Run, Spy, Run

The faintest of footfalls receded down the hall. He waited for a minute or two after the sound had faded, and then toed the letter toward him without putting his body in range of the door.

The envelope was inscribed with his new name.

It contained an airline ticket for Flight 601 from New York to London, leaving Idlewild Airport very early on the following morning. The ticket was made out in the name of Peter Cane. There was no need to wonder about the sender of the envelope: The a-n-e in "Cane" had been written in such a manner by whoever had sent the ticket that it looked like a-x-e.

Hawk was obviously ready to move.

Nick sniffed the envelope. His nostrils flared with the soft, subtle scent of a rare perfume, something exotic that he couldn't quite place. But it certainly wasn't aftershave lotion.

The party who had delivered Hawk's envelope was a woman.

The Burning Building

Everything was in order.

Dossiers read, information memorized. Peter Cane would fly out of New York on Flight 601 from Idlewild in the morning, doubtless receiving further instructions about his mission before the plane left the field. Nick knew Hawk and his methods.

But a woman! Who? Not Meg Hathaway from the Ops office. True, she always smelled delectable, but Coty was more in her line.

Nick filed the question away for future reference. Security, at the moment, was the main consideration. It seemed highly unlikely that any unauthorized person could know where he was, but the unknown enemy was resourceful.

The door was locked and Nick's coat hung over the knob to blank out the keyhole to prying eyes. He hooked a heavy chair under the same knob to make forced entrance difficult and furtive entry virtually impossible. The windows were as secure as height, and Nick, could make them. He surrounded his bed with newspapers, making it impossible for an intruder to approach him silently.

You had to keep on your toes if you wanted to stay alive, and you had to sleep while you could because there was no knowing what the assignment would bring.

Nick showered and prepared for bed. He mentally reviewed the facts in the bulky dossier willed to him by Hawk. In the morning he would destroy everything that did not relate directly to Peter Cane. Copies of all the data would already be on file with all the appropriate departments.

Nick yielded to sleep. His quiet, even breathing was the only sound in the room.

Outside his door, the hotel corridor was silent and deserted.

But not for long.

Smoke.

The first indication of it was a pungent stab at Nick's nostrils. He came awake quickly, eyes straining in the darkness. An instant passed while he assembled his five senses before giving due credit to the phantom sixth that always seemed to alert him in time of danger. But there was no mistake. His nostrils were curling reflexively, pulling away from the acrid odor of stifling smoke. Yet the hotel was as peaceful as sleep.

Nick reached for the automatic pencil lying on the bedside table. It was also a flashlight with a beam that traveled a full thirty feet on high-powered batteries. Nick flicked it on, aiming it at the door.

The stab of light picked up a coiled snake of black smoke roping across the floor, from the narrow space beneath the door. But there was no sign of flame, no lick of orange light. He held the beam a second longer before easing himself to a crouch. Then he hurdled the newspapers with a broad jump and landed like a cat on the balls of his feet. The smoke began to gather alarmingly in the room.

Nick knew this game. Knew it too well to lose it. When you couldn't enter the bear's lair, you tried to smoke the bear out. The trick of the game this time was the imitation of a hotel fire. Didn't terrified guests, waking from a deep sleep, obey their first instincts and rush for the door, throwing it open both to see what was going on and obtain some blessed fresh air?

So there was only one thing to do.

It was a matter of flying seconds to dress hurriedly with only the propped pencil light to guide him. He kept his back to the billowing smoke as long as he could and held his breath while he gathered up the files and papers to thrust them into his briefcase.

He could have hollered "Help! Fire!" thrown a chair through the window, or phoned downstairs for help. But his instinct told him that his wire was probably cut. And he had just as much reason to maintain secrecy as did whoever was in the hall. Up to a point, Nick had to play the game their way and exit via the door. He padded back to the bathroom and moistened his handkerchief.

With silent speed, he pulled the chair away from the door, and whipped on his coat. The briefcase he put next to the door where he could reach it easily when he was ready to break out. Then he placed the handkerchief over his nostrils and tied it behind his head. He released the latch-lock with an audible click, pressed his ear to the door, and waited for any tell-tale sound.