Matt Helm--The Interlopers (3 page)

“Of course there’s always the possibility they did the killing,” Mac pointed out. “Couriers have been eliminated by their own people before now, when they turned unreliable or somebody thought they had. What evidence is there that this did not happen here?”

I said, “I asked the same thing of Mr. Smith’s young man.”

“And the answer?”

“Well, there’s the little amateur gun that was used.” I grimaced. “And then there’s some classified information, the source of which does not concern me, to the effect that our Communist friends are totally unaware that their courier is dead. I just love classified information the source of which does not concern me,” I said sourly. “Particularly when my life depends on it.”

Mac was frowning thoughtfully. “Then it would seem that you have two distinct adversaries, or groups of adversaries: the professional espionage ring and the amateurs—to judge by the rifle used—who killed Nystrom.”

“If this inside dope from mysterious sources is correct,” I said. “Well, it had better be. Otherwise I’m going to have a lot of fun trying to convince these Communist snoopers that I’m the ghost of their courier, the one they liquidated themselves.”

“You are also, of course, taking a considerable risk of meeting someone who knew the real Nystrom. Has this been taken into consideration?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been assured that I’ve got a good chance of pulling it off because Nystrom never ran this northwest route before. Well, that’s what Mr. Smith thinks. Personally, I don’t think I have much chance of getting away with this impersonation even with people who never saw the real guy.”

“Just what is the problem, Eric?”

I said, “Well, aside from the normal risks and all the security crap I’ve got to put up with—hell, they won’t even tell me the nature of the earthshaking information this spy ring’s after—there’s the dog they insist on my using. Look at him!”

The pup thumped his tail on the carpet as we both looked at him. Mac asked, “What’s the matter with him?”

“Remember that poor beast we were shown with a bullet in his head? If you recall, that was a long-legged ridge-runner, sir, a tall, lean, rangy dog for a Lab. So what am I supposed to impersonate him with? Look at this low-slung little canine bulldozer—yes, I mean you!—built like a barrel, with only about half the road clearance of the dead dog. Oh, he’s a good pup, bright and well-trained, but—”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Mac said. “The training is very important, perhaps more important than the appearance. Nystrom’s retriever was known to have been professionally trained. If you appear with a dog that simply won’t mind you, that will give you away instantly.” He paused for a moment, and went on: “Besides, it is really Mr. Smith’s problem, is it not?”

I looked at him sharply. “I thought it was mine, too, sir.”

“Of course.” His voice was bland. “But essentially you are dependent upon the briefing and equipment supplied by Mr. Smith. If they should be faulty in any way, you can hardly be blamed for it. Or for the resulting failure—if failure should result. Of course we sincerely hope it won’t.”

I studied him for a moment, but his lean, expressionless features didn’t give me much help. However, it had already occurred to me to wonder just why he’d hung around here on the Coast for three days as if I required a chaperone, instead of just turning me over to our associates and heading back to Washington.

Well, I had my answer: we were going to be clever. It wasn’t going to be a straightforward impersonation job after all; it wasn’t just a friendly favor our outfit was doing for the brother-organization run by a nice man named Smith. We had, apparently, some problems of our own that could be solved by my making like a dead man named Nystrom, although of course we wouldn’t admit it for the world. I grimaced wryly, but I must admit I felt relieved in a way. I hadn’t really been comfortable in the role of the good guy in the white hat, riding to the rescue of my fellow government employees.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Sincerely.”

“You have, of course, protested officially to Mr. Smith’s representatives. You have informed them that, in your opinion, the dog they have supplied will not do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then, if they stubbornly insist on your working with this animal, you are not responsible if your mission is unsuccessful due to such an obvious defect in your cover.”

“No, sir.”

There was another little pause. He was waiting for me to ask the question, and I was waiting for him to tell me the answer without being asked. Rather to my surprise, I won.

“Do you remember Kingston?” he asked. “You worked with him on a couple of occasions, did you not? Well, he was killed—knifed to death—last week in Anchorage, Alaska. And that is one count too many against the man who killed him, Eric. I think it is time you took care of Hans Holz. Permanently.”

I looked at his expressionless face for a moment longer. “Holz, eh?”

“Holz.”

“Okay,” I said. I rose. “If you say so, sir. Come on, pooch. We’ve got to go kill a guy named Holz.”

“Eric, sit down.”

“Just a minute, mutt,” I said. “Sit and listen. The gentleman has more to say to us.”

“You don’t approve, Eric?”

“No, sir,” I said. “I don’t like these damn vendettas. So Kingston went and got himself killed by Holz, and we’re sorry about that, but so what? I’ve done jobs with quite a few guys who died later, without charging out heroically to settle accounts with the guys who killed them. If Holz is threatening the welfare of the universe, the world, the United States of America, or even the state of Alaska, fine, I’ll be glad to look him up and dispose of him, if I can. But if all he’s done is kill somebody, hell, I’ve done that myself. Besides, haven’t you heard, sir? The man is dangerous. He’s one of their big guns, perhaps the biggest they’ve got right now. He’s been coming up steadily since we first heard of him back in the late fifties. I mean, going after him is apt to be, you know, kind of risky.”

Mac eyed me coldly. “Are you afraid of Holz, Eric?”

Now he was being ridiculous. I said, “Sure, I’m afraid of Holz. I’m afraid of any experienced pro who knows how and when to kill. He’s been around quite a while now, too long for it to be just dumb luck. He’s survived a lot of guys who’ve gone against him. That means he could survive even me, outlandish as such a thought might seem.”

“You’ve survived pretty well, too,” Mac pointed out.

“Yes, sir. And I’ve done it by never seeing myself in the part of an avenging angel or of some movie dope trying to prove he’s the fastest gun west of somewhere. Of course, I work for this outfit, and if you order me to go after the guy with the horns and the tail, I’ll step right out and have myself fitted for an asbestos suit. If you order me to hunt down Hans Holz, that’s that, and I’ll be on my way to Alaska or wherever. But I’d kind of like a better reason than an agent named Kingston who was old enough to take care of himself.”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly thinking of having you hunt down Mr. Holz,” Mac said deliberately. “I was rather thinking of having him hunt you down, if you know what I mean.”

I sighed. For once I was, if not ahead of him, at least not too far behind. “Yes, sir. It’s becoming clear to me, gradually. So that’s why you encouraged this masquerade.”

“Precisely. I am glad to hear that the dog is not all he should be. And I am happy to see that you do not really resemble the dead man very much, except in the basic dimensions. Do you understand, Eric?”

I said, “Let us say that outlines are appearing through the fog. But perhaps you would care to blow the mists aside a little farther, sir.”

Mac nodded. “As far as our associates are concerned, you are impersonating the dead man to the best of your ability, as of course you are. You will endeavor to carry out the mission they have assigned you. You will do your best to keep your cover intact, such as it is. However, you know and I know that your best will probably not be good enough. This type of impersonation is inherently improbable anyway; it’s a television gambit that’s very unlikely to succeed in real life.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “So you expect my cover to be blown, sooner or later. And then what?”

“That,” he said, “is a very foolish question, Eric.”

“Excuse me. Of course. When my cover is blown, they’ll kill me. Or try.”

“Precisely. And whom will they call upon to perform this distasteful task? The average spy is a specialist at gathering information; he is not required to be particularly brave or skilled with weapons. For violence, he calls in a specialist in violence. And it happens that the murder specialist assigned by the Communists to this particular espionage ring for this particular mission is Mr. Hans Holz. As a matter of fact, it was through his current associates that we finally managed to locate him so that we could send Kingston after him. The details don’t matter. I mention it only so that you will understand that this is no vendetta, as you called it. We were looking for Holz long before he killed Kingston.”

Obviously, I was supposed to ask why. I asked, “Why, sir?”

“Because we have learned, never mind how, what his next assignment is to be.” Mac paused. It occurred to me that he was being pretty evasive himself, but I didn’t say so. He went on, “We have learned that Holz’s superiors have decided to capitalize on the recent political murders in this country by staging an assassination of their own, calculated to create more political chaos here. Holz is the man they have chosen to carry it out. As you said, he is the biggest gun they have at the moment.”

“And who’s to be his target?”

Mac said, “It should be obvious. In an election year, who would you pick for maximum effect, Eric? Essentially, Holz has been marking time in Alaska on this other, relatively unimportant assignment. His big job must wait until he knows of the outcome of the presidential race this fall. He has orders to strike as soon as the U.S. electorate has decided which candidate to elect.”

I whistled softly. “Yes, that might cause us a spot of bother, as our British friends would say.”

“Precisely. So you must get him, and it had better be soon. If he follows his usual behavior pattern, he’ll go underground well ahead of the target date in November.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Do we know how he’s planning to do the job? I mean the big job?”

“Like two of the other recent killings, it’s to be a long-range-rifle job. If the American people wish to note the resemblance and attribute it to a gigantic conspiracy of extremists, right or left, I’m sure it will make our friends in Moscow very happy. And like you, Holz is quite as good with a rifle as with a knife. Incidentally, do you still carry that little knife our ordnance people disapprove of?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. I reached into my pocket and brought it out to show him. It looked like a slightly oversized jackknife, “If they had their way, I’d be lugging a junior-grade machete. The knives they specify are great for fighting, but where do you hide them? This looks like a pocket knife and does the work.”

“Keep it handy. You may have need of it, going against Holz. Now you’d better visit the recognition room and get our latest information on the man. Report when you can.”

“Yes, sir.” I put away the knife and got to my feet once more. “Come on, stupid, wake up. I mean, excuse me, Prince Hannibal, please arise and follow me.”

The town was called Pasco and didn’t like dogs. At least Hank and I had had to try three hostelries upon our arrival the previous day, before finding one that would take us in. One prim-faced motel lady had informed me that little dogs were all right, but she couldn’t possibly see her way to admitting a great hulking beast like a Labrador—a piece of logic that baffled me, since I’d been under the impression since childhood that the smaller the dog the more persistent the noise and the sharper the teeth.

The place that had finally saved us from having to camp out was a pleasant two-story motel with swimming pool, coke machine, ice machine, and all other customary facilities except a restaurant—a lack that was filled by a café a block away. Returning from the river, I stopped at this eating place to put a little substantial nourishment on top of the coffee and doughnuts. Then I proceeded to the motel to shave, shower, and dress in slightly more respectable clothes than Grant Nystrom’s weatherbeaten fishing costume. I stuck to the cowboy boots, however, since they had been his preferred footgear under practically all circumstances.

I had a little time to spare, so with the pup comfortably asleep on the wall-to-wall carpet, I stretched out on the rumpled bed and thought about two presidential candidates, one of whom was marked for murder. This was no fun, so I let myself think about a tall blondish girl named Patricia Bellman, Pat for short. At least that was the way she’d introduced herself; whether it was her real name remained to be seen. Thinking about girls is always pleasant, and I’m partial to the outdoors type, but I couldn’t form any conclusions about the kid. There wasn’t enough to go on. She could be an innocent bystander or she could be involved up to her little ears in conspiracy and intrigue.

I sighed and got up from the bed and dug some objects out of my fishing vest: her parting gifts—a brass-spinner about an inch across the blade, equipped with a single, businesslike hook; a good-sized lead sinker; and a little plastic bottle with some holes punched in the cap for air and two grasshoppers stirring sluggishly inside. Pat Bellman had showed me how to assemble these components for proper casting, and told me to give them a try the next time I got out, perhaps this evening. The middle of the day wasn’t much good for steelheads, she’d said.

I frowned at the stuff; then I grinned, thinking of how much fun Mr. Smith’s young men could have, analyzing a couple of live grasshoppers for secret messages. It hadn’t been a satisfactory contact in several respects, but my orders were clear: all materials I obtained were to be submitted for quick examination. We couldn’t risk letting any information go through intact.

I glanced at my watch to check the time, and put the stuff in a cute little plastic box equipped with a magnet—very tricky. I added a small note in cipher describing the person from whom it had been obtained and the circumstances—although this was only a precaution, since there were supposed to be agents watching me at all times, and making notes on everybody who approached me. By now, if they were on the ball, they knew more about Pat Bellman than I did.