Matt Helm - The Wrecking Crew E-Book

Donald Hamilton

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Matt Helm
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Seitenzahl: 327

Beschreibung

A brand-new edition of the classic thriller. Matt Helm, newly reinstated counter-agent, has a mission. He must travel to the wastes of northern Sweden and dispose of Caselius, a wraith-like operator with a genius for destruction. But amid a bewildering web of deceit woven by the enemy agent, his only ally deceased and help a thousand miles away, Helm soon realises he must track down his deadly prey alone.

Leseprobe

Available from Donald Hamilton and Titan Books

Death of a Citizen

The Removers (April 2013)

The Silencers (June 2013)

Murderers’ Row (August 2013)

The Ambushers (October 2013)

The Shadowers (December 2013)

The Ravagers (February 2014)

DONALD HAMILTON

A MATT HELM NOVEL

THE WRECKING CREW

TITAN BOOKS

The Wrecking Crew

Print edition ISBN: 9780857683366

E-book edition ISBN: 9781781162316

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: February 2013

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 © 1960, 2013 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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THE WRECKING CREW

Contents

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About the Author

1

I awoke early, shaved, dressed, draped myself with cameras and equipment, and went on deck to record our entry into the port of Gothenburg. I couldn’t think of a likely market for the shots, but I was supposed to be an eager and ambitious free-lance photographer, and I’d be expected to be alert to the chance that somebody would fall overboard or the ship would hit something.

Nothing happened, and after we were safely docked I went down to breakfast, after which I came back up to the smoking room for passport inspection. Finally I was shunted down the gangplank into the arms of the Swedish customs, where I braced myself to justify my possession of a thousand bucks’ worth of photographic gear and several hundred rolls of film, having been warned that European countries are touchy about this sort of thing. It was a bum steer. Nobody paid any attention to the cameras and film. The only part of my belongings that caused a mild official interest was the guns.

I explained that an editor in New York had arranged with a sporting character in Stockholm to have an import permit waiting for me at the dock. I was thereupon escorted down the long shed to an office where a blond young fellow shortly produced a document authorizing Herr Matthew L. Helm, of Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, to transport into the kingdom of Sweden one räffla gevär, Winchester, kaliber .30-06, and one hagelbössa, Remington, kaliber 12.

The youthful customs man checked the serial numbers of the rifle and shotgun, then laid the weapons on a platform scale, wrote down the total weight in kilograms, consulted a table with this figure, and announced that the duty would be thirteen crowns. Having already learned that the Swedish crown was worth approximately twenty cents, I couldn’t feel that the tariff was exorbitant, but it did seem like a funny way to assess it.

As I left the office, I soothed my conscience with the thought that by not declaring the aluminum-framed, five-shot Smith and Wesson .38 Special concealed in my luggage, I wasn’t really cheating the Swedish government of much money—less than two bits, in fact—since it was a very light little gun.

It had been Mac’s idea. “Your bona-fide literary and photographic background is going to come in very handy on this job,” he’d said, giving me my instructions in his Washington office. “To be perfectly frank, it’s the chief reason you were selected, in spite of the length of time that’s passed since you were associated with us last. There’s also the fact that you already know the language, after a fashion, and we haven’t many operatives who do.”

He’d looked up at me across the desk—a spare, gray-haired man of indeterminate age, with coal-black eyebrows and cold black eyes. Somehow he always managed to arrange his offices, wherever they might be (I could remember one in London with a grim view of bombed-out buildings) so that he had a window behind him, making it hard to read his expression against the light, which I suppose was the idea. “You’ve done articles for outdoor magazines in the past,” he’d said. “What’s more logical than for you to be working on a couple of hunting pieces in addition to your main photographic assignment? I’ll get in touch with some people and fix it up for you.”

I said, “There’s going to be a lot of red tape with the guns. Other countries are more sensitive about firearms than we are.”

“Precisely,” he said. “That’s just the point. You take a lot of trouble to get the proper papers for your hunting arms, all open and innocent, and who’s going to suspect you of packing a revolver and a knife as well? Anyway, they’ve got some pretty wild terrain up there in northern Sweden where you’re going. Who knows, a high-powered rifle may be just what you’ll need.”

It had still seemed like an unnecessary complication to me. I hadn’t looked forward to juggling a rifle and a shotgun, plus a lot of hunting paraphernalia, in addition to the camera junk I was already saddled with by my role as photographer. However, as Mac had pointed out, I’d been out of touch for a long time; I wasn’t familiar with the subtleties of peacetime operation. But I did remember clearly from the war that there were limits to the amount of argument Mac would tolerate from a subordinate, particularly when he felt he was being extremely clever.

“Okay,” I said hastily. “You’re the boss, sir.”

I hadn’t wanted him to change his mind about putting me back to work. And now I was landing on European soil again, after better than fifteen years, with the same old feeling that everybody was looking at me and my belongings with knowing, X-ray eyes.

There was bright sunshine outside the customs shed— well, as bright as you get in the fall that far north. It would probably have seemed like a pale and wintry day, back home in New Mexico. There was a wide, cobble-stoned street outside, full of weird, left-handed traffic. The Swedes, along with the British, persist in driving on the opposite side of the street from practically everybody else in the world.

There were two-and four-wheeled vehicles in just about equal numbers, with some oddly shaped three-wheelers thrown in for good measure. The taxi that took me to the railroad station was a German Mercedes. The train itself had an old-fashioned, unstreamlined look that was kind of refreshing. I disposed of my heavier baggage with the proper official, and started to get into one of the cars, but stepped back to let a woman board first.

She was quite a handsome young woman—from where I stand, thirty still qualifies as young—and she was wearing a severely tailored blue suit that did justice to her figure in a nice, understated way; but her hair, under the little blue tweed hat that matched her suit, was also blue, which seemed odd to me. Of course there was really no reason why a good-looking female of youthful appearance whose hair had turned white prematurely shouldn’t dye the stuff blue if she wanted to.

I followed her aboard. She apparently knew her way around Swedish rolling stock better than I did. I lost track of her in the unfamiliar surroundings. It had been a long time since I’d last patronized a European railroad. This car was divided into small eight-passenger compartments marked either Rökare or Icke Rökare. Remembering from my Minnesota boyhood that röka means smoke in Swedish, and icke means no, I had no trouble understanding the distinction, particularly since other signs gave the translation in German, French, and English.

I selected an empty nonsmoker and settled down by the window, which could be raised and lowered by means of a leather strap about four inches wide. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been on a train that wasn’t sealed up tight for air conditioning, but of course they wouldn’t need that here, in the shadow of the Arctic Circle. It was a long ride to Stockholm, through green, partly forested country interrupted by a multitude of lakes and streams, and accented with red barns and orange-red tile roofs.

Around three in the afternoon, a little late, having traversed the entire width of the country from west to east, the train entered the capital of Sweden across a long bridge over water; but it was twenty minutes more before I could extract my junk from the baggage room and transfer it to a waiting taxi. I’d got over my first feeling of stage fright. Nobody seemed to be paying the slightest attention to me now, except for some kids intrigued by my big Western hat. One of them came over and bobbed his blond head politely. “Yes,” I said, “what is it?”

“Är farbror en cowboy?” he asked.

In addition to having had some contact with the language as a boy, I’d been given a quick refresher course—not only in the language, but in other subjects as well—before being sent out. But of course I wasn’t supposed to understand a word, and somebody might be watching, so I looked blank.

“Sorry, I don’t read you,” I said. “Can’t you put it into English?”

A woman’s voice said, behind me, “He wants to know if you’re a cowboy.”

I looked around, and there she was again, blue suit, blue hair, and all. Bumping into her a second time didn’t please me a bit. It wasn’t a contact, because there was nobody here I was scheduled to meet in this manner; and I’d once survived a war mainly by putting no faith whatever in the power of coincidence. It still seemed like a sound principle to follow.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “Please tell the kid that I’m sorry, but I never roped a steer in my life. The hat and the boots are just for show.”

This was another of Mac’s fancy ideas. I was supposed to be something of a rustic Gary Cooper character, as well as a hunter and a camera-clicking screwball. Well, I had the height for it, if no other qualifications; but I couldn’t help feeling, with this woman’s eyes upon me, that the act I was being asked to put on was unnecessarily detailed and complicated, not to mention corny. However, I’d asked for the job—after first turning it down twice—so I wasn’t in a position to complain.

The woman laughed, and turned to speak to the boy, in swift and fluent Swedish that had, however, a trace of an American accent. He looked disappointed, and ran off to tell his pals that I was a phony. The woman turned back to me, smiling.

“You broke his heart,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “Well, thanks a lot for interpreting.”

I got into the cab, leaving her standing there. She had quite a pretty smile, but if she had some reason besides my masculine appeal for wanting to talk to me, she’d undoubtedly turn up again; and if she didn’t, I had no time for her. I mean, I’ve never had any sympathy for agents who can’t refrain from complicating their jobs with irrelevant females. The relevant ones usually present problems enough.

I rode away without looking back, bracing myself against the psychological impact of the cockeyed traffic, which seemed even more unnatural because the cab was an ordinary American Plymouth with the steering wheel in the usual place. If they had to drive contrary to everyone else, you’d think they’d at least shift the driver over to where he could see the road. In addition to cars, the streets swarmed with ordinary bicycles, bikes with little motors, motor scooters, and full-grown motorcycles driven at furious speed by kids in round white crash helmets and black leather jackets.

At the hotel, I had to register on a police card that required me to state, among other things, where I’d come from last, how long I was staying here, and where I planned to go next. I was a little shocked to meet this sort of police-state red tape here, in time of peace. The Swedes were, after all, supposed to be among the most secure and democratic people in Europe, if not in the world, but apparently a foreigner had to be reported to the cops every time he changed hotels; and I wasn’t forgetting that bringing an ordinary rifle and shotgun into the country had demanded the equivalent of an act of Congress. I couldn’t help wondering what they were afraid of. Probably people like me.

My room turned out to be big and pleasant, overlooking one of the wide, picturesque estuaries that seemed to be just about everywhere you went in Stockholm—my taxi ride had confirmed my first impression that the city was half water and bridges. I got rid of the bellboy and looked at my watch. Eventually I’d have to report my arrival, as a matter of interdepartmental courtesy, to certain fellow-citizens on the spot, but this was a little detail I could postpone without a qualm of conscience. The less I had to do with professional diplomats and intelligence people, the better I liked it.

However, I also had an appointment of sorts directly connected with the job, and the train had made me later than I’d expected. I picked up the phone.

“I’d like to speak with Mrs. Taylor,” I said. “I believe she’s staying here. Mrs. Louise Taylor?”

“Mrs. Taylor?” The desk clerk’s voice, speaking English, had a strong British accent with Swedish overtones. It made an odd combination. “Righto,” he said. “Room 311. I’ll connect you, sir.”

Standing there, waiting for the call to be put through, I became aware that someone had stepped out of the closet behind me.

2

A canny secret-agent type would, of course, have looked the place over carefully before turning his back on the closet and bathroom doors. Under other circumstances, I might even have done so myself, but I was playing a part, and my script didn’t call for any displays of professional vigilance. Mac had been emphatic on this point.

“You’ve now been given a thorough refresher course of training, courtesy of Uncle Sam,” he said at my final briefing. “It’s possible that Uncle, being a peaceful sort, wouldn’t approve of everything in the curriculum, but what Uncle doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Security has its advantages, and we’re very top-secret here. We’re supposed to be developing some kind of a mystery weapon, I believe. Well, one might call it that. After all, the greatest mystery on earth, and the most dangerous weapon, is man himself.”

Having delivered himself of this weighty philosophy, he looked at me expectantly across the desk. I said, “Yes, sir.”

Mac grimaced. “I have your record here. It’s quite outstanding. I haven’t seen a worse one in a long time. Your reflexes and reaction times are lousy. Your score with a pistol, on all courses of fire, is pitiful. With a rifle you’re a little better, but then, practically anybody can shoot a rifle. With a knife, thanks to your long arms, you almost reached adequacy, it says here, once you stopped falling over your big feet. At unarmed combat, thanks again to your ridiculous height and reach, you finally succeeded in scaling the highest peaks of mediocrity. Your physical condition was deplorable when we got you, and it’s still nothing to cheer about. You’ve lost fifteen pounds, and could dispense with another ten without missing an ounce. What the devil have you been doing with yourself all these years, just sitting around on your rear elevation?”

“That’s about it, sir,” I said.

I’d been about to protest that my record couldn’t possibly be as bad as he claimed. As a matter of fact, for a man coming back to the organization after a fifteen-year layoff, I thought I’d done fairly well. About to say as much, I’d changed my mind, realizing that he wasn’t asking me, he was telling me. Regardless of what scores I’d actually made, this was what was going into the files, just in case somebody came snooping. He was being clever again. For some reason he considered it advantageous for me to seem practically helpless.

“The recommendation of the staff was unanimous,” Mac went on, poker-faced. “Not one of them would take the responsibility of clearing you for a dangerous mission.” He shoved the papers away from him. “They’re a bunch of fools,” he said. “I told them my reasons for wanting you, and still they send me this! We’ve got so much red tape, it’s a wonder we get anything done. Nowadays everybody’s supposed to have a signed certificate from a doctor, a psychologist, and six coaches and trainers, before he’s permitted to cross the street to fetch the evening paper. Remember the time I sent you across the Channel with a man we called Vance? You had a half-healed bullet hole in your chest, and he had his arm in a sling. It made your impersonations of German soldiers on convalescent leave much more convincing, and there’s no evidence that it affected your performances adversely. I don’t put much stock in physical condition. A man’s mental condition is what counts.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. He was getting wordy in his old age. He’d never talked this much during the war.

He frowned at me for a moment. “Vance is still with us, incidentally,” he said. “If you’ve forgotten what he looks like—we’ve all changed a bit since those days— you can identify him by the scar just above the elbow where the bone came out through the skin. Keep that in mind. He’ll be your direct contact with me, if for any reason you should find it inadvisable to use the regular channels of communication you’ve been told about.” He pursed his lips. “Of course, other departments have much greater facilities for transmitting messages than we have, and they give us wonderful cooperation, but you might just feel like sending something meant for my eyes alone. Or I might want to send something for yours. Vance will pass it on, either way. He’s operating on the continent, but the plane service is excellent, if you should need assistance.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

He glanced at the training-course records again. “As for this stuff,” he said, “whether or not it’s precisely accurate doesn’t matter, since the first thing I want you to do, when you leave this room, is forget everything you’ve just been taught. If I’d thought this job required a man trained to razor-edge perfection, I wouldn’t have picked one well along in his thirties, a man who’s been outside the organization, wielding nothing more lethal than camera and typewriter, for fifteen years. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“Not completely, sir,” I said. “You’ll have to spell it out for me.”

He said, “I had you put through the mill for your own sake. I couldn’t in good conscience send you out so rusty and out of condition you’d get yourself killed. Besides, we’ve developed some new techniques since your time, which I thought you’d like to know about. But in many ways you’d have been better prepared for the job at hand if you’d spent the past month in a hotel room with a bottle and a blonde. Now you’ll have to use restraint. Don’t betray yourself by showing off any of the pretty tricks you’ve just learned. If somebody wants to follow you, let them follow; you don’t even know they’re there. What’s more, you don’t care. If they want to search your belongings, don’t set any traps for them. If you should get involved in a fight-—God forbid—forget about weapons except in a clear and desperate emergency. And don’t give any unnecessary judo demonstrations, either. Just lead with your right and take your licking like a man. Do I make myself clear?”

“Well, I begin to see daylight through the mists, sir.”

He said, “I was sorry to hear that your wife has left you, but this project ought to take your mind off your marital troubles for a while.” He glanced at me sharply. “I suppose that’s why you suddenly changed your mind about coming back to work, after turning me down twice.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

He frowned at me. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? I don’t mind saying that I’m glad to have you. You may be a trifle soft in the body, but you can’t possibly be as bad as the youngsters we get nowadays, who are practically all soft in the head… You’ll be taking considerable risk, of course,” he went on more briskly. “I feel that the risk will be lessened by a deliberate show of ineptness, but this means that you’ll be a sitting duck for anybody who really wants you out of the way. You’ll have to give the other fellow all the breaks. But it’s a foregone conclusion that they’re going to test you out carefully before they accept you as harmless, and you don’t want to scare them off. We’ve got a good cover for you, but one clever, professional move on your part will blow it instantly. You don’t know anything like that, except what you’ve seen in the movies. You’re just a hick free-lance photographer on his first assignment for a big New York magazine, aching to make good. That’s all you are. Don’t forget it for a minute. The job, and maybe even your life, may depend on it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your target,” Mac said, “is a man named Caselius. At least that’s the only name he uses that seems to be known. He undoubtedly has others. He’s apparently a pretty good man in his line, which is espionage. He’s bothering our earnest counter-intelligence people no end, so that they’ve finally overcome their humanitarian scruples and put in a request for us to take action. The fact that the man seems to be dangerous may have influenced them slightly. They’ve lost a number of agents who got too close to this mysterious fellow; and there was an incident last year involving a magazine writer, a chap named Harold Taylor, who published a popular article on Soviet espionage in general and Mister Caselius in particular. It was the first time, to our knowledge, that the name had appeared in print.

“Shortly thereafter Taylor and his wife were accidentally sprinkled with a full clip of submachine-gun bullets while stopped at a road block in the wrong part of Germany. A careless sentry and a mechanical malfunction was the official explanation. There seems to be little doubt among our people that Caselius was responsible. Apparently Taylor had learned too much, somehow. This is the angle you’re supposed to exploit.”

“Exploit how?” I asked. “It’s been a long time since I’ve used a ouija board, sir.”

Mac ignored my feeble attempt at witticism. “Taylor was killed instantly, according to the reports. His wife, however, was only wounded, and survived. She was returned to our side of the so-called curtain after considerable delay, for which medical reasons were given. There were many official apologies and expressions of regret, of course. She is now in Stockholm, Sweden, ostensibly trying to continue her late husband’s writing career on her own hook. She has turned out a magazine article on iron mining in northern Sweden that requires photographic illustrations. I have arranged for you to be the man assigned by the magazine in question to take the pictures.

“Our intelligence people over there seem to think there’s something fishy about the accident to her husband, about her long detention in the East German hospital, and even about her sudden decision to take up article writing. In any case, you are to use her as a starting point. Guilty or innocent, she may lead you, somehow, to Caselius. Or you may have to figure out another angle. How you do it is your business. When you’ve made your touch, report back to me.”

The word seemed to bring a slight chill into the office. The Russians prefer the word liquidate. The syndicate boys call it making a hit. But we’d always referred to it as a touch, for no reason anybody’d ever figured out.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Eric,” he said, using my code name, as was our practice.

“Sir?”

“A little of that sirring goes a long way, Eric. We’re not in the army now.”

“No, sir,” I said. It was an old running joke between us, dating back to the time I’d first come to the outfit as an overeager young second lieutenant, happy to be singled out for special duty, even though I didn’t know what it was or why I’d been chosen. “I’ll certainly remember that, sir,” I said with a straight face.

He gave me a glimpse of his rare, wintry smile. “Just a few more things before you go,” he said. “You haven’t had many dealings with these people. Just remember that they’re as tough as the Nazis ever were and maybe even a shade smarter; at least they don’t go around claiming to be supermen. Remember that you aren’t quite as young as you were when we used to send you over into occupied France. And, finally, remember that you could get by with certain things in wartime that won’t pass in time of peace. This is a friendly country you’ll be visiting. You not only have to find your man and make the touch, you have to make it look good. You can’t shoot it out with their police and run for the border, if you make a mistake.” He hesitated. “Eric.”

“Sir?”

“About your wife. Would it help if I were to speak with her?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “All you could do would be to tell her the truth about the kind of work we did during the war, and that’s just what she’s recently discovered for herself. She can’t make herself forget it. It got so she couldn’t stand to have me come near her.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Well, it was bound to happen. I just tried to kid myself I could get away from it for good. I really had no business getting married and having a family. But thanks for the offer.”

He said, “If you get into trouble, we’ll do what we can unofficially, but officially we never heard of you. Good luck.”

All of this, some of it quite beside the point, went through my mind as I stood there holding the phone. The person behind me had made no real sound, but I knew quite well that I had company. I didn’t turn, but casually stretched out a foot, hooked a chair within reach, and sat down, as a woman’s voice came over the wire.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Taylor?” I said.

“Yes, this is Mrs. Taylor.”

Well, it wasn’t the woman with the blue hair. This was a much deeper voice than the one I’d heard at the railroad station. I got an impression of a brusque and businesslike female who didn’t approve of wasting time with idle amenities. Perhaps I was prejudiced by my knowledge that Louise Taylor had been a journalist’s wife and had done some writing herself. On the whole, my experience with literary ladies hasn’t been encouraging.

“This is Matt Helm, Mrs. Taylor,” I said.

“Oh, yes, the photographer,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you. Where are you now?”

“Right in the hotel,” I said. “The train was late; I just got in. If you have some time to spare, Mrs. Taylor, I’d like to discuss the article with you before I fly north to do the pix.”

She hesitated, as if I’d said something surprising. Then she said, “Why don’t you come to my room, and well talk about it over a drink? But I must warn you, Mr. Helm, if you’re a bourbon man, you’ll have to bring your own. I’m hoarding my last bottle. They never heard of the stuff over here. I’ve got plenty of Scotch, though.”

“Scotch will do me fine, Mrs. Taylor,” I said. “I’ll be down as soon as I put on a clean shirt.”

I hung up. Then I turned from the instrument casually. It wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to do, and I was careful to move slowly enough, I hoped, not to startle my unknown roommate into precipitate action.

I could have saved myself the trouble. She was just standing there, empty-handed and harmless—if any pretty woman can be called harmless—with her expensive tweed suit and severe silk blouse and soft blue hair. Well, I’d told myself that if she really had some reason for wanting to talk with me, she’d turn up again.

3

We paced each other for a moment in silence, while I dropped my jaw and widened my eyes to register the emotions proper to finding myself—surprise, surprise— not alone. It gave me a chance to look her over more carefully than I had hitherto done.

The hair was really blue, I saw; it had not been an optical illusion, and it was not merely that vague rinse that grayhaired women often apply for reasons incomprehensible to the male of the species. This was, as I’d judged, prematurely white hair, very fine in texture, meticulously waved and set, and dyed a pale but definite shade of blue. When you got over the initial shock, it looked smart and striking as a frame for her young-looking face and violet-blue eyes. But I can’t say I really liked it.

It was an interesting effect, but I’m not partial to women who go in for interesting, artificial, calculated effects. They arouse in me the perverted desire to dump them into the nearest swimming pool, or get them sloppy drunk, or rape them—anything to learn if there’s a real woman under all the camouflage.

Having registered surprise, I let myself grin slowly. “Well, well!” I said. “This is real nice, ma’am! I think I’m going to like Stockholm. Is there one of you for every room, or are you just a special treat for visiting Americans?” Then I hardened my voice. “All right, sister, what’s the racket? You’ve been trailing me around ever since I set foot on shore, trying for a pickup. Now you listen carefully. It would be a bad mistake for you to rip that handsome blouse and threaten to start screaming, or have your husband charge in, or whatever similar stunt you have in mind.

“You see, ma’am, all us Americans aren’t millionaires, by a long shot. I don’t have enough money to make it worth your while, and if I did have I damn well wouldn’t pay off anyway. So why don’t you just run along and find yourself another sucker?”

She flushed; then she smiled faintly. “You did that very well, Mr. Helm,” she said, rather condescendingly. “Just the slightest tension in the shoulders when you realized I was standing here, almost imperceptible. The rest was very convincing. But then, they’d be bound to send a pretty good man after so many had failed, wouldn’t they?” I said, “Ma’am, you’ve sure got your signals crossed somewhere. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She said, “You can drop that phony drawl. I don’t think they really talk that way in Santa Fe, New Mexico. You’re Matthew Helm, age thirty-six, hair blond, eyes blue, height six-four, weight just under two hundred pounds. That’s what it says in the official description we received. But I don’t know where you hang two hundred pounds on that beanpole frame, my friend.”

She studied me for a moment. “As a matter of fact, you’re not really a very good man, are you? According to our information, you’re a retread, hauled out of retirement for this job because of your ideal qualifications with respect to background and languages. A trained agent with a genuine record of photo-journalism and a working knowledge of Swedish isn’t easy to come by. I suppose they had to do the best they could. Your department warned us that you might need a little nursemaiding, which is why I made a special trip to Gothenburg to keep an eye on you.” She frowned. “Just what is your department, anyway? The instructions we received were kind of vague on that point. I thought I knew most of the organizations we might have to work with.”

I didn’t answer her question. I was reflecting bitterly that Mac seemed to have done a fine job of giving me the reputation of a superannuated stumblebum. Perhaps it was necessary, but it certainly put me on the defensive here. The identity of my visitor was becoming fairly obvious, but it could still be a trick, and I said impatiently:

“Now, look, sister, be nice. Be smart. Go bother the guy in the next room for a while; maybe he likes mysterious female screwballs. I’ve got a date. You probably heard me make it. Will you get the hell out of here so I can wash up a little, or do I have to call the desk and have them send for a couple of husky characters in white jackets?”

She said, “The word is Aurora. Aurora Borealis. Your orders were to report to me the minute you reached Stockholm. Give me the countersign, please.”

That placed her. She was the Stockholm agent I was supposed to notify of my arrival. I said, “The Northern Lights burn brightly in the Land of the Midnight Sun.” I must have memorized half a thousand passwords and countersigns in my time, but I still feel like a damn fool when it comes time to give them. This specimen should tell you why—and at that, it isn’t half as silly as some I’ve had to deliver with a straight face.

“Very well,” said the woman before me, crisply. She gestured toward the telephone I had recently put down. “Now explain, if you please, why you chose to approach the subject before contacting me as instructed.”

She was pushing her authority very hard, and she didn’t really have much to push, but Mac had been explicit about what my attitude should be. “You’ll just have to grin and bear it,” he’d said. “Remember this is peace, God bless it. Be polite, be humble. That’s an order. Don’t get our dear, dedicated intelligence people all upset or they might wet their cute little lace panties.”

Mac didn’t ordinarily go in for scatological humor; it was a sign that he felt strongly about the kind of people we had to work with these days. He grimaced. “We’ve been asked to lend a hand, Eric, but if there’s a strong protest locally, we could also be asked to withdraw. There’s even a possibility, if you make yourself too unpopular, that some tender soul might get all wrought up and pull strings to embarrass us here in Washington. Every agent must be a public relations man these days.” He gave me his thin smile. “Do the best you can, and if you should haul off and clip one of them, please, please be careful not to kill him.”

So I held my temper in check, and refrained from pointing out that I was, technically, quite independent of her authority or anybody else’s except Mac’s. I didn’t even bother to tell her that her nursemaiding of me from Gothenburg to Stockholm—as she’d called it—and her presence in my room now, had probably left me with just about as much of my carefully constructed cover as a shelled Texas pecan. She wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, with that hair. Nobody watching me could have missed her. Her opposite number on the other team, here in Stockholm, would be bound to know who she was. Any hint of communication between us would make everybody I was to deal with very suspicious indeed.

I was supposed to have got in touch with her by telephone, when I judged it safe. By barging in like this, she’d knocked hell out of most of my plans. Well, it was done, and there was nothing to be gained by squawking about it. I’d just have to refigure my calculations to allow for it, if possible.

I said humbly, “I’m very sorry, Aurora—or should I say Miss Borealis. I didn’t mean to—”

She said, “My name is Sara. Sara Lundgren.”

“A Svenska girl, eh?”

She said stiffly, “My parents were of Swedish extraction, yes. Just like yours, according to the records. I happen to have been born in New York City, if it’s any business of yours.”

“None at all,” I said. “And I’m truly sorry if I’ve fouled things up in any way by calling the Taylor woman, but I’d sent her a radiogram from the boat saying I’d be here by three, and the train was late, so I thought I’d better get in touch with her before she got tired of waiting and left the hotel. I’d have checked with you tonight, Miss Lundgren, you may be sure.”

“Oh,” she said, slightly mollified. “Well, we might have had some important last-minute instructions for you; and I do think orders are made to be obeyed, don’t you? In any case I should think you’d want to hear what I know about the situation before you go barging into it like a bull buffalo. After all, this isn’t a ladies’ tea, you know. The man we’re after has already cost us three good agents dead, and one crippled and permanently insane from torture he wasn’t supposed to survive—not to mention the Taylor woman’s husband. We don’t really know what happened to him, except from her story, which may be the truth but probably isn’t. I know you were well-briefed before you left the States, but I should think you’d want the viewpoint of the agent on the spot as well.”

“Naturally,” I said. “I was hoping you could give me a lot of details that weren’t in the official reports, Miss Lundgren.”

She smiled abruptly. “I suppose I should apologize. I didn’t really mean to throw my weight around, but I do like things to be done according to the rules… and you did hurt my feelings, you know.”

“Hurt your feelings?” I said, surprised. “How? When?”

She laughed. “When a strange lady addresses you in a public place, Mr. Helm, like a railroad station, and smiles her prettiest, you’re not supposed to turn on your heel and walk away. It makes her feel… well, unattractive. I was