Matt Helm - The Interlopers E-Book

Donald Hamilton

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

This time Mac has gone too far. For Helm to impersonate a Communist courier to whom he bears no resemblance is suicide, and that isn't all. Someone wants to get the layout of the Alaskan North-west Coastal Defence System, but they aren't the good guys or the bad guys. So who the hell are they? And who is the mysterious Holz that Helm is meant to kill?

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also by Donald Hamilton

Title Page

Copyright

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About the Author

Also Available from Titan Books

Also by Donald Hamilton and available from Titan Books

Death of a Citizen

The Wrecking Crew

The Removers

The Silencers

Murderers’ Row

The Ambushers

The Shadowers

The Ravagers

The Betrayers

The Menacers

The Poisoners (December 2014)

The Intriguers (February 2015)

The Intimidators (April 2015)

The Terminators (June 2015)

The Interlopers Print edition ISBN: 9781783292943 E-book edition ISBN: 9781783292950

Published by Titan Books A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd 144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: October 2014 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 1969, 2014 by Donald Hamilton. All rights reserved. Matt Helm® is the registered trademark of Integute AB.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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1

I got to the river before dawn, as instructed, and nursed the Chevy pickup cautiously off the dirt road and down along the bank to the safe and solid place I’d selected late the previous afternoon when I’d scouted the area by daylight. Of course, I’d done a little evening fishing afterwards, to make it look good, but what I’d mainly been after was the assurance that, come morning, I’d be able to find the rendezvous in the dark.

Now, having found it, I switched off the headlights and went around to the rear of the vehicle and opened up the camper to let the pup out. He was still young and naive enough to take me for a dog-lover just because I fed him once a day. He paused briefly, therefore, to give my face a couple of wet licks before racing off to take care of various items of urgent dog business. I could hear him out there in the dark but I couldn’t see him since he was all Labrador and just about as black as a dog can get.

I wiped my face with my sleeve and looked across the faintly gleaming water toward the Hanford Atomic Energy Reservation. According to the map, it occupied a considerable area of the state of Washington off in that direction—northwest, if it matters—but at this hour of the morning, from where I stood on the opposite bank of the Columbia River, I could see only a few mysterious lights. I wondered if whatever they did over there had anything to do with what I was doing over here.

In any case, I hoped they knew more about their present business, whatever it was, than I knew about mine. It was one of those super-security capers that seem to develop every time agencies other than ours get into the act, and as usual I was supposed to go out and save the world with blindfold and earmuffs on, seeing and hearing nothing of a sensitive or classified nature.

I reached inside the camper and turned on the light and pulled out my fishing rod—well, it was mine now, the previous owner having no further use for it. I explored some tricky little tackle boxes and found a metallic lure that looked suitable, meaning that it looked heavy and compact enough to cast easily, and to hell with what the Columbia River steelhead trout might think of it. After some fumbling I managed to attach it to the practically invisible monofilament line by means of a little swivel-and-snaphook gadget. I leaned the rod against the truck, pulled off the cowboy boots I’d been wearing, drew on some heavy socks, and fought my way into a pair of rubber hip boots.

I switched off the camper light, picked up the rod again, glanced toward the lightening sky to the east, and headed for the wide expanse of grayly shining water to make like Ike Walton. The pup thought this was a fine, exciting project. He abandoned his business up along the shore and went racing past to splash into the water ahead of me.

“Hank,” I said, “get the hell out of there. I’m doing the fishing around here, not you. Hank, heel!”

I reached for the whistle hanging by a thong around my neck, but I didn’t need it. He was kind of a special dog. At the moment he was operating under the alias of Avon’s Prince Hannibal of Holgate—Hank for short—but his real name was equally impressive, and he’d come to me complete with as many instructions as an expensive camera. These included a list of authorized commands which, to my surprise, he usually obeyed.

I mean, I’d known hunting dogs before, but they’d been wide-ranging pointers and setters mostly, with a few hounds thrown in for good measure: all homegrown canine geniuses of a fairly independent nature. I’m sure the idea of walking docilely at heel had never occurred to any of them. Their job was to find game, not to show off their party manners. If you wanted one of them to stick around, you attached one end of a husky chain to his collar and got a good grip on the other end.

But this was a retriever and a real gold-plated pup, professionally trained. At the command he came back out of the water. He came reluctantly, but he came. He shook water all over me by way of protest—apparently there was nothing in the rules against this—and then he followed me along the bank, walking exactly level with my left knee. When I sat him down on a dry spot and told him to stay, he stayed. Somebody’d obviously put in a lot of work on him.

I left him sitting there obediently and waded out into the river, wondering if my contact was watching my antics through nightglasses, perhaps from the high ground behind me. I also wondered how long he’d make me play angler before he showed himself. There wasn’t a sign of a fish in the water ahead of me. The evening before, some big stuff had been breaking the surface out there from time to time, but this morning the river was perfectly smooth except for the shifting patterns of swirls and eddies caused by the heavy current. I heaved my spoon in the general direction of the other shore, let it sink too far before starting the retrieve, and promptly got it snagged on the rocky bottom.

Maneuvering to free it, I reflected that this was a hell of a complicated identification routine to have to go through just to receive a little secret information from some guy who wasn’t supposed to have it. However, certain people were interested in uncovering that guy and a lot of others like him up here in the Northwest, not to mention being also interested in preventing the stolen information from being used to our disadvantage.

So for the time being I was a gent, named Grant Nystrom, a real sporty character, mad about fishing tackle and guns and Labrador retrievers—black Labrador retrievers, if you please. None of your offbeat yellow Labs for friend Nystrom, or your lousy Chesapeakes or Golden retrievers, either.

Just black Labs and fancy spinning and fly-fishing tackle and expensive sporting firearms for friend Nystrom, plus a rugged little sleep-two camper on a long-wheelbase half-ton chassis—a miniature house on wheels—to take him to where the fish were swimming or the birds were flying, or to where a piece of illicit data was waiting to be collected from an undercover operative and passed along to people somewhere on this continent who had the facilities for passing it along to people somewhere on another continent, people we’d rather didn’t get their hands on it, at least not before we’d had a chance to make a few judicious alterations—or substitutions; they hadn’t told me which—to render it useless and perhaps even downright misleading.

It seemed as if Nystrom had picked a pretty good cover for a courier operating out here in the great open spaces where everybody loves the outdoors or pretends to. After all, there was no real reason why contact couldn’t be made beside a trout stream as well as in a bar; and a man who likes dogs tends to be accepted as a sterling character, above suspicion.

It had been a sound enough plan, with some nice, imaginative touches, and it should have worked out well for friend Nystrom. But instead, for reasons still unknown to us, something had gone wrong. He’d met with difficulties of a fatal nature and so had his young black dog. We were callously trying to profit from their misfortunes.

In other words, my young black dog and I were taking over Grant Nystrom’s courier route where he’d abandoned it due to circumstances beyond his control. At least that was the theory as it had been explained to me in San Francisco a few days earlier by a very important counter-intelligence type from Washington who’d told me graciously that, if I had to call him something, Smith would do. One of these days I’ll meet up with one of these coy characters who’ll have picked on some family other than the poor, abused, overworked Smiths, but I haven’t yet.

“So this is the man,” Mr. Smith had said, looking me over suspiciously after the introductions, such as they were, had been made. He was a tall, ascetic-looking individual with deep-set X-ray eyes. At least he looked as if he thought he could see through my flesh and bone right down into my probably corrupt and subversive soul. I wondered how Mac had come to get us stuck with him. Well, it’s a big government and you can’t duck all the kooks. Mr. Smith frowned dubiously and said, “The resemblance isn’t really very close, is it?”

Mac said coldly, “According to the computer, it’s the best match you’re going to get if you insist on a trained U.S. agent with proper clearance. Of course, you could try Central Casting, Hollywood.”

Mr. Smith said hastily, “I didn’t mean—”

“If you’re not satisfied,” Mac went on, “just say the word. This man has plenty of work to do without pulling your people’s chestnuts out of the fire just because he bears a faint resemblance to a corpse in which you happen to be interested.”

“No, no,” Mr. Smith protested. “I just… actually, the height and weight are very good, indeed excellent. The eye color is acceptable, and the hair can be taken care of. There is, of course, a certain age difference, and a certain grimness of expression…”

“I am sure Eric will agree to change his expression if the necessity is explained to him,” Mac said, using my code name as always. My real name is Matthew Helm, but that’s beside the point. Mac went on, poker-faced: “I’m afraid we’re going to have trouble making him any younger, however. Our rejuvenation techniques are still in the experimental stage.”

Mr. Smith didn’t seem to realize he was being kidded. He said, unruffled, “Also in our favor is the fact that your man is an outdoorsman, at home with guns and fishing tackle and such. Isn’t that right?” He looked at me for the answer.

“Guns, yes,” I said. “It’s been a while since I handled a fishing rod, however.”

Mr. Smith dismissed this objection. “It’s not something a man forgets, I gather. You’ll be briefed on the latest angling techniques, of course, as used by the man you’re to impersonate. How do you get along with dogs?”

I shrugged. “We have a nonagression pact. I don’t bite them and they don’t bite me.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll do a good job, Eric. You have an impressive record and we’re glad to have your help.” Mr. Smith regarded me benevolently for a moment; then his expression hardened. “Of course you’ll keep in mind at all times that security is paramount on this assignment. Absolutely paramount. My people will supply you with the information you need to do your job, no more. Well, I must start for the airport if I’m to make it back to Washington today.”

That had been in California, last week. Now I was standing knee-deep in the Columbia River, a couple of states to the north, all made up like a fisherman, with my hair bleached almost white and a black dog watching me expectantly from the bank. Daylight was upon us, and a sporty-looking coupé—one of those glamorized compacts with slanting rear decks and fancy wheel covers—was nosing its way off the dirt road and down through the brush to where my truck was parked.

It stopped there. A tall, blondish girl in jeans got out, opened the trunk, and began to climb into the kind of chest-high waders that look like baggy rubber pants with feet in them.

2

I wasn’t supposed to display any curiosity, of course. In fact, I was supposed to do nothing whatever except present myself, complete with dog and whistle, on the riverbank at dawn. Perhaps because—in my Nystrom incarnation—I was so easily described and so readily identifiable, the approach was to be made by the other party.

If this leggy female was my contact, the next step was up to her. And if she wasn’t, the less interest I displayed, the better. If I ignored her, maybe she’d go away. I just glanced at her rather coldly, therefore, like any angler finding his private fishing spot invaded by a stranger.

Then I went back to heaving my lure, which I had freed, out into the wide Columbia and cranking it back again. On the next retrieve, as it came into sight flashing erratically in the dark water, the biggest fish in the world made a lazy roll right behind it. I mean, for a trout, if it was a trout, it was a monster. Any red-blooded American boy would have found his heart beating faster at the sight of such a fish. I had no trouble doing a reasonably convincing job of impersonating a fisherman, therefore, for the next half hour or so, as I dragged everything in Grant Nystrom’s fancy tackleboxes past the spot where I thought the giant was lurking.

Nothing happened. No more fish investigated my lures—if that’s what the big one had been doing—and no humans made contact with me, either. When I looked around for the girl, she was standing in waist-deep water a couple of hundred yards upstream, swinging a heavy, two-handed, steelhead-type spinning rod with the ease that comes only with years of practice.

I cast some more, gaining skill but losing enthusiasm as the morning wore on. Finally I gave up on fish and waded ashore to make myself a little more available to people. My watch said that the contact deadline was getting close. If nothing happened by seven, my instructions were to leave the place and try the alternate rendezvous that had been provided for later in the day.

I went back to the camper, poured myself some coffee from a thermos jug, and got a doughnut out of a paper bag. Munching and sipping, I stood by the door looking out at the river. Another car had come down to join us: a rather elderly white Plymouth station wagon. The occupants, two men, were fishing downstream from my spot. Nobody seemed to be catching anything.

As I turned to reach into the camper for another doughnut, having had no breakfast, I became aware that the girl had left the water and was coming toward me. The pup, whom I’d given permission to run, was romping along behind her; obviously he’d found a friend. I felt the familiar tightness come to my throat. No matter how long you’re in the business, I guess you never get over that slightly breathless feeling just before the first card is dealt to open the game. Of course, it still remained to be proved that this blond kid was in the game. She could just be a friendly female who liked fish and dogs.

She stopped in front of me. The baggy rubber waders, held up by suspenders, did nothing for her figure, but I could see that she was the reedy, rather fragile kind of tall girl: a little girl stretched out long rather than a well-proportioned Amazon. Everything about her was rather small and delicate except for the long bones, and they looked as if they’d break rather easily. She had a small, tomboy face, framed by streaky blondish hair that was parted on one side, combed down straight all around, and whacked off level an inch or so below the ears. Her eyes, I saw, were blue and innocently direct, as if she’d never heard about fluttering eyelashes and maidenly reticence.

“Is this your dog?” she said. “He’s perfectly beautiful.”

It wasn’t exactly what she was supposed to say, and it wasn’t exactly the truth, either. I mean, a Labrador isn’t really a beautiful dog like, say, an Afghan hound or an Irish setter.

I said, “He’s a good pup. Would you care for some coffee and a doughnut?”

“No, thanks. Well, yes, if they’re handy, I guess I will, please.” She waited until I’d brought her the stuff. “Are you having any luck?” she asked after a bite and a sip.

I shook my head. “No. I saw a big one roll out there, but I couldn’t interest him further. Of course, I’m not an expert on the tastes of your local fish.”

“What are you using?”

I showed her my current lure. It didn’t impress her. “Well, they sometimes take that,” she said. “But I have more luck with this rig, usually. A brass spinner and a single hook with a grasshopper on it. Of course, you’ve got to use a sinker to make it cast right. Here.” She showed it to me.

“Where do you get the grasshoppers?” I asked. I was trying hard to show the proper interest, but I wasn’t really interested in grasshoppers or even in big steelhead trout. I hadn’t been sent here for any fish, no matter how spectacular, and the interview wasn’t going right. There were certain things she was supposed to say in a certain way, if she was the right person, and she hadn’t said them. She’d been close, but in our business close isn’t good enough. The actual, specified words are supposed to be spoken.

“The grasshoppers?” she said. “Oh, you can chase them in the daytime, but I generally just pick them off the leaves after dark. What’s his name?”

Her mind wasn’t on angling either, I saw. She obviously was more interested in the pup.

“Hank,” I said.

“No, I mean his real name.”

“Oh. Well, officially he’s Avon’s Prince Hannibal of Holgate.” I grinned. “If you want the works, his sire was Field Champion Avon’s Prince Rufus, and his dam was Holgate’s Black Donna… What’s the matter?”

There was a funny look on her tomboy face. “He doesn’t look like one of the Avon dogs. I’ve seen pictures of them in the magazines, and they’re all built like greyhounds.” She laughed quickly. “Not that I’m running down your dog; I like the small, stocky type of Lab myself. After all, if you’re going to have a retriever, it ought to look like a retriever and not a racehorse, don’t you think?” She hesitated but went on before I could speak. “Of course you have papers on him.”

“Sure,” I said. She had me baffled; I couldn’t guess what she was driving at. I tried another grin. “But I’m afraid he’s not for sale.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of buying him. But I have a little bitch who’s just come into heat and the dog to which I was planning to breed her… well, it didn’t work out, and I was wondering… could I see his papers?”

We’d considered all kinds of possibilities, setting this up, but the pup’s love life hadn’t really entered into our calculations.

I said, “Well, he’s pretty young to be used at stud, and I’m only in town for a day or two.”

She gave me a nice, unselfconscious grin. “How long does it take, actually? And I shouldn’t think it would hurt him to learn the facts of life.” She looked down at the black pup. He’d got wet again, visiting with her upriver, and now he was on his back, rolling himself happily in the dirt. In that position it was rather obvious that he was a little boy dog and not a little girl dog. The blond girl laughed. “He seems to have all the necessary equipment. He might as well learn how to use it.”

She was kind of a refreshing young lady, but if she wasn’t the person I’d come here to meet, I was wasting my time on her; in fact, she was an obstruction I’d better dispose of fast, before her presence scared off the real contact.

I said curtly, “I don’t really think—”

“Please,” she said softly. “I really want to get a good litter out of Maudie before she’s too old. She’s been… she’s been pretty great.” She stopped and cleared her throat. “Where are you staying in town? Or are you camping out?”

“No, I got tired of pioneering. I’m staying at the Thunderbird Motel, but…”

She said, “Please. I’ll pay any fee within reason. Your dog is really lovely. He’s just what I’ve been looking for. They’ll be beautiful pups. How about twelve o’clock? I’ll buy you a lunch and we can talk it over, and I’ll take you out to see Maudie. Of course I have to keep her penned up right now. She’s a very good Lab. You’ll like her…”

Ten minutes later, I was driving away, pretty well committed to officiating at a canine love-in. The time was up and the right words hadn’t been said to make the contact official. Either she wasn’t the one, or she was stalling for some reason, perhaps suspicion. Well, if she really knew dogs—and she seemed to—she had good reason to be suspicious.

3

I’d told Mac from the start that Mr. Smith from Washington was a damn fool, having me go to all the trouble of making my hair an exact match for the dead man’s but giving me a pup that, aside from being black and a Labrador, hardly resembled the dead dog at all.

Mac had called me into the San Francisco office he was using temporarily, to ask for a progress report. This was at the end of the third and final day of indoctrination and general remodeling, designed to make me think, look, and act like Grant Nystrom. More study would have been useful—on other occasions I’ve taken weeks, even months, to work up a character properly—but Nystrom’s schedule didn’t allow it. I had to be on the banks of the Columbia on time.

As always, Mac had managed to pick an office with a bright window behind his chair, but after working with him for quite a few years, I didn’t need to see him clearly. I knew what he looked like, crisp gray hair, black eyebrows, and all. I knew his business expressions by heart. He doesn’t have too many that he uses in the line of duty. You could call him poker-faced and get no argument from me. What he’s like at home, if he’s got a home, I wouldn’t know.

“Well, Eric?” he said.

“Just a minute, sir,” I said, and turned to the pup, who was showing signs of wanting to investigate the office, perhaps with ulterior motives. “Hank, sit! Now stay there. Stay!”

I sat down and looked across the desk apologetically. “I’m supposed to take him everywhere I go. He even sleeps in my hotel room. It plays hell with my love life—or would, if they gave me time for a love life.”

“I gathered they were keeping you pretty busy.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “They’re trying hard, all those bright young characters working for Mr. Smith. But it isn’t going to work, sir.”

There was a little pause. When he spoke, the tone of the voice told me that the black eyebrows had lifted a fraction of an inch. “Why not? They seem to have done a good job on your hair. It’s a close match for that of the man we were taken to see in their private morgue. And I gather they have been able to give you a thorough knowledge of the late Mr. Nystrom’s likes and dislikes, his personal habits, and his current identification routines and itinerary.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “They know more about Grant Nystrom’s private life than seems quite reasonable; more than they could possibly have got from simple surveillance, and they won’t tell me how they got it. Another thing they won’t tell me is why the guy was killed, although it’s a subject in which I have, I feel, a legitimate interest.”

“Maybe they don’t know.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But maybe they do know and just aren’t saying. They’re very selective about telling me things. The story I got was that the agent tailing the guy heard a couple of rifle shots. He’d been waiting in his car out of sight while Nystrom worked at training the pup out in the country somewhere. Hearing the shots, the agent decided he’d better drive up and take a look. He found them lying out in the field dead, man and dog both. As he got out and hurried over to them, a guy took off through the brush, jumped into a car, and drove away.”

Mac grimaced; he dislikes inefficiency. “Maybe Mr. Smith should teach his people a little more common sense and a little less security.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “It was a pretty sloppy performance, all right. Maybe the agent in question couldn’t keep his subject from getting shot—maybe he wasn’t even supposed to—but he could at least have refrained from barging in clumsily until he’d got a good look at the murderer and learned what the guy was up to. Incidentally, the rifle was a .243, a pretty small caliber for a pro. It may be significant. I don’t know.”

“It seems to have been a professional enough job of shooting, Eric. Two shots; two dead bodies.”

“Yes, sir. But most pros would prefer to stack the deck in their favor by using somewhat bigger bullets. That six-millimeter rifle is pretty light. You’ve got more leeway with, say, a seven-millimeter or thirty-caliber gun. You’ve got some extra power in reserve, in case you don’t put the shot in exactly the right place.” I shrugged. “Anyway, after letting the murderer get away unseen, the agent started behaving with reasonable intelligence for a change. He quickly bundled both stiffs, human and canine, into Nystrom’s pickup camper and drove it out of sight. Then he came back for his own car, taking time to clean up the premises. So the only people besides us who know Nystrom is dead, we hope, are the people involved in having him killed. At least we’re gambling that the outfit we’re trying to get the goods on—the Communist spy ring for which he was playing courier—hasn’t got the word.”

“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.”