Donald Hamilton: The Menacers

I said, "Yes, sir. If I stumble over a sufficiently bloodthirsty chick, I'll let you know."

I hung up and sat there for a little, thinking about flying saucers, for God's sake.

IN THE MORNING, I had a taxi run me out to the airport early enough for me to have breakfast in the glass-walled restaurant overlooking the field. It had no particular character. It looked like any glossy airport restaurant anywhere in the world.

When I got back down to the Mexicana desk, where they were just starting to check in my flight, I discovered something that might have come as a traumatic shock to a younger and less hardened member of the organization: I learned that Mac wasn't quite omniscient and infallible. At least he didn't know Mexican airlines. What I mean is, I had no reservation. Whatever passenger list he'd had my name put on somewhere, that particular list hadn't got here.

The young man behind the counter studied all his documents and manifests and records and shook his head. He went into the office and came out shaking his head some more. We held a consultation, and he assured me he would get me on the plane somehow. I showed him the corner of a fifty-peso note I'd taken in change at the hotel. He grinned.

"You will catch your plane, senor," he said, looking me straight in the eye, "you will catch it, and it will cost you nothing extra."

So much for the prevalent theory that everybody in that country has his hand out. Chastened, I stood and waited beside my suitcase until, at eight o'clock, the deadline for no-shows, he waved me forward and checked me through. We took off, and would have had a good view of the high valley in which the Mexican capital lies, the cradle of- the old Aztec civilization, if it hadn't been for the new Los-Angeles-type mist. If they haven't got a real smog problem yet, there in the Distrito Federal, they soon will have.

At Guadalajara, we were booted out of the plane for twenty minutes, after which we climbed over some pretty spectacular mountains and glided down to the coast and Puerto Vallarta, a pretty little seaport, where we had to deplane again, as the jargon goes. They don't let you stay aboard their aircraft while they're brushing and currying it between runs.

I'd been pretty relaxed so far, enjoying the ride and the scenery, but now as we got back into our seats and were flown up the green Pacific coastline towards Mazatlбn, which means the place of the deer, I felt the familiar, nervous, beginning-of-the-job tightness take hold of my throat and abdomen. It's a sensation you never lose, no matter how long you stay in the business. At least I don't seem to.

Not only was I working again after several months' layoff, but I was working with people who were bound to resent me, which meant I couldn't trust them even to make it to the john without explicit instructions and careful supervision..

My contact was there, all right, in the Mazatlбn terminal, in her snug white linen pants and her crazy palmleaf hat. She wasn't exactly what I'd expected. She looked like a kid. I don't mean the cuddly, blonde, lisping, baby-face type, but the slim, dark, big-eyed, hollow-checked kind of young girl who doesn't seem aware of the fact that she's going to be beautiful some day.

She annoyed me at first glance, which wasn't quite fair, since I'd been prejudiced against her before I ever saw her. But now I wasn't condemning her merely for her taste in clothes and countersigns. The two most dangerous aberrations in our line of work are idealism and innocence, and if I was any judge she suffered from both.

She was talking to a tanned, rather husky young woman with short blonde hair who wore a skimpy, sleeveless, bright orange garment with native designs on it-just a sack with holes for the arms and head- undoubtedly purchased at one of the local tourist shops. My girl took off her sunglasses casually and wiped them with a Kleenex as the crowd from the plane kind of washed me past her.

I responded by mopping my face with a handkerchief as instructed. It wasn't hard to make the gesture convincing. I was dressed for Santa Fe and Mexico City, mountain communities a mile and a half high, cool and dry. Down here at sea level the temperature was in the high nineties and the humidity was running it a close race for the hundred mark.

I did notice, as I went past, that Priscilla Decker didn't look quite as dewy at short range as she had across the room. She was getting on towards twenty-five, I judged, and she was beginning to show just a hint of the dried-up look of the professional virgin, which is what happens to them if they're left on the vine instead of being picked, so to speak, at the proper time. I didn't know whether this was good or bad from my point of view, but at least I wouldn't have to make allowances for extreme youth. She'd had the years. If she hadn't taken advantage of them, that wasn't my fault.

That was all there was to it. I didn't look to see where she went; I wasn't supposed to pay her any attention. She was supposed to find me when the time came. I waited for my suitcase to be unloaded-I don't think flying is going to be really practical until they invent self-propelled luggage to match the planes-and was driven to the Hotel Playa by a genial robber who charged me twenty pesos, about a dollar sixty, which was obviously too much since he was disappointed when I didn't give him an argument. There was a reservation waiting for me here, but it didn't really matter. The winter season wouldn't begin for a month or so yet, and they had lots of room.

Playa means beach in Spanish, and they were situated right on theirs. It seemed like a hell of a good idea, so after making sure the air-conditioner was going full blast in my room, I changed into trunks and walked out there. Some pretty big waves were breaking against the shore-well, big for -a calm summer day- but I'd recently learned a bit about surf and swimming in the line of duty, and I watched the crests briefly to get the timing, and dove under one and paddled out a ways, ducking beneath the white stuff as it came at me.

There were some other people playing around out there, including a woman in a white satin bathing suit – a sleek, one-piece job, not a bikini-who caught my eye for some reason, perhaps just because I have that kind of an eye and she was the only woman venturing out that far. She swam pretty well, but with a European touch to her style that I couldn't quite identify. Maybe she behaved just a bit as if she'd been brought up on the breast stroke and the crawl were a later accomplishment.

She was quite slender, almost thin, and her hard adult body sheathed in wet white satin was a lot sexier than most of this soft nymphet stuff you see on the beach covered by practically nothing but a good tan. Something about her had aroused my curiosity-if you want to call it curiosity-so when she headed towards shore I gave her a minute or so and then picked up a crest, paddled hard to match its speed, and let it carry me in.

A good-sized breaking wave, even a summer wave, can give you a pretty rough ride; it's kind of like being shaken by an angry dog. I cut out of it before it buried my head in the sand, and stood up. I'd been carried past the woman, and I turned casually to seaward as I pounded the water out of my ears, and there she was, coming towards me, smiling faintly.

"I wondered how long it would take you to recognize me, Matthew," she said.

For a moment I still wasn't quite sure. I mean, the lady whose name popped into my mind had been pretty good at changing her appearance to suit the job, but she'd always been a fairly well-developed specimen of womanhood. She'd often been described as sexy in official reports-sometimes even as voluptuous-but never as slender. But it was Vadya, all right. There was no doubt about it. I'd slept with her a couple of times and shot her once; I ought to know.