "Something you can talk about at home?"
"Could be — but I think I need a change of scene."
"I see. I hear they have some interesting exhibits at the Museum of National History. I especially like the
"So do I," said Nick, and hung up.
It was a simple code system, but it worked.
The large, eerily-lit room was deserted, save for Carter and a tall, lanky figure peering thoughtfully up into the rib cage of the exhibit.
Hawk always gave Nick the image of a frontiersman made to dress to the nines in a dark cutaway coat and striped morning trousers and itching to get back into his working clothes. Seven long years of association had not dimmed the sensation. There he was, America's top secret service man looking like Uncle Sam himself, except for beard and stripes.
The dreaded enemy of traitors, saboteurs and the spies of every continent was craning his neck upward with absorbed interest, looking for all the world like a spry old-timer with nothing on his mind but the wonders of nature.
Nick strolled slowly around the gigantic skeleton. He stopped, as if by chance, beside Hawk and scrutinized the bone structure.
"Ha, young man." Hawk pointed a leathery finger upward. "What do you know about the
"Not very much, sir, I'm afraid," apologized Nick.
"Something to do with bones, I believe. But I'm more interested in other kinds of bodies. And in jet planes that unload passengers who suddenly blow up."
"Yes," Hawk murmured. "Odd about that." He looked sharply at Nick. "You look peaky. Should be used to this sort of thing. Can't let it get you. Something special about this one?"
Nick shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like his facial expressions to be readable.
"Maybe. Very messy. And the kids — well, nothing to be done about them now. But there
Hawk's eyes brightened. Years fell away from him.
"Let's have it."
Nick told him, his account crisp and graphic. He mentioned Rita only briefly, but not so briefly that Hawk's alert eyes failed to register the mention.
"Think there's a connection?"
"Seems possible. I'll find out."
"Hmmm. You do that"
A woman with a teenager in tow wandered into the room. Hawk indicated something in his program. Nick moved closer to him and peered over his shoulder.
"Curious coincidence," said Hawk.
"About the girl?"
"No. About the explosion. By the way, how was Jamaica?"
"Fun," said Nick.
"Fun?" Hawk raised his eyebrows.
"I mean successful," said Nick hurriedly. "Mission completed. Little fun on the side, naturally."
"Naturally," agreed Hawk drily.
"But I'm ready for work again."
"Good. You seem to have started already. Coincidence about the bombings, as I was saying. And about you being involved in one of them."
"One of them?" Nick eyed the woman and the teenager idly. "There haven't been any others quite like this."
"No, not quite, but close enough to convince me that they're connected in some way. It's your new assignment, Carter. Operation Jet. AXE is being sharpened now. Three planes have blown up in the last few months. One over the Pacific, one over the Atlantic, and — last month — one over North Africa. The insurance people are trying to pin them on money-crazy relatives eager to dispose of kin in order to cash in on accident policies. And in one case there's a suspicion of pilot error. All of which we'd go along with — except for the three jokers in the deck."
"Such as?"
"On each plane, a noted diplomat died. The FBI suspects sabotage. The fellow in the White House has asked me personally to investigate."
"Mr. Burns of Great Britain, wasn't it? Ahmed Tal Barin of India. La Dilda of Peru. I remember now."
