Donald Hamilton - The Interlopers

"You're sure you won't have some?"

"Positive," I said. "I've got a long way to drive today, if I'm to make contact up in British Columbia tomorrow like I'm supposed to."

I got out of bed and started dressing. I probably didn't carry it off quite as well as she had. Not that I was actively embarrassed, but we hadn't really been acquainted very long and I felt more comfortable after I'd got a few clothes on. When, after zipping up my pants, I glanced her way again, she was sprawled in the big chair in the corner, grinning at me.

"Skinny, aren't you?" she murmured.

"No skinnier than some others you've known. At least one other."

Her grin vanished. "Why bring that up?"

"Because it's the central fact of our existence, sweetheart-or should I say of our coexistence. At least I'm here because I'm supposed to look somewhat like a tall skinny guy you used to know pretty well. I was kind of assuming you were here for the same reason."

"Well, I came here to back up your impersonation of him, if that's what you mean."

"I wasn't told I'd be having any help from you. Quite the contrary."

She laughed. "Neither was, I, darling. In fact, I was told I was staying in San Francisco on pain of drastic penalties, I forget just what they were. Probably a whole gaggle of government pretty-boys is searching for me right now, to lock me up for getting independent. But I could see this impersonation deal just wasn't going to go over, the way they had it rigged. Sooner or later, somebody was going to get suspicious of you, probably sooner..

"Somebody did. Stottman."

"Yes," she said, "and if you hadn't had a member of the lodge in good standing to vouch for you, your act would have been finished right there, wouldn't it? And so would you. That's why I managed to get myself sent up this way without letting those government jerks know about it, so I'd be handy if you needed me."

"Your efforts are appreciated. Can I expect more assistance farther up the line, if required?"

"I'll do the best I can. After all, I've done some good work for this creepy spy outfit; I've earned a certain amount of latitude. And Grant and I are-were-known to be pretty close. I don't think anybody will suspect anything if I continue to dream up excuses to be near him-you."

I said, "Just the same it could be risky."

"I told you, I got in this mainly for kicks. I don't mind a few risks." Her lips tightened. "I'm going to smash this whole lousy apparatus, no matter what it costs. At least I'm going to louse up this operation for them so they'll never put it back together-and you know how Moscow deals with failures!" After a moment, she asked in a totally different tone of voice: "What do you know about these other people, the ones who tried to have you killed so they could bring in their own imitation Nystrom?"

"Very little, so far," I said, tucking my shirt into my pants. "I've seen three of them, but there may be more. There's a blond girl in jeans. There's the guy you saw in the vet's office, call him Nystrom. And there was a juvenile gun expert with moustache and sideburns, but he's dead."

"You don't know what they're after?"

"Well, that's fairly obvious, but I don't really know why they're after it," I said. "It seems pretty clear that they're trying to do the same thing we are: hijack the information Stottman and his friends-your ex-friends- have collected on NCS, whatever that may be."

Libby glanced at me sharply, surprised. "You mean, you haven't even been told that? The government sure makes you boys work blindfolded! NCS stands for Northwest Coastal System, darling. Everybody knows that."

"Sure," I said. "Everybody."

"Well, almost everybody. Of course, only a few people know what it actually is; in that respect, security is very tight. But it's something very fancy being tested here in the Northwest, a defensive system of some kind, we hear, but that could mean anything. Nobody, but nobody, builds aggressive systems these days, or admits it if they do. Anyway, Moscow is very eager to learn all about NCS. And obviously somebody else is, too."

"Maybe Peking," I said.

Libby gave me another of her sharp, surprised looks. "Why do you say that? Were any of those interfering brats Oriental?"

"No," I said, "but they could have been hired, couldn't they? Or persuaded by the customary, cockeyed ideological arguments? And if something interesting is being developed on this shore of the Pacific, the people on the other shore would seem like logical customers for the information. And I had a case over in Hawaii not too long ago where young people were being pumped full of highfalutin notions and used as suckers by shrewd professionals. That one was run from Moscow, but some Chinese agents were involved, too. Maybe they're not too proud to borrow a good idea from their fellow Marxists."

She shrugged. "You're just guessing."

I said, "Sure. But I don't think Bellman and Company dreamed up an operation like this on their own…

"Bellman?"

"That's the girl's name. Pat Bellman."

"Is she pretty?"

"Don't be corny," I said. "The kid's not bad. Not a sexpot like you, but not bad. Incidentally, if you were to button that damn blouse, I could keep my mind on our conversation without the distraction of wondering if I'm being seduced all over again and why."

She made no move to comply with the suggestion, smiling up at me in a provocative way. Trousered women don't do much for me as a rule, but this one managed to overcome the handicap nicely. Lounging there half-naked, glass in hand, in somewhat bedraggled remnants of yesterday's elaborate fancy-pants costume, she was a wanton challenge to the whole male sex.

The catch, as far as my libido was concerned, was that my mind really did want to know why. She was putting on a fine, tarty act for me-had been, ever since we met- but my instincts warned me it was just that: an act. Not that she was necessarily an unspoiled and innocent child at heart, but neither was she, I thought, just a sexy slob who normally drank whiskey at the crack of dawn. Last night, after a long hard day, when she'd had plenty of reason to relax with a couple of stiff ones, there had been no liquor on her breath. To the best of my knowledge, there are very few morning drinkers who don't lap it up at night as well. So why was the lady deliberately making herself look cheap and dissipated for my benefit?

I looked down at her bleakly for a moment longer. When she didn't speak, I said, "Honest, it's a great routine, Libby. But what does it mean?"

Her eyes narrowed. After a moment, she rose and drew the blouse closed over her breasts, buttoned it up, and stuffed it into her pants. Then she looked up at me and, after a little pause, laughed softly.

"I keep thinking you're really Grant, I guess," she murmured. "He was kind of a coward where women were concerned. You had to make things easy for him. I mean, when we first met, I gave him the glamour treatment for weeks and nothing happened. Finally, I realized he was actually scared of touching the shining lady in her expensive clothes. I mean, he wanted to, God how he wanted to, but he was afraid he'd make me mad by mussing my dress or wrecking my hairdo or something. I had to let him catch me cleaning house with my hair tied up and some old rag on, drinking beer… Ugh, how I hate beer! As the man said, they ought to pour it back into the horse. But it's a nice, lower-class, down-to-earth drink, and we got lit on the nasty stuff, and it did the job. In a faded old dress with dirt on my nose and a skinfull of beer, I was human enough that he dared grab me and maul me the way he'd wanted to for weeks." She grimaced. "That sounds pretty snide, doesn't it? I didn't mean it to. Actually, he was a sweet, shy guy without too much between the ears. Whereas you're a smart, cold, calculating bastard who knows everything about women. Aren't you?"