Donald Hamilton: The Ambushers

They took me to the wall tent set up at the base of the cliff. Now, at night, the pretense of this being a scientific expedition had been abandoned, and an armed sentry stood in front. He gave the straight-armed Nazi salute. The sergeant with the machine pistol replied in kind.

"Viva Quintana!" said the sentry.

"Viva Quintana!" said my escort, and I was shoved into the tent.

Inside, there was a square table and some folding wooden chairs. A camp cot was shoved back against the canvas wall. A two-burner gasoline lantern hung above the table, casting a harsh white light over everything.

Von Sachs sat at the table with some papers before him, facing the door sternly, like General Grant awaiting the latest word from Vicksburg. At close range he looked older than I'd expected, but brown and lean and hard. He was in khakis, with an armband. A Sam Browne belt with a.45 Colt automatic and a fancier version of the regimental machete hung from the back of his chair. A germ of an idea came to me as I looked from the saber-like weapon to the scarred face of von Sachs, and I shoved it back into the corner of my mind, hoping it would grow into a real brainwave.

Over to one side, I was aware, was Catherine Smith, but it wasn't my business to notice her until I was given a cue. In my terrible predicament I'd hardly be giving attention to stray blondes. I kept my eyes on the men.

They went through the viva-Quintana drill, and the little sergeant slapped my gun and notebook on the table and made his report in Spanish. Von Sachs picked up the notebook and glanced at my notes and drawings. He picked up my gun and checked the loads. He aimed it at me, dismissed the sergeant, and waited until the tent flaps had settled back into place before he spoke.

"Is this the man, Frдulein Schmidt?"

It was my cue and I looked. She was lounging on a camp chair drinking Mexican beer out of the bottle. You couldn't help being conscious, if you were a man, of the strong, bare, sunburned legs and the carelessly half-open blouse. She took another swig and frowned at me.

'Well, he's tall enough," she said to von Sachs. "I told you, that's all I know, that it was done by a very tall man who first represented himself as an interviewer of some kind and then said he was a U.S. government agent. He took the Head woman to the garage where I found her, forced the information from her, and left her tied. She lived just long enough to tell me this, and how to find you and warn you, before she died."

It was the story we'd more or less agreed upon while we were driving. Von Sachs was watching her closely as she talked. He seemed particularly interested in the broken threads left by the missing button of her blouse-well, that general area.

"I could think of worse places to die, Fraulein," he murmured. Then his glance sharpened suspiciously. "Gerda Landwehr only came here once. She was blindfolded at the mouth of the canyon. How could she tell you where to come?"

"She must have peeked," Catherine said without hesitation. "She described the caves. She told me what road and how far. If you don't believe she knew, ask him," she said with a gesture in my direction. "After all, he found his way here, too."

Von Sachs didn't turn at once. He seemed to be still brooding over that missing button. I suppose I might have been able to jump him while his attention was diverted, turn the gun on him, and do the job right there. Maybe we could then have shot our way clear with his gun and mine, and hers if she still had it, and got away in the dark. Maybe. The project had suicidal overtones, and I don't like switching plans. Besides, it didn't take care of the missile. Besides, I wasn't at all sure he was as absentminded as he looked. He could have been trying to trick me into a move.

"It is too bad," he said slowly. "She was a handsome woman even after so many years-Gerda. As a girl, she was beautiful. She was the, er, fiancee of one of my junior officers, but rank has its privileges, ha! And you killed her!" he said, swinging abruptly to face me over the short-barreled revolver.

"I interrogated her," I lied. "She was soft, like all you Nazis. Soft and yellow inside. Like butter, von Sachs."

"Here I am Kurt Quintana," he snapped. "You will address me so."

"You are Kurt Quintana calling a lady Frдulein?" I sneered. "You might at least keep the act consistent. Seсorita is the local word."

He frowned. "You are trying to make me angry. Why?"

"It's an old trick in these parts, von Sachs. When the Apaches caught you, you tried to make them kill you fast. It didn't hurt so much that way. Well, you've got me. Let's stop the yakking and get it over with." I grinned at him maliciously, as if remembering something. "You look a lot more dignified than the last time I saw you."

"Where was that?" he demanded suspiciously. "I do not recall-"

"You didn't see me," I said. "You were trying to get under a jeep. The first half went in fine, but the rump end kind of got left outside. It was a real tempting target. I've always regretted passing it up."

"That was you? With the rifle, in Costa Verde?"

"That was me. And let me tell you, I caught hell for letting you go. For punishment, they gave me the job of catching you again." I shrugged. "Well, it just shows you, never pass up a good shot. If I'd got you in the tail, you might have got blood poisoning and died, and we wouldn't be having this pleasant conference."

"You are an American intelligence agent?"

"Fm an American agent. If I had any intelligence of any kind I wouldn't be here, caught by a bunch of toy soldiers."

"You are alone?"

"I'm working alone. I don't say there aren't others as-signed to the job of finding you, but I guess I beat them to you. I wanted to check what that woman told me before I called out the reserves. Information obtained by those methods, as you probably know, isn't always reliable." I grimaced. "Well, come on, you ersatz Fuehrer! Whistle up your firing squad. Break out that final lousy cigarette. Let's put the goddamn show on the road, huh?"

"You think I am going to kill you?"

"You're either going to kill me or tease me to death. What's the difference?"

"What is your name?"

"None of your damn business," I said. "Well, call me Evans. Henry Evans."

He looked at me for a second or two in silence. Then he lifted my snub-nosed weapon and took careful aim. The hammer started to rise, actuated by the double-action mechanism, as he put pressure on the trigger. When it got to a certain point it would fall. There was a little sound to the right as Catherine pried the top off another beer bottle.

"God, I'm dry," she said. "This country just bakes it out of you. If you're going to shoot, dear, shoot. Don't make me wait all day for the noise."

He didn't look at her, but that didn't mean he hadn't been testing her, to see if perhaps there was something between us that might make her plead for my life. But he was watching me. The angle of the light made the scar a deep cleft in his cheek. He'd come a long way from those innocent boyish games at Heidelberg. He'd commanded armies; he'd been hunted for crimes against humanity. Now he was in command again, after a fashion. He was on his way back up, unless something stopped him. I cleared my throat and said, "Don't keep the lady waiting, von Sachs."

He eased the pressure on the trigger and laughed. "You are frightened, Mr. Evans."

"Guns always scare me. But I'll get over it. There's very little a bullet won't cure, I always say."

"No," he said slowly, "you are frightened inside. You talk big, but it is you who are soft and yellow inside, Mr. Evans. You are afraid if I do not kill you at once, you will break down and show it."

I said, "Christ! An amateur psychologist I've got to run into, yet! Tell me one thing, von Sachs. Just what the hell were you doing with a bunch of Commies down in Costa Verde?"