Donald Hamilton: The Interlopers

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 non agression 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 coupй-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.

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 wellproportioned 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.