Donald Hamilton - The Interlopers

I DIDN'T LOOK AT HIM TOO HARD or too long. There's a kind of telepathic recognition that sometimes passes between people in our line of work. Maybe a couple of artists occasionally feel the same odd little tingle of kinship when they meet, or a couple of auto salesmen. I wouldn't know about that.

I only know that I can often spot one of my fellow specialists, even at a distance; and I didn't want Holz to spot me or guess my real mission. As long as he thought I was just a dim-witted counterespionage type, I was much more likely to keep on living.

He looked me over for just a moment, giving nothing away; then he indicated a nearby log for the man behind me to park me on. Libby was hauled out of the camper and set down beside me. She tossed some displaced hair out of her eyes and shifted position uneasily.

"He might have picked a drier log," she murmured.

"I don't think Mr. Wood spends a great deal of time worrying about preserving the seats of our pants. Quite the contrary," I said, with a meaningful look toward the horses. "I don't know where he intends to take us, or why, but how are you at riding with your hands tied behind you?"

She said, "Ugh. If there's any animal more objectionable than a dog, it's a horse, if only because it's bigger and stupider."

I refrained from making a face at her, but I felt like it. She was back on her antilivestock kick and to hell with her. Probably it would turn out that she'd taken the equestrienne gold medal at the last Olympics. As for me, I've held down a saddle or two in my time, but I'm still the kind of rider who requires some cooperation from the horse.

The little clearing was fairly crowded. The Ford delivery job had pulled up behind the camper. Ahead a ways was the Lincoln, the four-horse herd, and, half hidden in the brush at the end of the opening, another sedan with a big cattle trailer hitched on behind. I saw the younger man, the citified one with galoshes, who'd given me the password in Beaver Creek-the one who'd just dragged me out of the camper-head that way on some unknown assignment.

Holz had attacked the Lincoln. Helped by the younger woman, now without her plastic covering, he was dragging horse gear and other equipment out of the rear seat and trunk. I noted four scabbarded rifles, one for each horse. Two were strictly nothing-guns. They were the movie cowboy, bang-bang rifles; the short, flat little lever-action carbines that, although handy to slip under your leg when riding, don't have much more range or accuracy than a good revolver.

The other two I couldn't make out in detail since their scabbards were equipped with leather hoods for full protection, but they were obviously longer and heavier, real big-game guns, bolt action rifles with telescopic sights, suitable for serious marksmanship if properly assembled and prepared. Since they were presumably Holz's guns, I thought they'd probably be tuned pretty well. Maybe one was even the weapon intended for his next assignment, down in the Lower Forty-Eight, right after election-time-the date I was supposed to prevent him from keeping.

The old woman, the one I'd seen riding in the Lincoln the day before, wasn't visible anywhere. Her companion, the older man, was leaning against the truck watching over Libby and me. He had no weapon out, but there was a hint of armament under the armpit of his civilized overcoat; not the most convenient place in the world, but plenty available enough under the circumstances.

After Holz and the lady in the green pants had worked between the Lincoln and the horses for a while, the galoshes gent came out of the brush beyond, a changed man. Now instead of city shoes with rubber protection, he was wearing well-worn cowboy boots. There was also a pair of greasy jeans, a faded denim jacket that reminded me of Pat Bellman, who'd favored a similar garment, and a wide-brimmed hat that had real character, obviously seasoned by years of Alaska weather and a multitude of campfires. Even his walk had changed to the rolling gait of the horseman, and he was lugging a saddle with each hand. Well, he'd never made a very convincing city slicker.

He moved across the clearing to where Holz was now adjusting the cinch of a bony-looking chestnut gelding.

"All right, Mr. Wood," I heard him say. "I'll take care of this."

I saw Holz glance my way and I heard his voice: "Better lengthen the stirrups on the little mare. The man has long legs."

"So his knees bump his chin today, who cares? Tomorrow he'll never feel it."

"Lengthen them, Jack."

"Sure, Mr. Wood."

It was a revealing exchange, in more ways than one. I watched Holz come across the clearing toward us, accompanied by the unattractive female in the tight pants. He passed some sort of signal to the man guarding us, who walked back to the lab van and returned with the older woman: a sturdy, gray-haired lady in a tweed skirt, cotton blouse, and cardigan sweater. She stuffed a small automatic pistol into the pocket of her skirt as she came up.

Holz spoke to the three of them: "I want you to tie up the loose ends. The first thing is the dog. We couldn't wait around for him just now; Jack and I have a long ride to make to reach the lake before dark. Besides, he was too excited. He'll have settled down by this time. I want one of you to stay here to guard our guests in the van while the other two go back and dispose of him quietly and privately."

There was a brief silence. I noted that Holz was carefully not looking my way. You might have thought he was a little embarrassed about giving orders to kill my dog, right in front of me. It didn't seem in character, but on second thought I realized I didn't know the man's character. All I knew was his record. I'd made him up a personality to fit that record, in my mind, but it didn't have to be the right one.

The man with the overcoat asked, "And what if the pooch won't be caught."

"Do what you can without attracting attention. I'd rather not leave him around. He's obviously a valuable animal Even without a collar, he might be traced. But leave him if you have to; don't stay so long that you can't be back here by, say, two o'clock. How are our young friends in the van?"

He looked at the gray-haired woman as he asked the question, and she said, "Red-Whiskers is all right. The other one is feeling sorry for himself. I took his gag out, but he moaned so loudly I had to put it back."

Holz nodded. "Well, you know where to stage the wreck. Give them the injection-you know which one- just before you send them through the guard rail. We don't want any miraculous survivals. You know where to turn in this camper. The people there have instructions for burying it. Take the Lincoln back to Anchorage. When Jack and I come back, we'll dispose of the horses and trailer and meet you there. You know where."

The man with the horses called, "All ready here, Mr. Wood."

"All right, Jack." Holz looked at the three in front of him. "Any questions? Very well, untie this pair and bring them over… Wait a minute." He turned to look down at Libby and me. "Miss Meredith or whatever your name may be," he said, "and Mr. Nystrom or whatever your name may be, you undoubtedly realize that you are scheduled to die… No, no, Miss Meredith, let me finish. It was one of the risks you assumed when you embarked on your missions of deceit and impersonation; it should come as no surprise to you now."

Libby said quickly, "You're making a mistake. You wouldn't listen to me back there, you were in such a damn hurry…"

"What is my mistake?"

"I'm working for the same people as you are. I have credentials-"

"Whom you're working for is yet to be determined, Miss Meredith. We know that in Seattle you identified your companion, positively, as Grant Nystrom. For your information, Jack over there was well acquainted with the real Mr. Nystrom and guided him on two hunting trips. Jack says that this man is no more Grant Nystrom than he, Jack, is Sophia Loren. Yet you identified this impostor as our courier, your lover. What does that make you, Miss Meredith?"