Donald Hamilton - The Betrayers

It startled me. I mean, I'm not particularly tolerant, and I don't really believe that everybody's equal. Depending on what I need him for, I'll judge a man by his 10, or the score he makes on the target range, or the speed at which he can take a car around a track; and anybody who tries to tell me that some people aren't brighter than others, or better shots, or faster drivers, is wasting his time. But except for recognition purposes, I've never found the color of a man's skin to be of much significance in our line of work, and the idea of killing off a bunch of people just because of a slight chromatic difference seemed fairly irrational to me.

But what really startled me was hearing it from Monk. Not that he'd ever been particularly tolerant, either, back when I'd worked with him, but he'd subscribed to no special racial theories that I'd been aware of. But now it appeared that he'd bought the old yellow-peril package complete with paper and string, and I had a hunch I knew who'd sold it to him, although I was careful not to look toward the tall blonde girl in the muddy white jeans. I had certainly underestimated her, and by the looks of things I wasn't the only one.

Well, it was bound to happen. Somebody was bound, sooner or later, to take advantage of that strain of fanaticism that I'd always mistrusted in the Monk.

DURING THE LONG AFTERNOON that followed I had plenty of opportunity to consider what I'd learned, in all its worldwide implications, but I didn't really take advantage of it. My job is a practical one and I don't feel comfortable in the rarefied atmosphere of theoretical international politics. I do hold a few private opinions about world affairs, fairly moderate ones, but I'm perfectly willing to admit they may be all haywire.

Hell, racial theories aside, maybe the Monk was right, and we should blast the Chinese off the face of the earth. Maybe we should have used the bomb on the Russians way back when we had it and they didn't. Maybe we should use it on them now, regardless. Maybe we should obliterate Castro's Cuba, or just Castro. We might even, while we were at it, do a little something about other troublesome parts of the American continents, not to mention odd areas of Africa, Asia, and Europe, if those people didn't straighten up and fly right. There were all kinds of interesting possibilities, once you started considering the idea of fixing up the world by armed force.

I wasn't qualified to say that all of them were wrong- considering my profession, I'd look silly objecting to a little judicious force-but I didn't really think the Monk was peculiarly qualified to say that one was right, not when the evidence indicated that his decision had been strongly influenced by people-one person, at least- whose motives I had no reason to trust.

In any case, it wasn't his decision any more than it was mine. I was glad I wasn't the man or men whose decision it was, but I was reasonably certain that it could be made without the help of any spectacular fireworks off Honolulu harbor.

My job wasn't to judge a political policy, it was to prevent an explosion and incidentally save a few lives-although strictly speaking, as Monk had pointed out, we're not a great, humanitarian, life-saving agency like the Red Cross or the Coast Guard. It's not, let's say, our primary objective. As a matter of fact, I recalled, my primary objective was to deal with a traitor. I concentrated on trying to figure Out how to manage this, tied hand and foot on the floor of a guarded tent. I came to the conclusion that I was going to need a little luck. Well, one generally does.

I had company in the tent, of course, and presently I heard the man beside me come around to consciousness once more. His breathing changed, and he stirred briefly, testing his bonds. Having determined the nature of the predicament in which he found himself, he sensibly saved his strength and lay still.

I suppose I should have talked to him, pumped him, appealed to his pride and his sense of self-preservation, and made some kind of deal to insure his cooperation, but I didn't. I couldn't think of anything he could tell me that I needed to know at the moment, and he was too bright, I figured, not to cooperate if it seemed to his advantage to do so-and probably too unscrupulous to stick by any deals if it didn't.

Toward evening, Irma entered with food and water. I was interested to note that she'd exchanged her artfully tattered shirt for a whole one, equally gaudy. The guard stood by at the open tent door with his carbine ready while she untied the hands of Mr. Soo, let him eat and drink, and lashed him up again. Then it was my turn. She got a good deal of innocent fun out of my clumsy efforts to absorb nourishment with my feet still tied and my fingers stiff from bondage. Afterward, Monk came in to check the knots.

I said, "Aren't you afraid of spoiling the evidence, Monk? Regardless of how you set up the actual killing, bodies full of rope burns and bullet holes aren't going to look very convincing, no matter how you plant them."

He said, "Hell, you know better than that. I remember a case where a man was found shot in a hotel room without a gun anywhere near him. Absolutely no firearm within blocks. But he'd lost a lot of money that wasn't his and written his wife a despondent letter, and the police called it suicide anyway, as I'd figured they would. Set it up right, and they'll believe what they want to believe, and to hell with the so-called clues. I've set this one up right, believe me. All that's required is the bodies." He looked down at me. "Anything I can do for you, friend? A drink, a smoke, a pillow for your head? Always happy to oblige."

He really meant it. He'd won; he could afford to be generous. Well, it was nice dealing with someone who felt no need to slug and spit in the hour of victory.

I said, "Well, I could use a nice sharp knife."

He laughed. "Good old Eric. It's a long way from Hofbaden, isn't it?"

I grinned. "It's also a pretty long way from Honolulu, amigo. You aren't there yet."

"That's right, keep the old courage up," he said cheerfully. "I'll see you in the morning, early. Sleep well."

I tried to settle myself comfortably on the hard floor.

After I'd achieved the best compromise possible, I heard Mr. Soo's voice, puzzled, from the growing darkness beside me.

"He speaks like a friend."

I said, "Friend, enemy, what the hell? He's hated me a long time. He's feeling nostalgic; he's going to be a little sorry to end all those fine years of hatred by killing me tomorrow. It will leave a hole in his life until he finds somebody new to hate, and he knows it."

Mr. Soo said softly, "Incomprehensible people!"

I said, "Hell, you folks would be lost if you couldn't shake your fists at the U.S. twice a day. You ought to know what I mean."

Mr. Soo said, "I will not discuss politics. I suppose you have no clever plan for escaping tonight."

"No," I said. "Do you?"

"Unfortunately not. I will sleep. Good night, sir."

"Good night, Mr. Soo."

He said, "My name is not Soo. No matter. Soo, for purposes of reference, will suffice. Good night."

They didn't give us much sleep. Monk had trained them well. They came in almost every hour with flashlights to check the ropes. Even so, I managed to doze off between inspections. But suddenly I found myself wide awake and sweating, although there was no man bending over me. Something had changed. The trade winds weren't blowing any longer.

Particularly on the windward side of those islands, you get so used to the steady murmur of the wind-even in a few days-that when the trees fall silent and the little breezes stop, you look around uneasily, expecting something terrible to happen, and of course it does. At least so I'd been told. The temperature rises, dogs run mad in the streets, men jump out of high windows, and lovers part, never to meet again-until the trades start blowing once more.