Donald Hamilton - The Betrayers

I'd started to speak, surprised, when Monk's face first flashed on the screen, but I'd checked myself. Smitty knew his business, and obviously he'd received his orders from upstairs. Of course, it was strictly irregular. Normally we're not allowed to know anybody in the outfit we don't absolutely have to know, nor are we given unnecessary information about the agents we do know. In all the years I'd worked for Mac, I'd never even got a clear idea of just how many other operatives he had reporting to him. The only ones I'd recognize were the ones I'd had occasion to work with, and I was supposed to do my best to forget those.

For me, a field man, to be briefed on our entire Pacific apparatus was, I suppose, a great compliment. It meant that Mac had real faith in me. It was undoubtedly very unappreciative of me to wish he'd found some other way to show it, and to wonder just what I'd have to do in return for this mark of confidence.

From the recognition room I went across the hail to Hardware and requisitioned a revolver to replace one that had gone astray over in Europe. I wasn't going to need it on leave-at least I hoped I wasn't-but the regulations say we must have one more or less available always, and I had an uneasy hunch this wasn't the time to start breaking this particular rule.

The supply man was annoyed with me. "Nowadays you seem to lose a gun every time you go out, Eric," he said. "Yet the record shows that when you were first with us you used the same.22 automatic for years."

"That was a good gun," I said. "Quiet and accurate. I liked that little gun. It took care of me, so I took care of it. But who can get fond of these lumpy, noisy, soulless damn.38 caliber blasters you people make us carry nowadays?"

He said stiffly, "Our ballistics experts have determined that a cartridge of less power than.38 Special is not suitable for our type of work."

I said, "Who's doing our type of work, me or your ballistics experts? Open up the target range, will you, and lend me a set of earplugs so I can check out this semi-portable cannon without being deaf for two days."

He reached into a drawer and brought out a small box, which he opened and held out to me. "Help yourself. Oh, and when you're through here you're supposed to report back upstairs. He wants to see you again before you leave."

It didn't really come as a great surprise. Mac had had time to consider how best to take advantage of my proposed trip. Now he was ready to break the news to me. Well, I'd already gathered that my visit to the paradise of the Pacific wasn't likely to be nearly as restful as I'd planned.

AS I STOOD IN the airport terminal in Honolulu, on the Island of Oahu, I wasn't really thinking about all this. It was in the back of my mind, of course, but for some reason I was thinking about a girl who'd have enjoyed this trip, restful or not-a girl we'd called Claire, whose real name I'd never learned and probably never would learn now. She was buried in a French cemetery as Winifred Helm, beloved wife of Matthew Helm. On the record, she'd been the victim of an unfortunate traffic accident. With a little local cooperation, you can lose a lot of inconvenient deaths among the highway statistics.

Well, that was ancient history now, or would be as soon as I could make my mind accept it. I finished my fresh pineapple juice, a totally different drink from the sickly-sweet canned stuff you get on the Mainland, and I thanked the greeter-lady for the refreshing experience.

She wasn't bad-looking, but except for the face it was impossible to judge her on points, since she was covered from neck to heels by a long, loose, brightly printed cotton garment with all the sex appeal of a potato sack. While obviously comfortable and indisputably modest, it seemed an odd sort of costume in which to appear in public.

She gave me no secret signs or coded passwords but fluttered off with her tray of juice cups to greet some other passengers from the plane. Nobody signaled me or shot at me as I retrieved my baggage. Nobody threw any knives or kisses my way as I located a taxi, got in, and gave the name of the Waikiki Beach hostelry that had been recommended to me as the kind of quiet, low-pressure place in which a weary man of violence could nurse a broken heart in peace.

After a few blocks, however, I decided that I hadn't escaped entirely unnoticed: we were being followed by a small car of a make I didn't recognize immediately. On the whole it was a relief. If nobody had made a move, I'd have had nothing to do but wait and wonder, but Mac had done his best to insure that my talents wouldn't be wasted.

"I wasn't going to use you on this, Eric," he'd told me on my second visit to his office. "Aside from the fact that you're entitled to a rest, it's a job for which you're poorly qualified. As you say, the Pacific is not your beat. You're unfamiliar with the area, and Monk knows you by sight. However, maybe we can make your apparent disadvantages work for us. In any case, since Monk does know you, if he spots you arriving in Honolulu, as he probably will, he's not likely to believe you're there by chance, even if it's the truth. So for your own protection, if you insist on spending your leave out there, you had better be aware of certain things…

I couldn't remember insisting on going to Hawaii. All I'd said was that I wouldn't change my plans for one particular guy. I'd have changed them for Mac, but obviously he had no intention of asking me to. He preferred to take me at my word, which left me no out.

Well, I should have known better than to make such a stupid, stiff necked statement in that office, I reflected, listening to the things he was telling me about the Monk. They didn't surprise me greatly. After all, I'd got to know the guy pretty well at one time-as well as you can get to know a guy you've risked your life with and beat hell out of.

"It is always disturbing when an agent goes bad," Mac said. "Particularly if he's as senior as Monk, he tends to feel himself superior to all rules and laws. After all, he's been breaking them for years in the line of duty."

"Do we know what he's up to?" I asked.

Mac said, "We have conclusive evidence that he's been in contact with Peking."

I said, "That doesn't really prove anything, sir. Hell, I've had contact with Moscow on occasion. There are times when you've got to pretend to be bought. He could have a legitimate explanation."

Mac said dryly, "Your sense of fairness is exemplary, Eric, considering your recorded opinion of the man, which should perhaps have been given more weight than it was."

I said, "I still think he's a bastard, and a dangerous bastard. I'll be happy to shoot him for you, or cut him into little pieces and feed him to the sharks, if they've got sharks out there. But I'm not going to call any man a traitor without proof."

"This has been proved," Mac said. "Monk has sold out. We have checked it carefully. The details don't concern you, but you can take the fact as established."

I don't like facts I have to take as established or details that don't concern me, but there was obviously nothing for me to say but, "Yes, sir."

"As for your original question, no, we do not yet know exactly what he has in mind. Naturally, we must determine that before we take final action. Whatever he's initiated out there under Red Chinese supervision must be stopped. That is as important as dealing with Monk himself. You understand?"

"Yes, sir. Who's on it now?"

"We have one man doing what he can from outside, under the name of Bernard Naguki. If he has occasion to call on you, he will say that there are few seabirds on the Islands, to which you will reply, yes, but the land-birds are very numerous."

I wondered what great brain had dreamed that one up, and how I was supposed to tell the agents from the ornithologists.