Donald Hamilton: The Interlopers

"Yes, sir," I said. "So you expect my cover to be blown, sooner or later. And then what?"

"That," he said, "is a very foolish question, Eric."

"Excuse me. Of course. When my cover is blown, they'll kill me. Or try."

"Precisely. And whom will they call upon to perform this distasteful task? The average spy is a specialist at gathering information; he is not required to be particularly brave or skilled with weapons. For violence, he calls in a specialist in violence. And it happens that the murder specialist assigned by the Communists to this particular espionage ring for this particular mission is Mr. Hans Holz. As a matter of fact, it was through his current associates that we finally managed to locate him so that we could send Kingston after him. The details don't matter. I mention it only so that you will understand that this is no vendetta, as you called it. We were looking for Holz long before he killed Kingston."

Obviously, I was supposed to ask why. I asked, "Why, sir?"

"Because we have learned, never mind how, what his next assignment is to be." Mac paused. It occurred to me that he was being pretty evasive himself, but I didn't say so. He went on, "We have learned that Holz's superiors have decided to capitalize on the recent political murders in this country by staging an assassination of their own, calculated to create more political chaos here. Holz is the man they have chosen to carry it out. As you said, he is the biggest gun they have at the moment."

"And who's to be his target?"

Mac said, "It should be obvious. In an election year, who would you pick for maximum effect, Eric? Essentially, Holz has been marking time in Alaska on this other, relatively unimportant assignment. His big job must wait until he knows of the outcome of the presidential race this fall. He has orders to strike as soon as the U.S. electorate has decided which candidate to elect."

I whistled softly. "Yes, that might cause us a spot of bother, as our British friends would say."

"Precisely. So you must get him, and it had better be soon. If he follows his usual behavior pattern, he'll go underground well ahead of the target date in November."

"I'll keep it in mind. Do we know how he's planning to do the job? I mean the big job?"

"Like two of the other recent killings, it's to be a long-range-rifle job. If the American people wish to note the resemblance and attribute it to a gigantic conspiracy of extremists, right or left, I'm sure it will make our friends in Moscow very happy. And like you, Holz is quite as good with a rifle as with a knife. Incidentally, do you still carry that little knife our ordnance people disapprove of?"

"Yes, sir," I said. I reached into my pocket and brought it out to show him. It looked like a slightly oversized jackknife. "If they had their way, I'd be lugging a junior-grade machete. The knives they specify are great for fighting, but where do you hide them? This looks like a pocket knife and does the work."

"Keep it handy. You may have need of it, going against Holz. Now you'd better visit the recognition room and get our latest information on the man. Report when you can."

"Yes, sir." I put away the knife and got to my feet once more. "Come on, stupid, wake up. I mean, excuse me, Prince Hannibal, please arise and follow me."

THE TOWN WAS CALLED PASCO AND didn't like dogs. At least Hank and I had had to try three hostelries upon our arrival the previous day, before finding one that would take us in. One prim-faced motel lady had informed me that little dogs were all right, but she couldn't possibly see her way to admitting a great hulking beast like a Labrador-a piece of logic that baffled me, since I'd been under the impression since childhood that the smaller the dog the more persistent the noise and the sharper the teeth.

The place that had finally saved us from having to camp out was a pleasant two-story motel with swimming pool, coke machine, ice machine, and all other customary facilities except a restaurant-a lack that was filled by a cafe a block away. Returning from the river, I stopped at this eating place to put a little substantial nourishment on top of the coffee and doughnuts. Then I proceeded to the motel to shave, shower, and dress in slightly more respectable clothes than Grant Nystrom's weather-beaten fishing costume. I stuck to the cowboy boots, however, since they had been his preferred footgear under practically all circumstances.

I had a little time to spare, so with the pup comfortably asleep on the wall-to-wall carpet, I stretched out on the rumpled bed and thought about two presidential candidates, one of whom was marked for murder. This was no fun, so I let myself think about a tall blondish girl named Patricia Bellman, Pat for short. At least that was the way she'd introduced herself; whether it was her real name remained to be seen. Thinking about girls is always pleasant, and I'm partial to the outdoors type, but I couldn't form any conclusions about the kid. There wasn't enough to go on. She could be an innocent bystander or she could be involved up to her little ears in conspiracy and intrigue.

I sighed and got up from the bed and dug some objects out of my fishing vest: her parting gifts-a brass spinner about an inch across the blade, equipped with a single, businesslike hook; a good-sized lead sinker; and a little plastic bottle with some holes punched in the cap for air and two grasshoppers stirring sluggishly inside. Pat Bellman had showed me how to assemble these components for proper casting, and told me to give them a try the next time I got out, perhaps this evening. The middle of the day wasn't much good for steelheads, she'd said.

I frowned at the stuff; then I grinned, thinking of how much fun Mr. Smith's young men could have, analyzing a couple of live grasshoppers for secret messages. It hadn't been a satisfactory contact in several respects, but my orders were clear: all materials I obtained were to be submitted for quick examination. We couldn't risk letting any information go through intact.

I glanced at my watch to check the time, and put the stuff in a cute little plastic box equipped with a magnet- very tricky. I added a small note in cipher describing the person from whom it had been obtained and the circumstances-although this was only a precaution, since there were supposed to be agents watching me at all times, and making notes on everybody who approached me. By now, if they were on the ball, they knew more about Pat Bellman than I did.

Then I snapped my fingers to arouse the pup, went out to the truck, and drove to a specified gas station a few blocks away. Why my motel hadn't also been specified, since there seemed to be only one in town that would take dogs, I didn't know, but nobody's planning is perfect, not even ours, so I won't complain about Mr. Smith's.

While the attendant was filling the tank, I went over to the phone booth at the side of the lot and dialed a number which, as it was supposed to, didn't answer. I let it ring seven times, as instructed, and hung up disgustedly, retrieved my dime and went back to the truck, leaving the ducky little plastic box magnetically attached to the underside of the metal shelf in the booth. It was a nice routine, and it made me feel just like a real secret agent, Hollywood division.

"Where can I buy some fishing tackle around here?" I asked the attendant as I forged Grant Nystrom's signature to the credit-card slip.

"Right down the street about a block," the man said. "Just across from that supermarket-you can see the sign. Leave your rig here if you like. Just drive it over against the fence."

If he hadn't suggested it, I would have. I thanked him, parked the truck, stuck my head into the camper and told the pup to behave, and went off. I spent five minutes walking to the store, and twenty minutes picking out some spinners and sinkers more or less like those the girl had given me, and pumping the salesman for steelhead-fishing advice. That still left me twenty minutes to kill of the forty-five I was supposed to stay away; and I crossed the street to the supermarket and bought a bag of dry dog food, and some bread and salami for human-type sandwiches. That took another fifteen minutes. The five-minute walk brought me back to the telephone right on time. I dialed the same number. This time I got an answer.