Donald Hamilton - The Interlopers

He drew a small white envelope from the pocket of his heavy wool shirt and shook five tinfoil disks into his hand, answering one question posed by Mr. Smith's compulsive secrecy. I'd never been told exactly what juggling tricks were being performed in the fancy lab van, but apparently it had been a simple disk-switch routine that you'd think could have been performed in an ordinary family sedan-if you didn't know the way things worked in Washington. After a moment, Holz replaced the wafers in the envelope and put the envelope back into his pocket.

"Persuaded," I said. "As a matter of curiosity, which one did you persuade?"

Holz smiled faintly. "That is a stupid question. You know perfectly well that the young fellow with the beard was the tough one of the pair. It was easy to determine. Any captive who wastes his breath telling me what I cannot get away with is obviously a fool and probably a weak fool. The bearded one kept his mouth shut; the other one babbled dire threats and promises of violent retaliation. So we started with him. It did not take long. He soon told us everything-well, almost everything."

"What didn't he tell you?"

"He didn't tell us about you, Mr. Nystrom. His principles were at stake, it seems. He could be persuaded to tell us about things, inanimate objects, but he wouldn't be-tray, as he put it, people." Holz laughed shortly. "They draw all kinds of high-principled lines, these foolish young men." He raised his slaty eyes to study my face. "Are you going to be afflicted by principles, Mr. Nystrom?"

"Hell, no," I said. "I lost my last ones years ago. What do you want to know?"

"The collar. Just out of curiosity, I would like to know where it is."

"I honestly don't know," I said, which was technically true. I might guess, but I didn't know.

Holz stared at me for a full minute. Then he shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Very well. I'll accept that. Will you give me your real name?"

"Sure, why not?" If he didn't get it from me, the way things were, he'd get it from Libby. I might as well get the credit for frankness. "The name is Helm, Matthew Helm. Cross-filed under the code name Eric."

"Ah. I thought there was something familiar…"

He stopped. There was a lengthy silence. Well, it was about time he made the connection. As it was, my professional pride was hurt. I'd thought I was better known in the circles in which Holz moved than his reactions had indicated.

"Yes, I've heard of you," he said at last. I didn't say anything, and he went on slowly: "What are you doing here? If I remember the dossier correctly, counterespionage is not your line."

"Another organization had a dead man to match," I said. "They needed to borrow a trustworthy agent, six-four, a hundred and ninety, blue eyes, white hair. The personnel computer doubled up in agony and vomited up my name. The hair was bleached, and here I am, Grant Nystrom at your service."

Holz heard me out, but he didn't seem to be listening very hard. His eyes, narrowed, were studying me intently, and I knew that he knew, instinctively, what I was there for. I also knew, suddenly, that he wasn't going to act upon this instinctive knowledge because he, too, had his professional pride.

The sensible thing for him to do was to pull out his little Spanish gun, or load up the big 7mm, and shoot me through the head right now. But if he did that, right after being informed of my identity, I might, in my dying moments, have thought he was afraid of a fellow pro named Matt Helm. Or he might have thought he was afraid of me, and that would not do. So, to reassure both of us, he was going to behave toward me exactly as he'd planned from the start. Well, we all have our weaknesses, dogs or pride or whatever.

"And the lady?" Holz said at last.

I gave him the story Libby had given me, watching him to see what it meant to him. "She works for the same department as the bearded guy you got and his talkative friend, the people who drafted me for this play acting. She was planted on your San Francisco people some time back, I gather. She recruited Nystrom for them-the real Nystrom-and gave him the sex treatment, and he responded very well. She had him under perfect control and pumped him for information at will, whatever information she couldn't get herself as a member of the cell in good standing. She was probably the one who recommended trying this impersonation when he got killed, but I don't know that for sure. She did come along north to give me a hand in playing the role, and as you know I found her especially useful in Seattle."

"Yes," Holz said, "but that man of ours, Stottman, was apparently not deceived."

"No," I said. "But it took him a little time to get his message across to the rest of you by way of Pete. I can't tell you the lady's real name. She never told me."

Holz nodded, apparently satisfied. After a moment, he smiled faintly. "For what you are, you were remarkably easy to catch, Mr. Helm."

I shrugged. "I got careless, I guess."

He said a strange thing then. He said, quietly, "It's a lonely life, my friend."

I didn't know what to say to that. He didn't speak for a little, and I could hear the night breeze going through the trees outside. The canvas of the tent stirred and subsided. The old Indian shoved a couple of sticks of wood into the stove, and juggled some pans to catch the heat exactly right.

Holz said, "I was in prison once, Mr. Helm. Well, I have been there more than once, but this time it was intentional. I was assigned to reach and silence a certain prisoner. First they put me in a cell alone, for observation. It was not a very clean or well-run place. There were, among other things, rats. One in particular considered my cell his territory. As the weeks went on, I made friends with him. It was something to do. One day the guard came in unexpectedly. My rodent friend had lost, to some extent, his fear of man; also he'd learned that visitors usually meant food. He came too close, and the guard stamped his boot, once. It was what the man had come in for, to deprive me of that bit of companionship. I killed him."

I didn't say anything. Holz waited a little and went on: "I couldn't help myself, Mr. Helm. I struck once and he was dead. It was a blow that, in my role as prisoner, I should not have known. It blew my cover instantly. It wrecked my mission and almost caused my death. All for a small, dirty, brown rat."

There was another silence. I didn't speak. Anything he wanted to give me, I was happy to take. He'd already given me more than he should have. He'd given me the clue to his sad, soft way of talking. He'd told me I was dealing with a man who'd been in the business too long.

He said gently, "I am explaining how I knew you would come to the cry of the dog, after traveling with him for a week. It is a lonely and dirty business. We take what friends we can get, do we not, Mr. Helm?" After a moment of silence, he went on more briskly, "Jack will escort you back to your tent. You will live, if you do not try to escape, until the plane arrives tomorrow afternoon. There may be some further questions they'll want to put to you or the woman. This impersonation of yours has worried them greatly. They may even take one or both of you away with them alive, but I would not count on that. Good night, Mr. Helm." He waited until I had reached the door, where Jack had appeared as if summoned. Then he said, "Oh, just one more thing."

I watched him rise and come to me. He was smiling faintly. He said, "Now I remember the dossier more clearly. I think I will take that belt. Since you are going nowhere, you should have no trouble keeping up your trousers without it."

Well, it wasn't unexpected. These days the belt trick is only good for amateurs anyway, and for all his sadness, he was no amateur. Back in the tent, I told Libby as much as she needed to know. We were fed and given a tarpaulin to lie on and a couple of blankets to wrap up in. Huddled together for warmth, still in our damp clothes, we lay and listened to the rain start up again, pattering on the canvas above us.