Run, Spy, Run [antikvár]

THE MAN WITH THE STEEL HAND 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: Problems of Adaptation and Culture Clash in the Emerging Nations—A Socio-Psycho-logical Study. Only she wasn't looking at the book. She