Run, Spy, Run

"Oh." Nick raised an eyebrow. "Something struck me, too. But nothing very conclusive. I don't think he used the bathroom. Not for its primary purpose, anyway. Of course, people have been going in and out all morning, and I've seen Janet go in a couple of times to keep things tidy, so I can't be sure. The bowl was damp, but not wet. The soap was dry. Tissue unbroken on the roll."

"You mean he just went in to look around?"

"That, or more likely he wanted to be alone to look at something he brought in with him. No, he didn't leave anything there," he caught her glance, "I'm sure of that"

"Then he did something to the cast."

"I would say yes. But we don't have enough to go on. If I were sure of anything I might be able to get the Captain's cooperation. But as of now, we're stymied."

The jet engines throbbed smoothly. Occasionally someone rose to stretch his legs. People talked and dozed.

Nick settled back and watched. His two main objectives were Lyle Harcourt's seat and the general area occupied by the man with the broken arm. The latter was too far forward for Nick to see directly; Nick could only see him when he stood up.

Flight 601 was two hours out of London when the bandaged man stood up again. Nick shook Julie. Her head was resting on his shoulder, and he breathed in the fragrance of her hair and skin.

"Julie, honey."

She came awake instantly. "Is this it?"

"I think so." The closer they got to London, the sooner somebody had to make his move.

The man with the bandaged arm went into the lavatory. Julie stiffened.

A woman with a crying baby opened the door opposite and entered. Both signs read "Occupied."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Much the same thing as before, but this time I'll go first. With any luck the baby'll keep that one busy for a while. But follow me down the aisle in a minute and get yourself a forward seat — his, maybe — and be ready to beat me to the punch if the woman comes out first. I've got to see what's going on in there. Okay?"

She nodded.

He kissed her lightly on the cheek and left his seat. Several passengers looked at him as he passed. His jaw was working and his face was pale. It was Yoga, not airsickness, that brought about the pallor, but they were not to know that.

He brushed against Janet Reed in the aisle again, turning his body sideways and avoiding her eyes.

"Mr. Cane," she began solicitously.

He shook his head dumbly and went on his way. When he got to the pair of occupied cubicles, his expression was that of a man praying for death to deliver him. He sighed, and leaned against the outside wall of the one occupied by the man with the cast and strained his ears for whatever there was to be heard. From the corner of his eye he saw Julie coming toward him, her purse open and a comb in her hand. She reached the vacated forward seat and stopped, looking at him with lovely, sympathetic cat eyes.

"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered, "can't you get in?"

He shook his agonized head and turned away.

His ears were primed for the slightest sound.

The baby was still crying. Water splashed into a sink.

Three minutes crawled by in which the only sounds were coughs, low conversations and the pulsing of the jet engines.

Then he heard something else.

Faint, slapping, sliding sounds. The soft, clothy sounds of someone dressing or undressing.

Carter tensed. Still not enough to go on. If he were wrong and burst in like a fool, he'd lose all hope of stopping whatever was going to happen. If anything was going to happen.

Then he heard the sound that removed all doubts.

It was a coarse, tearing, cracking sound. Given his memory of the lavatory as he had last seen it, and his suspicions of the man who had just entered, there was only one conclusion to be drawn.

Nick had heard that familiar combination of sounds, too many times, in dressing stations all over the battlefields of Europe. The tearing, ripping sounds of bandagesbeing removed and plaster-of-paris casts being cracked apart.

Why should anyone remove a brand-new bandage?

The baby gurgled and stopped crying.

Right or wrong, he had to act — now.

The belt around his waist slipped quickly off into his hands. He adjusted it rapidly and clamped the metal buckle over the doorknob, fitting it over the lock mechanism like a vise.

Carter adjusted the tongue of the buckle and stepped to one side. Julie had taken her .22 lighter out of her bag and was watching with rapt attention.

It took only two seconds for the power train of fulminate of mercury— similar to that of the U.S. MI grenade — to ignite and energize a quarter ounce of nitro starch.