Donald Hamilton: The Ambushers

AFTER A WEEK OF IT, I wasn't very eager to get back to the second-floor Office on Monday morning and find out from Mac what else I'd done wrong, so I did my duty and visited the recognition room in the basement, as we're supposed to do whenever we're in Washington. I went through the files, refreshing my memory about the people in our line of business considered important enough to be given a certain priority. l read up on Dickman, Holtz, Rosloff, Vadya, and Basil, all nice people who'd kill you as soon as look at you.

There were some old names missing, the ones we'd caught up with here and there or somebody had; and there were some new ones who'd just graduated to priority status. Reading about their latest accomplishments made me feel much better. It was like reading about old friends getting up in the world. These were people you could count on, unlike the supercilious sons of bitches in the Pentagon and State Department and elsewhere in this lousy town that had probably been a fine swamp before some fool decided to drain it.

Mac didn't disappoint me. He had a new list of criticisms some bright lad in spats had thought up on the golf course over the weekend. Well, I guess Fm being unfair. I don't believe they really play golf in spats. I stood at the window and looked down at the sunlit street, listening. The girls walking past below looked fresh and pretty in their gay summer dresses or tight, bright pants. They were probably nice enough girls, I reflected. It was unreasonable to dislike them because they'd never seen a man killed, or a woman broken by brutality and systematic degradation.

I said without turning my head, "Goddamn it, sir, if it was intelligence they wanted, why the hell didn't they apply to the CIA? I went down there to shoot, not to take notes and photographs. Have they made up their minds what we're dealing with yet?"

Mac rustled some papers on his desk. "Your description apparently fits the Rudovic III or IV," he said. "That is a miniaturized version of the other side's best intermediate range ballistic missile with some very interesting developments that give it almost the range of the larger prototype. The differences between the two models are internal, affecting the propulsion system and the type of solid fuel used. The later model has a range of some sixteen hundred miles, according to our best information, which isn't very good. The previous model was supposed to have a twelve-hundred-mile range. It is probable, but not certain, that it was the older Model III that was lent to Castro, one of which he hid out and passed on, perhaps to get it off his hands before his Russian friends learned about it."

I said, "It doesn't much matter which one. Neither could bit the U.S. from down there. But there's always the little ditch known as the Panama Canal, which is within range of both."

"Precisely," Mac said. "A lot of the details of the mobile Rudovic system are still unknown here, but it has been definitely established that all models use nuclear warheads. Here in Washington it is generally referred to as the Moscow Mite."

"It may look small from Washington," I said. "It doesn't look so damn small when you see it from a bunch of jungle ferns just outside the barbed wire. Is there any word from President Avila yet?"

Mac said, "The president is very busy with military affairs. Following the success of a daring raiding party that attacked the rebel headquarters and killed the bandit leader Santos, we are told, Federal troops have advanced into the area and are busy mopping up the disorganized remnants of the self-styled revolutionary army. As soon as the situation is stabilized, says the Ministry of State, a thorough investigation will be made." Mac paused deliberately. "There is still some feeling here in Washington that it would have been very nice if you could have settled the matter while you were on the spot."

"So they're still on that kick." I turned to look at him. "Which officious jackass, of the dozens I've met lately, made the suggestion this time?"

"The comment was made in conference Friday night The name of the commentator will remain confidential. I pointed out that you had a specified assignment and carried it out brilliantly. Without specifying the nature of the assignment, of course." Our duties are not supposed to be common knowledge, even among the higher circles of Washington officialdom.

"Thank you, sir," I said. "I suppose they think I should have stuck it in my pocket and brought it home for them to look at. Hell, it only weighs what? Five tons? Ten tons?"

Mac said, "Well, there is no doubt that a sample of the Rudovic, any model, would be gratefully received. However, I doubt anybody really feels you were in a position to supply one."

"Maybe they can get it out of President Avila."

Mac said dryly, "The president of Costa Verde is our great friend and a true democratic leader of his people, to be sure. Still, I doubt anybody here wants to see him get his hands on a nuclear weapon. Nor does anybody have great hope that if he does get his hands on it he will turn it over to us."

"I see," I said. "So I'm the patsy. Well, I could have died heroically shooting thirty-caliber holes in that overgrown firecracker, I suppose. Since I don't have any idea where the thing keeps its brains, the chances of my doing any real damage would have been slight. And I'd probably have had to murder a Costa Verde Colonel to do that much."

"Ah, yes," Mac said. "Your friend Hector. I can never pronounce that last name."

"Their Jays are aitches, sir. The accent Is on the second syllable. Himayness."

"A short evaluation of Colonel Jiminez is desired by the military." Mac reached out and flipped a switch. "We are recording now. Subject Jiminez. Proceed."

"His men refer to him as El Coronelcito," I said. "That Is an affectionate diminutive meaning The Little Colonel. Any resemblance to Shirley Temple is probably accidental."

"Shirley Temple?"

"There was a movie, 'The Little Colonel', from a book by the same name. Or a series of books. For girls."

"Indeed? Go on."

"The most significant thing about Jiminez, I think, is that when informed he was to rescue a woman prisoner, he brought two women along without being asked. I don't believe they were part of the normal task group organization, although they certainly pulled their weight right along with the men. I think Jiminez just figured our girl, if still alive, was apt to be in pretty bad shape and would prefer female attendants in her misery. Of course he was perfectly right." I paused. "This guy has got something. I think it's called compassion, but don't transcribe that. It's not something Fin an expert on myself."

Mac said, "I don't think our military planners are interested in his compassion, Eric."

"Then they're making a bad mistake," I said. "Because Hector's compassion is very interesting, and he's apt to make general yet. He's a good man. He's not a softy, you understand. Physically, he's a pretty little fellow in excellent condition who smokes big cigars that he keeps in a pistol holster. He threw away the pistol because he couldn't hit anything with it, he says. He'll stop to light up in the middle of a fire fight. Latin bravado, sure, but it's reassuring to the troops. You figure, if he can put on a show without even a gun to shoot back with, so damn well can you. In action, I'd trust him all the way as long as our objectives were identical, but no further. Where politics are concerned, I wouldn't turn my back on him for a fraction of a second. He's got deep thoughts, our little colonel has. I wouldn't want to say what's at the bottom of them."

"And Avila? Was he discussed?"

"El Presidente was barely mentioned in conversation. Jiminez indicates he's bitter against the rebels and would like to stand them all up against a wall and use them for machine-gun practice. It looks as if he might get his chance. Well, that's a normal presidential attitude down there, I guess. Or anywhere."