Donald Hamilton - The Intriguers

The girl was huddled in the cockpit forward. I didn't even bother to ask her. With her crazy reactions, she'd be just as likely to give me the wrong answer as the right one. As I stared ahead, searching for a clue, I saw something glistening white, a dead fish perhaps, drifting slowly out of the left-hand passage towards us. I remembered Jarrel's words: Remember the tide, cap'n. Man can always find his way out if he remembers the tide.

The tide, that had been ebbing last night, would be flooding now, moving in from the sea. All I had to do was run against it when in doubt, and with a little luck I'd be in open water eventually. I could see that I was going to beat the houseboat to the turn by a good margin, and the yellow runabout was by now a couple of hundred yards astern. I had it made. Pretty soon I'd have lead enough, and time enough, to start firing off white flares, bringing the Boston Whaler in to meet me with a crew of armed men.

There was only one catch. The admiral had also had a few words to say, to wit: Of course, it's expected that you'll have your job done before you signal for help.

Still wide open, my little boat approached the watery intersection. There was a man on the roof, upper deck, or whatever you want to call it, of the onrushing houseboat. He had something shiny and metallic in his hand, a pistol perhaps, but he wasn't even trying to use it yet; we had room to spare. 1 saw the white object-it was a dead fish – to port, and if that wasn't indication enough, there were some pink birds wading in the right hand channel which could not, therefore, be much over a foot deep. With prop down, my vessel drew over twice that at rest; over ten inches even while planing. I drew a long breath and turned the wheel sharply to the right.

"No! Hard a port! You're turning the wrong way! Port your helm, Matt!"

That was the girl, aroused, standing forward. The pink birds rose in panic as the boat roared at them. Their legs were even shorter than I'd estimated. There was a crash astern as the big motor, striking, was pivoted violently upwards; then the hull hit hard.

I awoke tied hand and foot, but I was alive enough to wake up, which was the important thing. Breathing hurt my chest, but it beat not breathing. 1 remembered being hurled against the steering wheel as the boat came to an abrupt, grinding halt; and seeing the girl kind of sailing over the bow. Hunched over the console, gagging, with 'the wind knocked out of me, I'd been aware of men wading' alongside and of Leonards's voice calling: "No, no, don't shoot him. Not yet. There are some questions I want to ask him first…

Good old Herbert Leonard, predictable as always. He'd had a small, feverish touch of professionalism back there at Cutlass Key, but he was recovering nicely. Hundreds of overconfident characters have failed in their missions, many have died, from keeping dangerous prisoners alive for questioning instead of shooting them on the spot, but the message never seems to get through. People like our white-haired Herbie are never satisfied with simply winning. They want their victories and information, too.

You can count on it always, I'd reflected happily; and somebody had hit me over the head with something, probably a gun-barrel. Now I was here, wherever that was. They'd taken my gun and knife, of course, and also my belt-Leonard would know about the trick belts we're issued-but I still had my clothes and shoes on.

"Matt. Matt, are you awake? Are you all right?"

I opened my eyes and looked up at the low, white-painted ceiling of a largish cabin, at the end of which a couple of steps led up to a kind of louvered door that presumably opened-when it opened-to the main living spaces of the houseboat, if that's what I was on.

"Matt, can you hear me?"

Turning my head was painful, and the view that rewarded me was hardly worth it; although I guess it was mildly interesting to learn what a nicely dressed young lady looks like after wading through swamps, fleeing through jungles, and being pitched off,a boat into muddy shallows. I noticed that, grimy and bedraggled as she was, she was practically dry, indicating that I'd been unconscious for some time.

She was lying on a bunk across the way, tied hand and foot just as I was. I caught her eye, and shook my head quickly as she started to speak.

I formed the words with my lips soundlessly: "Come here."

After a moment, cued by a beckoning finger, she got the idea and heaved herself awkwardly off her bunk and onto mine. Leaning close, she whispered, "Matt, what-"

"Figure they're listening out there," I breathed, indicating the ventilated door. "Figure they're waiting for me to come to, and for us to hold an interesting conversation about something. When they've heard enough, the fun will begin. So keep acting as if you're still trying to bring me around."

She nodded. "Matt!" she said aloud. "Oh, Matt, please wake up. I'm so scared!"

"That's the idea," I whispered. "Now. Inside my left shoe you'll find a gadget looking like a short mechanical pencil, damned uncomfortable to walk on. I think you'll recognize it and know how it works. Twist the heel of my right shoe and you'll find what goes with it. Real secret agent stuff; how about it?" I grinned at her in an encouraging way. I'm not a superstitious man, and I don't believe much in ESP, but under tricky circumstances like that I prefer to avoid calling important items by their right names, even in whispers. I mean, I just don't want those particular vibrations floating around to give the wrong people ideas. Why take chances? I went on, very softly: "Thread one into the other, you know how, and hide it on you somewhere, but remember, I'm giving it to you to use when I give the word, not to wave around and threaten with like in the movies. When the opportunity comes, if it comes, our lives will depend on instant action. If you waste time talking, we're both dead. Okay?"

She hesitated, studying my face. She was smart enough to realize approximately what I was asking of her, and her face was pale under the streaks of mud. Then she nodded abruptly.

"Okay, Matt." Hitching herself back along the bunk, she raised her voice: "Matt, you've just got to wake up, they're going to kill us both, I heard them talking! They think I was in on the whole thing with you. They won't believe you and Daddy and Uncle Hank just used me as an innocent, stupid dupe to decoy Mr. Leonard to that place. They just laugh at me when I try to tell them I was quite sincere. Matt, can you hear me? Open your eyes. Say something."

It took her a while, babbling like this, to get at the concealed equipment with her bound-together hands, twisting painfully to see how the work was progressing behind her.

"I suppose I ought to hate you all!" she went on breathlessly. "Particularly Daddy and you! Think of it, my own father and a man I… I've slept with taking advantage of my… my principles and using me to set a man up for murder. But you didn't shoot. Why didn't you shoot, Matt? Just because I was in front of him? Why did that stop you? You're supposed to be the ruthless, sentimental, cold-blooded manhunter, aren't you? Was it because… because we'd made love a little, or just because you're Daddy's friend and didn't want to face him after putting a bullet through his idiot daughter? Which was it, Matt? Oh, don't just lie there like a log, damn you! You're awake, I know you're awake! Say something!"

My shoes had been returned to my feet. She was hiding something under her scanty, dirty, damaged blue dress. She bobbed her head at me to let me know she was ready for the next phase of the operation. There was a little gleam in her eyes that said she hoped her monologue had made me at least slightly uncomfortable, and maybe it had; but it was no time to discuss the question of who had been taking advantage of whom.