Run, Spy, Run

The lock blew and the door caved inward neatly, almost noiselessly. But not completely. Nick flung the battered barrier to one side and threw himself past it into the tiny room. Behind him, the Jetliner came alive. Someone screamed. Not Julie. He could hear her speaking in a calm reassuring voice.

A clutter of trailing white bandage and plaster lay discarded on the floor. The broad-shouldered man had swung around to face him, his right hand free of its bandage and raised to his mouth as if in a gesture of shock. The hard edge of Nick's palm slashed at the thick neck, and two sinewy arms turned the square body and snaked about the man's back. A strangled foreign oath split the air. Suddenly, the man's back undulated powerfully and Nick found himself slamming backward until he was cruelly checked by the wall.

The man's face loomed close to his. It was mottled with rage and surprise. A knife, point upward, sprang into his fist and jabbed viciously forward. Nick rolled swiftly and the blade clanged against the wall. The man lost his balance and staggered, clutching the metal rail of a shelf, leaving himself wide open.

Nick brought his right knee up in a savage jab which found the lower vitals. There was a high-pitched groan of agony and the man doubled over, clutching his body and wheezing bitterly. Nick followed up with a chopping thrust of his hand into the base of the man's skull.

The man lay inert, crumpled into a half-sitting position against the seat. The main job was still to be done.

Ignoring the clamor at the door and an insistent male voice demanding to know what the hell was going on, Nick crouched beneath the sink and found what he was looking for.

The man with the false broken arm had lined the underside of the sink with the plaster of paris which had bound his arm. It clung damply to the curvature, dropping little fragments to the floor. There was no mistaking the copper blasting cap device and the connected watch timer that jutted ominously from the doughy mass of plaster.

Nick worked swiftly, removing the cap and timer.

Julia stood in the doorway, a restraining hand on the arm of an angry pilot. In a controlled, authoritative voice, she was saying something about security, government agents and enemy saboteurs.

Nick filled the sink with water and doused the detonating mechanism. Then he scraped off the remaining plaster from underneath the sink. Wrapping the hardening mess in the bandage he placed the innocuous bundle in a waste container.

"Captain," he said, not stopping in his work, "Is there some way we can jettison this stuff? It's out of action now, but I shouldn't like to take a chance."

The pilot was pushing Julia to one side. He was a stringy, tanned young man with a moustache and sharp, intelligent eyes.

"When you've explained all this. And you'd better do that now."

"In a minute," he answered crisply. Nick was leaning over his victim. He went through the pockets. The wallet, passport and driver's license identified one Paul Vertmann, Munich businessman. That was all. There was no weapon of any kind other than the knife that had failed to kill him.

Nick rose. A knot of people clustered in the forward aisle. Janet Reed's beautiful face was white with fear and incomprehension.

"Please ask everybody to return to their seats. I'll see you in your compartment — this isn't for the passengers."

"You'll tell me now — in front of everyone. And come out of there."

Nick sighed and stepped through the doorway.

"All right, then, say this much. An attempt was made to kill one of us on board. To blow up the plane and everybody with it, just to get one man. That won't happen now. Now please have the passengers go back to their seats."

The Captain barked an order. Janet pulled herself together and began shepherding the passengers back to their seats.

"Now what is this, and who are you?" The tanned face bristled at him.

"I'll show you the proper identification in your cabin, if you don't mind. Meanwhile, if you have some manacles on board, or rope, we'll tie this fellow up for delivery in London."

"Henderson!" the Captain rapped, without turning. "Handcuffs!"

"Right!" a voice came back.

Lyle Harcourt walked firmly down the aisle toward them.

"Excuse me, madam." He gently pushed his way around Julia.

"Captain, I think this may have something to do with me. What happened, Cane?"

The young Captain's manner changed. "You, sir?" he said, amazed but respectful.

Harcourt nodded. Nick explained in a rapid undertone.

"The man on the floor had what we call an Aunt Jemima kneaded inside his false cast. Enough to blow this plane and all of us to kingdom come. Harmless by itself, but when triggered with a blasting cap — well, it's over now. But I'd like to talk to you in more privacy, sir."

"By all means." Harcourt looked dazed but in full control.

"Peter! Peter!" It was a scream from Julie. "Look!" She was pointing at the figure on the floor.

Nick swung around, his hand on Wilhelmina.